Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ed’s fucking late.

He’s late, and he’s gonna fucking kill Izzy. He’d known it was Ed’s first day on campus, that Ed’s been all but vibrating out of his shell with anticipation. It’s a new challenge, a new opportunity—a whole new thing for Ed, different than anything he’s ever done before.

It’s in his name, after all, right? He can teach. He can do anything. Probably be a fucking great teacher. Probably.

Ed’s hardly spent any time on this campus before, and mercifully small though it may be, that doesn’t mean he has any fucking clue where this faculty committee meeting is. Izzy had known that, too—and still, he had been on the phone at fuck o’clock this morning, demanding to talk about some sale or some commission or some tiring, stupid, boring piece of Ed’s that’s landed in some tiring, stupid, boring rich fuck’s house. The conversation had eaten into Ed’s morning until he’d looked at the clock, panicked, and hung up on Izzy mid-sentence.

He’s finally on campus now, only he’s fucking late to this meeting—whatever the fuck a faculty committee even is. All he knows is that he’d gotten the job, and the provost had said something about how it’s really a place for community and you’d do well to get involved and some guy named Steve or something is heading up some sort of committee thing and maybe Ed ought to join. Ed had said yes, and then he’d gotten so many emails over the next few days that his head has yet to stop spinning.

He pauses outside one of the many imposing-looking buildings on campus. They’ve all got names, and all the names sound like old, dead white guys, and none of the names are remotely useful in figuring out which one of these buildings he’s meant to be inside right now.

Someone emerges from the doors of the building before him, looking harried and annoyed. Ed’s not sure if it’s a student or a young faculty member or someone in between, but the kid’s clearly better-acquainted with the campus than Ed is, simply by virtue of having been in a building just now. Probably on purpose, even.

“Hey, uh—‘scuse me,” Ed says, glancing between the building and the person about to pass him. “Is this—”

“God, what?” the kid says, turning towards Ed with such a pronounced eye-roll that Ed draws back in surprise, frowning. Immediately, the person looks apologetic. “Right, sorry, that was rude of me. Just a bit annoyed with my—boss or whatever at the moment.”

Ed nods slowly. “Sure,” he says. “Yeah, no worries. I get it.” He feels wrong-footed, and he’s so fucking late.

“Sorry, did you need something?” the kid asks once he snaps out of his annoyance, and Ed nods quickly and glances back up to the building again.

“Yeah, just—is this—fuckin’ hell, what was the building even called…?” Ed mutters, quickly glancing down at his phone to find the email again.

The kid leans over to peer at Ed’s phone curiously. “Look, where’re you trying to go? I’m a TA, but frankly I’ve been hanging around this shithole since undergrad, so I know the place pretty well.”

Ed looks up at him a little desperately. “The—faculty committee?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s—” The kid gestures up at the large building he’s just stepped out of. “Yep, you’re in the right place. Room 212, even. I know because I just printed all the fucking agendas, because my—”

“Great,” Ed breathes in relief, already beginning to step quickly towards the doors. “Thanks, mate, appreciate it.”

“Hey, would you mind telling Stede I helped you so he stops looking at me like I’m useless?” the kid calls after Ed as he pulls open the doors. “Tell Stede that Lucius was, like, very helpful!” Ed shoots a silent apology back to the guy, because he’s got no fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean, and it’s definitely about to get lost amidst the anxious swarm of bees in his brain.

Ed mutters the room number to himself all the way up the narrow, creaking staircase—fucking hell, this place is old—and then down a corridor. Then back down a different corridor. He takes in a sharp, excited breath as he finally spots it, turning the handle without a second thought and bursting into the room.

Probably could have done with a second thought, actually.

Everyone stares. Fucking—of course everyone stares, because he’s just interrupted a meeting that’s clearly already begun, and no one knows who the hell he is, and he probably looks stupid and out of place and he isn’t sure what compelled him to put on his leather fucking pants today, because now he sticks out like even more of a sore thumb.

One glance around the room tells him he doesn’t belong. He’s betting he’s one of the only people here with any tattoos at all, much less a few dozen; everyone else has taken quite a classic and conservative approach to the dress code, whereas Ed simply hadn’t seen anything that said he couldn’t wear what he’s wearing; and although there are one or two other people with hair that isn’t short and neatly-kept, those people had at least had the sense not to let it hang all around their faces.

Quietly, Ed gulps.

“This the faculty committee?” he finally manages, resisting the full-body urge to turn around, leave the campus, and retreat back into the safety of his art. His stupid, shitty, depressing, exhausting art, because at least it’s one thing he’s good at.

There’s another long pause, and now Ed’s starting to feel like maybe the kid downstairs fucking pranked him or something. The blond guy at the end of the conference table was looking at him a second ago like Ed had grown a second head; now he’s staring resolutely down at the paper in front of him like he’d rather die than meet Ed’s gaze.

“Uhh… yeah,” someone finally says, and Ed’s eyes lock onto them with something like relief. They’re shooting a weird look at the blond guy—just as weird as the one that Blond Guy had shot at Ed—who hasn't stopped boring a hole into the paper he's suddenly become fascinated with. “We were just about to…”

Ed frowns with uncertainty, following the speaker’s gaze back to their colleague. A pair of hazel eyes lifts to meet his gaze at the same moment, then freezes there like a deer in headlights. Ed blinks back, wondering what the fuck about his appearance is weird enough to warrant that kind of look.

“Right,” the speaker says, and Ed looks back at him immediately, anxious and unsettled. “We were just about to get into the, err—agenda, apparently. And you are…?”

Ed lets out a silent rush of breath as he realizes he isn’t the only one here anxious and unsettled. Strangely, it puts him at ease.

Weird fucking vibe in the room. But he’s getting the sense it isn’t exclusively to do with him. He breathes a little easier as he responds, finally stepping into the room properly.

“Edward Teach,” he offers, flashing a smile that he hopes looks polite instead of horribly wrong-footed. “Sorry I’m late. Got lost. First day on campus and all.”

He glances around, and—shit. The only open seat’s next to the blond guy, who’s already back to avoiding eye contact. Now Ed will probably make him even more uncomfortable. Terrific.

He steps forward and tries his best to look fucking normal, and not like a decidedly-out-of-his-element, long-haired, leather-clad, motorcycle-riding weirdo who showed up to a prestigious academic institution today with a tongue piercing and a dream. “This taken, mate?” he asks, offering a half-smile.

The guy looks up at him with wide eyes. Shit, it’s a shame he seems to find Ed so off-putting already, because he’s actually kinda hot. In a tightly-wound, deer-in-headlights, probably-owns-a-lot-of-sweater-vests kinda way.

“No!” he says forcefully. Ed blinks, startled. Was—was that a no, by all means, please sit or a no, get the fuck away from me? The man seems to collect himself a moment later, shaking his head quickly. “I mean—no.” 

This time, at least, it feels more like an invitation. Ed nods slowly, offering him a slightly awkward smile as he slips into the chair, then promptly tries to sink through the floor and stop drawing so much attention to himself. Fuck, he hasn’t felt like this much of an outsider in ages. For another backwards moment, he wishes he’d stayed home with his dark, brooding canvases.

He takes a deep breath to snap himself out of it. Wouldn’t have been better there, he reminds himself. He’d sit through a hundred awkward meetings if it meant having room to fucking breathe away from the career that’s been choking the life out of him.

The guy who’d first spoken to him—Oluwande, as he introduces himself—carries on with the agenda at a rather halting, stilted pace, like he’s encountering each item on it for the first time himself. Ed glances around the table, wondering if that Steve guy couldn’t make the meeting today or something. Maybe Oluwande wasn’t supposed to be doing this at all.

Or maybe he’s remembering the guy’s name wrong. Wouldn’t be very polite, he assumes, to pull out his phone and check. He’s only barely keeping up with who’s who, anyway; maybe everyone here already knows one another. Or maybe Ed just missed the introductions.

He listens, trying his best to follow along. More than once, he glances down as they move through the agenda, like he’s expecting one to have magically materialized in front of him.

Suddenly, one does.

Well—not magically, exactly. The blond guy beside him seems to have… calmed down a little, or at least stopped looking like he might pass out every time Ed glances his way. To Ed’s surprise, he wordlessly slides the agenda in front of him over to Ed after the fourth or fifth time Ed unthinkingly looks for one.

Ed blinks in surprise, lifting his gaze to the man’s face. The guy only barely meets his eyes, offering what almost looks like a smile before quickly looking away again, fidgeting in his seat.

Something in Ed’s chest shifts. It’s—stupid, probably. The gesture is probably thoughtless or merely polite. Probably nothing personal, probably nothing terribly intentional.

But it’s… nice. It’s the first thing, maybe, that’s made Ed feel welcome since arriving on campus today. Like he belongs here enough that this guy thought, oh, he’ll need this.

Ed can’t help but let his gaze linger before finally looking down at the agenda before him. There’s a fierce sprawl of swirling doodles on the corner of the page, like the guy has been desperately trying to keep himself occupied. It doesn’t escape Ed that he’d sacrificed the activity for the sake of looping Ed in.

Ed’s chest goes warm.

Okay, so—guy’s just anxious, maybe. That’s fair. Ed freaks out a bit sometimes too, meeting new people. Maybe a few more smiles from Ed will help reassure him that he doesn’t bite. 

Not unless provoked, at least. Or invited. Now, if he were invited—

Jesus. Ed shakes himself out of it quickly. Last thing he needs is to let his buzzing mind wander somewhere wildly inappropriate, just because the hot guy sitting next to him did one small, nice thing.

Ten minutes later, he’s actually starting to follow the meeting, and suddenly he wishes he’d at least brought a fucking pen. He’s halfway through patting himself down to no avail when the hot guy next to him does him another wordless favor, sliding the pen he’s been fidgeting with across the table and nudging it into Ed’s space.

Ed pauses to gaze at him in surprise again, this time flashing an especially appreciative smile. If he didn’t know better, he’d think a blush creeps up the guy’s cheeks.

Shit, he’s kinda getting cuter by the minute.

The end of the meeting rolls around mercifully quickly after that—or maybe the time just passes a little easier when Ed isn’t feeling like clawing his own skin off the whole time. He only barely manages to catch the guy beside him before he can rush out, stepping in front of him to stop him in his tracks and holding out the pen to return it.

“Hey, thanks, man,” he says, smiling gratefully. “Really appreciate it.”

The man blinks at him, and oh, cool, now he looks fuckin’ startled all over again. Ed’s pushing it.

“Keep it,” the guy blurts, visibly flustered.

Ed lifts his brows in surprise, another slightly confused thanks already rising to his tongue—but Pen Hero darts towards the door before he can manage another word.

Ed stares after him, a little dumbfounded, then looks down at the pen. It’s one of those stupidly fancy ones, the kind people only have when they’re ridiculously finicky about their writing utensils.

And he told Ed to keep it?

His chest is warm again. Warm and sort of fluttery.

Ed is still staring down at the pen, oddly charmed with a smile growing on his lips, when someone in the room speaks.

“Hey, uh… sorry about that whole weirdness when you came in.” Ed turns to find Oluwande shouldering his bag. “Not really sure why he froze up like that.”

It takes him a long beat to remember the odd tension in the room when he’d walked in. “Oh—right. Nah, s’all good, man.” His wheels turn for another second before he frowns. “Wait—‘him’ who?”

Oluwande arches a brow, nodding towards the doorway. “Bonnet, I think? Dr. Bonnet.” Ed stares blankly until Oluwande adds a vague gesture towards Pen Hero’s seat. “Stede?”

The wheels click into place.

“Oh—oh!” Ed’s eyes go wide, turning to stare at the now-empty chair. Shit—Stede. That had been the name. That had been the guy, the committee guy the provost had mentioned.

That guy?

“He—wait,” Ed says, turning abruptly back to Oluwande and jabbing his thumb towards the seat. “Wasn’t—I thought he was supposed to be the committee chair?”

Oluwande nods pointedly, like Ed’s finally catching up. “That’s what I’m saying, bro. Dude was leading the meeting, and then you walked in and he just froze. That’s why it got a bit weird.”

Shit. Makes Ed feel a little better in retrospect, at least, getting confirmation that the uneasy vibe hadn't been solely about him.

The guy freezing up, though—Stede freezing up—the fuck was that all about?

“Anyway,” Oluwande sighs, giving him a wry smile before stepping towards the door, “interesting first day, huh?”

Ed blinks, nodding vaguely and watching him go. Suddenly, he’s alone in the room, looking towards Stede’s empty seat again with a fancy pen warm in his hand.

Fascinating.

***

Ed makes it through the first week with less grace than he’d hoped but more success than he’d feared. The art history thing is a bit of a stretch for him, he’ll admit, but he feels like he’s managing it all right so far. The studio art classes, though—those are fucking fun. So is having a studio, period. It’s been years since Ed’s painted anywhere but his own home, and god, the change of pace is refreshing.

Even having a commute is a bit nice. He sort of likes having to leave his place and go to work instead of just walking over to his easel. And it’s put new parts of the city on his radar, like the tucked-away rose garden less than a mile from his place, or the tiny, roadside Mexican food stand with the perfect view for watching the sunset. Some of the best food he’s ever had, on top of it.

He’s got his feet under him. He’d been halfway convinced he’d crash and burn on impact, trying to revisit an academic environment after all this time. Fucking years of doing nothing but flinging dark shit at canvases and hoping something sticks, and finally he feels like he can move a little now that he’s got the earth warm against his soles, holding him tall and safe and secure.

At least when Izzy’s not breathing down his neck, trying to pull the rug out from under him.

“Izzy, Izzy, Izzy, listen,” Ed cuts in, interrupting Izzy’s lecture on the other end of the phone call. He’s flitting around his apartment with his phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder, neck craned at an awkward angle as he tosses supplies into a box to bring to his studio. “Everything’s under control, all right? Jesus, man, you’re acting like I signed away my fuckin’ soul or something.”

“Because you’re acting like you don’t even care about your career anymore,” Izzy grits out. God, he always sounds one wrong move away from a fucking aneurysm these days.

“So business as usual, then?” Ed quips. Izzy doesn’t laugh. It’s fine. He knows he’s funny.

“Edward—”

“Oh, for fuck’s—come on, man, lighten up. I’ve got it, okay? I got the fucking commissions and shit, I’m working on ‘em, it’s all gonna be fine.” He sighs as he straightens up, surveying the extra painting supplies he’s pulled out to decide what else to bring to campus. It’s nice, the thought of settling in there—keeping some of his stuff there, making it a nice little studio away from home. Away from Blackbeard, away from all the stupid, dark bullshit. Somewhere with a little more light in the room, more space to move and more air to breathe.

There’s a pause, then an answering sigh. “You swear?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Ed insists. “Nothing to worry about. The professor thing is—it’s just my thing right now, all right? Just something I’m trying. Not like I’m gonna stop painting.”

He can tell just from the shape of the silence that Izzy’s grumpy, but Ed’s won.

“Fine,” Izzy grumbles. “If you say so.”

Ed grins, relieved at the prospect of Izzy calming the fuck down if nothing else.

“I do. Trust me, man, hardly anything’s gonna change. It’s all gonna be fine.”

He hangs up after the exchange comes to a close moments later, sighing at the canvas currently drying on his easel. Fiery ship, stormy sea, dark clouds, looming sea monster. Same fucking shit, different day.

Hardly anything’s gonna change.

God, he hopes he’s fucking lying.

***

It only takes until the beginning of the next week for him to realize the rumors have started.

Doesn’t even matter who started them, quite frankly. And part of him had known it was inevitable, but it still feels like a knife to the gut the first time someone utters his moniker in his class.

“Blackbeard?” he scoffs in response to a student’s bold, point-blank question, trying to sound disinterested and like he’s not fucking panicking. “You seen his work? That guy seems like a dick. Am I a dick?”

There’s a rumble of laughter, a few heads shaking. Oddly relieving, because Ed had been halfway to bracing himself for some hard truths from his students.

“So there, that settles it,” Ed says matter-of-factly. “I’m obviously not Blackbeard. Guy’s probably way too dickish to be here teaching you lot.”

Another few laughs. Ed offers a smile and moves the class swiftly along.

And if later, he shuts the door to his office and rests his forehead against it, dragging deep, rattling breaths into his lungs to calm his racing heart until he feels mostly human again, until he stops feeling like the walls are closing in or like a fucking hoard of demons is nipping at his heels, threatening to catch up with him at any moment—well.

No one’s around to see it.

It’s a bit fucking ridiculous, but if he’s honest, one of the things getting him through his harder moments is that funny fucking Pen Hero, Stede.

Not actually speaking to him. Not interacting with him at all, in fact, because every time he sees him in the hall, Stede either stares or pointedly doesn’t stare, and Ed’s got no fucking clue what to do with that. 

What’s even weirder, though, is the way he seems to run into Stede’s presence at every turn. He crops up in conversations unexpectedly. Ed sees him across campus, across the building, across the hallway. He just fucking hears shit, the way everyone on a tiny goddamn campus seems to gossip and chat like it’s their lifeblood.

He hears about Stede’s specialty, the golden age of piracy—fucking cool. He hears about Stede’s publications—shitloads, apparently. He hears about his fucking teaching awards from the university, for god’s sake—Ed didn’t even know universities did that. He hears about Stede’s conference talks and his unending passion and the way half the faculty here admires his ceaseless work ethic, and the other half wonders whether he’s ever heard of taking a fucking break.

Fucking fascinating.

That’s probably why, when Ed walks into the faculty lounge at the end of the week and finds it empty except for Stede, his heart promptly skips a beat or three.

He never encounters Stede in here. He spends a fair bit of time in the lounge when he’s not in his studio, but Stede—the man’s elusive. Or busy, always on his way somewhere and walking with his head down, like he’s got places to be. This feels like a rare, thrilling opportunity, and Ed has to take a full few seconds and a slow, steadying breath before walking up to him, wondering why the hell his nerves are suddenly going haywire.

Stede is so focused on the tea he’s brewing that he doesn’t even seem to hear Ed approach from behind. Ed doesn’t actually mean to startle him, but—

“Stede Bonnet, I presume?”

Ed could swear the tea nearly goes flying out of Stede’s hands as he whips around in surprise.

Shit, he’s still hot. Ed had sort of hoped that would have gone away. Would have made things a bit easier.

“You’ve—heard of me?” Stede stammers. Ed gives him an amused little frown, snorting. Would’ve taken a hell of a lot more effort not to have heard of him.

“Course I’ve heard of you, mate,” he chuckles. “I’ve heard all about you.”

Might have been the wrong thing to say, because Stede just stares, a little slack-jawed as his eyes fly over Ed’s face. Shit. It was meant to be a compliment.

“Actually,” he goes on quickly, eager to try and put Stede a little more at ease, “I sat next to you at that faculty committee meeting last week, if you remember.”

That seems to jog his memory, if nothing else. “Yes! Yes, of course,” Stede says with a nod. Ed tries not to be a little fucking humiliated that Stede almost certainly doesn’t remember him, instead taking in a slow breath and summoning all the charm he can muster.

Whatever, right? Not much to lose, after all, and Ed can’t help it. He’s kinda into this guy’s whole deal, even if Stede’s way out of his league. Or straight. Or married. Or all three, with Ed’s luck.

“You know, strangest thing,” he remarks, tilting his head. “I didn’t actually learn until after the meeting that you’re the committee chair.” He slants a teasing smile Stede’s way, positively buzzing with interest. “Sat next to you the whole time, and not a clue.”

“Ah,” Stede exhales, and shit, he actually looks genuinely embarrassed for a second—but Ed’s nerves are suddenly so alight from the fact that they’re actually fucking talking that he doesn’t even hear whatever Stede stammers out next.

“Thought I ought to introduce myself properly, at least,” he finally says in a rush. He offers a smile that he hopes doesn’t look too overeager as he extends his hand. “I’m Ed.”

Something flickers through Stede’s eyes—maybe a touch of that ease Ed’s been trying to encourage. Just a touch, but it’s enough to gentle his whole demeanor. “Stede.”

God, his hand is soft—why’s his hand so fucking soft? Ed doesn’t mean to squeeze it, but he does, instinctively trying to savor the brush with something so fine and lovely.

“Well,” Ed manages when he remembers how to breathe, “hopefully you’re… not thinking of kicking me off the committee already, after being late to that first meeting.” 

Wow. Nice one, Teach. Like he needs to go putting ideas in anyone’s head.

“I’m sure chairing it is quite the responsibility,” he adds swiftly. Got no fucking clue, actually, but it certainly sounds impressive.

“Oh,” Stede huffs, glancing down at his tea to pull the bag out of it, “it’s—it’s really not. Truth be told, I’m not even sure I’ll do a very good job.”

The humility feels oddly-placed. And not only because Ed’s heard about the shitload of other accomplishments this guy’s already got under his belt. Also because he gave Ed an agenda and a fancy fucking pen before Ed even knew his name, which doesn’t seem like the sort of thing one of those shitty, dickfuck professors he’s known in the past would have done.

“Doubt that,” he offers sincerely, reaching up to clap Stede on the shoulder—only then he sort of forgets to let go. He squeezes it gently and wonders if the jolt of electricity that flies through him is only in his head. 

Stede looks up at him in surprise, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into the touch, and Ed’s breath hitches as something even bigger runs through him, something that warms him all the way down to his toes.

“You know,” he adds, “most professors I’ve met in the past—they’re miserable fucks. Don’t give a shit about anything. So you’re doing a hell of a lot better than them.”

Stede laughs. Oh, wow, Ed likes that. Would fucking love to make him do it again.

“Well—thank you,” Stede chuckles, “that’s… very kind.”

Ed breathes into a warm, easy smile. He can’t help it. He should probably let Stede get back to his tea and his work and all his cool, important thoughts, but he can’t help what he says next either, because apparently the flutter in his chest has a mind of its own.

“So you teach… history, is that right?” he asks casually, like he hasn’t been hearing about it left and right since arriving on campus. Stede perks up, looking surprised.

“Oh!” Stede smiles sheepishly. “Yes—yes, you know…” He glances down. Ed wishes he’d stop doing that. Every time Stede meets his gaze, it feels a bit like Ed can breathe better, like his lungs know how to open up a little more. “Sort of classically dry, I know, but I—well, I find it quite interesting, so…”

Ed gives him a curious smile. The apprehension around the words doesn’t escape him, like Stede’s bracing himself for Ed to have brought it up just to be a dick about it or something.

For a second, it’s like looking into a fucking mirror. Ed knows what it’s like trying to smother something before it can even breathe, just for fear of inhaling poison. He swallows.

“‘Course it’s interesting, man,” he insists. “Aren’t you teaching some kind of pirate class or something this semester? That sounds fucking cool.”

This time, Stede’s gaze snaps to his like there’s a magnet between them, eyes wide and bright, and Ed’s rethinking the thing about his lungs, actually, because he suddenly can’t breathe at all when Stede’s looking at him like that.

“Yes,” Stede says emphatically, and his smile fucking glows. “It is, in fact! It’s my area of specialty, actually. The golden age of piracy. It’s fascinating stuff—”

Ed listens as his own eyes grow wide, watching Stede burst into life like Ed’s just stumbled across his on switch. Suddenly, he’s animated and excited as he speaks, and a breathless smile steals across Ed’s face.

Wow. Where the fuck’s this guy been hiding?

“—killing each other and dying of scurvy, although even those things would warrant entire essays, of course,” Stede chatters. Ed is totally fucking charmed.

“I take it you’ve written those essays,” he interjects with a light smirk. For once, the jest seems to land.

“Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not the foremost expert in scurvy, I admit.” He draws himself up a little, and oh, fuck, he’s so cute when he looks proud of himself that Ed has to grip the counter beside him for balance. “Buried treasure, on the other hand—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ed interrupts immediately, a laugh startling right out of him. “You’re not telling me pirates actually buried treasure?”

Stede arches a challenging brow as a grin breaks across his face. He suddenly leans right in, pressing into Ed’s space and stealing the air from his lungs.

“I bet you’d be surprised at what pirates actually did,” he says, voice edging lower.

Oh. 

Well, that was—fuck, all right, that was definitely a flirt. So they’re doing this, then. It’s not just Ed feeling the steady, simmering current between them. Looking between Stede’s sparkling eyes, a grin curls up his lips.

“Reckon you could surprise me in plenty of ways,” he breathes, voice lowering to match Stede’s tone.

Should we find out? he doesn’t add, because Stede’s smile falters. Ed watches the surprise wash across his features and feels it like a gut-punch in turn, blinking as Stede suddenly draws back with a sharp inhale and a nervous laugh.

Oh. Shit, was that—did he really misread that?

He must have, because Stede’s gaze is back to his tea, and all that hard-won ease has vanished from his demeanor. Ed lets out a slow breath.

Well. That’s that, then. Moving on.

“Piracy,” he murmurs, doing his best to move the conversation along from his misstep. He’s enjoying talking to Stede. Would be nice to maintain the chance of ever doing it again. “So, what—seventeenth century? Eighteenth? Some pretty cool art going on at that time, as well.”

He feels Stede perk up beside him again as much as he sees it in his periphery. “That’s right!” he says with interest. “That’s your department, right?”

Just like that, warmth spreads through Ed’s chest all over again as he nods. Stede knows what he teaches?

“Yeah,” he says a little too eagerly, “and a bit of art history. You know—there were some lesser-known works around that time near the coast that sort of vanished.” He arches an inviting brow at Stede. “Lots of speculation that they fell into the hands of pirates.”

Stede’s eyes widen again as a grin blooms across his face. Ed’s heart skips a helpless beat. God, it’s easy to make Stede smile.

He wonders if Stede likes art. He wonders if Stede knows his art, what he thinks of it, whether he’s ever spent time looking at one of the canvases Ed’s worked on. He wonders if Stede would be impressed or put off to learn who Ed is to his own field—how his moniker is dropped in impressive circles full of impressive people, how pretentious fucks rave and scramble to get their hands on his oppressively grim work. How he’s got a few paintings in his apartment even now that his long-suffering manager is already planning to sell off to private collectors for downright stupid amounts of money.

A conflicted sort of anxiety twists through Ed’s stomach. He swiftly puts the thought out of mind.

“Really?” Stede breathes in amazement. Ed nods quickly again, smiling wider.

“Really. ‘Course—no way to know for sure, but it’s certainly a good story.” And he should really stop pushing it, he knows he should, but fuck it. “A pirate historian would probably know better than an artist would, I reckon.”

To his surprise, Stede bites, even looks awed. “Some pirates were thought to be art lovers.”

Ed arches a brow. “Funny you say that,” he muses, settling a little closer into Stede’s space. “Some artists seemed to be pirate lovers as well.”

“Oh?”

And for a second, he forgets to flirt altogether. Stede’s fascination in his knowledge is so earnest, it’s like a drug in its own right.

Ed’s knowledge. Like he’s actually got cool shit to talk about, interesting things to say, worthwhile opinions to solicit. He can’t remember the last time he got to flex these muscles. Much less the last time someone wanted him to.

“Yeah,” he laughs lightly. “Yeah, there’s all this—all this work from certain artists at the time, absolutely swooning over the whole lifestyle. This fuckin’ brazen affinity for piracy comes through in all their stuff, but it’s hard to pick out everything they were saying without all the context of piracy itself, y’know? It’s like there’s a… a whole language in there I don’t speak or something.”

His hands are moving of their own volition, like they’re determined to map out the pieces in midair before them. When he focuses on Stede’s face again, Stede looks as fucking enraptured as Ed’s felt for most of the conversation. It knocks the air out of his lungs.

“Well, I might speak it,” Stede offers eagerly. “I—I’d love to see what you’re talking about, and maybe I could—I mean, who knows?”

Ed releases a soft rush of air as he stares, something new settling into his chest. He forgets to answer entirely, because this—fuck, sure, he’s attracted to this guy, but that’s not what’s wrapping around his heart right now like a sweet, warm blanket. This feels unexpectedly intimate, genuine in a way Ed hadn’t realized he’s been missing.

God—the fucking passion. The excitement. The thrill of teaching and learning, the gratification of being rewarded for aimless curiosity and interest, for following a thread of inspiration.

Fucking hell, it’s been a long time since Ed’s felt inspired.

“And honestly,” Stede hurries to add when Ed says nothing, “I’ll bet it went the other way, too! If artists were out there writing love letters to pirates in their work… well, who’s to say certain pirates didn’t fall for particular artists?”

Oh. Oh, god, and isn’t that a romantic thought?

Ed might melt into liquid on the spot, dissolve into a puddle right here and now. He feels overwhelmed, like Stede is suddenly feeding something inside him he hadn’t even known was there, much less that it’s been starving. 

“Love letters to pirates,” he repeats softly. A dreamy sigh comes rushing out of him as he shakes his head fondly, gaze still resting on Stede’s eyes. “Sounds like you’ve got it all sussed out already.”

Ed, for all that he waltzed presumptuously onto this topic, would never have expected that Stede might want to spend his undoubtedly precious time on some frivolous rabbit hole. Except then Stede smiles at him like he’d love to do exactly that, and Ed’s breath has already caught in his chest by the time that gorgeous mouth opens to speak again.

He likes when Stede speaks, he’s decided. He likes the shit he says, likes the way he talks, wants to hear everything running through that fascinating fucking brain of his.

A chime sounds from Stede’s pocket. The candy-sweet bubble around the moment goes pop.

“Damn it,” Stede murmurs as he glances at the time. “I’ve got to get to my class. This very one, in fact.”

Ed’s heart plummets. Right, yeah—important guy with actual shit to do. He tries not to let the disappointment live too transparently on his features when Stede looks up at him again, instead offering a wry smile.

“Damn. Starting to wish I could take the class myself.” He steals his own glance at the time. “Suppose I should get ready for my own class in a couple hours, as well.” 

Stede chuckles. “Starting to wish I could skip my class and hear more about all this art,” he admits. Ed’s heart lifts right back up. “Maybe teach you a thing or two about pirates.”

You could teach me a thing or two about anything you wanted, Ed thinks without meaning to, glancing down as heat blooms through his cheeks. Anything at all. I’d listen.

He looks up at Stede’s face again as they fall into silence together, then blinks with surprise when he finds Stede’s gaze trailing over him. The heat in his face creeps lower down his body as he realizes Stede’s eyes are tracing the tattoos up his arms, inspecting them with intense interest. For a wild moment, it feels almost like the ghost of a touch running across his skin, following every stroke of ink.

Ed swallows quietly, lingering in the moment for as long as he can. Sure, okay. As long as they’re fuckin’ looking, why not?

He’s noticed how many professors dress down around this campus, but never Stede. Always put together, neat shirt and tie, oftentimes a vest, sometimes a jacket. Ed wonders what it’s like to be him, to wake up every morning knowing exactly what he’ll wear, exactly the role he’s stepping into, exactly who he’s meant to be that day.

He wears this world with an ease Ed can only dream of. He belongs. Must be nice to feel that way.

Though—Stede’s not one of these stuck-up dicks who Ed can feel casting him alienating looks in the hallways because he doesn’t look like them. At least, not so far. He looks like he could fit right in with those pricks, but from what Ed can tell, he doesn’t. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Stede’s never sitting with those types here in the lounge, or walking across campus with them engaged in some lively discussion.

He’s always on his own. Maybe it’s on purpose.

Maybe it’s not.

The wheels in Ed’s brain are spinning and spinning, rattling like they’re begging for a tune-up. They haven’t spun this fast in fucking years, and when a stupid idea suddenly gets lodged in the gears, it falls out of his stupid mouth before he can stop it.

“Hey,” he breathes. It’s quieter than he intends, but Stede looks up at him without hesitation, like he’s dying for a reason not to be off to his class.

“D’you wanna do something weird?”

***

God, Jesus fuck, Ed was really on some other fucking shit when he’d suggested this. He’s bouncing anxiously on his heels the whole way to Stede’s classroom, still stunned Stede has agreed to this decidedly ludicrous suggestion. Ed isn’t even sure it’s technically, like, allowed or whatever.

For the first time since starting this job, he can’t really bring himself to care. He’s vibrating as Stede introduces him with a few choice words to the class, and something about Professor Edward Teach rolling so naturally off his tongue gives Ed just the swell of confidence he needs to swan into the room like he belongs there, taking a preemptive bow like he’s about to change these students’ fucking lives by rambling about some art.

Hell, who knows? Maybe he fucking is.

“Today, dear students of piracy through the ages—” Okay, the kids actually—they look pretty interested. Even excited. Ed only half-hears the dramatic set-up flying off his tongue as he speaks, already feeling a little more at ease as he drinks in the grins of his captive audience. He blinks as a hand shoots up after only a few sentences.

“Question already?”

“Yeah. Are you Blackbeard?”

For a long beat, Ed’s world grinds to a halt. He freezes in place, and suddenly the room feels a fraction of the size it did moments ago.

Fuck. Fuck. So the rumors have already spread beyond his own classrooms, then. God, he’s moved through his career for fucking years without people pegging him; how the fuck have a handful of twenty-somethings figured it out in the scarce few days since he set foot on this campus? Ed had thought his stuff was mostly sought out by shitty, rich pricks anyway. What the hell do a bunch of kids care?

Izzy’s fault, he decides instantly. Izzy and his stupid fucking insistence on the big social media presence. Oh, fuck him.

He swallows heavily and doesn’t let himself get lost for more than a second before screwing his face into an incredulous look, the best he can muster. He doesn’t quite mean to glance at Stede, but he can’t help it.

Does he know?

Does he care?

“Blackbeard?” he scoffs. Stede looks sheepish and wrong-footed, but not exactly surprised. Great—so this is anything but the first time it’s reached his ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Who the fuck’s Blackbeard?”

“Ah,” Stede says anxiously, fidgeting as he glances between Ed and the class. “He’s, erm—”

“The artist,” someone interrupts. Ed barely hears it, too focused on inspecting Stede’s expression for clues about his reaction to the whole thing. He zones back in halfway through a sentence. “...and don’t know who Blackbeard is.”

Ed blinks, finally looking back to the students as he pulls in a breath and lets go of it.

Okay. He can play this off. Just gotta be cool. So, so fucking cool.

“All right, fine,” he pivots. “Obviously, I’ve heard of Blackbeard. The guy’s everywhere.” He shoots the student another skeptical look. “Why the fuck would you think I’m him?”

The students fall silent. All right. That seemed to work.

“I dunno,” someone says, sounding less certain now. “I just heard your art was… like, really similar.”

A little tension releases from Ed’s muscles. Really just a rumor, then. No one’s standing by with any proof, with feverish essays about recurring themes or some in-depth brushstroke analysis to catch him red-handed.

He scoffs, drawing himself up with a little more ease this time and crossing his arms. “Lots of art is really similar,” he tosses back. “It’s called influence. Derivation. You think after thousands of years, people are still coming up with totally original fuckin’ ideas?”

“Well—do you know who he is? You’re, like, an insider, right?”

Ed frowns, resisting the distracted urge to glance towards Stede again. He wonders if Stede’s buying his bullshit, too. He wonders who he feels worse about lying to, him or a bunch of eager kids. “An insider?”

“Yeah!” another student chimes in. “You’re an artist, and your stuff is kinda similar. So do you know who he is?”

The question hits Ed unexpectedly, and he has to pause, tilting his head.

He knows what the student means. It’s just—it’s fucking ironic, is all.

No, he could say, and it’d be the closest thing to the truth out of anything else he’s said on the matter. No, got no fucking clue, actually. Been trying to figure it out for years. That’s the whole fucking reason I came here.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes instead, because it suddenly feels safer than the alternative. “Yeah, all right. I might know the guy. Art world’s not that big, after all.”

It seems to thread the needle just right. A light ripple of awe slips through the room. No more questions come. Ed remembers how to breathe. Relief washes through him so swiftly it pulls a smile to his lips. He claps his hands and rubs them together.

“Now,” he says, eager to move on, “are we gonna talk about some pretentious fuck, or are we gonna talk about fuckin’ pirates stealing art?” He relaxes even further as it earns him a few laughs, and he steals one more glance at Stede despite himself.

Stede looks a little relieved, too. He’s gazing at Ed with that thrilled, encouraging smile again, and the last of Ed’s anxiety washes away like shapes in the sand on the shore of the ocean, leaving only his excitement behind.

The rest of the hour flies by in a giddy whirlwind. It’s oddly adrenaline-fueled, and fuck, it’s not like Ed’s done this before, but he kinda feels like he’s killing it. The entire class seems rapt.

In his own classes, he’s done his best to plan and plan and over-plan, confident in his knowledge but anxious in the setting. Today, he just—fucking talks. Just rambles, indulges in tangents, realizes Stede has whiteboard markers and helps himself to them before he can think twice, jotting down notes and scribbling out his best renderings of the art that comes to mind. He has to snort at himself for the shoddy visual aids, but Stede snorts too, so Ed keeps going.

He goes and goes. He asks questions and finds students actually answering, turns around every so often to find hands up, and breaks into wide, impressed grins at every question thrown his way. Fuck, these kids are smart, and Ed never even knew a classroom could be this fucking fun, because he’s talking about goddamn pirates and art and remembering a piece by one of his favorite artists that would fit in fucking perfectly in all this, and he wonders what Stede’s thinking, whether he’s bored or interested or regrets letting Ed commandeer his fucking class, or if maybe he’s actually impressed by Ed’s knowledge, or—

Ed nearly trips over his own feet as he spins around to face the board and briefly meets Stede’s gaze. His breath catches in his lungs at the look on his face.

He looks—dazzled. He looks like he’d listen to Ed all fucking day. He looks completely at ease with having placed Ed at the helm here, entirely content to let him steer wherever he pleases. He looks like he isn’t even questioning whether Ed has any business getting up in front of a classroom and unceremoniously infodumping about some niche interest of his.

He looks a little… enamored.

Ed’s heart races as a wide grin steals across his lips. Stede beams back, happy and encouraging, and good fucking god, Ed bets he’d wind up with stars in his eyes if he stared at that face as much as he wants to. And good fucking god, he wants to. The only thing that keeps him rooted in reality is the anticipation in Stede’s eyes, like he’s hanging on Ed’s every word and can’t wait to find out what’s coming next.

Ed lets out a soft rush of breath and keeps going, heartbeat loud in his ears.

***

By the time the class ends, Ed feels like he’s just run a fucking marathon and could run three more. He grins as the students filter out of the room and cast him looks that range from fascinated to amused to deferential, and whatever, he’ll take the lot of it, because he feels fucking unbeatable. For a second, he’s disappointed at the thought of going off and teaching his own class today—and then remembers with a giddy rush that he doesn’t have to.

He spins around to face Stede the second the students are out of the room, absolutely buzzing.

“Ed, that was incredible,” Stede says instantly, coming forward with an awed smile before Ed can even speak. “I—I’ve never spent a class so fascinated, and I’m the one teaching it.”

It winds Ed like he really has just run three more marathons. And then he laughs, because he has to, because that’s the nicest fucking thing he thinks anyone’s ever said to him, and if he doesn’t fucking laugh at the sheer thrill of it, he might do something else with the emotion suddenly swelling in his chest. Like tear up over how light and happy he feels right now—more than he’s felt in months, even years—or grab Stede by the shoulders and kiss him full on the fucking mouth.

He nearly does it anyway. Or rather, he gets as far as grabbing Stede by the shoulders, unable to help the beaming grin on his lips or the renewed excitement washing through him as he realizes he gets to hear Stede teach now, and that sounds almost as good as kissing him.

“Your turn next,” he says breathlessly. “You ready?”

Stede’s eyes go wide, like he’s suddenly terrified.

Right—guy doesn’t seem like the terribly spontaneous type. Maybe he’s nervous about giving an impromptu lecture. Luckily, Ed’s whole fucking head is filling up with enough ideas for both of them right now, and he forgets to worry whether he’s overstepping, because something about all this—about today, about that class, about Stede—has broken some box wide open inside Ed’s chest, golden and passionate and fucking special. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t ride that wave.

He claps Stede on the shoulder and spins on his heel to lead the way to his own classroom without waiting for a response. Gives Stede a quick one sec, gonna grab something before hurrying off to his office.

Stede had said, after all, that he’d wanted to see the art Ed had mentioned, the love letters that artists have written to pirates. His heart dances in his chest as he quickly finds the books he needs, paging through until he lands on photos of the paintings he’s looking for. 

Stede wants love letters. Ed can bring him fucking love letters.

Lip bitten in excitement, he darts out of his office again, books full of love notes clutched in his arms as he hurries back to the classroom like a giddy teenager. Stede is still standing outside the classroom as Ed approaches from behind, and he claps him on the back once he reaches him. Sort of can’t stop touching the guy. Ed hopes he doesn’t mind.

“Ready?” he asks brightly, but falters the second he catches Stede’s gaze. He is not, if Ed had to guess, ready.

He looks beyond just nervous. He looks like he’s on the verge of an anxious meltdown. Ed frowns in concern.

“Whoa—hey, what?” he asks, squeezing Stede’s shoulder. He feels the way Stede leans into the touch and lets his hand linger. “What’s wrong, man?”

Stede blinks rapidly, like he’s surprised Ed can pick up on the veritable tsunami of anxiety pouring off of him. “Nothing!”

Wow. He’s a bad fucking liar. He crumbles almost instantly.

“It’s just—I’ve never really, um… gone into something so… unprepared,” he confesses. Ed fixes him with an endeared look.

“What, this?” he asks, nodding toward the room. “Aw, Stede—don’t think so much about it. We’re having a bit of fun, all right? No one’s grading you on it.” He raises his brows. “Though you’re free to give them a pop quiz at the end. Probably be a bit of a laugh.”

Stede shifts his weight anxiously, looking thoughtful. “That’s… true.” Ed wonders if he means the having fun bit or the pop quiz bit.

He takes a slow breath as he surveys the distress on Stede’s features, desperate to soothe it away. “Hey,” he finally murmurs, squeezing Stede’s shoulder again. “I had a fuckin’ blast in your class just now, mate. Seemed like you did, too.”

Stede seems hesitant, but nods. The ghost of a smile finally finds his lips. “Yeah. I did.”

Ed smiles encouragingly. “So it’s the same thing here, right? We’re just talking about what we love. It was easy enough for you in the lounge—that’s all you’ve gotta do. Just have fun.”

Guy like Stede, Ed would bet there was a time he had loads of fun just making his syllabi. Maybe he can help tug it back to the surface, the way Stede seems to be pulling at parts of him he hardly knew still had life left in them.

Stede looks convinced at last, shoulders relaxing a little beneath Ed’s hand. “Yeah,” he sighs, then nods. “Right. Ready.”

Ed can’t help but melt into a wider smile. “Good man,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder one more time.

When he steps into the room, he makes a point of introducing Stede with at least as much fanfare as Stede had done for him. He grins in satisfaction when Stede enters with as much gusto as Ed had in his class.

The room is dead silent. 

That won’t fucking do. Ed glares at the students. “Clap,” he orders sharply. He smiles when it’s met with scattered applause.

It’s a minute before Ed manages to get the projector working. He’s already grinning to himself as Stede begins chattering to the class in the meantime, managing to go from stolen art to eighteenth century trade routes in the time it takes Ed to pull up the first painting he’s been dying to show Stede.

Stede falls silent, face lighting up with more than just the glow of the projection. Awe breaks across his expression.

“Oh… wow,” he breathes, shuffling in closer to the screen. “Look at that! Isn’t that—hang on, that’s one of the Royal Fortune ships in the background, isn’t it?”

Jackpot.

“No fuckin’ clue, man,” Ed says honestly, gesturing pointedly towards the class with an encouraging arched brow. “This is some of the art I was talking about. Tell us about it.”

He does. God, does he ever. This guy’s so fucking smart, like his head’s full of more knowledge than Ed ever knew could fit in one brain.

But that’s not what has Ed staring with a fond smile on his lips for the entirety of the lecture, chin in his hand and hearts in his eyes. It’s the passion. That same passion Ed had glimpsed in the faculty lounge, the enthusiasm burning so bright it could probably power the solar system. Stede talks like the world is full of things to love and he’s already found a whole boatload of them, and Ed wants to hear about them forever. Fuck knows he could use more things to love, more things that light him up from the inside out like Stede. He can already feel a burgeoning glow inside him since finishing his own lecture in Stede’s class; god only knows what it could grow into if Ed were to spend even more time with him.

Maybe Stede would get coffee with him sometime. Or dinner. Just sit down and fucking talk at Ed for hours, open up that spout inside him and just drench Ed in shiny new information.

Ed is breathless for most of the lecture, only barely remembering himself enough to move on to other paintings he wants Stede’s thoughts on, other art he has inklings about but no context for. Stede seems more excited at every fucking piece he puts up, and he never disappoints when Ed has a question or prods at his expertise. The students seem to be listening just as closely, but Ed almost forgets there’s anyone in the room except Stede. Just Stede and him.

The end of the period arrives in what feels like the blink of an eye. Ed reluctantly switches off the projector as he bids the students a good weekend, wishing he could keep Stede here all fucking day.

He gathers his books a little slowly, feeling again like he’s in middle school, trying to find himself caught alone in the classroom with his new crush. And he is, he supposes. Stede makes his way across the room towards him, and Ed can practically hear the buzzing beneath his own skin getting louder.

“That was…” Stede shakes his head, looking delighted. “That felt—”

“You were fuckin’ great, man,” Ed blurts, apparently having lost any fucking ability to play it cool. He quickly calms his voice, only barely managing to rein it in. “Thanks for coming. Most fun I’ve had at work in ages, if I’m honest.”

Stede laughs like he’s surprised to hear it. “Thank you! My god, I mean, what you did in my class was just—you know today might have been the first time I didn’t watch a single student yawn in that class?”

Fucking hell. After the magic Ed just watched, he’s the one getting a compliment?

He breathes into a flattered chuckle, hoping the heat on his cheeks isn’t visible. “Certainly no yawning in here today, mate,” he agrees. “They loved you. Maybe we ought to swap places more often.”

The suggestion tumbles past his lips before he can really think about it. Stede doesn’t say anything for a second, and Ed swiftly moves along before he can be embarrassed again at his own eagerness.

“Anyway, I didn’t do all that much. Just… rambled, really.” He hesitates as his stomach twists, chancing a glance at Stede’s face. All that earnestness pulls the honesty right off his tongue before he can stop it. “Not totally sure I’m… cut out to be a professor. I haven’t got it all together like you.”

Stede gives him a look of—something. Disbelief mixed with something else. “What?” he huffs. “You—surely, you can’t tell me this is the first time you’ve taught.”

Ed’s brows lift. Stede thinks he’s done this before?

Like—like he’s been looking at Ed today and seeing someone he believed has already established a career doing this. Like Ed came off like some seasoned professional today, rather than just some fucking guy with a boatload of whims and a painting career to avoid.

Imagine that.

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug once he remembers himself, nodding in response to Stede’s question. “First time,” he admits.

He considers leaving it there, keeping the locks on his less-than-impressive history in academia—but then he takes one more glance at Stede’s curious, history-loving expression and barely hesitates before cracking the door open a little wider. “I mean, I was—on my way to getting my doctorate at one point. But…” He waves his hand vaguely, pushing the details aside before he can accidentally spill his whole stupid life story. “I dunno. Didn’t agree with academia, and it didn’t agree with me.”

Oversimplification of the century. Stede doesn’t need to know the sordid details.

“I see,” Stede says carefully. “So… how’d you land back in the thick of it, then?”

Right. Should have seen that one coming. Ed pulls in a deep breath, trying to pick his way through the complicated truth to find a simple version he can give Stede.

“Just… needed a change of pace, I s’pose,” he finally says. He casts him a wry smile. “Turns out there are worse things than this.” 

He looks away before Stede’s expression can unceremoniously yank any more intimate truths off his tongue. Stede is quiet for a beat, but when he speaks again, his voice is softer than Ed expects.

“Well,” he says, “for what it’s worth, I think teaching looks… quite good on you.”

Ed’s eyes fly back to him, a shiver of surprise flying through him.

Damn, okay. So they’re back to flirting, then—fantastic news. Certainly nicer than lingering on the past. Ed can’t help the breathless smile that lifts the corners of his mouth, the curious heat that creeps up his spine as he draws himself up a little, letting his gaze linger for a beat. He watches Stede’s expression shift from content to flustered with every second Ed leaves him hanging.

“That is—I mean—”

“You think so?” Ed inserts swiftly, grinning even wider. Stede blinks at him for a moment, then nods and smiles.

“I think so.”

A thrill shimmies down Ed’s body.

He could ask. Just—just ask Stede about getting that coffee, or maybe grabbing dinner, or maybe, if he’s pegged that lovely, faint flush on Stede’s cheeks correctly, he could suggest skipping dinner altogether. God, suddenly Ed would take anything from a long, innocent chat over drinks to ten frenzied minutes in a dark corner, mouth too full to say a word.

He takes in a sharp breath as he snaps himself out of it. Fuck, that was fast. He’s not usually fucking fantasizing about people so soon after their first real conversation. Guy’s certainly one of a kind, Ed will give him that.

Still—Ed could stand to chill the fuck out, probably. They’re flirting. Just flirting. Ed can just flirt, he does it all the time. Sure, others haven’t made his heart race like this, and their eyes didn’t fucking sparkle when they talked about their favorite things, and their favorite things didn’t slot into place with Ed’s like puzzle pieces, and they didn’t take Ed from feeling like a fish out of water on this campus to feeling like he actually belongs here in the space of a few short hours. 

But still. Just flirting.

It’s nice. It’s enough for today, Ed decides.

He tightens his grip on the books he’s holding, the little stack of love letters he’d grabbed from his office to shove into Stede’s hands. There’s still a small smile on his lips as he steps forward, letting his feet carry him a little too close to Stede as he slips past him towards the door.

“Looks good on you, too,” he says sincerely, casting Stede one more grin before slipping out of the room.

***

For the rest of the day, Ed is positively buzzing.

He can hardly focus on a single fucking thing. He’s lucky his swapped lecture with Stede had been his last class for the day, because all he can think about afterwards is Stede’s last compliment. I think teaching looks quite good on you.

So maybe Ed’s a little zero-to-sixty infatuated. Maybe he doesn’t care. God, he feels so fucking good. He feels like he fucking did something today, something cool and impressive and interesting and weird and fun. He wonders if there’s a way to bottle this feeling so he can take a swig next time he’s gotten too lost in Blackbeard shit to pull himself out of it, or next time he’s alone in his apartment and wishing he weren’t.

He stays late on campus in his studio, makes a little more progress towards setting it up as a real workspace for himself. He’s been painting here and there during his late nights on campus, testing out the space, trying to feel like it’s actually his.

He feels it now. It’s his. He’s gonna make it his.

When he finally heads home, the caffeinated hum still hasn’t left his bones. Not even the heavy, dark canvas on his easel manages to dampen his mood. He eats, tries to occupy himself, glances a hundred times over to where his painting supplies are set up—and finally, he stops fighting the pull of that big, glowing thing inside him.

He sets up a fresh canvas and fresh palette, opens the blinds to let in the light of the setting sun, and breathes out slowly as he pauses. His eyes flutter shut, and he can already see the warm golds he’s aching to paint with, the shapes and the story he’s itching to tell.

Then, he paints.

What comes out of him is fucking new. Old and new at the same time, in a way. There’s a lightness he hasn’t let into his paintings in years, always knowing full well that it doesn’t fit his whole fucking deal, all the doom and gloom he’s gone and turned into a career. He knows what Izzy would say. He’s shown him this side of his work before, heard the scoffs, seen the eye rolls.

He puts it out of mind. It’s been a long damn time since he felt like he was painting for himself, but tonight, he feels almost possessed. He chases the inspiration across his canvas until he’s yanked the warm hues in from outside and wrangled them onto his palette, finally stopping for the night only when he’s looking at a golden, sunset-soaked beach. There’s a boat, a figure, and the rush of welcoming waves kissing the shore at the figure’s feet.

He puts it down for now, satisfied. He’s not sure where it’s going yet, but he already likes it. More than he can usually say for his own work.

He goes to bed. He doesn’t sleep. Not for hours.

He stares at the ceiling, then at the wall, then buries his face in his pillow because he can’t stop fucking smiling, even in the dark of his bedroom.

I think teaching looks quite good on you. 

It plays through his head like a middle-school-crush mantra. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Stede’s smile, hears Stede’s excited cadences or surprised laughs, feels the warmth of Stede’s shoulder beneath his palm. He’s stuck in Ed’s head like a melody on a loop, and Ed thinks it might be his new favorite song.

The week is over, but maybe—maybe Ed can spend more time with him Monday. Maybe he can keep finding reasons to see him, ways to cross paths with him, excuses to get him talking and hope he never stops, keep the music playing on and on forever. 

He sighs with a besotted little smile as he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the glowing stripes painted across the ceiling by the moonlight slipping in through the blinds. Jesus. Feeling this way, dreaming about someone instead of sleeping, replaying every interaction with them over and over again in his mind—it’s all so fucking new. And a bit mad, probably. This isn’t normal for him.

That might be what he likes best about it.

He’s fucking tired of his normals. It’s the whole reason he’s trying his hand at teaching, hoping he might rekindle some decades-old spark of inspiration and break out of all his ruts. The more unusual the better, as far as he’s concerned.

Stede is unusual. Unusually fascinating, unusually fun, unusually enthusiastic. And the way he makes Ed feel is unusual, too. Unusually light, unusually energized, unusually inspired to throw open the curtains around his mind and let sunshine come pouring in.

He’s already hungry for more.

***

The weekend doesn’t go the way Ed expects. What he expects is to keep feeding the ravenous inspiration inside him—go out sailing on Saturday, spend the evening enjoying a drink with the usual crowd at Jackie’s, then come home and work more on the light, airy painting he’d started Friday night.

Instead, he gets a call from Izzy before he’s even left for the marina to remind him of all the work he’s been doing such an excellent job of ignoring. He rolls his eyes and sighs at first, ready to push it all off another day—and then glimpses the calendar and realizes what the date is.

Shit. For once, Izzy’s not wrong about how behind he is.

The weekend is a blur from there. A shitty, depressing blur. Ed sinks into the headspace he needs and holds his breath while he paints and paints, diving so deep beneath dark, heavy waves that he forgets to take a break until it’s nearly dawn on Sunday morning. His eyes are tired and bleary, despite switching out his contacts for his glasses hours ago; he manages a few hours of restless, fitful sleep before he gives up and goes back to his canvas, feeling more ghostlike than human as he loses himself again to a sea of blacks and greys.

He fucking hates it here. It’s exhausting, swarming with old demons who are so fucking used to seeing him here that they practically exchange pleasantries in his head. But it’s familiar, old hat, safe in a devil-you-know sort of way, and for all the emotional energy he loses to the looming shadows, he can more or less put his brain on autopilot. Lets him avoid thinking about any of it too hard, at least.

Everything is a little numb by the time he emerges from the fog of it all. He stares at the canvases Monday morning and only half-remembers painting the shit he sees there.

Whatever. Probably for the best. Got it done, at least.

He glances at the clock on the wall, then scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t teach until the afternoon today. He’d planned to get to campus early, move things into his studio, maybe do some painting, maybe—maybe even talk to Stede.

He sighs, shoots a text off to Fang and Ivan to enlist their help with some boxes, and collapses back into bed to sleep until noon.

***

It isn’t often that Ed falls so deep into his Blackbeard work that it takes this long to resurface from it. He feels off-kilter for a full day, and still a little ill-fitting in his own skin the day after. The evenings in his on-campus studio help; they feel like a reprieve from his apartment, especially after drowning in the energy he’d created there over the weekend.

What helps even more is Stede turning up unannounced at his studio mid-week, long after Ed thought the building had emptied for the day.

“Ed?” comes the voice from the doorway behind him, and Ed spins in place with a jolt of surprise, instantly snapped out of his quest to remember which dutifully unlabeled box his brushes are in. Stede looks curious and hopeful. The grin that takes over Ed’s expression is immediate.

“Oh, hey,” he huffs, delighted. “The fuck are you doing here so late?”

Stede grins back. Ed thinks if he’d have come face-to-face with that expression earlier in the week, he’d have been back to feeling like himself a hell of a lot sooner.

“My, uh… office hours,” Stede explains vaguely, eyes casting around the studio space. “I mean, no one ever comes, but this is the only time I’m available for them.”

Ed’s brows lift. So, what—he’s just fucking alone in his office here for hours every evening?

He doesn’t exactly mean to file away that piece of information. Hard not to, though. He snaps himself out of it and quickly turns back to the box he’s been rifling through, trying not to give away the crazy fucking thing his heart is suddenly doing.

“Huh,” he says casually. He’d been looking for something in these boxes a second ago, he swears. “S’funny, because I’ve been coming and working in here most nights.”

“You have?” Stede sounds shocked. Ed grins to himself.

Not just him wanting to cross paths again, maybe.

Jesus, fucking focus. He pulls open another box. Right, brushes, finally.

“Yeah,” Ed confirms. “Nice and peaceful. I usually just work out of my place, but the change of scenery can be… helpful.” To say the fucking least.

He glances around, mentally ticking off the supplies he’ll need to play around in here tonight. That’s everything, he thinks. He looks back at Stede next, noticing the way he’s fallen silent, the way his eyes are following Ed’s movements as he sets up to paint. It makes Ed go warm all over.

Their gazes finally meet, like Stede is snapping himself out of something. “Oh! I—I actually wanted to ask you something. I had a, um… a bit of a strange idea.”

Ed raises his brows curiously, a small thrill running down his spine. Stede rushes to add, “And you can say no, if you like—”

“How about you ask first before answering for me?” Ed interrupts swiftly, smirking.

Stede looks a touch sheepish. “Right,” he concedes, stepping across the threshold like he’s anxious he might be trespassing. “So I’ve got this, um… well, there’s this conference coming up in the winter. It’s an interdisciplinary thing, and I’ve been invited to speak.”

Ed’s movements hitch. It’s one of those things he’s never even thought to want, but it hits him square in the chest, and suddenly all he can think is: god, what must that be like?

He casts Stede a small smile that he hopes looks sincere, rather than like Ed’s just been reminded of the gaping chasm between their respective worlds. “Impressive.”

Stede looks surprised by the response. Is it not impressive? Was that a weird thing to say?

“I… suppose,” he agrees carefully. “The problem is, I—I haven’t a clue what to speak about. These things can be so dry, and the last thing I want is to put people to sleep.”

Ed can’t imagine who could ever drift off with Stede standing up and talking about his niche interests in front of them, but sure, all right.

“But, um—well, as we’ve mentioned… no one was yawning, that day we swapped classes.”

That gets Ed’s attention. He pauses in his rifling to look at Stede properly, hands full with a half-finished painting, an odd little bloom of giddiness in his chest. “Yeah…?”

Stede draws himself up a little once Ed’s eyes are on him. “So I thought—maybe you’d like to sort of… collaborate? On—on a talk for the conference, about all the same things we talked about the other day.”

Ed blinks, dumbfounded.

Collaborate? For one of those—those important, fancy academic conferences full of people with doctorates who tend to grimace at the mere fucking sight of Ed?

“We could work on it together,” Stede goes on in a rush, looking breathless and hopeful now. “Write it together—I’d get your name added as a presenter, obviously—”

Ed’s eyes widen. Shit, wait, what?

Stede doesn’t just want his help. He wants him there.

Fucking—what?

“—and they might complain about the last-minute change, but…”

Ed has to put down the canvas, head suddenly spinning a little. There’s some mix of anxiety and enormous warmth suddenly washing over him as Stede speaks. He hadn’t imagined—fuck, never could have imagined that Stede would suggest something like this.

He really thinks Ed could do this?

“You’re serious?” he finally asks, surveying Stede’s expression for any hint of irony. “You want to—I mean, you’d want me there with you, giving the whole talk, or… whatever? Even if they’re, like—kinda pissed about it?”

Stede lights up like a fucking Christmas tree as he nods. “Of course!” he says cheerfully. Ed’s never heard someone sound cheerful at the prospect of pissing off a bunch of colleagues like it’s nothing, like he’s not even worried about what they’ll think. “I mean—listen, these sorts of people could all stand to loosen up a little, and I think anything we’d do together would be far more interesting than what they’d get from me alone. Don’t you?”

Ed finds himself oddly self-conscious as the question is posed to him, face heating as he glances down with a small, nervous laugh. There’s something pulsing inside him now, a tentative thrill as all of this sinks in. That same middle-school-crush giddiness from the week prior, the one that makes Ed feel like kicking his fucking feet and giggling.

“I dunno,” he says, still hesitant despite his helpless grin. He begins turning back to his supplies to hide the expression. “You’re pretty fuckin’ fascinating all on your own.”

There’s a pause between them, and when Stede speaks again, he sounds anxious. “Oh—of course, if you’d rather not—”

Ed nearly sends his cart of supplies flying from turning back to Stede so quickly. “No!” he says hurriedly, because fuck, now he seems ungrateful—or worse, like he isn’t fucking dying for the excuse to spend all his free time with Stede, if nothing else. “Shit, mate, that’s not at all what I—” He cuts himself off as he takes in Stede’s anxious expression, then sighs, absently reaching up to tangle his fingers into his hair.

Okay. What’s the worst that could happen? Ed gets laughed out of a room and humiliated in front of a bunch of fancy, stuffy pricks, and then maybe he quits his job here out of sheer embarrassment and never looks back.

Eh. Not the worst thing, he supposes sullenly. Not like he doesn’t have a whole other stupid career to fall back on.

And on the flip side—Stede.

Stede actually wants to—to fucking do this with him. Actually thinks Ed would be good at this, or could contribute something valuable, could help create something better than what Stede could do alone.

Or he’s just using it as an excuse to spend more time with Ed. And that almost makes Ed grow even warmer than the other possibility. Might be a tie between the two, honestly.

Or… both could be true, he thinks, so quiet in his own mind he hardly hears it. Seems like a fucking long shot, but maybe. His gaze drifts tentatively back to Stede.

I think teaching looks quite good on you.

Ed takes a slow breath. “You really… think I’d be any good there?” he asks carefully. “I mean, I've never even been to one of those things, much less done this sorta thing. S’not really my, uh… scene.”

Stede’s expression shifts into something startlingly soft. Maybe even fond.

“I think you’d captivate them, Ed,” he says earnestly. “And—it’s not as if you’ll be alone. Like I said, we’d… do the whole thing together. Start to finish.”

Ed lets go of a quiet, amazed breath. He needs another moment to keep himself steady on his feet at the notion of spending all fucking semester with an excuse to see Stede all the fucking time.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes, letting a cautious smile begin creeping onto his face. “Yeah, all right. That—that sounds like it could be pretty cool, actually.”

When he catches Stede’s gaze again, Stede is positively beaming, smiling like the whole damn sun is hidden right behind his features. Ed relaxes into an even wider smile.

Well, fuck. Pretty sure that expression could convince him to do anything.

“Wonderful!” Stede says happily. “That’s—yes. Yes, I think it will be.”

And then Stede sort of just… fucking looks at him. Gazes at him, even as his beaming smile fades into a more contemplative one. Ed’s breath catches in his chest as he gazes right back, caught in Stede’s gravitational sway as that glowing, golden thing inside him pulls towards Stede like a magnet.

He can feel the way it warms within him, the way it’s pulsing like it had the day they swapped classes. It’s as though another layer of it has cracked right open, even more exposed now, shinier and brighter and hungry for the hurricane of feeling Stede stirs up inside him.

God, Ed is suddenly itching to paint, impatient to do something with all those glittering, good chemicals in his brain. Except Stede is still staring at him, and Ed is also starting to forget how to fucking breathe.

“Stede?” he finally asks carefully. All at once, Stede seems to snap out of it, blinking rapidly as he straightens up.

“Sorry—what?”

Ed gives him an odd look. “Was there something else you… came for?”

Stede looks momentarily startled at the question before glancing around, clearing his throat. “What—uh, what are you working on so late?”

Ed’s brows lift before he glances down to the half-finished canvas before him. He’d brought it from home, the painting he’d started last week with the golden sunset flooding his apartment, and he’d considered trying to pick his way through some of the details tonight—the boat, the figure, the story that brought them there. With Stede standing before him, he suddenly feels a little too exposed to work on this one.

Just as well, though; the inspiration flooding him is pulling him towards something else, he can already feel it. “Oh, uh—I dunno. Didn’t have much of a plan tonight,” he admits, gaze lifting back to Stede. He shrugs with a small smile. “Sort of just came to… you know. Dance with my muse.”

Stede looks rapt with interest. “Dance?” he asks curiously. “With your—what does that mean?”

It's just prodding enough to break through whatever flimsy guard Ed still has up. A mischievous grin steals across his lips. The half-formed images swirling through his mind are already taking better shape the longer Stede’s eyes stay glued to him, vivid purples and reds and blues and golds.

The next words are out of his mouth without thought, without a plan, without a single ounce of good sense at all.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?”

***

Ed isn’t sure what he was thinking.

He’s never invited someone to watch him paint before. Honestly can’t remember the last time he painted with someone’s eyes on him at all, save for the art classes he’s been teaching here—but this is different.

Standing in front of his blank canvas, he can’t feel anything but Stede’s gaze burning into him. Stede is behind him, seated on a desk and silent, and Ed can feel his anticipation hanging in the air, sizzling and electric.

It’s not unwelcome. It doesn’t feel prying or voyeuristic; it simply feels warm, poised to watch Ed engage in an act that Ed hadn’t realized would make him feel so laid bare, like he’s offered to put his whole fucking soul on display rather than just his brushstrokes and color choices. He shivers.

He wonders if Stede can feel it too. The snap in the air, the tang of it between them, even from so many feet apart. Wonders if Stede can sense the effect he has on him, the constant gravity between them pulling at threads in Ed’s chest that Ed didn’t even know had life left in them.

Suddenly, he’s right back in his body from days ago, the day they first spoke properly, the day they swapped classes. The first time he’d felt this way, like he’s been struck by lightning, like he just woke up for the first fucking time and he is so alive he can hardly stand it.

Passion, paintings, history, fascination. Love letters to pirates. Heart in his throat, beating and beating and beating.

And just like that, his feet are carrying him right up to the canvas.

He paints. At first, he feels the burn of Stede’s eyes on him at every moment, intimate and unwavering as they track his movements, his process, his technique. It puts a light simmer beneath his skin, pleasant but hyper-aware, self-conscious but thrilled.

And then he settles in. He lets the inspiration inside him take over, lets it rise to the surface to pull him this way and that, lets the heat of Stede’s gaze begin melting him into some otherworldly state, and then it feels—

Fuck, downright erotic.

He tilts headfirst into a bright world of color, vibrant and passionate and heady. It’s as if the pulsing of another heart in the room layers itself into his own internal metronome, keeping time as he spins and sways with his muse. He sinks deeper into it with each passing minute, and soon the world around him has begun blurring into a haze, leaving his canvas in sharp relief.

He’s hardly even aware of Stede’s eyes on him after a while. Their heat becomes the warmth of the setting sun on his skin as a colorful seascape unfurls on his canvas; he can feel the sea-salt breeze of the waves he’s painting, can sense the wind on his face like he’s out on the water himself, and can perfectly envision every inch of the tall, majestic ship pulling across the sparkling depths.

It pours out of him the way he hasn’t felt in ages. Ed remembers when painting always used to feel this way, like stepping outside himself, catching glimpses of some other world and capturing them on his canvas. He’s grown accustomed to the dulled, deadened sensation of painting Blackbeard works, but fuck, this—this is easy. Easy like it used to be. Like that second thrumming pulse in the space is echoing through his own veins, reminding his heart how good it feels to fucking beat.

Eventually, he can feel the end rushing towards him, feels the steps of the dance slowing as the melody begins to resolve. The scene on his canvas turns from aching and pulling and yearning to feeling settled, balanced, complete. Ed holds his breath through his final few brushstrokes, bristles hovering over the canvas before he finally draws back, surveying the piece before him.

It’s done.

He stares at what he’s created, breathing again at last. Slowly steps out of that fugue state and back into the real world, the one where he doesn’t even recall shedding his jacket or tying his hair back.

The piece is sort of… stunning.

It’s rippling with feeling, brighter and more beautiful than anything Ed’s created in years. It’s hopeful and evocative, steals his own breath like he isn’t the one who just painted it, catches him off-guard again and again the longer he looks at it. He can’t believe this was inside him, that it came from his own mind, a place that’s felt devoid of anything but dark, terrifying corners for longer than he could say.

But this—this is anything but dark or terrifying. This is letting in a burst of sunlight to mend all the cracks in his heart with shimmering, shining gold.

This, Ed thinks, feels like a love letter.

No sooner does the thought occur to him than he finds himself yanked abruptly back to reality by Stede’s voice. Ed is so startled by the soft wow that he spins on the spot, a hand flying up to his chest as his heart races.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “Almost forgot you were there.”

It’s a little absurd, actually. Ed had found himself so lovingly enveloped in the creation that even Stede had faded into the background, as if he weren’t the very source of inspiration.

Instantly, Stede looks sheepish. “Sorry,” he says, and Ed isn’t even sure why. He shakes his head quickly, stepping over to pull another desk up beside the one where Stede sits.

Could have just sat on the desk a few feet away, he supposes. Didn’t even occur to him. He pushes himself up onto it, crossing his legs to bring an absent hand to his knee and rub it slowly.

His other knee brushes Stede’s, sending an electric pulse straight through his bones. He hesitates, then lets his leg relax there, knees pressed lightly together.

He doesn’t move away. Neither does Stede. Ed feels so fucking warm.

They gaze at the painting together in silence. Ed’s heart beats and beats, and he wonders what the rhythm of Stede’s sounds like right now, whether it’s quick and breathless or slow and steady. Whether it’s reaching out for Ed’s, the way Ed can feel his own reaching out for Stede’s.

“That was amazing,” Stede says softly. Ed tears his gaze away to look at him, but Stede’s eyes are still locked on the painting. “I’ve never… seen anything like it. Like that, like… you.”

Warmth rolls across Ed’s skin. He swallows.

“Sometimes it… doesn’t even feel like me,” he confesses quietly, eyes drifting back to the painting. 

It doesn’t feel quite right on his lips, not when painting this way has made him feel more connected to his work than anything he’s done in years. Like coming back to himself after years of keeping his heart locked away in some cage outside his own body. 

“In a good way, though,” he adds. “It’s something I can get lost in. Stop thinking so hard and just be… Edward.”

Stede’s voice comes gentle and amused after a beat of silence. “Who else would you be?”

Ed blinks and glances back at him, heart skipping when he finds Stede’s twinkling gaze already resting on him.

It’s an ironic question. Stede can’t possibly know how much. Ed wonders if he’d like to.

He manages only a wry half-smile before pulling his gaze away again, returning to the painting before he can say something he can’t take back. Like I’m Blackbeard, actually or I really fucking want to kiss you right now.

Because he does. It is downright stupid how badly he does. It doesn’t even fucking make sense that Stede has made him feel like this in such a startlingly short space of time, like he’d simply found Ed in the darkness, seen what he could be, and promptly yanked him out of two decades’ worth of nightmares to douse him in daylight instead.

“You like it, then?” he asks.

“I—Ed, it’s beautiful,” Stede breathes earnestly. Ed’s heart slams against his ribs as his gaze flies right back to Stede. Stede is back to staring adoringly at the canvas. “The colors, the—the vibe of it. It makes me…”

He trails off, then glances towards Ed, looking hesitant. Ed’s breath disappears, heart promptly threatening to claw its way right past his ribs, wondering if Stede can see everything Ed poured into it, every message and intention layered between the colors.

“What?” Ed finally prompts quietly. Stede’s face softens minutely, expression opening up into something more vulnerable.

“It makes me feel like… like a pirate,” he says, the barest hint of a smile crossing his expression. “Or at least—what I like to imagine it would have been like to be a pirate. That sort of exhilaration, the freedom, the open sea… it’s—it’s all there.”

Ed lets out a slow, soft rush of breath, then has to look away from Stede’s eyes so he doesn’t fucking kiss him on the spot.

Like a pirate. Like the sort of pirate, maybe, who might have an artist back on land, writing him love letters in every single work.

Fuck, he gets it. He actually fucking gets it, sees Ed’s allusion to their back-and-forth from last week. Ed can feel them a breath away from settling onto the same page. His fingers twitch against his knee, barely restrained from reaching out for Stede’s.

“You really feel all that?” he whispers.

You do. God, say you fucking do. Say it’s not just me.

Stede nods. Ed’s heart flies into a whole new cadence.

He holds his breath and waits anxiously for more. For Stede to say something more, do something more, anything. He’s the pirate, Ed’s the artist, and before them is a screaming love letter.

His turn. His move. Ed waits.

And Stede—says nothing.

He says nothing. Ed blinks and casts him a subtle, incredulous look out of the corner of his eye. Stede doesn’t look uneasy, doesn’t even look like he’s vibrating with anticipation, the way Ed is. He’s just… looking.

Just gazing contentedly at the painting. Like it’s perfectly fucking normal that someone would paint him a goddamn love letter, and he doesn’t see the slightest need to fucking respond to it somehow.

Absurdly, Ed starts to chuckle.

It huffs out of him by accident at first, then grows until he can’t hold it in. Because either Stede really is that fucking oblivious, or Ed—god, Ed’s just sent himself on the world’s most ridiculous fucking roller coaster, all for fucking nothing.

“What?” Stede asks. Sure, now he looks uneasy. God, he’s pretty even when he’s casually spinning Ed’s whole world like a top. Ed feels out of his fucking mind.

“You and your—pirates,” he says, fondly exasperated. “Your pirates, and your history, and your—all your talk about vibes and paintings as love letters.” 

Stede is quiet. Fuckin’—okay, yeah, that’s it. That’s as hard as Ed can hit without feeling like he’ll risk snapping something between them, crossing some boundary that might make Stede uncomfortable if Ed’s completely misreading all this.

His brain throws up its hands, his heart gives a tiny sigh of resignation, and his mouth concludes aloud, "You're a bit of a lunatic.” Then, when Stede says nothing: “I like it.”

Stede bristles, casting him a frown. “You just said I’m a lunatic.”

“Yeah. You are. You’re a fuckin’ lunatic, and I like it.”

Their knees are still resting together. And despite his utter confusion over this utterly bizarre man, Ed still feels so, so warm.

“Oh,” Stede says, relaxing into a smile. Ed grins back.

Because yeah, fuck it. He likes this. Roller coasters and all.

It’s late. He can sense it, though he’s got no clue how long he painted for. He doesn’t want to move, oddly dreading the impending loss of physical contact, even when it’s as small and unassuming as the light press of their knees.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulls out his phone to check the time. “Shit,” he sighs. “It’s nearly ten.”

Beside him, Stede practically jumps in surprise. “What? We’ve been here—three hours?”

Ed gives him an odd look. “Yeah, mate. What’s wrong?” He blinks a moment later, gut sinking as a rather sickening thought occurs to him.

Fuck. Maybe Stede is—shit, he’s never even asked, never even wondered. Maybe Stede isn’t even fucking available.

“You—” he starts, then hesitates. “Did I make you late to get home to… someone?”

Stede looks even more startled at that. “What? No,” he says quickly. “No, I just didn’t… it didn’t feel that long.”

Ed is so relieved that he breathes into a light grin, relaxing again and leaning back where he sits on the desk. He stretches his legs out, failing to suppress the light hiss of pain that escapes him. Should have fucking known better than to sit like that for so long; his knee’s gonna be feeling it all day tomorrow, probably.

“Yeah,” he sighs in agreement once the pain’s passed. He gestures vaguely at the canvas with a shrug. “Time sorta gets away from me when I do this, but it’s… late. I should let you get home.”

Not like he can keep Stede here all fucking night, after all. Unless maybe Stede wanted him to. Ed would stay. He’d stay as long as Stede wanted, even if they were still here by sunrise.

To his completely nonsensical dismay, Stede nods and slides off the desk to get to his feet. He hasn’t so much as stepped away when he goes rigid, eyes widening as a hand flies up to his face.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Oh—oh, damn it.”

Ed frowns. “What?”

Stede glances about himself a little sheepishly. “I—I forgot I don’t have my car. I had to drop it at the shop this morning—they swore it’d be finished by tomorrow, but they’ve gotta be closed now, and—” Suddenly, he’s a bundle of nerves in front of Ed, anxiously tugging his phone out of his pocket as his fingers run through his hair. Ed wouldn’t mind running his own fingers through—fucking hell, man, focus. “Oh, Jesus—trying to get a cab at this time of night—”

“Whoa, hey,” Ed interrupts, standing and waving a hand dismissively at Stede’s phone. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll give you a ride.”

Stede looks downright shocked. “Oh,” he says, voice suddenly thin and tense, “no, that’s—that’s too much, I couldn’t possibly ask—”

“You’re not,” Ed assures him with a smile. His heart is pitter-pattering like mad in his chest at the opportunity, in fact. “I’m offering. C’mon, mate, you kept me company for fuckin’ hours tonight. Least I can do.” And then he has a thought, and oh—oh, it’s a brilliant fucking thought.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket, holding it out to Stede. “Here, just—put your number in there and add your address.”

Like Ed needs his fucking number to get him home. Would love to have his fucking number, though.

There’s another moment’s hesitation, but Stede doesn’t bat an eye at the phone. “All right,” he agrees, fingers brushing Ed’s as he accepts the phone. Ed beams so hard his cheeks hurt.

***

It’s a lucky fucking coincidence that Ed has a second helmet with him today. He doesn’t always drive around with one, but now he feels like the smartest guy ever, proudly holding out the helmet to Stede.

Stede doesn’t look impressed. He doesn’t even look happy anymore, actually. He looks stunned and anxious, mouth hanging open as he stares down at the helmet, and Ed arches a brow.

“What?” he asks, giving Stede’s arm a nudge with the helmet. Stede looks like he nearly jumps out of his skin. Ed frowns. “You need the helmet. There’s no fucking way I’m taking you if you’re gonna refuse to wear a helmet.”

“I, uh—I didn’t, um… realize you…” His eyes are flying between Ed and the motorcycle while he stammers. “That we’d be, uh…”

Ed suddenly blinks as the realization slots into place.

“You didn’t—how did you not know I drove a motorcycle?” Is it, like, not particularly normal that Ed could pick Stede’s car out of a lineup?

Stede, for one, looks at Ed like he’s fucking crazy for even suggesting it, so Ed will probably keep that bit of information to himself, thanks.

“Why would I know that?” Stede asks in a panic.

Ed can’t help the laughter that bursts out of him then, because this—god, this fucking evening. Of course Stede’s fucking terrified of motorcycles, or he’s just shocked that Ed rides one, or he’s just trying to throw Ed for loop after loop like it’s his life’s fucking mission, and god, he’s doing a great fucking job.

“Mate, c’mon, I swear you’ll be fine,” Ed chuckles once he calms down, pushing the helmet insistently towards Stede. Stede takes it this time, suddenly looking distracted, staring at Ed with a different sort of shock. 

Ed takes a moment to pause. Is he—is Stede staring at his mouth?

God, these fucking roller coasters.

“Sure,” Stede says after a few seconds. Ed nods, pleased, then tugs on his own helmet before sliding onto the bike, making sure to leave space for Stede behind him.

Be a fucking lie to say he’s not looking forward to this part. He hadn’t really thought about it when he’d suggested it, but—yeah, Ed certainly doesn’t mind that they’re about to be pressed so close together. And that Stede will need to hold onto him. Very tightly. For safety.

“Wait,” he suddenly hears from behind him again. “Oh, god—”

“Coming, or what?” Ed asks pointedly, lifting his visor to look up at him.

Stede fidgets for a few seconds longer before finally sighing, pulling the helmet on, and—oh, okay.

Okay, wow. Ed already thought he was good-looking, has caught moments where Stede looks cute as hell or gorgeous in the right light—but shit, suddenly he’s fucking hot.

Not just nerdy-hot. Hot like Ed wants to see him complete the look, put on some leather and get on a bike and toss Ed a wink before riding off and leaving Ed blushing. Hot like he could get Ed on his knees with nothing but a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Stede suddenly asks. Shit, what?

Ed snaps himself out of it quickly. “Nothing,” he says in a rush, then nods to the space behind him on the bike. “C’mon. On you get.” God, and don’t be shy about it.

Stede is shy about it. He holds onto Ed’s shoulder, clearly unfamiliar with getting on a motorcycle. Ed is thankful his smile is hidden as he holds steady for him.

And then suddenly he’s a little dizzy, because Stede is settling behind him, and even barely pressed together, Ed can feel the heat it pulls to his cheeks. Stede’s warm, solid form brushing his own, hips pressing carefully to Ed’s from behind.

He swallows and rather forcefully clears his head. “Hold on,” he instructs, flipping his visor down and preparing to turn on the bike.

Slowly, Stede’s hands slide to his sides. Ed has to suppress a mad little shiver at the tentative contact, trying to ignore the sudden ache beneath his skin for more. He turns his head to speak through the helmet. “You wanna fly off the back or something?”

Stede says something brief and questioning that he can’t quite make out. Ed rolls his eyes behind the safety of his visor, because Stede’s probably too much of a fucking gentleman to figure this out himself. He reaches down without another word, clutching Stede’s hands to haul him forward and wrap his arms around Ed’s body.

“I said, hold on,” Ed says pointedly. “Tight. And don’t let go.”

Stede nods quickly against the back of Ed’s shoulder and stays put, and Ed has to take another slow breath to calm the crazy fucking thing his body is suddenly doing. He hadn't realized, maybe, what this level of contact would do to him. He doesn’t even remember the last time someone was pressed against him like this, effectively hugging him in a tight, warm embrace, and it’s—fuck, it’s nice. He can feel the steady pulse of Stede’s heartbeat against his spine, and maybe it’s even running a little too fast.

So is Ed’s. Stede is pressed against him from shoulder to hip, holding himself snug along Ed’s back. He almost thinks Stede is relaxing into it, but then Stede’s hips push minutely into his own, and Ed’s breath disappears from his lungs.

Jesus, is Ed fucking touch-starved or something? Because suddenly, all he wants is to live in Stede’s arms forever. Doesn’t even need to be more than this. Just—fucking holding him. Tight. And warm. Warm, warm, so fucking warm.

He turns on his bike once he gets ahold of himself. Stede clings even tighter then, and Ed almost says something completely ridiculous, like closer, please or I could give you a ride every night if you’d like. He almost forgets the ride in favor of the embrace, almost melts right into it and grasps Stede’s arms so he can’t pull away ever again.

Instead, he takes one more deep breath and pulls out of the parking lot.

***

All things considered, the ride is uneventful. Ed’s heart beats too fast the entire fucking time, and he’s so zeroed in on the way Stede’s hands grip his clothes each time they round a curve that he might take a few brief detours just to hit more of them.

If Stede notices the odd route, he doesn’t complain. He’s plastered against Ed, closer and closer the longer they ride, and it takes everything in Ed’s power to remain clear-headed through the journey, dutifully not focusing on the way Stede’s hips keep shifting in the seat, nor the way he clings tighter during the faster parts of the ride.

God, he likes this. He really fucking likes this. Flying down the road on his bike is always a fantastic feeling, but doing it with a fucking lovely man against him, sending pulses of warmth down Ed’s spine in tune with the feverish beat of his heart—Ed will remember this for a long fucking time.

He starts keeping a closer eye on street names as they get nearer, then house numbers as he turns down Stede’s street. Shit, kind of a fancy fucking neighborhood. Not too far from Ed’s, though. Far enough to be out of the way. Close enough that Ed could find himself here for plenty of reasons. Anytime. Often.

He spots the house number and pulls to a stop at last, killing the engine once they’re in front of it.

It’s a nice house. Of course it’s a nice house. Fancy. Big.

Stede doesn’t move when they stop, and Ed swallows, taking the opportunity to lean back subtly into Stede’s embrace. It snaps Stede out of whatever comfortable trance the hum of the bike had lulled him into, and he quickly lets go of Ed.

The cool air of the night rushes between them. Suddenly, Ed’s fucking freezing.

“This is you?” he asks as he pulls off his helmet. He glances over his shoulder at Stede, who nods, and Ed arches a brow up at the house again. “Jesus. You live here on your own?”

Stede sounds uneasy when he replies. “Well—yes, I suppose. Though, I… didn’t always.”

Ed blinks and tosses Stede a curious look, unthinkingly helping himself to the silent prod for more. He reels himself back the second he sees Stede’s shuttered expression, realizing how wildly fucking rude he’s being.

Separation? Divorce? God, Ed hopes it isn’t something fucking tragic. Not really fair of him to pry either way.

“Um… thank you,” Stede finally says. Still doesn’t get off the bike, Ed notices. He doesn’t mind. “Thank you very much, I—I hope it didn’t put you too far out of your way.”

Just far enough, Ed thinks, casting Stede a small grin. “Ah, don’t mention it, man. Happy to do it. Sorry if I kept you too late.” 

“You didn’t,” Stede says swiftly. Ed’s insides go a little too hot.

Could keep you later, if you wanted, he thinks, already drawing in a breath to say it aloud before he remembers to snap his stupid fucking mouth closed. He isn’t as quick to banish the thought from his mind as his tongue.

Jesus, they’re right fucking here. They’re right here at the foot of Stede’s driveway, and Stede’s big, fancy house is empty, and it isn’t that late, after all, and Ed painted him a fucking love letter, for god’s sake.

Ed imagines it before he means to. Leaning back pointedly into Stede’s warmth, reaching back to settle a hand on his thigh, asking quietly if he’d care for some company a little longer.

His spiraling thoughts die on the spot as Stede finally pulls back and slides off the bike. He’s much less shy this time about holding Ed for balance. Good.

“Well,” Ed says, accepting the helmet as Stede holds it out for him, “nice having company in the studio. If your office hours get boring again, feel free to… y’know. Drop by anytime I’m there.”

Stede looks surprised. Pleasantly so. “Yeah?”

Anytime. Literally fucking anytime. 

“Yeah, man,” he remembers to say aloud, this time with a gentler smile. “Mean it.”

Stede beams. God, fuck, this can’t be all in Ed’s head. It can’t be. He steals a glance up at the house again, and for a heavy, heart-pounding moment, he actually thinks Stede’s drawing in a breath to invite him inside after all.

“Right,” Stede says instead, already beginning to step back. “Well—thank you again.” One more lingering look, and Ed holds his gaze, not even bothering to school it into something less longing.

“Goodnight, Ed.”

He takes a slow breath, then sighs it out. Should stop kidding himself.

“Night, Stede,” he murmurs, shamelessly drinking in the sight of him glowing in the streetlights. Stede gives him one more soft, warm smile, then turns to make his way up the driveway.

Ed watches him walk. He should drive off, probably. This is when he’s supposed to leave.

He stays. He watches. He wonders if Stede will settle into bed tonight and kick himself for missed opportunities, or if he’ll fall asleep easily after a nice, pleasant night with his nice, new pal without another thought.

Stede pauses at his front door and glances back to Ed. His gaze lingers for what feels like an age, and Ed could swear his heartbeat slows down along with the rest of the world around them.

Stede looks away, opens the door, and disappears.

Ed sighs, trying to exorcize the last bit of stubborn hope from his mind. He slides his helmet back on and starts his bike again before he can make a fucking fool of himself, then rides off without letting himself steal another glance.

***

By the time Ed gets home, he feels like he probably did make a bit of a fool of himself tonight, actually.

By the time he steps into the shower, he thinks maybe it wasn’t that bad. All he did was paint, really. Anything could have been inspiring him. Anything at all.

By the time he collapses into bed, it’s with a heavy, resigned sigh. He tosses an arm over his eyes to hide from his stupidly empty apartment, groaning at himself.

He’d been so fucking obvious. Stede isn’t interested. Simple as that. It’s fine.

It’s fine, he thinks with determination, sighing and pulling his arm away to stare up at the ceiling. He shouldn’t be this fucked over the guy, anyway. They’ve only really spent time together—what, twice?

Twice, and Ed’s heart already feels like it’s fucking flying anytime they’re in the same room. Twice, and Ed hasn’t stopped thinking about him for days. Hasn’t stopped fucking painting about him, either. Even now, his heart is still racing from the exhilaration of the evening.

This, he thinks to himself with a sigh, must be what people refer to as fucked.