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For all its softness, the silk burned against his chest like a brand, the touch of Stede’s fingers lingering on the fabric.
You wear fine things well, He’d said.
Ed might not have been much good at passive aggression or using the right cutlery, but he did know how to read men.
That had been a compliment.
A softly spoken, gently worded compliment.
And if he were to turn around and make good on that last lingering glance Stede had given him?
Could he bring himself to draw that feeling outwards and make it plain?
Izzy knew, of course. Had figured it out long before Ed himself.
Old Blackbeard had caught feelings.
The sort that couldn’t just be drowned out by canon fire and the rowdy shouts of drunk men. No, these were the sorts of feelings that settled themselves in you and wound their roots between your ribs.
He sighed, pulling the scrap of silk again from his pocket and winding it through his fingers as though it could soothe the desperate craving for connection. And should he follow his own foolish emotions, would he come only face to face with rejection?
Was it better to live on in desperation than to be brought down into a world where there was no hope at all? Failing that, could he rock himself to sleep at night with the plaguing guilt that his own cowardice had robbed him of the possibility of life?
Stede’s windows were still lit, the flames dancing against the salt-stained panes. Stede Bonnet — the Gentleman Pirate — who had, armed with nothing but wit and cunning, wreaked more havoc upon the frivolous egos of the upper crust in five minutes that Blackbeard’s entire crew could have done in ten.
Edward tucked the square of silk back into his breast pocket, doing his very best to mimic how Stede had folded it, and admitting very quietly that it wasn’t the same when he did it himself.
With level steps, unwavering against the rock of the ship, Ed steeled himself for what might possibly be the most difficult in encounter in a long life of difficult encounters.
“Stede?” He rapped the door, ignoring the shake of his hands.
“Ed?” Though muffled by the wood, it was clearly him, “Is that you?”
“it is. Can I come in?”
There was, barring an entire breakdown of physics, no way in which Stede could have heard him, his voice too quiet and uncertain.
The door creaked open, revealing worried eyes, “Is something wrong?”
“Can I come in?” There was genuine concern as the door opened the rest of the way, revealing Stede adorned in dressing gown and under garments. “Certainly.”
Ed nodded, unable to meet that gaze as he slipped silently past, ducking his head.
“Are you sure everything is alright?”
“Absolutely am,” Ed replied noncommittally, turning halfway to face him.
Stede’s hazel eyes were on him, face softened into something halfway between affection and empathy. “You can stay here, if you want.”
Ed’s words failed him as he looked at Stede, hair like spun gold in the candlelight and silk dressing gown dragging on the floor.
“You'd let old Blackbeard sleep on your couch?” He tried to play off his surprise with humour but Stede's eyes caught his, their gaze soft and understanding.
“It’s nothing.” Stede shrugged, voice speaking of unspoken things, of hidden thoughts and unbidden emotions.
“Alright.” Ed said, for nothing else he thought of could adequately express the feeling in his chest.
“Do you sleep like that?” Stede leaned towards the closet as he eyed Ed’s leathers.
“No.” He admitted, “I don’t.”
“Here.” Stede pulled a long white garment from his wardrobe and handed it to Ed, “Fine linen. I think you’ll like it.”
There were no words left behind his lips as he took the fabric between his hands, beautifully soft with tiny embroidery around the hems. It might as well have been the finest silk.
“Thanks.” He managed eventually, enraptured by the gentle slid of linen over his fingers tips; the cool feel of it across the backs of his hands.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” Stede said, smiling slightly as he wandered off to the opposite side of the stateroom.
Ed ducked through the curtains, hooking the hangar over the bar. Buckle after buckle fell away, first the superfluous ones, then the ones holding his weapons to his person, until he was stood in just undershirt and trousers, fiddling with the buttons at his hips.
He peered around the corner to find Stede laid up in bed, nose in a little book.
Smiling a little at the complete and utter predictability of it all, he shrugged off his undershirt and unbuttoned his trousers. For one brief moment he hesitated before pulling the nightshirt on over his head. It fell almost to the floor, stopping mid calf, the sleeves long and uncuffed, their hems adorned with impeccable stitchwork.
When he slid the curtain aside, Stede glanced up from the book, “Do you like it?”
"I do.”
“Good. It suits you.” Ed licked his lips, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Will you fit on the couch?"
Those words stalled him for a moment, for the implications they might hold. The infinite and minuscule possibility that he could wake up in Stede's arms.
“'S alright.”
“Alright.”
“Good.” Ed sat down as Stede rose from bed, rifling through one of the many drawers and emerging triumphant with a folded rectangle.
“Here. A blanket.”
It was the Caribbean. In the middle of summer.
He didn’t need a blanket.
But he wasn’t about to refuse the offer, so he took it, laying it carefully across his lap.
The cashmere was beautifully soft, woven teal and purple and Ed touched it to his cheek.
“Good night.” Stede said as he blew out the last candle.
“Good night.” Ed answered, wrapping the blanket around himself and curling against the end of the settee.
Stede’s breathing was steady, his silhouette just visible in the low light.
In that moment, cocooned in cashmere and darkness, Ed allowed himself to want it; to yearn for the feel of someone else’s fingers in his hair, the touch of someone else’s hands against his chest. But he was coward enough not to ask, for fear that his ragged heart might shatter into a thousand pieces if this dandy told it to.
Oh how they would laugh, if they knew that the great Blackbeard had heart, and how they would jeer if they knew that heart belonged to a single foppish man with kindness in his eyes.
Closing his eyes, Edward turned his face against the pillow, pulling the blanket against his chin and falling into a troubled sleep.