Chapter Text
-May 26th, 8:26 AM-
Rainbows dance on the walls from the suncatchers hung in his window; his alarm blares on the bedside table, a loud rock song to wake him up from his slumber. Izzy hadn’t slept well the night before, so it really wasn’t necessary. He reaches over and turns off the alarm, staring up at the ceiling of his dorm, at the affirmations he had tacked up there the second week of his senior year of college. It’s the last day in his dorm room, the last day at the university he called home for the past four years. He forces himself to sit up, looking around the room as anxiety twists in his gut and makes him shiver. He’d graduated two days ago: he’d been in the process of moving out ever since. ‘Moving out’ in the context of Izzy Hands, was packing two boxes and a suitcase with all of his things he deemed important. All of his documentations, clothes, sentimental items; not a single thing he couldn’t live without was left at his family's home or in his dorm. Then, he’d load it all up into his twenty-four-year-old jeep tha the’d bought the summer his sophomore year, the car he’d worked sixty-hour weeks all summer to buy, and he’d drive as fast and as far away from here as he can.
He reaches up and rubs his face, scratching at the scruffy goatee he’d started growing his sophomore year. He’d started testosterone the same year, the year when he realized that he needed out. Okay, he’d truly realized that he was being taken advantage of his junior year, when it had clicked that everyone in his family wanted something from him. His mother wanted a therapist, someone to whine and complain too when all of her decisions turned their sharp points towards her; his father wanted someone to show off, a shiny golden trophy to show ‘I did so well!’; his aunts wanted someone like them, a mini me. None of them just wanted him.
Izzy had lived as all of those things, his entire life. He made everyone proud by biting and tearing and clawing his way to greatness. He supported his family through poverty, kept the lights on and food in the pantry. Things were better now, his sisters wouldn’t go without, his mother worked, and he could go.
He’s twenty two, he holds a biology degree that nearly killed him to obtain, his resume boasts a work ethic on par with a police horse, his savings account can keep him afloat for a few months, his student loans are at a minimum, and his jeep is in his name with a full tank of gas.
He pushes off his bed, socked feet tapping down onto the cold linoleum floor of the dorm, theres an air of finality surrounding him. He inhales it, breaths it out, and smiles. He moves and starts taking down the suncatchers, tucking them into one of the boxes with his affirmations and other things.
Izzy Hands has always been what everyone wanted, what everyone needed. From now on, from this day on, he will be what he wants, what he needs.
-12:47 PM-
Izzy is listening too: the view between villages, Noah Kahn.
Izzy admits it’s embarrassing, tears silently streaking down his face as he drives. The song playing from his phones speakers has always made him cry though, especially when he’d planned to leave. He should have been home two hours ago, the drive from his dorm to his mother's house was only an hour and a half after all; he’s been driving for closer to three hours now. He’s sure his parents have been calling his phones for hours; he feels bad of course, he’s sure their worried, scared…but he knows that this is what had to happen. He couldn’t have told them he was leaving; he would have never made it out of the driveway. He’d have been suffocated by them all, by his mother's love, by her problems, by his sister's cries.
His phone doesn’t ring as he drives, this isn’t the phone they’d be calling anyway. His old phone lays discarded somewhere on his college campus; he’d left it behind so his mother wouldn’t be able to find him. So, he’d have no more ties to his rinky dink little southern town. His new phone sits in the cup holder, blaring music at the top of its speakers; it’s a cheap thing, a fifty-dollar purchase that had been locked up like it was going to walk away, but it’s his. Its case is a bit gaudy, green and covered in birds, but it’s his. He’s thankful he can even hear the music over the growl of his jeep’s engine and the windows rolled down.
It’s sweltering out on the open road, sweat beads on his forehead even with the windows down. His jeep has no working AC or even a working Radio, but it’s his. He’s even got all the paperwork to prove it. He presses into the cracked leather seats, feeling the poke and pinch of each of the sharp grooves. He feels free, in charge of his own life and all of his choices for the first time ever.
The last two years he’d been drowning, fighting to keep his head above water as he juggled classes and work and the bills he kept hidden from his family. The emotional weight from his family, the expectations that laid on his shoulders everyday. Everyday the idea of what his life would look like if he stayed pushed down harder and harder on his shoulders, sinking him. When he realized he had to leave, something had clicked, he’d gotten something to work for. his shifts had felt lighter, his classes easer to get through.
And now here he is, all of his hard work paying off. Down the road, and away from the past that threatened to drown him.
-9:42 PM-
Izzy is listening too: Cello’ Song
It isnt comfortable, not even romanticized comfort, sleeping in the back of your car in the guts of May. Though Izzy has slept in worse places, the back seat of his car is hot; and out in the souther where he grew up, it’s a damp heat. The warmth sticks to his skin and makes his whole body feel tacky. He’ll have to wash up somewhere, somehow. He sighs and stretches out along the back seat of the car, looking at the stars through the bit of th sunroof he can see from the back. The area he’s parked in is supposed to be BLM land, open to the public and campers. He prays that’s the case, he really can't handle getting a ticket for trespassing or loitering or something.
His phone plays sad, lonely songs as he relaxes in the back. Hs sleep timer will shut the music off before his phone goes dead. It’s odd, being so truly alone for once; he’d never been alone in his house, not with all his sisters, but he’d spent plenty of time alone in his dorm. This is a difference style of alone though, no one knows where he is, if he’s okay, or even if he’s alive. It’s a scary thing, positively terrifying…and so fucking exciting.
He smiles as he thinks about it, inhales deep through his nose and inhales the stale smell of his car, then he exhales it through his mouth. His body relaxes, his mind quiets, and he falls asleep.
-May 29th, 1:39 PM-
Three days, it’s taken him three days to drive across the country and get himsef where he wanted to be. He stands on the Washington coast now. He isn’t actually sure where or which beach he’s on, he hadn’t been paying attention, just following the visual cues to the ocean. He’d lived in a landlocked state his whole life, only seeing the ocean when they went on the exceedingly rare vactation. He’s standing with his feet in the water and it’s the perfect temperature for the summer day that’s surrounding him, seagulls call in the distance as he lets the salty sea air rush over him like waves. His boots lay abandoned somewhere on the beach, his car parked half hazardly in the parking lot half a mile away. He’s got his jeans rolled up just enough, so they don’t get soaked.
He doesn’t know when he started crying, tears streaking down his face as a smile tears its way across. The laughter bubbles out of him like soda foam, he doubles over with it. His whole-body shakes as he laughs, smiles, he’s free. He’s never felt so free. A few other tourists turn to look at him and he’s sure he looks like a lunatic, black jeans rolled up and doubled over in laughter as he stands just deep enough in the ocean to wet his legs. He feels like a lunatic, like the entire world is in his grasp; if anyone can make it, he can.
He stays at the beach until the sun starts to set, then he returns to his car. He’s starving and he knows he needs a place to stay, a place to settle his roots while he starts looking for a job and a group. He’s never been the best at finding his people, always falling in with the wrong crowd, letting himself get yanked around and mistreated; sure he knows he isn’t completely to blame, he’d pushed and done his fair share of damage, but he’d never once put his hands on someone the same way it had been done to him. He shakes his head hard at the memory, at the sound of his own breaking bones and tearing flesh. No, he’d never hurt someone the way he’d been hurt; if the worst thing he ever did was want the best for himself and the people he loved, try to help them all escape this shitty world…then he could live with that.
The sun is setting when he pulls up to the small building boasting a large ‘VACANCIES’ sign above a smaller sign that reads ‘lute and loom; eat, sleep, craft’. Izzy thinks it’s a weird fucking combination, what type of hotel is called ‘lute and loom’? He doesn’t have much of a leg to complain on though, he needs a place to stay, and he needs one yesterday. This is also one of the cheaper places, everywhere is fucking expensive, but this place is one of the cheaper ones. He stifles a yawn as he parks his car in the visitor parking and steps out, grabbing the backpack he’s stuffed all his necessities and normally worn clothes into and walking inside.
The inside of the L&L is fucking huge and absolutely full of people. All chittering and floating around, showing off and working on various projects; Izzy feels a headache start to creep in immediately at the sudden influx of sensory input. He grips the straps of his backpack, gritting his teeth lightly.
“Hey man,” a soft voice calls from the side, dragging his attention away from a larger man showing off a knit sweater to a young woman as they both sit on stupid little poofs. This new voice is a younger man, probably just a few years older than Izzy himself. He holds a lute, boredly strumming at the strings as he looks Izzy up and down. “Lookin for a room, yeah? We got one open.”
Izzy swallows, his mouth suddenly feels sandy, his jaw tight. The man is handsome, hair systematically unkempt and soft pink flowers tangled in his beard. He’s wearing a loose purple hoodie and has evil eye earrings hanging down from his ears. Izzy catches himself staring, forces himself to talk. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I need a room for…awhile, actually.”
The man smiles, and it feels more genuine than the fake southern hospitality smile he’s used too. “Sure man, come on over. You got an ID and a card on you?”
Izzy does, producing both from his wallet and handing them over. The rooms a single, with a decent view of the ocean that Izzy appreciates. The man shows him up to it, going over the included amenities.
“we usually only clean after checkout, but we can set up a schedule if you want so you aren’t sleeping on dirty sheets. You get your own bathroom but you have to share a kitchen if you want to make anything. Roach does-“
“Roach?”
“ah yeah, another long-term resident we put on pay role, runs a food truck down the way n’ just needed a place to stay. He does breakfast, lunch, dinner; but theres always snacks down there that are up for grabs, just clean up after yourself. We usually eat together but you can totally take it back to your room.”
Izzy nods as he listens, dumping his bag on the bed and doing a slow spin around the room. It’s a bit old looking, reminding him of his grandmothers house when he was younger. There’s fucking doilies everywhere, each one looking hand made, and the bed is covered in frills. It’s better than nothing though.
“Thanks, uh,” Izzy turns and looks at the man who now stands in the doorway.
“Frenchie,” he chirps back, doing a silly little flourish as he says his name.
“Just…frenchie?” Izzy snorts a bit, cocking his head.
Frenchie nods, “Yeah man, can’t go telling you my whole name. Don’t have a feel on you yet, you might steal it.” Izzy can’t tell if he’s being serious or not but based off the tone of his voice he is completely earnest.
“Oookay…” Izzy narrows his eyes slightly before shrugging.
“well, I’ll leave you too it then. You missed dinner, but ill have roach send up a sandwhich Kay? No skippin meals in this house.” He claps his hands together, turning and slipping out of the door before Izzy’s able to say anythign about it. Izzy’s brows pinch together, he isn’t sure about accepting food from strangers, frenchie didn’t even ask about his allergies; still, free food is free food.
He sits on the bed, groaning at the softness beneath him. He usually prefers a firmer matress, but after sleeping in his car for a few days he’d have slept on a cloud if he could. He kicks off his boots, tossing his socks into the dirty pile before making himself change into his pajamas. A loose pair of flannel pajama pants and a tank top, he thanks god everyday his chest is smaller than anyone else’s in his families. It barely shows under the larger tank top, so he wont be outed if he has to leave the room for whatever reason.
When his head finally hits the pillow, he’s out like a light. It was as if his body had just been waiting for a place to land, and it knew that this was just the place.
Frenchie’s Phone
-May 30th, 6:11AM-
Izzy wakes with a start, blinking blearily as he looks around the room. He can’t remember where he’s at for a moment, before it finally clicks. The Lute and Loom. He sighs, flopping down onto his pillow again. His hair is plastered to his face, drool slicking down his goatee and side burns. It’d be embarrassing if anyone else saw him this way.
He lays in the bed for a long time before getting up. He showers, carefully styles his hair and outfit, before he goes to step out of the room.
Outside, On a small silver tray On the ground, is a sandwhich wrapped in parchment paper. He stares down at it for a long moment, before he smiles.
He isn’t going to eat the sandwhich, not if it’s been out for hours. But he still picks them up and carries it down to the kitchen to toss. The kitchen, and connected dining area, is empty. He pads through the small rooms, getting his bearings of the place. He finds some breakfast bars tucked away in one of the cabinets, letting out a delighted noise as he sees that they’re a favorite brand of his, one of his safe foods. He takes one from the box, leaving the rest, and meanders over to the fridge as he opens and takes a bite of it.
Just as he opens the door to the fridge someone clears their throat.
He yelps, voice hiking high, and whirls around to the entryway of the kitchen. He presses his back against the fridge on instinct, staring down the tall dark-skinned man in the doorway. He looks nothing like the soft eyed frenchie he had met last night; his eyes are wide, wild. He’s wearing a pink silk Bonnet and a loose white pajama shirt over shorts. Izzy can see a few tattoos under the fabric of his clothes. He’s clearly not fully awake, slowly blinking at Izzy as he takes him in, his eyes narrow.
“Who. Are. You?” He questions, stepping slowly towards Izzy like a cat stalking towards a mouse.
Izzy’s brain misfires as he’s stalked towards, he swallows and files through the multitudes of responses he’s developed for situations like this in his life. He’s been taught, raised, to fawn; roll over and show his belly to make sure he and no one gets hurt, but this time his brain lands on fight.
“my name Is Izzy” he spits through grit teeth, brows knit together and pulling his lips back into a snarl. “I’m staying here in room 204. I was hungry. There a problem?”
The man blinks, and then immediately relaxes. “Oh, you are? Ah sorry, sorry, I thought you were just some rando. We have plenty of people come in here to just take stuff ya know? Like, I’ll feed people for free if they just ask! But taking my stuff? Out of my kitchen? No, don’t play like that.” The man steps back. His body language immediately reads relaxed, friendly even. He turns away from Izzy, “you the guy I made the sandwhich for? Guessing you didn’t eat it, you hungry?”
Izzy stares, watching as Roach walks around the kitchen collecting things. He grabs pots and pans, seasoning; he turns back to Izzy and cocks a brow, giving him a gesture to move him out of the way of the fridge. Izzy does as he’s told, stepping out of the way carefully and watching him. His heart is still thudding in his chest, his adrenaline running high. He forces himself to inhale deeply, calming himself.
“Eggs okay? N’ bacon? Toast?” Roach asks as he piles ingredients into his arms.
“ah…eggs and Toast, no bacon.” Izzy fiddles with his hands, looking at the breakfast bar he’s holding.
“you vegetarian?” Roach asks as he sets everything out, scanning over his ingredients.
“No, no, just…doesn’t sit well with me.” Izzy moves slowly behind the kitchen island, watching Roach closely as the man nods and sets to cooking. Roach is a brilliant cook, working quickly as he moves around the kitchen. He slides over to Izzy and sets a plate infront of him, eggs in a basket stares back up at him. “Woah,”
“Mh, im a master of my craft” Roach hums as he turns back to the stove to continue working. “You aren’t from around here, yeah? Where are you from?”
Izzy carefully picks up his food, taking a bite of it and letting out a delighted noise. He blushes, glancing at Roach who thankfully doesn’t pay him much mind. “Ah, uh…Arkansas. M’ from Arkansas.”
Roach stills, blinking and cocking his head from side to side. “Where the fuck is Arkansas?” He turns to Izzy, lazily holding his spatula.
Izzy snorts, it’s a question he’s shockingly used to; and one he’s glad to answer again and again.
Before too long others start to file into the kitchen, collecting their plates and dishes. Roach just knows their orders some how, like he can see exactly what they want. Izzy tucks himself into a corner, watches the other guests of the L&L file about in their pajamas. He’d finished his food awhile ago, washed and put away his own plate and now he’s just watching. He knows he needs to get started on his job hunt, but until then he can watch.
He chair next to the one he’s sat in scrapes back, and then the larger man from his first night sits beside him. He sets a ball of yarn in an oddly shaped bowl on the table and sets to knitting as if Izzy isn’t even there. Izzy glances over, silently surprised. People rarely sat next to him where he had come from, he kept himself too unapproachable, looked too mean.
Izzy swallows, fiddles with the golden band ring his friends had given him as a graduation present. A parting gift, a goodbye. Then he speaks, “hey.”
The man glances at him, and smiles. “Hey there, you the guy who came in last night. All scowely and grr.” The man does a fake paw motion as if mimicking a dog or cat.
Izzy flushes a bit, huffing. “Yeah, yeah that’s me. “
He chuckles and nods, “well it’s good to see you’re in a better mood today. I’m John.”
“Izzy,” Izzy introduces himself, holding out his hand for John to shake. They shake hands, John smiling calmly.
“Nice to meet you then Izzy, you got any plans for the day? Or you want to join us for the knitting circle?” He asks as he holds up his current project, what appears to be a sock.
“ah…I’ve actually gotta go Job hunting. Don’t want to overstay my welcome here too long n’ I really need a job.” Izzy sighs, he probably should have had something squared away before driving all the way out here, but here he is.
“oh yeah? Well, hey if you’re looking, we have plenty of friends hiring.” John shifts in his chair, looking around the crowd before he calls out, “hey Frenchie? You know if the revenge is still hiring?”
Izzy sputters, he hadn’t expected the conversation to turn into a sudden networking deal, but here he is. Frenchie swafts over, holding a bowl of what appears to be porridge.
“The Revenge?” He thinks for a minute, rocking on his feet, “ah yes! I think so, they need someone to help run the shop during the day shift.”
“The-the day shift? What, what even is the Revenge?” Izzy asks, hands shaking as he looks between them.
“s’ a bookstore, and a coffee shop.” John replies, nodding. “It shifts into like a speakeasy gig at night though, they transition from coffee too booze.”
“You can still get really good coffee though,” frenchie leans on the back of John’s chair.
“And…and they’re hiring? You think I could work there?” Izzy smiles as he leans forward, he hadn’t expected it to be that easy; for a job like this to fall right into his lap.
“Can you work a cash register?”
“Yes.”
“Customer service? Know your alphabet?”
“Yes! Yeah?”
John smiles and nods. “I’ll give Stede a call then.”