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my reputation's never been worse

Chapter 9

Notes:

here is their happy ending :) thank you for all the love on this story

say hi on twitter @petrichorpond

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Okay, so maybe he spiralled a little.  

It’s just that he woke up colder than he should’ve and alone, not pressed into the hazy dreamworld of Stede’s skin like he thought he would be.

He checked the kitchen in case Stede was making breakfast, the bloody sweetheart, the perfect maniac, only– kitchen was empty. The silence in Ed’s apartment had rung loud and sharp. No water running in the bathroom. No sizzling pan over the hob. Nothing. Gone. 

Ed had crawled back to bed by himself.

Under the covers felt like the safest place to be. Razor-edged light clawed at the woven thread, and Ed had splayed a palm out across the Stede-shaped space on the sheets, and thought– Well. Best if he ran in the early hours, wasn’t it? Maybe Stede got lucky and managed to miss the camera flashes. 

He texted. 

Ed, 7:58 a.m.: Everything OK? You’re not here

And texted, and texted, and texted.

Ed, 8:00 a.m.: If you went to go get your stuff just lmk please. I’ll make you a nice fancy tea when u get back

Ed, 8:03 a.m.: Miss u

Ed, 8:05 a.m.: Steeeeedeeeee

Fuck, his whole body had gone icy with it. The room smelt of smoke as every glimmer of hope – cocoa sweet kisses and starry skies and last night; the show, the song, the too-tight tour t-shirt and the pretty ramble of a poem in Ed’s texts – got stamped out on the concrete with every passing minute. 

Ed, 8:25 a.m.: Stede? 

He’d just– fucking hell, he’d been so sure. 

Here, in the dimmed white between duvet and mattress, the whole thing seemed kind of obvious. A fitting ending, Stede leaving. Everyone leaves. How could they not? 

And Ed could picture it all. The talk about this one would be fucking miserable. At least six weeks worth of headlines and discourse, and Ed knew he’d feel like shit for letting Stede get caught in the crossfire, and he wouldn’t even be able to do anything about it. 

Couldn’t even pop into the bar to spill his sorry heart out, because if Stede was gone, he was gone for a reason. 

Shit, but then he got all panicky, like– what if he had gone to get his stuff and something happened? Maybe it was still icy out there, maybe he’d slipped in the slush. 

Ed was about to reach for his phone again – had to call him, had to get up and hunt the snowy streets for him until he knew he was safe – when the door had clicked open. 

Which brings him to here, now, still under a fort of blankets, realising…yeah, okay, he fucking spiralled a bit out of control there. 

“Edward?”

A corner of the duvet is peeled away and the dazzling orange of the sun on the horizon makes him squint. 

It’s gone in an instant, and in its place is something all too bright still. Stede hides under the duvet with him, smiling like all of Ed’s wildest dreams. 

He feels like a fucking tool. 

Of course Stede came back, right? When hasn’t he? How…fuck, Ed feels like crying a bit now, because how could he not?

He’s all in, and he’s proven it in a hundred thousand ridiculous, possibly illegal, definitely incredible ways. It’s maybe time to start actually believing him.

Ed hesitates, then murmurs a tiny, “Morning.”

Stede beams. “Good morning, my love.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I got us breakfast,” says Stede. “From that bakery you like? With the croissants? I can go get it?”

“No,” Ed says quickly. Then, “I mean, later. Thanks and stuff. Just– can you just– I dunno, stay?”

Stede’s palm is so warm when it comes to rest against his cheek – Ed thinks he might burn up here. He still refuses to lift the covers for air. 

“Of course, my darling.”

“Didn’t know if you’d come back,” he admits. 

Stede looks confused, and then an understanding dawns in his eyes. “Oh, Ed. I’m so sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. God, I– I didn’t think. I’ve never– This is my first time sneaking out to surprise someone with breakfast. I guess I got a little overexcited. I’ll leave a note next time, promise.”

“‘Kay.” 

It’s so weird, being seen this way. Good weird. Because Ed got scared, and now he’s told Stede that he got scared, and Stede just…gets it? And he comes up with a solution, just like that. Like it’s easy, like Ed being scared wasn’t stupid. 

Nobody’s mad. Not at Ed for jumping to nasty conclusions about Stede being the kind of guy to go back on his promises, and not at Stede for clumsily forgetting what waking up alone might’ve felt like. Everything between them is all good. 

There are a million things he should say right now to let Stede know how grateful he is for that. He loves words so fucking much, and yet all he can come up with is, “Thanks.”

Not really good enough, is it, especially all stilted like that, but– it’s what he wants to say, he guesses, at the heart of it. 

Then there’s a sweet kiss on his lips. It tastes chocolatey. Ed pouts when Stede pulls back. “Did you eat without me?”

“I may have…had a bite. Just one! A small one. I had to check it was nice enough for you.”

“Oh, you think I’ll believe anything, you,” Ed grumbles. “Fuckin’ betrayed me. I’ll never forgive you.”

Stede’s eyes sparkle as he inches closer and kisses Ed’s scowl away, slow and syrupy.

They’re on another planet entirely. Must be – all that exists is cosy cotton and ruffled blond curls and Stede’s hands rucking up his shirt just to be closer, like he wants to carve a home out in Ed’s chest the same way Ed wants to with him. 

His mouth is mind-meltingly warm against Ed’s, and his tongue brushes Ed’s bottom lip, licking inside for a too-short, dizzying split second that makes Ed groan deep in his throat before he pulls back again, the bloody tease.

“You forgive me now, then?”

Ed fists the front of his shirt and drags him right back in. “You play dirty, Stede Bonnet,” he mutters against his lips, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until he runs out of air, and kissing him  even then. 

“I’ve heard that’s what you like about me,” Stede says. His next kiss comes with a scrape of teeth that sends Ed reeling. 

“Don’t believe rumours, mate.”

“No?” Stede kisses him once more before shuffling away like he’s going to get up. Ed tries to calm the thrashing thing inside him that begs him not to. He mostly succeeds, but in a last ditch attempt to be heard, it forces a finger to wrap loosely around Stede’s belt loop. “I’ll be right back, Ed, I promise.”

He’s true to that – there’s hardly a moment for Ed to catch his breath under body-warmed sheets before Stede’s returned to his side. His hands are behind his back and the distinct rustle of paper rings clear in the confined space. 

“You bring breakfast?” Ed asks, grinning. “Think of the crumbs, Stede.”

Stede rolls his eyes at Ed’s falsely scandalised tone, but Ed doesn’t miss the way his nose turns up at the mere thought of getting a single speck of pastry in the bedsheets. 

“Not breakfast, no,” he says conspiritally. 

Ed raises his eyebrows. 

Unable to keep the mystery up for long, Stede eagerly presents his secret with a flourish. 

“Papers?”

“Read it,” he says, like it’s a gift that he’s dying to watch Ed unwrap. 

Ed swallows hard. “I’d rather not.”

He feels the warmth of it instantly, those empathetic eyes, the way Stede takes his hand in his and presses a heart-skipping kiss over his knuckles. “Trust me?” 

“Always.”

“Read it.”

Despite the fear, Ed reaches out for the newspaper. He’s being brave. Abandoning his sensibilities, his fight or flight, fucking– kissing Stede in front of a streetful of paparazzi – it feels like the bravest thing that Ed’s ever done. 

Just loving him, that much is easy. Of course it is. Sweet, handsome, romantic lunatic Stede – how could Ed have ever done anything but love him?

But loving him like this – ribcage flung open, reaching out, not hiding (Ed’s so used to hiding) – it’s brave and it’s wild and it’s tricky sometimes, sure, but it feels right.

Ed takes the newspaper with shaky hands. 

Sure enough, there they are – black and white print, front page. It’s a shame the little pixels of ink can’t capture the blush that Ed knows had dusted Stede’s cheeks as they left the bar. But – he smiles with the thought – that’s his. No one else’s. Like bright pink fluffy socks under black boots. 

BLACKBEARD IN LOVE?, the headline reads. 

“So…are the rumours true?”

Ed looks up. There’s that blush, redder than ever in the soft cottoned daylight. 

Stede’s asking like he knows the answer. 

It’s only then that Ed realises he still hasn’t said it. 

He leans over Stede, fumbling through his bedside table until he finds a pen. When he pulls back, his nose brushes Stede’s and Stede’s gaze flicks to his lips. Ed doesn’t close the distance, though – he rips the lid of the pen off with his teeth, ducks down to the newspaper and scrawls over it in purple, glittery ink. Scribbles out the big, black question mark and draws a dozen hearts and stars and little fireworks around the headline. 

Stede stares at it for a moment. “Yeah?” he asks, soft and almost shy considering his fiery boldness. 

“Yes,” Ed says, muffled by the lid. He puts it back on the pen. “I love you. I love you so fucking much, Stede.”

Stede smiles a breathless smile. “Thought so.”

“Whaaaaat?”

“Well, I might’ve had a little inkling somewhere in between the first time you kissed me and when you got up on a stage in front of me and sang me a lovely song.”

“Should’ve probably had a couple of inklings before then, babe. Like when I used to sit and make eyes at you at your bar while you nattered on about those odd little fuckin’ hedgehog creatures.”

“Echidnas,” Stede says. “The spiny anteater. They’re actually not closely related to hedge–”

“To hedgehogs or anteaters at all, yeah, baby, I know.”

Stede smiles. It’s bashful, and– that always throws Ed off a bit, but it’s cute as shit. So fucking kissable, how pink his ears get and how his lashes flutter as he stares down at their intertwining fingers. 

“You love me, hm?”

“Like mad, Stede. Like…fucking crazy.”

Kissing him only gets better and better. 

Ed’s used to feelings fading and souring and all that, but with Stede–

With Stede, it’s warmer every time, and he feels the chemicals in his brain bouncing around with it, all the way to his fingertips and his fucking…elbows and shit. It makes him laugh giddily.

When their giggles break the kiss, Stede stares at Ed, bright and wondrous. He says, “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will have all been one mad dream.”

“It’s real as fuck,” Ed promises. Forehead pressed to Stede’s, tip of his nose to the bridge of Stede’s. “You wanna know how I know?”

Stede gazes up at him curiously. “How?” he whispers. 

Ed smiles. He slides his hands over Stede’s warm, broad shoulders, down past the hem of his t-shirt sleeve, and then he pinches the skin of his arm until Stede swats him off with a loud, adorably high-pitched, “ow!”

“See? Real.”

“You’re a dick,” says Stede. 

Ed kisses his ridiculous face again. He could get used to this. Just...kissing all the time.The intimacy of feeling Stede try (and fail) to tamper down his smile against his lips.

“I’m your dick. You love me.”

“I fucking love you,” Stede confirms, with so much conviction that it makes Ed lightheaded.

What Stede said, about this all feeling like a dream, kind of makes sense, but it also feels– beyond anything that Ed could’ve ever come up with himself. Beyond even all those pretty words that he’s been highlighting since Stede showed up in the Strand, flamboyant and fussy and glowing hazy gold in the poetry aisle.

“Man, shut up.”

“Oh, I see. Here I was, telling my boyfriend that I love him but apparently–”

His grin turns luminescent the second he catches Ed’s eyes widening. Fucking– boyfriend. 

“Shut up, ‘cause I’m gonna fuckin’ cry or something and I’m trying to play this cool.”

“Oh, are you? Since when?”

“Bastard.”

He echoes Ed’s quip; “You love me.”

Ed clenches his jaw. Has to look away from Stede’s face, thrilled and gorgeous, to deliver a convincing sigh and an eye roll. 

“Ed. You love me. I’m your boyfriend.”

Oh, Stede’s over the bloody moon about this, isn’t he? His voice is pitched higher with delight. His accent is a little bit stronger around the shape of his words.

Ed thinks back on all those dates that fell through – the breathtaking all-white suit that Stede had on when he stumbled into Ed on the subway, dressed to impress; his dating profile that Ed helped him with and how it tortured him for weeks; the photo of Stede with Jim’s dog that he’d called adorable and Stede had thought he was on about the Jack Russell.

All this to say: Stede’s never had a boyfriend before now.

And Ed– has, kind of, because that’s what all the magazines have called everyone he’s ever been with. ‘Blackbeard spotted with new boyfriend.’ ‘Blackbeard’s long list of short term boyfriends.’ ‘Every Blackbeard song and which boyfriend we think they’re about.’

But this feels like something else. Something new. Everything feels like a first with Stede. 

Which is…maybe because it is all a first. First time Ed’s ever done any of this in love. First time it’s felt like something that he’s a part of, rather than something that’s just happening to him.

“Yeah,” Ed mutters. “What about it?”

“Well, I love you, too. Boyfriend.”

That’s never going to get old. Fuck, he might see if he can make Stede say it a few thousand more times before they have to get out of bed. 

Not because–

See, there was a time where Ed would’ve wanted to bottle it up, shelve it with the awards and the old AAA passes, all the reminders of the good for when things got bad. Would’ve secured it behind glass, I love you, so it could never escape. Something to help him remember that somebody said that to him once. 

Now he wants to hear Stede say it just to hear it. 

Not because he’s scared it’ll melt away with the rest of the winter, but because he can. Because it’s his to hear. 

“Love you,” Ed says back, easy as anything.

“Love you.”

“I love you.”

It soundtracks his day.

They waste the morning away reminding each other over and over again in between bites of the yummy croissants that Stede brought back; over the sound of the shower against the walls of Ed’s wetroom; after they duck into the bar and Ed watches Stede hard at work, plotting next month’s big Valentine’s event. 

He hums and taps his foot to the symphony of it in his brain. 

He wanders around the backrooms of the bar, restless and bouncy and one ‘I love you’ away from running a marathon of the whole city with a huge banner that says ED & STEDE FOREVER. 

Shoved away in storage somewhere, Ed finds an old acoustic guitar. He tunes it up the best he can and sprawls out in a corner booth – the same place he sat back in November, first time he laid eyes on Stede – and he plays a couple of chords and scribbles a couple of ideas down and gets lost in the velvet rhythm and the mellow burn of his fingertips.

“You should do a stripped back set. When you play here.”

Ed startles. “Jesus. How long have you been sitting there?”

Stede shrugs. His chin is resting in his palms, elbows up on the table between them. He looks knackered but in a glowy sort of way. Eyes bright and glimmering despite the bags under them. 

“Stripped back,” Ed echoes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” Stede says earnestly. 

Ed looks back down at the guitar, plucking notes to keep his fingers busy. The instrument’s wood is battered and the pick guard is almost worn through. He wonders about its history – how many hands have strummed it; how many love songs it’s played. 

“Dunno,” he says. “My songs aren’t really made to be acoustic, are they? It’s all like…” He bashes at the strings hard, making them clash and twang unpleasantly. “And, y’know. Yelling and stuff.”

“Well, if anyone can make it work, it’s you.”

Ed softens his touch on the strings again. “Hm.”

“Just a thought. I’d be thrilled to have you on stage here either way.”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering… What stage, mate?”

“Ah! Well, we just shuffle some tables around, and uh. Create a stage…sort of…area.”

“Love that.”

“It works, trust me.”

“I do.”

A month down the line, and god does it work.

Stede’s in his element. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.

He’s the glue that’s holding the whole evening together as he announces each act with endearing enthusiasm. He’s the shining heart of the bar. He’s written jokes for every introduction and they’re all awful and everyone’s laughing anyway. 

Ed tucks himself away in a corner with a cap shadowing his face. 

The disguise hasn’t really done much to hide him, but it’s only a small bar and half of it is taken up by Stede’s crew anyway.

Earlier, he smiled for thirty or so pictures and no one asked him anything weird or invasive or threw any drinks at him, so it’s not been so bad. Plus, Stede had approached him when he was done, silly and pretending to be shy when he asked if he could have a picture too. Ed got a fan to take it for them and planted a big smooch on Stede’s cheek, so that story’ll be going viral right about now.

(So will those regurgitated ones about his past relationships. He’s sure that some journalist somewhere is bringing his name up in an interview with old Ben Hornigold and Jack, maybe, if Jack was fucking relevant enough to be doing interviews these days – but all of that feels so distant from this safe bubble, the fortress of the Revenge. It’s easy to forget about it here.)

All of this is surprisingly easy, actually. The bar feels homelier than ever tonight.

The room is overflowing with flags. Pale pinks and pale blues, darker pinks and darker blues and purples, oranges and fuschias, lilacs and yellows, every colour under the rainbow possible, every identity possible. Ed’s never been anywhere so wholesomely queer. 

Well, wholesome might not quite be the word. Nurturingly queer, more like. Loudly, proudly, delightfully, filthily, gloriously queer. 

On the makeshift stage – a section of the floor markered by a ring of flowers – Jim is circling a chair and dropping into it in a way that makes the crowd go wild. 

They’re head to toe in leather, tighter and shinier than the kind that Ed’s made a home in, and coils of rope are intricately wrapped around their torso and shoulders. They’ve got a sword between their teeth that Ed knows is plastic, but with the sharp lines of their beard and how menacing they’ve done their eye makeup, he’s still a little bit terrified.

That is, until a grin threatens their tough guy look when they leave the stage – Archie’s waiting just beyond the hyacinths, and she hauls Jim into her arms the second they’re out of the singular white spotlight. Oluwande joins the hug, and Ed can’t bite back his own grin as he watches Stede get beckoned into it too. 

His hair is so fluffy and his shirt is so sparkly tonight. He looks uninhibited and effervescent. He looks like he belongs. 

Here in his bar, yeah, but also surrounded by all this queer joy. 

And Ed knows – because he knows Stede now, because they’ve talked about life and what a fucking dick it is – how long Stede’s waited to feel that kind of freedom. That kind of acceptance. 

Ed thinks that maybe he’s been waiting too. 

Since he was a boy in oversized leather stepping into fights that ended with someone pressed against a wall in an alleyway, and it was fifty-fifty whether he’d walk away with his nose bloody or his pants ruined. Since his name hit the news and he called his mum crying, feeling like he was watching through a glass box as his life spun out of control beyond his grasp. 

And as glad as he is to be hailed a gay icon, and as disreputable as the pricks who have any issue with it are, he’s never had the chance to just exist in his queerness. To exist somewhere like this, surrounded by people like him, celebrating just being here, together.

It’s new. It’s magic.

The place is just bursting with love. It’s all that Ed can feel, hot and humid in the overcrowded room. Pure adoration. 

It gets him teary eyed under the cap. 

Calypso is the last act, and when she bows at the end, the cheers roar into ear-splitting decibels. Ed debates asking Stede where he got his nice, shiny earplugs from even as he claps and whoops himself. 

He watches from the sides as the lights turn back on and the crowd starts to meander out to the street, carrying the joy with them into the night.

The mess left of the bar is glittery and floral.

Ed watches Stede assigning clean-up duties to everyone apart from Calypso and Frenchie, who are headed towards the backroom to change.

“Need any help?” Ed asks Stede. 

“You just sit here and look pretty.” 

Ed gasps into his mouth, surprised by the kiss that Stede just sweeps him into. It’s vibrant and heated and cherishing, the kind of kiss that Ed had wanted to sweep him into after his gig at the Bowery in January, like Stede’s been waiting all night as well. Which…is very believable, actually, from the looks he’s been giving Ed from the side of the makeshift stage. 

He grins, still woozy from it. “You sure? I am really good at cleaning surfaces. Me, armed with a bottle of Clorox – deadly. Bacteria are terrified of me.”

“I’m sure,” Stede says, pressing his smile against Ed’s one more time. “You’re a guest here, love. Go help yourself to some of the sweets we’ve got backstage.”

“Backstage. It’s a janitor’s closet, babe.”

“It has a mirror!”

Ed knows why Stede’s really telling him to go back there. He’s not exactly being subtle about delaying this bit, because he feels sick with nerves and ready to slam his head through the jukebox any second rather than march ‘backstage’ and come out with a worthy apology for all the shit he’s talked to the press. 

Stede knows it’s important to him, though.

“Yeah,” Ed mumbles. “Okay. Going.”

Stede squeezes his hand. It’s that last bit of strength that Ed needs.

He might deserve a couple of grudges here and there, but he’s worthy of the love in his life too. It gets him through, that thought. It does.

“Hey,” Ed says, letting the dressing room (janitorʼs fuckinʼ closet) door click shut behind him. 

Calypso is handing Frenchie a bunch of gems peeled from her face, and Frenchie fumbles them between his fingers when he looks up and sees Ed.

Ed breathes through the walls-closing-in sensation that makes every bone in his body tense up. It’s a small fucking room. 

“Uh, that was really good. Your act. Awesome stuff.”

“Cheers,” Calypso says. The eyes are next, vibrant blue bleeding into a cotton pad. “Be a doll and pass us another bottle from over there, would you?”

“Sure.” Ed grabs the beer and cracks it open with the head of his kraken ring. Frenchie’s still eyeing him slightly cautiously as he passes the bottle to Calypso. 

Deep breath, in and out. 

He can hear Stede’s voice just round the corner, commanding and a little snippy. Another deep breath. He’s got this. 

“I just wanted to say sorry. Sorry, I um, I know I said…some things. About your album. So. Sorry.”

Okay, not as eloquent as he’d hoped, but– a start, right? Fuck. His pulse races. There’s a bag of drumstick squashies open on the rickety dressing table and he wants to grab a handful to stave off the rapidly approaching panic, but that’d be– awkward. That’d make things even more fucking awkward. Fuck. 

“Well, we’re proud of it,” Calypso tells him. “And a lot of people probably listened to it to spite you, so. No hard feelings there.”

“No, yeah. Probably.” Ed chuckles, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Still. ‘M really sorry. It was dickish of me. And I actually liked it a lot, the album.”

“It’s fine if you didn’t,” says Frenchie. “Our new oneʼs better.”

“No, I did, I really– I mean, yeah, new one is great too, but. The organ behind that riff in ‘Nine Lives’ is phenomenal. Great producing.”

“Well, thanks,” Calypso says, tone warm. 

“Yeah, thank you, man.”

Ed nods. 

“Sing on a track with us and we’ll call it even,” Calypso says. 

“Wh– you’d want to? That’s something you’d want to do?”

Shit, Ed hasn’t collaborated since the early days. Since Hornigold wanted him all across the charts like a rash, because a Blackbeard feature was a huge fucking moneymaker and the more that existed, the more the label would be raking it in. Of course, the more that existed also meant the more messy fucking tales that could be spun about Ed and whoever he was working with. Found that one out eight songs too late. 

That’s not this, though. This is…different. This could be fun. 

“Are you kidding?” says Frenchie. “It’s been my dream since I was a kid to get to sing with you! I mean– the fact you were a knob did kill it for a bit there, but ah, y’know. Water under the bridge.”

Since he was a kid. That makes Ed feel fucking old, even though he knows Frenchie’s probably talking about the gangly teenage years when you’re first finding the music that’s yours and familiarising your hands to your instrument.

He chuckles. “Right. I’ll, um, be in touch then.”

“Prepare to face my absolute wrath if you’re not.”

“I will be. Don’t worry.”

A silence falls over the room. Ed should probably go, but he doesn’t want to just yet. He wants to get on with Stede’s friends; he wants to be a part of this queer little mayhem they’ve created. 

He glances over Calypso’s dressing table, admiring the sheer range of products, half of which he wouldn’t even know where to begin in naming the purpose of. Admiring the space that’s been carved out here for her in the back of a dive bar. An antique mirror, framed by ornate gold, with lipstick kisses and fondly offensive messages scrawled in eyeliner around the corners of the glass.

“You ever done this before?” Calypso asks. “I know you’ve got your all black…drama for on stage, but. Ever got dolled up?”

Ed chews on his bottom lip. He shakes his head. 

“Ever wanted to?” 

“Yeah,” he admits. “Once or twice. Reckon I’d like to.”

She stands from her chair and pats it, beckoning Ed to sit. 

Ed glances at the door leading through to the bar, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Show’s finished though.”

“The show might be over, but the night is just beginning.”

Lips quirking up, Ed sits. 

“Stede is gonna flip his shit,” says Frenchie. 

Ed watches his reflection as Calypso wipes his face clean, something herbal and fresh tingling gently across his skin, and starts humming as she picks out a few products. 

There’s a flutter of eager suspense in Ed’s chest when he sees the palette of shimmery pinks and purples that she chooses.

“Does he ever, um… Does he have an act? Stede?”

Frenchie and Calypso share a look. 

“I’ve been trying to get him to do one for months,” she says. “He looks incredible in drag.”

His brain tries to conjure up an image that would do Stede justice. It probably falls short, but Ed can picture the confidence radiating through him. Picture his grin, add a little glitter to it. Picture his fucking legs in heels, god almighty. Golden velvet hugging the lines of his body. Yeah, Ed bets he looks fantastic. 

There’s still so much – so, so much – of Stede left to learn. It makes him giddy. 

“Stop smiling, I’m trying to get your bloody wings straight.”

“Sorry,” Ed murmurs. He tries his best.

“Oh, darling! You look beautiful,” Stede gasps, arms held out to beckon Ed closer to him. 

“All thanks to Calypso herself.”

“It’s just John now,” he says, exiting the cupboard/dressing room in a sweater knitted of the same aquamarine as Calypso’s dress. He lands a firm hand on Ed’s shoulder as he passes by.

“Got it,” Ed says. “Thank you, mate.”

Frenchie gives him a wink and spins a duster in his hand like a pistol. Both him and John join the group, where everyone’s more making games out of the mops and buckets than actually getting anything cleaned. 

Stede’s nice and distracted from their antics, though. His eyes are darting over Ed’s face as though he’s trying to commit the violet eyelids and shimmery cheekbones to memory.

“Gosh. It went well, then?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Good.”

Stede sways forward slightly, then stops himself. Ed pouts. 

“I don’t want to ruin your lipstick.”

With a grumble, Ed leans in to smack a big kiss on Stede’s cheek. He grins proudly at his work.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.”

“Ed.”

He can’t help himself – not when Stede looks so bloody pleased to have his blushing face marked with evidence that he’s Ed’s. He has to press another to his forehead. Has to scatter a whole load of artful kisses over his skin, until he looks borderline ridiculous and so unbelievably hot. One last gentle, teasing kiss to his neck and Ed pulls back with a smile.

“Well, aren’t you guys sweet?” Lucius cuts in, eyeing the two of them as he sips at a cocktail. 

“We know,” Ed says, low and gruff to show how displeased he is to be interrupted when he was having such a great time riling up his boyfriend, thank you very fucking much.

“Mhm, mhm, cute.” Lucius, like the nuisance he always is, ignores it. “Stede, we’ve got a tiny bit of a problem by the bar, just a little one – can you come help?”

Stede sighs. “What is it?”

“A real emergency, honest. We need you.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, look, fine. It’s a spider. Please?”

Sure enough, Pete’s got a cup in his hand – he keeps trying to raise it to the highest shelf to trap the spider and then chickening out. 

“Where’s Archie?”

Lucius points over to the corner booth, where Archie’s engaged in a seriously heavy makeout sesh in Jim’s lap. 

“Fine,” Stede says through gritted teeth. 

Feeling itchy at the mere mention of an arachnid in the room, Ed watches Stede march over, push Pete out of the way and get the spider in his palm, the madman. He carries it out through the back. 

“You look great, by the way,” Lucius says. “Love that for you.”

Ed turns to look at him and cracks a slight smile.

“You seem, like, way less moody and miserable than you did when we first met. Really come out of your shell, since you and Stede…” He gestures vaguely. “Crazy how that started out, right?”

“Sure.” Ed squints at him. “If you’re trying to get me to thank you, you can get fucked.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For…I don’t know, talking some sense into me?”

“Oh, that. You’re so welcome.”

“Fuck off,” Ed mutters. “You still made him go on all those dates, so.”

“Yeah, and after every single one he would text me like ‘Lucius, my guiding light, my very own personal cupid, what on earth do you say to someone attractive who you had a perfectly nice night with but don’t really have any romantic feelings towards,’ and I would reply like, ‘Maybe you tell them your heart belongs to the leather daddy rockstar who keeps flirting with you via weird animal videos?’ and now here you guys are! So really, you do have a lot to thank me for.”

“They’re not weird, they’re inspirational and shit.”

“God help me.”

Ed glares at him. Lucius grins sweetly. It’s kind of their thing now.

“I’m serious, though. I’m, like, really happy for you both. And for what it’s worth, I’m a registered minister.”

Ed loads up another ‘fuck off,’ to hiss through his teeth, but then Stede steps back in, wiping his hands on his jeans and huffing so hard it ruffles his curls. He’s still adorned in lipstick kisses. Ed is desperate to decorate him with a thousand more. Preferably way beyond the collar of his shirt. He wants to kiss him until Stede’s lips are tinted rouge too, until his face is glittered too, and they become one.

Lucius leaves him with a smirk. Ed can’t help but chuckle when he hears him tell Pete how he was ‘so brave, babe, well done.’ He also can’t help but feel a little smug that his boyfriend was the hero of the day, actually, cheers.

“He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“Nah,” Ed says. “We’re best mates now.”

From the sidelines they watch the gang all wrapped up in each other’s arms, dancing and drinking, heads thrown back in laughter. 

“I’m proud of you,” Ed tells him. 

“Oh,” Stede says, his smile surprised and lopsided. “Well. Thank you. I’m proud of you too.”

“No, mate, this is about you right now. No deflecting. You put on an incredible night and you gave all these horrors a place to be themselves. And…it was really beautiful to watch.”

“Thank you,” Stede murmurs shyly again. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Ed’s got to get him better at accepting a compliment. 

“You absolutely could’ve.”

“No way! Ed, you helped so much–”

“Alright, alright. Shh. Let me just be proud of you.”

“Very well.”

He slides an arm around Stede’s waist. Stede rests his head on Ed’s shoulder. 

It’s almost practised now, this leaning into each other, this easy closeness. They’ve seen each other every day since those first fearless ‘I love you’s, and their bodies have become habituated. Ed’s palm fits perfectly over Stede’s hip, their fingers intertwine so naturally. When they kiss, it’s like coming home. Stede’s nose was made for the space between Ed’s own and his cheek. Ed’s bottom lip fits just right in Stede’s mouth, and–

Well. There are hundreds of parts of them that fall together easy as the city sparkling over Central Park’s Pond. Point is, he’s starting to think a forever with Stede is possible. Has to be, if they were made for each other in this way. 

“You know,” he says, conspiratorially, “everyone seems to think you’re gonna be the one who gets Blackbeard to finally settle down.”

Stede lifts his head from Ed’s shoulder and eyes him with soft, fiery omniscience. “I don’t care what they all think. What does Ed think?”

Ed glances at Stede out of the corner of his eye, fondness pouring out of him. 

“Ed’s thinking about taking a holiday. Nice cottage in the Lakes. And when we get b– when he gets back, I dunno, maybe he’d come here and help you put some shows on. Could grab his axe and blow your roof off. You could get up there…if you wanted…”

“Oh, Frenchie and John told you about all their nagging, did they?”

“Yeah. Is that– Was that okay? Were they not supposed to?”

But Stede’s smiling, and there’s something of a menace bubbling under the surface of it. “Did they show you the pictures?”

Ed’s eyes widen. He turns fully to face Stede. “There are pictures?”

Stede’s grin becomes sharp-toothed.

“Stede, there are pictures? Show me.”

“Later,” Stede tells him, voice pitched low.

“Now. Show me now, what the fuck.”

“If I show you now you’re going to drag me into that bathroom, Ed, and I was rather hoping I could take my time with you tonight.”

“Jesus.”

The self-satisfied bastard wraps an arm around Ed’s waist this time, bringing him closer. “How much are flights then?”

“It’s on me.”

“Ed…”

“Babe, I love you, and I love this place, but it is essentially a dive bar. And I’m motherfucking Blackbeard.”

“Well. At least let me buy you an ice cream when we’re there.”

“One ice cream?”

“As many ice creams as you want!”

“Yeah, alright.” Ed presses another lipstick stain to his cheek. “Thanks. Love you.”

“I love you.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

Stede’s eyes light up, but he says, regretfully, “I should stay. To help finish tidying up.”

“They can do it themselves,” Ed argues, which, from the mess that the place still is, is kind of debatable.

“But it’s the principle. I’m the boss.”

“I’ll let you boss me around, if it helps.” The masterpiece that John’s made of his face must add a whole new level to the puppy dog eyes.

The conflict in Stede’s face disappears instantly. “Fine, yes, alright, let’s go.” 

They almost make it out the door, but Lucius calls after them. “And where do you think you’re off to?”

“I’ll pop in tomorrow morning and clear everything up,” Stede tells him, “don’t worry about it. Have a lovely time!”

“Why do I doubt that?”

“Lucius! I will be here.”

Hands on his hips, Lucius cocks his head at Ed. “You gonna let him be here?” 

Ed pulls a face. “He can do what he wants.”

“Yeah, no, I was more wondering if you were going to tie him to your bed and never let him leave.”

“Oh. Maybe.” He grins at Stede, who’s flushed pink. 

“Goodnight, Lucius.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Be safe, kids!”

“I’m old enough to be his father,” Stede complains as they head up the staircase and out onto the street. “Maybe. Just about.”

“His deadbeat dad who definitely left him with some fucked up fatherly issues.”

“God,” says Stede. “It’s really a good job Mary and I never had children, I think.”

When Ed laughs, it’s lit up by a lightning storm of paparazzi waiting outside. 

Stede smiles, but it’s a smile for Ed, not the cameras. It’s a smile that says, ‘I love you.’ It’s a smile that says, ‘I know you.’ It’s a smile that says, ‘Wherever we’re going, it’s home, because I’m with you.’ 

He slides his fingers in between Ed’s and squeezes tight.

For all the pictures of them in bakeries and bookstores, hand in hand all across New York, there are a thousand moments like this one. Stede’s eyes meeting his in the backseat and blurring the tangerine flecks of the city into hearts around them. Then the wordless rhythm of the key in the door, the flick of light switch, toeing their boots off in the hall and stepping in for a kiss that’s just theirs. 

Before the night is over, Ed’s going to book a flight and maybe ask Stede to move in with him while he’s at it, because they keep ending up here, falling back onto Ed’s mattress, and Ed reckons he’d quite like for Stede’s books to pile up on the bedside table alongside his. His china tea sets with Ed’s pottery projects. His colourful shirts hung up amongst Ed’s blacks and greys. His soul and Stede’s joined, intertwined, whatever you want to call it. Forever.

“This really is the perfect ice cream.”

“And this really is the perfect book.”

The sun here is different than it is in New York. Its shine is soft and wholesome, and the breeze feels like collapsing into a freshly laundered bed.

Stede has Ed’s sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Ed’s wearing one of Stede’s shirts under his denim jacket, pale rose linen held together by just one button in the middle.

They’ve been in the Lake District all spring – the false start of it, then the cold snap, and now the tease of summer around the bend, every hill dewy green and daffodilled and every cobble path pink-blossomed. 

The garden gate creaks shut behind Ed. He shoves Stede’s wallet into his back pocket and licks a dribble of ice cream up from the cone.

“You’re enjoying it?” he asks Stede.

“Mhm.” 

He reaches the bench where Stede’s reading under a shadow of wisteria and plants a sugary kiss on his boyfriend’s lips. 

Stede smiles, and his blue highlighter drifts over, ‘I built my house beside the wood, so I could hear you sing,’ and it’s a sad poem, the nightingale that falls silent, but Ed always thought of it as proof you should never love anything because one day it’ll be gone. Now he thinks he might’ve got it wrong. 

The holly is an evergreen, after all, and even if the bird stops singing, the beauty of the song must live on. 

He was too young to get it back then, maybe. The richness of love. The coexistence of having and losing, of sorrow and joy.

That’s Cohen for you. Thorny and complicated, timelessly dissectable.

Ed bought Stede a copy from the quaintest little bookstore in the village nearby, because look, a man has to have some secrets to himself – Stede doesn’t need to see the dark and depressing inner turmoil of Ed’s twenties, but he does need to experience the words that changed his life. 

He makes such a beautiful sight, golden curls all sun tousled, a dimpled furrow of concentration between his brows, thick jewelled fingers holding the pages of the Book of Longing open. 

There are no cameras around but the one in Ed’s pocket. 

He has to reach for it, enraptured by the sight of Stede enraptured by poetry. Just wholly captivated by how gorgeous he looks here with his freckles – his freckles! – and his teal button up that is very much not buttoned up. Not even by one. He’s worse than Ed.

Ed pulls the point and shoot out of his denim jacket, points it right at Stede and shoots.

The noisy click and wind interrupts the hushed spring afternoon. Stede looks up from the pages with a smirk and poses for another picture. 

“Babe, I’m trying to not waste the film.”

“Waste?!”

“Shhh.” Ed’s tongue circles his ice cream. “I’ve only got…hm…four shots left on this roll. Thought I might capture the nice views around us. Or that massive fuckin’ sheep in the field up the road.”

“Oh, you’d rather have a picture of a big, muddy, grass munching sheep than me!”

As Stede’s bitching, Ed lifts the camera to his eye and snaps another shot. 

“You menace,” Stede gasps. “I will smash that camera, don’t test me.”

“This one?” He steps in closer to Stede clicks the shutter. His Canon Autoboy makes another clunky whir.

“You are lucky you’re pretty.”

“Oh yeah?” Ed laughs. “What dʼyou plan on doing about it?” 

“Mmm. This.” Stede leans forward and kisses him.

Ed pulls away and brushes his rapidly melting ice cream under the tip of Stede’s own nose. 

“Oh, you–”

Another click, another clunky whir. 

Ed’s giggling as he licks the cold, sticky chocolate off Stede’s nose. 

“One left,” Ed tells him. “Make it a good’n.”

“Come here. Sit with me.”

Ed’s face aches in a permanent grin. 

Every morning he fetches fresh eggs from the dairy, and he chats to the shopkeeper like he’s just some guy, and he gets back to their rented cottage and wakes Stede up again with languid kisses and the scratch of his beard against his bare, freckled shoulders. It’s heaven, the peace here.

And he’s not even scared for when they land back in New York at the end of the summer. He does miss his bunnies, even if Lucius has been sending constant pictures of him and Fang and Izzy, one time, with them, but it’s not just that.

See, the four of them – Stede, Ed, Bunny and Rabbit – are moving into a new apartment for the fall, because otherwise the ‘your place or mine?’ argument would’ve gone on forever. It’s smaller than Ed’s old apartment, cosier, has a fireplace in the lounge and a perfect space by the window for an upright piano. Plenty of bookshelves, too. Little bit further out of the city, but close enough to Stede’s bar to not be a nuisance. He’s already thinking of it as home. He can’t wait to fix the slightly creaky door and buy flowers for Stede, maybe make him a vase for them to go in.

He crunches through his ice cream cone with a toothy grin. He sets a timer on the Autoboy and props it up on a birdhouse – the lens is aimed right at the bench. 

Ed jogs over and slides next to Stede, just in time to press a kiss against his cheek when the shutter goes off.

Or, well, it’s supposed to be a kiss to his cheek, but Stede turns his face at the last second and his lips meet Ed’s, sweet and smiling. Ed can’t wait to develop that one. Make a postcard of it. Send it to all their friends. ‘Very glad none of you are here.’ 

“What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing,” Ed says. “Just happy.”

“That makes me happy,” Stede says, the soppy bastard. 

“You make me happy,” Ed says, an even soppier bastard. 

Stede kisses him. “Here, take the picture with my phone just in case it doesn’t come out?”

“In case…? Stede Bonnet, are you questioning my developing skills?”

“No! It’s just– Well, it is a little bit of an unreliable format, isn’t it? Who knows what could happen! I’d hate to lose this moment.”

“Couldn’t,” Ed says. “Mostly ‘cause I’ve never fuckin’ lost a picture in my life off that thing, thank you very much. But also because it’s ours. Nobody can take it from us.”

Stede gives him a look. “That’s very sweet and all, but…”

“Alright, pass us your phone. God forbid a guy tries to be romantic.”

“You’re very romantic.”

Ed kisses him for that. “I know,” he murmurs against Stede’s lips. “I’ll take you any pictures you want. Might even write a song about this.”

“About what? Sitting on a bench on a Wednesday and doing nothing?”

“Yeah,” says Ed. “And it’ll be the most epic love song in the world.”

Stede laughs, eyes shining and cheeks flushing. “I thought this was ours,” he whispers. “No one else’s.”

“Yeah, it’ll be our secret. Greatest love song in the world, but only you get to hear it.”

“That…seems like a waste.”

“Oh my god.” Ed tips his head back and groans at the clear blue sky. “You’re fuckin’ impossible, you.”

Stede winds his fingers through Ed’s hair and tilts him closer again. He’s giggling, but something serious shines in his eyes and he takes a breath before he speaks next. “Sometimes,” he whispers, “I want everyone to know how much we love each other. And sometimes I want to hide away here forever, just you and me and the birds.”

God, it chokes Ed up when Stede gets like this. All simple poeticism, heart on his sleeve. Ed’s learning the language of it, that uncomplicated romance – his guitar’s inside, out of reach, with his pen and notebook, so he’s left with only his words and the breeze that carries them.

“No one’s ever going to know how much we love each other,” Ed whispers back. He stares down at their overlapping hands, the rings and the tattoos, Stede’s pale tan and Ed’s brown skin. They look good together. They look destined. “I could write all the songs in the world and it wouldn’t do us justice.”

Stede’s eyes are exasperated and adoring when Ed meets them. Tears glitter over honeyed hazel.

Yeah, Ed’s getting pretty fluent in rivalling his ridiculously romantic declarations, actually.

“There we are,” he says. “Now I can write a song about making you cry on a bench on a Wednesday.”

“I love you,” Stede says, and it sounds like, ‘you menace.’

“I love you. Right, come on, wipe your eyes and smile, let’s get this piccy.”

Stede sniffs a laugh. He fixes his hair while he’s at it, straightens his collar out as though he’s trying to look presentable – hilarious, since his whole bare chest is on display, wispy hairs sparkling golden in the sun. 

Ed sets a timer up on Stede’s phone, placing it where his Autoboy was on the ledge of the blue birdhouse. 

“I’m sending my mum this one,” he threatens. 

Stede hands fumble to button his shirt up, and Ed cackles loud enough to scare away a bird from the branches of a nearby tree. 

“You’re awful.”

He rushes back to Stede and swings an arm around him. “That’s why you like me so much.”

“Yeah,” Stede says. 

They smile for the picture.

Notes:

poems referenced:

nightingale by leonard cohen