Chapter Text
The weather is warming up again.
Outside, the grass glitters under morning light, sparkling brighter than Ed’s seen in months.
As it rises, the sun spills streaks of gold through the pale sky.
Minutes before, it was way darker; that didn’t stop Mum’s new husband, Izzy, from walking out the moment the sun peeked from the horizon, just to do the same shit he does any time he isn’t working: gardening.
From the look of him, Ed never would’ve expected the green thumb. He draws on people for a living, filling the old office once occupied by Ed’s father and decorating it with reams of paper for him to practice his perfect little pictures, but apparently, he likes gardening.
Well, Ed assumes he fucking likes it because, for the fifth day in a row, Izzy’s dutifully stomped out at sunrise with gloves that fit loose around his wrists and begun to weed the garden. He’s still at it now, a sheen of sweat on him shimmering like the dewdrops on the lawn.
It’s not a bad look on him, Ed observes as he peers at Izzy through the opened slats of the blinds. Mum can still do better, but at least he’s hot, even if he’s short. He’s been working on that garden, too, and Ed doesn’t even think he was asked to. Ed hasn’t dared desecrate it—that was Dad’s domain—but Mum seemed adamant on forgetting Dad entirely.
As Izzy tears up the roots of wilted nothings, Ed waits for those gloved hands to rise with a fistful of ash and bone, excavating Ed’s father with the decay he left behind. Izzy holds a packet of seeds. Ed can’t make out its contents this far away and only sees how efficiently Izzy rips it open, ready to replace the rot by nestling something nice and new in the dirt. Ed isn’t altogether opposed to it. His therapist told him change can be good.
Still, it’s been a lot to take in. Mum didn’t even fucking tell him about the guy until she was about ready to marry him. Izzy shoves himself where he doesn’t belong—Dad’s office, Dad’s seat at the table, and now Dad’s garden. Ed isn’t sure what love looks like on Mum, but recently, he’s seen something that feels close. She’s stressed, but she also seems comfortable in a way hasn’t seen since he was barely taller than her knobby knees.
Movement snaps his eyes back into focus. Izzy stands, the knees of his pants dusted with the earth, and looks over whatever he’s done. Ed gazes at Izzy’s reddened skin, glistening in the soft light of the spring sun, silver-shot hair shiny.
Izzy must sense Ed watching him, or maybe he’s just through with staring at the dirt, but either way, he looks up, right at Ed.
Still peeping through the blinds, Ed freezes.
Izzy raises a gloved hand, a wad of compacted dirt tumbling from his palm.
As the corner of Izzy’s mouth scrunches up, Ed realises Izzy is waving at him. He’s rarely ever seen Izzy smile. Yeah, that’s probably because he avoids him, but Ed’s still stunned by it. It’s not, like, sexy, but something about it feels magnetic. Ed’s hand twitches and nearly drops the energy drink it’s meant to be holding, aluminium beaded with sweat like Izzy’s flushed face.
Something chases that stiff smile off, eventually. Izzy dips his head in gruff acknowledgement and begins to head for the door, but Ed still sees the smile’s afterimage like the glaring, bursting bright spots left from staring at the sun too long. He steps back.
It’s still weird. Ed still doesn’t like it, but Mum’s happy, less worried about looking after him all the time, and he can even admit that maybe the hedges look better trimmed into shape.
He’s staring at the place Izzy last stood when a hand brushes his shoulder. He startles.
It’s only Mum, he finds as he whips around. Her cracked lips curl in a brief apologetic smile as she retracts her hand.
“It looks nice,” she says, nodding like she’s agreeing with something Ed didn’t even say. Ed looks away. “It's about time we cleaned up, isn't it?”
Ed bristles, glaring at the garden. “Guess so. Doesn't really matter.”
He hears his mother open her mouth to speak, but the door opens before she gets the words out. She doesn’t stiffen, Ed notices when he instinctively seeks her reaction. It’s Izzy, of course, muttering to himself as he nudges off his boots at the door. He looks up at them. “Morning.”
There’s an uncharacteristic amount of awkwardness coloring his voice. Ed tilts his head back and scrutinizes him wordlessly. His mother mirrors his reticence, only dipping her head and humming an acknowledgement before backing away from the window.
Whatever Mum had to say seems lost to her now as Izzy shambles through the house. Judging by his state and the clothes now under his arm, he’s probably going to shower and scrub away the smudged soil on his jaw where he must’ve tried to wipe sweat with the back of a gloved hand.
The moment the bathroom door shuts, Mum comes alive again. She still seems a bit scared sometimes. Ed doesn’t remember her without fear. It’s like she was born treading lightly and crying softly, baring her teeth only in Ed’s defence.
“Breakfast?” she asks. Ed blinks at the subject change. He knows Mum’s probably glad things are changing. Life goes on—or, most lives. Dad was… a dick, yeah, but part of Ed clings to the good.
Whatever.
“Sounds like a fair bit of effort,” Ed answers, but now that he isn’t so caught up staring at Izzy, he detects the discomfort of an empty stomach.
“We could make eggs. That’s easy.” Mum ties back her dark hair as she speaks. Ed gazes into the warmth of her eyes. “You can crack them.”
“Not a fuckin’ kid anymore, Mum.” Ed follows her into the kitchen anyway, his stomach still snarling.
“I never said you were. You did always like cracking them when you were little.” Mum doesn’t say anything after that, but the silent space is filled with accusations: he likes to destroy things, just like his father.
Ed wants to argue, but as she hands him a pan and the egg carton, he bites his tongue, silently sets them on the counter, and turns on the stove.
He’s cracking an egg when Mum speaks again.
“This is a good thing.”
“What is?”
“Izzy is a good thing.” She dips into his line of sight and playfully pokes his shoulder. “You just aren’t receptive.”
“Plenty fucking receptive, thank you,” Ed mutters. The egg sizzles and pops in the pan sporadically. He feels the expression that must be on Mum’s face, her brows surely furrowed with a desire to understand, but he doesn’t look away from the pan. “It’s just weird.”
“Because it’s different?” Mum seems to give up on prying him open with her eyes, working around him to grab plates. He tracks her movement in his periphery.
“No.” Ed sighs, struggling to simmer down. “Because you didn’t tell me about him for ages and now I’m just supposed to pretend like this is normal. Like there isn’t some fucking stranger living in our house.”
“He’s not a stranger—he’s my partner. I’ve known him for over a year. He does good things, Edward. He’s fixing up that nasty old garden. Our house looked abandoned.” Mum’s voice is sharp. Ed sets his jaw, flipping the egg on its other side and staring at the browned bits. “He’s trying to connect with you. You frustrate him.”
The house had felt abandoned, too, a physical representation of his father’s absence. Ed isn’t sure he wants the new life Izzy tries to bring into it—move on. “Mm. Sorry, missed the part where that’s my problem.”
“Edward,” Mum says thinly.
“Right, so the garden looks nice. Sure. Doesn’t mean I have to go up and give him a big ol’ hug, tell him all about how I’m so glad he’s taken up what little of my Mum’s focus wasn’t already dedicated to working and keeping us afloat.” Ed takes a shaky, sharp breath, subduing the urge to throw the pan in his hand. “He’s a fucking tattoo artist. That’s not sustainable—”
“What makes you think that?” Mum cuts in smoothly. He’s about to snap at her just for that until he thinks about it. “Who taught you that?”
Even though Ed doesn’t open his mouth, the answer hangs unspoken in the air between them. Dad. Ed cracks another egg.
“We have more to eat now, don’t we?” Mum gestures to the half-empty carton of eggs then works around Ed again to pack them away. “And there’s enough for me to take night classes.”
Enough money to save up for you to go to college, she doesn’t add, but Ed knows she’s thinking it, which means he’s already lost the fucking argument. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“When your father—”
Mum is interrupted by a door closing.
Both of them tense.
Ed watches her relax as Izzy enters. He looks away to flip the egg, his teeth grinding together noisily as he bites back something nasty.
“Edward, stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“That thing you’re doing with your teeth. The orthodontist said so. You want the braces off eventually, do you not?” Mum shakes her head.
“Whatever.” Ed manages to stop.
That restraint lasts for a minute, but once they’re all at the table, Izzy takes Dad’s chair like always, and Ed’s jaw starts working again. He has food to chew this time at least, but it feels tacky and tasteless, nothing but the sour taste of uncertainty in his mouth.
On top of it, Izzy has the audacity to make fucking small talk over breakfast.
“Weather’s been nice, recently,” he says, like anyone actually gives a shit.
Ed glares at him over the rim of his energy drink and tries to think of a snide reply.
Mum beats him to it. “Oh, yes, it has. Spring’s just around the corner, I think.”
Ed rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no shit. ‘S fucking September, how else would the fucking weather be?”
It comes out louder than he intended. Mum’s grip on her fork tightens. “Edward, please.”
Izzy, too, gives him a look laden with many things, and suddenly Ed feels small and stupid, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum in the candy aisle. He scoffs, “Whatever.”
Ed has to make do with angrily stabbing at his eggs while listening to Izzy and Mum exchanging meaningless pleasantries over breakfast—the fucking weather, the garden, and their work schedules for the week, as if Mum doesn’t tape a printout of her shifts at the hospital to the mirror in the entryway every Monday. It’s like being a fly on a wall for an awkward first date, not what a married couple’s morning together should look like. Not that Ed would know much about that, but still, what the fuck is this even supposed to be?
Ed nervously drums his fingertips on the table as he squints at Mum. He’s seen her kiss Izzy exactly one time, and that was in front of the altar at their wedding. It’s miles better than hearing her cry at night after Dad came home drunk, but that’s not hard to beat. Izzy doesn’t deserve her.
At least the eggs are good.
As usual for the mornings Mum has work, she finishes first. Ed’s still at the table, nursing his Monster and finishing his last bites. Izzy gets up just a few seconds later, probably driven by Ed’s glowering to follow after Mum. She’s off to the dishes like usual, but Izzy stops her.
“I’ll do it, Elizabeth,” he says, and Ed forgets to chew. “Still got to get ready, haven’t you?”
Brief disbelief flickers over Mum’s face before she replaces it with a surprised smile. “Thank you.” She disappears in the direction of their bedroom, and Izzy gets right to cleaning up without dragging his feet. Ed finally remembers his mushy mouthful of food and gulps it down.
Since he was the one who did most of the cooking, Ed didn’t plan to do the dishes, but Izzy doing them is just… weird. Dad would’ve never even thought about it. Ed pushes out of his chair, rolls his shoulders back, and approaches Izzy, his near-spotless plate proffered, but he stops halfway through.
Izzy looks misplaced in the kitchen, sticking out like a sore thumb in what Ed still perceives as Mum’s space, but watching him work his arms, scrubbing away at the pan, is distracting. He’s deceptively small, hiding muscles with modest height. The base of Ed’s spine tingles, his groin pulsing with sudden heat. He clears his throat and sidles up to Izzy the rest of the way.
“Here.”
“Thanks,” Izzy says gruffly. Ed squints, but there’s no sign of sarcasm. He acknowledges it with only a hum, stepping back.
Usually, Ed would fuck off to his room and leave Izzy to it, but he finds himself lingering. He pretends not to look at Izzy while rifling through a stack of mail he knows contains nothing that interests him. Bills. Insurance. Junk mail. More bills. A postcard from an aunt Ed hasn’t spoken to since he was nine.
Izzy’s hair is still damp, little droplets seeping into the back of his shirt. Ed’s eyes bore holes into the reddened bit of exposed skin above the collar.
“Thank you for making breakfast,” Izzy says out of nowhere. His voice is soft, like he’s talking to himself. He’s still scrubbing dishes instead of looking at Ed.
Ed frowns and drops the stack of letters back on the counter. The fuck does Izzy want from him? “I made eggs, man. Not like that was hard.”
Izzy shrugs, and Ed follows the movements of his broad shoulders. “Still. It was… nice of you. Tasted good, too.”
Now, Ed is grateful Izzy isn’t looking at him, so he can’t see the smile tugging at Ed’s lips. “‘Course it did. You’ve got to add a bit of cinnamon—Mum’s secret ingredient, but don’t tell her I told you that.”
Izzy chuckles, and Ed’s stomach does a weird little flip. “Of course not. My lips are sealed.”
Ed’s smile grows embarrassingly wide, and he really doesn’t know what to do with it, so he shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and begins retreating toward his room before Izzy sees.
A little voice in the back of his head nags at him, and suddenly, it feels unfair to just walk out on Izzy like that. His hand is on the doorknob already when, on a whim, he turns back around.
“Thanks for doing the dishes, mate,” he calls over his shoulder.
If Izzy says anything in response, Ed doesn’t hear it over the accidental slam of his bedroom door.