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The salt air of the Republic of Pirates is thick tonight, heavy with the scent of rotting kelp, stale rum, and the promise of rain that never quite comes. On the deck of The Revenge, the ship’s lanterns sway in a slow, rhythmic dance, casting long, amber shadows across the polished wood. Stede Bonnet stands by the quarterdeck railing, the fabric of his new silk shirt catching the silver glow of the moon. It’s a brilliant, cardinal red thing—the solitary survivor of a particular suit he’d reluctantly agreed was "cursed," though he couldn’t bring himself to part with this specific piece. He's humming a tuneless little sea shanty, his fingers tracing the intricate embroidery along his cuff, when the heavy, uneven thud of boots announces Ed’s approach.
Ed Teach practically radiates the heat of the day's sun and the sharp, metallic tang of the ocean. He collapses against the railing next to Stede with a theatrical groan, though his dark eyes are bright, reflecting the stars above. He carries the distinct aroma of brine and triumph.
"You should’ve seen it, Stede," Ed starts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates right through the wood between them. He uses his hands to illustrate, stretching his arms out so wide his knuckles nearly graze the rigging. "A snapper. Massive bloody thing. Fought me for a solid twenty minutes, I swear to God. Muscles like iron, that fish. It was a proper battle of wits out there on the dinghy. Just me, the line, and the deep blue sea. I brought it down, though. We’re eating like kings tomorrow."
Stede turns fully toward him, a brilliant, proud smile lighting up his face. He doesn't point out that Ed’s arms are currently stretched to a width that would imply a fish the size of a small shark. Instead, he clasps his hands together, leaning in. "Oh, bravo, Ed! A masterclass in patience, clearly. Though, if we are measuring triumphs by the yard today, I happen to have a rather extraordinary bit of news myself."
Ed tilts his head, a loose curl falling over his forehead. He grins, leaning his weight onto one hip. "Oh yeah? What’d you do, reorganize the library alphabetically by author's waistcoat color?"
"Ha-ha," Stede mimics, though there is absolutely no heat in it. He squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest just a fraction. "No. I’ll have you know that this afternoon, right there on the main deck, I bested Izzy Hands in a duel."
Ed blinks. For a second, his entire frame goes perfectly still. Then, a massive, booming laugh breaks from his chest, echoing out over the quiet water of the bay. "You? Izzy? Shut up. No way."
"Way!" Stede insists, using a bit of the modern slang circulating among the younger crew members, his voice rising in pitch with sheer glee. "It was a formal parry-and-thrust sequence! He got overconfident, as he always does, swung far too wide on his recovery, and I simply... tapped his blade away and held my point right at his throat. He looked absolutely incandescent with rage. I thought his boots were going to melt right through the deck."
Ed stares at him, the amusement slowing down into something much softer, deeper, and entirely captivated. His eyes trace the animated flush on Stede’s cheeks, the way his golden hair is mussed by the evening breeze, and then, inevitably, his gaze drops down to Stede’s chest. The cardinal red silk shifts as Stede breathes, catching the moonlight in a way that makes the fabric look almost fluid, like deep ocean water.
"’S a new shirt," Ed murmurs, his tone dropping an octave. The teasing pirate persona slips away, leaving just Ed, looking at Stede like he’s the only solid thing in a shifting world. He reaches out, his rough, tattooed fingers hovering just a millimeter away from the fine silk before gently brushing the collar. "The cursed suit?"
"The only piece I kept," Stede confesses, his voice dropping too, suddenly breathless. "I couldn't bear to throw it all away. Do you... do you like it?"
Ed’s thumb grazes the line of Stede’s collarbone, just above the fabric. His eyes lift to meet Stede’s. "You wear fine things well, Stede. Always have. Makes you look like... I don't know. Like you belong exactly where you are."
The honesty in Ed's voice is palpable, vibrating in the small space between them. Stede’s breath hitches. The moonlight is perfect, the ship is quiet, and the warmth radiating from Ed is an irresistible pull. Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection, Stede leans forward.
He closes the distance, pressing his lips to Ed’s. It's a sweet, lingering kiss, tasted with salt and the faint sweetness of the dried fruit they’d shared at dinner. Ed sighs into it, his eyes closing as his hand drifts up to cup the back of Stede’s neck, his fingers tangling in the soft curls there. For a few beautiful seconds, they are just two men lost in the middle of the ocean, anchoring each other down. Ed kisses back with a deep, familiar hunger, pressing closer.
But then, just as Stede begins to lean his full weight into the embrace, Ed’s movement hitches. Gently, but with unmistakable intent, Ed eases his hands down to Stede’s shoulders and applies a fraction of pressure, stepping back. The kiss breaks with a soft, quiet sound. Stede blinks, his eyes fluttering open. The sudden absence of Ed's lips leaves him feeling cold despite the tropical night. He looks at Ed, seeing the tight line of his jaw and the guarded, vulnerable look in his eyes. A sudden wave of mortification washes over Stede. He steps back quickly, his hands flying up defensively.
"Oh! Oh, goodness, Ed, I am so sorry," Stede stammers, the words tumbling out in a rushed, panicked heap. He looks down at the deck, his face burning hotter than it had during his victory over Izzy. "I completely overstepped. I just... the moon, and the shirt, and you were being so lovely... I apologize. Truly. I didn't mean to force anything upon you."
"Stede, hey, stop. Look at me," Ed says softly. He reaches out, his hand gently catching Stede’s chin to tilt his face back up. There’s no anger in Ed’s face, just a heavy, tired sort of wisdom. "You didn't overstep. I wanted to kiss you. I always want to kiss you."
"Then why...?" Stede’s voice cracks slightly, the disappointment heavy in his chest.
Ed sighs, leaning back against the railing and looking out over the dark water where the lights of the Republic of Pirates twinkle like fallen stars. "Because we’ve done this before, man. We went from zero to a hundred, everything was burning hot, and then... it all blew up in our faces. Left us both bloody wrecked." He looks back at Stede, his eyes searching. "I want this. I want us. But I want it to last. Can we... can we take it a bit slower this time? Just build the foundation before we put the whole roof on?"
Stede processes the words, the tight knot of rejection in his chest slowly unraveling into something warm and profoundly grateful. He nods slowly. "Slower. Yes. Of course, Ed. That makes perfect sense. We rushed the first time, didn't we?"
"Yeah," Ed says, a faint, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We did. You gotta be careful, Stede. You can't catch a fish if the fish doesn't want to be caught."
Stede blinks, a bit bewildered by the sudden shift back to maritime metaphors. He tilts his head, studying Ed’s face. "Am... am I the fish in this scenario, Ed? Or are you the fish? Because I must admit, your fishing metaphors usually involve a lot more harpoons and existential dread."
Ed lets out a soft snort, shaking his head. "Neither. Or, both, I guess. The fish is us, Stede. The relationship. The whole damn thing. We can't go throwing a net over it and dragging it onto the deck before it's ready. We gotta let it swim a bit. Let it get used to the water."
Stede stares at him for a long moment, his expression softening until his eyes are shining with affection. "That is... surprisingly poetic, Ed."
"Yeah, well. I have my moments," Ed grunts, though a faint blush creeps up his neck, hidden by his dark beard.
Seeking a connection that respects the new boundary they've set, Stede carefully extends his hand across the small gap between them, leaving it open, palm up, on the wooden railing. An invitation, nothing more. Ed doesn't hesitate. He slides his hand over Stede's, intertwining their fingers. His hand is larger, rougher, calloused from decades of rope and steel, but it fits perfectly against Stede’s smoother palm.
"See? This is good," Ed murmurs, squeezing Stede's hand. He looks down at their joined fingers, a genuine, relaxed smile finally breaking across his face. "This is perfect. Honestly, I don't even mind that you're not a mermaid."
Stede lets out a startled, joyful laugh, the last remnants of his anxiety vanishing into the night air. He squeezes Ed’s hand right back, leaning just a bit closer, their shoulders brushing. "A mermaid? Good heavens, Ed, I think you’d find a mermaid dreadfully boring after a while. All that sitting on rocks and brushing hair."
"Dunno," Ed teases, bumping his shoulder against Stede’s. "They got those shiny scales. Very dramatic."
"Well, I may lack scales," Stede says, a playful, wicked little spark lighting up his eyes as he recalls their quieter, more intimate moments tucked away in the captain's cabin. "But I think you know exactly what I’m like when we’re wrapped up in the bedsheets. Honestly, Ed, I’m more of an octopus."
Ed freezes for a fraction of a second before a massive, delighted grin splits his face. He turns his head to look at Stede, his eyes crinkling at the corners with pure affection. He gives Stede’s hand another firm, loving squeeze, accepting the ridiculous image with absolute gravity.
"Octopus boyfriend you are, then," Ed says softly.
At the word boyfriend, a bright, sudden flush spreads across Stede’s cheeks, warming him down to his toes. It’s a ridiculous, youthful sort of term, one he’d heard the younger sailors use in the taverns of Nassau to describe their partners, but hearing it roll off Ed’s tongue, directed entirely at him, makes his heart do a strange, joyful flip.
"Boyfriend," Stede repeats, testing the weight of it, his voice a happy whisper. "Yes. I rather like the sound of that."
They stand there together on the quiet deck, hands tightly bound, watching the moon track its slow path across the Caribbean sky, perfectly content to just swim in the shallows for as long as it takes.