Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun had long since set by the time Ivan pulled off the highway.

In the backseat, Ed tipped his head against the cool window glass, watching the night drift past outside. He always forgot how dark it was, out here—beyond the highway, long past the reach of the city lights. Every now and again they’d pass a house or a barn with its windows lit in that warm amber glow, but there were long stretches of black in between—everyone had more space out here, on the outskirts of town. Ivan slowed around each twist and bend in the road, watchful for deer. 

Ed was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He’d packed in a mad scramble early this morning, was pretty sure he’d forgotten his phone charger, and then there was the flight itself—all the way from LA. Long, and boring, and his airpods were being weirdly glitchy trying to connect to his phone, and his comfort TV show wasn’t comforting enough to keep his mind off what he was running from.

Nevermind what he was running towards…

The car rounded another curve, and Ed forced himself to sit up a little in his seat. Because there it was, lit in spotlight: the old wooden sign with its peeling blue and gold paint. 

SILKWATER SHORES

EST. 1727 POPULATION: 3,143

Welcome home, Ed Teach. 

They drove through the quiet streets towards the heart of town, and Ed almost felt like their car was alone at the end of the world—the sidewalks empty, everyone tucked up cozy in their homes. Someone had strung a banner across Main Street, advertising the annual Late Spring Merperson Festival & Parade, happening in just a few weeks. 

Fuck. It felt surreal being back here, already, even in the dark. Around every corner lay another jumpscare, another monument to ill-fated young love.

There was the nursery where they’d bought the magnolia tree they’d planted in their front yard. And there, the diner—lit up icy fluorescent blue—where they always went after they’d driven into the city for a concert, chucking greasy hot fries into each other’s mouths, shouting at each other from across the table because their ears were still ringing. There was the tiny movie theater where they’d necked in the last row, the one that mostly showed 90s romcoms. The purple velvet loveseat on the back left had a wooden arm that was probably still carved with E + S 4EVA inside a crude, lopsided heart.

How was it possible to be gone so long, and still have a place feel like home? 

Ed’s phone buzzed where it sat on the seat next to him. 

Gabe : Let me know when you get in. Take all the time you need, just want to know you’re safe ❤️

Ed stared at the screen for a moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard—flitting through different responses. 

Instead, he locked the phone and set it down. Went back to looking out the window. 

The car rolled to a stop outside his mother’s house. She’d moved out here a couple years after Ed, wanting to be closer to him and—

Well. 

She’d rented the little craftsman bungalow, and never moved since. The place had been re-painted since he’d last been home, though. Gone was the ancient, dingy white siding, replaced by a bright, rich egg yolk yellow. The weird maroon trim that she’d always hated was now a soft cream, her front door a powdery blue. Ed had bought this house for her with the proceeds from his first album sales, so she could paint the place any damn color she liked. 

He sat there, unmoving, for a long minute. Just staring into the hazy glow of the porch light, lost. 

Ivan twisted around in his seat to peer at Ed in the dark. “All right then?” 

“Yeah, course. Just…weird being back.” 

Ivan clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Know the feeling, bruv. Haven’t been home to see Mum in…fuck me, got to be years now.” 

Ed felt a pang about that. Was he giving his staff enough time off? It was one thing to work himself to death, but Ivan deserved time to go home, get his cheeks pinched by the aunties. 

Ed made a note to talk to Izzy about it, and shook it off. Add it to the list of shit that was probably his fault. He swung the door open and heaved his exhausted body out of the car.

Ivan moved to get out too, but Ed waved him off. “I got it mate.”

Ivan frowned. “You sure?” 

Ed scoffed. “Mum sees me letting someone cart my bags around for me like some kind of princess, I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Ivan chuckled under his breath, but settled back in his seat. “You got it, boss.” 

Dragging his suitcase behind him, Ed let himself through the garden gate and made his way up the front walk. He paused on the porch, collecting himself. It was late spring, balmy and warm, but with the faintest whiff of cool damp on the breeze to remind you that the snow and the rain weren’t long gone just yet, and the night was alive with a chorus of peepers. Ed tipped his chin back and took a deep breath. Fuck, but there were a lot of stars out here. He’d been in LA so long. 

He reached into his pocket, dug out a key he hadn’t used in seventeen years, and let himself inside.

The house was dark. It was late, most of the lamps had been turned off, but there was a faint flicker of blue light coming from down the hall, the soft murmur of the television turned down low. 

“Mum?” Ed called softly as he slipped off his shoes. No response.

He padded into the living room, where he found his mother passed out cold on the couch in front of an SVU rerun. 

Ed stood there a moment, taking in the sight of her with a pang of bittersweet fondness. Her right hand was tucked under her chin, her knuckles pressed to her jaw—the exact same position Ed often slept in. She looked softer, more fragile in sleep, in a way that brought all the little signs of aging into sharper focus. Ed had last seen her only a few months ago, flown her out to LA for the holidays, but he swore there were new lines bracketing her mouth, and the thin skin under her eyes seemed nearly translucent. She’d been gray for ages—the silver coming in quite young, same as Ed—but by now her hair was nearly white, shining pearl-like in the light from the TV. 

“Mum,” he whispered again. Still nothing.

“Mum!” 

She startled awake with a shriek like a tea kettle, nearly falling off the couch in the process.

Ed waved a frantic hand to quiet her. “Shhh! It’s me! It’s just me!” 

Anne Teach stared at him with wild eyes—chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. “Eddie?” She was blinking at him rapidly, like she wasn’t totally sure she wasn’t dreaming. “You scared the living daylights out of me! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d visit,” Ed said weakly. 

His mother smoothed her hair back from her face, slowly coming more alert. Her gaze began to sharpen, taking on that shrewd, calculating look that Ed knew all too well. 

Ed shoved his hands in his pockets and tried his best not to fidget. 

He’d never been able to lie to her. Not when he was five, stealing sweets, or when he was thirteen and figuring out that maybe he wasn’t entirely straight, or when he was twenty-one and running away to marry the boy in the fancy house at the end of the lane. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she announced, “and you can tell me what’s happened.” She patted her hands on her knees twice and stood, moving briskly down the hall. 

Ed trailed after her into the kitchen. “Who said something happened?”

His mother snorted and tossed him a wry glance over her shoulder. “Eddie. You haven’t been home in nearly two decades. I assume you haven’t dropped in just for a cup of tea?” 

Ed huffed under his breath. “Yeah, okay.” 

They were mostly quiet as she prepared their tea, apart from a few idle questions about the flight (fine), about how long he planned to stay in town (he wasn’t sure, hadn’t thought that far ahead), about how work was going (meh, he had meetings some time next week with his label, which meant he only had a few days to think up a way to reassure them that this album he was meant to be working on really definitely existed in some capacity). 

At last, his mother took a seat across from him at the ancient wooden table. She nudged his tea towards him, and Ed tried not to look too hard at the cup she’d chosen, with its pattern of yellow roses. Part of an antique set he’d chosen for her, on a long ago trip up the cape with…

“Well then,” she said with a weary sigh, “out with it.” 

Ed could feel something sullen and teenager-ish within him trying to raise its hackles, but he pushed that down. 

He traced his middle finger around the rim of his teacup, stalling.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said eventually, without looking up, tracing the edge around and around. 

His mother said nothing. 

“His name’s Gabe, he was in that Marvel movie. The one with the cute robot.” 

“Think I saw the trailer,” his mother said—tone entirely even, giving away nothing.

Ed shrugged one shoulder. Still circling, circling the edge with his finger. “‘Getting pretty serious.” 

This time, he risked a glance at her. Anne Teach only sipped her tea, dark eyes unreadable. 

Ed chewed on the side of his tongue. “He proposed.” 

At that, finally, his mother let out a soft tut. Her nose wrinkled with what could only be called withering disappointment.

“What?” Ed could hear the defensiveness in his own voice, immediately on edge.

But his mother remained infuriatingly placid. “Nothing.” Long pause. Ed took a sip of tea to wait her out, and immediately regretted it—too hot, burned his mouth, and not nearly sweet enough.

“It’s only,” his mother began—right on cue, “I think you might want to get your ducks in a row before you go saying yes to any new marriage proposals.” 

Ed scowled at her. “Obviously.” He picked at the fraying edge of a placement—a faded red gingham that his mother had embroidered with a border of yellow daisies. “Told him I had to think about it,” he muttered. “S’why I’m here. So I can think about it. And…you know. Get my affairs in order.” 

He risked a peek up at her. Anne was staring at him again, keen and eagle-eyed, but her expression was studiously neutral, and she didn’t say another word.

Ed wasn’t about to admit it, but part of him wanted her to bring it up. To say something about…him.

She’d learned her lesson about that a long time ago, though.

“Well, no need to solve everything tonight,” was all she said. “Just changed the guest bedroom sheets yesterday, so they should be all set for you. Let’s get some sleep. You look tired, Eddie.” 

She was doing it again. Looking at him too closely. Every bit of brains and cleverness Ed had, he’d gotten from her. 

Was really fucking inconvenient sometimes. 

Ed averted his gaze. “Yeah. Long trip.” 

She let it go at that, for now at least. 

They said their goodnights, and his mother pulled him into a tight embrace outside his bedroom door. She didn’t let him go for a long moment, just squeezed him and rocked him gently side to side. Ed closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar coconut and honey scent of her shampoo. Finally, she kissed him on the cheek and slipped away down the hall. 

Alone again, Ed showered off the plane and dressed for bed, curled up under the covers. 

It felt weird, being here—in this town—and sleeping in his mother’s guest room. Ed had helped her buy most of the furniture in here. Had assembled the bed frame himself…with a little help from— 

But he’d never actually slept in here.

There was an itch in the soles of his feet, a pull. Nudging him to walk out the front door and across the main square, to seek out a bed he hadn’t slept in for seventeen years. Maybe the sheets were still the most expensive thing in the house, softer than their owner could actually afford. Maybe they still smelled of lavender detergent. 

Ed shut those thoughts down quickly. He’d left his key on the kitchen table when he’d skipped town, and anyway who even knew who lived in that house now? Ed had assumed that St- that he was still living in town, but he’d never actually checked, and no one had dared mention his name in Ed’s presence for years. Not even his mother—not after that awful fight they’d had, Ed’s first year in LA, when he’d flown her out for her birthday. She’d tried to make him see reason, but Ed was still a raw, festering wound—open and bleeding. He’d never shouted like that at his mother, before or since. 

These days, probably the old cottage was home to some family he’d never met, with two kids and a goldendoodle named Daisy. Or maybe someone had torn the place down altogether, replaced it with one of those shiny, aggressively rectangular mini-mansions that went straight to the very edge of the property line and looked like it was built in the Sims. 

Maybe his old life only existed in his memories, anymore. 

Ed shut those thoughts down, too. Tried to ignore the pit they inspired in his gut.

The last thing he did before bed was pull his phone out. He ignored the dozen-plus missed calls and texts from Izzy, and instead opened his text thread with Gabe.

He stared at the blinking cursor for a good long while.

Hey, made it here safe, he typed out—then paused again. His eyes felt gritty with sleep, and now that he was horizontal he was having a hard time keeping them open. 

Heading straight to bed. I’ll call in a few days, just need to get my head on straight

Ed paused again. Why was he hesitating? Why did things feel weird, all of a sudden?

Love you 💜

He fired off the text and set his phone to do not disturb before he could get any more lost in his thoughts.

Ed snuggled under the ancient, laundry-soft covers and immediately began to drift. There was something about being here…even as overwrought as he felt after all the drama of the last few days, the proposal, coming home for the first time in years…some small part of him felt like it could finally exhale. The window was ajar, letting in a bit of that cool, damp breeze, and the lullaby of the peepers, and the feeling of home. 

Ed was out like a light before he could think too hard about what tomorrow might bring. 

*

Ed nuzzled his face into his pillow, groaning a little as he tried to slip back into sleep. He’d been having a good dream. The details were fuzzy, but he remembered being warm. The scent of something…familiar. 

The light in his room was all wrong, though—way brighter than it should’ve been, with his fancy blackout curtains. He blinked himself awake, and experienced that brief moment of panic when you wake up somewhere unfamiliar.

Right. His mother’s house. Guest bedroom. Gabe proposing and Ed running. Coming home for the first time in decades.

Ed needed some fucking coffee, that was for sure.

From down the hall, he caught the faint strains of people talking. No, music. A synth-y, driving pop beat.

Wait. That was his music??

It was sweet that his mom wanted to listen to his work, but seemed like a bit of overkill, what with him sleeping down the hall. Also this song was like fifteen years old, way too fucking peppy for this early in the morning, and the subject matter seemed a little fucking on the nose considering the circumstances. 

Ed stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the hall. The music got louder.

You’re a fuckin’ lunatic

Freak show sicko, I’m lovin’ it

Felt weird, hearing those lyrics again in this house—this town. 

“Mum, could you turn it down?” he grumbled as he made his way towards the kitchen. 

You make me crazy too

Get so bored without you

But just as he was rounding the corner, Ed caught the soft sounds of someone singing along. They were quiet, half-humming it to themselves, but Ed would recognize that voice anywhere.

He froze in the doorway, staring. 

Because there, standing at his mother’s stove, stirring bacon and swishing his hips as he sang along to the radio, was Ed’s husband.

 Stede Bonnet. 

Chapter Text

The following has been excerpted from Vanity Fair’s 2018 profile: Edward Teach — The Man & the Mystery Behind Blackbeard. 

One hallmark of Teach’s songwriting is his intensely personal, diaristic approach—and with his love life so well documented, it’s often not hard to guess whom certain songs were written about. With some notable exceptions.

Interviewer: Speaking of your early career, I was wondering if you might want to address the popular fan theory of the “First Muse”?

Teach just stares at me for a moment, not reacting.

Edward Teach: Not sure what you mean. 

Interviewer: Your first album was praised in particular for its raw emotional intensity, and the repeated use of certain descriptions, certain imagery, gave the impression that it was largely written about one person.

ET: Sure, okay.

I: And in later albums, we’ve seen you return to some of those motifs—allusions to the sea, to the full moon, running away from home. A friend who became something more. On Impossible Birds, there are a few different songs where you refer to coral roses on the vine, and they come back again in “The First Time, The Last Time” four albums later. 

ET: Okay, so I’m a repetitive writer, what’s your point? 

I: Well, a lot of fans have wondered if that repetition might, in fact, be intentional? If those bits of imagery are signifiers that all those songs are about the same person?  

Teach is quiet a long time before answering.

ET: Look, I get why it’s interesting for the fans to do this—try and match up a certain song with a certain bit of my life. But I don’t draw from my personal experience when I write because I’m trying to tell a story about my life. My actual job, as I see it, is to write about real human experience and emotion, so that people can listen and feel something. Because I’m talking about shit that’s real for them too. Best way I know how to do that is start from a real experience, and go from there. The specific becomes universal, and all that. 

I: Can you say more about that last point?

ET: Okay, so—“Fast Car,” Tracy Chapman. One of my all-time favorites. First time I heard that song, I had to sort of look over my shoulder a bit like…is she here? Is she watching me right now? Because it felt like she’d written that song about my life, exactly. The truth is, the actual details in that song aren’t an exact fit for my life. I never worked at a convenience store, never had to stay in a shelter. Yeah, my old man had a drinking problem, but f—k no I wasn’t sticking around to help him. But I listened to that song and it was- it was my life. Like she’d seen it. Like she’d got me. We understood each other. The details in that song are so particular, and that’s where the emotion lives. That’s where you feel it. I didn’t live that exact life, but I lived those feelings one hundred percent. And that’s what I’m chasing with my music, my audience. Maybe you didn’t live in a house you loved with coral roses growing up the front porch, but you’ve felt that way about some place you lived, so the song means something to you. Right?

I: Right. But. I feel like you’re somewhat evading the question. 

ET: Well, what’s the question? Who’re those early songs about? Pretty boring question, no offense. 

I: I suppose what I’m trying to get at here is…you’ve been quite cagey about your early life, considering how personal your songwriting is. Can you speak to that tension?

ET: I already told you guys everything I wanted you to know in the music. My past is my business. 

I: Some people seem to think that part of your life isn’t really in the past, since you’re still writing about them.

After a long beat of silence, Teach stands. 

ET: Yeah. We’re done here. 

Chapter Text

Ed wasn’t ready for this. Nothing could’ve prepared him for this. 

Stede hadn’t noticed him yet. He carried on stirring his bacon, singing along tunelessly to a song that Ed had very much written about him.

And fuck, he looked good. Ed had been in love with Stede since he was a gangly beanpole with absurdly floppy ginger-ish hair, but fuck his entire life because Stede had gotten broad in the years Ed had been away. He was wearing a fucking Oxford shirt, crisp and white with sleeves rolled up to expose those meaty, freckled forearms—nary a concern about bacon splatter, apparently.

His ass was just as wonderfully flat as ever, though. Not that Ed was looking. 

Ed could just…back away, right? Make a break for it? He couldn’t handle Stede this morning. Tomorrow, maybe. Or maybe another seventeen years from now. That sounded promising.

He took a half-step backward, and the floorboards creaked under his feet. 

Stede whirled around, and promptly dropped his spatula on the ground. 

“Fuck,” Ed muttered under his breath. These fucking ancient New England houses and their haunted foundations. Good luck assassinating anyone in one of these Pilgrim-ass homes. 

Stede looked floored. He looked…well, he looked beautiful.

Forty-two agreed with Stede Bonnet. No, scratch that. Forty-two fucking loved Stede Bonnet. His hair had gotten more golden in the intervening years, with just the faintest kiss of silver at the temples, and he’d grown into both his ears and nose a bit. Not that Ed hadn’t loved all of his features before, but they came across more distinguished than sweetly goofy, now.  

Stede stared at Ed, drinking him in. His eyes trailed the length of Ed’s body, taking in his bare legs, all his new tattoos. Ed tried not to fidget under Stede’s gaze. He was still in his boxers and the threadbare Spanish Jackie’z shirt he’d worn to sleep. 

It had been Stede’s shirt, once. He’d won it in a wet t-shirt contest when they were barely twenty-one. 

“Ed,” Stede whispered, and the sound of his name in Stede’s mouth instantly took Ed back years and years…

All the way back to the start. Sitting side by side on a park bench as Stede tearfully filled Ed in on his father’s plans, the arrangement with Mary. 

“Ed,” he’d whispered, “I’m scared.” And what else was Ed going to do but offer himself up instead? It had felt like some kind of madcap adventure, at the time—getting married. 

(As friends, of course. Only as friends.) 

To the night they’d danced at Ed’s cousin’s wedding, and Ed was losing his mind because he was madly in love with his husband, his best friend, and he was losing hope that Stede would ever feel the same. 

“Ed,” Stede had whispered as they’d swayed together on the dance floor. “I wish I’d kissed you on our wedding day.” And then he’d gone and done it. Leaned in and kissed him, right there on the floor with fucking Wonderwall playing in the background. 

To a thousand late nights and early mornings and lazy Sunday afternoons spent twined together in bed, kissing and laughing and fucking like only a couple of twenty-two-year-olds could. Barely more than kids and weren’t they so fucking lucky? In love for the first time and already married, already til death do us part with their best friend in the universe. They’d knocked it out of the park on their first swing, no one was doing it like them. 

“Ed,” Stede had whispered, again and again—like a benediction, like a prayer, like the only word he’d ever known. “Oh, Ed.” 

To that last awful fight, in the kitchen of their tiny cottage. 

To, “Ed, I can’t do this anymore.” 

Ed snapped back to the present so fast he tasted something metallic in his mouth. “The fuck are you doing in my house?” 

Stede frowned, rankled. “Your mother’s house, surely?” 

“Yeah, that I paid for,” Ed muttered. 

Stede rolled his eyes. “If you must know, I come over every Saturday for brunch. Your mother’s out running some errands. She told me to let myself in, get a head start.” He waved a hand behind him, gesturing vaguely at the stove—bacon still sizzling away.

Oh, that little traitor. Ed was going to kill her. 

“Every Saturday, huh?” he sniped. “Bit late to be angling for that Best Son-in-Law trophy, isn’t it?”

For half a second, Stede looked like he’d been slapped—his face ashen. But he recovered before Ed could feel too bad about it. 

“Well,” he said in that haughty, bitchy tone that always drove Ed insane, “considering her actual son never visits, I figured someone ought to make a bit of an effort.” 

Just like that, Ed was ready to break something, to fight. 

“You’re fucking unbelievable-”

The fire alarm cut him off with a deafening shriek.

“Shit!” Stede whirled around, flapping his hands frantically as he searched for something to deal with the fire that had just sprung up on the stove. 

He reached for his water bottle, sitting on the kitchen table, and Ed practically lunged across the room to stop him. 

He grabbed Stede by the arm. “Don’t! It’s a grease fire, you have to smother it!”  

“What does that even mean?” Stede huffed over the shrill of the alarm. Somehow, he still had it in him to be a bitch, even at a time like this. 

Ed didn’t bother explaining. He grabbed the nearest pot lid off the counter and dropped it over the flames—they snuffed out at once. 

The air was already thick with cloying smoke, though. Ed coughed, and once he started he couldn’t stop. He reached for the closest window, but the house was very old, and this one had a tendency to stick. Doing his best not to asphyxiate, he tugged and tugged—to no avail. And then Stede was there, in his space again, shoving at the window too. 

It gave all at once, sliding open with ease to let in a rush of fresh air.

Ed stood there a moment, breathing deep with eyes closed. 

Problem was, Stede was still standing just inches away. With his eyes closed, Ed was tuned in to every ragged draw of Stede’s breath. And now that the smoke was clearing, with every deep inhale that Ed took, his lungs filled with the scent of citrus and greenery. Like sunlight through leaves. Like summertime in human form. It was painfully familiar. One of the last trips Stede had ever taken with his parents was to Paris, where he’d picked up some fancy perfume; he’d packed the bottle when they’d made their escape together, and it sat on their dresser for years as he stretched it out to the very last drop—no chance they’d have been able to afford more, back then.

(Maybe a decade later, Ed had an off week during one of his European tours. He’d found himself in Anacapri, sitting on a terrace sipping some sort of lemon-y spritz—the air heady with the scents of sunbaked stone, and cypress trees, and salt air—and Ed had been hit by a powerful wave of deja vu, of nostalgia. It had been bewildering, at first; after all, he’d never been there before. But every time he closed his eyes and breathed deep, he found himself close to tears. 

He put it together, eventually. That moment, that place. It had felt like how Stede smelled.)

Here and now, Ed opened his eyes and found Stede—his fucking husband—right there, already staring at him. 

When was the last time they’d been this close? 

They’d fought, the night before Ed left. The kind of fight that was just as sad as it was angry. Both of them crying. The sort of fight that ended with a fragile, desperate kiss good night, knowing nothing had been solved. That everything was still broken, and neither of them knew how to fix it. Ed had never come to bed that night. Just sat at their kitchen table, flipping a guitar pick over his knuckles, around and around. Thinking.

He was gone by sunrise. 

So that kiss then—that trembling, tear-stained kiss. That was the last time they’d been this close. 

They were both breathing hard, their faces inches apart.

Stede’s gaze dipped down to Ed’s mouth—paused (Ed stopped breathing all together)—and then travelled lower. 

Landed on his shirt.

He smirked. “I was wondering where that got to.”

Ed’s face flushed hot. 

“How touchingly…sentimental of you,” Stede drawled.

Heart racing, Ed opened his mouth to snarl something back. 

The back door shoved open, and Ed’s mum bustled inside, laden with shopping bags.

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” she said, tossing the two of them an amused look as she began unloading her spoils onto the kitchen table. 

Ed leapt backward so fast, he almost fell ass first into the kitchen sink. Stede busied himself scrambling to turn off the radio—of course his mother was the last person on earth to still have a physical radio in her kitchen—which was now playing an overly aggressive commercial for a local used car dealership. 

“Sorry,” Ed’s mom carried on—deeply casual, and entirely unconvincing, “I forgot all about Stede coming by this morning, or I would’ve mentioned it.”

Ed scoffed. Without meaning to, he glanced at Stede, who quirked a brow like can you believe this shit? 

Ed rolled his eyes. She’s insufferable.

One corner of Stede’s mouth ticked up, and Ed forced himself to look away. Couldn’t be having silent conversations with the guy he was about to serve divorce papers. That had to be bad form.

Based on the look on his mother’s face, she’d definitely caught the whole exchange.

Suddenly, Ed was angry, and overwhelmed, and his skin felt brittle where it clung to his bones—like it might shatter to dust and leave him nothing but the soft, wet viscera underneath, exposed to the air. 

He was going to do something he regretted if he stuck around. 

Stede’s eyes were darting back and forth between Ed and Anne. “I think I’ll just…go,” he said carefully. “Give you two some time to catch up.”

“Don’t bother.” Ed turned and stomped back down the hall, calling over his shoulder. “I’ll go. You two enjoy your brunch.” He found his slides by the front door and shoved them on his feet. Grabbed his jacket off the hook. 

“Eddie,” Mum called after him, just as Stede said, “Edward, please-”

And that—their stupid buddy-buddyness, their annoying in sync-ness, their pretending like they cared about his feelings—it all just pissed him off more.

Ed couldn’t do this. 

He threw his jacket on right over his boxers and sleep shirt and disappeared out the front door, letting it slam behind him.  

*

It was an annoyingly beautiful day out. Birds tweeting and chirping away. A sea breeze rustling in the trees, their leaves still adolescent with spring. Ed found himself instinctively wandering towards the center of town, hooking a right at the end of his mother’s block onto Main Street. 

Silkwater Shores was a cute little village, straight off a postcard advertising the quaint New England seaside. Shops with brightly-colored awnings and hand-painted window displays. Every other weekend some ridiculously specific holiday or celebration—the Winter Firelight Festival. The Knitting Bee to Raise Funds for the Annual Arbor Day Pageant.

The place looked like it had been frozen in time, preserved exactly as it was the day Ed left. Some of the storefronts had changed, sure, but still. Everywhere Ed looked, another memory.

He passed the music store where he used to teach guitar and piano lessons. The flower shop where he would stop on his way home from work, on pay days, to pick up flowers for Stede. One time, after a minor argument, he’d come home and found that Stede had had the same idea—there was a bouquet of daffodils waiting for him on the counter, a perfect complement to the armful of tulips he’d brought home himself. 

Ed walked past the post office and caught a glimpse of Buttons standing behind the counter inside. Like the town, the man looked exactly the same, but then Ed had always had a sneaking suspicion that the guy was a witch—of course he didn’t age. 

Buttons turned and met Ed’s gaze with a thousand yard stare, as though he were utterly unsurprised to see him there. 

He passed the soup shop that had the best, magical cure-all broth—better than Ed had ever tasted since, in all his travels around the world. Any time he got sick, Stede would pick up a quart of the stuff and insist on feeding it to Ed, one spoonful at a time, as they cuddled on the couch.

And there was the bookstore where Stede had worked, with its pretty, gilt-lettered sign and fairy lights in the windows. The bookshop sat right across the square from the music store, so on days when they were both working, they’d take their lunch breaks together in the gazebo. People-watching and laughing and flirting. Ed eating with his left hand so that his right could stay clutched in Stede’s between them on the bench. Sometimes they were a tad late, heading back to work afterwards, but at the time it had felt like half the town was invested in their little romance. Rooting for them, ready to indulge them. 

Against his will, Ed’s footsteps slowed in front of the fountain at the center of the square. One year, the whole town had tossed wishes into it at the Summer Solstice Shindig. Ed had wished for the sort of music career that he (and Stede) could be proud of. The sort of success that would let him buy his husband all the pretty things that they hadn’t been able to afford, ever since Stede had run from his parents’ place. At the time, they’d been so happy, so in love. No dark clouds yet on the horizon. Ed had felt safe, casting a wish for his career. His personal life was already perfect, what more could he even want? 

What a joke. 

The fountain burbled away now, merrily oblivious to the destruction it had wrought. 

Ed kept walking. It was a mistake, coming here. Whole town was fucking haunted. 

He hadn’t been prepared, honestly. Like…okay. Sure. It was always going to hurt, returning home. But Ed had pictured a different sort of pain. He’d been afraid to come back here and find it all gone, vanished. His happy memories only that…a memory. Pretty little seaside village like this, surely someone would’ve come along and gentrified it by now—right? 

Although, Ed supposed Silkwater had always been a strange sort of haven in that way. Just far enough away from both New York and Boston to make for an inconvenient commute, and that had seemingly cast some kind of enchantment over the place—protecting it from the avaricious eyes of the Airbnb investment property crowd, letting it remain a cute, quiet little enclave full of artists and working class weirdos and queers. 

Ed found himself outside yet another familiar landmark, and this one drew him up short. 

Lalla’s, read the sign out front in loopy, freshly painted cursive—tomato red on a sky blue background. 

Ed’s heart squeezed. 

He and Stede had discovered Silkwater Shores while they were still in high school. They’d grown up together—Ed living in the “staff quarters” of some asshole’s mansion, Stede locked away in a turret of the even bigger estate down the lane. They’d each moved to the states just one year apart, so naturally all their teachers had been more than keen to pair off the two Kiwi transplants—the scholarship kid and the loner freak banding together to form their own little gang of two, heads ducked together during every recess, inventing ridiculous games that no one else understood. 

They were sixteen, the first time Stede told him he wanted to run away. They stole one of his father’s cars and drove and drove, no destination, just letting themselves get lost…until they found themselves here. The middle of nowhere, somewhere along the cape. 

They’d stopped for lunch, and Ed remembered it feeling like another world. Everyone chatty and friendly. No one looking askance at Ed, with his long hair and his brown skin, or Stede, with his general aura of Too Much-ness. They sat in the sun outside a sweet little cafe with a yellow striped awning, and Ed had been talking about some bullshit—he couldn’t remember what, now—when Stede’s attention had snagged on something just beyond his shoulder. Ed turned in his seat to see two guys walking past, holding hands. Stede was looking at them with the sort of yearning usually reserved for Dickensian orphans peering through the windows of sweet shops. 

They’d never discussed it before. Stede’s sexuality. Ed was already head over heels, by that point. Lovesick. But Stede had never, not once, broached the conversation. 

Eventually, he tore his eyes away and said, “I think if I lived here, I’d never want to leave.” 

Ed would’ve followed him anywhere, right then, if he’d just said the word. 

Of course, Stede hadn’t been ready to run away for real that day. That came later. They drove home that night, and Stede had been grounded for a month. 

But years later, when Ed offered to marry him, offered to save him from the life his parents had mapped out for him, Stede had asked where they would go, and Ed had known exactly the place. 

They’d been married at City Hall on Tuesday, March 9th, 2004, and they’d made it back to Silkwater Shores by sunset—just as the very same cafe was closing for the night. The owner, Lalla herself, had spotted them looking through the window—disappointed—and when she found out they were newlyweds, she’d brought them in, fed them leftovers for their wedding dinner. 

It was still the best meal of Ed’s life, bar none. 

Lalla had lived in town since she was barely more than a kid herself, and she knew everybody—including old Mr. Peterson, who was looking to rent out his cottage. The rest had been history. 

Ed stood in front of the cafe and stared through the window glass, feeling…something. Everything. 

Lalla wasn’t there behind the counter, obviously—she’d long since passed—but a younger guy with her same warm, dark skin and curly black hair was staring at Ed through the glass like he’d seen a ghost. Ed frowned. The man seemed strangely familiar…

Ed didn’t have long to contemplate the question though, because the guy almost immediately came scurrying out from behind the bakery case towards the door. Paused. Turned back. Grabbed a donut from a display on the counter, then came running out. 

“Blackbeard! Ed! Sir!” The man was already yelling as he burst through the door, waving the donut in the air. 

Ed froze in place. “Uh, it’s just Ed, really.” 

The guy gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t remember me?” He pulled the donut close to his chest, like he was second-guessing whether Ed deserved it. 

Ed looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for clues. Finally, it hit him. “Roach??” 

Roach grinned. 

“Fuck man, how are you?” Ed pulled him into a backslapping hug. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the guy—the last time they’d seen each other, Lalla’s son had still been in high school. 

“I’m good, I’m good.” Roach carefully held the donut out of the way so that it wouldn’t get crushed between them. 

Ed pulled back, and immediately felt awkward. “Hey, uh. Sorry about your mum, mate. She was a great lady.” 

Roach gave him a rueful smile. “That’s nice to hear. And we appreciated the flowers you sent, of course.” 

He seemed sincere, but Ed still felt a pang. He should’ve been here. Roach’s mum had been like a second mother to him and Stede. Kept an eye out, took care of them before his own mother had moved to town. And once Anne had arrived, the two of them together were a force to be reckoned with.

Lalla had passed about three years after he left, and at the time Ed had still felt so raw about this place, about everything with Stede…

“She loved your first album, you know,” Roach offered. 

Ed flushed. “Oh. That’s. Thank you.”

“Thought the second was a bit depressing.” 

Ed forced a weak laugh. “Yeah, she’s not alone there.” Privately, Ed thought his second album was some of his more interesting work. But he wasn’t about to start that old argument up again, certainly not with Roach's dead mom.

He changed the subject. “So, you’re running this place now?” 

“Yup!” Roach puffed up with pride. “Had to drop out of culinary school when Mum was sick, but in the end I think I was happier here. If you live in paradise, why leave, right?” 

Ed went rigid, and so did Roach—like he’d just realized what he’d said. 

“Uhhh, I mean…” He faltered, then thrust the donut towards Ed. “Here! New recipe, on the house.” 

Ed took it from him—the dough a bit sticky around the edges from Roach’s handling—and immediately popped it in his mouth to avoid any more of that conversation. 

But the minute the crumbly sweet treat hit his tongue, Ed couldn’t help but groan. “Fuuuuck mate, that’s incredible.” 

Roach was grinning again, pleased and smug. “Forty oranges in the glaze!” He pointed his finger at Ed, mock-serious. “Don’t go posting it to your Instagram or anything. I don’t have the staff to handle all your fans mobbing the place.” 

Ed took another bite. “You kidding? I’m not telling anyone about this shit. I’m going to be here every morning for one of these, can’t risk you selling out.” 

Roach chuckled and cast a wry glance over Ed from head to toe. “Love the look, by the way. It’s very…off duty model at the gas station.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Self-conscious, Ed tugged at the hem of his boxer briefs, trying to pull them further down his thighs. At least they were just black. From a distance they could be like…running shorts, maybe. Short ones. “Didn’t bring my stylist with me, you know.”

It was a dumb joke, but Roach took pity on him and laughed anyway. “So what are you doing back in town?” 

Ed took another bite, chewing to stall for time. What was he supposed to say? He really did not want to open that can of worms. 

Wasn’t like he needed an excuse to visit, though—right?

He shrugged. “Just figured it was time.” 

Roach gave him a look like he wasn’t buying it, but he let it go. “Don’t be a stranger while you’re around. I’ll set a donut aside for you tomorrow morning, don’t let it go to waste.” 

“I won’t,” Ed promised, and it felt nice—having one thing to look forward to tomorrow, without any baggage. 

Roach went back inside to tend to his customers. Still nibbling his donut, Ed carried on his way. Maybe it was the sugar, but his head felt a little clearer, a little lighter. 

And if he took a weird route home, detouring several minutes out of his way so that he didn’t have to see the turn-off to a certain street? So that he didn’t have to find out if his body still instinctively turned left there, or if he’d lost the muscle memory? 

Well. That was just because it was a nice day out, and he could use the exercise. 

Chapter Text

Transcript of a TikTok video posted by @coral_roses89 

Video opens with a clip from a post by @therealshelbymarie—a young Black woman wearing a cropped lavender Blackbeard t-shirt, screen-printed with the silhouettes from his “Black Glitter Tears” music video. The text STITCH INCOMING! is written across the top of the screen. 

TheRealShelbyMarie: Okay, I need some of y’all to help me out, ‘cause I’m a newer fan—I didn’t really get the whole Blackbeard thing before, but I listened to The Innkeeper and I’m all in. I’ve listened to the whole discography. My entire algorithm is Blackbeard now. But I’m seeing all these videos about “First Muse Theory” and I’m so confused because I looked and I couldn’t see anywhere that Blackbeard had talked about this, in any interviews or anything, so can someone explain to your girl what the hell is going on? 

Video stitches with @coral_roses89—a 30-something, white transmasc guy sitting in front of an entire gallery wall of unofficial, fanmade Blackbeard merch. 

Coral_Roses89: Yes, hi, hello—here to help. First of all, welcome to the Crew!! Thrilled to have you. And as someone who’s been around since the beginning, buckle in, because there is a lot of lore here. 

Put very simply, “First Muse Theory” is just the theory that Blackbeard was in love with someone when he was young—his first muse, who inspired his debut album, Impossible Birds. And this person is essentially “The One that Got Away.” He’s still releasing songs about them now, decades later, and a lot of us believe that that’s why he’s had so many exes and doesn’t seem to want to settle down. Deep down, he’s still chasing that first love. But for some reason—and this is where all the speculation comes in—he’s been very mysterious about this person’s identity. 

Let me break it down. 

When we talk about “muses” with Blackbeard, we mean the people who inspired certain songs or albums. For example, it’s just common knowledge that “The Worst Kind of Good Boy” is about his 2014 situationship with Charles Vane, and “Fun & Games” is about a nice guy who you fucked with just because you wanted to feel wanted, and um. Sorry, Billy Kidd. We all know that one’s you. 

Some people also speculate this is why we didn’t get a new Blackbeard album this year, even though he was scheduled to release one. He’s been in a stable relationship with actor Gabe St. James for two years now, and—okay. That man is very handsome, but soooo boring. Maybe he’s just not muse material?

So Blackbeard has his muses, and usually they’re pretty easy to identify. But there are songs in his catalogue—quite a lot of them, actually—that are harder to pin down. 

Let’s go all the way back to the beginning. Blackbeard’s first album releases in the fall of 2009, and it’s important for you to understand that he pretty much did not have a social media presence prior to that. Twitter and even Facebook were still pretty new. Instagram didn’t exist yet. We know now that, prior to 2009, he was performing in small venues up and down up and down the east coast, including some material that would show up on his later albums. You can find a few grainy recordings of some of those shows on Youtube. And I’ll say, it’s very worth seeking them out, if you—like me—are at all interested in understanding how someone becomes a star. It’s pretty incredible to watch a twenty-two-year-old Blackbeard absolutely blowing the roof off these tiny, two hundred person clubs. The charisma is off the charts! 

But he was still billing exclusively as Edward Teach, back then—he didn’t adopt the Blackbeard name until he moved to LA, signed with UMG, and released his first album. His first ever tweet from the Blackbeard account doesn’t even happen until mid-2009. As a sidebar, that first tweet was: “what if i was just a fisherman?” So. It feels like he was maybe going through some stuff. 

Anyway. All of this is to say: very little is known about Blackbeard/Edward Teach’s early life, before he became famous. But if you listen to his first album, Impossible Birds, it feels pretty obvious that it’s almost entirely about one person, except for that one song about his mom. The album paints a pretty clear picture of a childhood friend who ultimately became a lover…I mean. There is literally a song on that album called “Mutual Pining.” Like??? (Coral_Roses89 gesticulates wildly in the air) Just drop the ao3 handle already, Blackbeard!! 

So the album comes out, and it’s basically an overnight success. “Lunatic” spent 18 weeks at number one—a record at the time, ultimately surpassed by Lil Nas X and Shabouzey—and he swept the big four Grammy categories that year.

So obviously, every entertainment reporter on earth suddenly wants to interview Blackbeard, and they’re all asking him who these songs are about. But Blackbeard just, like, point blank refuses to answer questions about it. Mostly, he’s just sort of evasive. Says that’s not really how he writes, he’s not necessarily drawing from real life, et cetera—which is obviously bullshit, and directly counter to things he’s said about his writing process later on, when he was writing about other subjects and love interests. 

And then there are other times where he was real fucking cagey about it. As in, he has walked out of more than one interview when they pushed him too hard on the subject of that first album, specifically. This has happened as recently as 2023! 

Because as the years have gone on, and he’s put out more albums, there are a lot of lyrical references that seem to tie back to that first love again. If he mentions coral roses, or seabirds, or running away together, or the color aquamarine—these are all signs he’s talking about that first muse. If you want the full list, go follow @FirstMuseScholar143—they’ve put together a playlist on their account that is basically the definitive explainer of every single “First Muse” song, and they do a really great job breaking down the narrative being told when we evaluate Blackbeard’s catalogue as a whole. There also used to be a fantastic Tumblr account called The First Muse Files that had collected every single video clip and interview and bit of evidence in one place. I think they’ve de-activated, but someone went through and archived all their posts, so if I can track it down I’ll drop the link in the comments. 

Oh, shit. I’m running out of time. Like and follow for part 2! 

Chapter Text

For a long moment, Stede only stood there—listening to the echo of the front door’s slam. Anne carried on unpacking her groceries, unperturbed. As though she had all the confidence in the world that Ed would come back. 

Stede, on the other hand, was panicking. He hadn’t seen his husband in seventeen years, but the second Ed had stepped out of his sight again, every cell in Stede’s body started screaming to go, run, chase after him, get him back! 

Amazing how little it took. You can think you’ve grown, you’ve healed, you’ve let go…

Ha. As if. Stede had never believed that. Not really. 

Feeling a bit woozy, he pulled out one of the kitchen table chairs with a harsh scrape and half-collapsed into it. Sat there for a long moment, staring blankly into space. He was pretty sure he was still blinking, still breathing, but no one should quote him on that. Stede felt…well. Quite literally every human emotion. Possibly some shrimp ones as well. 

God. Ed had looked…just, unfairly beautiful. It made Stede’s stomach hurt. His mouth felt overfull with spit. 

This wasn’t exactly new information. Ed had always been superhumanly gorgeous, and Stede was not too proud to admit he’d been following his husband’s career fairly closely. Ed wanted nothing to do with him, and Stede had tortured himself for the better part of two decades respecting that boundary. He’d tried, at first. Of course he had. He’d called, and texted, sent emails—all ignored. And then Anne had gone out there to visit, that first year. Tried to appeal on Stede’s behalf. She’d never shared the specifics of how the rest of that conversation transpired, but Stede got the gist. 

Ed was done with him. So, much as it hurt, Stede had forced himself to be done, too. No more letters, no more late night texts. Not so much as a carrier pigeon. 

But he listened to every new album at midnight on release day. He read every interview, watched every late night engagement (Ed had been so funny and charming in his SNL appearances. Was there anything the man wasn’t good at??) He even followed Ed on Instagram—from a burner account, of course. Ed had millions of followers, and likely didn’t even run his own account, so probably he wouldn’t have noticed Stede following him, but still. 

He’d even gone to see him on tour, once. It had been Ed’s first major stadium tour, and it was breathtaking to see him like that, like some sort of god—twenty feet tall on the Jumbotron. But it had also broken Stede’s heart all over again. Having Ed so close, but so far away. It hurt too much to ever do it again. 

Plus, it had felt just a tad…gross. A touch too stalker-ish, watching his husband while Ed had no idea he was there. 

Boundaries. 

“You alive back there?” Anne tossed over her shoulder without pausing her work—she’d moved on to washing the dishes. Clearly, brunch wasn’t happening today. Stede certainly didn’t have much of an appetite. 

“Uh huh,” he answered distantly, but offered up nothing else. He just needed a moment. 

She left him to it. 

So, Stede had known, in an academic sort of sense that Ed’s hair had gone a stunning starlight gray. He’d followed along as Ed had grown out his beard, then ultimately shaved it off again. He’d watched from behind a screen as Ed aged. As he developed new freckles, and smile lines, and crinkles around his eyes. He’d seen the evidence of new tattoos up and down his arms, his legs—even the ship on his chest, that was new. Stede had found out about it via that photo spread in GQ, good lord. 

But “knowing” was one thing. Quite different to have Ed here, now. Close enough to touch. To smell. And wearing Stede’s fucking t-shirt, like he’d emerged from one of Stede’s racier dreams with the specific intent to punish him. 

He’s home, where he belongs, some old, possessive part of Stede’s brain whispered. Stede clenched his jaw. Breathed deep through his nose. He needed to shut that nonsense down. He didn’t have a right to think about Ed like that, not anymore. Not when he was the one who’d ruined everything to begin with.

Like clockwork, his therapist’s voice appeared in his head next. Is that really fair? You were barely more than a child when everything happened. Newly out, and in love for the first time, and already married. Is it so surprising you weren’t already a perfect husband?  

Stede had done a lot of work over the years, trying to forgive that younger version of himself. Some days, he could almost believe he deserved it. He tried not to be totally pathetic about it. He swore, not all of his therapy sessions were about Ed. Just…half, maybe. No more than 65%, surely. 

He forced himself out of his chair and wordlessly joined Anne in tidying the kitchen. Grabbed the ruined bacon off the stove and began scraping it into the trash. Reached around her to add the pan to the sink, so it could soak off the grease. They moved around each other in the tiny kitchen with practiced ease, and his mother-in-law knew him well enough to leave him to his thoughts—for now. 

He grabbed a dishrag and took up a post beside her, drying each dish she passed his way. But cleaning was too meditative, too mindless. 

It left too much room for his mind to wander. 

Stede desperately did not want to go there, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering how he looked through Ed’s eyes, now. He couldn’t help but feel a bit shy, a bit embarrassed to have Ed see him like this—what he’d made of his life. Which was to say: he was still exactly where Ed had left him. Still working the same job, essentially. Living in the same house—their house. He’d dated, sort of, but of course no one had ever inspired the sort of romance in him that Ed did. It wasn’t even in the same universe. 

And if Stede were really, truly honest with himself, the truth was…he’d never given up hope. No matter how desperately he’d tried. 

He’d done the work. He’d gone to therapy. Every few years, he forced himself to go on a string of mediocre dates. And sure, he still thought about it sometimes. Calling Ed up in the middle of the night, and maybe this time he’d finally answer. Or perhaps he’d just sell everything he owned and purchase a van. Travel the world, following Ed’s tour schedule. 

But he never did any of those things, and that was what counted. 

Still. With every passing year that Ed did not serve him with divorce papers, the flickering candle flame of hope burned that much brighter within him. 

Sometimes, on darker days, Stede thought it might kill him—that hope. 

Beside him, Anne cleared her throat, obviously growing impatient. She’d give him his space, to a point. Stede refused to look up from his very urgent work, drying a casserole dish.

Over the years, he’d imagined countless ways his reunion with Ed might go.

Some realistic. When Roach’s mother had passed, Stede hadn’t slept for days afterward—consumed with the hope that Ed might return home for the funeral. He’d sobbed at the service, once it became clear that Ed wasn’t going to show. So many people had embraced him, afterward. Patted him on the back. They’d assumed it was simple grief that had overtaken him. Stede tried not to feel too guilty about it.

Other fantasies were more…romantic wish fulfillment. Ed would play a concert, and they’d lock eyes across the crowd. His tour bus would break down, and Stede just happened to be the one to pull over, coming to his rescue. Or else Ed would show up on his doorstep some dark and stormy night, and naturally Stede answered the door wearing nothing but that velvet aquamarine robe that looked so nice on him, hanging open over his bare chest, and…

Anyway. Yes. He’d dreamed of it. 

Nothing compared to the real thing. To the heat of Ed’s palm where it had closed around his wrist. To the sight of his bare, elegant feet—which Stede used to rub at night, while they watched television, and now were inked with spiders, of all things?? To the glimpse of Ed’s collarbone where it peeked out from the overstretched neckline of Stede’s old shirt. (What did it mean, that he still wore it? It hadn’t been so threadbare when Stede saw it last. It looked…well-loved.) 

And he hadn’t been prepared for how he would feel seeing Ed again. It hadn’t faded at all, the love. The longing. It was just as devastating, just as cataclysmic as ever. This whole carefully constructed lie of fine-ness that Stede had built around himself for nearly two decades—torn asunder in a single breath. 

And yet, it was a comfort, having Ed close. Breathing the same air. In Stede’s entire life, no one else had ever felt safe the way that Ed did. Long before Stede had ever realized just how madly he was in love with his best friend, Ed had been easy. He’d been the exhale after too many hours with company. He’d been taking off your shoes at the end of a long day.

Ed had been home. And somehow, impossibly, he still was. Some knot in Stede's spine that he'd long since grown accustomed to had loosened, minutely, just knowing that Ed was somewhere near. 

Beside him, Anne cleared her throat again. She cast a pointed glance at the small stack of wet dishes she’d piled up at his elbow. Stede had been drying the same casserole dish for…a while now. He set it aside and grabbed the next plate in the stack. 

God, Stede was going to have plenty to talk about in therapy next week, wasn’t he?

Anne finished scrubbing a mixing bowl and set it down next to Stede with a passive-aggressive clunk. 

Stede took a deep breath before diving in. “Very subtle, by the way.” 

In the quiet, he could hear her sucking her teeth, choosing her next words carefully. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said at last. 

Stede scoffed. Didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. 

He dried the mixing bowl, and set it to the side. 

This time, it was Anne who broke first. “He’s seeing someone, you know.” 

Stede grabbed the next dish a tad too aggressively, nearly sending the whole pile toppling to the floor.

He and Anne had a largely unspoken agreement. He did not ask her questions about Ed, and she did not volunteer information. They’d gone to see Taylor Swift together, on the Eras Tour, and Anne had somehow, magically, procured them floor seats. Stede pretended to have no idea how she’d pulled off such a feat, and he refrained from asking if Ed knew that he was the “friend” attending the concert with her. He also did his best not to obsessively follow Ed gossip online. That way lay madness, surely. 

It wasn't possible to avoid it entirely, though. Ed was one of the most famous people in the world. Every time Stede got on a plane, he couldn’t walk by a Hudson News without seeing his husband’s face on half a dozen magazines. Couldn’t open social media without discovering he was a trending topic that day, for whatever reason. 

So yes. Stede was aware that Ed was dating a very handsome movie star with blue eyes and an aggressively symmetrical face. 

“Hm,” was all he said to Anne. 

Ed was allowed to date. Stede was not allowed to commit arson about it.

Anne wasn’t going to let it lie, though. “He thinks it’s getting serious.”

Stede did his level best not to break the plate he was holding. He dried it carefully and set it gently aside. 

Anne gave up her pretense of delicacy. She turned off the sink and turned to face him fully—eyes boring into him. Times like these, Stede was uncomfortably reminded just how much she was like her son. 

“Edward has always been a sensitive boy,” she told him gravely, “and you hurt him very badly.”

Stede couldn’t help but flinch.

She carried on briskly. “But you’re both grown now, and you’re being given a second chance.” Anne narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not screw this up.” 

Stede laughed weakly. “I never mean to.” 

Anne tutted at him, but she reached out and pulled him into a hug. Didn’t let go for a long time. 

Over her shoulder, Stede stared into the kitchen light and willed himself not to break down and weep. 

She did release him eventually, though, and Stede left shortly after that. Tried, unsuccessfully, to use the short walk back to his house—their house—to clear his head. 

He let himself through the garden gate, and tried not to stare at his—their—house and imagine it through Ed’s eyes. Tried not to wonder what Ed would think of the way he’d let the roses grow wild, or the new shutters he’d picked out for the windows in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.

Inside, he changed and dropped his bacon-grease-smelling clothes in the wash. 

He tried, and failed, not to let his eyes snag on the photo atop his dresser. Him and Ed, aged twenty-three. They were sitting on the beach, bare-chested—their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. Stede was beaming. Ed’s nose was crinkled with laughter, his face ducked into the crook of Stede’s neck as he fought to collect himself. 

Stede couldn’t even remember what had been so funny. But he recalled, with perfect clarity, what he’d been thinking at the precise moment that the photo was snapped: I’m the luckiest guy in the world. 

He stared at the photo, and he felt….well, he felt hopeful. Perhaps Anne was right. Perhaps they were getting a second chance.

If so, they were off to a piss poor start. 

*

Ed let himself back in through the front door and kicked off his shoes. Took his time hanging his jacket on the hook. Down the hall, he could hear the sound of water running, the radio playing softly in the kitchen. He crept slowly in that direction, peering carefully around the corner just in case.

His mother was doing dishes at the sink—alone now. Ed relaxed slightly. 

He’d bought her a dishwasher, years and years ago, but apparently she still insisted on doing them by hand. Oh, well. That argument would have to wait until later. 

“How was your little excursion?” she asked, barely looking up from the plate in her hands as she scrubbed it with the sponge. 

Ed scowled at her. She pretended not to notice.

“Very subtle, Ma,” he groused. 

“No idea what you’re on about,” she answered, serene. 

Ed rolled his eyes. 

“Walk was fine,” he said eventually. “Town is…the same. Bit weird, really.” 

She hummed at that. “I suppose we’ve been fortunate.” There was a small stack of dry dishes sitting on the counter beside her, arranged in a neat stack, and Ed tried his best not to think about who might’ve done them for her. 

He snagged a clean rag off the counter, took a damp bowl out of her hands, and set to work. 

Chewing his lip, he focused on the task for a moment and let the silence stretch between them. “Ran into Roach.” 

His mother smiled. “He’s done wonders with the cafe, did you see? His mother would be proud.” 

“For sure,” Ed agreed easily.

They lapsed into silence. 

But Ed could feel her beside him. Her hyperawareness as she waited for him to speak. It prickled under his skin. Ed didn’t like to think about it, but the truth was…all this time away, it had changed their relationship. Sure, he flew her out to LA as often as he could. They tried to take a trip together somewhere fun, every couple of years—whenever they could work it around his touring schedule. But that easy, domestic harmony they’d had when he was younger, that was gone now. She had her own room at Ed’s house in the canyon, but she was always a visitor, a guest. There and gone before it made sense to unpack her bags. 

And anyway, neither one of them had ever been especially good at holding their tongue for long. 

Ed broke first. “So, every Saturday, huh?” he asked, voice carefully level. 

“Stede’s a good boy,” his mother answered without hesitation. “Nice of him to keep an old woman company.” 

Ed chewed on the tip of his tongue. Let the implied jab roll over him. 

Was she actually being passive aggressive, or was he just overly sensitive? 

He didn’t want to fight with her, but he also couldn’t stop himself from asking. “You didn’t want to tell me that you two are still…close?” 

“I was trying to respect your boundaries,” she said. “You made it clear a long time ago that you didn’t want to hear about him.” 

Ed’s whole body felt hot. He knew he was going to say something he’d regret, but his brake lines had all been cut and he was still barreling down the hill. 

He set down the dish in his hands a little too hard. It clattered sharply against the counter, and they both flinched. 

“I dunno,” Ed said, voice tight. “Feels like maybe respecting my boundaries would involve not being best friends with my ex-husband behind my back.” 

Anne shot him a look, dark eyes flashing. They were always a little too alike in this way. “He’s not really your ex-husband though, is he?” She didn’t need to raise her voice to go for the jugular. 

Once, when Ed was a child, a neighbor’s house had caught fire. The woman who lived there was a smoker. Every morning, she’d sit on their front porch and have a cigarette. One summer day, she flicked her butt into the garden, went inside, and carried on with her day. She didn’t realize it yet, but the ember had caught in the grass beneath her porch. All day long, it had crept, undetected, into the porch itself. Smoldering gently in the dry wood. 

He and Stede had been dicking around in the woods behind his house, playing silly games of pretend, and Stede—who’d always had an uncanny sense of smell—kept asking Ed if he smelled marshmallows toasting. For some reason, Ed thought this was wildly hilarious at the time. Who hallucinates s’mores?

And then, right as the sun was sinking in the sky, and the two of them were trudging out of the woods to head back to their respective houses for dinner, the air cooled just enough for the wind to kick up. The neighbor’s entire porch went up in flames at once. It had been kind of awe-inspiring to see. One minute, the porch was just…there. Normal, as far as anyone could see. The next—inferno.

Ed felt sort of like that, right now. 

All the stress of the last few days, the travel, the exhaustion, the surprise of seeing Stede this morning before he’d even had a cup of fucking coffee—all those embers smoldering under his skin: one word from his mother and they caught in the breeze. Threatened to burn the whole unsteady structure of him to the ground. 

“Why aren’t you on my side?” Ed shouted. He shoved away from the counter and started pacing the room, agitated. “I’m your actual fucking kid—shouldn’t he be dead to you?” 

It was infuriating. His mother hadn’t even liked Stede, at first. Hadn’t trusted the blonde little rich boy when they’d been friends, growing up. Hadn’t liked Ed spending so much time in that house. To say nothing of how livid she’d been when he and Stede had run off together and eloped. 

Still, after the dust had cleared, she’d moved out here to be closer to them. Insisted the two of them come over for family dinner every Friday. She’d gotten to know Stede then. And, well…Ed would never admit it, these days, but he dared anyone to spend time with Stede Bonnet and not love him. They’d bonded over their love of gardening, and the fact that they both enjoyed baking, even though neither of them had a sweet tooth (thank god they had Ed to feed). They had the same bitchy opinions about movie musicals, and they read the same bodice ripper romance novels (a fact that Stede apparently felt no embarrassment about whatsoever, but Ed had skimmed through a few of Stede’s dog-eared copies and the fact that his mum was reading that shit and hosting a two-person book club to discuss it with his husband made him want to curl up and die). 

So anyway, it had been bliss, for a little while—the three of them all together. His shit father finally out of the picture, Mum tucked away safe in her rental on the other side of the square, and him with his husband cozy as could be in their tiny cottage. Always bumping hips or elbows as they tried to maneuver around each other in the kitchen. Apologizing with a laugh, a kiss. 

Then everything fell apart, and Ed left, but his mother stayed put. And adopted Stede as her favorite son, apparently. 

She was watching him carefully now, pity in her eyes. “Do you actually believe that’s what he deserves? For me to cut him out? Treat him like he’s not family? You’re the one who ran away, Eddie.” 

She said it gently, but it cut like a knife all the same.

“He’s the one who asked me for a divorce, remember?” He had to fight to get the words out, his voice breaking on the last word. How was it possible that it still hurt this bad, all these years later?

Ed, I can’t do this anymore. 

Ed had come home feeling…hopeful, that afternoon. Full of nervous, eager anticipation to tell Stede what he’d done. It was a risky career move, turning down such a big opportunity, but he was surprised to find that he didn’t even feel scared. 

Ed had started to develop a bit of a following, playing the circuit of small venues up and down the coast. One of his songs had even gone viral, back when that still meant something, and got picked up for an episode of Grey’s Anatomy (in the early days, before literally everyone had been killed off). And then John Mayer’s opener had to pull out of his world tour, and Ed had been offered the gig. A whole fucking summer spent traveling around Europe and Asia, even a date in Aotearoa, playing for the home crowd. Ed had been thrilled, for half a second.

Only, John Mayer wasn’t really his vibe, was it? The guy himself was a first rate prick, and Ed wasn’t super enthused about traveling the world together. And it would’ve meant leaving Stede behind for months on end; they were young and broke, couldn’t afford for him to take that much time off work. Plus, Ed hadn’t shown anyone yet—not even Stede—but he was pretty sure he had about three quarters of an album written, and it was…he was pretty sure it was good? Really fucking good? It felt…vulnerable, and tender, and he’d poured so much of what it felt like to be young and in love for the first time and married and trying to figure out how to be a person and a friend and a partner and a son and…yeah. It was something, he could feel it. 

Did he really want to take three months away from his husband and his mum and this beautiful little life they had together and the album he was really fucking excited to be writing, just so he could play for bored, half-empty stadiums of drunk white kids shout-talking over his music?

He’d had a vision, then, of what came next. It was blurry still, but shining there on the horizon. He could taste it. He’d turned down the tour, and now he and Stede were going to hash it all out, together—what came next for his career.

Only, when he’d come home and told Stede, his face had fallen in horror. 

Ed couldn’t fucking go there now. Couldn’t think about the rest of that fight, the awful shit they’d both said. Even now, all those years later, it made his guts tie up in nauseous knots. Made the back of his neck go all hot and clammy, his heart race. He could remember it so easily, standing in their tiny kitchen, his body in a blind panic because—even as the fight spun on and on, late into the night—he couldn’t make himself believe they were actually there, when only a few hours earlier he’d been so happy. 

And now Ed was just full on sobbing. Excellent. 

He buried his face in his hands and bawled, right there in his mother’s kitchen.

Arms wrapped around him, enveloping him in the scents of coconut and honey. “Oh, love. It’ll be all right.” 

His mother held him while he wept like his heart had just been broken yesterday, and not seventeen fucking years ago. 

“I just want you to be happy,” she whispered in his ear, still gently rocking him side to side. “If this new man of yours is doing that, then I’m thrilled for you. I just don’t know him yet.”

“He’d love to meet you,” Ed sniffled tearfully into her shoulder, hunching a little to compensate for the height difference. 

“I’m sure he’s lovely,” she said, placating. She swallowed, and Ed knew she was tactfully choosing not to mention the fact that she’d just been in LA a few months earlier, and Ed had pretty intentionally chosen not to introduce her to his boyfriend. 

Anne hesitated. Then decided to go for it. “I remember how you used to look at Stede, though. I just want the chance to see you like that again.” 

Me fucking too, Ed thought but didn’t say. 

“Gabe makes me happy,” he insisted instead. That was the thing about mothers, though. Their words just wormed their way into your fucking head. 

That had to be why Ed’s assurances sounded so hollow. 

Chapter Text

Excerpted from Rolling Stone’s 2024 article: All 119 Blackbeard Songs, Ranked

28) Red Silk - I know this is a controversial choice because it’s objectively one of Blackbeard’s least streamed songs, but I will die on the hill that that’s because it’s so good it hurts to listen to! A searing portrait of childhood abuse, and the ways even parents who love us can let us down. Teach’s signature muscular guitar sound offers a slow burn that’ll take you by surprise—beginning with a quiet, simple melody that builds and builds into a stadium rock power ballad that could’ve been ripped straight out of the 80s, in the best way. And I just know a weird number of people have chosen this one for the parent/child dance at their wedding, as though they’ve never listened to the lyrics before—the hallmark of any great song about a parental relationship! 

27) The Second Time Around - Another tearjerker! Am I okay?? My editor wants to know! This song would have maybe been relegated to the middle of the pack if it had released six months earlier—which is not a diss, you’ve seen the rest of this list. Blackbeard’s “middle of the pack” is stacked! But this one’s a sentimental (some might say schmaltzy) ballad about the hope of falling in love again after your first major heartbreak; starting to settle down with someone else after “the one that got away.” It’s sweet, it’s pretty, Teach sounds great on the recording, and some of the imagery is genuinely touching. The bit about his partner replacing his toothbrush for him? Is it normal to cry this much over something so mundane?? But what takes this song from “pretty good” to “Top Thirty” is the deliciously grotesque dramatic irony of it all. The song is fairly transparently about Teach’s serious boyfriend at the time, Sam Bellamy (references to his ice blue Met Gala look, and a vacation in Greece…we’ve all seen those paparazzi photos of Blackbeard in that red bathing suit!) The pair dated for nearly two years…and broke up about a month before this song came out, when Bellamy was caught cheating with his co-star on Hulu’s campy murder mystery, Those Bastards, The Hawthornes. The bittersweet nastiness of such a sappy ballad to true love being released in the wake of a cheating scandal? The fans ate it up. And when Blackbeard started touring again, no one expected to see this one on the setlist. Trust Edward Teach to zig when you think he’ll zag, though: he took this sweet little love song and re-arranged it for the live performance, turning it into a set piece celebrating the rage of a scorned lover, in the vein of “You Oughta Know.” The video of him performing it in the rain in Miami? Whew! That’s rock & roll, baby!! 

26) Whipped - It pains me that a song about Jack Freaking Rackham is this high on the list, but I can’t pretend like this one isn’t just a stone cold hit. And honestly, it’s fitting. “Whipped” comes to us off Blackbeard’s 2019 album, Break His Heart: a record comprised entirely of break-up songs, written during an era when Teach was…shall we say, getting around? The song is all about a fling that burns fast and hot, where you know before it even begins that the other person objectively sucks, and yet you can’t stop yourself from coming back for more. Pretty much sums up how I feel about this song! Did I want to know that Jack Rackham banged my musical hero in a bathroom at The Weeknd’s Grammy after party? No. No I did not. But whomst among us doesn’t have someone in our dating history that we’re embarrassed to admit we still think about calling sometimes on a lonely Saturday night? Celebrities, they’re just like us! 

25) The First Time, The Last Time - According to Edward Teach, he never expected this song to have such an enduring life among fans. An anecdotal survey of the search results for “Blackbeard Lyrics Tattoo” on Pinterest seems to suggest that this song is maybe the most popular choice? FTLT, as the fans call it, was originally a bonus track on his 2017 album, The Rabbit or the Wolf, and apparently both his record label and his management team didn’t think this one belonged on the album at all. It’s a heartbreaker and a barn burner, with one music critic likening it to the iconic Fleetwood Mac song, “Silver Springs” (also, notably, left off the original release of Rumors). Every time Teach hits that high note in the last chorus, and his voice just barely breaks on, “Come back to me, one last time” — CHILLS!!! So why isn’t it ranked higher? Teach famously refuses to perform this one live. Some fans speculate it’s because it’s too emotional, while others say he simply can’t hit those notes outside of the studio. Prove them wrong!! Give the people what they want!!!

24) Lunatic - I know it’s going to make people mad again that I’m not ranking this one higher, and listen—is this a perfect pop song? Yes. Is it absolutely transcendent live? Also yes. Did the pyro display for this song during the Room to Run Tour actually, literally melt off my lash glue, so that I was partially blind for the encore? Once again, YES. And it was awesome. But look, this is inarguably one of Blackbeard’s biggest, most famous bangers. It’s his Espresso, his Baby One More Time, his Call Me Maybe. And it’s from his debut album! He wrote it when he was 22! Incredible stuff. But as a real member of The Crew, I am here to tell you: his writing has only improved, only gotten better from here. If Lunatic is the only Blackbeard song you can name off the top of your head, you need to go back to school!

Chapter Text

Ed woke the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose. He hopped right out of bed two minutes before his alarm went off, brushed his teeth, and carefully pinned his hair into an artfully messy updo. 

Coming back here had been rougher than anticipated, sure. But he could do this. He could stay focused on the task. Get what he came for, and get gone. 

He was getting those divorce papers signed. Today. Whatever his answer to Gabe, it didn’t matter—it was past time he ended this with Stede. He’d let it drag on long enough.

Ed finished dressing carefully. He could admit it: he’d had a lot of fantasies over the years about seeing Stede again. None of them had involved him still wearing his pajamas, including Stede’s fucking shirt, with his teeth unbrushed. He needed the extra armor today. Get this whole situation firmly back under his control. 

And sue him, he wanted to look hot for this. 

Ergo: a bit of subtle brown eyeliner, some lip gloss, and leather pants. 

In the kitchen, he found his mother reading a book at the table as she sipped her tea. She looked up, swept a glance over Ed’s outfit from head to toe, and rolled her lips together.

“Good morning,” was all she said. 

Ed could see every one of his mother’s thoughts whirring, whirring away in that brain of hers, as obvious as if her entire skull were translucent. Clearly, she was trying to keep her mouth shut after yesterday’s disaster.

Good. 

“Morning!” Ed returned, full of cheer, as he poured himself some coffee. 

Ed felt her eyes on his back. He ignored it. Focused instead on hunting in the cabinets for sugar. 

“Sleep all right?” she asked eventually, tone carefully neutral.

“Yup,” Ed popped the p with a little extra oomph. “Never better.” This was, in fact, what one might call “a lie.”

But today was a new day. 

Finally, he located the sugar—she’d moved it—and began doling out his seven spoonfuls.

“Want me to whip up something for breakfast?” Mum asked. “Absorb some of that?” She wrinkled her nose at his candy-sweet coffee. 

Ed sipped it with relish. “Nah.” He leaned his hip against the counter. “This’ll hold me for a bit, going to pick up some of those donuts from Roach. I’ll bring you back a treat?” 

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “See that you do.” Long pause. “So then. You’re going into town?” 

“Yup.” Another sip. 

More silence. 

“So you have plans for the day, then?” she tried next. 

Come to think of it, Ed could use a snack for the road. He set his coffee aside and began rummaging in the fruit bowl for the perfect apple. 

“Just getting my ducks in a row, like you told me,” he tossed over his shoulder. 

He wasn’t mad at her, not really, but she had overstepped yesterday—not telling him about Stede—and he wasn’t above making her squirm a bit. 

“Edward…” she started, but she didn’t seem to know where to go from there. 

Apple selected, he polished it on his shirt. “I’ll be home by lunchtime, be good!” He took a big, obnoxious crunch, and with a jaunty wave he was on his way. 

“You too,” she called after him, half-hearted, but he was already out the door. 

*

It was only once he’d made it to the town square that Ed realized he didn’t actually know where to find Stede, these days. He could’ve asked his mother, obviously, but he’d been a bit busy acting like a brat. 

It was a tiny fucking town, though. There were only so many options. 

Ed wandered past a familiar storefront, and drew up short. Long Ago & Far Away—the bookshop where Stede had worked, back when. It was worth a shot; even if Stede wasn’t in there, surely some over-friendly townsfolk would be able to point him in the right direction. Everyone was always in everyone’s business, here.

The strand of bells tied to the shop door tinkled softly as he let himself inside. 

Ed paused right there on the threshold. This had to be the first place that felt like it had properly changed. 

When they’d first arrived in Silkwater, Long Ago & Far Away had basically been tailor-made Stede Bonnet bait. A dusty, dim warren of books, suffused with the scents of sunbaked paper, fading ink, and forgotten mugs of chai. Actively hostile to the notion of any customer finding what they were looking for. Stede had wandered in on their third day in town, and left with a job working as a sort of apprentice to the owner.

Mrs. Kaur was a crotchety old widow who loved literature and felt ambivalent at best about people shopping in her store. She and Stede were a funny duo. She was constantly scolding him for re-arranging books into more customer-friendly configurations, or for trying to update her medieval accounting system. Swatting him on the back of the head for daydreaming, or showing up even one minute late for his shift. But this was all clearly a ruse to cover up a deep well of fondness. She sent him home with tupperwares full of delicious, home-cooked Punjabi food every weekend, and she gifted him a gorgeous cashmere pashmina for the holidays, and she never let him pay for books.

Anyway, point was: the store had been a stuffy, delightful little cozy cave, before. Now, the place had retained all of its previous charms, but it had become…lighter, somehow. The aisles between shelves were actually maneuverable for an adult human, and the whole place was strung through with fairy lights. Rainbow-lettered signs clearly proclaimed FICTION and FANTASY and ROMANCE and COOKBOOKS, and on and on. There were index cards taped along the shelves, calling out the staff picks with long explanations laid out in a cramped, loopy scrawl that Ed definitely recognized. There were new, extra-squishy looking velvet armchairs tucked into every nook and cranny, and there was even a whole chaise longue in its own alcove, built into the shelves along one wall. 

In other words: if a witch had cursed Stede Bonnet and turned him into a building, it would probably look a bit like this. 

The shop still smelled of tea, though. That much hadn’t changed. 

The front counter was empty, with no one standing behind the till, but Ed could hear muffled voices coming from deeper within the store. He drifted down the aisles, seeking out the source.

At the very back of the shop, there was a little nook filled with an eclectic collection of mismatched floor pillows, armchairs of every shape and size, even one of those fun basket swing chairs. All the seats were filled with parents and children, everyone snuggled up cozy together and listening along—rapt—as Stede read aloud from a picture book. 

“This is a boy named Julián,” Stede read. “And this is his abuela. And those are some mermaids.” Stede turned the book around so that the kids could see the illustrations. “Julián loves mermaids.” 

Quite against his will, Ed felt his heart melting into soup. 

He leaned against a shelf and listened on as Stede continued to read about the little boy and his abuela riding the subway and seeing a gaggle of beautiful women dressed as mermaids. He even did the voices. 

“Abuela, I am also a mermaid.” As Stede turned another page, he glanced briefly out at the crowd, and this time his gaze landed on Ed. There was a flicker of surprise, and he faltered on the next sentence, self-conscious.

Well, now Ed felt like a dick.

He allowed Stede one tiny, fractional smile. Gave him the barest nod to keep going. 

Stede took a deep breath and visibly forced himself to focus on the book. Ed found himself getting swept up in the story—his heart beating a little faster when the boy got caught dressing up in his abuela’s clothe.

“Come here mijo,” Stede read, and then turned the page to show the grandmother giving Julián a necklace to wear, to go with his mermaid outfit.

Oh no. Ed definitely could not cry, not before they even talked. 

The threat of tears only got worse though, as Stede turned more pages and showed Julián and his abuela leaving the house with him still dressed in his pretty costume—going to find a parade of people of all genders dressed in mermaid drag. 

“Like you, mijo,” Stede read. “Let’s join them.” 

Oh, fuck. 

Ed took a second to collect himself, pretending to peruse the shelves as Stede finished up the story and answered approximately one million questions that mostly all boiled down to “can I also be a mermaid?” 

When Ed glanced around again, Stede was making his way towards him—getting stopped several times along the way by parents and kids who wanted to chat.

Ed’s palms were sweating. Why was that? 

God, Stede’s face was so expressive. Ed had forgotten that, or minimized it in his memory, maybe. Stede was stooped down low, now, listening along carefully as a toddler babbled away. Ed couldn’t hear what they were discussing at this distance, but Stede was nodding along, brow furrowed in deep concentration. And then the kid must’ve said something unexpected, because Stede’s face suddenly lit up in a pantomime of surprised delight. Anyone else, Ed would think they were just hamming it up for the kid. But not Stede. Ed knew he was just like that. 

He wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but Ed was suddenly acutely aware of just how long those seventeen years had been, and how much he’d missed this guy. 

Stede peeked up at him right at that moment, and Ed hurriedly went back to pretending to browse the sci-fi shelf in front of him. He’d been meaning to read more of that stuff, actually. So. 

At last, the storytime crowd dispersed enough for Stede to reach him. 

“Edward! Good, I’ve been wanting to speak with you.” He was still clutching the mermaid book to his chest. He seemed to be gripping it rather tightly. 

Ed shoved his hands in his pockets. No easy feat in leather pants. “You have?” 

“Yes.” He glanced around, and then lowered his voice. “I wanted to apologize. For yesterday, I mean.” Stede gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Can’t have been easy, feeling ambushed like that, after so long.” 

After so long. Incredible, how much weight three short words could carry. 

Ed was…thrown. He was pissed at Stede, yeah, but it wasn’t like he’d known Ed would be there, either. 

“Uh, yeah, sure mate. Thanks.” They stared at each other a moment longer, and Ed wondered if Stede felt as lost as he did. 

“Mrs. Kaur left you this place then?” Ed asked, for some reason. He wasn’t here to make small talk. The packet of divorce papers was burning a hole in his back pocket.

Stede also appeared bemused by this turn. “Ah, yes. Yes she did. She’s still with us,” he rushed to add. 

Ed blinked at him in shock. Mrs. Kaur had been at least in her seventies when he’d met her, twenty-odd years ago. 

“I know,” Stede smiled. “She’s in assisted living now, but she hasn’t slowed down. Nearly got kicked out of the place for running a gambling ring. She writes me a letter—on paper, mind you—once every few months to keep me abreast of what she’s reading and offer, ah, suggestions for managing the shop.” He paused, then added, “She always asks about you, you know.”

“Oh,” was all Ed could say. 

Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising. For all of Mrs. Kaur’s pretend hostility towards Stede, she had loved Ed. Anytime he came by to visit Stede, she’d offer him tea and biscuits and demand to know everything he’d read since she saw him last. Despite her militant views on tardiness, she always pretended not to notice when Stede came back late from his lunch breaks with Ed. And when Stede was really annoying her, she'd threaten to introduce Ed to one of her many handsome grandsons who made good money working in tech. 

Yet another awkward silence descended between them. Stede shifted on his feet, fidgety. He adjusted his grip on the picture book he was still holding to his chest, and the light glinted off something shiny on his hand.

Ed’s heart stopped beating. 

It was his ring. His wedding ring. 

Stede was still wearing his ring.

Ed racked his brain, trying to remember—had he been wearing it yesterday? Or had he put it back on after seeing Ed? And which option was more devastating? 

Ed hadn’t worn his in years. He’d made three separate attempts to throw it in the Pacific, all unsuccessful. Right now, it lived in a safety deposit box at his bank, where he couldn’t be tempted to try it on when he was drunk and feeling lonely. 

“So,” Stede made an attempt to prod them along, “what can I do for you?” 

Right. Ed tried to pull himself back from his spiral. Get back on track. 

“Um,” he began. And stopped. 

Something about the cuteness of seeing Stede with all those kids...plus it felt almost sacrilegious doing this here, in Mrs. Kaur’s old space. 

Also: Stede was still wearing his ring. What the fuck did that mean?? 

Get what you came here for, and get gone.

This was the danger of Stede Bonnet. This was why Ed hadn’t once reached out, hadn’t ever responded to a single email or letter or text or voicemail, at least in those first few years, when Stede was still trying. 

Because Ed had known, in his heart of hearts, that if he spent any amount of time with the guy, if he even thought about him too hard—he’d cave. Come running right back. 

Ed reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded packet of papers. He hesitated one last time, and then held them out towards Stede.

Stede stared at them, unmoving. 

Why the fuck did Ed feel so awkward, suddenly? “Think it’s about time we got this sorted, yeah?” 

Stede still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t reacted at all. 

“Tried to be pretty generous,” Ed went on, “but if there’s anything- I mean. Look it over. Hopefully it’s good. And we can get this over with.”

At that, finally, Stede seemed to snap back to life. 

“Oh! Right! Of course!” He flashed Ed the sort of smile you might expect from a homicidal cheerleader—utterly lifeless behind the eyes. “Just a tick, let me find my glasses.”

Stede wore glasses now?

Ed definitely wasn’t having any sort of feeling about that. Not a weird, bittersweet pang about how Stede was middle-aged now, and Ed had missed all the in-between bits. 

Certainly not a horny feeling.

Oblivious to his crisis, Stede was busy making an entire three-act production of searching for his glasses.

“Hmm, where could they be?” He tapped his lip theatrically, standing behind the front counter. 

“Not here…” he mused, wandering the aisles like he might find them shelved somewhere between Calvino and Carroll. 

Ed was about to vibrate out of his skin. 

Finally, with a showman’s flair for drama, Stede “discovered” his glasses on his desk in the back office. You know. The most obvious place they would be. 

“Now let’s see those papers,” he reached for them, only to draw back abruptly. “Ope! Going to need a pen, won’t I?” 

He had a pen visibly tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt, not to mention an entire jar of them sitting on the counter next to the till. 

“Here,” Ed said tersely as he reached into his own pocket again. He was a fucking writer, wasn’t he? Never left home without a pen—papermate flair, medium point. His favorite.

Stede reached out to take it from him, then paused. Cocked his head to one side. “Will the court accept a legal document signed with a felt tip pen?” 

Unbelievable. 

“I dunno, mate,” Ed gritted out. “Maybe we should pay a visit to town hall, ask if they can pull up the written statutes for family law, just to be sure.”

Stede’s head snapped up. He narrowed his eyes at Ed. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this an inconvenience?” 

“Just sign the fucking papers!” Ed hissed. “There’s got to be three thousand pens in here, and it’s been seventeen years. I want to get this over with!” 

Stede gaped at him for a moment, incredulous. And then he scoffed and spun around, storming off in a flurry.

“That’s rich, coming from you!” he tossed over his shoulder as he made a very huffy show of tidying up the storytime area. 

Ed was hot on his heels, dogging his steps. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stede dropped the floor pillow he’d been aggressively re-fluffing and turned back to Ed with fire blazing in his eyes. “It means you’re the one who ran away, Edward. You’re the one who’s refused to speak to me for seventeen years. We could have had an adult discussion about this at any point during that time, if you’d seen fit to pick up the damn phone, but you’d rather ignore your poor mother, not to mention everyone else in this town who loves and cares about you, just to punish me!”

Ed opened his mouth to argue but Stede just steamrolled right over him. “Well fine! If that’s how you feel, so be it! You wanted me out of your life, and I’ve respected that all these years. But of course you think you can just waltz back into town and expect the lot of us to still be here, waiting, ready to fall in line—do everything on your schedule.”

Ed’s whole body felt like it was burning. His skin flushed hot with shame as Stede’s words rang some deep, undeniable bell of truth inside him.

He was too fucking mad to admit that right now, though.

He forced a bitter laugh. “Seems like you’ve forgotten a pretty crucial detail, mate. Remind me, why is it that I skipped town in the first place?”

Stede blanched. 

Ed snaps his fingers like he was just remembering something. “Oh, that’s right! You asked me for a divorce. I’m only back now so I can finally give you what you wanted.” 

Stede looked like he’d been sucker punched. For a long moment, he just stared at Ed, unable to speak. It gave Ed a nasty thrill of satisfaction. 

But Stede rallied. Gave him another one of those chilly, lifeless smiles. “Well then. I’ll just have my lawyer look over these. They’ll be in touch.” He waved the divorce papers carelessly in one hand. 

Ed resisted the urge to scream. “I’m literally trying to give you a hundred million dollars, mate. You don’t need a lawyer, here's some free legal advice—take it.”

Stede gave him his snottiest former-rich-boy look. “Pass.” 

Ed buried his hands in his hair and pulled at the roots. “Stede, you stubborn bitch-”

But Stede had already turned and started walking away. “Oop! Time for my lunch break!” He called over his shoulder. “Shop’s closing, bye-bye now!” He disappeared inside his office and closed the door with a slam. 

*

Ed threw open the front door and stormed back into the house. After he’d left the bookshop, he’d taken a long, stompy walk around town—trying to cool down before he had to see his mother again. He’d even stopped at Mama Lalla’s for the promised treats. Roach hadn’t said anything, but he seemed to sense something was amiss, and he tucked a few extra donuts into the box. Nice of him.

None of it had helped. Ed was still simmering, felt like he was going to boil over with anger. 

He’d wanted to be so calm, in that interaction. He’d grown in the last seventeen years, or at least that was what he told himself. This didn’t need to be painful. It didn’t need to be anything at all—other than done. 

Clearly, he’d been deluding himself. Twice now, five seconds in Stede’s presence had him spitting and clawing like a feral cat, cornered and terrified. 

They hadn’t fought much, before Ed left, but when they did it usually went something like this. They were both hot-headed, stubborn, sensitive, and neither of them had been in a serious relationship before they got married. They both had a way with words, and a tendency to spit bullets without thinking when they got angry. Stede had never met a problem he didn’t want to run away from, and the second he got that look in his eyes, it would trigger some kind of panic in Ed. He’d follow him around the house, flinging barbs like throwing stars—anything to keep the argument going, to piss Stede off enough that he’d turn around and fight back instead of bolting. Better to have Stede angry and present than gone, leaving Ed alone to feel all this shit. 

They didn’t fight often, but when they did it usually burned fast, hot, and loud. 

The same could be said for the making up, actually. Unfortunately not an option, these days. 

Ed dropped his pastry box on the counter a little too aggressively. Something rolled around dully in there, hopefully not getting crushed. In about twenty minutes when he calmed down, he was really going to want one of those donuts. 

“Went well, I take it?” His mother was sitting on the couch, poking at an embroidery hoop. 

Ed shot her a dark look. “He’s being impossible!” 

“Hm.”

“I handed him the papers, I asked nicely,” Ed ticked each item off on his fingers, “and by the way, being pretty fucking generous with the settlement. And then he goes and gets into one of his,” Ed flapped his hand expansively, “Stede Snits about it.”

“Stede Snits,” his mother repeated flatly. 

“Yeah! Like I’m the asshole somehow for trying to get this sorted?” Ed was pacing now, feeling caged. “Hasn’t it been long enough? Don’t we both deserve to move on and live our lives?” 

“Sounds reasonable,” his mother said, in a way that somehow managed to be both utterly toneless and also deeply skeptical.

“You know what he’s doing?” Ed shot back, on a roll now. “He’s punishing me.” 

“That so?” 

“Uh, yeah!” Ed was sweating, his heart going, all amped up. “I ignored him for seventeen years, and now he wants to give me a taste of my own medicine. It’s petty, is what it is. And immature. And annoying!” Ed ran out of words, but continued pacing. Felt so hot he was itchy; that was Stede’s fault, too. 

“Are you done?” his mother asked, calm. 

Breathing hard, Ed shrugged.

She set down her embroidery hoop on the coffee table, and Ed got a good look at the thing for the first time. A moth—lemonade yellow and shocking hot pink. Ed couldn’t be sure, but it was definitely the sort of thing Stede would have picked out for her.

His mother turned her full attention to face him. “Edward Teach. I know I raised you better than this.”

Ed’s head snapped up. 

“Stede is right,” she continued. “You haven’t been home in nearly two decades. Clearly, you’re still hurting over the way things ended. But it was cruel to show up at his place of work and throw this business in his face.” 

It hit him like a slap. That wasn’t true, was it? Was he cruel?

In the darkest corner of his heart, a slithering, wretched little voice whispered: yes, yes you are. You always have been. 

“You loved that boy once,” his mother said. “I think you still do.” 

Ed opened his mouth, trying to muster some kind of defense against this onslaught. 

But Mum only raised a hand, silencing him. “Even if you truly no longer want to be married to him, you still care about him, don’t you? You want him to be well? Happy? You’d never hurt him intentionally, yes?” 

Ed felt a bit nauseous. Slowly, he nodded.

Even sitting down, his mother somehow managed to look down her nose at him.  “What you did today was mean, and hurtful, and vindictive. And those are three things I know my son is not.” 

Privately, Ed wasn’t so sure. He was a petty bitch a lot of the time. Had sort of made a whole music career out of it. Frankly, it was one of the things that had drawn him and Stede together, once. 

Again, that dark little voice: and you wanted him to hurt, didn’t you? You wanted him to know what it felt like, to be asked for this. To have it sprung on him. 

Fuck.

Mum softened. “Eddie. Sweetheart. For the love of god, just talk to him. You’re right about one thing, at least: hasn’t it been long enough?” 

Ed felt it then—the echoes of another fight, another argument, this one from long ago. 

For a second, he was twenty-one again, sitting at his mother’s kitchen table. 

“So what’s the plan here, Eddie?” his mother demanded. He’d come home to visit for the first time since he and Stede had eloped, and it had quickly devolved into her grilling him. 

“Do you not want love?” she asked, pacing around the kitchen. “Romance?” 

“Of course I do!” Ed snapped.

“Well how’s that going to work? You’re going to date other people and then come home to your husband?” 

Ed didn’t want to admit it, but he knew she was right. His friend Annie did stuff like that—multiple partners, and everyone knew about it, it was all above board. He knew it made some people happy. But that wasn’t what he wanted, and he was pretty sure Stede didn’t either. 

He didn’t respond, but she read it all on his face anyway. “So, what then? You’re just never going to date again? Never fall in love with someone who properly wants you?” 

It had been a nasty fight. Ed ended up leaving in a huff, and he hadn’t gone back to the house again for weeks. But her words got under his skin. Stuck in his head. A couple months later, on Stede’s birthday, he found himself yelling them at Stede in the middle of a parking lot. 

Mum had been right then, even though he hadn’t wanted to hear it. She was probably right again, now. 

Ed felt all the fight drain out of him at once. He felt limp, wrung out, exhausted. 

He crossed his arms with a huff. “What, I leave for a few years, and you adopt him as your second son? You’re the president of the Stede Bonnet Defense Society now?” 

She gave him a hard look. “I’m your mother and I will always be on your side. But Stede has no one else he can call family. You at least had me growing up. Your cousins, other friends. Stede doesn’t have any of that. Me, and this town. We’re his family.” 

This was true, Ed knew. During the happy years, Stede had loved Ed’s family—his cousins, all his uncles and aunties. Ed had to drag him away at the end of the night after every cookout, every family wedding. It had made Ed happy, once. Seeing Stede get to have that. Seeing him fit so easily into Ed’s life, where he’d never once been at home in his own. 

He grunted his acknowledgement at his mother. 

As usual, she saw right through him. “Time was,” she pointed out slyly, “you were desperate for the two of us to get along.” 

This was also true. Things had stayed tense between them for months, after that fight. Ed had felt heartsick about it, not least because it clearly hurt Stede that Ed’s mother didn’t approve. Maybe they didn’t have a conventional marriage, at that point, but they were still a family. Or, they’d wanted to be. 

They’d gotten there, eventually. Once Anne had really seen them together. Seen how happy they were. 

Ed gnawed on the end of his tongue. “Guess I should apologize, then.” 

"Good,” his mother said, looking at least a bit mollified. 

“Going to be hard to pin him down, though,” Ed mused. “He’ll be avoiding me, now, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been banned from the shop.” 

His mother rolled her eyes. “Eddie, please. You know where to find him.”

Ed stared at her, uncomprehending.

She looked at him like he was being very, very stupid. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Ed had really hoped it wouldn't come to this. He'd dreaded and dreamed of this moment for so long.

He was going home. 

Chapter Text

Excerpted from Rolling Stone’s 2024 article: "All 119 Blackbeard Songs, Ranked"

11) Ruin Me Again - I will die mad that Blackbeard’s second album was a flop. Y’all are fake fans! In all seriousness though, perhaps I am the Kraken was always destined to be polarizing. His debut, Impossible Birds, is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. It was no surprise when he swept all four major Grammy’s categories that year—Album, Record, and Song of the Year, plus Best New Artist. The hype going into his sophomore album was intense, but what we got was…not what anyone expected. Where Impossible Birds is all raw emotion—heartache, yes, but also love, tenderness, and hope—I am the Kraken is just angry. Whoever hurt him on the first album, Blackbeard was not over it, and he turned those feelings into an album that’s dark, heavy, and full of rage. Some critics have said the anger is suffocating, reductive—that it flattened his sonic palette. The old joke goes: take away the guitar, and I am the Kraken sounds like something you could find in any thirteen-year-old girl’s diary. But I’d argue that’s what makes this album so transgressive; this is Blackbeard owning his emotional vulnerability, secreted away in the only vehicle we allow for such expression amongst men: anger. “Ruin Me Again” is the best encapsulation of this—somehow managing to be tragic, furious, and blisteringly hot all at once. Do yourself a favor and go watch the video of him performing it in Copenhagen, 2011. I’m a lesbian, but if you don’t need a cold shower after that one…you’re lying. 

10) Black Glitter Tears - Blackbeard’s next major hit after Lunatic. An undeniable queer anthem that sits in the hall of fame alongside songs like Pink Pony Club, Believe, or Freedom! 90. After the anticlimax of I am the Kraken, no one quite knew what to expect from album #3, 2013’s  The Art of the Fuckery, but man—Blackbeard came out swinging. The lead track on the album is basically the iconic “Girl Who’s Going to Be Okay” meme in song form. Interviewed at the time of the album's release, Blackbeard had this to say: “This song is like, when you’ve been having a bad time, but your friends drag you out to the club, and you’re drunk and dancing your broken little heart out, and you love your friends and you think wow—maybe I’m going to survive this! And the hangover sucks balls the next day. But you do. You do survive it.” I swore I wouldn’t get emotional over every sorority girl’s favorite karaoke song, but here we are. 

9) a house by the sea - When the innkeeper released in 2023, Blackbeard surprised everyone yet again. His seventh studio album is perhaps his quietest, most introspective piece of work to date. Presented as a concept album about alternate universes and past lives, the innkeeper became a poignant exploration of aging into fame. Looking into parallel worlds full of “might have beens,” we see both Teach’s gratitude for how his life has shaped up, and his weariness at the prices paid. Middle-aged celebrities going through their “what if I were a regular dude?” phase (to quote one reviewer) is not something I typically have a ton of patience for, but the lens of fantasy employed with the alternate universes angle adds an element of whimsy and storytelling that lightens the whole affair. But no matter how often Blackbeard insists these songs are purely works of fiction, true fans can spot the layers of lore underneath. Nowhere is this more apparent than in “a house by the sea,” a love story about aging with your partner in a beloved home—told through the renovations and changes made to the house along the way. About this song, Blackbeard has said: “I wanted it to have the feeling of waking up from a dream about your ex. Maybe you haven’t thought about them for years, but suddenly you’re spending the whole day sort of melancholy, thinking of what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently.” And eagle-eyed fans will note references to coral roses, seabirds, and a relationship with a childhood friend…you didn’t think I was going to get through this whole list without mentioning First Muse Theory, did you? (iykyk) 

Chapter Text

Ed stood on the street, very still in the fading sun, and drank in the sight of his favorite place on earth. 

He’d forced himself to take the afternoon to cool down. Wouldn’t do to show up here still itching for a fight, when he was meant to be apologizing. He’d spent the rest of the day sitting with his mother in the living room, doing a puzzle he was only half paying attention to. Mum, at least, had left him to his thoughts in peace. 

Although frankly, he could’ve used a bit of a break from those. An endless loop of Of course you think you can just waltz back into town, and he’s still wearing his ring, and cruel, and—every now and again, apropos of literally nothing—a vivid, technicolor memory of the time that Stede had sat him on their dryer and then knelt down and sucked his dick. 

Pretty inconvenient timing to be reliving that one, but once it had wormed its way in there, Ed couldn’t get it out.  

Now, the day was nearly over, and the sun was setting, and Ed was here. 

The cottage was small, and even now—before summer had bloomed in earnest—it looked like it was about to be eaten alive by its garden. In the end, Ed had only lived here for four years. And still, when he dreamed of home, he dreamed of this place. 

When they’d first arrived in Silkwater Shores, Roach’s mother had introduced them to a few people who were looking to rent out a place, and willing to overlook their paltry savings and nonexistent credit scores on Lalla’s good word. So they’d seen a couple of other rentals that day, before they’d gotten to this one. 

The cottage at 3 Unicorn Lane was the smallest of the bunch. Too small for the two of them really, considering it only had the one bedroom, and they were still doing the whole charade of “we’re just very good friends who also happen to be husbands.” 

Ed had been ready to write the house off, but they were hardly through the garden gate before Stede was fawning over some silvery climbing bush that was growing along the fence—just barely beginning to put out buds for the spring. Wisteria, he claimed. At the time, Ed had no idea what wisteria even looked like, but Stede was already scurrying around the garden, exclaiming over each new plant he found. 

“These roses must be stunning, once they come in,” he’d said as he manhandled the gnarl of brambles attempting to conquer the front porch. “Oops! Pricked myself.” 

The place had been a bit of a mess, frankly. But Stede had rocked back on his heels and sighed—long and sweet, like he was falling in love—and it wasn’t like Ed had ever been much good at telling Stede Bonnet “no.” 

The bedroom was barely large enough to fit a queen bed and a dresser. They’d been two lanky twenty-one-year-olds, and Stede had never met a bed he couldn’t completely commandeer, which meant they woke up spooned together more often than not, both desperately trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed the other’s morning wood pressed up against them. 

It had been heaven and hell on earth for five months before Ed finally broke. Before Stede finally realized what was going on. And then it had just been heaven. 

For a little while, anyway. 

Now, in late May, the wisteria was at its peak, the ramshackle garden fence positively dripping with trails of pale purple blooms. 

And the roses. That first year, Ed hadn’t been ready for them. In bloom, they were a sight to behold. Each blossom a sunset, fading from neon pink to candy orange to ripest peach. They clambered all over the salt-worn gray shingles, flaming with color in the last golden gasps of sundown. The thicket had overtaken the house, by now—the porch practically sagging under its weight. 

A few bars of “house by the sea” ran through his head, the melody soft and faint, like it was drifting to him on the breeze. 

Come up the porch at the end of a long day

And the floorboards still creak in the same place

Whole damn house half swallowed by roses 

But you’ll pout if I trim them, I know it

They’re like us, you said

Better off wild 

Ed had written that song three years ago now. Woken up from another one of those dreams, only instead of trying to shove it away in the ol’ mind box, he’d been in a rare, indulgent mood. He let himself picture it—what it would have been like, if he’d stayed. 

Now, standing here, it made his chest hurt—knowing how right he’d been. For all his fears that he’d come back and find the place changed—his old life dead, gone, never was—there had been another secret, shameful side of him that had remained tethered here. He’d always known, on some level, that he could show up on this street the very next day and find it waiting for him. A little older, a little more worn. Wilder. But still his. 

Walking through town had been surreal, disorienting. This felt different. It felt like he’d woken up and the last seventeen years hadn’t happened. Like that album had come true. Like he could walk in the front door right now, and find Stede cooking dinner—waiting for Ed to get home from work. Maybe he’d look up from whatever he was stirring on the stove and smile, happy to see him.

Ed swallowed around the tightness in his throat. He let himself in the gate, and started up the walk. 

The hummingbird feeder was still hanging from the porch eaves—a gift from his mother. And there, peeking out from behind a pair of hydrangeas, was Geoff the pirate garden gnome. He'd delighted Stede so much on one trip to the nursery that Ed just had to go back later and get him. Geoff’s nose got broken one summer when Stede was stung by a wasp—lightly trampling the poor guy with all his flailing around. Ed clumsily tried to piece him back together with super glue, only for it to bubble out around the edges, making Geoff look like he had a bad case of warts. Stede said it gave him character. 

And then there were all the flowers they’d planted together. Irises, and columbine, and cosmos, and bleeding hearts, and Japanese anemones. Ed remembered each of their names, even now; Stede would list them off as he crouched in the dirt, poking the tender green seedlings into the earth. Nasturtium, flaming gold and orange, with vines trailing everywhere. Pink peonies keeling over drunkenly, something wanton and debauched in the spread of their petals, the way their heads lolled to the ground. 

In truth, Stede had done most of the actual planting. Ed wasn’t much of a gardener. Loved the results, but he could live without all the dirt and bugs—thank you very much. He’d helped in his own way, though. He'd sit on the porch, drinking lemonade out of a jam jar, and provide moral support in the form of wolf whistles every time Stede bent over. 

Ed picked his way up the walk, stepping carefully, but apparently some things had changed. Stede had replaced the broken flagstones that Ed always tripped over, for one. The gutters looked new, too—the downspouts replaced with pretty copper rain chains, each link shaped like a cupped flower. Those gutters had always been something of a mess, when Ed had still lived here, but their landlord Mr. Peterson was old, and crotchety, and pretty resistant to paying for even basic maintenance, let alone upgrades.

Stepping onto the porch, the third step creaked underfoot, just like it always had. There was a porch swing hanging from the eaves now, though—that was new. When they’d first moved in, they’d been far too broke to afford proper patio furniture, but they’d kept a pair of folding camp chairs on the porch. Somewhere they could sit together after work, have a drink, watch the sunset. Maybe kiss a bit. They’d talked about replacing those camp chairs lots of times, once they’d settled in. Once they weren’t living so hand to mouth anymore. They’d never gotten around to it. The porch swing looked shiny new, and big enough for two. 

The front door was still painted a deep bluey green, though. Like the ocean. Ed stood before it and took a long, slow breath. And then another. 

He knocked.

A pause, and then footsteps from within.

Stede opened the door, and Ed felt like he’d been punched in the face all over again. He looked…fuck. He looked soft. He looked warm. He had on a yellow silk banyan draped over impossibly cozy-looking mauve joggers and a t-shirt just tight enough to make Ed want to curl up on his chest and make biscuits like a cat. Backlit like some sort of madonna from the lamps within, his hair glinted gold in the light. 

“Ed,” he said, in that stupid, breathy voice that definitely didn’t shiver over Ed’s skin. He looked surprised to see him, and maybe even a tad sheepish. 

Ed forced himself to focus. “Can we talk?” 

Stede hesitated, and for a moment Ed thought he really might close the door in his face.

Stede stepped back and gestured inside. “Of course. Come in.” 

Ed followed him into the house and slipped off his shoes. Operating on reflex, he turned to put them in his usual spot to the left of the door, and of course it was still there: the wooden shoe rack he’d built once upon a time, with all his shoddy high school woodshop knowledge. Ed blinked hard, and then tucked his shoes in next to a pretty pair of midnight-blue brocade loafers. 

“Can I get you anything?” Stede asked. “A snack, a beverage? Glass of wine, perhaps?” His tone was carefully cordial. He looked nervous. 

“Uh, sure. Wine’s good.” 

Many, many songs have been written about how bad an idea it is to go over to your ex’s house at night for a glass of wine. Hell, Ed had written a couple of them himself. 

But he was just being civil. Adult. Stede was offering him an olive branch, and Ed was taking it. 

Stede disappeared into the kitchen, and Ed was left standing there, dazed and haunted in a perfectly preserved diorama of his old life.

His gaze bounced around the room restlessly. Everywhere he looked, there was some other tiny detail to knock him flat on his ass. 

The furniture, all largely the same. The art on the walls. There were the curtains Stede had sewn himself, including the spot of blood on one hem from the time the needle went clean through his thumb. They had to go to the emergency room for that one, only Stede had fainted so Ed had to carry him—limp and bloody—to the car. 

It even fucking smelled the same in here. Like their lavender detergent, and the beeswax candles Stede liked to buy from the farmers' market, and the miniature herb garden growing in the kitchen, and the faint scent of roses drifting in through the open front window, and the slightly musty (but not in a bad way) smell that all old houses have—the layers of paint, and dust, and mild water damage, and life that gets baked into the floorboards over the course of two hundred years. 

But there were a few new touches in here, too. An ugly lamp they’d both hated had been replaced, and a new print hung over the fireplace. The whole room looked like it had gotten a fresh coat of paint, but it was still that same rich blush color they’d picked out together, bickering for hours over paint chips at the hardware store. Ed had been positive it wouldn’t look right, but there was simply no out-stubborning Stede. 

Stede kept stealing looks at him. Ed stayed focused on the wall he was painting, working his roller up and down. 

“I can hear your thoughts over there, you know,” Ed said without glancing over. “If you don’t knock it off, I’m going on strike and you’ll be stuck painting this whole room all by your lonesome.” 

“Feel free to tell me anytime just how right I was,” Stede said, the smug bastard. 

“Why bother?” Ed fired back. “Your head gets any bigger, you won’t be able to fit through the door anymore.” 

Stede gasped in mock offense. He dipped his finger in the pink paint, reached over, and swiped it down Ed’s cheek.

Ed slanted him a dangerous look. “Don’t start a game you can’t finish, Bonnet.” 

“Bonnet-Teach, surely,” Stede sniffed. 

Ed blinked, and the ghosts of their past disappeared in a puff of smoke. 

The old girl still looked just as Ed remembered her, only…the prettiest version of herself. Like she’d been cared for, in Ed’s absence. Tended to, by someone who loved her. 

It wasn’t a surprise, really. Or it shouldn’t have been. Stede had always been like this. Taking on DIY projects with nothing but the zeal of homosexual audacity. Early in their marriage, Ed had fretted endlessly about everything Stede had given up—the rich boy life he’d walked away from, with just Ed as the consolation prize. But Stede always insisted he’d gotten the better end of that bargain, and he took to being broke with the sort of cheerful optimism that would’ve been annoying, on just about anyone else, only it was just so clear how truly happy it made him—all the new things he was learning, the ways he could be of use and make their life more comfortable. Stede had never cooked a day in his life—the Bonnets had personal chefs for that—but he signed up for cooking classes at the local community college so that he could learn how to feed them on a budget. After that class ended, he scoured the course catalogue and registered for anything that looked helpful: Visible Mending, and Furniture Upcycling, and Basics of Electrical Wiring, and Sewing 101. Anything he couldn’t find a class for, he brought home stacks and stacks of books from work. 

Sometimes, his projects ended in disaster, like the thing with the curtains, or the time he tried to hang a picture in their bathroom and somehow hit a pipe. But he turned out to be a pretty good cook, eventually, and decent at upholstery, and there was the time Ed had come home to find that he’d ripped out all the horrible carpet in their bedroom and uncovered nearly pristine original hardwoods underneath. 

Stede had spent all his life being told that he was useless. Pathetic. Unfit for work, or to care for a family like a “real man.” It made him glow from within, getting to take care of Ed—and their home—with his own two hands. It was fucking romantic, really. Used to make Ed swoon a bit if he thought about it too hard, once upon a time. 

He was taking his sweet time with the wine, though. Ed fought the urge to trail him, follow him, keep his eyes on him.

He wandered over to the mantle and peered at the familiar knickknacks on display—including a pair of the ugliest figurines Ed had ever seen. One: some kind of child’s school project of a clay angel. Presumably done as a Christmas craft, but its face was warped in a horrible rictus scream that made Ed think this guy had definitely seen the great and terrible face of god. The other, a kitschy, mid-century looking porcelain deer; its front limbs were bent down in the sort of play bow that dogs did, with its ass presented high in the air. Power Bottom Fawn, they’d called her. This particular duo were souvenirs from the time Stede had dragged him to some estate sale he’d been sure would have all kinds of hidden treasures. They’d gotten there at the ass crack of dawn, so Ed had already been grumpy, and his mood was only made worse once it became clear there was nothing but junk on offer. 

Stede had turned to him, a maniac light in his eyes and a grin spreading across his face. “Bet you can’t find the ugliest thing here.” 

And just like that, they were off—racing up and down the tables of knickknacks, giggling like little kids. Their respective finds had had pride of place on the mantle, ever since. 

Ed peered down the hallway next, and froze. Because there was his old piano, still tucked into its spot beside the stairs. It looked clean, as though someone had recently dusted it. 

“Stede? I’m ho—” Ed pulled up short in the doorway. 

His husband was sprawled out on the living room floor, performing what looked like open heart surgery on a ratty old piano. Stede was still in his work clothes, with his sleeves rolled up over freckled, ginger-y forearms. A light dew of sweat had broken out on his brow, and his tongue was poking between his teeth as he reached deep into the piano’s guts with an allen key. 

There were at least three different books scattered around him, cracked open on their spines. Ed craned his head to get a look at one of the titles—Piano Servicing, Tuning, & Rebuilding. 

Ed felt like someone had punched him straight in the throat. He’d mentioned maybe a couple weeks ago that he missed his mother’s old upright. That it had been good for songwriting. 

They hadn’t even kissed yet, but Stede already loved him better than anyone ever had. 

Stede looked up finally, and brightened. “Ed, you’re home! Look what I found—can you believe someone just left this out on the street?”   

Hand shaking, Ed reached out and plinked a few of the keys; it even sounded like it was in tune. Like it had just been sitting here, waiting for someone to come along and play it. 

He played a couple bars of something; some melody he’d had noodling around, half-formed. He’d been trying to make something of it for weeks now, but every time he tried to grab it by the tail, it slipped through his fingers before he could get anywhere. 

“That’s pretty,” Stede said from behind him.

Ed snatched his hand back, caught. 

Stede was carrying two glasses of wine. He offered one to Ed. “Shall we?” 

Ed followed him back into the living room. Stede gestured awkwardly to the coffee table, where a small plate of brownies was waiting. “Grabbed you a little treat, too, if you like.”

The brownies were steaming gently, like he’d taken the time to warm them up, and so rich with chocolate they were very nearly black. 

“Trying to butter me up?” Ed managed, voice hoarse.

Stede rolled his eyes, but it seemed playful—mostly. “Well, I do find you’re usually a bit more agreeable with a snack in you. Come, let’s sit.” 

Ed stared at the sitting area, considering his options. On the one hand: a squashy, cozy-looking striped armchair. That was new, but draped over its back was a very familiar knit throw. 

“Mmm, cold,” Ed whined—fucked out, lying bare ass naked on their living room floor. Stede had come home from work in a wild mood. Ed had been in the middle of making dinner, but Stede didn’t care—had to have him immediately. Fucked him until he screamed, three steps from the front door.

“I got you sweetheart,” Stede murmured. He reached up and pulled the soft, rust orange blanket off the back of the couch. Tucked it around them both, then pressed a kiss to Ed’s temple before snuggling into his side. “Let’s just rest here, a while.” 

Ed could smell his pasta sauce overcooking in the other room, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, either. 

Ed coughed. 

On the other hand: the bottle-green velvet sofa that they’d bought together. Stede had found it on Craigslist, barely used. A rich family who’d brought it, then decided it didn’t suit the space a few months later. The second Stede had introduced Ed as his husband to the nice white lady in her sweater set and politician’s wife blowout, her eyes had gone all misty. The next thing Ed knew, she was feeding them tea and cookies and listening with the rapt attention of an affluent liberal yoga mom as Stede told a (only slightly melodramatic) version of their elopement, Stede’s ostracism from his family. She’d knocked another hundred bucks off the price on the spot, and the second her back was turned Stede had turned to Ed and winked—so roguish and mischievous and kissable that Ed had to grip his own thigh under the table to stop himself from doing something drastic. 

How many nights had they spent cuddled up on that thing, watching TV—Stede’s fingers absently carding through his hair? This was where they’d sit after every gig, Stede rubbing his feet, soothing away all those hours on stage. And that was to say nothing of the debauchery they’d gotten up to on this couch. 

Ed took the armchair. 

They settled in, Stede perched delicately at the very edge of the sofa. For half a beat neither of them said anything. Ed took a hefty swig of his wine. 

“So-” he began just as Stede said, “Ed, listen-”

They both chuckled. Did the whole awkward after you, no I insist song and dance for a moment.

“Ed,” Stede began again, “I’d like to apologize.”

And that wasn’t what Ed had been expecting at all. “What for?” he asked, guarded. 

Stede picked at a loose thread in the upholstery, not quite meeting Ed’s eyes. “For my behavior, earlier. You took me a bit by surprise, is all, and I reacted poorly. It’s no excuse, but I just. I wish I’d handled that better.” 

“Yeah, um. Okay.” Ed didn’t really know what to say. Tried not to resent the fact that Stede was somehow upstaging him even now, when he’d come here to apologize himself. “It’s fine. And, me too. With the- y’know. Sorry.”

Ed was considered by some to be one of the greatest living songwriters. Bit hard to believe, right now. 

“Wasn’t right of me,” he tried again, but couldn’t quite force himself to look Stede in the eye. “Springing it on you like that. I was. I was being cruel.” 

“No,” Stede said—so sharply that Ed looked up. “Never cruel. Hurt, maybe. Angry. But you couldn’t be cruel if you tried, Edward.” 

Ed wasn’t so sure. Stede must’ve sensed it, because he raised an eyebrow and said, “Just eat your brownie and don’t bother arguing with me on this one.” 

Ed huffed under his breath, irritated that this side of Stede was still so fucking effective on him, after all these years. He snatched a brownie off the plate—still warm—and popped it in his mouth, purely for something to do. 

“Oh fuck me,” he groaned before he could stop himself—and then immediately froze, cheeks still chipmunk-full of gooey chocolate. 

Stede was watching him with gimlet eyes, pupils dark. Ed’s tongue darted out to sweep up the messy smudge of chocolate on his lower lip, and Stede tracked the movement. 

Ed shoved the rest of the brownie in his mouth and got busy chewing, looking around the room for literally anything else to think about. 

Another awkward silence fell. It was really a very large brownie, so Ed was chewing for a while. Bought him some time to think of something else to talk about, at least.

Nothing came to him. 

“Surprised you haven’t moved,” Ed said eventually, because he’d never met a bruise he didn’t want to poke. 

That seemed to snap Stede out of his brownie-induced lust. “Yes. Well. Impossible to find a reasonable place to rent, these days.” He snatched his wine off the coffee table and took a big gulp.

It didn’t feel great, listening to Stede talk like that. Worrying about money still, when Ed had more than he’d ever be able to spend in this lifetime. When he’d set out to make that money, initially, so that he could provide for Stede. For them together.

“Listen,” Ed said, “I know I was a dick earlier, but you should take the divorce settlement. Let me take care of you one last time.” 

Stede’s expression went shuttered and blank. “I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you.” He settled back against the couch again, and now that Ed was allowing himself to truly look, he got lost staring at the familiar sight of him there—his golden hair shining against the green velvet. 

No matter how hard he tried to forget, Ed still remembered the night of their first kiss like it was yesterday.

They’d barely been able to contain themselves, on the way home from his cousin's wedding. Found themselves on couch—the same one Stede was perched on now—still half dressed in their fancy clothes.

“I’d like to romance you,” Stede whispered against his mouth. “Properly.” 

Ed was in another universe, writhing and moaning in Stede’s lap. He was pretty sure he could come like this. Any second now, in fact.

“Uh-huh,” he responded—drunk with lust, half insane. 

“I don’t want to rush this,” Stede insisted, even as he let one of his hands drift down from Ed’s hip to palm at his ass.

No, really. Ed was about to come. 

He shoved himself upright. Still in Stede’s lap, but at least not humping him into the couch. He stared into the lamp, mildly blinding himself. Maybe orgasms were like sneezes, in that way. 

Ed took a breath, and then three more. Calmed down just barely off the edge.

And then he made the mistake of looking at Stede. His pupils were blown black. He was staring at Ed like he wanted to swallow him whole.

Ed closed his eyes again. “If we’re having this conversation, you gotta stop looking at me like that.”

“Can’t,” Stede said softly, and Ed felt all the air whoosh out of him with a shiver. 

Ed took a hasty sip of his wine and nearly choked.

“House looks good, though,” he said eventually, just to fill the silence. “Surprised the old man was on board for all these upgrades.” He swept a hand through the air, gesturing at the fresh paint, the new light fixtures.

“Oh.” Stede hesitated, looking strangely caught out. “No, I. Ah. I took care of all that.”

Huh.

“Shop must be doing well?” Ed ventured. 

“Hm?” Stede looked lost for a moment. “Oh. Yes. Turns out, customers rather enjoy book shopping when they’re not constantly being scolded for breathing too loud, or some such.”

They both chuckled nervously. 

“In any case, it was mostly DIY work,” Stede waved a dismissive hand around the room. “You know me.” 

His expression faltered slightly the moment the words were out of his mouth, and Stede took a big gulp of wine.

But he was right. Ed did know him.

Ed glanced around the room again, frowning. It hurt his heart a bit, trying to picture it. Stede up on a ladder with no one to spot him, replacing light bulbs. Heading back to the hardware store to pick up fresh cans of the paint they’d picked out together. Laying out plastic and drop cloths to cover the furniture. Re-painting the whole thing, working slowly and steadily around the edge of the room—all by his lonesome. 

It was really very quiet in the house. Quiet enough that Ed could hear the breeze rustling through the roses, outside. 

Ed drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. 

Stede gave him an apologetic grimace. “I appreciate you coming by, truly. I know tempers have been running high, but I do want to handle this like a couple of adults. I owe you that much, at least.” 

Ed’s face felt warm again. It wasn’t like he’d done such a great job either, being a grown up about this shit. “Yeah, uh. Same.” 

“But I really do need to have a lawyer take a look at this. Not that I don’t trust you!” he rushed to add. “And I promise, I’m not stalling or anything. Just, feel I should do my due diligence.”

“Yeah. That…that makes sense.”

“Provided it all checks out, I can have the signed papers over to you in the next week or so.” 

And why did Ed feel weirdly disappointed by that? 

“I assume you’ll be staying until after the tenth, at least?” Stede asked.

Ed frowned, and then it clicked. Right. It was already the end of May; his mother’s birthday was coming up. She was always big on birthdays, and Ed tried to spend them with her whenever possible. Last year they’d done a whole excursion to Paris. 

But obviously he hadn’t been home to celebrate with her in a very long time. 

It wasn’t like Ed had forgotten. He would’ve put it together in a day or two when he bothered to glance at his phone. But truthfully he hadn’t really considered his plans for going back to LA just yet. He had a whole round of meetings with Iz and the record label slated for next week. He was pretty sure he’d promised them an appetizer for the next album, which obviously he wasn’t anywhere close to being able to deliver. That sounded like a real bummer, and now Stede had just given him a perfect excuse to play hooky. 

“Uh, yeah, ‘course,” Ed bluffed. “I’ll stay until then, at least. Head back after.” 

“Great,” Stede said. “So I have a little bit to get my ducks in a row, then.” 

Ed nodded along. “Yeah, sure. Sounds fine.” 

Stede regarded him a moment, and then leaned in closer—suddenly conspiratorial. “Can you keep a secret?” He was a bit flushed around the nose and cheeks. Red wine always had that effect on him. Ed had found it impossibly cute, once. 

He tried to focus. “Uh, yeah?” 

“We’re throwing her a surprise party!” Stede exclaimed, all in a rush. 

Ed blinked at him. “We?” 

“The whole town!” 

For some reason, that jabbed at Ed funny. “So…you all were going to throw her this big 70^th birthday, and no one thought to invite me?” 

Stede leaned back abruptly, all the giddy excitement draining out of his expression at once. “I did reach out,” he said, just a tad tetchy. “The old number I had for you went straight to your assistant, or your manager—whatever his name is. Iggy? Total asshole, by the way. He said you were busy in meetings with your label all next week, or some nonsense, and hung up on me.” 

Ed was going to kill Izzy. 

“I assume your mother has a more up-to-date number for you,” Stede carried on, “but I couldn’t exactly ask her, now could I?” 

“Well, whatever. I’m here now. I’ll stay for the party, obviously.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Stede told him primly. But he could only keep the enthusiasm bottled up for so long. “We’re really pulling out all the stops, for this one. It’s Bridgerton themed!” 

Ed just stared at him.

“It’s her favorite show!” Stede explained. “We watch every new season together.” 

Ed groaned. Of course they did. “Not sure how I feel about you watching soft smut with my mum, mate.” 

Stede chuckled, shrugged. “She has a crush on Jonathan Bailey.” 

“Well, sure. She’s alive.” 

Stede took another sip of his wine. “She was a touch disappointed when I told her that he’s gay, but then she thought maybe he’d make a good match for your second husband.” He rolled his eyes. 

Ed couldn’t resist being a little bit of a shit, not when he was handed such a golden opportunity. “Yeah, probably not gonna happen.” 

Stede nodded along officiously, like that settled that.

Ed leaned back in his seat and recrossed his legs. Took another sip of wine. Said, casual: “We did hook up a few times though.” 

Stede froze. 

Ed hid his smile behind his glass. Stede had always had a possessive streak a mile long. Used to turn Ed on like nothing else, goading him. 

Stede set down his wine glass hard enough that the pinot noir threatened to slosh out onto the table. He was all flustered and fluttery. Adorable. Flicking a swoop of hair out of his eyes, then doing it again—huffing like an especially put-upon horse. 

He glanced at Ed—and immediately cottoned on to what he was doing.

“Oh, really, Edward,” he scolded. “Grow up.” 

Ed couldn’t help it, he burst into giggles. Maybe the wine was going to his head, too. 

Stede huffed some more and swirled his wine in his glass. 

A quiet descended. Not entirely awkward, this time, but it was also clear that this conversation was over. Stede had made his assurances, and yeah. Sure. Okay. Ed guessed it had maybe been naive to think he could breeze into town, ask for a divorce, and they could have the paperwork filed the same day. So for now, there was nothing more to do. Nothing more to be said.

Ed felt strangely reluctant to go. 

Stede patted his thighs and made to stand. “Well, as I said—I’ll find you some time before the party to hand over the papers.”

“Oh, uh…okay. Sure.” Ed tossed back the last trickle of his wine and stood up too. “Take your time, I guess. You know where to find me.”

Stede gave him a thin smile. “That I do.” 

Ed took another deep breath, just to breathe in the scent of this house one last time. For all he knew, this could be his last chance. 

At the door, they both paused again. Hovering.

Ed couldn’t help himself. “Hey, so, uh…my piano.” 

Stede stared at him, uncomprehending. “Yes?” 

“You kept it.” 

Stede frowned. “Of course I did! Some of my favorite songs of all time were written on that thing.” 

How the fuck was Ed supposed to respond to that? He didn’t know why, but he felt suddenly shy at the thought of Stede following his career. Listening to all those songs that Ed had written about him. Years and years of no contact, and Ed was still making their breakup half the world’s business. 

He couldn’t go there.

Instead, he forced a breathy chuckle. “Right. Probably worth a fortune by now.” 

Stede frowned some more, but didn’t respond. Didn’t take the bait. 

“Well,” Ed said into the silence. “Guess I’ll be seeing you. Thanks for the brownie.” 

Stede bowed his head slightly, and held the door open for him to pass. “Good night, Edward.” 

Ed slipped out the door into the night.

He was halfway down the path when he drew up short. There, just beginning to poke out of the dark soil in front of the garden fence, were leafy green shoots, perhaps four inches tall. 

Sunflowers. They’d planted them, together, the year he left. Ed had gotten bored at the garden store—Stede embroiled in some endless conversation about mulch with Mr. Bickershaw—and started flipping through the display of seed packets. He’d picked out the sunflowers because they reminded him of Stede.

Ed remembered Stede’s soil stained fingers, poking them into the earth. Showing Ed how to cover the seedlings with plastic takeout containers until they germinated, so that the light could get in but birds couldn’t steal their seeds right out of the dirt. This variety could grow up to eight feet tall, the seed packet had said. Hard to believe so much was contained in those tiny seeds, smaller than Ed’s pinky nail. 

Ed had left a few weeks later. He never got to see them come up. But Stede had continued re-planting them, apparently. For seventeen years.

Ed turned back towards the house. Stede was still there, standing in the doorway. Watching him. 

“Goodnight,” he murmured one more time.

“Night,” Ed said, overcome. 

Stede shut the door with a soft click, and Ed was let on their front walk in the darkness. 

Ed let himself out through the garden gate, and the small clang of the latch seemed to ring with finality in the cool night air. Ed shoved his hands in his pockets and began making his way down the street, back towards his mother’s. 

Halfway down the road, he allowed himself one final look back. The windows shone like beacons in the night, and Ed could just barely make out the dark mass of the roses climbing up the porch beams. His feet felt leaden, like he had to pry them off the asphalt to take the next step, and the one after that.

Like he was walking away from the only true home he’d ever known. 

A little life

A house by the sea

Salt air, and the scent of rose

And you and me

Such small things to want

But too much, it seems

Chapter Text

Partial transcript of Blackbeard’s Architectural Digest “Open Door” Interview (2013)

Blackbeard opens the front door of his home in the Hollywood Hills, dressed in his iconic leathers. This is a young Blackbeard—hair still mostly dark, body lean and lanky and done up in what nearly amounts to Billy Idol drag. 

BB: Heeeey AD! Excited to see you there, welcome to my humble abode. Come on in. 

Blackbeard leads the way inside. The entire interior is very starkly black, white, and (occasionally) gray. 

BB: So this is the foyer, where I do all my foying. 

He pulls up short at a piece of modern art hung on the wall—also in all black and white, with splatter-y geometric shapes.

BB: Here’s this art. Of, you know. Stochastic entropy. Or some shit. (Pause) Definitely picked it out myself.

He smirks at the camera. 

BB: Well anyway—follow me! 

He strolls down the hall, speaking over his shoulder. 

BB: The house was built in the 1920s, and I think some silent screen starlet lived here, originally. Least, that’s what the realtor told me. Blanking on who, though. Louise Brooks, maybe? That would be cool. You wouldn’t know it, looking at the place now though—would you? All modern and shit. Think one of the Jackass guys had it before me. 

He turns a corner.

BB: Right through here, let me show you the living room-

He pulls up short. Frowns. He appears slightly disoriented, like this isn’t where he meant to be.

BB: Oh wait, actually. Forget that. Let’s go this way!

He pivots, and turns down a different hallway. 

BB: Now this is the living room. Gestures through an open doorway. 

BB: As you can see, I’m apparently really into the whole black and white thing. He slants a glance at the camera. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually have a super intense chess kink. Have this whole fantasy where the rook and the knight team up to—

Blackbeard cuts himself off with a dismissive hand wave.

BB: Ah, forget it. It’s a whole thing. But apparently my designer decided to make all my dreams come true! 

Blackbeard pauses a moment, gazes around the room. His eyes land on one wall, currently displaying a whole series of poster-size images of himself on various album and magazine covers. He frowns some more, then bounces back for the camera. 

BB: Also, I’m super obsessed with myself. And yes, it is sexual. (wink)

BB: Okay! Shall we see more of the house? Let’s get on with it. 

He leads the way back into the hall and continues the tour. He shows off the kitchen and dining room, largely without incident, although in the kitchen he does seem mildly perturbed by an entire fruit bowl filled only with limes. He announces he’ll be showing the viewer the library next, but when he throws open the door in question it reveals a closet full of cleaning supplies instead. 

Blackbeard stands there a beat, staring at the shelves of Lysol and Windex and paper towels—not saying a word.

Eventually, he closes the door again and hurries down the hall in the opposite direction. 

BB: I mean who even cares about the library, though? Not like anyone reads, anymore. Why don’t I show you my “staring at my phone and mindlessly scrolling as I feel increasingly bad about myself” room instead? Now that’s the relatable content people are after! 

BB: And right this way, we have my home theater—

Blackbeard turns down another hallway and abruptly draws up short with a small scream at the sight of a mass of writhing black tentacles and teeth—a man-size, hyperreal painting of a rotten, gaping maw. One can practically smell the stench of carrion and drool coming off the thing. 

BB: Christ, always forget that’s here. Nearly piss myself every time I get up to get a glass of water in the night. What even is this thing? No disrespect to the artist but you need therapy, brother. 

He shakes it off and continues walking.

BB: All right, and here’s the home theater! 

He gestures inside a large, dark room. It’s got a bar and an actual popcorn machine in one corner. A half dozen reclining movie theater seats in the center of the room. A screen with an imposing sound system along the far wall. Everything, still, in black, white, and gray. 

BB: When I was buying the place, I honestly thought this was just more rich wanker shit. Too much money, too much space, don’t know what to do with yet another massive fucking room. Truth is, when I’m home, I actually spend a lot of my time in here. Downtime between tours, I tend to get really bored, but usually by that point I’m way too exhausted to be going out—too old for that shit now, plus it’s a whole thing with security and all that bullshit. So usually, you’ll find me in here, watching some classic 90s Julia Roberts joint. Does feel a bit excessive for one person, yeah, but fuck it—I’m rich now! 

As he continues touring about the house, Blackbeard turns pensive once more.

BB: The truth is, this is the first house I’ve ever owned. Bought it with the first real money I ever made, from my first album. There’s the kid in me who still kinda can’t believe I have this much space now. Just be nice if I could spend some more actual time here, y’know. He glances hurriedly at the camera. Not that I don’t love touring! Best part of the gig. Finger guns

BB: Anyway, guess we should take a look at the pool next? 

*

Excerpt from "At Home With Blackbeard" (Harpers Bazaar, 2019)

I sit down with Edward Teach in his sprawling Laurel Canyon home—which the singer bought for a cool 9 million two years ago, although it's visibly still in the process of being renovated. Blackbeard apologizes for the state of disarray as we pick our way through a cluttered mess of half-completed renovation projects and mish-mashed styling on our way to the living room, where we’ll be conducting the interview. Apparently, he’s undertaking many of these projects on his own.

BB: Yeah, my last place, I hired a stylist to oversee the whole renovation. But they had a lot of f—king opinions about what kind of house Blackbeard should live in—did the whole place in black and white. No f—king color. All these goth skulls everywhere. Like living in a f—king Hot Topic. Well, you’ve probably seen the AD tour thing. Or maybe not. I don’t know your life. But people love giving me shit for that one, even now. And then the guy I hired to fix it wanted this bland, beige California minimalism thing. So f—king boring. So this time around, I decided to do it all myself. If my house is gonna be ugly, I’d rather it be my ugly, y’know?

The house is a 6,000 square foot compound on the National Historic Register, and it seems somewhat insane to imagine Blackbeard going to Home Depot so that he can DIY the new bathroom tile. When I tell Blackbeard this, though, he just shrugs.

BB: I’ve always been good with my hands. I grew up poor, with my piece of shit dad never around to help, and I had a knack for mechanics and electricity and all that stuff. So you become the go-to handyman. I fixed the AC when it broke, and I fixed the plumbing when it leaked. When I first moved to LA, while we were finishing up Impossible Birds, I was taking on construction and maintenance gigs on the side, just to pay rent. And then of course the album came out and took off, way more than I think anyone expected, and here we are now. But just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten where I came from. 

I: Still, with your touring schedule, I imagine it’s been difficult to make progress on so many projects? 

BB: Yeah, sure. That’s part of it. But it’s also, y’know. The ol’ ADHD of it all. I get all jazzed up on a project, and then lose steam. Like I said, I used to do this stuff a lot. Not just basic maintenance. When you’re broke, you need to know how to make a house look nice on a budget. Sew your own curtains, refinish a piece of furniture you found on the curb. That sort of thing. And it’s nice, doing those things when it’s a place you love. You get to tend to it. 

I: And you don’t love this place? 

BB: It’s a gorgeous house. I like it a lot better than my old place, feel more like myself here—as much as I ever do in LA, that is. (Laughs) But it’s not home, you know? I came to LA when I was twenty-five, and I got really lucky in terms of the success I found. But yeah. It’s meant a lot of years on the road. And a lot of f—king weird relationships. My PA trying to coordinate with their PA so we can go on a date during the two days a month when we’re both in town. Seventeen years here, and I still feel a bit rootless, y’know?

Blackbeard drifts off, pensive. Then re-focuses. 

BB: Sorry. My manager’s gonna kill me when he sees we’ve been talking about all this sad sack shit instead of the new album.

I: It’s pertinent to the album though, isn’t it? 

Blackbeard doesn’t respond to this immediately. 

I: Well Break His Heart is about a string of unsatisfactory relationships, isn’t it? I mean this as neutrally as possible, but safe to say the last few years have been characterized by…let’s say a number of high-profile but largely short-lived relationships, is that fair?

Blackbeard smirks, chuckles.

BB: Yeah, I’ve been slutting it up a bit. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t heard what the press are saying. 

I: I don’t know. I’m not casting a value judgment. But when I listen to those songs all together, I don’t hear the story of someone who’s out partying because they’re having a good time. I hear someone who’s searching for something. And I think it gives the album—which has a lot of pop sensibilities, a lot of fun and froth to it—some emotional heft. Some depth. There’s a vulnerability to it, beyond just the hooks. 

BB: Yeah, that’s not intentional.

I: Sorry? Say more about that, please.

Blackbeard goes quiet again. He considers his answer a long time. 

BB: You’re not wrong, that’s all in there. But I didn’t set out to write something that would have, like, this secret core of vulnerability in it. I’m sure some people write that way, but I don’t know how. I have to honor the feelings as they come. I can try and direct them, maybe try and channel them in a certain way. But there’s no forcing it, and there’s no shaping it to be something other than what it is. You’re right. I am searching for something. I am vulnerable. So I can write all the pop hits I want, but if I did my job right, and they feel true and honest to what I felt—even if all the aesthetics are just pure, frivolous pop, there’s still going to be something tender at the core. Because that’s just true of who I am. Because I’m a person. I used to try, earlier in my career, to kind of force the feelings in one direction or another. Doesn’t work. Either it feels disingenuous, or—worse—the shit you were trying to avoid comes through anyway, louder than ever. 

That was the issue with I am the Kraken. I know, I know. No one better f—king @ me on Twitter, ‘cause I don’t want to hear your takes on a nearly decade old album. Point is, when I was writing that one, I wanted it to be an angry album. I wanted to be angry. I wanted that to be all I felt. Would’ve been easier. The other stuff I was feeling—that shit hurt. Lot of people don’t like that album because to them it feels flat, one note. Guess I can see that argument. But I still kind of love that one. Or, I don’t love it. I think it’s interesting, though. Because I wanted it to be an angry album so bad. But trying to force that just put like…a neon sign on all the other shit I was feeling back then. It seems so obvious to me, listening back now, so I do find it kinda jarring when people say that album is only angry, nothing else. 

I: But that’s not how you operated for this album? For Break His Heart? 

BB: No, learned my f—king lesson there. 

I: Not even around the music, the melodies? It’s a very tightly composed album, very sonically consistent. 

BB: Yeah, maybe. But I don’t think that was, like, a rule I gave myself, so much as that was just where my head was at, musically. Those sounds felt true to the stories I wanted to tell. Like, here’s this laundry list of f—kboys and shitheads and it all hurt in the moment, but I’m laughing now. I’m looking in the rearview mirror, and the wind is in my hair, and I look hot as f—k. Smirks. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that. But don’t we all? He tips his head to the side, thinking. That’s the other bit of it, too. Those bright, poppy melodies. You can get away with saying all kinds of dark, sad shit in the lyrics if people can still throw ass to it. Sounds ridiculous, but it becomes almost a safe space to be vulnerable. 

Chapter Text

Ed was feeling super normal. 

He forcibly unclenched his jaw and tried to focus on the movie he and his mum were watching. Something with Cary Grant, and his quippy reporter ex-wife. It was one of those ones Ed had always meant to watch and never got around to, but right now his head was so scattered, he couldn’t even remember the title. 

Ed had been on high alert for days now, his whole body tense with the prospect of seeing Stede again. Ready to run into him everywhere he went: if not the bakery, then the post office, or the Italian takeout place his mother liked to frequent. 

Braced for the jumpscare.

Only, it hadn’t come. Ed hadn’t even glimpsed him from a distance. 

Stede had to be doing it on purpose—giving him space and the chance to spend time with his mum, enjoy being home. He was probably being super conscientious, or whatever. 

It was driving Ed nuts. 

He wasn’t sleeping great, and his dreams were weird, and every time he picked up his notebook and tried to do a bit of noodling—didn’t even have to be good, just wanted to have written something again—his brain went completely blank and he couldn’t remember a single word of the English language. 

Worse, were the knowing looks his mother kept shooting him. They’d grabbed lunch at Lalla’s a couple days earlier, and every time the front door jingled Ed’s head had snapped up. His mother hadn’t said a word, but she’d looked at him like she knew exactly why.

It got bad enough, Ed had actually started looking forward to Saturday, since he assumed that Stede would at least come by for his weekly brunch date. It wasn’t like Ed wanted to see him, or anything. But it would…take the edge off, a bit. So he could stop anticipating him around every corner. That sort of thing. 

But Saturday came and went, and Stede didn’t show.

“No brunch this weekend?” Ed asked that afternoon, aiming for casual.

His mother peered at him over the top of her book, the slant of her eyebrows making it clear that she knew exactly what he was really asking.

She wasn’t above being absolutely infuriating about it, though. “No, guess not.”

Ed stared at her. She returned to her book and said nothing more.

And Ed wasn’t going to be the one to cave and ask directly, was he? 

So, he passed the rest of the day feeling restless and weird. His mother was living her best retiree life—most of her days were spent reading, or crafting, or doing a puzzle, or going on short strolls into town. Ed just wasn’t made for sitting idle like that.

After dinner, they’d settled in on the living room couch to watch a movie. Which brought them to here, now, with Ed watching Rosalind Russell attempt to hide a man inside a rolltop desk for some reason? Fuck, he was so lost, he really had no idea what was happening at this point. 

Also: he was grinding his teeth, and he had a headache, and he was deeply exhausted but his leg couldn’t stop bouncing bouncing bouncing against the couch. 

“How about a walk?” Mum asked, her tone carefully innocent. 

“I’m fine,” Ed grunted back, forcing his leg to still. 

But fifteen minutes later, she cleared her throat pointedly, and Ed realized he was doing it again. 

“Yeah, okay. Fine.” 

It was balmy out, spring tipping into summer, so Ed didn’t bother with his jacket before slipping out the door. He wandered the darkened streets aimlessly, his feet finding their way on autopilot, his body still somehow instinctively at ease here—add that to the list of things Ed really was not in the mood to examine too closely. 

Amazing how, outside the city, the night can be so quiet and so loud at the same time. The streets were empty, not a single car on the road, but in the stillness there was the nighttime orchestra of crickets and peepers. Distantly, the high, thin cry of a coyote. Someone had a shell and driftwood wind-chime strung from the porch eaves; it jangled and rattled in the breeze. 

The white noise of it all washed over Ed as he walked, but there was a knot of tension between his shoulder blades that he couldn’t quite release. 

Why, exactly, was it bugging him so much—not seeing Stede? He’d gone seventeen god damn years without seeing the guy. Suddenly he couldn’t handle seven days without feeling all jittery and out of sorts? The fuck was that about? 

Ed had known, on some level, that Stede would get under his skin like this. Wasn’t that why he’d stayed away so long? He’d been terrified that he would come home and melt right back into Stede’s arms—everything still just as unresolved, just as uncertain as when he left. 

Was that what he wanted? The fact that Stede was still living in their house, with all their old stuff—the walls the same color they’d chosen together, Ed’s piano sitting, tuned but unplayed, in the hall…these were not the choices of a man who’d moved on. If Ed wanted his old life back, he could probably just reach out and take it. 

There was a reason he wasn’t doing that. Probably a few of them, actually. 

Ed’s feet slowed to a stop. He was down by the water. Standing at the lip of the Boodhari’s dock. He scuffed his toe along the edge of the dock, where it met the grass and sand. The water lapped away, restless, and the old wood creaked and groaned, shifting with the current. 

It made him sad, and then angry, that his body still instinctively brought him here, times like these. Had this compass existed inside him the whole time he’d been gone—always pointing towards home, without him even noticing? 

Mrs. Boodhari never used to mind them loitering about on her dock, so Ed used to come down here, sometimes, when he had something heavy to think about, or if he and Stede were having a fight and he needed a breather. It was a win-win, in those situations. Gave him a bit of time to cool down, and Stede always knew where to come find him, once they were ready to be soft with each other again. 

And there were other times they’d come down here together. Happier memories. 

Against his will, Ed was reminded of Stede’s 22^nd birthday. 

It was July, so by that point they’d been married nearly five months. With every passing day, Ed felt like he was losing more of his mind. It was hot, and humid, and the upstairs window was too small for an AC unit so they were both sleeping in their underwear—or, in Ed’s case, mostly not sleeping at all. He would lay there, staring up at the ceiling late into the night, with Stede crowding in close beside him—his body a furnace, all those miles and miles of bare skin, and snoring like he’d never had a care in the world. 

It was in these moments that Ed’s mother’s words would come back to him, from that fight they’d had back in May: 

Do you not want love? Romance?

Well how’s that going to work? You’re going to date other people and then go home to your husband?

They’d gone out to Jackie’z for Stede’s birthday, an old haunt. It had been fun, at first. And then Ed had gone to get them another round, and some guy had leaned up against the bar beside him and started talking him up. Ed had been juuust tipsy enough to entertain it for a minute—especially once he looked back towards their table and saw Stede watching the whole exchange. Eyes locked on him, stormy and heated. 

Only, at some point it had tipped over from the fun sort of jealous, to Stede blotchy-faced and near tears—shouting at him in the parking lot. 

Well excuse me for not wanting to spend my birthday watching some man in a trucker hat hit on my husband!

Your “husband”? What the hell does that even mean? That I just never get to fall in love? I never get fucked again? Because you’re certainly not doing it!

The second the words were out of his mouth, Ed had known it was a mistake—but it was too late. Stede was staring at him with dark, fathomless eyes, looking for all the world like Ed had just reached inside his chest and ripped his heart out. 

The cab ride back to the house had been entirely silent. Which was fine, because it gave Ed time to formulate a plan.

A plan that brought them here, to this very dock. Stede—grouchy in his pajamas and still a bit drunk. Ed—so nervous he thought he might puke, clutching a pastry box containing a single cupcake. Lalla had lectured him for so long about disturbing her in the middle of the night, he’d had to sprint home so he didn’t miss the timing, and he was still sweaty. She’d still given him the cupcake, though. 

He and Stede had sat there together, side by side at the very end of the dock—staring out at the dark water. 

Ed took Stede’s hand. He was trembling, and his palm was all clammy, but Stede didn’t make a face or say anything about it, so Ed forced himself to be brave and soldier on. 

“Sorry for earlier,” he said. “Wasn’t right. I was just…frustrated. Said stuff I didn’t mean.” 

Stede looked down at their clasped hands. His brow was furrowed, like he was deep in thought, “It’s true though, isn’t it?” He peeked up at Ed, plaintive and searching. Like he was coming to understand something, and it hurt. “You want romance, Ed. And you deserve it.” 

Ed opened his mouth to argue, then paused. Considered it for a second. 

“Romance isn’t just one thing though,” he said slowly. “S’not just kissing, or sex, or whatever. You can be romantic with your friends.” 

Stede was watching him very carefully. Wary, like a dog starving, but kicked too many times to trust the scrap of meat in your hand. 

Ed laced their fingers together. Continued on, braver now. “It’s romantic as fuck that you know how I take my tea. And you found that piano for me. Fucking learned how to rebuild it, too. Dead romantic. All the stuff you do for the house. The way you try for us.” Ed looked deep into his eyes and willed Stede to understand. To see what was really happening here.

“Whatever happens,” Ed said, with all the sincerity in his heart, “however this goes…I’m really glad I married you.” 

A smile bloomed across Stede’s face, like a spark catching flame in the bare winter woods—small at first, but burning brighter and brighter. 

“Me too,” he said.

Ed let go of Stede’s hand then, but only to retrieve the bakery box sitting beside him. He popped the lid and plucked the cupcake out. It already had a single candle poking out of the cream puff cloud of frosting on top. 

“Oh, Ed!” Stede said quietly. 

He reached for the cupcake, but Ed jerked his hand back. “Hang on! It’s only,” he paused to check the time on his phone, “11:10. Patience.” 

Stede folded his hands in his lap, beaming at Ed.

They’d started this tradition as kids. Stede insisted that 11:11 on your birthday was the most powerful time to make a wish. Even when they’d still been properly children—with bedtimes and dictums to be home before dark—they would sneak out of their houses to creep down the street and knock on each other’s windows, just so that they could make the wish together. 

Sitting on the dock, Ed had to fumble a bit to wriggle his lighter out of the tight pocket of his pants, but he managed it. He lit the candle. Checked the time again. 

11:11

“Okay, now,” he held the cupcake out for Stede.

But Stede didn’t take it. He was stuck there, staring at Ed with a truly staggering amount of affection. More than Ed deserved, surely. 

“C’mon man,” Ed nudged. “You’re gonna miss it.” 

As Stede blew out the candle, his eyes never strayed from Ed’s face.

It wasn’t his birthday, but Ed made his own wish anyway—just as the candle guttered out.

Ed stared out across the water at the rippling silver reflection of the quarter moon. 

Looking back on their relationship now, Ed felt afraid. Scared, for his younger self. Like he was watching someone carefully pick their way across a rocky ledge, heedless of the drop below. It didn’t make any sense—Ed already knew how this story ended. But these memories…he was watching twenty-two-year-old Ed find his way across the face of a cliff, the tiniest footholds crumbling to sand beneath his feet. Ed’s heart was in his throat. He wanted to scream, to call out to that younger version of himself—tell him that he should be more careful. That he should be afraid. 

They had been so happy. And then it all shattered, like some priceless, blown glass figurine dropped to the floor. No matter how precious, how beloved this treasure had been, it was all in pieces now. Impossibly delicate shards. There could be no putting it back together. 

Ed turned his back on the water and began walking back towards town. 

He passed the turn for his mother’s street and kept going, towards the square. He wasn’t ready to be home yet. Head was still all full of bees. 

His first decade or so in LA, all Ed had wanted was for someone to replace Stede. Didn’t matter who they were, not really. He’d just wanted someone to plug straight into that same hole that Stede had left behind. For someone to consume him in just the same way, so that Ed wouldn’t have to spend every waking minute feeling that absence like a phantom limb. Severed at the joint, but the pain never went away. 

He’d dated a lot of shitheads. Even let himself believe with a few of them. But he’d known real love, once. He could only fool himself with the counterfeit sort for so long. 

And then he met Gabe. 

Gabe was kind. Gabe was genuine. Gabe was handsome as a Ken doll, but without the cold of plasticine (or the unfortunate anatomical limitations). 

Most importantly: Gabe liked Ed. Like, actually liked him. Wanted to spend time with him. Enjoyed a good cuddle, even when Ed had eaten kind of a lot of cheese at dinner and fucking wasn’t really on the table for the night. When their schedules kept them apart, Gabe called every night like clockwork on his way home from set. He sent flowers, and always brought Ed something sweet when he came home after a trip. 

Did Ed feel the same kind of intense, ruinous chemistry with Gabe that he had with Stede? That feeling that, out of everyone in the universe, they were the only two people who truly got each other? No, of course not. It was different, without all the history, the context, the baggage. All those years and years of friendship and little intimacies. The long, slow simmer of tension. 

Also: Ed wasn’t fucking twenty-one anymore. 

Still, they had fun together. Gabe was easy, and unproblematic, and he didn’t play games, but he could still be a little bit of a bitch when necessary—just the way Ed liked it. Their sex life was solid, if a bit inconsistent, purely on account of their ridiculous schedules. 

Ed had met Gabe two years ago, and all of a sudden he felt…calmer. That gaping hole didn’t feel so gaping, anymore. Not because Gabe slotted perfectly into the space Stede had left behind, the way Ed had always wanted. In his more honest moments, usually when he was deep in the tequila, Ed knew that some part of him would spend the rest of his life missing Stede. There would be no replacing him. But that didn’t have to mean he could never love again. That he couldn’t be loved. Maybe life could begin again. 

Sometimes, Ed would listen to an old song of his—one from early in his career. Songs that were ostensibly hopeful, about finding new love. When he listened to them now, though, all he heard was fear. He didn’t think he’d ever really believed it—that there could be another, after Stede—until Gabe. 

It had been a relief. But it had also felt like grief. Finally letting go. 

Maybe that was why he hadn’t been writing much lately. 

But grief didn’t last forever, right? Seemed hard to believe, after seventeen years, but Ed had carried on living through the heartbreak, and he could finally see light on the other side. Bound to be a little disorienting, wasn’t it? Wasn’t weird of him, needing some time to adjust. That was why he was here. Closure. 

And sure, it was bound to stir up some confusing feelings. Being near Stede again, after the long drought. That wasn’t weird. But Ed simply could not go there. It was just not an option, even if Stede would welcome him home tomorrow. 

Ed wasn’t strong enough. He would not survive the fall a second time. 

Tucked into the pocket of his jeans, his phone began to vibrate. Ed pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Izzy.

Fuck that. Ed ignored the call and returned his phone to his pocket, kept walking. They had nothing to talk about. Ed had already texted him the other day, telling him to cancel his meetings with the label. Izzy had not taken it well, and had been texting him increasingly unhinged screeds about Ed’s moods and his inconsistency and what a pain in the ass he was as a client. Had gone so far as to insinuate the label might drop him if he didn’t get his act together.

Ed was getting pissed all over again just thinking about it. Fucking let them. Ed would go indie in a heartbeat; at this point in his career, the label needed him way more than he needed them. Inconsistency—give him a fucking break. Ed had pumped out a new album just about every two years since 2009, with the exception of 2021, when he was busy going insane inside his own house. But he wasn’t a fucking machine. the innkeeper had only just come out in ’23, and it had very nearly won him yet another Album of the Year Grammy, probably, so everyone could get off his dick. 

In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate again. Ed ignored it, and eventually it stopped.

And then it started again.

Fuming, Ed shoved his hand in his pocket and answered it without looking. “Swear to god, if you don’t stop I’ll block you, mate.” 

On the other end of the line, a warm chuckle. “Let me guess, Izzy?” Gabe asked. 

Oh, shit .”Hey. Fuck. Hi. Sorry.” Ed stumbled, off-kilter. 

But Gabe seemed totally unperturbed. “Hey sweetheart. How’s it going back home?” He sounded slightly tinny, a whooshing in the background that made Ed think he was in the car. 

Ed shrugged, even though Gabe couldn’t see it. “Not bad. Good to spend some time with Mum. Nice and quiet here.” 

“I’m glad you’re getting some rest. You deserve it,” Gabe said, and Ed’s heart gave a complicated little twist. The poor guy had proposed—on the beach, with candles, and flowers, the whole deal—only to get a pretty wishy-washy maybe in return. And if that weren’t concerning enough, Ed had promptly disappeared without warning the next day to go home and see the mother he’d refused to introduce to his boyfriend of two years.

But there was no passive aggression in Gabe’s tone, no hint of simmering resentment. He really wanted Ed to take his time, if that was what he needed. 

They chatted a bit, catching up on the last few days. Ed tried to listen attentively as Gabe talked through the pros and cons of two scripts he was considering—one a gritty prestige drama that could be Oscar bait, but everyone knew the director was a nightmare to work with; the other an offbeat adaptation of some sci-fi novella Ed had never heard of, with a killer script but a very young director shooting her first major feature. 

Ed’s mind kept drifting, though. Ping-ponging between being mad at Izzy and confused about Stede and also kind of mad at Stede, too, which then segued into being mad at himself because hasn’t it been long enough and oh, right—now he was irritable with Mum again as well- 

“Sorry,” Gabe chuckled, interrupting Ed’s spiral. “I know it’s boring.” 

Shit. “No, no babe,” Ed rushed to reassure him. “Keep talking, I’m listening.” 

Gabe sighed. “Nah, I’m sorry. You told me you needed space, and here I am yapping away about work crap.” 

Ed fell silent, thrown. Was it somehow possible that Gabe was enforcing Ed’s own boundaries on his behalf? 

Before he could say anything else, Gabe spoke again. “Just tell me one thing. Are you doing okay? Really?” 

He said it so gently, and Ed couldn’t help but be touched. “Yeah, I’m good. Promise.” He chewed his lip. “You’re good to me, you know.” 

Gabe laughed softly, like it was all so easy. Like Ed was flattering him or something.

And then, a little more hesitantly, he asked, “And…we’re okay?” 

Ed opened his mouth to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. What could he say that wasn’t a lie? 

I love you, I’m pretty sure, because you’re perfect and great and I’d be an idiot not to, but I also saw my ex this week, who is probably the great love of my life, only I’m so mad at him and also he drives me insane and also I’m terrified of him and also I’ve never felt any of that with you and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Oh yeah, and also I’m *technically* still married to that guy. Sorry I never told you. 

Before he could figure it out, Gabe came to his rescue again. “Sorry! Fuck, I’m doing it again. Take your space, seriously. No pressure. I just miss you.” 

Ed couldn’t help it—he laughed. “Shut up,” he told Gabe fondly. 

Gabe shut up. 

“We’re good,” Ed told him finally, because Gabe deserved someone to reassure him. “Promise.” 

Gabe let out a long sigh into the phone. “You’re good to me, too, you know.” 

It made Ed’s stomach feel sort of squirmy, but he kept his mouth shut. 

Gabe didn’t notice. “Go have fun with your mom. Love you.” 

“Yeah,” Ed told him, feeling like he’d been wrung out. “Love you too.” 

He hung up, feeling more confused than ever. 

Ed just stood there a moment, feeling lost. This time, he’d wandered all the way into the heart of town, the main square. Most of the shop windows were dark—everyone long since gone home, tucked into their beds. 

Everyone except for Stede, apparently.

The lights were on inside Long Ago & Far Away. Blazing like a lighthouse in the night, drawing Ed in. 

Without his permission, Ed’s feet began to wander over. 

Once he was close enough, he peered in the windows. There was Stede, balanced precariously at the very top of one of those roll-y ladders. Ed’s breath caught as he reeeeached—leaning forward and stretching his arm as far as it would go—to shelve the book he had clutched in one hand. He overbalanced, and Ed uttered a soft gasp as the ladder suddenly rolled forward at an alarming rate. Stede’s arms windmilled wildly for a moment, and Ed was already lunging for the door handle, but of course then Stede executed some bizarrely elegant stunt maneuver, using the momentum of the ladder to swing himself back around more firmly onto the rung. He hung on tight as the ladder careened to the end of its track and shuddered to a stop. Stede looked around, breathless and wild-eyed for a moment, like he couldn’t believe he was still alive.

Ed was similarly stunned. 

This fucking lunatic. Shitting christ. 

Before Ed had even really made a decision, he was turning the handle and opening the door. 

The sign in the window said closed, but the door was unlocked.

The bells chimed to announce Ed’s entry, and Stede paused climbing down the ladder to look around in surprise. For half a second, his face lit up at the sight of Ed—and then he remembered. 

“Ed?” He asked, tone carefully polite—face blank.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Ed said without preamble. “Whole town is throwing my mum a birthday party—be pretty fucked up of me not to help, right?” 

Stede eyed him warily. “I suppose…?” 

Ed shrugged. “Okay, well. I’m here. Put me to work.” 

Stede descended the last couple rungs of the ladder so that he could stand on level ground. He squinted at Ed, head tilted to one side—trying to get a read on what was really going on here.

Ed wasn’t totally sure himself. Why was he doing this? What had possessed him? His head was all a mess, and the absolute last thing he needed right now was to be spending a bunch of extracurricular time in close quarters with Stede, watching him do something as endearing as throw Ed’s mother a surprise 70^th birthday, themed after her favorite bodice ripper TV show. 

And yet. Here he was, offering. 

He scuffed his feet against the old hardwoods. “It’s just…hitting me, I guess. How much I’ve missed out on with her. Being away.” He peeked up at Stede, who was listening attentively—eyes soft. “I mean, yeah. She comes to visit. We talk on the phone. But she has a whole life here, without me, that I don’t know anything about. And it’s not like we have an infinite number of years left together.” 

It was all true—painfully so. A few days earlier, when Ed mentioned that he’d be staying through her birthday, she’d smiled bright enough to blow the power grid, looking almost childlike in her excitement. Ed had always worked hard to make space for his mum in his new life. They’d traveled all over the world together, eaten at the kinds of restaurants that they hadn’t even known existed when Ed was a kid. But nothing had ever made her as happy as hearing that Ed would be home with her for her birthday. 

Still, standing here now, Ed couldn’t shake the feeling he was trying a little too hard to convince Stede—and himself—of his motives.

“Okay,” Stede said eventually. “If you really want to help, we could always use the extra hands.” He paused, then added, “I should warn you, though. I’m the captain of the party planning committee. If you want to be involved, it means we’ll need to work together. Civilly.” There was enough bitch in that last word that Ed had to force back a smile. 

He shrugged, casual. “Yeah fine. No problem. Anything for Mum, right?” 

Stede bowed his head. “For Anne, yes.” 

“Great.” Ed gazed around the store. Stede had set up some kind of work station at one of the reading tables—it was strewn all over with bits of paper, and Stede’s notebook lay open on its spine. Also, for some reason, a sewing machine and a small mountain of fabric scraps. 

Ed pulled out a chair and flopped into the seat. “So what needs doing?” 

“Now?” Stede seemed thrown all over again.

“No time like the present.” 

Stede continued giving him that bemused, too thoughtful look a moment longer—trying to puzzle him out. 

Eventually, he gave up. He took his own seat at the table and retrieved those silly, sexy little glasses from his breast pocket, perching them on the end of his nose. 

Stede turned a page in his diary and read aloud: “Tonight I’m working on embroidering all the personalized handkerchiefs we’re giving away as party favors. Still have quite a bit of work to finish there.” He gestured towards the little heap of fabric beside him. 

What kind of fucking party was this?? 

Ed glanced at the sewing machine. “You sure you’re allowed to operate one of these things unsupervised?”

“Ha. Ha.” Stede shot him a waspish look over the top of his glasses. Ed behaved himself and ignored the little shiver that went rolling down his spine. 

Stede carried on reading. “And we’re putting up the twinkle lights in the square this weekend.” 

Ed interjected again. “Won’t she be suspicious about that?”

Stede waved him off. “The middle school chorus has their annual ‘Salute to ABBA’ night coming up, so we’ll just tell her it’s for that.” 

“Right. ‘Course.” 

“And we wanted to get everyone costumed for the event, but Ms. Sophia seems to be struggling as we get closer to the deadline, even though I gave her plenty of notice,” Stede made an epic bitch face at that. Then paused, and conceded. “She does beautiful work, of course, but she seems to have slowed down in her twilight years.” 

Wasn’t exactly shocking, considering Ms. Sophia, the only seamstress in town, had been in her late seventies when Ed and Stede were first married. 

“You know you could order pre-made costumes, right? Get them from Party City, or whatever?” Ed was baiting him, a little bit, but he couldn’t help it. 

The look Stede gave him was positively withering. Ed tried his best not to smile.

He leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, that’s no problem. I’ll get my guy on it.”

Stede raised a brow.

“John Feeney,” Ed explained. “Does all my tour costumes—he’s a genius.”   

“Oh, really, Ed? That would be wonderful.” Stede brightened so quickly, it made Ed’s mouth water. Ed used to make him look that way all the time. 

It made Ed slightly stupid, seeing it again. 

“Oh, shit.” He sat up in his chair so fast, he nearly fell out of it. “What are you doing for music?” 

“We’ve hired a DJ, why?” 

“I can do you one better.” Ed pulled out his phone and started tapping away as he explained, “I know the guys from Vitamin String Quartet. They covered one of mine for the show-” 

“Yes!” Stede interjected, excited. “Falling Stars! They used it in season 4, didn’t they?” 

Ed looked away, his face flushing warm at the thought of Stede encountering that song in the wild. Of course they’d wanted to use it in that show; it was one of his sexier tracks. 

And it had very much been inspired by a particular incident with Stede and a meteor shower and one of their first “dates,” which had then turned into the first time they’d fucked. Stede was only the second guy Ed had…well. Gone all the way with. He’d felt like he was losing his virginity all over again—the two of them trembling and nervous, twined around each other in the bed they’d already shared for months. Stede had gone a bit tear-y, after, and Ed had kissed the salt from his cheeks, over and over, until they’d fallen asleep like that, their faces still pressed close. 

Ed risked another glance at Stede now; there was a knowing glint in his eyes and a rosy flush to his cheeks and a satisfied tilt to his mouth. 

Yeah. He definitely knew. 

“One of my favorites,” Stede told him, very pink and very earnest. 

And what the fuck was Ed supposed to say to that??

“Right. Cool,” he managed. “I mean, hopefully they’ll do it.” 

Stede beamed at him, then returned his attention to his list. He ran his pen down the length of it, trying to find where he’d left off. “Oh, and Roach will be doing a whole cake and pastry display, so he’s asked me to meet with him sometime in the next couple days for a final tasting. You’re welcome to join?” 

Fuckin’ twist his arm. “Hell yeah, I’m there.” 

Stede chattered on—talking about the floral arrangements he needed to review, and the chair rentals he needed to pick up, and the asshole dance instructor he’d tried to hire to teach the whole town the Viennese waltz before giving the whole thing up as a bad job. Ed interjected now and again—arguing in favor of daffodils in the floral arrangements (his mother’s favorites, even if they weren’t strictly in season) and against adding croquet to the lawn games area (Buttons was coming, and Ed did not trust him with a mallet). Stede took most of his suggestions in good grace, and even the stuff he pushed back on, their bickering felt…well. Nice. Comfortable. 

Achingly familiar. 

“No fucking away are we doing fondant icing,” Ed insisted. “That shit is disgusting.” 

“But it will look spectacular!” Stede argued. 

Ed shook his head, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s an affront to god.” 

“Just picture it-”

“Stede,” Ed cut him off. “Of the two of us, who do you think is eating more cake at this thing?” 

Stede gave him a sullen look. “You. Obviously.” 

Ed raised his eyebrows. “That’s right. And yet you’re questioning my sweet tooth credentials?” He shook his head with a little tsk. “You know better than that.” 

 Stede rolled his eyes. “Fine! Have it your way!” He made a little note in his diary, still huffing a bit, but there was a smile playing at his mouth. 

Ed watched him a moment, then realized he was smiling too. He shook it off before Stede could see. 

Something occurred to him. “Hey, by the way—who’s paying for all this?” 

Still scribbling in his notebook, Stede tensed. “Well…” he began carefully, “the town is all in on it, so we raised some funds at the National Pancake Day Carnival.” He paused, then said all in a rush—mumbling like he didn’t want Ed to hear, “And I’ll cover the rest.”

“Absolutely not,” Ed told him at once. 

Stede opened his mouth to argue, but Ed cut him off. “C’mon, mate. Don’t make me look bad. It’s my own mum’s seventieth. I’ve got the bill.” 

Stede eyed him a moment, chewing his lip. “Fine,” he said eventually. 

Ed smiled—angelic and sunny. “See? Was that so hard?” 

Stede scowled at him. “Yes.” 

And it was just so familiar—this time, Ed couldn’t help it, he threw his head back and laughed. 

They kept going like this, late into the night, and when they'd finished arguing their way through the list, Stede announced that he really did need to get to work on those embroidered hankies. Ed couldn’t help with that part, but he stuck around anyway—just in case Stede needed someone to carry him to the emergency room again, obviously. 

It was long past midnight by the time Ed got home, the house dark and quiet—his mother in bed. Ed took off his shoes and crept down the hall towards his room, trying not to feel like he was seventeen again, sneaking back into the house after seeing a boy. 

Ed climbed into bed, and for the first time since he’d come home, fell asleep almost immediately—all the bees in his head quiet, at least for now. 

Chapter Text

A sampling of Twitter reactions to the 60th Annual Grammy Awards (2018)

@alice.siu: its giving billy bob and angelina #grammys 

@imthefxckingdevil: literally cringing watching this blackbeard #grammys red carpet moment. GIRL WHERE ARE YOUR FRIENDS??

@popcrave: Blackbeard stuns in a custom Bob Mackie dress, alongside Jack Rackham #Grammys

@shady-sadie - QTing @popcrave: lol popcrave really said “jack rackham was also there” 

@oatmeal_influencer: so we all agree, the dick must be life changing right? #grammys

@SamSanders (verified): I think I just watched Blackbeard get pregnant on the red carpet #Grammys

@enews (verified): after sharing a passionate embrace with beau Jack Rackham, Blackbeard tells Ryan Seacrest, “Who knows? Maybe I’m off the market for good these days.” #Grammys

@asacrew: um. really disappointed in #Blackbeard. Jack Rackham??? Are we just not going to talk about the shit he said on that podcast??? #grammys

@hunteryharris (verified): since we’re all talking about Blackbeard’s problematic love life tonight gonna take this opportunity to plug my most recent piece [link embed - Boys Don’t Cry Black Glitter Tears: Blackbeard and the Gender of Heartbreak, Vulture]

@your.favorite.whim11.11: this is what dickmatized looks like people #grammys #blackbeard

@lookingformymerperson: ugh it’s so hard to watch. he just wants love so bad but his taste in men is AWFUL 

@RecordingAcad: Congrats Album of the Year winner — THE RABBIT OR THE WOLF @Blackbeard #Grammys [video embed - Blackbeard AOTY acceptance speech]

@dancingxinxmyxstorm: I liked the #Blackbeard album and all but Lorde was ROBBED. Justice for Melodrama!! #GrammysSoMale

@deuxmoiworld: Guess @Blackbeard isn’t off the market, after all [first photo embed - a screenshot of a DM: Anon pls! I was at a Grammys afterparty and stopped to talk to a friend waiting in line for the bathroom. she said she’d been there forever, and we were pretty close to the door so we could hear some WILD noises coming from inside. Like a lot of whimpering and whining. Sounded like someone was getting stabbed tbh. 5 min later, Blackbeard comes stumbling out with his hair and makeup a mess. I assumed it was Jack Rackham in there with him, but the craziest part is I saw JR leaving later with some blonde girl I didn’t recognize and he was ALL over her] [second photo embed - a blurry, nighttime photo of two people exiting a hotel lobby, walking towards valet. They're shot from behind - a white man in a fringed jacket with shoulder-length hair, his hand on the ass of a blonde woman in a short, sparkly red dress]

@Blackbeard (verified): This album meant a lot to me. Glad it meant a lot to you, too. [photo embed - Blackbeard posing with his AOTY trophy. There’s a white man’s hand curled around his waist, but the person has been cropped out of frame]

*

Transcript from a YouTube clip of Blackbeard’s red carpet interview from the 66th Annual Grammy Awards (2024)

Interviewer: I’m here with Blackbeard, who’s nominated for a whole bunch of stuff tonight, including his fourth Album of the Year Award for the innkeeper. First of all, Blackbeard, can you tell us who you’re wearing?

Blackbeard: This one’s custom Valentino. [he does a little twirl to show off the ensemble — a fire engine red suit with a very low neckline. The jacket kicks out a bit as he spins, revealing a flash of the coral silk lining with some kind of embroidery]

I: Well, you look stunning. Now tonight’s a bit dramatic, because there are actually two nominees for Album of the Year who could make history. No one has ever won the award four times, but tonight that’ll change if either you or Taylor Swift win. How are you feeling about your chances? 

B: I’m just happy to be here, man. 

[Interviewer laughs]

I: Now, you and Taylor have gone up against each other twice before. Once in 2014, when you took home the award for Art of the F—kery, and again in 2016 when she won for 1989. Would you say tonight is the ultimate showdown between the two of you? 

B: Oh, for sure. And if that doesn’t work, we can always resort to pistols at dawn. [everyone laughs] No, but seriously—I think Olivia vs. SZA are going to be the real head-to-head tonight, if there’s any justice in the world. The two of them put out absolute masterpieces this year, and I hope the voters recognize that. Really impressed with Olivia, in particular. Especially for someone so young, I know better than most people how hard a sophomore album is. [everyone laughs again] For real though, I’m just here to have a good time tonight. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d do with another one of those things cluttering up my living room, and Taylor’s always texting me, complaining about what a bitch they are to dust. But I hear f—king Joni Mitchell is performing tonight! Gonna have a few drinks, enjoy the music, and have a good time with my date. 

[camera pans over to reveal Gabe St. James, wearing a standard black tux.]

I: Wow! Hard launching at the Grammy’s, that’s a bold choice.

[big laugh]

I: Gabe, who are you rooting for tonight? 

Gabe St. James: Well, my money’s on Taylor. [everyone laughs again] In all seriousness, I think he’s too modest. If you ask me, the innkeeper is his best album yet. 

[Blackbeard blushes. Gabe St. James wraps an arm around his shoulders and gives him a little jostle.]

I: Oh my gosh, you two are so cute together! What do you think, Blackbeard—there was an awful lot on the most recent album about settling down…? 

[Blackbeard’s face freezes for a moment, but then his smile bounces back]

B: Oh yeah? Well you know, this album was pretty much entirely fictional. 

[Interviewer gives Gabe St. James a playful nudge]

I: What do you say? You think he’ll be off the market, soon? 

[Gabe St. James smiles earnestly—eyes fixed on Blackbeard]

G: One can only hope.

A SAMPLING OF THE COMMENTS SECTION:

@figfigfig1717: can we STOP asking Blackbeard these asinine questions about settling down?? It’s so WEIRD and bORING!! ask him something about his music ffs 

@swiftbeardie13:  ok but… can we all acknowledge he’s been going through kind of a slut phase lately? I think it’s nice to see him with a good guy 

@MegGomez8366: um ok but if he were straight would we even be talking about his ‘slut phase’

@swiftbeardie13: all I’m saying is I’m happy for him!! can we skip the discourse pls? 

@catboycollarme69: then say that? its literally not hard? 

@yourfirstlunatic2824: idk did we see bb’s face when she asked? he knows that man is not the one 

@joe.l.hendricks4: aaaand here come the first musers… don’t you psychos have anything better to do? touch grass 

@littlestdonut17: they’re out here analyzing micro expressions like this is the zapruder film

@finn.park366: he made a face bc the question was weird and invasive! it’s not that deep! 

@aquamarine-and-lavender: forget his face, LOOK AT THE LINING OF THE JACKET. stg those are roses in the embroidery!!! he knows what he’s doing