Work Text:
It’s not even Ed’s fault. It’s such an easy mistake, anyone could have made it. It’s all because he’s not from a state that has real dispensaries, so he’s used to buying from friends and making his own edibles. He’s not a fucking amateur when it comes to weed, alright? It’s just that all of these prepackaged edibles all look the fucking same when they’re from a store, and somehow you have to be sober enough to read the fine print on the packaging that says how many mils per package versus per edible and those are very different measurements when you’re looking at a three digit number.
At least Ed had stopped to read the packet one more time, a second (apparently) 100mg gummy halfway to his mouth.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Shit. Damn fuck shit.”
If he was at home, this would be easy - cue up Netflix, make some tea, curl up under his weighted blanket, sleep it off.
Unfortunately, he’s not at home. He’s at an unfamiliar hotel in an unfamiliar city for a conference that he didn’t even want to be at in the first place but that he got voluntold to go to with a colleague he barely knows who he’s sure he got paired with to make sure he actually attends the panels and talks and fucking cocktail hours-
Fuck, the cocktail hour. The reason he was trying to get a little bit of a buzz going, the most miserable part of these fucking things, where every socially awkward fuck from every institution mingles and pretends they’re listening to you but really they’re just waiting for their turn to talk about their research. Back when Ed drank, these things were at least tolerable, getting a few bourbon and cokes down before turning on the charm, flirting with people he’d never see again until the next conference (and even then, he probably wouldn’t remember them). Now, it was even more torturous, navigating the stilted conversations without that slippery lubricant of alcohol, replaced by the sandpaper grit of “why aren’t you drinking?” and the smug smiles of pity when he says tightly that he doesn’t drink anymore.
That cocktail hour, the one that starts in twenty five minutes.
Ed frowns at his reflection in the full length mirror, debating if it’s too late to try to make himself barf the edible back up. It’s probably been twenty minutes since he took it? Fifteen, maybe? Not like he looked at a fucking clock, he’s just used to popping that second one on the way out the door to chase the first one. But then he blinks and his head spins and he has to brace himself against the mirror with palms that are starting to tingle and yeah, no, that ship has sailed.
He looks himself up and down appraisingly. Luckily, he’d already gotten dressed for the night, dark jeans and a grey sweater that was soft enough that it wouldn’t become a sensory nightmare while he was high, heavy boots that would probably look nicer if they were polished, but who has fucking time for that. His hair, tied back smartly at the start of the day, is beginning to droop, strands fluttering free from his bun. He thinks about redoing it, but he doesn’t trust his hands to stay coordinated enough to keep it from looking like he rolled out of bed. The strands are long enough to push back behind his ears - he does that instead. He thinks about the last time he shaved his head and the torturous in-between period of growing it back out, when it fell in his eyes in a mop and made him look so young that he’d been forced to grow the beard back so people would take him seriously again. As soon as he had been able to pull it back fully, he’d felt the stress leave his body again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he snatches for it with clumsy fingers. He blinks at the screen. Fuck, he’s been up here for twenty minutes, he said he’d be down in five. Shit.
There’s a text from Ivan, the colleague he’s spoken to three times (including discussing the plan to meet at the cocktail hour).
Ivan: I’ll see you downstairs? I have some buddies I wanna meet up with, but you’re welcome to hang with us if you like
Four times now.
Is it worth replying? Probably, just so the guy doesn’t think Ed’s a total dick.
Ed: yup
Ed: 👌
Ed’s certain he’s never used that emoji before. He hopes vaguely that it’s not some weird sex code thing and that Ivan doesn’t assume he’s being suggestive and report him as soon as they get back to campus next week. He chugs half of the complimentary bottle of water from the dresser, then stuffs his wallet, phone, and room key into his pockets before slipping out of the room.
The door is heavy, and it heaves itself shut as soon as Ed lets go of the handle. He jumps a little at the sound, eyes darting up and down the hall like he’s a teenager sneaking out of his house in the middle of the night. Confident that he was undetected, he heads down the hall to the elevators. The button gives a dissonant little beep as he presses it, and he shifts his weight between his heels, moving his body with weird nervous energy, before the door finally opens moments later.
Ed lurches into the elevator and swears he can feel it bounce under his feet, unsteady and shaking like the top of a Jenga tower. For a brief moment, he wonders if he should take the stairs, then remembers hazily that he’s on the 21st floor, and if his knee doesn’t give out on that trek, his lungs absolutely will. He pokes the lobby button and plasters himself to the wall of the elevator, clinging to the handrail with sweaty hands. The doors close and the cubicle swoops downward and Ed’s stomach pitches up towards his heart in a weightless freefall. He thinks about skydiving, about bungee jumping, about a lot of shit he’s never done but is sure feels just like this. He glances up at the mirrored wall across the empty elevator from him, sure that he’s going to see his hair standing on end, flying upwards with the plummeting movement downwards. It’s not - instead, he sees himself, face a little pale, eyes a little red, but pretty much the same. He takes a breath and his reflection’s shoulders rise and fall with it. Encouraging. As he holds his reflection’s gaze, he’s able to convince himself to stand up straight again, slowly release the handrail, pull his shoulders back so he looks like a fucking responsible adult, like he’s here on purpose. He smiles at himself, watches the corners of his mouth stretch grotesquely like he’s trying to hold a pencil between his lips, then drops it. Probably better to avoid the smile for now.
As soon as the elevator doors open on the ground floor, the hubbub of voices and ambient jazz rushes into the cubicle like the swell of a wave. Ed flinches at the sound, resisting the urge to instantly poke the “door close” button and return to his room, but he makes himself take a breath and step forward and out into the lobby.
Ed feels like he’s walking on a trampoline, every step a little bouncy as he moves toward the little gallery space that the conference has reserved as their cocktail hour venue. Rounding the corner into the large room, he spots Ivan in animated conversation with a couple other men. Ivan usually leaves his braids down, loose and framing his face - he’s got them pulled back now, showing off a side shave and a large crescent moon tattoo. Ed didn’t even know he had that tattoo. Maybe Ed didn’t need to worry about Ivan thinking he was being suggestive. (Maybe he should be hitting on Ivan. Fuck, focus.)
Ed sidles up in a way he truly hopes is nonchalant and holds up a hand when he gets close enough, wiggling his fingers in a little wave. One of the men talking to Ivan eyes him from behind small round glasses, a little amused smile forming under his white goatee. Ivan turns to look at Ed as well, smiling amiably. “Hey, mate, glad you could join,” he says warmly (Ed instantly feels bad for being so dead-set on ditching him).
The other man, taller with curly hair and a chic military style jacket, meets Ed’s eyes, intense and probing (Ed reminds himself to blink, eyelids scraping against his dry eyes). He raises his eyebrows knowingly. “You alright, mate?”
Ed processes, then nods, his head pitching forward sharply. “Yup, peachy fuckin’ keen.” He’s never said that before in his fucking life. Now the other two are also looking at him with pinched expressions, almost wary of him. He wants to escape, to retreat back to his room, to go straight to the airport to fly back home, anything to get them to stop fucking looking at him like that.
Mercifully, Ivan clears his throat, drawing the attention back to himself. “No pressure to hang out, just wanted to offer in case you-” He trails off, then gives a shrug that supplies the end of the sentence. Wanted the company, didn’t want to be alone, wanted to pretend to fit it.
Ed swallows. His tongue is dry, too big for his mouth. “Appreciate it, mate,” he says and twists the corners of his mouth into a smile - not too much, just a little, look cool. Then he fucks it up by making a quick finger guns gesture before turning away.
If the group makes any remark, Ed doesn’t hear it as he leaves to walk along the edge of the room. It’s a sort of sterilized art gallery, paintings of floral arrangements and local landmarks along the perimeter of the room, boring soulless things that no one would pay to put in their homes but that fit perfectly in the inoffensive blandness of the space. Ed follows the edge of the room as closely as he can without touching it, keeping one foot in front of the other. As he walks directly in front of one larger painting, he looks to his side, worrying that he’s obstructing someone’s view of it.
No one’s there.
In fact, it seems like basically no one is looking at the paintings at all. They’re all clustered together in groups, drinks in hand, talking and joking and networking, the things you’re supposed to do at shit like this. Everyone looks comfortable, like they’re with colleagues or old friends or like they’re just good at talking to strangers. Ed wonders if he was ever actually good at talking to strangers or if he was just good at drinking and ignoring what people thought about him.
Now, Ed just hopes everyone is ignoring him instead of watching him prowl the edge of the room like an animal in a cage. He idly extends his hand, trailing his fingers over the textured wallpaper, fumbling for another sensory element to focus on. He had a therapist suggest the whole “name however many things you can see, hear, whatever” thing once, but Ed always forgets how many of which thing he’s supposed to count and so it always stresses him out more than it relaxes him. Is it five things he can taste? That can’t be right, that feels absurd. Maybe it’s five he can see, that would make sense, seeing’s easy, he can see loads of stuff. So there’s the scuffed toes of his boots swinging forward, left-right-left-right, and the polished hardwood floor as he watches his measured steps, so that’s two things (three? Does each boot count as a thing?). Nothing else down here, so Ed raises his head to find-
Eyes.
No, not eyes. Dark, whorling spots of a blue so dark that it looks black on a geometric riot of color. The one interesting painting in this whole fucking space, tucked away in the one distant wall that veers off to a bathroom or something, hidden away from the spotlight so it doesn’t overshadow the bland paint-by-numbers pieces in the rest of the room. Ed realizes that he’s stopped pacing, frozen like a prey animal in the gaze of a predator, and there’s a sensible voice in the back of his head saying “mate, you’re imagining things, take a breath,” but it’s so quiet, so distant that Ed can’t hear it over the thud of his pulse and the sticky sound of his tongue on the roof of his mouth and the ambient music suddenly cuts in like someone just turned the volume up, a sudden roar of sound that makes his head pound.
Distantly, Ed hears his name, or what might be his name, or it might just be someone saying the word “teach” because this is a fucking academic conference after all, but Ed’s sure that’s not it, it’s someone clocking that he’s losing his goddamn mind over here. He’s suddenly aware that he can’t see behind him, the wave of paranoia crashing over him, and he pivots on one heel, turning to face the full room and retreating backwards in one motion, but he doesn’t realize how close he already is to the wall, and he collides with another painting right behind him, the lacquered wood clattering sharply against that ridged wallpaper. It’s loud enough to crash through the roar of noise in Ed’s ears, and he’s not sure if it’s that loud to anyone else until he see two heads turn towards him, two people he doesn’t know, and it’s only two now, but more are about to look over, more strangers gawking and murmuring and judging. Ed inhales and it’s shuddering, so close to a sob, and he can’t, he can’t-
“Hey, here, you’re alright,” a voice says next to his head, gently, clearly. There’s a hand on his wrist and then another one wrapped around his bicep and he’s being turned carefully away from the crowd. He can’t focus on anything in front of him, so he looks down at the ground in front of him, back to scuffed black boots against the hardwood floor, but now there’s a pair of shiny turquoise brogues next to his feet, keeping pace with Ed’s slow methodical steps. It’s a new curious detail, and it throws Ed off for long enough for the man next to him to lead him over to a bench along the wall. The hands on his arm guide him to turn, then push to urge him to sit down as the voice murmurs, “there we go, just sit here for a moment.” It’s soothing, calm but not condescending. The man talks to him like Ed’s a friend and not a burden.
The man’s hand slides up to his shoulder, resting with just enough weight to make Ed feel securely rooted to the bench. “Can I get you something?”
Ed knows he needs to drink something, his mouth parched, his tongue too large, but he feels everyone’s eyes on him, everyone knows he’s fucked up, he’s gotta blend back in somehow, he needs to assimilate, he can totally get through this if he fits in.
“I need it to look like booze,” he says to his knees, hoping that he actually said the words and that he didn’t imagine them, god his ears are ringing again, this awful smooth jazz is giving him a fucking headache.
“Got it,” the man says easily, and his hand lifts from Ed’s shoulder and the sudden chill of it shoots a shiver down Ed’s spine, like someone ripped the covers off of him at night, like the unexpected warmth was the only thing keeping his heart beating, and Ed slams his eyes shut and grips the edge of the bench, trying not to pitch forward as the world spins, trying to resist rocking back and forth to gain some equilibrium because then he looks like he’s fucking crazy and the last thing he needs to fucking do is have everyone here watch him have a fucking meltdown like he is crazy-
“Here,” the man is back and his hand, warm and comforting and grounding, is back on Ed’s shoulder and his head stops spinning. Something cold and solid bumps the back of his hand, and he releases his hold on the bench to wrap his hand around a glass, wet with condensation, a pleasant feeling, something to focus on as the water drips over his knuckles, his racing thoughts slowing to the pace of the trickle. He opens his eyes, looking down at a glass of amber liquid, sparkling with carbonation, with ice and a curl of lime peel in it. “It’s just ginger ale, but I had the bartender throw the lime in there to help you blend in a little.”
Ed brings it to his mouth, pressing the cold glass against his lower lip for a moment before tipping it back and taking a sip. The carbonation is an instant relief on his bone-dry tongue, and he swallows with a sigh, letting the liquid soothe his throat. It's like wading into a cold pool, bracing in a way that makes it the only thing he can focus on.
Ed still can't look up from the floor, but he sees the man's legs turn and feels the bench creak a little as he sits down next to him. The hand on his shoulder glides down to settle in the middle of Ed's back. “There, that's a bit better, isn't it?” Of course this man is a teacher, he's got the most patient, level tone that Ed's ever heard. “Would you like a hand getting back up to your room? The elevators are just over-”
Ed shakes his head, suddenly remembering the nauseating plummet of the trip down and imagining that the trip up won't feel much better. “Nope,” he croaks, hoping his tone conveys that it's not open for debate.
Luckily, the man just chuckles. “That’s alright, we can sit right here for a moment, then.” He rubs his thumb against Ed’s back, a gesture that makes Ed think of how his mom used to rub his back when he was sick. The man pauses after a bit. “This sweater is lovely,” he says, and for the first time, he’s not in crisis-response mode - he’s got this little appraising tone, like he means what he’s saying. “Is this cashmere?”
Ed frowns, trying to remember. “Maybe? I think so, or like, a blend.” He pries his other hand away from the edge of the bench, sliding the cuff of the sweater between his thumb and fingers. “I think I just cared that it was soft.”
“Well, it certainly is that,” the man says. Then, he catches himself. “Oh, I should probably introduce myself before fondling your fine fabrics.” The phrasing makes a little bubble of laughter float up from Ed's chest, but the man doesn't seem phased by it. Instead, he holds out his other hand, low and just within Ed's field of vision. “Stede Bonnet.”
He's holding out his right hand, and Ed's right hand is holding his drink, so without thinking, he reaches across with his left, resting his fingers awkwardly across Stede's palm. While Ed's mind struggles to recalibrate and figure out how to actually shake someone's hand, Stede's fingers curl around his, almost like they're about to dance. It's not awkward because Stede doesn't make it awkward. Ed makes himself look up.
Eyes, again, but this time they’re hazel and soft and sparkling, like they’re flecked with gold glitter that catches the light and reflects it back at Ed like refracted sunbeams. Ed takes in a halo of blond hair, then lets his gaze slide down to a strong curved nose and the relaxed bow of his lips. Stede smiles gently at him, patiently, like he’s- fuck, he’s waiting for Ed to introduce himself back.
“Ed Teach.”
Stede's eyes go wide. “Really?” He asks, surprised, and Ed instantly worries that his reputation has preceded him (and as Stede slowly pulls his hand away, he’s sure of it).
“You've heard of me?”
“Oh, yes,” Stede breathes, a shimmer of wonder in his eye now. “I've heard all about you.” Before Ed can panic again, he continues, “you're giving the presentation on tutoring center pedagogy tomorrow!”
As fucked up as Ed is, he’s almost surprised that he understands the sentence at all (he shouldn’t be, he’s worked in his field for almost a decade now, he could give the fucking presentation in his sleep). Still, he hesitates.
In turn, Stede falters a little. “That is you, right?”
Ed blinks, taking a breath to refocus on the conversation. “Yeah, I just… No one’s ever said the word ‘pedagogy’ and sounded that excited before.”
Stede’s mouth splits into a grin, and he giggles - giggles! “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” he says breezily. “I’m just interested in the subject matter. I have a few colleagues who work part-time in our tutoring department and it’s always fascinating to hear how their strategies adapt to a one-on-one environment.”
“Well, that’s the thing about tutoring versus teaching, you’ve got an entirely different audience for whatever you’re trying to accomplish,” Ed says automatically, and fuck he sounds smart, he almost forgot he knew all this shit.
“I see!” Stede turns his knees in toward Ed’s, bumping his toes against the side of Ed’s boot. This bench is barely large enough for two people to sit comfortably, and Ed had landed close to the center of it, hardly leaving enough room for Stede (that must be why he’s so close, Ed should scoot over, but he can’t make his limbs do anything but hold the cold glass in one hand). “My colleagues do seem to enjoy it, which is obviously encouraging. It helps to see that you’re making a difference on an individual scale, like you’re forging real connections.”
“Yeah, something like that.” Ed nods, still a little wobbly, then remembers that conversations are multidirectional. “What’s your field?”
“Oh!” Stede gives a little gasp like he’s surprised Ed would ask. “I’m actually working on expanding the theater department at my school.”
Ed felt himself smile, and it doesn’t feel stretched and plastic this time, and maybe that’s because he’s just letting himself do it and not forcing himself to. “Hell yeah, love a theater department.” He leans back, settling his shoulder blades firmly against the wall behind him, like Stede’s about to tell him a story, and exhales slowly, letting himself relax. “What do you like about teaching theater?”
Stede finally looks away from Ed’s face, gazing pensively at the floor like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “I like that I can give students a safe space,” he starts slowly. “The theater department was a little bare-bones when I started, but I’ve been able to cultivate it into something more student-driven, so the program isn’t just for them, but also by them, in a sense. And it’s been lovely watching them become so much more confident, more expressive, more themselves.” He smiles softly. “It makes me wonder who I would have been if I had had access to a similar program at their age.”
The way he talks about it (maybe even just the way he talks at all) is earnest and loving, like the program is his pride and joy. His voice settles in Ed’s chest like warm honey.
Ed hums. “I get it. Loved theater classes, especially in high school. It’s like I had so many things inside of me in another language I didn’t know, and it taught me how to read them.”
Stede is quiet for a moment, and when Ed looks back at him, he’s staring at Ed, smiling. “I love that, Ed. So beautifully put.”
Before he can stop himself, Ed tacks on, “also, it would have taken me way longer to figure out I was queer if I hadn’t done theater.”
Stede snorts a laugh, surprised and silly and loud, and out of the corner of Ed’s eye, he sees a few people turn to look at the two of them. It doesn’t fill him with dread like it did moments before. (How long has it actually been? Has it been minutes or has it been an hour since Stede brought him a drink and sat down next to him on this bench?) He just feels like they belong here, like he can just exist without it being a net positive or negative thing, like he doesn’t have to perform. It feels good, and somehow he knows it’s because Stede is sitting next to him.
Stede gives a little sigh. “You know, I often wonder if I would have figured myself out sooner if I’d had the freedom to pursue a creative path in my youth. I wasn’t allowed-” He starts, then cuts himself off with a murmured “well, it doesn’t matter now.” Something in his tone is a little sad, and Ed doesn’t like hearing him sad.
“Your dad was a dick too, huh?” Ed asks (god, he needs to shut the fuck up, he knows he’s high but that’s not an excuse to pick at the edges of this man’s psyche).
Instead of shutting him down, though, Stede nods, eyes widening again. “That’s putting it mildly. At least I’ve been able to put my inheritance to good use with the program. Nothing he’d hate more than his gay kid giving a platform to other gay kids.” He grins, and Ed grins back.
“Fuck yeah,” Ed chuckles. He raises his glass in a mocking toast. “Cheers, mate.”
Stede doesn’t have a drink, but he taps his knuckle against the glass. His finger brushes against Ed’s, warm and soft in contrast with the cold glass. “Cheers,” he says softly. He holds Ed’s gaze easily. Ed likes looking at him, like he’s a work of art in a familiar place, like seeing him is coming home.
Suddenly, Ed’s stomach growls, drawing his attention back to cataloging his frustratingly human sensations. His hand is freezing, his ass numb from sitting on the bench, and he’s fucking starving. (He’s still high, but at least he’s not out of his goddamn mind anymore.)
Stede glances down at Ed’s stomach (at least, he thinks he does, as Stede’s eye sweeps down his chest and back up, lingering on his lips before meeting his eye again). “Would you like to get dinner with me?”
Fuck yeah, at the thought of food, Ed groans (he thinks he sees Stede’s eyes widen slightly at the sound). “Thought you’d never ask, mate.”
The night passes in a blur in the best way possible. Ed still wobbles a little as he walks, that springy trampoline feeling under his boots, but it’s a bodily sensation and not a mind one. He feels like he’s on a train, watching the scenery slide past him without trying to cling to a single detail - he just takes in the whole view. Stede loops his arm around Ed's like an old friend and guides him everywhere. He leads Ed out of the meeting space (“I’ve already scoped out the hors d'oeuvres selection, and honestly, with how much we’re paying for the conference, it’s a bit insulting,” he confides in a low bitchy grumble that makes Ed laugh). He steers them toward the hotel restaurant (where they proceed to order one of every appetizer and split them - Stede ranks them on taste, then value for the price, then ease at which he could just make them at home himself, and Ed listens and makes jokes and devours whatever Stede doesn’t finish). He finally walks them outside to the patio (after grabbing new drinks from the bar - another ginger ale with lime for Ed, who thinks this might be his new go-to sober drink, and a sparkling water for Stede, whom Ed can tell just doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable by ordering alcohol and the realization alights in his chest like a sparkler).
It’s a gorgeous night, clear and moonlit, and the patio is mostly empty apart from a few smokers off to the side. Ed wrinkles his nose at the whiff of marijuana and looks over to see Ivan passing a joint back to the tall guy with curly hair he’d been talking to earlier. Shit, he absolutely owes Ivan an apology after being so weird this weekend. And see if he wants to smoke up when they get back home.
Ivan looks around him, a little shiftily (again, Ed remembers that weed is aggressively not legal back home, and as nonchalant as the other man looks with the joint hanging from his mouth, Ivan looks like he’s scared he’s about to get caught any second), and sees Ed across the patio. Stede’s arm is still looped around his, but Ed doesn’t feel like he needs to pull away or hide or anything. Instead, he raises his other hand, gives a little wave. Ivan grins and shoots a finger gun at him. Ed giggles and returns the gesture.
“Friend of yours?” Stede asks, peering around Ed’s side.
“Sort of,” Ed answers, redirecting his attention to where they're walking. “He's one of the other professors at my school, but I'd never really talked to him until this trip. I think he just got sent to keep me in line.” Ed snorts. “Not like it did much good, based on earlier tonight.”
Stede is quiet, and Ed looks over at him. His face is twisted with some kind of sadness and hurt and indignation, like he can't believe Ed just said that. Before Ed can ask him, Stede releases his elbow and brings his hand back to Ed's shoulder, firm and heavy, a reminder of how Stede had touched him at the start of the night and brought him back down to earth.
“Ed, there's absolutely no reason for you to be ashamed of what happened earlier,” he says evenly. “Preparing for a conference, the social obligations of having to mingle like this, the pressure of academia as a whole, it's all so much, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Having a panic attack at an event like this is frustrating, but you shouldn't be embarrassed at all! I promise, you’re just as human as everyone else here.”
And as Ed looks into his eyes, wide and earnest, oh, it all makes sense now, the pieces fall into place, and Ed gets it.
He smirks. “Stede, I wasn’t having a panic attack.”
Stede scoffs. “Ed, I’ve had countless panic attacks, I know one when I see one.” Something about how casually he says it makes Ed’s chest hurt, makes him want to wrap himself around Stede and protect him. Stede continues, ticking symptoms off on his fingers. “Dizziness, disorientation, shaky hands, elevated heart rate, hyperventilation-”
And yeah, it all checks out, but Ed can’t hold back another snort.
Stede pauses. “What’s so funny?” He’s frowning indignantly, almost a pout, that lower lip threatening to poke out just a little.
Ed grins, resting his elbow on the patio railing. He feels like he’s floating, settling into that pleasant high feeling at long last. “Stede, I’m just high.”
Stede’s eyebrows flick up to his hairline, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish, endearingly baffled. Finally, he licks his lips. “Oh.”
Ed nods, his head flopping back and forth. “Yeah.”
“So when I saw you and came over to help-”
“I was just greening out, yeah.”
“Oh! Is that… Is that when you have too much-”
“Listen, I didn’t plan to overdo it, the packaging was misleading-”
“Well, it seems to me the best way to avoid that would have been to not take drugs before a social event-”
“Alright, enough of that, Officer Krupke,” Ed teases back, pushing Stede's shoulder. Finally, Stede stops scolding, holding his hands up in surrender. Even now, they smile at each other, and Ed realizes he's still comfortable enough to keep talking. “I stopped drinking about six months ago, and I immediately realized how much social anxiety I’d been covering up with booze. Weed's just sort of been the placeholder for learning to actually, you know, be around people.”
Stede nods. “Thank you for telling me,” he says softly. “I'm sure it's not easy being in an environment like this that encourages drinking.”
Ed gives a wry laugh. “Yeah, it fucking sucks.” He shrugs. “Obviously, I'm not thrilled about getting downstairs and tripping balls, but at least it gave you a reason to talk to me.”
Stede scoffs. “Oh, please, I'd been staring at you since the keynote speech this morning.” Ed frowns, but Stede plows on. “The only reason I was already so close to you tonight was because I was going to offer to buy you a drink.”
“Stede, it's an open bar.”
“Well, I know that, Ed, it was a gesture,” Stede says haughtily, and as Ed laughs, he keeps talking. “Anyways, if I hadn't gotten to talk to you tonight, I would have been just as delighted to find out who you were tomorrow at your presentation. I would have sat in the very front and made sure I had the most insightful question for your Q&A section, and I would have tried to pull you aside afterwards to ask you to elaborate.”
Now, Ed's laughing helplessly to himself, the thoroughness of Stede's plan absurd and silly and utterly endearing. He rubs at his eyes, wiping tears from them as he catches his breath. “Fuck, Stede, seems a little much to get into the pants of a stranger you saw across a room.”
Stede grins, a dirty little flash of teeth that makes his nose crinkle, and Ed is about to swoon like a fucking romance novel cover when the grin softens and he looks at Ed sweetly. “Oh, I think you're well worth the effort.”
Ed's spent the entire night worrying at the back of his mind about he's ruined Stede's night, forcing him to babysit while Ed’s inebriated, proving that Ed is just a burden and a hardship and an inconvenience. He couldn't imagine that this would actually be how Stede wanted to spend his night, that he was enjoying himself, that Ed was worth the effort, that he was valuable and desired and cared for.
Ed takes a deep breath, the cooling night air filling his lungs, and puts his hands on either side of Stede’s face. His skin is soft, just barely starting to prickle with five o’clock shadow. The sensation grounds him pleasantly, along with the movement of Stede’s jaw moving, his mouth opening slightly. The feeling of someone else’s skin, muscle, bones under his fingers makes him smile, makes him aware of his own body, makes him feel alive. Ed smiles, and it doesn’t feel forced anymore. It feels easy.
“Stede, there is nothing I’d like more than to go back to your room with you and show you a good time.” Stede takes a subtle little gasp of a breath. Ed laughs. “That being said, my mouth is the fucking Sahara right now, so I don’t think it would be enjoyable for either of us.”
Now, Stede laughs, a surprised joyous thing that bursts from him like a note from a trumpet. Ed likes it better than any of the music he’s heard all night. Once Stede controls himself, he wraps his hands around Ed’s wrists, holding him there for a moment before tugging Ed’s hands down to his shoulders. He leans forward to press a kiss to Ed’s cheek, just above the line of his beard. His lips are soft, and he lingers for just a moment, long enough for Ed to sigh into it, to feel the gentle breath from Stede’s nose tickle his ear. When Stede pulls away, he stays close, their noses almost brushing. He looks into Ed’s eyes. “Let’s say no to the sandpaper blowjob,” he says softly. “For now.”
Ed gives an ugly laughing snort. “Alright, yeah,” he nods. With a final squeeze of Stede’s shoulders, he lets go and lowers his hands. Stede lets go of one wrist, but he turns his other hand to slip under Ed’s own, catching his fingers in a gentle grasp.
“Is this alright?” Stede asks softly, smiling, eyebrows raised like he already knows what Ed will say.
Ed twists his hand to lace their fingers together. “‘S perfect.”
“Great.”
There’s a comfortable, easy silence.
Ed clears his throat. “I mean, we don’t have to call it a night, plenty I can get done without my mouth.” He waggles his eyebrows.
Stede snorts a laugh. “Let’s get you back to your room so you can sleep this off.”
“Inviting yourself over already? Pretty forward of you, mate.”
“Oh, shut up.”