stede approximately 7 hours after meeting ed (they have been talking this whole time): —especially wildflowers cuz i hardly ever saw any. my father’s house—he kept the lawn completely manicured, just this…depressingly plain…… er, plane
stede, moving his hand back and forth parallel to the ground (to indicate a plane): that’s right, it was—well, it was sort of a…small plain, i guess, landscape-wise, but it—a really plain plane of a plain
ed, following every word of this: sounds like a pain
stede: fuck ugly. all that grass and no bugs!
ed, now sort of seeing the appeal when you phrase it like that but not saying anything bc fuck dads and fuck the rich and also he thinks its hot when stede complains: like a golf course
stede: eerily like a golf course
ed: did y—actually, i’m afraid to ask.
ed: …did you ever use it at all? like, for…fancy people barbecues, or…?
stede, becoming increasingly irate about it all: not even—we mowed it, is what we did with it. and we had—my father’d got it from his father, it was—he had me using this little—one of those lawnmowers that look like egg beaters, y’know—
ed: awwwgh, the old-timey ones?
stede: like a push-along that also cuts people’s fingers off
ed: did you cut anybody’s fingers off?
stede: i came pretty damn close once
ed: physically or emotionally
stede: emotionally, mostly. i had a wishlist to santa on the line, i wasn’t gonna risk that
ed: you had—hang on, how old were you when this was happening
stede: i think i was about fifteen
stede: if anything i think my parents kept it going on purpose. so it’s him i’d get upset with
ed: oh you didn’t like santa then
stede: such a relief to learn he’s made up, i thought he hated me
ed: oh no. what??? why? what the fuck’d they do to you??
stede: nothing egregious, just….. every year i’d write to him, and i’d be explicit about what type of thing i definitely didn’t want, and every christmas that’s what he got me. bb guns, boxing gloves, g. i. joe…
stede: …paraphernalia from dad’s alma mater…there was one year i got to the bottom of the stairs and went, “oh god, santa’s fucked it. that’s all clearly meant for someone else.” so every year after that, santa put my name on everything. just to make sure i knew. embossed, sometimes.
ed: aw. mate, if i’m honest, that does strike me as kind of egregious
stede: well, they were nice things
ed: yeah but he knew you didn’t want em and he gave em to you anyway when they could’ve gone to, i dunno, some rough-and-tumble kid who’d be over the moon about a bb gun… what were you hoping for? what did stede want?
stede: i remember the big one i asked for was always a lawnmower
ed: OHHH yeah to liberate you from the push-along?
stede: all the time i was push-alonging i’d have daydreams about those big rideable ones
ed’s brain (separately from ed): any lawnmower’s rideable if you’re enough of a pervert
ed, internally, to his brain: i cannot fucking say that to him
ed’s mouth, without permission: any lawnmower—
ed, sweating: an—an-any lawnmower jokes?
stede, face lighting up because nobody’s asked him that before and he’s got half a dozen ready to go: OOH YES HERE’S ONE—
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