awake and unafraid

by animosities

Summary:

Five times Ed borrows something of Stede's and one time Stede borrows something from Ed.

or:

There’s a man in Ed’s poetry seminar who equally baffles and intrigues him.

Notes:

you ever binge watch a show twice in two days and then spend the third day writing 30 pages of fic despite not having written in months?

yeah me neither :/

anyway based on uk higher education. you study one subject unless you do joint honours and sometimes your modules are shared with other courses. seminars are more discussion based on reading that was set rather than formalised lectures or classes. no one has lectures on wednesday afternoons because sports happens. subesquently wednesday nights are full of drunk athletes. title from famous last words by mcr.

__

edit september 2023: hi to everyone who's here reading from season 2!

1.

There’s a man in Ed’s poetry seminar who equally baffles and intrigues him. Ed doesn’t speak up much in class, preferring to turn up and take a seat in the back row and desperately pretend he’s not still hungover from last night’s partying. Wednesday nights are particularly vicious and the subsequent hangovers equally so; he has no idea why he decided to subject himself to such an early Thursday morning class. He always does the reading in advance before his drunken endeavours, or sometimes during—much to his housemates’ derision—but often has little to say during the seminar itself. He’s a History student but shares the optional module with many English Literature students who handle most of the discussion. Ed’s not sure what inspired him to sign up for the course. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; the class focuses on the changing portrayals of war throughout the ages through poetry and had seemed like a nice change of pace. His earlier academic days had been filled with gruesome details of brutal wars and analysing just exactly how everything went so wrong. It had come so easily to him to pick apart the politics and strategies of leaders long-dead; this poetry stuff feels like treading water in open ocean without a boat around for rescue. He’s so out of his depth it’s laughable, and yet he still turns up every week. 

Stede—not Steve, Ed learns, despite Stede’s insistence that either is fine—is a wonder. He captures Ed’s attention every time he raises his hand to answer a question or spur on the discussion. He sits closest to their tutor and is always already sat pen at the ready long before Ed arrives. His wardrobe seems to consist only of fabrics more expensive than anything Ed has ever set his eyes on before, meticulously colour co-ordinated and arranged just so. He’s a bright spot of creams and pastels among the muted grey tones of the casual clothing around him. He’s never seen anyone his own age own so many waistcoats or cravats, let alone wear them regularly. His coat must be tailored with how well it fits him and his leather satchel looks like it could have been plucked from an eighteenth-century student. He’s the only one in the class to not make use of any laptop or tablet and Ed knows that’s a conscious choice rather than affordability; he writes in a moleskine notebook with a pen that likely costs more than the year’s tuition fees in a looping, cursive hand that puts Ed’s own chicken-scratch scrawl to shame. 

Ed is thoroughly fascinated by him. 

The formality of his presentation aside, his words have a hold on Ed that he can’t quite explain. Ed peppers his own speech with curses and obscenities to emphasise his point; Stede simply embellishes his words with an eloquence Ed could never dream of. The man is a walking dictionary, more suited to a Shakespearean stage than a draughty room in the basement of the English department. His thoughts leave his mouth with such verbosity and fluency that Ed finds himself captivated. Stede picks up on points that Ed had never considered about their texts, and a few that Ed had jotted down during his own reading. It’s as if Stede dives into his brain and plucks the beginning of a thought and expands on it with a grace that Ed could never manage himself. He could listen to Stede talk for days on end.

They’re not graded on participation—thank fuck—so Ed manages by simply watching and writing. Their tutor recognises him as a wayward delinquent who’s somehow found himself taking a poetry course; she rarely calls on him to contribute and Ed never offers his insight unprompted. He knows the effect he has on those around him, what people think of him, what they’ve heard about him. He’d been on the University rugby team in his first year and had even played for the first team for almost the full year. A disagreement with their treasurer at the end of year formal had seen the end to that. Izzy loves to retell the story in full, gory detail; Ed’s honestly just tired of hearing about it. He still hangs out with the rugby lads, despite some of them hating his fucking guts. Sometimes he joins for friendly, unofficial matches which he’s found out are much less fun when the other team are terrified of you. No one tackles him for fear of his temper—what’s the point in receiving a pass if your path to the try line has no challenges? Izzy tries time and time again to convince him to apologise and rejoin the official team so they can make use of his reputation. Ed can’t think of anything worse. 

His reputation follows him to this dingy basement room. No one sits by him. No one even looks at him for longer than it takes to recognise him. Ed used to like it that way; now he’s not sure. At least he’s got space to spread out and nurse his hangover as he watches Stede wax lyrical about the evocative rhythm found in Tennyson’s poetry. Ed, quite frankly, doesn’t think much about Tennyson, but Stede seems to revel in the intricacies of nineteenth century gentlemen poets.

Ed finds his attention waning as he watches Stede scribble down notes as another student talks—although, perhaps scribble is too harsh a word for what is practically calligraphy—and suddenly realises that he’s zoned out and that class is over. Ed looks down at his own notes and finds them severely lacking. He doesn’t care as much as he should.

He takes his time stretching as he rises from his slumped posture. His head still aches and his mouth tastes of vomit and mouthwash. He wonders idly if the canteen nearby is still serving breakfast; he could do with a pile of grease right now.

As he slings his bag over his shoulder and joins the last stragglers leaving the room, he spots something on the floor by where Stede usually sits. He grabs it without thinking and finds it’s a pastel pink scarf softer than anything he’s touched before. His brain conjures the word silky but he knows that’s not quite right. Ed shoves it in his bag and scowls at the girl who holds the door open for him. 

Later on, he realises he doesn’t know how to return the clothing without simply waiting a week for their next class together. He can’t imagine there are many Stedes about campus but Ed isn’t on social media to track him down. Ed doesn’t know his surname, where he lives, or who his friends are. It wouldn’t matter, but it feels wrong to keep such a fine piece of fabric in a house as dark and grimy as his. Ed’s own room is fine, he supposes, but the rest of the house is starting to make his skin crawl. Every now and then he gets sick of sticky counters and mouldy dishes and whips his housemates into shape to make them clean up. Right now, he can’t muster the energy for that. It feels almost cruel to have Stede’s scarf near that mess. 

Ed hides the scarf away in his room in a drawer under his desk. If he takes it out a few times to brush his calloused, bruised hands across it and perhaps even try it on, well, there’s no one around to see. 

By some miracle, or simply just a modicum of self-control, Ed isn’t hungover for the next seminar and is even running early. When he arrives at the classroom, the door is open and a pale head of hair hunched over a thick book greets him. Ed lingers in the doorway but Stede doesn’t notice his presence. Heavy boots thump against the linoleum flooring and a shadow falls over Stede as Ed stands by him. He startles violently, flinching as he looks up to meet Ed’s gaze. Ed tries to offer a polite smile, cringing internally; he supposes he could have announced himself less threateningly. 

“Ah, Edward, isn’t it?”

There’s a quiver in Stede’s voice but his lips curve into a bright smile despite this. Ed feels frozen to the spot. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Wonderful! I’m Stede. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of talking, have we?”

This is not how Ed expected this to go. He’s never felt so unsettled by mere pleasantries before. Certainly no one has ever called talking to him a pleasure before. 

“No, I don’t think we have,” he replies, feigning a suaveness he’s desperately trying to regain. “I, uh, have something of yours.”

Stede’s brows furrow, only to rise in delighted surprise as Ed pulls the scarf from his bag. “Oh, my! I wondered where that had gotten to! I’ve been having to use my backup winter scarves all week and I must say, they’re not nearly as soft as this one. It’s felt like rope about my neck all week; I was half-tempted to trot off to London at the weekend to see if they still stock this one.”

Ed can do nothing but stare in bemusement as Stede rattles on; he’s never felt so much like he’s clinging onto a mechanical bull while talking to someone before. Usually he’s the one putting people on the back foot.

“Yeah, uh, it was on the floor. After the seminar last week. Figured you’d miss it so…” He finishes with a shrug. 

“Well, I most certainly am grateful, Edward,” Stede says with a smile so sincere Ed can’t quite look at it. 

“Just ‘Ed’ is fine.”

“Just Ed it is, then. Thank you, Ed.”

Ed’s lips quirk in a half smile, hidden in a growing beard. He hopes the warmth he feels on his cheeks isn’t showing. “You’re welcome.”

Stede looks like he’s about to say more but a trio of students arrive in a haze of chattering and giggling. Ed shoots Stede one last look before he takes his usual seat at the back of the room. He can feel Stede’s eyes on him as he takes out his laptop and notebook but wills himself not to look over. He preferred feeling hungover to whatever this is. 

 

2.

They’re not exactly friends after that, but they’re certainly friendly. Ed turns up to class mostly sober and almost on time; Stede watches his arrival with a bright smile and a pleasant greeting. Ed’s just as quiet during the actual academic discussions but he catches Stede looking back at him occasionally after he finishes making an observation. Ed resolutely doesn’t smile and nod at him and notice the tips of Stede’s ears flush pink, no matter what anyone else says. 

Izzy pesters him to join their Wednesday night bar crawls again but Ed begs off, blaming the sheer amount of reading and coursework he has this semester. He’s dipped out on a few regular nights out for weeks now and people are starting to notice. He tries not to pay attention to the look Izzy trades with Fang and the obscenities he mutters. If Izzy has a problem with his priorities, he can fucking tell him like a grown up. It’s not like he doesn’t get sloshed with the lot of them every other night of the week; he just doesn’t fancy hanging out on sports night much at the moment. He’s not happy with who he is after too many drinks and too many fights right now.

The weather takes a turn the week they start looking at World War Two poetry. It’s all frustratingly Western and white, but it’s a subject Ed feels he finally has the upper hand in. He doesn’t need to delve too much into contextual observations when he has plenty of names and dates and places memorised from years of rehashing the same period over and over again. Instead, he can focus on the raw trauma and sheer horror these men try to convey in poetry that has outlived them. Or, at least, he could focus if it hadn’t been so bloody cold. 

He can almost see his breath misting before him as class begins. A few of his fellow classmates opt to keep their outdoor coats on and one poor soul is still bundled in a woolly hat, scarf, and gloves. Ed’s usual attire offers little in the way of warmth. Jeans torn from years of use and a biker jacket he dug out of a charity shop do little to protect him from bitter winds and chilly draughts. His fingertips are frozen as he pecks at his keyboard; he misses half the notations he intends to make but figures he’ll just read through it all and decode it later. It’s too cold to spell check now. 

There’s a distinct lack of energy as the class rises to their feet at the end of the hour. Stede, in a deviation from his usual routine, makes his way to the back of the room rather than the door. Ed falters as he moves to stand, glued in place by Stede’s winning smile.

“Gosh, it’s rather frosty today, isn’t it?”

Ed grunts in reply in a way he hopes comes across as affirmative as he packs up his stuff. Stede is always so peppy and charming. He doesn’t understand how he manages it. 

“Now, I was thinking that weather like this deserves a nice, warming meal, don’t you? I was running terribly late this morning and didn’t manage my usual breakfast. If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d like to… accompany me to the canteen?” Stede asks. His expression remains calmly polite but the balling of his fist belies something else entirely. Ed doesn’t think about it too much. 

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “I need coffee, anyway.”

“Wonderful!”

It isn’t until they’re walking to the building’s exit together that Ed realises what he’s agreed to. He’s only spoken to Stede a handful of times before, and only once had that been more than half a dozen words exchanged. Suddenly, the prospect of a nice, warm meal seems daunting. 

The second he realises this, he does an abrupt mental one-eighty. Who the fuck is he thinking he’s intimidated by Stede of all people? Sure, he’s got his fancy clothes and fancy words and Ed feels out of his depth with him, but he’s Ed fuckin’ Teach. He’s sent guys to hospital. He’s got half the campus terrified of him. The fuck does he think he is, scared of some ponce?

The moment he thinks it, he feels the urge to apologise to Stede. He quite likes him, actually. He shouldn’t be so harsh on him. That’s not him, not anymore.

“Good lord, I swear it’s gotten colder,” Stede exclaims as they step foot outside. He huddles into his thick coat, practically buried in that ridiculous scarf of his. Ed silently agrees. He’s glad he hasn’t trimmed his beard in a while so that at least one part of his face isn’t battered by the wind. 

They set off towards the canteen, Stede babbling about the essays he has due this week with Ed falling into step beside him. He flexes his icy hands and buries them in his jeans pockets.

“Oh! Wait just a second,” Stede says. Ed takes a couple of steps without him before doubling back, watching as he rummages about in his satchel. “Aha!” 

Extended out to Ed is a pair of dark, leather gloves. Ed takes them and shoots Stede a quizzical look. 

“My backup gloves. They’re fleece-lined,” Stede explains. “You look positively frozen, my friend.”

Ed slips them on and is greeted by toasty softness. “... Thanks.”

“Not at all,” Stede says, heading off once again. “So, as I way saying, I sent Lucius my outline and—”

Ed doesn’t exactly tune out of the conversation, but he does let it wash over him like another warm layer of fleece. 

The canteen hasn’t yet been picked dry of its breakfast buffet, Ed is delighted to find out. He loads his plate high with bacon, sausages, and fried eggs, as Stede wanders over towards the pastries and various spreads. Stede politely keeps his thoughts to himself as Ed dumps sachet after sachet of sugar into his coffee and toasts him with his own cup of Earl Grey.

“Oh, Ed, you must try this,” Stede says as Ed’s devouring the first of his rashers of bacon. He extends a square of toast with a dollop of spread on it out towards Ed. Ed, unthinkingly, opens his mouth and lets Stede feed it to him. He bites and chews, then his eyes widen with joy.

“That’s some fuckin’ good marmalade,” he remarks. 

“Isn’t it just?” Stede agrees, beaming. “Now, anyway, enough about me. What about you, Ed? I believe you said you were a History student during class introductions?”

He poses it as a question, as if Ed is going to disagree with him, but he’s more surprised that Stede remembers something that occurred weeks ago. “Yeah.”

“Remarkable. Do you enjoy it?”

Ed shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“What’s your favourite part about it?”

Ed takes a moment to think about his answer, not wanting to shrug it off with a non-answer like his instincts tell him to. “War. But not the bit where people go nuts over, like, guns and shit. I like the politics of it. And when leaders pull some fuckin’ bizarre strategic moves. And, I guess, how it impacts everyone? Like in the poems. People been murdering each other since the dawn of man and we’re still gettin’ fucked over by it. You get some leader deciding to send some troops into a field and years later you have people feeling the impacts from migration and inflation and whatever.”

Stede holds his gaze silently for so long that Ed starts to feel an uncomfortable niggling sensation, a blossoming of self-consciousness he really doesn’t like feeling. He’s about to tell Stede to fuck off and fuck History until Stede finally replies, “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one go.”

Ed caves into his earlier impulse. “Oh, fuck off.”

Stede laughs a light airy sound. “No, no, please, I’m joking. It’s dreadfully interesting. Do you have a particular period that interests you? Perhaps any particular battle?”

Ed’s initial instinct is to dampen his own enthusiasm but the bright, keen look Stede gives him spurs him on. He finds himself practically gushing over ancient history, which it turns out Stede knows a fair amount about. 

“Ah, studied the classics at school, I’m afraid,” he explains, as if embarrassed by it. Ed doesn’t see why he should be; he’d have killed to learn about this shit properly at school.

They wander into discussing the Gallic Wars and then meander further along into piracy, of all things. Ed has always appreciated the old-school take on battles, on utilising natural landscapes and relying on wit and strategy rather than pure gun power alone. Nautical battles enthral him and the added bad-assness of the legendary pirates are enough to make him feel like an excitable child. 

“Have you ever been on a boat?” Stede asks. 

Ed shrugs. “I chucked someone into a river once.”

“Oh dear. Well, I went on a cruise once but my mother had dreadful seasickness so we haven’t been back. It’s a shame; I rather enjoyed it. Being out at sea with nothing but waves around you… I’d love to go again.”

“We could get a boat,” Ed says. Warmth spreads in his stomach at the delighted smile he gets from Stede.

“We could be co-captains!”

“Co-captains?”

“Yes,” Stede says, sitting up taller in his seat. “Joint democratic leaders.”

“Is it democratic if you’ve already decided who the leaders are?”

Stede looks stumped for just a second. “Well… Currently we have no crew so I assume we’re the de facto leaders. They’re welcome to mutiny if they don’t appreciate a people-positive management style.”

“A people-positive… Mate, I’m sorry, but you’d be a shit pirate.”

“I—You—Excuse me, I think I’d be a dab hand at pirating,” Stede blusters.

Ed raises his eyebrows. “You said you’d have a people-positive management style. That’s not how pirates work.”

“And why not?” Stede harrumphs. “I find the toxic masculinity of the typical pirate rather unideal. It sounds like an awful lot of bloodshed and trauma. I think having our ship as a safe space to process that would yield welcome results.”

Ed sits in baffled silence for long enough for Stede to finish his last croissant. Eventually, he smiles to himself and huffs a quiet laugh. “I take it back, mate. You’d be a great co-captain.”

Stede grins. “As would you.”

They deposit their empty plates in the clean-up area and brace themselves to return to the chilly outdoors. Ed pulls Stede’s gloves from his pockets and holds them out to him.

“Oh! Don’t be silly, you can borrow them for the rest of the day,” Stede says, gesturing him away. 

“... You sure?”

Stede nods. “Of course. After all, you took such good care of my scarf. I trust you to do the same with my gloves.”

Something about that statement freezes Ed in place. He feels hot and cold all over, somehow both trapped and free at once. Something about those kind eyes trained on him so keenly has him feeling as if he’s lost at sea yet clinging to a lifeboat. It’s overwhelming and comfortable and Ed both hates and loves it. He has no idea what’s happening. (He’s lying; he knows.) 

“...Okay,” he says eventually when he remembers how to speak. 

 

3.

Ed wears the gloves every day that week. He ought to go out and buy his own but something about this pair has him going back to them. His own gloves lay forgotten, fingerless leather useless in the sudden temperature drop. 

On the sixth day of wearing them, Izzy notices. They’re on their way to the pub, already well and truly smashed. The two of them lead their little ragtag pack down a steep, cobbled street, everyone veering this way and that as they do their best to not fall arse over tit. 

“They’re new,” Izzy says, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“Gloves,” Izzy says. He has his own pair very similar in style. 

“Oh. Nah, they’re a friend’s. Gave ‘em to me ‘cause I looked cold.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be a twat wearing fingerless gloves all winter then it’s no wonder someone took pity on ya.”

Ed pauses briefly. Izzy takes a couple of steps before he notices. “Did you just call me a twat?”

He can almost see Izzy mentally retrace his words. “Aye, I did, apparently.”

“Hm.” Ed saunters down the street to meet Izzy, a casual jaunt in his step, before he loops one arm about the man’s neck and tussles him in a headlock. Izzy strains and struggles, spewing all sorts of colourful profanities at him. Ed only laughs into the night. 

When they eventually make it to the pub in one piece, they crowd around a table that’s far too small for a group their size and already littered with dozens of empty glasses. Someone calls for the first round as Ed pries his glove from each finger before carefully removing it as a whole. He makes sure to secure it in a zipped pocket of his leather jacket; Stede trusts him not to lose them, after all.

Izzy catches him as he removes the second and inspects it. 

“Come on, man, give it back,” Ed practically whines. He doesn’t know why Izzy’s got such a bee in his bonnet about this.

“Is this real leather? It’s fuckin’ fleece-lined.”

“Yeah. It’s fuckin’ warm, alright? Give it back.”

“Who the fuck’s giving you fleece-lined gloves?” he snides, tossing the glove back to Ed.

“A friend from a seminar, fuck off.”

“What, the modern history one?”

“Nah, the poetry—the fuck does it matter?”

Izzy looks torn between delight and disgust. “You made friends in your poetry class?”

“Right, would you fuck off? It’s a fuckin’ poetry module, what about it? It’s interesting.”

“Interesting? Who are you?”

“Alright, okay, you made your point. Drop it.”

“No, no, no. So you made some poncy friend in your poncy poetry class and he gave you poncy gloves to keep you warm?”

It’s unnervingly close to the truth; that’s what hurts the most. Izzy’s been chipping and chipping away at his dwindling patience for weeks now but this is what does it for him. Ed draws himself to his full height, looming over Izzy, his voice practically a growl and he threatens, “Say ‘poncy’ one more fucking time.”

Izzy meets his gaze with that irritating smirk of his. “Poncy.”

Ed smiles, then nods, then closes his fist and throws as hard a punch as he can. Izzy goes sprawling. Glasses clatter across the table and shatter on the floor. When he stands, Izzy’s nose is bleeding. Good. 

“What the fuck?” someone says. Ed doesn’t notice who. He grabs his jacket and shoulders past the crowd towards the exit. It’s bitterly cold outside and dark as anything. The streetlight nearest him flickers on every now and then, but that only makes things worse. He fumbles about in his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter and is drawing in sweet, burning breaths by the time someone comes to find him.

“You dropped this,” Ivan says, holding out that fucking glove. For one ridiculous moment, Ed realises he punched his best friend over a glove. It doesn’t even look that expensive. It’s just a glove. He likes to think he’s matured and grown over the past couple of years but apparently he’s still the brute he’s always been, led by his temper more than anything else.

Ed nods and takes the glove.  “Cheers.”

“So…” Ivan says. “Was that about Stede?”

Ed prides himself on not choking on the cigarette smoke in surprise. “You know Stede?”

“Yeah, blonde bloke with the fancy coats? He’s nice.”

“Hm. He is.” He eyes Ivan suspiciously. “How’d you know ‘im?”

Ivan shrugs. “Friend of a friend. Fang dated some guy in that crowd last year.”

Ed frowns. “Did he?” 

“Yeah, that Lucius guy.”

“Lucius?” The name rings a bell. 

“Didn’t last but they’re still friendly. I’ve seen Stede about a bit. He does English, right?”

“Mm, yeah. And philosophy. Fuckin’ good at it, too.”

“Sounds about right,” Ivan agrees before heading back inside.

Ed both isn’t sure what he means and understands entirely. Stede has such a wealth of knowledge within that pretty head of his and is either stupid enough or stubborn enough to not take mediocrity in its stride. He does everything to the fullest extent as unapologetically as he can. The mere thought of him sauntering into the canteen and sampling each type of jam available while chattering about Poe’s haunting imagery brings a smile to Ed’s lips.

He smokes his cigarette until it’s almost burning his fingertips, then lights another, shielding it from the wind until the spark catches. His buzz is wearing off and he’s not sure he wants to rejoin the action. Tiredness weighs down on him suddenly, more than just the ache behind his eyes. His entire body feels heavier and his mind sluggish. He doesn’t have the energy to clap his hands together and do his usual song and dance for the boys.

Decision made, he puts the gloves back on and heads home.

When he wakes the following morning, the heaviness hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s worse. His mouth feels like he’s deepthroated a cactus and his head pounds like someone’s gone at him with a sledgehammer. It’s a struggle to prop himself up and grope blindly for the half-empty glass of water on his cluttered bedside table. He desperately wants to stay in bed and sleep it off but he needs to piss and his stomach won’t stop rumbling. 

The rest of the house is silent, his housemates all surely sleeping off inevitable hangovers. He doesn’t feel too hungover himself, just as if he’s been stuffed with cotton wool and pushed off a cliff. After relieving himself, he stumbles into the kitchen, which is still a mess from their pregame the night before. There are remnants of post-bar snacks and half eaten tubs of takeout scattered about. Ed ignores it all and fetches a loaf of bread to make toast. The clock on the oven tells him it’s not even seven yet. With dry, slightly burnt toast in hand, Ed trudges back to his room, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake as he eats. He downs another glass of water and falls into bed, asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

When he awakes again over an hour later, this time to his alarm clock, he feels better and worse. The pounding of his head has quietened but his nose feels stuffy and his throat aches. His body is weary as he stands and stretches but he’s definitely felt worse. He only has the one class today; his various essays and readings can wait until after he’s slept another twelve hours and downed a lifetime’s worth of lemon tea. Perhaps a year ago he would have rolled over and not even spared a thought to going into uni today; now he’s spurred on by the vague dread of post-university life and the realisation that he probably ought to try a bit harder with his grades.

His eyeliner from last night is smudged about his eyes and his hair is an unkempt mess, but that’s par for the course as far as Ed’s concerned. At least he looks a little less zombie-ish and a little more punk-rock by the time he’s dressed and ready to go. 

He’s almost late by the time he reaches the seminar room, but that’s standard for him. His usual seat is free and he gives Stede his customary nod in greeting as he passes. He digs out his laptop and pulls up his reading notes as the tutor starts the session. Within moments, Ed realises that he’s not taking in a single word. He’s glad he already has a reputation for saying fuck all during this class; he doesn’t think he could conjure a single coherent thought about their work if he had a million quid on the line. Instead, he focuses on tamping down the irritating little cough that tries to work its way out of his throat and trying not to sniff too often. 

The seminar drags on for what feels like days. His cursor blinks at him on the screen, unmoved from its position at the start of the class. Ed had been too enthusiastic in his assessment of his health that morning; he feels like shit now. 

A sudden scrape of chairs jolts him from his self-pitying wallowing and he closes his laptop, glad to be able to escape back to his bed. He hopes Izzy is still in bed when he gets back; he doesn’t fancy dealing with that mess right now.

“Ed?”

Ed looks up to Stede standing over him. “Hey,” he says, then cringes. He sounds so stuffy and nasally. 

“Oh, my, you look like death warmed over. Here, let me walk you home,” he says, taking Ed’s bag from his hands and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Wha—Hey, you don’t have to—”

“I want to. Come along, now,” Stede says, turning on his heel and walking out of the room. Ed has no choice but to follow. When he catches up, Stede is rambling. “You shouldn’t compromise your health for your studies. You ought to still be in bed. Besides, what if you’d passed this onto the rest of the class? Then we’d all be buggered.”

“I felt fine earlier,” Ed mumbles. Stede shoots him a scathing look. “Fine-ish.”

“I could have sent you the notes, you daft man,” Stede chides.

“How?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t have your number or anythin’.” Later, Ed will blame his oncoming fever. Currently, he’s glad he’s too out of it to realise what he’d said.

“Well, pass me your phone and I’ll fix that right away.”

Ed does as he’s told and Stede programmes his number into Ed’s phone as they exit the building, going as far as to call his own phone so he can save Ed’s number too. 

“Wonderful. Now. Which way?” 

Ed stares at him blankly.

“Your house, Ed?”

“Oh, right. This way.”

He’s glad Stede is such a chatterbox and has never really minded Ed’s occasional quietness as they walk towards his house. It’s grounding to listen to him as the walk becomes progressively more tiring. He keeps bumping into Stede’s shoulder, swaying until Stede eventually grasps his bicep to steady him. It’s nice. People don’t touch him very often.

He sniffs pathetically as they near the house. His nose must be bright red in the cold. He can feel the snot in his beard. It’s gross.

“Oh, darling, take this,” Stede says, plucking a fucking handkerchief from his breast pocket. Ed takes it and examines the small square. It’s embroidered.

“S.B.?”

“Ah. Bonnet.”

Ed nods. He hadn’t known that. 

He’s never used a handkerchief before and isn’t entirely sure what to do. He assumes it acts like a regular tissue, only grosser. He’ll have to make sure he washes it properly before he gives it back. He can’t be giving Stede a snotty handkerchief; he’s far too fancy for that. 

They near his doorstep and it takes not an insignificant amount of convincing to persuade Stede to leave him in the doorway and not accompany him all the way to bed. Stede’s phrasing of this would have inspired some flirtatious remark on any other day. Ed is too tired to take the low hanging fruit today. 

“Do text me later, dear, I’ll be terribly worried about you.”

“Yeah, I will,” Ed says, sure that he’ll forget. He’ll try not to forget, though. He doesn’t want Stede worried. He’s too nice to be worried about someone like Ed. 

“Get well soon,” Stede says as Ed disappears inside the house. 

Ed can’t quite recall getting to his room and falling into bed. He wakes two hours later, parched and fully clothed atop his covers. Stede’s handkerchief covered in his own snot is still grasped in his hand, like a child clutching a teddy bear. 

He changes into more comfortable clothing, gets more water, and digs out some painkillers after a few minutes of rummaging through empty packets. His phone discarded next to his bag reminds him of Stede. He shoots him a quick text, letting him know he’s still alive but going back to sleep. Stede asks if he’s staying hydrated and if he’s eaten anything. Ed doesn’t reply before he’s out like a light again.

He’s awoken for the fourth time that day by gentle knocking at his door. Ed’s groggy and confused. His eyes feel crusty and his mouth tastes like a graveyard. He checks his phone; it’s six in the evening and he has three missed calls from Stede.

“Edward?” Bizarrely, it sounds like Stede.

“Hm?” His voice is gravelly. His throat hurts. He can hardly swallow without pain. 

“Can I come in?” It’s definitely Stede.

“Yeah,” Ed says, belatedly realising that his room is a tip and that he must look a state. He can’t have Stede in here.

His objections come too late as the door opens just a crack, wide enough for Stede to slip inside and close the door behind him. “Oh dear. You have been through the wars, haven’t you?”

It takes a moment for Ed’s eyes to focus. Stede’s still in his outfit from earlier, a powder blue ensemble that’s missing this morning’s waist coat. He has a circular tub held in his hands and a plastic bag dangling from the crook of one elbow.

“I hope I haven’t overstepped but I couldn’t stop thinking about how awful being ill at university is so I took the liberty of making you some soup. Well, I bought some and heated it up. I also grabbed you some soothing tissues, throat lozenges, sleepy tea, an assortment of painkillers, and other bits and bobs.” As he explains his purchases, he sets the bowl down on the bedside table and shows Ed his wares. There’s cough syrup and nasal decongestant and even chocolate. Ed might be a bit in love.

“I’ll just go fetch a spoon from the kitchen for you. Oh, I’ll get some more water for you, too.” Before Ed can say a word, he’s off. 

Ed sits in his bed, covers pooled about his hips, surrounded by a pharmacy’s worth of medical supplies. His own plan had been to just sleep it off until he felt ready to face the world again. He was going to give it maybe a day or so of misery and self-pitying before rolling up his sleeves and manning up. Maybe he’d have ordered some takeout to keep him going. He certainly wasn’t going to ask his housemates to fetch him supplies or cook for him. 

His eyes drift to the Tupperware bowl perched precariously on his nightstand. He pops the lid off it and is greeted by mouth-watering steam. He licks his lips, suddenly famished. A knock at the door followed by Stede poking his head round arrives just in time. Ed was ready to down the whole bowl in one go. 

“Here we go. No soup spoons to be found so this will have to do, I’m afraid. I got you two pints of water—saves you having to move later, doesn’t it?” He somehow finds space in the mess on the bedside table and sets them down. “Now, I hope you don’t mind but I dug out a bin bag and was going to take a cursory sweep over the room, maybe open a window too, if you’re not opposed? I always feel much better in a tidy space with fresh air.”

Ed pauses as he spoons some of the soup into his mouth and frowns. “No, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Stede says simply, and then he’s off. He leaves Ed to eat in silence as he picks up various empty energy drink cans and cigarette cartons, humming to himself all the while. All the discarded clothes scattered about the floor end up in one haphazard pile by his wardrobe and the forgotten mugs and plates are gathered into one area on his desk. The curtains, still closed from last night, are parted slightly as the window is opened. Crisp air makes its way into the room and over to the bed. Stede was right; he does feel better already. 

His room is tidier than it’s been in weeks and the soup does wonders for his aching throat and gurgling stomach. Stede gets distracted by Ed’s modest collection of books by his desk, allowing Ed to set his spoon and bowl down and watch him. He can’t conjure a single memory of anyone ever taking care of him so thoroughly. His own mother had been worked to the bone every day and night, unable to do more than put a damp cloth to his head and make sure food was in the fridge for him. No one has cared enough since her to even try. 

“If you’ll excuse me just one moment,” Stede says, stirring Ed from his misty-eyed reverie. In a flash, he’s taken the trash and headed back out of the room. It’s a few minutes before he returns with a familiar pack of wipes in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. “I hope I haven’t surpassed my welcome but I thought that if you’re going to be in bed for a while yet you might want to be fresh-faced for your rest. Although, I must take you shopping soon; these wipes are terrible for your skin. Not that I’m saying you have bad skin, of course. In fact, it’s rather flawless. I’d ask what products you use but I’ve just been rummaging in your bathroom so it must simply be good genetics.”

Ed is truly speechless in the face of Stede Bonnet both criticising his choice in products and complimenting him in the same breath. 

“Or… well… I have an idea, if you’ll allow it.”

“What?” Ed asks, voice gruff. He hopes Stede thinks it’s the illness and not the swell of emotions he’s scared will show on his face.

“Keep eating, dear, I’ll take care of the rest,” Stede says. Ed’s not sure he can keep the soup down as Stede takes a seat beside him on the bed. “May I touch your hair?”

Ed nods.

His heart hammers in his chest as Stede’s hands take to his hair. The gentlest of touch gathers strands into one hand. He works meticulously, starting at the bottom of his hair and working his way up, easing out every snaggle and knot he encounters.

“Now, I know you’re not supposed to brush curly hair like this but I thought it would be nice to get it out of your face. You do have such lovely hair, too. It’s a wonderful length on you. I have some oils I sampled a few months ago that were far too heavy for hair as fine as mine; I’ll have to remember to bring them next time I see you. Or perhaps you could come to mine once you’re feeling up to it—a celebration of your health, shall we say?”

Ed clutches the spoon in a white-knuckled grip, afraid his hands will shake with anything less tense. The touches, the words. It’s too much. He almost feels loved. He’s never felt like this before.

It must be the illness. He’s just tired and fragile.

“Look this way, dear,” Stede says a few minutes later, his hand a hair’s breadth from Ed’s chin. Ed looks towards him. “May I touch your face?”

Ed nods again. 

He closes his eyes as Stede takes a wipe to the smudged makeup around them. Usually he scrubs at his face until he gives up trying to get the eyeliner and mascara off, paying little mind to his own comfort. Stede does no such thing. He holds Ed’s chin in a barely-there touch, steadying him as he swipes in gentle motions under each eye. It lasts an age and only a second, frozen in time and over all too soon. Ed’s glad his eyes are closed. He’s scared he’ll cry. 

“Much better,” Stede declares softly, and then does the extraordinary and leans in to press a kiss to Ed’s forehead. “Now, you rest up and feel better soon. That’s an order from your co-captain.”

Ed manages a weak smile. “Aye, aye, sir.”

 

 

4.

Ed doesn’t speak a word of what happened with Stede that day, no matter how many times his housemates ask him. He finds out that it was Fang who answered the door to let Stede in and he’s never been more grateful. The idea of Izzy snarling and spitting at poor Stede is enough to turn Ed’s stomach. He’d once thought that Stede would have turned hide and run away but he’s now more convinced that the maniac would stand his ground until blood was shed. He’s a stubborn man, that Stede, and obviously lacks a certain sense of self-preservation. Why else would he persevere so strongly in this growing friendship with Ed?

Ed recovers swiftly, thanks to Stede’s efforts, and returns his gloves and handkerchief after their penultimate seminar together. There’s only one class left for the semester before their final essay is due. Ed fears he might miss seeing that blond lunatic every week; he’s developed one hell of a soft spot for him. He knows logically that one hour a week of not talking to each other during a poetry seminar will hardly make a difference with the amount of texting and study dates they’ve had, but something worries at Ed and makes him think this one link will be the undoing of it all. 

“Ah, a gentleman of his word. Thank you, Ed,” Stede says, tucking the gloves and handkerchief away in his satchel. 

“Not at all,” Ed replies. He’s early again—meaning he’s turned up five minutes before the seminar starts and not five seconds—and is lounging in the seat next to Stede’s. Before he knows it, he’s entirely engrossed in a story Stede’s spinning about a friend of his named Frenchie and a stray cat that followed him home, much to his horror, which ends abruptly when the tutor arrives and asks for a summary of this week’s reading. Ed realises he’s in the wrong seat and that there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of being able to subtly sneak over to his usual spot now. Previously he’d have stood up and sauntered over without a care in the world, but Stede raises his hand to answer the question and Ed doesn’t want to interrupt. 

Stede does a remarkable job of capturing the essence and themes of the reading but stumbles once as he forgets the author of the second of their poems. Ed clears his throat and supplies, “Owens,” to which Stede exclaims, “Oh, of course! As I was saying…”

The seminar wraps up soon enough. Stede and Ed wander out of the building side by side, as is swiftly becoming a habit for them.

“We ought to do something fun next week. Last seminar and all,” Stede says, face turned up towards the winter sun. 

“Still got the final essay due,” Ed points out.

“Ah, that’s not until the new year—don’t be a spoilsport. I was thinking something like a movie night; doesn’t that sound fun? I reckon my housemates would be up for it. You’d like them. Roach is a brilliant cook; he makes his own sourdough pizzas.”

Ed’s not entirely sure what sourdough actually is but he assumes this is impressive nonetheless. “Sure, why not? Give me a day and I’m there.”

“Excellent. I’ll have a word with the lads and see what everyone thinks. Oh, I could invite Mary. I’ll see if she’s free. She’s started officially dating that postgraduate student, did I tell you that?”

“You didn’t,” Ed says, and falls into step beside Stede. He doesn’t know where Stede’s going but he’s more than happy to follow. 

The following week he is resolutely not preening in the mirror and changing his outfit a dozen times. He’s not. Sure, Stede may have mentioned once that he thinks Ed looks good in jewel tones—which, after Googling, Ed agrees with—and sure, Ed may have dug out every coloured article of clothing from his closet to try on, but it’s no big deal. He just wants to look nice. For no reason. 

He settles on his signature ripped, tight, black jeans and a slightly cropped, frayed shirt in a shade of purple that kind of reminds him of a bad bruise. His hair is freshly washed and oiled—again, courtesy of Stede—and is tied half up. Not because Stede said it looked nice like that. It’s just convenient to keep it out of his face.

God, he’s whipped. 

Ed’s not entirely sure how he’s ended up here after a semester’s worth of poetry seminars and a semester’s worth of listening to Stede convey emotion and depth in the most eloquent turn of phrase Ed has ever heard. He’s not sure how weeks of breakfast dates and subsequent study dates—that aren’t dates, not really, he and Stede just have the same preference in study locations—have ended up with him practically unable to think of anything but the well-dressed man. A year ago Ed had been half feral and moments from arrest on any given day, drunk more often than not, and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. How the fuck had he ended up here, trying to remember which of his colognes Stede had commented on a few days ago?

Ed looks in the mirror, and really looks. He’s still him. He’s still Ed. He looks a little less tired, maybe, and a little more kempt. He smiles easier than he scowls and his knuckles haven’t bled in months. Maybe this is what he needs, a respite from all the drinking and the fighting, a chance to take a break and find out who he really is.

His newfound sense of identity lasts all the way until he sets foot into the kitchen to find Izzy playing solitaire at the table, a glass of rum by his side. Izzy glances up at him and raises his eyebrows.

“Hot date?”

“Sure,” Ed says. It’s easier to say than he’s going to a meticulously planned movie night courtesy of his friend from poetry class and his ragtag band of housemates. 

“Bonnet, is it?” Izzy asks. 

Something about his tone grates Ed the wrong way. He eyes the other, arms crossed over his chest. “Why’d you ask?”

“You’ve changed, Ed, since you started hangin’ out with him.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Iz.”

Izzy pushes his chair back, legs scraping against the wooden floor. “No. I’m right. You bail on pub nights. You bail on card nights. Some fucker called you a bastard the other day and you didn’t kick his teeth in. The old you would have a knife at his throat until he pissed his pants.”

“Yeah, well, the old me was a twat. Said so yourself.”

Izzy scowls. “We’ve been there for you. I was there for you. We had your back through everything and how do you thank us? By chasing the coattails of some gay, little fancyboy and leaving us in the dust. This isn’t you, Edward.”

White hot rage sears through Ed. His fingers and toes tingle with it. His chest is ready to burst with it. He flushes hot and cold at once. “Don’t you fuckin’ say a word about him.”

“Or what? Gonna go protect your precious boyfriend from me? Gonna tell him big, bad Izzy thinks he’s a nonc—fuck!”

Ed strides forwards and grasps Izzy by the hair at the back of his head. He slams his head directly into Izzy’s face. In a glorious reconstruction of that night at the pub, Izzy’s nose starts to swell and trickle with fresh blood. Ed grabs the abandoned chair and throws it across the room. Something smashes. He doesn’t care. He crowds Izzy against the wall, hand around his throat, grip tightening with every step.

“You say another fuckin’ word about him and they’ll be the last words you ever say before I rip your tongue out with my fuckin’ hands and cram it up your arsehole. Understood?”

Izzy wheezes. Ed takes that as a yes. He releases him and storms out of the house.

It wasn’t his most elegant of fights but it was cathartic as fuck. It doesn’t change his past, but at least it shut Izzy up about it. His body thrums with unspent adrenaline; he’s two streets away before he notices the drizzling rain. As if karma is taking its immediate effect, the heavens open not a second later, releasing a torrential downpour upon him.

Fuck it, Ed thinks.

He’d left his keys, coat, and phone behind at the house. He can’t turn back to get them, already too far gone in his anger to think about facing Izzy again. He wants to see Stede and his stupid timetabled movie marathon. Stede will make him feel better. Still will stop him feeling like a rabid animal. 

Stede’s house is on a small sideroad called Revenge Street and has a variety of handcrafted flags in the front window for reasons Ed doesn’t remember. It makes the house easy to recognise through the haze of rain. He knows he’s frozen to the bone but he can’t feel it through the numbness. He knocks on the door and tries not to count the seconds until someone answers. A brunet man with a round face and bold trousers greets him. Where he’d been grinning before, his face falls into a look of shock. 

“Um, Stede? Your man’s here,” he calls behind him, before swanning off. 

He leaves the door open so Ed steps inside. He belatedly realises how truly soaked he is as he starts dripping on the carpets. 

“Goodness gracious! Ed? What on earth happened?”

“... It’s raining.”

“Yes, sweetheart, I can see that. What happened to your face? Never mind that, let me grab you a towel.” He’s off again before Ed can say anything more but returns quickly enough with a mint green towel. It’s thick and fluffy and smells like Stede.

As he towels down the worst of the droplets from his hair and face, Stede ushers him into the house and up the stairs. There are the unmistakable sounds of a party going on downstairs. Guilt swallows Ed for drawing Stede away from it into his mess. He’d been wrong. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have let Stede see him like this.

He’s about to tell Stede this when Stede opens a door and pulls him inside his bedroom. Ed feels a fool standing frozen by the door, towel clutched in his hands. 

“Oh, and you know I adore you in that colour. What a shame. I’ll just find you something to change into and set your clothes to dry. Can they be tumble dried, do you know? Never mind, I’ll check.”

Ed can’t quite focus on Stede’s babbling as Stede stands before an open wardrobe crammed full of all manner of coloured fabrics. Ed finds his attention drifting about the room, from the various bottles and tinctures atop a chest of drawers to the small bookcase bowing with the weight of the tomes Stede has stored there. It’s grounding, identifying all the knickknacks around. His intense burn of emotion has died down into a lowly fizzle, weariness replacing the anger that had spurred him not too long ago.

“Ah, this should do. Might be a tad short on you but the shirt should be just fine,” Stede says, handing over a small pile of fabric. Upon inspection, it’s a matching lounge set in a deep maroon, possibly the most casual thing Ed has ever seen in Stede’s presence. “You can change here or in the bathroom. Oh, you could shower if you want to warm u—”

Ed is stripping his soaked shirt off before Stede can finish. He’s a weak man at heart and allows himself a quick glance to see Stede’s swiftly averted gaze and deepening blush. He towels himself off and struggles out of his clingy jeans. He debates for a moment, then strips his underwear too. When he’s dried off, he steps into Stede’s clothes. He’d been right, the bottoms fall a little short on him while the top is a little large about the shoulders. But it’s warm and dry and smells oh-so-achingly of Stede.

“Better?” Stede asks. Ed nods. Stede takes a seat atop his bed. The mattress is firm and covers drawn tight. A veritable mountain of cushions is placed just so, such that the bed against the wall could easily form a sofa or chaise-lounge of sorts. It looks comfortable. Ed sits beside him. It is. 

“Now,” Stede starts, “Did you want to tell me what happened or would you rather we go downstairs? Or neither and we stay up here but not talk about it?”

Ed shrugs. “Got in a fight.”

“What about?” Stede prods.

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“You.”

“Me?”

Ed nods. “... Yeah. My, uh… A friend of mine isn’t too, um, keen on you. Had a go at me for acting different.”

“Have you been acting differently?”

Ed only shrugs in response.

“And you addressed this by…?”

“I headbutted him and choked him and threatened to rip his tongue out.”

“Ah. I see.” A moment passes before Stede leans over and bumps his shoulder against Ed’s. “Did his words make you angry?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, maybe not obviously. Why did they make you angry?”

“He was chattin’ shit about you. I won’t have anyone say that shit about you.”

“What shit?”

Ed shakes his head. Stede doesn’t need to hear what Izzy had to say about him. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It mattered to you so it matters to me,” Stede says. “Do you see any resolution to this argument? Beyond garrotting and threats of bodily harm?”

“Not really. It’s… been a tough year.”

“Oh?”

Stede doesn’t probe any further. He simply sits there beside Ed, who stares at his pile of wet clothes on the floor. They seem so out of place in Stede’s room full of knickknacks and bright colours, where not a single thing is out of place.

“I… I used to be kind of a dickbag. I got in fights a lot. Almost got arrested a few times. Me ‘n Izzy always talked our way out of it. Used to play rugby back in first year. Made a reputation for myself. Everyone was fucking terrified I’d gouge their eyes out or somethin’. Did some stuff I’m not proud of.”

He’s quiet for a while before Stede steps in. “Reflecting on it now with this maturity shows you’ve grown, Ed. We can’t change our pasts but we can reflect and move on.”

Ed shakes his head. He can’t blame the wetness on his cheeks on the rain. “Stede, I did some really bad things. I… I beat up this guy. In first year. He went into a coma. I almost killed him.” He flinches as a hand settles over his. He hadn’t realised he’d been clutching at the duvet cover. “And… My dad. When I was a kid. He was awful. Beat my mum every day. Me too sometimes, if she wasn’t in. Always threatened to kill her. Fuckin’ drunk. And I followed him one night from the pub. I was only little. He was staggering this way and that and I followed him down to the bridge and I brought a hammer with me and I hit him. Over the head. With the hammer. He fell into the river and washed up dead a few days later. Said he tripped and hit his head and drowned. A freak accident. But it was me—I’m the freak. And now I’m no better than him. I’m a fucking mess and I don’t even fucking know who I am. Every time I try to be something different, I fuck up. Izzy was right—this isn’t me. I’m a fuckin’ monster.”

“Oh, Edward, sweetheart, no. Come here,” Stede soothes, hand slipping from Ed’s. He pulls Ed closer, arms around his shoulders. Ed hadn’t realised how hard he’s been trembling. A hand settles in Ed’s hair as he guides Ed towards him. Ed is tense for several brutal moments before he collapses and falls apart all at once. His sobs are awful, wretched things and he cries until his eyes sting and his throat aches. He’s bone weary and deeply tired. He’s half crawled onto Stede’s lap, face buried against Stede’s neck. He’s probably ruined Stede’s lovely silk shirt with his tears and his snot. Stede says nothing about it and only soothes him with gentle touches and sweet nothings whispered in his ear.

“It’s okay, darling, I’m here. Let it out, you’re safe now.”

“F-fuck.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

With one last, shuddering breath, Ed sits up and drags a hand over his face. “Fuck me, you’re too nice. Way too nice for me, Stede. Fuck.”

“Now, I won’t have talk like that. I enjoy the company I keep, thank you very much.”

“Shitting hell, I’m a mess.”

“You are a bit, darling, but that’s fine. We all are sometimes.”

“Not you,” Ed says.

Stede snorts. “Oh, I have my moments, believe me.”

Ed can’t find it in him to argue. Besides, the hand on his back is still rubbing soothing circles against his skin. He quite likes it. 

“Sorry about… about all of that.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you felt you were in a safe space to discuss it,” Stede says with a sweet smile that grips Ed’s heart. “I’m very happy to continue discussing it if you think it would help.”

“You’re so good at… at…” Ed gestures vaguely, and Stede fills in the blanks.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I’ve never really been one for typical displays of masculinity and the whole ‘bottle it up’ mentality that goes with it. I’ve certainly tried but it didn’t go too well.”

“You did?”

“Oh, yes. Had a girlfriend and everything. My parents were sure we’d be engaged by twenty and have two kids by twenty-five. Wasn’t exactly my… style. Although, I did still want to be a bit more rough and tumble. A little more intimidating. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of your book.”

Ed smirks. “And what? Throw someone in a river?”

Stede baulks. “O-oh! Not quite that, no. I was thinking more perhaps your general demeanour.”

“Hm…” Ed considers this for a moment. “You would look good in leather.”

Somehow, that’s the thing that unsettles Stede and has him unable to meet Ed’s eyes. His cheeks flush a pretty pink and he stammers his way through some remark of gratitude. 

“A-anyway! What would you like to do? I’m very happy to stay up here with you or there’s pizza downstairs if you’re partial to it?”

“Is anyone not partial to it?”

“Well, I suppose if you were gluten or lactose intolerant. Or vegan. Although Roach has made some exquisite vegan cheese before, so perhaps not.”

“Stede?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s get pizza.”

 

5.

Things settle after that.

Ed feels a little less untethered every day. He tries to keep his eyes ahead rather than constantly look over his shoulder to see if he’s still being followed by the ghost of his old self. Stede helps without really knowing in his own Stede way. His opinion on the matter is so refreshingly simple; he’s only known Ed since this mid-youth crisis began and he’s not particularly inclined to judge him based on past behaviour when current Ed is so charming.

Stede’s words, of course.

“I told you I literally killed someone and you don’t care?” Ed asks, perched on Stede’s bed as Stede rifles through his bookcase, searching for a novel buried within its depths. 

“Now, I wouldn’t say I was quite so blasé about the ordeal,” Stede retorts, glancing over his shoulder. “It sounds a little more complicated than you’re making it out to be. Personally, I believe it’s a matter for a qualified counsellor to unravel, but for me I think your drive to change for the better is remarkable. I wouldn’t put such little weight on that, Ed.”

Ed mulls that thought over as he watches Stede. 

The counselling idea is something he’s slowly warming up to. He’d been adamantly against it at first; he’s not telling some random stranger all his deepest darkest secrets and letting them whisk him off to jail. Stede had pointed out that there is in fact no legal requirement for therapists to breach confidentiality to report crimes such as his and that he’s under no obligation to disclose details he doesn’t want to. In fact, he’s under no obligation to talk to anyone he doesn’t trust.

“We can go through every counsellor in the country until we find someone you like,” Stede had assured him. Ed looked between him and the laptop before them with practically hundreds of tabs open upon it, all searching for help for Ed. Ed only nodded. 

While he debates to and fro over talking to someone, Stede offers one hell of an alternate idea.

The boxing club is just as Ed had pictured it: bare, brick walls decorated with framed newspaper articles and fight posters, cold concrete floor, and a central ring with various clusters of equipment around the room. He knows about fighting. He knows a lot about fighting. But this? This is the real shit. He can’t just headbutt someone who’s pissed him off or choke them out until they’re calling for mummy and daddy. 

“Ed.”

He looks to the newcomer, a person with chin-length dark hair in a baggy shirt that drowns them. They’re a good head shorter than him but something about them conveys a sense of don’t fuck with me that Ed immediately respects. He hadn’t been too surprised when Stede had mentioned that they frequent this place.

“Jim.”

Jim nods. “Stede told me to beat you up.”

Ed snorts. “Did he now?”

Ed somewhat regrets his arrogant attitude going into the spar later when Jim has him pinned to the mat with an arm trapped behind his back. They’re so slight but they know how to use Ed’s own momentum against him. Maybe he doesn’t know all that much about fighting, after all. 

“Go again?” Jim asks.

Ed grins.

Their second go around is better. Ed knows what to expect and not to underestimate his opponent. It’s much harder to fight when he doesn’t really want to hurt the other person, Ed realises; he has to rely on tactic and forethought rather than pure brutality and threats of murder. It’s fun. 

He knows he’s going to have all sorts of lovely, colourful bruises the next day but he agrees when Jim offers to take him to a punching bag and walk him through some basics. He’d have probably been offended at the offer an hour ago but he can respect the difference between how he fights and what these people do. He’s had half an eye on the ring where a few people have had their spats. Their punches land solidly and with sickening sounds, but they smile and shake hands after. A controlled outlet for violence, Stede had called it. 

His muscles ache in a good way as he heads to the showers. His arms burn with use and he can feel an old back injury playing up, but his knuckles are unbruised and his lip isn’t split. It’s more than he can say for any night out he’s had in the last few years. 

Jim is waiting for him by the exit after he’s changed and packed his things. 

“You going to Revenge Street?” Jim asks. 

Ed hadn’t been thinking about it until Jim suggests it, but he supposes he is. He’s not been spending much time at his own house nowadays. 

They decide to grab a bus rather than make the forty-minute walk in the December chill and sit in a surprisingly companionable silence until their stop arrives. Of everyone he’s met at the Revenge Street house, Jim is the one who he’s most likely to have spoken to before. The lot of them are lunatics in their own way, but Jim has this air of unhinged, unapologetic violence to them, masked in sarcasm and sardonic smiles. They feel familiar among the crowd of emotional openness and frankly bizarre personalities. It had taken a while to realise that Jim doesn’t actually live at the house, but Ed can’t criticise that much anymore. From what he can tell, they’re dating Olu, although he suspects no one comments on it for fear of a midnight stabbing. 

Jim has a spare key and lets them in when they get to the house. Frenchie’s cat—that’s apparently not his cat because he hates cats but the cat hasn’t gotten the message—runs up to greet them, before realising neither of them are Frenchie and trotting off again. Jim departs from Ed without a word and disappears up the stairs. Ed wanders further into the house downstairs and finds Lucius in the kitchen, phone in one hand and wooden spoon in the other as he pokes half-heartedly at a pot on the stove.

“Is Stede in?”

“Jesus fuck!” The spoon clatters to the counter as Lucius clutches at his chest. He exhales in a deep breath. “A little warning next time? And no, he’s not. How did you get in?”

Ed shrugs. “Jim.”

Lucius’s lips part in an ‘o’. “I thought I could feel the murderous vibes in the house increasing. If you don’t want to hear them distracting Olu from his lab report then I recommend you find a pair of headphones.” 

“Right, sure.” He lingers awkwardly for a moment before sighing and announcing, “I’m just gonna—”

“What are you doing with Stede?”

And this is why he hates being alone with Lucius. He’s trying to be better; he could just grab a kitchen knife and hold it to Lucius’s throat until he pisses his pants and promises to shut the fuck up forever, but he’s Stede’s best friend and he can’t do that stuff anymore. Instead, he has to suffer through unnervingly knowing looks and awkward questions about his intentions.

“Hanging out?”

“Is that a question or a reply?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Lucius smirks. “Oh, I don’t think I’m the one you want to be doing that to.”

“Dude, that’s—you know what? This is none of your business, actually.”

Lucius shifts his weight, hand on his hip. “It really is my business, actually. Stede’s done this before, y’know? He gets all excited by someone and they just fuck him over because he’s too nice to see it coming. So if you’re just fucking with him, get it over with and get out before he gets hurt again.”

The hard set of Lucius’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes is more intimidating than any bloke Ed has stood up against in any dive bar. 

“I’m not… fucking with him,” Ed says quietly. 

Lucius gives him a slow once-over. “Hm. Good.”

Ed takes that as dismissal and slinks from the room, off-balanced and unnerved. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing with Stede. He likes the man, sure, maybe a bit more than he’d ever thought he would, but they’re just having fun, aren’t they? They don’t need to go about defining things or announcing intentions. Sure, things might have sparked a bit more intensely than either of them could have anticipated but Stede had been just what he needed—something fresh and new and bizarrely supportive. They haven’t even known each other for that long yet Ed now sees him essentially almost every day. Stede is on his mind nearly every moment of every day, from texting Stede about an antique shop he saw that Stede might quite like to overhearing some gentle folk music and jotting down the artist to pass on later. Ed doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. Stede has been a breath of fresh air. And, for some reason, Stede seems to like him just the same. 

He doesn’t care what Lucius thinks. He doesn’t. Just because Lucius somehow seduces every man who glances his way within seconds doesn’t mean that Ed is just playing with Stede. He’s getting to know Stede and getting to relearn himself free from his old influences. He’s doing better with every passing day, as if each morning he removes one more layer of his old facade. He doesn’t want to do something stupid and rash and fuck this up.

Lucius can fuck off.

He makes his way to Stede’s room, courteously ignoring the noises coming from Olu’s room, and falls into Stede’s desk chair. He shoots the man a text to let him know he’s at his house and gets an enthusiastic reply with far too many exclamation points that has Ed burying his face in his hands. His phone buzzes again, this time with Stede asking what he’d like for dinner. 

This is all so disgusting domestic that Ed finds himself in a moment of intense dread. He’s never had anything like this before. His old friends—current friends? He’s only really fallen out with Izzy; the rest still seem fine with him when he shows his face at his house—had been made primarily through contact sport and binge drinking and joining in with barroom brawls. Ed had made the first tentative move towards Stede, who had grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into this life of lunch dates and craft nights and talking about things. Ed has found himself enjoying it all much more than he’d ever thought possible, even the talking thing. He’s never been so open with anyone in his life. He’s only known Stede for a couple of months and yet Stede knows him better than anyone on this earth. Stede has seen his bitter angles and jagged edges and decided he likes them anyway. 

What a strange man. 

Ed doesn’t berate himself when he finds he’s smiling at the thought of Stede. He lets himself feel the pleasant emotions that warm his chest and flip his stomach. It’s somehow both terrifying and the best he’s ever felt. The past few weeks have been the most fun he’s had in age; he feels like he’s finally letting himself live rather than act.

He stands from the desk and makes a slow circle around the now-familiar room. Fingertips skirt along the tops of the chest of drawers and decorated shelves. Stede puts so much of himself into his space and everything he does. He’s talked before about how he’d been bullied at school for not being masculine or tough enough; Ed thinks he’s plenty tough and brave being so unapologetically himself. He still lets Stede talk him into teaching him how to dodge a punch and later how to throw one to really make it hurt, as part of Stede’s quest to toughen up. On one memorable evening, Stede had purchased a handpoke kit and insisted Ed give him his first tattoo. Ed somewhat regretted telling Stede that he’d tattooed some of his art on himself but eventually relented and said he’d do it in the new year if Stede still wants it. 

Ed eventually finds himself standing before Stede’s sizable wardrobe. So much of Stede is encapsulated along these rails. Ed had never put much thought into how he dressed before he met Stede. He liked wearing black and leather and looking like he could beat someone to a pulp. Stede had taught him how exactly altering your attire can change the world’s entire perception of you. Ed doesn’t want to look like he beats people to a pulp anymore, not really. Well. Maybe a bit, but he also just wants to look like Ed. He wants to look like someone who likes sports and reading and adventuring and everything else he’s learning to enjoy. 

He runs a hand along the vast array of fabrics before him. They’re coordinated by season then colour, and span practically every shade of the rainbow. Ed gravitates towards a lilac fleece he’s seen Stede wear once on a particularly frost morning. It’s thick and collared with a short zip at the neckline. Like everything Stede owns, it’s soft to the touch. Without really thinking about it, Ed pulls it off the hanger and pulls it over his head. It’s not a bad size on him, perhaps a touch looser than he usually prefers, but it’s warm and gentle and more comfortable than anything he owns. He takes a step back to look in the mirror. It’s not a colour he ever recalls wearing before but it’s not a bad look. 

“Ed? I picked up some pasta from that restaurant on—oh!” Stede comes strolling through the door and freezes in his tracks as he spots Ed. He meets Ed’s gaze in the mirror and smiles broadly. “That looks delightful on you, love.”

Ed turns, cheeks flushed. He hadn’t been doing anything bad but it’s a tad embarrassing to be caught like this. He knows Stede doesn’t mind—the man is always lending Ed one thing or another—but it feels different choosing this for himself. 

“Food?” Ed asks. 

Stede holds a paper bag aloft. “Yes! From that little Italian place by the church. Technically they don’t do takeout but Mary works there and managed to swing this for us. Oh, she wants to meet you soon, she said.”

“Meet me?” 

Stede nods. “Yes. I, ah, apparently talk about you quite a bit.”

Ed can’t help the smirk that curls his lips as he saunters forward to take the bag from Stede. “Do you?”

“Well, there’s a lot to talk about. You’re quite an interesting fellow.”

Ed’s glad to have something to do as he pulls out two containers from the bag with the cutlery Stede must have grabbed from downstairs. He wonders idly if Lucius is still downstairs and if he said anything to Stede about him. Probably, knowing the two of them. 

He sits on the floor, back against Stede’s bed, and Stede takes a seat next to him. Stede had once been quite adamant about eating at a proper table with proper crockery but has loosened up since. Ed hands Stede the creamy dish that is obviously his. His own smells richly spiced with mouth-watering prawns mixed in with the pasta. 

“What did you say to her?” Ed asks.

Stede busies himself with opening his container for a few seconds before replying, “Well, she asked who I was buying for as I was obviously ordering for two. You’ve come up before, you see, and she’s surprised you haven’t crossed paths yet.”

Ed eyes him for a moment. To anyone else, Stede would look as upbeat and erratic as usual. To Ed, he can tell he’s anxious about something. “Do you want me to meet her?”

“Oh, of course!” Stede exclaims. “If I’m honest, I’m a little worried about how well I think you’ll get on.”

Ed raises his brows. “Jealous?”

“No, no—scared, more like. You’re both quite… boisterous. I don’t think I’d stand a chance if you teamed up against me.”

It’s an interesting line of thought, Ed muses. He knows bits and pieces about Mary from Stede’s stories and anecdotes. He’s since learnt that she was the woman who Stede’s parents thought he would settle down with after practically arranging the relationship for them. Their split had been amicable, apparently. Stede had said he’d even been relieved to find out Mary was cheating on him. 

“I was never particularly amorous with her,” he’d admitted with a heavy blush. “I was just glad she’d found someone who made her happy.”

Meeting her feels like an important step. Ed pretends he’s not nervous about it.

“I had a good chat with her, actually,” Stede says. Ed makes a thoughtful sound, encouraging him to continue. “About her and Doug. And, uh, the nature of their relationship.”

Ed almost chokes on his spaghetti. “You havin’ a threesome?”

Stede’s eyes widen comically and he splutters, “I—what—good gracious, no, not that. Not that at all. It was more a, uh… discussion about romantic emotions. She’s quite in love, you know?” Ed doesn’t know but waits for Stede to continue anyway. “She was telling me about it and about… how it feels. It sounded quite familiar, if I’m honest.”

“Oh? Good for you, mate,” Ed says, turning back to his food. He’s not entirely sure where Stede is going with this. (He’s lying; he knows.)

“Edward.”

Ed looks over. Stede has placed his container and cutlery down and turned to face him fully. Ed gulps.

“It sounded familiar because I think that’s how I feel about you.”

“... Really?”

“Indeed. I don’t know if… if you feel the same but it felt important to tell y—”

Ed silences him with a kiss.

He closes the gap between them, a hand at Stede’s smooth jaw, lips pressed to his in a gentle kiss. He feels the harsh intake of breath from Stede. He feels the instant relaxing against him. He feels the smile curl at Stede’s lips. 

It’s a short and sweet thing, more innocent and loving than any embrace Ed has experienced before. He desperately wants to clamber onto Stede’s lap and let him know just how incredible he thinks Stede is through touch alone, but he’s learnt that words are important, and he has a lot to say.

“You make me happy,” tumbles out of his mouth the instant they part. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been before. You make me like myself. You’re fucking fantastic and mental and I love it. I love you. I think.”

Stede rewards him with the softest smile. His eyes look watery as he pulls Ed to him in a tight embrace. “You know, I think I love you too.”

Stede only allows him to pull away to kiss him again. Arms snake about Ed’s shoulders, one hand sliding into his hair and the other tracing patterns upon the fleece on his back. Ed feels like static. He scrambles forwards onto Stede’s lap, legs bracketing Stede’s. He’s hungry with sudden need, as if the dam holding him back has broken. Stede doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, if the delighted noise he makes is anything to go by. His lips part and Ed has no hesitation in exploring the glorious warmth offered to him. They find a rhythm between curious tongues and bitten lips and wandering hands. Minutes pass with gentle sighs and pleasured gasps. Ed captures Stede’s lower tip between his teeth with a sultry grin. Stede’s fingers in his hair tighten and pull almost painfully, drawing a surprised, pleasured sound from Ed. Ed feels that delightful smile against him once more. He could get used to this. 

The hand at his back clutches at him as Ed wanders further down to kiss a trail along Stede’s neck. He busies his hands with undoing Stede’s cravat and buttons, finding the singular flaw in Stede’s usual attire: he’s far too overdressed for what Ed wants to do to him. He exposes more skin soon enough and begins sucking a glorious bruise upon the delicate flesh. Stede gives a dreamy, little sigh as his blunt nails scratch at Ed’s scalp. 

“Could—could I propose we make proper use of the bed?” Stede says, voice broken in a way that shoots electricity straight through Ed’s body. 

It’s the best idea Stede’s ever had. 

He helps Stede up and pushes him back against the mattress, sending him crawling backwards towards his numerous pillows before straddling him once again. Stede’s hands come to his hips in a gentle hold. He looks up at Ed as if he hung the moon and stars, love and adoration plain on his face. Ed knows he’s being just as much of an open book himself. 

Stede’s fingers skim the hemline of the lilac fleece. “I do love you in this,” he says. “It’s a shame to take it off.”

An idea strikes Ed. They’ll have time later for gentle undressing and making a spectacle of it, but right now he wants to be naked. Stede doesn’t offer a single complaint and instead watches with a ravenous gaze as Ed swiftly strips. When he’s unclothed, he reaches for the fleece again and puts it back on.

“Oh,” Stede says, flushed all over. Ed grins. 

Later, Ed will feel a little bad for the other occupants of the house. In the moment, he couldn’t care less. He learns that he really does adore having Stede under him, writhing in pleasure and practically gushing praises between loud moans. Each compliment sends tingles through Ed until it’s almost too much. He distracts himself from this revelation by putting his clever tongue to good use, watching Stede clutch at the cushions around him as he tries not to buck into Ed’s mouth. Ed reaches up to take one of his hands and place it against his hair. He doesn’t care for Stede to hold back. He never wants Stede to make himself anything less. He deserves to take everything he wants.

He’d expected Stede to clutch at his hair, to pull it, as so many others have enjoyed doing. Instead, he runs his fingers through the strands and rubs soothing circles. The caressing is almost overwhelming. Ed catches Stede’s gaze through watery eyes; Stede’s lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ and his eyes are hooded with lust. Stede reaches down with his other hand and entwines their fingers. Ed has never had anything so physical feel so intimate before. He pulls off Stede’s length and rests his forehead against his pale thigh.

“Darling?”

Ed shakes his head and presses a kiss to Stede’s hip bone. “I’m okay.”

He really is.

He won’t let Stede do anything but ride out his own pleasure against Ed’s mouth. He wants Stede to feel good before all else. The hand in his tightens, which is all the warning Ed gets before Stede reaches his climax. He licks against Stede, his spend warm and bitter against his tongue. He continues his ministrations until Stede lies soft, twitching against the overstimulation, and begs off, cupping Ed’s face and pulling him to join him against the pillows. Stede apparently doesn’t mind his own taste in the kiss as he pulls Ed in. 

“Just relax, darling. Tell me if you don’t like anything,” he says, before spending a small eternity torturing Ed. Ed’s previous dalliances had all been rough and quick, satisfying in the moment but grimy afterwards. Stede is nothing like this. He kisses what feels like every inch of Ed’s body except the places he desperately wants to be touched. He takes his time kissing every single knuckle and every single fingertip, finishing with a gentle caress against each palm. He worships each long leg and spends an age lavishing jutting hip bones, inches from where he stands erect and weeping. Ed could cry he’s so overstimulated.

“You’re doing wonderfully, dear,” Stede says against his neck, hands brushing along either side of Ed’s torso. “You’re so good, Ed.”

Ed gasps in a half-sob as Stede finally takes him in hand. It doesn’t take long at all to bring his pleasure to its peak. It builds and builds until it crashes over him, sending fire through every ounce of his being. Stede whispers sweet nothings and gentle praises in his ear all through it until Ed lies exhausted among the pillows.

“Are you alright, love?” Stede asks, lying beside him.

Ed swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“You were sublime, darling. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Did you just… thank me for sex?”

Stede smiles. “Ah, it wasn’t sex. It was love.”

This man is going to be the death of him.

 

 

 

+1

When Ed regains full control of his mental and physical faculties, he helps Stede clean them both up and redress. Stede does away with his crumpled shirt and discarded cravat and turns to his wardrobe for more suitable attire. Bizarrely, he pulls a black hoodie from the depths of the closet that looks remarkably familiar as Stede slips it on.

“That mine?” Ed queries, watching Stede’s every movement.

Stede glances down at himself. It’s a ratty, black thing that’s worn at the elbows and has a faded logo on it for a band Ed is fairly sure Stede’s never heard of. “I believe it is. I think you left it downstairs once. It seems only fitting given your current apparel.”

Ed’s still in the fleece, shirtless beneath it, so he supposes Stede has a point. Besides, he’s starting to understand why Stede had been so insistent on lending him clothing before. Something deep and possessive is thrilled at the notion of impeccably-dressed Stede in his own dishevelled clothing.

Their food has gone cold since but it’s still enjoyable as they settle back to their earlier position on the floor. Hardly a moment passes before a knock at the door summons their attention.

“Is everyone decent?” It’s Lucius.

“Yes!” Stede calls back.

The door opens just enough for Lucius to pop his head round. 

“First of all, I just wanted to say congratulations. It was getting a bit painful watching you circle each other,” he says. Ed only doesn’t flip him off because Stede looks genuinely pleased by the words. “Secondly, if you could keep it down next time, that would be great.”

Ed’s tempted to throw his fork at him. “Oh, fuck off. We have to hear you and Pete go at it all the time.”

Lucius rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Nice hoodie, Stede,” he says before disappearing.

“It is, isn’t it?” Stede says, looking down at himself. He catches Ed staring when he looks back over. Ed is glad he no longer has to look away. Instead, he leans forwards and captures Stede’s lips in a soft kiss.

“Eat your dinner,” he says, pulling away again. “Try not to get any on my hoodie.”

“Hm, I could just steal another.”

Notes:

the word fuck appears 53 times in this fic

 

edit: please appreciate that this little fic idea spiralled so out of control that I wrote 80k in about 2.5 weeks. oops 🤡

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of [insert witty college au series title here]