Throat G.O.A.T. - nomadsland - Our Flag Means Death (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Stede Bonnet hums in contentment as he types his last progress note of the day. Olu’s 6 PM client is coming along nicely, is routinely achieving and maintaining a truly lovely, melodic, feminine voice in her target range, and while he’s too much of a professional to let “lovely” into his note, he thinks it really hard in the direction of the computer screen. He hopes Olu is having a nice time upstate with Jim and Archie and Zheng; he considers texting to ask but doesn’t want to intrude. He would never begrudge Olu using his PTO, but he has to admit, the idea of taking a week-long “babymoon” when the baby in question is the elderly tripod Pomeranian currently being fostered by Lucius’s friend Fang is a little beyond his ken. He signs the note, clicks over to tomorrow’s schedule, heaves a sigh. He’s single for the first time in decades with absolutely nothing to show for it, not a three-legged dog and certainly not three romantic partners to celebrate with, and sometimes it stings a little, is all.

He sighs again, finishes the dregs of his tea, reaches across the cozy, intimate office (“Tiny,” Lucius would correct him if he were here, “It’s tiny, Stede, it’s a glorified closet, I’ve slept in beds that are larger than this, if we spend another year in here together I think it will count as a common-law marriage, oh my god,”) to flip the switch on the electric kettle for a … fourth? Fifth? He’s lost count, let’s call it a subsequent cup. This week has been mad, with Olu on vacation and Lucius falling ill – actually ill, this time, not “performed too much fellati* on a Wednesday night and have a sore throat” ill (Stede’s a voice specialist, he can tell the difference over the phone). At any rate, Stede and Buttons are managing, barely, with Buttons covering the majority of Olu’s clients and Stede covering the majority of Lucius’s administrative work. He’s worked eleven hours today and will probably do the same tomorrow, but hey, that’s show business! Particularly when the majority of your client base is in show business, and wear and tear from performing through cold and flu season is beginning to show.

He drinks his nth cup of tea, deletes a slew of promotional emails, replies to two inquiries, and registers for a professional development seminar. He’s staring down the barrel of his three-year certification maintenance deadline, so his Friday nights for the foreseeable future are going to involve pre-recorded webinars with stultifying multiple-choice quizzes. Fab. Not that it’s so far afield from his usual Friday night repertoire of a puzzle and something mindless on the television, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The phone rings, breaking into his pity party. He’s startled by it; when Lucius is here, the phone goes to voicemail at five on the dot, but Stede doesn’t know the correct sequence of button presses or incantations to make that happen. He lets it ring a few times before his guilt overwhelms him.

“Best Revenge Voice Group, Stede Bonnet speaking. How may I help you?”

“Thank f*ck,” the voice on the other end of the phone says. “I didn’t know if you’d be open this late. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Stede is a voice guy through and through, and he can’t help it, he’s GRBASing this client over the phone after two sentences. (That’s Gee Arr Bee A Ess, by the way, thank you, not grab-ass like some clinicians cheekily refer to it. He’s a professional. He has standards.) This guy’s voice is a G2R3B2A0S3* rasp, with a depth and richness to it that Stede can’t quite reconcile. It’s rare, is all, to hear a voice so rough and strained but not weak. Stede can’t wait to scope him, is already weighing the respective likelihoods of edema vs. muscle tension dysphonia vs. a cyst or tumor.

“You’re not a current patient, are you?” Stede asks in his best soothing customer service voice.

“No,” the man says after a beat. “No, but you come highly recommended, and it is…”

“Yes, you said. An emergency. How long has your voice been bothering you? I’m assuming you’re a professional voice user, if this warrants an after-hours call?”

“It’s not – no, it’s not for me. My client is a singer, and they’re supposed to be starting –”

“I’m sorry,” Stede says. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to clarify – you’re not the patient?”

“No,” sighs the man. “I’m not.” He’s nearly aphonic on the I, and Stede wants even more to scope him, but erases the GRBAS score from the whiteboard in his mind.

“Right, okay, my mistake. Your client is a performer, and they’re…?”

“Starting a tour soon. A big one.”

“I see. And what’s the problem?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to tell us.”

Stede opens his calendar, winces.

“I’m all booked up for the next three weeks I’m afraid.”

“How much?” the caller asks.

“Pardon me?”

“How much to get in tomorrow morning, first thing? Before you’re open, ideally. My client requires anonymity.”

Stede is beginning to suspect that the client might be a bigger deal than his usual repertoire of opera choristers and Broadway touring company ingenues who belted too hard in Topeka.

“I don’t think I can –”

The caller names a figure that makes Stede blink into the middle distance, like the blonde man in the GIF that Alma uses when Stede has said something cringe in the family group chat.

“You’re serious.”

“Take it or leave it, Bonnet.”

Stede looks at his watch, looks back at the calendar.

“Six fifteen tomorrow morning,” he says. “May I have the client’s name?”

“No,” says the caller, and hangs up.

“Rude,” Stede says to the phone, and heaves himself to his feet. If he’s going to be back here at dawn, he’d better get home now.

***

He’s actually back before dawn, having woken in the night with the realization that he’s going to need to sterilize some scope parts if he’s going to get through the day’s caseload. Once he bundles them into the cleaning machine, he sits with his travel mug in the waiting area and frets. He’s a planner, and he’s never liked surprises, and this feels like staking out the living room on Christmas Eve waiting to catch Santa in the act, only Santa could actually turn out to be the Easter Bunny or, quite possibly, Pavarotti.

At six, he walks down to the lobby. The doors don’t open until eight, and his mystery caller had rung off before Stede could give him instructions for using the keypad.

At 6:07, a large, black SUV glides up and discharges a short man with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim little goatee onto the sidewalk. Stede wipes his palms on his trousers and opens the door.

“Hello – ” he starts.

“Bonnet,” says the man, and it’s the guy from the phone, and Stede supposes he must’ve Googled him, maybe peeked at his LinkedIn, to know him by sight. Then he looks out at the idling car, and thinks about this whole cloak-and-dagger act, and reconsiders. He suspects that in fact, the manager has a whole dossier on him. Blood type (O positive), criminal background check (clean), financial history (took a sizable hit in the divorce, but comfortable), and the rest.

“Is the, er, client coming, or…?”

“I need to do a sweep first, make sure you haven’t brought in any reporters.”

“Brought in any – I don’t even know who I’m seeing!”

The man raises a contemptuous eyebrow.

“Fine,” Stede huffs. “Do you need to stop off on every floor, or will just the office do?”

“Office is fine,” says the guy.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Stede says as he leads him into the elevator.

“Israel Hands.”

“Stede Bonnet.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, I know you know, but I thought it polite to introduce myself anyway.”

The guy – Israel (Mr. Hands? He hasn’t stood on formality yet, but he also seems like a prime candidate for Napoleon complex) rolls his eyes and Stede takes in the line of his body, taut and coiled like a spring. Stede wonders what it might be like to be Israel Hands for a day, wonders what all this bravado is hiding. Muscle tension dysphonia is looking more and more likely, at any rate, not that it’s any of Stede’s business. He’s not the client.

Israel does a cursory sweep of the office, turns on his heel, and leads Stede back down the elevator. The car is still idling outside. Israel goes out, opens the back door, and a pair of leather boots appears, followed by the rest of a man who in addition to looking vaguely familiar is the single most beautiful human being Stede has ever seen. Stede manages to close his mouth before Israel and the client enter the lobby, but it’s a close call. The clack of his teeth as he snaps his jaw shut sends a jolt up a rear molar and into his maxilla, echoes through his sinuses. That’s a problem for next week, when he has time to call his dentist. He hopes the sound isn’t echoing through the empty lobby.

“Hi,” he says after a moment where he and the client just look at each other. “Stede Bonnet.”

Hands. There should be something – you’re supposed to, with hands – right. He extends his hand for a handshake. That’s the done thing, when you’re a person meeting another person, even if the other person makes your insides feel like someone took an egg beater to them. He thinks his liver and gallbladder are most of the way to forming stiff peaks, like a meringue. Ew.

The client takes his hand. His skin is deliciously warm. His fingertips are callused. Musician, then, not just singer. Not that singers aren’t musicians. They are, Stede would be the first person to say they are, but – just, fingers. They linger for a moment like that, and Stede resists the urge to stroke. The client is looking at him like he’s never shaken hands before, a little quizzical, a little amused. Stede drops his hand.

“Hi,” the client says, but doesn’t offer his name.

“Hi,” says Stede again, looks to Israel for help, but he’s got his phone out and is typing furiously. Lovely. He hopes the client doesn’t say “hi” back again, because then they’d be in a perpetual motion machine of greeting each other and he’d like to do other things with his life, maybe.

“Right,” Stede manages. “Well, shall we?” He hopes he remembered to put the disinfectant in the ultrasonic cleaning machine, hopes he remembered to turn the iron off last night, hopes he doesn’t look as stupid as he feels.

The elevator ride is awkward. Israel is still typing, the client is looking at his boots, and Stede is desperately trying to place where he’s seen him before but also trying desperately not to stare. He fails on both counts, is relieved when the elevator dings and he can usher them into the office. Movement is good, movement allows some release of tension and gives him a purpose and a focus that isn’t whatever weird electro-static force field the client seems to be emitting. Stede wants to reach out and touch it, like one of those electric globes at the science museum that follow your skin conductance around the glass sphere. He puts his hands in his pockets, instead, rocks up onto his toes.

“Wait here,” the client tells Israel as Stede allows the ball-of-foot momentum to start leading them from the waiting area to a therapy room.

“But –”

“I’m a big boy, Iz, I can go into the examination room on my own.”

The voice is a low baritone, a little husky. It’s not enough to be going on with, not yet, but the gears start turning.

“Fine,” Israel (Iz?) huffs, and sits reluctantly in a chair. He looks like a diner in a restaurant trying to flag down the waiter so he can make an early curtain, perched on the edge of his seat, weighing whether to stand up and wave. Stede wonders if he’s always like this, tries to imagine what this guy might look like if he relaxed. He can’t.

Stede shuts the therapy room door behind them and gestures the client to a chair. He sits in the other, crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Recrosses them the other way so he’s not pinching his dick between his thighs. Puts both feet on the floor, uncaps a pen, wishes he’d remembered Listerine this morning. The client is watching his every move, like a raptor (bird, not dinosaur, though honestly, sometimes the distinction seems a bit irrelevant).

“Right,” Stede says. “Well, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Voice is f*cked,” the man says immediately.

“And by ‘f*cked,’ you mean…?” Stede probes, when it becomes evident the client isn’t going to continue.

“Raspy, hoarse. Can’t hit the high notes, can’t hold onto a note for as long. Hurts a little.”

Stede hears it, a little rough, a little breathy. He has no basis of comparison, but he’s been in the game long enough to extrapolate. He’s been in his own mind long enough to know that the healthy voice, the genuine article, could make him weak at the knees.

“Mm, I see. And how long has this been going on?”

The client looks at the ceiling, moves his fingers, counting. Stede smiles to himself because he does the same thing, never figured out how to do subtraction without it.

“Two-three weeks, maybe? Getting worse, though. Iz finally noticed.”

“You didn’t think to make an appointment sooner?”

The man shrugs. “Been busy. Lots of rehearsals. Thought it was just a viral thing, but –”

“Ah, yes. I hear that a lot. Well, we’ll take a peek today and find out. Can you describe your typical voice use to me?”

“My voice use?”

“Yes, how you use your voice day-to-day or week-to-week. The context, any particular demands, what you like about it, what you don’t, how it changes over the day, that sort of thing.”

The client blinks slowly at him, like a cat. Stede’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and stroke. Not because he’s beautiful, but because it occurs to Stede that he looks exhausted, worn around the edges, and he wants to soothe away some of the lines between this guy’s eyebrows.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, just as the guy opens his mouth to start answering.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I just –”

“Tea would be –”

“No, go ahead –”

They both stop talking and look at one another.

“Right,” Stede says. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea and then you can tell me about your voice.”

He hurries into the office, flicks the kettle on, and raids his personal tea stash. The assortment in the waiting room is 100% herbal, because he feels like a wicked temptress putting black tea out when he tells an average of five clients a day to cut back on coffee and tea because pouring hot acid directly onto your vocal cords doesn’t do them any favors. But this client is beautiful and seems somehow existentially tired. He seems like he could do with the real thing, is all. Stede takes a deep breath, then another, and crosses the hall again with the tea, along with the milk from the minifridge and a basket of sweeteners. He feels like he imagines a salmon feels, leaping up a ladder to follow an invisible, instinctual beacon to its home waters. It is objectively a strange feeling to have about returning to someone you met eight minutes ago. He swallows it down, plasters on a beige professional smile. He is good at this, at least.

“Thanks,” the guy says, accepting the mug. He smiles crookedly at the diagram of the larynx on it, adds milk and seven sugars, stacks the little paper sachets up neatly on the side table, one on top of the other.

“Right,” Stede says, when the client is cradling the mug in his hands and has unhunched marginally. “Your voice?”

“Well, I sing a lot,” the guy says. “Obviously. But not, like, every day? When I have shows, or when I’m rehearsing for a show, or if I’m recording. I’ve been in rehearsals for the new tour, so I’d say, a solid hour or two of singing a day right now, plus an hour or two at home when I’m writing. Does that count? S’more of a hum, usually.”

“”Humming counts,” Stede says, taking notes.

“That’s about it,” the client says.

“What about speaking?”

“Oh. Yeah, I do that. Doing that right now, as a matter of fact.”

Stede smiles at that, and nods.

“So you are. But when you speak, is it conversationally or professionally? Anything like lectures, sermons, or coaching where you might be speaking above a normal conversational tone?”

“Nah.”

“What about yelling? Going to noisy sporting events or rock-and-roll concerts?”

The corner of the guy’s mouth twitches. “I mean, yeah, I guess when I go see shows, I might yell a bit.”

“And how often is that?”

“Mm, maybe twice a month. Sometimes more.”

“And did you do that recently?”

“No. Been too f*ckin’ busy.”

“Busy with rehearsals?”

“Yep.”

“Right. And could you please describe your singing voice to me? Or sing something you feel showcases your voice, if you feel comfortable. For my usual clientele, I’d suggest their go-to audition song, but I don’t get the sense that you do much auditioning.”

There’s a long pause during which Stede takes note of the guy’s eyes. Not a literal case note, that would be inappropriate. His eyes are large and brown and expressive, quicksand eyes. Eyes a person could get lost in. Right now, they’re slightly narrowed at Stede. He seems to decide something.

“Listen,” the client says. “I appreciate you not wanting to make it weird, but I promise I’m used to it.”

“Used to it?” Stede asks, and there go the eyes again. Stede has the oddest sense of being taken apart, exposed, like the recurring dream he has of walking through the halls of his secondary school without a single stitch of clothing on, down to the same vague, unsettling sense that it should be more awkward than it is.

“Can I ask you something?” the guy asks, and Stede refrains from pointing out that he just did. No one likes a pedant.

“Of course.”

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

“Oh,” Stede says, a little wrong-footed. That was not the question he was expecting to be asked. He was expecting to have to defend his qualifications, or explain the evaluation and treatment process, or possibly sign an NDA. “Er, this and that? I love chamber music, and I listen to a lot of jazz, I guess. Some folk, now and again?”

“Not a rock-and-roll kind of guy?”

Stede waves an equivocating hand.The rock music that had been popular when he was a teen had tended toward the loud and mundane. Honestly, he’d been afraid that feeling stupid was contagious, so he’d stuck to what he’d known.

“Pop?” the client asks, and Stede gives the same gesture and a self-deprecating shrug. This feels a little like Alma’s scrutiny of his playlists in the car. He knows he’s deeply uncool, has mostly embraced it, but putting it on display like this still makes self-conscious. “I like Vienna Teng? And the Decemberists, their lyrics are catnip for a word nerd.”

“Okay,” says the client finally. “Okay, cool.”

He sips his tea, clears his throat, tilts his head back a bit, and Stede immediately sketches in the missing piece of the picture, a mic in front of him. He’s compensating for the angle of it with that head tilt. That’s a harder lesson than it ought to be, that it’s the mic that should be adjusted, not the posture. The client takes a deep breath, and Stede watches his chest and shoulders rise with it, makes a note.

There’s something in the air tonight

Or maybe in the wine

That’s got me thinking you and I

Could make it out just fine

Not gonna text you, baby

No telegraphs nor cards

Not gonna call you baby

I’m staying on my guard

Not gonna text you, baby

No letters or tin cans

You cut those strings a while back

You found another man

There’s something in the air tonight

Or maybe in the wine

I know I’m better all alone

I’ll make it out just fine

He holds the last note for a while and there’s a slight break at the end. He drops his head, looks at Stede from under his eyelashes. Stede is holding his pen very tight in one hand and hasn’t made a single note since the client drew breath. He’s forgotten all of English orthography in twenty seconds; that space in his brain has been replaced with the sight of this guy singing, his head tipped back, the lamplight casting shadows over the planes of his face. Stede feels like he’s been put through the washing machine on a spin cycle.

“You have a lovely instrument,” Stede manages finally, long, long after it’s already weird. It’s true, what he says, but insufficient. He does have a lovely voice, a true tenor; Stede’s earliest suspicions that his speaking voice didn’t match his true register are confirmed. It’s a common problem with tenors who feel the need to conform to cisheteropatriarchal standards of masculinity – but he pumps the mental brakes on that particular internal rant because the client is looking at him expectantly.

“I’m hearing some of that breathiness you mentioned, I think, and some strain. How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

Stede puts on his best dad expression. “Truly?”

The expression works, because the client rolls his neck, puts a hand up to his throat. “Nah, a little sore.”

“Is most of what you sing in that genre and that register?”

The guy chuckles a little at that. “I’ve been known to cross genres a bit.”

The chuckle is like a blow, and all at once Stede is back at school listening to other children laughing at a joke he didn’t get. Just like that, in the space of a breath, he’s incensed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, putting his pen down with force. “This is probably very embarrassing of me, but I’m getting the sense that I’m supposed to know who you are, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t. So if you could introduce yourself properly and stop being all coy about it, I think we could make a lot more progress.”

The client grins slowly. It starts as a twitch and broadens until it’s blinding. He puts his hand out across the table.

“Ed Teach,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m a pop singer. Front a group called Blackbeard.”

Stede shakes his (warm, callused, lingering, lovely) hand again and then retrieves his own hand so he can slap it over his eyes because he’s an idiot. He is never telling Alma this story. He is never telling anyone this story. One of the most famous pop stars in the world is sitting in his office and he just snapped at him for not introducing himself. Stede, who doesn’t listen to pop music, could name fifteen Blackbeard songs right now, just by virtue of being a human being alive and on the World Wide Web in 2023. Stede, who doesn’t listen to pop music, could sing fifteen Blackbeard songs right now, or at least hum along convincingly.

“I was wrong, this is extremely embarrassing of me,” he mutters to his palms.

“S’alright, man. I couldn’t figure out if you were f*cking with me or not.”

Stede peeks through his fingers. “I wasn’t, I promise.”

“I know. Don’t think you’re that good of an actor.”

“Excuse me, I’m an excellent actor.”

“Liar, then.”

“No, I’m a terrible liar, you’re right. But, goodness. You’re on billboards. You were on the side of the bus I took here this morning. I knew you looked familiar.”

“Honestly, it’s refreshing. Keep the ego in check, you know?”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m serious, mate. Think it’s probably a good thing you’re not a rabid fan? No preconceived notions of what my voice should be. Takes some of the pressure off.”

There’s a weight to the last sentence, and Stede suspects there might be more behind it. He waits. It’s not a trap, per se, but it is intentional, to see if Ed will fill the space he’s created. Ed takes a deep breath, but lets it go, looks up at the ceiling. Oh, well. It was worth a try.

Stede shuffles some of his papers, pulling out the questionnaires he’s going to need Grammy Award Winning Ed Teach to fill out for him, goodness. This guy has met Barack Obama. This guy has met Elmo. Stede thinks he remembers the Sesame Street clip going viral back in 2015 or so.

“Sorry,” Ed says after a while. “For not introducing myself. Kind of a dick move.”

“No, it’s fine. I should have –”

“No, it’s manners, isn’t it? f*ckin’ – not firing on all cylinders, it’s too early. Sorry.”

“It’s really all right, Ed. Can I call you Ed? I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“Pssh,” Ed says. “You call that snapping?”

“I do.”

“Did you meet Izzy?”

“I did. Is he always like that?”

Ed laughs, a full-throated, glorious laugh, and Stede glows with pride at eliciting it.

“Yeah, mate. So my bar for snapping is pretty high. But, also, like I said. Pretty f*ckin’ refreshing that you told me about myself like that, man. That was – good. It was good. You can call me Ed.”

“I see. Thanks. Right, well, then. Ed. I’m going to ask you to complete these questionnaires while I get the videostroboscopy unit ready, and then we’ll take a quick peek. Have you ever had one done before?”

“Nope. Have you done a lot of them?”

“Hundreds. I’ve even done them on myself, if it sets your mind at ease.”

“f*ck off, you can do that?”

“It’s part of the training.”

“That’s metal as hell.”

Stede finds himself going a bit pink under the frank admiration, manages a prim, “Thank you.” Most clients are either fearful or stoic about stroboscopy, but Ed is different. (Stede is beginning to suspect “Ed is different” is possibly criminally understating the entire situation. He feels like someone has force-fed him sparklers. He feels like he’s glowing from within.) He clears his throat.

“So, what I’ll do is gently slide a flexible endoscope up through your nose and into the back of your throat. You’ll hold a small microphone to your neck which will record the frequency of your voice, and the computer uses the frequency to match the strobe to the pitch, which allows us to see your vocal folds moving in slow motion. It’s a little uncomfortable, but shouldn’t be painful. I can apply some lidocaine gel to numb you if you’d prefer, but I generally try to avoid it, as some of the literature suggests it can affect muscular function and not give us a full picture of what’s going on. How’s your gag reflex?”

Ed raises an eyebrow, goes faintly pink across the bridge of his nose.

“Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?”

“Ha ha, very funny, never heard that one before.”

“Really?”

“Three times a week, at least.”

“Jesus, singers really are a bunch of freaks, ugh, look at me trying to be cute. My gag reflex is – fine? Controllable. It’s controllable. I think I’ll be okay without the numbing gel.”

You are cute, Stede thinks so hard he’s worried he’s bursting capillaries in his eyeballs. He blinks, just to be safe.

“Fab,” he says aloud. “I’m just going to pop across the hall to get ready. You work on those forms and no fibbing. I’ll be able to tell.”

“Really?” Ed asks, looking fascinated again, and Stede taps the side of his nose like a panto Father Christmas, winks, and beats a hasty retreat into the hallway. Maybe Ed hadn’t noticed. Maybe Ed is used to people being strange around him. Maybe Stede should have eaten something instead of pouring 24 ounces of hot coffee into an empty stomach like a filthy hypocrite, because he’s vibrating out of his skin in addition to acting like some sort of off-brand Gandalf.

He steadies himself in the familiar dance of getting the equipment ready, and by the time he goes back across the hall to fetch Ed, he’s approximating calm.

“You sit here, and hold onto this microphone to your neck for me, all right? Would you like to see the screen?”

“I can look?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then yeah, I want to see, are you kidding?”

Stede adjusts the monitor so Ed can watch, then gloves up.

“Deep breath in for me. And in we go, hold, hold, hold, and exhale. You’re doing beautifully. Swallow for me, please. And again?”

The image on the screen clears of secretions and fog, and Stede advances the scope until Ed’s vocal folds come into focus. Stede clocks the nodules at once, not as large as some, but definitely there. He points out the basic anatomy to Ed, who looks fascinated, or as fascinated as one can look with a scope up their nose.

“That’s so weird,” he breathes, looking between Stede and the screen.

“A little, the first time. Pretty amazing what those two little bits of tissue can do, huh? A five octave range and the entire spectrum of human emotion.”

“From something that looks like a picture in one of the magazines your dad doesn’t want you finding when you’re a kid.”

Stede chuckles and finds himself telling Ed about the time he’d gotten kicked off a bus for studying images of laryngeal cancer. (His seatmate had made a similar comparison.) He has to withdraw the scope a bit so Ed doesn’t choke on his laughter and saliva.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m distracting you. I’m going to ask you to swallow again, then advance the scope – perfect. Hello, again.” This last is addressed to Ed’s larynx, but also a little to Ed, who’s looking at him with wide, brown eyes.

“Give me an ‘eeee,’ please,” Stede says, because honestly, what’s the alternative?

“Eeee,” Ed says, and Stede points to the screen,

“You see there, how there’s still a bit of a gap when the folds make contact?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll talk about that in a bit. For now, give me an eee and then sniff. Alternate between them, so eee, sniff, eee, sniff, eee, sniff.”

Ed obeys, still watching. Stede records the screen, asks him to do a couple more vocalizations.

“All right, coming out. You did beautifully.”

Ed’s eyes are watering, and Stede hands him a tissue.

“Do you want the bad news or the good news first?”

“Bad. Literally always bad, does anyone ever want to hear the good news first?”

“I do,” Stede protests.

“Of course you f*ckin’ do, you call it rock-and-roll and I can hear the hyphens.”

It could be mean. The words are mean, really, but there’s such a fondness in his voice that Stede finds himself blushing and giggling like he’d never had the chance to do as a teenager. He puts the scope parts into the cleaning tray and pulls the red film over to indicate that they’re dirty, gloves down, does the hand sanitizer song-and-dance, grasps for his professionalism, pulls it around himself like a cloak. A few keystrokes and the video is up on the screen.

“The bad news is that you have nodules on your vocal folds,” he says, pointing. “Here, and here. They’re preventing them from making full contact all the way down when you sing. The gap I pointed out when you were phonating? That’s why you’re hearing some breathiness and raspiness. You’re losing air through the gap, which is why you’re not able to hold the notes as long.”

“f*ck,” says Ed, but there’s no heat in it. Stede has had clients burst into tears when he’s delivered the news. The dreaded nodes. Buttons calls them the oh-nodes, but Buttons has also named the video units Karl and Olivia, so Buttons’ naming conventions might not be the most reliable – focus, Stede.

“The good news is, they’re relatively small. We seem to have found them early.”

“‘Kay. So, what’s the plan?”

“That’s what we should discuss. It might be helpful to have – Iggy, did you say?”

Ed snorts. “Izzy.”

“Right, right, that makes much more sense. Would you like to involve him in this part of the conversation?”

“Not really,” Ed mutters, “but sure. Yeah, it’ll save you repeating yourself.”

“We don’t have to –”

But Ed already has his phone out, types something, and in less time that Stede would have thought physically possible, Izzy is opening the therapy room door without knocking. Did he sprint down the hall? Was he hovering outside the door this whole time? Is it some sort of I Dream of Jeannie situation where Ed summons him and he just appears? Stede finds himself hoping not, for several reasons, and the sanctity of the space-time continuum is way down at the bottom of the list.

“Nodes,” Ed says, as Izzy sits down, and just like that, he’s back on his feet, pacing and cursing a blue streak. This is the reaction Stede is used to.

“Iz,” Ed says, and something passes between them. Izzy finds his seat again.

“We were going to discuss management,” Stede explains. “First, I’m going to recommend a minimum of one week of complete vocal rest. Complete,” he continues firmly, because Izzy is already halfway out of his seat again. “No singing, ideally no speaking. No humming,” he adds for Ed’s benefit, and gets an eye-crinkle in response. “After a week, I’d like a repeat scope to see how we’re healing, and then we’ll have a better sense of how to proceed.”

“Assuming he’s healed enough, ” Izzy says, “What would be next?”

“I’d recommend you find a therapist to develop a treatment plan to prevent it happening again. They can work on things like strengthening breath support, improving vocal hygiene, strengthening accessory muscles, tweaking resonance, adjusting posture, and so on.”

“And that will cure them?”

“The rest is the main thing. Everything else is to prevent a recurrence.”

Ed is shaking his head, and Stede and Izzy both look at him.

“The new album,” he says to Izzy, low and urgent. “The tour, it’s not going to work. All the breath support in the world isn’t going to make up for having to belt out two hours of angry girl rock every night for two months. You were right, I shouldn’tve been such an moody f*ck this time around.”

Stede winces in sympathy, makes a note to listen to Ed’s – Blackbeard’s – new album.

“Fine,” Izzy says, “f*cking – fine. We’ll be here same time next week.”

“Iz,” Ed says quietly.

“Edward –” Izzy begins, but Ed does something with his eyebrows that makes Izzy change his posture, clear his throat.

“What I meant to say is, if you’d be able to accommodate us, we’d appreciate you seeing Edward at the same time next week for the follow up.”

Wow, Stede thinks. That’s the best party trick he’s seen in a long time.

“I can do that,” he agrees.

“Why find a therapist?” Ed asks suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“You said find a therapist to develop a treatment plan. Can’t you do it?”

Stede looks at him, looks at Izzy, looks at his own hands, looks at Ed’s hands for good measure. They’re nice hands. He’s got a luna moth tattooed on the back of his left one, which Stede finds impossibly endearing.

“I could,” he says slowly. “I could, but I assumed you’d prefer someone who works in pop or rock. I tend to work with opera and musical theatre performers. I don’t –”

“Edward, I have a whole list, I’ll make some calls –”

“Iz,” Ed says. “f*ck off for a sec? Please,” he adds, which somehow only serves to make it sound more like an order than a request. Izzy f*cks off.

“I want you,” Ed says, low and intent as soon as the door shuts behind Izzy, and Stede isn’t misinterpreting the context, he knows exactly what Ed means, and it still sends a shiver down his spine, being the sole focus of all that personality. It feels like the difference between trying to sip from a drinking fountain and a water cannon.

“I – why?”

Ed shrugs, watches Stede.

“I trust you.”

“Why?”

Ed shrugs. “f*ck if I know. But I do, and I don’t, usually. Please,” he adds, and this time it is a request. “Just think about it.”

Stede’s nodding even before his brain comes back online from all that intensity. He likes Ed, and he doesn’t, usually. He likes Ed’s voice, and he likes talking to him, and he likes the way he takes up too much of the air in the room. He liked the way he looked at him from under his eyelashes after he finished singing. He liked his singing. He likes him.

“Yes,” he says, and needs to look away from the grin on Ed’s face out of pure self-preservation. Stede is grinning, too, wide and unfettered, and he puts a hand to his lips, to hide it, to smooth it away. He turns to his shelves to break the moment, to catch his breath. It’s not so much that Ed is beautiful, though he is, but that’s not the danger of it. The danger of it is that something about him has managed, in the space of an hour, to surgically excise the careful, poised, professional persona he’s cultivated over the years, so only Stede is left. It feels freeing, but also terrifying, like the plunge from the bridge before the bungee cord engages. Stede gathers some pamphlets from their display stands, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Some literature on vocal rest,” he says, “And vocal hygiene. If you need to speak, try to keep it to a whisper. Drink water. Lots and lots of water. Whatever you’re thinking I mean by lots of water, you’re underestimating it. Drink more. I know you indicated on your forms you don’t have a history of reflux, but reflux can be silent. I want you to avoid spicy and acidic foods, no caffeine, no carbonated beverages. No alcohol. Stay awake and upright for at least an hour after you stop eating and drinking for the night. You checked no smoking on your form, which is wonderful, but that includes, er, more recreational smoking, as well. Absolutely no smoking of any kind, it’s the worst thing you can do for your voice.”

“f*ckin’ hell, man, what’s left to live for?”

Stede shrugs. “Candy and a Golden Girls marathon saw me through the worst of it.”

“You sing?”

“Not professionally, but I never tell clients to do something I haven’t tried first.”

Ed smiles at that, and Stede doesn’t make himself look away this time. It feels like sinking into a hot bath, if the bath were made of lava, or maybe daggers.

“Here’s my card,” he says, and on a whim, takes up his pen, jots down his cell phone number on the bottom. “Any questions, feel free to reach out.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Any questions right now, before your vocal rest starts?”

Ed shakes his head, mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Stede mimes catching it.

“Good,” Stede says, and then, all reason and impulse control deserting him, he opens his mouth, pretends to swallow the key. Ed’s eyes widen, and they’re both doubled over in silent, painful laughter when Izzy stalks back in. He looks at them disdainfully.

“Time to go, Edward,” he says, and Ed straightens up slowly, wipes tears from his cheeks, shakes his head at Stede, who grins helplessly at him.

“Good luck,” Stede says. “Get in touch if anything comes up.”

Ed gives him a thumbs up. Izzy gives him a calculating, constipated sort of glare. Stede gives himself a mental shake and walks them to the elevator. Ed holds his gaze as the doors close.

Well. That was – well.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Stede gets through the rest of the day, somehow. He sees clients, documents on them, gets a BLT from the food truck down the block, inhales it while catching up on notes, manages to keep the bacon grease on the keyboard to a minimum. He does all of this on autopilot, his attention, his whole self still stuck in the hallway at seven AM, Ed’s warm brown eyes locked on his, magnetic, mesmerizing.

He takes the bus home (this one, mercifully, with an ad about monkeypox testing on the side), checks his mailbox more out of habit than hope. He hangs his jacket on the coat tree, puts his outside shoes in the shoe rack, slips into his moccasins, and dons his favorite at-home sweater. It’s all very Mister Rogers, as Louis likes to point out, but it’s cozy, and it keeps his work clothes clean and his apartment floors less dusty. There are many, many worse people he could be compared to, and he finds comfort in routine, in knowing what to expect. His life is secure, safe, measured twice and cut once.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. Stede plans his meals on Saturday, writes the week’s menu out on the whiteboard in the kitchen, does his big grocery shop on Sunday morning, when most of the neighborhood is at brunch. Tonight is a frittata with roasted potatoes and asparagus; he’ll pack the leftovers away for tomorrow’s lunch. He opens Apple Music on his phone – he had given up Spotify during the Joe Rogan kerfluffle, happy for an excuse to stop using his account because his Wrapped in recent years, under Alma and Louis’s influence, had begun to deliver a mystifying combination of German punk and someone he thinks is called Dual IPA instead of any music he has actually ever listened to.

Stede types “Blackbeard” into the search bar, and is greeted by Ed, a little airbrushed, glowering into the camera, the angle of his jaw almost as devastating in the thumbnail photo as it is in real life. Stede bypasses the “Blackbeard Essentials” playlist. He’s not interested in the algorithm’s thoughts about which songs of Ed’s he might like. He goes to Albums, sorts chronologically, and presses Play.

He really doesn’t intend to listen to Ed’s entire discography in one night, but the first album captivates him as he’s cooking. It’s a little raw, a little gritty, unpolished but true in a way that makes Stede feel like he’s fifteen again. The lyrics are clever, bordering on poetic, and the music has a complexity to it that Stede doesn’t normally associate with the genre. He catches little references here and there – a nod to Wagner, something that sounds like Cole Porter, and wonders if it’s intentional. If it is, it’s very sly, and that’s what convinces him. He’d only spent an hour with Ed, but this feels like his sense of humor. He wonders whether Ed has this effect on everyone, whether a person acquires a stronger gravitational pull when they’re the focus of so much adoration, or whether it’s just Stede being a little star-struck, or possibly a little moonstruck.

The second album, which he starts as he does the dishes and wipes down the counters, is less edgy, and he finds himself tapping his toes, swiveling his hips a little as he sashays around the kitchen. The third album, which he starts as he starches and irons his clothes for tomorrow, is different again, folksy and contemplative where the previous had been packed with dance hits. The sixth song on this album stops him in his tracks. He doesn’t register it fully the first time he hears it, but something toward the end catches his ear and he immediately replays it. It’s just Ed (that voice) and a guitar. There’s an intimacy and a vulnerability to the music that makes Stede ache, but then he listens to the words, and presses his fingers to his mouth.

The love is fading out of us
I can see it in your eyes
But honey, can we burn little more
Before we say goodbye?

I don’t believe we were mistaken
It’s not a waste of time
It’s never wrong to try to love
I’m proud I called you mine

Did you know that Icarus flew?
We only remember he fell
The flying and falling in love with you
Was worth it, though the aftermath’s hell.

We walk down the beach together
I’m squinting against the sun
You take a deep breath to steady yourself
It’s over before it’s begun

I refuse to call it a failure
You never were a mistake
The bravest thing about falling in love
Is knowing your heart’s gonna break.

Did you know that Icarus also flew
For a while before the fall?
I’m stuck in this house with the memory of you
But I don’t regret it at all.

The third time he listens to it, Stede is surprised to find tears on his cheeks. He sits heavily on the couch, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He presses the two back arrows and listens to it one more time, and then he scrolls back up to the first album. He gets out his notebook and pen. He listens intently to everything.

When he resurfaces, it’s just after midnight and he’s covered four pages with notes and his heart feels a little too big for his chest. He picks up his phone from the kitchen counter, looks at the screen as he shuffles toward the bedroom. There’s a text from Lucius calling out sick again tomorrow (expected), a photo to the team group chat from Olu of the sunset over the Poconos that looks like it might have been taken from a hot tub (not unexpected, but feels a little risqué, somehow, although the only thing visible is water and sky), and a series of texts from an unknown number with a 310 area code.

It’s been 18 hours and i’m LOSING MY MIND how did you do this

I know you said Golden Girls and candy but

I think I’m developing carpal tunnel from texting

Is that a thing?

I mean I know it’s a thing but is that a thing you handle? Probably not. Sorry, stupid question.

This is Ed, by the way.

Teach

From this morning

But don’t they have like specialized ipads or whatever for people who can’t talk? Like what Stephen Hawking had where he controlled it with his eyes

Oh god

sh*t, NOT that I’m comparing this to what he had.

just inquiring about the technology and whether it exists

Oh my god I sound like such a f*cking asshole

Sorry ignore this

Have a good night

Sorry to bother you

Stede blinks down at his phone, rereads Ed’s texts, finds himself laughing a little, and squirming in secondhand embarrassment. He can’t not text back.

They do have those types of devices, but there’s a really steep learning curve and also they cost upward of $5000. Not really appropriate for short-term use, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to hear you’re having a hard time with vocal rest.

Have you tried reading? Napping? Doing a craft? Sometimes when I feel at loose ends I like to cook something comforting. Or vigorous physical activity to take my mind off of things

Vigorous physical activity, huh?

Or not so vigorous. Anything that gets you out of your head.

😐

Stede isn’t quite sure what to make of the emoji, so he plugs his phone in and leaves it on the bedside table while he goes into the bathroom to perform his ablutions. He changes into his pajamas, does a last circuit to double-check he has turned everything off and locked his front door, and slides into bed. His phone buzzes again and he opens it to another flurry of messages.

Thanks for the advice. I’ll try cooking something. Maybe this’ll be good for me. Maybe i’ll get a hobby. One where you don’t have to talk.

Fishing, maybe?

Wonder where you can fish around here

I can’t really rock up to the pond in central park with a rod and reel

Be nice though

Just to sit

Doubt you’d catch anything there, Stede types, Unless it were cholera. What else do you like to do?

The three dots bounce, and bounce, and bounce. Stede should be sleeping. Stede should have been sleeping three hours ago, but instead he’s clutching his phone like he’s Charlie Bucket and it’s his golden ticket. He couldn’t sleep if he tried.

I don’t know, the reply finally comes, and Stede frowns, but the dots keep bouncing.

Like

I’m not trying to avoid the question

I honestly don’t know?

Which feels stupid, i’m a whole ass adult, i should be able to answer that question but

Here we are

40 something years old and i don’t have a single f*cking hobby because all i do is work

What the f*ck thats pathetic.

Stede is typing out a protest when another message pings in.

Im really sorry i don’t know why i’m telling you all this

Please don’t apologize. I asked the question. Maybe you can use the time this week to figure out some things you enjoy that aren’t the work?

Yeah

Yeah, no, that’s a good idea

I think I will.

Thanks

Of course.

Stede finds that he means it. He silences his phone and shuts his eyes. Two minutes later, he’s checking his phone again.

Goodnight, Stede. Thanks again.

Goodnight, Ed. Any time.

He gets up, unplugs his phone, plugs it in across the room, sets it face down on his dresser. He gets back into bed, looks up at the ceiling, thinks about Edward Teach with his head tipped back, singing into an imaginary microphone. He sleeps.

Stede gets into work early the next morning, makes himself a cup of tea, puts his phone in his desk drawer so he’s not tempted to do anything rash with it. He sees his morning clients. He permits himself to peek at his phone at lunchtime. There’s a text from Louis complaining about his calculus TA and nothing else. He eats his leftover frittata, scrolls through Instagram, puts his phone back in the drawer for the afternoon.

Buttons is standing in the hallway outside Stede’s usual therapy room when Stede heads back after lunch.

“Good day so far?” Stede asks, and Buttons sniffs.

“Change is afoot. I can smell it in the air.”

“Ah, is that so?”

“Aye.”

“Could it be that the cleaners have finally switched from Fabuloso to something milder?”

“Real change, Bonnet. Change beyond yer ken.”

“Excellent, well, then. I’m just going to – my one o’clock is here, I think.”

“Aye.”

Stede shrugs it off, but his phone is heavy in his pocket when he decides to walk home through the park, since the weather is relatively mild for January. He snaps a photo of the pond because it’s beautiful in late winter, with the sun reflecting off the ice and the trees stark and brave against the sky.

He lets himself into his apartment, goes through his Mr. Rogers routine, and opens a bottle of wine, takes his glass to the couch. It’s Friday, and he should be getting out his laptop and diving into his continuing education but instead he gets out his phone, creates a contact for the 310 number, sends the photo before he can second-guess himself.

It would need to be ice fishing, but it really is a lovely spot. Less cholera in the winter.

He throws his phone across the couch, downs half his wine in one go, and fishes his laptop out of his bag, dutifully opens the webinar, turns the volume down, and then picks up the television remote and flips through the channels until he finally gives up and admits to himself that he’s just going to watch Say Yes to the Dress reruns until the wine is gone.

The wine’s only half gone and Randy is up there being a bitch about someone’s budget when his phone buzzes.

What do you do for fun? I need hobby ideas. Baking’s clearly not it.

A photo comes through of what might have been a tray of brownies, judging by the color, except there’s a box of Betty Crocker Funfetti cake mix in the background, and to his knowledge, Funfetti cake doesn’t come in a chocolate variety.

Oh dear. I dabble, mostly.

In???

Just this and that. Bit of a dilettante, actually.

C’mon, man, I haven’t spoken or sung in 36 hours and I’m climbing the walls.

Well, let’s see. I play the viola and I sing, and I used to fence when I was a child, so sometimes I take the odd stage combat class. I took an online figure drawing course during the pandemic, and one on watercolors. I ran for a while, did yoga for a while, took some ballet classes, did 7 Zumba classes on a 10-class pass before I got too embarrassed about how out of breath I would get compared to all the scary grandmas. I keep thinking I’ll try out for a choir but I never do; they’re all so talented. My ex wife and I took some tango lessons to try to find a spark in our marriage, but that didn’t work out. (The lessons, but also the marriage). Let’s see, what else?

I ran a marathon in 2013. Never again. Tried gardening but everything died. I learned to knit a scarf, but got frightened by hats. I volunteered at an animal shelter for a while right after my divorce. I read a lot. I do the crossword. I had a two-year Duolingo streak but then I went to France and realized I couldn’t actually speak a word of French in spite of it.

Holy sh*t.

As I said, a dilettante.

That’s incredible. Stede, you’re like a renaissance man.

Something begins to glow in Stede’s chest. He’s always been a little ashamed of his transience, has always seen his increasing pile of discarded hobbies as an accumulation of failures, further evidence that he’s a fraud and a flake, but Ed doesn’t seem to see it that way. Ed had said “incredible.” Ed, whose voice is on a record on a deep space probe heading out of the galaxy to spread goodwill to potential alien interceptors, had said “incredible.” The phone goes off again.

Person. Renaissance person.

Man is fine, but thank you for checking.

👍

Vocal rest not going well?

I mean it’s going great, I tried to say one single word this morning and Izzy acted like I’d backed over his dog with my car so no more of that

But I’m so bored, Stede.

I’m sorry. We could play Charades?

Stede looks at the text he’s just sent and feels a hot wave of embarrassment wash over him. He can’t blame it on the wine, he’s only had a couple glasses. He can blame himself, though, for being weird, and lonely, and always, always too much. He slips into that shame like an old, familiar pair of shoes that he has always hated but can never seem to get rid of. He gets to his feet, slams his laptop shut, and goes to empty the dishwasher. He’s nearly finished when he hears his phone make a different sort of sound, and he goes to it, thinking it’s got to be Alma FaceTiming him, but the name at the top isn’t hers. Every muscle in his body seems to do something different at the same time. It’s how he imagines being struck by lightning might feel, electric, spasmodic, painful, exhilarating. He nearly drops the phone. He runs a hand through his hair, licks his lips, presses the green button.

“Ed?” he says. “Hello.”

Ed waves at him, gives him a warm smile, holds up a finger in the universal “wait” gesture and looks down, apparently concentrating on something just out of frame. Stede waits, wonders why his heart is thundering like the sea during a storm. Ed holds up a whiteboard. On it, in spiky capital letters, is scrawled,

“GONNA HAVE TO MAKE MY GUESSES LIKE THIS.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. Should I go first?”

Ed nods, settles back in his chair. He’s wearing a black Henley with a deep vee, displaying a bird of prey tattooed on his chest. He looks tired, still, or maybe again, and Stede’s fingers itch. He wants to make him a cup of tea, or make him laugh. He wants — He wants a lot of things, maybe, but right now, immediately, he wants to play Charades.

He wracks his brain. He doesn’t know Ed, which makes it harder. He doesn’t know what books or films he’s familiar with, doesn’t know what songs he loves, doesn’t know whether he’s a reader or not. He thinks about the song that had brought him to tears last night and revises. He knows he’s a reader, but of what, he does not know. Yet.

He decides to keep it broad, easy for the first one. He holds up four fingers.

Ed mirrors him and mouths the word “words,” and Stede nods. He makes the old fashioned film reel motion for movie, and the proscenium arch and curtain for play. First word, a little word, signified by thumb and forefinger close together. Ed writes, holds up the white board.

“A?”

Stede shakes his head. Ed scribbles again.

“THE.”

Stede nods, smiles at Ed’s fist pump.

Second word, Stede cups his ear.

“LISTEN,” Ed writes, and “HEAR.”

Stede shakes his head and gestures to the space beyond his ear, then cranes toward it.

“SOUND?”

Stede nods urgently, and Ed scribbles some more.

“THE SOUND OF MUSIC!”

“Sorry, that one was too easy, wasn’t it?”

Ed shrugs, smiles at him, and Stede grins back and waits.

Book, three words, first word “The.” Easy enough, but then it goes off the rails. It takes Stede nearly ten minutes to ascertain that the second word is three syllables, and the first syllable sounds like “cat,” the second syllable sounds like “pan” and the third syllable sounds like “sick.” The second word sounds like “purses.”

“Cat pan sick purses? Cat pan sick purses?” Cat pan sick purses?” he mutters, changing the emphasis each time. Ed is doubled over laughing at him, and he’s laughing, too, his face aching with it.

“Cat pan sick purses, cat pan sick purses, oh my god, it’s The Satanic Verses, isn’t it? You absolute pancake, the first vowel’s not even the same, it’s a schwa in Satanic and and an ash in cat!”

Ed laughs harder, rolls his eyes, writes on his board.

“NERD,” it says, the letters taking up the entire space.

“Guilty,” Stede admits.

“I LIKE IT.”

Stede ducks his head, but can’t hide his smile. He’s smiling from his mouth and his eyes and the crown of his head and the balls of his feet and everywhere in between. He can’t remember a time when he smiled like this, and that alone is enough to make the smile dim, just a bit. But then Ed’s feverishly erasing the board and writing something else and the smile’s back, full-force, because the board says,

“YOUR TURN.”

They play for nearly an hour, and by the end, Stede has a bellyache from laughing and a far more complete picture of Edward Teach, who is sly and clever and irritatingly well-read and a dirty, dirty cheat. Stede’s stone-cold sober by now and cannot remember the last time he had this much fun. He can’t really remember the last time he had any fun at all, if he’s being perfectly frank.

“Thank you, Ed,” he says, breathless from laughter and — well. The laughter is enough.

“THANK YOU.”

A pause, erasing.

“Seriously, I mean it.” The letters are a lowercase scrawl, and Stede realizes why Ed’s been sticking to all caps. His handwriting is terrible.

“I do too,” Stede says. “Goodnight, Edward.”

“GOODNIGHT.”

They hang up, and Stede busies himself with all the minutia of his evening life. Brushed, combed, exfoliated, and moisturized, he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. He thinks about Ed on FaceTime, pixelated, lovely, his tongue impossibly pink as it sneaks between his lips as he concentrates on writing something clever and cutting. He thinks about their text conversation, about being a flake and a dilettante, about the choir audition he’d skipped at the last minute back in November. The choir that is the New York Gay Men’s Chorus. What he’d said to Ed in the text is true, they are extraordinarily talented for an amateur group, but that’s not what’s stopped him from auditioning.

Stede thinks about Pride last summer, thinks about sitting in the subway car watching all the impossibly bright, vibrant people all heading to the same place. They were aglow, both from within and from without, due to a healthy application of glitter, and Stede had watched them through his sunglasses, happy for the excuse to stare. He’d felt like a child with his nose pressed against the window of a candy store, eyes cartoonishly large, full of awe and wonder, hithertofore unaware of all the possible shapes and flavours and colours. He’d felt something awaken within himself. It didn’t have a name, not yet, but they had a nodding acquaintanceship. He knew the shape of the words, if not the specifics, but to go to the audition still felt like a presumption. So he’d stayed home that night. He doesn’t even remember what he’d done instead, just knows that he’d given up on that chance, like he’d given up on so many other chances in the name of playing it safe.

Stede thinks about Ed, doubled over, tears of mirth streaking his cheeks, and falls asleep with a smile on his face.

***

Stede goes to a yoga class early Saturday morning, and afterward, pleasantly loose-limbed and a little shaky, ducks into a cafe for coffee and a pastry. He takes it home, draws himself a bath, sets himself up a little tray with his breakfast and a book. And his phone.

Ed texts just after nine.

Gonna try baking again. What do you like to make?

Stede dries his hands on the towel he’d placed strategically next to the bathtub for this eventuality, replies.

I got into bread during Covid. I made my own starter and everything. But maybe start small? Chocolate chip cookies? The recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag is reliable.

I f*cked up Funfetti cake from a box, not sure I can do cookies from scratch

Text me when you put them in the oven, I’ll be your backup timer.

A long pause, several minutes, then,

yeah

okay

thanks

I will

Stede closes his eyes and breathes in the fragrant steam, a eucalyptus mint Epsom salt mix that makes him feel pleasantly tingly all over. He sketches out the shape of the weekend – nothing at all on today, tomorrow’s errands and Sunday evening family Zoom call. It used to be family dinner, but with both children in college on opposite coasts and Mary traveling more and more for work, they’ve resorted to technology. He stays in the bath until the water cools and his fingers go all wrinkly, gets a text as he’s toweling off.

Cookies are going in. Recipe says 13 minutes

Check them in 11, you should err on the side of caution until you know your oven.

He sets a timer for ten, and goes to his bedroom intending to dress, but instead spends the time lying naked in his bed, enjoying the coolness of his sheets against his bath-warmed skin. When his timer goes off, he texts Ed,

This is your one-minute warning

and has to lunge across the room for his favourite robe (mustard yellow, soft, indulgent against his bare skin) when Ed’s FaceTime flashes across the screen.

Ed’s camera is aimed at the oven when Stede picks up. His hand (the luna moth hand, Ed is left-handed, now he knows Ed is left-handed, stashes that away for later) opens the oven door and Stede has never seen an oven so clean. The cookies look as they should. Ed reverses the camera so his face is in view and shrugs. “So?” seems to be the question.

“Can you take one finger and press very gently on the top of one?” Stede asks, and Ed nods, obliges. Stede hears the hiss of breath as his finger lingers overlong, hears a wet sound, imagines Ed sucking the finger into his mouth and then steadfastly refuses to imagine anything else.

“One more minute, I think,” Stede says, and the oven door closes, Ed flips the camera around again and, yes, oh dear, he’s got the finger in his mouth. Stede does his nine times table, tries to recite the Ten Commandments, gets as far as “I am the Lord Thy God” before he goes off on a mental tangent about covetousness, and it’s spectacularly counterproductive. He does his seven times table.

“You’ve got to do it faster than that,” Stede says, a little helpless, a little amused, because Ed’s eyes are impossibly large and he’s looking at him accusingly. Ed raises an eyebrow that seems to say, “could’ve mentioned that sooner,” so Stede says, “Sorry.”

They wait together in silence for another forty-five seconds and then Stede tells Ed to check them again, and he does, tapping faster with a different finger, and they look perfect, so Stede tells him that, and Ed slides the cookie sheet out of the oven, his hand in a large floral print quilted oven mitt.

“That’s what you’re looking for,” Stede says. “Just tan on the bottom and the faintest resistance on top. Unless — oh, no, you’re not a crispy cookie person, are you?”

Camera flip again, and Ed is shaking his head emphatically.

“All right, good. So, that’s what you want. Okay?”

Ed gives him a look that Stede can’t quite read, but nods.

“Twelve minutes for the next batch,” Stede says. “Let me know how it goes.”

Ed nods again, waves, and the call ends.

Stede goes for a walk, thinks about leaving his phone at home, slides it into his jacket pocket at the last minute. Twelve minutes later, a picture of another perfect batch of cookies comes through.

Lovely!

What do you like? Ed texts back immediately, and Stede literally stops walking for a moment.

For dessert. Like when it’s your birthday or whatever what’s your favorite thing to have?

Stede stays stopped, ignores the annoyed looks from his fellow pedestrians. Honestly, New Yorkers can go suck eggs in hell, sometimes a person needs to pause for a moment on the sidewalk as they peruse their memories for another instance of someone asking what birthday cake they liked best.

I love trifle, he types, leaning against a telephone pole. But my birthday is in February so it never seems right to ask for in this hemisphere, all those summer fruits. I usually have carrot cake or something. And you?

Dunno it changes every year. Favorite was probably this chocolate cream pie that my bubbe used to make. Layer of chocolate ganache on the bottom and then chocolate custard on top, with these fancy little squirty cream florets on each piece. You could only eat a little sliver without needing to go take a nap after, but it was worth it. Haven’t had that in years and years. When in February?

The 19th.

Stede thinks about asking Ed when his birthday is, realizes that information is probably available on his Wikipedia page, and nearly goes to look it up when he stops himself because that feels like a gross intrusion of his privacy. Instead he asks:

When’s yours?

September 22. The 19th is soon, man! What are you going to do?

Stede frowns. Surely not? He looks at his phone calendar, then at the wall calendar for good measure. Sure enough, the 19th is that coming Thursday.

No plans,he replies, finally. My kids are both in college now, so there won’t be any family thing. I’ll go to work. Maybe treat myself to some takeaway. Maybe go out for drinks with some friends at the weekend. I don’t know, I kind of stopped celebrating birthdays after 40, you know?

Absolutely not, you gotta celebrate the f*ck out of every additional birthday after 40, you never know when you’re gonna croak

Edward, I’m 42, not 82.

Doesn’t matter

Fine, I’ll get a fancy coffee and book myself in for a manicure or something, okay?

it’s a start.

***

They text all weekend. Ed doesn’t FaceTime him again, but they text and text and text, and when Stede hangs up from his family Zoom call on Sunday night and immediately lunges for his phone, he stops himself. He goes to the kitchen, pulls ingredients for tonight’s Armenian lentil soup from the vegetable drawer and begins to chop. He thinks about his webinar on Friday night, about continuing education and renewing his Certificate of Clinical Competence, and the leap from that to the ASHA code of ethics and conflicts of interest isn’t so much a leap as a step from one garden paving stone to the next. He thinks about Ed, how he looks tired all the time, how his loneliness echoes down the line, even by text message, how it meets Stede’s loneliness and makes it disappear in an instant, matter and antimatter colliding with an enormous release of energy. Stede feels as though he’s been absorbing that energy all weekend, feels restless and urgent and nearly manic, doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s walked nearly twenty miles this weekend, and here he is on a Sunday night, considering going to the fitness room in his building to burn off some of the excess. Mary had commented on it earlier.

“Stede, you certainly seem peppy this evening! Is everything all right?”

Stede had smiled, demurred, glossed over it, but if Mary had noticed, it must be visible from space. He thinks about the FBI agent in his phone, a long-running joke with Alma, wonders what Steve (his agent) would think about his new texting habit, pegs Steve as a crispy cookie guy, imagines him shrieking in his office about Ed’s third batch of cookies that were so gooey as to be nearly raw in the center. He makes his soup. He eats it. He goes to bed. He leaves his phone plugged in in the living room, and if he gets up at three AM to see if Ed had texted, no he didn’t (but Ed had, just to say goodnight).

***

Late Wednesday afternoon, Stede is finishing a note in the office when the phone rings. Lucius answers, his voice still a little hoarse from last week’s cold.

“Best Revenge Voice Therapy Group, how may I help you? No, I — excuse the fu… Excuse me?”

Stede looks up from his note. Lucius is scowling.

“You’re really rude, has anyone — fine, here,” he snaps, and thrusts the receiver toward Stede.

“He says you’ve spoken already,” Lucius hisses. “What?!”

Stede knows who it is before he puts the receiver to his ear and yes, all right, it’s Izzy.

“Bonnet,” he says, “We still on for tomorrow?”

“Six fifteen,” Stede confirms. “I would have confirmed, but I don’t know how to reach you.”

“Seems you know how to reach Edward, though,” Izzy says, and Stede goes pink, thinks about the frankly alarming volume of text messages he’s exchanged this week with Ed, as Izzy continues, “You could’ve just asked him for my number.”

“Til tomorrow, then,” Stede says, and hangs up before Izzy can respond. He feels a little bad about rudeness begetting rudeness, but not bad enough to do anything about it. He ignores Lucius’s pointed stare, ignores the tango his lunch is currently performing in his belly. Ignores that he’s going to see Ed Teach again tomorrow morning, close enough to touch, close enough he hopes Ed cannot see what Stede is thinking of, what Stede has Emphatically Not been thinking of on loop for the past four days.

Lucius clears his throat. Stede closes his eyes for a moment, in an attempt to avert the inevitable.

“Ahem,” says Lucius, enunciates it as a word, and when Stede turns around in his swivel chair, Lucius is leaning on one elbow with his head propped in his hand.

Stede sighs.

“Six-fifteen tomorrow?” Lucius probes. “In the morning?”

“A client,” Stede says. “A…someone rather famous. They called last week, I — well, I penciled them in. They’re coming back tomorrow for their follow-up scope and you are not invited.”

Lucius rolls his eyes.

“I mean it, Lucius, they’re very protective of their privacy.”

“How famous are we talking?” Lucius asks. “On a scale from Carrot Top to, like, Blackbeard, where are we?”

Stede chokes on his own saliva, coughs and sputters, tries to play it off, but he’d hired Lucius for his soft skills and they’re impeccable.

“Oh my God, seriously? Blackbeard?”

“Lucius…” Stede says, and buries his face in his hands.

“Stede.”

Stede shakes his head, doesn’t look up.

“STEDE BARTHOLOMEWL BONNET THE FIFTEENTH,” Lucius shouts, and Stede would shush him but they’re the only people in the office, have been for an hour. He shakes his head again.

“Stedie Falco.”

“Lucius?”

“Spill.”

And Stede does, because Lucius is there, because Lucius is always there. Lucius had been there for the divorce, the aftermath of the divorce, the ups and downs of the business, his first foray onto The Apps, his hasty retreat from The Apps… Lucius was always there. And he’s here now. And Stede hasn’t known what to do with the electricity humming under his skin, so he takes a deep, fortifying breath.

“He came in last Thursday for an intake. Nodules. Not bad, but apparently there’s a tour coming up.”

“There is?” Lucius asks. “Must be early days, nothing’s been announced.”

“Really? His manager made it sound extremely urgent.”

“His manager was the one on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“His manager’s a dick.”

Stede snorts, shrugs.

“Anyway,” Stede continues. “He’s been on strict vocal rest all week, and he’s coming back tomorrow for a follow-up scope.”

“And?” Lucius asks.

“And what?”

“And,” Lucius elaborates, “What’s got you blushing like Olu when the polycule chat hits three jalapeño peppers at two PM on a Tuesday?”

“I — Lucius.”

“Stedifer, you have held my sideburns back while I puked up Cosmos on Easter Monday, I’m not going to go to TMZ. I promise.”

“...We’ve been texting.”

“Okay…?”

“We’ve been texting a lot.”

“Numbers, Stedeth Piaf, I need numbers. I’m a numbers guy.”

“You’re not a numbers guy, you get out your phone calculator to do tip math.”

“I’m a numbers guy when it matters, bitch. Not all of us went to posh boarding schools.”

“I don’t know! A lot! We’ve FaceTimed a couple times, and it’s been… steady. Frequent.”

“FaceTimed? Clothes on or off?”

“Lucius!”

“Fine, fine, I had to ask.”

“...he did call once right when I’d gotten out of the bath, but I got my robe on in time.”

“Stede Bonnet, you absolute slu*t.”

“Lucius,” Stede groans into his hands, “Please.”

“Sorry, sorry. All right. So, you’ve been texting. And you’re going to see him tomorrow. And the problem is…?”

“He’s a client.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“He’s famous.”

“I mean, yeah, babe, but famous people are people, too. I mean, most of them are people, Tom Cruise is definitely a lizard person. Anyway. What’s the problem?”

“And I like him. A lot. I like him, but I also want to work with him, because he’s brilliant, Lucius, and I really think — well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Stede.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter or you don’t want to talk about it slash are going to repress the hell out of it and show up on my doorstep in four to six weeks because you’re having a big gay panic attack?”

Stede laughs, because the alternative is having a big gay panic attack right here, right now, and Lucius seems to sense this, because he backs down.

“Okay, babe, I’ll let it go.”

“Thank you.”

“Though as a birthday present to yourself you should absolutely fire him as a client and then ask him over for drinks and answer the door in nothing but the robe.”

“Lucius.”

“Just saying,” he says, and slams his laptop shut. “Oh, look at the time. I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Lucius…”

“At my usual time, I’ll even bring you coffee so I’m late, how’s that?”

“Your usual time is late.”

“Later, then, whatever, ugh.”

“Thank you, Lucius.”

“Goodnight, Stede.”

“Goodnight.”

Lucius starts humming Love Song Number Nine, the big schmaltzy pop hit that had catapulted Blackbeard to the top of the charts, and Stede throws his mousepad at him, misses, and puts his head down on his desk.

***

He’s down in the lobby at 5:55 the next morning and paces for eighteen minutes before the black SUV pulls up and Ed hops out, followed by Izzy. Ed’s got a tote bag over one shoulder, is wearing dark grey joggers and a deep green cable-knit sweater that Stede wants to pet. He puts his hands in his pockets, nods to Izzy, smiles at Ed, who beams back at him.

“After you,” he says, and gestures toward the elevators. He follows them in, slots himself next to Ed, who is leaning against the back wall of the elevator car. Stede is watching the numbers on the indicator above the door when Ed pokes him. Stede looks over.

Ed gestures to his own neck, then turns one hand palm up. “Can I speak yet?” is the question in the gesture.

“I’d rather take a look first, if you don’t mind,” Stede says. “Let’s see how you’re healing, and then we’ll discuss it.”

Ed pouts, and the sight of his bottom lip, pink and wet, makes Stede wish that Izzy would be sucked out of the elevator by an extremely localized tornado. The elevator dings, and they step out.

“We’ll be in the same video room as last time,” Stede tells Ed. “Room two. Tea?”

Ed nods.

“I’ll be right there with it,” Stede promises, and is starting toward the office for the good stuff when Izzy stops him.

“Here, Bonnet.”

He’s holding out a piece of paper. A cheque.

“Oh, I — yes, very well. Thank you.”

He glances at it, to make sure it’s made out to the business and not to him, when the number in the amount line catches his eye.

“Izzy,” he says, “What? This is much more than we discussed. This is — this is far too much.”

“You spent much more time with him this week than we had discussed. Far too much.”

Stede looks up from the paper, meets Izzy’s cold, dark eyes. There’s something there, accusation, maybe, or judgment, and Stede feels all that extra energy he’s been carrying around in his body all week, all that ambient, purposeless static coalesce suddenly, instantaneously, into a thunderhead.

“No,” he says, and Izzy raises an eyebrow.

“What’s the matter, Bonnet? Don’t want to be compensated for your… professional services?”

“I’ll accept a cheque for the amount we originally agreed on by the end of next week,” Stede says.

Izzy opens his mouth to argue and Stede takes a step closer.

“My professional services were those rendered in this office,” he says, his voice low but clear in the empty waiting room. “And only in this office. Do you understand?”

“Your profession —”

“My friendship is not for sale, Izzy.”

Izzy laughs, but the sound is closer to a branch breaking than anything resembling humour.

“Your friendship? Blackbeard doesn’t have friends.”

“Blackbeard might not,” Stede shoots back, his voice going even quieter, even more lethal, “But Ed does.” He rips the check up into quarters, holds the pieces out to Izzy. “What we agreed on by next Friday, if you please.”

Izzy takes the pieces, looks between them and Stede.

“Tell him I’ll be in the car,” he says finally, and walks out of the waiting room. Stede exhales, goes to make the tea. Ed’s in the hallway outside his office.

Stede sighs. “I suppose you heard all of that?”

Ed nods.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to presume — but I could never — I wasn’t going to let him pay me for — for what? For playing charades with you and keeping you from burning your kitchen down? I wasn’t going to let him pay me for the most fun I’ve had in months. And maybe that makes me lonely and pathetic but —”

Ed holds out one hand, palm facing him, the universal sign for “Stop.” And then he places a hand on his own chest, over his heart, a clear “Thank you,” if Stede’s ever seen one.

“All right,” Stede murmurs. “All right. Let’s — scope first, tea later, I think. Yes?”

Ed nods again.

The second scope goes much more quickly, now that Ed knows what to expect and isn’t talking back. As soon as his vocal folds come into view on the screen, Stede beams at him.

“Look at that!” he says. “Not gone, but significantly smaller. Much less inflammation. Excellent. Can you give me an ‘aah?’ Lovely, all right, I think I’ve seen what I need to see.”

Tissues to Ed, scope parts in the dirty tray, gloves off again.

“So,” Stede says. “The nodules are smaller, and they’ll continue to shrink with continued rest. The problem is, rest doesn’t treat the underlying cause. Without behavioral therapy to change the way you use your voice, they’ll very likely return – you can speak now, by the way. Quietly, at first. Not a whisper, but like you’re talking into someone’s ear, or in a quiet restaurant. It’s called ‘intimate voicing’”

“Why?” Ed asks at once, his voice quiet but not raspy. “Why will they come back?”

“Think of nodules as calluses on your vocal folds. If you go to the gym and get on the rowing machine, you might develop calluses on your palms. If you stop going for a while, they’ll go away, right?”

Ed nods. “Yeah, but if you hop back on without gloves or something on they’ll come right back, I get it.”

“Exactly. So the job of voice therapy is to change the patterns that cause the calluses. Find ways to use your voice where you’re not straining. Most often we see nodules caused by hyperfunction, where you’re squeezing everything too much. We can work on that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Tea first?”

“Yeah, tea would be good.”

“Back in a flash. Meet me in the therapy room across the hall, please?”

Stede flits across to the office, picks up the mousepad from the floor where he’d thrown it at Lucius yesterday, paces as he waits for the kettle to boil. He fixes his own tea, and Ed’s, now that he knows how Ed takes it. He should fire Ed as a client. He should. He will. Or he’ll stop texting him, at least. Yes, now that he can use his voice again, Ed will stop texting, right? He won’t need to fire him. He’ll just… be professional.

Blackbeard doesn’t have friends, Izzy had said.

Stede really should fire Ed as a client.

“Here you are, milk and seven sugars,” he says instead, breezing back into the therapy room. “Would you like to get started?”

Ed nods. “Yeah, let’s f*ckin’ go,” he says, and Stede can put his breathlessness to use right now. He puts a hand on his own abdomen, just above his navel, and takes a deep breath in.

“Right,” he says. “Diaphragmatic breathing. Stand, please, and put your hand like I have mine — good.”

He watches Ed breathe for a few seconds.

“May I touch you?” Stede asks, and Ed’s eyes fly open.

“A tactile cue?” Stede explains. “Some clients don’t like them, prefer a verbal explanation, but others find it helpf–”

“Yes,” Ed interrupts, “Yeah, a tactile – yeah. That.”

“Right,” Stede says. “Well. When you’re breathing, you should be feeling it here –” a press of his hand over Ed’s where it sits on his belly — “not here– ” a touch at his clavicle, thumb and middle finger on each collarbone. “Keep this still, I’m going to hold here as a reminder — good. Much better. Keep doing that, really concentrate on what it feels like to breathe with your belly but not your chest. Good. Just like that.”

He natters on as they work, explains the principles of voicing, explains how by re-prioritizing breath support and resonance, some of the work of voicing is lifted from the larynx itself. They discuss posture and tension, and then Stede gets out his phone, opens an app.

“Can you give me a note? Just whatever note, on an ah for me, please? Perfect, thanks. Now let me hear a sentence. Say, ‘The blue spot is on the key again.’”

“The blue spot is on the key again?”

“Perfect, thank you. All right, see this? When I asked you to sing, you gave me an F4. Textbook mid-tenor range, but when I asked you to speak, you dropped way, way down.”

“So?”

“So I see this in a lot of my tenor clients. There are certain expectations about the male speaking voice, and they learn from a young age to overcompensate, to pitch down in conversation so they appear more masculine. That can cause strain, over time, especially if you’re not supporting it from your diaphragm. Does that sound familiar?”

Ed is holding is mug in both hands again, is staring into it like he might be able to read his own fortune down at the bottom.

“Ed?”

“My dad,” Ed says quietly. “Used to give me sh*t, said I sounded like a f— Sorry. Like, well, you know.”

“Yes,” Stede says quietly. “I know.”

Ed looks at him then, and there’s something of a cornered animal in his look.

“Ed,” Stede says again, “I know.”

“And now I’m up on stage in, in f*ckin’ Lycra and glitter and eyeliner, man, and it’s great, it’s fun, it’s part of the show, you know, but when I get offstage, people, the media, they don’t want all that. They want Blackbeard, you know? All gruff and terse and butch. They want to know that it’s all just for kicks. They don’t want me like Harry Styles in a skirt in Vanity Fair or whatever. They don’t want f*ckin’ Elton John.”

“Ed,” says Stede, and puts his hand on Ed’s belly, because Ed’s voice has risen in volume and he’s pushing too hard, “From here, please.” And then, because Ed’s looking at him with that cornered-animal anguish again, somewhere between terror and resignation, he puts his other hand on Ed’s shoulder and squeezes.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. You don’t need to change. We’ll figure it out.”

“And if I want to change?” Ed asks, his voice so small that Stede has to read his lips.

“Then we’ll figure that out, too, all right?”

“All right.”

Stede drops his hand. Ed clears his throat.

“Thanks for — with Izzy, what you said. That was cool, mate.”

Stede shrugs. “I meant it.”

“Yeah. I — you’re my friend, too.”

Stede smiles at him cautiously. “My assistant thinks I should fire you as my client.”

“Yeah?”

“Blurring of personal and professional boundaries. Could be a conflict of interest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“How conflicted are you?” Ed asks, and Stede looks down at his own hands. When he looks up, Ed is much, much closer.

“Or should I ask how interested you are?” and the small part of Stede that isn’t busy melting has registered that, wow, Ed really has nailed the ‘intimate voicing’ thing. Well done, him.

“My assistant said I should fire you as my client and then ask you over for drinks,” he says quietly. “And come to the door in my robe.” He can actually see the words land, can see Ed’s pupils dilate. “As a birthday present to myself.”

“Oh f*ck, your birthday — I forgot,” Ed says, and wheels around, and the moment is gone, shattered, a Christmas bauble on a flagstone floor, and Ed’s digging in his tote bag, pulls out a Pyrex bowl full of…

“Trifle?”

Ed smiles at him, sways his shoulders in toward him a little.

“Had to bake six cakes before it came out right. Custard was easier, though.”

“Ed, I —” Stede is blinking hard against the swell of tears. “This is the most thoughtful — I didn’t — I never —”

“Stede,” Ed says, and there go the shoulders again, bringing him even closer, “Listen, you’re a very, very good speech pathologist, but I’m going to fire you as my therapist now, okay?”

Stede nods, clutching the bowl.

“And I’m going to take this, okay?” Ed says, and pries the bowl out of Stede’s hands, places it on his desk.

Stede nods again.

“And I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

And Stede barely has the chance to nod before Ed’s lips are on his. It’s a sweet, lingering press, sharing space, exchanging breath, and Stede understands what the Big Bang must’ve felt like, going from nothing to the entire universe in the space of a moment. He feels his whole self going from nothing to everything in the space of a moment. After a lifetime of making himself small, he is suddenly vast. He contains multitudes, holds in his heart an entire train car full of sweaty, exhausted, glittery people on their way home from Pride. When Ed pulls back to take a shaky breath, Stede brings his arms up around him, draws him in, puts his face in that sweater.

“Thank you,” he says, voice muffled by what has to be extremely expensive yarn. It smells like it looks, like a pine forest made of clouds. “For the trifle. And for firing me. And for kissing me.”

“Thanks for kissing me back. Do you want to invite me over for that drink this evening?” Ed asks, and Stede nods into the sweater.

“Can I kiss you again now?”

Stede shakes his head, steps back. “Better not,” he says. “Though I’d like to. But some of my colleagues will be in sometime soon.”

“Like, now?”

“No, but —” and Ed’s stealing a kiss, quick, roguish.

“How about one more for the road?”

And this time Stede snakes his arms up around Ed’s back, gets his fingers in Ed’s hair, opens his lips under Ed’s, sighs a little into his mouth.

“Okay,” Ed says. “Okay, I’m going to go. Text me your address?”

“Yes,” says Stede. “I will.” They walk out of the therapy room, down the hall, to the elevator. It comes too quickly. Ed squeezes his hand.

“Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Happy birthday, Stede,”

“Thanks,” Stede says. “You too,” and the elevator doors are closing before he can correct himself.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Between patients that afternoon, Stede texts Ed his address, spends the next several hours fretting. His apartment is clean, but not spotless. His hair looks good, but not great. What does one wear to an event like this? What sorts of refreshments ought he provide? Would a bottle of wine be overkill? No, Ed’s not supposed to be drinking alcohol. But should Stede know that in this context? Of course he knows it, but should he adhere to it? He’s not Ed’s clinician anymore, but he’s still concerned for him.

No wine, he decides. Not just for voice reasons, but in case…well, consent is sexy. Or so he’s heard. Not that consent hadn’t been part of his relationship with Mary, it had, but he hadn’t needed to consent or obtain anyone’s consent for anything since “consent is sexy” appeared on the scene as a phrase and, yes, all right, he’s spiralling.

No wine, but he jots down a little grocery list on a Post-It, just a few nibbles to pick up on his way home, really, nothing fancy, but something to tempt Ed’s palate — no, all right, not thinking about Ed’s palate either, goodness.

Stede leaves with his last client, resolving to catch up on his notes tomorrow. He walks home, stops by the store, regrets walking home when he comes out of the store laden with one too many bags for comfort. He heaves them onto the kitchen counter, plates the cheeses now to let them get to the right temperature for serving in an hour, takes a quick shower, puts the nuts and olives in the cute little bowls Mary and Doug had given him as a housewarming present, puts the mulling spices into the apple cider and leaves it to simmer on the back burner. He considers lighting some candles, but dismisses it as being a little try-hard, plus he doesn’t want the competing smells. The warming cider is enough to create some ambience. Enough ambiance for whatever this is. Will be.

Ed’s due at seven but the buzzer rings at ten ‘til, and Stede’s relieved by the thought that maybe Ed is eager for this, too. He buzzes him up, thinks about playing it cool for about one second before he permits himself to be Stede Bonnet and goes out onto the landing to wait for him.

Ed’s wearing the sweater from this morning and dark jeans, his hair tucked up under a beanie. He looks like just another guy from Brooklyn. In another life, maybe he would be just another guy from Brooklyn, maybe they would have met at a coffee shop and flirted over the last rosemary scone, maybe Stede would’ve written his number on a napkin and tucked it into Ed’s jacket pocket, maybe —

And then Ed’s up on the landing with him, is holding out a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag, is smiling at him with his mouth but not his eyes, not quite.

“Hi,” Stede says.

“Hey.”

Stede opens the door for him and Ed steps in, looks around, whistles. Stede tries to see his apartment through Ed’s eyes, and then he wishes he hadn’t; it looks cluttered and deranged, not charmingly eclectic.

“This is f*ckin’ amazing, mate,” Ed says, and how does he do that? How does he whip out the perfect antidote to whatever the current poison is that Stede is dripping into his own ear? Stede takes him on the quick tour, shows off his favorite of his tchotchkes, like a magpie presenting his treasures to a potential mate, and Ed makes just-right appreciative sounds, runs a hand over the cashmere throw blanket on the sofa, stands in front of one of Alma’s photographs for a long time, just looking, a bittersweet smile on his face.

Finally, Stede tugs him into the kitchen, shows him the snacks he’s prepared, feeling again like he’s presenting, somehow, in a primal and animalistic way. This is my home, this is our food, I’ve made this for you, is it enough? Have I done enough? Choose me. Stede fixes him a little plate, ladles some cider into a mug. Ed’s perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, and Stede puts his offerings down, steps into Ed’s space, reckless, brave.

“Hi,” Stede says again, and Ed looks up at him with those eyes, wide and fond, and a little nervous, but that couldn’t be, could it? Stede steps in closer, until there’s no more room for stepping, puts one hand on Ed’s neck and one hand on his shoulder, bends down and kisses him.

They’d kissed that morning and it had unlocked something inside Stede, and he had sat with it for twelve hours, which shouldn’t have been long enough for him to have learned the shape and heft and texture of it, but it’s something he’s been carrying around inside himself for – how long? Days? Months? His whole life? — and he knows it. He knows it, and this kiss is tinged with that knowledge. It’s different, darker, deeper, heavier. This morning he hadn’t known how to want and now he does, so he lets himself want. He’s demanding, licking along Ed’s bottom lip and gasping when he opens up to him, like that hadn’t been the goal all along. Stede manages to step closer, gets one hand in Ed’s hair, one hand clutching his shoulder, and Ed —

Ed is rearing back, licking his lips, and he’s got the same cornered animal look in his eyes that he’d had earlier that morning when he'd talked about his father. Stede immediately steps away, backs himself against the oven door, feels like a monster.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says. “Can we — I need to take this slow.”

“Okay,” Stede agrees at once. “Yes, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t —”

“No, it’s — I liked it, but I don’t, I can’t…” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, passes his palm over his face, scrubs at his stubble a little, rubs his eyes. “I can be whim prone, you know? Not — I’m complicated, Stede. The job, the fame, it’s a lot. It’s too much to put on someone else.”

Stede takes a half step toward him but freezes like he’s playing Red Light, Green Light when he sees Ed’s shoulders tense. He leans back against the oven again. He waits, because he knows how to have difficult conversations, has taken entire courses on it, but strangely, those courses had never covered how to have difficult conversations when you’re residually hard in your trousers but also feeling like you may vomit, hadn’t covered how to have difficult conversations when you’re certain in your bones you’re about to lose the only thing you’ve ever wanted, because you just this morning learned to want.

“I’m not a good person, Stede. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I’ve hurt people. I don’t want to hurt you, too.”

Stede tries to speak, finds his mouth is bone dry. He swallows, tries again.

“And I don’t get a say in any of this?”

Ed won’t meet his eyes.

“Edward, you kissed me. You brought me birthday trifle and then you fired me and then you kissed me, and then! Then you came to my house and brought a bottle of wine and let me think —” He can’t continue the sentence because his throat is too tight, is saving him from saying things he might regret.

Ed’s shoulders are nearly in his ears, now. “I know. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

Stede sucks in a breath because it hurts. He flashes to boarding school, to Chauncey holding his arms behind his back while Nigel punched him in the stomach over and over again, and yes, it hurts exactly like that.

“I can’t,” Stede finds himself saying, and he hates himself even as the truth of it reverberates in his skull, horrible and inescapable. “Ed, I can’t, you kissed me this morning and it was like I woke up, I can’t go back — please, I’ve been living my whole life so glacially slowly, I can’t, please don’t ask me to slow down again. Please.” He’s begging, and he doesn’t even care. His pride has f*cked off along with his erection.

“I like you so much,” Ed whispers, and Stede cannot help it, he moves into Ed’s space and gives him the tactile cue of one hand on his belly and the other on his chest like he had done this morning, because the whisper is the worst thing Stede has ever heard in his life, tight and low and rasping, like Ed’s admitting to a heinous crime, the heinous crime of liking Stede Bonnet.

“I like you too. Ed, I like you so much, too.”

“I just want — can we rewind?”

Stede sighs, because he’s known Ed for a week and twelve hours, and he already knows he’s going to say yes to him, even if — no, even while it hurts him.

“How far back?”

Ed squeezes his eyes shut. “Just this morning. I dunno, maybe I give you the trifle and you say thank you and we hug about it and then you say… maybe you say you’ll see me next week. For a session.” His voice is still horrible, but Stede’s left hand is moving and his right hand, the one still lingering on his chest, is not, and for all Stede’s training, he’s never learned to tell the difference between hyperfunction and heartbreak until now.

“Edward —”

“Please, Stede. Just for now. Can we? For now, just for a while? Just until the tour is — please.”

And finally, Ed’s eyes are on his. Ed’s eyes are a little teary and a lot pleading, and Stede feels his resolve slipping away with the remains of his professionalism, with the detritus of his self-respect, all of it eddying away down the drain. He watches it go, dispassionate, numb.

“Tuesday and Thursday mornings at six,” he says. “Four to six weeks. When does the tour begin?”

“May,” Ed says. “We were going to announce soon, but I can stall for a few weeks if we need to see —”

“Yes,” Stede says immediately. “Yes, nothing’s certain.”

“Okay,” Ed says, and Stede echoes him,

“Okay,” and they look helplessly at one another until the Hudson runs dry and the heat death of the universe is imminent.

“Okay,” Stede says again, a little firmer, a little more resolute. “I think I need you to leave, now, please.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, I’m —”

“Edward, if you say you’re sorry, I swear to God, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” It sounds like a threat, but he doesn’t mean it that way, he means it literally, because his ears are roaring and his heart is trying to punch its way out of his chest and his fingernails are digging so deeply into his palms he wouldn’t be surprised if the marks were still there tomorrow.

“Okay,” Ed says quickly, lips parted, looking up at Stede. “Yeah, no, okay. I’m just going to — let me just call my car and I’ll go.”

“That would be best.”

Stede turns and starts cleaning the kitchen, wraps the cheese in Saran wrap, recognizing it won’t be as good the next day but unwilling to waste it. He pours the olives back into their container, wipes up the olive oil dribbles on the counter, empties the nuts back into their jar, turns the heat off under the cider. He ladles some into a mug for himself (he hadn’t gotten that far earlier, had only seen to Ed’s needs, and he’s pretty sure there’s a pointed metaphor there if he would but look a little closer but he cannot, all right, he simply cannot right now). He takes the bottle of rye whiskey down from the cabinet over the stove, pours a healthy measure into his cider, corks the bottle, puts it back on the shelf. He takes a long sip, shudders through the spice and the alcohol and the sickly sweet finish, chosen for Ed’s tastes, not his own. He turns back to Ed, who is watching him not so much like a hawk, but rather like a heron tracking a fish, remote, one element removed from the proceedings.

Stede leans against the counter, lets the heat of the cider leach through his mug and burn his palms. He breathes through the pain of it because he knows he can, isn’t sure whether the other pain is breathable. He soaks in the image of Ed in his kitchen, fixes it in his mind’s eye like a photographer in his dark room with all the toxic chemicals. The image swims under the hydroquinone, under his regret and disappointment.

Ed’s phone chimes high and bright, too bright, in the heavy silence. He looks at the screen, at Stede, away.

“I’m gonna go.”

Stede doesn’t move, just raises his mug in a mocking approximation of a toast. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“Stede—”

“I’ll see you Tuesday morning, Edward,” Stede says, low in his chest, not looking at him. “Goodbye.”

“Goodnight.”

He’s not going to move, he’s not, but at the last moment he does, takes four long strides to intercept Ed before he can get to the door, gathers him into his arms and holds him impossibly close, breathing in the pine-clean-salt scent of him, feeling his breath hitch. Ed mouths something into his neck, and Stede can’t hear the words but the shape of it is an apology. He lets it go. Eventually, he lets Ed go.

The soft click of the latch behind Ed is what unlocks the cataclysm of tears. Stede manages to get himself and his whiskey cider to the couch where he sobs for a while into his second-favorite pillow. When he can breathe without hiccuping, he downs the rest of his drink, turns on the television, fetches the bottle of rye but no more cider to the coffee table.

“f*ck,” he whispers to himself. “f*ck.”

He’s never been sure what the difference between falling asleep and passing out is, but hours later he does one of the two, the TV still murmuring in the background, his face taut with dried tears. He wakes late the next morning, his mouth feeling like a crematorium, and he texts the team group chat that he’s running behind. Then he texts Lucius, because he knows what Lucius will be thinking and he cannot bear to face that particular flavor of misunderstanding this morning.

Nothing happened, he left at half past seven and I cried myself to sleep on the couch, so please do not start.

Lucius doesn’t respond, but when Stede finally gets to the office, there’s a breakfast burrito sitting next to his laptop with a Post-It with a heart scrawled on it.

***

His weekend goes by as his weekends have gone by. He goes to yoga, he takes a bath afterward and leaves his phone in the kitchen. He plans his menu. He goes to the store. He goes to a gallery opening in SoHo on Saturday night, chats with some friends that Mary got in the divorce, goes home and watches half a documentary about Divine, crawls into bed with regret heavy in his throat. On Sunday, he does his weekly shop, makes himself an indulgent lunch, spends two hours on Zoom with the kids. He sleeps. He goes to work on Monday.

Tuesday morning, he’s in the lobby no sooner than 5:59, is coldly pleased to see Ed’s car idling outside. He goes to the door and Ed slides out of the car. Stede lets him in.

“Hello,” he says, because he’s hurt, not a sociopath, and Ed says,

“Hey,” in a strangled sort of breath that makes Stede immediately concerned for his vocal health. The concern is ameliorated upstairs, and they have a session. It’s like all the other sessions Stede has had over the course of his career. It’s nothing like any of the other sessions Stede has had over the course of his career.

“How was your weekend?” Ed asks at the outset, and Stede says, “Oh, you know…” as the script dictates when one has had an absolutely sh*t weekend but you’re not allowed to say that out loud, but Ed ignores the script, says, “Stede,” all low and urgent in his chest, and Stede ignores it, keeps moving. He keeps it professional, cool, collected. Stede isn’t there, not really. It’s just his professional persona who keeps the session humming along, and he refuses to break through the spun-glass facade until the very end when Ed positively croaks,

“Stede,” and he whips around from where he’s been printing out exercise instructions, and he barks,

“Please, Edward,” and Ed quiets immediately, looks down at his lap, and Stede can’t help but hate himself. He thrusts the instructions into Ed’s hands, says,

“I’ll see you Thursday,” and Ed nods once, small and tight, and Stede puts his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t reach out to soothe.

It goes on like this for a couple weeks, but Stede finds himself thawing incrementally, not least because Ed is trying so, so hard. He brings a new baked good every session, and Stede doesn’t have the heart to tell him he doesn’t really have a sweet tooth. But there’s something there, the tangible evidence of the effort Ed is putting in. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t text, except once. Stede wakes on a Wednesday morning to a single text timestamped 2:38 AM.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t reply, and Ed doesn’t text again.

Stede finds solace in his routines, or so he tells himself. He walks around the city, finds increasingly complicated recipes to try, ups his yoga classes to four times a week, subscribes to an artisan snack box that delivers little treats to his apartment every few days, gives him an excuse to check the mail. He starts taking voice lessons, starts preparing for a choir audition. The choir audition, now that he’s sure.

The evidence of Ed’s effort isn’t just in the quality of the baked goods every week (because of course Stede samples them, he’s not heartless, even if he does put the remainder in the office for the rest of the crew to enjoy). It’s also in his vocal progress. Stede can’t remember the last time he had a client progress so quickly. They’re four weeks in when at the end of the session, Stede goes to his desk, pulls out his notebook.

“I know you’re announcing the tour soon,” he says, clipped and terse, “and it may be too late for this, but I had some thoughts.”

“Thoughts?” Ed asks, and the hope in his voice is enough to break Stede’s heart afresh.

“It’s probably stupid,” he says. “But I … you have a lot of genres, Edward. You can use that to your advantage.”

“Advantage?” Ed asks, and Stede rips out the four pages from the first night he’d listened to Ed’s entire discography (not that there had been other nights. Certainly not. He has better things to do with his time than — okay, fine, he’s done it a bunch, but only once while having a grief wank, and he deserves points for that). He hands the pages to Ed, watches Ed read them.

“I know it’s supposed to be a tour promoting the new album,” he says, “But I’m not sure your voice will support that, even with all the progress you’ve been making.”

Ed looks up from the page, meets his eye for, God, the first time in weeks. “Nah,” he agrees easily, “Me neither.”

“It will support this,” Stede says, pointing toward the pages.

“It will?”

“Well,” Stede says, because he’s not in the business of guarantees, “It gives you a better shot at finishing the tour, at least.”

Ed keeps reading. Stede watches him, watches the expression on his face go from stony to quizzical to curious to something in the vicinity of wistful, or maybe impressed? Let’s go with impressed, the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

“These are set lists,” Ed says after his first scan of the pages.

“Sample ones,” Stede says. “But you get the gist.”

“This isn’t an album tour,” Ed says after a second and third read-through.

“No.”

“This is a — this is a career tour.”

“Yes. A personas tour, if you will. Each album has such a distinct flavour, I thought —”

“Yeah, no, I see — you think I can do this?”

“I think you can do this,” Stede says. “Especially if you invite a guest about forty minutes into each show.

“A guest?”

“A cover, maybe? Or to sing one of their songs that you’ve covered over the years. A duet, even, if you're the harmony. Something to give you a bit of a break. Drink some water, roll out your neck.”

Ed reads through the pages a third time for good measure, looks back up at Stede.

“Izzy’s gonna sh*t himself.”

“Good,” Stede says with vicious pleasure.

“It probably won’t happen,” Ed warns.

“It ought to,” Stede says, “If you don’t want to have to cancel the tour halfway through.”

“It feels like a swan song,” Ed says.

“Does it?” says Stede, all innocence, but catches Ed’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it really does.”

“Hmm. How about that?”

And there. Finally. Ed is smiling at him, and it thaws something in Stede’s chest. Not entirely, but enough for the first, brave crocus to send up a shoot, and Stede resigns himself to the fact that if there’s much more of this, he will be a riot of purple and cream in a matter of weeks.

That afternoon, he gets a text. And then five more, because it’s Ed.

Izzy shat himself, but we’re gonna do it.

I ran through it and you’re right, Stede, it works

(Don’t worry, nothing was full voice)

But i felt the shape of it

And it’s brilliant

How? How did you know?

And Stede, in spite of himself, smiles at his phone.

Because I see you, Edward, he replies and throws his phone into the bottom of his bag, walks all the way home without looking at it.

After dinner (Greek salad with lamb meatballs), he retrieves it, scrolls through Ed’s — goodness. Many messages.

STede.

f*ck

f*ck

f*cking f*cking f*ckity f*ck

I am so sorry

you do see me.

you have, ever since that first day

And that’s f*cking scary, man, okay

Like

I am so used to people seeing blackbeard

And it’s whatever, you know?

It’s the price i pay for that life

This life.

And then there you are

day one

seeing ME

do you know what it’s like to be Perceived like that, man?

You saw me

Not Blackbeard

and i didn’t know what to do with that

(I still don’t know what to do with that)

but

And?

I don’t f*cking know

Conjunction junction what’s your function?

anyway

This was my last relationship

Just so you have the context

(honestly not the worst thing about fame

I can just text you a link to all my f*cked up dating history and not have to actually say the words)

so

This is what i’m working with

And this is why i freaked out that night

And i’m really f*ckign sorry about it

and i hope you can forgive me

Anyway because i’m a f*cking coward here’s my dating history

And then there’s a link to a gossip article about Ed Teach and his cute, wholesome nurse girlfriend, whom he’d dated for nearly a year, only to have her sell their sex tape to TMZ (taken without his knowledge or consent, if Stede is reading between the lines accurately) and join the reality TV circuit on the tailcoats of that infamy. And it doesn’t fix things, but another damn crocus pops its head up, threatens to blossom, and Stede falls asleep that night with his phone in his hands, his message to Ed at the bottom of their exchange.

Edward, I’m so sorry. Thank you for telling me.

***

It’s been nine weeks, and Ed’s voice is as good as it’s ever been. He’s been a dream to work with, apart from the minor inconvenience of having his heart a little broken, and Stede cannot, in good conscience, keep him on as a client for any longer. This conversation is always the hardest part for him. He grows to love his clients, even the difficult ones, and the feeling of discharging them is a smaller version of what it had felt like to drop Alma and Louis off at university.

Ed takes his seat. Stede sits across from him.

“What would you like to work on today?” he asks.

“I have a new song,” Ed says almost shyly. “A duet. I thought, if you could, for the tour, I mean. Just practice it with me? Tell me if my part is too much?”

Stede looks between him and the sheet music he’s holding out.

“All right,” he says, because this is their last session and he’s feeling a little self-indulgent, and Ed is sitting there in a tight t-shirt the precise color of a bruise. The crocuses (croci?) haven’t bloomed yet, but there’s a whole field of buds, right there in his chest.

Stede thinks about finding his pitch pipe but then Ed’s there, and of course he has relative pitch, of course he does, and he’s giving them their starting note.

There are no words, yet, just notes on the paper, handwritten in pencil, and the wonkiness of the circles tells Stede that it’s Ed’s notation, Ed’s song. Stede takes the melody, lets Ed soar above him in an effortless descant. Stede’s singing on nonsense syllables, bum diddy bum bum bum, and Ed’s on an /i/ that focuses his voice right in the front of his face, and Stede’s sinuses vibrate in sympathy. Their voices twine and meld and rise together, and there’s an intimacy to it that rolls the stone away, leaves Stede open to the sunshine. He lets it filter in, lets it warm the secret, tender parts of him he’s been keeping hidden.

They sing the whole song through, and then, on a raised eyebrow from Ed, they sing it together a second time. When they’re finished, there’s an ache in Stede’s throat that is entirely unrelated to his voice use, and the crocuses are in full bloom. He can almost taste the saffron, thick and heady in the air.

“Thank you,” Ed says, as Stede says,

“Ed,” and they don’t move toward each other, but they also don’t look away.

“Will you come?” Ed asks, “To the first show?”

“Of the tour?” Stede says, feeling slow and stupid.

“Yeah.”

“I — all right. Where is it?”

“Oh. Uh, sh*t, I think it’s in, like — I should know this, shouldn’t I? I think it’s out west. Albuquerque? Indianapolis? Something like that.”

“Those are — Ed, those are nowhere near each other.”

“Lotta syllables, though. More syllables than one town needs, really, when you think of it.”

Stede laughs, and he wonders when the last time he laughed was, wonders if it was months ago when Ed was in his apartment.

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly. “I mean, I would love to see it. But not in Albuquerque? I’ll come when you’re here.”

“Yeah, of —- yeah, sure. Of course.”

“I have something for you,” Stede says, and pulls the certificate out of Ed’s chart. It’s a certificate like you might get for being a runner-up in your school science fair, brightly colored confetti and the words SUPER STAR printed on card stock. He does this for all his clients, has done since he was in graduate school and working with children. He’d carried the tradition with him, figures that sometimes adults need acknowledgment of their hard work just as much as kids do. Sometimes more.

In the “To” line, he’d written “Edward Teach” in his best copperplate script, and in the “For” line, he’d written, “Hard Work and Dedication in Voice Therapy and Also Excellence at Charades.” He hands it to Ed, thinks about stepping back, resists. Ed blinks down at it, up at him.

“Stede—” he says.

“Good luck with the tour,” Stede says. “Though I know you won’t need it.”

“Stede —”

“And feel free to call the office if you feel you need a tune-up, or just to check in.”

“Stede —”

“It’s been a pleasure. Truly. I hope you’re proud of all the progress you’ve made.”

“Stede —”

He’s not letting him finish, why isn’t he letting him finish? Stede has a series of closing remarks for his clients when he’s discharging them and he’s nearly done, and now he’s lost the thread, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, is just standing there like a lump and —

“Stede.”

“Yes?”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Yes, all right.”

Stede steps into Ed’s arms, melts into the embrace, lingers with his face in the crook of Ed’s neck. He breathes in the scent of him, fixes it in his memory. This is probably the last time — his throat is getting tight, so he cuts that thought off, just inhales once more through his nose and steps back.

“Thank you,” Ed says, and Stede only nods, not trusting his voice.

“Can I… Stede, can I text you?”

Stede looks at him, the warmth of those brown eyes, the laugh lines at the corners, the curve of his upper lip, and he nods again, helpless.

***

They text. Stede keeps living his quiet little life. He makes his lists, he goes to his classes, he goes to work, he comes home, makes dinner, goes to bed, alone. He lets Lucius talk him into getting back on The Apps, goes on exactly two-thirds of a terrible date, and deletes The Apps again. The second week of May draws closer and closer, and his phone has become a constant source of torment as Ed has taken to sending him selfies in his various costumes as he goes to final fittings for them.

What do you think of this one?

A bit New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, isn’t it?

f*ck you, this is so not Dick Clark. Dick Clark wishes he looked this good!

I meant the ball, Edward. You look like the ball that drops. How many sequins died in service of that costume?

You’re so f*cking mean

Maybe I’ll ask Morgan to do tearaway pants.

Could really lean into the look, be all of Times Square, do a bit of product placement.

Tear the pants away and there’s like

an ad for US Bank on my ass.

You’re telling me people pay actual money to come watch you perform?

Give me a B

Give me an I

Give me a C

Give me a T

Give me an H

What’s that spell?

STEDE BONNET, CCC-SLP, B-I-T-C-H

(you should sing your credentials to the tune of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse song)

I think you should sing my credentials to the tune of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse song, actually

Voice_memo.mp4 (12 seconds)

And then it’s Thursday (Ed’s therapy day, will Thursdays always be Ed’s therapy day? He hasn’t been in weeks, but Thursday’s are still lit up in neon in Stede’s mental calendar as Ed’s therapy day) and the tour starts tomorrow, and Stede’s feeling all tight and tangled high in his chest and deep in his belly all at once, and when Lucius proposes drinks and dancing at a gay bar in the Village, he agrees, to everyone’s surprise including his own.

They meet at nine, which is way too late for Stede, way too early for Lucius, and just about right for Olu and Jim. Buttons is not joining them, had muttered something about communing with his one true love, which Stede hopes means a FaceTime date but suspects means something more akin to swimming nude in the Hudson, which makes him think about cholera, which makes him think about Ed.

The list of things that don’t make him think about Ed is growing shorter by the day, and it’s one of the reasons he’s agreed to this outing in the first place. He wants 1) to drink something sweet and lethally alcoholic, wants 2) to move his body until his mind stops thinking thoughts, and if he finds himself 3) rubbing elbows (or penises) with a handsome stranger, would it be the worst thing in the world? No, because the worst thing in the world had already happened, the worst thing in the world was Edward Teach in his living room on his birthday saying, “I like you so much” in a voice that sounded like broken glass. The worst thing in the world keeps happening, as Ed keeps texting and making him laugh, keeps making these damn flowers bloom in Stede’s chest. The thaw is long gone, the crocuses have been replaced by daffodils. It’ll be tulips next, if he’s not careful.

Stede’s genie must be phoning it in that day, because he only gets the first of his three wishes. Lucius brings him something violently purple in a martini glass that smells like grape bubble gum and tastes like furniture polish. He drinks it down in five minutes, heads to the dance floor just as the music changes and —

It’s a song from Ed’s second album, and the speakers here really are something special, because they’re conveying the warmth and richness of Ed’s voice in a way that the two little first-generation Sonos speakers in Stede’s living room hadn’t managed. He leans against a pillar, lets the music (the voice) wash over him, lets himself pretend for a moment that Ed’s singing directly to him, asking Stede to let me call you baby, and four minutes later he’s in an Uber back to his apartment.

He texts Lucius, gets back an emoji maelstrom that contains eight confetti cornucopias, an eggplant, a peach, and a dozen smirking faces, not necessarily in that order.

Proud of you, Stedie Nicks.

Thirty minutes after that, he’s approximately five thousand dollars poorer but has a plane ticket to Minneapolis for an ungodly hour tomorrow morning (Minneapolis, which is neither Albuquerque nor Indianapolis, for goodness’ sake, Edward) and a ticket for the opening night of the Blackbeard Personas tour. He throws some clothes into a suitcase, takes a long, hot shower, and sets his alarm for Too Early. He feels crazed, rash, impulsive. He feels like maybe he just started living his life.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Stede lands in Minneapolis as the sun is coming up, makes his way to the airport motel he’d booked. His rationale last night had been that he’s only going to be there one night, no point in hauling all over the city, but when he sees the stained carpet in the lobby that wouldn’t have been out of place in a roller rink circa 1983, he regrets not booking something nicer downtown.

He charms his way into a very, very early check-in, falls asleep on top of the scratchy duvet (possibly a tactical error, he wonders as he’s drifting off whether you can catch cholera from linens), and when he wakes sometime after noon, he feels nearly human. He takes a long shower, blow-dries his hair, changes into his concert-going outfit, which is as casual as he ever is: a pink floral print short-sleeved button-down shirt and a pair of slim-fitting dark-wash jeans Lucius had made increasingly lascivious comments about the last time he’d worn them out to drinks with the work crew. It’s foolish to take such pains with his appearance; he’s going to the concert on his own. Yes, sixty-six thousand other people will be there, but that only serves to increase the anonymity, really. Still, he’s there to support Ed, isn’t he? Or to mark the end of their working relationship, maybe? Possibly to prove to himself that he needs to get over Ed? Oh god, why is he here?

He does some breathing exercises, adjusts his hair in the mirror, pats his pockets to make sure he has everything he needs. Phone: fully charged, front right pocket. Billfold: cash enough for a souvenir or two, plus his credit card and room key, back left pocket. Foam earplugs: two pairs, just in case he loses one, front left pocket. He doesn’t need his apartment key, so he tucks it safely into his duffel bag and steps out into the hall.

His first stop is the Twin City Model Railroad Museum. He’d chosen it on the plane because it was on a list of Twelve Museums Not to Miss and also because the main exhibit is a bird’s eye view of Minneapolis and St. Paul, and what better way to get a feel for a city you’re in for twenty-four hours? He finds himself fascinated by the intricacy of the display, the craftsmanship, the hours and hours of focused, obsessive attention someone, or many someones, must have paid to creating this little world. The trains are a bonus, really, a kinetic flourish that only serves to underscore the artistry of this little city. It reminds him of the Thorne miniature rooms at the Art Institute in Chicago. He takes a picture and sends it to Louis, who had always had a penchant for things writ small.

His next stop is lunch at a Swedish place that came highly recommended on Yelp but pales in comparison to the Ikea food court. Stede would feel worse about making the comparison, even in his own head, but he loves the Ikea food court, once drove to Elizabeth, New Jersey just to have lunch. It’s a high bar, is all.

The third stop is the sculpture garden with the spoon and the cherry. The — Stede can’t remember the name of the artist, but that’s his thing, making sculptures that are very large versions of small, mundane objects. He hadn’t planned it, but he’s a little amused by the report he could give at work on Monday morning. What I Saw on My Spontaneous Weekend Vacation: Saw some small things that were supposed to be big, saw some big things that were supposed to be small. He wonders where his heart falls along that spectrum. He thinks about texting Ed, but snaps some photos for Alma instead. She’s majoring in art. This is, technically, art.

And then it’s half past four and he starts to make his way to the stadium. Doors are at five, and the concert starts at seven, no opener. Ed had told him that, weeks and weeks ago. Had said,

“I’m getting too f*ckin’ old to start at eight. Want to be showered and in my jammies by ten thirty at the latest, you know? So I said no to an opener.”

Stede doesn’t know where to look first when he reaches the stadium grounds. He has joined what isn’t so much a queue as a current of people all moving slowly toward the gates of the arena, and he’s never been in a crowd like this. He thinks maybe there just hasn’t ever been a crowd like this. People are – not in costume, not exactly, but they’re dressed as themselves if they were donning one of Ed’s personas. There are flannel-clad hipsters and punks with ripped jeans and eyebrow piercings and hippies in flowy linen with flower crowns in their hair and a lot of people in the eponymous black leather with a purple t-shirt from the first album’s cover art.

And everywhere he turns, there are queer people. There’s a lesbian couple a few paces ahead that’ve got to be pushing eighty; the tall one has gone for the flannel grunge look, the shorter one is in leather and lace. There are shirtless people in skirts and combat boots, despite the slight chill in the air. There’s just generally a lot of skin on display; Stede appears to be in the non-tattooed minority. More than one person has painted their top surgery scars with glitter. Stede sees every possible flavour of Pride flag on pins and buttons and flags and eyeshadow and t-shirts, many he recognizes, and some he does not. He spends five minutes trying to reconcile the person in full leather and six-inch platform boots carrying a bag with a patch on it that looks like a Thin Blue Line flag with a heart on it before he gives in and Googles it — turns out leather bears have their own flag, who knew? Stede finds himself wishing he’d known what this was going to be like, wonders if he’d known, whether he’d have had the courage to dress accordingly.

People are exchanging friendship bracelets. People are singing Blackbeard songs already. People are writing lyrics on each other’s skin in permanent ink. He counts at least eight dads shepherding their children or young teens around, and each man is wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words “DAD IS A VERB.” He thinks about looking it up on his phone, too, and then he takes another look at the crowd, feels the current of excitement and positivity and joy, and he approaches one of the dads.

“I like your shirt,” he says. “I’ve seen quite a few around. Is it a reference to something?”

The dad, a handsome Black guy who seems to be waiting for two teen girls to finish a whisper-shrieked conversation over their cell phones, grins at him.

“First Blackbeard show?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“They sell them at the merch booths. You know that song ‘Mama’s Boy?’”

Stede nods. It’s on the third album, a little more country than folk. It’s a scathing condemnation of a father — Ed’s father, maybe, though Stede had never asked, had never asked about Ed’s songwriting process, whether his songs were autobiographical or fiction or somewhere in between.

“He was doing an interview after the Grammys the year he won for the album and they asked him about that song, and that was his response. Walked away from the interviewer after, so obviously they had to make shirts, you know? Iconic mic drop. Have you seen the Daddy ones?”

Stede nods. He’d spotted a few, identical in design to the “DAD IS A VERB” shirts, down to the typeface, but that read, “DADDY IS A WAY OF LIFE.”

“That was a… Kimmel? Colbert? Can’t remember, anyway, some late-night talk show right after there was this internet poll about DILFs where he came in second or something. My wife keeps threatening to buy me one but —” he breaks off, laughs, shakes his head, and Stede chuckles along.

“What about the hug ones?” he asks, because he’d spotted yet another variant, “DAD IS A VERB” with “Hug is also a verb” in smaller type underneath, and the guy’s face lights up.

“I have one of those but I promised my daughters I wouldn’t embarrass them tonight,” he says. “You know at Pride, the people with the Dad Hugs signs? For folks whose parents aren’t accepting?”

“Yes,” Stede says, because he’d read an article about the phenomenon and then cried in the bath for an hour after.

“It’s like that. Like, to identify yourself as a safe adult in this crazy, overwhelming crowd to any kids who might be here on their own because they don’t feel safe coming with their parents, you know?”

Stede blinks hard. Stede blinks harder. Around the chasm in his throat, he manages, “That is — so lovely. Thank you for the information.”

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Stede shrugs, smiles rather wetly.

“D’you need a hug?”

Stede smiles again, even more wetly, and nods. The guy opens his arms, lets Stede step into them, squeezes him tight. Stede sniffles a little into his shoulder, just once, and steps back. The teen girls are watching them, and the younger one looks like she’s trying not to smile.

“Thank you,” Stede says. “I just — thanks.”

“Of course. It can be a lot, your first time. Nice talking to you, man.”

“You too. Enjoy the show.”

Stede walks away, wipes his face, reorients himself to the wayfinding signs, and slips into another current of people heading toward his section. He eyes the merch booths he passes, but decides to wait until later, doesn’t want to be carrying a shirt around all evening. He does stop at a concession stand to pay nearly twenty dollars for a beer from a brewery called Surly, and he raises it in a silent toast to Izzy, whom he supposes has to be around here somewhere.

He spends the better part of an hour people-watching on the concourse near where his seat is. He’s getting the impression that “seat” is a bit of a meaningless designation. There’s no way this crowd is going to sit for even a single moment. Just as he’s about to head to his standing area, someone approaches him. They’re in a flowy dress with flowers woven into their braid, and their arms are heavy with beaded bracelets.

“Hi, you don’t have a bracelet and that’s a crime. Which one do you want?”

“Oh, no, I don’t —“

“Yes you do! What’s your favorite song?”

“Icarus,” Stede says immediately, because it’s the only one he can think of by name right now, but more importantly because it cracked his heart open three months ago and he still hasn’t recovered.

“Good choice,” the person tells him, and seems to be scanning down their left arm. “Here. Do you want “Icarus flew” or “Can we burn?”

Stede waffles for a minute. “Icarus flew” is such a lovely sentiment, but the burn one has its appeal, and the beads are a pleasing peach color…

“Both,” says the stranger, like they’ve learned something about Stede. “You need both.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly —”

But they’re sliding the bracelets onto his wrist and they settle there just above his wrist bone, and Stede feels, again, like a magpie, enamored of the glittery beads. He feels fancy. He feels like he belongs, now.

“Thank you,” he says, but the person is walking off, their dress billowing out behind, and they’re soon swallowed up by the crowd. He strokes his beads with his forefinger and goes to find his seat.

***

The energy in the crowd has built and built and built until it’s almost unbearable, like a summer thunderstorm just before it breaks. And then every light in the stadium goes out and the crowd lets out a roar like an old Victrola being cranked into life by a Titan: slowly at first but then deafening. The lights all come on, begin flashing, and there are pyrotechnics and fog and giant screens and there’s Ed, right there. Stede is close enough to the stage that he can make out his form, but he’s also up there on eight screens the size of his apartment building, and he’s wearing the leather and purple shirt outfit and playing the guitar and Stede has a moment of panic, because this isn’t Ed. This person looks like Ed and, oh my goodness, sounds like Ed, but the Ed he knows and l — the Ed he knows isn’t up on that stage.

He breathes, and listens to the crowd. Some are screaming still, but most have started singing along, and it’s lovely, really, and Stede watches Ed’s face as he sings. He thinks about the faces he puts on at work at the clinic, how every client sees a slightly different Stede based on their needs, and what Ed is doing is no different, it’s just writ large, like a cherry on a spoon in a sculpture garden.

The first song segues seamlessly into the second and the lights are flashing in perfect time to the music. Stede wonders whether it would be annoying to a synesthete, seeing the wrong colors pulse with a particular tone, and he looks at the closest screen, watches Ed’s hair fly around him, blown by a wind machine and his own efforts. It’s mesmerizing, and Stede nearly loses himself in it, but then something draws his attention and he frowns.

By the third song, Stede is watching like a hawk, and when Ed starts the fourth after a brief, “Good evening, Minneapolis, it’s great to be here,” Stede pulls his phone out from his pocket and thumbs to Izzy’s contact, as yet unused, but stored in his phone since Ed’s fourth session in case of emergency .

Hello, Izzy, this is Stede Bonnet. If you have someone in Edward’s ear, could you please have them remind him to drop his shoulders?

(I was Edward’s voice therapist)

(In New York)

(But I’m here at the concert in Minneapolis, and he needs to drop his shoulders and stop breathing from his chest.)

Izzy doesn’t respond, but as the fourth song segues into the fifth, Stede watches Screen Ed co*ck his head slightly and grin. When he starts the next song, his posture is perfect and his voice is immediately better for it, and Stede relaxes again, watches the crowd ripple and undulate and roar.

This is, he realizes, the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had. He’s not a person anymore, he’s a cog, or a coral polyp, or one arm of a many-tentacled cephalopod, or one of the aspen trees in Utah that has tens of thousands of trunks but only one interconnected root system. He’s part of this heaving, seething mass that is singularly focused, singing together with one voice, and Stede finds himself joining in. He’s singing with abandon, screaming along to lyrics he didn’t even know he’d memorized. He thinks about the power of it, the power Ed is not wielding so much as channeling, and he’s grateful to him for it, grateful that he’s an acolyte at this particular rite.

The music changes, quietens, and there’s a colorful display on the screens that distracts the crowd, but not Stede, from the fact that Ed disappears from the stage for a minute and a half. When he reappears, he’s in the Times Square costume, and the set has also changed in his absence. Then the bass starts an insistent pulse that Stede feels under his sternum and in the pit of his stomach, and soon it’s joined by synth and drums and, yes, Stede knows this one, too, it’s what was playing in the bar just last night.

Stede expects that the next mini-set will follow the chronology of the albums, but when the second set and costume change occurs, he finds himself flummoxed. Ed’s back out from wherever he’d disappeared to in a pair of jeans and a v-neck tee shirt, looking for all the world like he’s just stepped out of Stede’s office. The set dressings have disappeared (how have they disappeared? There are no wings behind which they can disappear!) and there’s a single old-timey radio microphone center stage. The band members have all come to stand within its range, and Ed’s in the middle, the mic at just the right height for him.

“Hi, guys,” he says, and the crowd roars. “Thanks for coming out to the first show of the tour. It’s a little different this time around, huh?”

More screaming, loud enough to be heard in St. Paul, or possibly St. Cloud. The second guitarist starts playing, just a little chunk-a-chunk behind Ed’s patter, and it feels like something Stede would listen to at his grandparents’ house. Cozy, a little tinny, a little folksy.

“This next set is a little different, too. I had an experience a couple weeks ago — details aren’t important, but someone stood up for me a couple weeks ago, and the way they did it blew my f*ckin’ mind, and that’s what this set is about.”

They all take one step in toward the microphone, settle themselves. The look they share is breathtakingly familiar, it’s the eye contact and inhalation in unison that every string quartet worth its salt does before embarking on the first movement. And that’s exactly what it is, because it’s chamber music, the five of them playing together, like they might in someone’s living room late at night as the party’s winding down, never mind that the party is the size of a small city and still in full swing. Stede expects the song will be something quiet and contemplative based on the instrumentation (acoustic guitar, stand-up bass, banjo, drums), and it is, or at least it starts that way. It takes Stede a minute to recognize it, but when he does, he laughs aloud at the audacity.

Ed has taken the biggest, most bombastic, blow-the-doors-off-the-place power ballad from his new album and turned it into something new, something somehow more powerful for all its stillness. Stede knows he’s biased, but he thinks Ed might be giving the performance of a lifetime. The song is still vocally demanding, but the change in instrumentation means he’s not competing for the spotlight. Instead, he’s letting his instrument shine. The change is brilliant, and Stede is almost angry it wasn’t his idea. He thinks about that morning with Izzy, how a cold fury had come over him and he had gone very, very quiet in his rage. Ed had seen that, and Ed had made this from it, so maybe, in some small way, it was.

There’s another song, but Stede is still reeling from the first, and then another that he doesn’t know very well. When it finishes, there’s a pause, a shuffling for some tuning and adjusting a capo, and Ed spreads his arms, leans in to the mic.

“So?” he asks, and the crowd screams its riotous enthusiasm.

“Okay, noted, you hated it. Cool, you can f*ck right off,” and he flashes them a co*cky grin, pauses for the cheers again. “So, I wrote this next one a few years ago after some heartbreak, but my crush is here tonight —” A pause upward of a minute while he waits for the hubbub to die down, during which Stede goes through all seven stages of grief and hope in a roundabout and haphazard fashion and texts Lucius,

I’ve either made a terrible mistake or the opposite of that

Finally, horribly, Ed continues, “And I thought, f*ck, playing this might bring the vibe down, you know? So I hope you like the new version,” and Stede hears the familiar opening chords of the song he’s wearing on his wrist, and honesty, f*ck his life.

The wings were made by Daedalus
It was not an act of pride.
Kept prisoner by Minos
The only way out was to fly

An act of faith to don those wings
An act of faith to leap
An act of faith to take the chance
Although the price was steep

When I met you I learned how to fly
If only for a while
The freedom in the falling
The falling in your smile

Two figures wheeling in the air
They gambol in the sun
A leap of faith’s no guarantee
It’s over before it’s begun

When Daedalus plucked his broken boy
From out of the swallowing sea
He saw the smile on his face
He’d died, but he’d been free.

When I met you I learned how to fly.
Am I flying before I fall?
I don’t know how it’s gonna end,
But I don’t regret it at all.

The last note lingers for a while in the cool spring air and in Stede’s throat, the tulips bloom in a cacophony of color.

***

An hour and only moderate psychic trauma later, the show ends, and Stede, who doesn’t dare to hope too hard, has just started to fight his way toward the exit with his 65,999 of his new best friends when his phone buzzes in his pocket

f*cking hell, Bonnet, I know who you are. Edward says will you please stick around for a whishjd09

Stede

This is Ed

I took Izzy’s phone I can’t find mine I have no idea where any of my sh*t is right now

Can you stick around for a bit?

Please?

Maybe we could get a drink or something

Or just to say hi

All right, Stede types, his text voice much, much cooler than his internal monologue. Where should I go?

Stay put and I’ll send someone to help you find me. What section are you in?

Stede pulls up his electronic ticket and sends the screenshot to Ed.

Hang on someone will be there 💖

Stede hangs on, white-knuckling it a bit, and in less time than seems possible given the press of the crowd and the size of the venue, a very scary looking man with a complicated hairdo is wading up the aisle toward him.

“Stede Bonnet?” he asks, and Stede nods, and the guy nods and says, “Come with me,” and it’s all very Hunt for Red October or X-Files or something, lots of intrigue and mystery and slicing through the crowd in the wake made by this massive, intimidating hulk of a man right up to the point where Stede is trotting along past the carcasses of old popcorn machines and Pepsi coolers and some of the sense of importance fades. Apparently all the glamour is reserved for aboveground.

The security guy leads him to an unimpressive, unmarked door in an unimpressive, unmarked hallway, and he knocks, waits for it to open. Izzy pokes his head out, sees Stede and rolls his eyes, but he steps out of the room and motions for Stede to go in. Stede goes in.

Ed’s got his back to the door, is running a comb through shower-damp hair and Stede just lets himself watch for a moment, until even watching feels like too much, and he has to speak.

“Er, hi.”

Ed whips around.

Ed drops the comb.

Ed crosses the room in three leggy strides and he is wearing grey sweatpants, it is important to note he is wearing grey sweatpants, Stede needs to tell someone Ed is wearing grey sweatpants so the coroner knows when he starts Stede’s autopsy, which will be imminent — right, let’s try again.

Ed crosses the room in three leggy strides.

Ed pins him with a heated, predatory look and whispers, “You came,” in a G2R3B1A0S2 rasp that Stede finds he doesn’t give a single f*ck about right now when Ed is looking at him like that.

“I came,” he says, looking up at him.

“Why?”

Stede shrugs. “Maybe I’m a little whim-prone, too.”

Ed takes the final step and keeps moving, crowds Stede back up against the door and grabs him by the collar, a question in his eyes. Stede inclines his head a fraction, and then they’re kissing.

The kiss is —

(All those months ago, in Stede’s office, Ed had kissed Stede. And then later, in the kitchen, Stede had kissed Ed. And now here, in the bowels of Minneapolis, they’re finally kissing each other.)

The kiss is —

Alma had been born at six in the morning, and Stede remembers holding her in his arms and watching the sun rise over the city and feeling something inside his deepest being give way. Instead of a fracture, it was a widening, the creation of brand-new space within himself. It’s like that, a little. It’s like running naked through the snow and jumping into a hot tub, a little. It’s like the first green shoot to poke its way up out of the ashes of a forest fire, a little.

Ed’s tongue is in his mouth and Stede’s hands are in Ed’s hair and his thigh is between Ed’s legs and Ed’s hands are rucking up his shirt and sliding along his skin and Stede’s tipping his head back against the door, baring his neck to Ed’s lips and tongue and teeth and of course that’s when there’s a knock at the door.

“f*ck,” breathes Ed, and Stede nods.

“What?” Ed barks, and the person on the other side says, “Car in fifteen minutes if you still want it, Mr. Teach,” and Ed kisses Stede once more and asks,

“D’you want to get dinner?”

Stede looks at the shine of Ed’s lips and almost says no, but he hasn’t eaten since the sub-par meatballs at lunch, and he’s actually starving. He weighs going to dinner with Ed, thinks about what it might mean. He wonders whether Ed will still want to take it slow, wonders whether dinner is just dinner or something else, and then he remembers how Ed had introduced the re-written Icarus song. Not what he’d said, but how he’d said it. His speaking voice. His speaking voice, comfortable in his chest, easily thirty Hertz higher than it had been that winter. He had used that voice on stage, in front of all those people. He looks back at Ed, the fondness in his eyes, the set of his mouth, the easy way he’s holding himself, so close to Stede, and it’s like wiping the fog off the bathroom mirror. Ed’s ready, and Stede has been waiting.

“Yes,” he says. “Yeah, I would love that,” and Ed’s shy grin is Stede’s new favorite song.

“How does it even work?” Stede asks. “Going out to dinner when you’re, you know. You.”

Ed shrugs. “Eh, it’s not that bad, actually? I usually just put a hat on and it’s like Clark f*ckin’ Kent. Blackbeard is like 90% the hair, no one remembers my face. I think women have it worse, because the paps are always dogging them to see if they catch them looking frumpy, so they’ve got to keep it put together unless they wanna show up on US Weekly’s, like, Grocery Walk of Shame or some sh*t. Doesn’t happen as much to guys, which is bullsh*t, but if it means I can go get a f*ckin’ beer after a show, I’m all for it.”

“Edward…”

“Stede, love, you’re off the clock, you’re off payroll, you’re off on a whimsical f*ckin’ trip, I just got off stage and I’m hoping really soon I’ll be getting on your dick, can you please not be a voice therapist for three hours and let me have one drink, I promise I’ll drink, like, a gallon of water later to make up for it. Please.”

Stede considers it for a long moment, doesn’t even know where to start, feels like all the blood in his body has been sucked out and replaced with the ingredients for a baking soda volcano and Ed’s kiss has removed the barrier between the two ingredients. In fact, his whole body feels like a science lesson, because his brain is absolutely one of those clocks powered by nothing but the electricity inherent to a raw potato.

“One drink,” he says finally, and he thinks he’s going to get in the habit of acquiescing to Ed if it gets him kissed like this.

Eventually, Ed goes into an adjoining room to change into normal-people clothes and Stede pulls out his phone, grateful for the respite from the grey sweatpants. Lucius has texted back a heart emoji and a question mark, so Stede texts him the thumbs-up emoji, knowing full well that he’s only inviting a barrage of increasingly hysterical demands for details, and sure enough, his phone begins buzzing. He ignores it.

Alma has also texted.

Dad, what are you doing in Minneapolis?

Stede does not respond to that one. He’s got a better sense of the answer now than he did two hours ago, but there’s far too much to convey in a text message, so he ignores it, too.

Ed comes back wearing dark jeans and a flannel over an old black t-shirt. He’s got a hat on over his hair, and Stede can’t help but chuckle.

“What?” Ed asks.

“Just the quote unquote disguise. You couldn’t possibly be anyone but you. People really don’t recognize you when you wear that?”

Ed moves into his space, draws him in but doesn’t kiss him, just presses their bodies together like they’re slow-dancing, his arms up around Stede’s shoulders, Stede’s hands at his waist.

“‘S’cause you’re looking for Ed, not Blackbeard, and no one else is.”

“Mmm.” A long pause in which he enjoys the feeling of Ed all up along the front of him, enjoys the closeness and warmth of his body. Then, because his brain has finally stopped being a potato, “Ed?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you say you were going to be getting on my dick or did I hallucinate that?”

Ed laughs.

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. Maybe I can just take you out to dinner and we see how it goes, yeah?”

“I’d like that very much, Edward.”

And Ed takes his hand and leads him out of the room and through the labyrinth of the stadium once again.

***

They go to a Mexican restaurant, and apart from Ed rejecting the offered table in the window in favor of a booth toward the back it's startlingly normal. Ed gets his beer and Stede gets a margarita, and they agree on some dishes to share. It is startlingly normal, that is, if you ignore the two security guys who came in three minutes after them and took a table in the corner with a good view of the whole restaurant. Stede chooses to ignore this. Stede chooses to focus on Ed, on the single curl escaping from his hat, on the way the string lights cast his face in warm pastels, an echo of the lighting on stage earlier that night. The way he keeps catching Stede’s eye and looking away with a smile, like he’s got a secret, or like Stede himself is the secret. Stede has never been the secret before.

The less said about Stede’s dating history post-Mary the better, but he’d felt something on the first date as he’d sat across the table from another man. He’s feeling it now but in stereo. It’s a sense of rightness. A sense of identity, of being perceived, of finally feeling like he fits someplace. He is sitting across the table from another man. They are on a date. Stede Bonnet is on a date with a man, and there’s a sense of belonging, of homecoming. That the man is Ed only amplifies it, sends it ricocheting around Stede’s chest like a pinball.

The food is good, and Ed’s foot keeps nudging his under the table, and Stede’s margarita is good, and the music and the lights in the restaurant are low, and Stede is soon warm and full and probably smiling like a complete sop across the table at Ed, but he can’t help it, because Ed keeps looking at him with those eyes, and Stede’s a little drunk, a little lost, a little found.

“I loved the new Icarus song,” he says during a lull in the conversation. “I, er. I hope my coming to the show didn’t keep you from your crush.”

Ed stops with a tortilla chip halfway to his mouth. “Stede.”

“Yes?”

“Stede, you’re the crush. You’re the f*ckin’ — You knew that, right? Oh my god, please tell me you knew —” and Stede can’t help it anymore, he finally breaks, lets the laugh he’s been bottling up burst out of him in an unholy shriek.

“Christ,” Ed says, shaking his head, after they’ve both stopped laughing. “Christ, I don’t know why I like you so much.”

“I really did have a bad turn there,” Stede says, choosing to sidestep the moment that’s threatening to catch and hold. “I knew Izzy’d passed on the message about your posture because I saw you fix it, but I didn’t know if he’d told you I was the one to say it.”

“You didn’t notice that I immediately lit up like a kid on Christmas morning? Because Izzy sure as f*ck did, he hasn’t stopped giving me sh*t for it.”

Stede and Israel Hands will never be bosom friends, but he feels a certain warmth for the man in this moment. He reaches out and takes the tortilla chip from Ed, who seems to have forgotten he’s holding it.

“I really did love the new Icarus song,” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It felt like — I had the oddest interaction with someone before the show. They gave me two bracelets, look.”

He holds his arm out and Ed takes his hand, reads the beads. And Stede, feeling brave and foolhardy and impossibly tender, slides one off his arm and onto Ed’s.

“Can we burn?” he asks quietly, and Ed signals for the cheque.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

“Can we burn?” Stede asks, and Ed signals for the cheque.

There’s a lot they could be — should be? — talking about, but instead they sit in comfortable silence as they wait for the waitress to bring the bill. When she does, Stede goes for his wallet but Ed waves him away.

“You came all this way,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.”

Stede shrugs. “Could’ve been worse. I was prepared to come to Albuquerque.”

Ed laughs. “Sounds serious, man. Never had someone offer to go to Albuquerque for me before.”

Stede presses his foot against Ed’s under the table, would reach for his hand except Ed’s got his arms folded across his chest, is leaning back in the booth and looking at Stede with his head tipped back slightly, languorous, appraising.

“Yes,” says Stede, because Ed had kissed him in the center of a labyrinth an hour ago and is now holding in his hand the thread that leads directly to the center of Stede’s heart. “Yes, I think it might be serious.”

Ed fixes him with a look somewhere between heat and anguish.

“f*ck, man, you can’t just say sh*t like that.”

“No?”

“I mean, yeah, no, definitely keep saying sh*t like that, but, like. People don’t. Where are you staying?”

“Out by the airport,” Stede says, not quite sure what the actual question is, whether it’s, “Can I come with you?” or “Do you want to come back to mine?” or potentially, “How are you planning on getting back to your hotel now that our friendly not-date is at an end, please forget we kissed passionately an hour ago because I already have, and I’m signaling for the cheque because it’s terribly awkward that you’ve gotten the wrong impression about how this evening is going because you’re a socially incompetent idiot.”

Stede doesn’t think it’s the third one, not really, but his thought patterns are written into the fiber of him, like a knothole in a pine board, and besides, his predictions about how an evening with Ed would go had been extremely off-base once already, and anything’s possible…

He takes a breath and finishes his margarita, shivers with it a little because all the tequila has settled down to the bottom. He hooks his ankle around Ed’s.

“Why are you asking?” he asks, because he’s come all this way and he’s not going to let a little thing like his father’s voice in the back of his mind shout him down, not from this. Not from this.

“Stede,” says Ed, all husk. “Come home with me.”

“Home?”

“Come back to whatever short-term rental my team is stashing me at while also renting out a bougie hotel suite to throw the media off my tail, C’mon, mate, you know what I’m asking.”

“No, I mean, I just realized I don’t actually know where you live? You’ve been based in New York lately but you’ve got an LA phone number, and you were born in Aotearoa and —”

“f*ckin’ hell, you really know how to kill the f*ck out of a moment, don’t you? ‘Can we burn’ all smooth and suave and then you pivot to, ‘Oh by the way, what’s your postcode?’”

Stede bristles a little at the words but then he registers the warmth of Ed’s voice, and sees the wide, soft, open smile he’s wearing as he speaks, and he admits he’s got a point, chuckles a little. Ed’s pressing his leg all along Stede’s under the table and all right, Stede hadn’t gotten the wrong impression about how this evening is going, because who needs words when Ed’s feelings are writ large all across his face?

“Yes,” says Stede, and then clarifies, “Yes to knowing how to kill a moment, but I meant yes to the other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Ed says, and gets to his feet. He doesn’t take Stede’s hand, but he’s looking at him in that way again. Stede is so used to uncertainty. Stede bathes in uncertainty, sprinkles uncertainty onto his morning oatmeal, lives in uncertainty, but the way Ed looks at him burns the uncertainty away. It’s the sun on the fields in early spring, lifting the fog, bringing everything into sharp relief.

Stede follows Ed out of the restaurant, and they’re followed in turn by the two security guys. There’s a car idling on the corner and Ed opens the curbside door, slides in to the far side of the back seat. Stede follows, and as soon as the door is shut behind him, Ed takes his hand, links their fingers together, pulls their clasped hands up to his lips, brushes a kiss across Stede’s knuckles, and it’s a different kind of sharp relief now. Stede lets out a shaky breath because he wants this so much, and Ed wants him. Stede is wearing the evidence of Ed’s having wanted him on his lips, a little stubble-roughened and chapped from their earlier kissing, but he’s quickly coming to learn that when it comes to Ed, he needs more. More evidence that this isn’t just Stede alone in his mind fabricating a love story where it doesn’t exist, yes, but also just more. More kissing would be nice. More Ed. More Ed-and-Stede, whatever that is, or was, or could be, or will be. He’s losing his command of tense and mood under the stroke of Ed’s thumb over his.

They sit holding hands, just looking at one another. The driver has the radio on, and when the song changes, Ed sits up a little straighter and says, “Hey, could you turn it up, please?”

A rhythmic guitar riff fills the car and Ed’s nodding his head along in time to it and smiling.

“A little stereotypical for the end of the night, but a classic.”

“The end of the night?” Stede asks.

“What,” Ed says emphatically, and it’s not a question. “Stede. Nope, no, uh-uh. I refuse to believe it.”

“Believe what, Edward?”

“It’s — Stede, it’s the Killers. It’s Mr. Brightside. It’s — c’mon, man. Every bar in the current and former Commonwealth plays it at closing, I think it’s a law.”

“Ah,” Stede says. “That would explain it. I’m not much of a night owl.”

“Mr. Brightside, Stede?” Ed implores, and Stede has to shake his head, but then he brightens as it comes to the bridge.

“Oh!” Stede exclaims. “Oh, this is Ode to Joy, how clever!” and he conducts a little with his free hand mi mi fa sol sol fa mi re, and Ed’s dissolved into silent laughter next to him, and Stede feels like one of those beagles used for pharmaceutical research who has just been let out onto the grass for the first time.

“Stede,” Ed gasps through his giggles, “Oh my God, Stede, I’m so in love with you,” and it could be cataclysmic or at least teratogenic, could rearrange Stede’s very DNA, but instead, right now, in the liminal space of this dark, anonymous car speeding through this dark, anonymous city, Stede just squeezes Ed’s hand, smiles into his eyes, and says,

“Yes.”

***

The car drives them to a hotel, and then there’s a bit of a f*ckery. Ed takes his hat off, shakes his hair out, steps out of the car like a famous person. Stede is somehow just starting to understand that Ed is a famous person. An extremely famous person, with cars and security and probably an incredibly unethical private jet waiting for him on the tarmac at MSP. Stede has known this academically, but now he’s beginning to experience it. Had experienced it, had screamed along with everyone else in the arena, had screamed along with Ed-as-Blackbeard, (because that feels like an important distinction to make), and now they’re doing a bait-and-switch f*ckery for the press. Ed runs a hand through his hair and nods to the doorman.

Stede watches Ed walk into the lobby, and then the car pulls away with Stede in it, heading out to his airport motel.

It feels a little like the beginning of a slasher film, with Stede as the dumb blonde who gets killed first, so he tells the driver this, and he chuckles.

“Nah, you seem cool, man, I think I’ll let you live,” and Stede laughs aloud at that because the driver is nearly seven feet tall and his muscles have muscles, and being called “cool” is not something Stede is accustomed to, especially not from a stranger with a neck the size of Stede’s thigh.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and the driver answers,

“Steak Knife,” so deadpan that Stede nearly buys it, but then his brain surfaces from wherever it had disappeared to when Ed had said — when Ed had said what he had said, and Stede says,

“Oh, surely not,” and the driver laughs and says,

“Just messing with you, my name is Jason.”

“Isn’t that a serial killer name? I think I’ll stick with Steak Knife.”

They chat the rest of the way to the airport motel. Stede runs in to collect his bag, pausing for a moment to snap a picture of the truly dire carpet. He drops his key off at the desk, and slides back into the back seat. Steak Knife is listening to the radio again, nothing Stede recognizes, and he watches the city blur past.

Soon enough, they’re winding through a residential neighborhood in St. Paul and pulling into the driveway of a sweet little Arts and Crafts bungalow. There are lights filtering through the curtains in the front window, and Stede spots a little flower garden before the car pulls into the attached garage and Steak Knife discharges him from the car with the code for the keypad into the house and a,

“Have a good night,” that is so consummately bland and professional that Stede immediately blushes down to the roots of his hair because of what Steak Knife is taking great care not to imply.

He beeps himself in the door and steps into a bright, welcoming kitchen, smelling strongly of cinnamon and clove. There is an array of snacks on the counter and —

He stops, scans the counters, takes it all in.

“Ed?” he calls softly, and then Ed’s there in the doorway, his hair pulled off his face, the rest hanging loose down his neck, and oh, the grey sweatpants are back.

“Ed, what’s all this?” He looks at the plate of cheese, the olives and nuts in a bowl, the cider simmering on the back burner. Where did Ed find cider in May? How did Ed pull this together in under an hour? Why is Stede’s pulse racing like he’s just come in from a jog?

“Yeah, so, I, er. I asked you to rewind,” Ed says, a little gruffly. “On your birthday. I asked you to rewind, and you did it, even after I f*cked everything up, so I thought maybe we could rewind again? Have our first date.”

“Ed,” Stede says, helpless, the string in his heart pulled taut, and he moves across the kitchen and slides his arms around Ed’s waist to give it some slack. “We just had our first date. You bought me tacos.”

“That could be our second date.”

“But then this would be —”

“Stede,” Ed says so, so gently, and he pulls him in and kisses him.

When they come up for air, Stede steps back. He goes to the stove and turns the burner off under the cider. He rummages around in drawers until he finds a roll of Saran wraps and wraps up the cheese, puts the olives back in their container, wipes the olive oil dribbles up off the counter. He can’t find the nut jar so he leaves them out, hoping there aren’t mice. Stede’s not sure whether Minnesotan mice would still be indoors in May, thinks about little mice wearing little Marius sweaters, and it’s a delightful tangent until he realizes Ed is watching him from the doorway, seemingly frozen in place.

“Stede,” he says, a little strangled. “Stede, please —”

“I don’t want to rewind,” Stede says. “I don’t want to go back, Edward.”

“But I hurt —”

“I think we hurt each other,” Stede says. “But we didn’t mean to, it just wasn’t the right time.”

“And now?”

“You tell me.”

Ed takes a deep breath. Stede watches his belly expand with it, his shoulders still and solid.

“I wasn’t ready,” Ed says. “And I was scared. And I’m still not ready, and I’m still scared, I’m f*ckin’ scared all the time, but I think — I think it’s not a bad scared, now?”

“No?”

“No,” Ed says, and Stede can hear the conviction in it, can see it in the way Ed’s holding himself, the way he’s looking at Stede like he’s the answer, like he’s the secret.

“Then I guess I only have one more question,” Stede says, moving in, putting his hands on Ed’s chest.

“What?” Ed asks, pupils blown wide.

“Do you really have an ad for US Bank on your ass?”

There’s just time to catch a flash of Ed’s shock and amusem*nt before Ed’s sliding his fingers into Stede’s hair and his tongue into his mouth. Stede presses in closer, presses their bodies together and feels Ed, half hard in those sweatpants against him. Stede feels that reckless, soaring, out-of-body bravery he’d felt last night as he bought last-minute plane tickets and wonders what it is about Ed that lets him be this way. Wonders why the cabinet his courage was stashed away in all these years has an Ed-shaped keyhole. He presses in closer, sucks Ed’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites, just a little, and Ed’s little gasp in response doesn't so much coax the cabinet door open wider as it blows the door clean off its hinges. Stede slides his hands up the back of Ed’s shirt, feeling the warm, soft skin, the play of muscles along his spine, and he pulls him even closer, grinds up against him a little, and it might be the best thing Stede has ever felt in his life.

The trip from the kitchen to the bedroom is a series of the best things Stede has ever felt in his life: Ed’s fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Ed’s lips on his neck, his breath hot and rough in Stede’s ear. Ed’s moan when Stede backs him up against the door before they manage to open it and fists his hand in Ed’s hair.

Ed finally gets the door open, and they stumble into the bedroom, and seem to tacitly agree to take their own clothes off for expediency’s sake. Ed’s job is easier, and Stede is still trying to peel himself out of his jeans when he looks up and sees Ed lying stretched out across the bed, stark naked.

Stede swears under his breath and doubles down on the jeans problem, nearly topples over trying to pull his socks off along with the denim, and finally, finally joins Ed on the bed, running a reverent hand up his side.

“Ed,” he begins, but Ed kisses him, and then there’s a long interlude, the thrill of the first warm, sweet slide of all that exposed skin, tongues and saliva and friction and heavy breathing, and when Stede is finally able to gasp out the rest of the thought,

“Ed, you’re so beautiful, oh my God,” they’re both hard and rutting up a little against each other’s thighs.

“You,” Ed says, “You, f*ck, I want —”

“Yes,” Stede says immediately, “Yes, what do you want?” but before Ed can answer, Stede starts kissing his way down Ed’s torso, pausing at the hawk, which he knew about, and again at his nipples, which he’d theorised existed, of course, and over which he scrapes his teeth a little, eliciting a bitten-off moan from Ed, and then once more at the trail of hair below his navel. Stede rubs his face into the softness of Ed’s belly, wonders briefly if that’s a strange thing to do, and immediately does it again, because he’s so impossibly soft against Stede’s cheek.

“Stede,” Ed whispers, and Stede settles himself between Ed’s thighs and looks up at him.

“Stede, please,” and then Stede takes the head of Ed’s co*ck into his mouth.

“Oh my God,” says Ed, and Stede slides down, takes him in deeper, licks at his frenulum, smiles a little around Ed’s co*ck as that elicits a low, throaty groan and Ed’s fingers tight in his hair.

He has done this before, but it’s been a while, and he’s never wanted to take his time with anyone like this before, never wanted to catalog and memorize every breath and moan and twitch and pulse of precome, salty and bitter on his tongue. He wants to index it, cross-reference Ed’s reactions, wants to replicate his findings, wants to learn whether Ed will respond in the same way the next time if Stede keeps his tongue broad and flat and lets Ed rub against it until he’s tense and shaking underneath him, until Ed is saying,

“Stede, I’m so close.” Stede takes him down til he’s sliding against his velum and then Ed starts to pulse in his mouth, and Stede breathes through his nose and swallows, swallows again.

“f*ck,” Ed breathes, and opens his arms. Stede crawls into them, tucks his face into the place between Ed’s neck and shoulder and breathes in the pine-smoke-clean scent of him. Stede kisses him there, presses himself as close to Ed as he can get, tries to be polite about his erection against Ed’s hip, consciously refrains from seeking out more friction. They hold each other for a while, just breathing together.

“Stede,” Ed says eventually, and Stede untucks his face from where he’s been burrowing, loses himself a little in Ed’s warm, brown eyes.

Ed kisses him, sweet and filthy, and Stede gasps into Ed’s mouth as Ed’s hand finds his co*ck, hesitant at first but then more sure, stroking him a little looser and faster than Stede touches himself, but oh, Stede finds it really, really works for him. Stede feels like all his sensory barriers have disappeared at once and he’s aware of everything, the rough drag of Ed’s calluses against his co*ck, the wrinkle of the comforter caught under Stede’s ribs, the faint hum of the lightbulb in the lamp on the bedside table, the lingering hint of beeriness of Ed’s breath as Stede pants into his mouth, the high, needy whimpers that are escaping his own throat as he hurtles toward org*sm.

“Oh, Ed,” he whispers as he comes, shuddering and spurting hot over Ed’s hand and abdomen, and then Ed’s kissing him so sweetly it brings tears to Stede’s eyes. He lets them come, lets them spill over and track down his cheeks, and he’s still in this strange sensory place because he feels each individual tear as it courses across his skin. He finds that it eases the ache in his throat, letting himself cry, instead of biting it back and forcing it down.

“Hey,” Ed says, when he notices the tears. “Hey, no, Stede, what—?”

“No, they’re good tears,” he says softly. “Joy. And catharsis. Relief, I think, too, a little.”

“Yeah?”

Stede sniffles, nods, and Ed’s smiling a secret, shy smile, and Stede needs to kiss him about it, and by the time they’re finished, his tears have stopped. They lie facing each other, their foreheads touching, holding hands between their bodies.

“Hi,” Ed says, and Stede echoes it back to him,

“Hi.”

They’re both smiling, a little soppily, and Stede tries to remember if he’s ever felt this happy, or rather if he’s ever felt happy in this precise way, if he’s ever felt seen and safe and — whatever the opposite of loneliness is, that is what Stede is awash in.

“Did you mean what you said in the car?” he asks in a voice that could be used in clinical practica as a textbook example of intimate voicing.

Ed inhales through his nose, lets it out in a long, controlled stream that isn’t quite a sigh. There’s some tension in his expression, a little crease between his brows, and Stede kisses it away.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, I did, and I know it’s probably crazy and too much, or too soon, or too much too soon, but —”

Stede’s shaking his head. “No, Edward, no that’s not — me too.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you, and it is definitely too much too soon, but that’s kind of my personal brand, as the kids say.”

The crease between Ed’s eyebrows is gone, replaced by crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the most blindingly bright smile Stede has ever seen, and Stede wants to remember this forever, closes his eyes for a moment just to fix the image in his mind’s eye. He thinks about the new Icarus song, the freedom in the falling/the falling in your smile and when Ed hugs him tight, he falls.

***

Ed showers first, then Stede. He stands for a while under the hot water, just letting it course over him, letting himself feel the exhaustion of the day. It has been such a long day. A good day. Maybe the best day, but long.

Eventually, Stede steps back into the bedroom to find Edward sitting up in bed with a spiral-bound notebook in his lap, writing with single-minded concentration. Stede goes to his suitcase, exchanges his bath towel for pajamas, and climbs in next to Ed. He’s writing words, not music, and Stede leaves him to it, doesn’t wish to intrude. He pulls out his phone and checks his email. There’s a reminder from the airline to check in for his flight tomorrow (today, now, technically), and he sighs without realizing he’s done it until Ed puts his pencil down.

“What’s up, love?”

Stede shows him his phone screen and Ed frowns.

“Can’t you stay?”

“Stay?”

“I’m here through Sunday, and then we drive to the next city. Chicago, I think? The set and stuff go ahead of us, so I’ve got some downtime.”

“My ticket is for tomorrow,” Stede says, “And I have to be at work on Monday morning. I can’t just follow you around the country, Edward.” It comes out a little sharper than he’d intended, because he wants, for a moment, to be able to drop everything now and do just that, travel the country with Ed, watch him perform, lie in bed with him all warm and loose-limbed afterward.

“No, ‘course not, no. I just meant — if you wanted, you could stay tomorrow night and fly back to New York on Sunday morning. Just —” he throws his notebook onto the floor and turns toward Stede, snakes an arm around his waist. “I’d like another night with you. I don’t want to have to say goodbye tomorrow morning already, you know?”

Stede kisses the nearest part of him that he can reach, just above his eyebrow.

“I’ll look at flights,” he says. “And see if I can find something reasonable.”

“Stede,” Ed says, “C’mon, man.”

“Mmm?”

“I’ll buy your ticket.”

“No,” Stede says. “No, it’s all right, I can —”

“Baby,” Ed says, and okay, Stede’s going to have to revisit that particular physiological response in greater detail at another time, when he’s not heavy and gritty from exhaustion. “ Listen. When we were planning the tour, there was the usual stuff, right? Venues, seating, do they have the right kinds of equipment, would it work for the setup we were envisioning, all the logistical stuff, you know? But do you know what other meetings we took?”

Stede shakes his head.

“Mayors, man. Like, city councils and sh*t were trying to convince us to come through their town. A Blackbeard show can, like, stimulate the whole economy of a city, which is absolutely wild. Total mindf*ck.”

Stede thinks about the show. He thinks about his trip, the airfare, the cab fare, the hotel room, the admission at the train museum, the hefty tip he’d left out of guilt for not liking the Swedish restaurant more, the twenty-dollar beer at the arena. He thinks about that multiplied by sixty-five thousand. He thinks about online bead sales, for all those friendship bracelets, and glitter sales, for all the glitter. He thinks about the Etsy sellers of all the Pride paraphernalia. He thinks it’s possible Ed is underselling the economic impact of the tour.

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying, love, let me buy your f*cking plane ticket.”

“All right,” Stede says, because he really wants to stay another night, wants to see if he can swallow Ed down to his arytenoids tomorrow morning, and he’s just spent a month’s salary on concert tickets. He scooches down in the bed, nestles in next to Ed, who has picked up the notebook again. Before he’s aware that it’s imminent, he falls asleep.

He wakes at dawn to a chorus of unfamiliar birds directly outside the window and Ed spooning him with his body, though not his arms. Stede turns to look at him. Ed is still asleep, his eyelashes dark and ludicrously long against his cheeks, his hands tucked up under his cheek like a child pretending to be asleep. Stede watches him sleep for a while, feels a little cliché doing it, like a character in a romance novel, and then he thinks that maybe sometimes tropes are tropes for a reason, that maybe there’s something universal about wanting to watch your lover sleep, something beautiful and terrifying about being trusted that much. Stede thinks about the sixty five thousand other people he’d spent yesterday evening with, wonders how many of them are watching their lovers sleep at this very moment.

He indulges the fantasy for another minute or two, and then slides out of bed. He finds a Keurig in the kitchen but not a drip machine, and he makes himself a cup, muttering about the waste of single-use pods. He looks in the fridge, finds cream and fruit and yogurt. He sends a mental thank-you to whichever of Ed’s staff had gone grocery shopping last night, because he doesn’t relish the idea of a fistful of olives for breakfast. Dinner is fine. He’s had Olive Dinner more times than he cares to admit over the past few months, standing at the fridge and eating them out of his own hand like a goat at a petting zoo, but Olive Breakfast seems like a bridge too far, somehow.

He adds a splash of cream to his coffee and then pops in another Keurig pod for Ed, adds seven spoonfuls of sugar and a generous glug of cream, and brings it back into the bedroom. Ed’s still asleep, doesn’t even stir when Stede puts the mug down on his bedside table, and Stede decides to let him sleep.

He takes his phone and his coffee into the bright, colorful living room. He does the puzzle, opens his Messages app, reads through Lucius’s screed

Oh my god

Bitch

You can’t just do that, it would’ve been less rude to leave me on read

Several hours elapse between the timestamps and then there’s another text from late last night,

Garden of Steden, I think you’re trending on Twitter and he has attached a screenshot of the Trending page. There’s a hashtag. #BlackbeardsCrush. Stede’s first instinct is to navigate to the app, to dive down that rabbit hole, but instead he takes a steadying breath and deletes the Twitter app from his phone entirely. He’s been meaning to do that for a while, anyway. Better not to know.

He frets for a while, and then texts Lucius an eggplant emoji, three raindrops, and a purple heart. He texts Alma,

Would you believe me if I told you it was for the Blackbeard concert? and opens his Kindle app, settles in to read, knowing that neither Lucius nor Alma will be awake for several more hours.

He finishes the book, and a nice breakfast of yogurt with raspberries and granola, and takes another long, luxurious shower before Ed finally emerges from the bedroom, blurry with sleep and holding the stone-cold coffee between his hands.

“I’ll make you another one,” Stede offers, but Ed shakes his head, puts the cup in the microwave, shuffles up behind Stede and wraps his arms around his front, rests his chin on Stede’s shoulder, kisses the side of his neck a little. Stede thinks again about Ed’s co*ck in his mouth and wonders how uncomfortable it would be to drop to his knees right here on the tile floor of the kitchen, thinks it might be worth a shattered patella just to taste Ed again.

The microwave beeps, and Ed retrieves his coffee. Stede lets him drink half of it before he takes his hand and leads him into the living room, sits him down in an armchair upholstered in a lovely blue damask. He does drop to his knees here, onto the thick Persian rug, and he tugs at the waistband of Ed’s sweatpants.

“f*ck,” Ed breathes, and Stede asks,

“This okay?”

Ed bites his lip and nods, eyes wide, and by the time Stede takes him out of his sweatpants, he’s most of the way hard.

He doesn’t manage the arytenoids, not quite, but he takes Ed as deep as he can and lets him f*ck his throat until he comes hard, shaking apart underneath him.

“Good morning,” Stede rasps, wiping his eyes and his mouth, and Ed hauls him in for a kiss, climbs out of the chair and presses Stede down into it.

Ed’s mouth on his co*ck is a revelation, and Stede is a little embarrassed about how quickly Ed brings him to the edge just by licking a little sloppily up and down his length, just by sucking the tip of his co*ck into his mouth and tonguing under his foreskin. He tugs Ed’s hair in warning but all that gets him is Ed’s eyes on his as he swallows around him, and then that’s all it takes and he moans, “Edward,” and comes in his mouth.

“Sorry,” he begins, but Ed’s kissing him again, and he feels simultaneously disgusted and turned on by the taste of himself on Ed’s lips. Ed pulls him down into his lap and Stede spares a moment of concern for the chair, but apparently it’s solidly built, is up to their combined weight, and he curls himself into Ed, nuzzles back into what is quickly becoming his favorite place on Earth, that space between neck and shoulder where Ed smells like himself. He lets Ed hold him, lets himself go boneless and heavy.

Maybe a little too heavy, because eventually Ed kisses his cheek and says,

“C’mon, budge up, mate, I can’t feel my legs,” and Stede manages to climb out of Ed’s lap without kneeing him in the groin or elbowing him in the face. Ed stands and one of his knees goes out from under him for a moment. He has to grab the back of the chair, and when Stede makes a concerned noise, he shakes his head.

“Whole body is f*ckin’ bullsh*t,” he says. “Knee, voice, brain.”

“I love your brain. And your voice. And your knee, for that matter.”

Ed shakes his head again, but this time he’s smiling, and Stede moves to the couch, tucks his feet up underneath himself.

“What would you like to do today?” he asks. “I went to the sculpture garden yesterday, so maybe not that, but I’d be up for anything else.”

“Oh,” Ed says. “I thought we’d just stay here? f*ck some more, watch a movie or something? Order delivery for dinner?”

“Oh, all right,” Stede says, and then, because Ed’s not meeting his eye, has gone all tense and quiet, “May I ask why?”

Ed sits on the other side of the couch and tips his head back until it’s resting on the back.

“Stede,” he says. “I love that you see Ed, but you know I’m also Blackbeard, right?”

“Yes,” Stede says immediately, though he’s not exactly sure whether it’s true. He forgets a lot, is all. Forgets that the Ed Teach in his phone is not just some guy he met at work, forgets that Ed’s not just a singer in a band, but that Ed is Blackbeard, this larger-than-life icon.

“Well,” he corrects himself, “I know it but I’m not sure I fully understand it yet.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, smiling crookedly. “Yeah, I know.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, and then, “No, I mean, I really don’t, I want to just be able to be Ed. Being Blackbeard is f*ckin’ exhausting, but yeah, I feel like I need to tell you so you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What I’ve already gotten myself into,” Stede corrects, and Ed shoots back,

“Maybe you’ll get yourself into me again soon,” and waggles his eyebrows. Stede laughs and unfurls, puts his feet in Ed’s lap.

“Tell me, darling,” he says softly, and Ed finally looks at him. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth again, and then closes his eyes for good measure, tips his head back again so his face is angled toward the ceiling.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he says, quiet and tight. “It’s just so much, sometimes. Like, I look back at my life, think about being a kid, you know? Just me and my mum in this sh*t apartment, and everything was completely f*cked up, but I was free. I’d go down to the beach and just walk for miles, and I didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’ve read online or whatever.”

It feels like a question, so Stede shakes his head.

“I’ve tried not to,” he says. “It felt like overstepping, somehow. Like I was invading your privacy? Maybe it’s silly, but no, nothing. I’ve listened to your records, but I haven’t read your Wikipedia.”

Ed squeezes his eyes shut even tighter at this, swallows hard, reaches out blindly for Stede’s hand. Stede takes it, laces their fingers together.

“There was a bad time a while back. After the first two albums, after the first stadium tour. I was — well, I was really f*cking depressed, but I was out of control, man. A lot of drugs. co*ke, mostly,” he adds, to Stede’s questioning noise. “Lots and lots of co*ke. Partying, being a f*cking idiot, getting my name in the paper for all the wrong reasons, you know? Didn’t know what to do with myself, and I just, I dunno. Lost the thread there for a while. Anyway, the press had a field day when I went to rehab and they’ve never, ever let up, even after I came back and cleaned up. Even when I do everything right, they’re still not on my side, you know?”

Stede squeezes his hand. He doesn’t know, but he can imagine. There’s something familiar in the way Ed had said, Even when I do everything right, something that reminds Stede of flinching under his father’s vitriol as he brandished a straight-A report card in his face. Stede imagines living that cautiously well into adulthood. He imagines the horror of it but larger, everywhere, inescapable. He strokes his thumb over Ed’s.

There’s a long, long pause, and when Ed speaks, it’s so small that Stede has to strain to make out the words.

“I’m not out,” he says. “I mean, I know the rumours. I know people assume, because of my songs, and how I dress, and because, I dunno, I’m a f*ckin’ guy in the arts, right? But I’m not out.”

Stede squeezes his hand again, sits with it for a minute. He feels like someone’s playing pick-up-sticks in his head, and it’s a game he doesn’t want to join. He doesn’t want to examine each emotion and put it carefully back into its container. He wants to use the sticks as kindling and watch them burn.

Stede had spent so, so long in the closet, that when he’d come out, he’d sworn to never go back in. The very idea makes him feel something akin to panic high and urgent in his chest. He takes a deep breath and replays what Ed has told him, thinks about what Ed might be trying to tell him. Ed hasn’t asked him to hide. Ed is telling him his truth. And Ed had said he was ready, that he was scared but not in a bad way, and Stede trusts Ed. He’s not sure why, but he does, down to the very marrow of his bones.

Ed seems to be waiting for him to respond.

“All right,” Stede says, finally. “Okay.” Then, after a moment, “Do you want to be out?”

Ed opens his eyes and looks at Stede, and it’s not the cornered-animal expression from the winter, but rather a little like a falcon in jesses, wild and fierce and proud but confined, for now.

“Yes,” he says, emphatic and urgent. “Yes, I do, f*ckin’ — yes. I never wanted to before, but I do now.”

“All right,” Stede says again. “All right.”

“I don’t know how to,” Ed says, “And the timing is sh*t, and I don’t want — Stede, I love you, I know I love you, but it’s so, so new, you know? I feel like — ugh, f*ck, hang on, let me get something,” he says and he disappears into the bedroom for a moment and comes back with the notebook from last night. He flips through a few pages before he hands it over to Stede.

“Here,” he says. “See if this makes more sense. I’m bad at talking. Better at this.”

Stede squints at the page. Ed’s handwriting is still awful, but eventually he begins to make out the shape of the words.

Love me in the open

love me in the sun

Standing there together

You and I are one.

It wasn’t easy come

But it could be easy go

Fine things can be broken

Learned that long ago

Want to keep you secret

Want to hide away

Want to shout from rooftops

Wonder, will you stay?

I can’t promise safety

Life will give us scars

I can promise, baby,

I’ll treasure what is ours

Love me in the open

love me in the sun

Standing there together

You and I are one.

Stede lets the tears build, goes to blink them away but finds Ed there, kneeling in front of him, his thumbs on Stede’s face, wiping them away for him.

“Ed, that’s lovely,” he says, and Ed draws him forward into a tight hug.

“I understand,” Stede says into Ed’s neck. “I do. I get it. We’ll figure it out.”

“You said that when we first met,” Ed murmurs back to him.

“I know. I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Yeah, I know you did.”

When he kisses him, there are tears on Ed’s face, too, and Stede tastes salt.

“Just to clarify,” Ed says when they draw apart, “When you say, ‘I get it,’ you mean…”

“That going public with our relationship right now is a lot of strain to put on it? That you want to keep it private until we have a more secure foundation? Is that off-base?”

“No, God, no, that’s exactly it, yeah, but I just — like, I feel like I have an easier time with lyrics than I do with talking, but then I remembered some of the bizarre ways people have interpreted my songs, like there was this one wedding video that went viral a couple years ago because the bride walked down the aisle to Burn After Bleeding, you know?”

“Oh dear,” Stede says. “No, surely not?”

“Yeah,” Ed says.

“That’s a breakup song.”

“It’s the breakup song.”

“Don’t you literally say ‘I f*cking hate you’ in that one?”

“Twice, Stede, I say it twice.”

They get the giggles, then, and fall into each other on the couch, holding one another and laughing so hard they’re crying again. When Stede finally catches his breath he feels clean, empty, light. His mind feels like stepping outside after a rainstorm, when the sun is just starting to peek out from behind a cloud and everything is still dripping, but the world is lush and green and vibrant and the birds have started to sing again. Stede feels like singing, or flying, taking wing and pushing up, into the wide, vast sky. He kisses Ed, and soars.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

“This is the final boarding announcement for Delta flight 2330 with non-stop service to New York LaGuardia. All ticketed and confirmed passengers should report to gate F13 to ensure an on-time departure.”

Stede sighs and gets to his feet. He throws his paper coffee cup into a nearby trashcan and hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder, walks slowly to the gate. He knows, rationally, that dragging his feet in Minneapolis when he’s alone in the airport isn’t prolonging his time with Ed, but he’s reluctant, all the same, to leave. He presents his ticket to the gate agent, who flashes him a smile and says, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Bonnet,” and he follows the rest of the stragglers onto the jetbridge, back toward his life.

He frowns up at the seat numbers, double-checks his ticket against them, and when he has handed his duffel to a steward and settled into the wide, comfortable seat, he texts Ed.

On the plane. You didn’t need to book me into first class; that’s such an extravagance.

Ed’s reply comes several minutes later, as he’s settling in with a mimosa and a cup of coffee.

Literally the least i could do

You flew to f*ckcign minnesota to see my show

I can send you home in comfort.

Wish I were going with you

Me too 💜, Stede types back. Turning my phone off now. I’ll message when I land. I hope your trip to Chicago goes smoothly.

Thanks. Be safe. 💖

Stede sips his drink and leans back into his seat. He closes his eyes, thinks about that morning in bed with Edward, how he’d woken before his alarm to Ed grinding back against his erection, how he’d come a couple minutes later against the sweat-slick swell of Ed’s arse, how he’d fetched a damp washcloth to wipe his come off him and how he’d kissed the eye sockets of the skull on his back, how considering he has TRUST NO ONE tattooed in seventy-two point Gothic letters on his body, Ed had kissed Stede like he believed in him.

The plane gathers speed, hurtles down the runway, and then there’s that familiar moment of lift, where Stede has, in the past, felt for a moment like he’s left his stomach down on the tarmac. The same swooping sensation is there now, but magnified, because he suspects that this time, he has left his heart behind, too.

It’s midafternoon by the time he finally gets back to his apartment, and he reluctantly exchanges his duffel bag for his shopping bags and walks to the grocery. He tries to settle himself into his familiar routine, but it feels wrong to him, suddenly, like waking up to find you’ve outgrown your school uniform seemingly overnight and your parents huff and complain as though you’ve done it intentionally, take the cost of the new trousers out of your pocket money.

It starts to rain on his walk home. He puts the cold things in the fridge but abandons the shelf-stable groceries on the kitchen counter and goes to his bedroom to change out of his wet clothes. He’d planned to go for a jog, but the weather isn’t right for outdoor exercise. He stands in the middle of his bedroom for a moment and lets himself feel both his body, thrumming with excess energy, and his feelings, a cluster of burrs hopelessly affixed to a cashmere sweater. Then he squares his shoulders and pulls on his running shorts. It’s just a bit of water, after all.

He runs to the park, and then he runs through the park, and he’s soaked to the bone and breathless and pink from exertion. He snaps a selfie in front of the pond, texts Ed,

Pouring rain here, went for a run anyway. I think I’d be less damp if I’d gone for a swim.

f*ck me, you’re gorgeous

Wish i could just drop everything and meet you there

Stupid f*cking job

Should’ve gone into accountancy

Nice stable career

Probably like one conference every two years someplace super boring

Des Moines

Baltimore

Tax season would be stressful, though, surely?, Stede responds, and starts back home. He’s going to have to hurry if he wants to shower before his video date with the kids.

Yeah i guess

But it would be different stressful

late nights with Excel and a bottle of wine

hot blonde guy rubbing my shoulders as i reconcile expenses

Could be fun

Stede strips down, leaves his wet things in the bathroom sink, turns the shower on as hot as it goes. He considers sending Ed another selfie, thinks about what he’d caption it (You know what else could be fun?) but reconsiders. Early days for that, probably. Instead he opts for,

Edward Teach, CPA certainly does have a ring to it.

Nah, man, can’t be Ed Teach, that’s the same name as that famous asshole. Gotta change my name, go incognito. I’d be

I dunno

Jeff Bonnet, CPA

Wear a clip-on tie and everything

Pocket protector

Shave the beard

Think I should do it?

Definitely! Though maybe keep the beard? Stede responds, and steps into the shower. He steadfastly does not think about what it means that Ed had taken his last name for the bit, steadfastly does not allow himself to dwell on his racing pulse nor the blush on his face that has nothing to do with the warm water or his recent exertion. He steadfastly does not think about how hard Ed had come last night as soon as Stede had slid one finger back behind his testicl*s and rubbed a little over his rim. He steadfastly does not think about any of these things. He turns the water temperature down several notches and quickly washes himself, towels off with an unaccustomed roughness, dresses, and is only one minute tardy to Family Zoom Time.

Alma immediately launches in.

“So what were you in Minneapolis for, anyway, Dad? I know it wasn’t actually the Blackbeard show.”

“It was, actually.”

Louis snorts, Alma purses her lips, and Mary rolls her eyes, and Stede almost tells them, just to wipe the knowing look off of Mary’s face. Almost tells them, to prove to the kids, for once, that he is capable of spontaneity, that he’s hip to the times. Almost tells them to prove to Mary that he’s desirable, when the context is correct. But he doesn’t. He closes his mouth, pastes on a smile.

“No, of course not, you got me. There was just a little professional development seminar, and I took some time to sight-see.”

He lies to his children because of the tension in Ed’s jaw as he had looked at the ceiling and the way his voice had broken when he said, “I’m not out.” He lies to his children because, while he still doesn’t fully understand what it means to be Blackbeard, he’s starting to get a sense of the shape of it lurking under the water. He lies to his children because he knows they will forgive him.

The conversation moves on, and he settles back into his supporting role, laughing at Louis’s description of his roommate’s continued adventures in learning to do his own laundry, pulling out his phone to add the dates of Alma’s summer internship to his calendar. A text from Ed comes in as he’s typing.

i told izzy about you and he’s probably going to call you

And by probably i mean

Is doing it now

His phone rings, and he puts it back into his pocket, refocuses on the computer screen, waves to Doug when he pops in to say hello. He notes the way Doug kisses Mary as he wanders back out again, fond and a little absent-minded, the way she turns her cheek up for his kiss before he even begins to move toward her. He feels a familiar stab of longing and envy, but it’s less diffuse than it used to be. He knows, now, whom he wants to kiss like that. His phone rings again. And again.

By the time the children are making their excuses, he has six missed calls from Izzy and one from Ed. He says goodnight and calls Ed back.

“Stop — dickf*ck, get off — hang on,” Ed says into the phone. Stede hears Izzy’s strangled protestations in the background and sighs.

“Just put me on speaker?” he suggests, but there’s a muffled rustling sound, some clanking and swearing, and when Ed’s back in his ear, he can’t hear Izzy anymore.

“Hey, sorry,” Ed says. “Sorry, Izzy’s on a tear, but I locked him out of my room. I’m glad you called me first.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being sent to the headmaster’s office?”

Ed chuckles, low and throaty in Stede’s ear. “C’mon. You never once got sent to the headmaster’s office, you’re too good.”

“I did,” Stede says, a little absently. He’s starting to put the rest of the groceries away, trying to remember what his plan had been for the little jar of artichoke hearts. He hadn’t made a list this weekend, just shopped on instinct. “I did, just once. The one time I fought back against — well. The one time I fought back, I nearly got expelled.”

“Who?” Ed asks immediately. “Tell me who.”

“It doesn’t matter, it was a long time ago.”

“Matters to me, I’ll f*ckin’ kill ‘em.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“‘S’not sweet, it’s badass. I’m defending your honour.”

“Edward,” Stede says, deciding that the artichokes were probably intended for a big salad later in the week, “You’re very sweet and it would be lovely for you to write a take-down song for my childhood bullies.”

“Oh my god, ‘take-down song?’ That’s what you think of my fighting prowess? I’ll kill ‘em with my bare hands and —”

“I’m sure it would be a wonderful song,” Stede says, unable to hide the smile in his voice. “Very popular. Your next big hit. You’d need to send Steak Knife to do the actual violence, though, darling, you wouldn’t want to injure your fingering hand,”

“I’ll injure your fingering hand,” Ed shoots back immediately, and they both giggle for a while before Ed asks,

“Anyway, who the f*ck is Steak Knife?” and that’s another lengthy tangent.

Much later, when Stede has some rice simmering on the back burner and is sprinkling lemon pepper on a couple of pieces of salmon, Ed says,

“Anyway, Iz is mostly pissed at me, but it’s probably going to rub off on you a bit, and I am sorry about that. He’s going to want to talk legal stuff. A different NDA to the one you originally signed, threats of bodily harm —”

“I never signed an NDA,” Stede interrupts.

“What?”

“You said something different to the one I originally signed? I never signed one.”

“Are you sure?” Ed asks, and Stede can hear the grin blooming in his voice, mischievous, a little sharklike.

“I’m certain. I would’ve remembered that.”

“‘Kay, I’m going to go torture Izzy with that for a while. Take his call when he calls back? I think it’ll be good.”

“All right.”

“And, er. Thanks.”

“For?” Stede asks, sliding the salmon into the oven.

“For not going to the —”

“No,” Stede says, talking over him. “No, stop it at once. Absolutely not.”

“Stede —”

“You don’t get to thank me for that. I’ll pick up when Izzy calls,” Stede says. “Text me later.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

“Stede,” Ed says, and there’s so much longing in it that Stede softens.

“Go harass Izzy and let me have my supper, darling. We’ll talk later.”

“‘Kay. Bye.”

Stede runs a hand through his hair, leans against the counter. He’s suddenly exhausted, full of dread and ennui for the coming week. He looks around his apartment, casts his eyes over all the treasures he’s carefully collected and curated over the years, and thinks for a moment about dropping a match and letting the whole place burn down. He sighs and goes to the fridge, takes out the broccoli. His eye lingers for a moment on the “Greetings from Minneapolis” refrigerator magnet he’d bought on a whim in the airport gift shop. It’s cheery, retro, colourful. He might start collection, if he doesn’t resort to arson.

His phone rings as he’s doing the washing up. He dries his hands carefully.

“Israel.”

“...Bonnet.”

They breathe down the line for a bit together as Stede waits him out. Finally, Izzy sighs.

“Edward informed me I overlooked a non-disclosure agreement at the beginning of your working relationship.”

“Mmm,” Stede says. “Yes, it seems that you did.”

“I’d like to email some documents for you to review now that… the nature of your relationship has changed.”

“All right,” Stede agrees. “Go ahead. Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not unless you want to alter the terms of the agreement.”

“Should I want to?”

Izzy is silent for a while. Finally, he says, “Not if you have Edward’s best interests at heart.”

“I do,” Stede says immediately. “I do, but I’m also a person.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says reluctantly. “Yeah, I know you are.”

“I’ll take a look at them.”

“...Thank you. Is there anyone else who knows of your, er, association?”

“No,” Stede says immediately, but then, “No, wait, Lucius. He’s my assistant, and my friend,” he adds, because he finds it’s true. “I didn’t tell him, if that matters. He just sort of ferreted it out? He’s very insightful.”

Izzy exhales slowly and Stede can clearly picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Send me his contact info, if you would?”

“I’ll check with him first, and if he’s amenable, I will.”

“Fine,” Izzy says, and there’s another long silence.

“Is that all?” Stede asks finally, because it’s getting late, but mostly just to needle him.

“Yes. Thank you. For not — thank you.” Izzy’s voice, normally so gruff, does the opposite when he says, “Thank you.” Just for a moment, the roughness and strain are gone, and he’s resonating from his chest up to the tip of his nose. Stede bites back a smile, because he thinks this just might be who Izzy is: predictably unpredictable.

“I think we might be on the same side, Izzy, if you’d let me be.”

“f*ck off, Bonnet,” Izzy says, but there’s no heat in it, and the line goes dead.

Stede looks at his screen for a moment, thinks about texting Lucius, and decides it can wait until tomorrow. He texts Ed instead.

Izzy seemed contrite. I’m going to head to bed, I’m exhausted.

Wish i were there with you

Me too. Goodnight, Edward.

Nighty night 💖

***

Stede wakes feeling marginally less frayed around the edges. He walks to work, looks at the day’s schedule, makes his first cup of tea of the workday. He checks his bank accounts, looks at the week’s schedule, then the month’s, then through August, which is as far out as they’ve booked. He emails the team to confirm their biweekly lunchtime staff meeting. He checks the schedules again, and then pulls up his first client’s chart. He jiggles his leg as he reads, and when that’s enough, he paces around the office. He opens a webinar and lets it play on his laptop while he walks.

He makes a second cup of tea, and forces himself to sit with it, to close his eyes and breathe from his diaphragm. He sifts through his emotions like he’s a prospector, maybe, or an archaeologist. He imagines a cool mountain stream, lets the water wash away some of his agitation and cognitive silt. What remains in the pan are disparate pieces he can’t seem to join together into a cohesive whole; artifacts from different eras or separate cultures. There’s his family, and what that word means in practice now that the children have moved away. There’s the clinic, which he’d started with the dregs of the inheritance his father hadn’t squandered in his misery and illness. There’s the little life he’s built for himself, the routines and structures and lists and lines and limits that he’s built to keep himself safe, to keep himself prisoner. And then there’s Ed, who’s larger than life, whose concert made him feel like he’s part of something big, whose kisses make him feel like he’s part of something even bigger. He sips his tea, opens his eyes. He texts Ed.

I’m not sure what the protocol is here, but I’d like to see you again soon. However we can make that work. I know you have the tour, and we’ll need to keep things discreet, but I found I didn’t like waking up without you this morning.

Let me know your thoughts.

He’s in the scope room readying it for his first client of the day when Ed’s response comes in.

f*cking yes

Chicago now til Saturday (shows Weds Thurs Fri)

St. Louis Saturday PM - Wednesday (show Monday)

Cincinnati Wednesday - Sat (shows on Thur Fri)

Cleveland Sat - Wednesday (shows Sun & Tues I think but that could be a typo?)

Pittsburgh Thursday - Sunday (shows Fri Sat)

I think that gets us to June ish

Let me know

Wait no i’ll be in NY after Pittsburgh for like a week for some TV stuff

f*ck you’re at work

Sorry maybe we can facetime tonight and figure this out

got excited

Stede slides his phone back into his pocket and smiles. He steps into the hall and goes to meet his first client of the day, feeling a little lighter. He thinks about his shelves at home, crowded with ephemera, and thinks that maybe there’s space enough for all the artifacts. He just needs to learn to make room.

***

“Call me an Apple Genius, Stede Jobs, because I can see right through your little announcement,” Lucius hisses at him after their lunch meeting, grabbing him by the arm and towing him into the office.

“Lucius—”

“Transitioning to four ten-hour days for work-life balance during the summer? More like dick-life balance—”

“Lucius,” Stede yelps, and slams the door shut because really, and also because Lucius is not wrong and Stede knows it, and Stede knows Lucius knows he knows it. It’s knowing all the way down.

“About that,” Stede continues. “Remember the rude manager?”

“Ugh, yeah, why?”

“I need to send him your contact information, if you’re amenable. Non-disclosure agreement. I know it’s not —”

“Wait, is this a thing?” Lucius asks. “Like, I know it’s a thing, but is it a thing-thing?”

Stede thinks about Ed’s last kiss in the car before dropping him off at the airport, his hand tight in Stede’s hair, his tongue hot and urgent in his mouth. He thinks about Ed’s texts this morning. He thinks about the emoji Ed keeps sending, the pink heart with the sparkles. He thinks about the shape of the words, “I’m so in love with you.” Ed hadn’t said it again, but the ghost of it had been on his lips that last morning.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s a thing-thing.”

Lucius shrieks so loudly that Olu pokes his head into the office.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lucius says, sticking his finger into his mouth. “Papercut.”

“Ooh, ouch,” says Olu. “Those hurt like a bitch. You need a Band-Aid?”

Lucius shakes his head, and as soon as Olu’s gone, he grabs Stede’s arm again.

“Stede.”

“Lucius?”

“He’s not out. How are you going to handle that? What are you going to do? How is any of this—” Lucius gestures in a circular motion, encompassing Stede and also possibly the entire city of New York, the whole world, “—going to work?”

“Yes, I am aware. I don’t – I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out.”

“Give me the rude manager’s number.”

“I was going to —”

“Give me his info, we need to strategize before the two of you do something desperately horny and stupid.”

Stede blinks. It’s actually not a terrible idea, but…

“I couldn’t ask you to do that on top of your administrative duties, and I don’t think I can afford to give you a raise at the moment, I’m afraid,” Stede begins, but Lucius waves a dismissive hand.

“I’ll lay the groundwork out of friendship,” he says, “and a keen interest in Gay Drama. If it gets bigger, the rude manager can hire me on as a consultant. Besides,” he adds, as an afterthought, “This way I have an excuse to be on Twitter during business hours.”

Stede purses his lips but he can’t hide his smile.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll send you Izzy’s contact.”

“Yas bitch,” says Lucius.

“Lucius,” Stede barks, and Lucius laughs.

“Okay, got it, we’re still not there.”

“We’re still not there when we’re here.”

“Fine, fair.”

“Thank you,” Stede says, opening his laptop and reviewing the afternoon schedule. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“I’m happy for you,” Lucius says in a voice Stede hasn’t often heard him use, lower in his chest, easier, more open. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“It is,” Stede says. “I think it will be.”

Late that night, Lucius texts:

What a strangely compelling man.

Rude but 👀👀👀👀👀

Anyway

We got you.

Even later that night, Ed texts:

Can’t stop thinking about you

Oh?

Your f*cking mouth, Stede

I want you inside me.

God

Yes

I want that, too.

***

Stede touches down at Chicago Midway on Thursday night and takes the Orange Line downtown. He checks into the hotel under the name Ed had texted him (Julian Andrews, honestly) and goes up to his room. It feels a little tawdry, but Stede pushes that thought down and goes to take a shower. When he emerges, he feels better. Less tarnished. He dresses carefully and goes down to the hotel bar for a glass of wine, which he throws back out of nerves. He sips the second one and tries to focus on his book. He can’t.

Ed texts a little after ten.

On the way back. What room?

941, Stede replies.

See you soon!!!! 💖

Stede paces himself, sips his wine. He settles his bill, waits exactly twenty minutes from the time he received Ed’s message, and only then does he head for the elevators. This leaves him a solid ten minutes to fix his hair in the mirror, pace around a bit, re-apply deodorant and brush his teeth, pace some more, fix his hair again, sit down, stand up, rinse with mouthwash, wash his hands, fix his hair a third time, and oh my god, there’s a knock at the door.

Stede goes to it and opens without peering out of the peephole, and Ed steps into the room and his arms.

Stede had imagined fevered, passionate kisses, and maybe they’ll get there, but right now Ed is hugging him tightly, and Stede presses his face into the side of Ed’s neck and breathes him in.

“I missed you,” Ed murmurs into his hair. “Some bullsh*t, it was only four days, felt like a decade, f*ck.”

“Yes,” says Stede, because it had, but also because he thinks that Ed could say just about anything right now and Stede would agree to it. Rob a bank? Absolutely. Go parasailing? Fine. Run away to China? Without hesitation. He moves his face a little, out of Ed’s neck and up toward his jaw, and Ed gets the hint and angles his head down to kiss him.

Stede had worried that the explosive chemistry they’d had last weekend might have dissipated with time and distance, but he needn’t have. If anything, it seems to have intensified, because within seconds they’re scrabbling at each others’ hemlines and the teeth have come out (in the sense that they’re nipping at each other’s lips and jaws and shoulders, not in the vampiric sense, though the thoroughness of the hickey that Ed is currently leaving at the base of Stede’s neck might soon disprove that hypothesis. Also not the scurvy sense of teeth coming out —)

Ed presses his hips in and Stede’s brain whites out, fully derails from whatever dilapidated tramway it had been careering down, and it’s a relief to let his body take over. He advances until Ed is walking backwards and keeps advancing until the backs of Ed’s legs hit the bed and he allows himself to be borne down onto it. Stede slides atop him, runs his hands up his flank, and further up under his shirt, stopping to pinch a nipple before tugging Ed’s shirt up over his head and following it closely with his own.

“What do you want?” he asks, but kisses Ed before he has a chance to answer, cups him through his jeans, grinds down a little with the palm of his hand. His mind is still fully offline, and he’s operating on pure instinct, the primal, urgent need to possess thrumming low and insistent through him.

“Your mouth,” Ed gasps, “Please, and — and your fingers?” he adds, almost shyly.

“Yes,” Stede says. “Oh f*ck, yes, I brought — hang on,” and he jumps up to find the bottle of Astroglide he’d purchased at the hotel convenience store, too horrified by the prospect of his liquids and gels being inspected or confiscated at the airport to consider bringing his own supply from home.

He stands next to the bed, looks down at Ed for a moment, takes in the long lines of him, his brown, tattooed skin against the crisp white sheets, the flush on his face, the heaving of his chest, the smile in his eyes. He bends down to kiss him, but remains standing, starts undoing Ed’s jeans. Once again, he removes them, then his own, and then they’re both naked, and Stede can’t help but climb on top of Ed again, just to feel the full press of their bodies together. Ed moans under him and Stede kisses him, slides his tongue along Ed’s alveolar ridge and simultaneously rolls a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

The noise Ed makes could be bottled and sold as a sexual enhancement drug at the seedier sort of gas station, and Stede absolutely feels smug about it. He crawls down and makes space for himself between Ed’s legs. Ed spreads wantonly for him, and there’s some sort of feedback loop with the part of his animal brain intent on possessing, because Stede nearly purrs in satisfaction.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Spread for me,” and Ed’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. He licks his lips, and spreads his legs even wider. God, he’s flexible.

Stede drops down onto his forearms and takes the head of Ed’s co*ck into his mouth, just lets it sit on his tongue for a moment, enjoying the weight and taste of it until Ed nearly sobs,

“Stede, please,” and he takes him in a little deeper, lets the saliva build up in his mouth and drip out of the corners all down the length of him. He fumbles up by Ed’s hip and Ed finds the lube first, presses the small bottle into Stede’s hand. Stede pulls off for a moment, has to use his teeth on the little bit of aluminum foil keeping the lube sealed, but then he sinks back down onto Ed’s co*ck and strokes his finger down his perineum and back.

The first brush of his finger against Ed’s arsehole makes him thrash and Stede has to rear back to prevent an amateur tonsillectomy. He uses his spare hand to pet soothingly along Ed’s sides, and then he rubs again, just circling outside, and Ed growls, “Oh, f*ck” and Stede is so turned on he’s worried he might come just from the friction of the bedsheets.

“In, please, baby, in me,” and Stede obliges, pushing his finger in slowly.

“Oh,” Ed gasps, like he’s just seen something beautiful: a little surprised, a little delighted, and Stede pulls out a fraction, pushes in just a little further and it earns him another “Oh,” this one a little breathier, a little higher. Stede sucks at the head of his co*ck, f*cks his finger into Ed a little deeper each time, and soon Ed’s thighs are clenching and trembling and Ed’s saying, “Oh my God, f*ck,” and coming in long, thick pulses into Stede’s mouth.

“Edward,” Stede moans as he gets a hand around himself, not caring that it’s the hand with the finger that’s all covered in ass and lube. He needs very little, just a few strokes and he’s coming on Ed’s thighs and over his co*ck.

“C’mere,” Ed tells him, but Stede shakes his head.

“Too sticky. Just a moment,” he says, and goes to wash his hands and fetch a damp washcloth. He comes back and wipes Ed (and the duvet) down, tosses the washcloth in the direction of the bathroom, and slides in next to Ed and kisses him.

“f*ck me, that was hot,” Ed sighs.

“Mmm.”

“Can we do that again?”

“Now?” Stede asks, a little alarmed, a little curious, a little turned on.

“Ugh, no, I need a few hours, but soon?”

“Oh, then absolutely, yes, please.”

Ed brushes a kiss against his forehead as Stede scooches down to rest his head on Ed’s chest, and they lie there holding each other.

“How was the concert?” Stede asks eventually.

“Fine. Good, I guess. Crowd was big and loud.”

“Any word on a ticket for me for tomorrow? Was Izzy able to get one?”

“Yeah, but you really don’t need to,” Ed says at once. “You just came last weekend, you don’t need to see it again tomorrow if you don’t want.”

“I’d very much like to,” Stede says. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Feel like you need to keep an eye on my posture again?”

“No, it’s not that. I’m off the clock.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I have a bit of a crush on the lead singer.”

“You minx. Really?”

“Mm, he’s quite handsome. Has a lovely voice. Makes a mean trifle, I hear.”

“He single? Sounds like a catch.”

“Dream on, darling, he’s out of your league.”

Ed huffs his amusem*nt and squeezes Stede around the shoulders, starts to run his fingers through Stede’s hair slowly and methodically, which acts a bit like the gas during surgery. Stede just has time to notice that he’s starting to feel sleepy when sleep overtakes him, drags him down and down.

***

Stede is better prepared for the concert this time around. He’s gone for a combination of two personas, buttery brown leather trousers and a teal linen blouse with a deep, deep vee neck. He looks at himself in the mirror with some complacency. The shirt is objectively great, though he’s having some second thoughts about the trousers. He hadn’t expected quite so much sex this weekend, and he’s worried he might chafe.

He wears his Icarus bracelet, and brings the stickers he’d had printed to trade with people: an image of two tin cans on a string inside the big red 🚫symbol, a reference to the snippet Ed had first sung for him in his office the morning they met.

He takes the Metra to the stadium, smiles fondly as people sing in the train car. Even the conductor joins in, shouting along to the chorus of Love Song Number Nine as he punches tickets. Apparently this train line (or at least this conductor) allows open containers, and Stede accepts a can of spiked lemonade from a young woman in a silver dress. He gives her a sticker and she squeals over it and immediately puts it on her phone case.

The outside of the arena is part tailgate, part boudoir (more on the makeup application side of things than the lingerie side, though Stede does see plenty of the latter), part Halloween store, part church service. People are drinking, people are doing each other’s eye makeup, people are trading and adjusting outfits, people are already crying and singing. He accepts a smudge of gold eyeliner from one person and a sprinkle of glitter from their neighbor; they both coo over his stickers. He trades a sticker for a NO TIN CANS bracelet, but demurs when the bracelet-maker asks for a selfie. He enters the stadium behind a large, coordinated group, one person for each persona. He taps the black-leather-and-purple-shirt wearer on the shoulder and says,

“I love your moth tattoo. It’s very accurate.”

She holds her hand up. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much! It took me, like, four tries with a ballpoint pen before I was brave enough to apply the henna! Do you really think it looks like his?”

“Yes,” Stede says, “I really do!”

He counts four more Pride flags he’s unfamiliar with and hugs two Dad Hugs guys.

“I really need to get one of those shirts,” he tells the second one.

“I don’t know,” the Dad Hugs Dad says, gazing openly at Stede’s chest. “The one you’ve got on seems okay.”

“Oh, well, in that case, thank you!” Stede chirps, and fifteen minutes later it occurs to him that that might have constituted flirting. Probably not. But maybe? He resolves to ask Ed about it later.

The show is just as transcendent as the first time. The energy in the crowd is electric, and when Ed first walks on stage, the roar is so loud that Stede puts in his earplugs.

The set list is different, as Stede has expected, but the structure is also a little different. Ed invites the musical guest out earlier, pushes the intimate setup around the single mic to later, jumps between albums and personas more frequently than he had last weekend. It works. It works for the show, in part because the audience can’t anticipate what’s next, so every song is a surprise, and Stede didn’t think it was possible, but the energy continues to build and build and build. But it also works for his voice. Stede is off the clock in theory, but in reality his ear never is, and Ed is magnificent.

Two thirds of the way through, Ed steps up to the mic.

“Hey, Chicago,” he says, and there’s a loud, prolonged cheer.

“Just wanted to say thank you to all of you for coming out tonight, but a special thanks to my crush, who’s here again tonight. What do you all think? Do you like my chances? Seems like a decent sign, doesn’t it?”

Stede doesn’t know it at the time, though he feels it in his body: the sound that the stadium makes registers on the Richter scale at the nearest geological observatory. He stands rooted to the spot, beaming up at the stage, feeling like his heart might hammer out of his chest. The ruckus goes on for so long that Ed finally has to intervene, takes a deep breath and yells, “Okay! Thank you! Shut the f*ck up, will you? We’ve got more songs for you!” but there’s a grin on his face and the crowd eats it up, but slowly starts to settle. Ed steps into the mic, starts in on something slow and sultry that Stede feels low in his belly. It sounds like a promise, or maybe a very sensual threat, and for the first time, Stede is eager for the concert to end.

Eventually, it does. Stede makes his way back to the train with thousands of sweaty, overstimulated, overjoyed people. When he stumbles through the door of his hotel room, he finds Ed already there, curled up in the armchair with a mug of tea and his notebook. He looks up when Stede enters and immediately puts the tea aside.

“What the f*ck are you wearing?” he asks, his eyes wide. He reaches out to touch the linen collar, follows the vee down with one forefinger.

Stede pops his chest out a little. “Do you like it?”

“You look hot as f*ck, the shirt is staying on tonight, but — what? Why?”

“It’s my Personas outfit! A little leather, a little linen, you know.”

Ed is shaking his head. “You’re mental.”

“It’s the done thing! I couldn’t not, not now that I know about it.”

“Know about what?”

Stede blinks up at him.

“Ed. People dress up.”

“For the show? Like, from the albums?”

“Yes, and they — hang on,” he says, and digs out his phone to show Ed some of the photos he’d taken, then navigates to Instagram, searches the #PersonasTour hashtag for more examples. They scroll for a long time. Stede tells him the story about the leather bear flag in Minneapolis. He digs his last sticker out of his pocket and shows it to Ed. He holds out his arm, explains the Icarus bracelet and three new ones.

Ed looks between the phone and Stede.

“This isn’t what I — How?”

“Ed,” Stede says very, very gently. “What did you think it was like?”

“Like it always was?” Ed says, his voice small. He sounds lost. “Like… like it was when it was bad. When I was bad. A lot of really drunk people right on the verge of something ugly. A lot of – of angry white boys with bad haircuts buying Heineken with their moms’ debit cards, you know?”

“Sweetheart,” Stede says, and takes his hand. “That might’ve been what it was like after the first two albums. You haven’t engaged at all since then?”

Ed shakes his head. “No. No, I just withdrew. Completely shut down. I hid away and let Izzy and everyone else steer the ship, you know? Made them do it, if I’m being honest. I just didn’t want to do it anymore. Didn’t want to be Blackbeard anymore, but Iz and everyone, they still did. So I just wrote the songs, and, f*ck, I dunno. Went where I was pointed, I guess. Never lifted my head up. Had nothing to do with any of the business or marketing decisions. I wrote the songs, and I told the team how I wanted to perform the songs when we were touring.”

“You didn’t think that by making different types of music over those years, you might start to attract a different crowd?”

Ed shakes his head.

“Not like this. I knew that the crowds were starting to look a little different, but I never imagined something like this —”

“Take a breath,” Stede says, and squeezes his hand.

“It’s really like that?” Ed asks. “All… light and colour and glitter and costumes and trading around these little, f*ck, I don’t know, talismans?”

“Yeah,” Stede says. “It’s really like that.”

“And – and people feel safe? To be, you know… queer?”

“Yes,” Stede says, squeezing his hand harder. “Yes, Ed. I told you about the Dad Hugs?”

“Yeah, no, yeah. I just can’t believe we’re selling that f*ckin’ merch and I didn’t know. My God.”

“It’s a lot to get your head around,” Stede says gently, and Ed nods, looking pensive.

“To be fair,” Stede adds, “I think some of this might be a relatively new phenomenon. The scope of it, at least. The pageantry. It seems like a lot of it is in response to this tour specifically. The idea of unapologetically celebrating all of the different facets of yourself, all the different phases of your life. It’s compelling.”

Ed’s eyes are impossibly wide when he meets Stede’s gaze.

“This is why you wanted to come tonight?”

“You are why I wanted to come tonight,” Stede tells him. “You and this incredible community you’ve somehow managed to completely unknowingly assemble.”

“I’m a f*cking idiot.”

“Yes, a bit,” Stede says. “And a genius. You really do need to see it to believe it.”

Ed shakes his head, and Stede is reminded of Alma on her second birthday, before she really understood what gifts were, how she’d treated every package with the exact same flavor of reserved skepticism. She’d had to be coaxed to open each box, and then when she saw the toy inside, she had to be convinced that yes, it was hers. Really, yes, a new stuffed monkey! To keep! Ed’s got the same bewildered, cautious, greedy look on his face, like he wants but can’t quite believe.

“Edward,” he says. “Next time, the next show. Cincinnati, in two weeks. Do you want to do something weird?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “f*ck yeah. Let’s do it.”

Stede kisses him then, and Ed’s hands come up to cradle his face.

That night, when they make love, the shirt stays on.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

They sleep in the next morning and Stede curses himself for not setting an alarm. He loves sleeping in Ed’s arms, but the knowledge that Ed is leaving for Saint Louis at noon has Stede resenting unconsciousness because it feels like less time spent with Ed. Ed seems to be feeling the same, judging by the eagerness with which he kisses Stede, the speed with which he climbs atop him. It’s nice, of course it’s nice, and Stede knows he should be enjoying the time that they do have together instead of borrowing trouble, but the more he blames himself for not being in the moment enough, the worse he feels, and when Ed grinds down against him, Stede’s not even a little hard.

“Everything okay, love?” Ed asks, and Stede pastes on a smile.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry. Just tired.”

Ed slides off him and stretches out along his side. “You wanna sleep some more?”

“No, no. Just…” Stede sighs. “I wish we didn’t have to go.”

“Yeah, man. Me too. Didn’t even have time for a deep-dish pizza.”

“Ugh.”

“Oh, c’mon, you can’t be a New York snob about pizza.”

“Deep dish isn’t a pizza, it’s a casserole.”

“You’re not even from New York.”

“You don’t need to be from New York to recognize that Chicago-style pizza doesn’t deserve the name.”

Stede manages to keep a straight face for all of two seconds, and then he and Ed are curling into one another, alight with laughter. The weight in Stede’s chest eases a little, and he takes Ed’s hand, kisses each fingertip and the thumb, letting his lips catch and drag on the callus on the side. He can’t give voice to the aviary of emotions fluttering around inside his chest, so he sets words aside and lets his body drive. This time, he has no difficulty. And if afterward, his head is no clearer and the words are no closer to surfacing, at least he has given Ed something to think about for the next five days.

Ed leaves with the tour buses, gives Stede one last, lingering kiss in their hotel room and closes the door softly behind him. Stede waits half an hour, then checks out, shoulders his duffel and steps out into the bustling city. He walks to the Bean, then to the Art Institute, where he stands for twenty minutes in front of the Seurat and hums Sondheim to himself, considers whether Sunday would be a better audition song than the Schumann he’s been practicing. He treats himself to afternoon tea at a Russian restaurant around the corner, drinks tiny cup after tiny cup of strong black tea from a samovar on the table, stirs the sweet blackberry jam into it and wishes Ed were there to tease about the jam to tea ratio.

He flies home, gets a text from Lucius when he lands inviting him out for drinks that night with Pete and the rest. He accepts, because the alternative is mooning around his apartment all night.

Home, laundry, meal plan. Text Ed. Fold laundry, check email, delete emails. Text Ed. Shower, dress, subway to the bar, text Ed, text Ed, text Ed. It’s raining in Saint Louis and even Ed’s texting voice sounds tired.

Get some sleep?

Easier when you’re here

Well, I’m not, Stede types but does not send. He deletes the message, instead sends,

💜

and slides his phone into his pocket.

As soon as he steps into the bar, he wishes he’d stayed home. Lucius is there with Pete and Fang, Olu and Jim and Zheng are there with each other, in the sense that Olu is there with Jim and Olu is there with Zheng, and as far as Stede can tell, Zheng and Jim are good pals who enjoy playing darts when they have a few drinks in them. Archie’s apparently out of town for a work thing, and Buttons refuses to drink the week before a full moon for reasons that are unclear to Stede and likely to remain so. Olu’s old student Frenchie is there with his partner, and then there’s Stede, alone, a ninth wheel on the clown car that is his friends’ relationships. He’s quiet, sipping his beer as he listens to Frenchie complain about his new job. He coos at the photos of Fang’s new foster dog. He doesn’t roll his eyes at one of Pete’s lengthy anecdotes about another improbable brush with fame at the restaurant he works at. He wonders what Pete would do if Ed walked through the doors right now. He wonders what he would do if Ed walked through the doors right now.

He lets the wave of melancholy wash over him, wonders if he’s just defective, that he can’t just enjoy being in love like a normal person, wonders if he’s doomed to ruin everything he touches. He finishes his beer and pretends like he’s heading to the washroom, then leaves out the back door. He walks for a few blocks, lets the fresh air and the movement settle him a little. He thinks about when the children were small, how they’d have a lovely afternoon out but then one of them would have a massive meltdown when they were told it was time to go home. He and Mary had called it The Pall, because of how it tended to ruin the whole day, and Stede recognizes it’s exactly what he’s doing now, but he can’t stop himself. He has wanted for so long. When will it be time to have? He stomps along, gives himself over fully to the tantrum, and he feels ridiculous, yes, but also feels a little better.

He lets himself back into his apartment, goes to the fridge for a can of seltzer. There’s a Chicago World’s Fair magnet up next to the Minneapolis one, now, and he touches it with a forefinger.

***

A good night’s sleep and a hearty post-yoga breakfast set him to rights, as does Ed’s litany of texts that unfold while Stede’s in the bath.

f*ck

Forgot this stadium is a dome

And they’re keeping the roof on bc it’s still f*cking raining

Acoustics are weird

SO WEIRD

Why are they so weird

It’s like the opposite of singing in the shower

You know how singing in the shower makes you sound

Like

Objectively f*cking amazing?

Everything i sing here sounds terrible

Thin and tinny

Blackbeard: the Dollar Store Discman Experience

People are paying hundreds of dollars to listen to this sh*t

There should be a law

More like thousands of dollars.

Ugh no, that makes it worse

They’re gonna revolt

Do they still tar and feather people?

I’m gonna get tar and feathered

Tarred and feathered?

You’re already feathered, surely? I’ve seen the concert twice, I’ve seen the big feather coat.

Doesn’t count, that’s fashion

Would we call that fashion?

CCC-SLP, B-I-T-C-H

You love it.

…yeah

I really do.

***

On Thursday morning, Stede wakes feeling like his throat is full of knives. He makes himself tea with honey and lemon, staggers around, packing his overnight bag for Cincinnati and tidying the apartment so there’s one less thing for him to do when he returns on Sunday. His eyes feel like they’ve been rolled in sanding sugar and his head doesn’t bear thinking about. He eventually makes it to work, every step sending a throb through his sinuses. He dons a mask and struggles through his first two clients but by ten o’clock he just needs to rest his head on his arms in the office, just for a moment…

Lucius wakes him by poking him in the shoulder with the business end of a broom.

“Go home.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine, you’re sick as a dog, and you’re the one who implemented the zero-symptom policy at work.”

“I’m fine—”

“Give me your phone and I’ll call you an Uber.”

Stede digs his phone out of his pocket but before he can unlock it, Lucius has snatched it from him and is typing.

“How do you know my passcode?”

“It was either Alma or Louis’s birthday but I know it starts with 9, so it had to be Alma’s.”

“How do you know Alma’s birthday?”

“It’s in your calendar.”

Stede thinks about protesting, or admonishing him, or changing his passcode, but instead he puts his head back down onto his crossed arms and listens as Lucius tip-taps his way through the process.

“Seven minutes. Do I need to do a wellness check tomorrow?”

Stede’s eyes fill with tears. He feels miserable, and Lucius is being kind, and he’s not supposed to even be here tomorrow, he’s supposed to be on an airplane in eight hours, and he’s not going to be able to see Ed this weekend, because Ed needs a respiratory virus while on tour like he needs a second New Year’s Rockin’ Eve outfit. Or a first, honestly. Stede sniffs, wipes his eyes.

“I’ll call you at ten,” Lucius says, ignoring Stede’s tears, “To make sure you’re not decomposing in your bathroom.”

“Thank you,” Stede croaks through the Velcro in his throat, and shuffles out of the office.

When he gets home, he crawls into bed and finally pulls out his phone.

Ed

I can’t come tonight.

I’m ill and I don’t wan tto get you ill

Or the airplnae people

But mainly you

I’m so sorry

We were supposed to have our f*ckery tomorrow

When Stede wakes, his phone is buzzing insistently.

“‘Lo?” he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “Hello?”

“f*ck, you sound awful. I thought maybe you were trying to let me down easy, but you’re really sick, huh?”

“Ed,” he says, and there are the tears again, like they’d just been idling for the hours and hours he’d been asleep. “Ed, I’m sorry—”

“Shh, baby, no. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a dick. Just sorry I can’t be there.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“I… No, not really. Just ingredients that need to be cooked and Tylenol but I don’t —” He’s fully crying now, and it’s mortifying but he just feels so bad, and the disappointment in Ed’s voice has taken up residence in his already throbbing head and is adding its own customized ice-pick/hammer contribution to the existing array of torture implements that are hard at work.

Ed makes soothing noises down the phone line. “I gotta go,” he says, “But I’m gonna – just keep your phone on you, okay?”

“Okay,” Stede hiccups, and the line goes dead. He sobs into his pillow until it hurts more than not crying does. He gets himself out of bed through sheer force of will and stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water, makes it as far as the couch.

An hour later, his phone buzzes with a delivery notification he definitely didn’t place. There’s a soft knock at his door, but by the time he opens it, the delivery person is gone. On his doormat are several shopping bags containing NyQuil, DayQuil, throat lozenges, the good kind of tissues with lotion, several bottles of yellow Gatorade, and two containers of piping hot matzoh ball soup from a deli halfway across town. Stede nearly cries again, but he’s too dehydrated to muster any tears. He pours some soup in a bowl and takes it and a Gatorade to the couch.

Thank you, he texts Ed.

Feel better soon 💖

I already do.

***

A week after he’d meant to, Stede waits at the entrance to the Pittsburgh stadium grounds, his phone clutched tight in his hand. They’d promised Steak Knife not to go into the stadium proper, to leave plenty of options for egress in case Ed was recognized and it caused a scene. Or a riot, Stede supposes. Ed had been at the stadium since noon for sound checks and costume adjustments, and Stede had spent a pleasant afternoon at the National Aviary. And now he’s here, waiting for Ed to get dropped off outside the stadium so he can experience firsthand what the Personas tour is all about.

A large black SUV pulls to the curb and someone steps out. Stede can’t help the sound that comes out of his mouth because —

“Ed, oh my god, what’s happened to your hair? What’s happened to your beard?”

“Can’t be Blackbeard if you don’t have a beard, mate. Do you hate it? Does the sight of my naked chin disgust you?”

Stede steps close, runs his hand over Ed’s smooth cheek, then up into his hair, now cropped close at the neck and sides, with tousled curls longer on top. He looks lighter, somehow. Freer. Happier. He looks good, and Stede has to kiss him about it.

“I love it. I love your chin, I love your neck. Are you ready?”

Ed spreads his arms. He’s in black jeans and a yellow-and-black buffalo plaid overshirt open over a cropped Blackbeard t-shirt that is nearly indecently thin with age and laundering. He’s got a fingerless leather glove on his luna moth hand. All his distinctive tattoos are covered. His hair is unrecognizable, and — yes, perfect, he’s pulling a KN-94 mask out of his pocket and slipping it on.

“Let’s go see a Blackbeard concert,” Stede says, and holds his hand out.

“Ugh, babe, do we have to? That guy sucks. Songs are derivative, costumes are sh*t…”

“For me?” Stede asks sweetly, and bats his eyelashes. Ed’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and they begin to walk toward the stadium.

Stede watches Ed. His head is on a swivel and his eyes are wide. As they overtake the first huddle of people singing with their arms around each other’s shoulders, Ed takes Stede’s hand and squeezes. His grip tightens the further they walk, and at one point he stops dead in his tracks for a solid minute to watch two children pirouetting down the sidewalk with their father.

Stede has brought more stickers, and begins to flit from group to group, exchanging a sticker for a sprinkle of glitter, a shot of Fireball, and a lanyard keychain in purple and black. He returns each time to Ed, presents his gifts to him with a flourish, a sweet little mating dance. They’re closing in on the stadium gates when Stede sees a familiar blonde braid and arms laden with bracelets.

“Icarus guy?!” the person shrieks. “Oh my gosh, you look great!”

Stede beams, looks down at his outfit, a flamboyant red suit with gold trim that’s part commander, part circus performer, a nod to Ed’s fifth album, which was a little Moulin Rouge meets Music Man. He does a little twirl, because he’s been wanting to all day, and this person feels friend-shaped in a way he can’t quite articulate.

“Here,” he says, digging in his pocket and pulling out a sticker and the lanyard. “For the bracelets last time.”

“Oh my god, no, stop it.”

“I insist.”

“Fine, but you have to take a bracelet. My arms are getting tired!”

“No, no — All right, fine. Maybe one for my, er. My boyfriend. I’m trying to show him what the whole Blackbeard Personas Tour experience is like. He didn’t believe me when I told him about it.” Stede doesn’t look back at Ed, holds his new friend’s gaze, and they smile back at him.

“What song?”

“Hmmmm. Do you have an Ember one?”

“Of course! Do you want I am an ember, or you tried to bury me or now watch me glow?”

“Oh, the glow one, absolutely.”

They slide a bracelet off their right arm. It’s got orange and red beads, and Stede closes his fingers around it.

“Thank you,” he says. “He’ll love it.”

“I hope so,” Bracelet Fairy says.

“Enjoy the concert.”

“Oh, I will. You too!”

“I will.”

He lets them move off before he returns to Ed. He takes his hand and slides the bracelet onto his wrist.

“I met that person at the Minneapolis show,” he says. “They gave me the Icarus bracelets.”

Ed shakes his head, but runs a finger over the beads. “Mental,” he mutters, and slides his mask off, bends down to kiss Stede.

“People love you, Ed,” Stede says quietly. I love you, Ed, Stede thinks loudly.

“Mental,” Ed says again, but he can’t hide his smile. His mask is off, the beard is gone.

They wander for another half an hour, and then it’s time for Ed to get backstage to prepare.

“Come with me?” he asks, low and urgent, and Stede acquiesces immediately. He follows Ed back out of the stadium grounds and they wait maybe thirty seconds before Ed’s car pulls up. Ed slides in, and Stede hops up beside him.

“Hi, Steak Knife,” he says.

“Hey, Stede. How was it?”

The question is ostensibly addressed to Stede, but he remains silent, lets Ed field it. Ed takes Stede’s hand, runs his thumb over the big tendon in the middle.

“Good,” he says softly. “It was really good.”

Stede catches his eye, and the smile Ed gives him is radiant.

They drive down into the bowels of the stadium and Stede follows Steak Knife and Ed through the labyrinthine halls until they come to Ed’s dressing room. Izzy’s waiting for Ed, and as soon as Ed steps through the door, Izzy’s advancing on him, crowding right into his space and Stede nearly steps in to intercede, something toothy and predatory stirring to wakefulness in his chest.

“Where the f*ck were you?” Izzy barks, and Steak Knife has the sense to back out of the door, closing it silently as he goes.

“I went for a walk,” Ed says, low and rough. It’s the voice Stede hasn’t heard him use in nearly a month.

“A walk.”

“Yep.”

“You went for a walk two hours before —”

“I went for a walk around the stadium,” Ed continues, low and lethal. “Because I heard that this tour was different.”

“Diff–”

“That maybe, it would be important for me to see how my f*cking fan base has changed.”

Stede strongly considers following Steak Knife into the hall. This feels private. This feels old, like picking the scab off a wound you’ve already picked the scab off of several times, each subsequent time hurting more and clinging harder, the wound itself resisting continued exposure to the air.

“Edward —”

“Why?” Ed asks, and this time it’s not the old voice, but it’s not his new voice either. Stede thinks that maybe it’s Ed’s voice from when he was a child, when he and Izzy first met. “Why, Iz? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Izzy is silent for so long that Stede thinks that maybe he’s just not going to answer. Izzy doesn’t look away from Ed, and Stede doesn’t look away from Izzy, and Ed doesn’t look at either of them, just bows his head, looking small and exhausted.

Finally, Izzy exhales.

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear it.”

Ed’s shoulders go up.

“I thought you’d see it as a failure,” Izzy continues, and Ed flinches as though Izzy has struck him, and Stede really does step forward this time, but Izzy fixes him with a glare, and Stede freezes there, at Ed’s side. Stede doesn’t understand why Izzy is angry, except insofar as Izzy is always angry, but his eyes are colder than usual and his voice is full of venom.

“You’ve been checked out for years, Edward. What was I meant to think? What in the past decade would make you think that you’d want this?”

Stede takes a breath, then, and nearly interrupts, because he’s known Ed for about a tenth of the time that Izzy has, but Ed’s loneliness and fear were palpable from their first meeting. Ed’s loneliness and fear could be seen from space, a localized perturbation of the atmosphere. How can Izzy not see —?

Stede thinks of the other side of the Icarus story, thinks about Ariadne and the ball of yarn, about the Minotaur trapped at the center of the labyrinth, how after Theseus had slain the monster, he’d left Ariadne on the shore, waiting, trapped with her monstrous father. He thinks about Ed at the center of his own labyrinth, hidden away under a different stadium every week, and he suddenly understands. Izzy had needed him to be trapped, because it gave him purpose. It had allowed him to be the hero, at least to himself.

Izzy meets Stede’s eye, then, and Stede can see the truth of it written there. The Blackbeard that Izzy had imprisoned would have thought those things, and Izzy needed him to. Stede digs his nails into his palm.

“I thought you’d see it as going soft,” Izzy hisses, and the sound Ed makes is a wasp’s nest of a laugh, dry, brittle, lethal.

“Bullsh*t,” Ed says, and this time it’s in his real voice. “That’s all I want. Softness, and – and f*ckin’ joy and warmth and, I dunno, living out in the open. That’s all I want. ‘S all I ever f*ckin’ wanted.”

“It’s not,” Izzy protests, and Ed shakes his head, says,

“There’s a difference between wanting something and thinking you can have it.”

Stede feels the truth of that in his own sternum, a peach tree in full blossom.

Izzy’s gone even more tense, hunched in on himself , and Ed’s got tears in his eyes.

“I could have had this – how long?” Ed asks, and this time it’s Izzy who flinches. “How long, Iz?”

Izzy shrugs, and Stede wants to shake him, because this is not the time to be blasé. “Things started turning after the third album.”

“f*ck,” Ed says. “f*ck!”

“It hasn’t been like this,” Izzy adds, pointing to the ceiling, up toward the stage. “Nothing’s been like this.”

“What was it like, then? Before? What have I been missing, Iz? Because it feels like a whole hell of a lot.”

“It was gradual,” Izzy says. “Different ages, more women. The, er, you know. Queer element. That started online after the third album but it really took off after the fifth.”

Stede nods. It makes sense; the fifth album was bold and brash and unapologetic. The fifth album was the aural equivalent of taking poppers on the dance floor at a gay bar, not that Stede had done that more than once, but —

“f*ck you,” Ed says, and he’s crying now. “f*ck you, Jesus, that was, what, five years ago? Six? I could have — f*ck.”

Izzy watches the tears slide down Ed’s bare cheeks and a muscle starts twitching under his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

“f*ck off.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t give a f*ck, I’m not ready to hear it yet.”

“Fine.”

They all stand there for a long, long time. Stede can’t decide what to do, whether he should hug Ed, or punch Izzy, or leave, or change the subject, or bring them all into a group hug. Instead he opts to stand there and witness whatever this is. Slowly, the tension eases, like the ache fading from a bruise.

Finally, Stede breaks the silence because a question has been nagging at him since last week, when he had learned that Ed didn’t understand what he’d become. And for all Stede is ostensibly an adult, he still has a young person’s scorn for hypocrisy, or inconsistency, or whatever Izzy is doing.

“You didn’t think Edward wanted it, but you did all this anyway. Why?”

Izzy shrugs.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for whom?”

“For – the brand. The music. The fans. Him.” He fidgets for a moment, touches the ring holding the scarf around his neck, and when he says, “Me,” it’s barely even a whisper.

“Izzy—”

“Don’t,” Izzy snaps. “Do not, Bonnet.”

So Stede doesn’t form the words, but he does put his hand to his chest in the sign for thank you that Ed had used when he couldn’t use his voice. Izzy rolls his eyes. Stede exhales.

“Anyway, this is all your fault,” Izzy bitches at Stede, but there’s no heat in it, and if Stede didn’t know better, he would swear that Izzy was smiling around the eyes.

“It is,” Ed says, wiping his eyes. “All your f*ckin’ fault. Just kept showing up and refusing to see Blackbeard, just seeing Ed.”

“Oh, f*ck off, you twat,” Izzy snaps, and he’s back to full prickle. “You’re surrounded by people who see Edward. You can’t walk a f*cking step in that stadium without running into someone who sees Edward. You’ve been pouring Edward into your music for the past decade, and everyone who’s out there is out there because they love you, Ed.”

“They don’t —” Ed says, and Stede says,

“Edward, I think they do,” just as Izzy says,

“They f*cking do.”

Ed looks between them and swallows hard.

“Right,” he says. “Both of you, f*ck off. I’ve got to get ready and I’m still f*cking pissed at you –” he points to Izzy – “and I’ll be distracted by you,” this with a squeeze of Stede’s hand.

“Break a leg,” Stede says, and kisses his cheek.

“Don’t f*ck it up,” Izzy says, and holds the door open for Stede.

They walk in silence up the hall. Finally, Izzy stops, turns on his heel.

“Bonnet,” he says, “Why the f*ck are you following me?”

“Because we just had a big emotional moment and I’ve imprinted on you like a duckling,” Stede says drily, and it’s worth it just to watch the twitch under Izzy’s eye start up again. “Because we’re in the basem*nt of an American football stadium and I have no idea where I’m going, Israel,” Stede snipes after a few moments of letting him squirm, and Izzy sighs.

“Do you want to watch from backstage or front of house?”

“Front, I think,” Stede says, because the thrill of being in that crowd hasn’t yet worn off, and because he’s slightly worried that watching backstage might involve spending the entire evening with Izzy, and he doesn’t think that whatever fragile detente that they’ve recently spun between them is up to the task.

Izzy nods, types something into his phone, and a minute later the big security guy with the intricate hairdo from the Minneapolis show is handing Stede a card on a lanyard and leading him out onto the field.

Stede wanders for a while, lets his nerves settle. He hands out his stickers, goes in search of the toilets and something to drink. He’s beginning to get a sense of each city through the concertgoers. Minneapolis was a little buttoned-up but warm, Chicago was loud and rowdy, and Pittsburgh seems somewhere in between. Rough around the edges, but with a heart of gold. Stede sips his margarita-in-a-can and soaks it all in.

The stage is set for the glitz and bombast of the second album, but when the lights come up, Stede’s breath catches in his throat. Ed is wearing the purple shirt from the first album, but the leather is gone, replaced by a simple pair of dark jeans. There’s a flash of orange and red on his wrist. He hadn’t removed the bracelet.

The shows usually open with music, but tonight, Ed steps up to the mic to speak.

“Hey, there, Pittsburgh,” he says and waits for the roar to subside. “So, er. I’ve got a new look,” and he runs a hand through his hair and bites his lip. Stede doesn’t scream along with the rest of the crowd, but he allows their scream to move through him. He feels a little weak in the knees and suddenly understands why all those poor girls would faint when Elvis Presley wiggled his hips.

“‘S just… I dunno. You all seem to know all these different facets of Blackbeard —” a longer pause, waiting for the din to die down —

“But there's one you haven't met yet. His name is Ed."

And he shoots them a sh*t-eating grin, and the band launches into the familiar strains of Love Song Number 9.

They haven’t started with this one yet, and it feels momentous, somehow. Ed is belting out the words, but the grit and tension from the studio recording are wholly absent. Stede runs through his mental catalog of Ed’s performances, both on stage and in his office, and cannot find an instance when Ed has sounded more at ease, more present in his body. Stede had said, all those months ago, “You have a beautiful instrument,” and it had been true. But now, listening to Ed sing this silly love song that is probably familiar to millions if not billions of people, Stede realizes that he’d underestimated him. He really should stop doing that. He watches the man he loves sing a love song to sixty-eight thousand people, and he sings it back to him. They all sing it back to him.

***

The second-best part of the Pittsburgh stop is that Stede doesn’t have to say goodbye to Ed at the end of the weekend. There’s a break before the tour heads south again (Washington, Nashville, Atlanta, New Orleans, skipping the entire state of Florida because Ed had refused to do business there) and Ed’s coming to New York to do some television interviews and rest for a few days. Ed had offered to fly him back, but Stede had opted instead to hitch a ride along with him on the tour bus.

About half an hour into the trip he nearly wishes he hadn’t. Ed is pacing the back of the bus like a jungle cat in a too-small zoo exhibit.

“Is something the matter?” Stede asks for the third time.

“No, just — no. Just walking. Best thing about a bus, you can move around.”

“Ah,” says Stede. “Yes. I just hadn’t realized it would be so much movement?”

“I can sit —”

“No, no. May I walk with you?”

“Not much room for both of us to walk,” Ed points out.

“Hmm,” Stede says, and then something occurs to him.“Does it have to be locomotion, or just activity?”

“What, you have a deck of cards in your — oh!” Ed finishes, because Stede had looked very pointedly in the direction of the top bunk. “Oh, f*ck yeah, c’mon.”

Ed scrambles up the ladder and Stede follows him, unbuttoning his trousers and, on a whim, snagging a couple of things from his duffel as he goes.

“You asshole,” Ed laughs as Stede clambors in next to him and rests the card box on top of his chest, “Why the f*ck do you have Uno with you?”

“It’s been in my bag for a decade, since a trip with the kids,” Stede says. “Thought it could come in handy.”

“You can come in my handy,” Ed tries, but shakes his head. “Nah, sorry, that one was f*ckin’ dumb.”

“We could make it interesting.”

“What, strip Uno? You’re already down to your undies, mate.”

“Sex Uno? We could, I don’t know. Color code it. Each color is an erogenous zone, and the card numbers are the number of strokes. Or licks, I suppose.”

“Draw two is fingering?”

“Yes,” Stede says, “although we may want to take the Wild Draw 4 out if that’s the case.”

“I dunno,” Ed says slowly, clearly considering it.

“Really?” Stede breathes, and grins a little predatorily at Ed, who looks up at him with wide eyes, lips parted.

“What’s Skip?” Ed purrs, as Stede walks on his knees toward him.

“You miss your turn.”

“What, like edging?”

“I suppose. What about Reverse?”

“Whatever you just did to me, I have to do to you?”

“Mmm,” Stede agrees, and kisses him.

Ultimately, the Uno deck is ignored, and it falls out of the bunk bed and onto the floor of the coach around the time Ed swallows Stede down to his tonsils and Stede fists his hand in Ed’s hair and pulls him back off again.

“Not so deep, darling. Be careful of your voice.”

Ed groans into his thigh. “This f*cking tour. I swear when it’s done all I’m gonna do for a week is let you f*ck my face.”

“Is that an end-of-tour gift to you or to me?”

“Either. Both. Me. f*ck,” Ed says, but when he takes Stede into his mouth again, it’s not quite as deep.

***

They’re in the Lincoln Tunnel when Ed asks, “Babe?”

“Mmm?”

“Can I stay with you?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, but like… the other nights, too?”

“Is there something wrong with your house?” Stede asks, confused, and the shutters come down over Ed’s eyes.

“No, no. Never mind. Stupid —”

“Wait,” Stede says. “Wait, do you want to —”

“I mean, yeah, I f*ckin’ —”

“Oh,” Stede breathes, certain his face is doing something stupid. He doesn’t think he’s ever smiled so broadly in his life. “Oh, in that case. Yes. Yes please.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Stede says, and Ed climbs into his lap and threads his fingers in Stede’s hair.

“Oh,” Stede says after a while, because Ed’s biting lightly against the side of his neck, but also because a rogue thought has broken through the haze of arousal, “Oh, it’s Sunday.”

“So?”

“I have a Zoom call with the kids and Mary every Sunday. You’re welcome to stay, of course, but I’ll be occupied for an hour or so.”

“‘S fine,” Ed says, nipping some more. “I mean, I’ve got sh*t to do. And, like, I figured you’d be going to work and stuff.”

“Yes,” Stede says with a gasp. “There’s that.”

“Just — want to wake up with you, you know?” Ed says low and hot in his ear, and Stede wonders whether there’s time to get back into the bunk bed.

There isn’t. But soon enough the bus is pulling into a garage somewhere in Manhattan, and then they’re transferring to a car, and then they’re in Stede’s apartment, slipping out of their shoes and into bed.

“Want you to f*ck me,” Ed says, and Stede pauses from trying to undo the string of Ed’s joggers with his teeth.

“Really?”

Ed nods. “Or try? I don’t know if – I haven’t ever –”

“Me neither,” Stede says. “I mean, not like this – I tried, once, being the, er, f*ckee, and I didn’t like it much.”

“You’re really selling it,” Ed says, but he’s smiling.

“We don’t have to,” Stede begins, but Ed drags him up and kisses him quiet.

“Babe,” he whispers. “I want to. Please f*ck me,” and how can Stede say no to that?

Stede takes his time prepping him, so much so that Ed’s sweaty and half-incoherent by the time Stede rolls the condom on and presses in slowly, slowly.

“Ohmygod,” Ed says all in a rush, along with the rest of the air in his lungs.

“Is that a good oh my god or a bad oh my god?”

“Good, I think. Just – wait for a bit.”

Stede waits, and it’s like waiting for an email after you’ve had a job interview, the brain itch of “maybe if I check now it will be there” except the brain itch is in his co*ck and the email inbox is Ed’s ass, tight and hot and wet around him, and oh no, oh dear, Stede’s never going to look at Outlook the same way again after this.

Ed’s breathing deeply and touching himself, and finally he nods. “Move,” he says. “Slowly.”

Stede moves slowly, and Ed lets out a groan so lewd that Stede doesn’t need to ask for good/bad clarification, and it’s Stede’s turn to say,

“Ohmygod.”

“f*ck, you feel so f*cking good,” Ed pants, and Stede moves a little less slowly, and it’s so good, so good. Stede didn’t know that it was possible to feel better than Ed has already made him feel, but there’s something about this, about the intimacy and the raw, vulnerable need in Ed’s eyes as Stede f*cks little whimpers out of him, that makes him absolutely wild. He gets Ed’s bad knee around his bicep and lifts, just a bit, and the change of angle has Ed thrashing on the pillow.

“Stede,” he says, “please.”

It doesn’t take long after that. Ed shudders apart beneath him, and the impossible tightness of him spasming around his co*ck sends Stede over the edge with a high, desperate whine. They catch their breath together, and Stede doesn’t say, “I love you,” but he kisses Ed as sweetly as he knows how, and goes to fetch a warm, damp washcloth.

***

On Monday, Stede walks to work with a spring in his step. He’s bubbly and jocular with his clients, flies through two evaluation reports before lunchtime, and eats his leftovers with gusto as he listens to Oluwande enthuse about Archie coming home from her work trip.

“What’s she do for work, again?” Stede asks around a mouthful of pasta.

Olu looks at Lucius, who makes a face that looks for all the world like the emoji with a straight line for a mouth that Alma is overly attached to.

“She’s a musician,” Olu says slowly.

“Oh, right.”

“She plays the bass.”

“Lovely instrument. Hard to cart around though.”

“Electric bass, Stede.”

“Oh, that’s much more portable!”

“She’s in a band.”

“Good for her! Anything I’d’ve heard of?”

“Lord,” Lucius says to the ceiling, “Give us strength.”

“Stede, she’s the bassist for Blackbeard.”

“Oh,” Stede says faintly. “Oh, I feel very silly.”

“How,” Lucius asks, “How are you so down bad that you don’t notice someone you’ve had monthly potlucks with for the past two years is standing onstage behind your boyfriend?”

“Lucius,” Stede hisses, but Olu’s holding his hands up.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I know, I’ve signed all the same paperwork you guys have.”

“Oh,” Stede breathes. “Is that how Izzy got the referral in the first place?”

Olu nods. “Told him you’re one of the best in town,” he says, and Stede feels himself go pink.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says. “I didn’t mean — I must’ve been very distracted.”

Olu smiles and Lucius snickers and pulls out his phone.

“Izzy’s going to love this,” he says, and Stede puts his face in his hands and laughs until he cries.

***

By Wednesday, Ed has a drawer in Stede’s (second) armoire and a little line of toiletries on his bathroom shelf, and Stede has a collection of new things he’s learned about Ed, little foibles he finds impossibly dear. Ed will write on anything when the muse strikes: the active grocery list, the back of the ConEd bill, the fogged-up bathroom mirror. He leaves half-drunk cups of tea on every horizontal surface, apparently blind to them once they go cold. He needs to wear socks to bed even in the late spring heat. He loves Stede’s cooking, even the boring things, and insists on doing the washing-up.

That night, Stede’s chopping vegetables and Chet Baker is crooning in the background. Ed’s been sitting at the kitchen island scribbling furiously, but when the song changes, he gets to his feet and comes up behind Stede, slides his arms around his waist.

Is your figure less than Greek? Chet sings, and Ed hums along in Stede’s ear, sending a shiver through him.

Is your mouth a little weak?

When you open it to speak

Are you smart?

Stede turns in Ed’s arms and brings his own up around Ed’s neck, and they sway together until the song is over. Stede chuckles.

“That song is awfully rude, if you think about it.”

“I love it,” Ed rumbles in his ear, and sings again:

“Do you eat pizza like a prat

Do you lack a single tat?

Is your ass a little flat

In your jeans?”

and Stede throws his head back and laughs. Ed holds him tighter, still humming in his ear, and it’s perfect, warm and easy and heady. Stede wants to keep this moment under glass, wants to revisit it every day for the rest of his life.

***

On Thursday evening, Stede’s putting the finishing touches on dinner when he hears Ed’s key in the door and his footsteps in the hall.

“Hiya,” Stede calls. “How was it?”

Ed doesn’t respond.

“Darling?” Stede calls again, and when there’s no answer again, Stede goes to investigate.

Ed’s sitting on the doormat, one shoe on, one shoe off. He’s got his head tipped back against the door. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing rapidly.

“Sweetheart, whatever is the matter?”

Ed screws his eyes shut tight and shakes his head.

“All right,” Stede says soothingly. “All right. I’m going to take your other shoe off, okay? There we are, that’s better. Can you stand?”

Ed shakes his head again.

“No trouble. I’ll just sit here with you, then. May I hold your hand?”

Ed grips his hand tightly and leans against his shoulder. Stede squeezes back.

“You just breathe, okay? Deep breaths, from the diaphragm, just like we’ve practiced. All right? In through the nose, two, three four, five, and out, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Good. Do you want me to keep counting?”

Ed nods the smallest nod in the history of nods, and Stede squeezes his hand tighter and keeps counting. Ed is trembling faintly, but as the count progresses and his breathing eases, so too do the tremors. Stede keeps counting.

“I think I f*cked up,” Ed says in a small, fragile voice. “I think maybe I really f*cked up.”

“The interview?”

Ed nods.

“What happened?”

“He asked about the queer stuff. You know, the rumours, the Internet stuff. But also the tour?”

“And?”

“And I snapped. I ripped him a new asshole and then I walked off set.”

“Ah,” Stede says.

“I think maybe I came out.”

“Oh?”

“Or at least, I didn’t not come out? I didn’t deny it.”

“There’s a difference,” Stede says gently, and when Ed shakes his head, “There is, Edward. Believe me.”

“Not –”

“Edward. The media will do what the media does. You can’t control them. But Blackbeard is more than what the media says. Your fans aren’t the media. Besides,” he adds, “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

Ed snorts. “You’ll see tonight,” he mutters darkly, but he lets Stede help him off the floor. They eat dinner, and Stede draws him a bath, and they kiss for a while on the sofa, and then it’s ten o’clock and the familiar jazzy entrance music is playing on the television.

Stede has never liked this host, has always mistrusted the manic boyish charm that seems to barely cover a deep-seated cruelty, like some sort of cursed ventriloquist’s puppet. They sit through the opening monologue and his introduction of Ed. Stede holds Ed’s hand as he watches television-Ed settle back on the interviewee couch. They exchange some quips about the tour, the sold-out crowds, the buzz, and then the host is saying, “I’m sure you’re aware of some of the more ridiculous Internet rumors,” and is pulling up some fanart of Ed. It’s a tasteful nude, beautiful linework, exquisite detail on his tattoos, really, and his modesty is covered by a Pride flag.

Television-Ed looks at the paper. “That’s a strange thing to say,” he says, his voice flat.

“Strange?”

“Why would you call being queer ‘ridiculous?’” TV-Ed is asking.

“I didn’t mean that it’s ridiculous, no no no no no, of course not. But you —”

“Why would that be ridiculous?”

The host freezes for a moment and then tries to gloss over it with a joke, but TV-Ed bulldozes over him.

“I think that’s pretty [bleep] disrespectful, actually,” he says. “Both of this person’s art – I certainly hope you asked their permission before printing it out to make fun of on broadcast television – but also of the fans who have found community through our music.”

“Let’s talk about that!” chirps the host eagerly, still trying to smooth things over. “How does it feel to be a queer icon despite —”

“The thing about the tour,” TV-Ed interrupts, “is that it’s about celebrating all the different facets of yourself, all the different phases of your life. It’s not surprising to me that the queer community in particular finds that compelling. Whether you’re in hiding, or you’re out and proud, or you’re trying on a new role, a new name, a new gender identity, it’s still part of your [bleep] life, and it’s the honor of my career that the fans want to celebrate that at my shows. And [bleep] you for trying to make them feel sh*tty about themselves, man.”

TV Ed turns to the camera, then looks past it, says to someone off-camera, “I think I’m done here.”

And with that, he takes off his lapel mic, drops it on the host’s desk, and walks offstage. There’s a brief musical interlude, and then a clumsy cut to what appears to be a canned non-apology, taped and delivered after the live audience was dismissed.

Stede and Ed’s phones both buzz. Stede looks at his, finds a text from Lucius.

Babe

Your boyfriend just broke the Internet

Stede hands his phone to Ed to show him. In return, Ed hands him his. A text from Izzy.

Proud of you.

And Stede understands.

“Izzy wanted to do damage control?”

“He offered.”

“And you —”

Ed shakes his head. “I said what I said. I said what needed to be said.”

Stede kisses his cheek, pulls him close.

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Ed says. “Not yet. But I will be.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Stede wakes early the next morning, spends an indulgent few minutes enjoying the warmth of Ed’s body behind him, Ed’s deep, easy breathing in his ear. They’re nested parentheses, an aside within an aside, and Stede allows himself to enjoy the intimacy of it, just for a moment. Ed, awake, is all light and motion and colour, Toulouse-Lautrec at the Moulin Rouge, and Stede adores it, feels like he’s finally living his own life after decades of being a spectator to it. But this, the two of them in bed together, peaceful and still in the watery pre-dawn light, is something dreamy and Impressionistic, the shapes indistinct, dreamy and vague in the mist.

He enjoys the moment for as long as his bladder permits him, then slips out of bed, tucking the duvet around Ed as he goes. Toilet, coffee, shower. He’s going to work today, in part to catch up on paperwork but mainly to confer (all right, gossip) with Lucius about Ed’s interview last night.

Ed’s awake when he gets out of the shower, and Stede loses time as Ed draws him back down to the bed, pressing needy, insistent kisses along his jaw. It is a revelation to be wanted, and Stede isn’t certain he likes what it says about him, that the evidence of Ed’s desire for him fuels Stede’s own. He wonders if it’s like this for everyone, or whether there’s something misaligned in his wiring, some secret, selfish fault that causes him to arch and gasp as Ed presses his erection against his hip, some sort of warped, internal funhouse mirror that catches Ed’s light and reflects it back to him, distorted and bizarre. When Ed takes him into his mouth, Stede loses the capacity for all higher-order thinking, and with it, self-castigation. It’s a marvelous trick. If they could bottle it, psychopharmacologists would be out of a job. Maybe they can bottle it, but scientists in the 60s desk-drawered the discovery in the interest of job security. When Stede comes, minutes later, his fingers are tight in Ed’s hair and his mind is blissfully blank.

Stede is late to work, but Lucius is even later, staggering in nearly an hour after he’s meant to be there, bearing apology coffees in a cardboard nest. Stede accepts his (cream and a dash of hazelnut syrup, which means Lucius is really trying to atone) and waits as Lucius submits his offerings to Olu (iced coffee with oat milk) and Buttons (a hot pumpkin spice latte, mysteriously in season all year round at the cafe on the corner, but only if you give the name Nathaniel to the small, round, scowly shop owner).

“Right,” Lucius says as he collapses into his chair. “How’s Blackbeard this morning?”

“Er,” Stede says, because he’s not actually certain. There hadn’t been much in the way of speaking that morning beyond, “Oh f*ck,” and, “Yes, more,” and maybe Stede gets lost in the memory a bit.

“Ew, gross, I don’t want to know. I mean, I kind of do, but… no, all right, can you please stop looking completely shagged out for two seconds?”

“I’m not – this is just my face, Lucius!”

“It’s absolutely not,” Lucius informs him, but with a look of grudging respect that Stede has never seen before.

“Anyway, if you’re done being smug, I already texted Izzy most of this, but I thought you might like to see what the Internet is saying.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “I mean, we read some of the headlines – what was it? ‘Edward Teach Offers Full-Throated Support to LGBTQ Community in Late-Night Rant?’ Could’ve been worse.”

“Any fuller-throated and he’d be gagging on it,” Lucius mutters, more to himself than to Stede, who chooses to ignore him. “And anyway, that’s the media, not the Internet.”

“Are they different?” Stede asks, because the headlines had been online, after all.

“Yes. Look,” Lucius says, and opens his Twitter account and goes to the bookmarks. “Go through these.”

“Gaybeard?” Stede asks after the first couple of tweets, and Lucius rolls his eyes.

“Half the fandom uses BlackQueered, and the other half thinks that’s weird or problematic. I think Gaybeard is rather reductive, myself, but it seems to be winning out.”

“The… fandom?”

“How old are you, exactly?”

“No, I just – is that different from regular fans?”

Lucius sighs. “Not – in most spaces, that would probably be a no, or at least not as clear a distinction. But with Blackbeard — ugh, let’s start at the very beginning. So, he’s a household name, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Ask a random person on the street, and they can name a Blackbeard song.”

“Right.”

“Those aren’t fans. That’s the general public, and they’re the ones who know pretty much just what the media feeds them.”

“All right.”

“We don’t care about them.”

“We don’t?”

“No. They’re not active, they’re not buying tickets or merch, and they’re not creating buzz.”

“I’m one of those people,” Stede protests. “Or I was.”

“Can we focus, please? There are bound to be outliers,” Lucius snipes, but he’s smiling.

“Sorry, go on.”

“Right, so in the next tier you’ve got the fans. They buy the albums, wear the merch, go to the shows if they can get a ticket for a reasonable amount of money. They’re probably regularly streaming, and they might post on socials when there’s an event – a new album drops, they actually go see a show, or what have you. With me so far?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And then within that, there’s a subset of fans that are, like, in the fandom. They’re the ones who are, like, terminally online. They’re creating art, they’re writing fanfiction, they’re making music videos, they’re beading bracelets to give away at shows, they’re building community around this music. It’s part of their identity, you know?”

Stede nods, because he does know. He’s been to the concerts, has talked to some of these people. He wishes Ed were here, because it seems like something he needs to hear, that the entire US population isn’t, in fact, his fanbase. Sometimes it feels like Ed is a politician trying to win the popular vote, rather than a pop star with a singularly devoted base.

“The fandom is, like, a double-edged sword,” Lucius continues. ”You absolutely cannot beat it for building buzz. Most of the success of the Personas tour is down to the fandom, especially given how last-minute the concept was. But the fandom loved it, and they took it and ran with it.”

“That was my fault,” Stede admits. “The, er, tardiness. I suggested it rather late into Ed’s therapy.”

“You sugg — you know what? Let’s put a pin in that,” Lucius says with the air of someone defusing a bomb or talking to a very small child.

“Anyway,” Lucius continues, “The fandom lost their sh*t last night.”

“...Yes,” Stede says, scrolling. “I can — oh, gosh. I didn’t know you could post things like that on Twitter! Oh, this one is actually fairly anatomically accur —”

“Nope,” Lucius snaps, snatching his phone back, and then: “What, this one?”

Stede nods.

“Well,” Lucius says brightly. “Going to need to bleach my brain about that later, f*ck. Anyway! The collective mind-losing last night turned into in-fighting this morning.”

“In-fighting?”

“The voices of their better angels,” Lucius explains. “And/or the media headlines had a dampening effect on some of their enthusiasm. This morning, people are saying that simply supporting the queer community doesn’t make you queer.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Stede Rogers Is Captain America, I know that and you know that, but if what Izzy tells me is true, Edward Teach doesn’t seem to know that, and about two-thirds of the Blackbeard fandom doesn’t seem to know it either.”

“All right,” Stede says, digesting all this. He feels itchy, restless, a little proprietary, being confronted with the evidence that several thousand other people are also in love with his boyfriend. Or in love with the idea of him, at least, which is some consolation. “So, where are we?”

“About where we were yesterday, but with a little more intel.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Lucius says, “I don’t think you could’ve designed a better test balloon than this. Mainstream media are somewhere between blasé and supportive, fandom is thrilled and thirsty for more, but what’s really interesting is this: some of the most rabid, vocal Gaybeard-slash-BlackQueered contingent has been completely silent since last night. Some people have actually deactivated their accounts.”

Stede shakes his head, confused.

“Privacy,” Lucius says, complete with jazz hands. “They’re respecting his privacy, Stedelyn Waugh. Which makes me think they know something, or at least they think they know something, which makes me think you two dumbasses need a better plan than whatever you’ve been working with, which makes me think that I’m going to need to have a little chat with Izzy today about putting me on payroll.”

Stede takes a moment to unravel the syntactic mess of the sentence, and when he thinks he has it, he nods.

“Thank you,” he says, and Lucius rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky I love you more than I love mess.”

“I really am.”

“Oh, stop being earnest at me.”

“All right,” Stede says, and pushes back in his wheelie desk chair. “I’m going to –” and gestures at a pile of paperwork. “Don’t suppose you have any interest in scanning these PROMs into patient charts for me?”

“Ew, no,” Lucius says, and goes back to Twitter, which, Stede supposes, is his fault for phrasing it as a question. He ought to know better after all these years.

***

His phone rings as he’s walking home from work. It’s Mary, which means disaster or logistics. He braces himself and answers.

“Stede,” Mary says, and there’s something about her voice in his ear that launches him back in time. He’s nineteen again, terrified and lonely. She’d been compelling to him because she was always so certain, so resolute. He’d loved her for it, or at least loved it about her. And now, after all these years, that undercurrent of steel is still in her voice, a skewer straight into the earhole, even down the telephone line.

“Hiya,” he says, more easily than he feels.

“Hi. Care to comment on why you haven’t seen Louis once since he’s been home from college?”

Stede blinks and looks at his watch, and then his stomach’s in free-fall, because Lou’d been home nearly ten days, and Stede had just… forgotten. He’d been ill, and then he’d been working and planning the Pittsburgh f*ckery and traveling, and then Ed had come to stay and…

“f*ck,” he says. “f*ck, I’m so sorry. I’ll –”

“Stede,” she says, and the steel’s still there, but it’s not unkind. “What’s going on? You’ve been all over the place lately.”

“I –” He swallows, and thinks about that morning, how the mist had burned away and his love for Ed had been laid bare, stark and photorealistic in the morning sun. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Oh?” Mary asks, and he bristles a little at the blatant skepticism.

“Yes.”

“And it’s serious?”

Stede nods, then remembers he’s on the phone. “Yes. I think so, yes.”

“Bring him to dinner tonight.”

“I can’t just –”

“If it’s serious enough to neglect your child for, it’s serious enough to meet the ex-wife and said neglected child!”

“Louis is nearly nineteen, Mary, it’s not like he’s some Dickensian waif. We text every day.”

“Seven o’clock, bring wine and a salad. Doug has a work thing, so it’ll just be the four of us.”

“All right,” Stede sighs. “I’ll see if he’s free.”

“If not tonight, then tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Mary hangs up, and Stede lets his phone rest for a moment in the palm of his hand. Then, because he feels like he’s learned something from Lucius this morning, his first text is to Izzy.

If Edward were to meet my family, what paperwork would you need from them to feel comfortable?

Another text to Ed:

We’re invited to Mary’s for dinner tonight. Louis is home and I’ve been an absentee father. I explained I’ve been seeing someone and I’m afraid she rather insisted. I didn’t tell her who you are, though. Should I?

Nah

Ppl get weird if you give them too much lead time

But like if you want to that would also be fine. I’m used to weird

Should probably ask Iz about nandos though

Not nandos

Nandos

f*cking

N D A S

How often do you text about Nandos that it’s in your autocorrect? I had no idea.

And yes, I already messaged Izzy.

Literally once jesus f*cking christ

Sorry

But

If you don’t want to bother with all that sh*t i can just skip it

Just give you the time with your family

table the paperwork element for another time

If you’d be more comfortable staying home I’d certainly understand.

Guess i’ll jsut stay out of your hair then

It might be good to have a nice relaxing evening.

Ed doesn’t reply, and Stede’s stomach sinks. Over the years, he’d spent many an idle hour triangulating how he might integrate a hypothetical boyfriend into his family, but the answer had always remained elusive, a Hodge conjecture in which the purely imaginary boyfriend-shape never fit into the strange, multidimensional geometric space that is his family life. He’d hoped that Ed might solve the problem, might prove, like he had in so many other ways, to be an epiphany – but no, Ed’s life is complicated enough, without Stede making things worse. Of course he doesn’t want to become entangled.

Stede takes his time in the grocery, dithers about endive versus arugula and chevre versus bleu, and when he finally lets himself into the apartment and slips off his shoes, Ed is in the kitchen, sliding a baking pan into the oven with some force.

“Hey,” Ed mutters, all chest voice. “Thought I’d make something for you to bring. No one’s got a nut allergy, have they?”

“No,” Stede says, sliding his arms around Ed’s waist. “And thank you. That’s very sweet of you.” And then, because he’s nothing if not selfish, “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“I thought you didn’t want me there!”

“What? No, I thought you were implying you’d prefer to be spared an evening with my ex-wife and teenaged son. It could be awkward.”

“Babe,” Ed says, leaning back in his embrace and cupping Stede’s cheek, “Of course I want to come. I love you. I want to be where you are. I want to meet your family. Don’t care if it’s awkward, I’m just sorry I always make things more awkward by being f*ckin’ Blackbeard.”

Stede blinks at him. “You love me?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Stede grins, feeling a little like his face is in danger of splitting open. “I love you, too!”

“I know that. I know – wait, mate, we’ve – you knew, too, right? We’ve talked about this before?” Ed says, stepping in a little closer. Stede can’t look away from his eyes, urgent and searching.

“Well,” Stede says, “You told me in Minneapolis that you were in love with me, but it never came up again, so I didn’t want to assume – it’s not exactly the same sentiment –”

“Oh my God,” Ed says, and kisses him hard. “You nut. Assume. Make – what is it? Make an ass out of you and me? That almost – I’ll make your ass out of – no, it doesn’t work.”

Stede is laughing now, and maybe a little damp around the eyes. Ed continues.

“I’ll tell you every day, dumbass – I love you. I am in love with you. What other ways are there to say it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. You’re the poet.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one making a semantic argument about it.”

Stede ducks his head in acknowledgement, burying his face in Ed’s shoulder. He breathes in the clean, pine smoke scent that’s strongest here and squeezes Ed tight around the waist.

“I love you,” Ed murmurs into his hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“You said.”

“Should I stop?”

“No,” Stede says, smiling into Ed’s shoulder. “No.”

Ed takes a deep breath and manages to say it fifty-three more times before he runs out of air.

***

Three minutes out, Stede texts Mary from the car, not wanting to linger overlong with Ed on the doorstep of his old neighborhood, lest nosy Mrs. Bienen next door recognize him. It’s not likely, given that Stede isn’t even certain old Mrs. B. is still topside, much less possessing the visual acuity and/or pop culture knowledge to prove a nuisance. She’s got to be older than God. Still, she’d always been a masterful snoop when Stede had lived there, and Lucius had called him a dumbass just that morning, so Stede feels he should take precautions.

Soon enough, Steak Knife is pulling up to the curb and Ed is pulling on a hat, a little straw trilby that should make him look douchey or pretentious but actually just makes him look charming and debonair. Stede squeezes his hand three times, a secret I love you he’d done with the kids when they were small, and even though he hasn’t let Ed in on the secret, the look Ed gives him makes him think that maybe he’s figured it out anyway.

Stede rings the doorbell and Mary opens the door, kisses Stede’s cheek a little distractedly as she tries to get a look behind him. Stede takes her by the elbows and gently guides her back into the foyer, allowing Ed to come in off the front stoop.

“Ed, this is Mary. Mary, this is Ed.”

“What,” Mary says, her eyes wide.

“Edward Teach,” Ed says, shaking her hand. “Stede’s partner. Pleasure to meet you.”

“What,” Mary says again, and lets her hand be shaken.

“I baked you some cookies,” Ed says, and hands her the tin. “Sorry about the Christmas motif, it’s all Stede had in his apartment, but still, it’s nicer than Tupperware, isn’t it?”

Stede has never seen this side of Ed before, this bland politeness that is this close to circling back around to mischievousness. There's something about it that makes Stede a little feral, makes him want to drag Ed up to the spare bedroom and f*ck him about it, makes him want to muss him and mark him until his Ed is back and this Saltine cracker version of Ed is nowhere to be seen.

“What,” Mary says, and punches Stede hard in the shoulder, “What the hell, Stede, you could have warned me, I would’ve done more than a cursory wipe of the downstairs bathroom.”

“Oh,” Ed says, lighting up. “Oh, I like her.”

“Oh no,” Stede says, and puts his face in his hands.

The evening deteriorates steadily from there. Ed and Mary get into the wine, despite Stede’s pointed comments about vocal hygiene and the tour, and just as dinner starts, when the topic of non-disclosure agreements is broached, Louis says,

“Wait, what? Why?” and it becomes clear that no, he’s not been playing it supremely cool, he actually doesn’t recognize Ed.

“Oh my god, it’s genetic,” Ed cackles.

“It could be, actually,” Stede says, gesturing with his fork. “Prosopagnosia has an autosomal dominant inheritance pattern, so it’s entirely possible that –”

“Stede,” Mary says. “For the hundredth time, you don’t have prosopagnosia, you live under a rock.”

“Excuse me,” Stede says, and even he can hear how prissy he sounds. “I don’t live under a rock, I just happen to enjoy a different repertoire –”

“What’s proso–propsa – prosasag whatever-the-f*ck?” Ed asks.

“Face blindness,” Stede and Mary say in unison, then clink glasses.

“Often secondary to brain injury or stroke,” Stede adds, “But it can also be congenital!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Mom, I don’t live under a rock and I didn’t recognize him,” he says to Mary. And to Ed, “Your hair’s different.”

Ed nods. “It is.”

“You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah, the stage adds, like, eight feet.”

“I know I just signed this thing,” Louis says, waving the NDA, “But can I text Alma, at least?”

Stede looks at Ed. Ed looks at Mary. Mary looks at Stede.

“...I suppose we’d better FaceTime her,” Stede sighs.

“She’s gonna sh*t her pants,” Louis says gleefully, and Ed howls with laughter as Stede and Mary say,

“Louis” in unison, and clink glasses again.

The evening devolves further when they reach Alma on FaceTime.

“What’s the matter?” she says. “Mom? Dad? Lou? It’s not Sunday, what’s going on?”

“We’re having dinner,” Louis announces, “With Dad’s new boyfriend.”

“Okay…” Alma says. “So?”

“Ed, meet Alma. Alma, this is Ed Teach!” and Louis flips the camera around so Alma can see Ed waving to her from across her mother’s dining room table.

The shriek Alma emits makes Stede briefly relieved that the family cat died several years ago, and the next several minutes are exceedingly shrill and full of recriminations. Eventually, Stede does email her the NDA and she e-signs and sends it back from her laptop, still on FaceTime with Louis, and Stede’s in the kitchen opening another bottle of wine when he hears her say,

“Wait, so Dad actually was at the Blackbeard show in Minneapolis?” and Stede slides down the kitchen cabinets to sit on the kitchen floor. He puts his head in his hands.

“Hey,” Ed says, padding in on quiet sock feet and sitting next to him. “You okay, love?”

Stede shrugs. “It’s just a lot. It’s not you,” he adds, when he feels Ed go all tense next to him. “It was always going to be a lot, bringing someone around for the first time. I realized tonight I never actually came out to the kids.”

“Really?”

Stede shrugs. “It wasn’t particularly relevant until now.”

Ed bumps Stede’s shoulder with his own. “You raised them right, then. They didn’t even blink.”

Stede smiles crookedly, and hopes it comes across as wry rather than Bell’s palsy. “They may have been a bit distracted.”

He nods toward the dining room, where Alma is still holding court.

“---and was anyone ever going to mention that Dad is gay?”

“And there it is,” Stede says.

“We shouldn’t assume his sexuality,” Louis chastises, with a level of sanctimoniousness only accessible to the Pope and eighteen-year-old philosophy majors at small liberal arts colleges. “It’s a spectrum.”

“Stede?” Mary calls.

“It’s fine, darling, I am gay,” he yells.

“He said he is gay,” Mary tells Alma.

“How did that even work?” Stede hears Alma ask. “Like, how –”

“Ew!” Louis shrieks.

“It’s not as clear-cut as Born This Way, sweetheart,” Stede shouts, getting to his feet. “God, I’m sorry about this, Edward. We’re not usually this much of a madhouse.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Ed says, accepting Stede’s hand up. “And I love it.”

There’s nothing for it but to kiss him, and it’s just starting to get good when he hears Mary squeal and Louis make a sound like a cat with a hairball. Stede sighs and draws away. “More wine?”

“More wine,” Ed agrees, and squeezes his hand. Stede squeezes back, three times.

“Mary?” he calls, because in for a penny. “I meant to ask, is Mrs. Bienen still the neighborhood yente?”

“No,” Mary yells back.

“Why not?”

“She died like five years ago, Stede. We went to the funeral together.”

***

They fall through Stede’s door in a burst of laughter, and Stede drops to his knees in the foyer when Ed has trouble with the laces of one of his shoes. He undoes the knot and eases Ed’s foot out of the shoe, then trails his hand up his leg, pausing briefly to rub the IT band on the outside of the bad knee. Ed groans in appreciation and lets his head rest on the doorframe for a moment, then covers Stede’s hand with his.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Bed?”

Stede lets himself be pulled through the living room and down the hall. They’re both a little tipsy and Stede’s not horny, exactly, but he wants to be close to Ed. He always wants to be close to Ed, and sex is the easiest way to achieve that closeness. Stede loves the sex, loves Ed’s co*ck in his mouth, the heavy slide of him against his tongue, the ache in his jaw, the glint in Ed’s eye as he watches, his fingers running reverently over Stede’s face, caressing the outline of his own co*ck through Stede’s cheek. Stede really loves the sex, but he thinks he might love the part immediately afterward even more, when they’re all loose-limbed and easy in each other’s arms, Ed’s head heavy on Stede’s chest, their skin sticking together with sweat and come. The way Ed looks up at him from under his eyelashes, like Stede’s the only person on the planet. Like he hung the moon.

“Thank you,” Ed says.

“For what? The fellati*?”

“Well, that, yeah. Always that. But I meant tonight.”

“God,” Stede says with something between a laugh and a groan. “I should be thanking you, or apologizing.”

“Nah. I loved it. Loved seeing you with the kids, and with Mary. Loved getting to know that part of you, yeah? Want to know all the parts. ‘S crazy how similar you and Louis are.”

“You think?”

“He’s your clone. Mini-you.”

“He’s got Mary’s eyes.”

“Didn’t mean in looks, mate.”

Stede sighs. “I know. I just – people have said that before, and it always makes me feel so guilty.”

Ed rolls so he’s pinning Stede to the mattress. If his hair were still long, it would be a curtain around Stede’s face, and he finds himself missing it. He’d loved feeling like he was surrounded by Ed, like they were in their own little tree fort where no one else could find them, hiding out behind the willow branches.

“Shut up.”

“I mean it, I don’t want him consigned to the same fate.”

“Dickf*ck, what fate? You’ve got two kids and an ex-wife who adore you, and by all accounts, a – what would you call Doug. Ex-in-law? Anyway, from the way Mary was talking, it’s clear he’s crazy about you, too. You’ve got this f*ckin’ sweet apartment and a cool job and at least one friend who has literally volunteered to work with Izzy Hands for you.”

Stede laughs. “Yes, all right, fine, it’s not a horrendous fate.”

Ed rolls off of him and settles his head back onto his chest. He’s silent for so long that Stede begins to think he may have drifted off, but then he turns his face and murmurs something into his chest.

“What’s that, darling?”

“Glad I stayed here this week. Feels like home, with you.”

“Yes,” Stede whispers. “Me, too.” He strokes Ed’s hair until Ed falls asleep, and stretches carefully to turn out the bedside lamp without waking him. Stede lies in the dark and thinks about narwhals, how in winter, they have to migrate to deeper water to avoid being trapped under ice in coastal Arctic waters.

***

The morning Ed is supposed to leave for the next leg of the tour, Stede wakes before dawn to find that he’s already up. Stede shuffles into the kitchen and there he is, crouched on a chair like a sad, damp gargoyle. Stede doesn’t say anything, just puts his arms around him, and Ed presses his face into Stede’s belly.

“I’ll see you in DC in a few days,” Stede offers. Ed shakes his head.

“S’not enough, want you there the whole time,” he rasps. “Just, like, in my pocket, you know? Why do you have to be a whole person with agency and a meaningful career and sh*t?”

“Because otherwise I’d be a sex doll, my love, and wouldn’t the press have a field day about that?”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m trying to sulk.”

“And you’re doing splendidly, only it’s hellaciously early and we could be in bed.”

“Fine,” Ed says, and unfolds himself from the chair. “Ow.”

“It could be worse,” Stede points out, as they climb back into bed. “I could have a less flexible job.”

“It’s 2024,” Ed grumbles. “Doesn’t everyone work remotely?”

“You don’t,” Stede points out. “And ASHA’s telepractice rules are ridiculous. You can do teletherapy, but only if you and your client are both located in a state you’re licensed in.”

“What the f*ck?”

“It was a nightmare during lockdown, because I had a few gender affirming voice clients who lived in Connecticut and Jersey, and I’m not licensed there. There was no good reason why we couldn’t do the work remotely, except that they happened to live out of state.”

“That’s really f*ckin’ dumb, mate.”

“That could be your big celebrity cause,” Stede tells him. “Lobby the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association to bring their telepractice regulations into this century.”

“I’ll work on it,” Ed says earnestly, and slides his hand up Stede’s thigh. “I promise.”

Stede kisses him, tugs him so they’re pressed close together, ankle to pelvis. They kiss until they’re both hard and starting to rock against one another. They kiss even as Ed reaches with one hand to the bedside table and manages to get the lube open, kiss as Ed fingers himself rather perfunctorily, and only stop kissing when he whispers, “Please, I need you.”

“Already?”

“Want to feel you tomorrow, come on,” and Ed’s hand is on his co*ck, slicking him up, and Stede holds his hips as Ed climbs on top of him and sinks down exquisitely slowly.

“Edward,” Stede gasps, because he’s so tight. It’s almost too much, and Stede is afraid to move, doesn’t want to hurt him. Ed sits on his co*ck for a minute, breathing deeply, and then grinds down on him, a little experimentally, wringing a groan from Stede’s throat, so he does it again, and again. He reaches down, adds a little more lube, and starts to ride him in earnest, and Stede thinks that this is possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen, Ed on top of him, back arched, head thrown back, the twin arcs of his belly and his laryngeal prominence like something printed in a geometry textbook to prove that math is beautiful.

“f*ck, c’mon, more,” Ed pants, and Stede starts to thrust, meeting Ed on the downstroke, but Ed keeps begging for more, more, harder, so Stede obliges, surges up to grab Ed around the shoulders and flips them. Ed brings his legs up around Stede’s waist and Stede f*cks into him deep and deliberate. They’re both sheened with sweat, sticky and gasping, and Stede doesn’t have much left, knows he’s too close.

“Is this what you wanted?” he breathes into Ed’s ear as he snaps his hips particularly hard, “You want me to f*ck you so hard you feel me for days? I should plug you up after I come inside you, make you carry it around until the next time I see you.”

“What the f*ck, Stede, Jesus Christ,” Ed moans, and Stede bites, just a little, at the spot on his neck that makes him crazy, and then Ed’s coming, and the feeling of Ed clenching around him pulls Stede along with him.

“Mmmph,” Ed says, when they’ve caught their breath. “Gonna need another shower after that.”

“May I join you? I’ll wash your hair.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, and kisses him as he rolls over for a fistful of tissues. “God, I love you so much.”

***

A few weeks later

Stede drags his duffel bag into the kitchen and takes down his largest travel mug from the cupboard. Coffee, work, airport. He is simultaneously exhausted and electric, like he imagines it must feel to drink a Four Loko, except it’s every day, and the Four Loko is washing down a speedball. Washing down? Chasing? How does one consume a speedball? There’s a lot Stede doesn’t know about drugs. He wonders whether this is part of his appeal to Ed, his squareness. He’s safe, because he doesn’t know things. It’s like those reading programmes where dyslexic children practice reading to therapy dogs. Maybe that’s what he is to Ed, a soft, non-judgemental stepping stone. Maybe Ed –

Stede takes a deep breath, then another, and pours coffee into his mug. He’s tired, is all. There are three new magnets on his refrigerator: a stamp from the Postal Museum in Washington, a whale shark from the Georgia Aquarium, and a silhouette of Dolly’s cleavage from Nashville. Parton, not the cloned sheep. He doesn’t think the cloned sheep has a Nashville connection, but one can never be sure. He wonders whether she’s still alive. (The sheep, he knows Dolly-Dolly is still kicking). She, the sheep, had been born in the late nineties, but he’s not sure what the life expectancy of a normal sheep is, and is even less sure that cloning doesn’t knock a few years off the clock. Something about telomeres, he remembers vaguely.

He takes a sip of coffee, then another. He’s been burning the candle at both ends since Ed had left New York, staying up too late texting him on weeknights and traveling nearly every weekend to see him. This weekend is New Orleans, and Stede’s taking an extra day because the city is magical, and because Ed had suggested Stede come a day early to hear some music.

“Real music,” he’d said, “Not my sh*t. Could be fun. Get dinner, go to a couple bars, see who’s playing.”

And Stede had said yes, because they’ve been dancing around each other since February and actually seeing each other since May and they’ve been on exactly one date, and it’s not that he’s disappointed, because that would be ungrateful. He’s in love, and the sex is great, and he’s happier than he can ever remember being, but he’s also taken to scowling at couples dining al fresco when he happens to pass them on his evening walks, because he wants that. Wants that with Ed, specifically. And he will never, ever ask for it, because Ed’s not ready to come out yet, and Stede might not be a good person, but he’s not yank-the-man-he-loves-out-of-the-closet-before-he’s-good-and-ready selfish.

Ed’s interview had been a two-day news story, and a four-day Internet sensation, but with nothing else forthcoming, frenzy had died down to normal levels. Ed had given a couple interviews but the pieces hadn’t been published yet, and Stede…

He’s not disappointed. He’s not. What he is is ready to go on a date with his boyfriend without making it look like he’s going on a date with his boyfriend.

He shoulders his duffel and picks up his mug and his keys. Work, then airport, then a date with Ed.

***

When Stede collects his bag on the other side of security, there’s a text.

Reservation is for 7:45

thought we could eat and then catch a set at the Maple Leaf

Sounds lovely!

If you get there before me, table’s for eight under william tell

i’ll text you the address

Stede stops walking, stares down at his phone. There’s a yawning gulf where his stomach should be.

A table for eight?

Us

the rest of the band

some friends

thought we could make a night of it

Oh?

He gets his bearings, finds his gate. There’s a bar across from it, and he finds a seat and orders a glass of wine from one of those tablet ordering systems that always seems to be broken. This one works.

I’d assumed it would just be the two of us, he types. He deletes it and retypes it four times, but eventually, he sends it.

Ed’s dots bounce for a long time, too. Finally, his reply comes in.

i’m sorry. i can’t.

It’s the punctuation that causes Stede’s eyes to fill with tears, the finality of those periods. Has Ed ever used punctuation in a text message before?

“You okay, bud?” the bartender asks, and Stede blots the tears from his cheeks with the base of his palms.

“Yes, thank you,” he lies. He’s good at this, at pushing the tears back in and putting on a brave face. Eventually, the knot in his throat will loosen enough to permit him to swallow again. Eventually, he’ll remember how to breathe.

He sips his wine and watches his plane board. There’s still a chasm where his stomach should be, and he’s feeling rather numb about it. Wonders if the wine he’s drinking isn’t actually pouring out onto the floor, like a cartoon skeleton. Wonders if there were a terrible accident and he were actually eviscerated, whether Ed would come visit him in the hospital, or whether he’d be too frightened of that, too.

“This is a final boarding call for Delta flight 1297 with service to New Orleans. All ticketed and confirmed passengers should report to gate B2 at this time. Once again, this is your final boarding call for Delta 1297 to New Orleans.”

Stede watches them close the jetbridge, watches the plane push back from the gate. He finishes the last of his wine, shoulders his duffel, and heads back up the concourse. He is so, so tired. He just wants to go to bed.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Ed and the band have this down to a science. Big table in the back corner of the restaurant. Ed and Izzy get there first, and then the band and their people stream in over the next fifteen to twenty minutes. It’s less effective the other way around - sometimes people recognize the band and start to get excited, and the night goes to sh*t. Better that Ed go first, in a hat and whatever other normal-person drag he’s forced himself into. Better that he walk in and let people’s eyes slide over him (hey, doesn’t that guy look a little like Blackbeard?), and then they can have a decent night, about half the time. Maybe seventy percent, these days. Hasn’t been as bad lately, now that he thinks of it.

He’d made sure to get to the restaurant a little earlier than usual. He’s been tracking Stede’s flight on his phone, and it landed on time. Call it twenty minutes to get off the plane and a forty minute Uber ride, and that should put Stede at the restaurant at around 7:40, give or take. He hasn’t heard from Stede yet, which is weird. Maybe his phone is dead?

You landed? he texts, sipping his Sazerac (f*ck, that’s good, one of the great f*cking things about New Orleans, being able to get a Sazerac), and the little Delivered icon pops up under his message. His phone’s not dead, but he’s not responding. Weird.

He’ll give it ten minutes, and then he’ll call. It’s fine.

He makes it five. Holds up a finger to Iz, pulls his phone out, goes to the only name on his Favorites tab. The only name that’s ever been on his Favorites tab.

It goes to voicemail.

He gives it a minute, tries again. This time he leaves a message.

“Uh, hey, babe, just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while, wanted to make sure you got in okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Eight. Eight fifteen. Eight thirty, and nothing. Ed’s called twelve times, left increasingly frantic messages. Nothing. The others are being really kind about it, shooting him sympathetic looks every time he comes back to the table looking dejected.

“Can you get in touch with the airline?” he asks Izzy, when he finally passes the inflection point between shame and anxiety. “See if he got on the plane?”

The worst part, the part that makes him tip over from worry into panic, is that Izzy doesn’t even give him sh*t about it, just nods and excuses himself. He comes back ten minutes later. It’s nearly nine.

“He checked in, but he didn’t board in New York,” Izzy says quietly, and Ed’s stomach sinks. He pulls his phone out and looks at his texts. His last message from Stede:

I’d assumed it would just be the two of us.

There’s a flash of annoyance, then, amidst the tumult. Stede had assumed, but Ed had never said — had he? He thumbs back up through their texts, finds the conversation.

you wanna come down a day early?

We could go out

hear some music

not my sh*t, real music

Make a night of it

dinner and a show

What do you think?

He’d never said it would be a date, but he hadn’t not said it, either? He thinks about the night he’d met Mary and Louis, about saying,

“Stede, love, assume. Make an ass out of you and me.”

And okay, yeah, f*ck. He can see how Stede might’ve gotten the wrong impression.

“Iz,” he says. “Can you text Lucius? See if he can check on him?”

Izzy sighs. “I’m not going to be your middleman all night, I’ll send you his contact and you can text him yourself.”

hey Lucius

This is Ed Teach

Got your contact from Izzy

hope it’s ok I’m texting

Stede didn’t show in NOLA

& I can’t get in touch with him

Would you mind trying to call him?

I just need to know he’s okay

Lord give me strength, Lucius immediately replies. Then, a few minutes later,

I can’t reach him

What did you do?

Ed gets to his feet.

“Sorry,” he says to the group. “I gotta — I’m gonna go. Sorry.”

“Good luck,” Archie says, and gives him a thumbs up.

“Go get your man,” Jackie calls down the table, and her husband nods. Her husband’s husband nods, too.

“Let us know,” says Bill earnestly, and Ed squeezes his shoulder.

“Don’t f*ck this one up,” Annie mutters, and Mary punches her shoulder, hisses,

“Don’t be a dick.”

He gets into the car, nods to Steak Knife.

“Can you just drive around?” he asks. “Need to make a phone call.”

“Yeah, man. No problem. Anything you want to see?”

“Can you go through the Quarter?” He loves the ironwork balconies, likes the revelry. Likes to imagine what that might be like, getting pissed in public without worrying if someone's gonna take a photo and leak it to the press; without enduring three days of articles with headlines like “Blackbeard on a Bender: Is America’s Favorite Frontman Back to his Bad Boy Ways?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

The engine purrs to wakefulness and Ed thumbs to Lucius’s contact. Presses call.

“Um, hi?”

“Hey,” Ed says. “Uh, hi. It’s Ed. Teach. I –”

“I know who you are.”

Ed laughs. “Yeah, ok. Fair.”

“So?” Lucius prompts, and Ed realizes he’s been silent for a weirdly long time, just watching the city roll past through the tinted window.

“I – you know he was supposed to come down a day early?”

“Yes, he told me. Something about a date?”

Ed winces. “Yeah, that’s the thing. He thought it was a date. I – well, I’d planned it as a group thing. You know, hang out with the band, introduce him to everyone. I might’ve been unclear.”

Lucius makes a sound through his teeth like a faulty bike pump.

“Anyway, he’s not here. He checked in but didn’t get on the plane, and now I can’t reach him, and I’m – really f*ckin’ worried. I think I might’ve f*cked up.”

Lucius is quiet for a while.

“Listen,” he says finally, “Stede is – how do I put this? Okay. So one of my partners fosters dogs, right?”

“Okay.”

“And every once in a while he gets one that’s been neglected? Not abused, nothing dramatic, just poorly socialized, you know? Doesn’t quite know how to do dog things. Isn’t used to affection.”

Ed’s stomach sinks. He presses his head against the window, the cool glass grounding against his flushed, sweaty skin.

“And, like, I’m not a dog person. Ugh, can you imagine? They need to be walked three times a day, no thanks. Anyway, when I first started seeing Fang and meeting his f*cked-up dogs, I was like, where do I recognize this from? Why is this behavior so familiar?”

Ed closes his eyes.

“That’s Stede. Just, like, constantly waiting to be left.”

“f*ck,” Ed says, because it feels like being punched. “I f*cked up.”

“I think you both f*cked up,” Lucius says, “And I think you both need to put your big boy pants on and have a grown-up conversation or twelve. But I’ll also say this. Stede’s been running himself ragged trying to be your boyfriend, and I know you’re terribly busy and important, but from where I’m sitting, it’s looking awfully one-sided.”

“I can’t – the tour –”

“Babe,” Lucius says coolly, “You’re literally a bajillionaire. Stede’s just a guy trying to manage a business and be a dad and do his grocery shopping and pay his rent and fly to a new city every weekend so he can be with you.”

Ed sits with that for a minute, and thinks about something Izzy had said to him once, years ago. They’d been bitching at each other about who-knows-what, and Ed had said, “I don’t know why I keep you around,” and Izzy had laughed in his face.

“Yes you do, you twat. I’m the only person who ever says no to you.”

Ed thinks about Stede, how one of the things he loves about him is his commitment to the bit, his unwavering devotion to Yes-And. He thinks about the growing collection of magnets on Stede’s fridge, and about the skin underneath his eyes last weekend, lilac and paper-thin. Ed had kissed that skin, had kissed the dark circles under Stede’s eyes without recognizing what they meant. He’s been so f*cking selfish.

“Okay,” Ed says into the phone. “Yes. No, you’re right – listen, I gotta go. Thank you.”

“Are you –”

“I mean it, thanks. I’ve gotta – Bye.”

He hangs up. He texts Izzy. He says to Steak Knife,

“Hey, I’m gonna need you to take me to the airport.”

***

A little more than an hour later, the small charter plane takes off and Ed closes his eyes. He hates flying, always has done. It’s why he doesn’t get home nearly as often as he ought, why he’s flown his mum out for the last couple visits instead. Selfish selfish selfish. At least in a charter plane he can get up and pace the aisle. It’s just Steak Knife and the stewardess. Ed’s already declined her offer of a drink and ignored the flirty signals she was putting down. Steak Knife’s curled up in the back of the plane playing Candy Crush on his phone. When he’d offered to come with (“I dunno, man, I don’t like the idea of you flying to New York with zero security, you know?”) Ed had had to blink a lot and look up at the lights. That’s for crying, right? Or sneezes? Maybe both? Whatever, it had worked well enough, and even if it hadn't, Steaky wouldn’t say anything. Ed’s feeling a little raw about that, too. He’s never really understood how to accept kindness. Maybe he and Stede are similar in that way, too. Two kicked dogs curled up together for warmth. Maybe. If Ed hasn’t ruined everything.

The flight’s not as bad as Ed had feared. Three hours and change. The landing is smooth. He hangs out in the empty charter lounge while Steaky finds them a rental car. He jiggles his leg. He paces. He longs for a cigarette. He hasn’t had a cigarette in…nine years, seven months, and thirteen days. He imagines what would happen if he showed up to Stede’s apartment smelling of cigarette smoke. He imagines what will happen when he shows up to Stede’s apartment not smelling of cigarette smoke. He paces. He jiggles his leg.

It’s just after one in the morning when they pull up to Stede’s building. He slides out of the car, tells Steaky to go home, that he’ll call if he needs him. He’d never given back the key Stede had lent him when he’d stayed last month, had tucked it into his pocket and conveniently forgotten to return it when it was time to leave for DC. He’d transferred it to each successive pair of trousers. He’d worn it on a chain around his neck during the shows, when the costumes permitted. When they hadn’t, it had gone in a pocket, or in his shoe. And maybe that’s a little unhinged, but he likes knowing it’s there, likes to hold it in his fist and let the teeth of it bite into his palm. Likes the way it hurts. Likes the way it feels like falling in love. He slides the key out of his pocket and slips into the apartment. The kitchen lights are on, and there’s Stede’s stuff in a pile on the floor in the hall.

“Stede?” he calls softly, and there’s no answer. He slips out of his shoes and shuffles through the apartment in his sock feet. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, office, til there’s only the bedroom left –

He’s there.

He’s there.

Oh, thank God, Stede’s there.

He’s fast asleep, face still puffy and blotchy with tears, wadded up tissues on the floor like little icebergs, casting long shadows with the light from the hall. Ed perches on the side of the bed and brushes a curl from Stede’s forehead. Stede whimpers in his sleep, a miserable little sound that flays Ed wide open, and he slides into bed, lays his head down on Stede’s pillow, presses their foreheads together.

Stede wakes slowly, his eyelids fluttering, his pulse quickening under Ed’s hand, where it’s pressed to Stede’s heart. For a split second, Stede wears the sleepy, fond expression that Ed’s accustomed to waking up to, the corners of his eyes crinkled into crows’ feet, his nose doing something cute and a little twitchy, but then it’s gone, replaced by fear. He sits up with a gasp, clutching the blankets around him.

“Ed?” he breathes, and Ed’s got about a second to watch his face screw into a tiny, miserable mask and then he’s folding in on himself and crying huge, silent, wracking sobs that make his shoulders heave. It’s the silence that Ed can’t stand. That even now, Stede’s trying to hide his feelings, make them smaller and more palatable.

He puts his hand on Stede’s shoulder, but it’s not enough, so he scoots and tugs and prods and pulls until he’s sitting with his back against the wall and Stede, still fetal, is curled up against his chest. Ed wraps his arms around him, and legs, too, for good measure. Holds him as tight as he can. Rocks a little. Presses soft kisses against his cheeks. Thinks that if this is the last night he spends with Stede, at least he’ll have this. At least he’ll have the sense memory of Stede heavy against him. At least he’ll have the taste of Stede’s tears on his lips.

Finally, finally, Stede stops crying. Ed doesn’t let him go, because he’s afraid that if he lets him go, he’ll have to let him go.

“Ed,” Stede hiccups, his voice a wreck, raspy and frayed. “Why are you here?”

“Because I love you, and I know I f*cked up, and I don’t – Stede, you scared me. I couldn’t get in touch with you and I didn’t know – I needed to know you were okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Stede says, and he’s back to crying. “I’m sorry, I should have – I should – Ed, I’m just so tired and I couldn’t. I couldn’t –”

“Shhh, baby, shh. C’mon, let’s just sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“But you – the tour –”

“We can talk in the morning, love.”

And Ed manhandles Stede down to the pillow, draws the covers up around him. He kicks off his jeans and slips in next to him, figures he can go one night without brushing his teeth. His dentist’ll forgive him, maybe. Maybe not, the guy’s a dick. He presses tight against Stede’s back and puts his arm over him, interlaces their fingers.

Stede sleeps.

Ed lies there in the darkness and feels the even rise and fall of Stede’s chest. He wants to compose to it, so he does, sketches out a mental melodic inversion to fit over the rhythm of his slow, measured breaths.

Eventually, Ed sleeps, too.

He wakes to full sun. Stede’s still asleep, and Ed watches him for a minute. He looks serene, finally. His hair is golden in the morning light, his skin pink. He looks like a porcelain doll, if they made porcelain dolls of men in their early 40s. Ed kisses his forehead, just the faintest brush of lips over the frown lines between his eyes, and slides carefully from the bed.

He potters around the apartment. He makes coffee, drinks it perched on the deep windowsill in the living room, looks down at the street. It’s a normal Friday morning. If Ed were in New Orleans, he’d be listening to Izzy grouse about the venue and the weather and security and acoustics. He’d be drinking sh*t hotel coffee and eating another f*cking yogurt parfait. He watches people head to work. He watches a bike messenger zip down the street. He watches the pigeons wheel in the morning sunshine. He sips his coffee. In the next room, Stede sleeps.

Eventually, Ed’s ass hurts from the windowsill and he goes to the fridge. Stede’s got the ingredients for a f*cking yogurt parfait, but he’s also got the ingredients for eggs and toast, so Ed opts for that. He soft-boils the eggs, cuts the toast into soldiers. He dips the bread into the yolk, proper orangeish egg yolks like they’ve got at home, he wonders where Stede finds real eggs in this country. He does the time zone math and doesn’t text his mum. It’s the middle of the night there. He doesn’t make Stede breakfast, because he wants him to sleep, and because Stede’s got a thing about textures, can’t abide a proper slurpy soft-boiled egg.

He checks his phone. Nothing from Izzy, which surprises him a little. He’s not in the business of being surprised by Izzy, but recently, he’s been surprised by everything. Maybe opening your heart for business again has that effect. The colors are brighter, the people are people-ier, the feelings are feeling-ier. It’s bullsh*t. It’s wonderful.

Ed has a second cup of coffee and does the washing up. He puts a record on the turntable, some Beethoven quartets, and turns the volume down low. He pulls a book down from one of the shelves, makes it through two Flannery O’Connor short stories before he gives it up. He’s unsettled, restless. Can’t really give Flannery the attention she deserves.

Ed’s on his third cup of coffee and lying on the living room rug trying to release some of the tension in his lower back when he hears Stede moving around in the bedroom. He sits up. He holds his coffee between his hands. He waits.

Stede shuffles into view, goes first to the kitchen. The sounds of selecting a mug, pouring the coffee, adding cream. Ed sits on the rug.

Stede shuffles into the living room. He looks down at Ed, expression unreadable. He puts his coffee on the coffee table, like a person who uses furniture for its intended purpose. He shuffles over to Ed. He sits. He scoots. He puts his head on Ed’s shoulder. Every muscle in Ed’s body relaxes at once. It’s like – no, it’s better than any of that sh*t ever was. It’s it’s own thing, but it feels dangerous in the same way, like feeling this good could kill him one day.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Stede says in a voice that’s only marginally less wrecked than it was last night. “I thought it was a dream.”

“Stede,” Ed says, because he’s been rehearsing this for like twelve hours now, “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I am.”

“I said it first.”

“What,” Stede asks gingerly, like he’s prodding at a wound, “What are you sorry for?”

“I – you thought I was asking you on a date. I wasn’t clear. I should’ve been, but I wasn’t, and I hurt you. And – I think maybe I’ve been hurting you all along?”

It hurts him to say it out loud.

“Hurting me?”

“Just being selfish, man. Asking too much because I wanna see you all the time, but I could’ve gotten on a plane some of the time.”

“You’re on tour, though.”

“It’s a music tour, love, not peace negotiations. They only really need me to put on the pretty clothes and sing.”

He can’t see Stede’s face but can somehow sense that he’s wrinkling his nose.

“Would we call the clothes pretty?”

Ed laughs, because if Stede’s being a bitch about his costumes, he’s probably not about to dump him. Maybe. Like 60-40.

“I like it,” Stede says quietly to his own hands. “I like the shows, and seeing little glimpses of the cities. Seeing you. I love that. But yes. The schedule has been rather gruelling.”

“Yeah.”

“I just – last night, I couldn’t. I was so tired, and so disappointed and – and I know, Edward, I really do, I promise I know. Maybe I don’t understand but I know. But I thought – well, I thought what I thought, and I hoped, and then… I just needed to lick my wounds in private. The thought of going out in a big group of strangers and putting on a brave face – I just couldn’t. I’m sorry I scared you.”

He’s crying again, and Ed squeezes his hand.

“Being Blackbeard… it’s hard,” he says, and laughs a little, because that’s the understatement of the f*cking century, but it’s also such a spoiled little rich boy thing to say. His dad would kick his teeth in for being a whiny, ungrateful piece of sh*t, and this time, he might deserve it. He shakes his head, tries again.

“I mean, when I started, right, it was fun. Got to write music and sing songs and get paid for it, which was really f*ckin’ cool. But this, it’s unrecognizable from what it was back then. Too many expectations. Too many eyes on me. I think – I think I’m done, Stede.” He gasps a little with the truth of it. He feels lighter, like he’s dropped a stone he was carrying into deep water. Like Sisyphus finally getting the boulder to the top of the hill.

“Done – Ed, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it, man. I’m done. I’m gonna quit the tour. Just stay here for a while, if you’ll let me. Figure out what to do next. Think the music store down the block is hiring? I could teach guitar. Or piano, if the kids are little.”

“Ed, you can’t –”

“I want to. It’s – Stede, it’s an act of f*ckin’ grace. I want this. I want a reprieve. I can't keep hurting you.”

“Ed, you can’t just stop. Maybe in another life, we could both just retire and, I don’t know, run a seaside inn or something. Leave it all behind. But that’s not how it works, Edward.”

“It could be. It could! I could stop being Blackbeard. It would take a while, maybe, for the media to get bored, but eventually… I want to just be Ed, you know?”

“Stop,” Stede snaps, and Ed sits up a little, because Stede doesn’t get mad, not ever, and the sharpness in his voice does something to Ed’s brain, makes it go all staticky and quiet for a moment. “Stop it. You always talk about Ed and Blackbeard like you’re not the same person.”

“We’re not –”

“You are, darling.”

“I don’t –”

“I fell in love with your voice,” Stede says softly, and Ed’s pretty sure this is what being eviscerated feels like, “Before I fell in love with the rest of you. You are Blackbeard, darling. And that’s wonderful. Complicated, but wonderful. And after the tour, if you want to retire, you can move in with me and teach guitar lessons down the block. But not until after the tour. Your fans would be heartbroken. I would be heartbroken. You’ve made something beautiful, and you need to see it through.”

“But you want – you want to go on dates with me.” Ed cringes as he says it because it sounds so lame, but it’s also, like, the crux of the issue, kind of?

“Among other things,” Stede says, a little cagily, and Ed sticks a pin in that.

“I don’t feel safe doing that with you, not while the tour is still in full swing and the press is all rabid.”

“All right.”

Ed snorts. “You pitched a fit last night but this morning it’s ‘all right?’ Easy as that?” And maybe it’s a little mean, but sh*t, he was scared last night. He’s still a little scared. He’s always a little scared, but this feels different.

Stede shrugs. “I had eleven hours of sleep and when I woke up, you were here. You came back for me, Edward. That means something. It – to me, it means so much.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, his voice suddenly thick and heavy in his throat. “Yeah, to me too– what did you mean, just now? ‘Among other things?’”

“Everything,” Stede says immediately, spreading his hands. “I want everything with you, Ed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything?”

“Absolutely everything.”

“Like…?” Ed says faintly, and gestures with one hand in a broad sort of encompassing stroke because he feels like he’s maybe going to just, like, f*cking float away into the sky.

“Yes,” Stede says, and Ed’s crying a little, they’re both crying a little, and they’re hugging, and the hugging turns to kissing and kissing turns to dry humping on the carpet for a while until Stede pulls away with a happy little sigh, and it’s Ed’s new life goal to just… help him keep making that noise for the rest of their lives. Which might be on the table, if Ed’s correctly understanding what ‘everything’ means.

“I need a shower,” Stede says a little breathily. But then he doesn’t move and says, as he picks lint off the rug, “Edward. I really am sorry. I can get overwhelmed, when I’m tired or hungry or ill – I overreacted.”

Ed shrugs. “‘S’okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Yeah, okay, it f*ckin’ sucked. But maybe next time we could have some sort of signal, you know? Like, you text me some random emoji and I know you’re off having a moment and not kidnapped by some crazed stalker with a gun?”

“That’s a good idea – a stalker with a gun? Edward, has that happened?”

“Yeah. Not the kidnapping, obviously, but yeah, there are threats. Occasionally.”

“Oh,” Stede breathes, like someone who’s just penciled in a crossword clue.

“Why? What did you think I’m worried about?”

Stede hesitates, doesn’t meet Ed’s eye, and no, f*ck that. Ed wriggles around until his head is in Stede’s lap and Stede’s looking down at him and patting his hair a bit absentmindedly. That’s better.

“Inconvenience?” he says at last. “Photos, articles, lack of privacy. I didn’t think about danger.”

“It’s worse when I’m linked romantically with someone,” Ed says, and he feels like a dick, because this is right up there with, like, STI status and hard limits in terms of sh*t he needs to disclose to sexual partners. “Like, baseline fame stuff is manageable, normally, but then if my name gets linked with someone in the press, the folks who think they’re, like, my secret wife or whatever come out of the woodwork. And yeah, some of them are armed. Ivan’s got a whole team on it, it’s mostly okay, but Stede. If anything happened to you –”

“No, yes, I understand, now. Gosh, I wish you’d said something.”

“Yeah, no, I know. Sorry.”

“We’re really bad at this, aren’t we?”

“I dunno,” Ed says, and smiles shyly. “We’re, like, stupid in love. And we’re figuring it out.”

There’s some more kissing after that, inevitably – it was a pretty good line, Ed’s gotta give it to himself – and a little more dry humping, and when Stede insists on a shower, Ed joins him.

#

Ed flies back to New Orleans after the shower and – well. He’s sitting a little gingerly on the plush airplane seat for a reason.

Izzy meets him in his dressing room. Raises an eyebrow in a silent question. Ed ducks his head to hide his smile.

“f*cking Bonnet,” Izzy says, and stomps off, but Ed catches the slight quirk of his mouth.

It’s not called the Superdome anymore, but that’s where they are, and Ed’s missed all the sound checks, which is why he starts this show with some chatter. At least that’s what he tells the Izzy in his own head. Really, he stands there for a minute and just looks. Stede’s not here, but the crowd is still electric. He can make out the faces in the first couple rows, can see signs and costumes and – he’s a f*cking dumbass, it’s been in front of him this whole time.

“Where y’at?” he opens, and then rests for about twelve bars as the crowd yells. “Listen, thank you all for coming out tonight. I wasn’t sure until this afternoon that this show was going to happen, but a friend convinced me that you’d be pretty upset if I canceled, so we’re here. You wanna hear some f*ckin’ music? Let me hear you say ‘Yeah!’” and oh, they like that.

First couple songs are shaky as Ed gets his voice warmed up, gets used to the acoustics, such as they are. Takes a minute for him and the band settle into it, but they find their groove halfway through the first mini-set and Ed finds he’s having fun. He’s strutting around and putting on a show, and part of it is this crowd, this city. You’ve gotta be good to play New Orleans, and so Ed decides to be good. He works the crowd in a way he usually doesn’t, and while he wishes Stede were here in an abstract sort of it’s-fun-to-show-off-for-him kind of way, he’s also glad he’s not. He’s glad he’d booked himself in for a massage and a manicure this afternoon. He’s glad he’d agreed to let Ed handle a grocery delivery order this weekend. He’s glad he’s probably swaddled in that gorgeous yellow robe, pink and warm from the bath, cozy on the couch with a glass of wine and something mindless on the television tonight. He’s glad for all of that, and he turns that gladness into joy for the people who are here.

“What the f*ck, man?” Archie asks him as they wait on the stage lift to go back up after a set change. “You’re on fire tonight. We’re all on fire tonight!”

“There’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” Ed says, shrugging, and blows it up when she fist bumps him. That anti-Sisyphus feeling is back, even though he’s being Blackbeard. He puts his hand to his chest, traces the key he’s wearing next to his heart. He’ll be back in New York soon.

New Orleans, New York. Houston, New York. Kansas City. Stede comes to Kansas City and they eat carry-out barbecue on the living room floor of the Airbnb. (They’re on the floor. The barbecue’s on plates. He’s not, like, Keith Richardsing it). Stede goes to the show, because he always goes to the show, and maybe Ed’s a little proud of that, that Stede likes seeing the show. Ed asks him to stick around backstage while he gets ready, but Stede says no, says,

“I’ve got new friends to make out there,” and coming out of anyone else’s mouth it would be trite or precious, but Stede actually means it, and Ed wants to bite him, a little, with how much he loves him. So he does, climbs into his lap in the back of the car on the way to the stadium, sucks a hickey high on his neck so it’s visible above the collar of his shirt. No costume tonight, just his broad chest stretching out the letters of a HUG IS A VERB t-shirt, and Ed’s learning not to resent his fans, but it’s a process, okay. He can specifically resent the ones who will get to hug Stede tonight while he’s down there doing his embarrassing f*cking vocal warmups.

He does his embarrassing f*cking vocal warmups. He bullies Iz into giving him the password to his own Instagram account. He puts his makeup on, posts a picture of a cool-looking leaf he’d found. He types a caption, because he thinks that’s how Instagram works: look at this cool leaf i found 🤘

He chats to the crowd. He mentions his crush, because he thinks it’s funny, and because he knows Stede likes it. The crowd cheers a whole lot about it, and this time, it punches him in the chest. They’re cheering like sports fans for their favorite team. They’re cheering like they’re rooting for him. He stands there and lets himself be rooted for. Soon, he thinks. Soon.

He still hates flying, but he also loves that he hates it? Loves that it feels like a sacrifice. He likes making sacrifices for Stede. Likes making himself a little uncomfortable so that Stede can feel a little more comfortable. Every time the plane takes off, Ed has a moment of nauseous panic and then he swallows it down, asks the flight attendant for a glass of ginger ale, puts his hand in his pocket and lets the teeth of the key bite into the soft flesh of his palm.

He slowly learns that the best way to make Stede let him do sh*t for him is to just do it, that if he asks permission first, Stede will say no out of some deeply twisted instinct to deny himself pleasure. It’s true for domestic stuff, like taking care of the grocery order every week or buying the rug Stede had admired from an Instagram ad but it’s also true in the bedroom, apparently, which is how he winds up introducing Stede to his own prostate.

Denver, Albuquerque, Phoenix, Salt Lake City. He finds more cool leaves, posts them on Instagram, where they routinely get a million likes. He didn’t know other people liked leaves, too.

He buys a magnet for Stede in each city, puts each one up there with the rest each time he comes home.

Stede comes to Albuquerque because Ed had, all those months ago, invited him there by mistake. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, and his f*cking legs are gorgeous and tan and toned because he’s been running in the park after work most days. Ed lets the crowd root for them, and after the show, Ed gets those legs around his shoulders and comes so hard he cries.

They’re lying in the dark holding hands, and Ed can see stars out the door to the hotel balcony. He squeezes Stede’s hand.

“Heading east again soon.”

“Mmm.”

“Baltimore, Philly, Boston, New York.”

“Easier commute,” Stede says, and there’s a smile in his voice.

“Yeah, and then a good chunk of time off. And then the West Coast before Aotearoa. Will you come?”

“To California?”

“Home. Want you to meet my mum. Want to end the tour with you. Want to start my life with you.”

“Edward,” Stede says softly. “This is your life.”

“I know, I know. I do. But you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Will you come?”

“I will.”

***

In Philly, he gets a text from Stede before the show.

Ran into my bracelet friend again. They gave me this one and there’s a photo of Stede’s freckled wrist with a purple and teal beaded bracelet with the words FREEDOM IN THE FALLING.

“Hey,” Ed says into the mic ninety minutes later, and the crowd yells, “hey!” back to him.

“So listen, this f*ckin’ song just won’t leave me alone,” he says, and strums the opening chords of Icarus. “And I guess you all know by now that I met someone. That I like someone. That that someone likes me well enough to travel to f*ckin’ – Minneapolis and Albuquerque and even Philadelphia just to hang out. Voluntarily coming to Philly, I dunno. I think that’s true love,” and he f*cking loves Philadelphia, it’s the only city that ever boos him. City of Brotherly Love. City of throwing batteries at Santa.

He takes a deep breath, keeps strumming. He takes another breath, from the diaphragm. He stands in front of the mic, which is just the right height. He looks out over the sixty-seven thousand people. He thinks about the first night of the tour, how it had felt like a chore. He thinks about the other night in Baltimore, how he and the band had just f*ckin’ riffed for ten minutes, jamming together like the old days. He breathes from the diaphragm, and in his own speaking voice, he says,

“Anyway, this song just won’t leave me alone, and my crush is here again tonight. This new version is for him.”

And he sings.

I’ve been afraid of flying
For such a long, long time
It seems an act of hubris
To try to climb that high

But I’m a singer on the road
You’ve got a nine to five
You keep my heart at home with you
So I take to the skies

Did you know that Icarus flew?
We only remember he fell
The flying and falling in love with you
Is worth it when you love me so well

Another hotel breakfast
Another airport bar
The liminal space of life on tour
My home is where you are

There’s a lot I cannot give you
But more I hope I can
For you, my love, I’d take the fall
I’d leap before I ran

Did you know that Icarus flew?
We only remember he fell
The flying and falling in love with you
Is worth it

He lets the guitar sketch out the last missing words. He smiles through his tears and lets the crowd celebrate.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

“Anyway, this song just won’t leave me alone, and my crush is here again tonight. This new version is for him.”

Stede gasps like he’s been doused in cold water, like he’s been pushed off a bridge. The crowd is going nuts, people are screaming and hugging each other and weeping openly. Stede is weeping openly. Ed is singing a song for him. For him. “For him.” Ed is – Stede is crying so hard he can’t see, so he listens, instead.

He listens.

There are some encores, after, but Stede is already making for the exits, flying down the concourse, going on instinct and a vague sense, after however many shows, of the general structure of these massive coliseums. Colisea? Stadia, certainly, but –

“Oh, thank goodness,” he gasps when he comes to a door that has Ivan standing outside of it. “May I —”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. He opens the door for Stede and gives him turn-by-turn directions to the stage door.

Stede doesn’t have to wait long. The door swings open and Ed strides into the hall, does an almost comical double-take when he sees Stede and swoops in, but Stede takes a step back, puts his hand on Ed’s chest, palm over his heart.

“Ed. Darling. Did you – up there, did you mean to do that?”

Ed smiles at him, his eyes going all soft and crinkly. He puts his hand over Stede’s on his chest.

“Yeah, love. I meant to do that. Been meaning to do it for a while now.” His voice is – Stede can’t access the vocabulary. It just is. It’s Ed.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, and his eyes brim over again.

“Hey,” Ed says, and puts his other hand up to Stede’s cheek, brushes a tear away with his thumb. He leans down, closes the distance between them, kisses Stede all sweet and lingering. “Thank you,” Ed breathes against his lips, and that doesn’t help with the tears.

Stede’s really getting into it, is opening his mouth, is sucking Ed’s bottom lip in between his teeth when there’s a wolf-whistle and clapping and Stede opens his eyes to find that they’re surrounded. The band’s all there, plus Izzy, and as they step away from each other, the band moves in to punch or pat or clasp Ed on the shoulder and Stede’s about to slink away, send Ed a text saying that he’ll meet him back at the hotel, when Archie slings an arm around his shoulders and then it all devolves into a many-limbed complicated sort of group-hug love-fest right there on the dingy linoleum. Stede mostly manages to stay out of Izzy’s way, and it’s mercifully short-lived. When they’re all standing normally again, Ed slides his arm around Stede’s waist, firm, anchoring.

“So, this is Stede,” he says. “Stede, this is everyone.”

Stede waves a little awkwardly. They’ve all just hugged so handshakes seem like maybe a step backward.

“Oh, he’s cute-cute,” Jackie tells Ed.

“Good to meet you, man,” the drummer – Bill? Stede thinks his name is Bill – says earnestly. “Glad you’re here. We’ve been hearing a lot about you.”

“Aren’t you just adorable,” the scary one – Annie? – purrs and advances on him rather predatorily. Ed draws him in closer, glowers at her, and she pouts a bit.

“Hey, man,” Archie says. “See you next week at Olu’s for the potluck?”

Stede smiles at her gratefully. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

He lets Ed steer him to his dressing room and he stays close as Ed begins to de-glamour. He helps him out of his costume, pressing kisses against Ed’s neck and shoulder as he draws down the zipper, careful not to let it catch on the truly unfortunate snakeskin fabric. He traces the letters on Ed’s back as he steps out of the garment, lingers on the second T in TRUST. Ed goes to the vanity mirror, sits, pulls out a fistful of makeup wipes. Stede looks at him in the mirror, watches his own, dear face come back to him as Ed wipes away the kohl and blush and glitter. He’s got the key to Stede’s apartment on a chain around his neck, and Stede wants to press it into his skin, brand him with it. Instead he skritches his fingers through Ed’s hair and Ed closes his eyes with a smile, tips his head back so it’s resting on Stede’s stomach. Stede strokes his face, gentle, gentle, with two fingertips. He bends down and kisses him upside-down, Spiderman-style. It’s messy and awkward and rather silly, but when they part, Ed’s looking rather rumpled and keen.

“Shower, I think,” Ed says, and Stede isn’t quite sure how to interpret it until Ed raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, all right.” He follows Ed into the adjoining bathroom, undoing his trousers as he goes.

“Edward,” Stede groans five minutes later, as he nudges his co*ck a little deeper into Ed’s mouth, the water hot and lovely on his back. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Ed swallows around him and looks up at him meaningfully, eyes wide and watering a little.

“Okay,” Stede gasps. “Yes, fine, maybe it’s a bit obvi– oh my God.”

Eventually, they dry off, dress, and head to the car. It’s only 90 minutes to New York, and Ed had asked, “Wanna sleep in our own bed tonight?” and Stede had liked the sound of “our bed” so much that it had meant an extra twenty minutes in the shower.

They’re on I-95 when Ed’s phone rings.

“Oh, sh*t,” he says. “It’s my mum, I gotta –”

“No, of course,” Stede says, and shifts in his seat a bit, angling his body so he’s facing the window, giving Ed the illusion of privacy if not the actual benefit of it.

“Hey mum – No, I – Mum, I didn’t –”

A long, long pause, during which Stede can’t make out the words, but the shape of it, the cadence, the prosody, is clearly an irate mother reading her son the riot act. He tightens his fingers around Ed’s. Stede had thought that Ed has a good relationship with his mother, but the sound of this – his throat grows tight. He hadn’t thought, as usual. He’d been so excited for Ed, finally feeling comfortable to step out into the light – though maybe that’s not the best metaphor; Ed’s lived in the limelight for more than a decade – that he hadn’t thought about the fallout. The fallout which, apparently, includes Ed’s mother…

“Mum,” Ed interrupts. “Mum, it wasn’t, like, planned. I would’ve told you if it had been, I just got up there and it felt right. Felt good, you know? So I said it. I promise, if I’d given it more than two seconds of thought, I would’ve told you ahead of time, okay? Yeah. Yeah, no, he’s here – yeah, I will. Okay. Nah, I won’t. Okay. Okay, yeah. Love you too. Bye.”

Ed smiles and shakes his head as he hangs up the phone.

“She’s upset?” Stede asks, because the first half had sounded bad, but the second half hadn’t, and now he’s not sure how to interpret it.

“She’s got a Google Alert set up for my name,” Ed explains, “And gets pissed when she learns something from the Internet she hasn’t heard from me first. So tonight –”

“It’s already online?”

“Yeah, love. It’s already online. She wanted to know why I hadn’t told her I was going to come out tonight. “

“Oh!” Stede says, relief washing over him, warm and welcome. “Oh, I thought that maybe she didn’t –”

“What, mum? Nah, man, she’s known I’m queer longer than I knew the words for it, y’know? Sat me down in, like, Year 8 and told me that she loved me just as I am but that I should maybe, y’know, keep it under wraps when my dad was around. Anyway, yeah, she knew early on, and I learned not to use the computer to look for dirty pictures.”

They breathe together with that for a few moments. Something poppy and bright is playing through the car speakers. Ed’s tapping his toe, because he can’t not, and Stede wonders when he’ll stop feeling overcome with love for him, wonders if he’ll ever get to a point where he takes Ed for granted. He hopes not, but he also hopes so, wants to be old and forgetful and annoyed at one another.

“She says hi, by the way.”

“To me?”

“No, to Steak Knife – yes, to you.”

“You’ve told her about me?”

“Stede.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you!”

“But sometimes, babe, you’re really f*ckin’ dumb.”

Stede chuckles, shrugs in acknowledgement. He squeezes Ed’s hand.

“Hey,” Ed says after a while. “Steaky, I’m gonna turn the light on back here just for a sec, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, boss.”

Ed flicks the light on and takes his phone out again. He holds it over their hands, where they’re clasped on the seat between them. He snaps some pictures, spends a minute or two typing one-thumbed. He turns the light off.

“What was that?” Stede asks, and Ed holds his phone out. It’s open to his Instagram page, and there’s a photo of their hands, fingers intertwined, in an arty sepia filter.

Ed has captioned it.

not a leaf
still pretty cool

🌈 🏳️🌈

#BlackQueered #BlackbeardsCrush

Three minutes later, Stede gets a text from Lucius:

Tell your boyfriend he just made my withered gay heart grow three sizes

🥹

And also f*ck you, i am on a date

Do you know how uncool i looked

Crying at the club

Literal crying at the literal club

I don’t understand that reference? Stede types, even though he does. Lucius seems like he needs the gift of it, though.

🙄 ok granddad let’s get you to bed

Have fun on your date.

Lucius leaves him on read, and Stede puts his phone back in his pocket.

Ed slips Stede’s key – their key? The key? – from around his neck and opens the door. Stede’s been thinking about the key a lot, about how knowing that Ed likes to keep it on him is like a flower embroidered over a hole in a favorite pair of blue jeans. Stede’s been thinking a lot about home and belonging and space and time and history, about the cross-stitch sampler his nanny had had in her room when he was small, blue and red thread proclaiming “HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.” His mother had sniffed in disdain on the rare occasions she’d stepped foot in the nursery and Stede had mimicked that disdain but now…

He follows Ed into the apartment. He thinks about his nanny, who’d accompanied them to the States when they’d moved. Stede had been six, and she’d stayed on for three years. Three years away from her family, from her whānau. He wants, suddenly, to find her, to get in touch, to apologize for being rude about her cross-stitch. To thank her for showing him what love felt like, so that he recognized it when he found it again.

They perform their evening routine. They have an evening routine! Stede feels like he’s holding his breath every time they do it, though in actuality it’s too long for that to be practicable, he’s not a free-diver. Set up tomorrow’s coffee, pour glasses of water, make sure the doors are locked, turn down the thermostat, turn down the bed, skincare routines (Stede: more steps than he cares to admit; his budget has a line item reading “Lotions and Potions” and he generally finds ways to preserve it in months when things are tight, i.e., when double tuition comes due. Ed: washes with hot water and soap, puts some Cetaphil on every third day or so, the absolute bastard).

They get into bed in silence, curl in toward one another like newspaper pages in the wind, folding back in on one another along predetermined creases. Stede faces the wall, feels Ed all warm along his back, their legs tangled together.

“Ed?”

“Mmm?

“How do you feel?”

Ed doesn’t answer immediately, appears to be considering it. Stede thinks about the song Ed had sung. You keep my heart at home with you. He flips around in Ed’s embrace so he can kiss him, just once, sweet and lingering.

“Good,” Ed says finally. “I feel really good. Freer. Lighter, I think.”

Stede doesn’t respond, just cradles his face in his palm and kisses him again, and again, and again.

***

When Stede wakes, it’s to find that he and Ed have been added to a group chat with Lucius and Izzy, which is disconcerting in and of itself, but even worse is, an hour later, the fact of Israel Hands in Stede’s living room. At least he’s brought bagels and coffee.

Ed is camped out on the living room floor, wrapped in a blanket like a shock victim at the scene of an accident. Lucius is sprawled on the sofa, scrolling on his phone. Izzy is sitting ramrod-straight in one of the yellow wingback chairs. Stede wonders if it’s because if he leaned back, his feet would no longer touch the floor. Izzy clears his throat, and ugh, there it is again, the desire to scope him, to determine once and for all what’s going on in his larynx. He ignores it, pushes the desire down and away. Not his patient, none of his business… But maybe he was intubated in the field and developed vocal fold paresis? Maybe he’s got terrible GERD? No. Stop it. Not his patient. Though GERD would fit. The chronic stress. The voice. The acerbic personality.

Stede fixes himself a bagel with cream cheese, and one for Ed. The word schmear is not, apparently, something that Ed permits in his presence, reacting to it like others do moist or nipple, and this is yet another small, dear fact about Ed, though Stede also files it away under Possible Torment, should the need ever arise. He considers occupying the other wingback, but that would put him close to Izzy and far from Ed, which is doubly unacceptable, so he sits on the floor, too.

Izzy clears his throat again, and Stede does not think about reflux and the phlegm that it inevitably generates.

“We need to talk media strategy,” Izzy says.

“Counterpoint,” Ed says with a pasted-on sort of chipperness, “No we don’t!”

“Edward,” Izzy says, but Ed cuts him off.

“I’m serious, man. Here’s the new media strategy: f*ck ‘em.”

“You can’t just –”

“It’s 2023,” Ed says. “They can follow me on Instagram like everyone else and learn stuff that way.”

“It’s 2024, you twat, and that’s not how it works.”

“Actually,” says Lucius from the sofa, not looking up from his phone, “It could be.”

Izzy sighs. “I knew I was going to regret inviting you,” he says, but it’s remarkably devoid of venom. Stede looks between them, at the love bite visible on Lucius’s neck, and closes that line of thought permanently, cauterizes it, buries it deep in the ground in a lead-lined casket.

“No you didn’t,” Lucius purrs, and nope. But Lucius does look up from his phone, swings his legs down so he’s sitting up like an adult.

“Okay, so it is 2024, but it’s not just that, it’s that Blackbeard is, like, a self-sustaining nuclear reaction at this point, right? He doesn’t need the mainstream media in the same way he did ten years ago. Or even five years ago. Between the fandom and social media and being a household name for as long as he has been, he doesn’t need them. They need him. Or, you know, they want him, but that doesn’t mean they get to have him.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Ed grumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you owning being Blackbeard now?”

Ed shrugs. “Dunno. Could do. Maybe. Thinking about it.”

“Good for you,” Lucius says fiercely. “Love that for you. Anyway, you don’t need the mainstream media, and it might be helpful to remind them of that for a while.”

Ed nods. Izzy looks thoughtful. Stede wonders why he’s there at all and munches his bagel.

“If I’m gonna do that,” Ed says slowly, “I’m gonna need someone full-time on coms.”

“Hmm,” Lucius drawls. “If only you knew someone who was fabulous at social media.”

Ed raises an eyebrow at Izzy, who looks appraisingly (hungrily? ugh) at Lucius, who co*cks his head at Stede.

“Sorry, babe,” he tells him. “Looks like you’re going to need to find a new office manager.”

“Mmm. Maybe this time I’ll hire someone who actually manages the office.”

“Maybe you should sell the business to Olu and make your boyfriend buy you an island someplace.”

“A whole island seems gauche. Maybe a yacht? Darling, I’ll need a yacht, and for you to lobby ASHA to change their telepractice policy to include international waters.”

“I’m on it,” Ed says around a mouthful of bagel.

Later, when Izzy and Lucius have gone and Stede’s in the bath, Ed wanders in.

“That was a joke about the yacht, right?”

“Edward – yes, of course it was a joke.”

Ed shrugs. “I figured. But, you know, I could, like, do more. Pay the rent. Or split it. Or, I dunno. Your kids are in college? I could cover tuition–”

“No, no. No! Of course not. Stop – it’s fine. I’m not wanting for anything.”

“I know you’re not, like, the Little Match Girl or whatever, but if there’s anything – ugh, I don’t know why it feels so f*ckin’ awkward to talk about money with you.”

“Because it’s impolite and your mother raised you better?”

“Nah, it’s like – I dunno, you grew up rich as f*ck, right?”

Stede nods.

“And then I know your dad pissed it all away when you were still a kid, but you’ve still got that, like, old money attitude where you don’t talk about money, you don’t acknowledge it, but since you don’t have a ton of it and I do, it makes it hard to talk about stuff that could be f*ckin’ helpful, you know?”

Stede opens his mouth to retort and closes it again. Thinks about the relief that had swamped him the day his mother had shown up at his posh, cruel boarding school to tell him his father was dead and everything was being liquidated to pay his endless gambling debts. Then, because he’s been trying to do a better job of sharing his feelings with Ed, he haltingly tells him about it.

“...And I just – I felt like a monster for being so relieved, but he was the monster, so I – I just never wanted to be part of that world again. Everything about it was so miserable. I wasn’t happy, my mum wasn’t happy, my father certainly wasn’t happy, so much so that it killed him.”

“Yeah, no, I could see – that makes sense. But babe, this isn’t like that. You know that, right?”

Stede looks at his hands. Then he looks at Ed’s hands, at the moth, at the star on the other hand, at the faded bass clef with hearts instead of dots, there at the base of his right thumb. Ed had laughed about that one when Stede had asked him about his tattoos one night.

“First one I ever got,” he’d said ruefully. “Could’ve been worse, could’ve been, I dunno, a mermaid with her tit* out or something. sh*tty handpoke job. I was, like, fourteen? Fifteen? Thought I was cool.”

“You are cool,” Stede had said, and had kissed it. He shakes his head a little, to pull himself out of the memory. He reaches for Ed’s hand and kisses it. It’s hard to be honest with his feelings, but there’s something about seeing those two little hearts, one a little crooked, that makes him want to try.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m – I mean, yes, I know that, intellectually, but I think I’m going to have a hard time believing it, for a while. Is that all right?”

“Yeah,” Ed rumbles low in his chest. “Yeah, of course, love.”

***

Stede doesn’t go to Boston. He goes for a run, has a singing lesson, catches up on paperwork, registers for a conference. Ed sends him photos of the USS Constitution and a plate of raw oysters. Ed sends him a selfie of himself stretched out, nude, on his hotel bed, a pride flag draped over his modesty. It’s exactly the pose from the drawing that dreadful late night host had procured back in June. Stede saves the photo to his camera roll and has a furious, cataclysmic wank about it. He texts Ed a selfie from the wank in retribution, only to have him call him and whisper filth in his ear until he comes all over himself and the duvet. He sighs, resigns himself to trundling the duvet cover down to the laundromat where he can use the oversized washers and dryers. Again. He thinks about Ed’s open-ended offer, imagines life without the laundromat, shelves the thought, for now.

He practices his Schubert in the shower, in the kitchen, in the park as he’s walking to work. The audition for the Gay Men’s Chorus is very soon. He hasn’t practiced in front of Ed. When Louis had been in kindergarten, he’d been part of a Suzuki cello choir that had performed Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star as part of an event at Lincoln Center honoring Yo-Yo Ma. It had been very cute. That’s how Stede feels about singing in front of Ed. Not quite coals to Newcastle, more like coals to the crown jewels? The same substance, technically, but worlds apart.

Ed gets back late Sunday night, lets himself in with his key, slips into bed with Stede and takes him apart slowly, first with his fingers and his mouth, then with his co*ck. Stede likes it, likes the stretch and burn and just-this-side-of-too-much-ness of it. It’s a synecdoche for their relationship, down to the inevitable mess and cleanup, down to the tenderness and care after everything is tidied away. Stede looks at the sheets and another damn duvet cover in the laundry basket. He thinks about the patient phone call this morning, a client calling to cancel because her insurance wouldn’t cover voice training. He thinks about his cruel, cold boarding school, about Nigel and Chauncey and the rest. He strokes the wings of the luna moth on Ed’s left hand and resolves to be kinder to himself.

There are three shows in New York. Stede goes to the first one, wearing the teal shirt and leather trousers again. He skips the second in favor of an early evening. His audition is the next morning, and he doesn’t want to be tempted to scream-sing along with the crowd, knows he already pushed it at the first show. He spends the evening drinking herbal tea and orbiting the apartment nervously, picking things up and putting them down at random. He orders dinner in, eats it off his lap in the living room. He scrolls Instagram, watches a just-posted reel from the show, Ed ceding the stage to an up and coming performer who melds traditional Inuit throat singing with a driving rock beat. This has been one of the little joys of the tour, a new artist in every city, usually a solo, occasionally duetting with Ed. Stede has expanded his running playlist considerably. This artist is entrancing, otherworldly, and Stede has a pang of regret for not seeing them live. He drinks a large glass of water, draws himself a bath. He’s still in the bath, lost in his book, when Ed arrives back home.

“How was it?” Stede calls, and Ed comes into the bathroom and perches on the side of the tub.

“Went well. Big crowd. Loud. Looking forward to tomorrow, having you there with everyone. Looking forward to a break after.”

“Yes, I can imagine. How’s the voice feeling?”

“Never better. What about you?”

“Fine,” Stede says.

“Babe,” Ed says, and brushes a lock of hair off Stede’s forehead. “I wish you’d let me hear you. We’ve sung together before, on my last day of therapy, remember? I know you’re good.”

Stede purses his lips. “I don’t know, it feels silly.”

“Could be an audition trick. You feel nervous tomorrow morning, you say to yourself, ‘I sang this for Blackbeard and it was so good he sucked my dick about it after.’”

“What if it’s not good?”

Ed waggles his eyebrows, leers at Stede’s penis, which is flattering, as he’s flaccid and rather unimpressive, distorted by the bathwater to look small. “Gonna do it either way, mate, if you’re keen, so…Please? A show, and then dinner? I mean, maybe not dinner-dinner, but a snack. Though if you’d let me eat your ass, that would make it dinner, two courses –”

Stede laughs. “All right, all right, fine. To the singing, not to – Let me dry off.”

A few minutes later, he’s in his dressing gown in the living room. Ed’s seated on the couch, his hands folded on his lap. Stede’s got his accompaniment queued up on the CD player, a recording his voice teacher had made for him so he could rehearse with the piano. He presses play, squares his shoulders over his hips, and at the very last second, turns on his heel so he’s facing away from Ed. He sings. It’s a Schubert lied, sweet and simple. It lies well for his voice, and his mouth is soft and tender around the German. He doesn’t mean to sing the whole song, but a minute in, he finds he’s enjoying himself, filling the whole living room with his voice. He wonders what it must be like for Ed, filling an entire arena with his voice, but the comparison doesn’t make him feel small this time, it just makes him fond and glad and curious. He lingers on the last note, stops the CD, and turns back to Ed.

He’s got one arm stretched over the back of the sofa, is lounging comfortably, long and lanky, and Stede’s breath catches in his throat. He is so beautiful. He is always so beautiful, but sometimes it takes Stede by surprise, the fact of all that beauty in his space, draped over his furniture, curled into him in his bed. Ed’s eyes are half-closed, like a contented cat.

“What do the words mean?” he asks, and it comes out rough, somewhere between a growl and a purr.

“Oh! It’s an invitation, actually, of sorts. To, well. To a tryst, I suppose. The last lines, Bebend harr’ ich Dir entgegen!/Komm’, beglücke mich! mean, hmm. Roughly, I tremble as I await you, come make me happy?”

“Oh, I’m gonna come make you happy, babe.” And when Ed pounces, that is catlike, too.

***

The audition goes as well as he could have hoped. Stede isn’t nervous during his solo, and then they put him through his paces with some current choir members. Can he hold his part in a round? Can he sight read? What’s his range? He can, and he can, and he’s a tenor, which he knows is in his favor. He shakes hands all around, is clapped on the back by two of the current choristers, one of whom squeezes his shoulder a little familiarly. He’ll hear back by email sometime early next week. As he walks out into the sweltering early September sunshine, he smiles. He, too, feels lighter. Freer.

Ed greets him at the door, turns him right back around, back down the steps, into the car. Steak Knife pulls up in front of a cute little bistro. It’s deserted, but Ed walks in with confidence, nods to the host, and they’re shown to a table in the courtyard.

“Edward, what –?”

Ed shrugs. “Wanted to take you out to celebrate.”

“Did you book the entire restaurant?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Thank you. This is lovely.”

And it is. He sits in the sunshine with the man he loves and has brunch.

The final New York show that evening is gloriously chaotic. Stede has never gone with someone before, and now he’s there with Mary and Louis and Doug (Alma will join him in San Francisco in the winter), Lucius and Fang, Olu, Zheng, and Jim. They’ve got prime spots right near the stage, and Stede acts as a sort of docent as they slowly wend their way through the stadium grounds and onto the grass. He runs out of stickers before they even make it into the building, has glitter in his hair and two cans of White Claw in his otherwise empty stomach. He can’t tell if Lucius is on the clock or not, but he has his phone out a lot and appears to be taking photos and videos of the crowd. He’s careful not to capture any of their group. Stede’s wearing all the bracelets he’s acquired from Bracelet Fairy, as well as a couple extras from other new friends. He gives three dads dad hugs. He gives a very embarrassed Louis a dad hug, and Mary, for good measure.

“This is in a friendship way,” he tells her. “Not a paternalistic, patriarchal way.” She laughs and squeezes him hard, once, around the waist and releases him.

The show starts with all of its usual glitz and bombast. Ed’s in fine form. He’s always in fine form, but since Philadelphia, he’s had a grace and ease to his performances that makes both the personal and professional halves of Stede giddy. Mary catches his eye during an eight-minute version of “Surrender to the Night” and mouths “wow.” Stede bounces on the balls of his feet and winks.

The guest that night is a queer Indian woman who has exquisite vocal control, blending western pop with traditional Indian music in a compelling, haunting, toe-tapping mashup. The quarter tones! The vibrato! Stede wants to scope her while she sings, just to admire how she does it up close. Jim is hawklike, watching her, and Stede wonders whether they’ll ask Archie to finagle an introduction.

When Ed and the band take the stage again, Ed’s in the iconic leathers, and Stede has a momentary rush of wanting to undo all the buckles with his teeth. They play and play and play. Finally, it’s the last encore.

“Last show for a couple months,” Ed says into the mic, “And I thought we’d end with something fun. Been thinking about what makes Ed happy, you know? Sing along if you know this one. I’m pretty sure all but one of you will know this one,” and he winks, starts playing the guitar intro to Mr. Brightside.

Stede listens to the crowd singing along, and he can’t help himself: when the bridge comes, he conducts along to Ode to Joy, just the sketch of his index finger in the air down at his side. He thinks about primary school, about the loneliness and isolation. Teased for being soft, for talking funny, for being too much, and not enough. He looks around, takes in the color and noise and joy. He doesn’t feel alone anymore. He doesn’t feel isolated. He is enough. He is more than enough. He thinks about the train car at Pride, those sweaty, happy, glittery people. Next year, he will be among them. He is one of them now.

He texts Ed as they all make their way to the train.

Wear the leathers home, please.

And Ed does. It turns out that Ed hadn’t been joking about having Stede f*ck his face as soon as there was a long enough break between shows. It also turns out it’s easier to wipe sem*n off of leather than it is to lug the duvet cover down to the laundromat a fourth f*cking time that month.

Stede gets a congratulatory email the following Monday, and his life takes on a new routine. After Labor Day, he’s back to five eight hour days at work. Monday nights are for rehearsals and, occasionally, going out with some of his sectionmates and their partners for a drink afterward. Ed never joins them, of course. But when Stede wobbles back into the apartment, Ed is there, waiting up for him.

Thursday afternoons used to be for a yoga class and that’s still on, but now it's the two of them in Stede’s living room with Ed’s personal trainer. She’s scary and intense, and Stede finds himself in poses he never thought he could attain.

One rainy Saturday afternoon in early October, Stede says,

“Darling, why’ve I never seen your house?” so they get in the car and drive over to it. It’s almost a perfect diagonal across the park, quite close to Mary, closer to work than Stede’s apartment is, but when he takes in the ground floor of Ed’s home, he begins to understand why Ed prefers to stay with him. It’s pristine but soulless, and as he brushes his hand over the sleek leather of a chair in the living room, he sees why Ed spends at least an hour every day building a little nest on Stede’s sofa out of throw pillows and his rather lovely cashmere blanket. Stede hadn’t quite known what to make of it, but now he understands that Ed had been reacting to Stede’s maximalism like a camel at an oasis, storing away the memory of warmth and comfort against a possible return to this sleek prison.

Still, the house has good bones, lots of lovely hardwood and tall windows with the original glass, and when Stede wanders upstairs and sees the brand-new, top-of-the-line agitatorless extra-high-capacity washer and dryer in the cupboard off the bathroom, he pokes Ed in the chest with one finger.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Teach.”

Ed looks a little shifty, and the next month, Stede breaks his lease. He directs the packing and unpacking of all his many, many treasures and trinkets with the seriousness and focus of an admiral ordering his fleet in battle, and when the dust has settled and the furniture has been either rearranged or discarded, Stede finds he loves it. The extra space gives his collections room to breathe, gives the two of them space to orbit each other a little more loosely. They’re still living in each other’s pockets, but they’re real pockets, now, proper, deep blue jean pockets, not the nominal ones they put into women’s clothing.

The lock on the door of the house has a thumbprint scanner, but Ed still wears Stede’s apartment key on a cord around his neck. Stede grabs it sometimes when he’s f*cking Ed, holds it in his fist to keep it from bouncing and swaying with his thrusts, or presses it into the skin of Ed’s chest, or his back, depending on their position, leaving an imprint there, and after (or, sometimes, during), Ed will trace the raised skin with one finger and wide-blown pupils.

They host a Friendsgiving, now that Stede has a proper dining room and the space to take his good china out of storage. Lucius and Fang come, and Olu’s polycule, and Izzy, and Mary and Doug and the children who are no longer children. Alma has two glasses of wine with dinner and sits with Ed down at one end of the table, making rude puns. It’s loud and raucous and greasy and delicious and fun. Stede has too much wine and sits on the sofa belting along to old torch songs with Lucius and, surprisingly, Izzy, while Ed directs the washing up. Izzy’s singing voice is gorgeous, and Stede nearly walks the five icy blocks to the clinic to wheel Karl back, just for a peep. He’s staring, maybe, because Izzy blushes a bit (there really had been quite a lot of wine) and says,

“What the f*ck are you looking at, Bonnet?”

And Stede smiles at him, says, “That was truly lovely, Israel. Thank you,” and Izzy flips him the bird.

In early December, Ed flies to Aotearoa for ten days to see his mum for Hanukkah, and Stede uses the time to catch up on work, to really dive into the business’s finances. He’d saved all the extra Izzy had paid him for Ed’s exclusive sessions, plus whatever profits they turn month to month (more now that he’d reduced his own salary commensurate with no longer having to pay rent) and he thinks by the spring, he should have enough to begin offering at least some pro bono gender affirming voice slots. He’s had four more patients come in for an eval but cancel when they couldn’t afford sessions that insurance wouldn’t cover, and it’s been eating at him. He tells Ed about it one night over FaceTime, and Ed just shakes his head.

“Babe.”

“Edward.”

The next time he checks the business’s bank account, there are far too many zeroes.

If you hadn’t wanted me to f*ck around w your finances you shouldn’t’ve given Iz your direct deposit info

can’t trust that weaselly little f*cker

send it back if you wanna

but i can write it off as a charitable donation

and you could do a lot of f*cking good with it

Edward, I don’t know what to say.

Stubborn dick

I love you

I’ll see you tomorrow

Ed makes it back just in time for the last of the chorus’s holiday concerts. Stede’s already onstage, standing on a riser in his ugly sweater and black slacks when he spots him, just a flash of silver hair catching the light. He sits toward the back and leaves before they’ve finished taking their bows, but he’s home. He’s here.

There’s buzz in the greenroom after (“Oh my god, did you hear that Blackbeard was here? He sat right next to Dave’s mom! She asked him for a selfie but he said no - apparently he was really cool about it, though.” “I wonder why he came!” “Do you think he’s gonna be a donor now that he’s, you know, family?”) and Stede warmly refuses all invitations to the afterparty.

“My partner just got home from a long trip,” he says, and the music librarian Jacques shoots him a calculating look.

When Stede gets home, Ed is there. Stede steps into his arms and breathes in his scent, shower-fresh but underneath the light, floral soap scent, there’s Ed, a little piney, a little smoky. It relaxes Stede immediately, turning him boneless and pliable in Ed’s arms, and he takes another deep breath through his nose, feeling like a key has just turned all the tumblers in his brain into their correct position. Ed is home, which means that now, Stede is home.

At some point, the hugging turns into kissing, and they haul each other up the stairs and into bed. Stede starts to rake his nails up Ed’s spine, something that usually makes him twitch and moan, but tonight he hisses.

“Careful,” he says, and when he takes off his shirt, there’s a fresh tattoo on his back. Two winged figures, wheeling around the skull in the center. They’re abstract, but the upper one has the hint of a beard, and the lower, a loose curl escaping over his forehead. Stede doesn’t touch, because the lines are still raised, but he traces the lines with his eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers.

“You’re beautiful,” Ed whispers, and turns over, draws Stede down on top of him for a messy, desperate kiss. They just rock together like that, sweet and simple, and afterward, Ed curls himself around Stede and and they fall asleep like that, slotted together, lock and key.

It feels like Stede blinks and it’s January and the western leg of the tour begins. Stede skips Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, and Vegas, because winter means cold and flu season, both for his clients and his coworkers. Ed flies home in between, coming home more and more keyed-up and exhausted each time. Stede skips Sacramento, too, but does fly to San Francisco, goes to two shows with Alma, and meets her new boyfriend, a scary-smart ceramicist she’d met in a photography elective. He flies home, packs his biggest suitcase with warm-weather clothes, and goes back to work for a week and a half before flying to LA, from which Ed and he will depart for Aoteroa.

There are five LA shows, because the first two had sold out in minutes, and then the third, and the fourth and the fifth, as well, but Ed had finally put his foot down, had said, “I’m not f*ckin’ Britney playing Vegas every night for four f*ckin’ years, five shows is enough.”

Stede misses all but the last show. He’d planned on catching the last two, but thunderstorms in the Midwest caused a butterfly effect, and his flight was delayed, delayed, delayed, and finally canceled.

I’m so sorry, he texts Ed.

you should be

knew you controlled the weather

We’ll get you on the first flight out tomorrow

besides you’ve seen the show like 500 times now

bet you could do it better than me

Maybe I will. I’d look good in the feather coat, at least.

I can’t play guitar but surely there are ways around that.

💖

💜

The LA crowd is the first one Stede finds himself not falling in love with. They’re all very kind and joyful and welcoming and enthusiastic, of course, but there’s a self-consciousness about it that rubs him the wrong way, like they’re all there to be perceived, first and foremost, and to take in the show as a bit of an afterthought.

After the show, there’s a party, something fancy and mandatory at a business associate of Ed’s out in Malibu. They’re both exhausted, but they get in the car, Ed looking sharp and dangerous in charcoal slacks and an inky blue shirt. His hair and beard have both grown out some, his beard finally soft against Stede’s face again after months of prickly stubble. He’s got his hair pulled into a small bun, the sides still shaved short. “I’ll grow the sides out once the top’s longer, otherwise I’ll go through a phase where I look like a Muppet and you won’t wanna f*ck me anymore,” he’d said mournfully the other morning as he struggled with his elastic band, and Stede made certain to yell, “BORK BORK BORK” when he came twenty minutes later.

The Malibu house is all glass and angles, looking for all the world like the house that gets exploded in one of the subsequent Iron Mans. Iron Men? Irons Man? Iron Man movies, at any rate. Big, pretentious, modern beach house is the point.

Ed and Stede pull up and then there’s some coordination by text about going in en bloc with the rest of the band. Stede recognizes this. It’s Rich-People Posturing 101, rolling in with an entourage to show that you’re simply too busy and important to attend a party on your own, that you’re a person who has people and maybe those people will call someone else’s people, and Stede’s stomach twists.

The party is boring at first, and then, as Stede accepts a canapé and second glass of wine from a roaming waiter, the party becomes terrible when he catches sight of Chauncey Badminton from across the room. It’s clear he’s already spotted him, because he’s looking right at him with undisguised loathing. It’s an old, familiar sight, one that bypasses all his higher-order cognitive functions and punches him simultaneously in the gut and the limbic system. Stede remains where he is, chatting to Bill and Archie with a smile papier-mache’d on his face, while underneath his belly is threatening to eject the canapés and the wine and possibly itself onto the expensive polished cement floor, like some sort of sea creature who does that in self-defense. Starfish? Octopus?

He keeps Badminton in the corner of his eye as he circulates, pieces together why he’s there when he sees the Grammy awards – Ed’s Grammy awards – in a display case. Bad Mitten Productions. Stede had never put it together, why would he? He’d assumed it was a Michigan-based production company, something small and indie out of Detroit, maybe. Not this. Never this. This is Badminton’s house, Badminton’s party, Badminton’s over-oaked Chardonnay and ugly Miro-wannabe art on the walls.

He and Ed exchange lingering looks from across the room a few times - Ed has been cornered by a bunch of old white men and Stede is clutching his glass rather more tightly than is polite - and Chauncey continues to circle. Finally, when Stede loses sight of him, he makes a break for the balcony. He jerks his head at Ed, who acknowledges him with an eyebrow, and Stede wrestles with the mechanism of the glass door for a moment before he steps out into the cool salt air.

It soothes him immediately, and he takes huge, gasping breaths. He can just – he can just take a minute, and talk himself down from the burgeoning panic attack, and then he can go back in for another hour before pleading jet lag and getting an Uber back to the hotel.

There’s the soft slide of the door and Stede lets out a sigh of relief. Ed’s coming for him, Ed had sensed –

“Stede Bonnet,” sneers Chauncey, and Stede’s amazed at how little his voice has changed in thirty years. Still high, still nasal, still revolting. He’s slurring a little, sloshing the /s/, a little sloppy on the /t/. It’s – well, actually, it’s a bit pathetic, really. All at once the fear is gone, replaced by loathing, and possibly the barest hint of pity.

“I have been thinking. Drinking and thinking. Why would Baby Bonnet be here, after all these years? And then I saw it. You were making eyes at Blackbeard, weren’t you? Little Baby Bonnet looking across the room like a little lovesick bitch.”

Stede doesn’t say anything. He never had, in the past. It had never helped, and Chauncey doesn’t seem to have matured much. The bottle of wine he’s clutching (really, how common) certainly doesn’t seem to help.

There’s movement behind Chauncey, then, and Stede sees Ed slip onto the balcony. Chauncey’s eyes are locked on Stede as he advances on him. Slowly, Stede holds out one finger, down and away from his side, out of Chauncey’s line of sight. Wait. He sees Ed see it and freeze. And then, quick as a flash, Stede uses one hand to make the Charades sign for “movie.” He turns the gesture into rubbing the corner of his eye. He sniffles a bit. Too much? But no, it’s landed. Chauncey laughs at him, and behind him, Ed is sliding his phone out of his pocket.

“You’re a monster. A plague. You defile beautiful things. First my brother, and now you’ve managed to bring the biggest name in music to ruin –”

Stede can’t help himself. He snorts.

“To ruin? Come on, Chauncey, he’s about to wrap up the most successful tour –”

“When I signed Blackbeard, he was a force. Now he’s leaving parties early and talking about retirement? He’s just another freak, like the parade of f*cking freaks he’s been bringing up on stage with him. And now I learn that it’s all because of you. You’ve made him soft, you’ve made him weak, you’ve turned him into nothing but a disgusting little –”

Something very strange happens to Stede’s brain, then. There’s a rush of white noise in his ears as all the blood leaves his face. He watches Chauncey’s mouth form the word. He knows the shape of Chauncey’s mouth around this particular word, the crooked white teeth just visible on the labiodental fricative, the softness of his jaw as it opens slightly for the front, lax, unrounded vowel, the base-of-tongue movement toward the voiced velar plosive, the flare of his nostrils as he produces the schwa, the flecks of saliva that hit Stede in the face as he over-aspirates the voiceless alveolar plosive. Stede clenches his hand. Chauncey’s still ranting, unhinged, his eyes sunken in his puffy, bloated face. Stede clenches his hand harder. He looks at Ed, still filming. He thinks about the resolution he’d made months ago to be kinder to himself. He looks back to Chauncey.

“Oh, shut up,” he says, and punches him in the face.

It all goes a bit vague after that. There’s a lot of shouting – Chauncey’s nose is spouting blood and he’s threatening legal action, Ed’s standing over Chauncey and yelling something about contracts and song rights and record labels, and then Izzy’s there, looking at Stede with something almost like approval, and then they’re all in the car and Stede’s cradling his right hand in his left. Something is definitely broken, his hand is swelling up like one of those shrunken dinosaur toys (Just Add Water and Watch Me Grow!!!), and Steak Knife has procured him one of those endothermic cold packs from out of nowhere and Izzy’s barking something down the phone and Ed’s just – Ed’s got his arm around Stede, and Stede’s leaning heavily against him, breathing through the pain in his hand, and Ed’s got his hand in Stede’s hair and is just petting it gently.

“I’m sorry,” Stede whispers.

“Don’t be,” Ed and Izzy chorus.

“Seriously, love. Don’t. Been looking for a reason to go indie for ages. Maybe I’ll start my own label. And to film it – brilliant. He’s gonna sign back all the rights to my songs so I don’t post the video. Think I’ll post it after, anyway. Other people should know they’re working with a bigoted f*ckface.”

Izzy joins him in the waiting room of the emergency department, waits with him until he’s put in a room. They don’t talk, and Izzy’s mostly on his phone, but Stede appreciates the company anyway. Once he’s in the room, Izzy and Ed swap, and they sit next to each other in the uncomfortable hospital chairs, Stede’s head on Ed’s shoulder, Ed’s head resting on top of his.

“What did he mean about his brother?” Ed asks after a while, and Stede hears it inside his own head, Ed’s voice vibrating the bones of his skull.

Stede sighs.

“We were at school together. Nigel was his twin. They were awful. Awful in general, but also to me specifically. There was an accident – Nigel had tried to lure me out of our dormitory one night. I suppose his plan was to lock the door behind me and strand me outside all night, but I got distracted by something in the library and didn’t take the bait. Somehow he got locked out instead, and tried to climb a trellis to get back into his room before lights out, but he fell. He died. Chauncey always held me responsible.”

“What the f*ck?”

Stede shrugs. “He seems to have thought I should have been a more willing victim.”

“That is – babe, you know that’s, like, deeply f*cked up, right?”

Stede nods. “I do. Yes.”

Ed kisses his hair. “Thanks for punching him for me.”

Stede chuckles a little. “I did it as much for me as for you.”

“Good,” Ed says, and squeezes his leg. “Good.”

Many hours later, they leave the hospital, Stede’s hand encased in a pink plaster cast.

“Think Blackbeard will sign it for me?” he asks.

“Pssh, you wish.”

“I could auction it off, after.”

“Stede, love, do you have any idea how bad that thing is going to smell by the time they take it off?”

Stede shrugs. “Could be part of the appeal.”

Ed laughs, kisses him. “I’ll buy it off you. Put it in my Stede shrine in my closet.”

“Darling, wasn’t the whole trouble tonight that the Stede shrine wasn’t in the closet anymore?”

“Ugh, babe. Why do I love you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

***

They have a rest day in Los Angeles before their thirteen hour flight to Auckland. Ed suggests the tar pits or Watts Towers, but Stede’s still sore and unsettled, so they spend most of the day in various states of undress in their hotel suite. Ed runs him a bath and sits with him as he soaks, rigging up an armrest for his bad hand with an ottoman from the sitting room and a couple of pillows. There are phone calls from Izzy throughout the day, and Stede feels a little guilty about them, but Ed sets him straight.

“Baby, listen. This was a long time coming. There’s some legal and financial sh*t to work through, is all. Anyway, why would I want to keep working with that f*ckface? Not just what he said last night but all the sh*t he did to you when you were kids? Absolutely the f*ck not, come on.”

They make love, and nap, and have a snack, and then they f*ck, which is like making love but with more hair-pulling and dirty talk, and then they nap some more, and then it’s time to leave for the airport.

“Hey,” Ed says, once they’re settled into their seats, their luggage stowed away, Stede’s eye mask at the ready around his neck. “Listen, I had an idea for the last show. Do you wanna do something weird?”

Stede takes Ed’s hand in his good one, squeezes once, hard. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. I do.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

They touch down in Auckland the next morning, though Stede reminds himself it’s really the next-next morning. It’s disconcerting to simply lose a whole day like that. They’d left LA at 9 PM on Wednesday night, and now they’re landing at 7:15 on Friday morning. Where had Thursday gone? He supposes he’ll get it back on the way home; in a few weeks, he’ll Groundhog Day two Sundays in a row. Then he thinks about moving to the States when he was a child, how he’d never gone back. He’d gotten an extra day on that journey and never given it back. That extra day will be his for the rest of his life, unless he comes back to Aotearoa for good one day. Unless they come back to Aotearoa for good one day. He wonders what he did with that extra day. Thinks about how he’d cried every day for two weeks after the move because he missed home. Maybe the extra day wasn’t the day they left or the day they arrived in the States. Maybe it happened last winter, when a beautiful man with a beautiful voice walked into his office before dawn. Maybe it happened in the spring, when Stede’s chest was a riot of flowers and Ed had kissed him with his eyes open. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.

A benefit of traveling with Ed rather than to Ed is that things just seem to happen. They walk off the plane and into a car without having to wait for their luggage. There’s cold water and a little snack pack of meats and cheese for each of them in the car, like a Lunchable but for grown-ups, with dry salami and nice cheese and a few almonds and some grapes instead of whatever processed textural nightmare is in normal Lunchables. Stede nibbles his cheese and looks out the window, feels disoriented. It’s like being in a dream, where things look simultaneously bizarre and wholly familiar. He was six the last time he was here, old enough to remember some things clearly (the climbing tree in the back of the house, the scent of the ocean from his bedroom window, the large grey cat who liked to sleep in the sun on the front wall, the songs his nursery school teacher sang to them as they took their afternoon nap) but young enough to have forgotten so much. He looks over at Ed, who’s taking it all in with a half smile. He looks comfortable, content. He looks at ease in a way he doesn’t, normally, and Stede is suddenly thrilled for this trip, for this time here with him.

The itinerary is generous, several days of rest and light rehearsals before the first show, then a three-day gap due to the cricket schedule at the stadium. Then, the final show of the tour, a few days’ holiday, then back to New York. They’re not staying with Ed’s mum (“f*ck, no, I love her but she listens in at keyholes, babe”) but rather in a rental in the neighborhood. Frenchie is filling in at the clinic for Stede for the next two weeks, and Olu has promised that he’ll text him if anything urgent comes up. Stede was pretty sure Olu had had his fingers crossed behind his back when he’d made that promise, but there’s nothing he can do about that, and he appreciates the support.

Stede reaches out and Ed takes his hand, brings it up to his mouth, kisses each of Stede’s knuckles in turn. Stede feels himself going pink, wonders when he’ll stop being surprised by Ed. He thinks about Ed last winter, how he’d hunched in around himself in the chair in Stede’s office. Stede looks at his watch, tries to do the time zone math. That was almost exactly a year ago. And now he’s here, on the far side of the world, and Edward Teach is stroking his hand with his thumb, and they’re probably going to have sex in the next hour, and Stede’s got Ed’s anniversary present burning a hole in his pocket –

They pull up to a sweet little house. Stede stretches, arms high in the air, and he feels his spine settle into something more closely approximating vertebrae, rather than a pretzel. He breathes deeply, and oh, the air is lovely: damp, briny, familiar. He tips his face up to the sun. He breathes. He ignores the weight in his pocket.

He follows Ed into the house. He’s got just enough time to take it in – tidy, cozy, clean lines and light wood, a glimpse of the sea through the kitchen window – when Ed’s kissing him, crowding him up against the door.

“Darling,” Stede says into Ed’s mouth, “I think we need to freshen up a bit first.”

“Ugh, no, yeah, you’re right.”

Stede lets himself be tugged upstairs. They brush their teeth together in front of the twin sinks, Stede clumsily using his non-dominant hand. Stede looks at Ed in the mirror. His hair is unruly, a little oily from their long flight, and he looks sleepy but no longer perennially exhausted and worn like he had last winter. It’s startling, sometimes, seeing Ed like this. That face, all that personality, all that talent – Louis had said, “I thought you’d be taller,” and there’s something to that, in moments like this, when he’s rumpled and creased and has toothpaste foam dripping down his chin, and Stede loves it. He loves all of him, the big and small, the stardom and the mundanity, and suddenly he can’t wait ‘til next week, til their actual anniversary, or what he’s thinking of as their anniversary; it suddenly occurs to him that maybe Ed marks it as the start of the tour, but Stede has it in his mental Rolodex as his birthday —

Ed spits into the sink, and Stede follows suit. He almost digs in his pocket, but then Ed’s stripping out of his clothes, and he’s still got a little toothpaste on his face, and no, no, this isn’t the time. He goes into the bedroom, transfers the gift to a pocket in his suitcase, takes off his travel-stale clothes and starts a laundry pile in the corner. Everything’s more difficult with the cast, and his hand aches, and he’s already sick of the logistics involved with bathing. He slides the waterproof cast protector up over his hand, fastens it tight, and joins Ed in the shower. Ed washes his hair for him, and his body, and he tries to reciprocate one-handed but Ed just shakes his head, kisses him, and does it himself.

Stede is feeling a little wrong-footed (wrong-handed?) and a little useless, a little too big for his skin, a little frantic, a little manic, more than a little desperate, so when they’re clean and at least most of the way dry he puts his good hand on Ed’s chest and pushes him out of the bathroom, pushes him face-down over the edge of the bed, gets awkwardly to his knees and spreads Ed open with his good hand, opens him up with his tongue, first and then, a little fumblingly, with his fingers. Ed’s gorgeous, all loose-limbed and panting, and when Stede finally presses his co*ck into him, Ed lets out a sound that Stede’s never heard him make before, a gasping sort of sob-hum. He wants to record it. He wants to listen to it when he falls asleep at night. He wants to listen to it on the subway, wants to loop it in his headphones and look out at the press of people on the train with the knowledge that while half of them might be listening to Blackbeard, this sound, torn from his larynx, is for Stede alone.

The thought is enough to bring Stede over the edge, and then he’s back on his knees, taking Ed’s co*ck into his mouth as deep as he can, and Ed’s alternating between staring down at him with wide eyes and arching his back and cursing at the ceiling.

After, Stede takes three ibuprofen and looks at his suitcase. He joins Ed in the bed, thinks he’ll lie down just for a bit, but Ed’s body is so warm and Stede closes his eyes, just for a rest…

He wakes two hours later, a little sweaty and disoriented. Stede lets himself lie there for a while, listening to Ed’s steady breathing, listening to the birdsong outside. It’s familiar like a song played on a radio in an apartment across the alley in springtime is familiar, filtering in in fits and starts on the breeze, the melody thisclose to turning into something coherent, something recognizable; maddeningly elusive, transient, unmooring. Underneath the birds, low and rhythmic, is the roar of the sea, and that’s what finally impels Stede out of bed. He slides the door open and steps onto the balcony. It’s the same ocean he’d looked at off Chauncey’s balcony in LA just the other night as he clutched his broken hand and listened to him and Ed yell at each other, but Stede likes this side of it better. The sun on the water, the gulls wheeling in the sky, Ed sleeping in the bed fifteen feet away. Stede looks at his cast in the sun, the little hearts Ed had doodled on the plane. Trust Ed to travel with a silver Sharpie in his carry-on. The hearts are all facing the same direction, rows and rows of them, so his cast looks like it’s got scales. Snakeskin, maybe. Dragonskin. Stede had protested, but it had helped. He hates the cast less, now that it has this tangible reminder of Ed’s love all over it. He thinks again about the little cloth bag in his suitcase, and pushes the thought down and away. Later.

He dresses more casually than he normally does, not wanting to bother with buttons. He borrows a t-shirt from Ed and puts on a clean pair of jeans. Slips into a pair of canvas shoes with a cheerful little anchor print. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter, though he’s fairly certain Ed will stay asleep, having watched both Top Gun movies instead of taking melatonin and trying to sleep on the plane as Stede had.

Gone for a little walk, back by one.

His handwriting is awful, shaky and erratic with his left hand, but he signs it with a heart and his initials and steps out of the house into the sunshine.

He wanders the neighborhood, making a little mental map. There’s a promising-looking bakery, and a sweet little bookshop that he intends to spend some serious time in later. He spots a florist – he needs something for this evening, so he’s not empty-handed when he meets Ed’s mum – and a record store, a vintage clothing shop with a stunning mauve smoking jacket that he desperately wants to stroke (and own). A couple nice-looking restaurants. A pet grooming place. A juice bar. Stede stands outside it and watches a bored young man throw fistfuls of kale into a blender. He hopes Lucius is well – he’d come along to do social media for the last two shows, but is staying downtown in a hotel with Izzy and the others. Well, not with Izzy, though maybe – ugh. Stede watches the bored young man forget to put the lid on the blender and has to speed-walk away so he doesn’t see him laughing.

He walks home, up the stairs. Ed’s still asleep, and Stede sits on the bed beside him, pushes his hair off his forehead, and bends to kiss him just between the eyebrows where his frown lines used to be.

“Mmph,” Ed says. “Ten more minutes.”

“C’mon, love, up now or you’ll be all wonky tonight.”

“I’ll show you all wonky tonight.”

“I wish you would,” Stede tells him, dragging his lips across his cheek to whisper in his ear. “I want you to f*ck me so hard I can taste it.”

It’s effective. Ed’s eyes fly open and he sits up, tries to grab Stede and drag him towards him, but Stede evades it, tosses Ed a clean pair of underwear and one of Stede’s short-sleeved button downs in recompense for stealing his shirt.

“Later,” Stede promises. “Tonight. Later.”

“You’re not gonna be good for anything tonight,” Ed grumbles. “Mum’s gonna ply you with lots and lots of wine and try to get all my secrets out of you.”

“Oh, that sounds even better than what I suggested!”

“CCC-SLP, B-I-T-C-H,” Ed sings, and Stede laughs, because it’s still funny, and still true.

Ed has rolled the sleeves of Stede’s shirt and buttoned it half up, leaving his hawk on full display. Stede resigns himself to the fact that it’s Ed’s shirt now, by virtue of him looking so much cooler in it than Stede ever could.

They walk to the beach. Ed’s in a hat and sunglasses, and in Stede’s cheerful shirt, so different from his normal black-grey-purple-olive palette, he could be anyone. Still, they don’t hold hands, but they walk side by side, shoulders bumping from time to time. Stede watches the waves crash in on the shore and lets some more of the guilt from the scene in LA ebb away. Ed is clearly unfazed, and Stede trusts him. Trusts him professionally, of course, bows to the weight of Ed’s expertise and experience, and Izzy’s, too, but also just trusts him. Trusts that if there were something amiss, Ed would tell him. And that’s still new and fresh and wonderful, and Stede lets it sit in his chest, a seed, a bulb. Something to tend. Something to nurture. Something to watch grow and blossom and flourish.

The walk for a long time. It’s nice. It feels good, after so long on the plane, to move his body. It feels good to be here with Ed, side by side in the sun, their strides perfectly matched. It feels good to chat and laugh and tease. It feels good to have the little frisson of anticipation low in his stomach about meeting Ed’s mum tonight. It feels good to have the promise of a leisurely week ahead, and the last two shows on the horizon. It’s nice, is all.

Ed waits outside the florist’s as Stede goes in and buys, at Ed’s suggestion, not cut flowers but a potted plant, a little fern in a battered tin cup. There’s something hopeful about it, Stede thinks, and hopes Ed’s mum likes it. He chats to the shopkeeper as he pays, feeling his vowels start to come out of hibernation, his long-dormant accent digging itself out of where it had been hiding these last few decades and uncurling. Why he’s never had that reaction to Ed’s accent is a little psycholinguistic mystery that Stede puts a pin in for now.

Ed shakes his head a little when Stede comes out with his prize.

“She’s gonna love you,” he says. “Gonna send me packing, gonna adopt you instead.”

“Is it too much?” Stede asks, looking back at the shop. “I could return –”

“f*ck, no, babe, she’ll love it. ‘S perfect. C’mon, let’s get back home, we gotta head over there soon.”

Stede takes another dose of painkillers and changes into something nicer, trading his jeans for coral khakis and Ed’s t-shirt for a button-down. He lets Ed do up his buttons, kisses him as he does it, tries to distract him and very nearly succeeds.

“You’re a menace,” Ed grumbles, without any heat. “C’mon, Steaky’s gonna pick us up and drive us over there.”

“Can’t we walk?” Stede asks, and Ed shrugs.

“Like to be extra careful when my mum’s involved. The paps haven’t ever bothered her here, but I don’t wanna give them any reason to, you know?”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Valid question.”

The car pulls up. Stede has a bizarro-world moment because Steak Knife is on the wrong side of the car. Which is to say, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, but the driver’s seat is on the right side of the car, and it unbalances Stede, because usually, Ed sits behind Steak Knife and Stede sits on the other side of the back seat, which means that they can hold hands with their nondominant hands, Ed’s right in Stede’s left. But now, if Ed sits behind Steak Knife, it’ll be wrong, with Stede’s cast in the middle – he lets it go. They’re not driving far. Ed sits behind Steak Knife. Stede sits on the left. Ed puts his hand over Stede’s fingers where they poke out of the cast and taps gently on them, playing a song Stede can’t hear on Stede’s fingers like they’re piano keys. Stede holds the little plant between his knees and tries not to fret. It works, for the most part.

Stede loves Ed’s mum’s house as soon as he sees it. It’s small, with weathered wooden shingles. It’s painted a deep red, and the front garden is chaotic, flowers and vegetables and herbs warring for space. There’s a logic to it, though, underneath the cacophony of blooms, and Stede is immediately both charmed and impressed.

The door opens and a woman steps out. She’s small and compact, and she looks so much like Ed that it takes Stede’s breath away. Her face is rounder, her features somewhat softer, but the eyes are the same. The cheekbones are the same. Her hair is pure silver, and Stede has the strangest sense of looking forward in time to the not-so-distant future when Ed’s hair does the same thing.

She’s opening her arms and Ed’s pushing him forward.

“I just saw her in December, mate, it’s you she’s excited to see,” and Stede ascends the four steps.

“Hello, Mrs. Te–,” he manages, before she wraps her arms around him and squeezes all the air out of his lungs, so it ends in an undignified squeak.

“None of that, it’s Elizabeth, or Bet,” she tells him. “Hi, Stede. Welcome home.”

“Hi,” he says on his next breath. “Hi, it’s so lovely to meet you.”

“And you,” she says, releasing Stede and treating Ed to an even firmer squeeze. “Look at you, dressed up all nicely. This one’s rubbing off on you, I have no doubt,” and she gives Stede a cheeky wink that makes him blush. Apparently Ed shares a sense of humour with his mum, too. Good to know, in the sense that it’s awful and Stede feels doomed, but it’s also helpful information.

The house is just as lovely inside as it is outside, lots of wood and bright fabrics and some truly delicious smells. Stede hasn’t eaten since the car snack, and finds that he’s ravenous. He presents his fern, and Elizabeth places it on a windowsill with two other potted plants where it looks right at home. He accepts the offered (large) glass of wine, resigned to his fate. Ed had warned him, after all, and he’s only known Elizabeth for about six minutes but it’s clear who’s in charge, and it’s definitely not either of them.

She asks him rapid-fire questions, and Stede is maybe not surprised, but gratified to learn how much she already knows about him. She asks after Alma and Louis by name, wants to know what they’re studying and how it’s going, how Stede had adjusted to the empty nest (“Well, the divorce certainly helped with that, I had to find a whole new nest Alma’s freshman year!”). She asks about his clinical work and he finds himself on a long-winded tangent about gender affirming voice therapy that he’s not quite certain how he started. He’s most of the way through a demonstration of different resonances at the same pitch and how they change listener perceptions of gender when the kitchen timer goes off and Elizabeth springs into action.

They eat outside, at a large table in the back garden. It’s warm, and the food is good, and Stede’s working on a second glass of wine and feeling complacently blissful, picking at the last of his salad and listening to Ed and his mum bicker about something. Finally, Elizabeth clears her throat and looks meaningfully at Stede.

“And that’s my cue,” Ed says, starting to collect dishes. “I’ll bring another bottle out and leave you two to it.”

Stede sighs, takes a long sip from his glass, and meets Elizabeth’s eyes.

“All right,” he says. “But in return, I want baby pictures.”

“Oh, I like you,” Elizabeth laughs.

Ed finishes clearing away and comes over to Stede. He stands behind him, puts his hands on his shoulders and looks across. “Be nice,” he tells his mum.

He bends to brush a kiss across Stede’s cheek. “Good luck,” he murmurs. “I’ll hang out and we’ll pour you into the car after, okay?”

“Mmmkay.”

Ed drifts away, and Stede looks at Elizabeth. She meets his eyes and grins a little wolfishly. It’s odd and lovely seeing Ed’s grin on her face, and Stede immediately relaxes.

“Didn’t know what to think when my son texted me last winter talking about vocal nodes and a handsome speech therapist,” she says as soon as Ed is out of earshot. “But you’re not what I expected.”

“No,” Stede says, “No, I tend not to be.”

“He loves you,” Elizabeth says after a long pause, and it’s a leading question, although it’s not phrased as one.

“I love him,” Stede says softly. He runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass, making it chime in the night air.

“He told me you didn’t recognize him at first?”

Stede chuckles. “No, I didn’t. I was rather short with him about it, actually. He was playing coy, and I asked him to stop and just tell me who he was, and I think he liked that.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he did. He’s never gotten a feel for it. Always been uncomfortable with the fame. He told me that’s what he first liked about you, that you were kind to him before you knew who he was.”

“I’m glad. I – you know how he distinguishes between Blackbeard and Ed? I just – I met Ed first, so Blackbeard’s Ed too. It’s all Ed.”

“Good lad,” Elizabeth says, and drains her wine glass. She pours herself some more and tops Stede’s glass up. Stede sips methodically, listens to the cicadas, looks up at the fairy lights.

“Is this the part where you tell me if I hurt him, you’ll bury me in the garden?” he asks after a while.

“I think,” Elizabeth says, narrowing her eyes at him from over her glass, “this is the part where I tell you if you elope with him and don’t invite me to the wedding, I’ll bury both of you in the garden.”

Stede throws his head back and cackles, holds his glass out in a toast.

An hour and a half later, Ed pours Stede into the car.

“I love your mum,” Stede tells him. “An’ I love you, an’ Steaky, I love you, too!”

“Thanks, Stede,” Steak Knife says with a grin.

“An’ I love this country. I love this car. I hate this f*cking cast, it itches like anything, but I love the color, and I love the scales you drew on it, and I love your mum. Did I say that?”

“Yeah, love, you said that,” Ed says, and hands him a bottle of water. “Here, drink this now, and at least one more before bed.”

“You know how I said we were gonna – “ Stede wiggles his eyebrows.

“Yep.”

“I think I’m too drunk for that.”

“Yeah, baby, I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries, there’s time for all that. C’mon, drink up.”

“I love you.”

“Love you.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I, babe. Drink your water, c’mon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, Stede.”

***

The days slip by. They walk on the beach, and lie on their balcony in the sun, and have astounding quantities of very good sex. They have dinners with Elizabeth, and once with the extended family. The aunts are a lot like Elizabeth, but a little less loud, but equally inclined to boss Ed around (“Come here and peel potatoes for me, love, or are you too busy and important for all that, now?”) and tease Stede until he squirms (“It’s always the quiet ones, mark my words”). It’s wonderful, seeing Ed with people who don’t treat him like he’s fragile or famous. They treat him like they love him. Ed’s told to set the table, and after that, to take everyone’s drink orders. He and his uncles talk sh*t about rugby, he and his aunts talk sh*t about people Stede doesn’t know. It’s fun. It’s easy. Stede feels like he belongs.

He can’t stop thinking about Elizabeth’s comment and Ed’s present, a constant weight in his pocket and on his mind. He’s making himself crazy trying to find the right words, the right moment, and Ed’s taken notice.

“Everything all right, love?” he asks one night as they’re lying in bed. Stede’s been sketching plans out in his head, a million miles away, and Ed brings him back into his body.

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry. Wool-gathering.”

Another time, they’re out on the beach, not another person in sight, and Stede’s got his hand in his pocket and – but no, there’s a seagull down the beach plucking the guts out of something dead that had washed up.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yes, thanks. Should we head back?”

One night at Elizabeth’s, Stede’s standing at the sink doing the washing up and Ed comes up behind him, slides his hands toward Stede’s pockets and he flinches, shrieks a little, bats Ed’s hands aways.

“Sorry, sorry, you startled me! Sorry.”

Another evening, Stede’s so in his head he can’t maintain an erection, and Ed almost manages to convince him he’s not disappointed.

Ed’s grown quieter and quieter, and Stede feels his eyes on him more and more, and he knows he’s making things tense and weird, he knows, but he has to wait because it’s an anniversary present and he can’t until the anniversary, and it’s making them both twitchy.

It comes to a head the night of the first show. Ed’s quiet all the way to the stadium, and he asks Stede to come with him, to get the lay of the land so Stede can navigate back down to his dressing room afterward.

“Stede. Baby,” Ed says when they’re alone in the hall leading to his dressing room. He’s all hunched in on himself, something Stede hasn’t seen in ages, shoulders up around his ears, radiating misery.

“Listen, I wanted – if it’s going to be too much, if you’re having second thoughts about the f*ckery, or, I don’t know, if you’re having second thoughts about this. Us. Me. Please, please just tell me. I can’t – you’ve been getting more and more distant all week. If there’s something I did, if there’s something I can do to fix it –”

And God, Stede’s a f*cking idiot.

“Edward, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, absolutely not, it’s the opposite of that –” he seizes Ed’s face in both hands and kisses him roughly.

“No, I’m so stupid and so – Hold on.” Stede says haltingly, fishing in his pocket. “I had this made. For our anniversary, which I was thinking is on the nineteenth, but maybe you’re counting from May? It doesn’t matter. But I was trying to wait for the nineteenth, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t get out of my head… The point is, I had it made. In case you – I know it’s almost the last show, but with the costume changes, I thought this might be easier.”

And he opens his hand to show Ed the ring, jagged and white-gold resting in his palm. Ed looks at it, looks at Stede. Traces the bumps and ridges with a forefinger. Looks at Stede. Looks at it. Gasps.

“Stede. What are you – is this – what is this. What is this?”

“It’s a ring,” Stede says. “A, er. A key ring? But not a keyring, you know. A ring made from an impression of the key – I just thought. You carry my key around. Our key around.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you might like to carry it around like this instead.”

“Stede,” Ed says, his voice a little gravel, a little grave. “Baby. I’m really gonna need you to use your words here. Is this a ring, or is this a ring?”

Stede takes a breath. It’s not at all from the diaphragm, it’s shaky and high in his chest.

“Both,” he whispers. “Either. Whatever – Edward, whichever you want it to be.”

“Are you asking –”

“Are you asking me to ask?”

Ed nods without hesitation, nods too many times. Stede takes another useless breath.

“Edward Teach –”

“Yes,” Ed says, and launches himself into Stede’s arms.

“You didn’t let me ask,” Stede half-laughs, half-sobs.

“Shut up, you asshole, what the f*ck, I thought you were going to break up with me. I’m supposed to get ready soon,” Ed sobs, and they hold each other until a tinny little voice on the intercom says “Ladies and gentlemen of Blackbeard: The Personas Tour, this is your two hour call. Two hours, please,” and Ed kisses him once, hard, and sprints down the hall to his dressing room to start his preparations. Stede blots his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He slides the ring into his pocket - in all the commotion, Ed hadn’t actually put it on, but Stede’s not worried. They’ll have time, after.

As if Ed’s reading his mind, his dressing room door slams back open and he sprints back up the hall.

“Give it to me,” he says in a growl. “f*ck, Stede, put it on me, I –” and he holds his right hand up to Stede. “This one, it needs to be this one, I can’t play with it on my left. I’m not trying to hide, I promise you, I just – it’ll scrape against the neck of the guitar, I think –”

“I’m not worried,” Stede says, and finds that for the first time in his entire life, the words are true. “I know you love me, I know you want this, I know. Here,” he says, and he slides the ring onto the fourth finger of Ed’s right hand. “There.”

Ed looks at it. His smile could be harnessed to power if not all of Auckland, then at least the stadium tonight. Stede takes his hand, kisses the finger, just below the ring.

“I love you.”

“Love you. I’ll see you after.”

Stede takes a deep breath and heads up the ramp. He’s got one more Blackbeard show to see.

It’s not the last show. The last show is in a few days, but this is the last one Stede’ll be in the crowd for, the last one he’ll be handing out stickers at, the last one where he’ll be part of the thousand-voiced choir, a glittery, glistening congregant at Ed’s altar. He plans to enjoy every minute of it.

He enjoys every minute of it. This crowd is maybe his favorite yet, warm and generous and hell-bent on having a marvelous time, and it’s symbiotic, in a way other shows haven’t been. Ed’s picking up what the crowd is putting down, and vice versa, and it’s thrilling and gorgeous and toward the end, when Ed gets them all singing in harmony, one half of the crowd on the melody, the other half on a simple harmonic line he’d taught them, Stede watches his face on the screen. Ed’s listening hard, drinking it all in, his eyes focused and intent. Stede has seen him cornered, seen him hooded and jessed, and tonight, he watches him stretch his wings and take to the sky.

Ed sings all Stede’s favorites, does a cover of Vienna Teng’s Hymn of Acxiom with a local a cappella group that gives Stede goosebumps, and closes with Love Song Number Nine. It’s perfect, and Stede finds that there’s grief warring with the joy, because it’s almost over. The tour is almost over, and Stede will get Ed nearly full-time, but he won’t get to see him like this anymore. Won’t get to be like this anymore, wild and free side by side by side with wild, free strangers turned wild, free friends.

Stede meets Ed in the dressing room, and they don’t crash into one another so much as they arrive, a train pulling into the station right on time; the Mars rover landing within inches of its target despite the length of its journey. It’s as if all of the momentum of the evening has been intended for this, for Stede walking through the door and Ed rising from his chair and the two of them meeting in the middle and stepping into one another’s arms.

“Let’s go home,” Ed murmurs against his lips. “Want you, but not here. Not tonight.”

“Yes, please.”

Stede watches Ed in the car, watches his expression soften every time he glances at the ring on his finger, which is often. He looks a little furtive, like a kid with a sweet he’s not sure he’s allowed to have. He looks a little smug, like he’s got a secret. Except he doesn’t, because he’s wearing Stede’s ring right out there in the open. A proclamation. A promise.

Ed takes him upstairs, kisses him breathless, kisses him trembling and aching and desperate. Ed tugs Stede into his lap in the bed, kisses him as he slowly fingers him open, kisses him as he presses in even more slowly. Kisses him and kisses him and kisses him as they rock together, suspended in time, a high-wire act high above a canyon, each movement slow, careful, deliberate, imbued with meaning and intent. Eventually it’s too much and they come together, leap over the edge, tumble down, and they sleep.

***

The next afternoon, when Ed takes him to rehearse with the earpieces in for the first time, Stede has to rip them out and has to do some deep breathing about it.

“You do this the whole show?” he asks, half incredulous, half admiring.

“Yeah, it’s pretty standard, babe. What’s the matter?”

Apart from the gummy part of the earpiece being a sensory nightmare against his ear, it’s that Stede can’t hear his own voice. He’s got Ed in one ear and the guitar in the other, leaving his voice alone, unshepherded. He tells Ed this.

“You just gotta trust that your voice knows what to do.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will. But if you’re really worried about it, we can feed some of you back into your ear, along with me. Will that help?”

“Yes. Please.”

It helps. They run through it a few more times, and by the end, Stede is relaxed enough to enjoy it. Ed smiles at him almost shyly.

“So we’re gonna do this?”

Stede nods. “Yes. We’re going to do this.”

They go to Elizabeth’s for dinner. Stede’s put to work stirring risotto and Ed’s peeling carrots for the salad when Elizabeth grabs his hand. She squeals, smacks Ed upside the head, then Stede, then Ed again for good measure, then drags both of them into a hug so tight they bonks heads.

“Ow, mum, what the hell?”

“I’m so happy for you,” she sniffs, “but you –” this with finger in Stede’s face – “you remember what I said.”

“I will. I do!” Stede reassures her hurriedly, as Ed says,

“What you said – mum, what did you say?”

“I told him if you eloped and didn’t invite me I’d bury both of you in the back garden.”

Ed laughs, shakes his head, and then stills.

“We could,” he says to Stede. “Here, in the back garden. In a few days, if you wanted. Get a license, find an officiant…”

Stede’s most of the way to saying yes, the pressure is building under his vocal folds, when he thinks about Louis, Alma, Mary. Olu and Jim and Zheng. Fang and Pete. Buttons, even.

“No,” he says. “Not without my family, too.”

“Right, no, of course.”

They smile at each other over Elizabeth’s head. Not now, but soon, Stede thinks. Soon.

***

Stede wakes on his birthday with butterflies in his stomach. It feels like being a child and waiting for cake and presents, except without the dread that his parents would forget again this year, or that the presents would appear to have been bought for an entirely different child than the one they actually had.

He’s excited, is the point. The last show is tonight. It’s his birthday, and also their anniversary, sort of. The anniversary of acknowledging what they wanted to be to one another. The anniversary of allowing himself to want. Stede lies in the pre-dawn light and watches Ed sleep, his hair more salt than pepper now that the old growth is gone. He thinks about how he’d felt a year ago, about the audacity of all that want, how he’d known he couldn’t go back to how things had been. And now they’re here, with the rest of their lives together stretching ahead of them, wide open.

He has a cup of coffee on the balcony, and when he goes back in for a refill, Ed is no longer in bed. Stede hears kitchen noises from downstairs, goes down to investigate.

“Morning,” he says from the stairs, and Ed looks up from where he’s stirring something creamy on the stovetop.

“You were supposed to sleep in,” Ed scolds, but it’s with a smile so fond Stede wants to carry it around in his pocket to bring out for rainy days. He accepts his kiss, puts his arms around Ed’s middle and sniffs.

“What’re you making?”

“None of your business, go back to bed.”

“No,” Stede says with more than a bit of petulance.

“Okay, then f*ck off for an hour, will you? I had plans!”

“I’ll go for a run,” Stede says. “Will that do?”

“Yeah, I think so. Will you be all right?”

“I broke my hand, darling, not my legs.”

“Yeah, but the impact might –”

“I will go for a perambulation,” Stede says, “At whatever tempo is comfortable. Happy?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Exquisitely, actually. You?”

“The same, now that you mention it.”

“God, we’re f*ckin’ gross.”

“Yes, a bit, aren’t we?”

Stede goes back upstairs to change into clothes appropriate for moderate-to-brisk locomotion, kisses Ed on his way out the door.

Annoyingly, Ed is right about the impact from running sending a deep ache into the bones in his hand, so he walks for an hour and a half up and down the beach, and when he arrives back home, the kitchen is clean and empty. He hears the shower running upstairs and goes to join Ed.

“Hi,” he says as he slips in, right hand once again encased in plastic. “Wash my hair for me?”

“Mmm,” Ed agrees, and kisses Stede’s neck and shoulders as he does. “Gonna leave you to do the rest of it yourself, though, I’ve got to set everything up.”

“Everything?”

“‘S’not much, but, you know. Things.”

“Things.”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff and things? You spoil me.”

“I’m trying,” Ed tells him solemnly, and steps out of the shower, leaving Stede to soap himself up left-handed.

When Stede emerges, it’s to Ed holding out a new dressing gown for him, a gorgeous blue velvet, and two dishes of trifle and two fresh cups of coffee on the balcony.

“Gonna do this right this year,” Ed tells him as he leads him to his chair. “I’m gonna do it right every year,” he adds, one hand going to his pocket. “I had a whole speech planned and everything, but you were two steps ahead of me, as usual,” and when he opens his hand, there’s a ring, two gold wings with a garnet between them. “Had this made over the winter, had a whole plan – well, never mind. Will you?”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Yes, Edward,” and then it all devolves into kissing and crying and trifle and it’s rather sticky, rather moist. When Ed slides the ring on his finger, it fits perfectly.

***

As Stede paces backstage, he wonders whether this wasn’t a terrible idea. Not going public itself, but how, the performance, the pageantry of it all. He listens to Ed sing over the headset Izzy had given him and feels like a child wearing his father’s shoes, but then he thinks about the last runthrough of their rehearsal, how pleased Ed had been. He trusts Ed not to let him embarrass himself. Trusts Ed to know how to work the crowd, the press, the publicity. He trusts Ed.

All too soon, it’s the last song. The last first encore. Then he’s in the wings with Izzy by his side listening to Ed chat to the crowd.

“Thanks again for being here tonight. You know this is the last show of the tour –” A long pause for the cheering. “All right, shut up, will you? I’ve got a lot to say about this last song. And this last guest. Just – let me get through it, all right?” and the crowd settles down, because they trust Ed. Because they respect Ed. Because they love Ed.

“So last winter, I learned I had vocal nodes. Had to rest my voice a bunch. Had to relearn how to use it. Had to spend a lot of time thinking about what it means to have a voice, you know? Anyway. You know I like to invite local talent to perform with me. Our last guest not only came up with the idea for this tour, but he helped me find my voice. And it’s his birthday today, so you all need to be nice to him.”

Izzy gives him a little push and Stede walks onstage, earpieces in his ears. He’s wearing the outfit he wore to the Minneapolis show, dark jeans and floral button down. Ed had done his makeup, a little foundation, a little glitter, a little drama around the eyes.

“Everyone, this is Stede. Stede, this is everyone.”

Stede looks out at the crowd. It’s mostly an impression of light and color and noise, but he waves, and feels them wave back.

“I wrote this music last winter during my vocal rest. Stede helped me piece it together. And then I wrote the lyrics the first night of this tour, and Stede helped me piece that together, too. He’s the only person I’ve ever sung this song with. The only person I’m ever gonna sing this song with.”

There’s a murmur in the crowd, and Stede can feel them starting to connect the dots.

“Anyway, you know how I number my love songs? Number one, number three, number nine – yeah, that one blew up for some reason. Anyway, when I wrote this one, when I finally figured it out, I was like, Oh my God. Oh my God, this is it. This is the last love song. There’s not gonna be another one after this.”

There’s a huge cheer at that, and Ed smiles crookedly at Stede, who beams back at him.

“And then I remembered who I’m dealing with. As if I could just walk around feeling feelings like this all the time and not keep writing music about it? Psssh. Nah. So, it’s not the last love song, probably, but it’s the First Last Love Song. And that’s what it’s called. That’s what we’re gonna sing for you tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow at Stede. Ready?

Stede nods, just once.

Ed starts picking out the guitar, a little shaky at first, and Stede realizes he’s nervous, too, and somehow that steadies him. He settles himself in his body, breathes in the way he’d taught Ed to. And they sing:

Love me in the open
Love me in the sun
Standing there together
You and I are one.

It wasn’t easy come
But it could be easy go
Fine things can be broken
Learned that long ago.

Love me in the open
Love me in the sun
Standing there together
You and I are one.

Want to keep you secret
Want to hide away
Want to shout from rooftops
Wonder, will you stay?

Love me in the open
Love me in the sun
Standing there together
You and I are one.

I can’t promise safety
Life will give us scars
I can promise, baby,
I’ll treasure what is ours

Love me in the open
Love me in the sun
Standing here together
You and I are one.

Standing here together
You and I are one.

They do it just as they’ve rehearsed. Ed takes the descant on the chorus, and they trade off lines in the verses, Ed on the more hesitant words, Stede on the more confident ones, the push and pull that mirrors the early days of their relationship. Stede hears something, toward the end, and he pops out the earpiece that’s carrying the guitar line. He doesn’t need it. He’s got Ed right there, fingers moving nimbly over the strings, Ed’s voice in his other ear. And he’s got the crowd, he realizes. They’re singing along. They’re singing along. Stede listens to them, listens to his voice and Ed’s in his ear, melody and harmony wheeling up together into the starry sky.

Ed joins him on the last two lines, their voices in perfect unison, and Stede’s throat is tight, but he holds his pitch, a little quavery but true.

And when Ed slings the guitar up and behind his back, when he grabs Stede and pulls him in, when he kisses him on stage in front of the fifty thousand people who had sung along with them, who are screaming for them now, Stede soars.

***

Stede wakes late the next morning, the ring an unfamiliar weight on his finger. His phone is plugged in on the bedside table and when he picks it up, he’s alarmed to see many notifications.

He ignores Lucius for now. He opens a text from Mary, just a string of emoji:

❤️ 🌈 😘 🎉

Alma:

Proud of you, Dad

Ilysm

And, finally, Louis:

What the f*ck dad

My Nietzsche prof is a Beardie

Apparently

She asked me to office hours

OFFICE HOURS

TO DISCUSS MY FATHER’S LOVE LIFE

HOW DO I HANDLE THIS

WHAT DO I DO

DAD

WHAT THE f*ck

Ed’s asleep next to him, and Stede slips out of bed and out onto the balcony. It’s been a long tour. It’s been a long year. Let him rest.

He’s calling Izzy before he’s fully conscious of having decided to do so.

“Thank f*ck,” Stede says when Izzy answers. “I didn’t know if you’d be up this early. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

The Bard Free Press

Teach at Home: The Voice Behind Blackbeard Opens Up About Love, Marriage, and the Next Phase of His Career

August 15, 2028

Edward Teach (“Call me Ed, please”) has been mostly out of the public eye since the end of the industry-altering Personas Tour, and when he meets me at the door of the Manhattan home he shares with his husband, my first thought is that quasi-retirement looks good on him. We sit in the back yard and he slides a plate of lemon lavender shortbread cookies over to me. “Try them,” he says almost shyly. “Been working on the recipe for a few weeks and I think they’re pretty good.”

Then he tells me about learning to bake during a period of vocal rest prior to the kickoff of the Personas Tour in February 2024. It’s a story of self-discovery, and it’s also a love story (his husband, Stede Bonnet, was the speech therapist who diagnosed him with vocal nodes).

“It was a revelation, mate,” he says around a mouthful of cookie. “For the first time in my career, I had to stop and figure out who I was when I wasn’t being Blackbeard. And once I started, I wanted to keep going. It was a lot to unpack. Lot of baggage. Lot of history.”

Some of that baggage includes the bad-boy persona he cultivated in the early 2010s that was marked by two high-profile arrests, a leaked sex tape, and a stint in rehab.

“Nope,” Teach says when I ask about that. “No thanks.”

These days, he says, he prefers to look ahead.

“The Personas Tour was the retrospective,” he says, showing me around his husband’s small urban garden. “Been there, done that, have the fridge magnets to prove it. There’s a movie and everything,” he adds almost as an afterthought, referring to the Oscar-nominated documentary Personas from former Blackbeard social media intern Lucius Spriggs.

So what lies ahead for a man with nearly two decades of genre-defying music, ten Grammys, and a record-setting tour in his rearview mirror?

“Well, I’ve been thinking about moving into sourdough,” he says with a wink. “And also starting my own label. Met a lot of talent on the tour, and stuff like theirs deserves a home.” He plucks a flower, tucks it into his hair, which he’s wearing in a loose braid. “The industry is really straight and really white, y’know? Might be good to be a launch pad for folks who aren’t.”

Teach seems to be alluding to his former label, but he shuts down that line of questioning, too, offering me a cup of tea and another cookie. Chauncey Badminton, the head of Bad Mitten Productions which quietly shut its doors in response to a flurry of lawsuits in early 2025, could not be reached for comment.

If he doesn’t want to talk about the past, what about the present? What does a normal day in the Teach-Bonnet household look like?

“Bonnet-Teach,” he corrects me. “The trochee sounds better. Stede’s still working, and I dick around, mostly. Tried knitting. Tried yoga. Tried fishing. Been getting into more advocacy work here and there. Working on a few new songs. You know.” He shrugs. “Basically I’m the house-husband with a couple side gigs.”

It’s like pulling teeth, but he grudgingly reveals that what he’s dismissed as “a few new songs” are actually a new acoustic album he’s not only writing but also editing and producing, due to be released in October, with a planned small-venue tour across the US, Canada, and Aotearoa/New Zealand.

And “more advocacy work” turns out to be a stalwart defense of queer and trans rights, from lending his enormous social media platforms to protest bathroom bills to personally lobbying the American Speech, Language, and Hearing Association for improved teletherapy access for clients who, due to disability, finances, or living situation, might not be able to access gender affirming care.

“Stede’s the brains of the operation,” Teach tells me as he picks tomatoes for tonight’s dinner. “I’m just the pretty face.”

A pretty face he may be, but he’s a pretty face with deep pockets. According to publicly available financial records, the Blackbeard enterprise has donated upward of eighty million dollars in the past four years to charitable queer causes. When I bring this up, Teach appears embarrassed.

“I mean – yeah? I guess? Does more good out in the world than with me just sitting on it, mate. Here, try a tomato, Stede grew these from seed.”

When I ask him about his husband, I get the sense I’ve finally found a topic Teach doesn’t mind extemporizing on. (Teach and Bonnet were married in an intimate backyard ceremony three years ago; there are wedding photos displayed in the living room and on the refrigerator.) He gladly takes me on a tour of the garden, of the knick-knacks in the living room, the library of books that aren’t rare in the sense that they’re valuable antiques, but in the sense that they’re odd. Misprints, dime novels, children’s books with titles like Does a Bulldozer Have a Butt and The puss* That Went to the Moon. He shows me their refrigerator, three rows of magnets on the door that are a perfect route map of the Personas Tour. When I joke that he could have tour t-shirts made with the magnet images, Teach laughs, but then seems to seriously consider the idea.

“Stede would love that,” he says thoughtfully, and makes a note in the notebook he carries in his jeans pocket.

Bonnet is at work, which I hadn’t expected. It seems like such a normal-person thing to do.

“Yeah, but he’s a normal person,” Teach explains. “I mean, no, he’s not, there’s no one else like him, but he’s just a guy, you know? It was really tough at first, when we went public with our relationship, navigating that. There were ripple effects neither of us had anticipated, though my manager would tell you that’s because we’re both f*cking idiots. Izzy [Israel Hands, Teach’s longtime manager] helped us out a lot in those early days, smoothing stuff over, making sure Stede’s kids were insulated as much as they could be, making sure Stede’s business wasn’t inundated with weirdos trying to make an appointment just to get near him, you know? Anyway, most of that’s blown over now. So yeah. Stede’s at work.”

When I ask him to talk more about their relationship, Teach lights up, and for the first time that afternoon, I see the glimpse of the genius artist who has mobilized an impressively ferocious fanbase toward art, music, and advocacy.

“Meeting him was like – I dunno, man, it was like turning the lights on. He just made me see things in a whole new way. Still does, you know?” He pauses for a long time, seemingly lost in thought. “It’s one of those things that I never expected to experience for myself. Seemed like something out of a storybook, a love that big. Turns out it’s real, but it took a lot of work to convince myself I was allowed to reach out for it.”

I ask him to tell me more about that. What was it like to come out for the first time in his early forties?

“Pants-sh*ttingly terrifying. Easy as pie.”

When I ask for clarification, he puts his hands in his pockets. “Things can be both. That’s maybe the biggest thing I’ve learned in the past few years. Things can be more than one thing, and it’s actually f*cking great.”

And is that true for Blackbeard as well? Teach tips his head back and laughs with his whole body.

“Now you’re getting it, mate. Yeah. It’s true for Blackbeard as well.”

He sees me to the front door, where a battered pair of Doc Martens are lined up neatly next to an exquisite pair of embroidered floral brogues, and as I walk out into the sultry summer afternoon, I think maybe I have a better idea of what he means. Teach seems to have embraced his duality: the bad boy rockstar is a most-of-the-time house-husband. The brilliant musician who commands tens of thousands of screaming fans with a single gesture is shy when you get him offstage. The artist who won a Grammy for Burn After Bleeding goes soft around the eyes when he shows off his husband’s tomato plants. The A-list celebrity who hasn’t given a public interview since June 2024 is sitting down with a college newspaper journalist [Editorial note: Teach’s stepson is a recent alumnus of Bard College]. The man is also the myth, also the legend. And it’s actually f*cking great.

***

Six months later

Stede picks up the mug that Lucius had given him years ago as a Christmas present, looks at it fondly for a moment, and puts it into the donation pile. Ed immediately snatches it back up.

“No, what the hell? You can’t get rid of this one!”

Stede looks at it again. It’s maroon, with a diagram of a larynx done in white, and the words THROAT G.O.A.T. underneath the diagram. It’s nice, but Stede knows he’s good at his job, doesn’t need a mug from his former assistant to remind him. It’s bittersweet, sorting through his belongings, but he’s going to be following Ed on tour for the next six months, and he has signed the business over to Olu, and Olu’s first act as new boss was to hire Frenchie on permanently to replace Stede, so he’s cleaning out the office to make space for him.

“This was my tea mug,” Ed continues, cradling it in his palms. “This was how I thought I might have a shot, you giving it to me twice in a row.”

“Why would that mean you had a shot?” Stede asks.

“...Babe,” Ed says very slowly and with most of a straight face, though his eyes are warm and amused, “What do you think ‘Throat GOAT’ means?”

“Well, I know G.O.A.T stands for the greatest of all time, so it’s a reference to being a good voice therapist, surely?”

Ed starts laughing.

“What?” Stede cries. “Ed, did you think – oh my goodness, did you think it was about blowj*bs? Is it about blowj*bs?!”

Ed laughs so hard he cries, and when he finally collects himself, the mug goes in the Keep pile.