It's arcadian in the captain's quarters, albeit for the intermittent clattering of the captain's utensils scrapping and nicking against dishware and crinkling of the clear-ice rattling inside the glass mug that embellishes his luncheon. The room is becalmed, a draft smoothly enters the room from one of the back wall's windows, and a sunray shimmers the interior's glossiness. In their unyielding attempts to uncover the weapon(s) their captain allegedly employed against Nigel Badminton, the Revenge Crew vacated and left the room in prominent disarray. The transparent curtains to the alcove and library are open, decorative cushions and knickknacks are displaced, significant documents and manuscripts are rearranged and disorderly on one of the wall tables, and furniture is disorganized.
There is a recent upheaval in zeal, fidelity, and attachment between the captain and his crew — and there's no doubt that it's new, and the de facto behind it is in mystification. Regardless, the Revenge does have commandments and proclamations; the captain records the chaotic remnants of the Crew within the quarters with disapproval. Arranging things as found shouldn't be difficult. The crisis pecks on the captain's nerves, as he's accustomed to distinct tidiness and organization. The Boy is authorized to maintain the quarters, and, seeing as it's maintenance day and he accomplished just as such earlier, he'd assumably be displeased that his exertions were in vain.
Israel remains furtively on the wooded floor. He wouldn't even accept such a verity if the world was ablaze and he was the last man standing, but he's presently in much considerable fucking pain that's so robust that he's doubtful if he can move his body out of its collapsed position. With sluggish, constrained breaths, he endeavors to at least slump against the couch's back with no indications of torment, yet his body and mind double-cross him by emitting sounds of hisses and groans.
"Oh, God," he murmurs with a grimace while he cautiously sustains his weight on his hands and boot heels, utilizing the leverage to cautiously slide his body to a destination that's so near yet feels so distant.
"No, I'm not Him," chimes Stede from the table, his hazel eyes glistening with enthralling transport as he attends the first-mate.
The senior pirate humorously chuckles and says, "No, and somehow you're even worse than the Devil."
The captain confronts the remark with speechlessness.
(The Devil Incarnate, he knowingly recalls from earlier).
The table has desirable, appetizing main platters, side dishes, and desserts, all in considerable portions for one individual. It's unmistakable that the younger man, with his atypical unruly curls, scrunched turtleneck sleeves, and massive thighs spread, has an immense appetite and can eat with never-ending enthusiasm. Here, in seclusion from considering gazes, he lacks the elite sophistication and civilization of an elite; there are no flamboyant, frilly outfits, no hair gel that possesses his hair in a stationary hairstyle, no grounded mannerisms or characteristics that subject him away from others. Here, presently, he's unbound and undisturbed, even with Blackbeard's first-mate inside his quarters.
From the floor, the first-mate voyeurs the so-called latest pirate as he serves himself, maneuvering with a composition of serene temperament as if he didn't almost, quite literally, break another man's body in half. As if — and it's a hardship for him to even acknowledge it — he and some of his crew members weren't coddled together; their captain harbored the crew under a trance as his hands caressed their bodies, and they just sat there and took it. The Swede sat content in the man's lap as his captain's hand journeyed under his shirt and, afterward, lowered to be between his captain's legs with an unmistakable display of sanction and subservience. The mute-by-choice, Jim, was void of their universal toughened exterior and sat alongside their captain to pursue his hair. How everyone was seemingly incapable of self-will, and defying the euphoric reverie they were conjoined within by their captain's acts.
The performance perturbs and distresses him, alongside the reality that he's a victim of the other man's obscure hostility and wrathfulness. The man isn't dewy-eyed or benign; he's competent in detriment and sovereignty. The inconvenience is how he voluntarily dramatizes himself as callow or unlettered when he's everything but. The training with Blackbeard and his crew was plainly needless. Instead, it was an opportunity for Stede to amplify his relationships with Edward, Fang, Ivan, and the juveniles, particularly with Alexiane. It was a pass to amass them under his thumb, to have them entangled in his sway and eminence — and he was triumphant.
What's Izzy's standing within all of this? Well, he doesn't want to concede to it, but he's on the same side as his crewmates. That's a central feature that pisses him off because he refuses to indulge with Stede-fucking-Bonnet, of all people, yet his body and mind have a sanity of their own. For tedious months, he's been pursuing the younger man on his captain's whim, but perhaps the noun is obsolete, and there was — is — something worth exploring, caressing, needing, wanting.
Nonetheless, he won't coddle in whatever performative illusion the captain has constructed. In lieu, he'll resist the man's coaxes and propel his captain and crew to right themselves and complete their objectives upon the Revenge. Fuck all that canoodling with the adversary. Business exceeds pleasure.
Stede has his lone objective, and Izzy does, too. Two can play the game.
Finally, now that he's somewhat more comfortable, the first-mate unleashes a content exhale, extends his legs, and angles his head towards Stede. He frowns as the man has yet to react to his comment and continues dining his luncheon as if he didn't hear him.
The senior pirate shakes his head while noisily chuckling at the introspection.
The clangor intrudes against the room's tranquil ambiance, rendering Stede to huff, "What is it?"
As aforementioned, Izzy pledges to resist the man's coaxes and temptation. Alongside such a prospect comes pestering and devilry to the minutest things to see just how and what is the culprit to the younger man's tatter and transgress. The senior pirate unapologetically beams and replies, "You eat like a privileged, aristocratic jackass."
Stede smickers, releases his utensils, and slouches in his seat. He takes no offense, though, regarding the bizarre comment. Alright, he'll bite. His left hand casually seizes his dagger from the table and lazily flips it routinely from its etched handle to the pointy tip, a robust wooded thud echoing through the room. He asks, "How does one eat like a privileged, aristocratic jackass?"
"Y'know, all namby-pamby and posh-like. It's the way you sit and endure the food; the way everything — and I mean every-fucking-thing — is about or riveted around you."
Stede nods and downs some of his cold water, operating the action to dissect the retort and earn time for his comeback. It's an intriguing assertion, seemingly loaded with envy and fabrication within disguised remarks.
"That vexes you so, why? You think you've got me sussed out, but you couldn't be more erroneous."
"... Because," Izzy half-answers the question in a huff with a dismissive head shake. He doesn't want to have this conversation.
The captain abruptly rises from his distant seat and unhurriedly perimeters the table, nearing the twice-bested pirate, yet not making it official; he lingers about midway beside the table, leaving substantial space between them. Steam from his foregone food continues to whisper in coils in the air. Izzy has to stretch his head upwards to maintain eye-contact. As the pirate-captain advances, he comments, "Have you noticed that each time I willingly match your vigor, you pitifully single-word in counter-response?"
The leather-adoring man eye rolls and scoffs, denying, "I don't do that."
"Lies upon lies," rebukes Stede. "Oh, no, because Israel Hands can't do no wrong, right? You can disdain others, but they can't reciprocate. Before me, no-one has ever been levelheaded with you. When unfortunate dwellers and B, C-tier pirates see or hear Israel Hands, they must yield and submit."
Wow, OK. That's a characteristic, yeah. How does he do it? Why has he postponed this long to induce such mayhem against one of the most notorious pirates across the Seven Seas and his first-mate? It's palpable that the captain is precise in his assumptions because all Izzy acquires in the retort is, "You're goddamned full of yourself, Bonnet."
"You think so?" hauntingly closed-lipped smiles Stede. He swiftly pivots and ambles toward his primary wardrobe. He continues, "Or are my hypotheses factual? You wonder why my crew and I are so welcoming to the notorious Blackbeard and his passé, yet not with his first-mate, when all you've accomplished is criticize and belittle them for things that are within my authorization. You wonder why everything fixates around me when this is my vessel; they—" he points towards the closed door, "—are under my command, and you are one of my guests. I know where I come from; I've never denied the attribute.
Opposite of your poor reckoning, labor money doesn't represent me. I've always detested the Bonnet fortune because it's unauthentic and isn't correlated to hardship. Instead, it's from the exertions of slave labor in the searing, undesirable fields and from individuals who were propelled to surrender themselves to me even when I was an adolescent because of what my family pathetically portrayed. With dignity, for one of many reasons, I received Mother and Father's malicious remarks, backhands, and fists; I still persisted in my quota to laborers with foodstuffs and compensation, especially whenever I was in the grassland. Trust me, Israel Hands, there's much you don't know about me."
"And, what, you want a Gold Medal for your privileged morality? Doing something from your position because you know no-one else can, like a token of heroism."
Wordlessly, Stede opens his primary wardrobe and selects footwear, some mid-level steel-toed boots. He also seizes some folded stockings that were shortly cut to resemble socks. Next, he serves his chair at the table again and begins dressing in the stockings and boots.
"I've never satisfied a good deed to bourne a reward," rejects the captain.
"No, you haven't because such a thing wouldn't accommodate your imaginative world. Aristocrats are similar to His disciples: Benighted, cockered lackeys."
"Earlier, you said I'm not God, and I'm even worse than the Devil. Now, you've reverted me to a follower of His word; I'm Isaiah. Which one is it, Israel?"
"You're someone — something — that's otherworldly to this planet. You have this outlandish façade of the world, or whatever world that's envisioned in your mind. To you, the world is black and white. Instead of being achieved from blood, sweat, and tears, everything's handed to you. You have Blackbeard — the fucking Blackbeard, my boss, a man I admire and am devoted and faithful to — in your grasp, and all you've accomplished is a smile with your massive curly head and sport your rich, extravagant outfits."
Humorously, Stede sounds, "Hm. Then, no, that doesn't make me Isaiah."
"You think you can provoke me, but you can't," conveys Izzy.
"Provoke you? For whatever reason?" greenly says Stede with pseudo-bewilderment. He concludes with one booted foot and proceeds to the other.
"I don't know. You have some scheme or ruse plotted, and I won't let you shuffle me into it."
"Now, who's glimpsing for privileged morality? Your innermost pest, Israel, is falsely deeming everything that involves you."
"It's hardly improbable, Bonnet. We've been playing a cat-and-mouse game for months," snarls Izzy with an eye roll. Any more eye-rolls and his damned eyes may permanently roll to the back of his head. The first-mate sucks his tongue and heavily drops his head against the couch's back. He appears vanquished. He's still in pain, and the uprising of tingling and numbness initiates in his ass and legs. He desperately needs to rise from the floor, yet the only way that'll be successful is with support, and he'll be damned if he requests his perpetrator for assistance. Unnerving chills roam the senior pirate. Blackbeard's first-mate goggles out the open window, and he wonders where his captain is.
Glory Be, he prays that the intolerable crew keeps their pipes shut and doesn't speak about the encounters. What occurs in the quarters should remain within the quarters' walls.
"You're a vicious plague," believes Izzy with an unshakeable mindset. What's his dilemma with Stede? Surely, there's more to it than their minor, petty cat-and-mouse encounters during the summer months before the unnecessary reprieve upon the Spanish vessel. Everyone representing Blackbeard, including said captain himself, has effortlessly become laid-back and easeful upon the Revenge and with the vessel's captain and crew, yet he's sole in his aversion against Stede and his crew. The juvenile quartet mostly fades into the shadows, yet when meandering and collaborating with the Revenge Crew, it seems a weight has been lifted from their shoulders, and they can finally breathe and not have to fight or survive. Plus, Alexiane, honest to God, doesn't cease her blabbing about the Revenge Captain. She's almost worse than Captain Blackbeard. (Just about, frankly).
It's something that's never transpired before, so why now? Plus, of course, there's an elephant on the ship — slaughtering the man and his crew for his identity and whatnot. As far as Izzy's knowledge, that's still a Go. Earlier, when he did encounter his captain following a Pirate Ring, he, Ivan, Fang, and the boss were on the same page... right?
The captain concludes with his footwear and rises from his chair. With intention, he nears the leather-adoring pirate this time and menaces his body over him. He peculiarly lingers above the first-mate, his hazel eyes unblinking and facial features expressionless.
"You're very cynical and pessimistic, Israel Hands," disjointedly says Stede in an analytical whisper, "I can work with that."
Defiantly, Izzy sounds, "Yeah? And what's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm your equal."
That statement renders Izzy with a boisterous belly-cackle, his body slightly rolling to the side as the cackle overtakes him. Holy shit, that's got to be the funniest shit he's ever heard. Equals? Like, side-by-side companions with comparable interests, appeals, and desires, or companions with carefulness and conviction for each other? Them? Impossible.
What's the captain playing at?
"Y'know, Bonnet, I knew you were already a madman, but now you're just bat-shit crazy," conveys Izzy throughout his cackling.
Stede abruptly spits a fiendful giggle, almost like his one with Nigel Badminton. Some wavy strands of his commonly styled, curly golden hair fall into his eyes, and he clutches them and pushes them over his head. Like this, he looks like a badass bandit in this full-black guise of a turtleneck, knee-laced pants, and steel-toed boots. He looks noble and greathearted as if he's been in the piracy scene for prolonged junctures of his life. There's an undaunted, gallant aura about him, and even if it's performative and unfeigned, he's assembled a fictional universe above the Seven Seas — an eighth Sea, if you will. Where death generally lives, he's eluded such a cessation of hanging and stabbing and meanders as if it never transpired. His crew, wherever they individually originated from, minds his insidious directives with minor insubordination.
The exact crew that sought mutiny. Yeah, he heard about it in passing (or, more specifically, via eavesdropping).
"Bonnet," starts Izzy, pausing until the younger man attends him. He continues, "Your own crew desired mutiny, implying that whatever you vowed them, they saw through your bullshit. I bet you discovered the world isn't so black and white that day, huh?"
Swiftly, so hell-for-leather and abrupt and goddamned speedily, the Captain of the Revenge has his right steel-toed boot on Israel Hands' throat. With whiplash, the first-mate's head aggressively thrusts into the couch's back, forming a circular dent. As his hands roughly tremble, the senior pirate endeavors to clutch the younger man's boot and pull it away from his throat, yet his efforts are ineffective. His face rapidly turns red and blue, and his vision speedily waters and blurs. He does, however, catch the golden-haired man's disturbing, unpleasant, beaming grin.
"Ah! Bon—" sounds Izzy through garbled puffs, "—Ugh. Go! Let go!"
In a muted response, Stede presses his boot harder into the other man's throat, feeling the trachea, esophagus, and larynx. He cranes his body backward to reach across the table and capture the water decanter. Izzy's eyes are reddened, and he can only overlook the captain with his hands remaining uselessly around the boot. With a heartless chuckle, Stede, ever-so gradually, tips the decanter over, pouring cold water onto the first-mate's head.
Izzy outcries and groans as clear-ice water interacts with his scalp and slides down his face and neck. He's incapable of defending himself, which compels him to self-reproach because the situation is... odd. He's in Stede Bonnet's quarters, being waterboarded with a steel-toed boot against his throat. The analysis sounds bogus and unapt for someone of his caliber, yet it's all valid. Three — three! — fucking times, he's been the recipient of the younger man's blazing rapture.
Three.
There's a knock at the door, so Stede halts his actions to regard the interruption. Israel has never desired to hear a door knock more in his life than presently. Whoever is on the other side of the door merits a massive, wet kiss. The knock rangs again.
Stede goggles down at Izzy and beams with his sharp canines, expressing, "I bet I know just who's on the other side."
The captain discharges his boot from the senior pirate's throat and places the near-empty decanter on the table. He stands upright and adjusts his clothes by pulling the turtleneck sleeves down and straightening the topwear. With a quick detour to take a sip from his glass cup, he ambitiously nears the door. With a flashing beam, he opens the door.
"Ah, Edward, you're finally joining the fun. Come in. There's much to discuss," greets Stede.