There's an elegance to Izzy that rivals any dance Stede's ever been forced to attend. His cutlass might as well be part of his arm--Stede's seen him put his fingertips to candle flame, too, though he pretends not to notice. Stede knows well the urge to flagellate.
Izzy swings again, lower now, purposeful. The flames extinguish. Blip; blip; blip. Little lives cut short.
Something tugs in Stede's gut that he doesn't understand, that he's never felt, but he aches to be closer. Not like the yearning for Ed, no; this is a torch, not a lighthouse.
Stede touches the sweat clinging to Izzy's shoulders. He shudders beneath Stede's hand.
"I'm no Edward," he says.
"That's alright," Stede tells him. "Neither am I." He caresses Izzy's bare neck, wondering what happened to the ring. Izzy sheaths his sword, clever fingers brushing Stede's cheek. "I find myself in need of a first mate."
"You know the rules," and Stede nods. "Then I accept," Izzy says, "but the glove stays on."