Work Text:
The nights after a concert always have Ed keyed up — ears ringing, knee aching, vaguely drunk — and bone tired in a hotel room, always, always unable to sleep.
He’s done guided meditations and soft music and more melatonin than is probably healthy.
And then Fang mentions trying out a podcast.
“Yeah, boss,” he says, “they’ve got podcasts for everything. I’ll bet there’s about a million out there just for helping people get to sleep.”
And Ed’s kind of fucking desperate so he thinks what the hell and starts looking around.
Fang wasn’t kidding. There’re podcasts about why people sleep, and the history about how people used to sleep, and the science behind sleeping. Some kid’s even got one about the best sleeping animations in video games that’s actually pretty fucking funny. (And also leads Ed down a rabbit hole that ends at about 5 a.m. with a YouTube video of sleeping Pokémon playing on the bed beside his equally passed out body.)
And then there’s Stede Bonnet and Sleep With Me.
Ed started it mostly because, on title alone, he thought it was probably some sort of sex podcast, which sounded fun, if nothing else.
It’s not a sex thing. Or at least, Ed doesn’t think it’s supposed to be one. It does have an explicit tag though and although the host, Bonnet, is pretty PG, he’s got a rotation of co-hosts who really, really aren’t.
Also the cover art is a dick. It’s hidden, poorly, but Ed’s 90% sure it’s meant to intentionally look like a dick.
The show itself is a mess. In the show summary its setup is this: Bonnet reads a bedtime story and his co-hosts do various characters to support his narration.
Ed thinks that seems pretty straightforward; not hard to fuck up.
The posted podcast is nothing like that. It’s about 30 minutes at the beginning of Bonnet and the co-host talking or bickering or gushing, or Bonnet info dumping about some interesting thing that's caught his attention recently.
It’s pretty obvious Bonnet is close with all of his co-hosts and that probably this podcast is how they’re doing most of their staying in touch.
The last 30 minutes is the actual story — and Ed’s only ever made it about 10 minutes into that part before passing the fuck out.
It’s great.
Ed’s new fucking favorite thing.
🎧🎙️🎧
Interviews can eat Ed’s entire ass.
Stede released a new episode this morning and Ed’s been waiting all day to get home and tune in and instead of doing that he’s sweating his balls off under some stage lighting talking to who the fuck cares about Queen Anne’s newest album.
It’s clear he’s not paying attention because the interviewer’s next question isn’t one of the fifteen he hears during every one of these fucking things.
“Alright I’ve got to ask,” the man chuckles, presenter voice really doing a lot of work, “you seem a little out of it. Where’s your head at Blackbeard?”
Ed debates lying, but it’s the most interesting question he’s been asked in ages.
“Honestly mate,” Ed says, adopting that cool persona all his fans love and that he’d like to rip off like a skin suit and chuck in the nearest Dumpster. “I’m thinking about a podcast I’m going to listen to when we get done here.” Harsh? Maybe. True? Yeah.
Next to him, Fang lights up.
“You found one you like then?”
Ed grins.
“Yeah, called Sleep With Me. The guy who does it, Stede Bonnet, is fucking wild.”
“Sounds like a sex thing,” Ivan says from Fang’s left.
“Right?” Ed gestures to Ivan in a sort of this guy gets it gesture that no one else seems to understand.
“Can we please finish the fucking interview?” Izzy growls, “I’m tired and I want to be done here.”
“You should listen to this podcast, Iz,” Ed grins. Izzy rolls his eyes in a way that Ed knows means he’s definitely going to, but only so he can complain about it.
The interviewer asks a couple more questions about Sleep With Me and then moves back to Queen Anne specific shit and Ed zones out again.
🎧 🎙️ 🎧
It’s like having a bunch of friends, Ed thinks, drinking a beer, sitting on his patio floor, listening to Stede argue with Buttons about moon phases and which ones are ideal for dancing naked under.
“I’ve never felt the desire to dance naked in the moonlight,” Stede says, polite but strained.
“Tha’s cause the moon de net favor ye, captain.” Buttons responds cryptically.
Ed sets the beer aside and looks up at the moon as they chatter on, thinking idlly about the fact that he doesn’t have any real fucking friends.
He did, before fame; back when he, Izzy, Ivan, and Fang got together at Hornigold’s and drank their body weight while throwing darts and shooting the shit. Back then they were closer than family — just four guys clawing their way up, trying to make a name. Always had each other’s back and nothing they didn’t say to each other.
These days they don’t talk about anything but the band. And the band’s fine. Or maybe: the band is world-famous with a lot of awards and a huge following and a slot in the Hall of Fame already carved out for them, so better than fine, it’s important. The only important thing worth talking about, maybe.
But Ed still comes home after a tour and stands in his massive fucking house and can’t fucking think about anything at all except how bored he is and how cold his bed is and how he can’t even complain to Izzy about that because Izzy’s you can get anyone you like Edward. Just fucking pick someone is not the goddamn connection Ed’s too proud to admit is what he’s actually desperate to have.
And then there’s Stede. At the table with him while he drinks coffee, gushing about some weird moth; and in the car with him on the way to rehearsal, explaining his ideal sailing vessel and all the impractical shit in it.
And at night, in his bed with him, reading him a story.
Ed’s trying not to imagine what it would be like, to have a man he loves with Stede’s voice, sit beside him, propped up on a pile of pillows, reading a book while Ed dozes off. He doesn’t want to think about fingers in his hair, running through it, stopping occasionally to fuss over a knot absently.
And then there’s Stede, out on his patio with him the night after the biggest news of his career, talking about fucking moon bathing.
Ed laughs into the crook of his arm, balanced up on his knee (the other leg stretched out in front of him, brace straps undone).
Ed laughs until he cries.
🎧 🎙️ 🎧
Oh fuck.
“How have you not noticed the spike in listeners?” Lucius’ voice is high in its confusion.
“I don’t know Lucius!” Stede sounds exasperated. “You know I don’t understand how all this works. That’s why I have you.”
“Okay, I know for a fact that Alma has explained the podcast app to you.”
Stede makes some sort of flustered aborted noise.
“Her explanations are quite… technical.”
Lucius sighs.
“Or maybe you’re just bad at this.”
No need to be rude,” Stede responds in the haughty tone Ed likes the most.
“Annnnyway,” says Lucius. “We’ve got a lot of new reviews and I thought it might be fun to read them, instead of storytime, which you know I love so much, but—”
“It’s okay, Lucius, not everyone’s voices can hit the mark.”
“My voices are fine!”
Ed’s heart is pounding in his chest as the episode goes on. All of the reviews mention him. His interview. His recommendation.
Fuck.
It’s equal parts fucking bizarre and hilarious. Stede doesn’t know who the hell he is until Lucius plays a bit of one of his more popular songs and the Stede lights up.
“Oh yes, I know that one!”
“So you know Blackbeard then.”
“I suppose, I know his music at least? I’ve never really been one to look up artists specifically,” Stede adds: “Don’t you think that detracts a bit from the music? To form a relationship with the person and their relationship to the art rather than taking the art on its own terms.”
Ed likes the reasoning but it feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. The idea that Stede might not bother with the man behind the music if he can have just the music.“You’ll want to look up Blackbeard, sweets,” says Lucius, cutting Ed’s spiral. “He looks like a sex god and I know you like long hair.”
Ed blinks. Whatever the fuck else Ed’s whole body is doing, he’s pretty sure he’s also fucking blushing. Which — he didn’t even know he could still do.
Lucius reads more of the reviews. And with each one his tone gets more and more smug until finally he says:
“I recon Blackbeard might like you a lot.”
Dickfuck.
🎧 🎙️ 🎧
Rehearsal is out, the guys are going for drinks, and Ed has decided to walk home.
He doesn’t, usually. Doesn’t like to get stopped or recognized. He doesn’t know what compels him not to take the car this time around.
It might be fucking fate, if Ed thought anything like that existed.
There’s a man down the road, walking in his direction. Blond, handsome, soft and firm, dressed in a baby blue waistcoat Ed wants to touch before he even really knows why the hell he’s thinking about that.
Ed’s not a love-at-first-sight kind of guy. But he’s definitely a shoot your shot one. He’s about to stop the man to do just that, and then he notices he’s on the phone.
And when he opens his mouth to mutter a quiet I’ll make sure to have the proposal on your desk first thing in the morning Ed’s whole goddamned world shutters and shatters around him.
It’s sadder, meeker than he’s ever heard it before, but Ed knows that voice. Could pick it out of a hundred voices, a million, maybe.
Could fall asleep to it.