Work Text:
It’s been a fucking day.
Ed spent most of the day in the office, sorting through invoices and chasing suppliers and organising annual leave and generally driving himself a little bit insane until it was time to go home. It's not a completely awful task, but a day in the office means a day away from the bar, which is pretty much the only thing Ed still likes about the job these days.
Handing the role of manager to Izzy wasn't a difficult decision to make; Ed has been a bit of a prick the last few months anyway, letting his general disdain for his dull fucking life seep into every interaction he has and leaving Izzy to clear up all the mess he'd left behind him. Stepping down to take back his rightful place behind the bar was the best choice Ed could've made. That's how he had gotten his reputation in the first place, that's how Blackbeard's had gotten its popularity. Ed used to be charismatic, so fucking fun. He can't wait to have that version of himself back again.
For now, though, he'd like to forget about all of that bullshit and take it all out on some weights.
The only good thing about leaving work at this time of night is that the gym is always blessedly empty; Ed loves having the weight room to himself, with no scrawny teenagers trying to correct his fucking form or whatever when they’re still wet behind the ears. His form is perfectly fine, thank you very much. Actually, he doesn’t know that it is, but it works, because Ed is probably strong enough to throw them across the room. Fuck off.
He hasn’t been able to visit for a while what with the handover and the paperwork and the general lack of motivation he has for anything nowadays, but Ed can already feel some of the tension leaving him as he pulls into the car park.
There’s no one at the front desk when he arrives, but he knows the drill by now. What he doesn’t know is where the fuck that music is coming from-
Work me down, down,
Work me down, down,
Show me how you do it and work me down...
Christ.
Ed soon discovers that the music is coming from one of the dance studios, just off to the side of the corridor that leads to the weight room. That's fine. Ed is marginally pissed he doesn’t have the place to himself, but it’s fine. He can easily avoid whatever 80s disco acid trip is happening in there if he just keeps his head down and walks straight past. He isn't the kind of guy most people want to idly chat to, anyway.
Ed has never known when to keep his head down.
He makes the mistake of peeking through the studio window.
It's an aerobics class. At 11pm.
It's the neon lights that catch Ed's eye first, illuminating the space with a soft wash of purple light. Despite the pounding music, the scene in the room is a relaxed one; it's only a small group, as expected for this time of night, and the majority of them are gently warming up, each of them joining in with the instructor's opening exercises once they feel comfortable to.
Oh, fuck. The instructor.
The man looks to be around the same age as Ed, but clearly has more energy than Ed has had in decades. He's wearing a shirt that looks like it's been ripped directly from the floor of the trashiest arcade the 80s had to offer, hot pink and loud and cropped to just above his navel. His shorts barely cover his ass, leaving his legs exposed from the upper thigh all the way down to the teal leg warmers (what the fuck, Ed didn't know people ever wore those for real) that are bunched artfully around the most fucking lickable calves Ed has ever seen. His hair looks like Prince Charming's.
He looks ridiculous. Ed wants to bite him.
Get my heartbeat pumping, keep me up all night...
Ed only realises he’s been staring at this guy for a little too long when he’s beckoning Ed into the room, jogging on the spot.
“Come to join us?” He’s shouting over the music, but he doesn’t even sound out of breath. “Don’t be shy, we’re a friendly bunch!”
Ed should ignore him.
He should keep moving, get on with his evening, stick to the workout plan. Ed’s not a fucking aerobics guy. Never has been.
He should politely decline and then immediately loudly flirt with this man, because he might be the finest person Ed’s ever met.
“I- uh… I’ve got a bit of an injury…” Ed says instead, gesturing to his knee.
White Mr. Motivator just smiles. He’s doing jumping jacks now.
“That’s alright!” How the fuck is this guy so chirpy? “This your first time?”
Ed nods.
“You haven’t missed much! We’re just starting with a little something to get the blood pumping. I’ll go easy on you, I promise,” Aerobics Guy says.
And then he fucking winks.
Ed is finding a space at the side of the room before he realises what he’s doing.
It's clear just walking into the studio that this group have a rapport already, but somehow it doesn't feel like Ed is intruding. He nods politely when the others turn to glance his way, and gets polite smiles in response. Although, Ed doubts he’d be too upset even if it turned out these guys were in little cliques, because Aerobics Guy is stretching and doing lunges so deep they’d look ridiculous if the man didn’t look… well, like that.
Ed reluctantly tears his eyes away from He-Man’s calves and takes a moment to scan the room as he stretches. The crowd (even 'crowd' is too generous a word, there's six people in the room including himself) could be described as an eclectic bunch, if Ed was polite about it. If he was being truthful, the sight was batshit insane.
Two men are sharing a small space in the corner of the studio, though one of them is taking up most of it. The guy is easily double Ed’s size, and Ed isn't a small bloke to start with. He’s fairly soft-spoken, and Ed is sure he can detect an Irish accent over the music when he catches the man speaking. His friend is probably similar to Ed’s height but looks practically minuscule in comparison to the man towering over him, and is covered head to toe in various pieces of rainbow attire. He looks as though he walked into a gay lululemon and asked for one of everything.
The pair are warming up in the loosest sense of the word, lazily stretching where they stand but definitely more focused on their conversation. Blondie doesn't seem to be too bothered by it, instead turning his attention to the other two in the class.
They look the same. Well, they don't, not really, but they're both white and slim with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair, and that's enough for Ed to know he will struggle to tell them apart forever.
For how similar they are in looks, their demeanours could not differ more vastly. One of them is smiling broadly as he attempts to copy the instructor's exercises ('attempts' being the operative word; he isn't hitting a single beat). The other is hitting every move with military precision, and there's an almost pained look of concentration on his face.
In the end, Ed decides the best way to tell them apart is by trying to remember that the grumpy one is the man wearing a threadbare white tank top with a large picture of a seagull on the front, and shorts so fucking tiny that they probably wouldn't even fit the definition of 'shorts' at all. Budgie smugglers, maybe?
Hehe, Ed thinks. Seagull smugglers.
Wait, weren't they just pirates? Seagull smugglers? Fuck, Ed's a genius-
“What’s your name?”
Ed is so entertained by his own comedy gold that he almost doesn't process that Aerobics Guy is speaking to him.
“Uh- Ed,” Ed shouts as he finishes his stretches. “My name’s Ed.”
Blondie nods, gestures to himself. He’s still jogging on the spot. “Stede. Stede Bonnet.”
Ed frowns, straining to hear over the bass shaking the walls.
“Steve?”
“Stede.”
“Mate, that’s what I said-”
“Stede! Ste-Duh. I’ve got a D!”
Just as Ste-Duh loudly announces this, the music cuts out and the speaker begins to crackle and fizz. Ed tries really fucking hard not to laugh about Stede’s D.
Stede apparently either isn’t aware of the subtext behind his outburst or doesn’t care, immediately darting to his laptop with an “oh, blast!” and yanking the cable out of its socket.
Silence falls. It’s tense. Blond-Not-Grumpy is still grinning. Rainbow Man is biting his nails. Stede mumbles something in the vague direction of the group that Ed can’t distinguish.
It must mean something to someone, though, as The Scary Seagull One approaches the laptop wordlessly, climbing onto the chair by the table to investigate the speaker on the wall. He gives it a tap, gives the laptop a tap, then gives the cable a tap, too. Finally, he steps down from the chair, turning to address the rest of the room, who are all awaiting his expert opinion.
“Cable’s fucked,” he announces.
Loud groans fill the studio immediately.
“How are we supposed to do a class without music?”
“I'm sure we'll adapt, guys!”
“I could sing?”
“Fuck yeah, love a bit of karaoke-”
“How are you going to sing and exercise?”
“You underestimate my lung capacity, mate-”
“Haven’t the-” Ed is doubled over now, desperately trying to steal as much of his breath back as he can without looking like he’s fighting for his fucking life. “Fuck, haven’t the speakers got bluetooth?”
“Frenchie can’t do bluetooth,” Stede says, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to say about a human being.
Rainbow Man- or as Ed is now assuming, Frenchie- nods solemnly. “I don’t trust it.”
“You… you don’t trust it,” Ed repeats. Immediately, the room is filled with various groans, and Stede is doing a sort of desperate wave to signal for Ed to give up now. Ed notices a fraction too late.
“Where do all the rays go, man?” Frenchie asks, wide-eyed. “Like, the blue teeth or whatever. How do they know? You know?” Ed frowns in thought.
“Now you mention it, mate, you might be onto something.” Ed returns to standing up straight, tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear as he gulps in a breath. “I knew a guy with blue teeth once. Crazy fucker. Don’t wanna be messing with that kind of thing.”
Ed glances over to the corner of the room to see Stede's concentrated frown break into an amused smile he's trying his hardest to suppress, still fruitlessly fiddling around with various dials and cables. He eventually gives up, and Scary Bird Man strides out of the studio with purpose. Stede returns to the centre of the room, clapping his hands together with an air of finality.
“Right, well,” he says, “while we're waiting for Buttons, now might be the best time to introduce ourselves to our new friend!” He gestures to Ed. Ed gives an awkward wave. “As we've established, I'm Stede.”
“I'm Swede,” says Blond-Not-Grumpy.
“What the fuck?” Ed blurts, then catches himself. “I mean- sorry, mate. Swede?” Swede nods. “Swede and Stede? And that other guy is called Buttons? Are you fucking with me?” There’s no reaction. He turns back to Swede. “Are you from Sweden?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. Ed blinks at him.
“Anyway,” comes a voice to his left. “I’m Frenchie. And this is John.” Frenchie gestures to the man next to him, who gives Ed a cheerful wave. Ed smiles, extends an arm to shake their hands.
“Good to meet you, mate.” He turns to John. “I reckon you and me should stick together. You know, seeing as we're the odd ones out with our perfectly fuckin' normal names.”
John beams. “You're right, we are! John and Edward!” He gasps, staring wide-eyed at Ed. “Like Jedw-”
“Absolutely not, mate.”
Eventually, once Ed is properly introduced and thoroughly fucking baffled by Stede's crew, Seagull Man- Buttons, apparently- returns with a new cable for the laptop. The group cheers. Ed joins in. Okay, maybe this is a little bit fun.
“Oh, thank you kindly, Mr. Buttons,” Stede gushes, taking the lead from the man’s hand. “Where did you get this?” Buttons just stares at him. Stede drops the subject.
“Well, either way, I’m grateful. You’ve saved the day!” He taps a few times, and a disco hit Ed hasn’t heard in decades reverberates off the walls. “Okay, crew! Get those knees up! We’ll need thighs of steel if we’re to follow…” he glances at his laptop, “Infernal all the way 'From Paris To Berlin'!”
There’s new groans, and murmurs of “that’s fucking terrible, man”, as the crew jump to it. Stede catches Ed’s eye across the room and beams at him. Ed beams back.
Twenty minutes later and there's sweat soaking through Ed's t-shirt and a definite burn in his muscles, and he feels good. Stede's routines are perfectly curated, with the ideal ratio of cardio to rest time, and it's obvious the guy really fucking cares about making his classes enjoyable. He's succeeding.
It's not just that Ed's tolerating it to get closer to Stede any more; Ed likes this class and the way Stede teaches it. He's even starting to like the others, picking up on their silly little comments as they work out and beginning to learn which voice belongs to whom. Most of all though, Ed fucking loves the view. He'd take watching the subtle ripple of the muscles in Stede's back over staring at the grey painted walls of the weight room any day.
And sure, it might have been Ed's dick that lured him into the room originally, but Stede seems... nice. Like, really nice. Ed doesn't tend to warm to many people- he's always been a bit cynical when it come to forming opinions of people right off the bat- but something is different with Stede.
He's clearly a little insane, and he takes aerobics far more seriously than any middle-aged man should, but Stede has also been kinder to his class in the last forty-five minutes than Ed has seen anyone be to anyone in the forty-five years he's been alive. He's welcoming, as Ed found out immediately. He's encouraging, always happy to dish out little pep talks when one of them needs it. He's always attentive to the group's mood, switching exercises if anything seems a little too intense for somebody. It even seems he's got a bit of a bitchy streak, much to Ed's delight.
The track once again changes to something Ed doesn't recognise, with a long introduction and auto-tuned voices mumbling something unintelligible. Stede leads them all into a “gentle marching exercise, let me see those arms swinging!”, seemingly unaware of the absolute monstrosity currently pumping through the speakers.
When marimba rhythms start to play,
Dance with me, make me sway...
“You've gotta be fucking kidding me,” Ed mutters. “Fuck, is nothing sacred?”
“What's the matter, Ed?” Always attentive. God, Ed’s in deep already.
“The song,” Ed explains. “It's bollocks.”
“Bollocks?” Stede frowns, until his expression melts into one of understanding. “Ah. Bit of a music snob, are we?”
“I’m not a music snob!” Ed protests. Stede looks at him. “Dickfuck, no, I’m not. I just think someone like Dean Martin deserves a bit more respect than some fuckin’ club remix. 'Sway' is a classic. Don’t need to make everything a fuckin’ workout anthem.”
Stede smirks. His face is flushed with exertion and there's a little droplet of sweat trickling down his temple. Ed swallows.
“So you’re not enjoying it, then?” Stede asks, eyebrows raised. He's still marching. “You’re not going to be humming it to yourself tomorrow?”
“No, I am not enjoying it,” Ed insists, trying desperately to plaster a frown onto his face.
“Well, I'm sorry my workout playlist isn't to your taste, Mr. Cool-Beard Biker-Man. I'll endeavour to tailor next lesson's soundtrack to you specifically.” Stede restarts the jumping jacks. Everyone follows wordlessly. “What should our warm-up track be, do you think? 'Master of Puppets'? 'Ace of Spades'?”
Ed clutches at his stomach in mock agony (and a little bit of real agony, too. He is really far too old for jumping jacks). “Oh, that hurts. That really hurts, man, making baseless assumptions about my music taste like that. Fuck digging the knife in, that fucking ran me through.”
“What a shame,” Stede grins. “Should've thought about that before you criticised mine.”
Oh, so that's how it is?
“Am I detecting some passive aggression there, Stede?”
“Maybe just a tad.”
“Nah, bit more than a tad, I reckon. Massive amounts of passive aggression from you.”
“Massive aggression, even?”
“Exactly. Fucking diabolical behaviour.”
Desperately trying not to get sucked in by the way Stede's eyes fucking sparkle when he laughs, Ed lets the (awful) music crash into him once more as he refocuses his attention to the exercise. It's in that lull of conversation that Ed processes what Stede had said.
“Wait, Stede?”
Their eyes meet once more. “Hmmm?”
Ed grins rakishly. “You think my beard is cool?”
Stede's flushed face darkens, and Ed chuckles lightly as Stede stammers a reply he doesn't process.
They both pretend not to hear Frenchie mumble something about getting a room.
Another twenty minutes flies by, and a song comes on that sounds vaguely familiar this time, but the others in the class are whooping with joy so loudly Ed can't place it until the lyrics begin.
Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot
Like you baby
I'll make you mine, you know I'll take you to the top
I'll drive you crazy...
Ed smiles softly to himself. The others are still shouting. Stede is trying to calm them down and is looking a bit like he’s wrangling cattle. It’s then that Ed realises that the crew aren’t entirely shouting with joy; they’re mostly shouting at Stede.
“Did you learn it?”
“You said the next time it played we’d do the dance!”
“Well, we don’t need the proper routine to do that, do we?”
“Yes, we do! Are you kidding me?”
“What the fuck, Stede?”
“Look, I am quite busy, you know-”
“But you promised…”
Stede splutters. “Well, look, I suppose I could get up a tutorial on YouTube…”
“Oh, fuckin'-” Ed grumbles. Before he knows where his feet are taking him, he’s weaving between bodies to join Stede at the front of the room. “I'll teach you, yeah?”
The cheering restarts. Ed’s pretty certain Frenchie just called him a fucking legend. He’s too busy looking at Stede to react to the compliment.
Stede looks vaguely amused, but not particularly surprised by Ed’s admission, simply quirking an eyebrow in question. Ed huffs.
“Look, my mum taught me it when I was a kid and it just... fucking stuck, alright? Fuck off.”
Weirdly, Ed knows he doesn’t need to prepare himself for ridicule; he doesn’t even really know the man, but something tells him Stede has no tolerance for such judgement. Ed is still surprised when Stede smiles softly at him, his eyes warm as he comments, “Lovely.”
Ed’s heart flutters.
“Pfft, shut up,” Ed mutters. “M'not lovely. Look at me. I'm hard as fuck.” Ed gestures to himself with a sweep of his hand. Admittedly, with his greying hair, and with all his leather shucked off and dumped in the corner of the gayest aerobics class he's ever witnessed, Ed does look a little soft around the edges.
Stede's smile doesn't falter. “I am looking at you. You're lovely.”
Then, apparently completely unaware of the fact that Ed has stopped breathing, Stede gives a little flourish of a hand wave. “Go on, then,” he says. “Put us out of our misery, Ed.”
Ed teaches them. He goes slow, at first, trying to give the group a chance to pick up the moves, but it’s clear they’re having none of it, eager to throw themselves into the routine with a gusto they could’ve only picked up from Stede.
Stede himself is a quick learner, because apparently there’s no fucking flaws to be found in this man, and at some point Ed’s attention shifts from teaching the routine to just dancing with Stede. They bounce and giggle and stumble through the song (and sometimes, into each other) and gently rip the shit out of the others until Ed’s muscles hurt from laughter rather than overexertion.
It's only when Stede clicks the playlist onto a slower track and everyone automatically begins their warm-down stretching routines that Ed realises he's stayed for the entire class.
It's about the same time Ed also realises he's definitely done more damage to his knee than good.
Ed doesn't realise he's had more fun than he’s had in years until everyone else has left, and he's subtly limping to the far corner of the room to retrieve his bags.
Although, maybe his limping isn’t quite as subtle as it could have been, because Stede is watching him with concern as he packs his equipment up.
“You alright, Ed?” Stede asks, frowning. “You were really going for it tonight. I hope you haven’t made your injury worse.”
Ed shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine, honestly.” Ed is a dirty rotten liar. “I just need to work it back into place, that’s all. Gets a bit tight after exercise.”
Stede beams like it’s the best news he’s ever heard.
“Ah, well, I could help you with that too, if you'd like?” Ed's confusion clearly shows on his face, as Stede is soon rushing to elaborate. “I’m a licensed physiotherapist, too, would you believe?” He laughs to himself. “Which means I can make you sweat and work out any nasty bits in those muscles afterwards. I can take a look?”
Ed is not the kind of person who develops crushes easily. He doesn’t ‘put himself out there’, as his mates keep nagging at him to do. He’s also a grown man who can control his urges.
But it’s been A Day, and it’s been far too long since he’s flirted with anyone he likes this much, and Stede has surely got to know what the fuck that sounded like, and if he touches Ed's leg, Ed might just lose his mind.
Ed huffs a laugh, tries to break the tension in the room. Is there tension? He’s feeling tension.
“Steady on, man. We’ve only just met! At least take me to dinner first.”
Stede shrugs, still smiling. “Okay!”
What?
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” Ed blurts.
Stede’s suddenly looking uncertain for the first time since they met, all of an hour ago. “I just- you said… never mind, it’s alright. Sorry, it was silly of me to say-”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Ed says, holding a hand up. “No, it was my fault. Bad joke.”
“Ah.” Stede says.
Ed tries his luck. “Wasn’t a joke, actually. Well, maybe a half-joke.”
Stede glances up from where he’s zipping up his gym bag. “Which half was the joke?”
Come on, Ed. You’re practically already there. Just… say words, in the right order, go on-
“I want you to take me to dinner.”
Fuck yes. Good job, Eddie.
Stede’s still frowning. “That part was the joke?”
Fuck no. Fuck’s sake, Eddie.
“No- I… fuck. I don’t fucking know. I can’t even remember what I said, it’s so fucking late-”
Stede is still slowly gathering his things to leave, and Ed needs to get his shit together pretty fucking soon-
“That’s the only part that wasn’t a joke,” Ed finally manages.
It’s not the smoothest way he’s ever asked someone out, but Stede’s smiling slightly again, so Ed’s counting that as a win.
“So, to be clear,” Stede says. “It’s a no to the knee, yes to dinner.”
Ed’s entire body gives a silent sigh of relief. “Yes. That’s- yes. Please.”
Stede grins. “Alright.”
Ed grins back. “Alright.”
They smile shyly at each other across the room, and Ed waits by the door as Stede throws his bags over his shoulder.
“Know anywhere good?” Stede asks, flicking off the lights as they leave.
Ed smirks to himself, throws an arm around Stede’s shoulders as they head out to the car park.
“As luck would have it, I do happen to know of an excellent bar and grill around here…”
They make mindless small talk as they walk, and laugh as they catch sight of the almost-empty parking lot; their cars are parked next to each other. If Ed had the capacity for coherent thought with Stede's muscular shoulder under his hand, he might have had some deluded notion regarding fate.
“Listen, I-”
“About that dinner-”
Stede laughs. “Sorry,” he says. “You go first.” Ed gulps.
“I just wanted to say, I really had fun tonight,” Ed says. “I, uh- it had been a bit of a shitty day, to be honest, but you... your class really cheered me up, so... yeah.”
Stede smirks. “Nice save.”
Ed rolls his eyes. “Well, I tried. Can't be coming off too strong now, can I? You might start thinking I like you or something.” He laughs as he takes a playful elbow to the ribs. “Sorry, mate. What were you going to say?”
“Just that I really would love to take you out to dinner some time,” Stede says, reaching to give the hand on his shoulder a little squeeze. “Probably not now, seeing as it's midnight and all, but I'm eager to hear more about this bar and grill you mentioned.”
Ed feels slightly light-headed, and he knows better than to blame it all on the workout. “Fuck yeah, man. That's- shit, yeah. I've got to take you there. Can I have your number? So we can do this when we're not sweaty and exhausted?”
Stede hands over his phone without hesitation, and Ed does the same, making himself a contact in Stede's phone. He originally begins to type 'Ed Teach', then thinks better of it and tries 'Ed from gym', then decides to scrap both of them in favour of the title Stede already gave him less than an hour ago. Ed smirks to himself as he hands it back, watches as Stede's eyes land on the new addition to his digital phone book: 'Mr. Cool-Beard Biker-Man'.
“Oh, very funny,” Stede says dryly, his mouth twitching up in a smile he's trying his hardest to fight. He slides his own phone back into his pocket and continues tapping away at Ed's. Ed laughs as he scrolls through his contacts and finds a 'Leggy Blond' in the line-up.
They say their 'goodnight's in the middle of the car park, parting with a slightly awkward but fucking lovely hand squeeze, and Ed stands by his truck and watches Stede drive away, giving him a pathetic little wave as he goes.
God, Ed thinks as he buckles his seatbelt, letting a giddy smile spread slowly across his face. What a fucking day.