Work Text:
Aisle of grocery store. Card section. After much consideration, Ed pulls a card, skims the interior, grabs the coordinating envelope, puts it in his basket.
“Really?”
He turns his head to see a blonde man, with an identical basket, just to his right. Wearing a baby blue button-down shirt with just one too many buttons undone under a Patagonia puffy vest in navy, the guy looks like corporate dad picking up fresh basil on his way home from work.
“It’s so . . . pedestrian. Sorry but not sorry. If that person really means anything to you, don’t send that limp card.”
Fuck. Like, Ed just wants to pick up a few things for the holiday. Maybe make it a little festive. It’s the least he can do—
“Ugh,” the man grimaces, “tell me you remembered to buy her—“
“Him—“
“To buy him something decent, to offset that flaccid offering of a card.” The man shifts his grocery basket from one arm to the next, popping his opposite hip out in protest. Ed only notices because the man wears the tightest black jeans he has ever seen, showing every lovely curve of every lovely muscle in his lovely long legs.
In his long history of clubs and parties and events, booze and drugs and cigs, leather and vinyl and spandex, Ed has never seen someone so blatant. In daylight. In a mundane grocery store. Much less over a what? Hallmark card on a circular rack of cards for the desperate, the guilty, the pathetic.
Oh.
“Well, no,” Ed says, returning the card to the rack. “So, uhm, what do you suggest?
The man shakes back his hair, flipping an errant curl off of his brow, and squares his shoulders. “What message do you intend to send? To him?” He takes his time looking down to Ed’s boots then up to Ed’s doe eyes.
“Uh, just the uszh.”
“And what is ‘the uszh’? What are you *usually* trying to say to men when you buy them a card?” The man raises his eyebrows, eyes wide and unblinking.
“I . . . I never thought about it that way.”
“Well, it’s never too late to set your intentions and to learn how to express yourself in a healthy manner.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, took me forever to learn that. My ex-wife used to complain about it all the time. In fact,” he holds up a finger, twirls it around, and points at his own chest, “I used to be you, last-minute, Christmas Eve, frantically picking from the random, leftover Christmas cards, all incorrectly filed now, you’re lucky to find an envelope that fits. Oh, that one year I thought I really knocked it out of the arena –beautiful card, all red poinsettias and glitter and swirly script, a gentle, loving yet reverential expression inside.” He sighs.
“And?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, well, all fine and dandy until Mary opened the card it said ‘Dearest Sister’ on the front.”
Ed snorts. “You gave your wife a card that said ‘sister’ on it?”
“I confess, I was in a rush and really made sure the interior sentiment on the card was suitable and that the illustration had beauty and just a hint of festivity, then finding the right envelope—”
Ed giggles. “Oh, fuck, mate. You gave your wife—”
“EX-wife.”
“She was your wife at the time, right? You gave your *wife* a card that said *SISTER* on it.”
The man looks down at his boots, blushing. “Ah, yes, well . . .”
Ed wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh, shit, mate. I suppose that would make a person pay more attention when buying cards in the future, huh?”
“Like I said, it took me ages to set my intentions and to learn how to express myself in a healthy manner.” He looks up at Ed. “And I’d like to save you some of those ages and give you the guidance you need.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”
The man shakes the lock of hair off of his forehead again, adjusting his shoulders. “What are you *usually* trying to say to men when you buy them a card?”
“It’s just this one man. Not men. Man.” Ed rolls his eyes as if he can then have a better look into his brain for an answer. “Dunno. Just, thanks? For being my friend? Friend-ish?”
“So you’re just ‘friends.’ That first card was a bit . . . sentimental for just friends."
“Well, not just *friends.* We kinda take care of each other, uh, once in a while.” Now Ed feels the heat in his face. “In our line of work we don’t really have friends—"
“Line of work. So, what, your boss? Your assistant?” He looks side to side, then aggressively whispers, “If you don’t mind me saying—“
“I do actually! I do mind everything you are saying!”
The man waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. That’s just a polite expression I was taught to use when I know I’m right. As in,” he clears his throat, resumes the rumbly growl that pretends to be quiet, “if you don’t mind me saying, that card I just stopped you from buying is completely inappropriate for a colleague, particularly if he is your boss or your assistant as that is clearly a work hierarchy and as such brings with it a power imbalance that makes any sort of ‘love’ or ‘physical’ —dare I say ‘sexual’— relationship, really any relationship other than a collegial one, unethical, ill-advised, and perhaps even immoral. And puts you at risk for damages in a civil suit.” The man rocks back on his heels. “I would check in with your Human Resources office if I were you. Maybe have a consultation with a labor lawyer. These things can get very ugly and expensive.”
“Mate. Do I look like a guy who works in a place with a Human Resources office?” Ed makes a sweeping gesture to display his leather trousers, motorcycle boots, faded and torn Motörhead t-shirt, and patched denim jacket.
“I generally try to not judge people by their appearances. After all, you could be a programmer or a kindergarten teacher or a dog groomer. All of those professions are typically practiced in a setting with a Human Resources office—”
“Dog groomer?”
“A perfectly fine and honorable profession. Highly skilled! Requires good rapport with animals as well as their ‘parents,’ though I do rather dislike that characterization.”
“At least we agree on that.”
“Good. So, no holiday cards for work colleagues. Maybe just a hearty handshake and a ‘happy holidays’ or something. Clear on intentions. Healthy expression that is also ethical.”
“It’s not like that.” Ed mumbles.
“You’re welcome by the way.”
“Welcome for what? I never said thank you! ”
“Oh dear, your manners do need some work, but I’m willing to put in the effort.”
“My manners? The effort? What the fuck, mate?”
“And voice modulation, apparently. Use your indoor voice, …?”
“What?”
“Well, I rather hoped you’d take the social cue and supply your name in order to finish my admonition. Just another small thing to work on.”
“Look, mate. I have social skills! I have manners! My mother would knock you into next week if she heard you say that!”
“Oh, a strong woman. Love that! I look forward to meeting her, ….?”
“Ed. EDWARD.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Edward. I’m Stede.” When the man offers his hand, Ed takes it, surprised at the firm grip and confident shake.
“You think you’re going to meet my mother?”
“Oh, I’m just setting my intention.” Stede smiles, displaying dimples and eye crinkles and a playfulness that made Ed weak. “And now I want to express myself in a healthy manner.” He clears his throat. “Ed, I’d love to take you to dinner. I find you very attractive and I think you deserve more than being taken care of once in a while. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you.”
“That’s it? You haven’t planned our wedding already?”
“Oh, no, that would be presumptuous. Really that is something the happy couple should plan together, though I do have some strong preferences on such matters. But that can wait.”
“Stede, you are a fucking lunatic,” Ed grins. “And I like it.”
“Is that a yes to dinner?”
“That is a yes to dinner. But I do have to ask you one thing.”
“Okay. I’ll be honest in my reply.”
“Did that card you gave your wife say something about being her brother on the front too? Like, ‘Dearest Sister, holiday wishes from your favorite brother’? Or ‘Dearest Sister, from your incestuously curious brother?’ Or maybe--”
“’Dearest Sister, I celebrate our platonic, familial bond—‘”
“’Dearest Sister, in the spirit of the holiday season—”
“—I hope someone rails you into oblivion in a way that a brother cannot.”
****And so started their tradition of buying each other the most inappropriate cards for every holiday, even their wedding anniversaries.****