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When Ed Teach-Bonnet wakes up on this finest of December mornings, he wakes up to snow, heat, and a mouthful of golden hair.
The latter two are nothing new—both come courtesy of the husband he’s currently got glued to his side, with one arm and one leg flung over him, head tucked beneath his chin as he snores softly. The heat is absolutely to be expected: Stede runs warm even when he’s hardly got anything on (Ed knows that very well), so when he’s wearing flannel pajamas and has been buried beneath layers of sheets all night? It’s like having his own personal heater tucked into bed with him. And the hair isn’t a surprise either—it always gets all kinds of in his face when Stede sleeps curled up to him like this. Ed always likes to imagine it’s an act of rebellion. Like, once Stede’s hair knows he’s asleep, it goes rogue, gets all loose and poofy and whips itself up like a meringue as a kind of revenge for spending the whole day combed so carefully into place.
Could also be that it gets all whipped up from Ed running his hands through it, floofing it up just to see the silly ways it lands. Really, though, who’s to say.
Regardless—the heat and the hair? Old hat. The snow? Now that’s something to write home about. The mere sight of it immediately has Ed approximately seventy-five percent more awake than he was a second ago. He and Stede have been looking forward to this for days, ever since they caught the late news a few nights ago and heard that not only would this weekend be the season’s first snow, it was supposed to be a doozy. From what he can see from the bed, the weatherman was right: There’s already a healthy spread across the lawn, and it’s still coming down. Which is great, because Ed fucking loves snow.
Really, he just loves winter as a general thing. Can’t get enough of it. Sure, driving gets to be a bitch, and his bad knee doesn’t like the drop in temp. But winter also means it’s finally cold enough to use the oven without turning the kitchen into a goddamn sauna, so he can bake all the breads and cookies and pies he wants; it also means he gets to hide himself beneath all his favorite blankets.
Maybe best of all, though, is the fact that winter means that not only does he get to unearth all his sweaters from the back of the closet, but Stede’s start to make an appearance too. And if you ask him, there’s nothing better than a sweatered Stede. The man looks good in basically everything, but put him in a chunky cable knit? Some days it’s a miracle that Ed lets him out of the room after he gets dressed. He always looks like he belongs in some quaint, small-town bookstore, with a massive mug of tea in one hand and a volume of poetry in the other, those unfairly sexy reading glasses of his continually slipping down his nose as he chatters excitedly about the new shipment of stock they just got in. There’s basically never a time that Ed doesn’t want to kiss him silly about it.
So, yeah: Winter fucking rules. And waking up to see that the street’s been absolutely covered with snow is the best possible start to his weekend. Well, second best, actually—he does have a sleeping Stede pressed to his side. The snow is nice, but his husband is much nicer.
And speaking of his husband, there’s a fleeting moment where he’s tempted to wake Stede up to show him the snow; they’d both been so excited about it, after all. But he squashes that temptation quickly—he’d much rather let the man sleep. He deserves his rest. Plus, he looks so comfortable, and Ed’s rather comfortable himself. So, he settles in to just lay there instead, one arm curled protectively around Stede’s shoulders, the other draped over his hip, fingertips tracing circles over the small of his back.
It ends up not being long at all before Stede’s finally awake. Ed doesn’t bother to look at the clock, but he can’t imagine it’s been more than a few minutes. He’s not surprised that it happens so quickly—for as long as they’ve shared a bed, they’ve had this inexplicable thing where they almost always manage to wake up within minutes of each other. Even though both of them tend to sleep like the dead, once one of them is up for the morning, the other usually follows soon after. It’s almost spooky sometimes, but Ed still finds it romantic. It’s like their bodies just refuse to be out of sync with each other.
He can tell exactly when Stede wakes up because he makes the same soft little sigh that he always does when he comes to consciousness. Ed strokes a hand over Stede’s back in response, and his heart flips over when Stede wiggles in closer to him.
“Stede?” he whispers.
Nothing. Hmm.
“Stede?” he says again, louder this time.
Still nothing. Playing hard to get, then. Ed smiles to himself before he lets his hand drift down to Stede’s thigh, which he pinches lightly. He’s rewarded with a groan of protest, and the press of Stede’s body even more firmly against his own.
“’M ’sleep,” Stede insists, his voice morning-rough and still somehow whiny. “Go away.”
Ed swallows a laugh. “Oh? You’re still asleep?”
“Mmm.”
“Ah. I see.” Ed shrugs. “Well, if you’re asleep, then I guess you wouldn’t care that it’s snowing—”
“Snowing?!”
With the way Stede flails to sit up, Ed considers it a miracle that he doesn’t get smacked by a stray hand or elbow. There’s some fumbling, and a brief moment of cold as Stede’s movement tugs the covers off him (although Stede immediately tucks them back around him, in a manner so immediate and instinctual that Ed’s heart threatens to go galloping past his ribs), but eventually Stede’s up. Once his gaze finds their window, a grin blossoms on his face.
“Wow,” he breathes, a note of wonder in his voice. “Would you look at that? There’s so much already.”
“Mmhm.” Ed looks out the window again. “And it’s just supposed to keep coming down, yeah? All day?”
“Think so. That’s what the weather said.” Stede lets out a happy sigh. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Ed looks back at his sweet husband. It’s a little hard to see in the dim of their room, even with his eyes adjusted to the scant light that comes in through the window, but the brilliance of Stede’s grin is unmissable. He can still catch the dimple in Stede’s cheek too, and the wrinkles at the corner of his eye, the strong line of his nose and the lovely cloud of his hair. He lets a hand drift over Stede’s back, up and down, slow and steady.
“Yeah, you are,” he says.
Stede looks over, and when he meets Ed’s waiting gaze, Ed swears he sees Stede blush.
“Flatterer,” Stede mutters, but his grin only grows wider. He lays himself back down, settles against Ed’s side once more before he leans in for a kiss, and Ed kisses him back with hands gripping at his pajama shirt, tugging him over so that Stede fits between his legs as they fall open. The press of his body is perfect and familiar, and Ed can’t help but moan at how good it feels, and then moan again when Stede takes advantage of his parted lips to kiss him deeper.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Ed pants when they pull away to breathe.
Stede laughs. “Mm, good morning indeed.” He leans back so that their eyes meet, and then he brushes Ed’s hair from his face, tucking a few strands behind his ear. “Very good morning. Don’t you look lovely?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Flatterer,” Stede says again. “You said that already.” He rests his face on Ed’s shoulder. “You excited for all our plans today?”
Ed feels a rush of excitement zip through him. They haven’t made plans plans—no way they’d actually go anywhere on a day like today. But they have made home plans, which are arguably Ed’s favorite kind of plans. They’d gone over it all yesterday after checking the weather one last time, both of them eagerly anticipating a cozy day at home: They’ll make breakfast first, then spend the rest of the morning puttering about in the living room. After lunch, there’s cookie decorating to be done, followed by some more puttering, and then post-dinner, they’ll brave the roads and chance a slow tour of the neighborhood to check out everyone’s lights and decorations (their one exception to the whole “not going anywhere,” and it barely even counts anyway since they’re hardly going beyond their own block). Once they get back, they’ll watch some cheesy made-for-TV movie, and then, finally, they’ll find their way back to bed, curl up beneath all their sheets and blankets and quilts, and they’ll drift off, tucked in and safe from the storm outside.
Pretty fucking spectacular day, if you ask Ed. Really doesn’t get much better than this.
Ed hums appreciatively and cards a hand through Stede’s hair. “Very excited,” he confirms. “Although I can’t say I’m really all that tempted to get out of bed right now.”
“Well, we don’t have to yet. I mean, we should get up before you get all crabby because you haven’t eaten yet, but we’ve got a bit of a window. Probably, oh… five minutes, maybe?”
Ed reaches down to pinch Stede’s thigh again, less lightly this time. “You’re such a dick.”
Stede just laughs. “Am not. I just know you like the back of my hand.”
And the thing is, he does—sometimes Ed feels like Stede might even know him better than he knows himself. It melts the sassy retort that had been forming on Ed’s tongue, leaving Ed to simply kiss the top of Stede’s head, arms curling tighter around him.
“That you do,” he murmurs.
They do indeed stay in bed for another few minutes, not saying anything, just holding each other; everything’s quiet, the silence occasionally broken by the whisper of fabric against fabric as one of them shifts, and then the hum of the heating when it kicks on. Ed’s gaze drifts back to the window, and he watches the snow fall, steady as a rainstorm, the sky brightening by degrees, shifting from charcoal to silver. It feels like they’re in their own little snow globe, tucked away on a high shelf and separate from the rest of the world.
After some indeterminate amount of time, Stede’s the one who finally moves: He sits up, pats Ed’s cheek, says, “Alright—breakfast time, my love,” rather decisively, and then scoots out from beneath the covers. Ed watches as Stede grabs their robes off the hook on their bedroom door before shuffling back to him, tugging his own robe on as he does. As Ed gets up, he mourns the loss of their very warm, very cozy bed, but he quickly finds himself rewarded for his efforts—Stede holds his robe out for him to slip his arms into the sleeves, and then he smooths the fabric over Ed’s shoulders with gentle hands, and seals it all with a kiss tucked just behind his jaw.
They each find their slippers by the door, and then they’re on the way to the kitchen, and as they go, Ed admires the way they’ve done up the house. The halls have all been thoroughly decked: Stede hadn’t even made it out of November before he started dragging boxes of decorations out of the garage. On the last night of the month, they’d stayed up far too late and had far too much mulled wine and gone through everything they had, and come that first dawn of December, it felt like every inch of the house had been covered in something sparkly, shiny, or leafy green, and mistletoe had been hung in nearly every doorway.
Is it all a bit much? Maybe. The mistletoe in particular is cute in theory, but sometimes proves difficult in practice: There’s been more than one occasion on which they’ve made themselves late for something—usually work—because that one obligatory mistletoe kiss got turned into a full-on pressed-up-against-the-doorframe make-out session. Not that Ed’s complaining about that, though; obviously he’s not. What is he, made of stone? Fuck no. He certainly doesn’t need them, but he’ll still take any and all excuses to get frisky with his husband.
Everyone at the restaurant is getting kind of sick of them, though—every time they wander in ten minutes later than everyone else, shirt collars rumpled and mouths stretched into giddy, crooked grins, they’re met with groans and rolling eyes. Jim occasionally gives them a “nice of y’all to finally show up,” and one time, Lucius had said, “Could you two come to work looking a little less freshly fucked?” Stede had started to explain to him then that there had been no fucking involved—all he’d done was haul Ed in and kiss him senseless, like Ed was some beautiful prince who’d just been gone the past week to visit a neighboring kingdom, so they hadn’t seen each other in ages, and Stede had missed him, oh, god, he’d missed him—
At that, Lucius had promptly stood up and turned around, and as he’d marched toward the kitchen, he’d called over his shoulder that he never needed to hear the rest of that story, thanks very much. He hasn’t called them out again since, but it’s really not necessary—the devastating squint of his eyes and pinch of his mouth pretty much say it all. (Although Ed thinks it’s mostly for show—he swears that he overheard Lucius saying something to Pete one day about how “they’re a bit disgusting sometimes—like a couple of hormonal teenagers—but it’s also kinda cute. Don’t tell them I said that, though.”)
So, sure—maybe they hung up a rather ridiculous amount of mistletoe. And yeah, the amount of other decorations they’ve got up also kinda borders on excessive: There’s bouquets of fake snow-covered pine branches, fairy lights dripping icicle-like down the walls, festive tchotchkes lining bookshelves and sitting on end tables. They’ve also got—to put it lightly—a fuckton of scented candles, nearly three to a room (they only ever light one at a time, but they have to have options, right?). Neither of them do anything by halves, and that includes decorating for winter. And honestly? Ed wouldn’t want it any other way.
After a pause in the kitchen doorway to obey the mistletoe hanging above them, they set about making breakfast. They don’t even need words to get started: Stede automatically gets the coffee going while Ed collects all the ingredients for the French toast they’d decided on yesterday. As he slices bread and whisks eggs and milk together, Ed smiles to himself—there’s something magical about this familiarity, the way they each have their favorite parts to play, and the way that they always know exactly what the other will be doing. It’s a dance they’ve refined over so many mornings together that, at this point, Ed’s pretty sure he could do it with his eyes closed.
And isn’t that wild? The privilege of this sweet domesticity? Ed can’t help it—when he shuffles back to the fridge for some butter, he briefly presses his hand to the small of Stede’s back and kisses his hair as he goes by, just because he wants to be close to him. And when Stede leans into his touch, and turns his face a bit so Ed can kiss his cheek too, Ed’s heart stumbles over itself.
When Stede hands him his coffee, Ed finds that he has—as always—gotten it just right: He’s poured enough creamer into his mug that the result is closer in color to chocolate milk than actual coffee. Once they’ve got their drinks in hand, the French toast is a tandem effort—Stede gives each slice of bread its egg bath before dropping it onto the frying pan, where Ed keeps careful watch while it cooks. In the in-between moments, when the pan’s full up and Stede has to wait to prep more bread, he slips an arm around Ed’s waist and leans into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder. Ed makes every effort not to jostle Stede because he doesn’t want him to move a single inch.
They pile their plates high when they’re done and take their seats at the table, and as Ed douses his French toast in syrup, he says, “Time for the paper?”
Stede grins as he reaches for his phone. “The paper,” in the context of their Saturday morning breakfasts, isn’t an actual newspaper, but the neighborhood Facebook group, nicknamed as such because there’s always enough excitement and updates posted throughout the week that it gives the local Times a run for its money. Ed’s never been an active member himself—way too much to try to keep up with—but he likes hearing all the best bits filtered through Stede, who has been thoroughly sucked into the group ever since they moved in.
“Let’s see,” Stede says, as he scrolls and takes a sip of his coffee. “Let’s get back to the beginning of the week here… Ah, here we go. Well, we started out strong with the sharing of Edith’s much-requested sugar cookie recipe, but you knew that already.”
This is true: Stede had caught the post at lunch on Monday, and as soon as he’d seen it, he’d all but sprinted to find Ed in the back office to share the good news. In the process, Stede had apparently almost knocked Jim face-first into a bowl of pasta, which would explain the hurricane of half-English, half-Spanish curses that had kicked up somewhere out in the kitchen mere moments before Stede’s arrival.
Ed had felt his haste was fair, though, since Edith had been teasing him and some of their other neighbors with the promise of the recipe for what felt like forever. Every time he’d asked for an update, she’d just told him that she was “still tweaking it,” but she thought she’d have it done “soon.” This did little to soothe Ed’s sense of eager anticipation—the woman’s a notorious perfectionist when it comes to her baked goods, and he knew full well that “soon” could mean anything from a few days to a few weeks. He’d had to wait a full three months once for a lemon blueberry bundt cake recipe from her that, to be fair, had been absolutely fucking delicious, but, well… Ed knows he’s not the most patient man, and waiting on this recipe had been difficult, to say the least.
Naturally, then, when Ed finally had the recipe in his mitts, he’d wasted exactly zero time with it: He’d begged Stede to stop at the store for ingredients on the way home from work, and then he’d stayed up way too late that night trying out the recipe. It’s taken quite literally every ounce of his self-control not to just enjoy the whole batch for himself; he’s rather proud that he’s let them stay tucked away in the freezer, where they’d been left so they could be decorated this weekend. Model of patience, he is. Practically a saint.
“Yeah,” Ed says, taking a bite of breakfast. “Thought we’d be into next year before she finally put that up.”
“Mm. Well, all good things to those who wait, hm?” Stede takes another sip of coffee. “Next, we’ve got a post from Roger about lawn decorations. Looks like he and Steve were wondering if anyone might like to create a, ah—” Stede squints at his phone. “A ‘multi-house narrative display’ with them.” He brightens at the idea. “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Can’t wait to see that later. Looks like Judy and Eleanor said they’d join them, and Chris and Tom too. Wow—should be something. After that, hm… George posted a picture of some very lovely presents he’d wrapped, lots of ribbon curls and other bits and bobs, and then everyone else started chiming in with their own…”
They go on like that as they eat, catching up on the charming minutiae of everyone’s lives, trading Stede’s phone back and forth to look at photos and sharing bites of French toast as they do. When they’re done, they let themselves sit at the table for a few more minutes and nurse the last sips of their coffee before they finally decide to get up and move into the rest of the day.
As they’re standing up, empty plates and mugs in hand, Ed’s own phone buzzes on the counter; when he checks it, he sees it’s a delivery notification for a package he’s been waiting on, the last of the yarn that he needs for making this year’s gifts. He’s dived headfirst into knitting over the last few months—gives him something to do with his hands while he and Stede are watching TV, or on the nights when it’s Stede’s turn to read before bed. He’s mastered scarves, and is now in the midst of an obsession with hats, which is what everyone will be getting this year.
“Be right back,” he says with a kiss to Stede’s cheek. “Mail’s here.”
“Oo, exciting. What’d you get? Anything fun?” Stede attempts a casual air that Ed doesn’t buy for a second. He’s so horrible about gifts—hardly a day’s gone by over the last couple of weeks where he hasn’t tried at least once to pry a present-related secret out of Ed.
“Nothing for you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ed says. “Already got all your stuff. And I told you: I hid your presents all over the neighborhood, all in different, undisclosed locations. You’re never gonna find them. I’ve got secret hiding spots you could never even dream of.”
“What if I bribe the neighbors?” Stede arches one eyebrow, a playful challenge in his voice. “Surely they must know where some of them are? They must’ve seen you around, hm? Secreting all your things away?”
“Too late, babe—I already paid ’em all off myself. Told them there was more where that came from so long as they never breathed a word to you. Gonna surprise you so fucking hard with all your presents this year.”
Ed expects Stede to keep playing along, or maybe give him a devastating pout, which is usually what he resorts to when Ed refuses to give in to his weaselly ways (it’s a good thing Ed’s had years of practice when it comes to resisting those goddamn puppy dog eyes, otherwise he would’ve folded and confessed to all of Stede’s presents weeks ago). But Stede doesn’t do either—instead, he smiles, big and fond, dimples deep in his cheeks.
“You’re wonderful, aren’t you,” he says. Not a question, but a statement. The certainty and affection in his voice make the back of Ed’s neck warm.
Ed shrugs, even as a smile spreads across his own face. “Maybe. Just like surprising you, s’all.”
“Mm. Well, you’re very sweet for that.” Stede pats his hip. “Go on, then, get your mail.”
Ed makes his way to the front door, where he pauses to debate whether he wants to throw on his coat. After a moment, he decides he’ll be fine—it’s just a short walk to the mailbox. He does exchange his slippers for boots, though, and once he’s all zipped up, he steps outside.
To his delight, he finds that the snow’s still falling steadily, and it’s the kind that swirls down in soft, fat flakes, and piles up like powdered sugar. Days like today always make Ed wish he had the natural insulation of some kind of arctic animal instead of regular human skin—all he can think about is how pillowy the snow must be. He’d love to just face plant onto the lawn and take a nap there without, y’know, freezing his nuts off. Regrettably, though, he is not covered in seal blubber, so he just tugs his robe tighter around himself and walks carefully to the mailbox, keeping an eye out for any potentially slippery spots. They should probably shovel the walk at some point, but… Nah, not today. Tomorrow, maybe. Yeah—tomorrow’s good.
Once he’s got his package, and the paper that was also stuck in the mailbox, he heads back to the house. He kicks the snow off his boots against the porch steps before he leaves them to melt on the plastic tray they keep just inside the front door. The yarn and the news get tossed onto the couch as he walks through the living room on the way to the kitchen, and that’s where he finds Stede standing at the sink, just where he’d left him, loading plates and forks into the dishwasher now. Ed walks up behind him and slips his arms around his waist before pressing his nose to his skin, to that peek of the curve of his neck that’s just the tiniest bit bared by his shirt collar. Stede starts at his touch, shoulders jumping up, neck tensing.
“Fuck,” he laughs. “Like a little ice cube back there. Bit chilly outside, hm?”
“A bit,” Ed says. He presses his face even more firmly against Stede’s skin. “Nice in here, though.”
“That it is.” Stede turns around to face him, and he presses his warm palms to Ed’s thawing cheeks. Then he even cups his hands around Ed’s nose and blows gently, which is silly, but fuck, Ed loves him for it. “That help?” he asks.
Ed grins, arms tightening around Stede. “Loads.”
Once his face has been properly defrosted, they finish filling up the dishwasher before finally retiring to the living room. They go back and forth on whether they should get a fire going in the hearth; ultimately, they decide to leave that for tonight, and compromise by putting one of those fireplace videos on the TV instead. That done, they settle in on the couch, and Stede stretches out with his legs in Ed’s lap to read the paper and do the crossword while Ed picks up his knitting.
He’s got almost all of his gifts finished now: For Mary and Doug, he’s done white hats with sunflowers, to match a lovely painting that they’d made together for the restaurant gift shop a few months back; Louis is getting a dark blue with tiny fish swimming along the bottom edge, since he’s gotten into the habit of being their first mate on some of their weekend sailing trips; and for Alma, he’s done a smoky gray with skulls and crossbones, as she’s going through an emo phase that Ed is all too happy to indulge.
The last one he’s got to finish—the one he’s working on now, and the one for which the last of his yarn arrived today—is his mum’s, which is going to be red. As soon as he’d seen the yarn, he’d known it would be hers—it’s almost exactly the same shade as this silk handkerchief she’d always carried around when he was younger, one she’d ultimately given to him when he moved out because she knew how much he liked it. He’s had it ever since, always kept it close and safe because it’s soft and it’s lovely, and it reminds him of her. It’s sentimental, maybe, bringing it full circle this way, but he thinks she’ll understand, and he hopes she’ll like it.
While Ed works on his hat, Stede occasionally asks for help with one of his crossword clues, or reads out a particularly funny strip from the comics section for him. Other than that, though, they don’t talk much—the only sounds in the room are the rustle of the paper, the click of Ed’s needles, and the crackle and pop of the fire on the TV. Occasionally, Ed finds himself glancing up at Stede, just to look at him; he’s so pretty when he’s all focused like this, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose and the end of his pencil caught between his teeth while he puzzles over the paper, his brow furrowing as he says, “Seven across, seven words, system of government categorized by extreme dictatorship—what do you think that could be?” (“Fascism,” Ed immediately answers, not even looking up from his knitting, to which Stede makes a pleased sound, nudges him with his foot and says, “‘Fascism.’ Wonderful. I’m so glad I married a genius.”) It’s so comfortable, and Ed feels like he could live in this moment forever.
As Ed’s finishing up the last few rows of his mum’s hat, Stede sets the paper to the side, crossword presumably finished and comics apparently all read. With his now-free hands, he tugs at Ed, maneuvers him until he’s sat between his legs and leant back against his chest.
“That looks very nice,” Stede murmurs. He noses at Ed’s hair, nudges it out of the way and presses his face to the side of his neck.
“Thanks,” Ed says. He tips his head to the other side, giving Stede more room, and warmth spreads through him when Stede nuzzles in closer, tucking his face into the space he’s made for him. “Wanted to try this ribbing thing I saw online. Make it look kinda fancy.”
“Mm. I like it. For your mum, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmm. I think she’ll like it.”
Ed smiles to himself as he does his last stitches; once he’s cast off, he sets the hat and his needles on the coffee table, on top of Stede’s paper. He leans back against Stede, hands coming to rest over his where they’re clasped over his stomach.
“You think so?” he finally asks.
“Mmhm. In fact—I know so,” Stede says. And Ed thinks he’s right; he can’t wait to see his mum try it on in a couple of weeks.
They sit there for a few more minutes, until Stede makes the executive decision that it’s time for lunch. Briefly, they detour to their room to change out of their pajamas, although that detour nearly turns into a whole day trip when Stede walks out of the closet. He’s put on one of his biggest, coziest sweaters: It’s made of a thick, cream-colored wool, and every time he wears it, Ed always thinks he looks like he should be living in a charming little hut by the Irish seaside, his hair forever wind-tossed and his cheeks perpetually ruddy from the cold, salty air. As soon as he catches sight of him, Ed simply has no choice but to tackle Stede to the bed, and he considers himself so responsible for only keeping Stede there for a mere few minutes. He could’ve just kept him there forever, kissed them both breathless—he certainly wants to, and he doubts Stede would protest if he did—but he also knows that they’ve got other things to do today, so eventually, he pulls himself away. God, he makes so many sacrifices. He’s such a fucking hero.
Lunch is leftover pasta from earlier in the week, and while Stede’s heating it up, Ed pulls his cookies out of the freezer to let them thaw. He’d made a whopping four dozen, which feels like a lot, but the excess is necessary—they’re meant for the upcoming end-of-year staff party at the restaurant. Roach had said he had some desserts planned, of course, but he’d happily surrendered cookie duty when Ed had offered to handle it himself. There’s an assortment of snowflakes and stars and snowmen, and some mittens and hats too, and now that he’s looking at them again, he’s excited to finally frost them, his brain immediately whirring away as he starts plotting color schemes and decorations. He and Stede talk through them while they eat, and when they’re done, Ed leaps up from the table, tossing their dishes unceremoniously in the sink before he starts pulling shakers of sprinkles from the cabinets and getting his frosting started.
The kitchen table is soon overrun with supplies: There’s several plates’ worth of cookies; cooling racks stacked high, so the decorated cookies have somewhere to set; half a dozen things of sprinkles, all in varying shades and shapes; five separate bowls of frosting (one bowl left white, the others dyed different colors); and a collection of tiny tubes of store-bought icing, for any necessary detail work. Stede whistles as he looks over it all, eyebrows raised.
“You never cease to impress,” he says.
Ed grins as he ties his hair up. This has become a yearly tradition for them, and he refuses to let routine water it down—it’s always got to be a whole event. Not only does he refuse to send half-assed baked goods out into the world, but he also genuinely enjoys it. Always has. It’s the kind of thing he’d wanted to do when he was younger, but that his mum—busy as she was with work around this time of year—never got around to doing with him. He supposes he could’ve done it himself after he’d moved out, but the thought of doing it on his own had always made him feel lonely. The bar kept him so busy anyway; it’s not like he really would’ve had the time. So now that he finally has a partner for it, and plenty of non-work time to spare, he takes it all very seriously.
“Thanks,” he says as he takes his seat. “Can’t fuck around with this shit—gotta leave it all out on the floor. Out in the snow? You know what I mean.” He reaches for a snowman and a knife and the bowl of white frosting, and he gets to work, piling the frosting on thick, careful to keep it as smooth as he can. He thinks he’ll use some of the black icing to make a face and some buttons, and they’ve got some red icing too—maybe he’ll make a little scarf with that.
There’s the scrape of Stede’s chair on the kitchen tile, and Ed glances up to see him reaching for a mitten. He frowns at it for a few moments—considering something, apparently—before his expression finally clears, and he reaches for the bowl of yellow frosting.
“That’s the best kind, y’know,” Ed says, gaze returning to his snowman. He grabs the black icing and starts dotting on buttons.
“Hm?”
“The best kind of frosting. The yellow stuff. Yellow’s the best flavor.”
Stede sucks in a soft gasp. “Yellow? Really? I’m so sorry, darling, but I’m afraid you’re wrong—the blue’s the best.”
Ed looks up at Stede with narrowed eyes. “Blue with what kind of sprinkles?”
“White, obviously. Superior color combination.”
Ed thinks it over for a beat. “I’ll allow it.”
“‘I’ll allow it,’ he says. So generous of you.” Stede scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile coloring his words, one that he’s very obviously trying—and failing—to hide.
“Listen, I’m an expert. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Mmhm. So tell me, dear expert: What’s your ideal cookie?”
“Star-shaped,” Ed immediately answers, “yellow frosting. Lots of it. Doesn’t need any sprinkles, but maybe you could add some white sanding sugar if you want, make it sparkly. And let’s be clear, it’s not just my ideal, it’s scientifically the best.”
There’s no hiding Stede’s smile now. “Mmhm,” he says again, with a little more sass this time, a little heavier on the “hm.” He looks back down at his mitten and returns to frosting it. “Glad we’ve got that settled, then.”
“Damn straight.” Ed returns to his decorating as well, and as he’s working on his snowman’s face, his feet feel around beneath the table until they bump against Stede’s. He hooks one ankle around Stede’s, anchoring them together, and his heart jumps when Stede’s calf presses back against his own. “But,” he goes on, “if you had to pick a favorite—but remember, mine’s still the best—what would you pick?”
“Blue frosting and white sprinkles, of course,” Stede says. “Shape… Probably a snowflake.”
“Mm, those look good, I’ll give you that, but there’s not enough room for frosting on a snowflake. You lose a lot of square footage there.”
Stede laughs. “Fair point.” He pauses. “So you made a bunch of them this year be-cause…?”
Ed shrugs. “Winter thing. Can’t not make ’em. Just because I don’t agree with ’em doesn’t mean I’ll leave ’em out.”
“Ah. Well, no one can say you don’t honor tradition.”
“Exactly. I’ve got tradition coming out my ass.”
“That you do.” Stede pauses. “How about another star, then? White frosting, yellow sugar. To match yours.”
Ed looks up at Stede with a grin, and a blush burns in his cheeks when he sees the fondness in Stede’s eyes. He leans around the edge of the table and puts a hand on the back of Stede’s neck, pulling him in so he can murmur, “Now that sounds good,” and seal it with a kiss.
They keep chatting on and off as they work, about the decorating, about the upcoming staff party, about whatever comes to mind. At one point, Ed wonders aloud—half-rhetorical—if he’s putting enough frosting on his cookies; Stede looks very seriously at the one Ed’s got in his hand and says that he “could probably do more, honestly,” and if they weren’t already married, Ed would propose to him on the spot. Steadily, the piles of cookies on the plates grow smaller and smaller as they frost and sprinkle and send them to their new homes on the cooling racks.
There is, unfortunately, one brief casualty: As Stede’s reaching for a snowman, he fumbles it, and the head snaps clean off when it falls to the table. But Ed is immediately seized with an idea—he frosts a red line across the snowman’s neck and another across the bottom of its head, and draws an X for each eye. Once he’s done, he lays the snowman down, and they hold a brief funeral for their decapitated comrade. It’s perfectly somber until the moment where neither of them can hold back their laughter, and then they’re both slumped in their chairs, wheezing and wiping at their eyes.
“Should we still save that one for the party?” Ed asks as he tries to catch his breath.
“No, no,” Stede says, “I think this one’s just for us. The poor man deserves some dignity in death. Can’t let everybody just ogle him.”
“Alright, that’s fair.” Another round of giggles bubbles out of Ed as he reaches for a fresh cookie, a hat this time. “Poor bastard. He was so young. Never got to see the world.” He frosts his hat green, and he considers free-handing some kind of design on it, but decides to opt for sprinkles instead. “Hey, babe, can you pass me some of those white spri—”
When Ed looks up again, he sees that Stede is already looking at him, and— Fuck, he’s still wiping at his face, but it’s because full-on tears are slipping down his cheeks—real ones, not laugh-induced ones. And then when he tries to smile, the corner of his mouth wobbles. Ed’s heart lurches, sudden nervousness putting his lungs in a bit of a chokehold. He grabs for Stede’s hand where it rests on the table.
“Hey, hey, what is it?” Ed asks. “You okay?” His gaze darts over Stede’s face, the back of his neck prickling.
Stede nods, even as he sniffles. “I’m fine. I just—” A tear rolls down his cheek when he blinks, and he reaches up to dab at it with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m just happy. To have you here. To be… To be doing this.” He dabs another tear from his cheek. “Bit ridiculous, maybe, since we do this every year—not like it’s new—but I just… You know.” He sighs. “This time of year was so boring when I was little. Couldn’t have fun, always had to be all… all laced up and everything. All proper and serious. Things were better with Mary and the kids, but not… Still wasn’t quite what I’d hoped it would be.”
Ed’s nerves fade, although his heart still aches—he can see this baby Stede, the one he only knows from photo albums and stories, sitting off to the side at a family party, wearing his dressy best but looking so very forlorn. He can see this older Stede too, grown up but not grown out of that sadness, smiling while he decorates the house with his kids or wraps presents with Mary, but not the kind of smile that gives him those dimples that Ed loves so very much, or those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that short-circuit Ed’s brain. Not the kind of smile that’s sincere, or even all that warm. The mere imaginings put what feels like a rock in his throat.
“Yeah?” he finally says, squeezing Stede’s hand.
Stede nods. “It was still… I still never felt like I really belonged there, I guess. I felt like I was in some life that should’ve been lived by someone else. Someone other than me.” He sniffles again. “But I feel like I belong here. You’re— You’re lots more fun. And I like having fun with you. And having all our traditions and—and having fun.” He shakes his head and lets out another laugh, but this one’s fragile, and damp. “‘Fun,’ I say, and here I am getting all soppy. Really is ridic—”
“Hey,” Ed interrupts. “You’re not ridiculous.”
When Stede looks up again, there’s something like… hope, maybe? In the shimmer in his eyes and in the arch of his brows? Or maybe it’s relief. Whatever it is, it’s soft, and it’s delicate, and it makes Ed want to cup his hands around Stede like he’s a candle flame in the wind, to protect him from going out.
“No?” Stede asks.
Ed shakes his head. “Nope. Very un-ridiculous, actually.” With his free hand, he reaches up to cradle Stede’s face. Stede’s eyes slip shut as Ed’s thumb glides back and forth over his cheekbone. “You do belong here. And I like having fun with you too. No one else I’d rather be here with, yeah?”
And he means it—there’s no one else he’d want sitting next to him. Anyone other than Stede probably would’ve told him he was going a bit wild with the frosting when he’d asked. But Stede just looked at him and—without batting an eye—told him to go wilder.
It’s not just their matching penchant for over-sugared desserts, though—there’s something in the way it’s so… easy, being here with Stede. It’s always so fucking easy. Whenever they’re together, Ed knows he can always say whatever the hell is on his mind, and Stede will take it completely in stride, because Stede always gets him. Even if it’s the most random, off-the-wall, nonsensical shit, if it makes sense to him, it usually makes sense to Stede too, somehow. Whenever they’re together, he can just… be Ed. No need to fit himself into any particular mold or act a certain way. He can just sit here, piling cavity-inducing amounts of frosting onto their fresh-baked cookies, playing footsie with this weird, wonderful man who takes him absolutely seriously when he challenges him on what colors of frosting and shapes of cookies taste best, and it’s… it’s so fucking easy. And it’s perfect.
He decides he’ll say as much: “You’re perfect, y’know?”
Stede tries another smile, and the corner of his mouth still wavers when he does, but the expression is warm and sincere nonetheless. He turns his face into Ed’s touch. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles into his palm.
“We both are, then.” Ed guides Stede to face forward once more, and once he’s looking at him, he leans in for a kiss. Stede kisses him right back, the hand that’s still holding his tightening its grip, the other landing on his leg, fingertips digging into his thigh like he’s grasping for solid ground. It’s sweet and a little hungry, and Ed doesn’t shift until Stede pulls back first; he rubs his nose against Stede’s as he moves away, and when that earns a chuckle from Stede, Ed feels victorious.
After that, Ed scoots his chair over so they’re sitting right next to each other, and for the rest of their decorating, he sits with his body pressed alongside Stede’s, knees bumping and arms brushing. Every so often, he tips his head to the side and lets it rest on Stede’s shoulder, and Stede always leans over in return. They don’t talk as much, but they hum along to the radio when Stede eventually turns it on, and Ed feels like he couldn’t ask for more.
By the time they each frost their last cookie, the sun’s starting to set, although that’s not really saying much at this point in the year—it’s hardly evening by the time it gets dark. Neither of them are hungry enough for dinner yet, so they play a quick game of Scrabble in the meantime, with the added agreement that the champion gets to pick what they eat; Ed very nearly secures the title, but at the last second, Stede lands on a triple word score that pushes him into the lead, and that’s how they end up with pizza.
As they’re putting away leftovers, Ed peers out the kitchen window, where he can see the snow’s still fluttering through the dark. “Still comin’ down,” he says. “Think the roads will be okay to drive?”
“I think so.” There’s the warmth of Stede at his back, followed by the slip of a pair of arms around his waist. “Unless you’d rather go a different night?”
“Nah. Already decided on it, yeah? And it’s just around the neighborhood.”
“Mm.” Stede’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder. “Well, we’ll still take it extra slow, just in case.”
From there, Stede goes to get the car going while Ed makes them each a travel mug of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and some peppermint extract mixed in. He’s excited to see how everyone’s done up their lawns and houses; the whole neighborhood really goes whole hog when it comes to decorating, so much so that every year, there’s an agreed-upon “opening night,” a soft deadline by which everyone is encouraged—but by no means required—to have everything put together. It’s kinda over the top, but Ed loves it—he loves the way everyone gets so excited and comes together to create this thing for themselves and each other.
And, of course, he also loves any chance to extend his and Stede’s enthusiasm for seasonal ornamentation. They’d just finished their own setup last night: They’ve got lights wound through the bushes lining the front of the house and strung along the edge of the roof, and a few months ago, they made an impulse buy online (while drunk—very drunk) of these life-sized yeti dolls they found, which they’ve sat in the rocking chairs they keep on the porch. Stede got them matching sweatshirts (they’ve got strings of lights embroidered on them, with a big “LET’S GET LIT!” in the middle), and Ed gave them each a handmade hat and scarf. They’re a little ridiculous, but Ed still thinks they’re charming.
Once the hot chocolate is ready and he’s pulled on his coat, Ed makes his way outside. Stede offers to drive, so Ed slips into the passenger seat, and as they pull out onto the street, he fiddles with the radio until he finds a song he likes. Then he fixes his gaze out the window to watch the houses go by.
Everyone’s decorations are, of course, no joke—there’s inflatable characters, oodles of lights, even some festive topiary (Jan and Megan, who live down the street, are landscapers, and this year they’ve trimmed their shrubs into perfectly round spheres and hung gold and silver ornaments from the branches). The biggest and most exciting is Steve and Roger’s aforementioned “multi-house narrative display,” which Ed’s been curious about since Stede mentioned it this morning. It’s impossible to miss—Ed sees it as soon as Stede turns the corner onto their street.
Across several lawns, they’ve crafted quite the tableau: There’s at least half a dozen snowpeople—plastic figurines, it looks like—all of whom are doing different things—one’s sat on a sled that’s tipped down a small hill; another’s standing at the bottom of the hill, presumably waiting for their friend to make it down; two are standing at a booth that advertises hot cider (the booth even has mugs lined up on the counter); and the others are just dotted around, some together and some by themselves, all of them wearing hats and scarves, and some even wearing cardigans and mittens. They look like they’re in the midst of enjoying a lovely snow day. Stede actually pulls over to the curb so they can admire it for a few moments, and when they happen to catch Roger as he’s bringing the trash out, they wave and call out to tell him what a great job everyone did. He gives them a bow and calls back a “thank you” before he heads inside once more.
They keep moving through the neighborhood at Stede’s sedate pace, and as they go, Ed lets himself settle even further into his seat—he’s got one leg crossed over the other, and his hands are heated by his travel mug. He feels exceedingly comfortable, almost to the point of being sleepy; it’s just so cozy here in the warm car with the soft sound of the snow beneath their tires, and everything outside so sweetly dark, save for the strings of lights and porch bulbs interrupting the black.
It’s just— He’s reminded of Stede’s words from earlier, when they’d been working on their cookies: He feels like he belongs here. And it’s a little wild, seeing as that’s a feeling that he’d been chasing for… Fuck, he doesn’t even know how long. Most of his life, it seems. Ever since he moved away from home and he no longer had his mum as an anchor, someone tying him to a place that truly felt like home and not just somewhere that he happened to live. His world had felt so fucking lonely then; cold, almost. He’d had coworkers, sure, and neighbors, but there was always so much distance with them both—they might’ve shared a work life, or walls and a hallway, but beyond that, there was zilch. Sometimes it even felt like less than zilch.
But now he’s got a whole fuckin’… community. He’s got people who are familiar, who will swap recipes with him, who he can wave to when he sees them on the street. He and Stede are part of something.
And when he looks over at the Stede in question and sees the way his face glows in the light from the dashboard, his mouth moving as he sings along to the radio, Ed’s heart feels impossibly warm. And that’s part of it too, isn’t it? He’s got someone to keep him warm. Not just his outsides, but his insides too. Which is corny, maybe, but… Actually, he can’t be fucked to care if it’s corny. The way Stede Teach-Bonnet keeps his actual goddamn heart warm is maybe the best feeling he’s ever felt.
Slowly, Ed reaches out to rest a hand on Stede’s thigh. Stede immediately glances at him, radio temporarily abandoned.
“Alright?” he asks, one hand briefly leaving the wheel to touch Ed’s.
Ed nods. “Mm. Just…” He squeezes Stede’s leg. “Love you.”
Stede takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. “Love you too.” He continues holding Ed’s hand, and although his gaze mostly returns to the road, it keeps slipping back toward Ed. There’s pinch in his brow. “Penny for your thoughts?” he eventually adds, after a few beats. “I think I can hear your brain working, sweetpea.”
Ed chuckles, and he looks back out the window. “Dunno,” he says. “Just… Thinking. About what you’d said earlier. About, like, belonging.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhm.”
Stede’s hand disappears, and the radio fades to a murmur; then his hand is back, and their fingers are braided together this time. “Anything in particular?” Stede asks.
They drive past a house that’s got a row of penguins standing in the middle of the lawn—they’re all wearing striped scarves and hats with puffballs at the ends, mittened hands holding one another’s. Their heads are all tipped in close, their eyes shut and their mouths turned up in tiny smiles.
Ed shrugs. “I had my mum when I was a kid, y’know?” he finally starts. “She usually had to work a lot around the end of the year, but she did what she could to make it work, and we made it our own thing or whatever. But then I moved out, and once I started running the bar, I…” He fiddles with the lid of his travel mug, opening and closing it and opening it again. “It was always so busy. So I never really ended up making any… any friends, or whatever. Had the guys at the bar, I guess, but it’s… not the same. But, like… I wanted something. Because—”
Ed chews on his lip, and he feels his brow pinch. The dark of the night and the quiet of the car and the bright lights on both sides of the street suddenly feel less cozy and more liminal, almost terribly so, and in this weird, hazy space, his imagination drifts. He finds himself sucked into a memory: He’s standing behind the bar again, the old bar, when it was just Blackbeard’s, no Gentleman Pirate in sight. He looks out at tipsy couples who are practically sitting in each other’s laps, sharing drinks and pointedly admiring the other’s jewelry, or their clothes, which he could only assume were gifts they’d swapped before they got here. He can feel a slick glass in one hand and a wet rag in the other, both of them fucking freezing against his skin as he tries to think past the ache in his chest.
He wishes, powerfully, that he had someone who would take sips from his vodka cranberry like it was their own drink, because what’s his is theirs. He wishes he had someone who would sit at his side and admire the nice watch he’d just bought them, proud to have this visible, physical reminder of him on them at all times. He wishes he had someone who would huddle close to him when they finally left the bar, seeking his body heat as they walked back to their car, and who would brush the snowflakes from his hair before he helped them into the passenger seat and drove them both home.
Maybe most of all, he wishes he had someone who would keep him warm while they fell asleep, a line of heat insulating him from the snow and the cold. The want is so sharp that it nicks him right in the heart, with all the sudden sting of a paper cut.
“We always used to get all kinds of people in around now.” Ed’s voice comes back to his own ears all muted and wobbly, as if through water. “It— Feels ridiculous, kinda. But… I got jealous sometimes. Seeing people being together. Having each other. I never—y’know. Didn’t have anyone like that. But I wanted it. Felt so fuckin’ cliche, but I wanted someone to be with. Wanted someone to do stuff with. Was sick of spending the winter by myself, more or less. Gets… cold, I guess.”
There’s a minute tremble going all through him now. This is hardly the most personal thing he’s ever said to Stede, but he feels particularly raw and small all of a sudden. His heart still stings, and he almost wishes he could swallow all his words back down, pretend they’d never happened.
But then there’s a squeeze to his hand, startling him out of his thoughts and redirecting his attention from that sting in his heart. Ed blinks and shakes his head to bring himself back into focus, and once he’s reoriented, he realizes they’ve stopped at the curb. He looks over at Stede, whose face is full of such sweet concern and open fondness that he feels himself blush.
“That sounds hard, dear,” Stede says, so very gently.
There’s something about that that makes Ed’s eyes smart. He shrugs, squeezing Stede’s hand in return. “Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs again. “A bit.”
“Mm. You poor angel.” Stede’s hand moves now, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind Ed’s ear before cupping his cheek. A frown tugs at his mouth. “I wish I could go back and…” He sighs. “I don’t know. Undo all those little hurts, I guess. Make everything better. But, unfortunately, I can’t time travel. Not yet, at least,” he adds thoughtfully, glancing at the roof of the car with a look in his eye like he might start work on developing that later. Then he looks back down at Ed and offers him a smile. “Thoughts of time travel aside—I think I know what you mean, dear. It does get cold like that. But…” Stede’s thumb brushes over the skin beneath Ed’s eye. “I’m here to keep you warm now, hm?”
It’s exactly the thing that Ed had been thinking himself just moments ago, but hearing Stede say it out loud kinda turns his heart inside out. And now that he’s not drowning in memories, he realizes that all through the day, this man in his very sights has given him so much of what he’d once wished for: They might not have shared drinks, but they’d shared breakfast; he also notices now that Stede’s got on one of his handmade hats, the first one he’d ever made, which he still thinks looks a bit wonky, but Stede claims is the best hat he’s ever owned. And, of course, Stede’s been huddled to his side all day today, which is basically an extension of the way they’d woken up this morning, all tangled together and—
And keeping each other warm.
There’s definitely tears in Ed’s eyes now, and immediately, he’s leaning in; when the center console bars his way from climbing directly into Stede’s lap to kiss the life out of him, he considers it the greatest of crimes. He still does his damndest, though—after he takes Stede’s hand and presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, then his palm, and then each of his fingers, he reaches over the gearshift for Stede’s face.
“S’more than alright,” he mumbles into Stede’s mouth, and when he hears Stede chuckle, and feels Stede’s hands come up to touch his cheeks, his heart threatens to surge right out of his chest.
It makes him feel young again, making out over the center console, the hum of the radio and the rumble of the car in the background; Stede tastes like chocolate and peppermint, and he’s soft, so fucking soft. When the kiss finally breaks, Ed remains close, forehead pressed against Stede’s. His chest still aches, but pleasantly so, heavy as it is with love.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Stede’s nose nudges at his cheek. “Anything for you, my love. You know that, right?”
Ed nods. “Yeah. But… still.”
“Mm.” Stede presses another kiss to the corner of his lips. “I love you. Very much.”
“I love you too,” Ed breathes, automatic. “And I—” He tugs at the sleeve of Stede’s coat, and makes a frustrated sound when there’s still the gearshift barring his way. “Sorry, this has been fun, but can we get the fuck home, please? You’re way too far away right now. I need to actually kiss you, like, immediately.”
Stede fully laughs this time, and he sits back in his seat. “Anything for you,” he says again, and he puts the car back in drive and pulls away from the curb.
They do admire a few more houses on the way back, but thankfully, Stede doesn’t linger, and they’re home in a matter of minutes. Ed doesn’t even let Stede fiddle with getting the garage open—he opens his door as soon as they’re in the driveway, hustles over to pull Stede out of his own seat, and speed-walks them up to the front door, amidst Stede’s half-amused, half-stern protests that he really needs to watch the walk, because it’s still rather slick, and he does not want anyone to get any torn ligaments or busted muscles or what have you. Thankfully, they make it to the porch with zero incident. (“See? I know exactly what I’m doing,” Ed says, tongue stuck out, to which Stede just grins and rolls his eyes.)
After they kick their boots off at the door, they start unearthing themselves from their clothes—mittens are plucked off, jackets are shucked and hung up, scarves are unwound and stuck into sleeves. As Ed’s slipping out of his shoes, Stede tells him to hold still for a seconds, because he’s got a few snowflakes on his hair; Ed tries very hard not to swoon as Stede brushes them away. And then, now that there’s finally nothing separating them—also doesn’t hurt that there’s one of their many sprigs of mistletoe hanging above them—Ed leans in and peppers kisses all over Stede’s pink-cold cheeks. Stede laughs at his ministrations, arms tight around his waist, and when he’s done, he gets Ed back even better, lips dragging over his neck and along his jaw. Stede’s touch is firm enough that it’s not ticklish, but not so firm that it’s even close to satisfying, and the ghost of it drives Ed up the wall with wanting.
“God, quit being such a fuckin’ tease,” he gasps, clutching at Stede.
“Hm… No,” Stede says, voice bright with delight. His teeth scrape over Ed’s skin for only a heartbeat before he backs off, and Ed whines, trying to press closer.
“I hate you,” Ed says, “so much,” but the words have about as much weight as the snow falling outside.
“Mm, love you too.” Stede’s mouth trails up his throat, damp and maddening, and he nips at Ed’s chin before he finally lands on his mouth. Ed presses him close for a messy, eager kiss that has them both breathless by the time they separate.
Ed takes a moment to let his gaze flicker over Stede’s face, taking in his parted mouth, the flop of his ruffled bangs over his forehead, the way his eyes are nothing more than a slim halo of hazel surrounding the endless black of his pupils. His cheeks are still pink too, but when Ed presses his palm to one he finds they’re warm now, not cold but flushed. Fuck, he looks good. Like, to be clear, Stede always looks good, but right now he looks fucking good. Hungry and handsome and sweetly disheveled and entirely, utterly his. Ed finds himself once again unable to refrain from leaning in to kiss those pink cheeks, but he goes slower this time, lingering.
“I might’ve been kidding, actually,” he murmurs against Stede’s skin.
“Oh?”
“Mmhm. I don’t hate you.” He pauses. “That much.”
Stede’s laugh is a mere huff of air against his face, one that snags in his chest when Ed’s lips skim along his cheekbone, then drift up to his temple.
“Thank heavens,” he says, hands gripping at the small of Ed’s back.
When Ed leans just far enough away to look at Stede again, he sees that Stede’s smiling now, painfully lovely, eyes soft at the corners.
Ed sighs. “Alright,” he pretends to relent. “Fine—I love you too.”
Stede raises his brows. “Yeah?”
Ed backs Stede up against the wall and fills in the scant space between them, bumping their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he says, and he can’t fight his grin anymore.
They meet for another proper kiss, one that ripples through Ed from head to toe and makes him feel all golden. When they part, they linger for a moment, just enjoying each other’s closeness, and then Stede takes his hand and walks him down the hall to their room.
Once they’re in their pajamas, they make their way back to the living room (pausing in the doorway to honor the mistletoe hanging there), and Ed starts piling logs in the hearth while Stede lays out across the couch and scrolls through cheesy movies on the TV, reading out summaries as he goes. By the time the fire’s going, they’ve decided on one called “Bake it Til You Make It,” and as Ed joins Stede on the couch and they settle in under one of their many blankets, Stede hits play.
The movie’s about a young guy named Todd, whose dad—the CEO of Grandma’s Goodies, a nationwide chain of dessert stores—has sent him to the small town of Pine Hollow. He’s been tasked with scoping out the local bakery to see if the owner can be convinced to sell the store to Todd and his dad. The owner of said bakery, though, is a beautiful spitfire named Anna, who’s lived in Pine Hollow all her life and has no intentions of leaving. Clearly, Todd is going to be in for the fight of his life when it comes to trying to convince Anna to sell.
But she won’t sell, of course—Ed knows she won’t. The two of them will fall in love, Todd will realize he’s a corporate sellout, and after he tells his dad to go fuck himself, he’ll move to Pine Hollow and he and Anna will live happily ever after. It’s a tale as old as seasonal made-for-TV movies: Young, beautiful person ends up in a charming, snow-covered town, where they meet another young, beautiful person with whom they fall in young, beautiful love. Ed can smell it a mile away. But he likes that about this sort of stuff—there’s something comforting about the predictability of it, something cozy in already knowing how everything’s going to shake out.
Or maybe he’s just cozy because he’s got Stede tucked into his side. No way to know for sure.
For a while, they make commentary: One of their favorite things to do with these kinds of movies is to try to predict everyone’s dialogue before they can actually say it. They’re pretty damn close about seventy-five percent of the time—they’ve watched enough of these that Ed’s certain he could write his own with very little work. But at some point, Stede falls asleep; Ed can tell because his breath goes deeper, the rise and fall of his back beneath his hand going slower and steadier. The fact that he starts snoring softly kinda gives it away too. Ed misses the back-and-forth a bit, but that mild disappointment is far outweighed by an overwhelming sense of affection, the same kind that always surges through him any time Stede dozes at his side. Sometimes he wonders if he ought to be less affected by it at this point—especially right now, seeing as he woke up this morning the exact same way—but the appeal has yet to wear off. He has a husband who likes to cuddle up close to him and fall asleep in his arms. Isn’t that something?
Ed brushes a lock of hair back from Stede’s temple. When Stede seems to stir at that, his heart stutters—he wasn’t trying to wake him, not at all. But Stede doesn’t wake: He just curls in closer, arm tightening around his waist, face smushing against his shoulder. He looks so fucking comfortable, so at peace, and Ed finds himself seized again by affection, and a feeling that he just… He’d do anything for Stede. Truly. Anything at all to make him happy, to make sure he’s okay. If Stede feels so comfortable here, if he feels so strongly that he belongs here, Ed wants to make sure he does everything he can to maintain both those truths.
He supposes that laying here and rubbing Stede’s back is a start, but it also doesn’t feel like enough—Ed suddenly wishes he could… hold the whole of him in his hands somehow, make Stede all small and keep him safe in the cup of his palms. He wants to reach right inside Stede and shield his very soul, make sure nothing ever happens to it. He wants to try to find the words to tell Stede that he loves him more than anyone he’s ever known, more than he ever thought he could know, and that the knowing hurts sometimes, but only until he catches Stede’s eye again, or hears his voice, or feels the touch of his hand, because that’s when everything goes so fuzzy and wonderful that that hurt fades to nothing, and he almost starts to feel like he might never know pain again. He wants, he wants, he wants, so badly that his ribs ache and his heart feels all too-big and sore.
He’s actually a little worried he might, like, explode or something if he doesn’t get to honor the totality of this abrupt, wild craving, just blast apart into absolutely fucking nothing as he’s completely consumed by how much he loves this ridiculous man he has in his arms. But somehow, miraculously, he manages to remain whole. Which is good, because much as he might wish, he can’t fold Stede up like origami. Grabbing for souls sounds like a potentially messy business too, and there’s no way in hell he’s gonna interrupt Stede’s nap, not even to profess his undying love (that can wait until Stede’s awake). So with his inability to do all that, an explosion would be pretty imminent, if that was a real-life possibility.
But he remains right there on the couch, thankfully. And as he remains, he forces himself to be content with merely squeezing Stede with the gentlest kind of fierceness he can manage, and hiding half a dozen kisses in the silky cloud of his hair. Then he lets himself settle deeper into the couch so he can comfortably resume one of his favorite husbandly roles: that of the Living Pillow (patent pending). And honestly? Even if all of that doesn’t fully satisfy his wild craving, it’s still pretty close to perfect.
It’s not until the movie’s about three-quarters of the way through that Stede finally stirs. He yawns and stretches out his arms and legs, face briefly rubbing against Ed’s shirt before he lays a cheek on his chest, attention turned toward the TV once more.
“Hello there,” Ed says, one hand rubbing over Stede’s back.
“Mmmhello,” Stede mumbles. He yawns again, softer this time. “Sorry—didn’t mean to drop off. What’d I miss?”
“Well,” Ed starts, “Anna and Todd just had their obligatory fight. He finally told her that if she sells the bakery, his dad’s not gonna keep all her employees.”
“Oh, lord,” Stede says with a tsk. “I knew that would come back. He didn’t answer when she asked him about that earlier, did he?”
“Nope. That was when they were at the diner—right after she brought it up, their waitress came up to talk to them, and then somehow it never came up again.”
“Convenient.”
“Mmhm. So now she’s completely pissed and she said she never wants to see him again.”
Stede snorts. “That won’t last.”
“Duh. Todd’s already working on a huge cookie display to try to win her back. Using the recipe she’d taught him earlier, obviously. Oh, and here it is: the decorating montage.”
Ed watches as the camera lingers on Todd, who’s got the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows, flour all over his apron. His face is the picture of focus and determination as he frosts a snowman-shaped cookie and delicately pipes onto it the outlines of a hat, a scarf, and a cheery face, not unlike the one Ed himself had made earlier.
“Hmm,” Stede hums. “Pretty good work for a corporate asshole who’d never held a piping bag before he showed up in Pine Hollow.”
Ed laughs. “Pretty good indeed.”
Stede leans in closer to him, a hand slipping beneath his shirt and coming to rest on his bare waist, thumb rubbing light circles over his skin. “How many cookies is he making?”
“Five hundred. Half for a bake sale to save the store, and the other half’s to take back to his dad’s office, to try to convince them that they shouldn’t buy out the bakery.”
“All by himself?” Stede whistles. “Now that’s dedication.”
“Mm.”
They watch quietly as Todd frosts a few more cookies. Then, Ed says, “Would you bake me five hundred cookies to win back my love?”
Stede looks up at him with a pout powerful enough to knock a man off his feet. Good thing they’re already all laid out—Ed doubts he would’ve survived that standing.
“Are you implying I’ll ever lose it?” Stede asks.
Ed takes Stede’s face in his hands and tugs gently, and when Stede scoots up further, he kisses him.
“You’ve got me forever, babe,” Ed promises when he pulls away. “But,” he goes on, “hypothetically, if we were in a hypothetical made-for-TV movie, and I hypothetically dumped you because I thought you were trying to destroy my family’s business, would you bake five hundred cookies to try to win me back? Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically?” Stede gives him a “don’t be silly” kind of look from beneath his brows. “Of course I would. I’d bake a thousand cookies for you.”
Ed grins. “Cool. I’d bake you a thousand cookies too. Already partway there anyway, aren’t we? After what we did today?” That’s when a lightbulb goes off in his head, and he grabs the remote to pause the movie. “Speaking of cookies, should we have some?”
Stede gives him a pointed look. “Aren’t those for the staff party?”
“Yeah, but we’ve gotta make sure they’re good, right?” Ed counters. “What if they turned out shitty somehow, but we never knew because we never tried them?”
“Impossible. You’re an expert baker.”
Ed shrugs, not even bothering to keep the smugness from creeping into his voice. “Well, yeah, that’s true. But can’t we still have one? Just one? Please?” Ed drags out the “e” in “please,” puts a little whine in it. For good measure, he puts on his best pout—two can play at that game tonight—and bats his eyelashes too.
Stede continues staring at him for one… two… three… four whole seconds before he folds like clean fucking laundry, all pointedness disappearing from his expression, a sigh escaping him.
“Alright, alright,” Stede says as he sits up. “Put those eyes away. You’ll kill someone with those if you’re not careful.” He clambers off the couch, taking a moment to tuck the blanket back around Ed before he straightens up, which gets Ed blushing. “Any special requests?”
“Hm… Surprise me.”
“Aye aye,” Stede says with a salute, and he leaves for the kitchen.
He’s back a minute later with a plate, which he holds out for Ed when he reaches the couch—he’s grabbed both halves of their decapitated snowman, and two stars, a white one and a yellow one. Ed grabs his yellow star as he makes room for Stede to sit beside him once more. When he takes a bite, he’s delighted to find that the cookies are perfect: The cookie itself is soft and only subtly sweet, giving the frosting—thick, almost pillowy, and sugary enough to make his teeth ache—room to shine.
“Fuck,” he says. “Maybe we don’t need these for the staff party. Maybe we should just keep ’em all for ourselves.”
“The thing is, I think you might be right. You’ve really outdone yourself, my dear.”
Ed looks over at Stede; he’s got a smear of frosting just at the corner of his mouth. He sits up and reaches out to thumb it away, and then he kisses Stede’s cheek. “So did you—you did half the work.”
“Mm, just the easy half, though. You did all the hard stuff.”
“Decorating’s hard stuff! You put in the effort.”
Stede smiles as he takes another bite of his cookie. “Alright. We’ve really outdone ourselves, then.”
“There we go,” Ed says, and he grabs their poor snowman’s head before he settles back into the couch, stretched out along the length of it with his legs in Stede’s lap.
They start the movie back up again, and watch as Todd—predictably—raises enough money with his cookie sale to save the bakery, and then tells his dad to shove it. The final shot is of him striding into the bakery’s kitchen, grinning as he ties on an apron and takes his spot beside Anna at the counter. The two of them share a kiss before they start rolling out cookie dough side by side, and then the credits roll.
Ed watches a few names go by before he says, “Y’know, I think I’d give that a solid seven out of ten.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhm. Anything with baking’s always a plus, obviously. And I like a good ‘fuck you, dad’ story. Todd was cute too. Had some good lines. Might even watch it again next year.”
“I think I’d have to concur.” Stede—who’d cuddled back up to his side earlier—props his chin on his chest. “Rather nice ending to a rather nice day, hm?”
Ed looks at Stede. “Rather nice” is putting it mildly—today has been perfect. More than perfect. It’s been every single thing he could’ve hoped for. At this point, they’ve shared so many days like this—slow days, comfortable days, days that you can roll around and luxuriate in, like they’re a bed of clouds—but the specialness of them never fades. He loves that he lives a life now where he can spend so long doing a whole lot of nothing; it still feels wildly indulgent. And the fact that he has someone to do all that nothing with is simply the cherry on top.
Ed cups Stede’s face in one hand, a thumb sweeping slowly over his cheek. “Extremely nice, more like it.”
Stede grins, and then he abruptly tucks his face against Ed’s chest, which doesn’t muffle his ensuing yawn much. “Y’know what else sounds extremely nice? Bed.”
Ed chuckles and ruffles Stede’s hair before he pats him on the back. “Alright then, old man—let’s get up.”
Stede grumbles something about “‘old man’ my arse,” but he still climbs off the couch, and helps Ed up as well. They put out the fire and turn out the lights, and they take a brief moment to stand in the dark at the picture window, looking out at the lawn and the rest of the street; the sky has faded into a lovely purple-gray, and everyone’s decorations still sparkle and shine, continually kissed by the slow, steady snow that’s still drifting down.
Eventually, they make it to their room, and once they’re there, Ed attempts to tug Stede right into bed. As always, though, the man refuses to even consider it before he’s done his whole nighttime routine. Ed tries to glare around his toothbrush as Stede washes his face and brushes his hair, and at one point Stede catches him in the mirror, but all he does is roll his eyes and gently hip check him.
Finally, though, Stede is done, and Ed immediately herds him out of their bathroom, turning down the covers in record time so they can slip beneath them and curl up together. Ed tucks himself into Stede’s side, head pillowed on his chest and an arm draped over him. Stede’s hand starts drifting over his back.
“Today really was lovely,” Stede says, his voice soft.
“Hell yeah it was.” Ed tries to scoot in closer, his arm squeezing across Stede’s ribs. “Ten outta ten. Best fuckin’ snow day ever.”
Stede hums and kisses his forehead. There’s a brief pause, and then he says, “When you were talking about the bar earlier—I would’ve been your friend, you know. If we’d met earlier. Sometimes I almost wish—” He lets out a quiet breath.
“What?” Ed asks, when Stede doesn’t continue.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and Ed can only assume Stede’s shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s a bit— Well. Don’t want to bring the mood down.”
Ed bumps his knee into Stede’s thigh. “Stede Teach-Bonnet, you tell me what you were gonna say right fuckin’ now.”
Stede tugs on a lock of his hair, and he laughs. “Fine, fine. I just…” Another pause. “Sometimes I do wish we’d met earlier. I feel like—like maybe we lost out on some time. I wish I’d known you forever.”
The admission catches Ed by surprise. He’s had the very same thought before; he didn’t realize Stede had it too. It puts his heart in his throat, hearing that Stede would’ve liked to have even more of him. He scoots up the mattress so that his head rests on the pillow beside Stede’s, and when Stede turns to look at him, there’s a mild furrow in his brow. Ed leans in to kiss it, and then he lets their foreheads press together, noses touching.
“Me too,” Ed says. “I wish I’d had you my whole life.” He brushes Stede’s hair back from his face and traces a fingertip along the shell of his ear. “But you’ve got me now, yeah? And there’s nowhere else I need to be, or even want to be, for that matter. And we’ve got nothing but time now, babe.”
Stede nuzzles in closer, eyes drifting shut. “I know we do,” he whispers. “And I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”
“Good. So see? We’ve got that. And that’s still pretty good, huh? ” Ed smiles to himself. “I was kind of a nut back then anyway. Always, like, staying out late at heavy metal concerts, wearing way too much eyeliner, covered in spikes. Like, literally—spikes all over my clothes. Might’ve been a bit much for you, mister button-downs and loafers,” he teases, and when Stede opens his mouth, he says, “Don’t try to deny it, I’ve seen the photos.”
Stede laughs. “I’d hardly call you ‘kind of a nut’ for that. And trust me—spikes and eyeliner were exactly what I wanted. I had a crush on a boy like that in high school. Also, I’ll have you know that the button-downs and loafers were all because I didn’t think my father would allow for anything else. I just didn’t have the guts to tell him to fuck off about it. I dressed much cooler once I moved out.”
“I know—I’ve seen those pictures too,” Ed says with delight. College Stede had dressed like a costume shop had thrown up all over him, and there’s not a single thing about that that Ed doesn’t absolutely fucking love. “I still would’ve liked you in the loafers, though. I’ve got a soft spot for nerds. And we would’ve been so fuckin’ cool if we were, like, the hot geek and the hot goth.”
“Oh, absolutely. We still could be, you know,” Stede says. “Next Halloween?”
“Uh, fuck yeah. Can’t believe we haven’t done that already.”
“Neither can I.”
They look at each other for another few breaths, both grinning, and then Ed gives Stede one last kiss before he scoots back down to tuck his face into Stede’s neck. Stede squeezes him close, face rubbing against the top of his head.
“I love you,” Stede murmurs into the dark.
“Love you back.” It’s Ed’s turn to yawn now, big enough that his jaw clicks when he does. He reaches for the sheets and pulls them in tighter. “Sleep tight, babe.”
Stede’s feet brush against his own. “You too, angel,” he says, and then neither of them say another word.
In a matter of minutes, Ed can tell that Stede’s fallen asleep—just like he had before, he starts snoring softly, and the arms around him go lax. Ed can feel himself getting sleepy as well, although he tries to hang onto the moment for as long as he can. It’s nice, laying here in the quiet, pressed to Stede’s side; it feels like they’re back in their snow globe, tucked away, far from the rest of the world.
But he can’t fight the pull of unconsciousness for long—as the seconds slip by, his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and his thoughts start to drift away from him. Soon enough, the only things he can really focus on are the reassuring solidity of Stede’s body against him, and the weight of the blankets over top of him, both of them grounding him, keeping him tethered to the bed.
Just as he’s feeling like he can’t hold onto wakefulness a minute longer, Ed catches sight of one last thing: In the spill of light that comes from the street lamp just past their house, a gust of wind catches a flurry of snowflakes. They spin round a few times, and then they settle, resuming their drift down to join the blanket that covers the lawn. Ed can still see it all from here—it’s piled up even higher than it was this morning, enough that it’s covered the footsteps they made on the walk when they came in earlier that night. He shivers at the memory of the cold, but there’s something that he likes about the way their tracks have disappeared; it makes the world feel fresh all over again.
It’s with those twin thoughts that Ed finally lets his eyes fall shut for good, succumbing to the siren song of sleep. It’s cold outside, but he’s got Stede to keep him warm through the night, and by tomorrow, there will be a whole new world to wake up to. And he and Stede have nowhere else to be, and nothing but time to enjoy it.