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In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Christina Rossetti, "In the Bleak Midwinter"
Winter dragged itself over Bridport in one icy sheet, hushed and unannounced. In the early hours of the morning, Ed woke to a body draped over his. Stede buried his face into Ed’s neck as if to leech the warmth from him.
“Cold,” he grumbled.
Even beneath their heavy quilts, Ed felt it. The window panes rattled in their frames, opaque with frost. Chilled air seeped in through the cracks. The fire in the hearth had died to faintly glowing embers. He’d have to take care of that, but that required extracting himself from the little nest of their bed.
“Have to move you,” Ed murmured into the top of Stede’s head, gold curls tickling his nose.
Stede responded with a small sound of distress.
“Do you want me or do you want a fire?”
Stede said nothing for a few breaths before sighing. “Fire.”
Ed slid out from under him with a chuckle. He pulled on the quilted banyan that hung from a nail by the bed and searched around for his thick wool socks. It was his own fault for sleeping in the nude, but he had drifted off immediately after the previous night’s love making before he could dress. He carefully stepped over Arthur’s massive furry body sprawled out on the rug. Yawning, he added a few logs to the hearth and stoked the fire back to life. Only when it was properly blazing did he leave it to kiss Stede awake.
“Morning, dove. Breakfast?”
Stede moved to sit up, but winced. “I may have pulled something last night. I’m sore all over.” His voice sounded froggy.
Ed smirked and brushed the hair from Stede’s eyes. “Yeah, you did get a bit, uh, overzealous. Not that I’m complaining!” he added at Stede’s blush. “Definitely not complaining.” Ed leaned close and pressed one kiss after another along his stubbled jawline. “You know you made me see stars, dove. Always do.”
Stede grinned and allowed himself to be kissed further into the mattress. His fingers combed through Ed’s hair, scratching his scalp in a way that made Ed want to purr. Reluctantly, he pulled back.
“We keep this up, we’ll both go hungry.”
“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Stede replied with a cheeky smile. His head flopped back into his pillow and his expression turned thoughtful. “Hm. Though bacon does sound quite good.”
Ed left him to doze a little while longer as he whipped up a simple breakfast. Marmalade wound around his ankles, yowling, until he set down a dish of food for him and another for Arthur. Ed scratched between his ears as he ate noisily and eagerly. The kitchen filled with the greasy pop and crackle of bacon as it cooked. Ed broke a few eggs in the pan with it and set to work preparing the tea especially strong for Stede, who seemed like he needed it this morning. A couple of pieces of toast were added— or one was, after Ed claimed the other. He held the slice in his mouth as he arranged the meal on a tray, complete with a sprig of the ivy that grew outside the kitchen window for a flourish.
When he brought it into the darkened bedroom, avoiding the painting supplies he’d left haphazardly on the floor, he noticed Stede was still buried beneath the covers. He blinked awake.
“Bacon?” He asked, voice sounding small.
Ed started to speak, then remembered the toast still held in his teeth. He tore it away and chewed. “And eggs and tea.” He set the tray on the bedside table. “You feeling alright?”
“Tired,” Stede yawned. “I’ll be up in a few.”
Ed pecked his forehead. “I have to go into the village for some things. Gonna take Arthur. Sure you’ll be alright?”
Stede nodded, eyes closing again. “I’ll be up in a few,” he repeated.
The road into town crunched softly beneath Ed’s boots. The earth was crusted over with ice, giving the landscape a shimmering appearance. Cold wind cut through the layers of Ed’s clothes. Meanwhile, Arthur was striding ahead, unbothered by the weather. The wolfhound’s thick, wavy coat seemed enough to stave off the chill— he seemed, almost, to enjoy it.
The buildings in the village huddled together as if for warmth, still and quiet on either side of the road. The only sign of life was the orange glow of lights in the windows, flickering and winking like watchful eyes. A few people passed them, heads down, with scarves wound tightly around their faces. They didn’t spare Ed a glance.
He pushed open the door to the postman’s office, pausing to stomp the frosty mud from his boots.
“Tell me you have something for me,” he huffed. He let the door thump closed behind him.
The postman, Lars, looked up from his ledger. He was from Sweden and spoke in halting English, but he always offered a warm smile despite his missing teeth.
“A letter, yes, and a package for you, Mr. Teach. The one you’ve been expecting?”
He slid a letter and a book-shaped package wrapped in brown paper across the desk. Ed snatched them up and held them to his chest, relieved.
“Yes, that’s it, thank you. It’s a gift, so you understand I’m—”
Lars held out his hand, still smiling pleasantly.
“Oh, right, um…” Ed fished around in his pockets until he found the appropriate coins and pressed them into Lars’s palm. “That should be right. Thanks again.”
Ed braved the cold once more to stop at the butcher’s. The only thing that kept him moving was the thought of stew later, lots of it, cooked in their biggest pot. He grinned a little to himself as the butcher wrapped up the pork. He was still getting used to it, that idea of he and Stede as a they, a pair, a unit. The big pot wasn’t just Ed’s, and neither was the bed, the cottage, the animals. They were theirs. Why did that make him so giddy? Maybe because he’d never imagined a domestic life like this one could happen to people like him and every morning he felt the delighted shock of it anew.
He and Arthur hurried back through the village, frosty air biting his cheeks, eager to be home again.
The cottage was dark and quiet when Ed returned. He set aside his packages as he looked around. Shedding his boots and various layers, he noticed that the kitchen hearth had been left to grow cold and the parlor fireplace remained unlit.
“Stede?” Ed called, hanging up his coat and scarf.
Something seemed off. He felt worry twist in his gut.
“Stede?” He called again, softer, as he peered into the bedroom.
The first thing he noticed was the tray of half-eaten breakfast food. In the dim light filtering through the window, he could make out a shape in the bed. Stede was sitting upright, but just barely. He’d wrapped the quilt around him in a bulky cocoon with only his head visible. He coughed, hard, like something was trying to crawl its way out of his throat.
“Ed,” Stede croaked miserably. “I think I’ve gone and gotten myself sick.”
Ed crossed the room and pressed the back of his hand to Stede’s forehead and cheeks. A heat was building beneath the skin.
“Bit of a fever.” Ed chewed his bottom lip. He wasn’t used to caring for anyone other than himself and even that he wasn’t very good at. Caring for his love, his partner, was something else entirely. He’d seen Stede sad, angry, delighted, worried, but never sick. All he knew is that he couldn’t bear to see Stede feeling this way. “What do you need? More tea? Soup?”
Stede opened his mouth to speak, but then he was coughing again, harsh and painful. “Tea?” He finally rasped out.
“Yeah, tea, I can do that,” and Ed was up and out of the room.
Ed kept moving because moving meant he wasn’t thinking and not thinking meant he wasn’t worrying. Still, the feeling sat there, an immovable lump in his throat. He mindlessly prepared a fresh pot of tea, tossing logs onto the fire while he waited for the water to heat. The woodpile was running low and he would have to chop more soon. Another coughing fit came from the other room. Ed winced. His thoughts spun out, reaching for an explanation. Had he left the window open a crack as they slept and let the bad night air in? Had Stede dried off completely after a bath, or had he lingered around the cottage with wet hair?
Tea, tea, right, he was making tea.
Back in the bedroom, Ed saw that Marmalade had made himself at home on Stede. He was kneading his paws into Stede’s chest, his expression blissed-out and unfocused, drool beading on his furry chin. Ed chuckled as he set the tray of tea things at the foot of the bed.
“I see the doctor is in. What’s his diagnosis?”
Stede leaned forward and allowed himself to be headbutted by the cat. “He says my situation is quite dire, but it can be cured by vigorous chest massage and a generous amount of purring.”
As if to demonstrate, Marmalade settled down and began to gently rumble.
Ed smiled, stirring honey into Stede’s tea. Stede took the cup with both hands and held it close to his face, breathing in the curl of steam that rose from it. He sipped, eyes fluttering shut as soothing heat ran down his sore throat.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Ed watched a crease form between his brows. His head fell back against the pillow and he puffed out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
Ed dragged an armchair alongside the bed and grabbed his own cup of tea before settling in. “Yeah? What are you sorry about?”
Stede frowned, looked at Ed a little incredulously like how can you not know? He gestured to himself.
“I’m sick, Ed. And it’s nearly Christmas! What if I…I ruin Christmas?” This was punctuated by a sudden cough that startled Marmalade from the bed.
Ed shouldn’t have laughed, not when Stede looked so genuinely concerned, but god, he needed it. “Stede, it’s Christmas. It happens every year. It’s just a few days like any other, only we’ve decided they’re important so we can eat and drink and be merry, yeah?” Ed found Stede’s knee under the thick barrier of quilts and squeezed it. “Forget Christmas. The only thing that matters to me is that you get well.”
Stede didn’t look convinced. In fact he looked…hurt? He blinked and stared down into his cup, holding it tightly in his hands.
“Yes, but it’s…I guess it’s silly now that I say it out loud, but…it’s our first. Together, I mean.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve never had a good Christmas before, and I thought…” He took a shuddering sort of breath, almost like he might start crying. Ed refused to allow that to happen.
“Hey, Stede, hey.” He pried one of Stede’s hands from his cup so that he could hold it on the bed between them. “It’s not silly. Didn’t say we couldn’t try having a great Christmas, did I? So you’ve got a little cold. Nothing we can’t handle.”
The truth was, Ed hadn’t realized how important the holiday was to Stede. He knew some of Stede’s childhood— his cold, distant father, his big, empty house, those fucking horrendous cousins of his. Christmas must have been a miserable affair for a young Stede. Ed, on the other hand, had never had much opportunity to celebrate and therefore didn’t care much. Since his rise to fame in London society, Christmastime had become all about the parties, including several raucous Twelfth Nights blotted from his memory by rum. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? Drinking yourself senseless, eating far too many rich foods, and exchanging gifts—
He thought of the wrapped package he’d left by the door.
“We could get Christmas started right now, if you’d like.”
Stede’s brows rose and Ed was glad to see the worry lines in his face soften. “Oh? And how do you plan on doing that?”
Ed quickly fetched the post. He returned to his chair, waggling a hefty envelope. “Well, first, it looks like a letter from Mary. Want me to read it?”
Stede brightened, snuggling further into his quilt nest. “Yes, please do!”
Mary was doing well, she wrote to them in her swirling script. Widowhood suited her better than marriage ever did, apparently.
“You would be surprised (or perhaps not?) that there is a whole community of women in London who have discovered freedom after losing their husbands. Many are like you and Edward, finding companionship and even love in those of their own sex.
Douglas sends kind regards. I’ve included a small watercolor of him. Isn’t he handsome?”
She went on to describe their Christmas preparations: the pudding Doug was making despite being an awful cook, her parents’ insistence on covering every surface of their home with greenery, the hot mulled wine she’d snuck from the kitchen to sip as she wrote.
Ed watched Stede’s face as he read aloud. There was fondness in his small smile, but melancholy, too. Was this what Stede hoped for, Ed wondered? A well-decorated home in the city with a big family and Christmas pudding and mulled wine? He could imagine Stede going caroling, shopping, or visiting friends in London. Instead he’d given everything up, abandoned all that he knew to have a life with someone he wasn’t even sure loved him back. He knew now, of course. Ed told him every chance he got. He wondered if that was enough.
“What’s that?” Stede was eyeing the wrapped book in Ed’s lap.
Ed refolded Mary’s letter and smiled, hoping it masked his anxiety. “You’ll find out, promise. First I think we both need to get some food in us.”
Ed’s plan was simple: fill Stede with hot tea and hearty stew and make sure he got plenty of rest. Soon, he’d be well enough for the perfect Christmas. Ed would stuff the cottage with an absurd amount of greenery, boatloads of holly and shit, so that you couldn’t take a step without encountering some beribboned swag of garland. He’d make Stede a proper Christmas feast with all the pudding and fucking pie he could eat. He’d shower the man with gifts if that’s what he really wanted. He deserved closets of clothes, a whole library of books.
This thought propelled Ed forward as he prepared stew in the kitchen.
Bowls emptied, bellies warm and full, Stede’s attention returned to the wrapped package sat temptingly close on the bedside table.
“You must tell me what the mysterious package is,” Stede said with mock seriousness. “I refuse to be kept in the dark any longer, Edward.”
Ed chuckled. “Edward, eh? You must mean business.” He grabbed the item in question and rotated it in his hands. “It was meant to be a Christmas surprise, but, uh… I don’t see why you can’t have it now.”
Stede’s eyes twinkled. “Then I suppose we should open it.”
Ed allowed Stede to do the honors. He tore away the brown paper and gasped as the cover was revealed.
“Oh, Ed, is it really?” He quickly flipped through the pages of the leather bound book, each one apparently more astonishing than the last. He bit his lip and shook his head. “It’s too nice. You shouldn’t have.”
Ed shrugged, grinning. “I can always send it back if you’d like…”
Stede held the book firmly to his chest and glared. “Don’t you dare.”
After a moment of perusing punctuated by ooh’s and ah’s, Stede yawned. “I think I’m too tired to read. Ed, would you mind?”
“Course, dove,” Ed replied, taking the book back. He wasn’t sure how interesting it would be to read Curtis’s Botanical Magazine aloud; there wasn’t exactly a story here, mostly just pictures and descriptions of plants. But Stede was already relaxing into his pillow despite the occasional bouts of coughing. He needed his sleep and, frankly, this might just be the thing for it.
Ed flipped the volume open to a page detailing the many, many varieties of orchids and how best to grow them. As he read, Ed imagined building Stede a little greenhouse where he might start his own collection of the delicate flowers. He must miss the one he left behind in London. Stede eventually began to snore, mouth open, his nose probably too stuffed to breathe through. Ed wanted to brush the fine gold hair from his forehead and kiss him there, to smooth away his creased brow with his lips. He didn’t for fear of waking him. Quietly he shut the book and set it on the floor by his chair. He stood and the chair creaked.
“Mm,” Stede murmured. He frowned with eyes still closed. “Come to bed.”
Ed glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly 7 o’clock. He’d meant to chop more wood and clean the cottage today, but Stede looked so small beneath the covers. He couldn’t bear to leave him alone. So he blew out the solitary candle, changed into the warm layers he’d neglected to put on the night before, and slid behind Stede in bed. He tugged just a little bit of the quilt free from under Stede’s body, enough to cover his own. He pressed as close as he could get, rested his head on Stede’s shoulder, and listened to him breathe. Ed was not likely to sleep anytime soon, so he kept count of Stede’s inhales and exhales instead. They were steady, interrupted only by the occasional cough.
Ed pressed his nose into Stede’s nightshirt. It smelled like floral soap and sweat and honey, like summer was caught deep in its wool fibers. Ed squeezed his eyes shut tight and thought of the two of them in the garden this past August, Ed painting, Stede tending to his fruits and veggies. He thought of the warm sun on his skin and Stede’s strong hands, brown from digging in the earth. There was nothing more beautiful than Stede surrounded by the plants he’d so carefully cultivated, red and sweaty, aglow with life. Ed remembered wanting to drop to his knees there, take those stained hands in his own, and propose. It was a fucking ridiculous impulse, he knew. In some other world, perhaps a more forgiving one, they might have gotten married out there on their own little patch of land— maybe not in front of God, but in front of the ocean and the clouds and the bent green grass and really, wasn’t that the same thing? But it seemed too absurd, too impossible, so he didn’t. Besides, they didn’t need some ceremony to declare their love for each other.
“Love you,” Ed whispered aloud to the room just to prove the point.
Stede, still asleep, made a small grunt that Ed took to mean I love you, too.
Ed was yanked from sleep by the sharp jab of a knee to his side. Stede was kicking the quilt off of them both, groaning.
“Whoa, hey, what’s wrong? Stede, hey—”
He tried to still Stede’s thrashing with a gentle hand on his arm, but Stede pushed him away. Ed saw then that he was drenched in sweat. He pressed his palm to Stede’s cheek.
He hissed. “Fuck, you’re burning up.”
Stede jerked from his touch again, then doubled over in a coughing fit. Ed’s hand hovered near Stede’s back, scared to touch but desperate to help. He needed something to drink, cold not hot.
“Stay here,” he said, as if Stede might wink out of existence if he left the room. From the kitchen Ed grabbed a large wooden bowl and a tin cup. He undid the latch on the back door and threw it open. Sometime in the night snow had fallen in a thick blanket over the grass. Shivering, he gathered up as much of it as he could. Some of the snow he bundled into a cloth.
“Here,” he breathed to Stede, climbing back into bed. He handed him the cup of melting snow. Stede’s hands shook badly as he tried to take it. Ed guided it to his lips and tipped some of the ice water in. “Sip this.”
As he did, Ed held the cold, soaked cloth to Stede’s brow. He brought it across his cheek, his jaw, slipping down his neck, leaving a trail of cool relief. Stede’s chest rose and fell under Ed’s hand. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Too quick, too ragged. Stede coughed out some of his water.
“You’re alright,” Ed murmured, over and over, tamping down his own rising panic. “You’re alright, just breathe, that’s good, take it slow.”
He took back the cup, now empty, and Stede curled onto his side. Ed saw a tear slip from his eye and run down the side of his nose.
“Ed, I feel terrible.”
Ed had never seen Stede like this. He suddenly seemed 30 years younger, a child, scared and alone.
Ed set aside the cup and bowl and scooted his body down until he and Stede were face-to-face. “I know, dove,” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly. He wouldn’t cry. They couldn’t both be crying. “You’re just sick. This is the worst of it and by morning you’ll be feeling better.”
If he said it then it must be true.
The night passed into morning in an aching, sleepless blur. Stede’s coughs wracked his body, leaving him feeling bruised. Ed made sure he drank water and he held the cool cloth to his forehead when the fever became unbearable. He hated the dull look in Stede’s eyes. Ed remembered, vaguely, being ill this way as a child, and the slow, thick molasses of his thoughts. He was grateful when, just as the dawn broke weakly through gray clouds, Stede drifted into sleep. Ed refused to take his eyes from Stede’s face. His cheeks were flushed and his blonde hair was all mussed up and darkened from sweat, but he looked almost peaceful for the first time in hours.
Exhausted, Ed began to cry.
He hadn’t meant to, really, but whatever had been holding his emotions at bay came loose and then his eyes were spilling over. Quiet, he had to be quiet, he couldn’t wake Stede, so he willed the tears to come silently. He kissed Stede’s hand where it rested by his face. He kissed each finger, each freckle. Then he did something odd.
He prayed.
Not to anyone or anything in particular, just a stream of thoughts flung out into the universe.
You can’t have him, Ed thought. You can’t bloody have him because I’ve already lost him once, actually, and I can’t do it again. Just got him back it feels like. He looks soft but he’s a fuckin’ fighter. Fought to get back to me. Fought to stay. And he’s brave, god is he brave, and smart. And I love him. That’s the most important bit. Never loved anyone the same way I love him. So I need him right here and I need him to get better so I can see him in summertime again. He’s meant to be under the sun. Surely you knew that. Not supposed to be hidden away. Not supposed to be. Supposed to be here. Need him here.
His prayer softened and fragmented and then he was asleep without ever realizing it, tears drying in the creases of his eyes.
The fever broke.
Stede came gradually back into himself. His head cleared and he could sit up again, propped up by a generous mound of pillows. Ed made broth and tea with honey to soothe his throat, raw from coughing. He helped Stede change into a fresh shirt and wiped clean his face. He read more from Curtis’s Botanical Magazine. He slept only when Stede demanded it.
“You’ve got dark circles ‘round your eyes,” Stede pointed out with a frown. Ed was curled up next to him in bed. Stede reached out and held his jaw, swiping beneath his eye with a thumb.
Ed grunted a laugh and leaned into the touch. “End up looking worse than you, huh?”
Stede scowled, but only for a moment. He’d insisted that Ed bring him a mirror that morning so that he could fix his hair and had gasped at his own pale face and darkened eyes. Already he was improving, though.
“Think you can get up for a little walk?”
Stede held his hands for support as he climbed out of bed and took more steps than he had in days.
“I’ll get my strength back,” Stede insisted. He concentrated on walking into the kitchen without Ed’s assistance. “And we’ll dance together on Christmas morning.”
“Sounds perfect,” Ed replied lightly, following close behind, though Christmas was only a few days away and he couldn’t imagine Stede finding the energy for all that so soon. “But how about we take it slow?”
Stede was a terrible patient. He grew bored with being ill and soon, Ed couldn’t keep him in bed. He pottered restlessly around the house in his banyan, Arthur at his heels, finding things to straighten and tidy wherever he went. The cough lingered. Ed made him sit and tried not to worry. He knew his fussing was too much, his anxiety too obvious, but Stede at least tolerated it.
On Christmas morning, they fought.
Ed had slept in— not on purpose, but a week of sleepless nights was finally catching up to him. When he did wake, it was to a mostly empty bed. His outstretched hand met something furry. Marmalade nipped lazily at his finger and he pulled it back.
“The fuck, where is…?”
He pushed himself up on his elbows. The lanky orange cat curled up tighter into the warm spot left by Stede’s body.
Ed was up and dressed in an instant. He shouldn’t be so worried about every little thing, but what if Stede was still too weak? What if he fell? He found Stede at the front door, wrapped in his long wool coat and pulling on mittens. Arthur waited patiently at his side.
“Stede?”
He turned and smiled. It was the brightest Ed had seen in days. “Ed! Arthur and I were just about to head into town. I wanted to get a few things for a proper Christmas pie.”
Ed could only stare.
“Stede, I— why—?”
Stede’s face lost a little of its light. “You didn’t forget that it was Christmas, did you?”
Maybe Ed had. Just a bit. Maybe he’d been so busy caring for Stede that Christmas hadn’t really been top of mind. He remembered his plan— the pudding, the greenery, the gifts. Damn.
“I didn’t,” he lied (just a bit). “I just don’t think you need to be walking all the way to the village by yourself. You sure you’re strong enough? You won’t get out of breath?”
Now Stede was really frowning, not merely a pout but a genuine look of annoyance. He tugged his coat closer around him. “I told you yesterday, Ed, I’m feeling much better. I’ve been cooped up in bed for too long and I think I’m going a little mad. And it’s our first Christmas, which I also mentioned before, and I wanted it to be special even if you don’t care.”
“Don’t care? Stede, c’mon—”
Stede pulled the door open, letting in the chilled air. “I’d like a Christmas pie today so I’m going to bake a Christmas pie whether or not—”
He ran out of air then and began to cough. It wasn’t as bad as before but the sound still scraped at Ed’s skin. “See? You’re not well.” He moved to guide Stede from the door. “Sit down and I’ll make us some breakfast and something hot to drink.”
Stede stepped from his reach and snapped, “Ed, I’m fine.”
Stede had never snapped at him like that before. Without another word, he headed down the snowy path, not waiting for Arthur to follow along. The wolfhound looked anxiously between the two men, unsure which side to pick. In the end, he didn’t have to. Ed wasn’t going to let Stede leave like that.
“Jesus, Stede,” Ed panted, breath white as he hurried after him. “I’m sorry I forgot about Christmas. I’m sorry I didn’t have a big feast for you and mulled wine and holly. I was worried sick about you and that’s all I could think about. I thought you— I didn’t know if you were—” It hurt to say but he said it anyway. “I didn’t know if you were going to get better. I’ve seen so many people die from illnesses like that, and I couldn’t—”
Ah, he was crying. That was happening more often these days, wasn’t it? He wiped his nose on the too-thin sleeve of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to worry so much. I’m sorry.”
Stede stood in place. Ed watched his mittened hands curl and uncurl. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
“Thank you,” he whispered, not turning around. “For taking care of me. I would have done the same, of course. And I would have been worried sick the whole time, too.” He took a deep breath and Ed knew he wasn’t finished. “It sounds so silly, but when I was a boy, my family didn’t— we never felt like a family. Not what I thought it should be. And I thought if I could just do Christmas right it might fix all that. At Christmas, you sit around the fire and sing songs and eat good food as a family.” He sniffed. When he finally turned, Ed saw tears shining in his eyes. “You’re my family, Ed. You deserve all of that, too.”
Ed reached out to Stede’s face and pulled him forward until their foreheads pressed together. Stede’s tears ran over Ed’s bare, frozen fingers.
“Just want you to be happy,” Ed whispered into the warm air between them. “And alive. Preferably both if you can manage it.”
Stede chuckled wetly. “I’ll certainly try.”
“But if I can’t…” The words caught in his throat. “If I can’t give you the life you’re picturing…if you’d be happier somewhere else…I know life here isn’t the fucking easiest, I know that, and I know I’m not always the easiest to live with. But you have to tell me, Stede. If you’re unhappy here you have to tell me.”
Stede pulled back slightly so he could look Ed in the eye. "Ed. My love. Some days I'll be unhappy, even here with you. That’s being human, I can’t help it. But I could never be unhappy because of you. Does that make sense?"
Ed shook his head. "You don't know that. What if I can't give you everything you need?"
"You are the only thing I need,” Stede assured him. “And there’s not a thing that could send me back to London, even if I wasn’t technically a dead man. Not your tossing and turning at night, the way you hum when you work, your stubborness—”
Ed scoffed. “Oh, I’m stubborn?”
“Yes, you are! We both are. I try so terribly hard to make everything perfect all the time but we’re not, Ed. We’re sort of a mess. Might as well embrace it.”
Ed grinned. He kissed him then, nothing more than chapped lips pressed to chapped lips, brief and sweet, but it was maybe in Ed’s top kisses of all time. His hands slipped down to rest at Stede’s neck and the other man jolted.
“God, your hands are cold.” Stede stepped back and really took him in, eyes widening. “Ed, you’re in your socks! You haven’t even got a coat on! You nut, are you trying to get yourself sick as well?”
Ed laughed as Stede hauled him back inside. Stede insisted on building up the fire in the parlor and scooting the sofa as close as they could get it without accidentally setting it alight. They huddled together there until the feeling returned to Ed’s toes.
They didn’t have pie that Christmas. The mantlepiece remained bare. Next year, Ed promised, but Stede seemed unbothered. They were turning slowly together in some approximation of a dance in the middle of the parlor rug, and so at least one of Stede’s wishes had been granted. Stede hummed a half-remembered song from that ball so many months ago. The memory of it made Ed grin into Stede’s shoulder.
“Are we doing it right?” he asked quietly, nuzzling closer. “Is this what family does?”
Stede hummed in agreement, giving their clasped hands a squeeze. “It’s what our family does, I think.”
Family. Family meant work and loads of fucking worry, Ed thought.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.