Work Text:
Ed climbs on the train, grateful to be alone for this last leg of the journey. He’s spent the last three months surrounded by people, by fans, by press, by his agent and publicist. And he loves Lucius and Oluwande, he does, most of the time. But the lonely nights in his hotel room were the only times he got to be alone, and those were the times he really didn’t want to be alone. The dark rooms, no one snoring in the bed beside him, no one caring if he tossed and turned all night rather than sleeping. No one telling to turn his damn phone off and go to sleep. And no one he could call because of stupid time zones.
Ed’s missed Izzy like a physical ache in his chest, and it seems to be getting worse the closer he gets to his husband. It’s like his body knows that the end is almost here, that soon he’ll be whole again.
As the train begins its slow journey out of Glasgow and on to Carlisle, time seems to slow down. Ed checks his watch; an hour seven until he’s home. An hour five.
His phone rings. He picks it up quickly, praying that it’s Izzy; it’s Lucius. Ed answers with a sigh.
“Hello, Lucius.”
“Ed, I’ve just got home and realized I brought all the books with me, darling.”
“Don’t care, Lucius.”
“Oh. You’re not home yet?”
“No, I’m just on the train, Lucius.” If I was home I would be kissing my husband, not answering your call.
“Alright, well, I’ll call you tomorrow then alright?”
“Yes, Lucius, that’s fine.”
Ed hangs up and checks his watch. An hour two. He sighs. It’s about to be a long trip.
Finally, finally the train pulls into Carlisle station. Ed purposely didn’t give Izzy his train info, wanting to surprise his husband at home, but now he’s regretting that as he attempts to get a cab. He finally manages to find one that’s not waiting on a fare, and climbs in, giving the driver the address of their home. He fidgets in the back seat for the full five minutes.
When the cab pulls up in front of the shop Ed can barely contain himself, forcing himself not to help the cabbie get the luggage out of the boot, standing impatiently as the man counts out change before bursting out, “Keep it!” and dragging his suitcase around to the back, to the entrance to their home. Home. Ed leaves his suitcase inside the door of the bookshop, and bounds up the stairs, two at a time. He takes a deep breath outside the door and slides his key into the lock.
“Edward? Is that you?”
“Yeah, babe,” he calls as he opens the door. “It’s me.” And Ed smiles because it doesn’t matter where he is, here in the tiny flat where they live over Izzy’s bookshop or in a hotel in Timbuktu. When he hears that voice, he knows he’s home.