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The fire crackles low, throwing shadows over the sand. Most of the crew have settled in a circle, bellies full, the worst of the rum gone. Jim, Olu, and Archie are tucked together near the edge of the light, heads tipped close, laughter soft like it’s just for them.
Stede watches them for too long. It looks simple, what they have. Easy.
He thinks of Ed—bright and sharp and impossible—and Izzy, who keeps himself always just out of reach. He thinks of the way everything between the three of them has tangled into knots, when it could be as effortless as the warmth shared between Jim and Olu and Archie.
He clears his throat, but when he speaks, his voice still comes out too loud.
"So it really isn’t strange, then? Wanting both?"
Every head turns. Izzy groans and drags a hand down his face. "For fuck’s sake."
"I was just..." He gestures vaguely at Jim and Olu, and Archie's lip twitches in understanding. "Curious. And, well. Ed and Izzy and I have been... We have been discussing..."
"Bonnet, for god's sake—" Izzy breaks off and lets his head drop to the table with a thump. "Jesus Christ."
The crew chuckles at Izzy’s dramatics, but Stede presses on, cheeks warm.
"I mean, you see, I was married for… well, over a decade. To a woman. And I never—my eyes didn’t stray, not once. I was adamant about it. About not embarrassing her, not… not being improper. I thought that was the only way to be respectable. To be good."
He realizes he’s rambling and looks down at the sand, fingers worrying the stem of his cup. The fire snaps, fills the pause.
"But here, at sea, everything is so—" he waves his hand inarticulately at the circle, at Jim tucked between Olu and Archie, at Frenchie strumming, at Buttons humming some tuneless blessing. "Messy. And yet it works. And I suppose I’m trying to come to terms with the idea that I can… have everything. That I don’t have to limit myself to what I think I ought to have, but to what I want."
There’s a silence, softer this time. Frenchie’s grin is kind. "That’s the perk, Captain. No need to pick sides. You like who you like. Sea doesn’t mind."
Jim lifts their head, eyes catching the firelight. "No one worth keeping will, either."
Olu leans over to brush his knuckles down Jim's cheek. They turn and catch his hand, holding it gently. It makes something warm and tender and hungry rise up in Stede's chest.
He wants, desperately. Wants that with Ed and Izzy, wants it without having to question his own value in it, without having to be ashamed.
Stede thinks about what he has: the quiet night and his crew and a long way to go to reach Ed and Izzy. Thinks about how simple and good things could be if he just gave himself permission.
"It shouldn’t be this hard," he says.
The fire pops, a log collapsing inward. No one laughs at him this time.
"Doesn’t have to be," Frenchie says, softer now, plucking a string that fades into nothing.
Jim tilts their head toward him, sharp-eyed. "You make it hard when you’re worried about what people think. Stop worrying."
They say it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Stede envies that. He’s spent half his life worrying—about appearances, about propriety, about being respectable enough to pass unnoticed. Ten years of keeping his gaze pinned where it was supposed to be, of cutting himself down to fit into the neat, narrow shape of a husband. He never let himself want, because wanting was dangerous.
And now—now it’s all spilling out of him in front of his crew, as if the sea has soaked through his skin and loosened everything he once thought he was.
"It feels impossible," Stede admits, voice small but steady. "To believe I can reach for what I want and not ruin it in the process."
Across the fire, Izzy shifts. The movement is sharp, but when Stede looks up, he finds Izzy watching him. Not glaring, not scoffing—just watching, eyes dark, unreadable. The look holds, stretches long enough for Stede to feel his pulse in his throat, before Izzy glances away, jaw tight.
"Won't get far if you keep letting yourself think that."
His voice is flat and certain. It isn't quite a reassurance, but it is permission, Stede thinks, or as close to it as he'll get from Izzy Hands. It is permission to reach out, permission to be afraid and keep reaching anyway.
Stede stands, squeezing Ed's hand before letting go. His pulse beats fast, a staccato in his veins.
Ed tips his head up at him, a lazy grin curving his mouth. "Go on, then," he says, quiet enough that only Stede hears. "He's not gonna bite."
"He very well might," Stede says, and then winces.
Izzy snorts at that, but he doesn’t move when Stede crosses the firelight toward him. Doesn’t look away, either. His jaw is locked tight, but his eyes—Stede can’t read the look there. Doesn't know what to call it, but it's dark and deep and it feels like permission, too, as Stede sits down in the sand beside him.
Stede hesitates only a breath, pulse thundering, before he leans down and presses his mouth to Izzy’s. It’s awkward at first, rougher than he meant it to be, but Izzy doesn’t shove him off. He makes a sound low in his throat, caught between protest and hunger, and Stede feels it like a spark down his spine.
Behind them, Ed groans dramatically and flops back into the sand. "Fucking finally," he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes.
Frenchie whoops. Roach bangs his cup against a rock. Jim just smirks into Olu’s shoulder.
Stede pulls back, breathless, lips tingling. Izzy stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.
But Ed’s laughter drifts warm through the night, and Izzy hasn’t moved away.
For once, Stede doesn’t feel limited at all.