Work Text:
Izzy takes a deep breath, staring down at his bare feet, toes curled into the deep pile of the bath mat. Another, and a third, and he finally raises his eyes to the mirror, hands clenched into fists in the pockets of his green dressing gown.
"I am enough," he says through gritted teeth, "and I deserve good things."
He takes in every wrinkle on his face, catalogues each new line and crease. There's marginally less brown in his hair today than there was when he did this before bed yesterday evening. Frowning at the mirror, he pokes the middle-aged paunch at his torso once, then knots the robe shut around his waist and jams his hand back in the pocket.
"I am enough and I deserve good things," he repeats, almost a whisper. Glaring at the mirror, Izzy adds, "Don't cry about it, you fucking twat."
The Vaseline is too cold when Izzy applies it, paying dutiful attention to the area still healing at the corner of his left eye. Even a few weeks later, Izzy swears the skin there is still more sensitive from the laser, but at least his ex-husband's stick-and-poke tattoo no longer winks back at him when he does these stupid mirror affirmations twice a day. Bloody foolish, letting a drunk boy tattoo his face, but Izzy's not the same person he was in college thirty years ago, thank God.
His mobile chirps on the back of the toilet, and Izzy grabs it immediately, thumbing his PIN in as he walks to the kitchen.
Dr. Boodhari: My partner just got off the line with our artist friend, and he's definitely interested in speaking with you! I'll share my contact for him with you, or do you just want his number to jot down?
Izzy: Would rather jot
The next text arrives after the kettle's finished heating for his pour over. He pays his therapist enough for him to be able to wait for a reply, so Izzy finishes making his coffee before grabbing a notepad and pen. The coffee drips slowly while Izzy taps out a quick thanks—as quickly as he ever manages to text, anyway. Izzy's never been able to make his fingers fly as fast as Ed's used to on these damn things.
Maybe if there were a pretty young thing waiting for me at the other end, too, he thinks as he takes his first sip. But the jab doesn't hurt as much as it once would have; three years of being divorced, Ed moving halfway across the world, and general global upheaval have helped Izzy put most of the old anguish behind him. For the rest of it, all fifty some-odd years of collected griefs and traumas, he trusts Dr. Boodhari.
Izzy glances at the newest neon green Post-it on his fridge. In six months of therapy, he's collected quite a few. Izzy had never been one for mementos before, but every note is a physical reminder of how far he's come in such a relatively short period of time. He can't bear to part with them, even if they technically are just old homework assignments.
Besides, the first note had been, "Start a meaningful collection to celebrate this new chapter of your life." Izzy found it apt, and it's not like they're creating clutter up there on the fridge.
He leans back against the kitchen sink, sipping the last of his favorite roast. No sugar, and certainly no milk, only smooth unadulterated coffee flavour, as he's always taken it. Coffee doesn’t deserve a fuss. Probably why he likes it so much.
Izzy stares at the phone and notepad on the counter, wondering if it's too early to ring up the artist. Then again, Boodhari said his partner had just gotten off the call with him…
Spriggs. Why does that name sound so familiar?
Another sip, and Izzy sets the mug down to pick up his mobile, jabbing the number in slowly with his pointer finger. Dialing; ringing; ringing; ringi—
"Lucius Spriggs," says an obviously sleep-mussed voice on the other end.
"Have I woken you up?"
"I always sound like this before noon."
Izzy stares at his cuckoo clock, a ship-shaped monstrosity picked up on a whim second-hand. "I'll call back later," he says, telling the anxious roil in his stomach to chill the fuck out. "Dr. Boodhari said his partner had talked to you, so I assumed y—"
"Oh! You're the model!" Lucius sounds immediately awake; it's a little unnerving. No one should be so peppy without caffeine. "No, this is fine, I'm ecstatic that you called!"
"Not really a model," mumbles Izzy, "he just thought it would be good for me to give it a go."
"Well no one pops out of the womb ready to hit the runway except for, like, Lizzo and Dakota Schiffer." Izzy hears a ruckus on the other end of the call; sounds like a desk drawer being ransacked. "Look, I want to meet up with you this afternoon. Maybe lunch?"
Ah fuck. "I don't eat out anymore," Izzy says, "not in restaurants. Given the bloody pandemic and hating most everyone besides."
Lucius snorts. "I haven't been much of a social butterfly since 2020, myself. We can get takeaway, maybe hit up a park and scare some birds."
"Of the feathered or human variety?"
"I'm game for either, honestly." Izzy can just make out the scratching of a fountain pen on paper. Good to know he isn't the only person left who prefers doing things by hand. "Actually, I could pick up lunch and meet you there, if you'd like? My treat."
"Kind of you, thanks." It's just lunch, Izzy reminds the sudden flutter in his chest. Just business.
"Any preferences? Dietary restrictions? Ancient vendor grudges?"
Izzy typically doesn't deviate from his same foods: coffee for breakfast, maybe dry toast if his Crohn's is flaring. Soup and a sandwich for lunch. A freezer meal with broccoli in it for dinner. Protein bars for snacks if he's feeling particularly adventurous.
The fifth Post-it on the freezer catches his eye. "Try new things!" Boodhari says in Izzy's head.
"Surprise me," Izzy says, grabbing and twisting the belt of his robe in his free hand over and over. "Except, uh, no dairy. And not salad. Or anything spicy."
"Are we talking proper British seasoning?"
"No," Izzy chuckles, "no, flavour is fine, just nothing that will declare war on me later."
"Got it: vegan place, but not too vegan." More scratching, too much to be a list. Maybe a doodle? "You know the Joy of Life fountain over on Aldford?" Izzy hums in agreement. "Meet you there at, say, noon?"
"That's fine. What…" Izzy frowns, unsure of phrasing. "How do I identify you?"
"I'm tall and very gay, darling, I'll make myself known."
Izzy puzzles over the epithet for the rest of the morning, until he realizes while doing his hair that he never gave Lucius his name. He frets about it the entire time he's trying to decide what to wear, then wonders when the last time he cared about making a good first impression was. Probably his intake appointment with Boodhari.
On his way out the door, Izzy pauses, looking at his face in the mirror. "I am enough and I deserve good things." He almost looks convincing when he says it. Pointing at himself, Izzy adds, "Don't you dare fuck this up," before leaving to catch the bus.
Lucius was right; he is, in fact, very tall and extremely gay. The man carries himself like a goddamn one-person Pride parade. There's even a fringe on the edges of his fussy little red cropped jacket. His tan corduroy trousers flare at the bottom, enough so Izzy can spy socks the same bright fuchsia as Lucius' button-down shirt.
"You're like a greaser!" Lucius says to him cheerfully, one arm holding a large sketchbook, the other full with a stapled-shut brown paper bag. Izzy looks down at his own outfit: white tee, ironed jeans, black leather boots to match his jacket. He thought he looked okay enough. Definitely not greasy. "With the whole teddy boy hair you have going on," Lucius continues, oblivious to Izzy's panic. "Like you just walked out of West Side Story."
"Oh thank fuck," says Izzy, relieved. "I thought you meant I looked dirty for a second."
Lucius shifts the bag to his hip. "No, not at all." He holds out his hand, sketchbook clutched under his arm now. "Lucius Spriggs, making you Izzy Hands."
"How'd you know it was me?" Lucius' grip is stronger than Izzy anticipated.
"You radiate nerves, babe." He gives Izzy's hand a parting squeeze, then works on setting down his things on the nearby bench Izzy'd been camping on for the past half hour. "Jim told me you would—said, 'He's a bit twitchy,' and I said, 'Wonderful, I love twitchy.'"
Izzy blinks. Jim must be the name of Dr. Boodhari's mysterious partner—he'd only met them once, briefly, in the waiting room at the clinic. "Didn't even know their bloody name until now."
"Jim's secretive like that." Lucius looks up at Izzy from the bench, gesturing for him to sit down while he pulls containers out of the sack. Izzy does, trying not to stare holes through Lucius' face—what he can see around the edges of the mask, anyway. "I didn't even find out they were dating anyone until they were completely fucking married."
Lucius hands him a large paper cup with a lid on it; the cup's just a touch too hot to hold without injury, exactly how Izzy likes it. "Did Jim somehow know I take soup for lunch, too?"
"Lucky guess on my part, I suppose." He passes over a wrapped toastie and a little bag of plastic takeout cutlery. "Or, well…" Lucius pauses, then sets his own sandwich down. "To be honest?"
"By all means."
"You sounded a bit like a professor I had back in college," he says, and Izzy swears he sees a vague hint of blush on Lucius' exposed face. Then again, it is early December, and they are outside. "She had this old tin thermos full of soup with her at literally all times, like a—"
"Security blanket," Izzy finishes for him. How often had Ed accused him of just that. He tries not to think about the last time he saw it, saw Ed, saw the anger… "Like a bit of home wherever you go," he says instead.
"Don't tell me you know Dr. Teach!" Izzy does his best not to wince. "I think her first name was Val?" Lucius asks in earnest, finally pulling off his mask.
"Fucking hell," Izzy says. "It's you."
Lucius' nose crinkles, and Izzy's taken back a decade, to the mountain of a kid in the third row who drew in the margins of all his assignments, who gave stunning textual analysis and asked some of the best damn questions Izzy had ever heard in one of his mythology courses.
"Oh my god," he says, eyes lighting up, "don't tell me: you're her husband!"
And Izzy cackles, because this is absurd. He takes off his own mask, folds it neatly in half at the nose wire, and laughs until he damn near cries, because what are the fucking odds of this happening?
"You could say I knew her intimately, I suppose," he manages to say when the anxious laughter has mostly subsided. He turns his head to the side; let the swallow on his throat say what he can't manage to voice. Izzy stares into the fountain, watching the water bubble in on itself around the two bronze figures dancing above it, and finally hears a tiny oh of realization. When he looks back at Lucius, he doesn't know what he expects to see. Revulsion, maybe; that seems to be what everyone else from his old life had felt when he finally transitioned four years ago.
"I'm so fucking happy for you," Lucius says in an elated rush. "You always looked so sad and small."
"Still fairly sad, and I haven't gotten any fucking bigger."
But Lucius breathes laughter, not at Izzy, but for him, and Izzy hadn't known how much he needed someone else's joy until this moment. "I mean, you're still the same nervous Nelly, don't get me wrong, but…" Lucius grabs Izzy's hand, turns it to see the spade tattoo there, grins even wider, if that's possible. "It's really you, Dr. Teach, isn't it?"
"Dr. Hands now," Izzy says quietly, "but yeah, it's me."
"God, I've fucked this up and made an awkward mess, haven't I?" Lucius doesn't give Izzy a chance to respond, continuing to babble on. "I was so grateful for a new model—the studio was closed for a while because of COVID, of course, and I've been trying to get these classes started up again, but all my models had either moved on or turned into antivaxxers, of all things, can you believe it, and my husband's Daddy is immunocompromised so—"
Izzy tries to wade through the information, then attempts to handle the impending sense of heartbreak. Husband. Of course he's married, not to mention a former student, you great old fucking lech.
Lucius never stopped talking. "—which, I mean, Fang's a wonderful model but he doesn't like the attention of a whole group. Shyest Daddy I've ever met. And Pete just makes lewd hand gestures the whole time, when he’s not busy flitting around the room like fucking Tinkerbell because he can’t sit still."
"Your husband's… Father? Models for you?"
His hand flies up to cover his mouth. "Oh I am making a right disaster of this. Um, no, not his father, his… His Daddy."
Izzy's going to have a panic attack in broad daylight from secondhand embarrassment at this rate, let alone his own. "In the, uh, 'Oh Daddy, I've been naughty,’ sense?"
Lucius is practically bent over with laughter. "Yes," he wheezes, "that. Oh my god, Dr. Hands, what was that reflexive voice choice?"
"I saw a lot of questionable pornography during lockdown." Izzy can feel the heat of his own face, popping open the lid to the cup of soup for an excuse at distraction.
"Didn't we all," agrees Lucius. Izzy takes a furtive glance away from his piping hot tomato soup, and their eyes meet. At least Lucius seems as mortified as Izzy feels. "Should we start from the beginning?" he asks, and Izzy can't tear his eyes away. "We can't make this meeting much more painful without, like, true effort, I think." Lucius smiles, almost timid; the ripples from the fountain reflect sunlight in his green eyes.
"Is it going to be a problem?"
"What?"
"Christ, me being trans, you having been my student, us being a couple of awkward fucks now—take your pick!"
Lucius’ shoulders shake with suppressed mirth as he picks up and unwraps his toastie. "First," he says, crumpling the wax paper into a ball and tossing it back into the sack, "if anyone has a problem with drawing a trans person, then I have a problem with them being in my studio. Second—hang on," and he stops to take a large bite, hiding his mouth behind his hand. "I haven't eaten yet today, I'm so sorry. Literally rolled over after we spoke and went back to sleep."
"No wonder you were always fucking late," Izzy says, sipping at his soup. It's rich and creamy, only scalding the roof of his mouth a little.
"I was on time today!"
"Minute past."
Lucius rolls his eyes, but keeps chewing. "Anyway, second: you're hardly my professor now. If anything, the roles have reversed. Something, something, insert a Star Wars analogy here. But I'm not bothered by it if you aren't."
Izzy swallows another mouthful of soup. "I mean, I'm a whole fucking new person now. Just… Ethics of it, is all."
"What's unethical about us so far?" Lucius asks saucily. He's got his arm on the back of the bench, leaning his head against his fist. He raises an eyebrow. "Are you thinking unethical thoughts about me already, Professor?"
"Good soup," Izzy forces himself to say.
"Well, that does bring us neatly to point three."
"Which is?"
"I'm never awkward when I fuck," and Lucius winks at him, and Izzy knows he's already lost.
The rest of lunch is playing catch-up with each other, more or less. Izzy talks about his decision to take a year's sabbatical from teaching, and how grateful he is for access to virtual learning, even if he does miss the intimacy of in-person instruction. Lucius tells him a little about trying to keep his studio afloat in the midst of social and economic disaster, and about his oil painting that went viral for the right reasons last year on Instagram, but mostly about Pete and Fang.
Izzy thought he'd found family too once. He hopes Lucius' proves stronger than Izzy's did.
"So why life modeling?" Lucius eventually asks.
"It seemed the least awful out of all Boodhari's suggestions," Izzy admits with a shrug, wiping a crumb of grilled cheese sandwich off his face with a napkin. "My whole bloody job is to be up in front of people commanding attention. I don't even have to be running my mouth this way."
"I feel like there's more to it," says Lucius gently, and there's that damn eyebrow again. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but it'll help me make it a good experience for you."
"Have you ever not been a pushy manipulative bastard?"
"Mum said I was even worse as a baby, so you should count yourself blessed to not have known me then." His eyebrows draw together, and Lucius is touching Izzy's hand again. "I just want it to be enjoyable and help you get what you're looking for, not add another layer of trauma," he says.
Izzy sighs. "My ex-husband was… Let's say less than thrilled about my transition."
"What a bastard."
"I think it just shocked him, mostly. And things had been bad between us for a while already." Izzy puts down his empty soup cup, then opens and closes his fist, trying to quell the ridiculous urge he has to reach out and touch Lucius back, to hold and be held, and, God it's been so bloody long since someone touched me like this. "Anyway he found someone younger; leggier; blonder. Another man, so I guess it wasn't my gender that was the problem. It was just me."
Lucius is quiet for an unfathomably long time, but he's holding Izzy's hand between both of his now, almost like he's afraid to let go.
"Said too much," Izzy mutters, but Lucius won't let him pull back his hand.
"No, I asked you to tell me," insists Lucius. "I want this to be fun and healing and not feel like a chore. You can tell me whatever, I promise."
"Not used to this whole heart-to-heart shit." He risks a glance at Lucius instead of at the swirling leaves in the fountain's pool, and there's that soft smile again, and that feathery feeling between Izzy's lungs, again, and the anxious swell that screams it isn't safe, again.
"I'm rather good at it," Lucius tells him. "You'll catch on."
When Lucius finally releases Izzy's hand, both of them cleaning up their impromptu picnic, all Izzy can think of is finding an excuse to touch him again. They part ways, and the little business card in Izzy's hand has a date three days from now written on the back, and he has no idea what the fuck to do with himself until he can see Lucius again.
What Izzy winds up doing is watching an inordinate number of Bob Ross episodes on YouTube. His personal algorithm's going to be properly fucked at this rate. He figures if he's going to be painted, it might be best to get a handle on how painting actually works, but Izzy's hardly a mountain, crags on his face notwithstanding.
It's soothing, though, the artist's voice and methods. No mistakes, only happy little accidents. Izzy wishes more of his own accidents had been happy ones, could be disguised with cloud cover and good blending from a laden brush.
But that tree wouldn't be there now if not for the splotch of misplaced paint before it. Maybe all the mistakes only led to the inevitability of now and who Izzy's become.
He lets the next video autoplay.
Four forests and a bubbling brook later, his phone chimes.
Lucius: Forgot to ask you: would you prefer to meet at my flat or the studio? Got a corsi-rosenthal box there, but not at home. I'm assuming you've got some kind of immunocompromisation happening because you're very vigilant (that's not a bad thing of course!)
Izzy: Hard to text
Izzy: Arthritis
Lucius: You use android or apple
Izzy: Samsung
The next time his phone goes off, Izzy opens his messages to a link explaining how to use a feature called voice to text. It takes him a few tries, but he eventually gets the microphone set up correctly as Bob Ross talks about how to paint light.
Izzy: Ducking hell comma that's better
Izzy: Wait comma no comma what the duck
Lucius: Sometimes they don't like swear words lol. I use it when my ADHD is completely out of control or my hands are busy elsewhere
Izzy: I have no bloody interest in waterfowl this device is going to kill me
Izzy: And yeah comma I've got crones comma on a biologic for it
Izzy: Not ducking witches
Izzy: I'm going to set this infernal thing ablaze
Lucius: My god you’re even funnier than I remembered you being
Lucius: You have no idea how hard i’m resisting the urge to ok boomer you seriously
Izzy: Duck off
Lucius: But would you prefer the studio for the first sitting? Just to get a feel for it, give you the grand tour, plus better ventilation with the corsi-rosenthal box
Izzy: Never even heard of a corinthian no dam it god course rose ethel box comma sounds like the kind of thing you need a safeword for
Lucius: omg brilliant but no
He sends Izzy a barrage of links after that, explaining what a Corsi-Rosenthal box even is, their efficacy, air exchange ratings and the like. Izzy peruses them all, fascinated by the ingenuity of other people, daring to make the world safer when their politicians refuse to. After that batch, Izzy opens an article about troubleshooting punctuation when using voice typing, but he doesn’t much feel like trying to uninstall and reinstall programs he’s only just learned about today. Bad grammar’s never bothered him too much, anyway–he’s willing to let mistakes slide in assignments so long as the precepts are sound, even if his courses are grandfathered into the English department. The last link is another voice-to-text tutorial, this one demonstrating how to make the messaging app accept Izzy’s cursing.
Izzy: Fuck
Izzy: Ah cheers
Lucius: lmao you’re so welcome professor
Izzy: I think a tour of your studio would be very nice and I’d like very much to see one of these boxes in action
Lucius: I’ll send you the addy
Lucius: Also I'm absolutely dying to pick your brain about safewords now but I'll refrain. It was so so wonderful to catch up with you, Dr. Hands, and I'm not keen on making you suddenly run for the hills!
Izzy: Just Izzy is fine x
Izzy: Was lovely to see you as well
Izzy: Even if you were late colon capital p
He calls Tate Modern the next morning, inquiring when they're least busy. Izzy hasn't been since he moved back into the city, and they have a woven sculpture exhibit he's curious about for posing references. Lucius probably doesn't intend to let Izzy fly by the seat of his pants, but all the research Izzy did on life modeling the night before suggested having a mental portfolio of poses.
If the fiber sculptures don't pan out, there's always the photography exhibits, or even the hosted Cezanne collection. Maybe it's atypical to want to look at abstract nonhuman sculptures to get an idea about how to move his own body; then again, very little has ever been typical about Izzy Hands, and he prefers it that way.
Izzy wanders through forests of textiles—Abakans, they're called, after the artist. His fingers itch to reach out and touch, so he fidgets with the ends of his scarf instead. There's something especially moving about the pieces that incorporate rope, almost like the work beneath could spring to life at any moment if not properly contained. "Like a petrified organism," the artist is quoted in the guide, "like a muscle devoid of activity." That's the kind of energy Izzy wants to channel for his modeling, he decides.
He recalls suddenly a piece of art Lucius had turned in with an essay about the themes in the myth of Prometheus. Izzy stares at a piece from Abakanowicz' Embryology series, a group of what appear to be torsos, and imagines those same stark red ropes that bound Lucius' pencil-shaded Prometheus to not a rock, but the sign at the university entrance.
Hours later, after walking through the photography exhibits multiple times and scribbling out extensive notes, Izzy's still thinking about rope. The last time he and Ed had played together, in particular, right at the beginning of Izzy's transition, before any of the surgeries he'd undergone largely alone and unsupported. Ed had barely had the rope uncoiled before safewording out of both the scene and the marriage, Izzy sees now, looking back.
The microwave beeps five blessed times to tell Izzy the frozen beef and broccoli is finished. One of the notes on the fridge door catches Izzy's eye as he opens it for the filter pitcher.
"Don't be afraid to set the speed of and boundaries for your own life." It had been the first session Izzy hadn't cried during.
He speedwalks back to the sitting area for his phone and looks up the voice to text setup process again.
Izzy: You could pick my brain about it if you wanted to letter ex
Later that evening, after a bit more Bob Ross to quell his anxious mind and a brief foray through local kink community hubs to satisfy the hunger burning in his gut, Izzy checks his messages again.
Lucius: noted, professor ;)
Izzy lets himself sleep in until seven in case his tour and session with Lucius run past his normal bedtime. He doesn't know what to expect out of the evening, honestly, though his dick seems to have ideas of its own aplenty. Lucius is flirty, yes, but seems very professional when it comes to his work. The chances of getting thrown up against an easel and ravished look relatively slim.
He finally gives in and has a guilt-ridden wank in the shower. It's stupid, to feel bad about this; it's not like he'd harbored these thoughts about Lucius when he was in Izzy's class, after all. They were adults then and adultier now, ten years removed from any kind of power imbalanced impropriety.
Not that it stops the twist of lust in his gut when Izzy thinks about Lucius calling him professor. His orgasm completely blindsides him. Hadn't even had a chance to finger himself, though he takes the time to clean more thoroughly than truly necessary anyway.
Izzy considers shaving, but he thinks if he picked up a razor and tried right now, he'd get carried away and end up hairless. He steps out and dries off, wondering how difficult it is to paint body hair. Lucius had drawn it well enough, if Izzy's memory of the Prometheus sketch holds right and he isn't just inventing details.
"Trust your own brain!!!" a green Post-it screams at him from the fridge as he prepares his coffee.
"I'm fucking trying, alright?" Izzy prods it with his finger, then checks his mobile for the first time of the day.
Dr. Boodhari: Hey, this Izzy
Izzy: Doctor Boodhari
Dr. Boodhari: No, Jim Boodhari, his partner, just wanted to make sure Lucius wasn't being a dick and flirting too much
Izzy: Thoughtful of you
He pours the water over the grounds, watching it slowly drip through the filter and into his favorite mug. It's one of the few gifts of Ed's he kept, only because it was completely ridiculous. WORLD CLASS BOWLER it declares on one side, with an image of a ball striking down a set of pins on the other. Izzy's sure it was an inside joke at some point but can't recall exactly why. He's never even been bowling.
Izzy takes a few sips before picking up his phone again, trying to decide if he wants to text Jim a second time in a row. He catches his own reflection in the black screen and realizes he hasn't done his exercises yet.
"You are enough," he assures himself, over top of the voice in his head telling him Lucius is just flirtatious, that he couldn't possibly want Izzy, not for more than a lark. "You deserve good things, dammit."
He unlocks the mobile.
Izzy: Could stand a little more flirting to be honest
Jim: Oh ho ho could you now?? Oh that's interesting. That's very very interesting
The reply had been near immediate—young people and their young fingers. And why was it so bloody interesting?
Jim: Well if he's a dick, let me know, I'll beat his ass for embarrassing me
Izzy: Sure
Izzy: And thanks question mark
Izzy: oh goddammit
By the time he leaves his flat, Izzy's worked himself into a nervous wreck. Scribed Lines Studio isn't far from the fountain where they'd met, so Izzy still has thirty minutes to kill by the time the bus arrives. He finds a bench across the street from it and sits down, pulling his mobile out in lieu of twiddling his thumbs, clicking it on and off again just to have something to do with his hands. Probably should have brought his knitting with him, or else a book.
Izzy pulls Lucius' business card from his pocket. He hadn't thought to peruse his actual business webpage in amongst all his other strange research. All the card gives is a username beside a little icon of what looks like a camera. Probably some awful social media site—and hadn't Lucius mentioned going viral on Instagram?
Ten minutes later, Izzy's managed to download and install the app, now possessing his very first social media account. Scribed Lines Studio is easy enough to find, and now here he is, scrolling through dozens upon dozens of images. Some of the posts are of Lucius’ students' artwork, though Izzy has to go back to 2019 to find any from former life drawing classes. The poses are fairly straightforward, and the student art ranges from laughable to brilliant, though he doubts Lucius would grade as such. Lucius was only ever a bitch in class to his peers, never to the bottom half of the curve.
He scrolls back up, looking for the viral photo. All Izzy knows is it's a “somewhat risque” oil painting. Thank fuck he knows what oils look like, because Lucius seems to dabble in every possible media, though he suspects the elaborate wooden carvings are the work of someone else in the studio.
One photo catches his eye. It's startlingly familiar. Izzy clicks on it with his finger.
"Oh you marvelous son of a twat," Izzy murmurs, because the title of the piece is Prometheus II. The person bound is obviously an NHS worker of some kind, elaborately tied atop the Palace of Westminster with surgical tubing. There's an eagle in this version, but with the mane and crown of the lion from the Royal crest.
Izzy flicks the image to the side, and watches a time lapse video of Lucius painting the piece, wearing overalls with no shirt. There aren’t any references in the frame from what Izzy can tell, and the video is largely silent save for an occasional hacking cough or a gasping rattle, though Lucius doesn't seem to be coughing and the camera never shakes.
Performance art, Izzy thinks. No wonder this went fucking viral.
The last few images on the post are close-ups of detailed work, and a shorter video of Lucius applying varnish to the piece to make it shine. He turns and waves at the camera, a paintbrush behind each ear and a vibrant streak of blue paint on his cheek.
Finally, Izzy notices the caption: For V, who I hope is safe in this storm <3
Surely not. Surely… Lucius hadn't ever taken a second class with Izzy—it's silly to think the V could mean him. He couldn't have had such a lasting impact that Lucius would drop the first letter of his dead name eight years later in the dedication of a masterpiece.
But you are enough, something whispers to him. Izzy almost believes it.
He figures out how to leave a comment on the post.
IBHphd: "For it would be better to die once and for all than to suffer pain for all one's life." A marked improvement on your wonderful first x
Izzy relocks his phone and puts it back in his jacket pocket. There's still a few minutes left until the studio closes to the public for the day. His leg bounces with nervous energy, and he puts a hand on his knee to try and quell it.
The door to the studio opens, and Lucius' head pops out. "You can come in, you know," he says. "Bound to be warmer in here."
"When did you know I was here?" Izzy calls back across the street, pushing himself up from the bench.
"Maybe fifteen minutes ago. No one's been in for a bit," he says, "what with the dreary weather."
"That's just every fucking day here though." Izzy smiles back at Lucius as he walks through the open door. Lucius has on joggers and a brightly colored geometric pullover, feet clad in a pair of nondescript canvas slippers. "Glad I went comfortable today, too," says Izzy, no longer fretting about his own outfit.
"Art's better when you're not all bound up by clothing," Lucius tells him, and a little bell chimes as he shuts the door. He takes Izzy's coat while he looks around. The studio is as open-concept as possible given the placement of load-bearing walls, being housed within an old Victorian-era structure. There's a small sitting area off to Izzy's right surrounded by shelves of supplies, he guesses for Lucius' students to purchase. A far corner is set up for woodworking—"That's where my Pete lives most of the time," says Lucius, "though he does at least keep the chainsaw sculpting in the basement where it belongs." Groups of easels and folding chairs are stacked neatly near the staircase. The rest of the studio is predominantly empty space, though the walls are littered with artwork, some with price tags, but mostly not.
Lucius ushers him over to an honest-to-god divan near the fireplace, an electric fire installed into the original brickwork. There's one of the air filter cubes Lucius had spoken of, though Izzy can't recall the name of it now, but he can hear the fan within the set of duct-taped filters whirring away, so Izzy finally removes his mask. Even with the cube, the scene looks cozier than it has any right to, given it's in the middle of an art studio.
"The loo's over there," Lucius says, gesturing toward the stairs as he grabs a large sketchpad, "and there's a clean robe to change into on the hook behind the door." He's quickly on to rummaging through one of the many sets of drawers. "I'll close the drapes, too, don't worry about that."
It hits Izzy all at once exactly what he's about to do. The room spins a little, and suddenly Lucius grabs his elbow, sitting him on the divan.
Lucius squats down in front of him. "Nerves get you?" Izzy hums and nods. "I'm nervous, too, if that helps."
"Been a long time since anyone saw me but me," Izzy admits, getting his breathing back under control.
"Which is an absolute sin, honestly." Lucius rubs Izzy's knee soothingly. "I know we already chatted about expectations and the like earlier, but would it help to go over it again? Could make you a cuppa?"
But Izzy shakes his head. "No," he says, "no, I'm alright." Lucius' smile is brilliant; this close, Izzy can see the faint traces of eyeliner and soft shadow on his eyelids. The need to reach out and touch his face is urgent, but Izzy keeps his hands folded in his lap. "You set up what you need, and I'll… Go change."
He runs on autopilot, folding each article of clothing neatly and stacking it on an empty shelf. The robe is the same beige as the throw on the divan—Izzy wonders if Lucius sews, or else has a sewist in his life. Above the antique sink is a little mirror, and Izzy tries not to look at himself. Affirmations can't fix whatever haunted longing he'll see in his eyes; now that he's been touched, Izzy's skin hungers for more, a greedy boil for affection he's no longer accustomed to having.
The robe is too long on him, dusting the tops of his bare feet. Too large, as well, and Izzy suspects it may have been Lucius' once. He takes a steadying breath, then leaves the loo.
Lucius has a folding chair set up near the divan, and he turns to wave him over. "You ready?" he asks as Izzy stands beside the couch, feeling ridiculous. Every pose he's studied for the past few days flies out of his brain, leaving him twisting the belt on his robe until Lucius reaches out and stills his hand. "I usually leave posing up to the model, but I'm happy to direct, if you'd prefer."
And oh, would Izzy prefer. Yes please seems too eager, so Izzy settles for, "Alright."
Lucius gives him a look like he knows, his nose wrinkling above the flash of a grin. "Let's start slow," he says, "just a headshot. Get you used to the idea." Izzy finally sits down, but still can't stop the reflexive startle when Lucius touches his face.
"Fuck, sorry."
"Don't be. You're fine, promise." Lucius touches him again, moving Izzy's head from side to side, tilting it this way and that, like he can't decide what angle he wants. He finally settles on a profile—"Chin up, just a bit. There's a love."
Izzy's already sweltering and it has nothing to do with the electric fire. He's looking at the sitting area, trying to will his cock into limpness, embarrassed that it could take so little to get him ramped up. One hand and a little praise—fuck but he's gotten easy.
Lucius tugs the neck line of the robe open, enough to expose Izzy's shoulders. "Perfect," he says. "Can you hold this for a bit?"
"Yeah." Izzy's voice sounds weak to his own ears.
"Meant to ask if you wanted music—I've usually got it going for background noise during the classes."
"Just get on with it," Izzy says, slightly strangled, and Lucius huffs a laugh.
"Aye-aye, professor." Lucius settles back into his chair; Izzy presses his thighs together and starts counting the little pots of watercolor paint on the other side of the room.
The room is quiet, but hardly silent. There's the mechanical muffled whirring of the fan, filtering the air; the hum of cars on the street outside; the gentle susurrus of Lucius' pencil against the paper. Izzy quickly loses count of the paints, his eyes going soft and unfocused. He feels the weight of Lucius' eyes upon him, but it's comforting, like a heavy blanket.
"Your suprasternal notch is fucking incredible," Lucius says distractedly at some point, pencil still moving. "Like it's just so defined, my God." Izzy opens his mouth to reply, to… Thank him, he supposes? But Lucius shushes him. "Just be still," he tells him. "Just relax again and sink where you are, like a stone, and I'll try to talk less."
Izzy closes his mouth again. There's a wisp of a whine on the tip of his tongue. This whole situation has become unbearably erotic and he can't even pinpoint why.
"You're a natural, you know." Izzy hears the scratch of a manual pencil sharpener. "You're being ever so good for me, professor." His tone is low and heated, and Izzy feels his toes curling on the old wood floor. He tries to keep his breathing easy, but it's difficult when it feels like his heart is about to beat out of its cage. "I'm usually much more professional than this," and Izzy isn't sure if Lucius is talking to him or admonishing himself. "Guess a little bird told me this afternoon that I should flirt harder."
Izzy swallows the stream of swearing that wants to claw its way out of him.
For a long time, Lucius says nothing, only an occasional hum to himself. The setting sun casts deepening shadows around the edges of the drawn drapes.
"That's acceptable," he finally says. When Izzy doesn't move to look, Lucius sets his thumb and finger to Izzy's chin, turning his head back around. A smear of graphite clings to Lucius’ forehead; being left-handed, Izzy imagines it's all over the side of his pinky finger as well. "Hello again."
Izzy licks his dry lips before speaking. "Suprasternal notch?"
"Ah, yes, it's…" Lucius is still looking at Izzy when his finger dips into the hollow where Izzy's collarbone meets his left shoulder. "This bit."
Is it supposed to be a fucking erogenous zone‽ "Never did well in the hard sciences."
"The temptation I have to turn that into a terrible joke. Then again,” and Lucius flicks his eyes down to the v made by the robe's wide collars on Izzy's chest, "I've found all of you very tempting so far."
Izzy is certain he had game, once, at some point. He'd landed fucking Ed "sex on legs" Teach; must've been doing something right. But his head still feels fuzzy from sitting and doing what he was told and doing it well, apparently, or at least told that he was. Izzy can't remember the last time he felt at peace like this; undoubtedly even further back then the last time Ed had almost touched him, then walked away.
Lucius chuckles when it becomes obvious Izzy has no words. "Either there's really not a dominant bone in your body—which I find fascinating, given how you handled your lectures—or that little bird has advised me straight into making you very, very uncomfortable."
"'M comfortable," Izzy manages. "But I'm not keeping things professional, either."
"Just tell me if I come on too strong. Really don't want Jim to break my pretty face." Lucius looks down at his sketchpad; his face is warm and pink along the edges of his long sideburns. "You want to see?" He sounds much less confident now, like he isn't sure he wants to show Izzy, but curiosity wins the round. Izzy holds out his hand for the pad, and Lucius gives it to him.
Izzy recognizes the face; he has to stare at it long enough to do his affirmations and moisturize his healing skin. But it doesn't look like any version of Izzy that's ever stared him down in the mirror. This Izzy has an almost unbearable lightness to him, an ease to his face Izzy wasn't aware he possessed. The lines of his neck are prominent, but not as tense as he typically sees them.
Fuck, he almost looks like he did in the Polaroid Ed took after…
Izzy laughs.
"Oh, come on," Lucius says, "I know there's mistakes, but it can't be th—"
"Happy little accidents," corrects Izzy, still staring at the sketch, still unable to stop smiling. "And it's not the art I'm laughing at, it's…" He laughs again, a bit quieter. "Well it's fucking complicated but it used to take more to get me under like this."
"Get you under?"
"Never had softness get under my skin before." He looks back at Lucius, whose face seems to be undertaking a voyage as he processes.
It dawns on him quickly enough. "This does explain why I hardly ever saw you sitting down anywhere."
"Ex-husband had an excellent arm."
Lucius snickers. "My Pete can be a bit of a brat, too, though I think he saves most of that for his Daddy."
The fog has largely dissipated from Izzy's head when he passes the sketch back. "That works well for you? Having multiple partners?"
"Definitely, though I haven't myself in ages." He narrows his eyes slightly, holding the sketchpad to his chest. "I'm guessing you're more the monogamous type?"
"Not necessarily, just wound up with the short fucking end of the open relationship stick."
Lucius' eyes shift back as he nods. "I'm sorry your partner was such an absolute shithead."
"It wasn't all bad."
"It never is." Lucius flips the page over on the pad. "You need a break to stretch? Water?"
"Water would be good, thanks." Izzy doesn't stand up while Lucius is gone upstairs, just stretches his arms and neck as he sits, like moving too much would break whatever spell currently weaves its way around them both. He hears creaking on the stairwell, and then the opening notes to "Fat Bottomed Girls" as Lucius answers his mobile.
"Hey babes," he says animatedly, a water bottle in his hand and another beneath his arm. "How's the upside-down treating you?" Lucius unscrews the lid and passes the water off to Izzy. "Well I did tell you to pack your knee pads." He doesn't sit back down, just stands and twirls his hair around his finger, mouthing a quick sorry to Izzy. "No, I still haven't found your fancy tail, but hey, can I put you on speaker for a hot minute to chat with someone? This is a perfect opportunity to allay some fears. Since you've gone and interrupted us? Fab."
Lucius pulls his phone away from his ear, clicking something on the screen with his thumb before setting it down on the metal chair. "So you remember that new model I've been telling you about?" he asks, opening his own bottle.
There's a lisping laugh on the other end of the line. "Oh, you mean that professor you've been carrying a torch for since before w—"
Izzy chokes on his water as Lucius pales and winces. "Yeah, love," he says flatly, "that one. Say hi to Izzy, Pete."
"Hi, Izzy!" Pete sounds genuinely excited—Izzy suddenly realizes he's been afraid of being the Stede Bonnet to their marriage, of wrecking someone else's life. The knot that's been lodged in his stomach for days unravels. "Hey, Daddy, say hi to Izzy."
"Who's Izzy?" asks another man sleepily.
"The guy Lulu wants to f—"
Lucius turns bright pink. "Speaking of," he interrupts, glaring at Izzy as he chuckles, "you know, theoretically, if I were to—"
"I already told you to hit it six ways from Sunday, hon!"
Water slides out of the corners of Izzy's mouth. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his robe. "I think I like this man of yours," he tells Lucius softly, unsure if his voice carries enough for Pete to hear.
Lucius sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest. "Well maybe he needed to know things were okay for himself!" Of course Lucius picked up on Izzy's need before Izzy did; he doesn't know why that makes sense, beyond Lucius being perceptive and Izzy generally being disconnected from himself.
"Aw," Pete croons, genuine and unmocking. "That's sweet, Izzy. Please go forth and bang my husband."
"Thank you?" Izzy watches Lucius splutter; it's nice to have solid confirmation that he isn't the only person flustered here. Have you really wanted me since college? How could you possibly want me now?
"I mean, I was just going to tell you that it might get a little racier than anticipated with regards to, you know, the sketching?" Lucius picks the phone back up, turning his back to Izzy.
"It might?" asks Izzy, his thoughts racing, setting the water bottle down over his crotch. Lucius throws him a wink over his shoulder.
"Ooo, you finally gonna finish that triptych?" Pete's chuckle is full of lust.
"Oh, well, I guess we're just hanging it all loose in a banana hammock tonight." Lucius nudges the chair with his toe, mobile clenched in his hand.
"You being bad, pup?" the other man asks, voice a rumble that does nothing to put out the fire quickly building at the base of Izzy's spine. A loud smack echoes over the line, and a giggly little groan follows.
"Right," Lucius says, fumbling to turn off the speaker, "have fun, sweetness, love you both, bye!" He jams the phone into his pocket, combing through his hair with his hands. "Sorry," he says, looking mostly at the floor, "Pete has… Less than zero filter capacity, plus he's on holiday, so it's even worse than usual."
"He sounds like a sweet guy." Izzy goes to him, putting an unsure hand on his arm. "And it sounds like you were hot for a teacher at some point."
Lucius huffs out a laugh, blush still high on his cheeks. "You gave me an entire sexuality crisis in college," he says, covering Izzy's hand with one of his own, gaze fixed upon where they touch. "I'd never been attracted to a woman before, and suddenly you were all I could think about. It wrecked me," and Lucius squeezes Izzy's hand.
When Lucius says nothing more, Izzy offers, "Guess you had nothing to worry about, in retrospect."
Lucius snorts inelegantly, then pulls Izzy's knuckles to his lips, mouth hot against his skin. "I suppose not." He kisses Izzy's hand a second time, and it feels like tumbling from a great height, like leaping without a safety net. "If knowing that I've harbored feelings for you makes it too awkward for you to continue…" Lucius sounds as if he's losing something he desperately wants to keep, tearing at the romantic in Izzy he's kept wrapped up tight for years. "Either tonight or at all," Lucius continues, nearly a whisper, "I totally unders—"
Izzy lays his fingers over Lucius' lips, then takes his hand back to untie the belt of his robe and let it fall open. It slides down his back to pool on the floor at his feet.
Lucius sets down his water in the chair, eyes roving Izzy's body. Izzy's never been much of an exhibitionist—more of Ed's thing than his to show off—but Izzy feels powerful like this. That all it took to stop Lucius in his tracks was… Him. Izzy's hindbrain skitters danger at him, that he didn't prepare Lucius for what he'd find below Izzy's belt, that he's sprung a penis and prosthetics on him unannounced.
But then Lucius finds his eyes again. "Can I touch you?" he asks, and the little tendril of panic fades back into Izzy's skull.
He doesn't even know where Lucius wants to touch, but the answer can only be, "Yes."
Lucius' hand drifts over Izzy's fingertips, trailing up the back of his hand; his wrist; palm smoothing out as he strokes over his arm. His eyes are following the path of his fingers, and Izzy watches Lucius' face, inscrutable, studious, perhaps reverent. Touch becomes press, thumb and fingers digging into Izzy's shoulder–the dislocation from the wreck, had that been during their brief time knowing each other before? Are his eyes just that keen? Izzy can't help the little groan as the muscle relaxes, and Lucius pets the spot with his thumb before moving on.
His palm is large against Izzy's neck, fingers wrapped around the back, his thumb skating up the curve of his throat. The pressure's nothing more than a haunting, but it burns through Izzy like wildfire. Lucius brings his left hand up, the fingers of his right stroking through Izzy's hair as Lucius cradles his cheek.
"I need to draw you," he says, words all but tripping over themselves as he takes a fistful of Izzy's hair and pulls his head back. His eyes rake over the line of Izzy's throat, then down, one finger tracing the small surgical scars on Izzy's chest from his reduction years ago, largely invisible beneath the silvering curls of hair. "I need to draw you, and then take you home with me so I can see to you properly, if you're amenable."
"I am so far past fucking amenable," Izzy says, pulling his head forward just to feel the tug at his scalp.
"Christ, what I want to do to you," and Izzy lets himself shiver with the yearning in Lucius' voice, moaning when Lucius pushes him back onto the divan in an open-legged sprawl. "Like that," he says, grabbing for his pad and pencil, the plastic bottle popping as it hits the floor, water spilling everywhere. "Don't move a muscle."
Izzy doesn't, save for the twitching of his fully erect cock. He loses time, watching Lucius draw at a furious pace, hunched over his work like he's racing the clock. His eyes flick to Lucius' groin while Lucius isn't looking at Izzy, and the bulge beneath his trousers is sizeable, and now Izzy's thirsty all over again.
"Had dreams about you and everything," mutters Lucius as he shades, almost like confession. "That's why I didn't come back for the companion course the next semester. I was scared stupid of myself. You were witty, and brilliant, and adorably cranky, and married, and my goddamn professor; I'd've been under your desk and your skirts if you'd so much as glanced that way." He pauses, looks up. "I'm a terribly persuasive slut; I couldn't let myself ruin you."
"Proper little seductress, are you?" Izzy asks teasingly, doing his best not to move his mouth.
"Darling," says Lucius, going back to his frantic work, "you have no idea."
Izzy doesn't think he's ever dressed so quickly in his life. Lucius did the bare minimum required to close up his studio for the night, putting his arm around Izzy's shoulders as they huddled together for warmth waiting for the bus. Even once on the bus, that arm remained draped possessively around him, Lucius' fingers rubbing idly at Izzy's upper arm.
He's a bundle of nerves, leg bouncing and fingers clicking idly at the volume buttons of his mobile. Izzy used to love the bus until the pandemic made him lose what little faith in humanity he had left.
When Lucius sticks an earbud in his left ear, Izzy practically jumps. "Can I play you a song that makes me think about you?" he asks. Izzy turns his head–their masks rub against each other, Lucius' face is so close. "Bus rides play havoc on my ADHD. Can't imagine they're much fun for you, either."
Izzy's shoulders shake with silent laughter at being seen so plainly. "Didn't even get diagnosed until earlier this year."
"Neurodivergents know our own." Lucius scrolls through a playlist for something called Spotify. "Is it weird that I have a song that makes me think of you?"
"Maybe a bit," says Izzy, "but I'm no stranger to weirdness."
Lucius' eyes light up, and Izzy can tell he's smiling behind his N95. "Ever heard the band Gang of Youths? Fang introduced me to them." Izzy shakes his head as Lucius hits play.
Break me off a piece of that
And mix it in with a little wine
With someone warm and smart, I guess
With a heart in first and a soul behind
And I won't give in
'Cause I wanna try again
The music swells, nearly shifts genre from orchestral mood to a more modern sound, and Izzy loses himself to it, watching the street lamps flicker through the windows as they pass. It's not the kind of music he would typically seek out. The feel's a bit too U2 for his tastes, if Izzy had to put his thumb on it. But the lyrics speak to that damned softness he cradles behind his lungs and the barbed wire of his ribs.
There will be no years of silence in the shadow of regret
I won't let it so betray me, though my soul got used to it
I will look at love as more than just an instrument of pain
And will give myself completely to the moving and the strange
'Cause I wanna overcome
And try to love someone
Lucius' thumb beneath his eye startles Izzy all over again. "Guess I picked well," he says, wiping his thumb on his pants leg.
"Spot bloody on, I'd say." Izzy moves to wipe the other eye, but Lucius catches his hand and laces their fingers together.
"I'm certainly not judging you, and nobody's looking. Not even anyone else on except the driver."
The song plays on loop as they ride. It does another hard genre shift toward the last third, all triumphal swelling trumpets and a dissonance that makes him think of Sergeant Pepper. Lucius tucks a piece of Izzy's hair behind his ear when the vocalist sings about doing just that—his eyes are amused but kind when Izzy finds them.
"If we loop it again," Izzy warns him as the song closes for the fourth time, "I'm going to end up singing along."
"Did a bit of panto and amdrams," Lucius says. "Might fucking join you."
"'S embarrassing, though, subjecting the driver to it."
Lucius arches an eyebrow, like Izzy's tossed a gauntlet, and then his mask shifts with his nose. "Hey, Nathaniel, m'love," he shouts up to the front, hitting pause before the song can start playing once more. "You mind a bit of duet?"
"Just leave yer goddamned breeches be," he yells back in a heavy brogue.
"Only if you do!"
"Got us 'n accord then, I reckon."
Lucius looks back at Izzy, shrugging. "Play on, professor," he says, with an overly-dramatic flourish of his hand.
Izzy just shakes his head. "Bloody mental, you are."
"Pot," he says, holding out his hand after hitting play. "Kettle."
They're nearly two minutes into the song before Izzy finds his voice, knee beginning to bounce again with his nerves. He screws his eyes shut, passing headlights flashing white behind his eyelids.
I will not spend the years depleted of my willingness to try
It won't hurt this way forever, it ain't worth the overtime
I'm not looking for redemption nor some shallow kind of bliss
Lay me down and kiss me deeply, show me everything I missed
"That's a wee flichterin' voice, that is," Nathaniel calls out. "Put yer whole banger int' it!"
Lucius harmonizes the end of the verse with him, though he's giggling at Nathaniel throughout. When Izzy can't stumble past more than the first line of the next verse before his voice breaks, Lucius continues on without him, much louder than necessary, but lovely anyway. He's honest to God looking at Izzy while he sings, and there's more heat in his gaze than the lyrics require.
Fuck it, Izzy decides, clutching Lucius' hand and finding his diaphragm. "I am human now," he belts, Nathaniel shouting some incomprehensible encouragement, "and terrified, but want it all the same."
Because he does. God help him, Izzy does.
Lucius and Pete's flat is on the fifth floor, and Izzy has to take the stairs two at a time to keep pace. They're both breathless when they get to the door, Lucius fumbling to get his key into the lock while Izzy clings to his elbow. It opens, and they're through it, Lucius pulling Izzy close enough to then push him back against the wood as he slides the locks.
Their masks collide as Lucius tries to kiss him, and Izzy's nerves dissipate like morning mist. They both unloop their masks from their ears, Izzy folding his neatly as always, Lucius hanging his up with his keys on a peg by the door. Something hanging from the ceiling above then catches Izzy's eye—looks to be a painted wood carving of some kind, tied to a nail in the ceiling with a festive red ribbon.
"What the fuck is that?" Izzy squints, but it doesn't make sense. The carving appears to be a frog, but there's an odd dowel-shaped addition to its back.
"That," Lucius says, "would be Pete's missile toad."
"Again, what the fuck?"
Lucius laughs as he unzips his parka and pulls it over his head. "It was his turn to decorate for Christmas this year," he tells Izzy as he launches the parka onto the back of the sofa. "He thought it was extremely clever when he saw the meme on Twitter, so he made one for us." Lucius raises his eyebrows, fingers poised at the lapel of Izzy's coat. His mouth is dry as he nods, and Lucius unbuttons it.
"Don't think I know the protocol for overhead frogs of mass destruction."
"Reckon it's the same as the usual bit of greenery." Lucius is more careful with Izzy's coat than he had been with his own, setting it on the side table. His hands are cold on Izzy's face where he hadn't been wearing gloves, but the warmth in his eyes more than compensates. Cautiously, tentatively, Izzy brings his hands to Lucius' back, still wearing one glove but not caring enough about it to wait to embrace him.
"I'd always wondered what happened to my brightest pupil," Izzy says affectionately. "I honestly thought you'd get first class if you applied yourself, unless you'd dropped out to join a commune, of course," and Lucius rolls his eyes. "It was good to see you graduate, instead. I just figured it meant you'd got everything you needed out of my class."
"Not everything." He clasps Izzy's chin with his thumb. "Not hardly," and then he finally leans down to kiss him.
Their mouths are closed, but that doesn't make it any less claiming. There's enough sheer yearning behind it to make Izzy's chest ache. He doesn't think he's ever been wanted this much in his life, and Izzy grabs fistfuls of the back of Lucius' shirt to reassure himself that this is happening. That he could possibly be desired enough to turn a kiss into a brand.
Lucius teases the seam of Izzy's lips with his tongue and Izzy doesn't hesitate, just opens to him, giving himself over to it. How something soft and gentle could rip him apart like this—Izzy can't begin to understand it, but he doesn't want it to stop, moaning into Lucius' mouth when his hand takes anchor in Izzy's hair again like it had at the studio. He slides his hands under the tail of Lucius' shirt, skimming over the broad expanse of his back as Lucius keeps plundering his mouth.
The kiss breaks, a thin tether of spit between them. "Need clothes off," Lucius says, "want to see you again, touch you."
"Bedroom?" asks Izzy, watching as Lucius' shirt gets dropped carelessly to the floor, inside-out. Lucius kisses him again quickly, then grabs his wrist and tugs him past a stack of floor pillows, through the sitting area, and into another room. He taps at a lamp on a bedside table, casting the bedroom in a warm glow. "Negative, yeah?"
"Fuck, didn't ask before, I'm sorry." Lucius looks up in a daze from where he's turned back the soft mint duvet. "Getting ahead of myself. Thought I could be professional about you, but…" He plops down onto the bed. "I am, yeah, keep the results in my wallet if you want to look. You?"
"Last I checked." Izzy walks to stand between Lucius' spread knees. "Been a while since it mattered though." He tries not to tremble as Lucius runs his hands up the outsides of his legs, cupping what arse he has in his palms. Lucius pulls him closer, leaning in and nuzzling his face over the crotch of Izzy's black joggers. Izzy curses, setting his hands on Lucius' shoulders to steady himself.
"Few questions." Lucius looks up at Izzy through his eyelashes as he drags his tongue over his covered cock.
"Not gonna be able to fuckin' answer 'em if you keep that up."
He smiles, then gives it a parting peck. "One and done, or can you go more than once?"
"Can, but don't much care to, under normal and unnegotiated circumstances." He grabs the hem of his tee as Lucius pushes it up, pulling it off and over his head.
"Hmm, so ask very nicely before potentially tying you up and forcing them out of you then?" Lucius sucks a mark above Izzy's hip bone. "Thought we'd keep it simple the first time though."
Izzy's head is spinning. "First?"
"You really think I have any intention of not having you in my bed more than once, professor?" He sets to putting a matching mark on Izzy's other side.
"Confident, are you?"
Lucius appraises his handiwork. "Red is definitely your color," he mutters, and Izzy can't help but picture that damn drawing again. "Anything vanilla you aren't overly fond of? I've got something of an oral fixation; I like putting my mouth everywhere." Lucius toys with the waistband of Izzy's joggers with his thumbs as he pulls one of Izzy's pierced nipples into his mouth, worrying the little bar with his teeth and tongue.
"'S fine," Izzy squawks.
He lets the nipple go with a pop. "Excellent," and he repeats it on the other side until Izzy's writhing in his hands. "Wanted to do that for hours, but if I treat you like a pillow princess, will you get offended? Last question, honest."
"If you don't get my joggers off soon, I'm going to come in them, Lucius."
"Can't have that," and he eases them and Izzy's boxers down so Izzy can step out of them. "Fuck. You really are stunning."
"Bloody better be, after what I paid for it going private."
Lucius grins, and then he takes all of Izzy's little cock in his mouth at once.
His knees buckle. "Bed!" and it's the least masculine Izzy's ever sounded in his life, and he couldn't care less at the moment. Lucius mouth is hot and wet, tongue curled around Izzy's cock, stroking. His hands are still gripping the backs of Izzy's thighs; he thinks Lucius might be the only thing keeping Izzy from falling victim to gravity. Lucius sucks, and it's so much better than Izzy's cock sleeves at home, like Lucius is determined to pull his soul out through his dick before the night's over. Fuck if Izzy wouldn't let him.
His left hand holds firm to Izzy's thigh as Lucius moves his right, and Izzy tries to focus on his shoes staying glued to the floor, clothes still bunched up around his calves. One of Lucius' fingers is pressing behind Izzy's balls, finger tracing the faint scar where his vulva used to be, all the way back to his hole. He rubs it a little with that one dry fingertip, and Izzy tugs on Lucius' hair.
"Not yet," he pants, "too close, not yet." Izzy whimpers as Lucius' mouth retreats, then whines again when Lucius sucks a testicle into his mouth. Lucius laughs, and the vibration nearly sends Izzy tumbling over the edge anyway.
"I could fucking eat you alive," Lucius says darkly when his mouth is free. "Should I even ask the last time someone rimmed you proper?"
Izzy takes a shaking step back as Lucius stands up long enough to kick off his slip-ons and joggers. "Dunn—you've been pantsless this whole goddamn time."
"I told you, clothing impedes the creative process." He doesn't even unlace Izzy's trainers, just pulls them off and out of the way. "Last chance if you want more active participation." Lucius tugs on his cock after he stands up, long as the rest of him. He rubs his thumb over the thick head, already shiny with precome beneath his foreskin—how he didn't leave a damp spot on his joggers, Izzy hasn't a clue.
"If I don't suck you," he says very seriously, eyes riveted to the motion of Lucius' hand, "I'm going to die."
"That would put quite the damper on the rest of the evening." He sits back down on the huge bed, scooting himself until he's lying down, head on one of the numerous pillows. "I want you to sit on my face," Lucius says, holding out his hand for Izzy as he clambers on top of him in a rush. "Face the other way, though, can't have you deprived of opportunity."
Izzy manages the position, straddling Lucius' chest, suddenly riddled with performance anxiety. It's been ages since he gave someone head; what if he's forgotten how to do it well? But then Lucius' thumbs are between Izzy's cheeks, spreading him open, and Lucius' mouth is on his hole. Izzy's lips fall open in a desperate groan, and he can't help but push back onto Lucius' tongue. He opens his eyes as Lucius licks him with broad strokes, staring down his gorgeous ruddy cock, and Izzy dives in for it.
Lucius moans into Izzy's arse as Izzy runs his tongue beneath the foreskin and around the head. Izzy laps up the precome, vaguely surprised that it isn't as bitter as he'd expected, wondering for an entire second if Lucius watches his diet before that clever tongue is spearing into his hole and he loses the capacity to think. There's just damp heat at his arse and pulsing weight on Izzy's tongue as he eases his mouth further down Lucius' prick.
"Oh fuck, that's good," Lucius pants when he comes up for air. "You're so fucking good," and Izzy's hips buck helplessly with the praise as it oozes down his spine. "God, but I just want to make you choke on it." Izzy distantly hears the pump of a bottle, and Lucius rubbing his hands together, and then his finger breaches Izzy's hole.
The cock falls out of his mouth as Izzy arches back into it, wanting more than this gentle exploration, wanting to be fucked and claimed and owned and—
"Just say 'stop' if you need it," Lucius tells him, and Izzy's still nodding when the first slap hits his flank.
"Fuck yes," and Izzy pulls the head of Lucius' prick back into his mouth as he's spanked, again and again, nothing but sweet heat rolling through every nerve in his body. Izzy hollows his cheeks and sucks for all he's worth, taking it deeper, nearly to his throat before he gags and has to back off a bit. But every smack pushes him forward again until finally, finally the head of Lucius' cock slips into his throat and Izzy's mind whites out.
Lucius is prodding and rubbing inside him, forward toward the base of Izzy's cock. A second finger slips in, and Izzy misses the spanking, wants to be draped over Lucius' lap and beaten red until he comes from it. He takes a shaky breath through his nose as Lucius spreads his fingers enough to thrust his tongue back inside, and all Izzy can do is melt onto him and drool around the cock down his throat.
"Oh look at you," Lucius says, fingers still fucking Izzy lazily. "Come on, come up off me," and Izzy manages somehow, doesn't know how he gets turned back around to lie on Lucius' chest but is happy to be there, nuzzling into his neck. "Such a sweet little thing you can be," and Izzy knows he's going to have lube in his hair and doesn't care about it in the slightest. Lucius shifts beneath him, and then his prick is pressing against Izzy's hole, the head catching inside his rim and tugging as Lucius pushes in.
Izzy just sighs, boneless, limp as Lucius rolls them to their sides and puts Izzy's leg over his arm. "You feel so good, sweetheart," and he's pushing sweaty hair out of Izzy's face with his nose before kissing his forehead.
"Professor," Izzy mumbles, trying to pull himself back together, lust burning bright in his belly in spite of how sluggish he feels.
Lucius laughs quietly, still thrusting slowly. "Like me calling you that, do you."
"Mhm." Izzy's arm finally cooperates, and he grabs the back of Lucius' neck to pull him in for a kiss. Everything's fluid and smooth, even though Lucius flusters a bit at the insistent press of Izzy's mouth against his. "I don't care where it's been," Izzy tells him when he pulls back again.
"Oh, I very much gathered," Lucius says, "I just don't want to knock our teeth together." His grip on Izzy's leg grows tighter, and his next thrust jars Izzy with its force, until the only sounds tumbling from his mouth are high pitched pants. Lucius latches his teeth into the exposed curve of Izzy's neck as his head lolls back. "Touch yourself, professor," he says huskily, running his tongue over what will surely be a livid bruise. "Show me what I do to you. Show me how hot you are for me, teacher."
Izzy squeezes his hand between them, his prick like fire between his fingers as he strokes. Lucius' thrusts are manic, rhythm beginning to stutter as he gets close, but Izzy's almost there himself, his thigh trembling in the vise of Lucius' hand. Lucius surges forward to capture his mouth as he comes, emptying deep inside him, yet Izzy seems stuck on the edge of pleasure, so close.
"Please," he begs, half a sob in his desperation, "please, want to come, want you to make me come, Lucius please."
Lucius pulls out and rolls Izzy onto his back; Izzy can feel the come leaking out of his hole and it does nothing but make him burn brighter. "You know," Lucius says mischievously, "I do have my Master's. If I'm calling you professor, maybe you should address me properly, too." He bats Izzy's hand away from his cock, tracing the shaft himself with a delicate touch.
Izzy wants to come so badly that his eyes blur with the need. It should be embarrassing to say it, but the word falls from his lips like a prayer. "Master, please."
"There's my good doctor," he says, and Lucius takes the whole of Izzy in his hand and squeezes, cock and balls both. Izzy jerks and screams as he climaxes, relieved and agonized and flying higher than he's ever achieved on his own.
Lucius is still petting him through aftershocks when Izzy begins to float back down into his body. "Welcome back," he says, and Izzy makes a noncommittal noise of reply, trying to nudge Lucius' hand away from his cock. "Sorry, love, you just make an excellent fidget toy."
"If I think about being your fidget toy right now," says Izzy, breathing nearly normal again, "I'll explode."
Izzy lets Lucius pull him over to spoon; he thinks he likes it, being the little spoon for a change. It was always Izzy wrapped around Ed, always him following behind, never knowing where Ed would lead them. Lucius winds his arm around Izzy's chest, finding a piercing to fiddle with.
"Don't tell me you're ready to go again."
"No," Lucius says, laughing as he kisses up and down Izzy's shoulders, "I just can't bring myself to stop touching you." Another press of his lips goes behind Izzy's ear. "You make the most delicious noises."
He rubs the bar between his thumb and forefinger and Izzy groans, half pain. "Nnnng, too much, you devil."
Lucius relents, but gives Izzy's nipple a last flick. "Would you really let me bind you and use you to fidget?"
"Ask me again when my brain's not dribbling out my ears," Izzy says as Lucius throws one leg over Izzy's knees.
But of course he'll say yes, Izzy knows. Three days of good conversation and the best damn shag of his life? Lucius can have damn near whatever he wants.
"So do I pass?" Lucius asks cheekily before snuffling his face into Izzy's hair.
"Yeah, Spriggs," Izzy says, laughing around a yawn. "I dare say we'll make a mythologist of you yet."
December passes for Izzy in a blur. He models for a studio full of people of various ages and talents twice a week. Sometimes, they're very keen to show him their work, and he tries to react with kindness without being insincere. It's a lot like teaching first-year courses, Izzy decides, trying to balance giving necessary feedback with not accidentally dashing dreams or quashing potential.
The classes always end up going over time, but Izzy can't think of anywhere he'd rather be, excepting between Lucius' legs. He's discovered he quite enjoys cockwarming when they're alone in the studio, even if Lucius inevitably dribbles paint on his head.
Pete and Fang aren't due back until after the New Year, so he and Lucius keep each other company for Christmas. Lucius insists on watching Muppet Christmas Carol on the 24th, which Izzy's never seen before. Not that he can honestly say he's seen it now, either, spending the whole movie watching Lucius recite and sing it word for bloody word.
They have truly ridiculous sex afterward and sleep in Christmas morning. It's quickly becoming Izzy's favorite way to wake up: sore, delightfully used, and with a faceful of Lucius' wild bed head.
Izzy checks his phone while Lucius stumbles off toward the loo.
Dr. Boodhari: Jim again. Happy Xmas you filthy animals
Izzy: same to you and your partner x
After Izzy's most recent appointment, Dr. Boodhari had asked if Izzy would be comfortable with a new therapist. Given the situation, and that he and Izzy were bound to see each other outside of professional hours given Izzy and Lucius' budding relationship, Dr. Boodhari felt it would be inappropriate to continue working together in a therapeutic capacity.
Even a month ago, the idea would have set Izzy back for days, maybe even turned him off therapy altogether. But he found himself not only saying, "Sure," but actually meaning it. Oluwande was bound to be a good friend, Izzy thinks, and he's had so few of those for such a long, long time.
"I think you and Dr. French will get along very well," Oluwande had told him. "And I won't have to put up with Jim constantly telling me they know things I can't know anymore."
Izzy hopes he's right about Dr. French, but doesn't think Jim will ever stop teasing him about something. If the Boodharis' photo Christmas card on Lucius' fridge is any indication, that Jim is a right menace.
They exchange gifts after breakfasting on cinnamon rolls they'd swung by Tesco for the night before. Izzy hadn't expected to get a present, honestly, though he'd worked well past his bedtime several nights on his for Lucius. He'd wrapped it in a page from an old textbook, wondering if Lucius would be awake enough to notice. Little point in buying an entire roll of Christmas paper for one gift, besides.
Lucius squints at the small parcel balancing on his knee. "I think I've drooled on a copy of this page before," he mumbled sleepily. "Fucking Prometheus and his hot situations."
Izzy laughs quietly. (He does that quite a lot now, Dr. Boodhari told him.)
The paper crinkles as Lucius unwraps it with care to reveal the gift within. He holds them up, one in each hand, the red string linking them together dangling between.
"Oh my god," he says. "You've gone and made me puddy mittens, haven't you."
"Your hands get too fucking cold," says Izzy, "and you've lost two pair since our first lunch. It's just self-preservation at this point."
Lucius pulls them on, all bright red stripes in the nicest yarn Izzy could find on short notice. "Thank you, love," and he flaps his hands around, watching the mittens move before rubbing them on his face. "Oh these are so nice, but God, I'm not sure you should open your present now. It's not nearly as fun."
"I like practical," Izzy says, already pulling at the lush red ribbon around the recycled box in his lap. "Mittens aren't fun, anyway."
"Well these mittens are." Lucius strokes Izzy's cheek with them and… Izzy could get on board with these being fun mittens, he supposes. "Anyway, it's really two presents that have nothing whatsoever to do with each other. Not a theme, they're just both in the same box."
Izzy unfolds the flaps as Lucius rambles. Inside is something square swaddled in tissue paper, but sitting on top of that is a suction cup toothbrush holder.
"It's meant to be for you to use here," Lucius says stiltedly, twirling the mitten string around and around his wrist. "You know, so you don't have to keep bringing that little travel brush back and forth."
Izzy is trying very hard not to cry over a bit of plastic and rubber that tells him Lucius wants him to stay. He's not sure if he's successful. That little demon in his head's been taunting him, telling Izzy that Lucius will grow tired of him soon enough, that an old crush can't feed a flame, that Pete will be home and Izzy won't be needed anymore.
"Oh you big sap," Lucius says, scooting over so they're touching side to side, bare torsos and old pyjama bottoms meeting in the middle. "At least wait until you open the other one before you start boohooing."
"Fuck off," says Izzy, but he can't stop grinning. He takes the tissue paper off the second object carefully, and then sits and stares into the glass of a lovely wooden frame.
"You know I almost didn't hand this back to you after grading." Izzy traces the red rope lines of Prometheus I with his finger, though he knows he's smudging the glass.
"Part of me hoped you'd keep it," admits Lucius. "It was so obvious that myth meant something big to you." He elbows Izzy in the ribs and adds, "I had sad wanks for a whole week when you gave it back to me."
And how can Izzy begin to explain the significance? What words would serve to express the kinship he felt with a fictional man that defied logic and reason and the will of the gods to do what his heart told him was right? To serve some greater purpose at the loss of self and freedom and family, and to find the price still adequate to pay—where could he start to unravel the mystery for someone who hadn't felt that same ancient call?
"Prometheus knew me before I did," is what he lands on, and that feels like enough. I am enough.
"Also I want you to sit for me for III," Lucius says. "That's my big personal project next year. Figured I'd go ahead and ask, if we're here giving gifts to each other for ourselves like you say."
Lucius tastes like sweet vanilla icing and Lady Grey when Izzy kisses him with open eyes, the fairy lights in the window turned off but still twinkling in the midmorning sun.
It's good. He deserves it.