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It had been a week – maybe? Time was beginning to blur – since he and Ed had giddily decided to be co-captains.
No hitches so far. Everyone was eager to listen, Ed was on board with collaborative management, Izzy was gone, they had plenty of marmalade.
And he felt – joy. Belonging. For the first time in his miserable, rotten life.
Sure, his crew still thought he was ridiculous. Sure, Ed was annoyed with some of his more theatrical qualities (the less said about treasure hunting, the better) but he finally felt like he had a friend.
Was this what friendship was like? Wanting to spend all this time with one person? Wanting to share everything with them? Wanting them to watch you fall on your ass and then laugh with you, not at you?
Times like these, Stede wished he’d fit in better at any point in his life. He felt so powerless over his own feelings, his overwhelming need to impress and talk to and be in the company of this person.
It didn’t help that, for five nights running, Ed had fallen asleep in his room.
Two of those nights, he fell asleep in Stede’s bed. Next to him.
One of those nights, he’d woken up in the middle of the night, Ed wound around him like a big, sleepy housecat.
Stede had never felt that close to anyone before. Shoot, he’d never been that close to anyone before. He and Mary had always migrated to opposite sides of the bed.
Why was he likening his friendship with Ed to his marriage?
He figured it made sense. When he woke up that morning – late, like he’d slept deeply – there was no trace of Ed. Mary would frequently get up early, leaving Stede to sleep as late as he wanted.
But this – with Ed – was so much more. Maybe friendship was always supposed to feel like this. Maybe true friendship was meant for those who just didn’t feel comfortable in a married state.
In the evenings, he and Ed would retire to his room – their room, he supposed, though there’d been no formal discussion. He’d pour brandy, or whiskey, or wine with a liberal hand, and they’d lounge on the couch, feet or knees or thighs or hands or shoulders bumping together, laughing raucously. Eventually, either he or Ed would yawn, or doze off mid-sentence, or, in one case, fall off the sofa from the sheer volume of brandy imbibed. (That had been Ed. Obviously.)
Tonight, however, they were both lounging on Stede’s bed, watching the stars. A more ideal place for this would have been on the deck, but between Buttons’ moon bathing and the crew’s sleeping sprawl, it would be less than private (and Stede did not want to be responsible for waking any of them up, or for taking the brunt of the near-mutiny if he did).
So, they extinguished the fire and the candles, kicked off their shoes and pulled off their jackets, crawled across Stede’s bed, and laid side by side on their backs, looking out the window that gently sloped over them.
Ed pointed toward the sky, tracing lines between stars with his fingers, and Stede could listen to him talk stars and constellations for hours. Ed, in nothing but his too-small shirt and leathers, was a veritable furnace, but Stede wanted to be closer. Wanted to smell him; that smoky, sandalwood, body-odor mixture that was somehow simultaneously off-putting and comforting.
“We should open these,” Ed mumbled, pointing to the windows. “We can see them better that way, and then it won’t be so fuckin’ hot in here.”
Stede agreed. “Go ahead.” So Ed reached over him to flip the latch, but failed on first attempt, falling across Stede’s chest with a hearty oomf.
Stede couldn’t breathe. Not because of Ed – or rather, not because of his weight. Because he was so close. Because his face was very, very near to his own, and because he found himself wanting it closer.
“Sorry, mate.” Ed pushed himself up on his wrists, looking down at Stede. “It’s dark and my hand-eye coordination is shit.”
“It’s fine.” Stede felt his heart absolutely pounding out of his chest and hoped it didn’t betray his hopefully placid face. “I can do it.”
“Nahhh.” Ed pushed himself up again, successfully flipping the latch and pushing the window out. “Ahhhh. Fresh fuckin’ air.” He hung out the window, and Stede found himself contemplating the stretch of skin between Ed’s shirt and his trousers, tattoos and scars seeping out. All of a foot away from him – it would be so easy to just reach out and –
What, exactly? Stede wasn’t sure what he wanted. Did he want to hug Ed? Did he want to examine his skin? Did he want to –
- drag his fingers over it slowly, following them with his lips?
Overcome by the mental image, Stede sat straight up, whacking his head into Ed’s left arm and falling back down again.
“Whoa there, mate,” Ed laughed, looking down at Stede’s dazed form. “Everything all right? You possessed by the devil or something?”
Stede nodded mutely, then aggressively shook his head no. How could he possibly explain that he was overcome by an inclination to kiss Ed’s tattoos?
His subconscious failed him again, his imagination running toward Ed leaning down, brushing his lips softly against Stede’s, hair rustling against his chest, a hand cradling his cheek –
“I think I need another brandy,” Stede mumbled, and Ed grinned down at him.
“Ace idea. I’ll get that.” Ed hopped down from his perch and off the bed, padding across the room in his bare feet. Stede took deep breaths in and out, hoping to slow his brain and his heart rate. He felt his chest cease buzzing just as Ed came quietly back.
“Here you go.” Ed motioned to hand Stede a hefty glass of brandy. “To fresh fuckin’ air and you not knocking yourself unconscious.”
Stede sat up slowly, feeling his constitution return to normal. This was fine, this was regular. This is what they did. So what if he wanted to touch his friend? It was normal. They liked each other. He reached out for the glass, his fingers lacing with Ed’s, a shot of lightning up his arm and down his back.
Hands pressed into the sheets, woven into one another, callus against callus –
He clinked his glass against Ed’s. “Fresh fuckin’ air. To a successful week as co-captains.”
Ed regarded him curiously. “Cheers, mate.” He downed his brandy in one go. “I should be turning in. Long day tomorrow.”
Stede knitted his brow. As far as he knew, there was nothing on the docket for tomorrow; it’d be the full moon, but other than that, an average day of sailing. Was Ed looking for a reason to leave? Was he worried that Stede wouldn’t want him to stay?
He knew what this feeling was – the same he’d felt all week. He wanted to spend more time with Ed. Even if Ed was asleep. Even if they both were.
Stede patted next to him on the bed. “By all means.”
Ed set his brandy glass down on the table and laid down next to Stede. He looked up at Stede, still with a curious expression. “Everything all right?”
Everything isn’t all right, Stede thought, running through the turns his thoughts had taken in the past few minutes. I am so bereft of friendship that your friendship, your companionship, is making me feel things and want things that I’ve never thought about before.
I want to keep you as my friend always. But you are bound to get tired of me. My own insecurity is making me think absolutely crazy thoughts.
You and me, curled in this bed, never leaving, never needing to –
“Just fine,” Stede replied. “You were telling me about Cassiopeia?”
Ed’s eyebrow quirked, and Stede reclined next to him, brandy in hand, following Ed’s fingertip against the night sky and listening to Ed’s long-winded explanation of how one could use Cassiopeia to find the North Star. He felt his eyes start to flutter shut, his breathing slowing down as Ed’s voice soothed him to sleep.
He felt his hand clasp open and closed, his glass of brandy – still half-full – taken away from him, and then the telltale dip of Ed lying back down.
“G’night, Stede,” Ed murmured, close.
As sleep claimed him, Stede seized courage he hadn’t had five minutes before; courage he’d never had in his life. His hand drifted across the mattress a few short inches, sliding under Ed’s, the rough skin of his fingertips giving way to a surprisingly smooth palm and a velvety soft inner wrist.
“G’night, Ed.” As he fell asleep, he heard a deep sigh from his bedmate, a contented, sleepy thing, and felt the squeeze of Ed’s fingers against his.
Maybe this is what I need. Maybe this is what I want.
But maybe I want more.