#desuetude

When his chest stops heaving and the fire in his knee subsides to a dull ache, Ed takes a shot at thinking. Stede knows their meeting point, and the absence of blood trail implies he can make it there, so that's where Ed must go.

On the sprint back to the dock, he dreads finding himself alone and waiting again, and this time around, hopeless. At the dock, Ed finds a void; dread emerges victorious, pleased. A violent kind of comfort overtakes sadness.

What did you think was going to happen?

In Ed’s mind, the words are spoken in a gravelly, spiteful, familiar voice.

As he rows back to the boat, he feels nearly empty. Loss drips down his cheeks and fills him up like cool water, from his toes to his hairline. A part of him, no larger than his pinky, holds stubborn reserves of hope. Maybe, it says, maybe he'll board the Revenge and find Stede there, waiting for him, wrapped in his golden robe, smelling of lavender.

Stede is not aboard the ship.

For a few days, Ed allows hope to fester.

They drop anchor near the shore – Stede may be looking for them.

On day one, Frenchie sings sad songs for Ed. On day two, Ed sings along with him. On day three, Ed forgets the lyrics and slurs the words; the songs come out all twisted and wrong. The crew don’t make eye contact much after that.

On the sixth day, Izzy’s blade is pressed up against Ed’s chest. He’s saying something about Blackbeard -Ed’s not paying attention, he’s far too nauseous for this- about looking ridiculous, something about Stede ruining everything he touches – Ed’s brain flickers at that, the mirage of Stede’s broad palms and long fingers is here, then gone. He doesn’t remember what happens next, but Izzy is on the floor with tears in his eyes, wheezing and rubbing his throat.

As the crew chant his name, Ed looks out the window. In his reflection, Blackbeard meets his eyes.

Once Izzy’s toe is gone, and Stede’s pets are gone, and Lucius’ hopefully rotting at the bottom of the ocean, never to breathe a word of breakup advise again, all is well.

Blackbeard strategizes, sails, pilfers. Occasionally, he finds the odd remnant of Stede, a book or a trinket. They all go out the porthole and into the sea (he keeps Stede’s cravatte – he can’t be bothered to untie it).

He goes days without eating, then eats two days’ worth of food at once; he drinks. Sometimes, after poring over maps and supply logs, Blackbeard pins Izzy against the desk and takes him. It’s always a quick, silent fuck; Izzy is quiet as the dead, and always willing, which might as well mean he never is. It’s a convenient arrangement: the quiet helps Blackbeard’s mind replace the leather under his hands with cashmere.

Blackbeard always finishes on the floor after a few minutes of thrusting in the tight, warm hole. He doesn’t know if or where Izzy finishes; he doesn’t ask himself that.

Sometimes, Izzy lingers before leaving the room. He lands his fist awkwardly against Blackbeard’s arm, a brief, violent impact, followed by quick withdrawal, before retiring to his quarters for the night.

Izzy’s departure rarely signals the end of the night. Blackbeard’s never been good at sleep, and he’s been getting steadily worse at it after Stede’s departure. Sometimes, he finds himself rock hard again, another half-bottle of rum later. He sits back on his chair, carefully pushed away from the window -it’s not that he’s concerned about being seen when they make port; it’s that direct sunlight makes his headaches worse these days, and the silver moonlight burrows in his brain, reminds him of red silk, cuts worse than a knife. As he unbuckles his pants and pulls his cock out, his other hand goes to the cravatte, wraps, twists, and pulls.

Years ago, he knew someone who used to ask for this; Blackbeard was eager to oblige -always most accommodating in his encounters- and he'd let himself be choked too. It lasted less than it does now; but then again, back then, Blackbeard did not want to die. Nowadays, he wraps the cravatte tighter and tighter around his palm, until he comes in quick, almost painful spurts.

Miles away, Stede Bonnet smiles.