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Ed is mildly worried that he’s overstepped.
The way that Stede is standing, stock-still and silent, in the center of their new walk-in closet is growing alarming. Stede is almost never silent. The longer it lasts, the more unsettling it becomes.
The thing is, though—
The thing is, Ed couldn’t let things keep going the way they’d been going.
He appreciates Stede’s newer clothes. He doesn’t have much— neither of them does, and they haven’t since the Revenge left them here, and possibly even before that. Stede’s new, more traditionally pirate-y looks— the leather, the revealing necklines, the muted colors, the lack of ornamentation— look fantastic on him, and he likes them, but he’s different. It’s different.
When they’d first met, Stede had been barely conscious, hadn’t even known who Ed was, and still, he was already showing off his clothes. Stede loves clothes. It’s more than just the fabrics, the styles, the colors— though, Ed knows, it is a lot about that— but it’s about how his clothes make him feel. It’s about being himself; it’s about dressing the way that makes him feel most like himself.
The flashy, bright, fancy clothes that Stede wore before they were separated, back when they first met, were stunning. They were Stede. The more muted, rugged, sailor’s clothes that Stede wore after they reunited, too, were stunning in their own way. They, too, were Stede. They’re all— parts of him, part of him. They all make up Stede.
It’s still not right yet, though.
Neither is right. Neither is fully Stede, anymore. Stede exists outside of these elements, outside of everything. Like his clothes should be, he is neither feminine nor masculine, neither traditional nor modern, neither understated nor garish. He is something else entirely, he is other. He can’t be defined, can’t be boxed-in, can’t be labeled, can’t be restrained, can’t be quantified. He is non-conforming; he is extraordinary; he just is.
Ed always knew Stede was unique.
It wasn’t until he decided to give him a closet full of clothes that he realized how truly unique he is.
The first task had been building the closet at all, which had, honestly, ended up being the easiest part of the entire process. They were constantly working on the inn; Stede didn’t question another project, especially when Ed told him he was just fucking around with an idea. Technically, it’d been the truth, and Ed’s heart had surged that Stede trusted him with that.
The closet had been built and prepared long before the clothes were. Ed built out the closet near their bedroom, lined the walls with racks and hooks and shelves and mirrors and cubby-holes. He finished it, painted it, polished it; the bright teal-and-rose room gets pale wood and floral patterns, a light, lovely space that feels like Stede, to him.
And then, it sits empty.
For weeks.
It’s just that—
Well, Ed needs to get the right clothes. Flashy without being tacky or ostentatious, which is a delicate fucking balance that Ed learns to walk. Flamboyant and confident, elaborate and functional. The clothes need to be wearable at home, at the inn, but not just practical.
They need to be fun, too. And pretty— it’s vital that they’re pretty. They need to fit him well, and they need to make him feel good. They have to be perfect.
The most important thing, though, is that they’re Stede. Ed only includes clothes that say to him, firmly, Stede would love this, Stede would wear this, this is for Stede.
It takes weeks. Actually, it takes months, but Ed still thinks of it in weeks so he doesn’t go completely insane. He wants it to be right, though, and so he’s painstaking in making his selections. Entire ensembles find their way into the closet after being tailored to Stede’s measurements, elaborate pieces that come together by the dozens to form a whole, bright and lovely colors that fill the closet. Single components, too, find their way in: pairs of heels, stockings, pants, jackets, waistcoats, some of which have matching pairs and some of which don’t, but all of which scream Stede. He’s found ribbons, too, and lingerie, and pajamas, and skirts, and scarves, and dresses, and panties, and hats, and makeup, and glasses, and cufflinks, and— fuck, the jewelry he’s found, earrings and rings and anything he thought Stede would enjoy, combining old Stede and new Stede into Stede.
He doesn’t want to get it wrong. He doesn’t want Stede to think he doesn’t like how he dresses, or that he wants to change anything about him, or— or anything bad like that, because he doesn’t. All Ed wants is for Stede to understand that— that he wants to give him a gift, that—
That Stede doesn’t need to be anyone but himself.
He doesn’t need to be a tough pirate, he doesn’t need to be a high-society gentleman, he doesn’t need to be anything or anyone that isn’t Stede fucking Bonnet. If Stede Bonnet wears the hot pink waistcoats and ornate lace and sparkling earrings Ed picked out for him and likes them, then that’s all Ed wants. And if he wears them and doesn’t like them— Well, then that’s Stede, too. Ed just wants him to be happy, even if that means he doesn’t like it.
He knows this is a big swing. He’s known it since he started putting it together. Even after he finished— even after the closet was full, and everything was organized, and every piece of wood was sanded down and polished and painted— he still dawdled on actually showing him because of it.
Showing him meant being vulnerable to his response. Showing him meant he might hate it. Showing him meant Stede could reject him, could tell Ed that he doesn’t understand him at all, could leave, if it went badly enough.
In the end, though, Stede started asking about when Ed’s mysterious project might be finished, and Ed had just had to— to be brave, and unlock the door, and finally show him what he made.
And Stede has been standing in the middle of the closet in total silence for edging on five minutes now.
A minute doesn’t seem that long, really, but when five of them pass in some of the thickest quiet Ed has ever experienced in his life, they feel like an eternity. Ed’s hands have gone clammy-cold and he thinks he’s actually about to start shivering with anxiety when he finally gets the air in his lungs to ask, “So… What do you think?”
Stede inhales, as if he’s surfacing from beneath the sea. His face is flushed pink, hectic splotches of color high on his cheeks as he whirls to meet Ed’s eyes with glassy tears filling his own.
“Is this for me?” Stede asks, his voice cracking on the last word, and Ed’s smiling before he even realizes the expression is coming onto his face.
“Yeah, babe,” Ed says. He lifts one shoulder, looking the walk-in closet over. It’s hard to be unbiased, and he still looks over the small space with a critical eye, try as he might. He’s hesitant when he adds, “If you don’t like it, or if it’s— Y’know, if it’s too much, or you don’t want to wear any—”
Stede’s surging forward a beat later, tilting up to catch Ed’s face between his hands. He cradles him in his palms for a moment, his eyes flicking between Ed’s, and he looks so crushed by adoration that Ed melts into his arms the second he leans in to kiss him.
The way Stede kisses him—
Nobody has ever kissed Ed the same way. He kisses him like he knows him, like he wants to swallow him whole, like he’d like to be swallowed whole, like he loves him and has him and knows he’ll be kissing him until the day he dies beside him.
His kiss is no different now, fingers scraping through his hair to hang on tight, walking Ed backwards until he thumps into a wall of shoes. The heels rattle in their wooden cubbies; Stede breaks from their kiss to look at them, awe across his face, wonder in his eyes, joy spreading into every last bit of him like sunlight dawning over the beach in the morning, and Ed doesn’t need words to know he’s done the right thing, here.
Still, he can’t help himself from explaining, “I know you’re a bit of a clotheshorse, love. It was making me fucking sad to see you wearing the same thing every day.” He knocks into another kiss with him before parting, though he remains only a breath away. His lips brush Stede’s when he tells him, “I wanted you to have options. I want you to dress like you.”
Nothing in the closet is anything Stede has owned before. They’re all Ed’s guesses at what Stede would like—
And what Stede would like now. Not what Stede would have liked when they first met; not what Stede would have liked when they reunited; not what Stede thinks he should like; not what Stede thinks other people think he should wear; not who Stede was, but who he is. All he wanted is what Stede— this Stede, his Stede, Stede— would want.
“Do you like it?” Ed asks. “I know clothes are— y’know, they’re hit-or-fucking-miss. If you don’t like anything, we can get rid of it. And we can get you new stuff, too, if—”
“Ed,” Stede stops him, and Ed looks down to meet his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d looked away until they were together again.
“Yeah?” Ed asks him.
Stede lays his hands on either side of Ed’s face, directing his attention solely onto him. Ed takes a breath, muscles relaxing, looking down into his honey-hazel eyes and feeling the calming, warming, grounding effect he always has on him like this.
“I love it,” Stede says, and the growing smile and pink flush on his face lend credence to the truth of his words. “I just— Ed, you have to understand, nobody has done anything like this for me before.”
“I know,” Ed answers, half-proud and half-angry.
“No, not just— Not just the closet, which— trust me, nobody has done anything close to this for me before,” Stede insists. His grip on Ed’s face tightens, a bit, trying to communicate his point to him. “No, it’s— Ed, it’s that you see me. I didn’t—” He laughs, a bit incredulous, a bit wet, just like his eyes. “Ed, I didn’t even realize how much I needed this until I saw it. This is— perfect. You knew what I wanted even before I did, I just— How did you know?”
“Well,” Ed says, feeling both very silly and not very silly at all, “I know you, don’t I?”
Stede’s budding tears finally spill over, at that, and he backs off, rubbing his wrists under his eyes before he’s reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket, insisting, “Shit, I’m so sorry, I just— Ed, that’s so lovely, I—”
Ed is the one who can’t help himself, this time. He takes the handkerchief from Stede’s hands, dabbing his tears away before he’s taking him by the chin and tilting him into another kiss.
Even through his tears, Stede smiles into their kiss. Reaching up, he catches Ed’s chest under his hands, laying his palms flat over the even breaths of his lungs, the steady pound of his heart. They tilt into one another, their kiss stretching long, warm, close-mouthed and sweet and lasting until they need to part for air again, chests burning.
“Thank you,” Stede tells Ed. “For seeing me. Thank you.”
When he says it like that, Ed can’t help thinking of every small thing Stede does in a day. The way he knows how to make Ed’s tea without being asked or told; the way he tucks his hair behind his ear when he notices it starting to fall into his face; the way he reads aloud to him from his books while Ed is in the kitchen; the way he turns Ed’s chair to face the sun before Ed even joins him outside; the way he always seems to know the tiny little details that will make Ed feel loved.
He hopes this closet makes Stede feel the same way. He hopes the clothes make him feel like himself; he hopes the walls Ed has put together himself make him feel safe; he hopes the fact that Ed did this for him makes him feel loved.
Because he is. He is loved, and he is safe, and he is himself, and that’s exactly how Ed likes him.
That’s how he loves him. Actually.
“I could say the same,” Ed replies, and Stede’s smiling again when he pushes up into another kiss, knocking Ed into the mirrored vanity.
“Oh, Ed,” Stede breathes, already distracted by the looking-glass. He turns Ed around, makes sure they’re both looking in; they meet each other’s eyes in their reflection when Stede tells him, meaningfully earnest, “Thank you,” and Ed can see his own face flush in his peripheral vision.
“It’s nothing,” Ed tells him, but Stede tsks at him, turning on him. Ed watches it in real life and the mirror simultaneously, Stede filling his vision.
“It’s everything,” Stede insists.
He catches him between his hands again, slotting himself into Ed’s space, and kissing him there in the closet, surrounded by his new clothes and shoes and jewelry, magnificent and fresh and bright and dashing and him.
When they part next, Stede asks Ed, “What should I try on first?”
He’s so excited, eyes practically sparkling, and Ed answers, “Whatever you want, love. All of it, if you’d like,” and Stede just lights up, and Ed’s excited, too: for the inevitable fashion show that’s about to happen, for the joy that Stede feels, for the relief that Ed feels, for—
For this. For all of it.
“I love you,” Ed tells Stede, and Stede, already starting to flip through a rack of coats, flicks the warmest smile over his shoulder at him.
“I know,” he says, “I can tell,” which— isn’t that just fucking something? He knows. “I love you, too.”
And Ed—
Well. Ed knows, too.