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Blackbeard was a monster. He maimed and mutilated and tortured and he enjoyed it. He set vessels ablaze just to be able to admire the flames reflecting in the water. He threw men overboard because the sound the bodies made when they hit the water amused him. He stabbed and shot without remorse, because if they only screamed loud enough maybe they would be able to drown out the black fog in his head.
Blackbeard did not think about Stede Bonnet.
(Except when he saw the bright flames eating up the mast and couldn’t help but remember soft silk against his skin and careful fingers braiding purple bows into his beard.
Except when he saw the moon and couldn’t help but ask himself where his piece of red silk had flown to.
Except when he let his blade sink into the flesh of an opponent, and for a moment he saw blonde hair and a ridiculously proud expression – even if it had taken hours to get him off the mast again.
Blackbeard did not think about Stede Bonnet. Except for when he did.
And he wanted revenge.)
Blackbeard was wicked. A story parents told their little kids to scare them into obedience. A pirate so fearsome ships surrendered just by recognizing the flag.
Blackbeard was not lonely.
On the rare occasion Blackbeard did think about Stede Bonnet, it was about what he would do to him if they were to meet again. Maybe he could stab him to his beloved mast of Brazilian wood again, and watch as he slowly starved to death under the unrelenting sun. Maybe he could take the stupid summer linens he hadn’t been able to throw out and force them down his throat until he choked on them. Maybe he could throw him into the water, let him drown like that annoying fucking scribe who had always looked at him far too knowingly.
(He didn’t allow himself to think about how bright Stede's laugh had been. Or how soft his fingertips had been – so unlike any other pirate, always smelling of the hand cream he religiously put on every day. And how soft his lips had been, too. Because if he thought about it – remembered how Stede had been so soft and gentle and accepting and lovely and ridiculous and insane and fascinating and perfect – he knew he would break down again.
And Blackbeard did not cry.)
But here was the thing about Blackbeard. He wasn't real. He was a legend. An act. A story merchants whispered about at night, praying to every god that will hear them that they may never encounter. He was what people thought a pirate should be like, except that all they see are thieves and kidnappers and murderers and never the person underneath.
The sad truth about Blackbeard was, that he was no more than a front. And a laughably frail one at that.
And so when Stede Bonnet appears on his ship, he does not shoot him or even take his dagger into his hand. He does not push him into the ocean, or bind him to the mast, or punch him in the face. He just stands – so still one would think he was a statue if it weren’t for the quick rise and fall of his chest.
Stede opens his mouth and starts saying something - maybe an apology?- but Ed is too busy bathing in his voice to register the words. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed it – the accent, the cadence. Just…just his voice. Just Stede.
And that’s all it takes. A stupidly transparent shirt and those fucking eyes and suddenly all his thoughts about revenge are gone. All it takes is a dumb apology he isn’t even really listening to, and he knows that Stede is forgiven. Despite all the sleepless nights where he had had to realize how big and empty a bed for two people can actually be. Despite single-handedly depleting the rum supply on the ship more than once. Despite desperately trying to keep his sobs quiet, hoping the rest of the crew couldn’t hear him crying himself to sleep.
Or maybe it isn’t despite those things at all. Maybe he is just fucking tired of being so pathetic. Blackbeard had always been a practical man – he had to be, to be able to survive in the sea for so long. Before Stede he had been miserable. After Stede he had been miserable. During Stede he had been… happy. Had allowed himself to be soft and genuine and himself, and, surprisingly, hadn’t hated the person he’d started to discover underneath so many layers of viciousness and fuckery. It was pretty straightforward. And the solution to his troubles and despair was standing right in front of him.
Also, Stede looked very good. Did he already mention that?
Stede is still talking – something about regret and widows and guilt – but Ed is so enraptured by the painfully hopeful look in his eyes that the words go straight through him.
He stops talking when Ed takes starts walking toward him
.
The closer he gets, the more he sees. The faint beginnings of a beard. The shirt fraying in the edges. The way his lips are chapped. The way the top of his nose is slightly sunburnt. With each step, Stede’s eyes widen, hope and trepidation and relief and sadness and something so incredibly gentle in them Ed can feel his heart squeeze. With every step, Stede becomes more stunning.
And then he is right in front of him. Close enough to touch. The closest he has been in months. A wisp of blond hair blows into his face and Ed has to hold himself back from tucking it behind his ear. Then he remembers that he doesn’t have to. Stede’s hair feels frail and dry against his fingertips, not as cared for as it had been before. They will have to rectify that.
And then he is crushing him against him. He smells different, too. The delicious lavender replaced by salt and sun. And for the first time in forever, Ed feels something besides sadness and anger and mind-numbing boredom. For the first time in months, he remembers what it feels like to fit into his skin.
“-can’t breathe! Ed-“
As soon as the words register, Ed lets him go. For a moment, at least. He looks at Stede, and suddenly it hits him how much he missed him. How much he missed the person he had been around him. He places his left hand on his shoulder, and his right one on his cheek. The skin feels rougher than he remembers. His eyes burn but he can’t bring himself to care. Because he is here. Stede Bonnet is on The Revenge. With him. And at this moment Ed knows that he cannot bear to lose him again
(even as part of him recoils at the thought of letting the person who had hurt him so badly return without any consequences)
“Is- is that a yes?”
Blackbeard is always alert, always in control. And even if it isn’t true, even if he zoned out again or simply didn’t care enough to pay attention – nobody needs to know that. Holding a weapon to someone’s throat makes them quite the believing audience.
But right now, with Stede’s face so close to his own, Blackbeard hasn’t felt so far away in a long time. Ed smiles, shaking his head slightly, and gently caresses Stede’s cheek.
“Mate, I have no fucking idea what you’ve just said.”
And then he leans in and finally kisses him.