Chapter Text
In his defense, it’s really not Stede’s fault.
It’s homecoming weekend when the Pirates play the Spaniards. Ed and the team have been gearing up for this game the whole semester, ramping up practices over the past month. It doesn’t start particularly well; Ivan gets benched with a bloody nose in the first quarter, weakening their defensive line. They’re down 4-2, two quarters left, and the crowd is getting anxious. No one wants to lose the homecoming game. Bad luck.
But he’s Blackbeard . Says so right on his back, emblazoned in purple across the black jersey. Nickname from his sophomore year, on account of how he looked like a senior with his - well, black beard. The name stuck, as did the legends about his prowess on the football field, not to mention his…hm. Temper.
So great is the legendary quarterback that some teams almost call a forfeit as soon as the game begins. They know they can’t win against Blackbeard, scourge of Seven Seas University, captain of the Pirates. It’s almost gotten to a point where Ed doesn’t even have to be playing. Honestly, he’s bored to fuck of it all.
So homecoming’s just another game, really, even though Izzy and Ivan and Fang have been training him up for it. Their incessant need to win grinds on him as they fumble at the fourth down, Izzy’s mad chihuahua growl scritching in his ears. Halftime is a relief if only for the break in his barking orders. Izzy’s not even a team captain, for fuck’s sake, though he certainly acts it.
They’re taking five in the cold shade of the stands. A quick break for half time, then they’ll start warming up for third quarter. Ed does some stretching, crushes a Gatorade. Is this all there is? Four years of college, and this is all he has to show for it? He’s vaguely considering just dipping and leaving, let Izzy handle the pressure of being quarterback for once, see if he’s up for it.
A sudden blare of trumpets breaks him out of his dark reverie.
Ed looks to the field, where the halftime show is in full swing. He knows enough about the marching band to work out the basics. Horns, saxes, flutes and drums walk around the field in little shapes, blaring music while a set of wooden keyboards hammer out a beat in the front. He doesn’t really care, lounging against the rails of the Pirate’s rest area. The music’s alright, but what really catches his eye are the flag twirlers.
Ten or so in all, spinning and tossing big six-foot poles with fluttering silks on them at varying skill levels. They’ve got some - some sort of witchy theme going on. All dark costumes and facepaint and fuck, is that a guy dressed as a cat? Ed’s never really watched a half-time show before, being busy prepping for the third quarter and all, but it kind of looks. Fun.
Plus, in the middle of all the black costumes and silvery flags (some of which look hand stitched, which is bizarre , what kind of funding does the music department even have?), there’s a guy dressed all in white. His tousled gold curls shine in the late autumn sun of an afternoon game, and his brilliant showman smile to the indifferent stands could power a thousand suns.
Ed’s intrigued. Can’t take his eyes off the guy, leaning on the railings with a forgotten Gatorade half-dangling from his fingertips. The man’s twirling a silk flag like it’s nothing, spinning under it and leaping with a grace that shouldn’t be possible with a piece of fabric attached to a metal pole. Then, somewhere near the end, he picks up a metal sword-looking thing and starts spinning that . The sword arcs high over his head, caught behind his back and under his legs and bounced around his shoulders.
Ed is fascinated . Even when the guy fumbles a toss and the sword goes bouncing across the field, he still acts out the rest of the set with a blazing smile and a cheeky wink. Thankfully, the sword part comes to a close and he picks up another flag. This one has a cat on it, white background edged with red in a what might be - is it supposed to be blood? Ed doesn’t know. Truthfully, the theme of the show still escapes him.
There’s a swell of music, the final toss of flags (damn, what a toss it is). The show ends. The band starts clearing up, just as the Spaniards come back to practice.
“C’mon, Ed,” says Izzy, somewhere to his right. “Let’s fuck up these twats.”
“In a sec,” Ed replies. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, why he’s still watching only -
Only the Twirler Guy had been fumbling around his mess of silks as the rest of his crew march off the field, frowning like he forgot something, brows pinched. Ed watches him trot back out to the field. Where the Spaniards are practicing. More than practicing - they’re pretty plainly ignoring the scattered remnants of the band, hucking footballs and elbowing each other when they get a clarinet to duck for cover.
Twirler Guy goes to pick up his dropped sword off the turf . A Spaniard nudges his friend, elbow sharp in the guts. Watch this , it telegraphs, loud and clear across the field. Ed watches in seemingly slow-motion as the ball arcs high over the field. And as the Twirler turns back to the band, smiling, totally oblivious to the football that comes flying from the Spaniard’s goalpost and nails him in the head.
Ed is moving before he can think.
“Ed? What are you - Ed what the fuck - ?”
He ignores Izzy’s indignant squawking from the benches, leaping over the fence and bounding across the field faster than the medics have even taken notice. Twirler Guy is down, wheezing and squinting into the sun.
“Woah, hey there,” says Ed, kneeling by the guy’s head, “You okay? Got yourself pretty banged up by some Spaniards.”
“Guh,” says Twirler Guy, pale and wrecked and looking like he’s gonna vomit. “My - my crew?”
“They’re fine. Come on, let’s get you up.” Ed reaches out and untangles the guy’s hands from his silks, hauls him sitting upright. “Good show, by the way. I’m Ed.”
Twirler Guy winces. Smiles, like the fucking sun. Croaks, “Hey. Stede.”
Someone’s noticed the commotion, because now there’s the band director to one side who’s yelling at the football coach to the other, who’s yelling at Stede for getting in the way, and jesus fuck can we give the guy some space, a little breathing room please? A smirking Spaniard comes up saying, sorry, mate, didn’t see him there .
Stede rolls over. Does vomit. Now the paramedics are here, running a stretcher up to make sure he’s okay. They clear everyone out of Stede’s space, and as he goes Ed rears up and punches the Spaniard square in the mouth.
He gets suspended from the game. The Pirates lose. Ed couldn’t care less.
Izzy is fucking furious with him.
Ed really couldn’t care less about that, either. So what if Izzy drove them to the game? He’ll bum a ride from Fang, or take a bus back to main campus. Izzy in a snit is something to behold, but it happens fairly frequently that Ed isn’t too concerned about it.
What he’s more concerned about is seeing if the Twirler Guy is alright. Ed’s sure he’ll have been taken to the hospital, minorly concussed at best. Those Spaniard bastards throw hard for a bunch of hand-selected posh pricks who go to the fancyboy school in the next state over.
The band has to play their postgame show - distinctly lacking without Stede twirling his magic saber, if Ed’s opinion means anything - and so once he’s released from the lockers with a stern talking to and a promise for disciplinary action, Ed tracks them down. One of the boys in the black costumes ( colorguard , his mind supplies from somewhere in the depths) looks like he might know something. He walks up as the guy starts shamelessly flirting with another man carrying a tuba.
“Hey.”
The kid flinches. Can’t be more than a sophomore, Ed reckons. He has a terrible sideburn/muttonchop deal going on, and they just about fall off with fright. Good. So Ed’s reputation precedes him. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I thought this was - “
“Where’s the guy that got brained with a football earlier? Steve?”
Sideburns blinks. “Um. Y-you mean Stede? He’s, uh, in the Revenge. Er, the music building.”
“Can I go in there?”
“Sh - I mean, why not? Free campus and all.”
Ed claps the kid on the back, oblivious to the squeak he makes. Around the corner, the tuba player with the shaved head pokes his head out and whispers, “Fuck, babe, is that Blackbeard?” with something like awe.
Still got it, Ed thinks as he tracks down a bus to the music campus.
He gets some weird stares as he trails down the hallways of Ibrahim Revenge Hall. Must not get a lot of football players in the fine arts building. Plus, Ed’s got this whole intimidating vibe he knows he wears well: long, wild dark hair, a decent beard for someone just gracing twenty-three, a scowl deepening his kohl lined eyes. He’s a year or two older than most seniors anyway, given the two-year gap in his education, and that’s served him well in gaining a fast respect with the football lads.
Now, the nervous stares just make him feel - bad. Like the kind of guy who breaks a man’s nose right there on the open field, which he totally is. Ed keeps his head down and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his letterman jacket. He asks another band kid with a french horn and an obscenely thick Scottish accent about Stede, and manages to parse enough info to walk into a gymnasium. A strangely bird-like honking sound from the french horn follows him.
Stede is sitting on a stack of gym mats, ice pack pressed to his head. A small crowd of boys surrounds him, including the one dressed as a cat. Stede’s still in his white uniform, with its ridiculous cravat and frills and lace. His cheeks are glittery where the tear-tracks have smeared his eyeshadow. He looks like a fucking angel, and Ed can’t stop himself from shuffling over.
“Hey.”
The crowd startles. Shrinks back. Like they’re afraid of Ed, and he’d make some hot remark about band kids and stereotypes and not everyone actually wants to bully you, you know , except Ed still has blood on his knuckles from the Spaniard’s nose, and. Well. He can understand their hesitation.
“Goodness!” Stede squawks. Soft brown eyes wide, rimmed with glitter. He scrambles up off the makeshift cushion, wincing. “Hi! Ed, right? So sorry about the game, I know it was a real important one. My bad. I really didn’t mean to get in the way, only I dropped my sabre during the closer, and I can’t leave that on the field, tripping hazard, you understand. Anyway, I hope I didn’t ruin your season too badly.”
He’s. Huh. The guy is apologizing for ruining the game by…getting hit in the head with a football? What a nut.
“S’alright,” Ed shrugs, “We were down in the first quarter anyway.”
“O-of course. Points! They matter,” Stede chuckles, nervous, and Ed has the inkling that he knows nothing about football. It’s…charming.
“Never mind that. Wanted to see how you were getting on. Gotta say, I’m surprised you’re not in the hospital after a throw like that.”
“Oh, this?” Stede makes a pishaw noise, waving his hand and wobbling. Ed reaches out on instinct to steady him. Resolutely does not read into the pink blush settling onto the man’s delicate cheekbones. He’s still wearing makeup, after all. “It’s - hng - nothing. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“You sure? I’ve seen bigger dudes go down from less.”
Stede shrugs, suddenly fidgety. “Well. If you must know. I’d rather my parents not know about this. They’re not entirely, ah, keen on my choice of extracurricular. A hospital bill on our insurance would give them plenty of reason to demand I stop. My father would never let me hear the end of it.”
“Ah.” And, yeah, Ed can get that. He’s plenty familiar with shitty fathers. “Well. Don’t you want to see if you have a concussion or something?”
“Oh I definitely have a concussion,” Stede chirps.
“Right. Well, if you need someone to - I dunno, take notes for you in class or something. Happy to help.” He shuffles awkwardly, hands apparently trying to reach the gates of hell with how deep in his pockets they’re shoved. Ed’s not used to feeling - anxious around other people. That’s a privilege reserved for the private space of his bedroom, where no one can see him break down.
Stede looked flabbergasted. “Oh, Ed, I really wouldn’t ask you to - “
“Seriously. Just let me know, yeah?”
Ed doesn’t know why he feels protective over this pale, sweaty, slip of a guy shedding glitter all over his letterman. Something fierce and ugly had raised its head at the image of the Spaniard nudging his friend, laughing, before almost knocking Stede out cold. Like it was funny, haha, let’s watch the band nerd eat turf.
Maybe in another semester, Ed would have laughed along. But he was getting tired of the whole machismo song-and-dance that came with D1 sports, and Stede was just so… different. He smiled openly and wore glitter and lace and spun a big metal sword like it was nothing. He apologized for ruining the homecoming game with his concussion. And he was looking at Ed with these big melting brown eyes, and oh, fuck .
“Thank you, Edward,” he said, sincerity rolling off him in waves. A gloved hand rested gently on Ed’s shoulder. “I really appreciate you coming to see if I was alright, too. That was very kind.”
Ed makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat, secretly pleased. All around them the boys are watching, obviously aware of who he is, and more than a little shocked at the events unfolding before them.
“We should get you home, Cap,” says a guy in an orange beanie and crocs. “I promised Jim a ride too, and they’re waitin’.”
Ed frowns. “I thought your name was Stede?”
“It is,” Stede grins, “But I am the color guard captain , and this is my loyal crew of flag spinners!”
He gestures to encompass the whole of the guard - yeah, the one in the cat costume is definitely freaking Ed out a little - and they all sort of shuffle around, embarrassed but pleased at Stede’s introduction. Like they know what he’s like, but they’re into it all the same.
“Sup.” Ed turns back to Stede. “Keep off electronics and shit for a few days. Dark room, ice pack, plenty of water. I’ve had a concussion or two before - get ready to be bored to shit for a while.”
Stede graces him with another of those smiles. “I’ll do my best. Thank you for your advice, Ed. Among everything.”
The boys take their leave, lugging backpacks and long cylindrical bags which Ed guesses holds their flags. One kid in green facepaint looks back at him before nervously whispering to the Cat Man. And then Ed is standing alone in an empty gymnasium, in a building he’s never had reason to be in, an academic suspension hanging over his head, and a pissed-off best friend waiting for him at home.
Overall, not a bad homecoming weekend.
Stede is definitely concussed. Or so says the student health clinic doctor, who Ed doesn’t trust, but who has no way of informing Stede’s parents. Not badly, but it’s going to take a few weeks of rest to heal up.
The good news is, Stede’s been found totally in the right of that fateful game in the eyes of the law (aka, the administration). The band director even held enough sway with the Disciplinary Board to clear Ed’s name as well. Apparently, Stede getting concussed is much more serious than the Spaniard’s bloody nose and bruised ego. Besides, the other team’s coach had been so bewildered and delighted to have had Blackbeard kicked to the benches for the game, he never filed a complaint against him in the first place.
Even better is the fact that Stede has somehow convinced the athletics director that Ed helping him with classwork was an acceptable punishment for his behavior. Well. There’s that, and he’s also on probation from practice and games for the rest of the season. Izzy’s so mad he’s practically spitting whenever he and Ed are in the same room together. Which, given they’re roommates, is quite the achievement.
The athletics director puts Ed in touch with Stede, smirking like it’s some big chore, like Ed’s been put in place. The reality is, Ed can barely contain his excitement when he sees Stede’s student email appear in his inbox. They’d forgotten to exchange numbers the night of his concussion, and the not-so-small concern that Ed would never be able to track him down had haunted him for nearly a week.
They meet for coffee to discuss Stede’s schedule. It’s not - Ed won’t say he’s nervous , not at all. It’s just coffee. Casual coffee, to determine the details of how he’ll be following around some poor schmuck for the next month and taking notes for him. Certainly nothing to get worked up about.
Even so, Fang is delighted to help him pick out his least-ripped shirt for the meeting. Instead of the letterman, Ed chooses his half-sleeved (by which it only had half of its sleeves) leather jacket and matching pants. The short sleeve shows off his best tattoos on the right arm, and it looks sick as fuck besides. His knee brace, a memento from an unfortunate rugby skirmish back home, gets left off.
Spanish Jackie’s is the kind of place Ed’s only been to when there’s some sort of fun theme night, like Margarita Mondays. He has a vague memory of closing down the place once, totally smashed, and little else afterwards. Nonetheless, he thinks somehow he impressed the owner. Jackie is a tough, no-nonsense sort of proprietor who deals with unruly college kids on the regular, who tolerates the frats and sororities throwing ragers on the second floor as long as they’d scrounged up enough to pay for renting the rooms. But she likes Ed well enough.
In any case, it’s the nicest place he can think to suggest to Stede for coffee. They’ve gotta have coffee, right? There’s a breakfast menu. He thinks.
Jackie is on him as soon as he walks through the door. Shit.
“That your man?” she demands, chin pointing at the back of the room. There, seated at a cozy booth near a window that overlooks Main Street, is Stede. He seems to notice the attention on him, for he looks up from a thick book and grins.
“Uh,” says Ed, helpfully, “Yeah, he’s with me. I mean. We’re here together. For school.”
Oh god. Stede’s wearing a white button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows and a fucking baby blue silk waistcoat , for fuck’s sake. Matching blue bowtie and everything. His chinos are pressed and pleated, rakish curls perfectly coiffed, and he’s waving at Ed like a fucking loon.
Anyone else, and Ed might avoid eye contact and pretend not to know him. But Stede is so… genuine . He probably has no idea he was making a fool of himself. And Ed, to his utter mortification, finds himself waving back.
Stede points at the seat across from him, then at his coffee cup, then gives him two thumbs up. Christ. Ed nods and mimes back that he’ll be right over. Stede beams and goes back to his book.
“He asked if we do continental breakfast.” Jackie says next to him. She scowls. “Jackie don’t do pastries.”
“Yeah, uh. I’ll let him know. Thanks, Jackie.”
Jackie hums. Eyes narrowed, like a cat stalking prey. She looks back at Stede, oblivious now that he’s back to his reading.
“You can do better, kid.” And then she disappears behind the bar.
Ed picks his way over to Stede, wondering at the hot flush on the back of his neck. He’s equal parts uncomfortable at the insinuation that he’s better than Stede somehow, and flattered that she thinks highly enough of him to comment on it.
“Good morning!” Stede greets him, far too energetic for nine on a Monday.
“Hey,” Ed says. Cocks a brow at the book as he takes a seat opposite the other man. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be reading?”
Stede at least has the good grace to look guilty. “Er. Well. I’m not, technically. But I’m in the middle of the chapter, see, and I’m fascinated to see where it goes - it’s a modern take on Pinocchio, see, and I’m interested to see where this is head - oh, hello again.”
Jackie appears at the table and pours Ed a coffee, glaring at Stede. “You guys gonna order anything?”
“Er - “ He hadn’t really thought about the fact that Spanish Jackie’s wasn’t a cafe, and though they did serve coffee, most proprietors didn’t like you lounging about drinking the free stuff all day. More than that, he hadn’t thought to ask Stede if he’d wanted food. Was it too forward? He should -
“I’d love to,” says Stede with that earnest smile. Jackie just grunts and hands over two menus. His face falls as soon as she turns her back. “Oh dear. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Nah, that’s Jackie for ya. Just…don’t ask for anything that’s not on the menu, mkay?”
Stede laughs, a light, tinkling thing. “Right-o.”
He holds up the menu and studies it like it holds the secrets to his undergraduate degree. In this light, Ed can see his nails are painted a light blush pink. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to make a statement to the right people.
Ed thinks: Yeah. This guy’s gay as hell.
And Ed thinks: Christ. Is this a date?
“So about this note taker deal,” Ed starts, flustered at his own line of thinking.
Stede looks up from the menu. “Right! Yes, that’s why we're here, isn’t it? Thank you so much again for offering to help. I really appreciate it.”
They hash out a plan. Stede has three hour-and-a-half block classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Plus a theater lecture on Thursdays and Fridays, but he doesn’t need Ed for that. He’s allowed to, er, ‘move with the flow of the artistic spirit’, according to the doctor at student health. Whatever that means.
Jackie sends Geraldo to take their orders, probably on account of hating Stede and not wanting to deal with them anymore. Ed gets the classic bacon and eggs. Stede orders a garden veggie omelet with toast. He asks if they have any marmalade, and Geraldo looks like he’s gonna murder him. Ed hides a smile into his coffee.
Food ordered, schedule set, they get to talking. Stede’s from Barbados, which might explain the accent (Ed finds he loves the lilting cadence of his voice). He’s a history and English double major with minors in classics and theater, which Ed didn’t even know you could minor in. He applied to Seven Seas for the academic standing, of course, but also because it got him off the island and away from his parents. He’d never even heard of marching band or colorguard before coming to the States for school, on account of it being a primarily American thing.
His father wanted him to play rugby. Or American football, or regular football, or anything traditionally Masculine. Wanted him to be a business major, too, which is what Stede applied under. But as soon as he left Barbados and realized how free he was out from under his father’s thumb, he changed his major, joined the theater club, and signed up for the most ridiculous quasi-sport the United States had to offer.
What’s more, he even came out. It wasn’t much of a shock to the girlfriend he’d left behind in Barbados, apparently. Actually, more of a relief to them both. The highschool relationship of sure, I like this guy/gal enough to date them and have a partner to dances certainly wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway.
“I’m just glad we ended things before I proposed.”
Ed chokes on his coffee. “Were you gonna do that?”
“Oh. Maybe. It was definitely on our parents’ minds. Plus, I’m a bit of a coward, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so. I can imagine I’d’ve gone through with it, for better or worse.”
“Probably worse, don’t ya think?”
He gets a queer half-smile in return. “Precisely.”
Geraldo appears to serve their food. He gives Stede the same stink eye that his wife had, though he tosses a few packets of Smuckers jam on the table in place of the marmalade.
“Oh, lovely!” Geraldo pulls a face - probably because nothing at Jackie’s has ever been deemed lovely before - but Stede doesn’t notice, tucking into his omelet with gusto.
“But, enough about me,” Stede says briskly. Ed wants to correct him, say no, no, please tell me more about yourself. “What about you?”
Ed spears a forkful of bacon and egg. Shrugs. “Not much to say.”
“Oh, come now!” Stede dabs at his mouth with a cloth napkin, like they’re at the fucking Ritz, “Surely there must be more to Blackbeard than meets the eye.”
Ed snorts. “You seem awfully unafraid of Blackbeard considering I punched a guy’s lights out over you a few days ago.”
“ For me,” Stede corrects. “From what I heard, anyway. I was too busy - wait! You’re diverting the conversation. I shan’t have it.
“My apologies, princess,” Ed teases. Freezes as soon as the endearment slips out. Oh fuck, oh fuck, he’s playing his hand too openly, moving too fast for the poor kid. How old is he, anyway? Christ, he could be a Freshman for all Ed knows. He’s got that whole ambiguous fourteen-or-forty vibe going on, although maybe that’s the bowtie.
Stede coughs lightly. He’s opened one of the Smuckers packers and is going to town with it on a piece of dry toast. “So. Go on. What do you study?”
“Marine sciences.” At least this is safer ground.
Stede gasps. “ Really? How exciting! What drew you to that?”
“I dunno. Needed a major to play football. And I like the ocean.”
“Did you study that at the University of Bristol before you transferred here?” Stede asks, like it’s nothing, like the fact that he knows doesn’t change everything. Like the words don’t tilt the world on a ninety degree angle. Ed nearly drops his fork in surprise. Stede continues chewing placidly on his jam-slathered toast, an eyebrow raised.
Ed swallows. “How did - ?”
“I, er, must confess I googled you.” The blush is back. Prettily pink on his cheeks, the same color as his nails. “I didn’t realize how, ahem, well-known you were on campus with the whole Blackbeard thing - my roommate, Lucius, filled me in, it’s a very nice beard, I must say - so I, I wanted to read more. About you.”
Ed’s stomach flips. Suddenly the bacon and eggs aren’t sitting well. “So you know why I was expelled from Bristol, yeah?”
“Uh, yes.” Stede hesitates, finally seeming to have caught on to the true nature of his faux-pas. “And no. I saw the title of the news article, but didn’t read any further. Didn’t seem fair to pry like that.”
“S’not prying. Public news is public, innit?”
“Yes, but I’d rather the story from your perspective. If you ever want to tell it.”
Huh. Ed grunts. “Maybe another time, mate.”
And Stede - accepts that. No further questions asked. Not like Izzy, who was hooked on the story of Ed putting three of U Bristol’s rugby team in the hospital and loves to spread it around at keggers. Not like the lads who taunt the opposing team with exploits of the legendary quarterback Blackbeard . Like it’s just another fact of life, of Ed. Stede drops the subject entirely.
“ Marine science, ” he breathes instead. Stede leans forward, an awestruck expression across his face, one piece of jammed toast hovering in his hand like a quill above parchment, ready to take notes. “Tell me about that.”
Ed does. It’s the most fun he’s had talking about the sea in ages.