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Two years after his car accident, Izzy goes back to the ballet for the first time.
He hasn't set foot in a studio in a year. The company kept him on the payroll as long as they could, saying if he was still recovering and there was any chance he could come back, they wanted to have first claim on him. They all knew it was impossible, but it’s a kindness he’s intensely grateful for. He finally had to resign when it became clear that no amount of physical therapy, stubbornness, or sheer willpower could give him back what he'd lost.
He's a mess for more than a week leading up to the performance, until even Ed's patience wears thin. But the evening of the show, Ed hauls him bodily out of bed, shoves him into the shower, picks out his clothes, and bitches at him until he gets properly dressed.
He even ties Izzy's tie for him. It's sloppy, but Izzy appreciates the thought.
He still has to use his cane some days, but resists taking it with him until the very last second, no matter that his leg hurts like hell and the idea of walking across a parking lot unsupported feels impossible. Ed grabs it from its place next to the front door and hands it to him without a word. Not making a big deal about it allows him to save face.
He freezes three steps inside the theater lobby. Ed, hovering at his elbow, takes him gently by the arm and pulls him over to the wall. Izzy tries to give him a grateful look, but he grips his cane white knuckled and can barely manage a grimace. Ed smiles and rubs his back until he can breathe again.
"I hate this," Izzy admits. "I want to go home."
"Okay." Ed slings his arm around Izzy's waist. "Are you good, or are we really going home?"
Izzy releases a long, slow breath. "I'm good. Let's just get to our seats, my foot hurts like a son of a bitch."
Ed squeezes him affectionately and leads him into the theater.
"I can't believe you dragged me to another fucking Nutcracker," Ed grumbles as they sit down, as if he hasn't faithfully gone every year since they became friends. But it's a well-worn argument between them, which makes the night feel a little more normal.
"What, and let you miss someone else dancing my favorite role?"
Ed grins and smacks his arm with the playbill. "You know you're the only Snow King for me, Iz.”
The house lights drop, and without a word, Ed takes his hand.
After more than twenty years of dancing, Izzy knows every step of this goddamn ballet. He can dance every one of the men's roles from memory; watching, he can still feel the way his muscles would stretch and twitch and burn. He can probably walk through a passable version of some of the women's roles, too.
Or. Well. He could before.
Ed holds his hand until the lights come up at intermission. Izzy has held his tears back through sheer stubbornness, and when he gets home he's going to have an ugly, snotty cry about all of this.
Ed doesn't ask, just gives him a reassuring grin, lifts their joined hands, and kisses his knuckles.
"We can still go home," he offers, giving Izzy an out they both know he's too stubborn to take. "I can have you in the car in a minute flat. Carry you if you need me to."
The idea is appealing -- Ed's carried him before, when he was in too much pain or distress to manage himself. He's so gentle about it, acts like Izzy is doing him a favor by letting him be the caregiver for once, when it's usually the other way around.
"No," he says, "I want to see Belle."
"Awww," Ed drawls, "you love her so much. When am I gonna get an invite to the wedding?"
"Shut up."
Izzy makes it through the second act pretty well, all things considered. But at the first iconic notes of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, his eyes well right up.
Belle is resplendent in her jeweled tutu and tiara. She flutters and twirls like a real fairy, a beaming smile on her face, radiant with joy.
Izzy can still remember the first time they danced together, two thirteen-year-old scholarship kids at a conservatory school far from home. Izzy was short for his age, but Belle was tiny: a delicate little doll with ice blonde hair, green eyes, and a smile that lit up her whole face. He could lift her like she was light as air. In performances she sparkled, and he was a better dancer when he was by her side.
So seeing her up there now, dancing with such ease and perfection it looks like a magic trick... Izzy's so proud of her, no matter how much it hurts to see her up there without him.
Okay, he cries a little when she takes her bow at curtain call. He's allowed.
When they get back to the lobby, he barely resists running for the car and getting the fuck out of there. He wants nothing more than to go home and lock himself in his room and cry his eyes out in privacy, but he can't possibly leave without seeing Belle. For years he was backstage with her, sweeping her into his arms the minute the curtain fell, lifting her up and twirling her around like they were giddy children. He misses it like a limb. He has to see her, at least.
Also, Ed would probably catch up, haul him over his shoulder, and carry him right back in if he tried to run now. "You alright to stand while we wait for her?" he asks, nodding at Izzy's foot.
"Yeah. She'll be out in a few minutes," Izzy says. "Probably fixing her makeup first. The managers love to send the Sugar Plum Fairy out to take pictures with the kids.”
Every audience for the Nutcracker is full of little girls in sparkly dresses with big dreams of the stage. They love taking photos with the Sugar Plum Fairy, and Belle was born for it: as beautiful and delicate as the ballerina in a music box, and genuinely and sincerely sweet. She can spend an hour down on one knee next to dozens of wide-eyed girls, her beaming smile never faltering.
As if perfectly on cue, the stage door opens. Several milling audience members turn and begin to applaud. A whisper passes through the ranks of little girls, who rush forward with cries of, "Sugar Plum Fairy!"
Izzy smiles, spotting tiny glances of Belle's blonde hair and sparkling tiara between the crowd.
They have to wait a while. Izzy leans on Ed, taking some of the pressure off his aching foot, and Ed leans right back against him, a warm and solid presence at his side.
Eventually the crowd thins enough for him to see Belle, and for her to see him. She lights up with surprise, dropping all decorum and practically screaming his name before running for him. Almost before he's ready, there she is, and Izzy suddenly has his arms full of Sugar Plum Fairy.
She crashes into him at full speed, and only Ed’s hands on his back keep them from toppling right over. Izzy laughs and holds her as tight as he can, breathing in the familiar scents of rosin, her favorite rose talcum powder, and hairspray.
"I can't believe you're here," she says into his shoulder, before leaning back to look up at him. To his surprise, tears sparkle in her eyelashes.
"Oh god, oh no, don't cry, please don’t cry," he says, wiping her lash line carefully. "I hate when you cry, you'll get me started, Ed make her stop crying."
Both of them laugh and Ed pulls her into a hug, squeezing her hard enough to lift her up off her feet. "Congrats, princess, you were brilliant," he tells her, kissing her cheek as Izzy takes a second to collect himself.
The minute Ed surrenders her, though, she's right back in Izzy's arms. "Thank you so much for coming -- I can't imagine it was easy – oh my god, Izzy, thank you, I love you so much, thank you thank you thank you."
Izzy manages a laugh. "And miss your big night? Nothing could have kept us away."
She giggles, sniffling, and Izzy gives her his handkerchief. She laughs as always at his little affectation, but daintily dabs at her tears. "Do you want to come backstage? Say hello to everyone? I'm sure they'd love to see you."
"I'm not there yet, love. Give everyone my best, though."
"They'll be mad I didn't drag you back there."
"I'd like to see you try. I can still carry you around, you know," he grumbles. "But you should get back to your fans."
She playfully pouts at him but knows better than to argue. “Drinks when we finish the run?” she asks hopefully.
“Of course. Catch me up on all the gossip.”
With one more kiss for each of them -- Ed on the cheek, Izzy on the lips -- she flutters back to take more pictures, giving them one last smile over her shoulder.
They watch her go before Izzy grumbles, "She got lipstick all over me, didn't she?"
Ed throws his head back and cackles. "She did. Color suits you, at least."
"Fucking hell." He tries to wipe his mouth with the handkerchief, but Ed snatches it from him.
"C'mere, I got it." He tilts Izzy's chin up and dabs the paint carefully from his lips. Izzy avoids eye contact and tries to keep his breathing even. They're so close.
It's just Ed being Ed, he reminds himself. Ed's always been a handsy bastard, but since the accident, it's like Ed refuses to let him out of reach. He hugs him, or grabs his arm, or rubs his back.
And once, six months ago, kissed him for the first and only time.
When Ed's done, he winks. "Much better. Ready to go home?"
Izzy has to blink hard to refocus. "Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, let's go home."
Ed helps him into his coat ("My arms work just fine, asshole.") and takes his arm to lead him out to the car. Izzy hasn't driven after sundown since the accident, and Ed gets a kick out of being his chauffer, always holding doors open and generally being a pain in the ass.
Izzy stares out the window. After white knuckling his way through the show, he’s exhausted. He feels like the theater after the audience clears out and the lights shut off.
“Are you okay?” Ed asks after a while.
“I’m fine,” he snaps. He shouldn’t – Ed has been so kind about this whole evening – but if he gives a fucking inch he’ll dissolve into a puddle of tears, and god only knows how long it’ll take before he can pull himself together again.
“Alright.” Ed doesn’t sound the least bit phased. He probably expected this.
They drive in silence for a while before Ed declares, "I'm gonna marry Belle," apropos of absolutely fucking nothing.
Izzy gives him a side eye. "Ed, you don't like girls."
"Doesn't matter. She can have someone on the side, I won't mind." He drums his hands on the steering wheel, twitchy after being on his best behavior for the whole show. "But in all seriousness, Iz, you should marry her. Lock that down before she realizes she's too good for you."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence," he responds, deadpan. "I so value your good opinion."
Ed chuckles and squeezes his shoulder, giving him a little shake. Izzy's hand tightens on his own knee, resisting the urge to grab for Ed.
“Ed watch the road watch the road watch the fucking road –”
Ed chuckles but puts both hands on the wheel. "You need somebody to make you happy, mate. You're a catch, you'd treat some girl or guy real good."
Izzy looks down at his injured foot. In his dress shoes it looks completely normal, but underneath is still a mess of knotted scars around two missing toes. It hurts more often than not, keeping him in bed or on the couch for days at a time. He doesn’t have a job – has, in fact, lost three jobs this year alone, and is facing a possible eviction next month. The less said about the state of his apartment, the better.
He doesn’t feel like much of a catch. He doesn’t feel like much of anything, except tired and hurt and old before his time.
And to be honest, the only man he wants is sitting next to him right now.
“She already knows she’s out of my league,” he says instead. “She’s the fucking Sugar Plum Fairy, and I’m just… some guy, now.”
“You’re not just some guy,” Ed insists, sounding genuinely offended. They’re back at Izzy’s place, which he hopes is going to put a merciful end to this conversation so he can go be pathetic and emotional in peace, but no such luck. As soon as he reaches for the door handle, Ed locks the doors. Izzy tries it again, but Ed locks them again. Izzy sighs. Ed can and will do this all night if he’s got something to say.
“Izzy,” he says seriously, turning in his seat to face him. “I don’t want to hear any of that shit from you. You’re not just some guy. For fuck’s sake, you went back to the ballet tonight, even after all the shit that’s happened. You went back, and you watched other people dance the roles you loved, the roles you promised Belle you’d dance together, because you love that girl so fucking much. That’s fucking insane, Iz, I can’t imagine how much that hurt.”
Izzy fidgets under his intense gaze. Perhaps if he bolts now, while Ed’s focused so intently on what he’s saying, he can get out of the car and into his apartment before he starts bawling. It’s worth a try.
“I know you’re trying to run away, mate. I will get back on the highway if I need to.”
“Fuck you, Ed, let me out.”
“Nope. You need to listen to me, the way I always listen to you.” Izzy freezes when Ed reaches over and gently takes both of his hands. “Someday you’re gonna find someone who loves you like that.”
I don’t need to, Izzy thinks wildly, mind spinning. I have you. And maybe you don’t love me, or not the same way I love you, but it’s enough, it could be enough. Just let me keep loving you the way I do, and it’ll be enough.
But Ed’s not done, focused so hard on Izzy’s hands that he doesn’t notice anything else. “You’re gonna find someone who treats you like you treat me, or like you treat Belle, who loves you the way you love us.”
“I don’t – I can’t – Ed, don’t do this right now. Please.” Tears well up in his eyes again and all he can think of is bolting before he cracks. “I can’t – I can’t handle this right now.”
Ed looks disappointed but squeezes his hands to say he understands. “Alright. But… call me if you need me, okay?”
Izzy won’t, and they both know it; he’s going to hide himself away and lock the door against the whole world, Ed included, until he pulls himself back together.
They also know Ed will break the fucking door down if that’s what it takes.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Ed gives him a sad little smile and squeezes his hands one more time. Then he releases his hands and waves dismissively, teasingly, at him. “Now I’ll let you go.” He unlocks the doors and Izzy, dignity abandoned, fucking flees.
He stands inside his apartment, back pressed to the door, for a very long time.
When he finally stops sobbing, his shirtsleeves unspeakably messy from wiping his face on them, he puts the cane in its place next to the door and kicks his shoes into a corner, not caring that he’ll have to polish the scuffs out later.
He left his coat in Ed’s car, which gives him the perfect excuse to come by and check in tomorrow. Izzy would never say it aloud, so he leaves things in Ed’s car or apartment, a blinking neon sign that says, “I need help.” Ed will come by tomorrow, probably late morning, with takeout breakfast to haul Izzy out of bed -- by the ear if necessary -- and fill the shitty apartment with chatter so Izzy doesn’t have to talk.
He turns on the kitchen light, desperately in need of a glass of water. He spent so many years maintaining a body that carried him through life, across the stage, that he still does some things automatically. Stretch. Drink water. Stand perfectly upright, shoulders back, pelvis tucked, feet, what’s left of them, turned out.
There’s a bundle of roses on his kitchen table. Ed must have snuck them in when he wasn’t looking – he’s given Izzy flowers every single time he’s seen him perform since they were seventeen years old. It started out as a little joke, but the bouquets became increasingly huge and elaborate over the years. The last time, a couple months before his accident, there were so many Izzy could barely hold them in both arms. These are simple: a dozen roses in a deep, saturated crimson, so lush they reflect the light with their own glow.
Tucked in between the blossoms is a small, folded card. When he opens it, he recognizes the messy handwriting immediately.
“You’ll always be the brightest star in the sky.”