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Everything is so bright and orange, an absolute calypso of sweets over the kitchen worktop, packets of Maltesers and mini Milky Ways, Freddo bars, Fruit Pastilles, the whole caboodle, and Ed lingers close to Stede’s back as he fills two pumpkin-shaped buckets with treats for Louis and Alma. It’s done with care, as though he’s organising a bouquet, like he didn’t spend an entire week agonising that he couldn’t remember what the kids liked, right before Ed put them all out of their misery and texted Mary for the answers.
With all the sweets, it doesn’t feel so much Halloween, it seems, as it does Christmas for a moment and that thought makes Ed shudder. There’s nothing wrong with slowing things down; averting your eyes from the tinsel and big, nauseatingly-full tubs of biscuits on the tops of the shop shelves. Nothing wrong with just – living in the moment. Nothing wrong with being a little vulnerable sometimes, his mother told him, stroking his hair in the evenings, even as life took full advantage of the chinks in the armour; both his, and hers, in the shape of his father’s fists, fury and frittering away of their money on drink.
It took a long time for Ed to realise what his mother was really teaching him: that she was telling him, in her own, careful – albeit very shaken way, just because of the hand that life had dealt them – to simply be kind.
Transferring Alma and Louis’ buckets to the safety of the fridge, he returns to base: the kitchen-top. There’s row upon row of smaller pumpkin buckets filling Stede’s kitchen: really neat little things that could fit easily into the palm of his hand, each one containing a handful of jelly-babies, pastilles and a different chocolate bar apiece. Ed’s been in charge of these, the caterer in him entirely at ease with balance and portion-control, the fact that he was never a parent who did this somehow shaking him up.
‘I know I can be selfish,’ Stede had sighed, a few days ago when they were wandering around Costco, partly an errand, partly a date, Ed leaning on the massive trolley for support and avoiding other shoppers with ease, had furrowed his brow, not sure what to say even as Stede tossed a whole box of Kinder bars into the trolley. ‘I mean, I am, rather. I’d just… like to do something nice for other people.’
Ed hadn’t known what to say to that; had stopped in the middle of the aisle, lay a hand on his arm. ‘You do lots of nice things for other people, mate.’ Stede, after all, pays his workers, from all backgrounds and walks of life, a well-above fair wage, out of his own pocket, while he’s getting his own beloved, newly-established bookshop off the ground – much to the dismay, Ed gleefully suspects, of his dead, homophobic, bullying father who considered the books Stede read to be ‘fairy stories’ and ‘a waste of his time.’ He’s always ready to pick up a round in the pub; speaks of his ex-wife Mary with respect and fondness and gets on with her new husband; tries to keep up with the latest trends that Lucius, Oluwande, Frenchie and his kids all like to chat about; has lent Ed some of his favourite jackets, complimented how they look on him, admired the cut. The first time he saw Ed breaking down from the strain of an anxiety attack, he sat with him, talked him through it, gave him time. Told him in a tone like golden, uncuttable rope that he was his friend and that he was there for him.
He’s also got a bitchy streak a mile wide, and likes to stand out in his fancy clothes, can offer encouragement that doesn’t so much miss the mark as it does make a dent in the side of the moon sometimes, simply because he tries too hard to relate, but. Stede. He’s a man who grew up being mocked for so much that he likes and being shaped into someone he isn’t and has finally made a stand, with his divorce and coming out and his developing bookshop and this whole new friendship/bond/thing he’s got going on with Ed. If he comes on a bit strongly sometimes, well, Ed thinks he’s earned it; besides, Stede is trying.
They both are; in the end, it’s taken a couple of tosses and turns of the dice, to get where they are, a few misunderstandings along the way, but they’re here now, and the world feels steady. Like they’ve both managed to climb aboard the same lifeboat to reach the shore after a lot of time spent thrown about in choppy waters and away from the other, and they’re fast steering themselves into the steady shallows.
With that thought, and with a burst of sudden hunger making itself known, he picks out one of the leftover caramel Freddos, opens it up; there’s plenty to spare, after all (plus Lucius, Pete and Wee John are probably going to drop by, most likely all in various states of Halloween costuming attempts and looking extremely hopeful), and he takes a nibble.
‘Wan’ a bit?’ he offers thickly, offering the other half to Stede who ceases his tasks and gives him a look, hands on hips.
‘Come on,’ he scoffs, but then, with a glance between the treat and Ed, he reaches down and takes the bar from his hands with one of those bright, easy smiles that comes so naturally, that feels like a new, fresh golden candle in the winter, or the reassuring chink of a water-flask being opened on a hot day and Ed chuffs, lets him finish the bar off.
He likes this, he thinks, dropping more jelly-babies into a pumpkin. It’s early days, but he likes it. He likes spending an afternoon in Stede’s pristine kitchen, pottering about, showing him the best way to carve a pumpkin that’ll keep it burning, long into the night; likes being invited into the space like it’s his own; likes actually looking forward to seeing Alma and Louis’ reactions when they receive their treat-buckets from their Dad. He likes wearing this potato sack-like thing; okay, it’s not so much a sack as it is a kind of casual, light cotton loungewear from the back of Stede’s cupboard, but he can pretend he’s a ghost or some shit, take off all his black leathers and his chef’s whites for the night. He likes admiring Stede in his pirate gear, all red, low-cut shirt, boots and leggings beneath knee-high breeches; there’s one of those weird, old-school, triangular hats put to the side which was flattening Stede’s hair in entirely the wrong way, and a sequin-covered, fancy eye-patch somewhere that apparently got too uncomfortable. (‘Pirate on holiday,’ he had declared eventually, sweeping the accessories off and spreading his arms wide with the rest and Ed had looked for a long moment, eyes sweeping up and down and decided then and there that Stede wore it very well).
And he likes helping Stede line up pumpkin after pumpkin on the table for any kids who come by; kids who’ll each retrieve their own little bucket of goodies, options to choose from, rather than just having stuff dropped blindly into their bag just to make them go away. And sure, maybe it’s trying too hard – maybe they both are – but they found once they started, they couldn’t stop, simply because they were doing it together and it was fun, it was sweet. It’s nice, having Halloween stuff out in anticipation, even if nobody comes by in the end; Ed’s Plan B is to drop off whatever remains at one of the local shelters or food-banks anyway. He’s so well known to the local charities that nobody would think it particularly strange if he randomly turned up with a load of sweets that his new boyfriend (best friend? Boyfriend? Both? Friend-boy? Still working on those labels in public) had brought en masse, and everyone deserves something sweet.
Fuck it, it’s nice having plans full-stop outside the restaurant, he considers, watching Stede lay the last pumpkins out in a neat row, even if they’re not really plans at all – even if they’re just to shut out the cold, scary night, let the self-made monsters roam around outside while he snuggles inside with Stede, drops his head on his shoulder, let their pumpkin soldiers ward off their ghosts. It’s nice to be with somebody; not propping his tired head on a desk, or a windowsill and staring out without anything in mind because people are being dicks about their orders, or simply refuse to accept the fact that they have to book six months in advance to get a table and can’t just show up at the door, not so much hopeful as they are self-entitled. Success is nice, but it can also screw with you and all of the expectations that people place on you, just a little.
There’s no expectations here, though. Just half-drunk cups of tea, and chocolate, and an army of goodies.
‘Done well,’ he murmurs, opening another Freddo as Stede finishes up, watches him quietly preening under the praise, the crinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes and yeah, you know something? This might be the best place for anyone celebrating tonight, should they get anyone knocking on the door. Sure, Roach is handing out sandwiches instead of sweets (‘No peanut butter after Frenchie’s allergy breakout, and with gluten-free options,’ he had announced importantly) and Izzy seems more torn by the day between putting a great big Fuck Off sign on his door, or else embracing the spirit with too much enthusiasm, and coming out yelling at kids hard enough and loudly enough to either make them flee and squeal in delight, or simply make them cry – it’s a delicate balance – but still. Not too bad, at all.
‘You’ve got a bit of caramel just there,’ he notices aloud as he shares the second bar, leaning against the counter and pointing to a corner of his own lip in indication. Stede glances up in surprise as he munches, the little golden lick like wax under the lights, rubs at his face with his palm. ‘No, no, other side – here,’ he offers, leaning forwards with his finger to get it, his thumb rubbing over the pad of Stede’s lips as it wipes gently but rather haphazardly at the stubborn, skin-clinging stickiness – only for Stede’s own finger to join the fray, a rather different, yet somehow no less delighted smile coming over his face, a little slower, a little abashed as he licks at his own thumb and follows the lead of Ed’s fingers. ‘Yeah, there…there you go. Much better.’
‘Thanks,’ Stede murmurs and just like that, their hands fall between their persons, fingers twined, his hand being squeezed and really, there’s nothing for it than to shuffle forwards, all hope and ease and press their mouths gently together.
Kissing Stede is like savouring wine; the kind of really good bottle that you never even knew was in your cellar for years, waiting to be opened and even now, he’s running a hand through Ed’s hair and down his back, taking his lead and going with it. When they pull apart, their fingers are still joined and everyone is just a little bit bashful and grinning rather a lot and right now? Nobody’s really wanting to go anywhere, to step away from the gentle warmth.
Stede seems to sense this, carefully tugging at Ed’s fingers and pulling him towards the lounge – Ed follows, hand caught comfortably in Stede’s own, belatedly remembers to turn the lights off as they leave, not wanting the heat of the kitchen bulbs to melt the snacks.
‘I really appreciate your help,’ Stede tells him, leading him through the house, dashing in his red shirt, a friendly siren. ‘So. What would you like to do tonight?’ The question is asked a little shyly, and honestly, it takes Ed a second to catch up properly with that because wait, what? ‘Only, I’m not really a scary movie sort of person…’
He crinkles his nose with the admission like it’s a crime, and it’s cute, and it’s grounding, brings Ed back to the moment.
‘Nah, yeah, I know,’ he assures, glossing over that last part of his almost-reaction and really, as they sit down on the sofa, brings his sore knee up to settle, their hands still locked together, he finds he can’t really bring himself to worry, or make things awkward by broaching things that neither of them are quite ready for – not when this, right here, is perfect. ‘Bit 1999, that.’ He pauses just long enough to take in Stede’s sigh of relief and he has to kiss him again, can’t help it when it means he can have the shape of Stede’s beautiful smile against his, their hands floating down each other’s arms and over the other’s shoulders, like very careful and thoughtful ghosts who aren’t so much here to haunt as they are just to hang out (literally, ‘cause, you know, levitation and all that) and have a good time.
‘I mean, we could watch some old Sabrina episodes,’ he breaks away long enough to make the suggestion, alluring and just on this side of hopeful, ‘there’s a really freaky one with a haunted doll, used to scare the shit out of me. I dunno,’ he shrugs; look, there are worse things than watching a teenage witch get into mishaps with a sassy black cat who can talk, so sue him. Stede beams, his hands hooked around Ed’s shoulders like a pair of anchors, looking rather suspiciously as though he’ll be absolutely happy with whatever.
‘Sounds perfect,’ he agrees, his voice as soft and steady as a candle-flicker, his palm a gentle rub. Ed nods in absolute satisfaction before leaning back in and leaving it for a while, leaving everything else behind for a little bit longer – the pumpkin buckets and that first ring of the doorbell that comes with the promise of a busy night behind it and trick-or-treaters aplenty to benefit from their shared, hard work – and loses himself in the safety of Stede’s arms.
*