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The front door opens and slams so hard and so fast that Ed almost thinks he imagines it.
“Babe?” he calls out into their home. He’s laid out on their sofa, tucked up beneath a patchwork blanket John made for him two birthdays back. “You home?”
“Yes,” Stede shouts back, terse and tight. Nothing more than that; just a dropped, loud, ‘Yes.’
Ed already knows this tone, this energy. His heart sinks, and he pauses his show to push up off the sofa and leave their living room behind. He keeps the quilt like a cape, tucked around his shoulders and held together against his chest with one hand. It keeps him warm, keeps him safe, as he navigates through their home towards the sounds of Stede.
He uncovers him in the kitchen, roughly opening and closing cabinets, the refrigerator, the pantry door. Everything about him screams agitation, nervous energy trapped inside of his body, and Ed doesn’t want to bother him, but he wants to make him feel better. So badly, he wants to make him feel better.
“Hey,” Ed says, watching Stede tear open a container of leftovers from the fridge. He examines it closely, then dumps the entire thing out into the garbage, shaking it loose until everything is out, the box scooped clean. “How was your day?”
“Not the best,” Stede answers, and Ed thinks, ‘Understatement.’ “How was yours?”
“It was alright,” Ed tells him, coming in closer, leaving the doorway. Making his way to their kitchen table, taking a seat there, he adds, “I cleaned the place up a little bit, did some laundry. Missed you a whole bunch.”
Stede twitches a smile, though most of his focus is on taking out what appears to be every last container, box, bag, just— everything in their kitchen.
“Missed you, too,” Stede replies.
He keeps moving, as if his mind is completely elsewhere. His body might just be there, too, moving through a space that Ed doesn’t exist in— that the world doesn’t exist in, right now. Just Stede and whatever he’s thinking about.
There’s silence, then, and Ed observes as Stede opens a sealed container of pasta they put in the fridge only last night. This, too, apparently doesn’t pass whatever test he’s currently grading, because the entire contents end up in the garbage, and Ed’s starting to actually examine his confusion, attempting to figure out what’s going on.
A box of cereal goes into the trash, then another, then a third. Pulling the entire trash bag out, Stede sets about properly filling it, apparently.
“Should we do groceries this week?” Ed asks into the bag-rustling quiet.
Stede’s pink face doesn’t lift from examining the box of cereal in his hands. This one, apparently, actually passes the test, returning to the cabinet— but it’s the only one, and he moves onto the next cabinet, then, brow furrowed. Ed’s assuming he forgot his question when he finally says, “Yes, absolutely. Almost everything we have has gone bad.”
‘Ah,’ Ed thinks, and out loud, says, “Has it?”
“Yes,” Stede informs him. “I was thinking about it at work and I realized I hadn’t checked any of these dates in forever, Ed. You could’ve gotten sick— either one of us could’ve gotten very sick, I should be doing a better job. This is— This is inexcusable.”
“It’s not that bad,” Ed tries to assure him.
“Not that bad?” Stede echoes, whirling with a dry box of uncooked macaroni in his hand. “What if you had eaten something that had spoiled? Or Alma, or Louis? What if you got sick? You could’ve easily—”
“But we didn’t,” Ed stops him. He already recognizes where this is going; he hopes he can hop onto the train, stop it before it derails. “Everyone’s okay. And we check the food pretty regularly, it’s not gonna go bad. Your kids are smart, they won’t eat anything bad.”
“They might not even notice,” Stede points out, discarding the macaroni box. “Sometimes it’s only a day or two past, and it’s not enough to notice, but it is just enough to make you sick, and you could get very sick, Ed. There are bacteria that eat your stomach lining, and you wouldn’t even know it until it was done and you were dying, and I can’t think that I would just— wake up one day to find you there, dead in your own blood and your own— fucking stomach lining, because I didn’t throw out the food before it went bad and you got sick, and that’s— Ed, I can’t do that.”
“Hey,” Ed says, and Stede stops at the tone of his voice, hands coming to grip the edge of the counter. He hangs his head between his arms, sighing; one hand comes up, removes his glasses, sends them skittering across the counter. Ed slips up behind him, says, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Nobody’s asking you to do that, babe. I swear.”
“I know,” Stede tells him, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I— Shit. Obviously, I know that.”
“I know you know that,” Ed replies. “‘Course, I know that. No worries.”
Stede huffs, rubbing at his temples with his hand, still leaning against the counter with his other. He’s all tight lines of tension beneath the bright pink rose of his button-down shirt, tight pants showing Ed just how rigid he is, every muscle in his entire body strained and stiff, like he’s just about to snap.
“Something bad happen?” Ed asks him, just as his hands find Stede’s upper arms. Stede slumps into him, relaxing just a bit, and so Ed starts stroking up and down his arms, over his sleeve to his bare skin, warming him up, calming him down. “Anything you want to talk about?”
Stede jerks his head in a shake, wiping under his eyes, one then the other. All his movements are fidgety and matched in pairs, always making sure to keep it even, two of everything. “No, I— Nothing I could even think of. I just— I woke up like this today.”
“That’s okay,” Ed tells him. “It—”
“Is it, though?” Stede demands. Ed leans in closer, bracketing him with his body, kissing the back of his neck, lips brushing the soft curls of downy hair that spiral there. “Because nobody else is melting down over— over nothing, I— God, Ed, we— I just made that pasta, we’re going to need to do groceries again, but I can’t— We can’t eat any of this, Ed, it’s bad food, we can’t—”
“We’re not gonna,” Ed promises him. “Hey. We won’t, I swear.”
At that, Stede chokes up, then says, “You shouldn’t— You shouldn’t have to give in to me. I’m being ridiculous, I— You shouldn’t listen to me. I’m—”
His internal war rages, fighting against himself, tearing himself apart. Ed tightens his grip on his upper arms, kisses into his throat, burrowing into him, holding him together.
“I didn’t want to eat any of that shit anyways,” Ed tells him, and Stede huffs a wet laugh. “I was just thinking we should be trying new shit, actually. Fresh foods and stuff. Maybe we can look into something that’ll make you feel better, yeah? And go get it from the shops tomorrow.” He strokes down Stede’s arms to his elbows, then to his hands. Squeezing, he gets him to release the counter, turning him around in his arms, taking his weight himself. Stede tilts into him, forehead pressed to Ed’s chest; Ed just holds him, letting him lean against him, right there in the middle of their kitchen. “And maybe you can write in your journals, too, yeah?”
Stede nods against Ed’s chest. “I can do that. I should’ve— I should’ve done that already. I’m sorry, I—”
“Fuck are you sorry for?” Ed asks. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I’m sorry because my head is a fucking mess,” Stede insists anyway. “I’m sorry because I— God, I just walked in the door and started— ruining everything, you don’t deserve this, this is— This is awful, Ed, I am so sorry, I didn’t even ask how your day was—”
“Yeah, you did,” Ed reminds him. Stede tips his head up, wet hazel eyes confused as he frowns up at him. “You literally did, babe. You asked me about my day already.”
Stede’s face crumples, at that, and he tells Ed through a choked throat, “I didn’t even remember, I—”
“It’s okay,” Ed insists. He reaches up to catch Stede’s face between his hands, looking him right into his eyes, making sure he’s seeing him. “I promise, it’s okay. I’m right here.”
“It’s stupid,” Stede tells him, clinging tight to him. His arms wind around Ed, and he ducks in closer to him, forehead pressing to Ed’s cheek.
“It probably feels like that, yeah,” Ed replies. “But it’s just your brain being all fucked.”
“I’m stupid,” Stede insists next, and Ed kisses his forehead.
“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Ed tips his head up, Stede’s chin between his fingers, and waits until they’re looking at each other, truly present with one another, to tell him, “You are incredible. You’re dealing with some real fucked-up bullshit, and your brain’s not on your side, and you’re still absolutely spectacular, so don’t go telling me you’re stupid. You’re not. You’re fucking everything, babe. I love you so much, I’m sorry your brain’s being such a fucking shit to you today.” He draws him in, kisses the center of his forehead. “I’m here, though. Don’t worry, alright? I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
Stede exhales shakily. He clings to Ed, asks, “You promise?”
“I do, I promise,” Ed assures him. “Cross my heart. I swear.”
Nodding, Stede pushes in close, winding his arms tight around Ed. He gets the hint, hugging Stede in return, a hard embrace to make sure Stede really feels it, grounded and present and imprinted on him.
“We can go get something for dinner,” Ed tells him. “All fresh shit. We can make it ourselves.” Smiling, he kisses the side of Stede’s head, enjoying his sweetly-fragrant mouthful of hair. “Like a date night, yeah? Sound okay?”
Stede’s breath regulates, and his minute shivering stops, and he finally turns his head up to kiss Ed’s shoulder, soft, slow.
“Yeah,” Stede replies. “That sounds lovely, actually.” Glancing upwards, he says, “You always manage to fix everything. How do you do that?”
“Aw, easy enough,” Ed says. “Just gotta love you, right?”
Stede’s eyes are pink, but his face is pinker. He nods, pushing up into Ed, kissing him once, then twice. Always keeping it all balanced and even, making sure he does it right.
“I love you, too,” Stede murmurs against him. “Thank you. I— Thank you.”
“Always, love.” Ed presses his forehead to Stede’s, their noses smushing together. “Remember— Just, I want you to remember. You’re never alone, okay? Even when you feel like it— Fuck, actually, especially when you feel like it. I’m always here for you, and I love you. No matter what.” He kisses his nose. “Got it?”
“Got it,” Stede replies. “Can I have another kiss?”
Ed gives him a second kiss to the tip of his nose, and Stede smiles.
“Thank you,” he says, and Ed doesn’t feel like he’s the one who should be getting thanked, right now. Not when Stede is— finally— smiling the way he is, and always should be.