Chapter Text
Stede’s first class on Tuesdays is a nine am which sounds awful. Introduction to Literary Theory, Poetry Module. Ugh. Ed regrets agreeing to this as he cracks his eyes open at the ungodly hour of - he checks his alarm clock - eight fifteen . Christ.
Izzy still isn’t talking to him, not that the rat bastard would be awake any earlier than eleven, so there’s an annoying passive-aggressive note about household chores and whatnot taped to the fridge when he gets up. Whatever. At least there’s some semblance of peace in their shithole apartment as Ed toasts a bagel to take with him.
They meet at the student center just before Stede’s class. Stede isn’t a freshman like Ed had feared, but a senior like himself. And why a senior is taking such early classes when he could simply not is beyond Ed. Stede also, it turns out, dresses the whole nine-yards-tailored-suit look every. Single. Day. It’s totally out of place on a college campus of preening twenty-somethings who wish they were influencers, and it’s more than a little charming.
Ed skives off from his own classes enough that it’s really no bother to follow Stede to his. Marine science is a tough major, sure, but it’s the one thing Ed has a natural affinity for. He’s weirdly good at math and chem, and doesn’t really need to study to get a solid 75 on average. If you just applied yourself has been thrown at him by many a career counselor, but why put in all that work when C’s get degrees? Plus, his ability to skate by drives Izzy mental, which is sort of funny to see.
Stede chats his ear off the whole way from the student center to the lecture hall, and Ed can’t say he minds very much. Stede has something to say about everything .
“And they communicate by dancing!” Stede enthuses as they enter the lecture hall, “It’s called a waggle dance, isn’t that just darling? I’d be a terrible communicator if I was a bee, I’m a horrible dancer. Stepped all over poor Mary’s toes at the Spring formal. I only really know a waltz, though, not sure how bees feel about that.”
“M’sure you’re a great dancer,” Ed says. He’s learned to pick one thing to respond to and let Stede take it from there.
The professor blinks as Ed drops into the front-row seat next to Stede. He squirms in the hard plastic chair. Christ, he must look like a sight; it’s beyond obvious he doesn’t belong here. The hulking football jock in the leather jacket sitting front and center in a lecture about - Ed squints at the board - A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Fuck.
“It’s okay,” Stede stage-whispers, “I emailed to let her know I have a note-taker ahead of time. Wouldn’t do to see me not writing anything down, would it?”
“Guess not.”
“Well he- llo .”
Sideburns from the marching band has appeared and is unpacking his things in the seat next to Stede. His flinty eyes flick quickly between him and Ed.
“Lucius!” Stede beams at him. “This is my note-taker, Ed. He’s - “
“We’ve met.” Ed nods at the kid. “Sup, man.”
“Sup yourself.” Lucius is far too smarmy for Ed’s taste. He liked him better when the kid was afraid of him.
“Ah, I didn’t realize you knew each other.” Stede smiles between them, a bit bewildered.
Neither of them offer an explanation to poor Stede’s unanswered question, so he just starts filling Ed in on his and Lucius’s history. Partners during an assignment freshman year, Lucius clocked him as a fellow queer within minutes, took him under his wing as a babygay. Best friends ever since. Apparently, Lucius isn’t in the band, but his boyfriend and their entire friend group are, so he’s an honorary member. Does the notes for the color guard and all.
“And I said, well, as captain, I think he’d make an excellent addition to the crew - “
“Except I don’t do manual labor like spinning things, and the captain of the color guard has no real authority,” Lucius finishes. “Oh, look, lecture’s starting. Shh.”
Ed struggles to keep pace with the lecture as he scribbles out notes. He suddenly feels like this was a terrible idea, what with his distinct lack of academic integrity in a classroom setting. Shit, when was the last time he actually wrote anything down in a lecture? This can only go poorly.
Stede pays full attention, rapt as the professor drones on and on about allegory and metaphor and some bloke named Bottom. Ed makes sure to underline the character’s name in his notes.
Strangely, by the end of the lecture, Ed is paying attention too. Not just because he’s writing it all down for Stede. He’s…interested. In the themes, the reasons behind the character’s actions. He expresses this in a tone just shy of nonchalant, but Stede beams at him all the same, promising to bring a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with him to class Thursday. He owns three, apparently.
What a nerd. Ed doesn’t make any promises, but he agrees he’ll take the Shakespeare off Stede’s hands. Just for a bit.
Thursdays are Greek and Roman Literature at ten, English Language 1600s - Present at noon, and Theater III immediately following. Once again, Ed finds himself enraptured by the classics professor’s animated tales of Odysseus and his trials. They’re promised a movie next week, some ancient rendition of The Odyssey from the nineties, and Ed kind of can’t wait. The poetry lecture on Lord Alfred Tennyson nearly puts him to sleep, though.
Stede insists Ed doesn’t need to come with him to the theater lecture, but Ed’s got nothing better to do. Besides, he’s taken an interest in Shakespeare from the first lit class, and though he’d be damned to admit it, he wants to know more.
“Here it is! Theater, in all its grotesque glory. Careful with these ones,” Stede murmurs as they enter a squat black box of a room. As if they’re on a safari and have just entered a dangerous jungle full of unknown beasts.
Ed shoots him a frown. “Why? They’re just theater kids, man.”
He’s taken a few courses outside of the marine science module, and stands by the idea that nothing can be worse than business majors. Absolutely nothing. Yet in hindsight, maybe it all goes downhill when the instructor asks who the new kid is.
Stede, having not let them know Ed was coming, fumbles an introduction. “This is - “
“Jeff,” Ed supplies, “Accounting major.”
Stede gives him a weird look. The guy next to him mutters, “You know you can pick anything, right?”
“What, it’s theater, right? Theater’s about lying.” Ed nudges Stede with his shoulder. “C’mon, man, live a little.”
That gets him a smile. “Alright. Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
Ed wouldn’t necessarily call the exercises they do fun. Fifteen minutes in, they’re doing some sort of weird improv thing, where Stede is - groping is too harsh a word. Palpating? Eugh, worse. Stede is touching Antoinette’s head, pretending to be some sort of pseudoscience doctor.
“From her skull, I can tell Antoinette is of…Dutch descent?”
“No, I’m Prussian,” says Antoinette, clearly unwilling to be a good sport about this game.
Ed slumps in his chair, bored out of his skull. “Yeah, well I punched a Prussian once,” he mutters.
Oops. Too loud. The whole class is looking at him, Stede shaking his head with pleading eyes. Ed shifts upright.
“In self defense,” he explains. More stares. “Sometimes - a quick punch is the best way to end a boring conversation!”
A pause. Stede winces. Then the class breaks into laughter.
“ This guy is hilarious!” caws Antoinette, jerking out of Stede’s grasp. The class surrounds him, and Ed isn’t used to having so much positive attention on him that’s not from shotgunning a lager. So he plays the weird improv games. Has - fun?
They like him for his goofy voices and crass jokes, which is new. Izzy doesn’t like when he breaks from the bad boy exterior, but the theater class seems to like Jeff the Accounting Major. Maybe this crowd isn’t so bad after all. During a break, he expresses this thought to Stede.
“I dunno what you’re talking about, mate. These people are great!”
“They seem that way at first, don’t they?” Stede mutters. Definitely sulking.
“Aw, you’re just sore because they like me more than you.”
Ed sort of regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, because Stede’s expression shutters. He takes in the poncy clothes, the painted nails, the anachronistic interests and overenthusiasm for most things, and is hit with the realization that Stede is probably used to not being liked very much. College kids are tough - like high schoolers, only with easier access to alcohol.
“It’s a fickle crowd,” Stede insists, “Trust me.”
Ed waves him off. They keep having fun - that is, until he makes a vital mistake, flubbing a line in front of everyone. They laugh at him now, and it sucks, and suddenly he feels awful for the way he brushed Stede off.
But Stede seems to have hardened in the face of Ed’s mockery. He gathers with two boys Ed recognizes as Orange Beanie and Green Face Paint from the Revenge, and another student named Abshir. They whisper conspiratorially together behind the curtain, before Stede emerges with a new game. Stark Revelations.
And, damn, but the revelations do be stark.
“I can’t believe Antoinette and Gabriel are sleeping together ,” Ed mutters for the fifth time. They’re getting coffee (well, Ed has coffee, Stede got hot chocolate) at the dining hall after the disastrous theater class. Despite his position as Stede’s note-taker, Ed is no longer welcome to that particular lecture.
“We’ve all suspected for weeks ,” Stede says. He’s practically glowing. Dishing it out in much the same way he gets piled on from those morons must have felt good. Ed is…proud of him? Impressed, certainly. And a little ashamed at the way he treated his - friend. They’re friends, aren’t they? No, they’ve only known each other for a week now. Maybe acquaintances is more like it.
Either way, what Ed had learned today is that Stede is verifiably insane. He’s all golden-retriever puppy with the big brown eyes and the eager smile until shit goes down. Then it’s a cool smirk as a dozen theater majors are punching each other in the stomach while the instructor frantically tries to reign things in.
“Man. When you cut loose, you really cut loose.”
Stede beams at the praise. “Thanks.”
There’s no game the following Saturday. Izzy’s slunk out of his room to offer Ed a gruff good morning , so they’re on speaking terms again it seems. They never talk about the blowouts. It’s just the sort of friendship they have.
It’s only noon, but Izzy, Ivan, Fang, and the lads from their squad of D1 athletes are already prepping for a dage (day rage). Ed has pounded back a few beers of his own when his phone buzzes.
SB: Hello! I would like to inquire whether you are free for a shindig this evening?
Ed feels himself smile at the screen. Since their meeting which ended up being breakfast Monday, he’s seen Stede every day. Two days for classes, and then they grabbed dinner at the dining hall Wednesday and Friday on account of Stede’s whining that none of his friends were available, since they were at band practice. He, like Ed, had made the sort of friend group that all met in a singular extracurricular and lived out of each other’s pockets since freshman year. He’d seemed so put out at the prospect of being alone for meals that Ed had taken pity on the guy.
It isn’t much of a hardship. Turns out he and Stede have a very particular sense of humor. They come up with ridiculous scenarios which have already created more than one running joke that would make zero sense to anyone else. It was just easy talking to him, spiraling ludicrous ideas off of each other and then cracking up.
Stede is also a total chatterbox, which Ed had caught on to pretty much immediately. He sometimes rambles on and on about his classics courses, his favorite poets, the book he’s reading (“it’s an audiobook , Edward, do relax”) about the Golden Age of Piracy. He seems pleased when Ed asks what must be idiotic questions about all of the above, and rattles off in-depth answers, encouraging discussion rather than mocking Ed for his lack of knowledge in any subject.
It’s almost a relief, being around Stede. Ed doesn’t have to cloak himself in thick layers of hoo-rah masculinity or threaten to break someone’s toes to be taken seriously. Not like the crowd cracking empty Bud Lites against their foreheads as they huddle up to take on Main Street’s admittedly lacking night scene.
ET: depends. what sort of shindig we talkin?
SB: My roommate, Frenchie, has a spot at the Open Mike Night in the student center. Would you be interested in coming?
Oof. A senior going to one of those dinky little events put on by an exhausted Student Activities Board in a vain attempt to limit underage drinking? Ed may be half insane, but he’s not ready to commit social suicide yet. Izzy only just started talking to him again.
ET: kinda got a thing on already
ET: sry mate
SB: Very well! Perhaps another time then :)
Ed pauses, feeling an odd twinge of regret for turning down the invite.
ET: idk how long mine goes tho
ET: lmk if its still going by 11
In response, Stede sends an incomprehensible string of emojis including a thumbs up, the winking-tongue-sticking-out, and the jolly rodger.
“What the fuck is a Stede?” Izzy asks, craning his neck at a rough angle to read off Ed’s screen.
Ed shoves the phone in his pocket. “Shit man, ever heard of privacy?”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
“Stede’s the guy I’m taking notes for. Band kid who got concussed at the Spaniards game. He asked if I wanted to go to some stupid campus event, nothing major. Alright?”
Izzy scowls. The man looks like he’s had the wrinkle lines of a middle aged lawyer since sixteen. “You’ve been clowning around with that ponce way too much this week.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means , don’t let that fop fuckin’ change you, man. You’re reading fuckin’ Shakespeare? Eating at the dining hall like a fuckin’ freshie? I don’t even know you anymore.”
“First off, you’re being way too fuckin’ melodramatic here, mate.” Ed rolls his eyes, aiming for disaffected. He’s angry, sure, but below the simmering rage, there’s something else. A discomfort he doesn’t want to look too close at. “Second, kid got me off an academic suspension charge. Without this whole note-taker scheme, I’d be a goner. Expelled even, maybe. S’only a quid pro quo, man. Nothing more.”
Izzy frowns. “A what?”
Dammit, Stede. “Tit for tat. I take his notes, he keeps me from getting the boot. You know?”
This seems to placate Izzy enough. “Yeah. yeah, I guess that does make sense.”
“Plus, he’s got good pull with the band director. Said they might even lift the suspension by playoffs, s’long as Stede gets a word in. I got it handled, man. Relax.”
“Shit. You’re a genius, Edward.”
Ed preens. “I know.”
As soon as Izzy turns his back, Ed feels his smile drop. He feels kinda bad for throwing Stede under the bus like that. As if he’s using Stede. And, yeah, maybe that’s why he went to the Revenge in the first place, make sure the guy was okay after Ed put his ass on the line for him. But that still begged the question of why he went after the Spaniard for Stede in the first place. And he didn’t have an answer for that.
Still. Izzy’s line of questioning makes Ed damp under the armpits. Is his interest in that other life so obvious? The one where he kind of likes his studies and gets dinner (with vegetables! He’s never been so regular before) with a friend who doesn’t mock everything around them. Who listens to Ed’s ridiculous pipe dream of opening a bar and grill or sailing around the Caribbean and meets him with an avalanche of encouragement.
Izzy’s not the brightest, but he clocked Ed right where the insecurities lie. There are things he’s not allowed to want, things he can never have, and he’d be best to remember his place. Instead of the open mic night, Ed gets wasted with the lads ‘til the wee hours. Stede sends a flurry of texts around 11 - and midnight, and one. They go unopened.
“Would you like to accompany me to the football game tomorrow?”
Ed blinks. His hand’s cramping from typing so much so fast, trying to keep up with the lecture on The Iliad that runs at a breakneck speed. The past hour has been a blur of (admittedly interesting) Greek vocabulary, and Ed’s full attention has been stuck on trying to pin the words down in a comprehensible system that Stede can understand later. He’s so invested he doesn’t really hear the question the first time.
“Hm?”
“I asked if you’d like to accompany me to the football game tomorrow,” Stede repeats, a little louder. Ed is half-shocked that Stede is inviting him anywhere, given how hard he bailed on Frenchie’s concert thing. In hindsight, Stede never seemed mad that Ed hadn’t shown. Just another strange quirk of his, the utter forgiveness. At least where Ed seems to be concerned.
“Um. I’m not supposed to go to those.”
Stede rolls his eyes. “As a player . Surely they can’t ban you from spectating?”
He’s never really thought about that before. “Guess not.”
“Well! I promised the boys and Jim I’d watch the halftime show. And pregame, and postgame. I’m a little excited, actually! I’ve never watched our own show from the sidelines before. Anyway, I just thought - thought you might want to go?”
The idea of Blackbeard being seen at a football game in the stands like some spectating schmuck curdles his insides. Blackbeard, suspended from the team in his final season, crawling back because he misses it? No way.
On the other hand, the idea of going to an Event with Stede is. Promising. Puts butterflies in Ed’s stomach, which he loathes and is amazed by in equal measure.
“Alright, sure.”
He is not going to survive Stede if the man doesn’t stop smiling at him like that for fuck’s sake.
On Saturday afternoon, after wishing the boys luck at practice, Ed makes his way to the address he hastily scribbled on a sticky note. It’s in the nicer part of campus rentals, where three or four well-off students can rent a whole townhouse for a few hundred more a month than Ed and Izzy pay for their shithole two-bedroom nightmare of an apartment.
He’d run a cursory comb through his beard to get rid of the worst of the tanfgles, and his hair’s in a half-up knot that Fang insisted was. Cute. There’s no way he should be this nervous, but it’s the same jitters he got before the coffee date meeting.
The door to Stede’s place has a decorative pirate ship wheel where one might hang a wreath. Ed knocks. Sideburns - Lucius - opens the door. Of course.
“Well don’t you look…festive,” he smarms. Ed isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean - he’s in his black and purple letterman jacket, the one with his nickname across the shoulders. It’s a football jacket. Of course it’s festive.
“Er. Hi. Did Stede, uh, tell you I was coming?”
“We’re besties, love.” Lucius leans forward, a dark twinkle in his eye. “Stede tells me everything. ”
Oh. Okay. Before Ed can parse what the hell that’s supposed to mean, he hears Stede calling down the stairs, “ Lucius? Is that Ed? Bring him up, will you?”
The townhouse is nice and clean and bright in a way that’s cozy and comforting. Homey. Ed’s never lived anywhere like it, but has always wanted to. It’s hard not to feel bitter. Stede lights up as soon as Ed rounds the stairs.
“Welcome! We’re pregaming,” he says without preamble. The word sounds unfamiliar coming out of his mouth even though Ed’s plenty familiar with the concept. This is proven somewhat correct as Stede hands him a steaming mug in lieu of a beer.
“What’s this?”
“Rum-spiked cider.” Stede plunks a stick of cinnamon in his mug. He blinks at Ed, who’s no doubt staring at the drink like it’s about to grow teeth and bite him. “Er. We also have some beer, if you like? Or maybe a hard seltzer - ”
“No. No, ah, the cider’s good.” Ed takes a hesitant sip to prove it, and - oh. Wow. Yeah, actually, it is good. Sweet and nicely spiced and a little citrusy, with a decent punch from the dark rum.
He clutches the mug and takes dainty, savoring sips as Stede drags him on a tour of the townhouse. There’s four bedrooms for five guys, with Frenchie and Wee John sharing the ground floor room. Stede lives up top with Lucius and Oluwande, although his room is by far the biggest.
“Frenchie and Wee John pay less rent for sharing, which set something of a precedent,” Stede explains as they head upstairs, “No one wanted to pay extra for the bigger room, but I didn’t mind if it meant we could make this work. So, here’s me!”
He seems a little nervous as he throws open the door, and immediately Ed can see why. Stede’s room is - loud. Perfectly Stede. Two bookshelves line the wall, neatly filled but practically overflowing with heavy tomes. There’s a little reading nook which is just darling, covered in as many blankets and pillows as the double bed crammed against the windows. Somehow he managed to install curtains above it like something a princess would sleep in. There’s even one or two stands of knick-knacks and tchotchkes and, damn, is that a miniature pirate ship?
“All of this is yours?” Ed asks in total amazement.
“It’s a bit much,” Stede admits. He flaps a hand out at the closet. “Bit of a clotheshorse. And a book hoarder. All those little free libraries…I can’t help myself.”
“Nah, mate. It’s incredible.” Ed himself can only think of three t-shirts he owns at best. His room is dark and spartan, only a place he goes to sleep much less a space to live. He runs a hand over an intricately patterned blanket on the reading chair. “Absolutely fuckin’ mental.”
Apparently the marching band practices just as long as the football team on game days, so the rest of the house is dead quiet. They knock around downstairs with Lucius for a bit until it’s time to go.
As soon as they arrive at the field, Lucius sneaks off to the section of the student stands where the band plays to bother his boyfriend, leaving Ed and Stede alone. Which Ed is totally 100% fine with. Lucius is a bit like Izzy in the sense that Ed feels like he knows him, or something approximating him. Like he can see those guilty half-thoughts shoved deep into his subconscious where he doesn’t have to look at them, and finds them wanting. Only he’s on Stede’s side instead of Blackbeard’s.
A few people seem to recognize Ed for who he is, pointing and staring and whispering, no doubt about Blackbeard showing up to a game he’s suspended from. The letterman jacket was…probably a bad idea. Ed feels his cheeks heat up with shame, until Stede, embarrassingly, asks the people behind them muttering about the lack of a decent quarterback to please quiet down, thank you. Absolutely mental, Stede is.
It’s a fun game nevertheless. Ed tries to explain the goals, first downs, forty-yard plays. Stede nods along, forehead crinkled with deep concentration, and Ed knows he doesn’t understand a word of it. He’ll get it some day, Ed thinks fondly.
At half time, Stede points out the different sections of the marching band - the drumline, the pit, the drum majors. The colorguard, of course, and he goes through some vague hand motions explaining how they toss the flags and rifles and sabres. They are not twirlers . That’s a different section. On this, Stede is very firm.
Stede explains how there’s normally four or five “acts” split into an opener, ballad, drum feature, and closer. Turns out his guess is just as good as Ed’s when it comes to what the show actually is.
“It’s something…witchy, I think.” Stede frowns. “Well, it was supposed to be sort of like Swan Lake. That’s why I have the white costume, you see.”
He shudders suddenly. It’s a night game, and the setting sun has already cast a deep chill over the field. Stede’s dressed as Stede usually is - a button down shirt, satiny waistcoat, and loud copper slacks. He’s taken the liberty of throwing on a fashionable yellow bomber jacket with flowers all down the sleeves, but it looks much too flimsy for a night like tonight.
“It is chilly, isn’t it?” Stede is shaking like a leaf under his thin bomber.
“It’s October,” Ed reminds him. “Aren’t you always outside at games?”
Stede huffs. “ Yes. But we’re always moving with the band, warming up or, or performing. Even in the stands we’re dancing, and they hand out coats there. Also, I’m from the Caribbean. I just didn’t think - “
“Here.” Before he really thinks about it, Ed shrugs out of his letterman jacket and drapes it over Stede’s shoulders. He runs hot, anyway.
“Oh, I - I couldn’t possibly - “
“Suits you,” Ed gruffs, pulling the collar more firmly into place. Stede must heat up quick, because his cheeks are flaming like anything. That, or -
“I. Um. Th-this seems a bit unbalanced.” And before Ed can react, Stede unravels his black scarf and loops it around Ed’s neck. “There. Fair trade.”
Oh. Shit. The scarf smells like Stede. Flowery, with a hint of citrus. Like…lavender and bergamot. Coffee shops and sunshine. Horribly, Ed gets the sudden feeling that the scarf will be made worthless just from his touch.
“Ah, mate, I don’t wanna ruin your fancy clothes.”
“Psh, you won’t ruin it,” Stede chides, patting the scarf into place with a pleased look, “Look at that. You wear fine things well.”
The moon is a big round coin blinking down at them where it crests the away stands. Stede’s fluffy hair glows golden in the harsh stadium lights, and Ed is struck by the urge to make a move. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been considering it, but he doesn’t know Stede’s deal. He’s only ever been a guy of casual hookups and fumbled flings, and he doesn’t think that suits Stede very well.
Stede looks like a man who wants - deserves - to be romanced. Flowers and chocolates and fine gifts. Having someone open the passenger door and helping him out of a car with a strong grip. Ed’s not sure he can do that. He doesn’t even own a car. But maybe they could be down for something casual?
Stede’s still smiling at him, and Ed feels himself fall forward, a slow, jerky movement. Only Stede - doesn’t react like something experiencing a come on. Doesn’t react at all.
Someone scores; the crowd around them goes wild, so it must be the Pirates. Ed and Stede both flinch, heads swinging towards the field. Oh, thank god. He’s just been saved a horrifyingly embarrassing rejection by a person he sort of wants to stay on good terms with. Both thoughts - the idea of not being wanted, and that of caring what someone thinks of him that badly - are new. Ed doesn’t particularly like either.
“Do you want to come to the Republic of Pirates with us?” Stede asks, completely dodging the awkward moment. “It’s a post game tradition.”
Ed hesitates. Post game usually means getting smashed with the lads, win or lose, and he knows Izzy’s expecting him to be there. Ivan said he’d been dropping passive-aggressive remarks about Blackbeard’s priorities or some shit the whole week. He should go, Ed thinks.
It’s just. He's so tired of performing the whole Blackbeard schtick. The pageantry of it all exhausts him. He’s woken up sober for more days in a row this season than in his entire football career, and it’s been kinda good for him, mental health wise.
“Yeah, I’m down,” Ed says.
“Fantastic!” Like nothing even happened. Did he even notice that Ed was angling for a kiss? Oh, Ed is so going to kill him - that is, if Stede doesn’t kill Ed first.
They meet up with Stede’s motley crew of band mates under the opposing side’s bleachers. Ed’s phone buzzes, texts from Iz, Ivan, and Fang rolling in. He ignores it.
Stede introduces him to the gang. Frenchie, Roach, Wee John, Swede, and Oluwande are part of the color guard; Buttons on French horn; Pete on tuba, with Lucius appearing by his side out of thin air. Oluwande’s partner, Jim, is part of the battery, going by the drum stick they’re twirling like a butterfly knife.
All of them seem to have noticed Stede is very conspicuously wearing Ed’s letterman jacket. Hard not to, given Blackbeard is printed across the back in big purple script. No one says anything, although that could be from the glare which is certainly etched across Ed’s brows. The black throws off the autumn vibe of his pale color scheme, but Stede carries the weight of the jacket on his shoulders like he’s meant to wear it.
“Right!” Stede claps his hands, leading the troops, “Shall we?”
“You, uh. Comin’ with us then?” asks Frenchie. Wee John elbows him as Ed just raises an eyebrow.
“Be cool,” he stage-whispers. Looks at Ed, “Seriously, are you comin’?”
Ed shrugs. “Guess I am. That alright?”
Everyone mutters in vague agreement. Stede claps his hands together again.
“That’s the spirit! I always say we should expand our horizons in terms of the people we hang out with.”
“You’ve never said that.”
Stede flusters. “I have!”
This is met with a chorus of disagreement.
“Maybe you said it on your own,” Frenchie concedes, kindly.
“Right, yes. Perhaps - on my own.” He turns to Ed. “On that note. Why don’t you tell the guys and Jim more about yourself?”
The crew looks embarrassed on his behalf. Ed is definitely going to kill this guy. Mark his words. But then, he’s a showman at heart. He knows how to impress, how to sway people to his side. And he, like the others it seems, is helpless to deny Stede.
“Sure. So, uh, we made a turtle fight a crab in marine bio the other day.”
“ Sick.”
The crew slowly warms up to him as they walk the twenty minutes off campus to their regular post-game diner. He keeps pace with Stede at the front and regales them with wild tales of his exploits on the field and in frat house basements. Pete’s the only one who actually likes football and keeps asking Ed shy, awestruck questions about his college career like he’s Joe Montana. The crew in turn fills him in on all the juicy band gossip. Marching band, it seems, is not all that dissimilar from theater in terms of how much fucking drama there is.
“So, Blackbeard…” asks Roach, a bit shy, “What did you think of our performance?”
“Fantastic!” Ed assures him. “Blew the pants off me. Didn’t know the band was that good.”
The crew gasps and cheers excitedly amongst themselves.
“I thought the football team didn’t watch our show,” says an awed Pete.
“Usually don’t. Until tonight, that is!” Ed claps Stede on the shoulder, shaking him a bit. “Your captain was good enough to explain all the bits ‘n pieces to me. Nice touch with the cat flags, loved that, uh. That last toss thingy.”
“The ripple toss-turnaround at the finale,” Stede supplies, beaming.
“Yeah, ‘course, that.”
Lucius and Oluwande share a look as they rock up to the parking lot. Ed feels like an outsider again, like he did in the theater class. Is there something he’s missing? Some inside joke he hasn’t read into? Ed tries to ignore it.
The Republic of Pirates is the sort of greasy, 50’s-inspired shithole diner which has an antique jukebox in the corner, Elvis records on the wall, and a menu sixteen pages thick. It’s been a staple of the Seven Seas off-campus scene for decades, although it’s definitely gotten a bit kitschy.
They stuff themselves into a big circular booth just large enough to hold everyone, backpacks and flag bags containing the colorguard equipment crammed awkwardly under their knees. Frenchie, precariously perched on the edge next to Wee John, slides out a flag pole from his bag and frowns at the frayed edge of a flag.
“Ugh. Tore my silk during the closer,” he mutters, “Anyone got electrical tape with ‘em?”
“Black or white?”
“Black tape, pretty please.” Wee John tosses him a roll. “Cheers, m’dears.”
He unwinds a length of tape to wrap around the top of the pole, securing the loose flag silk to the endcap. Stede crinkles his nose with dismay.
“Frenchie, it’s impolite to tape your flag at the dinner table.”
“The Republic is a hoity-toity dinner table now, is it?”
“Good manners are important everywhere ,” Stede says, holding his menu prim and proper-like. Fussy, fastidious, annoyingly particular man. It should not be adorable. It absolutely is.
“Sorry, captain.” Frenchie does not sound the least bit sorry.
They order heaping platters of everything fried, a few beers, and a milkshake per head. Someone breaks out a deck of cards and a cribbage board, and cards quickly devolves into shouting and maniacal laughter. Stede, to Ed’s delight, can be downright bitchy when he loses. There’s for sure a bite to him that’s buried under the surface of manicured nails and squared-off bowties.
“You’re cheating,” he accuses Jim. A dangerous move in Ed’s nascent opinion. Jim just shrugs, smirking, ubiquitous drumstick twirling lazily in their fingers.
“Can’t call cheats just because you suck at cards, Bonnet,” Oluwande chides. He and Jim don’t seem much like ones for constant physical affection, but they’re sitting pressed thigh to thigh in the booth, and the look Jim gives him is the warmest thing to grace their face all night. The two of them are kinda cute. In their own way.
“ Someone’s cheating,” Stede insists. He leans over to whisper at Ed, “I’ve got a sense for cards, you know. A great-uncle of mine was a fairly well-known card shark. ‘The Brigand of Barbados’, they called him.”
“No kidding?”
Frenchie snorts. “Your ancestors owned a sugar plantation, love. I wouldn’t rely on their genetics for shit.”
Stede, wisely, makes a face like that’s fair and doesn’t comment further. He watches Swede make his move across the cribbage board. “Oh, Swede’s about to peg out!”
Ed nearly spits out his milkshake. “Mate, please don’t call it that.”
And the crowd goes wild with pegging jokes, most of which seem to go over poor Stede’s head.
It’s nearly midnight when they get kicked out by the Republic’s closing staff. Ed goes home stuffed with fried pickles and a peanut butter shake and the inner workings of who’s kissing who under the bleachers during third quarter. His roommates are still out when he gets back, and it’s nice to be home mostly-sober and before dawn on a Saturday night.
Only as he climbs into bed does Ed realize: he’d forgotten to ask Stede for the jacket back. And Stede’s scarf is still tied around his throat. Ed touches it reverentially, noticing the butterflies swarming in his stomach, and groans to himself. He’s never done anything by halves; it’s always been all or nothing. And Ed, tragically, appears to be crushing on the nerdy, unhinged goofball of a colorguard captain which is Stede Bonnet with every fiber of his being.
Fuck.