Work Text:
There's something Ed looks forward to every Tuesday night. It's so small, and so simple, but it still gets him through Izzy's bitching and the drag of his job. It's walking home and stopping at a ramshackle dance studio where apparently Tuesday night means ballroom dancing.
The first time was a fluke. His driver had a flat and he didn't live far from his apartment, so he'd taken the chance to walk. He had figured it'd be good for him, he just hadn't realized how good until he'd seen a blonde in a tux, complete with tails dancing behind the window of the studio.
He had been handsome, dancing through the music like Gene Kelly with a smile beaming on his face as he carefully guided a woman through the steps. Ed didn't have many peaceful moments in his life, but it felt like the window into the studio had somehow captured one. Tranquil. Beautiful.
That had been the start. The next day he'd found the studio filled with an energetic twinky guy leading some sort of stripper dance class. But the Tuesday after it'd been the Cute Blonde again, dressed to the nines all the way down to polished black and white shoes.
So, Ed walks home on Tuesday nights and watches through the window as the nameless man teaches ballroom dances. Every time he's dressed formally with perfectly styled hair, his smile wide. He dances like he doesn't have a worry in the world. Ed envies him that.
It's like he's found some liminal space where for the span of time he can relax. He can watch the cute man dance and turn, laugh and float across the ground. He remembers watching Beauty and the Beast, that fucking ballroom scene, remembers kinda wanting to be Belle.
But Ed's never been Belle, he knows that, he's always been the Beast. He's always been dark, hard, unyielding. He's leather and steel. He's the reason people sort of fucking avoid him. But while he watches each evening, he still wonders what it'd be like to be Belle.
Six weeks since he began walking home he feels the familiar happy buzz to see what outfit the man will wear tonight. Last week he'd worn a white tux with a top hat. Ed had watched with wide eyes as he'd tap danced, with a cane! Two kids had been there with the normal crowd giggling. Ed had too.
Sometimes it feels like the only part of his week he looks forward to is this, and that makes Ed feel all sorts of fucking things. He can't quite remember the last time he just felt some fucking joy. He can't even remember the last time he's smiled like his dancing blonde smiles.
Tonight, though, the windows are dark when he crosses the street. The light is on in the office, but there's no gallant dancing man beaming for his students. There's no fanciful outfit. There's no daydream of being swept up in a dance in strong warm arms and a smiling face.
Tonight, there's only a note. "Due to an emergency all classes have been cancelled. We apologize for the inconvenience." Stede Bonnet Revenge Studios.
And, yeah, it's kinda fucked that the note makes Ed spiral. A grown
ass man with more money than you could shake a stick at should have exotic cars or insane trips to bring him joy, not creeping on a dance class every week.
Ed stares for a time, seeing his own reflection. The kohl around his eyes and the fucking leather outfit he'd worn to the studio make him look like a ghost. A vampire viking clown stalking other peoples happiness. He doesn't even realize he's been spotted until there's a crash.
The figure in the dark, just beyond the glass scrabbles up and immediately begins waving his hands and yelling. Ed blinks once, twice, three times until his blonde dancer hits the light, trips over two chairs and gracelessly lunges for the door.
"It's you!" Cute Dancer bursts out the moment the door opens. Ed's heart sinks. Fuck.
He's not so famous anymore, not since he stopped touring years ago and got rid of his giant fuck off beard, but he still gets recognized. Of course, Cute Dancer had sussed him out. Of course, this was ruined.
"Sorry, mate, dunno what you're talkin' about," he mutters while taking a step back. Fuck, why had he left on his leathers?!
"No! I mean, please, I just didn't have you on the class email list to warn it was canceled." The man protests and actually wrings his hands. "I'm Stede"
"M'not in the class?" Ed blinks as Stede beams at him, looking so happy he stops his retreat.
"Oh, no, not properly perhaps, but you come to every one even if only to watch." Its not judgmental or dismissive, if anything, Stede sounds pleased. "Please, come in?"
That's how Ed finds himself stuffed into a small office with a cup of tea in a porcelain cup with Stede Bonnet. It's full of posters, from ballet to musicals to Grease, cluttered and insane.
"So, I'm Stede Bonnet and you..." the gentle prompt snaps Ed's eyes back to the dancer.
Ed scoffs slightly and watches Stede's face, but the only thing there is a gentle patience waiting for a name. Maybe things aren't fucked?
"I'm Ed." Not Blackbeard. Not Kraken. Ed. It feels good.
"Well, Ed! I'm so glad to finally meet you!" It feels better hearing Stede say it.
In the span of an hour, Stede lights up Ed's life. He excitedly talks about remembering his love of dance to teach his kids. He talks about the ramshackle studio as fondly as a spouse, laughing at the half blackout that canceled class caused by a fuck up with wiring. He talks with passion.
Ed can't remember the last time he talked with passion. He can't remember being passionate enough to have his whole fucking face light up, let alone ramble to a stranger. It makes something ache in him.
"Got it all figured out, man." He mutters in the pause. "Kinda jealous."
"Hardly!" Stede waves it away with pink cheeks. "I've just barely begun, but one day I hope to figure it out."
Ed kinda hopes that for him too. It's a knee-jerk reaction to want good things for this strange sweet man.
"So, can I have your phone number or email?" Stede breaks the silence.
"Uh..." Ed blinks, a warm little curl begins. Is Stede asking him out?
"That way if we cancel again, you can be on the text and email list!" Stede follows up a little too quickly.
Ah, right. Ed deflates with a frown. "I'm not taking classes, mate."
"You could if you'd like to!"
Ed blinks slowly. "Not fancy shit like that, mate, I'm not that sorta person." He tries to keep the old hurt from his voice.
"Says who?" Stede demands immediately, his expression incensed.
"Lotsa people."
"Well, lots of people are complete arseholes!" Stede snaps. And Ed laughs.
Ed leaves with a gold embossed card with the studio name on it and a time next Tuesday for his first private ballroom dance class.
The thing is, he's danced before, fuck he's had choreographers for his tours, but no one has suggested he could waltz. Tango. No one but Stede.
Ed's first lesson after hours is, sadly, a disaster. He's fucking pranced on stage in front of thousands of people, gyrated to music, but the moment he tries to waltz he feels clumsy.
"Edward! Relax " Stede's firm, but gentle, command rings in his ears as they turn the room.
It's a bust of a lesson that leaves him flushed and ashamed. Of course, he can't dance to shit like this. He's made for mosh pits and crowd surfing, not graceful turns in the arms of a beautiful man.
"I broke Mary's toe the first time I tried to waltz." Stede announces as they finish.
"Fuck off, you didn't. You're like Gene Kelly or some shit!" Ed scoffs while Stede putters about for tea.
"I did! I got our first lessons to save our marriage and, well, a broken toe didn't help." Stede flashed him a smile while Ed did his best not to feel disappointed. Wife.
"Granted, I don't think anything could have saved it." Stede mused and waved a hand. Ed felt a little hope return. "But! It goes without saying we all start somewhere."
"Yeah, guess so. Y'make it look easy."
"Well, then you'll just have to trust me. Next time will be better."
Next time IS better. Stede guides him through the steps until Ed feels lile he's not a complete fuck up. He learns Stede's divorced with two kids. He learns Stede loves old Fred Astaire movies.
He learns it's okay to laugh when you make a mistake, especially with Stede.
Tuesday night lessons become a different world for Ed. He's not trapped in a fucking office managing his record label. He's not churning out autotuned songs for the masses. He's not a rock star or a CEO, he's just Ed. Stede has no expectations except delight at his improvements.
He arrives at the same time each Tuesday, after the studio is closed and Stede is always waiting in some fantastic outfit. It feels secret and precious, something reinforced as night after night he learns the waltz, the foxtrot, and, most importantly, he learns about Stede.
He learns Stede once dreamed of being on stage. He learns Stede has two fucking wardrobes because he loves the pageantry of a fine outfit. Ed learns all about his enjoyment of teaching people something new. He learns Stede rarely charges for his lessons.
"Why would I make people pinch pennies to do something they might love?" Stede scoffed. "You sound like Lucius."
"Mate, your wiring is literally falling apart."
"It'll sort itself, those that can pay do." Stede huffed stubbornly one evening.
Ed learns so much about Stede, but he becomes painfully aware of how little he talks about himself. What can Ed say? He's an aging rockstar that got trapped running his own label? That sometimes it's kind of fucking hard to get out of bed and he's only happy on Tuesday?
It happens late one evening, when his knee reminds him that he's not young anymore and there's a storm brewing. One moment he's in Stede's strong arms pressed against one another and the next his stupid knee gives. He's used to it, he's fallen more times than he can count. But not this time.
This time he finds himself dipped back and caught, staring up into hazel eyes furrowed with concern. The sharp stabbing pain in his knee takes second place to the feel of being held before Stede's other arm sweeps down to scoop him up effortlessly when he tries to stand.
Ed feels a familiar surge of humiliation as Stede balances him. Fuck, great, can't even fucking get through a lesson. He needs to go before he humiliates himself worse.
"Edward, stand down!" Stede's voice is low in his ear, commanding, ending Ed's excuses to leave.
Ed finds himself carried, fucking carried like a princess, upstairs to Stede's little apartment and placed on the couch. It's cluttered, insane and beautiful. He wants to nest in it, build a little fucking corner to live in Stede's world forever.
"Now, stay." Stede murmurs.
Ed wants to stay. The couch is comfy and soft, and Stede disappears only so long as it takes him to secure an ice pack and a thick as fuck pillow to stuff beneath Ed's leg.
"M'sorry." He mutters, squirming as the ice presses down.
"What on earth for?!" Stede frowns at him.
"For um, this.. makin' you carry me." He manages as Stede actually stuffs another pillow behind his back.
"I can't accept the apology." Stede answers before settling on the couch, helping Ed adjust his leg. "There's nothing to be sorry for, my dear."
Ed swallows. 'My dear.' Oh.
Can a single endearment rewrite your DNA? Can it collapse stars and universes, remake them? It feels like it hearing it from Stede's lips.
Oh. Oh god. Ed stares at the soft blonde swoop of hair and Stede's gentle ministrations, and feels something impossibly tender.
"There, comfy?" Stede asks and Ed hums an affirmative, terrified to say anything with feelings bubbling around. "Good!"
"Ruined our lesson." He manages.
"Nonsense! We'll just watch our lesson instead of participate." Stede grins shyly. "If you'll indulge me?" He lifts a DVD up.
That's how Ed finds himself with his leg over Stede's lap watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing across a screen. Stede sings along softly to musicals, a gentle murmur as Ed watches him watching the movie, watches the smile on his face. Hears a wistful little sigh.
"I love this part." Stede whispers as Fred and Ginger begin to dance across the screen and he leans forward. "Just look at them, so in step, so beautiful."
"Yeah, mate, beautiful." Ed rasps, not looking at the screen as Fred sings Cheek to Cheek.
"Always wanted to be Fred, dancing with someone like that. Looking in love." Stede sighs and casts an embarrassed smile at Ed.
Look at me like you're in love. Ed thinks so hard he's afraid he might burst a blood vessel.
"Yeah? I'd partner you." he hears himself say.
There's a moment, a dreadful, heart in his stomach moment, where Stede looks at him. Really LOOKS at him. Ed swallows and Stede draws in a hitched breath, a smile grows on his face, shy and sweet. Beautiful.
"Oh my fucking god. Blackbeard?!" A voice cracks through the silence.
It all happens so quickly. Ed's little private world, his escape, his Stede. The twinky man (Lucius) who does the stripper pole classes is standing in the living room gaping at Ed and Stede. He knows, he yells it loudly enough, and that's it, right? It's over. All of it.
"How the hell do you know Blackbeard?!" Lucius yells for the third time as Ed swings his leg
Down.
"Uh, I should, um, get goin', mate." He says dully. "Think m'knee will handle it."
"Wait, Ed.." Stede offers. "Lucius! That's enough of that! This is Ed!"
Ed doesn't wait.
Ed hears Stede calling his name before he gets in the car, he ignores it. The sour feeling in the pit of his stomach is filled with grief. It'd been nice just being Ed. It'd been amazing just dancing and watching a movie. He knows better. Once people know shit all changes.
So Ed goes home, he tries to bottle up the vast loss that replaces where his special Tuesdays had been. He ignores his phone when Stede calls. Will Stede ask what the hell Ed had been thinking? Does Stede want to demand answers? Doesn't matter, it's all over now.
It's Wednesday afternoon when he finally looks at his phone again and the text from Stede. His stomach sours and he swallows a lump at the slew of messages. He gives the only answer he can.
Ed hits the block button. He has to, right? Stede's probably ass deep in stories about drugs, fights and all the Blackbeard bullshit. He's probably just being nice reaching out.
He's just being Stede. People like Ed don't get to have people like Stede.
He makes out a check to Revenge Studios, it seems the least he can do. He owes it to Stede. For the span of five months, Tuesday nights made him the happiest he's ever been. He hopes Stede gets the wiring fixed. He hopes Stede is happy.
He throws himself into his work. Izzy, at least, is fucking happy about that. He works on the label, he makes a new song. Iz says the song sounds like a teenage girl sobbing in a locker room. Ed spends a few days burrowed in a blanket fort watching Fred Astaire. Gene Kelly.
He hates Tuesdays. Hates the first time his calendar cheerfully reminds him with a little dancing emoji. He gets sad. He gets angry. He tries to forget about wanting to be Belle or Ginger. He wears more leather and steel, he tries to lose himself in Blackbeard.
It's late one Monday evening when he plucks out Cheek to Cheek on the piano in the studio. Soft and silvery.
Yes, heaven, I'm in heaven
And the cares that hung around me through the week
Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.
"Christ, I can't do this." Izzy's rasp jerks Ed out of his playing and he jams an envelope across from him. "Whatever that twat did to your brain, sort it the fuck out!"
"What the hell?!" Ed snaps, but his eyes are on the envelope. Revenge Studios.
"Prick dropped it off."
Ed stares down at the envelope. He knows he should pitch it. The gremlin in his head has a field day as he imagines accusations or, worse. Maybe Stede likes that Ed is Blackbeard. Maybe Stede wants someone like Blackbeard. The thought makes him sick. He wants Stede to want Ed.
The moment he opens the envelope he finds it's neither. The check Ed had issued to Revenge Studios falls into his hand with a familiar bit of floral stationary. The note is short and sweet, but he swallows as he reads it once. Twice. Three times.
If there were a time machine, Ed aches to find it. Instead, he rakes through his memories of every lesson, every interaction, every glance or touch between them.There's only Stede. Only laughing encouragement and cheerful stories, only delight. Stede had known all along.
Stede had known and never asked him about it. He'd refused Ed's frequent attempts to slip him money for the lessons. He'd never pushed for stories, never been starstruck or laughed at Ed for wanting more...
That night Ed looked into the mirror and decided to make a change.
Tuesday night, the wind is cold on cheeks that are bare of his signature beard. It feels weird, cold from nose to neck, but it feels good. It feels like he's left something behind. A chain from his neck is gone. Left behind are the bright lights of the studio and his dancer.
Ed drinks in the sight of the ballroom class, the dancers he's watched on lonely nights, but it's Stede his eyes follow. Stede, who's been denuded of his fancy tux and tails, frills and brightness.
"It's pageantry, Edward!" He remembers Stede huffing fondly as they danced.
It's a smaller Stede, an edge of stubble on his jaw. He doesn't fly across the ground, he moves like he's been weighed down.
A chain on his neck, a chain that Ed put there.
His smile is bright and shiny, and so fake it makes Ed ache.
Ed waits, watching, scared and hopeful.
Five Tuesdays. Five missed lessons. Five weeks. Ed feels like an idiot. He feels like maybe he'd forgotten it wasn't just himself that might miss quiet laughing nights and stories.
It feels selfish.
It feels like maybe he threw treasure into the sea.
And then Stede sees him.
The class lets out, and Stede watches him.
Lucius says goodnight.
And Stede watches him.
Ed's gotten used to faking confidence, prancing around, roaring like some stupid clown. He's not used to feeling vulnerable. Ed still goes in.
"You came back." Stede breathes softly.
"Never shoulda left." Ed says softly as he closes the door behind him.
It's familiar, the silent studio, the hush of the evening, Stede standing it front of him. It's filled with things unsaid. Ed wants to say something more, he wants to smooth Stede's furrowed brow.
"Why?" Stede asks, a question as ancient as time itself, laden with confusion, grief, upset and wonder. Ed feels it all, sees it in the way Stede's eyes water. "I thought we--I mean, really liked you, Ed."
Oh.
Ed swallows, feeling seen, raw, wishing for a beard to hide behind.
"Figured you'd not wanna teach me, s'not really... Blackbeard doesn't do fancy fuckin' dances, mate." He says softly and flicks his eyes down. "He doesn't get to dance with Fred Astaire."
"Bullshit." Stede's response comes in a bitchy sharp tone. "I never danced with Blackbeard!"
"M'Blackbeard, mate, you said you knew that, in your note." He manages before Stede lightly pokes his chest.
"I do! But I danced with Ed. Ed who takes seven, SEVEN, sugars in his tea. Ed, who likes my silly outfits and has every Goosebump book ever." Stede points out firmly.
"I danced with Ed, not Blackbeard. I missed ED when you left. I missed you quoting terrible
movies." Stede's voice wobbles. "I missed you humming Tale As Old As Time when we dance. I missed everything about you. You were never Blackbeard. You were Ed."
Ed has a thousand replies and none are right, because Stede is crying, a rolling tear down his cheek.
And, maybe he's crazy, or maybe he's just crazy about his lovely dancer, but he reaches up to cup the stubbled cheeks in his palms.
"I missed everything about you too."
Ed's played sold out stadiums. He's heard his name screamed by tens of thousands pf voices. Yet, it's never felt close to the joy of Stede's lips pressed to his own and arms wrapping around him.
It's not just fire, it's warmth surrounding him in a feeling of coming home at last.
In the quiet of the studio, Stede gently sways them while their lips dance together. Stede hums so softly into their kiss. A familiar tune.
Heaven, I'm in heaven
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak
And I seem to find the happiness I seek
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek
Over a hundred Tuesday's later, Ed feels the silk of a white dress, his hair done up in flowers. It's nothing Blackbeard would ever wear, but Stede didn't fall in love with Blackbeard. Stede only ever wanted Ed. They only ever want each other as they step onto the dance floor.
They dance together, flying across the ground, perfectly matched and balanced.
And as his new husband, resplendent in a white tuxedo, dips him on the dance floor Ed's smile might light up the world.
The start of a new life of dance and laughter, love and softness. Home.