Archive of Our Own

Dinner is... awkward. It’s just awkward! Because it’s Stede, and Ed, but there’s so much between them, so much hurt and history and feeling from the short weeks they spent together and then from the months of longing and searching and hoping and regretting. But there’s still this tug, this tie, this current of electricity that keeps a good three quarters of Stede’s attention focused on Ed at every moment.

And then there’s Anne and Mary, Ed’s old friends—Stede’s brain keeps repeating Ed’s I don’t have any friends, keeps glancing from Ed’s face, awash in emotions that seem as complicated as the ones writhing in Stede’s belly, to the glint in Anne and Mary’s eyes, to the look in both pairs that makes him think of Jack Rackham, just a bit.

And the thing is! They’re pirates! And yes. All right. Stede is a pirate also, so is Ed, obviously, Blackbeard himself and all that, but. Anne Bonny and Mary Read! He’s read about them! And they’re just so... piratical! So feisty and fierce and not at all soft and lovely like he knows Ed can be, underneath it all. He’s not—afraid of them. He’s wisely cautious.

And if that wasn’t enough? Buttons. Does anything more need to be said about Buttons? He has a bowl on his head and wants to become a seagull. He’s complimenting the meal.

Anyway. It’s awkward, and Ed throws a chair when they bring up the Mary formerly known as his wife, which. Well! He had thought that was a confidence shared between friends, but it seems not. Rude.

There’s an undercurrent Stede doesn’t quite understand, but he’s used to that, and anyway, he’s too busy staring at Ed—alive, here, rightfully angry at Stede, yes, but alive and here and Stede could reach out and touch him again, could feel the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart, the twitch of his muscles—to examine it any closer. He’s trapped with Stede by the bindings of good manners, here at this very odd dinner party, and Stede is not looking a gift horse in the mouth! He is going to fix this.

And when dinner is over, wounds bandaged—the literal scapula stabbing ones, anyway, because the emotional ones are a whole different story, one Stede is absolutely not getting into tonight—there’s a pause. Nothing is fixed, but more importantly, nothing is anymore broken than it was before. Nothing is on fire, no one’s been run through (except, again, Mary, but just a little).

“Well,” says Buttons after the silence stretches a bit too long. “I’m off to attempt a transmogrification.” He stands, picking up his bowl, and looks at each of them in turn. He doesn’t quite meet any of their eyes, staring, perhaps, at an ear or a cheek, and then turns without another word and leaves.

“Weird fucking guy,” says Mary, and she’s not wrong, but Stede feels the need to defend his first mate anyway.

“Brilliant sailor, though,” he says. “We’re lucky to have him.”

“Won’t have him much longer,” purrs Anne, leaning forward so her breasts nearly spill on the table. They’re nice breasts, as breasts go, and Stede moves his elbow so as not to get in the way of them.

(Perhaps he should have realized his tastes didn’t run that direction a bit earlier, hm?)

“Besides, all the best sailors are just a little bit insane,” she continues. “Isn’t that right, Eddie?”

Ed’s leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark. His hair has finally dried, poofy around his face, and the stormy expression on his features does not make them less lovely. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” he says back to Anne. The words are familiar, but—the venom behind them isn’t, the tired rage, and Stede’s heart clenches.

“Oh, like you’re the king of stability,” scoffs Mary. “I’ve been hearing the rumors, you know. Blackbeard finally snapped. Finally lost his shit for real. All over some—”

Ed slams his fists on the table, interrupting. “You want to see snapped?” he says, voice dangerous.

“Yeah, actually,” says Mary. “A little excitement in this fucking dull place.”

“I’ll show you snapped,” he says, pushing himself upright, and he’s—gosh, he’s still shaky on his feet, isn’t he, still favoring one arm, and Stede’s hand reaches out without his brain’s permission, curling around his elbow, steadying him.

Ed freezes. So do Anne and Mary. So does Stede.

His fingertips are just brushing the warm skin of Ed’s bare elbow, the soft, hairless inner arm, vulnerable, uninked, and so, so warm. He shivers with the feel of it, the first touch of Ed that’s felt warm since—

Since Ed’s lips on his on a beach, since Ed’s palm cupped around his shoulder as he lay in a bunk, since touches he never thought would be the last and then thought, for months, that they might be.

The moment holds, stretches, thickens, and then—

A miracle.

Ed’s body relaxes, just the slightest bit, under Stede’s touch, the smallest fraction of vibrating stress easing, softening, his skin pressing into Stede’s just a hair.

Stede can’t help his indrawn breath at the feel of it, or the way he feels himself swaying towards Ed, feels his body opening like a flower towards the sun, and Ed—

Ed stiffens again, pulls his eyes from Stede’s where they’ve been caught, and looks back to Anne.

“I’m gonna go,” he says, voice low, gruff, and the gentle warmth of his skin pulls back from Stede’s fingertips.

“What—no, Eddie!” says Anne.

“Absolutely not,” says Mary.

“We have a spare room,” says Anne, and there’s a leer to the tone. “We haven’t seen you in ages.”

The statement hangs in the air and then Ed deflates, just a little. “Fine. Yeah. Okay.”

“And you,” says Mary, and Stede starts a bit at the harsh tone.

“Me?” he asks. It comes out with a bit more of a squeak than he’d have liked.

“You’re staying too, of course,” says Anne, and this time it’s dripping with sweetness again, and Stede’s struggling a bit with the shifts in mood, Anne and Mary circling him like jungle cats. He’s soldiering through it fairly well, he thinks, against all odds. “For a drink. Any friend of Eddie’s, after all.”

“We’re not friends,” mutters Ed, but it’s subdued, and Stede chooses to pretend he didn’t hear it, and also that it didn’t stab him directly in every one of his important bits.

They settle in the living room, Anne and Mary leaving them the couch once again, and Ed’s right there. Again! Right there! Next to Stede! Arms crossed over his chest, grouchy and not meeting Stede’s eyes, but right there.

The brandy isn’t good, but it is strong and it is plentiful, and Stede’s nervous, and when he’s nervous, he needs something to do with his hands, and the only thing there is to do with his hands is lift his drink to his mouth and sip.

And so he sips! And sips. And sips! And pours. And he loses track of things, a bit, but suddenly he’s much closer to Ed, as if he’s a compass and Ed’s his north, their shoulders brushing with every breath. And Ed’s laughing about something, some story Mary is telling, something from their days sailing together—and it should feel like it did with Jack, like he’s the odd man out, as he always is, but that was before. That was before the beach. Before never left. Before the—

Before.

Now he tentatively, carefully, lets his shoulder press into Ed’s. And Ed presses back.

And that’s when Mary lets out a bark of laughter, startling them both apart, as Anne folds forward, gagging.

“Ahhh, had enough, Annie?” Mary asks, slapping her back. “Brandy sitting right?”

“You’re sweet to worry,” Anne coos back, and Stede recoils as she lets out a long, loud burp, followed by a retch and a gag. “Watch your breakfast carefully, love.”

“Gonna put this one to bed,” says Mary. “Can’t hold her fuckin’ foxglove.”

Stede stands, swaying a little on his feet. “I should—ship,” he says. “Ed?”

“Nah, mate,” says Ed, and it’s the softest he’s spoken all day. “I’m staying here. Banished, remember?”

“I’m sure I could—I could talk to them, Ed, I could—”

“No,” he says again, more firmly. “No. I’m staying here.”

“You can’t go anywhere in that state,” interrupts Anne. “On this island? You’ll end up a lonely skeleman of a gentleton.” She giggles, retches again. “A rich old bone. A—a corpse.”

“She’s right,” says Ed suddenly. He stands. “Not about the skeleman. About the— ‘s fuckin dangerous, man. You’re not—”

“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself, Ed,” Stede starts, feeling his hackles rise. “I’m—”

“Nah, I know you are,” Ed interrupts. “But you’ll get fuckin’ lost, have to sleep in the woods.”

“It’s settled then,” says Mary. “You’re both staying here for the night.”

And then they’re both being waved through a door, and when Stede shuts it behind them—

It’s just him and Ed. Alone in a room.

A small room.

With one bed.

It’s a nice bed, nicer than what Stede had been sleeping on most of the last few months, with an oddly cheery knit quilt on top and a massive carved headboard—oak, perhaps, with squid tangled in relief on the surface. It dominates the space, filling the room with barely room for a small nightstand on one side, a pitcher of water and small bowl beside an unlit candle. Stede picks up the flint beside it and lights it, just for something to do.

There’s not enough room for a grown man to stretch out on the floor, either, so.

So.

So!

Stede won’t pretend his heart doesn’t jump. Because there’s one bed. There’s one bed. And two of them! Him and Ed! Both standing in the small space between bed and door, only a few feet apart, and Ed’s chest is rising and falling with quick breaths, and Stede wants to reach out.

“I’ll take the couch in the other room,” Ed says gruffly, not meeting Stede’s eyes as he turns, yanks the door open, and leaves.

Well. That wasn’t—that didn’t go how Stede expected, did it?

But then, things with Ed rarely do, he’s found.

He sighs, and turns back to the bed. It looks bigger, shabbier, colder than before, and when he slides under the blanket and blows out the candle, there’s something heavy in his chest.

#

Ed isn’t sure how he ended up here.

Like, literally isn’t sure. It’s maybe the head injury? Because he was on the ship, and then Stede was there—but he was a mermaid? And Ed was sinking and Stede saved him and none of the past few months mattered, all of a sudden. All that mattered was that Stede was there with him looking at him like that, like he was everything.

And then he woke up, and everything hurt, and Stede was there but—but so was everything else that had happened.

Fuckin’ mutinied. Beaten. Banished, what the hell. Off to walk a lonely road, etc.

And now he’s on Anne Bonny’s couch—it’s not Mary’s couch, because Mary’s couch would be comfortably worn in, and would smell kind of gross but familiar, rather than being all stiff velvet and weird perfume that smells strangely dangerous.

And Stede Bonnet is right over there, right through that wall. Ed could just—open the door back up. He could just walk in, sit on the side of the bed, maybe—Ed doesn’t know, could do anything, could touch Stede’s face gently, feel that silk-soft hair between his fingers.

Stede would let him.

Stede’s been trying to get close to him ever since the moment Ed woke up terrified and clutching his hand. He’s been trying to tell Ed—

Nope! Not going there, not tonight!

Stede would let him in, though. Stede would look up at him with those big, bright eyes and say something like Oh, Edward, I missed you terribly or I’m chilled to the bone and you must be too, let’s share body heat, or Please, let me put my mouth on—

There’s a moan through the wall.

He freezes, for an instant—but it’s not Stede. No, it’s a sound that instantly drags him back twenty fucking years, because it’s the sound Anne makes when she’s getting riled up.

There’s a sharp smack, and a giggle, then Mary’s voice—indistinct, muffled, but clearly low and pleased.

Then a gasp, another smack, a—squelch? A wet, meaty noise? A shared groan, the thump of furniture—a squeal, a thud, clear enough it’s like they’re right beside him, and Ed—

No, fuck this, actually.

#

Stede isn’t sure what wakes him—a noise, maybe?—but he’s awake all at once, the room pitch black, under an unfamiliar blanket on an unfamiliar mattress.

The door creaks shut, and he remembers all at once: Ed, the island, the shop, the pirates, the rabbit, the bed. Anne and Mary.

“Ed?” he whispers softly, because any other option of who’s sneaking into his borrowed room in the middle of the night—Anne, Mary, Buttons—is too terrifying to bear thinking about at the moment.

Ed doesn’t say anything, but Stede knows it’s him, somehow, by his step, his breath, his scent, or just his presence, maybe?

He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t push the covers off, and he hears Ed rummaging in a cupboard, the soft sounds of fabric, and then a faint wheezing groan, a creak of leather, and Ed’s lowering himself to the floor beside the bed.

“Ed?” he says again, and this time he does sit up. “Everything all right?”

Ed’s silent for a long moment, then lets out a huff of a sigh. “Anne and Mary,” he says, short. “Loud.”

“They’re—oh,” Stede realizes. “That’s—they have guests!”

“And they’re weird, kinky freaks,” Ed says, but it sounds somewhat affectionate, if begrudging. “Of course they’re fucking nasty over there, after that whole knife thing.”

“That was—” Stede sighs. “I have a lot to learn, obviously.”

“No shit.” Ed shifts, leather squeaking, blankets rustling. Stede rolls on his side, and the bed is just low enough that he can see the very edge of Ed’s silhouette in the dark room, the curve of his shoulder, the line of his back.

Ed shifts again, the groan of the floorboards loud in the silence.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine, Stede,” Ed interrupts, before Stede can get the question out.

“Because if you’re not comfortable—”

“What, you’ll trade with me? Spend the night on the floor? Have you ever spent a night out of a featherbed in your life?”

“Actually, yes, I have,” Stede says, pushing up on an elbow to try and see Ed’s face. “I slept in a hammock at Jackie’z, and a mat on the deck on Zheng’s ship—”

“Wait. Jackie?” Ed asks, and then cuts his own question off with a muttered, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

There’s silence, for a few long moments. Stede’s tired—exhausted, really, weeks of moving constantly, trying to earn money and keep the crew happy and find Ed suddenly halted when he thought Ed was—

And then Ed wasn’t. And Stede’s so absolutely bowled over by it—and by the fact that he’s in a comfortable, warm bed for the first time in weeks, months, maybe—that he can barely keep his eyes open.

He’s slowly drifting off once more when there’s a sound, through the wall, and Stede freezes, blood heating and snapping him back to wakefulness. Again?

It comes again, a smack of skin on skin, and this time—a moan, low voices, a giggle, a gasp. It’s—well. Stede’s seen Mary and Doug, has heard Lucius and Pete, and Frenchie and Wee John, too, of course he has, it’s not a small ship, and the walls are, apparently, far thinner than the shipwright had assured him.

This, though—

There’s something in this, something that—

He’s not attracted to Anne or Mary! He’s not attracted to women, he’s realized, since leaving home. He’s attracted to Ed, certainly, but beyond that—he’s attracted to men, generally. And perhaps other people who aren’t women, he doesn’t know, but the point is, not women.

And yet!

And yet he’s lying here in this big, comfortable bed, listening to two women he’s barely met—one of whom kissed him unexpectedly and when her soft weight had landed on his thighs, his penis had nearly retracted into his body in surprise and discomfort—and he’s finding himself... aroused.

Not—not aroused. Not by their sounds, which are now—there’s some kind of creaking, a rhythmic slapping, wet sounds. But also sort of—yes. Because it’s sex, isn’t it, and his body is primed for those noises, or some such thing. He’s felt the shadow of this, watching Doug and Mary, hearing his crew get up to their private business, but. But nothing like this.

Because he’s lying in this big, comfortable, warm bed, wrapped tightly in the quilt, and his cock is throbbing with every groan and gasp through the wall.

His breathing is coming harder, almost panting, and he will not be touching himself to this, thank you! He will not! That’s—that’s just bad guest etiquette, isn’t it! It’s rude.

There’s a rustling to his left, and—yes, that’s Ed, awake on the floor, Stede can hear the change in his breathing, can see his silhouette shifting, pushing up on his elbows.

Stede stays perfectly still, forcing his breath to slow because he—he cannot have a conversation with Ed right now. Not in the state he’s currently in.

Ed sighs heavily, and out of the corner of Stede’s slitted eyes he sees Ed’s head tip, neck craning up. He looks toward Stede for a long moment, and Stede remains statue-frozen, not even daring to breathe now.

Which is his mistake, actually, because of course, sleeping people breathe! And of course Ed knows that!

“Stede,” Ed whispers.

Stede doesn’t reply. Perhaps Ed will do the courteous thing and just—pretend he believes Stede’s asleep.

“Stede,” he whispers again.

Stede remains stubbornly, totally silent and still, except—

Oh, god. He can—there’s a lump. In the bed. There’s a lump where his tumescence is distorting the covers, and Ed has extraordinary night vision, and he’s pushing up to a seated position, eyes sweeping over Stede’s prone form, and—

Stede has to make a split second decision, and of course, he panics.

“Ed!” he says, a bit too loudly, sitting up all at once, pooling the covers around his legs and pulling his knees up a bit, and his voice is high and a little cracked and Ed startles, just a bit.

“Uh,” Ed says. “I was gonna ask if you were awake.”

“Yes! I am—yes. I am awake. Just! Sleeping, and then woke up! Just now!”

There’s a long, slow pause in the conversation, interrupted by some sort of long, grating grind of a sound through the wall, followed by a grunt that turns into nearly a whinny and a gasp. A bell rings, twice, loud in the silence.

And then the tension breaks, with a snort from Ed. And Stede’s giggling too, curled over himself in the bed, the laughter rolling through him, weakening the wall between them, spiderweb cracks spreading across the bricks, crumbling them, just a bit.

“Fuck, they’re loud,” says Ed.

“What are they even doing?” Stede sits up a bit, because he needs to see Ed, needs to see that he’s there with Stede, that he’s—that he’s smiling, because Stede hasn’t seen that smile in.

In a long time.

Ed’s eyes are sparkling, crinkling in the corner. “Man, you don’t even want to know. Those two—” he shakes his head. “Weird as hell.”

“You’ve known them a long time, then?”

Ed snorts. “You could say that, mate. Most of my life, really.”

“And they’ve always been—together?”

“Ehhh,” Ed makes a long, considering noise. “On and off, I guess. Sometimes with someone else, but uh, whoever it was never came out the same way they came in.”

“Huh.” Stede shifts fully onto his side. It’s quiet, through the wall, finally. “They care about you.”

There’s a heavy silence from Ed’s blankets.

“They want you to be happy.”

Ed sighs. “That’s, uh. That ship’s maybe sailed.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ed’s voice has a harshness to it, a finality, but Stede’s not having it.

“No, I—Edward.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking, but the name stumbles from his lips, stabbed through. “You’re not—Ed.”

“I said don’t worry about it.”

Stede’s on the edge of the bed, somehow, knees hanging over the edge, and he can’t help it: he reaches down, tentative, brushes his fingertips over Ed’s shoulder.

Ed presses back into the touch for a moment—just a moment—before pulling back.

He’s taken his jacket off, and his skin is cool through the thin, worn cotton of his undershirt. It’s black, barely holding together: for a single, breath-stealing moment earlier, he’d shifted and Stede had been able to see the outlines of his tattoos in the lamplight through the fabric.

Also his nipples. But if Stede thinks about that, he’s apt to go completely mad, so. Tattoos.

There’s a draft, down here, he realizes as he pulls his hand back. A cold wind, cutting under the doorway. Ed’s on the floor, one blanket under him, the other threadbare and slightly too small for his body. As Stede watches, he shivers, just a little. Shivers like he’s cold. Like he’s freezing. Like he’s—

Stede shakes his head, tries to erase the image from his brain of Ed in the hold laid out with—yes. Instead, he starts to pull the quilt off him, and yes, it’s—wow—getting nippy, isn’t it? He shivers as the quilt slides off his shoulders, curls his toes as they’re bared. “Here,” he says, starting to hold it out.

“I’m fine. I said I’m fine, Stede.”

“Ed—”

“I don’t need your stupid blanket!” Ed shoves it back at him, and Stede scrambles to catch it and then—

CRASH.

The pitcher of water tumbles from the nightstand, ceramic miraculously not cracking, but the contents spill. It soaks Ed from shoulder to waist, as well as the blanket he’s under and the floorboards beneath it.

“Fuck!” Ed grunts, rolling upright. “Shit!” He stumbles to his feet, shivering violently, and Stede can’t stop himself from remembering that he was soaked in a storm and left in the frigid hold and nearly dead less than twenty-four hours ago. He was nearly—

“Ed,” he says, and he hears the change in his own voice, the authority he so rarely manages to imbue it with. “Come here. This is ridiculous.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Edward.” And here he softens, because he can’t not. “You were just—you were—I can’t let you be cold like that, Ed. Please.” He holds out a hand, gentle, a bare inch from where Ed’s own hangs at his side. “Please.”

The tension builds, and builds, and just when Stede thinks he can’t stand it anymore, that he’s going to vibrate out of his skin with it, there’s a shriek and a thud from next door, and Ed lets out a long, low, almost pained laugh. “Ugh. Fine.”

He doesn’t take Stede’s hand.

That’s okay, Stede thinks. That’s—that’s just fine, isn’t it, that’s just absolutely fine, no bother, because Ed’s shifting closer, a knee up on the bed, and he’s—oh! He’s laying down on the bed! The—hm. The opposite way to Stede, so his feet are by Stede’s head, so he can’t see him, and he’s rolling on his side, away from Stede, tugging part of the blanket over him and pressing himself to the very edge of the bed, face nearly pressed to the wall.

He’s stiff as a board, muscles tight, and Stede wants, wants, wants. He rolls on his side and stares at the back of Ed’s calves, at the delicate curves of his ankles where the leather trousers end, the way the shapes of the bones are visible through his socks—

And whew.

Okay.

“Ed,” he says, tentative.

Ed grunts.

“Ed,” he says more urgently.

Ed groans and shifts, the glare he’s throwing at Stede visible even from across the entire length of his long, lean body. His eyes glint in the faint moonlight through the window. “What.”

“It’s, erm.” Stede pushes up on his elbow. “You’ve had a difficult day, and the laundry facilities aren’t the best on the ship as it is, and—”

“Oh my god.” Ed sits up. “Fucking—are you seriously telling me my feet stink? Now?”

“Well, erm. Yes? Or, your socks, maybe.”

“Unbelievable.” Ed sits up and yanks at his socks, growling under his breath. “You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, man. Fuck! Why won’t they—god dammit.”

He shifts to stand, leaning against the wall and tugging at his trouser belts. There’s—goodness. There’s a lot of buckles, aren’t there? The pants are more complicated than the ones he’d had to abandon at the Academy. He does not imagine his own fingers working at the buttons.

He considers the cut of them. They’re higher waisted, Stede’s noticed, covering his stomach even when he shifts, which. Well! He’s certainly warmer that way!

But he’s not warmer now, because he’s damp from the water, the ends of his hair trailing wet on his tee shirt, and he’s. Yes, he’s—

He’s taking off his pants. His pants! Which have, of course, his legs underneath! That’s! Yes. Those are indeed his legs!

Stede has seen his legs before—just the once, though. Just the day they met, when he was half-unconscious with his injuries, and really shouldn’t have been getting out of bed, probably, much less trading clothes and sleeping in the rigging and all that, but. He’d seen Ed nearly bare, and the memory is hazy and gold-tinted with wonder and bafflement and delight and pain but this is Ed’s legs, a foot from Stede’s face, and they’re naked.

“Hng,” somebody says, and blast. It’s him. He’s saying it.

He swallows hard, clearing the saliva pooling in his mouth suddenly, because—well. It’s been a very confusing evening, hasn’t it! And—and the moaning is starting up again through the wall, deep and rhythmic, and Ed’s bending to slide the pants down. And he’s wearing very short, very worn, very form-fitting shorts—and he’s, god, he’s bending down further, crouching, and his very shapely buttocks are near Stede’s face.

There’s a hole in the shorts. Just below the curve of Ed’s rear, there’s a worn spot that’s torn, the fabric fine as tissue, and Stede can—oh lord he can see the hanging, shadowy swing of Ed’s testicles.

He tears his gaze away because—well. One just doesn’t look, do they? One just. Chooses to look away instead of staring at one’s shipmate’s—he refuses to say former shipmate’s—testicles!

It’s been a very long day.

A pile of slightly whiffy leather sails past his nose, landing on the floor with a solid, damp thwap. It’s followed by a pair of frankly offensively smelly socks, which hit the floor with slightly more muffled wet sounds, and then Ed’s settling back down, this time facing the same direction as Stede. He’s—not closer, not really, but. He’s no longer rolled tight to the wall. He’s on his back, at least, not curled up to press his forehead to the wood.

Stede settles carefully back down beside him. It’s not a big bed, but it’s not a small one, either—there’s enough space that they’re not touching, but not enough that they couldn’t touch. He can feel the warmth of Ed’s body despite his chill, tendrils of it creeping the space between them, can feel the bed shake a bit with his shivers, although they seem to be easing now that he’s not on the floor in wet clothes.

He’s not going to reach out. He’s not. Ed—Ed knows. Ed knows he wants to, knows Stede’s there, when he’s ready—if he’s ready. Stede can’t—he can’t push.

The quilt is heavy, over both of them. It’s heavy and warm, and the cool air on his face is soothing, the temperature differential exactly what he likes to soothe him to sleep. Ed’s breathing is steady beside him, his body warm, his presence filling gaps in Stede’s soul he didn’t know needed spackling, and Stede’s eyes are heavier, and heavier, until...

#

Ed’s not sure what wakes him.

He’s warm—he’s so warm, lovely and spine-meltingly relaxing, a heady weight all along his side, half-pinning him.

He’s full—his belly comfortably stuffed, sated, still the slightest buzz from the alcohol fizzing in his veins.

He feels a little like he’s on a ship, even though he can tell he’s on solid ground, the bed swaying ever so slightly rhythmically, his body moving with it.

And—and he’s hard, for the first time in—shit, he can’t remember how long it’s been, cock pressed tight to—oh.

That’s Stede’s thigh, hard under him, their bodies rocking together in slight, hitching movements that he’s not even sure who is initiating.

For a long moment, he lets it happen. They’re in their undergarments—he’s not actually sure what Stede’s wearing, because he’d climbed into bed and then taken his trousers off, tossing them over the chair that takes up the corner of the room. But as he moves, as their combined movement shifts them, Ed realizes—whatever he’s wearing, it’s not much.

They’ve tangled their legs together in the night, Stede’s thigh between Ed’s, his ankle crossed under Ed’s own, arms tight around Ed’s middle. His face rests on Ed’s chest, his breath rustling the hair there, hot against Ed’s skin.

He’s snoring, just a little. It’s fucking cute; Ed’s sleepy enough, content enough, aroused enough to admit that, without the clouded misery he’s been drowning in for the last few months. He doesn’t hate Stede. Of course he fucking doesn’t. He can admit that, in this dark and secret pre-dawn, surrounded by Anne and Mary’s fucking weird new lives.

Stede shifts a bit, legs settling wider around Ed’s thigh, and—oh. Yep. That’s—yeah. Fancy fucks like Stede don’t wear anything under their fancy clothes. He’d somehow forgotten that fact, the way they just wrap their junk up in the tails of their shirts instead of actually wearing fucking underwear. Barbaric. He loves it.

Because Stede’s bare skin is against his own, his cock a solid line of heat, his balls soft and sweetly pressed into Ed’s thigh, just—just all out there. Just there. On Ed’s leg. Grinding down slowly, minute shifts that still set the bed rocking, because Ed’s body’s way ahead of his mind and it’s meeting him in counterpoint and—

Nope!

He’s still fucking angry. He’s angry. He’s—he’s hurt, and he’s mad, and he’s still fucking in love with this asshole who left him to drown alone.

But then.

Who rescued him.

Who found him.

Who still looks at him like that, like he deserves all the love in the world, like he’s not a killer, not a murderer, not the biggest dick in the Caribbean.

Who left him. Who fucking hurt him.

Does coming back make up for that?

The thing of it is, Ed always knew he’d end up here, as soon as he woke up and saw Stede beside his deathbed. He knew he would end up sucked back into his orbit, forgiving him in all but words. He knew it wouldn’t take long.

That’s why he left.

He shifts, carefully, working himself out from under Stede. Stede’s arms tighten around him for a moment, his nose burrowing into the center of his chest, maybe a nuzzle, maybe trying to scratch an itch on Ed’s chest hair. Ed shivers with it, with the feel of Stede’s breath rustling the hairs. It’s not easy to drag his hips away, but he tries—

“Ed?”

Stede’s blinking at him sleepily. It’s fucking cute. Fuck.

“I—” he starts, complicated, tangled, bewildering feelings rising in his throat like a tide, and he’s not sure where he’s going, but—

“Yes, Daddy! Yes! Oooh, you’re a naughty pony aren’t you!” rings through the wall—fucking Annie, what the fuck, does she have her fucking face pressed against the wall?

“That’s right, dear, open wide for the cargo ship, yes!”

Stede’s eyes are wide, now, mouth dropped open, frozen in place. For a long moment, they just stare at each other, until—

“You want another dagger? Yeah, my poison’s still deep inside you, isn’t it, making your guts all rumbly—”

And that’s Mary. In case he had any doubt who was fucking Annie into oblivion on the other side of the wall.

The painting on the wall is clattering against its frame in a thumping, brisk rhythm. Stede stares at him, and he stares at Stede, and Annie says, “Aw, that’s all you can do? Is that as deep as you can get? I want to feel you in my toes, work harder! Lazy, that’s what you are!”

Stede’s brow furrows. “Not exactly people-positive, is she?”

And that’s it for Ed, that tips him over, because he feels the grin spread across his face like wildfire, like dawn breaking, and he’s laughing, great gasping gusts of it, shaking something loose in his chest as Stede’s lips quirk into a smile and Annie gives a series of short, sharp barks.

“I saw a hyena once, in a traveling menagerie,” says Stede, and he’s chuckling too, eyes creasing in the corners, chest shaking against Ed’s. “Sounded just like that!”

Ed’s breathless with it, can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, because now Mary’s deeper grunts are sounding in counterpoint. “Don’t tell her that, she’ll take it as a challenge and get even louder,” he gasps. His arms are tight around Stede’s chest, and he’s warm, and he can’t quite remember in this moment why he is supposed to be so angry at Stede.

As the moans get quieter, less raucous, more of low hums, and something in the air between them shifts.

Stede’s moved up a bit as they laugh together, big shoulders blocking Ed’s view of the room, keeping him separate from the world, keeping him penned in. His face is inches from Ed’s, eyes wide and bright, the green flecks in them catching reflected moonlight and almost glowing.

Ed can’t look away, can’t pull himself from Stede’s gravity, can’t break free, and his face tilts towards him, inexorable.

“Stede—”

“Yes,” says Stede, and the word cracks open in the middle, the light shining through, and Ed catches it with his mouth on Stede’s.

The heat builds between them slowly, the slide of hands, the curl of tongues: Ed’s captivated by the way Stede’s fingers dig into his waist, carefully squeeze and retreat, as if he can’t help himself but he wishes he could.

When he pulls back to take a breath, lips slick and parted in the hot space between them, he’s panting. This feels like they’re somewhere else, like the space between life and death, almost, where Stede had saved him in a sparkle of gold and a flip of fins. This feels as real as that did, just as visceral.

He tries to pull back from it, tries to put some of the barriers in his soul back up, the ones Stede seems to be able to knock down with a moment’s glance, with one kind look or sweet word.

He can’t—he can’t let himself fall like that again. He can’t. It’s what he’s been trying to avoid all night. He won’t survive it, if he lets Stede in again and Stede—

He just won’t survive it.

But he wants this. Fuck, does he want it. He wants to lose himself in Stede, wants to forget everything that makes this a terrible idea, wants to remember what it is to feel alive.

He’s not forgiving Stede. He’s not going back to Stede. He’s done with the Revenge, with the crew, with Stede Bonnet’s sad fucking eyes with the crinkles in the corners and the dimple in his cheek.

But—

But what if.

What if he just—

Just once more.

Just so he knows what it’s like. So he remembers.

He kisses him again.

#

Ed is kissing him. Ed’s lips are almost frantic on his, and Stede’s confused and horny and exhausted and baffled and Ed is kissing him. Again!

The first kiss—the one on the beach, the one Stede’s replayed in his mind a million times since, the one that changed everything—was soft, careful, sweet, like tipping into a warm bath, like falling into a pile of unwound silks, like the first taste of spring honey on his tongue.

The second, moments ago, was like breaking through a wall of glass, like being hit by lightning, like a tsunami crashing over him.

The third—

This one is pure heat.

It’s as if Ed is possessed, like he’s wild with the wanting, just as much as Stede is, and Stede falls into the kiss.

Ed’s frantic with it, and Stede’s no better.

“Just this once,” Ed says. “I can’t—Stede, I need to get you out of my fucking head. Just to get it over with. Just so we can move on.”

“I don’t—” Stede starts, but Ed cuts him off with his mouth, hard against Stede’s own. I don’t want to move on, he thinks fiercely, and he knows Ed knows that’s what he was going to say. He knows Ed didn’t want to hear it. His heart is breaking, and healing, all in one press of lips.

Ed pulls back, and his voice is quiet. It’s so quiet. “I need to stop wanting you.”

“And you think,” Stede starts, but then. But then he thinks better of the question, because this is all so fucking new for him. He knows down to the bottom of his soul that no matter how much Ed he gets, it’ll never be enough, that he’ll never be satisfied, sated.

Maybe for Ed, it’s not like that. Maybe Ed knows this feeling, knows himself, knows this will fade when he’s gotten what his body wants—

But no.

Maybe Stede could have believed that before. Maybe back in Bridgetown, in the depths of his mistake, or in the days at Jackie’z or on the Red Flag, before he saw Ed’s face when he woke up, before their hands intertwined and he came back to life at Stede’s pleading.

If Ed wants to pretend to himself that that’s all this is, that all it will take to break the bond between them is one fumble in the dark, then—well. That’s Ed’s right.

“All right,” he says into the darkness between them. “All right, Ed. I—just to—to clear the air, so to speak.”

#

Okay so Ed knows it’s a bad idea. He’s a fucking brilliant master tactician, of course he knows! Of course he knows. But.

But Stede wants him. Wants him so badly that Ed can feel it vibrating in the air between them. Ed’s been wanted in his life, sure, he’s hot and has only gotten hotter with age and power, but Stede’s always looked at him like he can pull back Ed’s layers and see something inside, something good.

And Ed fucking died yesterday, and had a whole goddamn hallucination of goddamn Hornigold, of all people, and almost drowned, maybe? But. Sometimes, something’s a terrible idea, but you want it anyway.

He wants it anyway.

So he slides forward, settles on his side, and kisses Stede Bonnet again.

He’s losing track of how many kisses this is. He’s—he shouldn’t lose count, should cherish each one, should tuck it away in a wallet behind his heart, rip out a lung and replace it with the memory of Stede’s tongue tracing the seam of his lips, with the way Stede’s hands have slid right back to his waist to tuck themselves under his shirt, the way his toes clench and relax against the spiders on the tops of Ed’s feet. With the warmth of his body, the width of him, the way his shoulders are broad enough that Ed feels small, feels hidden, feels protected.

And isn’t that a fucking trip.

From there it’s a scramble, hands and tongues, clothes tossed aside—but just to the foot of the bed, the floor still soaked from earlier—frantic and urgent and sweet and it’s. Ed’s pulse is hammering in his ears, his hands shaking where they’re clutching at the back of Stede’s neck as Stede—oh fuck—mouths across Ed’s collarbone, hips sliding in little hitching movements over his skin, cock leaving wet trails of heat along Ed’s thigh. He tips his head back, pants with his mouth wide, doesn’t fucking cry about it—

Yeah, no, he’s fucking crying about it, little breaths that wobble, tears tracing hot paths down his cheeks and soaking into his sideburns, and shit, as long as Stede doesn’t notice, it’s fine! It’s fine. He can have this. He can have it once, just so he knows what it feels like. Just to sate his curiosity. That’s all this is.

Stede’s mouth closes around Ed’s nipple, his tongue flicking at the tip, indulgent suction surrounding it and it’s a bolt of lightning to Ed’s cock. His heels kick against the sheets, his dick grinding up into Stede’s belly, his hands clenching in Stede’s hair. A whine dribbles from him, high-pitched and wanting, wavering through the air, and he sucks in a shuddering breath after it, tries to imagine a world where nobody heard that.

Stede’s mouth curls into a smile, delighted, a sweet curve of lips Ed can feel against his chest, can feel rustling the fine hairs on his chest. Stede tips his head forward, forehead pressing into Ed’s collarbone.

It’s just a lot, okay, it’s a lot of feelings all happening inside him, and fuck that, actually, fuck this laying here crying while Stede gives him those eyes, the ones he can barely make out in the dark, the ones that shine up at him like stars.

He’s fucking Blackbeard, man. He’s the kraken. He surges up, knocks Stede onto his back, and straddles his hips, shoving him to the bed with a firm hand between his pecs. Stede lands with a surprised oof, body bouncing just a little on the mattress, hands spread on either side of the pillow beside his ears..

Ed’s eyes are starting to adjust, and the moonlight that trickles through the curtain helps, because he’s seeing Stede all spread out before him now, all smooth, hair-furred skin on his stomach, thick neck, solid, meaty shoulders.

And he’s completely bare, cock standing stiff, still bobbing a bit with every heave of his chest.

Ed considers the way their thighs press together, the tautness of Stede’s, the surprising slenderness of his muscles—the way there’s no jiggle to them, not even on the vulnerable insides. He wonders what they feel like, whether they’re soft, still, smooth and hairless, and he realizes—he can find out, now, he can just—

He slides his fingers down Stede’s stomach, lets them rest on the soft middle of him, dimple the flesh there. Stede’s skin quivers beneath his touch, muscles firm under the softness, and isn’t that just Stede in a fucking nutshell? Softness covering a core of steel, unhinged wildness barely contained by the trappings of wealth and society.

Except in his thighs. Fuck. There’s no give at all there, he thinks, his fingers sliding over Stede’s soft hips, because his hands are twitching with the need to press Stede’s thighs apart, to take him apart, to see what’s under the soft and the hard and figure out what makes him tick. Figure out why Ed can’t fucking stop thinking about him, why he can’t just excise Stede from his life.

He’s not kidding himself. He knows he can’t. He knows Stede’s going to stay like a fucking barnacle on the ship of his heart, a really sticky fucker, the kind that binds itself to the plank so closely that there’s no way to remove it without cutting away the wood straight through the hull, replacing board after board until it’s barely the same ship or until it sinks into a storm—

And Ed’s tried that. It didn’t do shit.

So he lets himself have this. He lets his fingers keep moving.

He shifts his hips back just a bit, settles on his heels: he won’t be able to stay like this for long, his knees creaking under him, but it gives him the space to let Stede’s thighs fall apart just a bit, lets him slip his thumbs into the hot space between them, wrap his hands around the solid trunks of them, heavy with muscle. And yes, they’re just as firm and warm as he knew they would be. Fucking fantastic.

He lets his fingers sweep upward, feeling almost like they’ve a mind of their own. His thumbs follow—of course they fucking do, they’re attached to his hands—and brush—

Oh. Against Stede’s balls, pressed up by the pinch of his legs together, settled heavy and sweet at the apex of his thighs.

Stede’s chest is heaving, his breaths coming fast, his eyes fixed on Ed’s face when Ed chances a glance up. The look on his face—

It’s like he’s already been cracked open. It’s all right there in the way his eyes shine, the way his lips part, the curve of his brow.

Ed’s never been great at reading people. Reading what a situation needs, yes. Reading how he can win an interaction, sure. Reading people, understanding what they’re feeling, what’s inside their minds? Not so much.

But Stede’s face, it’s—it’s like a map of the stars, every point in glittering gold, the lines between constellations spider-silk thin, letting his mind fill in the gaps. He can read it. He can see the meaning in every flicker of motion, suddenly, in every wrinkle, in the way his tongue darts out of his slightly-open mouth to dab at his bottom lip, the way his top teeth catch in it, hold it.

It’s as if a veil has lifted, here in the silent dark—worryingly silent, because Anne and Mary are still next door, but maybe, maybe they’ve fallen asleep?—and suddenly everything is clear between them.

He squeezes one of Stede’s thighs in each hand, solid palmfuls of solid muscles, hot and hard under his own, gleaming white in the moonlight. Stede’s eyelids flutter shut, mouth dropping open, breath shuddering in, then out, in a gasp that feels barely contained.

Ed’s thumbs brush over the skin of his ballsack again, and this time, Stede whimpers, cock twitching, head dark, slit wet. His fists tighten on the pillow on either side of his head, so far from Ed’s own.

And suddenly, he doesn’t want it to be just once, just a shallow fuck, just a get it out of our system. Stede’s in his system. He’s not being exorcized, no matter what lies Ed tells himself. He’s written himself on Ed’s heart, and that’s where his image will always be.

Ed doesn’t want to pretend it won’t.

“Stede,” he says. “Stede.” His fingers dig into Stede’s thighs and he forces his hands to relax, to stroke instead of clutch.

Stede’s eyes pop back open, hints of green and gold catching the starlight through the window.

“I don’t want to get you out of my system,” he whispers.

Stede’s face shifts, changes, a hundred microexpressions flickering across it. “No?” he asks, and that’s pure hope, unadulterated longing, a sunrise over stormy seas.

“No,” Ed whispers back, and it’s quiet, so quiet, the sound barely filling the space between them before it disappears.

Stede told him a new theory about sound, that it travels like waves on the ocean, and if that’s true, then everything he’s ever said is still out there, vibrating through the air, reverberating in the quietest way, and Ed thinks, maybe, that’s okay. Because no matter what, this will matter. Even if it all shatters again in an hour, a day, a year: Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet will have loved.

It’s that fucking tense that does it: will have. It happened. It’s happening. It doesn’t matter when it began, whether it’ll end, because—it will have happened.

He bends forward, slides his hands up Stede’s beloved, soft, sturdy chest, and rests his elbows on either side of Stede’s neck, legs tangling. Their bellies press together, soft against soft, and somehow that’s the most intimate part of this: the vulnerability of it, the sweetness, is somehow more affecting than the way their cocks line up, still mostly hard in the heat pooling between them.

There’s a draft coming through the window, though, and he shivers, just a bit, the chill a stark contrast on his bare buttocks, the backs of his calves, and Stede shifts under him, gathering the blanket and tugging it over them both, up to Ed’s shoulders, and smiles.

“There,” he says, and he sounds so fond, so satisfied, that Ed can’t resist it any longer, and kisses him again.

It’s different this time, different from the kisses that preceded it. It’s sweet like the first one, hot like the second, like the third, but this one. This one is with eyes open.

Metaphorically speaking. He’s not—he closes his fuckin’ eyes when he kisses, he’s not a weirdo.

But then—fuck, he needs to see Stede. He needs to see him, needs to know Stede is here with him, that Stede’s—that this means, to Stede, what it means to Ed.

Fucking Stede’s eyes are open, wide, staring, of course they are, and the look in them—

Yeah. It’s love. Loved, will have loved, will continue to love—

Well. Shit.

Stede’s mouth is so soft under Ed’s.

Ed shudders, a shiver running through his whole body, and he lets his muscles relax, lets his legs slide against Stede’s as Stede’s hands come up to wrap around his waist under the blanket.

Stede kisses him like the tide, swamping him with love, soaking him with it—like he’s the sun and he’s bleaching Ed’s bones, cutting right to the core of him with hot, burning sunlight.

That’s all right, though. Ed loves the heat.

He dives into it, because fuck, he’s never recovering from this already—might as well enjoy it, if this is all he gets, but—

But there’s a little sprout of hope growing inside him, a little glowing ember of maybe, perhaps, possibly that no amount of crushing cold in his heart can extinguish.

Stede’s skin is smooth, perfect, hairy and scarred—neither as hairy or as scarred as Ed himself, of course, but he can feel the roughness of the healed stab wounds—both of them—against his own belly, can feel the scrape of chest hair tangling with his own, can feel Stede’s cock against his, pressed along his stomach.

This moment feels special, feels almost—sacred, in a way. Like there’s something healing between them, something mending like the socks he darns in the night when no one’s looking (because even Blackbeard gets holes in his socks, okay, and he’s not giving his ripe as fuck socks out to the crew to mend, he’s not that much of an asshole).

It feels like that, like knitting the threads together, catching the broken ends and weaving them new. He likes the contrast, when he has to patch his socks instead of just sewing them up: likes the way the new thread is bright and fresh, the way it almost glows against the faded grey of the rest of the sock. It all melds together eventually, the colors running into the ocean every time he rinses them or leaps off the ship into the shallows, but they’re bright and beautiful for a few weeks first, hidden inside his boots, his own pretty little secret.

He wants to keep this close to his chest, too, this secret bloom of joy, the press of Stede’s skin to his—wants to keep the color of it rich and true in his memory, wants to burn every inch of it into his mind.

But life’s not like that, is it? Just like his socks. Life doesn’t let him stop and crystalize a moment in cut glass—it moves on, quick, new.

Beneath him, Stede shifts, hips jerking in little movements that grind the tip of his cock against Ed’s belly, roll his balls against Ed’s thigh, and Ed’s own dick is pinched between Stede’s legs, but not in a painful way, in a just—deliciously caught way, nestled between them, the skin sliding with every movement, the perfect drag of friction. It’s sending him towards the edge so fast, carrying him along on the waves, catching him up in its momentum.

Ed likes to be caught by Stede.

Stede is whimpering, little high sounds Ed’s never heard him make before, and they’re driving Ed wild. He wants to climb inside his body, wants to wear him like a coat, wants to be one body, one soul, all the jagged places in his soul melting, smoothing under Stede’s touch, sinking into the heat of him.

He’s—fuck, he’s close already. It’s building in him like a rock rolling down a slope, collecting moss and mud and whatever-the-fuck else a rock would gather while it rolls, getting bigger and heavier and more and more inevitable.

Stede’s hands are digging into his back, slipping up and down his spine, and Ed hopes he’s leaving marks, hopes there’ll be evidence of this he can’t wash away, that he’ll see on his body in the cold light of morning and know this wasn’t a dream, that it happened.

“Oh, oh Ed, oh, you perfect man, I—fuck—” Stede’s fingers clench, painful in Ed’s buttocks in the best possible way, the very edge of his well-groomed nails curring into his skin, scratching, scraping, and as Stede shakes and gasps and blooms with wet heat between them, Ed’s overcome.

The orgasm hits him broadside, cannons blazing, and he can hear himself let out a high, breathy gasp. His body curls in on itself, pressing even closer to Stede as he grinds closer, fucks again against his soft, plush belly, digs his fingers into the flesh of his ass, sweet lightning in the back of his throat, building like tears, pounding in his temples like a storm—and then it breaks.

He loses himself to the feeling for an immeasurable time, nothing but Stede, Stede, Stede filling his entire being as he shakes apart. There’s wetness on his cheeks, great dripping tails of it, and Stede’s arms are rock-solid around him when reality finds him again. His voice is gentle in Ed’s ear, murmuring sweet nothings, nonsense syllables of soothing comfort. Ed breathes it in, taking in Stede’s scent, the sound of his heart, the taste of his sweat, and lets himself have it.

There’s a sweet moment of silence, nothing but their breaths mingling—breathing the same air, skin as close as it can be without being one man, Ed’s face buried so close in Stede’s neck that he can feel Stede’s pulse against his tongue.

“Oh, Ed—” Stede whispers, and it’s—it’s fucking awed, like he’s seen the universe for the first time, like he’s been fucking blessed by Ed’s come soaking into his skin, like he’s been shaken to his very core and come out the other side a different man. “I—”

“What, was that it?”

Ed freezes, mid-neck-nuzzle, and feels Stede go still and silent beneath him at the loud voice through the wall. It sounds like Anne’s just on the other side, and he, against his will, pictures them both with their ears pressed to the wood.

“Men can only come once, Annie, fuck, remember how Jack used to blow his load and pass out?”

“Shit! That’s right! So sad for them, aww.”

“Thanks for the show, boys, but the crying kind of killed our mood,” says Mary.

"Rude, honestly; you're our guests after all," says Anne, and that’s when Ed’s shock and horror tips over the knife’s edge and he cracks, the giggle pouring from him like a geyser, shaking his shoulders, loosening every tight muscle the orgasm hadn’t unwound, filling the room like sunlight as Stede can’t help but join in.

“Fuck you!” Stede yells, though a shriek of a laugh. “It was very lovely and meaningful!”

“To hell with lovely, we needed something to fuck to!”

“I did fuck someone lovely! His name is Ed!”

And the laughter from the other side of the wall fills him up, too, reminds him he does fucking like these two nightmare women.

And fuck, he’s fond of this asshole, too, despite it all. He’s—of course he’s hot and funny, and brilliant, that’s part of it, sure, but he’s also, somehow, the exact same brand of insane as Ed is, but in the secret ways that matter, not the ways the world can see.

And that’s why it had hurt so much, he thinks as he presses a wide-grinned kiss to Stede’s collarbone, when Stede had vanished from the academy without so much as a note. Because Ed should have been able to predict it, really, if they’re as alike as he thought they were.

Stede shifts a bit, hand sliding across the soft part of Ed’s belly to curl at his hip, nails scratching an idle path across his skin. He’s asleep, so easily, tucked in with Blackbeard, with Ed, mouth slightly open, eyelashes dark shadows against his cheeks.

Ed’s falling again. Maybe he never stopped.

Maybe he’s been spiraling, caught in Stede’s whirlpool pull since the moment he saw him swaying on the deck.

Maybe he’ll let himself tumble into it, see what’s on the other side.

This is what he’s been afraid of, he knows. Because if he lets himself fall into Stede again, it will break him. It will end him.

The fight is gone from Ed, never was. He can admit that to himself. Hasn’t fought it since he opened his eyes in the hold, not really.

(Well, there was also the whole kicked off the ship thing, but he could have fought it, could have tried to use his reputation or his wiles, but. No. He had to break free from Stede’s gravity because—

It’s hard to remember why, when Stede’s curled around his side, snuffling into his chest, sweet against him.)

He’s warm, though, is the thing. He’s warm, and Stede’s holding him, and the quiet sounds of Anne and Mary through the wall are familiar in their rhythm—fuck, they’ve still got stamina, huh?—and he slowly sinks back into sleep.

#

A thin shaft of pre-dawn light cuts through the window as Stede’s eyes crack open, squinting against the brightness, and he shifts just a bit so it’s not shining directly across his eyeballs.

He’s slightly sore in the thighs and abdominal muscles, but pleasantly so. A bit sweaty, toasty warm wrapped in the quilt, and Ed’s curls are tickling his nose.

He tightens his arm around Ed’s middle, spreads his fingers, lets himself indulge in the silk-smooth slide of his skin, the plushness of his belly, the fine hairs that ruffle under his fingertips, thickening as he slips lower, thinning again when he slides his hand back up to Ed’s ribs, softly, gently.

Ed presses back against him sleepily, the stretch of him heavy all along Stede’s front. Stede’s cock is—not uninterested, but there’s no urgency to its hardness. He tips his head forward, pressing his nose into Ed’s hair, breathes in deep, the smoky, sweaty smell of him.

He loves this man. He wants to—to burrow inside him, to meld their skin together into one being, to never spend another second apart now that they’ve found each other again, because Ed’s alive. And Ed wanted him—at least enough to do what they did a few hours ago, enough to fall asleep in Stede’s arms, to relax against him so gently. It’s more than Stede ever dreamt he could have, when he lay planning in his hammock at Jackie’z. So much more than he thought possible, a whole different universe than the one he’d been in two days ago, when Ed was dead and he was facing an eternity without him, without his smile, his laugh, his touch.

And now. Now—

Ed’s body stiffens as he wakes, and he pulls away, all at once. Stede tries not to be heartbroken at the wash of cold down his front.

“Stede?” he says, and there’s a baffled yearning to it. Ed sounds—oh, he sounds young. He sounds small, and Stede wants to—wants to wrap him up tightly, wants to make sure no one can ever hurt him again, least of all Stede himself.

“Yes,” he says, instead of I love you, I’ll never leave you, everything about you is perfect. “Hello.”

“You’re still here,” says Ed, then clears his throat. “I—hi.”

“Hi, Ed.”

Ed’s hair is in his face, long, curling strands of it fluffing across his cheek, tangling in his beard, and without thinking, Stede reaches out to tuck the loose piece behind Ed’s ear.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Ed’s eyes are huge, glowing, and they’re fixed on Stede’s face. Stede ignores the crash of breaking pottery out in the living room, his entire being focused on Ed.

“Here I am,” Ed says, and it’s breathy, quiet, vulnerable.

“I’m glad,” Stede says, and cups his fingers around Ed’s face. He tugs the blanket up further, until it’s over both of them, a warm cocoon that muffles the sounds of thrown furniture and the occasional moan from through the wall.

Ed tips his head forward, lets his forehead rest against Stede’s, a warm point of pressure inside their blanket universe.

They breathe together, the air between them warm, shared, close, smoky—

Wait.

Smoky?

“Do you smell that?” he whispers, and Ed stiffens, sniffs, tosses the blanket off their heads and sits up.

“Smoke,” he says, and swings his legs out of bed. “A lot of smoke.”

The acrid burning smell is getting stronger every second as Stede sits up, and the voices are rising in pitch.

“Do you think—should we go out there?”

“Nah, man,” says Ed, and he’s glancing around the room. He’s obviously looking for something, but Stede doesn’t know what that could be. “I don’t want to get sucked into whatever game they’ve got going on, you know? It’s always something with them.”

Stede looks towards the door. Mary and Anne are both yelling, the voices overlapping, and, hm, there’s a definite translucent thickness to the air. “Ed?” he asks.

“Yeah, love?” Ed replies, absently, brushing careful fingers over the door and pulling them back quickly.

Stede was planning to ask—something. Something important! Something that has been completely erased from his brain by Ed’s casual endearment, because—love. Ed called him love.

“—out of here,” Ed’s saying when Stede’s brain comes back to life. “Stede?”

“What?”

“We need to leave,” Ed says. “Now.” He’s pulling on his trousers, the leather tight as it slides up his hairy, muscled thighs.

There’s smoke visible, now, sliding in gray swirls under the door, around the edges of the frame, and it’s enough to launch Stede into action. “Oh, shit!” He struggles into his own pants, can’t find his shirt, knee-walking across the bed fumbling in the sheets—the mussed sheets they’d both slept in, that they’d, that they’d—and shoving at the window. It’s getting a bit harder to breathe now, the air heavy in his lungs, and he’s not panicking. Not at all.

The window sticks, lodged in its frame, and he readjusts his position, takes a deep breath, and shoves again. It slides, just half an inch.

“Here.” Ed crawls up next to him, fully dressed, and takes the other side of the window, wiggling his fingers into the gap. “Together.”

#

They tumble out the window just in time, because as Ed pushes himself upright, he can see tongues of flame licking at the carpet he’d nearly slept on the night before. There’s a sharp smell in the air, a dangerous, inky-red flavor that sits heavy on the back of his tongue, and he grabs Stede around the bicep—thick bicep, his fingers don’t even circle half of it, holy shit—and drags him away into the brush. It’s a good thing, too, because that’s when sparks hit the shingles of the roof and the whole thing explodes into towering flames.

“Wow,” Stede breathes, nearly speechless for a moment as he stares. “I hope Anne and Mary aren’t still inside.”

“Nah,” says Ed. “That’s one of Annie’s. Dunno what she uses, but that smells like one of her fires.”

“We should introduce her to Wee John,” says Stede. He considers the raging fire, flames bright as the sun. “Or, on second thought, perhaps not.”

The night is cool, and while the burning house is giving off plenty of heat, it dissipates pretty quickly at a safe distance, and Stede is, Ed’s unable to stop noticing, still shirtless.

He’s—fuck, he’s broad. Solid. Rectangular. The fire’s glow is setting little glints of light off in his chest hair, gilding his face in gold, showing the wonder in his eyes.

Ed slinks a little closer, leans into him. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“It’s all right,” says Stede, a bit absently, his hand coming up to curl around Ed’s shoulders, and yes, Ed likes this, Ed likes this very much. “I needed a new one anyway.”

There’s a squawk from a few feet away, and a seagull bursts from the brush, flapping wildly, and Ed shoves Stede down as it flies low over them, beady bird eyes wide and wild, shrieking calls hoarse and—Scottish? It’s got a definite drawl to its cries, and there—yes, there’s the bowl, broken on the ground, split in two.

Ed blinks at the broken bowl, then up at the sky, where the bird has vanished into the night. “Hell yeah, brother,” he whispers. “You did it.”

“I guess people can change,” says Stede, and his arms are coming up around Ed’s waist where he’s pinning Stede to the ground, and Ed can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest, just like he can’t help the way he absolutely has to kiss it into Stede’s mouth.