Chapter Text
He still got chills on nights like these, every time he opened an exhibit to the public, and tonight was no different. Edward Teach was a professional, a trendsetter, a visionary in his industry. The air was electric, tingling with excitement for the evening ahead. Maybe Ed was the only one that could feel it, though he seriously doubted it. The volunteers around him were buzzing, chattering away about who they thought would attend, which pieces were their favorites, who would have the zaniest outfit. Every so often someone would come up to Ed and give him a squeeze on the shoulder with words of encouragement, congratulating him on what they were all hoping would be a successful night.
It wasn’t his first exhibition, not even close, but The Revenge was a new gallery, so there was a lot of anticipation riding on how the night played out. He hadn’t even technically met the owner yet, everything had been arranged via email through some assistant named Lucas. He’d been hired as the guest curator for the opening exhibit, and had taken the job because the owner had given him complete and total freedom over the event. Ed never got that kind of freedom, and he’d gone all out, working his ass off to pack it with incredible art from a wide range of up-and-coming artists from all over the city. He invited everyone that was anyone in the local art scene and had enough booze to drown half the town.
He had a reputation now, one that was good enough so he could freelance as he liked, no longer a wide-eyed-dreamer beholden to whatever terrible person he had to work under. He hopped around from gallery to gallery, only taking jobs that sounded interesting or let him be creative, which were seemingly becoming more infrequent these days.
He made a final sweep of the two floors of the gallery, ensuring everything was ready to go, and his mind drifted back to the first time he ever curated a space - his first event and first major disaster. Honestly, it hadn’t been that awful, it had been such a small gallery and not many people even showed, but he’d learned a lot that night, about himself and how he wanted to be treated, about what the art community expected from him, and about what he needed to do to get ahead. He was better because of it and something, somewhere always reminded him that regardless of how the night turned out, he should be proud of himself. Learn from his mistakes and all that shit. “You’re a killer, man, these people fuckin’ love you. You got this,” he muttered as the clacking of his dress shoes echoed around the empty space.
He chuckled to himself as he made his way to the second floor, remembering times long past, valuable lessons learned. An all too familiar pang of sadness hit him as he felt a fleeting moment of sadness for the person he’d been, what he’d had to stifle in order to be taken seriously in this exclusive world that was rarely kind. So what if he’d had to sacrifice some pieces of himself along the way? Didn’t everyone?
He couldn’t allow that moment to consume him. After all, he’d made a name for himself, not only in his community but in the larger art world, and was now enjoying the spoils of success, even if he'd lost the battle of his individuality.
A final inspection of his outfit in the restrooms proved helpful as he adjusted the stuffy, boring suit he wore and fluffed up his long, signature salt and pepper curls. He fidgeted with his small stud earrings, which shone in the dim glow of the posh restroom. He may have relinquished many parts of himself for this world, but he had to cling to some fragments of individuality for his own sanity and find little ways to express himself in the midst of the monotony. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he himself was so repressed all the while he was curating the most exquisite and vulnerable forms of expression.
He gazed at his reflection, taking in the fine lines that had set in around his dark eyes, the beard that once was jet-black, now graying fiercely across his jawline. “Be so proud of exactly who you are, all that you have and will accomplish” a voice in his head reminded him. Not his own though, but one he couldn’t ever place. Familiar but far away. He was grateful for it nonetheless, as he rolled his shoulders, feeling ready for the night ahead.
It went how he expected it to go, honestly. Posh nobs hobnobbing with other posh nobs, passing judgment at the exhibits and artists, tossing around criticisms as if they could ever create anything half as authentic. But they ate that shit up. And that’s what Ed was so good at. Finding pieces that evoked almost a sense of jealousy in people, pieces that were so personal, so real. People were enthralled as much as they were covetous of the authenticity they could never dream of replicating. Art that spoke to experiences this crowd would never have, but that they would cling to and pretend they could empathize with, while offloading some of their vast wealth to own a piece of something they could never fully understand. Ed hated and loved it all the same. He got to elevate and support voices and perspectives that didn’t often get much attention from this fickle, self-serving crowd. He figured if he was going to sell his soul to this world, he wanted to at least help others as much as possible.
The two terrors of the night, Antoinette and Gabrielle, were unsurprisingly, also the most wildly dressed, and the ones who spent the most obscene amount of money on a piece created by an up-and-coming non-binary artist known only as Jim. It was a massive canvas that depicted what looked at first like a beautiful orange grove, but upon closer inspection, you saw sharp weaponry and agonized expressions hidden throughout. The longer one looked, the more twisted the scene became, images of destruction and anger tangled within the initially charming grove. The artist's note simply said, “Life is Beauty, Life is Disappointment, Life is Pain” . Only Ed understood the deeper background, at least in this callous space.
He'd met Jim when they were just starting out, full of rage towards a society that forced their family apart many years ago, but had been making a name for themselves in the underground art world with their vengeful and moving work. As the sold sticker was placed on the placard, Ed could hear the self-congratulatory buzzing around him, patting themselves on the back for purchasing such a controversial piece and supporting such a misunderstood, visionary artist. It made Ed’s skill crawl.
The evening was wrapping up as these events so often did, with a few people lingering in the various rooms and halls, murmuring quietly, curious to see what pieces hadn’t already been claimed. By the end of the night Ed was exhausted, frazzled, and was hoping to usher the last stragglers out into the night so he and the volunteers could finish cleaning and pack it in for the evening. He had made the rounds, had shaken the hands, had smoldered for the cameras, he'd even made a fuckin speech. All things that were expected of him nowadays. He was an aloof yet charismatic guy who knew what to say and when from the-now-years of experience. But the charisma didn't fully reach his eyes and he was always a little on edge, cautious even, around these people and their fierce judgment. He knew that despite how hard he tried, he would never fully be accepted by this crowd. But he still played their game. He still pulled away bits and pieces of himself, unraveled threads of his own identity until it was frayed and unrecognizable.
He made his way into a smaller room that happened to hold his favorite pieces. Less flashy than the rest of the exhibit, the reclaimed woodblock prints on old sails were incredibly intricate, focused on capturing nature scapes from around town. Ed could get lost in those prints, the way they moved and came to life as the sails billowed softly, and had told the artist, Mr. Black, as much when he had asked to show them at the gallery. Evidently, someone else was getting lost in them too, a man standing in the center of the room wearing the most incredible suit he’d seen in years, eyes fixed on the main print, a lighthouse on the rocky coastline at the edge of town.
“Hey mate, sorry to interrupt, but just wanted to let you know the gallery will be closing in five minutes.”
Blonde hair whipped around in Ed’s direction, seemingly startled by Ed’s warning.
Hazel irises caught his own, and Ed immediately noticed unshed tears, threatening to spill over at a moment's notice. Recognition washed over him, he knew that face but his brain was taking too long to put the pieces together. The man’s eyes widened as he drank Ed in, and one singular tear slid down his rosy cheek.
“Edward” the man croaked, and suddenly everything came flooding back to him. Suddenly Ed could place that distant voice in his head.
“Stede…”