Edward Teach learnt three things that night.
1. He was in love with Stede Bonnet.
2. Stede Bonnet had a wife.
3. Stede Bonnet’s wife was pregnant.
Edward arrived at Stede’s fashionably late (6:30pm), hoping to avoid most of the awkward uncomfortability of being the first to arrive (and the unease of being alone in a room with what was, essentially, a stranger- even if it was Stede). He drove up to the house in his old, beat-up ‘70 Ford Pinto; feeling particularly out of place in a sea of Ferrari and Porsche as his ramshackle engine rattled to a concerning stop.
It was cute; a little cottage home in the yawning pits of Los Angeles suburbia. Not ostentatiously large and opulent, like some Hollywood mansions, yet Ed still clocked that he would likely never be able to afford anything like it in his lifetime. It screamed of effortless wealth, of the American Dream; Perfect stonework facade, unweathered paint, classic white picket fence, curated lawn, immaculate garden. Did Stede tend to it himself? Ed wondered, or was he fancyman enough for a gardener? Stede enjoyed plant husbandry, but Ed couldn’t picture the man physically getting his hands dirty, on his hands and knees, working-
Ed knocked and Stede opened the door; all bouncing curls and purple paisley and soft satin. Ed was taken aback, momentary. He looked ridiculous ; like the 80s had thrown up all over him. His blue pants were printed with an unnecessarily complex forest pattern, which half-clashed with the swirling boteh of his button down, but matched the green-hazel of his eyes. The orange-fuschia bowtie Ed had gifted him was tucked under his collar and god fucking christ, it really was as gaudy as he remembered. Ed had never been so irritatingly enamored.
“Edward!” Stede greeted, his face lighting up like the 4th of July and really , who cared if he looked like a neon trainwreck when he smiled like that.
“That’s my name, Edward Teach. Born on a beach.” Ed said, his mouth moving of its own accord, waiting for his stalling mind to catch up. Shit, all the back and forth- the faxes, the letters, the pages- had led Edward here; to Stede Bonnet’s front porch, where he stood, holding an offering of a loaned book and a fluorescently orange cake. He couldn't think, he was so immediately drunk with it all, despite the fact that not a single drop of liquor had touched his tongue tonight.
Stede was there, in the doorway, and he was everything Edward thought he’d be, then somehow more. Handsomer. Brighter. Sweeter. Like fine wine. Or champagne. Beautiful, bubbly, perfect things Ed had never allowed himself to have before.
Ed had seen pictures, imagined what he would be like but he was simply more. More Fancyman. More Stede.
“Come in,” Stede said, stepping aside, somewhat breaking whatever mindless spell he had unwittingly placed upon Ed, “I was worried you wouldn’t turn up.”
“Yeah, well, had nothing better to do,” Edward replied, shrugging, grasping desperately at the remaining remnants of his cool confidence as he brushed past Stede in the entryway.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Stede said, smiling knowingly as he closed the door behind him.
“Yeah, me too man,” Ed said, truthfully this time, before extending the fruity dessert into the space between them, “uh, I’m no cook, but I know a guy. So he made me a cake. Said something about 40 oranges, which feels… excessive. But—here.”
“Oh!” Stede exclaimed delightfully, as though he hadn’t seen Ed holding it for the past few minutes, “you didn’t have to bring anything.”
“‘S a potluck. That’s what you do, right?”
“Yes, but you’re my guest!” Stede said, gingerly collecting the cake regardless, “I’ll pop this in the fridge if you’d like to join everyone in the living room, or- I think there’s a few people outside.”
Edward watched Stede scamper off with a smile, disappearing further into the house and leaving him alone in the hallway to recollect his thoughts and even out his breathing.
Edward walked into the bulk of the party and his stomach dropped like an anchor. Shit— caught up in all that Stede was, he’d made a miscalculation.
Ed stepped into the living room and found himself lost, adrift; drowning in an ocean of silks and too expensive perfume and overeducation and fancy finger food. These people oozed money; seeping wealth from every pore, every perfect strand of hair, every manicured finger. He felt small, insignificant, inferior— and significantly underdressed. His purple cotton shirt, his worn-in jeans, his scuffed boots, the car grease he could never quite scrub from underneath his fingernails- Ed knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. And it had him in a biting, vice-like grip, we’ll never be like them, claws in his skin, fear choking his throat.
And the worst part is he should have expected as much- he saw the cars, the house, Stede. God, there was a reason he called him Fancyman, for fucks sake. They were from different worlds.
Ed fled to the kitchen, which was thankfully empty, save for Stede, who he pulled aside.
“Ed?” Stede made a surprised noise, and in any other circumstance the shortening of Edward’s name would have made his heart skip a beat.
“Shit, I don’t know if this is my scene, man. I don’t- I don’t think I’ll fit in with this crowd-”
“Hey, Edward. Ed. Look at me.” Stede said softly; softer than he had any right to be.
“If it gets too much, maybe we can have a signal, yeah?”
“You signal to me that you want to tap out and I can cover for you or- or swoop in and pull you from a particularly bad conversation?”
“Yeah, I guess that could work.” Ed murmured, already half eased, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, “What kinda signal?”
“Um, maybe if you make a particular drink? A Piña colada?”
“What if I want to actually drink a piña colada?”
“Ah, you’re right. What’s something you’d never drink?”
Ed considered for a pregnant moment.
“Okay, an old fashioned. If you mention an old fashioned, or I see you holding one, or you make one; I’ll get you out of there. Alright?”
“There’s a good man. I know how fickle these people can be, no one will blame you for needing a breather.”
“Thank you.” Ed said, leaning against a kitchen counter.
“Of course.” Stede smiled gently, “I asked you here. I want you to be comfortable. Or, as comfortable as you can be.”
Edward managed a terse smile in return. God, Stede was just like that then? Kind and tender and considerate and so very other. It wasn’t some great deception or act that he’d put to paper.
“Now, what would you like to drink?”
“I’m kidding, fancyman. I’ll take a beer.”
Stede handed Ed a cold beer from the entertaining bar outside (next to the pool, of course he had a fucking pool), the glass bottle wet and cool to the touch. Edward hit the cap against the stone bar top, the metal clinking to the ground as Stede pulled back the bottle opener he’d presented a beat too late.
“That’s one way to do it,” Stede chuckled, and Ed considered that it rather sounded like blissful, lilting music. He didn’t know how he would ever go back to hearing him laugh over a fuzzy phone line again when the real deal was so pure, so undiluted, so complete. Phone Stede felt like a blurry, partial approximation of who he truly was.
“Oh!” Stede exclaimed as Edward brought the beer to his lips in an attempt to chase away the seemingly constant fancyman thoughts, “the cravat!”. Ed had almost forgotten he’d worn it, the dark fabric half tucked into his shirt.
“You wear it well,” Stede said, sounding awfully pleased with his choice of neck ties.
“Not that well.” Edward said, tugging the cravat loose from its purple trappings, “Couldn’t figure out how to tie it. Didn’t exactly come with instructions,”
Edward unfastened the strip of fabric; loosening a rather impressive Windsor. He knew it wasn’t the correct tie for a cravat, but it was the only knot he knew, and that was better than nothing, because he had to be wearing it.
Ed handed the black silk to Stede, the material slipping through his fingers like sand. Stepping around the bar, Stede held it like it was something precious, something to be coveted, despite the fact that it was a gift he himself had bought.
Stede stood in front of him and Edward put down the beer, bundling his hair into a loose bun between his hands, allowing for better access.
“Do your worst, Bonnet.” Ed said, as cocky as he could manage with an extremely disarming Stede in his personal space.
Stede smiled in that lovely way of his as he looped the fabric around Ed, his fingertips tickling the base of his neck, burning Edward’s skin with each accidental graze.The tie pulled through Ed’s baby hairs; smooth and silky and velvet, and he didn’t know which was softer, the fabric or Stede’s touch.
Stede fussed with the knot and Ed was suddenly distinctly aware of how close he was.
He was so close Edward could see the gold of his lashes, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was so close Ed could feel the warmth that radiated from him, feel the soft caress of his breath. He was so close he could smell his cologne and aftershave (lavender and honey and old books and something so ambrosial) and-
He was in love with Stede Bonnet.
It had been simmering for a while; a low boil in the deepest, darkest recess of Edward's heart, a smolder that threatened to spill over at any moment. He’d built a dam of ‘he’s a stranger’, ‘you don’t really know him’, ‘you can’t fall in love with words on a page or a voice on a phone’, but this was simply too much for his barricade to withstand. Fancyman was no stranger, fancyman was Stede. And he knew Stede. Ed knew he liked boats and plants and classic literature. He knew his handwriting by sight; he knew how he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. He knew his favourite movies and what drink he ordered at bars and how to beat him at naughts and crosses.
Now he knew the way he talked and the way he moved and fuck , the way he smelled, the way he smiled.
He was fucking in love with Stede Bonnet.
