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Blackbeard hadn’t thrown out the marmalade. He also hadn’t sold all of it, though he was loathe to let anyone know. The remaining bottles were hidden within the secret passages through the ship, among summer linens and silk robes that smelled of old books and lavender soap. An ache lived inside his chest, gnawing and devouring him, but he still hadn’t decided if laying on the floor of those rooms, soaking in the warmth of a ghost, was easing the weight or just making it shift.
He’d learned at some point that distributing the shock of a fall or a heavy load was better than centralizing it to one location on the body. Perhaps that was all he was doing – evening out the pressure, letting it spread along his extremities to make it a bit easier to live with.
He’d been eating the marmalade slowly, usually at night when the only company he could expect was a lingering breeze or the moon’s faint glow. It tasted like sunrise, a morning glow after a night spent sitting in the crow’s nest. Lingering sweetness on his tongue was a gift from Stede he couldn’t part with, not yet, even if he had to wash away the flavour with brandy. At this point his tears had run out, and the marmalade no longer had a salty bite, but a phantom hand remained pressing a red, silk pocket square to his heart in the silvery quiet. Here, alone, Blackbeard did not pretend he couldn’t still feel it.
It was a bizarre interruption, then, watching the inky horizon from the bow of the ship, that Blackbeard heard a heavy thud from the starboard side.
The drawing of his knife was muscle memory, the gentle placing of the marmalade on the stained wooden planks a little less-so. He could acknowledge he didn’t look as scary, black grease paint half-smudged under his eyes and his jacket left behind in his quarters, but Blackbeard was more than an outer layer one could shuck off on a whim.
He cracked his neck, feeling the gurgling, molten anger sear his lungs, and stalked over to the rail.
And all at once, his anger turned to ice in his veins.
The tip of his blade pressed lightly against the pale throat of one Stede Bonnet. His hair was disheveled and dry, smooth skin raised and red with sun damage. Blackbeard pressed the knife harder, feeling the resistance of flesh and hearing a shocked whimper escape past Stede’s dry lips. He’d dreamt of a reunion too many times to accept it without a test, though now that it was here, living, breathing, he wasn’t sure he could swallow it.
“Ed, ” Stede breathed, a mix of desperation and hope and sadness that twisted in Blackbeard’s gut.
He could kill him right here. A flick of the wrist, a sturdy push, it would be over. It should have been over already, Izzy’s voice whispered somewhere deep inside him, but he could still taste the marmalade on his tongue and the hangers hidden behind the bookshelf haunted him like empty promises, and he knew it never really ended.
Before Blackbeard could think of what to do, Stede implored, “Please, Edward, can– can we talk?”
His grip tightened on the hilt of the knife, some nauseating amalgamation of emotions he didn’t want to dwell on curling down his fingers. One of Stede’s hands shot up, placating but submissive, while the other kept him from falling back into the dinghy far below.
“Just give me a chance, Edward. After that you can kill me if you’d like, but please, give me a chance to talk to you.”
The name floated in the space between them, and somehow Blackbeard felt the pressure of a blade at his own throat. He didn’t want to have to make this decision, didn’t want to be the one held captive by his own heartbreak anymore, it was so much easier when he was told who to be.
Blackbeard imagined Stede’s throat crimson and gaping under the moonlight. Would Stede still tell him that he was made for fine things, with such a nightmarish mockery of their affections staining the deck? The ghost of rope stung against his palms, a drunken man under his boot collapsing to the wet, rocky dock, and Blackbeard silently stepped to the side.
He didn’t help Stede over the railing, watching instead as he hoisted his weather-beaten body over the side, the knife still extended in warning. Standing face to face, Blackbeard took in the torn blouse and tattered pants. A devilish thought rang through his mind, a reflexive kind of despair, an unguarded, You were meant to be adorned in gold and cashmere, yet you are still beautiful in rags.
Blackbeard flinched away from his own mind, a minute turn of the head, and he saw Stede’s brow furrow at it. Mutely, he couldn’t help but wish Lucius were there to snap him out of this horrible paralysis.
Blackbeard was woefully unprepared for this.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat.” It was a laughable threat, holding only a fraction of his intended malice.
“You sound an awful lot like Izzy,” Stede replied, a strained jab at humour, but it fell flat with the weight of truth tied to it. Stede’s palms rose once again in surrender, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Blackbeard shook his head, a tight, chilling grin pulling at his lips. “Not good enough, mate. Try again.”
Stede swallowed, and Blackbeard tried not to track the movement. “I should have told you what I was doing. I shouldn’t have– have abandoned you like that. I never wanted to hurt you, in truth I– well, I thought I was doing the right thing, if you can believe that.”
Slowly, Stede’s hands began to lower. “I was attacked by Chaucey, the English fellow who had been waving his sword around… Called me a monster, told me all the things I had been ruining, including you. I believed him. He died just like his brother, more blood on my hands, and I believed him.”
Blackbeard adjusted his grip on the knife, holding Stede carefully at arm’s distance. A breeze passed by, and it felt eerily similar to Izzy’s breath down his neck.
“I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t bear to think about hurting you further, taking away your whole life.” Stede shook his head, distant melancholy pulling at his eyes. “I went back to Mary. I figured a bad husband was a more fitting role for me, even if I hated it. At least that way I was doing what was right, sort of, but it just made everything worse…”
Stede took a step closer, letting the tip of the blade press lightly just under his chin. In the low shimmer of the full moon, Stede’s eyes seemed deeper than the ocean itself, richer in promise but just as deadly. Blackbeard felt himself seep into them, pulled like a riptide, and he imagined Stede’s twisted corpse under his feet where his father had laid, bruised and motionless, more motionless than anything he’d ever seen.
“Mary and I talked, after she tried to kill me, which is,” he let out a breathy chuckle, “a rather long story all on its own. She’s found love without me, a wonderful man named Doug, and she helped me realize that I’ve found it, too. I didn’t know what love felt like, Ed, but she helped me connect the dots that were right in front of my face.”
Stede’s throat hitched, Blackbeard felt it more than heard it, and, horrifyingly, Stede began to cry. “Edward, I can never take back what I did. I can only hope you believe me, believe that I’m telling you the truth. I hurt you, and words cannot describe how sorry I am for what I did. I found closure, back with Mary, but it was cowardly of me to search for it without saying something to you, anything to you. You deserve better than that, and I–”
Stede cut himself off, sucking in a shaky breath. Blackbeard watched, wide-eyed, petrified. Quickly, Stede wiped his sleeve over his face, clearing his throat before looking back up. Eyes red-rimmed, Stede squared his shoulders.
“I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, truly I do. There is nothing I can say that will change the past. But I do want you to know that, if you will have me, I would…” Stede took a slow breath, and Blackbeard felt his lungs burn. “I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life by your side.”
The ocean itself held its breath, The Revenge stilling as Blackbeard let Stede’s words absorb into his flesh. He felt his joints shifting, his muscles flexing as if a cavity were being carved, an old wound gaping open where hasty stitching had failed to do its job. The home inside his chest that Stede had made for himself was all too eager to welcome Stede back inside, allow this nauseating void to be filled once more.
The ship swayed lightly with the current, the dinghy below bumping against the hull, and a painting of a lighthouse flashed behind Blackbeard’s eyelids.
Stede didn’t flinch when the blade pressed just a fraction more against the vulnerable expanse of his throat.
“Why should I believe you, hm? What’s stopping you from going back, or– or– or deciding offhandedly to become a fuckin’ aristocrat again?” He spat the words out, bile rising in the back of his throat, as if it hadn’t been him jumping at the chance to wear a cravat not a month earlier.
Stede’s voice flowed to him like honey, like marmalade, too gentle and easy for a man being threatened by the most ruthless pirate in the Caribbean. “I’ve given up everything, Ed. My wealth and status and, God, even my life, legally speaking, it’s all gone. Left to Mary and Doug and the kids. All I want,” Stede paused for a moment, shaking his head, and rephrased with more certainty than a dying man, “all I need, is you.”
A moment passed between them, silent and anticipatory, but the anger flowed away with the salty breeze. Edward dropped his hand, limp and tired, but neither one of them closed the gap. He eyed Stede warily, attempting to connect dots that still needed more context. His body ached, half-drowned in sorrow, booze, and, deplorably, hope.
“Why did you leave…?” He asked again, knowing his voice sounded weak and childish, but here, in the quiet night with Stede, he couldn’t care to perform anymore.
“I thought I was hurting you, hurting everything.” Stede sounded like he was pleading for his life. Maybe he was.
“What are you talking about? Hurting me?” Edward felt the anger bubble up again, just enough to grab the front of Stede’s shirt and give him a shake. Perhaps it was more desperation, than anger. “Were you even listening to me, on the beach? I was happy, Stede. For once in my fucking life I felt like I was actually alive. I opened myself to you and you left.”
Stede was searching his eyes for something, and for a sickening moment Edward feared whatever it was would scare him away again. He released Stede with a frantic shove, turning to face the water. But, swift as the night, Stede’s hand was on his cheek, guiding him back.
“Look at me, Edward. Please.”
Edward closed his eyes, feeling Stede’s breath brush along his jaw and out into the ocean air. Blackbeard, who never felt fear. Edward, who felt it crawling deep within him, devouring him from the inside out.
Edward lifted his gaze to meet Stede’s, and felt icy dread claw the back of his throat.
“I love you, Edward Teach. I was cowardly, and misguided, but I loved you then, and I love you now. I love you, beard or no beard,” and Stede’s lips flickered a smile, genuine and soft, this time. “I choose you, pirate captain or privateer.” Stede’s eyes reflected liquid silver, and Edward felt his own world blur at the edges. “I choose to love you, even if you fear you have the Kraken lurking deep within you. I do not fear it. I do not fear you.”
Slowly, carefully, Stede crossed the small distance left between them and pressed his lips to Edward’s. The kiss was more certain than their first, a puzzle piece rotated to fit the space it had been meant for all along, and Edward felt himself fall into it like coming home. His cheeks were wet, snatches of the sea slipping into the cracks of their lips, but the tight knot in his throat disappeared with the easy pressure of Stede’s body in his arms.
Here, out on the ocean, their love would always taste the faintest bit like tears, but perhaps all that meant was their love would taste like excess, like overwhelm. Edward felt it, this adoration bursting out from within him, and the salt on his tongue tasted an awful lot like belonging.
Salt, and the faintest hint of marmalade.