Archive of Our Own

Red flags on the horizon. 

Ed winces at the burn of the sunlight as he opens his eyes. Then the sharp burn of pain in his arm—the dried blood crusted to his skin and clothes. The wet of the wood beneath him. The slow, ominous rock of the ship. The brightness of those red fucking flags, burning like fire right below the lip of the crow's nest. 

He groans, letting his eyes slide back shut. Fuck. 

It didn't work. They didn't do it—maybe they couldn't do it. And if that didn't work—if being as awful as he could think of: sailing them into a storm, destroying the wheel and mast, goading Jim and that new girl Archie into killing each other— fuck. FUCK. 

What will work? When is the end? How much worse will he have to get? 

This isn't what I wanted, he thinks—open with himself for the first time in months, even within the confines of his own head. (The only safe place anymore.) This was NEVER what I wanted. 

And that thought, too, brings bad memories. The beach; the dock. The sky going purple above him while he waited like a fucking idiot. 

Ed presses his forehead into the wood and tries not to think about him. Fighting a losing battle, but he always tries. He always does. 

On the bright side, there's another ship… right up next to theirs, it looks like. Ed feels a small kernel of hope somewhere inside—maybe this is the end. Red flags don't really scream friendly, right? Maybe this is Ned Low, finally caught up. The ship's quiet, too quiet—the crew must be downstairs—maybe Ed can finish this without hurting anyone else. 

And then, a knife, slicing through the fog of his head, clean and sharp. The sound of a voice he never thought he'd hear again: “ ED! ” 

Ed's head shoots up, almost automatically. Months-old instincts fighting to come through; the voice makes him want to smile, makes him want to call out in return. (He sounds so— worried ; why the fuck does he sound so worried? What right does he have to—but his voice is all soft with affection and ridged with worry all the same, and Ed’s back in a thousand memories he'd halfway forgotten; back in the happiest time of his life with just one shout of his name.)

But it's—but he can't , and it's fucking impossible, and he must still be asleep, or—hallucinating; Jim did get him over the head; or… just— something, because this can't be real. It can't be happening. 

He's not here. 

“Ed! I'm here!” 

Fuuuuuck. 

Ed moves gingerly towards the edge of the crow's nest and looks down at the other ship. It's hard from this height, but he can immediately clock some familiar faces—Oluwande, and the bird guy, and Roach, and the others who must have made it off the island, and—is that the boy ? 

And. Unmistakable . An achingly familiar blur, running through the crowd on the opposite deck. Straight for the rail, and then he's—oh, fuck, really? He's launching himself right over the side, flailing down into the ocean. Like he can't wait another fucking minute to see—to get across the gap between the ships, even long enough to get a dinghy. 

(A fucking dinghy . The empty dinghy, rocking lonely in the tide.)

Ed yanks back from the edge, like he's been burned. Hunches down in case someone (he) is looking, ignoring the way his heart seems intent on pounding out of his chest. His hands are shaking; he closes them into fists. Stares down at the soaked wood and tries to steady his breath. 

It's been a minute since he heard any—is he all right, down there? Did someone on the other ship say something about being unconscious? Ed almost looks ( what if he's —), but he stops himself just in time. It doesn't matter, not at all; fuck him. Ed doesn't care. 

(Hasn't it been a minute since…)

Another splash. And then his voice again, pitching high with worry that sounds entirely sincere: “Ed!” 

Ed hunches down even lower, throat burning, vision going blurry. He doesn't want to be seen, or found. He doesn't. “I'm dead,” he whispers to his knees. “I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead.” How else could this be happening otherwise? 

He's clambering up the side of the boat now, if the sounds are any indication. Still calling Ed's name, like he really wants to see him. Like he has the right . 

What the fuck is he doing here? What the fuck is—he left. That was his choice.  

Ed didn't think he'd ever see him again. 

(Why does he sound so… concerned ? Is he pretending to—he left. He didn't care. So why is he here now, sounding like he gives a fuck? Is this some sick strategy to get him alone, finally kill the legendary Blackb—)

( No. Stede would never. Stede would nev —) 

“Ed?” Stede's voice from below, sounding stunned and maybe even a little scared, and Ed knows that he's seen the ship, everything in shambles. Words like sorry and fuck you and see what happens when you leave your things behind? crawl up in Ed's throat. He knows he won't say a single one. 

He isn't going to look. 

He's not going to look. 

“Ed? Are you here?” 

Fuck, he sounds so worried, his voice on the verge of breaking, and it's too much like their last day together—Stede standing at attention for firing squad on this deck while he pleaded for his life—and Ed had saved his life, put himself bodily between Stede and the British, signed his fucking life away; and Stede had used the extra time to leave; and he can't even bring himself to regret it—can't wish Stede dead, even after all this time. Sometimes he'd worried Stede was dead, but hadn't let himself go too down that road, and now he's glad he didn't, because here the fucker is, standing on the deck bellowing Ed's name. Belly-flopped into the ocean just to get over here. 

What's the last thing Stede said to him? After all this time, Ed doesn't think about that day, that night—won't allow himself to, but now… 

Stede calls his name again, and Ed's stomach knots. 

No, he can't remember the last thing Stede said to him. He can remember the last thing he said— Hey, get some sleep. Which Stede must have taken as, Hey! Here's an opportunity to get away from this weird fucker who moved onto my ship uninvited, and got us into this mess, and kissed me, and I never wanted it… 

Tears are dripping down Ed's face. He swipes them away furiously. 

All he remembers is the look on Stede’s face. He hadn't seen the nervousness, the uncertainty, then. All he could see was something he misinterpreted as softness, affection—maybe even love… 

Stupid. He's so fucking stupid. 

“Ed!” Stede's voice, further away. Like he's leaving, again.  

He's not going to look…  

Ed looks. Shuffles on his knees and peeks, tentatively, over the edge. 

Fuck, that was a mistake. 

Stede looks… different. Different clothes, different hair. Another casualty of the time they've spent apart. But he also looks exactly— exactly the same; and in his head, Ed is responding to these calls, taking the chance, flying down the ladder into Stede’s arms, because here Stede is looking for him—screaming his name—jumping off the fucking ship… 

He looks so sad. Maybe hard to see from up here, but Ed can make it out. He's looking around with an astonished sort of grief, taking in the splintered wood, the ripped sails, the missing wheel, the devastation… 

Sad about the ship. Ed should have known. Bonnet wants his fucking ship back. Couldn't give a fuck about… 

“ Ed ?” His voice rises to a desperate pitch. He looks up and down the deck; out at the water; towards the door to below; and then his chin lifts, his gaze seeming to rise right to where Ed is. 

Ed ducks below the lip, his heart pounding. Waiting for the identifying call, for Stede to start scaling the ladder, maybe shouting some apologies—or maybe cursing him for the damage to his ship and his precious crew; Ed doesn't exactly know what to expect. He'd thought he knew this man, but clearly he hadn't, at all; he'd trusted, and look where it got him; he'd fallen in love and it all came apart; none of it matters now, except that Stede is back, and he doesn't know why…  

Stede doesn't come up the ladder. Instead, Ed hears footsteps pacing away, towards the below decks. 

Typical. Doesn't know why he expected anything different. Stede probably just wanted to figure out where he was so he could come get all his fancy stuff back. The door shuts behind him, and for a second, Ed is lost in picturing Stede wandering around the cabin, finding all the things that Ed had thrown out. 

Doesn't matter. Stede left. He hardly gets to come back and be mad all his books are gone. 

Now's probably time to go. If Stede is going below deck, he'll find the crew, who will probably have a whole slew of choice words for Blackbeard. Won't help the situation any.  

Ed's got to go, now. Grab a dinghy and just leave. He doesn't want to see Stede. 

(He wants to see Stede very badly.) 

Fuck. No . Time to go. Assuming the entire crew he marooned doesn't see him leaving… but they'd be happy to see him go, too. He's fucked things up here enough. Can't even die right. Time to try something different. 

How long will it take, now? Blackbeard, in a dinghy, in the open, bobbing like a helpless little cork in the sea… won't take long at all, that way. 

Wincing, Ed tries to climb down the ladder quickly and quietly, but—no, fuck, that hurts. His head is pounding, and his arm is screaming with the effort, the wound throbbing; and none of this has been good on his trick knee; and he just aches all over, really. Not sure how far the mutiny went on, but he supposes he was in good enough shape to have gotten up the ladder. So he should be able to get down it. Fucking ridiculous. 

The ship is silent, but for creaks of wood and the rush of the waves. Like Stede never came out here shouting Ed's name for the entire ocean to hear. More noises from the other ship, though—the old crew looking across, talking amongst themselves. Ed swallows hard— nope. 

Get to the dinghy. That's all he needs to do: just get to the dinghy, and get the fuck out of here. Won't be the first time he's done it. Won't be the first time he's done it alone . 

Ed presses a hand over the growing hole in his gut and moves faster for the dinghy. Don't want to think about that one. Obviously Stede doesn't really care—else he probably would've come up that ladder—but on the off chance that he does , there's a certain amount of satisfaction in being the one to leave first. Leave Stede waiting, this time without the dinghy. And without a note. Serves him fucking right. 

Ed wishes the thought gave him anything more than just an exhausted sort of regret. So long since that day, and he still can't stop picturing all the way it could have gone right. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, shoving the ropes away from the dinghy, fumbling for the oars. It's not as if Stede actually loved him anyways… 

“Ed!”

Ed's stomach drops  The sensation of falling, from any number of high places—he's more than familiar. 

He considers not turning. Just shoving the dinghy over and jumping in after it and rowing the fuck away again. But Stede, the fucking idiot, would probably jump back in and swim after him. That would be annoying romant—a huge fucking inconvenience he doesn't need. You left! he wants to scream. Stay gone! 

( Please don't leave. Please. ) 

Casual. Be fucking casual. He turns, very slow and casual, and forces the most casual, “Hi,” he can out of his mouth. Like Stede fish-flopping onto the deck bellowing his name happens every fucking day. Just hi. 

And then Ed's frozen in place. Fucking statue. Because in all the times he's imagined this—and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined it, even though he'd hated himself for it—he pictured it differently. Pictured him differently. Didn't picture him like this—staring at Ed with the softest, most concerned eyes Ed’s ever seen, already brimming over with tears. He looks—he looks good. Different, but exactly the same. The same face Ed last saw in that bunk—Hey, get some sleep. 

And then he'd walked away. Without even a note or anything. The hurt comes habitually, like a knife no surgeon would be able to remove. 

“ Ed ,” Stede breathes. He takes a few stumbling steps forward—like he's planning to rush forward and sweep Ed in his arms and kiss him, and Ed's not even sure he'd stop him—but then he stops, uncertain. Ed (tries to) hates him. Bites his lip hard. Stands his ground for some ridiculous reason— fuck , he could be past that other ship by now!

“Ed, you're—I—I've been looking for you for so long.”  

Ed laughs, harshly, before he can question the decision. “ Were you?” 

Stede's expression flickers. He opens his mouth to say something—but then his eyes seem to zero in on something else. “Are you bleeding? ” And then he is rushing forward, his eyes darting from Ed’s arm and the fucking bullet wound, to Ed's pounding head. 

Christ . Ed steps back, hands in the air, and Stede stops mid-motion. “Why do you care? ” he snaps, venomous as he can, and entirely full of truth. Why? WHY? 

Stede’s face crumples, like he might really cry, and Ed feels bad for approximately half a second. “Ed,” he tries. “Ed, I'm so—” 

“You wanted your ship back, right?” says Ed. He sweeps his arm across the deck, motioning; and then winces at the motion. (Fucking Izzy. Fuck him, even if Ed did deserve it; why didn't the little fucker aim somewhere important? ) “Here you go. It's yours. Enjoy what's left of it.” 

“ Ed —” Stede tries, as Ed turns back to the boat. “Ed—for God's sake, I don't care about the ship!” 

His voice rises in what might be desperation, and Ed can't ignore it, as badly as he wants to. He doesn't turn around, though; can't—but he stands still, stops moving. Wants to hear what the fuck he has to say. 

Stede says, “Edward, you're hurt. Please, can we—Roach can help, or—I think there may be a doctor on the Red Flag… ” 

Ed bites back another bitter laugh. Sure. The doctor/cook he marooned is really gonna be eager to treat the wounds he got mid-provoked mutiny. This is fucking ridiculous. “Just let me go, man,” he snaps, turning and shoving the dinghy towards the side. “My turn now. Now we're even.” 

“Ed, please… ” 

Ed comes flush with the side of the ship—and face to face with a woman he's never seen before. 

“Fuck!” He yanks back from the edge, genuinely startled. Stumbles back a few steps—still not right on his feet after last night; great, now he's got a fucking audience to watch Blackbeard wobble around. He backs into something soft, reassuringly steady, and a hand is against his good arm, steadying him; he leans into the touch for a moment, on instinct—then remembers the only person on this ship who would bother catching him, and yanks away. 

Stede doesn't follow. Ed isn't sure whether to be grateful or mourn it. 

“Sorry!” says the woman, not sounding sorry at all, as she climbs over the rail. She seems to address Stede, saying, “S'that Blackbeard?” 

And then more people are coming over the rail: Black Pete, who looks at him with a strange expression—it looks like he's trying to decide whether to say something friendly or punch Ed right in the face; Buttons, sans bird; that big fellow John; Oluwande, whose face pinches with concern when he sees the state of the place. “Where's Jim?” he says, his voice rising with panic. 

Ed can't answer that, because the last time he saw Jim, they were trying to bash his head in. Fuck, bad memory; and now his head is throbbing even harder. He wants to tell the guy Jim is safe—but he doesn't really have any way of knowing. Water could've swept more people overboard; maybe that's why the mutiny didn't work. Ed's stomach churns like he might be sick. 

“I heard noises below,” says Stede, from behind him—and that's all Oluwande needs, because he takes off at a run, most of the others following after him. Stede moves to the edge, extending a hand over the edge—“Roach! Ed's hurt!” 

The woman Ed doesn't recognize is pacing around the deck, looking at the destruction. Calculating. She stops, standing over the part of the grating where— fuck —Ed remembers laughing, looking up at the sky, feeling so relieved, and then the sharp stab of fear when… 

There's still blood there. His blood. 

And then Roach is on deck too, moving towards Ed, initially with a weary expression, one that changes to concern when he seems to take in the scene. “What happened?” 

“I'm fine, mate,” Ed tries, “just…” But Roach is already checking his head, leaning down to examine the bullet wound in Ed's arm. 

“Ed, please, ” says Stede. “I'll stay away, if… if that's what you want, but please let Roach help you.” 

Ed winces as Roach moves his sleeve, pulling at the dried blood. He wants to be literally anywhere else right now. 

But, hey—at least the ship's former doctor might have something better for the pain than fucking rhino horn. So he lets Roach examine the wound. 

“I smell mutiny ,” says the woman Ed doesn't know. And Ed is wincing for the hundredth time. Jesus. 

“Oh, Auntie,” Stede says hastily ( too hastily; he doesn't know what the fuck happened), “I'm sure it wasn't a mutiny… er, was it?” 

“I don't think it counts as a mutiny if the captain is still alive and onboard,” Roach says conversationally.  

“What about the mutiny upon Izzy?” Buttons offers. “Would ye not count that?” 

(Ed forgot all about that shit until this very moment. Might've been worth it to have let them drown Izzy, then—too late now.) 

The woman—Auntie?—prods the patch of dried blood with one toe. Ed shivers all over without quite knowing why. “Mutiny,” she pronounces again. “Are the crew aboard? There'll be punishment, for this…” 

“ No, ” Ed blurts, before he can even really consider why. Or—no, he knows why. Because he knows what happens if another pirate captain finds you guilty of mutiny. It's a thing he'd feared himself, as a much, much younger man—he knows this is the punishment Auntie is talking about. 

And it's not what he wants. Never what he wanted, really. 

(Well, he did ask Frenchie to kill Izzy. But he can hardly say, Spare everyone except Izzy ; he'll sound like a fucking loon.) 

Everyone's looking at him now, except Roach, who's still looking at his arm. Ed swallows hard and says mostly to the sky, “Look, I brought the mutiny on myself, okay? And it didn't even really… work , so… don't bother with the execution shit. I accept the outcome. I'll be leaving shortly.” 

“ Ed, ” says Stede, sounding way more devastated than he has any right to be. 

The woman looks at him, calculating, like she's trying to decide whether she believes him. Behind them, a door bangs open, and more footsteps come up. Ed doesn't look to see which of the crew members have survived; he wants to, but he doesn't think he can look any of them in the eye right now. 

Roach says, “Your head wound looks superficial, but I'll need to check for a concussion. And clean and bandage the bullet wound.” 

“No need,” Ed snaps, then, trying to say it to everyone, “I'm leaving. Won't be back. So you don't have to worry about…” He gestures, pointlessly, and swallows back the pain. “ Any of it.” 

He steps meaningfully towards the dinghy. The world spins around him. 

“Ed, you can't leave now,” says Stede, his voice firm in a way that Ed hasn't heard in a long time. (But he hasn't heard Stede say anything in a long time.) “You need to rest, you need to heal…” 

“You don't get to say whether or not I leave, mate.” Ed tries to feint around him. 

Stede's hands hover near his arms, clearly wanting to touch Ed but holding back, and Ed isn't sure whether to be grateful for it or not. He steps in front of Ed and meets his eyes before Ed can look away, and says, “Ed, there is so much I want to…” Stops. Clears his throat, starts over. “I know I have no right to… with you. But… please. You can leave afterwards if you want; I won't stop you. But please let Roach help you; please rest first. You need to heal.” 

“Don't need anything. I'm Blackbeard,” Ed snaps; and then, off the look of concern that flashes through Stede’s eyes, through his teeth, he hisses, “ Why do you care? ” 

“I think I'd have to agree with Bonnet on that count.” 

The voice of another woman Ed doesn't recognize; but this time, he's more than grateful for the distraction. He looks and finds the woman having just climbed over the rail, standing regally tall, extending a hand for Ed to shake. “Blackbeard?” she says; then, “Zheng Yi Sao. I'm the captain of the Red Flag. ” 

“She's famous, ” Roach says in a whisper. 

“Zheng Yi Sao?” Surprised—genuinely—Ed takes her hand and shakes it. He knows that name, has heard it moving from ship to ship for years. “Aren't you the one who conquered China?” 

(Regrets mentioning China, with Stede standing right there with those huge fucking eyes, but oh, well.) 

Zheng Yi Sao smiles knowingly. “You've heard of me. And I've heard a lot about you.” 

“Have you?” Ed says, a little weakly. He doesn't really want to know what; more interesting hearing her exploits than talking about his own. 

“Mmm.” Zheng tips her head a bit, calculating. “Well, I would love to speak with you in private. But I have to say, I think Bonnet is right. You look like hell. You need rest.” 

Ed thinks about arguing, but it'd probably be pretty lame to argue with the Pirate Queen—that's what they call her, right? Fucking cool, he has to admit. And—if it's her offer… not Stede's, or one of the others… 

“Sure. Fine,” he says, pretending he doesn't hear the sigh of relief coming from Stede. 

“Wonderful!” says Zheng. “We've got a room for you on the ship—we'd be glad to put you up for the time being.”

That other woman, Auntie, steps close to Zheng and mutters something about mutiny in her ear. Zheng waves it off. “These are guests , for now,” she says. “How could we pass up a chance to have the legendary Blackbeard as a guest on our ship?” 

No one really can, Ed thinks bitterly. Except for Stede fucking Bonnet. Leaving in the middle of the night, no note. Leaving his lies behind. 

(Jumping into the ocean for Ed. Climbing up on the ship screaming his name.)

***

Roach and the doctor on the Red Flag tag-team treating Ed's bullet wound. Apparently the bullet went clean through, so no surgery required. In and out; Ed knows the drill. He tries to tell them a dozen times that he really doesn't need all this fuss, but they aren't bothering to listen. Fucking doctors; can never turn down a chance to start stitching people up. 

Roach makes small, neat, painless stitches, at least. So that's something. 

He says, conversationally, as he's tying off the stitches, “Glad Captain finally found you. I don't think we could've taken another night of him keeping us all awake, moaning your name.”

Wait —“What?” Ed says, somewhere between disbelief and delirium. 

Roach nods. “ Every night for months now!” He leans forward and adds conspiratorially, “At least it's better here than at Jackie'z. The ocean drowns him out a bit.” 

Ed nods, too, although he isn't really following this at all. (Stede has been saying his name in his sleep? That's… fuck , that's…) 

(Probably just guilt or whatever. Or maybe even fear. Blackbeard’s got a crime list a mile long. Stede probably just tracked him down to… make sure Ed didn't end up killing him . That must be what he's afraid of.) 

(Ed would never. The thought makes him sick, even now—not hard to do today, though. And Stede doesn't know that.) 

“All finished!” says the other doctor. Roach offers him something for the pain, and Ed takes it, wondering if it'll do anything to help the hole growing from Ed's gut all throughout his insides. Wondering if he'll wake up any different than he did before. 

Walking to his apparent room, Ed can see the crew on the other side of the deck. His crew—former crew; Fang, Frenchie, Jim, Archie, and Izzy wrapped in blankets, presumably eating soup. Ed looks away before too long; doesn't want them to feel him looking. Doesn't really want to see them right now; and he's sure they won't want to see him ever again. He's left thinking, for the thousandth time, Why didn't the mutiny work? Why didn't they just fucking FINISH it? 

Ed can't find Stede on the deck. (Not that he's looking.) 

The room for him is small and simple: bed, small window with curtains, washbasin, table beside the bed with a steaming bowl on it. So he gets soup, too, then. 

Ed eats the soup, then lies down on the bed. It feels better than he would've expected, but maybe this is because he's stripped Stede's bed down so much. It's a relief, being somewhere with a soft mattress and softer blankets, a curtain he can draw and leave himself in darkness, left alone with only the sounds of the waves and the gulls and the breeze. 

He tries not to think. Tries to just drift away, into somewhere where everything that's happened won't matter as much. 

But his head is too full of all of it. The storm. The mutiny. Bullet through his arm; fucking Izzy spitting angry words, months before, or even now, smoking pistol in his hand. The crew looking at him with hollow, furious eyes. Stede. 

Ed pushes his face into the pillow and wishes for sleep. Lets himself be glad for just a moment that he didn't take off on that dinghy, because he doesn't want to be anywhere else but in this bed, and also he wants to sleep. 

And then a wonderful (horrible?) new possibility cements itself in his head: They'll probably be gone when you wake up. 

Ship’s back. Crew’s back together, and they even have a captain. Ed’s hopefully made sure that none of his former crew will get executed for the failed mutiny, so what's to stop them from leaving? All they need is a wheel. 

He'll leave again, Ed thinks. He'll be gone when I wake up. I won't have to see them—I won't have to see him. This will all be over in a few hours. 

He wishes saying that didn't feel so much like a death. Like losing Stede all over again.

Ed lets sleep take him, like a line pulling him out to sea. Picturing the Revenge —and Stede on it—disappearing; turning to a tiny dot on the horizon.

 If the pillow is wet from something like falling tears, that's no one's business but his own. 

***

He dreams. 

He dreams about the mutiny, the pounding rain, the shouts on the air—the hot agony of the bullet tearing its way through his arm; he's been shot before, sure, but it never stops hurting—the smell of blood, his and others—the fury on their faces as they'd gathered around, ready to kill him, and it's what he wanted, it's what he wanted —but it isn't , it isn't, it isn't. 

He can't remember most of the end. Just crawling away. And the crew not following him. 

He dreams about the raids, endless and bloody, and the nights in his room alone, and avoiding Izzy at every corner, and the tediousness, and the anger, and the grief , and those stupid little wedding toppers he wishes he hadn't thrown into the sea. (He hopes they landed together.) 

He dreams about the days where it all went wrong; the grief, the salty taste that never left his mouth; the wind pulling his mother's silk out into the black of the sea at night; Lucius going over the side; the books hitting the water one by one; Izzy looming large, spitting angry words. That huge purple sky, and that lonely dinghy; waiting, waiting, hopeful til the last moment of dawn; rowing away alone. Keeping his eye on the shoreline—waiting until the last possible moment to see if Stede would appear—until the island had disappeared into the horizon.

He dreams about Stede. Stupid, motherfucking Stede. The good days, first, all the good memories that made Ed feel safe and warm, made him trust this life. All the little sideways looks and grins that made him wildly giddy; all the little touches that left his skin tingling in Stede's wake. That moment in the moonlight where he'd almost kissed Stede. Stede's ridiculous treasure hunt. The night in the tub, where Ed had told Stede his biggest secret, and Stede hadn't hated him, hadn't turned away… Every breakfast, every cup of tea, every morning watching the sun rise up top. The laughter, the genuine happiness. This part isn't surprising; Ed's gone over and over it in his mind, their time together, trying to figure out where it'd all gone wrong. Kicking Izzy off after the duel? Not letting Izzy fuck off in the fucking first place? Being chummy with Jack; trusting Jack; leaving with Jack? Hoisting the white flag? Shouting for the Act of Grace? Suggesting they leave, suggesting they do it together, kissing him like he would've wanted it… 

(The kiss had felt real. Awkward and nervous as he had felt… it'd been real. Stede kissed him back, he thought; their hands had gotten all tangled together; he'd looked at Stede like Stede was everything in the world, and thought Stede looked at him the same way. And then he'd vomited out a bunch of stupid ideas that scared Stede into leaving. Stupid. Fucking idiot. He should've known better; should've guessed. )

(And he still can't even bring himself to regret it all. Fuck. ) 

Ed doesn't have to pay attention. He knows this part of the dream by heart. 

He kisses Stede, and then tells Stede he'll see him in a few hours— Hey, get some sleep —and he remembers Stede’s last words to him now. Oh, okay. As lackluster as you would expect from a guy planning to cut out as soon as you leave him alone. 

Or, no, not Stede's last words to him now. Stede’s here now. Stede jumped into the ocean for him, rose up out of the water shouting his name. Wouldn't let him leave. Wanted him to be safe. 

And he'll be gone again when Ed wakes up. 

It's agony, every bit. He's never loved another person like he's loved Stede Bonnet, and now he's not sure he ever will. Not sure why he ever bothered. 

He dreams. He kisses Stede. He asks Stede to run away, and Stede says, Yeah, says, I think so, and Ed’s so stupid not to see the hesitation, the nervousness. He sorted out all the details. He stole the dinghy, bribed the guards, got all the supplies together, and Stede just lay there, plotting to leave. 

Now that he's back—now that Ed's seen him again—he finds himself wanting to ask, Why? Why ? ( Why did you leave me? ) He doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand. Why leave and come back? Why leave, and then barrel on deck, shouting his name? Why leave and then act all concerned when Ed turns up with a bullet wound? Why come back? 

He can't ask Stede any of these questions. He's dreaming. 

He dreams of today. Of Stede climbing out of the water and calling for him. He dreams he'd answered. He dreams of going down that ladder, and Stede finding him, and running to him—and Ed doesn't push him away—and Stede grabs him and kisses him, and says… 

Stede’s voice, somewhere above him. Ed’s surely still dreaming. 

“I'm so sorry,” says dream-Stede. “I'm SO sorry, Ed. I messed all of this up. I hurt you so badly, I… I never thought…”

He thinks dream-Stede might be crying. Dream tears that aren't his maybe hitting his face. But dream-Stede doesn't touch him, no matter how badly Ed wants to reach out for him. It's a dream. It doesn't matter here, right? 

“I was a fool,” Stede says, somewhere—it's all dark. “I thought that… I wanted to go, you see, but I was so scared that… hearing my family thought I was dead, and then seeing you there, in that place without… I didn't… I thought I'd ruined you. I thought you'd be better off without me.”

The hole is huge, gnawing deeper and deeper. Ed doesn't say, That's fucking bullshit, doesn't say, Who are you to make that kind of judgement for me?, doesn't say, Why didn't you leave a fucking NOTE? Because he can't talk. There's a particular cruelness to this dream-Stede. 

Stede tentatively puts his hand over Ed’s, like he's worried Ed might pull away. Ed imagines turning his palm up, lacing his fingers through Stede’s—he loved holding Stede's hands, and he'd had so few opportunities to do it. It's a dream; doesn't fucking matter. 

“And leaving didn't… nothing good came of it. Except for one thing.” Dream-Stede takes a tremulous breath. “I didn't realize… I think I knew things weren't right with Mary for a long time—”

Mary?! You left me for MARY? 

“But it wasn't until I got back, and saw… I thought I'd hurt them by leaving, but it couldn't have been further from the truth. They didn't want me there.” 

Who wouldn't want you there? 

“And Mary had found someone else, and… You're going to call me a lunatic, Ed, and you're right, but… I didn't realize just how much I felt for you until… Mary explained it. She told me how it felt, with her—with Doug, and I knew . I knew how I felt about you then. And I knew I was such a fool, and I thought… I just had to get back to you as quickly as possible.” Stede sniffles loudly. “I'm just sorry it took this long.”

Ed's sorry, too. He might say that, if he wasn't stuck silent in this stupid dream. 

“And you don't know how much I've regretted it… Not the closure, with Mary and the children, but… leaving you there…” Dream-Stede's voice breaks. “I was so… selfish. I didn't know that… I thought you'd be okay; I didn't realize… I was so idiotic, Ed. It was just that I was rattled, w-what with Chauncey and the gun, and those horrible things he said…” 

A tortured sound, like a sob. More wetness on Ed's face. Ed's mind is racing: Who the fuck is Chauncey? And— a GUN?! What the fuck is he talking about? Ed's heart is chipping its way out of his chest. 

“But it's no excuse. I should've come to you. I should've…” Dream-Stede makes a whimpering sound. He squeezes Ed's hand, suddenly, holding tight, and now Ed wants to sob; wants to hold onto this feeling of Stede’s fingers curling around his forever. 

“And now I'm here telling you all these horrible things while you're trying to rest. Making excuses. ” Dream-Stede sounds disgusted now. Ed tries to open his eyes, but they're so heavy. 

“None of this matters , Ed. None of it. All that matters is I'm here now, and I'm so sorry for all I've put you through. I'll regret it for the rest of my days.” Stede squeezes his hand again, his palm so warm, with more calluses then Ed remembers. “I'm so sorry. But I wanted to tell you, also, that… I love you, Ed Teach.” 

The words are like gut punches, five of them. The thing he never got to say, never thought he'd hear back. He wants to say a dozen different things— You don't get to say that to me; why should I believe you?; I don't trust you; I love you, too. I never stopped loving you. Even though I hated you so much for leaving, I still loved you; I still wished for you to come back; I thought of the life we could have together, and I wanted you back so badly, but I don't see how I could ever trust you again, after all of this, after everything you've done. 

“I love you,” Dream-Stede says again, with so much conviction in his voice that Ed can't help but believe him.  This is a good dream. “And I'll never leave you. I'll never leave again. I mean, unless it's that…” He sounds like he's choking. “If you don't want me near you, I'll respect that. But, I promise… I'll never leave you of my own volition again. Never.” 

I don't trust you, Ed thinks automatically. Why should I trust you? After all you've done?

But Stede, in this dream, sounds so sincere . So… Ed wants to believe him. In the dream, he's holding Ed's hand so tightly. Please, Ed thinks, please be telling the truth. 

Stede abruptly lifts Ed's hand, so gently, and kisses the back of it. Oh, this is a dream. Ed wants to cry. This is the cruelest dream yet, really. Complete agony. How hasn't he woken up yet? 

Then Dream-Stede drops the hand like a hot potato, muttering, “Look at me, fucking… manhandling you when you're asleep… Ed, I'm so sorry. I just wanted to come and be with you, but you… you didn't even want me here…”

I do, Ed thinks before he can stop himself. Good thing this is a dream and Stede can't hear him. 

“I'm… I'll go outside.” Stede leans closer to whisper in Ed's ear, “But I'll be here. When you get up, I'll be here. Come find me. I'd love to talk with you… I want to hear everything that's happened, if you want to tell me. I'd like to listen.” 

He covers Ed's hand with his, briefly, and then he's gone. 

Fine fucking end to a dream. Ed would've liked it to go on a bit longer. Have Stede keep holding his hand. It's a dream, so it doesn't actually matter, right? Not real. The real Stede is probably already gone, ship and all. 

It was nice, though, as nice as it was painful. Hearing Dream-Stede say all those things. Hearing his apology. Ed doesn't know why his subconscious would come up with all that weird stuff about Chauncey and a gun, but he'll take it. A fairly nice dream. Nicer than he's had in months. 

Ed sleeps. 

***

When Ed wakes up, it's nighttime; he can tell because the moonlight is the only thing lighting the room. He finds a candle on the bedside table and lights it, hands shaking with something that might be fear. Fear that once the flame lights up the room, it'll reveal someone in here with him, watching him. 

(Maybe, on one count, it's hope. Stupid, insensible hope that Stede is sitting by his bed like he was in the dream.) 

Ed doesn't know why he bothers. When the flame swells to life, he is alone in the room. 

Well, someone's been in here. The soup bowl is gone, and there's a pile of fluffy towels next to the washbasin. Ed moves closer, and sees a note pinned to the top of the stack. Towel service! written in Stede's cheery handwriting, with a smiley face sketched next to the words. 

Ed's breath catches in his chest as he picks the note up. So it wasn't a dream, then. Or at least it wasn't all a dream—Stede was in here while he was sleeping. 

Who knows what was true, what actually happened? Did Stede really sit by his bed apologizing and trying to explain himself? Did he really hold Ed's hand, kiss Ed's hand? Did he really tell Ed I love you? 

Ed stares at the back of his hand, like he's expecting to see evidence there, suddenly: Stede was here. 

It's still just his hand. Same as always. 

It was a dream, then. Ed's got to believe that. Maybe Stede isn't gone, if he's leaving notes and towels, but he probably didn't come in here and cry all over Ed. Of course he didn't. 

Ed sighs, suddenly exhausted all over again. He hadn't realized how much he wanted it to be real. 

Well. He's not going to sit in his room all night and wait to see what happens. Better go find the Pirate Queen so he can start figuring out his next move. Honestly just feels like he's gonna end up in the dinghy no matter what. He's too exhausted to think pirate alliances, too exhausted to raid and pillage and plunder, too exhausted to captain a ship, to put on that mask. Whatever happens next—Ed knows he's done with Blackbeard. 

He pushes the door open and looks up and down the hall, which has the benefit of being atmospherically lit with candles. Nice touch. No crew members visible—his, Stede's, or Zheng Yi Sao's—so Ed slips out into the hall and paces down it. 

He isn't sure what he's looking for, outside of something, but maybe it's okay not to know. Long as he doesn't bump into anyone that'll make it awkward. Ed walks down one hall, and up another. He walks past what must be Zheng Yi Sao's office and can hear her voice rising and falling, talking to—is that Oluwande? Kissing the Pirate Queen? 

Good for him. Clearly Ed's not getting an audience with Zheng tonight. 

He keeps walking, circling around until he finds what must be the towel room. It's a room filled with towels just like the ones Stede left in his room. Without really knowing why, Ed walks in.

It's void of people, but there's plenty of towels, stacked on nearly every surface, except… Ed squints. Except for a corner where the towels have been disturbed by piles of ink-scrawled paper. 

Stede, Ed thinks, without really knowing why. Makes sense why he'd be bringing towels, and it makes sense that he'd disturb said towels with a bunch of other stuff, although Ed really couldn't say what Stede’s doing in towels. Or taking down his own shit—maybe the boy quit. Ed only ever saw Stede write down stuff on occasion, but these are papers and papers full of his scrawls. 

Ed gets a little closer. 

The first thing he sees is what seems to be a handdrawn map. Looks legit, even, which makes Ed strangely, absurdly proud. It's all covered in little Xs and notes, place names and lines of poetry, and in the corner… Ed squints. Is that a drawing of him?  

His face goes hot. 

It's piled in with Wanted posters, for Blackbeard, and that makes Ed's face go even hotter. He shuffles through the papers, piling them over each other, not wanting to see a reminder of the person he was trying to be just the day before… wait, did Stede cross off DEAD and circle ALIVE on this Wanted poster? 

Ed smiles, entirely against his will, affection blossoming in his chest. Fucking lunatic. It's so Stede, he can't take it. 

He shuffles the papers and finds, below, a paper covered in Stede's handwriting. Dear Ed written at the top. 

Ed snatches it up without hesitation. 

It's an unfinished letter, but it's still a letter Stede wrote for him , and Ed can't help clutching it so hard that the parchment wrinkles as he reads, Being back at sea has made me miss you all the more. He reads, I'm still writing daily, and Oluwande thinks the letters might actually have a better chance of reaching you now that I'm not launching them all from the Republic! He reads, Every night when I go to sleep alone, and each morning when I wake up without you, the ache in my chest only grows. As if I carved out a part of me—the most important part—and left it with you when I walked away. It's the one thing I will always regret. I can't regret leaving my family, or the mistakes of my early captaining, or any other parts of my life, because it was all meant to happen, to bring me here to you. Anything was worth enduring to bring you into my life. But I will always regret that I was foolish enough to throw that away. And I hope I can find you so I can tell you what an idiot I was. 

Something wet drips off the end of Ed's nose. He might be crying. 

“Ed!” 

That voice again, saying his name again, somehow sounding the happiest it's sounded all day. The letter crumples even more in Ed's shaking hands. 

He forces them to steady, to smooth out the creases. He tucks the letter into his jacket—already knowing that no matter what happens next, he'll be keeping this letter forever. 

“Ed?” Stede's voice again, more closed off and cautious now. “H-how are you feeling? How's your arm?” 

Ed doesn't care about his arm. He turns, slowly, carefully, towards Stede. Meets Stede's eyes for the first time since that night at the Academy. 

And then he says, “I found your letter.” Because it's the only thing he can think to say. 

“Oh!” Stede's face flickers—eagerness, then… disappointment? “It wasn't finished,” he says. “I'd written much better ones.” 

“ Every day, you said,” says Ed, tapping a finger on the spot where the letter is, tucked up against his chest. 

Stede swallows. “It's true,” he says softly. “Every day.” 

“ Why? ” The word claws its way out of his throat, and he doesn't even regret it because it's the one question he so desperately wants answered. Why? Just, why? 

Stede's mouth moves wordlessly for a moment. “I… I missed you,” he says quietly. “I missed… everything about you. But I think I missed talking to you most.” 

Oh, fuck. Ed wasn't expecting this, even after that crazy dream; he feels like his throat is closing up. 

“I wrote to you because it made me feel closer to you,” Stede continues, looking right at Ed with all the intensity of the sun. Ed's used to hearing things like this—when he hears them at all—from someone shifting awkwardly, refusing to meet his eyes. It's more or less what he'd expected from Stede, if he expected anything. But Stede's looking him right in the eye and saying these things that make Ed want to melt, like, “ All I wanted was to find you, after… and, well, writing letters seemed like the best way to go about it. A good first step.” 

“Towards finding me,” Ed clarifies. 

“Yes.” 

“But you left me.” 

Stede flinches, his face screwing up as if in pain, and Ed feels it, too, the hollow tug in his gut. But he doesn't stop. “You left me,” he says again. “When we were… We were going to… Why did you come back? ” 

( Why did you jump onto the ship screaming my name, like you were just that worried about me? Why did you act so concerned over my injuries? Why did you sit at my bedside while I was sleeping, apologizing and kissing my hand—assuming that wasn't a fucking dream. WHY? ) 

Stede swallows hard. “There's… no good excuse, Ed, truly. It was a stupid decision, and I'll always regret it—” 

“You've said that a few times, mate,” Ed snaps. “And what about… what about Mary, and Chauncey, and the gun?” He spits out the words from his dream; the anger feels good, just for a moment, and it feels like the best way to confirm whether or not that was a dream earlier—if Stede looks at him funny and goes, What the fuck are you talking about? 

Stede does not do that. Stede doesn't say a thing, actually. Stede just stands there, arms around his middle, eyes huge, expression like someone has just slapped him in the face. 

Ed immediately feels sick with regret. Why does he always fuck up the important stuff? He'd heard Stede sob through that whole conversation; it's obviously a sore spot. Especially if there was a gun… For a moment, all Ed can see is rifles leveled at Stede while he begs for his life. 

“You were awake,” Stede finally chokes out. “Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry.” 

Ed's head is really spinning now—“ Sorry? ”

“I-I thought you were asleep! I wanted to… you didn't seem to want me there, and I wanted to respect that, b-but I hadn't seen you in so long, and I was worried, and… I got carried away. I shouldn't have done that.” 

“Done what? ” Ed says bitterly. “Sit with me? Hold my hand?” 

“Not without your— permission ; Ed, I'm so…” 

“You didn't mean any of that, then. What you said.” Ed doesn't know how many ways Stede Bonnet can break his heart. 

“What— no. ” Stede's hand shoots out, reaching for Ed, fingers brushing along the back of Ed's clenched hand. “ No. Edward, I meant every word.” 

Ed thinks about pulling back—but the soft pressure of Stede's fingertips against his… “Why're you out here apologizing, then?” he snaps. “If you meant it?” 

“Because—damn it, Ed, I'm not getting this right,” says Stede, frustrated. “I'm apologizing because… Because I didn't mean to put that on you while you were healing. I didn't mean to… invade your space, or break any boundaries. I shouldn't have—” 

“Are you apologizing for fucking holding my hand ? Why the fuck are you apologizing for that?” The words from the dream—from Stede; it was all real —are bouncing around Ed's head: I thought you'd be better off without me. I was rattled, what with Chauncey and the gun. It's no excuse. I love you. I'll never leave you again. “I don't understand you,” he says. “I don't…” 

“Ed, you didn't seem like you wanted me holding your hand. So, yes, I'm apologizing,” says Stede, infuriatingly patient. Ed thinks he preferred Stede weeping all over him while he thought Ed was unconscious. 

“Well, I would have wanted you holding my hand every day, if you hadn't ditched me in the middle of the night without even a note!” Ed snaps. “What aren't you telling me? What could you tell me when I was unconscious, but you can't say to my face? What the fuck, Stede?” 

“I-I shouldn't have said anything at all,” says Stede, stammering. “It's—I didn't want to put my issues on you, especially not now. You're all that matters right now.” 

“You were telling me why you left,” says Ed. “You… you think I wouldn't want to know? Think I wouldn't be curious why you decided I was a whim? ” 

(He didn't want to know this morning. And a part of him doesn't want to know now. But everything Stede has said… he needs to know, now. Can't just not ask, when mentioning these things sends Stede into a tailspin…)

“You were never a whim,” Stede says fiercely. “Never. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

Ed's knees go a little weak at that, and he has to sink into a seated position, shoving aside piles of towels. “You can't just… you can't just say shit like that,” he half-whispers, to the ground. “After everything… you…” 

Stede shoves aside more towels to sit beside Ed, their knees bumping together. “I don't know what else to say,” he says quietly. “I mean it. I'm so sorry I ever made you doubt that.” 

“Don't…” 

“I love everything about you,” says Stede. “I love being near you. It's nice… feels good. Breathing the same air.” 

The same air gets caught in Ed's throat, so thick he couldn't speak if he wanted. All he can manage is a small smile. 

“And I'm so sorry—” Stede starts. 

“ Don't, ” Ed says, feeling more clear headed now. “Just, stop… apologizing; I've heard you apologize like a thousand fucking times. I want to know why. If you… if you love me so much, and you said you wanted to go, and you'll regret it forever… then what happened? Why did you take off back to your wife and not even bother to leave a note?” 

Stede is wincing. “I shouldn't have mentioned Mary at that point.” 

“ Stede. You said you thought you ruined me.” 

“Shit—I really did think you were asleep.” Stede's grimacing all over now, and probably blushing, too. “I didn’t… mean it like…” 

“Just tell me,” says Ed. “You started it in the room, before; just fucking finish it. Who the fuck is Chauncey? Why did you think I'd be better off? ” 

Stede’s jaw works back and forth, as if he's preparing himself. Ed doesn't press; if the expression on Stede's face wasn't enough to pause him, remembering how Stede had looked when Ed had thrown around that name earlier would be. It's— clearly , it's something that's difficult to discuss. And what Ed is wondering is what that means . How much Stede’s decision was a decision, or something completely out of his control. 

“You remember…” Stede says finally, haltingly, “the British finding us. And the Admiral that wanted to… he was in charge. Tried to have me executed.” 

Ed flinches. That scene’s never really left his mind, or his nightmares. “Yes. I remember.” 

“Well—after you left, that night…” Stede swallows hard. “The guard you pointed out never came. Chauncey woke me up. With a gun in my face.” 

Ed flinches harder this time—because the picture is too clear in his head now, the thought of Stede being woken up that way. Being taken hostage, and Ed’d had no idea. Because Stede hadn't told him, hadn't come to find him. 

But he also hadn't gone looking. 

(And maybe… fuck, maybe Stede couldn't come. Fuck. )

Voice trembling, Stede says, “He… marched me out into the woods. He was going to kill me. He was stinking drunk; he started rambling about…” Stede gulps. He's not looking at Ed; he's staring at the ground. He's obviously… on edge, with what he's telling Ed, and Ed’s horrified hearing it, stomach churning, furious at the idea of this man trying to kill Stede not once, but twice ... “He said I was a plague, that I defiled beautiful things. Like his brother, or my family. And…” Stede's head dips so far forward, Ed can hardly see his face. “And you.” 

Ed's throat burns. “Me?” 

Stede nods. Not looking up. And it suddenly seems obvious exactly what happened that night.

Ed's hand moves, reaches between their knees and takes Stede's hand. Holds it tight. “Stede,” he says, too quiet, “did… did he hurt you?” 

Stede shakes his head, still not looking at Ed. His hand is clammy now, but he's gripping Ed's hand back; an active handhold, not a halfway thing like when Ed had been asleep earlier. “He… was going to. But he tripped and shot himself in the face before he could.” 

“ Fuck ,” says Ed. “And he didn't… you didn't…” He's nauseous now, with the reality of that night; Stede could've died, and everything would've been the exact same except Stede would be dead and Ed wouldn't have even known. He squeezes Stede's hand compulsively, clinging tight. “I should've… fuck, I shouldn't have left you alone there; I just… wanted you to get some sleep…” 

“ Ed .” Stede turns fully around to look Ed in the face, still holding onto his hand. “You can't blame yourself for this. You had nothing to do with it!” 

“I should've been there for you,” says Ed, but now his brain is moving past that, to the… so the guy shot himself, and then… “Why didn't you… why didn't you come find me?” 

Stede’s back to look down, staring at their intertwined fingers. “I… I wasn't thinking , honestly. At least not thinking straight. I… I thought I was helping, and I thought that my family needed me—couldn't have been more wrong on that count—and I thought that… oh, Ed, I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“ How could you think —” 

“I'd just watched you give up everything for me!” says Stede. He might be crying. “Your—freedom, your life, for ten years! They took your beard . I just couldn't—I thought if I left, you could get… all of it back. Undo the damage.”

“But I didn't want any of that,” Ed rasps. 

“It wasn't what I wanted, either.” A tear drips off of Stede's chin, onto the back of Ed's hand. “I just… didn't realize it then.” 

“All I wanted was you.” Ed's staring at their hands, tangled together, because he can't look at Stede right now. He shouldn't be doing this at all—shouldn't be… hearing Stede out, or listening to the explanation, or anything; shouldn't trust him again, but… 

(He can't not. He can't walk away, even if he should; he can't.)

“I spent so long trying to find you,” says Stede. “Once I realized… how badly I'd messed everything up, and… I missed you every day I was home, Ed. More than I ever expected. And when I left… all I wanted was to find you.” 

“Right.” It might sound sarcastic, but it isn't; Ed reaches up to touch his chest, feels the crinkle of parchment over his heart. “You… said you wrote me a letter every day.” 

“I did,” Stede says. His voice sounds steadier now. “Sent them out in bottles, hoping one would find you.” 

Ed chuckles, surprising himself a little. “Not the most reliable postal service, mate.” 

Stede snorts. “True enough, as the crew loved to remind me…” 

“Yeah, but I love that,” Ed blurts. “I love that you did that.” 

It feels too vulnerable for a moment, saying all of this. But the warm cocoon of Stede's hands curled around his helps to ground him, just a bit. Stede, seemingly shy, squeezes his hands a little; says, “Did you hear… everything I said, while I was in there?” tentatively. 

Ed smirks a little, down at their hands. “I think? Hard to tell, with the… all of it.” 

“Ahh, right.” 

“But—” Ed chips the words out of his throat, forces it forward. There's still distrust somewhere inside—the nervousness that Stede will leave again, that he shouldn't be trusted— but. Stede came back. Stede wrote him a letter every day. Stede swam to the ship shouting his name. Stede left, and he hurt Ed so badly, but he's had his own share of horrible trauma, and maybe it doesn't balance out, but maybe it does, and here they are, and Stede is back . So he says, “Did you, ah… say you loved me? In there?”

Stede traces his thumb around Ed's left palm. “I… I did,” he says quietly. “Is… that okay?” 

Is it okay. Ed almost wants to laugh. “Yes,” he says, so softly he wonders if Stede can even hear. And then—on a complete and utter impulse—he lifts the knot of their hands to press a kiss to the underside of Stede's wrist. 

Stede shivers a little against him; they're sitting closer than Ed realized. “I don't… know what this is,” he blurts, because that feels important to say. 

“We don't have to know,” says Stede. 

Ed squeezes his hands, a nervous reflex. “Can we take this… slow?”  

“Of course . Of course we can.” 

“I don't…” Ed's mouth moves uselessly for a moment, before he can find the words. “I've been through… a lot. These past few months.” 

“Oh, Ed.” Stede's hand slips away, and then it's on Ed's back, tentative, motioning him in. “I'd like to hear about it. If you want to tell me.” 

Ed nods. Chin trembling. Wondering how they've gotten so close—wondering if he even minds. He's missed Stede so badly; he’s pictured this exact moment so many times… he can't leave it. Stede's here, his other hand resting gently on Ed's back.

And then he's hugging Ed. Or Ed's hugging him. He isn't sure. He's leaning into Stede, his face pressed into Stede's neck, and it's somehow the most familiar thing in the world. Stede's here. He came back. 

Ed wraps his arms around Stede, holding him tight as he can. Like Stede might vanish again. He doesn't know where they go from here, but he doesn't think he has to know. 

Here they are. They're both here. Heading off into the horizon together.