Work Text:
“Edward. Hey. Edward, would you focus, please. Edward. Ed!”
“Hmm?” Ed tears his gaze from the blond in the turquoise North Face jacket and reluctantly turns it to Izzy. Izzy, who’s scowling at him like Ed’s attention wandered during the disarming of a bomb or something, instead of the simple attaching of a fucking banner to the side of a bridge late on a Sunday night in the freezing fucking cold. Always with the fucking cold in this place.
Ed still marvels sometimes at the bizarre twists of fate that brought him here, to a small university in the northern USA where the winters are so bitter and biting that even though he wraps himself in half a dozen layers every time he ventures out, the cold still sinks into his bones. It’s only October and already the nighttime temperatures hover just above freezing, though Ed has to admit that the crisp autumn days with their brilliant sunshine and blazing blue skies almost make the winter misery worthwhile.
Almost.
He runs his hands up and down his arms now to generate some heat and stamps his feet to get the blood flowing through them—steel-toed boots may look fucking cool, but they do absolutely bugger-all when it comes to keeping toes warm. Even with the thick pair of wool socks he’s got on.
“Edward!”
“What, Izzy, what? Fucksake. What is it?”
“Does this look even to you?”
Ed glances at the ropes Izzy’s tied to their banner. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”
“You barely even looked.”
“It’ll be fine, Iz. We can’t even hang the fuckin’ thing until tomorrow morning. Can we just get through tonight and then worry about whether the bloody banner is even?”
Small American universities, as Ed has come to learn since he made the bizarre decision to attend one, are very big on Traditions. Not especially old traditions—the universities themselves are rarely much more than a hundred years old—but all the more closely held for that. And one major Tradition of this university—the one he chose not for Traditions and definitely not for the climate, but rather for its renowned music program and the generous scholarship it offered him—is the Tradition of the Homecoming Bridge Night.
Homecoming, possibly the most American thing Ed has yet to encounter here, is a week of university-wide events culminating in a dance at which a King is crowned, after being elected by public vote. ‘King’ in this instance is a gender-neutral title—anyone can run, so long as they are sponsored by an official university group or society. All the Greek houses put up a candidate—this year it’s Ed for his—along with honours societies, choir groups, language clubs, sports teams—quite literally everyone. Once a candidate is nominated their supporters create a single campaign banner that they then can hang in any open public space on campus—the more open and public the better.
Which, given that it starts just off the mall and spans the river that bisects the campus, makes the footbridge Ed and Izzy are presently occupying the ideal spot to hang a banner. Everyone on campus walks either past the footbridge or across it at least once a day; it’s basically impossible not to. Hence the Tradition of spending the Sunday night before Homecoming week camping out on the bridge, staking out early claims to the prime spots for hanging banners, then unfurling them with ceremonial flourish at precisely eight o’clock on Monday morning.
It seems ridiculous. It is ridiculous, in Ed’s opinion. Homecoming is nonsense and the King just a popularity contest. But people here take their Traditions very seriously and he is, nominally at least, the president of his fraternity this year, so he really can’t not run. Plus Izzy thinks him winning would be good publicity for the band. Why he thinks that Ed isn’t entirely sure, but he’s learned to pick his battles with Izzy and this one doesn’t seem worth wasting his ammo on.
Izzy mutters under his breath now as he stalks away to fiddle with the ropes as far away from Ed as he can get, leaving Ed free to return his attention to the blond. He’s just on the other side of the bridge, width-wise, from Ed and Izzy, surrounded by all his usual crowd. Ed recognises every member of that crowd, or the crew as he’s heard them call themselves. He knows each one of them by name. Knows that they are all members of the university’s newest fraternity—one started only two years ago, by the very blond Ed can’t keep his eyes off of. Ed knows all of this and so very much more. Far, far too much more.
It’s truly pathetic in fact, just how much Ed knows about Stede Bonnet. He’s never even spoken to the guy.
Stede and the crew are currently busy attaching their own banner to the bridge. It’s still rolled up—they all are, it’s not permitted to unroll them before the designated time—but Ed can see splashes of colour on the edges and bleeding through the fabric. They seem to have gone for some sort of tie-dye theme in bright neon shades. Ed thinks about his banner—the very sleek, very cool banner that wasn’t actually made by his frat at all. Izzy commissioned it from the band’s publicity manager, which isn’t technically permitted by Homecoming rules but it’s not like anyone’s going to tell. Not even without Izzy threatening them with slow dismemberment if they breathe a word, though that probably did seal the deal. It’s not so much that Ed’s frat brothers are afraid of Izzy, more that they don’t want to bother dealing with his temper.
And fair enough, Ed thinks. He doesn’t much care for dealing with Izzy’s temper either.
At any rate, it’s a great-looking banner. It’ll probably help Ed win—he’s the frontrunner anyway—but when Ed thinks about Stede Bonnet and his ragtag crew making their banner, working on it together after classes every day, laughing as they splash bright acrylic splodges on an old bedsheet, probably in the backyard of their frat house… well. Something inside him just yearns.
It sounds so fun. Ed remembers when he used to have fun. Seems a long time ago now.
He hisses an irritated breath through his teeth, kicks a rock—steel-toed boots are good for some things—and gives himself a firm mental smack. He’s too fucking young to be fondly reminiscing about the ‘good old days.’ He’s barely twenty-two.
It’s hard not to though, sometimes. There are times when Ed feels like his whole life is planned out for him already, the next ten, twenty, thirty years all laid out with nothing left for him to do but live them. He supposes he should be grateful for that, for the security of it. He knows how scary and uncertain the world is these days for most people his age. He knows too that he’s hit the fucking jackpot, getting a recording contract for his band already, knows the record company agreeing to let him finish his degree so long as he continues to write songs for the album is better than anything most people could ever dream of. He knows this, but sometimes he just really misses the days when he felt free.
He used to play open-mics. Festivals. Fuck, he used to busk on street corners just for the hell of it. He used to have fun with his music but now it’s a job. Now people are depending on him and the responsibility of that sits heavily on his shoulders. People like Izzy, the band’s self-proclaimed manager, though sometimes he feels like more of a hindrance than a help. People like Fang and Ivan, who’ve hitched their wagons to Ed’s star and despite being brilliant musicians themselves will probably never get another chance to make it big if Ed fucks this up for them.
He can’t allow himself to fuck it up.
On the other side of the bridge, the banner has been successfully attached and now the crew is settling in for the night. Stede is attempting to coax Frenchie into singing a song but Frenchie demurs, insisting he would rather help with the setup.
“I’m not really in the mood to sing,” he says, with a quick, nervous glance in Ed’s direction. Bullshit, Ed thinks. He’s never known Frenchie to pass up a chance to invent a catchy tune or a clever lyric, especially not when there’s a captive audience on hand to be impressed.
He doesn’t know Frenchie at all, obviously, but he’s witnessed him many times sitting on the mall surrounded by Stede and the rest of the crew, strumming his guitar and making up songs on the fly as they all laugh or cheer or groan at his rhymes. So many times Ed’s been tempted to join him, except Frenchie’s musical style couldn’t possibly be more different from his own and also that’d be seriously fucking weird, seeing as not only has he never talked to Stede, he’s also never talked to any of Stede’s crew. He just watches them all from afar every day, like a fucking creep.
“If that’s how it is for you, man, why don’t you just talk to him?” Jack asked once, in a brief, rare moment of not being an absolute shithead. “Nothing can happen if you don’t even talk.”
“It’s not that easy,” was Ed’s reply. It also wasn’t like he’d never tried. The words seized up in his throat every time.
“Course it’s fuckin’ that easy. You just go over there, introduce yourself, tell Blondie you wanna rail him until his insides are mush, then wham, bam, thank you pansy-ass man.” Aaand there Jack was, himself again, the biggest asshole Ed’d ever met, including Izzy on a bad day.
“Fuck off,” he scoffed. “It’s not like that.”
“Hey, man, there’s no shame in it.” Jack shrugged. “We’ve all got that one weird little dude that just does it for us. What you gotta do is fuck him, fuck him good, and then move on.”
“I told you, dickfuck, it’s not like that.”
“Well you better figure out what it is like then, cuz sitting here every day staring at him like some little girl with a crush is just making you look like a pussy. Get it together, man.”
“Fuck you, Jack.”
“Been there, done that, got the fuckin’ t-shirt. Fuck that weird dude instead.” Jack raised his voice to a shout as Ed grabbed his things and stormed away. “Just do it, bro! You know I’m right!”
The bitch of it is that Jack actually is right, or at least he’s not completely wrong. Nothing is going to happen if Ed can’t even grow his balls enough to talk to Stede. But what Jack doesn’t know, what someone like him couldn’t possibly understand, is what makes that something Ed doesn’t dare risk.
He just wants it. So fucking much. Ed doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything in his life as much as he wants Stede Bonnet. Wants to fuck him, sure—Ed really, really wants to fuck him, in fact—but it’s so much more than that. He wants to be the centre of Stede’s attention. He wants those bright hazel eyes focused on him and him alone. He wants to hold Stede’s interest. He wants to be Stede’s friend.
And Ed suspects, down in the deepest part of his heart where he keeps all his fears and insecurities locked tightly away, that he’s just not interesting enough for someone like Stede. How could he be? He’s nothing but his music. That’s the only thing of value anyone has ever seen in him. He’s got nothing to offer that a guy like Stede would want.
It’s just—Stede’s so bright. So colourful and carefree. Ed knows he comes from money and he definitely has that sort of spit-and-polish look that rich guys get, but he doesn’t use his wealth to big himself up like most of them do. Instead, he buys a fucking house like that’s something totally normal for a nineteen-year-old, and he turns it into a fraternity for people who got rejected from the other houses. The frat of misfit toys, Jack proclaimed it, and Ed’s aware that that’s the prevailing opinion, but he just thinks it’s really fucking cool.
No one else out there is doing things like Stede Bonnet. Stede just fucking does what he likes, like the rules that keep Ed trapped don’t even touch him. Like they don’t even fucking exist.
“So many fraternities are needlessly exclusionary,” Ed once overheard him explaining to a group of freshmen. “They reject people for the most idiotic reasons. And their hazing rituals, well. They’re just downright abusive. And everyone acts like that’s okay because oh, ‘that’s just how it is’ or ‘that’s how it’s always been done’ but my thinking is: why? Why do frats have to be mean and hurtful? Why can’t they just be fun?”
Looking back, Ed can pinpoint that as the moment he became hopelessly fascinated by Stede Bonnet.
Only now it’s two years later and he’s still done sod-fucking-all about it. With pretty much any other guy on the planet Ed would’ve gone for it ages ago, just swaggered right up and let his vibe work its magic—the leather and the hair and the eyes that he has on excellent authority can get a dick hard in under a minute. He’d unleash all that on Stede and Stede’s dick would get hard and then Ed would fuck him. God, he’d fuck him so well, he’d make it so fucking good for both of them, he’d blow Stede’s fucking mind and then—
And then… what? He wouldn’t want to just leave like he does with all the others. He’d want to stay, to spend as much time with Stede as possible which would mean they’d have to talk which Ed would love but Stede—well. Eventually Stede would see what Ed really is and then his dick would never get hard for Ed again.
(The dick is a metaphor.)
Maybe he’s being dramatic. Maybe he’s got it all completely wrong. But he can’t take that kind of chance, not when it’s this important. There’s too much at stake when he wants this deeply.
His ego can handle rejection. His heart? Yeah. Not so much.
That doesn’t stop said heart from leaping whenever Ed sees Stede, like it’s calling out to him, like it’s trying to drag Ed towards him by the strength of its beats. Stupid heart doesn’t even know you can’t affect an object’s motion by the application of internal force. Stupid heart clearly wasn’t paying attention in Physics 110, not like Ed was.
Stupid fucking heart.
Ed snorts a laugh at this bit of whimsy and drags his focus back to the present, where it drifts immediately, inevitably, across the bridge to Stede.
“Don’t be silly, Frenchie, of course he wouldn’t mind,” Stede is saying. He’s got one hand on his hip and he looks faintly annoyed. “And who cares if he does? He’s hardly the only musician on campus.”
“Well, yeah, but he might want to—”
“Hello there!” Stede turns in Ed’s direction and raises his voice. “Hello! You! Yes, you.” He waves his hand at Ed. “Edward, isn’t it?”
“Uh…” Ed is momentarily stunned by the revelation that Stede Bonnet knows his name. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Edward Teach. Ed.”
“Well, Ed, do you have any objection to my friend here giving us a little song? Liven things up a bit?”
“Course not.” Ed offers Frenchie a smile he’s sure looks far more confident than he feels. “’S fine. I don’t usually play acoustic anyway, mate.”
Stede beams a bright grin that hits Ed with the force of a Mack truck, for no more than a second or two before he returns his attention to Frenchie, but it’s enough. Ed feels dazed, dizzy, and so hot he’s sweating despite the freezing temps.
“You see?” Stede tells Frenchie cheerily. “Everyone likes your songs, even our resident rock star.”
That isn’t precisely what Ed meant but he’s prepared to let it slide, because he really does like Frenchie’s songs but especially as he’s newly reeling from this confirmation that Stede knows who he is. Not just his name but the fact that he’s got a rock band.
Does Stede… does Stede actually listen to his music?
Frenchie continues to cast nervous glances at Ed as he takes out his guitar and makes a show of tuning it. Ed looks over at Izzy, who’s leaning against the railing of the bridge, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Ed wonders if he’s planning to stay like that all night. He didn’t even bring a blanket to sit on.
Meanwhile, Stede’s crew are already all settled in, with sleeping bags and thermoses and bags of chips and… is that a camp stove? Ed’s pretty sure those aren’t allowed on the bridge but then again, Stede’s never let rules trouble him before. Why start now?
Ed’s got a sleeping bag of his own and he’s suddenly desperate to get in it. He wants to take off these damn boots and tuck his feet into something that won’t leech the warmth from them like the steel toes do. He crouches down and begins to unlace them, ignoring the waves of disapproval radiating from Izzy and watching from the corner of his eye as Stede sits down on his own sleeping bag and removes his footwear—a pair of staggeringly unsexy duck boots that Ed imagines must be just blissfully warm—then takes out an honest-to-god pair of fuzzy slippers with some sort of animal on them—Ed can’t quite see what it is. He turns his head to get a closer look, and—
“Are those moose?”
He’s not aware he said the words out loud until Stede turns delighted eyes upon him. “They are!” he exclaims. “Well sussed!”
Ed’s head is spinning from the combined impact of attention and praise but he manages not to choke or stutter when he replies, “Where the fuck’d you get those?”
“The Mall of America!” Stede crows, as his crew mutter to each other under their breaths, things like that fucking horror show and the worst place on earth and never again. “We all went!” Stede continues, either ignoring or oblivious to the mutterings. “A road trip! It think it’s so important to have those sorts of group bonding activities in a fraternity, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah, mate. Absolutely. Bonding is key.” In Ed’s frat, they mostly bond by drinking until they puke and fucking each other—preferably the fucking before the puking but alas it doesn’t always work out that way. “Do you, uh, do a lot of these bonding activities?”
“Well, tonight is one, of course. A camp-out, perfect for singing songs and telling stories. And next month we’re going to the House on the Rock.”
Mutterings rise up again, though Ed can’t help noticing that for all their whinging, Stede’s crew doesn’t seem all that mad about the prospect. Frenchie and Wee John actually exchange an excited grin.
“That sounds really cool,” Ed says, loudly enough for them all to hear. “I’ve always wanted to see the House on the Rock.”
“You have?” says Stede.
“You have?” says Frenchie.
“You have?” says the skinny, blond kid they call the Swede.
“You have?” says Jim, the one person on Stede’s crew bold enough to look Ed in the eye and put the emphasis on the correct word.
“Since when?” Izzy hisses, but Ed ignores him.
“Sure,” he replies. “It’s meant to be a kinda fucked-up place, isn’t it? Sounds interesting.”
“Well of course, you’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.” Stede tosses out the invitation like it’s no thing at all. Ed’s stupid heart attempts to pounce on him.
“Oh,” he says blankly, then, “sure. Yeah. I’d, uh, like that.”
“Really?” Stede seems so genuinely pleased that for a breathless moment Ed’s heart stops, then collapses into a swoon worthy of any fine Victorian maiden. “That’d be great! We’ll have to rethink the layout of the bus, but—”
“Olu and I could stay behind,” pipes up Jim, with an attempt at nonchalance that’s entirely foiled by how quickly they’ve jumped into the conversation. “To make room, you know.” Beside them, Oluwande looks torn between chagrin and delight.
“Nonsense!” says Stede firmly. “We all go, as a crew. There’s plenty of room. We may just have to take fewer snacks.”
A chorus of voices rise in protest. Stede attempts to placate them while Frenchie strums his guitar and makes up a song on the fly, about bus rides on country roads and the various dangers a person might encounter during one. It’s a bit morbid but very clever, in particular the rhymes. Ed thinks he might ask Frenchie for input on some of his own lyrics, something he should have plenty of time to do on the drive to the House on the Rock. It’s a good three hours away by Ed’s reckoning, and that’s when the trip’s not being made in a rattly old VW Microbus.
He thrills at the the prospect—of the conversation, of the trip itself. Everything about the idea excites him, as nothing has excited him in far too long. He’s grinning like a loon, his mind all awhirl, when Izzy stalks over and gives him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“You can’t be serious about this,” he hisses.
“About what, Iz?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Edward. About this.” He gestures at Stede and his crew, who have apparently sorted out their differences and are now all tucked into their sleeping bags, listening to Frenchie sing. Roach has lit the camp stove and is taking out some packets of brats—man, Ed hopes he’s brought enough to share—and thermoses of something that smells suspiciously and deliciously like homemade hot chocolate are being passed around. Izzy huffs in irritation. “You can’t actually mean to go on a road trip with this—with these—with that idiot.”
With effort, Ed holds on to his temper. “He invited me, Iz,” he says coolly. “Be rude to refuse.”
“Who the fuck cares?” Izzy spits. “Edward, I realise you have some sort of—thing—for that ponce, but you also have a reputation to uphold.”
Ed smirks. “C’mon, man, my ‘reputation’ isn’t going to be ruined by me taking one road trip. Who’d even know?”
“Anyone could see you!”
“Anyone who happened to be at the House on the Rock and to be honest with you, Iz, I don’t reckon there’ll be too many people there who would care about seeing me one way or the other.”
Izzy seethes wordlessly for a beat or two then he stomps away and takes up his post against the bridge rail again. He folds his arms across his chest and stares into the middle distance, as though he can’t see Ed or Stede or any of the rest of them. Ed watches him for a moment, then sighs and turns away.
Roach’s brats are starting to smell amazing. Ed’s belly rumbles. He notices that Roach has laid out a whole array of condiments, including the German-style mustard Ed has come to love. The brats sizzle and spit and the heat from the camp stove rises up to warm the buns that Roach has split open and placed on a little rack above it. Ed hesitates for a moment—his heart has abandoned his chest in favour of lodging itself in his throat, but that’s done nothing to stop its insistent tugging—then decides fuck it. This is the moment. It’s now or never. He’s got an opening with Stede that actually feels easy and natural; if he doesn’t take this shot he’ll never get another like it.
And if Stede crushes his dumbass heart to smithereens? Ed reckons he’ll deal with that when and if it happens.
He grabs his sleeping bag and backpack and crosses the bridge.
“Hey,” he says. “I, uh. Was wondering if I could come and sit with you. It’s um. A bit. Er. Cold. Over there.”
Stede looks surprised but recovers quickly. “Of course!” he says. “Pull up a sleeping bag. I see you’ve brought your own!”
“Yeah. Only thing I did bring. Probably should’ve planned better.”
“Anything you need Stede probably has,” says Lucius, glancing up from his sketchbook to give Ed a wry look. “He brought half the house.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any more moose slippers,” Ed jokes. “My toes are fuckin’ freezing.”
“No moose, sorry,” says Stede apologetically, but before Ed can reply he continues, “Would ducks do?”
“Um. What?”
“Ducks!” Stede reaches into a bag and pulls forth a pair of fuzzy duck slippers. “They’re my backup pair.”
“Your backup pair.”
“Yep!”
“Of slippers.”
“You never know when you might need an extra pair of slippers,” says Stede, with perfect sincerity. “Like for example when a new friend has cold toes.” He holds the foolish, fuzzy ducks out to Ed who abruptly feels as though he might cry.
“Thanks, mate,” he says gruffly. The duck slippers are ridiculously soft, and when he kicks off his boots and slips them on he can’t suppress a sigh. They’re the warmest, comfiest things he’s ever had on his feet and he never wants to take them off ever again.
Stede shifts over to make room for Ed to spread out his sleeping bag, which he snuggles into and makes himself comfortable as Roach hesitantly offers him a brat. He accepts gratefully, requests sauerkraut and plenty of mustard, and within minutes he’s feeling warm and happy in both body and mind, with food in his belly and a steaming cup of hot chocolate from the thermos to sip on, and Stede’s crew rapidly overcoming their shyness to ask him questions about his band and his album.
For once, Ed doesn’t mind talking about the album. The crew are far more interested in his musical influences and the details of the songs he’s writing than whether he thinks the album will be a success and make him famous. For the first time in a long time Ed feels like people are taking an interest in him for himself, and not just for his potential future fame.
It almost feels like they’re all in their own little bubble, separate from the other people on the bridge and protected from the cold and darkness of the night. Ed glances over at Izzy from time to time but he remains unmoving, despite how cold he must be, obstinately refusing to join or even acknowledge Stede et al, completely ignoring the invitations of varying enthusiasm and sincerity he receives from every member of the crew.
“Will he be all right?” asks Stede, with a concerned frown.
“Sure. He’s too fuckin’ stubborn to freeze to death.”
“Well that’s a relief. I’d hate to have a death on my conscience.” Stede flashes him a grin and Ed laughs. He’s pretty sure he’s laughed more these past two hours than in the previous two years.
“What’s his problem, anyway?” Stede asks. “If looks could kill I’d’ve been murdered at least seventeen different ways by now.”
“Eh, he’s a bit overprotective,” says Ed. “He was one of the first people I met on my music course—he was a senior when I was a freshman, but he heard me playing in a practice room one day and introduced himself—and he’s sorta stuck to me like glue ever since. Helped me get the band together, helped us find some gigs. He’s our manager now, more or less, and he thinks that the band’s name and reputation are his responsibility to uphold.”
“Well, aren’t they?” Stede inquires. “If he’s the manager.”
Ed considers this for a moment. His feelings about the band and Izzy’s role in it are complicated, and he’s not certain how to explain them. “Maybe,” he acknowledges. “But it’s my music and sometimes it seems like he doesn’t understand that. Sometimes it’s like he’s, I don’t know. Trading on me somehow. Like he wants to do what I do but he can’t so he’s hanging around to live… what’s the word. Starts with a ‘v’.”
“Vicariously?”
“That’s the one. Live vicariously through me.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Ed blinks. That’s a question no one’s ever asked him before. How does Ed feel? It’s a question he’s not even sure he can answer.
He swallows past the lump in his throat and says, “I love music. I want to do it professionally. I want to do the album, tour with the band, the whole lot of it. I even think I can handle being famous, if the album’s a success. But I hate feeling like I have to care more about what everyone else thinks of me than of who I am myself. Izzy thinks my image and reputation is the most important thing and if I don’t maintain those exactly the way he says then everything will fall apart.”
“Whereas for you it’s the music that’s the most important thing.”
“Yeah.” Ed feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips, hesitant and raw. “I just wanna play. I don’t really care about the image, or whatever. I just want to do my music. If that helps people, great. You know, the band members, fans, crew. But feeling like all their lives’d be ruined if I didn’t do exactly what I’m ‘supposed’ to do? I mean—”
“That sounds like a lot of pressure,” says Stede. “Have you tried telling, er, Izzy how you feel?”
Ed shakes his head. “Nah, mate, he’d never listen. He wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“Well then, maybe you need a new manager.”
He says this so blithely, with such nonchalance, that Ed realises, in a sudden flash of insight, just how much of the cage he’s in he built himself. Why doesn’t he get a new manager? It’s not like he’s never had offers. He stuck with Izzy out of loyalty and a sense of obligation, but maybe he needs to take a page out of the Stede Bonnet Book Of Giving Not A Single Fuck and just do whatever the hell he wants.
“I was supposed to be a business major,” says Stede, breaking into Ed’s reverie.
Ed shakes off the lingering effects of his life-altering revelation and turns to look at the man beside him. The faint light from the streetlamps that line the bridge and the much brighter shine of the full moon gild his hair and skin and make him seem to glow. He offers Ed a warm smile.
“Hmm?” says Ed, distractedly. “What’d you say?”
“I said I was supposed to be a business major,” Stede repeats. “So I could take over the family business. I mean, I’ll take it over anyway, there’s no one else to inherit, but my father wanted me to go to an Ivy, do an MBA. He’d even chosen the woman I was supposed to marry.” He shudders. “Ugh. Not that there’s anything wrong with Mary, she’s lovely, actually. But just.” He gives Ed a look that stops the breath in his lungs. “Not right for me. You know?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out choked and hoarse. Ed clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. So, uh. How’d you end up here?”
“Theater program,” says Stede, like that’s a full and complete answer. Which it is, Ed supposes. Like the music program, the university’s theater arts course is widely renowned, unusually so for a small public university. If Stede was looking for a way to study what he loved and really piss off his Ivy League snob of a father at the same time, he couldn’t have made a better choice.
“I just wanted a few years to be myself,” Stede explains, “before I’m dragged into a life of corporate drudgery. And who knows, maybe I’ll find a way to make it on my own as an actor, then I can tell my father to go hang. Or maybe he’ll pop off before I graduate and save me the trouble. He has a weak heart, you know. In more than one sense of the term.” He says this with such evil-eyed glee, such a wicked grin that Ed is overcome by the desire to kiss him. He’s wanted to taste Stede’s smiles for so, so fucking long now and now here the man is, brushing shoulders with him in the moonlight, smiling the most delicious-looking smile of all.
Before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, Ed leans closer, close enough for his intent to be unmistakable, and drops his gaze to Stede’s lips. They’re slightly chapped and pinched from the cold; as he watches they part on a soft ‘oh’ of surprise, then Stede leans in too and closes the distance between them.
Ed’s mind goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. He’s unable to form a single coherent thought. Every particle of his focus, his emotions, his entire being is centred on Stede—the rough-softness of his lips, the taste of chocolate tinged with mustard, the little noise he makes in the back of his throat when Ed presses closer.
That little noise is nearly Ed’s undoing. It makes his heart sing and his dick jump, makes him ravenous for more, but it also kicks his mind into gear enough to remember where he is. On the fucking footbridge surrounded by witnesses, not the least of which is Izzy glaring daggers at the back of Stede’s head. He ends the kiss with extreme reluctance, then opens his eyes to the sight of Stede blinking hazily at him.
“That was… unexpected,” he says.
Ed’s heart plummets. “Sorry if I overste—”
“No! Please don’t apologise. Unexpected is not bad.” He smiles. “It’s quite good, actually.”
Ed’s heart soars again. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” His heart attempts to tug him back into Stede’s arms. Stupid fucking heart doesn’t know how to quit while it’s ahead. “That’s good.”
Stede’s smile widens and takes on an edge of mischief. “Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“Anything.” Ed wants to know every single thing about him.
“Every time you’ve performed since we started school, I’ve been there.” Stede’s voice drops low, like this is a confession. “Every gig you’ve played.”
Ed’s heart now feels like it’s sprouted wings, and is flapping them wildly and without a shred of caution. “C’mon,” he scoffs. “Every one?”
“Every single one,” Stede insists. “You remember that festival, what was it, sophomore year?”
“That was in Chicago!”
“Yes it was.”
“You went all the way to Chicago to see me play?”
“I did.” The tops of Stede’s cheeks go the most enchanting shade of pink. “It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but, well. I suppose I’m a big fan.”
Ed doesn’t think he means a fan of the music.
“But I would have seen you,” he says. Surely he would have noticed Stede in the crowd at his gigs. He notices Stede everywhere.
“Surely not,” Stede protests. “How could you? It’s not like you knew who I was.”
“Ah.” Ed supposes that while they’re making slightly embarrassing confessions he should offer one of his own. “Actually, um. I do.”
“Do what?”
“Know who you are.”
Stede frowns. “Who am I?”
Ed laughs. “You’re Stede Bonnet. Willy in Death of a Salesman. Brutus in Julius Caesar. Paul in Barefoot in the Park.” He feels his own cheeks grow hot. “I saw them all. Everything you’ve been in since we started school.”
Stede’s eyes are wide now, his mouth open in astonishment. “You were there the whole time,” he whispers. “I never saw you either.”
Unlike (he suspects) Stede, Ed made a point of keeping out of sight. He tucked himself into the back of every venue and sat, rapt, as Stede’s performances made him laugh and cry. He’s got a real gift for drama, has Stede, and Ed’s prepared to bet that if he really did want to tell his father to go fuck himself and strike out on his own, he’d be able to. He’s pretty sure Stede can do anything.
He meets Stede’s eyes and for a moment they just stare, as the full understanding of what they’ve confessed sinks in. Then they sort of collapse into one another, drawn together by the force of both their hearts, in defiance—thinks Ed, wildly—of every law of physics.
Fuck physics though because they’re kissing again, still too chastely for what Ed’s craving but there’s a hint of tongue this time, and underneath it all the unspoken promise of many, many more kisses to come.
When they break apart Stede smiles, reaches out and slips an arm around Ed’s shoulders. He shifts his own posture and adjusts them both until they’re curled up together with Ed’s head on Stede’s chest.
“It’s a cold night,” Stede says. His breath ruffles the fine hairs at Ed’s temple. “We should huddle together for warmth.”
“Good thinking,” Ed replies. He wonders briefly if this might be a dream, maybe he fell off the bridge and hit his head or maybe he drowned and he’s dead now and this is heaven. But no, Stede’s chest is warm against his cheek, the turquoise jacket soft as a pillow. He can feel it. It’s real. This is real. And so is the knowledge that Ed’s heart, as foolish as it may be, is in no danger here. Stede isn’t going to crush him. Stede likes him too.
Damn, but Ed wishes he’d known that sooner.
It’s past midnight now. The stars twinkle brilliantly in the stark black sky. Outside their bubble the air is frigid and the wind off the river slices like a blade. Inside it, though, the crew are warm and cosy, all piled up together, snacking or dozing or talking quietly in pairs or small groups. Lucius and Pete have managed, via some sorcery Ed’s not sure he dares contemplate, to coax Izzy over into the huddle. He has a blanket round his shoulders and a cup of cocoa in his hands; he looks considerably warmer and less pissed off, despite his baleful glare.
Tomorrow Ed and Izzy will have to have a conversation. Ed intends to make some changes—needs to make some changes in his life and the path of his career. But for now, he’s content—more than content. He actually feels hopeful for the future, like the weight of expectation he’s been carrying for so long is just gone, carried off by the icy gales, never to be felt again. He’s going to do things his way from now on, and he knows—somehow he knows, though they’ve yet to speak of it—that Stede will be there to support him in whatever way he needs.
And fuck if that isn’t a thought to make his idiot heart take flight.
Ed wiggles his toes inside the fuzzy ducks and snuggles deeper into Stede’s arms. He feels toasty warm and so fulfilled.
He feels happy.