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“I think the sun is coming up,” Stede says, marvel in his voice. Ed smirks. As if he’s never seen a sunrise before.
“S’what happens,” he says. Stede chuckles, a brightness around his eyes, and Ed wonders if he could see a sunrise for the first time again, too. “Bet you’ll be needing your rest, then.”
“I suppose I–” Stede is cut off by an impressive yawn which fades into a smile. “You’re right.”
“I don’t sleep, you know.” Ed nods to Stede’s journal. “Have the boy write that one down.”
Stede breaks into a drowsy hum. “I’ve seen you sleep, Ed.”
Ed purses his lips and shakes his head. “Mm, no. Don’t think so. ‘Cause I don’t do it.”
“Right,” says Stede. “ Unfortunately, I do.”
“I’ll go, then.”
“Nonsense,” Stede says. He stretches his arms above his head with a sigh and strides over to his bed. “You can stay here, obviously.”
Edward freezes. His eyes dart between the soft, silky sheets between Stede’s fingers and the blonde hair curled at the back of his neck. “What?”
Stede looks back over his shoulder as he fluffs a pillow. “The couch,” he says with a nod. “You didn’t think I’d make you sleep on the floor, did you? Although, that does seem rather piratey. You can sleep on the floor if that’s your preference.”
“Yes, right,” says Ed, “Course. Couch is fine.”
“Splendid. That’s velvet, you know. Very comfortable.”
“I’ve sat on it,” Ed says.
“Ah. Of course. Well, if you don’t think your friends will kick down my door demanding you swashbuckle something, you’re welcome to sleep on it.”
“Maybe I will.” Ed can feel the sleep that he doesn’t do edging up on him, heavy in his ears and throat. “Yeah.”
The first streaks of morning light are starting to warm the room as Stede climbs into his bed and extinguishes what’s left of a candle on the bedside table. Ed swings his legs up onto the couch and tucks an arm behind his head. The quiet shuffling of Stede attempting to get comfortable lulls him to sleep.
*
Ed doesn’t make a habit of sleeping in front of anyone. He keeps the mystique alive by catching cat naps in pantries and brigs, just enough to get him through the next fight– or drinking contest, or stabbing, or one of the Swede’s poetry readings.
Izzy used to keep watch. But here, on the Revenge, the crew is unpredictable and squirrely. Ed will try to tuck into a corner to grab a wink and he’ll find Jim whittling or Wee John and Roach chasing ship rats. It’s hard for him to pull one over on this group, always underfoot, always interrupting him. Meanwhile, they happily sleep in the open. Out on the deck, under the stars, trusting and unbothered. And sometimes, they’re curled up with one another on sacks of potatoes or discarded linens. An arm thrown around a waist, a nose tucked against the nape of a neck. Breathing with each other.
“Staring at us isn’t going to make us disappear,” Lucius calls out to him.
Edward nearly tumbles off the beam he’s sitting on. The moon is high in the sky tonight, casting light across the deck of the ship. The other sleeping forms don’t stir.
“I’m not staring,” Ed says indignantly. “If I were, you’d know it. You’d feel it in your balls.”
“Well, I do feel a prickle,” Lucius says. He untangles himself from Black Pete and gives Ed an irritatingly knowing look. “Problem?”
Pete elbows Lucius. “He can stare if he wants. He’s Blackbeard.”
“The moon is too bright the other way,” Ed explains. Reasonable. “Not my fault you’re in the way of my eyes. Maybe you should move.”
Lucius clicks his tongue. “Uh-huh. Perhaps you should find somewhere of your own to sleep?”
“Don’t sleep, never have” says Ed.
Pete whistles low. “Doesn’t sleep, doesn’t stare. Told you.” Edward wonders if the light of the stars is enough for them to see him nod emphatically.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Lucius mutters to Pete. “We’re going back to sleep, Blackbeard, sir. If you could look elsewhere.”
“I’ll look where I need to look,” Ed says stubbornly. He tries to burn holes in the back of Lucius’ head where it rests on Pete’s chest.
*
The next afternoon, Ed swings on the rigging and digs his boot into Izzy’s thigh. “Hey, Iz. Where do you sleep here? Not in the officer’s quarters, so.”
Izzy bites a slice of apple off the edge of his knife. “I manage.”
“Cryptic. Open up a little, man. Just making conversation.” Edward doesn’t want to roll his eyes, but the man makes it so damn difficult sometimes.
“You'd know where I slept if you didn't spend every night having fucking tea parties with Bonnet.”
That stings. Izzy’s been talking to him differently lately. Ed’s never been to a tea party.
“Didn’t know you wanted an invite. I’m sure we could put out another set. Blue china or green?”
A derisive laugh catches in Izzy’s throat. Ed raises his eyebrows; inviting, sarcastic. Daring Izzy to say yes, to join them and watch as they easily talk about nothing until the sun rises and Ed leaves his imprint on a velvet couch.
Izzy catches his expression. “Watch yourself, Edward. You get too used to those fancy fucking cushions and you'll be worse off when you have to sleep on the sand again. Fleas and all.”
*
When Ed was a child, his bed was a coarse tick stuffed and rags. He could feel the rubble from the floor under his hips whenever he shifted. Sometimes, when curled up under a berth with dirt beneath him, he could transport back to his small room with his mother delicately combing his hair. So long , she’d say, one day you’ll wear it tidy .
He’s slept on beaches, on rocks, in jail cells and brigs, under and over soft bodies curling into him. He once slept standing up with eyes open under a coconut tree, if you’d believe how Izzy tells it. Truth is, he’d just needed a break.
“Bad luck to sleep in here,” Frenchie says to him in the kitchens one day.
“It’s not,” Ed says, clambering out of a crate of mangoes. “And I wasn’t sleeping.”
“That’s good that you weren’t. Makes all the food go rotten.”
Sleep, to him, is usually an unfortunate necessity. Even if he finds a safe, quiet place to rest, it’s wrought with dreams and memories best forgotten. It isn’t until he sees Stede laying in his ostentatious bed, sweating out the stab wound in his gut while he shouted at ghosts, that Ed can see the benefit of having a place of one's own.
*
“What was your bed like at home?” he asks Stede one evening. “Before you left?”
Stede purses his lips as he considers his answer. “Big,” he says. “Wide enough that Mary and I slept entire nights without even knowing the other was there.”
“Sounds nice,” Ed says. “Private.”
“Lonely, more,” Stede says. It’s those comments that send Ed’s stomach reeling; vulnerability offered like a gift. The delicate trust Stede holds out to him, palms open, as if Ed isn’t too clumsy to handle it.
“It worked out for the best, though,” Stede continues. “I prefer this.” He rests his hand on the top covers– because there are layers, of course– and his knuckles go pale as he grips the fabric. Ed pretends not to notice.
“Never shared a bed with a person more than a night,” Ed says into a bottle of rum. “I think I would hate it. All that kicking.”
“On the contrary,” Stede says, scooting toward him on the couch to take the bottle from him. “I think you might find you like it more than you expected.”
He takes a sip from the bottle. Not a swig, not a swallow, just tips the bottle back for a nip and makes a face afterward like he just bit into a lemon. “So indelicate, rum.”
Ed watches him reach for a napkin, pause, then wipe the side of his mouth with his thumb. He cracks a grin.
“You’re getting gritty.”
“Am I?” Stede says, delighted. He passes the rum back to Ed and sits back, relaxed, chuffed. “Soon I’ll be sleeping on the floor like you do, I’ll bet.”
“I try not to,” Ed says. “Can’t be too careful these days, or my back’ll start acting up.”
Stede scoffs. “Please. You’re spry as any day. I see the way you manage the rigging.”
“Only because I get to lay on your crushed velvet,” he says.
“Crushed!” Stede’s eyes widen and his chin raises defiantly. Ed rests his chin on his palm as Stede intricately lays out the differences between crushed and embossed velvet, beds and rum forgotten.
Ed remembers caring about things this deeply. Somewhere in a forgotten corner of his mind, he’s got all his enthusiasm locked up behind years of living. He can feel it trying to slip out sometimes, especially when he watches the way Stede talks with his hands and loses his breath to the pure need to share his joy.
“Sorry, I’ve gone on too long,” Stede says sheepishly. Ed wishes he could erase that expression from his mind, to render Stede unable to feel ashamed of the things that bring him such gratification.
“They still sound the same to me,” Ed says simply. He waits for Stede to continue.
“Well, then, you haven’t been listening. It’s quite simple, as I said– honestly, Ed, if I can pick up pillaging then you can certainly–”
Ed doesn’t bother correcting him on the pillaging bit. He takes a deep swallow of rum. Stede may have a long way to become any sort of effective pirate, but he’ll never want for being an effective speaker.
“Look at me, doing it again,” Stede says, but he’s smiling.
“No, it’s good,” says Ed, “I get it now.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me something,” Stede says. Edward feels his heart speed to harsh, heavy bumps in his chest.
“Like what? I don’t know about anything as interesting as velvet.”
Stede laughs, hearty and open. “How about your crew? Where did they come from?”
“Rumor has it that Fang’s mother is a tortoise,” says Ed. Stede gestures for him to continue.
It isn’t long before it’s gone darkand Stede is forced to light another candle. Not a covered lantern, but an open flame in the middle of the room. Ridiculous. The fire flickers over Stede’s face, highlighting things Ed doesn’t notice in the daylight. Things like the way his eyes nearly shut when he laughs, or how his lips quirk up to one side when he’s trying to memorize something Ed is saying.
“I’ll need to write that down,” Stede says.
“Not everything needs to be recorded,” Edward says. “Some things can be learned. Kept up here.” He taps Stede’s temple.
For a split second, his finger is there, and he pictures sliding it down the curve of Stede’s jaw. He yanks his hand away and tucks it in his lap.
“Ah,” says Stede, who blinks once too many times. “Sure. Instinct, not books.”
“Got it in one.” The rum is empty.
“Well, that’s as good a moment as any to call it a night, wouldn’t you say?” Stede rises, plucking the empty bottle out of Ed’s hands and placing it in the basket by the door to be retrieved in the morning. He retreats into his closet to change into his bedclothes, presumably, and Ed sits still on the couch.
The water is getting choppy outside, rocking the boat a little more heavily than usual. “Storm’s brewing.”
“We’ll divert course in the morning,” Stede calls from the closet. “Anywhere you like.”
Edward kicks his legs up and lies back on the couch. He stares at the tips of his boots, wiggling his toes in the worn leather. With a shrug, he kicks them off, and crosses his bare ankles. The night ocean air is cool on his skin.
Stede shuffles under his covers. Ed can’t see him, but he hears the routine he’s all but memorized. “Night, then.”
“Night.”
The water rocks the boat, and the rum bottle tumbles out of the basket, clinking along the wooden floor.
“Oh no. Could you get that, Ed?”
Edward grunts his affirmative as he rolls up off the couch to retrieve the bottle. The floor feels strange under his bare feet, grooved and uneven, cold. He puts the bottle back in the basket– (“Ta,” Stede mumbles, half-asleep) and starts to walk back.
Moonlight pools in from the window, casting Stede’s form in shadow. The empty spot next to him is bright and inviting, sheets smooth and untouched save for the slope of Stede’s back.
Ed reaches the edge of the couch, fingers brushing along the arm rest, and stops. He can feel the magnetic pull in his hips pushing him to keep walking, to slide between silk sheets and sleep where he might belong. He lifts his foot.
The boat lurches in the choppy water and sends him off balance. He catches himself on the armrest, upholstered in velvet, his fingers leaving mussed streaks where the nap once lay aligned.
"Edward? You all right?”
His voice is throaty with sleep. Ed swallows. “Ship’s rocking.”
“Don’t fall,” says Stede. He shifts under his blankets. “And let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”
Ed pulls back from the precipice and nimbly slides onto the couch. He tucks his arm under the throw pillow he’s become more used to than he should, and stares up at the rocking chandelier above his head. He thinks of that spot between the covers, woefully cool without him to warm it up.
“I will,” he lies.