Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART ONE

Ed was the only person on the ship who didn’t spend the entire voyage vomiting.

He’d thought it had been down to immunity at first. Living in squalor had had its advantages: he knew he’d been exposed to a vast array of diseases that real gentlemen had no cause to be anywhere near. They had no idea how to fight them off. And this may have been true, but on the third day of believing himself to be the only soul on the vessel to be able to wander the decks and enjoy the cool air whipping his hair from his face, he met the ship’s captain doing the exact same thing.

Captain Clatworthy was everything Ed had always imagined a seafaring man to be. What little skin could be seen between his eyebrows and beard was scrubbed and ruddy from years of salt wind, and Ed knew his eyes had seen wonders and horrors beyond his years (not that Ed could work out how many years that might have been – adults were adults). He walked tall and proud even in front of his small audience, as though poised to rouse spirits before a naval battle instead of simply ensuring a packet boat full of rich English folk tired of Bristol’s rain made it safely to Barbados.

And his outfit. Ed had seen men like this at the docks before, when he’d slunk around in the hopes that a drunken sailor might mistakenly drop pieces of the treasure he was sure they found on their voyages, but never so close. He’d never had such a chance to admire the bright buttons on their coats, the polished buckles of their shoes, or the gold trim of their hats. It was during this process, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, that Captain Clatworthy noticed him: Ed started, stepping instinctively backwards before the captain smiled down at him.

‘Good evening, young man,’ he said. ‘What brings you up on deck alone?’

Ed was sure there was a proper way to speak to a ship’s captain, but nerves swallowed the knowledge of whatever the proper way was.

‘I … the sea, sir.’ He tried sir because it never seemed to offend at home, and he’d been well taught by his mother that most people were his social betters anyway – better to assume that of everyone. ‘I just wanted to get a good look at it from up here.’

‘And your parents were not interested in accompanying you?’

Ed swallowed. He knew putting his hands in his pockets when talking to adults was bad manners, but his right hand slipped into his trouser pocket to twist around the piece of silk he kept in there.

‘My parents haven’t accompanied me on the ship, sir. My father is dead and my mother has stayed at home. I’m here as the companion of the Dowager Countess of Bristol, sir, but she’s not well.’

In truth, he wasn’t particularly sorry that the Dowager had taken to her bed. His mother had spent his final few weeks in Bristol emphasising to him how lucky he was to have had such an opportunity, but overall he found the Dowager spoilt, demanding and strangely childish for a woman of such nobility. Tired of society, she was taking some time to stay with her brother in Barbados until such time as she got bored (and perhaps started to see society through rose-tinted spectacles), or she, her brother and his wife were called upon to tend to her ageing mother’s health - whichever came first. Wandering the ship alone drew strange looks from the other passengers, but at least he was free of her shrill screeches.

Captain Clatworthy looked as though he were suppressing a smile.

‘Ah. Yes – I should have realised. My apologies, boy. I was aware she had taken a companion, and I must say that when I heard the news, I felt deeply sorry for him. I hope she has not been too unkind.’

Ed shook his head. It was always more polite to agree with adults, he knew. There’d be nothing to gain from letting loose the string of complaints that he kept in his head at all times.

‘Well.’ Captain Clatworthy, smile now unbridled, folded his hands behind his lower back to turn to the sea. The sun was perhaps half an hour away from setting, water melting into sky, and the few errant hairs of his beard glowed. ‘You say you have come to see the sea. You could not have chosen a more beautiful time of day to do so, and I am ever so pleased you are able to, and are not confined to your bedchamber by seasickness like so many others. How does that make you feel, when you look out there?’

The problem was, Ed didn’t have words for how it made him feel. No matter how rough life had been back home, he had always been able to find solace at the port. It was his mother he thought of now. His mother, who’d stayed for years with his brute of a father because to leave would undoubtedly have invoked his wrath. She was now free of his tormenting only to be trapped instead by a poverty greater than they’d ever known, due to his father's debts. His mother, who had tried to hide her tears as she’d hugged him goodbye on the dock, but who had told him that he must be strong, and never, ever forget how lucky he was to have a chance like this. Their life together had been difficult, but their love for one another had not been, and Ed had to press his lips together hard now as he tried to force his memories back to the land he’d left behind instead of the person.

He’d been told from a very young age that the water he lived beside wasn’t quite the sea, but to him he couldn’t see a difference: it was vast, and the ships that docked there had been to sea. That was good enough for him. There was nothing quite like the way their sails rippled in an evening breeze as the sun reduced them almost to silhouettes, the air tinged with the salt and seaweed and sailors that typified home as well as the idea of something more. To see that same sun with nothing in the way but ocean filled him up with more. But he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to explain that to someone whose entire life was spent in such settings. Captain Clatworthy, with his shiny buttons and bicorne that had spent days battered by wind but that still sat steadfastly atop his curls, would never understand.

‘I feel everything,’ was what he said, and Captain Clatworthy nodded sagely.

‘I like your answer.’

Chapter Text

After two days in Holetown, Ed was ready to get back onto the ship. To hell with money and opportunity and hot sun: he was sure he would rather have spent the entire rest of his life begging on the streets of Bristol rather than being subjected to the arrogance and cruelty of British settlers in the Caribbean.

For one thing, the heat of Barbados was not a secret, but you would have thought that the people who had moved here had been tricked into a furnace by a hungry giant. The Dowager Countess of Bristol in particular, once she had been shown to her brother’s house, had not left it to take in her new home town, preferring instead to lounge on a chaise longue and fan herself incessantly. All the while she complained of the heat and the boredom, as though she’d been expecting her brother to drop his business entirely in order to instead spend his time pantomiming for her personally.

Ed wished he’d been enlisted to help Baron Webley. He was every bit as snooty and arrogant as his sister, but at least he seemed interested in the world around him. It was very difficult to get excited about life halfway across the world when his mistress behaved as though it were punishment for some terrible crime.

‘You should go and join some of the local ladies in a spot of bridge,’ Baron Webley said, on the third morning the Dowager Countess of Bristol spent languishing and wailing in her bedchamber. ‘Adeline absolutely adores it. I am sure she would be happy to accompany you - although, of course, you have a companion ready and waiting here.’

It might have been nice if he’d smiled at Ed. Looked at him, even.

‘But the heat will rob it of any of its pleasure!’ The Dowager Countess of Bristol said. She was lying in such a position as to suggest she were near death, something Ed noticed she did only in company: ordinarily she was lazy, but far more alive with it, barking commands and snapping if he ever fulfilled them incorrectly. Now, though, he almost felt as though he ought to call for a priest. ‘How you get anything done for work is beyond me, and how you have assimilated to life so easily even more so. Poor Adeline! To be brought here, away from society, to sweat and waste away in some back room while you multiply your riches … and for what, Ralph? You are rich enough already.’

‘I will not remain so if Adeline continues to spend the way she does,’ said Baron Webley. ‘You will find society to be quite different here, of course, but once you adjust I am sure you will have the time of your life. You could come and try the fruit. I am quite sure you will never have tasted such sweetness.’

Affluent social circles to move within. Fruits so delectable he wasn’t sure his tongue would be able to handle the flavour. Why on God’s green Earth was The Dowager Countess of Bristol so disinterested? Ed had been instructed to stand to attention whenever other adults were present, but with no eyes on him in that moment he allowed himself a little sag as he sighed inwardly, imagining the world that could await him outside if only he were permitted to explore it a little.

‘There is no need to go outside to taste fruit,’ the Dowager snarled. ‘I have a perfectly good boy here who brings it for me. In fact -’ She raised her head ever so slightly to peer up at the small, round table beside her chaise longue, where there stood a glass half-full of melted ice and pineapple juice. ‘This will be too warm for me now. Go and fetch another.’

With equal parts frustration at being asked to do yet another menial task with no grace, and relief at being allowed to leave the Dowager’s presence for a few minutes, Ed gave a low bow before dashing off to the kitchen.

God, her appetite for half-glasses of pineapple juice was insatiable. She would have to sail to St Lucia to quench it before long. Perhaps he’d better get in on it before she really did drink the island dry - if he hadn’t been so terrified of the consequences of sneaking his own drink, he might well have tried it.

Instead, it took all of ten seconds for him to empty and refill the Dowager’s glass. For all he didn’t mind the heat anywhere near as much as the Dowager did, he did pause for a second to enjoy the cold glass against the palms of his hands. If he were to sneak a sip, he suspected he’d enjoy it a thousand times more than the spoilt woman across the way.

Her voice carried into the hallway dividing the rooms. Ed was unsurprised to hear that it hadn’t lost its mournful tone, and Baron Webley was now interjecting sporadically with all of the enthusiasm of a world-weary wench trying to persuade the most foul of leftover sailors to give her work for the night.

‘... so miserable. I do not know what I expected, but it was not this.’

Miserable? Ed allowed himself to snort out loud. The only misery about this place was the misery she was conjuring up: she could have lived a life of decadence here. Albeit at the expense of others, but then she didn’t care about things like that.

‘Well, I do not know what to tell you, sister. The boy is from a classless family. Nasty business with his father … I know he was cheap, but you really do get what you pay for when it comes to things like this.’

No. Ed had assumed she’d been complaining, as usual, about her situation. Listening to her do so had become wearing, but he would take that forever over personal insults. Why on Earth would she agree to take him on such a long and arduous journey, with the intention of staying in a new country indefinitely, if she was going to treat him this way and belittle everything he did - which wasn’t very much anyway, because she gave him no reason to do very much at all. Perhaps he could be more useful if he were accompanying someone else, someone who had even an ounce more of a zest for life than she did.

A classless family …

*

‘Ed? Where are you, love? It’s me, it’s Mum. Come and say hello, then.’

The familiar voice raised a smile: his mother often beat his father home, but Ed liked to be sure it was her before he rushed to see her, especially if she was unusually early. Ordinarily, she would be out for as many hours as she could stand, taking on work in the houses of the rich. She returned sore and yawning from all of the washing and cleaning, and was made to cook and clean for Ed’s father even after all of this. He complained at having been hard at work himself, but Ed - and indeed everyone in the area - knew that the majority of his time was spent in taverns. Their menial earnings were spent there, too.

But today felt a little bit more promising. There was something in his mother’s voice that told him she hadn’t returned early without good reason, and when Ed found her, she held her arms out for a hug. She always smelled good after work, at least: of strange dust and soap, and Ed buried his face in her chest for a hearty inhale. When she released him, her cheeks were rounded by a wide smile.

‘You’ll never guess what,’ she said.

He waited for the explanation, but she nodded at him.

‘You … want me to actually guess?’ he said.

‘Yes. Go on.’ She nodded again, the smile not faltering once even as he screwed up his face in confusion.

‘But you haven’t given me a clue or anything. I can’t guess out of everything in the whole entire world that might have happened to you.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘Just think of something wonderful that might have happened.’

He knew it was wrong to think your father’s been killed, but he did, for a second, consider saying it aloud even so.

‘You’ve been offered a job as a princess in a huge castle, and I’m allowed to come with you and be a prince, and I can have my own horses and hold jousting tournaments?’

Silly as he was being, he could see from her widened eyes that his mother was considering the wonder of that life, if just for a moment.

‘Not quite. But we might be able to pretend for the day. Here, look -’

And she pulled, from the folds of her dress, a shilling.

‘I found it,’ she said. ‘Down by the docks. I came home that way just in case … well, I thought we could go out for the afternoon, love. What do you think?’

A shilling. That sort of money would pay for … well, Ed wasn’t entirely sure. He wasn’t familiar enough with money to understand what it could and couldn’t offer them, but he knew full well that it was money they needed, and that if his mother was suggesting they go out and use it for fun, then she must really want to have some fun.

And suddenly, caught up in the wonder of the whole idea, his stomach lurched in excitement. He nodded, feeling almost shivery.

‘But you mustn’t tell your father,’ she said. ‘We’ll not be long - just go for a little walkabout, maybe get you a cake or something like that from the stall near the cathedral, all right? This is just for us. Your father has his fun in the taverns, and we’ll have ours now.’

They knew the places in the city where he spent most of his time, and Ed knew his mother was steering him well away from any of them. He wouldn’t be down at the cathedral, with its towers and its green and the stalls selling all manner of sweet-smelling treats. She bought a delicate whirl of pastry for herself, adorned with berries and cream, and a thick slice of honey cake for him, and they sat together to eat them while watching people go about their lives. Ed liked to make up stories for them, imagining what business they had to attend to based on their clothing and manner. One man, clutching his wig, he decided was late to preside over a court proceeding. There were two women gossiping together who kept bursting into giggles who he thought might be discussing their husbands.

How must they have looked? Dirty, ragged and happy among their social betters?

Perhaps life could be like this more often if his father didn’t waste all of his efforts on drink.

It came to an end far too soon. His mother was wise enough to leave some of the money, though she impressed upon him again that his father was not to know they had it. Ed spent the walk home daydreaming of the things he would buy with it if only he were free to, new outfits and shoes that didn’t pinch and, most of all, something lovely for his mother.

She’d kept money in all manner of places around their small house over the years, but his father had an uncanny ability to sniff out any fragments of metal should he run out of drinking money before he ran out of appetite for booze. Ed watched her closely this time, thinking he may be able to keep a lookout over the spot should his father get dangerously close: but his mother didn’t choose anywhere this time around. Instead, she patted her pocket, miming a sh gesture with the index finger of her other hand.

‘I’m keeping it on me, Eddie,’ she said. ‘I’ll not let it out of my sight.’

She slipped her hand into her pocket, making to check the money hadn’t been lost on their walk back (although Ed had seen her check it about ten times on the relatively short journey) - and her face fell.

‘Oh.’

‘Oh what?’ Ed said, suddenly panicked: but his mother simply drew her hand from her pocket again, this time holding something floppy and red.

‘Here. I must have left this in my pocket after pressing the Admiral’s shirts this morning.’

A handkerchief? No. It was more delicate than that, slipping against her fingers like fluid. And, when she held it out for Ed to feel for himself, he almost believed it was fluid it was so light. Silk. It must have been.

He would never be sure why he said it. He knew the answer to the question he asked then, and he knew that saying anything was only going to upset his mother. But after the day he’d had, knowing what was possible, it was out there before he’d really given it a second thought.

‘Why can’t we have things like this?’

He didn’t miss the little twist in his mother’s expression.

‘Well, it’s not up to us, is it? It’s up to God. He decides who gets what.’

Up to my father, actually, Ed thought. He was sure his mother would have been thinking the same thing. God sounded like an excuse, thought up in the moment, to avoid having to talk about the real reason they both knew was behind their misfortune.

‘We’re just not those kind of people. We never will be.’

He’d never heard his mother speak as though his future was predetermined, and it scared him. Perhaps she’d taken a different set of thoughts and ideas away from today, more like a comparison than potential.

And he wanted to attempt to explain this to her. He wanted to say that it didn’t have to be like this, and that that man couldn’t possibly live forever. There was hope. Maybe.

Instead, he said nothing as he let the silk trail through his fingers.

*

A classless family? No. A classless father - but he was long gone. Ed had made sure of that.

He knew he couldn’t face the Dowager or her brother. There was a pain in the front of his head that made him wonder whether he were about to burst into tears, and if he did that in front of either of them he wouldn’t rouse pity in them - it would be another reason for the Dowager to look upon him with contempt. No. He would make out he’d been distracted, perhaps by a little creature that had slithered or skittered its way into the kitchen. Maybe, if he were to be delayed anyway, he could get away with sipping some of the pineapple juice and replacing it once he had composed himself …

Instead of turning into the room, Ed ran down the hall as quickly as he could while trying to stay quiet and keep the juice from slopping onto the polished floors. The grounds of the house were vast, but thus far he’d only seen them from the window of his small bedroom. In his current state he couldn’t appreciate the beauty, but there was a small part of him that dimly registered the towering palms even so. This was what he’d heard about, from sea captains who had made the crossing many times, and had he ever imagined he would have a chance to see them for himself, it would never have been while he fought back tears and searched for a place to hide.

It was under one of the palm trees that he found refuge, the papery bark scratching through his shirt as he leaned back against it. His throat was too tight to even choke down the juice. He gave it a try, but swallowing had become very difficult.

He’d been told, by his mother, all of the reasons he was doing this. He was going to meet new people who could elevate his status. He was going to see new places. He was going to earn better money than he’d ever be able to earn back home. And he would be kept, so he would be far less likely to waste any of the money he was given. He was sure his mother trusted him not to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he was also sure she was encouraging this path to make sure the risk was removed altogether.

But was it worth it? If this was the life he was going to live until the Dowager decided she’d had enough - and, despite her complaints, she hadn’t given him an indicator that this was going to be the case any time soon - did his status have any chance at being elevated? He’d been a guttersnipe in Bristol, and in Barbados, it was starting to look as though he didn’t have a chance at being anything different.

‘Oh … my goodness.’

The voice that spoke was new. Ed tried instinctively to scramble backwards, unwilling to be seen this way by anyone, but in his panic he’d forgotten the palm trunk behind him and the back of his head collided with it sharply. He hissed, eyes smarting, and looked up to see a bulky crinoline grander even than anything the Dowager had bundled into her trunks for the voyage from England. Taking care not to instigate a repeat performance of his previous head injury, he gazed upwards to see the head and torso of a woman he’d never met before - but the first woman who had looked upon him with concern.

She then did something Ed had never seen a woman other than his mother do: she sat on the floor beside him. It must have been difficult in so many skirts, but she settled down, cross-legged, as though this were how she ate her dinner every evening. Ed wasn’t sure if he wanted to crawl away from this stranger or throw his arms around her. Surely to God she couldn’t be worse than anyone inside the Dowager’s bedchamber, but what if she’d been sent by them to collect him? His mother had warned him about strangers. Those with unfriendly motives never made them clear up front, and he was all too aware that he could be enticed into a dangerous situation before he realised that anything about it was suspect.

‘You must be the Dowager’s young charge. Edward, am I correct?’

The name “Edward” sent a little shiver through him, as though he were being scolded. He bristled just for a moment. This woman’s tone was enough to calm him.

‘Yes, miss,’ he said.

‘Well, Edward. I have seen you loitering about the house, but thus far haven’t had chance to introduce myself. I am afraid - and I must ask that you do not repeat this to anyone, least of all the Dowager herself - that you may have been tasked with something near impossible. You cannot accompany a lady who does not want to travel anywhere, and I am sorry for your situation. My husband’s sister can be insufferable, and my husband has been bullied all his life into submitting to her. It was rather devastating when we found out she was to join us out here.’

Was he allowed to laugh? It didn’t feel like he ought to be, but this woman had a gentle air about her which almost invited it. She spoke again before he had to make the decision, though.

‘If she is to stay in her chamber indefinitely then I am sure we can find you something else to do. It would be a crying shame for you to have come all this way only for you to see nothing of the country, would it not?’

He wanted to cry out his agreement. He might have done, if not for the fear that the Dowager may hear his voice carry through into the house: the nod he gave instead was so enthusiastic he felt a crack in the back of his neck, and he bumped his head on the tree trunk again. If there really was at least one adult on his level here, then Caribbean life might not be so tedious after all.

‘Come on. We will speak to her together, and I will put my foot down if my husband tries to contradict me,’ she said. ‘My name is Baroness Webley, by the way, but you may call me Adeline.’

Maybe not in front of the Dowager and Baron Webley. But Ed nodded all the same.

He left the half-empty glass behind, Adeline tugging him by the hand to lead him all the way back to the bedchamber. Baron Webley glanced up at the sound of their footsteps, and Ed noticed the tiny little flinch he gave when he noticed that his wife had materialised instead of the requested pineapple juice.

‘You took your time,’ the Dowager said. She hadn’t bothered to look up at all. ‘Did they send you up a pineapple tree?’ 

‘I found him under a palm tree, actually,’ said Adeline in a loud, deliberate voice. That made the Dowager start: she twisted her neck, and then her scowl.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you. I thought Ralph said you’d gone to be fitted for a new gown?’

Adeline scowled at Baron Webley.

‘I have merely been to take tea with a friend,’ she said. ‘And now I have returned. It was a shame you could not join me, Charlotte, but I suppose that can’t be helped if my husband didn’t relay the proper information to you. Is it the choice of Edward to linger here, however? Surely you do not need him to tend to your every whim when your whims consist of … well, I am not certain, but presumably being fanned and being brought cool beverages?’

The Dowager puffed her face up as though suffering some sort of serious medical complaint.

‘What I do with the companion I am paying is my business and mine alone!’ she spluttered.

‘And the consequences will be your business, in that case,’ said Adeline. ‘There is a school not ten minutes’ walk from here. Presumably, if you are to stay here for any length of time, that would be the best place for him?’

School? Ed wished Adeline had mentioned that outside, so his expression didn’t betray the shocked revulsion he felt at that word. He’d never considered school back in Bristol - it would have been a waste of time to even entertain the notion.

‘Look at him!’ said Baron Webley - and, from his tone, it was apparent that he considered the idea a waste of time, too. ‘They’ll not let him enrol there in a million years - the place is full with landowners’ sons. Even if he secured a place, by some miracle, the lad would absolutely hate it. He is not their kind, and they are not his.’

‘But he must do something. Young boys become dangerous when understimulated,’ Adeline protested. Ed bristled again, but deduced immediately from the way she then squeezed his shoulder that she was trying to make a case for him in any way she could. ‘He is not far from becoming a young man. Strong. Independent. Disobedient, too, if you leave him languishing in the house all day. I hardly see how running between the bedchamber and the kitchen with the same glass is enough to keep his mind occupied, and he will learn absolutely nothing from it. What do you suppose you will do with him then?’

‘I can think of a few things we could do with him,’ Baron Webley mumbled, 

‘No,’ said the Dowager: every eye in the room swivelled to her in surprise. She was pushing herself onto her elbows, as upright as Ed had seen her in quite some time. ‘Actually, I feel Adeline has made a good point. I am rather sick of having him about the place anyway - the original plan was always to have him help with my luggage, fetching and carrying, that sort of thing, but since I shan’t be travelling anywhere any time soon, he might as well be occupied elsewhere for the time being.’

The upending of her previous stance had happened so quickly that Ed felt sure she must have some ulterior motive in agreeing with Adeline: in fact, he realised almost as quickly, the motive would most likely have been her reputation. If she were so silly as to believe that his boredom would lead to delinquency, then it would indeed fall on her head, as the adult responsible for him. In truth he may have envisaged himself doing nothing more than sneak out from time to time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the island, but he was more than happy to let Adeline speak for him if this was the result her bending of the truth led to.

‘The place will still be open. You might as well take him there now,’ said the Dowager. ‘They may not permit him to enrol as a pupil, but he is strong. He has grit. I feel sure they will find some use for him, and then maybe when he returns to me of an evening we will not be so sick of the sight of each other as we have become of late, and we will greet each other pleasantly.’

Ed couldn’t even be angry - she was right, after all.

What might school be like? Difficult, most probably. He presumed these boys would have been reading and writing since they were mere babies, with the amount of money their parents were able to spend on their education, whereas he would not have been able to recognise his own name had someone daubed it on the bedchamber wall. But what a wonderful place to start with that sort of thing: somewhere new, where nobody knew of his name or reputation or father. And it wasn’t as though he would have to keep up with the other boys necessarily. He might be tasked with cleaning the rooms, or whatever needed doing in these fancy buildings, and he could squirrel away snippets of knowledge from here and there as and when he overheard them.

He was in high spirits, then, when he strode to the school with Adeline. He was surprised by how briskly she walked for an Englishwoman in such heat: he could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck after just a few minutes from the exertion of keeping up with her, and he had to wonder what that would do for his chances of being taken seriously there, but she paid him no mind and he conceded that her opinion, being a Baroness, must count for more than his own.

‘Better to keep you as far away as possible from those dreadful Webleys, and for as long as possible,’ she said, barely panting. She was fit, then, too: she clearly didn’t waste her time lying about.

‘But your surname is the same.’

‘But it is not in my blood.’ She sighed, seemingly in both amusement and lament. ‘We are most unhappily married, Edward, and I must implore you never to follow in our footsteps. A match made in business is no match at all.’

Ed didn’t venture forth with his observation that most married couples he’d known were unhappily married. He only suspected there was another way to be married through stories he’d heard, and even then, the hope was faint. They were just stories, after all.

*

Master Lawhitton (how many English people was Ed going to meet out here?) took his time looking Ed over when Adeline introduced the two of them to one another. He was used to second glances when he passed people on the street, but this level of scrutiny felt almost like he were being identified in a police line-up, and he was struck by the sudden sense that he might actually have done something wrong without being able to remember what it might have been.

‘With the Dowager Countess of Bristol, is he?’ he said, when he’d finally decided that Ed was indeed sitting there in front of him.

‘Yes, sir. But she is quite ill, and there is currently nothing the boy can do for her. I would imagine there will be nothing he can do for her for some time, in fact.’

‘Very well.’ No - Ed had been wrong about Master Lawhitton’s need to ascertain his existence, for he spent another twenty seconds or so observing him closely. ‘Do you garden, boy?’

Garden? Ed hadn’t anticipated a school would have a garden, but fortunately his mother had drafted him in at the estate during the spring and summer when the gardeners there were under the mounting pressure of infinitely growing grass.

‘I do, sir. Yes.’ The true answer would have been a little less sure of itself, but you didn’t get anywhere without confidence.

‘Hm.’ Another pause. Ed had no idea what else could be so interesting about him any more. He wasn’t that big. ‘We could get you started with the gardeners, then. They tire easily at the moment and you could take over when they become useless. Other than that, I am sure there are plenty of odd jobs you could do around the place. I will speak to the caretaker. In fact …’ Here, Master Lawhitton rose, indicating that Ed should do the same. ‘Baroness, please do not feel you need to remain here any longer. I feel sure Edward will be put to work very shortly, and we will send him back to you in one piece.’

Adeline’s farewell left Ed a little empty, but thus far he hadn’t been given reason to fear Master Lawhitton. Whatever evil he’d been looking for about him, he hadn’t found, at any rate.

And the school diverted his attention away from any worry anyway. The place was huge. He had seen schools back home, big ones, too, as far as he understood. He had once overheard one of the more fortunate boys, one of the ones in knickerbockers, talking to a friend (or chum, as he had said at the time) about how he had got lost on his way to classics because the school was so much more splayed out than the one he had moved from, back in Frome. But this felt more like the sort of place that ought to have housed an entire extended noble family, with enough room for each member to have a sort of individual house bigger than Ed’s own. Master Lawhitton led him past the doors to several classrooms, where boys sat in neat rows and even neater uniforms, upright and captivated by teachers in flowing gowns. All of them English, he surmised from the snippets of accent he could hear. 

‘You won’t have attended school back home, I suppose?’ said Master Lawhitton, and Ed shook his head.

‘No, sir.’

‘Well. You may learn a thing or two while you are here. I daresay you will definitely learn more than you ever would have tending to Adeline’s sister-in-law.’

Goodness. Even the most buttoned-up of adults hated that woman. Ed relaxed a little as they rounded another corner to come face-to-face with another teacher right in the middle of scolding a boy about Ed’s age.

‘... reason for you not to go to mathematics, it is a vital skill. I suppose you are also aware that your parents are worried about your attainment. There has been talk of extending your schooling beyond your final year, even. Missing my lessons will not help.’

If Ed was bad at something, he didn’t think he’d much fancy attending lessons in it either if he were just going to be told how bad he was rather than being helped into development. But then again, if he really thought about it, this boy was lucky he was even going to school at all. Maybe Ed would have faced the lessons if he was offered them, no matter how stupid they made him feel at first.

‘But I sit beside Badminton, sir, and he wrapped his croquet mallet around my ankle in games earlier so that I twisted it,’ said the boy. His voice had this strange quality of being both desperately earnest and pathetic at the same time, which prompted a similarly baffling mix of pity and derision in Ed. ‘I’m scared he will try to hurt me again.’

‘Telling tales as usual,’ the teacher sighed. ‘Whatever you think has happened outside of my classroom, Bonnet, does not matter. Badminton will be under my watchful eye inside there.’

All these names … Ed was looking at the boy and his uniform, as neat and pressed as anyone else’s, when the two of them realised they had company. They looked up as one, both of them similarly horrified that their conversation was no longer private, but Master Lawhitton gave a reassuring nod.

‘Good afternoon, Master Cavendish. I see Bonnet causes as much of a nuisance to you as he does to me.’

“Bonnet” scowled, and Ed fought back a chuckle. He was sure that this boy probably thought he looked menacing, but his ridiculous uniform, neatly curled blonde hair and complete lack of any menace whatsoever did not work in his favour.

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Master Lawhitton. ‘Come on, Bonnet, in you come. I am sure you do not want to embarrass yourself any longer in front of this new boy. And I am also sure I will be needed before long to remind Badminton what two plus two is …’

Poor Bonnet. Despite the distance, Ed felt almost as though he were every pathetic little posh boy from home: couldn’t hold their own in a fight, and didn’t understand anything about how the world worked. Considering his wealth and his position, Ed couldn’t find it in him to feel too sorry for him. But when their eyes met as Bonnet turned to go back into his lesson with a resigned sigh, he did at least recognise a fellow outsider.

Chapter Text

The next day, Ed met Bonnet again.

Ed was very used to spending time alone. His lifestyle had never lent itself to close friends, only those children he ran into now and again around his streets - more often than not they had all been too busy going about their own lives to spend much time at play, and they had grown up in one another’s peripheries rather than side-by-side. Ed would, honestly, have told anyone who’d asked that his best friend was his mother.

But here, a loner seemed unusual. One thing about these arrogant English types was that they did band together a lot. Ed had noticed that while their disinterest in Barbados couldn’t match up to the Dowager’s, they still seemed to wish they lived in England, and did everything they could to simulate that lifestyle. Why bother even coming, then? England existed.

Actually, Ed had worked out why they’d come here quite quickly, but the reason disgusted him. It was difficult to understand how people could treat other people that way.

He’d been left alone as soon as he’d been trusted to his tasks, which did suit him. He could tell the head gardener, Mr Taylor, was mostly in this job due to his preference for solitude, and once he’d briefed Ed on where he kept all of his tools, and which plants needed what doing to them, he satisfied himself with leaving him to it. This also meant that Ed didn’t feel too much like he was under scrutiny, despite his early meeting with Lawhitton. He was taking pause to enjoy the smell of yet another new flower he’d never seen back home when something rustled within a nearby bush.

Ed froze. He wasn’t yet sure of the sorts of animals that might live in Barbados, and whether or not they might pose any sort of danger to him. For all he knew, a wild wolf might be about to leap out and pin him to the ground, ready to tear his throat out.

The bush rustled again, this time with a quiet whimpering sound. Ed knew very little about wolves, but he could at least satisfy himself that whatever had made that noise was not one. It was doubtful that it was an animal at all, in fact.

‘Hello?’ he ventured.

The bush rustled in apparent shock this time.

‘Hello?’ it said right back.

This is like something out of the Bible, Ed thought. He put the shears he was carrying down on the lawn, trying to remove any kind of perceived threat, before taking three slow, careful steps towards the bush. He couldn’t gauge its reaction to this. It was, after all, a bush.

‘Are you … hiding from someone?’ he said.

This time, the bush remained motionless.

‘Are you one of Badminton’s friends?’ it said, and Ed rolled his eyes.

‘Well, if I was, I’d now be able to send him right to you,’ he said. ‘Luckily for you I haven’t got a clue who Badminton is. I’m pretty sure your name is Bonnet, though. Am I right?’

It probably shouldn’t have felt so satisfying to humiliate this kid, but Ed couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he waited for his response.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Does that mean you’re the new boy I saw outside my maths lesson yesterday?’

‘Edward,’ said Ed. He usually permitted adults to introduce him to one another this way, and would use “Ed” himself if prompted, but he didn’t feel that Bonnet had earned this from him yet: he seemed more like an elder than an equal. ‘Or Teach, I suppose. If you all call each other by your last names.’

‘And … and you’re definitely not friends with Badminton? In secret?’

‘No. I already told you, I have no idea who he is.’

‘He’s a beastly bully. Well. There are actually two of them. His brother isn’t much better, but it’s Nigel who makes my life so utterly miserable here.’

Finally, the bush gave its most almighty shake yet, and a slightly scratched, leaf-peppered Bonnet stepped out onto the lawn. He was rather more dishevelled than he had been while receiving his dressing-down the previous day, and as Ed regarded him, he thought it looked as though he’d been crying.

‘They’re so awful, Edward. I don’t know what I have ever done to incur their wrath, but I have incurred it even so.’

God. This kid had absolutely no self-awareness, did he?

‘Well,’ Ed said. ‘For starters, maybe don’t use phrases like incur their wrath. See, I’d have said get them angry there instead. That sounds a lot less uppity. I mean … I know you’re all uppity, but there’s something about it coming from you that sounds really weedy.’

Bonnet’s face curled into a scowl.

‘Even if I do sound weedy, it shouldn’t mean people pick on me.’ he said.

‘True,’ said Ed. ‘But the world is full of nasty people, and we’re not about to change that any time soon. Best thing you can do is learn how to deal with them until they learn how to be better. And if they don’t, a cheeky bit of murder takes care of most problems.’

He delighted in Bonnet’s shocked little face at that. Treating murder like a joke always gave him a thrill deep in his stomach.

‘Edward, that’s disgusting,’ Bonnet said.

‘I’m not for one second suggesting that you actually strangle this Badminton kid,’ said Ed - perhaps too quickly, but it seemed to satisfy Bonnet anyway, his body relaxing a little. ‘What I am suggesting is that you don’t take his shit lying down.’

This, if possible, prompted an even more horrified reaction.

‘Edward Teach!’ Bonnet gasped. ‘You can’t swear in school!’

Ed really did try not to laugh. He’d got it into his head now that his new purpose, rather than tending to the Dowager as she writhed around sweating on her chaise longue, was to inject a bit of oomph into this miserable wretch. That, he was good at, and he felt he needed something to be good at out here in such an alien land. And he wanted to take that seriously, but Bonnet was such a caricature of a public school boy that, in that moment, Ed could barely believe he was real. He let out a snort that he was surprised didn’t catch the attention of every boy in the classroom across the lawn, and that caused Stede to frown again, this time folding his arms tightly across his chest and pulling his chin right into his neck. This, to Ed’s (slight) shame, only made him laugh harder.

‘God, you need me,’ he said. ‘You really do.’

*

Bonnet had come across a lot of places on the school grounds where they were unlikely to be disturbed. He knew which times of the day certain rooms were safe and when they were off-limits, and he knew where it was possible to escape school altogether if things were looking dire: ie, if Badminton had let loose a veritable army of his chums to split up and scour the entire premises. This morning, he assured Ed, the main hall would not be in use. There would be staff in the kitchens setting up for dinner, but they would not be anywhere near the windows for another hour or so: the courtyard behind them was theirs for the time being.

‘Right,’ Ed said, hands on hips. ‘Right.’

He’d been so excited at the prospect of imparting his knowledge that he wasn’t sure where to start now that the opportunity was right in front of him. Bonnet simply waited, a nervous, slightly vacant smile on his face as his eyes darted here and there in search of teachers.

Ed couldn’t lead with violence. If a tiny little swearword had almost brought on a fainting fit in Bonnet, then a punch to the head might hospitalise him, even if done with the utmost care.

‘Right,’ Ed said again, uncomfortably aware that he’d hedged more than enough now. ‘What sort of stuff does this Badminton guy say to you? Give me an example.’

‘Oh … do I have to?’ Bonnet looked as though he might start crying even trying to remember.

‘It’d be helpful. You realise I don’t know anyone here, right? I need to get an idea of the lay of the land so I can understand what might work against your types.’

‘Fine.’ It did look like effort, but Bonnet got there in the end, albeit with a pained little sigh. ‘The other day, we were supposed to be identifying flora …’

‘Right, Bonnet, I’m going to stop you there. What’s a flora?’

‘Flora? Do you not have flora where you come from?’

Ed just pulled a face that he hoped said what the hell do you think?

‘It means plants. We had gone on a nature walk.’ He moved on quickly enough that Ed didn’t even feel too stupid to have needed the clarification, and he found himself warmed by this. ‘Anyway, I was intrigued by a little pink flower I had never seen before. I asked our teacher about it, and he said it was called something like … ixora. Yes, that was it. Because Badminton was nearby and he said “of course Bonnet would like that one. He’s a pricksora”.’

There were several seconds of silence before Ed realised that was the end of the story.

‘That’s what he said?’

‘Yes.’

‘That wasn’t even a good pun. Bit of a reach, to be honest. And that really pissed you off, eh?’

‘It did!’ Bonnet was starting to go as pink in the cheeks as his precious flowers. ‘It all gets rather wearing when he is insulting and belittling you constantly, Edward. And that one was - well - rude.’

‘You do seem like a bit of an easy target, mate.’ Ignoring Bonnet’s crestfallen face, Ed paused to ponder this situation. A load of boys, out hunting for flowers together … he’d have feigned disinterest, even if he’d been positively obsessed with flowers, and had kept dozens of petals pressed in heavy books all over his house. But something about Bonnet had compelled him to go running immediately to teacher in all of his excitement. There was nothing wrong with that - it was brave, really, to be so brazen about it in that sort of company - but it wasn’t wise. Not if boys here were anything like the boys Ed knew in Bristol. ‘Next time something like that happens, my first advice would be to not go all gooey over a flower in the first place.’

‘But it was -’

‘I don’t care. You can go back to it later, if you really must. But if you have, say, gone ahead and incurred Badminton’s broth or whatever it was you called it, and he says something like that back to you, you could just turn it into a cheap your mum joke.’

‘A what?’

Now, Ed knew for certain he was dealing with a different species from his own.

‘You sort of use the thing they’ve said to you and make it sound dirty, then imply you’ve slept with their mum. So … so here, when Badminton called you a pricksora, you would say something like “well, your mum enjoyed my pricksora last night, Badminton”.’

Bonnet’s face was twisting as though he were trying not to vomit.

‘And that works, does it?’

‘Oh, yeah. Not all the time, but usually.’

‘Why?’

‘No one knows. It’s a mystery. Maybe because boys are so protective over their mums?’

‘Are you protective over yours?’

Ed should have realised that was coming: he nodded, biting his lip.

‘Then … then maybe I should try inventing my own your mum joke to use on you,’ Bonnet said, and now, he was holding himself with far more determination. ‘You seem like the kind of chap who can come up with a good insult. Let me have it, Edward. Pretend to be Badminton. I promise I won’t be offended if you promise you won’t be offended with what I come back with.’

There was so little chance of that that Ed didn’t even pause for breath. He started easy: ‘Who curls your hair for you, Bonnet?’

Bonnet looked slightly confused. ‘No one. It just grows that way.’

‘I’m insulting you …’

‘Oh! Oh, sorry, yes. Of course. Erm.’ Bonnet cleared his throat as though about to announce the arrival of royalty. ‘Your mother curled my hair for me, Badminton, immediately after I made love to her last night!’

Once again, the pull of laughter was too much for Ed to resist: and he did feel terrible about it when Bonnet gaped at him, crestfallen, but not terrible enough to stop.

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Bonnet cried. ‘I just did what you did! What is so funny?’

How to explain it to him? Ed would have no idea where to start. He’d known this boy for all of half an hour, but that was enough to tell him that they might as well have been speaking different languages. It would be another lesson entirely to sit Bonnet down and explain to him that he just had this way of coming across as a bit wet, and his grasp of social situations was mediocre at best. That was too much to hear all at once when you were already miserable enough about the way you were treated by your peers, Ed conceded. For all his wetness, he did feel sorry for the kid - and he quite liked him, too.

‘There’s just something about you,’ Ed said simply. ‘That’s all. It might take a bit of time to adjust the way you look at these situations. Try to grasp what the other people in them see when they look at you, that sort of thing. Which is hard,’ he added, when he saw Bonnet’s evident confusion. ‘We’re so used to seeing ourselves from the inside. But we can do it. You’re willing to learn, which is the main thing. I just don’t think I can turn you into a Badminton-beating machine within the next hour. And, to be honest. I should probably get back to work anyway. Unlike you, I’m not hiding from anyone, and I don’t want to get in trouble so soon after I’ve started.’

‘I was going to say, actually,’ said Bonnet. ‘Why are you allowed to get away with not wearing the proper uniform?’

He was testing, was Bonnet. Ed had a feeling that taking a short, but deep, breath before answering his questions was going to become commonplace.

‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Do you really think I attend this school?’

He’d expected a cursory glance, at most. But Bonnet did his best Master Lawhitton impersonation instead, starting from Ed’s hair (full of errant tree trimmings already) to his feet (already aching in shoes that were battered and ever-so-slightly too tight).

‘I wish you did attend this school,’ he mumbled. ‘Might be more fun if we could be chums.’

Chums! Just like that posh boy in Bristol. Maybe Barbados wasn’t so alien after all.

‘I’ve never had a chum in my life,’ said Ed. ‘I don’t even know what one is.’

‘Oh, sorry. A chum is …’

‘For fuck’s sake, it was another …’ Breathe, Ed. He’s just an ignorant little rich boy. ‘What I mean to say is, yeah. It might be quite nice if we could be friends, Bonnet.’

And finally - finally - that round, pink face brightened right up with the warmest, most genuine smile Ed had seen grace it so far.

‘Then maybe you could call me Stede.’

Chapter Text

Being busy did wonders for Ed’s assimilation to Barbados. Sure, the evenings were still tedious enough, with the Dowager’s frail cries punctuating any time he tried to use for rest after the hours of toil in the sun. But this was a small price to pay for spending the majority of his time feeling useful, enjoying the sights and sounds of the island, and actually speaking to someone who found him fascinating.

They would both arrive to school early - Ed, because he had to, and Stede because it afforded him the chance to hammer out a plan for the day without being overheard. They’d decided that their meetings were to be kept secret. Not only did that give Stede a fighting chance against the bullies, but Ed thought that, eventually, he might try to engage Stede in some form of combat, and if anyone saw these lessons they’d undoubtedly mistake him for a violent criminal and have him dismissed immediately. No … the risk of having to run constant non-errands for the Dowager again was too great.

He had the conversation with Stede early on around not missing lessons, which he realised made him almost as tedious as the Dowager, but something didn’t sit right with him knowing that Stede was skipping important elements of his education. It took him longer to work out that part of his concern was rooted in the fact that Stede might be able to pass his knowledge onto him, and anything Stede missed would therefore be something he missed, too.

‘I don’t think you realise how lucky you are, if I’m honest,’ he said one afternoon. It was lunchtime: Ed had eaten with the gardeners, wolfing his sandwiches down in about five minutes as they enjoyed a more leisurely chat, and had waited near the main hall for Stede to emerge. He’d taken to arriving at lunch as normal, eating enough so that it looked as though he’d managed a complete meal, but squirrelling much of it away to take wherever they had established that morning was the meeting place for the day. ‘Your parents must pay so much money for you to be here.’

‘I don’t give a fig what my father thinks,’ Stede said. ‘Let him waste his money. He is as bad as the boys here, to be honest.’

This hint of father-related discomfort intrigued Ed. He wanted to pry all of a sudden, to call off the introduction to disarmament he’d decided would be Stede’s first foray into physical fighting and instead compare childhoods. They might have been brought up in seemingly different universes, but were there threads running through both of their lives that, if tightened, might tug them together?

It was dangerous territory, though. Even though he was far enough away from home that he could probably say anything about his own father without fear of repercussion, there were still some elements of his life before Barbados that he was determined were going to stay away from Barbados - and the conversation he so wanted to strike up was the exact sort of conversation that might pave the way to those unwanted revelations.

‘Then don’t do it for your father,’ Ed said. ‘Think about yourself. I would be furious if the likes of Nigel Badminton had stopped me from learning about … I don’t know. What is it you learn about in physics, say?’

Stede hitched himself up straighter with a new, knowing smile. ‘We’ve been doing about the planets,’ he said. ‘And the moon and the stars, all that sort of thing. About how the moon is actually what changes the tides. Did you know that?’

‘I did not …’

The sea was never too far away in Barbados, and particularly close to the school in Holetown: both of them paused, as though they’d previously agreed to do so, to listen to the rushing waves in the distance.

‘And the moon’s doing that?’ Ed said, after possibly a full minute or two. ‘The actual moon, the one that’s in the sky and that’s not even around right now?’

‘It’s always around somewhere, Edward.’

‘That’s insane. That’s witchcraft, even.’

‘No, I promise you. It’s true.’

One of the things Ed had begun to really like about Stede was his ability to know more than him without making Ed feel as though he knew less. He’d have made a good teacher. Maybe. Ed was sure he wasn’t doing the best job at it himself: he did try to be patient, but Stede’s complete lack of understanding of any facet of the social world apart from the tiny cocoon in which he’d been brought up did make things difficult sometimes.

‘All right,’ Ed said. ‘These lessons are going to be two-way from now on. But let’s get on with my part, before Lawhitton finds us and thinks I’m an intruder come to kidnap you to hold you hostage for the Bonnet fortune.’

Stede had recently been ambushed on the way home from school, and Ed had been frustrated with himself for not having taught Stede a basic counter-attack sooner. Stede had actually had bruises to show for it, and a new rage had surprised Ed as he’d examined them.

‘You need to be Badminton for this,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be you. OK? I’m going to walk along normally and I want you to come up from behind - which, by the way, is the most cowardly way to attack someone, especially when they’re not a threat, so Badminton is a complete piece of shit for doing that - and grab me the way he grabbed you. Or as close as you can remember.’

‘Oh … that means you’re going to attack me, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, but I’m gonna do it very gently and slowly, so I can show you how it’s done. All right?’

Stede steeled himself. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You start walking.’

So Ed turned his back and walked. And walked. He reached the far end of the courtyard and was forced to turn around, where he came to face Stede again. He was standing in the exact spot Ed had left him in, and he was gnawing on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ed said. These were the moments when he found patience difficult to come by: the moments where that deep breath was all-important. He’d given him the most simple instruction, after all. It might be easier to teach the really little boys this sort of stuff. At least they weren’t intelligent enough to think twice about things.

But Stede looked embarrassed to have even been asked the question.

‘I …’ He turned away, as though checking nobody was approaching who he didn’t want to overhear what he said next. ‘I don’t want to. I might hurt you.’

With a sigh, Ed shook his head.

‘You are not going to hurt me,’ he said.

‘But I might!’ Stede managed to look him in the eye now. He even took several long, quick strides forward, and Ed stood his ground in an almost instinctive response to being approached so boldly despite Stede’s obvious concern. ‘It just feels wrong, that’s all, grabbing you the way Badminton grabbed me. When he did it, it hurt.’

‘Then you don’t do it as hard, or whatever. Honestly. I’m a tough nut, Stede, I’m a street rat.’

Stede squirmed. ‘Don’t say things like that …’

‘I’m not insulting myself, I’m proud of it. And I very much think you’d benefit from my street ratty ways here, so I’m going to start walking again, and then you’re going to come up behind me and grab me. OK?’

Stede was still squirming, though. It was one of those many, many reasons Ed knew he ought to have found him pathetic, and maybe even given up trying to instil some brash confidence in him - but he usually felt quite sorry for him instead. It wasn’t Stede’s fault that both his home and school life were full of people who wanted him to feel small. For all Ed’s misfortune back home, at least his mother thought the world of him.

And, truly, the genuine concern at the idea that he might do Ed some damage was at least a little bit moving.

He squeezed Stede’s shoulder. ‘You won’t hurt me. I promise.’

He didn’t. Of course. Stede didn’t have it in him to hurt anyone, which was sort of the entire point of these meetings: but he winced himself when Ed bent him into a sort of knot that pinned his arm behind his back. The guilty pang that pierced Ed then was not akin to the feeling he imagined he might get if he kicked a kitten.

‘Sorry … God … are you OK?’ he said, and Stede started to laugh.

‘I’m fine! Sorry, I was just surprised …’ He looked a bit like a Christmas turkey, arms wrapped up behind him as Ed kept him clamped in place as gently as he could: but he was beaming. ‘That was brilliant, Edward! Can we do it again, more slowly? I need to really understand how it’s done …’

*

Progress was slow at first. It took some time to shake off the side-effects of being brought up a rich bitch, after all. Some of the things - a lot of them, in fact - that Ed took for granted seemed to have never crossed Stede's mind throughout his entire life, mostly because he'd never had reason for them to have crossed his mind. More than once, Ed suggested a situation they could simulate that had actually happened to him back in Bristol only to have Stede stare at him as though Ed had suggested they fight to the death.

The more this happened, though, the better an idea they got of one another. It wasn't anywhere near as much of a one-way street as Ed had imagined it might be. While he started to pick up on the societal niceties that Stede lived by, and therefore struggled to flout even under Ed's tutelage, Stede seemed to be almost softening: not into a pathetic plate of blancmange incapable of standing up for himself. It was quite the opposite. He'd carried himself so stiffly when Ed had first met him in that bush that he'd wondered whether a gentle push might snap him in two rather than push him over, but as he listened to Ed's tales of street scrapping, he began to relax. He no longer drew himself up as though standing to attention in the military, or forced a speaking style that wouldn't have been out of place in King James' court. As he imparted tidbits of knowledge from school, he absorbed tidbits of mannerisms from Ed, and before long the gap between them only appeared as wide as it was due to the uppity uniform Stede still had to wear.

The first time he shed parts of it was the first time he agreed to fight.

‘It’s not going to be a proper one.’ Ed had had to assure him of this after he first put the idea forward. He’d have thought that Stede, by now, would have understood how this worked, and that he was never going to be in any real danger. Even so, there were moments that took him aback. ‘I’m not going to do anything that might hurt you, you know that. We’re going to take it slowly, just so you can practise some moves and counter-moves, OK? It’s all well and good me teaching you them, but if you really do get jumped by someone you don’t have somebody talking you through everything.’

When explained like that, Stede seemed to understand. He still looked a little concerned, but nodded all the same. ‘Yeah. All right.’

‘Are you sure? We can wait until you’re ready, if you really don’t feel up to it right now.’

‘No, no … I do. It just sounds scary when you say it, you know? A fight …’ But his eyes were wide and glimmering, and he was rolling up his shirt-sleeves. ‘I would love to be in a fight one day. It would be such a cool thing to be able to say I’ve done, don’t you think?’

Ed forced a smile, nodding. In truth he wished he had Stede’s record - fighting had been an unpleasant necessity in his life, never something he’d specifically wanted to do - but it felt cruel, dampening Stede’s spirit now. As much as he needed these skills, he also needed to believe he could use them if it ever came down to it.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Yep. It’s always good to get your first one out of the way, then you know that no matter what happens, you’re capable of surviving them.’

But fights weren’t often pre-planned - not schoolyard ones, anyway - so without further ado, he launched himself at Stede.

It had the expected effect: Stede yelped and dove out of the way, covering his face with both of his forearms. It wasn’t exactly the desired effect, though, and Ed sighed, chuckling.

‘Come on,’ he said, raising his fists the way he’d seen his father do, on those miserable nights where he’d been sent to fetch him home and had found him outside of the pub after closing time. ‘What are you gonna do if I hit you with this, huh?’

He punctuated the word with a right hook, stopping just short of Stede’s face. Stede yelped again, ducking down.

‘All right, yeah, getting out of the way isn’t the worst idea in the world, but then you’re left vulnerable to this -’ A (very soft) punch to the gut this time. Ed felt far more guilty than he should have, even as his knuckles just grazed Stede’s shirt and the soft flesh beneath. ‘You’d be on the floor by now, Bonnet. Badminton’s got friends all around him, he doesn’t fight fair, they’re all gonna be kicking you in the ribs next -’

Here, though, they weren’t: and Stede finally found some spirit. Quicker than Ed would have thought possible, he rushed forward, bent double - the top of his head collided with Ed’s stomach, and he really did crash backwards onto the grass.

‘On the floor, eh? Like this?’ Stede pressed the toe of his shoe, very gently, into Ed’s chest. ‘Beg me for mercy, Badminton, lest I destroy you in front of all of your friends.’

‘Maybe don’t talk like the hero of a swashbuckling yarn,’ Ed said, and he seized Stede’s ankle and yanked it out from under him. Stede, caught unawares, tumbled to the ground. A great deal of his weight crashed down on Ed, and the pair of them groaned in pain before bursting into peals of laughter as Stede rolled onto his back beside Ed.

‘Fuck,’ he said, and Ed gasped.

‘You swore!’

This, more than anything else, had knocked Ed for six. Stede just beamed, pink with exertion and perhaps a smidgeon of embarrassment.

‘I must admit, I really rather enjoyed that,’ he said.

His voice was still breathy, but strong all the same. He pushed himself off the ground so that he was sitting upright, looking down at Ed. The grass was strangely comfortable; this new, perverse view of Stede, oddly satisfying. He had not expected him to look quite so gleeful after they had their first simulated scrap, nor had he expected to feel quite so … satisfied? Was that the word? No … when he thought about it, it was almost the opposite. When Stede had been pressuring his chest with his shoe … he’d almost been waiting for something else, as though that were an invitation. To what, though?

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to answer that, even without the interruption of Stede offering his hand.

‘Yeah,’ said Ed, to his chest rather than to Stede. ‘Yeah … me too, mate.’

He took Stede’s proffered hand, allowing himself to be pulled up without doing much of the work himself. Stede had the strength: and now he sort of knew what to do with it. Ed couldn’t help but swell slightly with pride.

Stede had left his jacket at the side of the courtyard. He let Ed go, and as soon as he turned to retrieve it, Ed turned away. His heart was beating a little too fast for his liking, and he was worried Stede would somehow be able to see it in his expression.

‘Ed, I think you’ve dropped something.’

Ed turned back to him. He’d only made it about five paces, and he was holding something aloft: Ed’s silk.

‘Oh, shit … thank you.’ Ed could feel his cheeks flushing: he strode forward and snatched the silk from Stede’s hand with much more aggression than he’d intended, stuffing it back into the pocket it had fallen from. He should have thought about that before he’d proposed the fight. There would definitely have been somewhere more secure to hide it. What if Stede hadn’t noticed it? What if it had fallen out only to be blown into a flowerbed, or chopped to pieces the next time someone trimmed this grass? There was a strong need to bring it with him wherever he went, but maybe work like this was too much of a risk.

‘Silk?’ Stede said, and Ed nodded, keeping his gaze on his shoes. ‘Did the Dowager give that to you?’

The question had been asked innocuously enough. Stede couldn’t possibly have known that he was touching on something quite sensitive within Ed, and Ed didn’t have to let on that he’d done so. He could have nodded again.

He could have.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s from Bristol. Home, I mean.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Stede. ‘I know where Bristol is.’

His sincere assertion almost made Ed laugh.

‘My mum gave me it,’ he said. ‘It’s from the estate she looks after. I don’t have much else from home, so I keep this with me to … well, to remind me of her, I suppose. And remind me of why I’m living so far away from her now.’

Of all of the strange little dissonant moments the two of them had shared so far, this one had to come up top as the most disconcerting for Ed. He could laugh at Stede’s shock at the behaviour of drunkards after they were kicked out of taverns, or his casual remarks about the different dress codes for different situations; less amusing, but understandable, was the mild surprise at the fact that Ed and his mother had gone days at a time eating nothing but food thrown out by the local bakery when his father had vanished for a while with all of the money he’d been able to find around the house.

But Ed knew that the idea of sailing across the world, leaving behind everyone you knew, to chase down a better quality of life would be completely beyond Stede’s comprehension.

He therefore didn’t know how to feel when Stede asked the question even so.

‘And why are you living so far away from her?’

He whispered it, as though speaking it aloud would summon a teacher to separate the two of them and ban them from meeting for their little makeshift lessons ever again.

‘Because she wanted a better life for me,’ said Ed. ‘And I … well, I’m going to make a better life for her. When I do go home, I’m going to have money. I’m putting it away, I’m not spending any of it. Then we’ll be able to live properly - not properly like you and all these other people here, of course, but properly as in we won’t have to hide when the landlord comes to call. Properly like … I dunno.’

He was thinking back to the day his mother had found that shilling. That was, in truth, the sort of life he dreamed of, though he knew the sort of life he was looking for was far more practical. Luxuries, to him, were safeties. Not pastries.

Stede was standing stock still. His face had softened, and Ed wondered whether he were trying to imagine this life. After a moment, though, he reached out to squeeze Ed’s shoulder. He seemed as surprised about this act as Ed was.

‘You’re so brave, Edward,’ Stede said.

No I’m not, Ed thought. You can only be brave if you’re scared.

But, when he thought about it, he had been.

*

A few mornings later, Ed arrived in the toolshed to find Mr Taylor sweating. They both sweated a lot anyway, of course, but this morning there was something of a fountain gushing from his temples, and it had Ed on edge.

‘I can’t get it done,’ he said, desperately, by way of greeting. Ed raised his eyebrows, and Mr Taylor shook his head, wiping some of the moisture from his brow. ‘Sorry, Master Teach. I mean to say good morning, of course. I’m just in something of a panic as my scythe has seized up. Master Lawhitton will be most displeased at the state of the grass, and there is nothing I can do about it until I source another.’

‘Would you be able to find one in the town?’ Ed said. He hadn’t explored the shops before - there was little point, when you were saving all of your money, but Mr Taylor nodded.

‘I would need permission to use the school’s budget. I’d have to find Master Lawhitton, secure the funds, then go into town … the work itself will have to be done tomorrow, of course, as it would be too hot to cut all of the lawns after such a rigmarole …’

‘I’ll go and find him now,’ Ed said. ‘While the buildings are quiet. Get the ball rolling?’

It might be a nice chance to get a proper look at the place. He might be able to imagine, uninterrupted, what it would be like to actually study here, to be considered good and proper enough to wear a uniform and sit in rows and write at one of those little wooden desks. It was almost with a skip in his step that he made his way inside, using his orientation of the grounds to work out where he needed to go to find Master Lawhitton’s office, where he’d first been presented to him on that first day. It wasn’t difficult. He imagined he probably had a better grasp of the site as a whole now than a lot of the pupils did …

There was a small group of them loitering in the corridor close to one of the classrooms. Ed hadn’t seen anybody arrive thus far that morning: this surprised him. He knew why he was so keen to be here early in the morning, but from what he gathered from his conversations with Stede and those he overheard at break times, he was in the minority. These boys would rather be roughhousing, fishing or simply out enjoying the sun than spending their time in school.

His pace slowed. He’d always been nervous about passing groups like this when he was alone, and though he very much doubted he could get into any sort of trouble with these hoity-toity types who wouldn’t want to get their britches dusty, the threat they cast over him felt different.

They did nothing other than eye him as he passed. Even that gave him the shivers, though, and he was relieved to draw level with the next classroom and hear them start to mutter amongst themselves again. He was trying to picture an alternate route back out of the building in his mind when one phrase caught him off-guard.

‘... not the one we saw the other day? He’s wearing the same clothes.’

Their chatter had remained background noise until that moment. Ed felt sure this was because he was attuned to instances of being talked about, even as he approached a turn in the corridor, and this certainly seemed like one of those. The boy who was speaking had a plummier voice even than Stede. It set his teeth on edge listening to it.

‘I don’t know who he is. He’s always hanging around the grounds but he looks about our age.’

‘My mother says he’s living with the Dowager Countess of Bristol at the moment. Surely she can afford to send him here?’

‘But who says she wants to?’ This came from the first boy, and there was a smattering of cruel laughter. ‘No, all that sort is good for is manual labour. He would struggle to keep up in our lessons, it would be unkind to even try to teach him.’

That’s my literal fucking surname, Ed thought. He’d rounded a corner now, but he was clenching his fists before he’d realised he was doing so, and had to take several of those well-practised breaths to stop himself from launching back up the corridor and waving them around in the general direction of the boys until all of them were on their backsides, snivelling. He could do it. He knew he could. He’d have the element of surprise on his side, as well as the simple fact that he’d had to stand up for himself a hell of a lot more than those boys ever would in the whole of their lives.

‘Well said,’ someone else chimed in. ‘I mean - Bonnet’s spoken to him, haven’t you? What was it you said - a street rat, you called him?’

Oh, God. No. Not Stede. Anyone but Stede.

The fury was engulfed by something else, some all-compassing bubbling pot of emotions that mixed shame and regret with quite a lot of nausea. His feet carried him back around the corridor and into their view despite the protestations of his mind, and he came face-to-face with several embarrassed-looking boys who had, very clearly, assumed he hadn’t been able to hear a word they’d said.

Sure enough, there he was. Right in the centre, easily missable if you weren’t paying attention, stood Stede, pinker than his precious fucking ixora.

‘Fuck you, Stede Bonnet,’ Ed said, and he tried to maintain some dignity as he stormed out of the building with every intention of telling Mr Taylor that he’d become quite unwell, and had to go home to rest for a few days.

Chapter Text

The Dowager was perhaps more miserable about Ed’s reappearance in the house than Ed himself was. He told her the same lie about having taken ill - he’d intended it to be an explanation for his absence from the school, but hadn’t considered the advantage it gave him in that she now no longer wanted him anywhere near her.

This advantage lasted mere hours. But, in his current state of mind, he needed a distraction, even if it was only her shrill voice complaining about whatever she had chosen to be irritated about that day.

Better that than feel understood by someone who had never been on his side.

The same palm tree that Adeline had found him under provided him with a place to stew over the last few weeks without interruption (other than the breaks he took to get himself more pineapple juice, of course). Unfortunately, stewing didn’t enlighten him in any way. The only purpose it served was to piss him off more than ever, so that every time he got up to go to the kitchen he marched, making hmph noises with every step. The simple act of pouring the juice calmed him down somewhat, only for him to work himself up again once he was back under the tree and free to think of nothing but Stede fucking Bonnet and the fact that he’d used him to make himself look better in front of the boys he professed to dislike.

Ed would almost rather have heard Stede insulting him straight. To have heard another boy allude to it meant that there could have been ongoing conversations happening without his knowledge, conversations in which Stede could have brought up absolutely anything Ed had said to him. He could have called him any name under the sun immediately after thanking him for the advice on how to punch from the hip, or get some leverage on a proper spit before launching it at someone. The implications of this were that Stede hadn’t let an insult slip as a one-off: Stede had no respect for him whatsoever, and he never had.

Had it been chance? Could Ed have been anyone to him? Had that first encounter, when Stede had been snivelling up at Master Cavendish, just been an opportunity for Stede to jump on? Had he noticed Ed get to work in the garden and positioned himself in that bush on purpose to orchestrate a proper conversation, ready to play up his weediness to the point that Ed had actually felt sorry for the prosperous piece of shit? There was absolutely nothing about him worth pitying. His family had land, and when they died he would have land, and the whole of his life was mapped out ahead of him with no jaggedy mountains or vast ravines, only straight roads paved with riches and connections and all of the things you needed in order to not have to worry about anything.

Urgh. Stede had even called him brave just because he did have to worry about things. The memory almost brought nausea forth: how fucking dare he? 

For three days, this was his routine. Attend to the Dowager (listen to her complaints), then sip juice and rage. To his disappointment, the rage did not dull. And when Adeline came to speak to him, out of what he thought might be genuine worry, he was scared he might end up screaming at her in order to let it out of him.

‘How are you feeling, Edward?’ she said.

Ed hadn’t invented a proper illness, and it was only now he was being asked about it that he realised this. It might have been that the Dowager had told some story, but how was he to know what that story was? According to her, had he broken out in a fever, or had he been sitting on the latrine for the last three days?

‘Not good,’ he said. This wasn’t a lie, at least, and Adeline sighed. She sat at the foot of his bed, which was enough of a kind gesture to prompt Ed into raising his head.

‘Neither Ralph nor Charlotte have told me what happened,’ said Adeline. ‘But I wonder if you might like to? I promise I will listen.’

The fact that she even knew, without being told, that this wasn’t illness … that something had, as she’d said herself, happened …

Ed’s throat started to burn. He swallowed in the hope that he could quell the heat, but with no success. He screwed his face up instead as his eyes began to smart, and he felt Adeline lay a hand on his knee.

‘Edward. It’s OK.’

It wasn’t OK, not in the slightest. But the implicit invitation to discuss exactly why that was had Ed unable to speak all of a sudden. None of the adults in Barbados had shown him such kindness. Even those he got along quite well with didn’t pick up on the fact that kindness might be needed. They weren’t cruel, necessarily, just ignorant of the problems that a boy like him might be facing in a situation like this one. Adeline put them all to shame, and finally, Ed found it in him to speak to her again.

‘I thought I had a friend,’ he said, in rather a higher-pitched voice than usual. ‘But it turned out he was just the same as all the other boys. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for him. None of them do, no one does …’

He couldn’t look Adeline in the eye quite yet, but in the corner of his own he could see her nodding sagely.

‘I am sorry you were disappointed like that,’ she said. ‘It is one thing to be treated poorly by people, but quite another to be treated poorly in the guise of being respected. What made you realise?’

‘I heard them talking. The others asked him about me, because they’d seen us spending time together, and … well, it was very clear he’d never thought much of me.’

He’d intended to tell her everything, but whenever he thought about that moment, the words floated through his head in that horrible, clipped English accent exactly as he’d heard them. 

What was it you said - a street rat, you called him?

He felt sick enough even hearing the mental approximation. It might have made him physically ill to speak those words aloud.

‘Look,’ said Adeline. Ed knew full well this wasn’t a literal instruction, but it felt like the right time to raise his head even so: the tears in his eyes had mostly subsided. ‘I know where you’ve come from, Edward. I understand how difficult your life has been up until now. What I don’t understand is why this, of all things, is what has you curled up under a tree rather than making the most of the life you’ve been carving out for yourself here? You don’t know how long that woman is going to want to stay in Barbados. It could be that she decides first thing in the morning that she’s utterly fed up - more so than usual, I mean - and intends to catch the next ship back to England, bringing you with her. Why is one miserable little boy stopping you from doing what you need to do, when I very much doubt anything has stopped you before now?’

The answer to that one was both simple and deeply complicated.

Because it was Stede, he wanted to say.

It would have been different had he overheard the same conversation taking place between anyone else. Stede’s opinion of him was one of very few that mattered, and now that he knew the true content of Stede’s character this was a humiliating thing to admit even to himself. He wasn’t about to admit it to Adeline. But until the point at which Stede had revealed his motives to be less than … laudable (a word he had, of course, learned from Stede), Ed had understood him to be warm and intelligent enough to trust, if slightly wet and simpering. Even those qualities didn’t have to be negative, really, if Ed thought about it. He could understand why the others picked on him for them, but was it so bad to possess a bit of softness?

It was, if that same softness resulted in a complete inability to be kind to a supposed friend in front of people you ought not to have given one solitary shit about.

No. Stede Bonnet was just going to be a footnote on his life out here, and from now on he wasn’t going to trust anyone. Adeline was OK, maybe. But apart from her, there was going to be nobody who learned about another grain of Edward Teach, or his life, or what was going on inside his head. There wasn’t enough of a guarantee it wasn’t going to be used against him sooner or later.

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled, and Adeline nodded again.

‘It hurts at the moment. But this will be the worst that you feel, Edward. I know I am not the Dowager, and you are not here to respond directly to my orders, but tomorrow morning you are going to make a miraculous recovery and you are going to return to that school. If you don’t, I promise you that there will come a day when you regret letting a little toff like him get in the way of whatever your life has in store for you. Do you understand?’

Clear as day. In fact, when someone else had spoken this to him, Ed felt positively idiotic lying there feeling sorry for himself. What was a few weeks’ parody of friendship in comparison with the insurmountable difference he would be able to make to his mother’s life if he got up and got back to work?

‘Don’t grieve the loss of a friend who was never a friend,’ said Adeline. ‘Think about how much brighter your future is without people like him in it instead.’

*

That was exactly what Ed did.

Stupid of me to have thought any different anyway, he thought to himself, as he made his way to school with something of a swagger - or at least an attempt at one. Why would he have had any genuine interest in me? All he ever cared about was what I could teach him. He didn’t give a shit about me as a person. No … I haven’t lost anything. Not really.

He apologised profusely to Mr Taylor (although his main concern was whether Ed was still contagious, and this was alleviated immediately when Ed told him no - it was a relief to be believed that he’d even been ill in the first place). No further questions, and Ed took up his tools with a new sense of pride in his work.

This was the reason he was here, anyway. There’d been no promises of friendship, or second-hand lessons taught furtively in the school grounds by a makeshift teacher who couldn’t always remember all of the ins and outs of any given concept. He’d been greedy, thinking that was how things were going to pan out for him. The last few days spent sulking had served him right.

There was new beauty to the grounds with this in mind. The school buildings would not have been out of place among some of the more affluent areas back home, which was surreal when they glowed in dazzling sunlight - the west coast of England was far more accustomed to grey rain. Colours were just generally much more prominent here. Ed didn’t have the words for all of these species of plants, he barely knew anything about the plant life he was accustomed to back home, but if he were to describe them to his mother, names wouldn’t do them justice anyway. They were just vibrant, bold and big in comparison with the weak weeds of the city - even with the hedges and lawns and flower gardens of the estate his mother tended.

His appreciation was almost entirely erased when he spied a group of boys approaching.

Stede was among them. They always matched, the boys here, but he knew that face and head of hair so well that it would have stood out even as a dot on the horizon. As he watched, there was some general-purpose jostling within them all: Stede received a jaunty shove, stumbling, but he recovered quickly and turned to laugh at the culprit. Ed noticed he didn’t return the shove. It hadn’t been malicious, then. He and the others were acquaintances, at the very least.

Everything they'd shared could have been a grift. What Stede had actually been trying to get out of it, Ed didn’t know. But there was no way any of it had meant anything real to him.

At that, Ed had to catch himself. Stede had a word for that sort of thing - mawkishness, he’d called it, when you went all soft over something. And Stede wasn’t worth having mawkish thoughts over.

*

Ed’s mother had woken up pale and clammy for two days in a row. She had prepared breakfast, as ever, but when spoken to her voice was as crispy as a dried-up insect, so Ed made sure to keep quiet in order for her to rest it - especially as she would need her energy for work. She returned exhausted, and Ed was entrusted with dinner when she took to her bed.

On the third day, she didn’t get up at the expected time. Ed arose to find the kitchen undisturbed.

Ordinarily, he was banned from his parents’ room. This was at the sharp request of his father, however, and Ed hadn’t heard him return home the previous night - most likely, he was staying away out of disgust at his wife’s illness. Nothing stopped him, then, from nudging the door open.

There was even a stench of illness in the air: that hot, moist smell that comes from sweating a fever into bedsheets. Ed already knew his mother would never languish this way for no reason, but this added to his concern. He couldn’t even see her at first. Her night must have been fitful, because the bedclothes were everywhere, resembling something closer to an animal’s den than a human being’s bedchamber.

‘Mum?’ Ed ventured. He hardly dared disturb her, but if she was too unwell to work, Lady Bancroft would need to be informed, otherwise there would be serious repercussions.

She was awake. The bedclothes stirred, then her head emerged, hair ruffled by her night of restlessness.

‘Edward,’ she croaked. ‘Are you all right, my love?’

Leave it to his mother to worry about someone else when she sounded so rough herself.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Unlike you. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?’

She shook her head: even that movement made her wince.

‘It’s just a fever,’ she said. ‘It’ll pass in time, don’t you worry. But I don’t think I’m going to make it to Carmody today, and maybe not tomorrow neither. Would you be able to pop across and ask them if there’s anything needs doing?’

Ed had suspected she’d ask something like this. He assured her he would, but when he moved in for an embrace she shooed him away, scolding him for risking his own health.

Ed didn’t mind the Carmodys. They were older than his parents - any children he ever saw around the estate were grandchildren of theirs - and treated his mother well enough. She wouldn’t be paid today, but they wouldn’t dismiss her, so long as her illness didn’t last too long. Ed knew of people who’d been out of work due to longer-term illnesses, the sort that required cures from doctors. Cures that cost the money they weren’t able to earn.

No, if it had just been Ed and his mother, they might have managed. It was just that the money she brought home from Bancroft didn’t stick around very long.

My father has probably brought this illness into the house, Ed thought bitterly. He wouldn’t have been surprised. They never knew who he was spending time with.

He arrived before his mother’s usual start time, so had to knock on the door to attract attention. One of their live-in staff, whose name Ed didn’t know, answered - it seemed he didn’t know Ed’s, either, for he frowned down at him.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

You could tell he was live-in: he’d absorbed the Carmody accent, one that Ed knew without a shadow of a doubt he hadn’t acquired growing up.

‘I’m Mrs Teach’s son,’ he said. ‘Edward. I’ve just come to tell Lady Carmody that she’s taken to her bed with fever, so she’ll not be in today, I’m afraid. She sends her apologies.’

“Mrs Teach” sparked a sigh in the man.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘Lady Carmody did suggest she go home yesterday, she really wasn’t well at all. I will let her know, and please tell her we all hope she feels better soon.’

‘And if she needs anything at all, please send for us.’

A deep female voice from somewhere behind the door made them both start: the man nudged it open a little more with a sharp smile to reveal Lady Carmody, looking flustered. Ed gave her a nod.

‘Good morning, Edward,’ she said. ‘Pardon my interruption, I came to see who was at the door and overheard that your mother is unwell …’

‘Yes,’ Ed said. ‘She also said to ask you if you needed anything from me.’

Lady Carmody and the man looked at each other for a moment. Both appeared to be considering the order of the day, and after a few seconds, decided that everything was in hand.

‘Your mother works very hard,’ said Lady Carmody. ‘There is nothing urgent that needs attending to as a result. But may I suggest you leave via the garden, and pick her some of our finest flowers? It might cheer her up.’

Ed had no doubt it would, and knowing he had permission from the lady of the house removed any trepidation as he made his way to the garden. It was spring, and the air was fresh with newly blooming flowers - Ed was spoilt for choice. He went by smell in the end. He would know his mother was recovering when she started to enjoy them, and in the meantime their scent would serve as a reminder, to him, of Lady Carmody’s kindness.

The little bundle of pinks and yellows, clutched tenderly in his fist, injected some bounce into his step. It was early enough that the streets were quiet, so he could find it in him to smile at every one of the few people he passed. Yes, his mother was bedridden, but she was likely to recover, and she would still have a job when she did. And his father was nowhere to be seen. This in itself was supposed to be a problem - for Ed, however, these were his favourite days. He could let his mother rest while he tidied the rest of the house up, and it might even stay tidy for a little while. When she awoke to her flowers, and the housework taken care of, she would be pleased.

He made to smile at someone else as they approached from around a corner, until he realised he was never going to receive a smile in return from this particular man.

‘What’re you doing out and about this early?’ Ed’s father said.

Speaking to his father was more like a guessing game than a conversation. There were multiple answers in his head, and Ed had to make sure he chose the one that would not necessarily answer the question most appropriately, but that would cause the least aggression. He’d become quite good at it, for anything less than a rapid response could also invoke anger. This, though, caught him completely unawares. He’d felt so sure his father was going to leave them alone for a few days, knowing how repulsed he was by sickness. His marriage vows - every single one - meant nothing to him.

‘I’ve been to let the Carmodys know about mum,’ he said. His insides seemed to shrivel in protest, while his father, in contrast, puffed himself up.

‘Not working today, then, is she?’

Ed shook his head.

‘I suppose it’s on me for a little while, then. I’ll have to find some extra hours somewhere - Lord knows where, like. Did they not want to take you on for the day?’

‘I offered,’ Ed said quickly. ‘Of course. But they said they could do without for the time being. I’m going to go back tomorrow, though.’

His father could have been there to hear every word of that conversation, and he would still have found a way to make it Ed’s fault.

‘I don’t bloody know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Strapping young lad like you, not able to do one day’s work for your poor old mother? And have you been pinching their flowers?’

He jerked his head down at the flowers in Ed’s fist. At his gaze, Ed almost felt them wither. They’d seemed like such a symbol of optimism not two minutes ago, and he secretly seethed at his father’s strange ability to make absolutely anything miserable, no matter how beautiful it had been.

‘Lady Carmody instructed me to -’

‘Fat lot of fucking good they’re gonna do. Should’ve put you to work instead.’

It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been a choice between work and flowers. He simply didn’t have time for the nice things in life, unless you counted taverns as nice - which Ed didn’t. He’d never enjoyed a single minute of the minimal time he’d spent within them.

The small mercy here was the fact that he was, at least, heading to work. Ed’s father had held many jobs, but none of them for very long. His temper made him a difficult person to employ, and sometimes even a danger to his colleagues. For the time being, though, he was going to stay out of Ed’s way, and he arrived home repeating that fact to himself over and over again in his mind.

The flowers, once he’d found a jug he could put them in, looked rather pathetic, removed from their bright, warm garden.

*

No one was worth having mawkish thoughts over. Where had they got him in life? Nowhere. Less than nowhere, in fact. Thinking he was cared for, in this instance, had almost cost him his job - and he had to remember the reason he’d come here in the first place.

He’d been doing fine before he’d ever known Stede Bonnet had existed.

Chapter Text

The Dowager was walking around the house.

This turn of events surprised Ed so much that he half-wondered whether he ought to start building defences against intruders - surely that had to be the only reason she’d bother to get up, after so long languishing and whining? It rather threw a spanner in the works, actually. He was so used to being able to live in relative freedom without having to do anything too taxing for her that he noticed the hairs on the back of his neck quite literally standing on end in readiness for perhaps being ordered around again. At least at the school, he was trusted to mostly get on with his work. That may have been because the grounds were so vast, and Mr Taylor didn’t have the time nor the inclination to bother chasing his workers around, but whatever the reason, it worked for Ed. Similar freedom extended to the house, too. Baron Webley wasn’t a particularly attentive master, and the Dowager’s inertia didn’t put too much pressure on Ed.

But if she’d finally decided that she wanted to do something with her time in Barbados, he might be expected to do it with her.

‘Good afternoon, my lady,’ he said. He was suddenly conscious of his grubbiness: gardening got him about as dirty in one day as three or four days’ worth of his life in Bristol would have, and he could usually fit in a wash before having to face her after a working day. ‘Are you feeling better?’

The Dowager observed him with a stiff grimace. Ed wondered whether it might be her attempt at an expression of determination.

‘Somewhat,’ she said. ‘Although I rather think that it is more a case of the pros outweighing the cons, and there are still a great many cons. I feel my brain is starting to stagnate, but I have already taken a walk around the garden and my body is feeble from this small amount of exposure to the sun alone.’

‘Maybe it’s also because your body isn’t used to so much movement,’ Ed suggested. ‘I’m sure that a little walk each day will help to build your strength back up - and honestly, you do get used to the heat. I work outside all day and it’s much easier now than it was when I started.’

He hadn’t intended to sound rude, and several weeks ago he might even have thought twice about saying any of this at all for fear that the Dowager might take it that way. But she seemed pensive, chewing over his words. At least he had experience to speak from. That was more than she could say, and neither of them could deny that.

‘I suppose it is something I must adjust to if I am to have any sort of life out here,’ she said. ‘I think the difference in climate has been such a shock to my system that I have had a hard time facing up to any of it. But lying by oneself all of the time gives one a lot of time to think, and … well. Let’s just say my thoughts were not worth sitting with sometimes, Edward. There has been too much consideration of what I have left behind in England, so I would much rather be doing than thinking.’

Edward bit back the easy response. She’d defrosted ever so slightly, but that didn’t mean she’d be ready to trade insults. Dish them out, yes, but take them? Never, probably.

‘Well … I’ve heard that playing bridge is a lovely place to start,’ he said. He’d heard it from people with the sort of money the Dowager had, so he assumed this was a suitable recommendation.

‘Adeline said the same thing the other day,’ said the Dowager. ‘With all of those ladies, I daresay that’s the sort of thing you’d rather I did with her than with you, Edward?’

Honestly? Yes. He smiled sheepishly as he nodded, and the Dowager just about managed to smile back at him.

‘Then I shall discuss plans with her, and we shall go while you are working. How does that sound? Perhaps you and I could go for a walk one evening, when it is cooler and you have had a chance to rest after your day’s work. I will let you know which evening suits.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Ed nodded deeply. ‘Would you mind if I tidied myself up? I would hate to sit down to dinner smelling of manure.’

He also, of course, needed to hide his wages for the day away. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, exactly, but … well, maybe it was. He wasn’t sure he trusted anyone at all.

The tiny, sharp exhale she let out then wasn’t quite a laugh, but nor was it far off.

*

People weren’t always as they seemed, was the lesson Ed decided Barbados was trying to teach him.

Unfortunately it wasn’t a blanket statement that he could apply to anyone, so not much of a lesson at all, really. A great deal of people were exactly as they seemed. The boys who gave him derisive looks if they caught him in the grounds on their walks still gave him derisive looks, and he didn’t think there was anything he could do to change that: they’d been brought up in such a way for too long, and those sorts of attitudes didn’t disappear overnight when they were so deeply ingrained. He’d waited all his life for his father to realise how destructive and cruel his behaviour was, and ultimately had had to take the matter into his own hands.

But, now and again, people could surprise you. Disappoint you, yes. But some surprises were as exciting as brightly coloured parcels on a birthday morning, and while the Dowager’s newfound energy did mean that Ed had a few more menial tasks of an evening and a weekend, it did bring the mood of the house up significantly - and Ed’s mood with it.

This gave him the ability to brush off more irritants at work than he might have been able to following the immediate fallout of his and Stede’s - well - fallout. A strong foundation made way for strong structural features, and Ed kept his head held high and his tools firmly in hand as he re-asserted to himself that his purpose here was to work. There was a sock in the bottom of his trunk that was getting nicely full, providing some evidence of the reason he’d made the journey that perked him up a little every time he thought about it. He had no idea how much more time he would have to save, of course, but at least a longer stay would ultimately mean more money.

He was planting Pride of Barbados plants in an empty patch of flower bed one morning, trying to picture what these flowers might look like in his own garden someday if he were ever lucky enough to have one, when a high-pitched voice speaking his name made him start so violently that he dropped a whole handful of pods in one spot. Cursing to himself, he turned to find the culprit in the hope that it was a pupil he could let loose a string of insults over rather than another gardener he’d have to be polite to.

All he could come out with when he saw his assailant of sorts, though, was ‘oh.’

Stede Bonnet was standing before him, looking as downtrodden as he had on the day they’d met.

‘Look, Edward,’ Stede said, but Ed straightened up in what he hoped was a demonstration of dignity, and marched back towards Mr Taylor’s shed without another word.

Stede had lessons. He’d surely only allowed himself the last few minutes of his lunch break to come and say what Ed imagined was a trite, well-rehearsed piece that was intended as a gesture, and the longer he could avoid Stede, the less likely it was that he’d have to hear it. At first, he thought his plan had worked: Stede said nothing more, and there were no footsteps following his. But a few moments later he could hear a sort of dampened trotting behind him, and he closed his eyes in frustration when he realised that Stede was indeed trying to follow him.

‘I think we should at least talk,’ he called. The way his voice wavered when he raised it was almost funny - for all his prim and proper mannerisms, he was still just like a kid when it came down to it. ‘I feel as though what happened … well, you didn’t get the full picture. If you’d just let me explain -’

His pure audacity broke through the cool barriers Ed had built around himself.

‘Explain?’ he burst out, swivelling around on his heel to face Stede. ‘What’s that gonna do other than make you feel better? I don’t need an explanation for being insulted, I can infer what you think of me from that alone. There’s nothing more to it. You don’t call people things like that, Stede, and you bloody well know it.’

‘Edward, I only called you what you called yourself! You said you were proud of being a street rat!’

‘Oh, fuck off!’

Different worlds. Really. This was the issue, this had always been the issue: Stede really did think that justified what he’d done. Stede had never had to live the kind of life where he had to consider why some words might be empowering when spoken by one person, and humiliating when thrown around by another. Ed was on the move again, too angry now to hide out in the shed and too concerned that Stede really would follow him all the way there. They weren’t far from a small courtyard overlooking one of the terraces, and with lessons starting again soon Ed would at least have it to himself for the next hour or two. If Stede insisted on coming with him, he wouldn’t attract too much unwanted attention, at least.

His height and superior strength carried him faster, and by the time he was throwing himself down onto a stone bench, arms crossed and pulled right into his chest, Stede was just rounding the corner, lips parted in order to take in as much oxygen as possible from the brisk stride he’d employed trying to keep up with his quarry.

‘Right,’ Ed said. He crossed his legs, too, every muscle in his body tensing as he looked up at the red-faced Stede. ‘You’ve got me. Great. What do you want with me so badly that you’re willing to ignore my clear signals that I don’t want to talk to you, despite knowing how much better at fighting I am than you?’

Stede blanched. ‘Are you going to hit me, Edward?’

‘It depends how much you piss me off.’

‘I think I’ve already … pissed you off. I don’t know how much more of that I can do, to be honest with you.’

Yes, Ed was already angry, but he was fairly sure Stede still had it in him to say something so ignorant he’d struggle to resist tackling him to the ground.

‘I don’t know how I can defend what I did,’ Stede said. He was speaking with the air of someone trying to negotiate with a highwayman. ‘You just shot down my first - and only - attempt. I just … I want you to know that what you heard was not representative of my opinion of you. That’s all. I know how that must have come across, but truly, I … I think you’re …’

For someone who spent his days learning complex words Ed had never heard spoken before, Stede certainly seemed to be having trouble thinking of a useful one now. Ed eyed him, arms still crossed in what felt like defence.

‘Look,’ Ed said. ‘Just because I called myself something, doesn’t mean it isn’t an insult when other people use it against me the way you did. Not that you even tried to use it in a complimentary way anyway. At least, not that I could tell from what your mate said.’

Apparently, Stede still didn’t know how he could defend what he’d done. He spent a few moments gazing down at Ed, looking as though he might burst into tears.

‘No, you’re right. I’ve been unkind to you behind your back. What you think you heard is pretty much what happened. I can’t tell you anything else, and I’m not going to.’

Finally, he settled down on the bench beside Ed with a quiet sigh. Ed contemplated shuffling away, but decided against it. It would have looked petty, and he needed to be taken seriously. At least Stede’s face was set.

‘I’m pathetic,’ he said. ‘You’ve known this about me from the very moment you met me, Edward. You’ve been teaching me not to be, and I’m getting better. Truly, I am. But a change like that doesn’t happen overnight, and I’ve been … oh, I’ve been as beastly as any of those bullies. I hate to admit it, but I will admit it, because I have, haven’t I? And I’m sorry, Edward. I was sorry the moment I said it.’

Ed had to concede that it had probably taken a lot for Stede to own up to that rather than try too hard to explain his poor behaviour away. It didn’t quite clear things up for Ed, but he could feel a frost within him beginning to thaw.

‘So you’re blaming peer pressure, hm?’ he said.

‘I don’t think “blaming” is the word here, necessarily. Peer pressure was certainly involved, but I’m the one to blame. I’m not disputing that.’

And as happy as Ed was to hear Stede taking ownership of his actions, he couldn’t deny that the power of mob rule was strong. He’d grown up in such a way that he’d never had to deal with it firsthand, but he’d seen it all around him. He’d often wondered if his father’s actions would have been kinder and more responsible had he not been surrounded by criminals and delinquents. And he knew how nasty the boys at this school could be if you weren’t on their side. That was, at the end of the day, how he’d met Stede in the first place.

‘Edward,’ Stede said. He left it at that. Ed hadn’t commented on Stede’s use of his full name yet: he’d thought he would get around to it, but there was something about hearing it from someone who wasn’t trying to berate him that filled him with warmth.

‘Hm?’ Ed felt sure Stede had wanted him to ask for the rest of his sentence. He wanted to know he was paying attention.

‘I really want us to be friends. You’re probably the coolest person I have ever met.’

He’s just saying that was Ed’s first thought. For perhaps the first time, he paused to consider why his subconscious should be so defensive. Stede Bonnet was probably not capable of telling a convincing lie, after all. Ed’s mind was just so hardened that he found it difficult to accept sincere compliments, and he had to take a moment to sit in the slow realisation that Stede really was being nice to him.

Stede tried for a tiny smile.

‘And for what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I have blossomed under your tutelage. I have managed to make a your mum joke.’

Ed’s ears twitched like a cat who’s heard a distant tweeting.

‘Really?’ he said.

‘I did. Yes. I … well, it was to Badminton, actually. He said … he’d noticed me in the grounds a lot, and he … he didn’t know when I’d become so green-fingered …’

‘And what did you say to that?’ Ed hated how much he really did want to know the answer.

‘I said … it was since I’d fingered his mum.’

Ed tried, for all of two seconds, to hold his laughter in. When it exploded outwards, Stede’s smile widened across his whole face.

‘All right, that was good,’ said Ed. ‘I’m glad your hangers-on now probably think you’re a piece of shit because of me.’

‘I don’t care about them. All this time you’ve been trying to help me deal with them, but I’ve realised they’re not worth my time at all. And, by extension, your time.’

It was difficult to remember the boiling-hot rage Ed had felt on seeing Stede appear before him all those minutes ago. He was showing such self-awareness now that Ed couldn’t imagine what had prompted that aggravated storming across the grounds.

‘If you would have me, I think I’d much rather spend time with you as friends,’ said Stede.

Friends. That sounded nice. No breaktimes spent sneaking away to practise uppercuts and blocks, just conversation and … well, whatever else friends did with one another. Ed pressed his lips together, nodding.

‘What would the others think, though?’

‘I just told you. I don’t care.’

‘And when it comes to it, you’ll prove that? Say, if they start talking shit about me, you won’t join in?’

‘I’ll intervene, Edward. I’ll tell them to - to fuck right off, and that you’re my friend and that I will not stand by while you’re disrespected.’

He was sitting upright now, a teacher attempting to reassert dominance over an unruly classroom, and the smile that crept onto Ed’s face was as unbidden as it was genuine.

‘Then you are definitely going to get beaten up at least once,’ he said.

‘It’s a good thing I’m not scared of them any more, then, isn’t it?’

Ed knew it would be different, in the moment. Stede’s determination now might not translate to a proper fist fight. But if the Dowager was capable of shedding her ignorant attitude toward her new life, then maybe Stede Bonnet was capable of throwing a punch at Nigel Badminton, if it came down to it. 

Chapter Text

Weekends had almost become something to be dreaded, following weeks of occupation among good company. Ed would have thought that a Friday evening would be met with relief, but once he’d come home from the school and allowed himself to relax, he had been faced with nothing but boredom. They’d been as close to his early days in Barbados as it was possible to be - the Dowager did not like him to leave the house when he didn’t have to, in case an emergency arose. He’d never had it in him to point out to her that emergencies could also happen when he was working, and nothing had come up as yet.

With the Dowager’s new zest for life, though, Ed was finally allowed some of his own when occasionally asked to accompany her on her new ventures. Adeline had proposed a walk north of the main beach in Holetown - she insisted it was quieter up there, and therefore easier to take in the views of the ocean at their leisure. This was the pace that suited the Dowager, and one Saturday morning, she announced to Ed that their plan for the day was to walk to this beach.

Considering how close they were to the sea at all times, it seemed like this had been an awfully long time coming. Ed rose early that day, earlier than anyone else in the house, and he was dressed and full of breakfast before the Dowager had called for him. She snapped a little at his enthusiasm, choosing to see it as an act of defiance rather than mere excitement: but once she, too, had eaten, she forgot all about her irritation.

They started on the route Ed took to work. His instinct was to march her to the school, and he had to catch himself before he did so. Other than that, it was difficult to go wrong on the way to the water. The air itself seemed to be drawing him towards it, and despite the Dowager’s frequent stops to pass the time of day with people Ed had never laid eyes on, it wasn’t long before the buildings of the town had given way.

This really was the ocean. No estuaries here - he didn’t have to pretend. The real thing spread out in front of him, vast as the sky, with endless waves rushing against the shore. Nothing had instilled such a feeling of hope within him since that day on the boat when he’d been surrounded by possibility. He could have lived here. Just built himself a little shack on the sand, and fallen asleep every night to the soft rushing of the water.

It might have been nice to have taken Stede here, too. He sometimes wondered whether they would meld together in the same way if they were able to meet outside of the school grounds, and this felt like the perfect place to try that for the first time.

‘We had better not get too close to the sea, Edward,’ said the Dowager. ‘Pirates operate around here, you know.’

Ed made sure she couldn’t see his face before he rolled his eyes. ‘I’m from Bristol …’

‘Still. I would not want to have to write to your mother to tell her you had been captured.’

This was as close to a joke as Ed had heard from the Dowager, and he smiled down at his feet. The whole staying in one room thing had fed into itself and kept her grumpy, and since she’d made the decision to actually move she’d been gradually becoming more human. Maybe one day she’d be back to her usual self: severe and uptight, yes, but without terrorising Ed with the threat of unexpected cruelty.

The implications of what she’d said only hit Ed afterwards.

‘You can send letters across the world, can't you?’ he said. ‘I suppose they’d have to travel by boat, like we did.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Dowager. Her casual tone irritated Ed slightly: if this knowledge were so common, she might’ve brought it up before now, for God’s sake. ‘Didn’t you ever notice the packet boats back home?’

That was where she left it, turning to the sea again to smile pleasantly at the boats in the harbour as though they were all watching her. If Ed had been her, he thought, he’d have picked up on the reason Ed had been asking the question straight away. Who else could he want to write a letter to?

Then again, perhaps the Dowager was fully aware he could neither read nor write, and perhaps that had been all there was to it from her point of view.

Maybe that was better. If he pushed it, and asked if she may be able to assist with getting a message back to England, then he would have to share the contents of that message with her in order to facilitate getting it written. He knew he wouldn’t be honest if his words were being translated to paper through a third party - or rather, he knew he wouldn’t be honest if his words were being translated to paper through this particular third party.

‘That’s really interesting,’ he said. He couldn’t think of anything more to add. His mind was far too busy working on something else.

*

He could hardly contain himself the next time he saw Stede.

They met for lunch on a lawn behind the main building, and Ed was always the first to arrive due to the lengthy, formal lunchtime procedure that Stede had to follow. Today, though, his patience had deserted him. He was bouncing up and down on the bench, attempting to eat but unable to swallow out of pure excitement. Stede couldn’t have taken any longer than usual, but it felt like an age before Ed noticed his blonde hair on the horizon.

‘Hi,’ Stede said. He was breathless, as usual, having rushed from the dining hall, and he was beaming. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Great,’ Ed said. ‘It gave me an amazing idea. I want you to teach me how to read.’

Ed wasn’t ready for the slow widening of Stede’s eyes.

‘You … don’t you know how?’ he said.

All of Ed’s excitement was snuffed out in an instant.

‘Why do you think I’d be asking you if I already knew?’ he said.

To his credit, Stede looked embarrassed at having this pointed out to him. Ed wasn’t a fan of the way he now didn’t seem to be able to meet his eyes, though.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It was just a surprise, that’s all. You’re so eloquent, I just assumed.’

‘Eloquent … out loud, yeah,’ Ed said, hoping that his confidence superseded the fact that he had no idea what the word eloquent meant, ‘but that doesn’t mean I have the faintest idea how to write words down. I’ve never been to school, remember?’

‘Yes, but surely your mother …?’

‘Never went to school either.’

It was at moments like this that the memory of Stede calling him a street rat surfaced most acutely, and he had to wonder whether Stede could sense this within their uncomfortable silence.

But he was the first to speak again. There was a very definite swallow first, his Adam's apple bobbing hard, but it gave him the confidence he needed.

‘Then I’d be glad to teach you, Edward. I’m not sure I’ll be very good at it, mind you … it was such a long time ago that I learned myself that I’ve rather forgotten the process. I’ll do my best, though. We’ll have to start with the basic alphabet, of course, but then I don’t want to patronise you. You will have to tell me what you are particularly interested in reading.’

‘It’s more writing, if I’m honest,’ Ed said. ‘But I thought I might need to read first. I found out at the weekend that some ships carry mail, and I realised I might be able to write to my mum. Lady Carmody - her employer, or someone else at the estate, maybe - might be able to read the letters to her. I don’t know …  I just think it might be worth a try.’

His enthusiasm for the prospect was creeping back in, but Stede couldn’t seem to match it.

‘That is a good idea,’ he said. Ed wished his tone of voice agreed with the words it was speaking. ‘Really, I think so. It’s just that it’s quite expensive to send post across the world, even if it is just one letter.’

And here was another one of those moments that stretched the gap between them. This, too, was a vital reason Ed felt he needed to do this.

‘I have money,’ Ed said quickly, in an attempt to rescue himself and his now potentially stupid idea. ‘I earn from both my service to the Dowager and the gardening I do here. It’s not much, but I don’t spend it on anything. I put it all away. I get food and board, so … so this is going to come back to England with me, eventually. That’s the whole reason I came out here. When I go home, me and my mum are going to be able to lead better lives with the money I’ve made.’

Ed could see Stede’s face working his thoughts through: he wanted to comment again, and he was trying to stop himself. Ed knew it - and he appreciated it.

‘I can justify spending some of it on something like this, though,’ he said, hoping that if he spoke again, he’d prevent Stede from feeling as though he needed to say something. ‘Or - I suppose money doesn’t take up much space on a ship, does it? Maybe I could actually send the money over, say once a month? Then she doesn’t have to miss me and be poor at the same time. I could send the equivalent of what my dad used to earn. She’ll put some away, I know she will, but she could use some of it now, too. Do you think that’s a good idea?’

Stede’s face was still contorting in careful thought.

‘I would be worried that it would go amiss,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not a bad idea in theory, but I do think it would be safer with you. Are you hiding it well?’

‘Yeah,’ Ed said. He turned his head from side to side, in case an errant schoolboy were listening in on their conversation in the hope that he might uncover a juicy secret like this one. ‘There’s a pair of socks in the bottom of my trunk that I don’t wear. I keep it all in one of those. Before long I’m hoping I'll have to keep it all in both of those.’

‘That sounds far more secure than a ship. We’ll stick to the writing for now.’

The next time they met up, Stede had managed to sneak a quill, ink and some leaves of parchment outside. Ed had fun imagining how stressful an experience this had undoubtedly been for his squeaky-clean friend, but ultimately he was filled with admiration at the fact that he’d managed to pull it off.

‘You know, I wouldn’t mind buying my own if it’s for the greater good,’ Ed said. ‘If you keep nicking it, you’re going to get caught sooner or later.’

‘Oh, no, don’t worry about that,’ Stede said, spreading the parchment on the bench between them. ‘I have loads at home that I can bring. It’s mine, so I won’t get into any trouble.’

Loads suddenly seemed like too much, especially with the amount of blank space between them now.

‘I thought we might start with your name,’ Stede said. He was already dipping the quill in the inkwell - Ed watched the way he tapped it closely. Presumably this would stop ink from leaking everywhere and spoiling the parchment. ‘You’re going to have to sign every letter you write with it, and if that’s the motivation here, I think that could be very powerful. So … the sounds in your name. Break them down for me.’

Ed had never really considered that his name might contain multiple sounds: Edward held meaning in and of itself, and that was all that had ever mattered until now.

‘Edward …’ he said slowly. ‘I suppose … Ed … ward …’

‘Good start. But there are even more sounds in it than that - listen closely.’ Stede licked his lips - nervous, maybe? ‘Edward.’

He said it slowly, savouring the whole thing, and quite apart from beginning to understand what he meant by all of the sounds within one simple word, Ed’s skin shivered at the care with which Stede took over his name.

‘Even the first part has two sounds,’ Ed mumbled. He was fairly sure this was right, but not sure enough to raise his voice any louder: Stede, though, beamed.

‘Yes! We call the parts syllables,’ he said. ‘Think of them sort of like beats. So the first syllable - beat - of your name is Ed. And that’s made up of two sounds. And those are made up of two letters, at least in this case. Things can get more complicated than that, but for now, we’re lucky. This is simple.’

And he wrote two symbols, slowly, in the top-left corner of the parchment between them. The first was all harsh lines; the second, one line with a curve attached to its left-hand side like a pot belly.

‘An E,’ said Stede. ‘And a D. Ed.’

Ed had seen newspaper headlines and shop fronts and posters and paraphernalia. He knew he would have seen these letters hundreds of times before. But to be able to make a sort of sense of them … he was fully aware that this was the most basic of first steps, but already the associations were instilling a sense of wonder within him. This was his name. He was finally going to be able to sign his own name, like a gentleman.

‘Now the second syllable,’ Stede said, in such a matter-of-fact way that Ed knew he hadn’t noticed his reverie, ‘is a bit trickier. Ward. It sounds a bit like it should be spelled with … well, not that you’d know, at this stage, sorry. Let’s not complicate things just yet.’

And he continued to write, spacing out each letter so as to give it its due attention. He explained the sound each one made, as well as the fact that here, two of the letters actually combined to make a new sound. That didn’t matter to Ed yet. They’d get to that later, no doubt.

‘So … that, right there, that’s my name?’ he said, and Stede nodded, smiling warmly.

‘That’s your name.’

It was difficult to explain quite how moved he was by this.

‘Will you show me yours?’ he said, mostly for want of something else to say - but now he’d started, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

‘Of course.’ Stede wrote more quickly this time, keeping the letters slightly closer together. ‘Mine’s a bit … easier? I suppose, in terms of … of how many different …’

The word was shorter - possibly because there was only one “beat” in “Stede”, Ed thought. He noticed that the bigger letter at the beginning was much softer than the one that led Edward. There wasn’t a single harsh line to be seen. It comprised one smooth curve that travelled one way, then another, with fluidity.

‘See, the “e” on the end is what stops my name from being “Sted”,’ said Stede. ‘In that respect, I suppose, it is slightly complicated, but we don’t need to get into all that sort of thing just yet. Would you like to try writing them for yourself?’

The hand Ed felt compelled to use to do this was at the other side of his body from the parchment: he twisted around to try to angle himself the way Stede had, but it was impossible this way around.

‘Come and sit where I am,’ Stede said, shifting along the bench. ‘It’ll be easier that way.’

So Ed shifted with him, moving over the letters still glistening on the parchment so that the hand holding the quill was now poised to add more ink with ease. There was space underneath his own name: suddenly nervous, Ed tried to remember how Stede had loaded the quill with ink. He dipped the nib in the well, amazed at how it soaked the glossy liquid up but cautious that it might come flowing right back out again if he wasn’t careful. He tapped it against the inside of the jar and almost knocked it off the bench.

‘Gently,’ Stede said, but he wasn’t chiding him the way a real teacher might have. His voice was soft, close as it was to Ed’s ear - almost felt rather than heard.

‘I’ll just … under here?’ He put the nib to the parchment, but drew it away again immediately when it made a blotchy mark. ‘Shit, sorry …’

‘No need to apologise. They’re tricky things, are quills.’

Jesus Christ. Ed was finding it strangely difficult to concentrate with Stede’s breath so warm beside him. Undoubtedly he needed to be close to be able to see what Ed was doing, but even so.

He tried again, taking greater care this time. He supposed he would have to start writing immediately upon touching the parchment, and started trying to imitate the scratchy lines of the start of his name. This was easy. The shape he made looked almost identical to the shape Stede had made, if bigger.

‘This is something else we’ll get to later,’ said Stede, ‘but that’s a capital “E”. There are two little “E”s in my name, too, if you look here … and here. A capital only appears in certain circumstances, like it does here. The start of a person’s name.’

Ed nodded. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d taken a word of that in. He started on the second letter, the one with the belly, and Stede made a little noise in his throat as he watched. He couldn’t work out what it was supposed to mean, but then when he noticed that this letter had a tiny flick at the bottom, he made a mess with the ink trying to replicate it.

‘That was good,’ Stede said, when Ed let out a frustrated groan. ‘I told you quills were tricky. But a “D” is easier to write if you sort of start in the middle …’

‘How d’you mean?’ The middle, to Ed, appeared to be the gap in the belly, and there was no ink there at all.

‘I mean the place where the rounded part joins the stem, do you see? And then you would draw the round bit to the left, complete it by going up, then go down again to add the tail at the bottom.’ Ed looked up at him, still puzzled, and Stede bit his lip. ‘Erm - do you mind if I -?’

And he took Ed by surprise by nudging at his hand with the edge of his own. The movement seemed to startle him even more. Ed felt the sharp exhale against his neck, but moved his hand to allow Stede to take hold of it.

They were silent as Stede walked him through the technique without even the tiniest blot.

‘There,’ Stede whispered. ‘Does that make a bit more sense?’

‘Mm …’ Ed had to swallow before he could speak properly again. ‘Yeah. Thanks. A lot more sense.’

‘Try it yourself.’

Ed’s solo version was less slick, but he didn’t leave blotches all over the page this time, and he could see that the formation was far more akin to the original that Stede had written above.

‘Perfect,’ said Stede, and Ed smiled to himself.

Something new fuelled the rest of his writing. He wasn’t sure how he could sit through the sort of lesson that should have made him feel like a child without getting irrationally angry, but with just a few words of encouragement here and there to tighten up the technique, he felt guided rather than instructed. His second attempt at his name was much neater than his first, and his third even neater than that. When he tried to write Stede’s name he found the curly letter at the beginning the trickiest of all of them so far, but Stede offered his hand again. His breath caught in his chest as he produced a neatly proportioned “S”.

The bell to signal the start of afternoon lessons made them both jump.

‘Wow,’ Stede said, once he’d recovered himself with a chuckle. ‘Yes … that went quickly.’

‘It did,’ Ed said. ‘Sorry. We don’t have to do this every lunchtime. It’s probably really boring when this is just bread and butter stuff to you.’

‘No. Don’t be silly, Edward. It wasn’t boring at all. In fact I’m rather looking forward to your next lesson already.’

But he kept his head down as he gathered up all of the writing materials he’d taken from the school.

‘Here - you keep these,’ he said, sliding them along the bench towards Ed. He still didn’t meet his eyes.

‘I can’t,’ Ed said. ‘They’ll think I took them.’

‘It’s all right. I took them.’

‘Yeah, but … if you get caught stealing from the school, you’ll get a slap on the wrist, or whatever it is that happens to you when you irritate the teachers. If I was caught stealing, or apparently stealing, from the school, they’d sack me.’

The fact that he had to explain this did concern him somewhat. He’d thought that learning such a valuable skill might start to inch the chasm between their worlds closed, but Stede’s hurried little goodbye had him concerned that it might actually have the opposite effect.

But they met again, at the same time the following day. And again. And although they’d agreed that they wanted to assert a more genuine, less transactional sort of friendship in what little time they managed to spend together, the lunchtimes spent sitting, heads in close as they pored over each letter of the alphabet and the words they could make when combined in the right way, didn’t feel transactional in the slightest. There was more to it than Ed had ever imagined, and more to it than Stede had realised, despite understanding it all. He explained that things were easier to learn the younger you were, and while he’d merely absorbed the written word as he’d grown up, Ed would have to truly understand it for it to go in the same way. This would take longer, but they had time.

It was only a few weeks after the first lesson that Ed produced his first lengthy piece of writing.

Dear mum,

I know you probably won’t believe this, but it’s Ed. Yes, I’m writing to you! I’m learning to read and write with the help of my new friend, Stede. I hope you can find someone to help you read this.

Things are lovely out here. I wish you could have come with me. I love the weather, it makes you feel so alive. I work a bit at the school as well as for the Dowager, and one day I’ll be home with all the money I’ve made.

I hope you’re well. I miss you every day.

With love,

Ed

‘Edward,’ said Stede.

‘Hm?’

Ed had just finished reading his handiwork back to Stede. It had been slow going compared to when Stede read words to him (and to be fair he knew exactly what he’d written, so he had probably cheated a bit too), but he was extremely proud of the letter that was about to be sent across the Atlantic Ocean all the way to England. His mother, if she could find someone to read the letter aloud to her, would be over the moon with his new skills.

But Stede was biting his lip, the literal chewing seemingly representative of some thought or other he was chewing over.

‘Should I be calling you Ed?’

Chapter Text

Stede hadn’t forgotten what he’d learned under Ed’s tutelage. He was still much sharper, funnier and more relaxed than he’d been in those early days when he’d been terrified to even throw a dummy punch at Ed in the name of self-defence demonstration. But he didn’t seem to need the knowledge so much any more, owing simply to the fact that he no longer seemed to give a shit what the other boys at the school thought of him.

Ed had seen him. He didn’t keep a lookout, exactly, but Stede did talk about which lessons he had and when, and if Ed ended up around those buildings at the same time, he could always identify the head of carefully curled blonde hair among the others. No one had hair quite like Stede. It was difficult to believe it just grew that way, rather than being carefully curled by his mother the way he’d jokingly suggested when he’d been playacting as Badminton.

But he noticed that Stede didn’t simper at his peers’ feet these days, nor did he have his back up at all times. He seemed above any of them now, and this attitude had more than likely bored them. From what Ed could tell none of them went out of their way to have very much to do with him at all any more, and if he ever happened to be beside one of their classroom windows when a lesson ended, nobody deliberately barged into Stede, knocked his pencils from his desk, or leaned in to whisper something snide as they left. He’d become more or less invisible to them, and that was probably the safest way for Stede to win their quiet battle.

It must have been a lonely life at times. But their lunches definitely made up for those times.

‘What do you say to people now?’ Ed said one day. He’d been pondering the issue, as ever, but for some reason he felt like the time had come to voice it for a change. ‘If they make comments about me?’

Stede paused, and Ed got the feeling he was thinking his answer through before he said something accidentally offensive. Uncomfortable, maybe, but better than going through with the offensive comment, he supposed.

‘To be honest with you, they don’t really make comments about you any more,’ Stede said. ‘I think people like that get bored quite easily. You are not on their radar enough for them to get a kick out of you.’

‘Neither are you.’

Ed said it without thinking. He was almost surprised when Stede looked confused.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, well. I just mean that you don’t … you know … you never have much to say about them any more. I think if you were punching them all between the eyes on the regular, you’d probably be telling me about it more often.’

A good save? It was true, after all. It didn’t necessarily mean that the other boys weren’t being irritating, but it was a fair deduction, and Ed didn’t have to admit that he’d perhaps been paying a bit more attention than could be considered normal. He watched as Stede took this in. There was no suspicion there. At least, he was pretty sure there wasn’t.

‘Yes. I suppose it happened so gradually that I never really noticed, but they have more or less stopped bothering me. I don’t speak to many people in school at all, actually.’

Strange, how Stede hadn’t realised this until now. In fact he seemed crestfallen, despite having asserted in the past that he’d rather not have had anything to do with these unpleasant people. Ed had to wonder whether he’d just insulted him by proxy, somehow: more so when Stede remained uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of their lunch together.

It didn’t last, though. The next day, he was himself again, and he’d even brought a new book about seafarers for them to study – it was an adventure story designed for small children, but they were both more captivated than they’d expected to be by the illustrations of the fearsome pirates.

*

It was difficult to glean whether Stede was having similar thoughts, but Ed was starting to wonder whether they might like to extend their meetings beyond their allotted lunchtimes. The trip to the beach with the Dowager had planted the seed, and the pirate book had fed and watered it enough that the seed grew into a shoot. And the Dowager often left him with enough free time of a weekend to do as he pleased, didn’t she? The only problem there was that her whims often were just that, and Ed might not know from day to day what he would be doing. He couldn’t very well arrange a walk out with Stede only to not turn up to meet him because the Dowager had him fanning her during her own promenade.

Luck favoured him, though, when Adeline invited her to afternoon tea over dinner one Thursday.

‘I should think you remember Mrs Dorricott,’ she said. ‘She moved here around three years ago, from Trowbridge? Indeed … in which case, I should think you also remember her sumptuous scones. The size of my whole face, some of them are. I shall have to share one with you, if you would permit me to?’

And, as luscious as a scone the size of a woman’s face sounded, Ed was more than thrilled to find that the afternoon tea would take place on Saturday, and that he would not be needed there.

He was even more eager than usual to meet Stede the Friday before the event, although he tried to quell his enthusiastic jiggling by sitting on his hands until Stede arrived. The day was warm, and he was pink in the cheeks, a smidgeon of cream left at the corner of his mouth from a dessert hastily scarfed. It was a mark of his excitement that Ed beamed at the sight before he thought to make fun of him.

‘Have you had afternoon tea?’ he said instead.

The old Stede might have answered sincerely, going into great detail about the day’s menu. The new Stede, however, used to Ed’s way with words, knew immediately that something was amiss: he dabbed at the wrong side of his mouth, and Ed indicated the other with a smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I ought to be more careful, I suppose, but they do all know that I rush off to meet you now anyway, and like you say – they seem to have stopped caring.’

‘It’s all right. You should see the Dowager after dinner,’ Ed said. ‘Speaking of which – she’s busy tomorrow afternoon, and she doesn’t need me. I realised this isn’t much notice, but are you around? It might be nice to spend some time together that isn’t limited by the school bell.’

Stede’s eyes widened: in awe or horror, it wasn’t clear, and Ed ducked his head.

‘I …’ Stede said. ‘Erm … that would be wonderful, actually. If you didn’t mind?’

Would Ed have been just as anxious on hearing a reaction of horror? The way his heart had immediately started to hammer at the idea of actually going through with this now Stede had expressed genuine interest told him that maybe, yes, the rejection might have been equally as harrowing. Stede was happy with the prospect of actually, deliberately, not-because-they-were-in-the-same-place-at-the-same-time hanging out, where members of the public might see them, where they weren’t constrained by their lunch hour, where they were free to say things they didn’t want teachers overhearing and do things that might damage school property were they to indulge in the grounds. This was what friends did, and this, as a result, told Ed that this was what he and Stede genuinely now were to one another.

‘If I minded I wouldn’t have asked, would I?’ Ed said, and Stede chuckled at his own stupidity.

‘Of course not. Sorry. I was just rather over-excited at the idea, I suppose. But where would we meet, if not here?’

He asked as though he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Perhaps he couldn’t: with such important parents, perhaps Stede wasn’t allowed to go anywhere but to school.

‘I wasn’t for a minute suggesting I come to the Bonnet estate,’ Ed said, with a chuckle in an attempt to disguise the anxiety at the mere thought. ‘I’m more than aware that I would look like something a cat deposited on a rug in there around all your lovely things. But we could go off somewhere. The Dowager and I go to the northern part of the beach sometimes on a weekend. It’s much quieter than the one down here. We could … I don’t know … bring some food and have our lunch together, for a change, instead of having to inhale it and give ourselves indigestion when we immediately run to meet one another? And you could show me some of those games you play here, like cricket and stuff. I don’t know how difficult it would be to play cricket with two people, but all you need to do is show me the rules and walk me through … I don’t know. I’m talking gibberish now.’

‘It’s all right. It’s not gibberish at all. You’re just excited.’ Stede’s smile was tight, but only in that sort of way that looked like an attempt to rein in a much bigger one. ‘So am I, truth be told. It would be the first time I’ve spent my Saturday with a proper friend.’

Years and years’ worth of Saturdays, and none of them in good company. Ed might never have had true friends to speak of, either, but he had had his mum. He very much doubted Mrs Bonnet was anywhere near as warm.

This might be like the day she’d found the shilling.

On the day, though, Ed found he was far more nervous than might have been expected. Stede had agreed to bring snacks, for obvious reasons that neither of them acknowledged but that both of them understood. Ed only had to bring himself, and that suddenly didn’t feel like enough. What would he wear? He only owned two plain tunics outside of his work clothes, and he knew in his heart of hearts that Stede would have an entire room dedicated to his wardrobe, probably all hand-sewn silk. He probably designed his own outfits. Perhaps he even had one of those fancy white wigs … it would suit him, a tighter, paler version of his natural hair, kept for best so as not to spoil his own in the whippy sea winds.

It wasn’t worth worrying about, though. It wasn’t as though he could conjure up another outfit in time for the afternoon, and when he met Stede at the top of the beach, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not wearing a fancy tail coat or anything of that ilk – in fact, at first glance, it might have been difficult to pin down who attended the school and who worked there. His maroon jacket and breeches would have cost more than Ed’s allowance for the year, yes, but they at least appeared modest enough from a distance.

‘Good afternoon!’ Stede said. He was carrying a wicker basket, so even without his usual speed, he was still breathing heavily.

‘Afternoon,’ Ed said. ‘First things first. Would you like some help with that?’

‘Thank you,’ Stede panted, ‘it would actually be great if we could just … carry it to a nice spot together … ‘

Navigating sand wasn’t easy, but it would have been far more difficult for Stede alone. Together, they hauled the basket along the shore, away from the children who were playing with parents watching them closely. Any sandcastles they might have built in the dry spot where they settled probably wouldn’t have kept their shape, but they had a lot more peace than they might have done elsewhere.

Ed tried to help to unload the basket at first, but on seeing the contents, he realised he’d stopped getting quite so involved in favour of simply staring at everything Stede had packed. For starters, there was a rug to lie on the sand, which Ed would never have thought of in a million years. He’d spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to imagine what it might feel like to lie on the sand itself, should they feel like a nap after eating.

Then there was the food. This was the sort of thing Ed’s mother served up at the Carmody estate: Ed couldn’t even have named most of the things Stede spread out before him, let alone help him to prepare them properly. There were fancy-looking breads, yes, and jams and things to spread on them, but the meats were different colours to anything he’d ever had at home, and most of the things he had with the Dowager. And the cakes … he would have placed them in the windows of fine china shops if he hadn’t already known they were edible, glistening with jewel-like fruits and sweets.

‘I don’t know whether you have any particular dietary requirements,’ Stede said, once he was satisfied that everything had been properly arranged. ‘But there’s a bit of everything, so I don’t think you should have too much of a problem.’

Too much of a problem? Ed didn’t even know fully what he was looking at. Here was another bizarre instance of Stede considering a “problem” to be something completely different to the problems Ed had experience with, things like not having enough to eat in the first place rather than having so much to choose from to eat that some food would inevitably spoil and be wasted. There was no way the two of them could finish all of this in one afternoon. Ed strongly suspected that even an attempt to get all of these cakes down him would result in a severe stomach ache. It would take days to do it properly.

But the little prickle of resentment stayed at that level. He couldn’t find it in himself to allow any real kind of anger take him over when Stede was so excited, and so determined to show Ed a good time. None of this had been prepared with any ill intent. This was what Ed held on to when he asked Stede what was in one of the most beautiful pastries, and he let Stede explain how their cook baked them so painstakingly.

We’re just not those kind of people. We never will be.

It amazed Ed, how he could hear it inside his own head so clearly in his mother’s voice. He tried to push the words to one side.

‘Please don’t worry about niceties or anything silly like that,’ Stede was saying. ‘If you want anything, just have it. There’s more than enough.’

‘There certainly is,’ said Ed, hoping he’d sounded jovial. ‘Ordinarily niceties are a bit beyond me, but I think being invited to start eating when you aren’t the one who’s brought the food is one I can understand, at least.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. In my experience, I often find niceties to be nothing more than a mask for people who aren’t actually very nice at all to hide behind.’

They ate mostly in silence after that. Part of it was, of course, the fact that Ed spent most of the time with his mouth full of all of this delicious food. He filled up before he’d had chance to try everything, but Stede made him up a package of the items he hadn’t managed to sample. But most of it was undoubtedly just a lack of need to speak: they weren’t here with limited time, they didn’t have anything to impart, they were simply enjoying a day at the beach in each other’s company.

And they remained one another’s only company for quite some time. When this changed, though, it was drastically so. Around thirty people, around their age, were wandering up the beach towards them, making enough noise that they could be heard from some distance even over the sounds of the wind and the waves. They were dressed in such a way as to indicate they were probably more Stede’s calibre of people than Ed’s, but as they neared, it became clear that they might not even be quite as fancy as him. They were fancy, yes – everyone was here, if they were English, otherwise how would they have been able to afford to come over? – but they carried themselves in a more relaxed manner, and the way they laughed easily among themselves would have taken Stede years to master. Most of them were boys; a few, though, were girls. It only struck Ed then how few women he really saw out and about in his day-to-day life here, when this surprised him.

‘All right?’ one of them called. His intonation was very much like Stede’s. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’

Lord, even over four thousand miles away from England, English people liked to open their conversations with the weather. It was almost always a beautiful day here. Even after the raging storms, skies always opened out into sunny wonder again.

‘Absolutely gorgeous,’ said Stede. ‘We’re just having a picnic. There’s plenty of food left if you’d like to take some of it on your walk?’

How bizarre, that Stede should be so generous to strangers. Ed’s instinct had always been to preserve what was his, and this immediate offer left him feeling uncomfortable in a way he wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain to anyone present.

‘Actually, we – erm …’ The main boy, as Ed had dubbed him, strode forward. He, too, was blonde, though his hair didn’t maintain its position around his head the way Stede’s did, whipping about his face in the breeze with some ferocity. ‘I’m Felix, by the way.’

‘Oh – Stede.’ Stede sprang to his feet, launching himself towards Felix for the standard handshake that Ed had noticed between the upper classes before, the sorts that resided at Carmody rather than working there. Both men smiled at one another as they gripped onto the other’s hand firmly. ‘And this is my best friend, Edward.’

The thrill in Ed’s stomach at Stede’s use of best friend was tainted slightly by what Ed assumed was a very deliberate choice to use his full name rather than the shortened version that had begun to sound so comfortable to him in Stede’s voice.

‘Lovely to meet you both,’ said Felix, ‘and rather a stroke of luck, I daresay. You see, we were actually hoping to play a few innings, but we’re short of two people. The girls are only interested in spectating today.’

‘No,’ said one girl loudly: everyone turned to look at her with wry smiles. ‘Don’t misrepresent us. We can’t play when we’re in these skirts, and you didn’t say you were going to bring your wickets today.’

‘All right, Mary, I’ll lend you my slacks next time,’ said Felix. ‘What do you say, boys? Are you up for it?’

Innings. It was a word Ed had heard, but he couldn’t have begun to tell anyone what it pertained to. Some kind of game or sport, based on the word play … but what if he agreed, to be sporting, and it turned out that a “a few innings” was actually a few innings of some dangerous dare game where they had to swim in the sea as far out as they could go, and he might be eaten by a shark, or drowned by a current, or even by the simple fact that despite growing up so close to the water, he couldn’t swim?

‘What do you think, Ed?’ said Stede. ‘A bit of cricket might help us to work off our lunch?’

Bless you, Stede Bonnet. Ed knew full well he’d phrased the question that way because he’d seen Ed’s uncertainty, and now Ed could imagine these boys in their cricket whites shouting things like “out!” and “LBW!” the way the men on the cricket greens at home did on summer afternoons. But how to admit that that was the extent of his understanding?

He took a deep breath. These people didn’t know him, nor Stede. There was nothing to base a prejudgement on, and at the very least, Felix had been friendly enough so far. Make it into a bit of a joke, then?

‘I’ve only ever seen people play from a distance,’ he said. ‘I know there are two teams, and one of them sort of stand around a bit. Can I do that?’

‘The fielding team,’ said Felix – with the smile Ed had hoped for. ‘We do swap around, unfortunately, so at some point you’ll have to bat. But you look like a good, strong fellow. I think you’ll be fine.’

And – to Ed’s complete shock – he was.

The girls did indeed sit around to watch, once Stede had provided them with refreshments from his vast spread (although Ed had made sure to keep his own little package safe). And Felix assembled the teams, but he allowed Ed and Stede to stay together, and allowed them to field first. There was a lot of standing around, which Ed liked. It provided him with a good opportunity to watch what was going on and try to pick up the rules. It seemed that, in very basic terms, one man threw the ball in an elaborate way to another, who then hit it with the bat, and the fielders tried to catch it while he ran to and fro between two sets of little wooden sticks. This wasn’t difficult. 

He even caught the ball when it came his way. It took him aback: it was hard as a rock, and he made a mental note to try his best not to get hit by it at any point. He found a new respect for the batters after that. He also found a new terror of his turn.

‘You’re really good at this,’ said Stede, when they found a quiet moment to stand together. There was a lengthy argument happening about a potential no-ball, but it remained all in good fun. ‘I think that girl on the right was really impressed by your catch.’

Ed glanced up: “that girl on the right” was chatting animatedly to Mary, and he looked away again before she noticed him. 

‘I mean, I wouldn’t have expected any less. I was really impressed by my catch,’ he said.

‘So was I,’ said Stede. He smiled, giving Ed a quick pat on the arm, before clearing his throat so sharply that Ed actually flinched. ‘Erm – it does feel weird, though, doesn’t it? With girls watching? I don’t have a sister or anything like that, and obviously I spend all day at school with other boys …’

‘Hm. I dunno. It doesn’t feel that weird,’ said Ed. ‘They’re being polite, and they do seem to be enjoying themselves.’

Stede watched them for a moment or two. None of them appeared to be doing anything out of the ordinary: one was passing around some of the sandwiches Stede had made while most of the others chatted to one another. Some were watching the match, some others had realised that the no-ball conversation was going on for quite some time and had lost interest. There was nothing particularly intimidating about any of them. In fact, Ed guessed that had he approached any of them for conversation, he would be able to speak to them as easily as he could speak to anyone else here. Stede ought to have even less of a problem with this than he did.

‘I suppose I’m just not used to girls,’ Stede said sadly.

A fair point, if a strange one. As far as Ed could tell from existing in the world, quite a lot of people were girls.

‘They’re just people, mate,’ he said. ‘Nothing to be scared of.’

He didn’t dare to admit that aside from his mother, he wasn’t really used to girls, either. But then again, this admission didn’t hold any great shame for him. Maybe he wasn’t used to girls but nor was he frightened of them. He’d never spent very much time thinking of them as separate entities at all, in fact, and none of the crude chatter he’d heard spouting from the ale-drenched mouths of his father and his companions if he’d ever been sent to the taverns to collect him had interested him at all. He’d only ever thought that he wouldn’t have liked it if he knew women talked about him like that: surely women wouldn’t like to be spoken about in such a way, either. He didn’t need telling that it was wrong.

And the girls were very much like the boys, really. You couldn’t group them by gender because they all had their own personalities. It would have been like saying that every boy in Stede’s mathematics class, for example, possessed the same qualities. He and Badminton weren’t anything like each other just because they were both male. In fact, Ed would perhaps have gone so far as to say that Stede had more in common with some of the girls here, in temperament at least.

‘You’re right, I suppose,’ Stede said with a sigh. ‘You’re right about a lot of things like that.’

Stede was book smart; Ed, street smart? A cliché, perhaps, but there had to be some truth in it. Ed’s savviness in that department was more or less the reason they’d become friends, at the end of the day. He was wondering whether that was more of a strength or a weakness in their relationship when one of Felix’s friends, who he thought might be called Matthew, nudged his shoulder.

‘That woman over there,’ he said, partially to Ed, ‘she’s looking our way … do either of you know her?’

The argument was still going on, and most people were entertained enough to be focused on it – one or two, however, were stirring, faces turned in the direction Matthew was now indicating. There was indeed a woman striding towards them, lifting her skirts out of the shifting sand.

It was Adeline. It took Ed a moment or two to realise, given that he believed her to be otherwise occupied this afternoon, but her appearance was unmistakeable as she drew nearer. Ed could see that her lips were forming his name, over and over again, even before she was close enough to hear. Without the familiarity nobody else had noticed her: but once one or two people had seen that he’d stopped still, they followed his gaze, and by the time her voice carried towards them, the entire field of play was staring up at her.

‘Edward,’ she panted, one final time, when she was face-to-face with him. ‘Thank goodness … I’m sorry, but you need to come home with me right now. And the rest of you - please -’ She made a sweeping gesture around. ‘It’s not safe here today. Please. Trust me, make sure you get home. Look out for one another. If anything happened … I would … truly, I would never forgive myself …’

‘Is everything OK?’ one of the boys, whose name Ed hadn’t yet learned, said. ‘My house isn’t far away, if anyone wants to come to mine for the time being.’

‘It’s OK for now, but I’m not sure how much longer you’ll be safe for here. Your parents will explain,’ said Adeline. ‘I don’t think this is for me to tell you all. But please just trust me. Look – other people are leaving, too.’

She was right. She was pointing back along the more populated area of the beach, and even from such a distance Ed could see people hurrying back onto the roads and away from the sea. The image that made itself known in his head then was of a gigantic shark, jaws wide and ready to sweep up anyone who happened to be swimming in its path.

This was enough to convince everyone. Rushing around to gather their things, they made promises to meet again as they scattered to head home. Felix even took Stede’s address in the hope that he and Ed could join them for more cricket in the future, which Ed was sure he would have complicated feelings about if he hadn’t become so nervous at Adeline’s obvious agitation.

‘You must be Stede,’ she said, when Stede had packed up his picnic basket and was lingering by Ed, evidently unsure how to say goodbye in such strange circumstances. Stede just nodded. He must have been nervous, too. Ordinarily he’d have been charming in introducing himself properly. ‘It is lovely to meet you. I am sorry I have come to interrupt your afternoon, but I promise it’s better it ends this way.’

‘I’m sure it is, if you say so,’ said Stede – but he was looking at Ed as he spoke, his expression in a state of constant flux. Then, without warning, he threw his arms around him.

Ed hadn’t been embraced so warmly since he’d left home. In fact, the last hug he’d shared with his mother had been the hug on the dock before he’d climbed aboard the ship that would take him away from her, and this callback was enough to make his eyes prickle.

‘This has been the best day of my life,’ Stede whispered, close enough to Ed’s ear that he could keep his voice below the volume that Adeline would be able to hear. Except he hadn’t said anything that Ed would’ve thought Adeline wouldn’t have been safe to hear, and when Stede drew away, his chest was tight with anxiety at the infinite amount of potential meanings Stede had tried to convey.

They regarded one another. Ed’s ribcage was positively rattling with the impact of his heartbeat now, and yet he couldn’t have told himself why he was so on edge.

‘What’s wrong?’ Stede said to Adeline. He seemed as jittery as Ed felt, but that could well have been due to the apparent threat that was imminent. ‘Can you tell us?’

Adeline was gazing out to sea.

‘I suppose … I didn’t want to say anything with so many people around, so as not to start a panic,’ she said. ‘But the rumours were true. I can see them now. Look.’

On the horizon, far enough away for it to have aroused no suspicion from a group of boys preoccupied playing cricket, was a ship sporting a large, billowing pirate flag.

Chapter Text

‘You have an excellent spin on you,’ said Baron Webley. ‘You would never think you were brand new to this.’

Ed couldn’t think where he might’ve learned such a skill, other than the times he’d thrown things at his father to try to distract him from a distance. Attacking him outright would have been too dangerous, and usually he’d been too drunk to have been able to work out where the projectiles were coming from. This did not feel like the sort of back story he ought to be sharing with Baron Webley during a friendly session of cricket practice. Or ever, actually.

‘We did use to play a bit when I was young,’ Ed lied. ‘Me and my dad. Or a few kids from around the estate, if we could get enough of us together to make a couple of tiny teams. I was never much good at the batting. Or anything else, for that matter. I was too easily distracted if I had to wait around for too long. But when you’re bowling, you’re never far away from having to do something, so I suppose that’s why it stayed with me so easily.’

Probably far too much detail than the conversation demanded, and far too detectable as a fib, but Baron Webley seemed unbothered. Who would have thought that all it would take for him to warm up to Ed was a bit of sporting prowess?

‘I used to captain the King Edward’s elevens when I was your age,’ he said. ‘Some of the finest days of my life were spent on the greens. I ought to have stuck with it, I think. Nowadays almost all of the involvement I have with cricket is making deals about it within taverns. Adeline fears I am wasting our money, but we have plenty of it, don’t we?’

He chuckled, as though this were an edgy joke. Ed couldn’t interpret it as anything other than a brag, but Baron Webley’s ignorance brought him round a bit. There hadn’t been malicious intent, he was fairly sure, and that was enough for now.

‘And she cannot deny me my fun. God knows there is not much else to do on this island … but if I had known we had a spin bowling prodigy in our house, I could have been entertaining myself for far longer than I’d realised.’ Baron Webley paused to wipe his forehead: how anyone played a full match under such sweltering sun was beyond Ed, and he unconsciously swept at his own brow, too. ‘Although it is not as though we would get very far with a match, with only the two of us. I wonder if there are any other talents you are hiding from me, eh, Edward? Have you ever been grouse shooting?’

God, that was the poshest thing Ed had ever been asked.

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes … I suppose not. Not that there are many grouse around here, of course, but now and then I do go shooting with some of my friends. I feel you may excel at something like that, too, with your bowling precision being what it is.’

Shooting? As in, using a gun? That was for farmers – men who owned vast amounts of land that needed protecting, not people like Ed. If there had been a gun in his house as he’d grown up, he was sure his mother would no longer be alive. He wasn’t convinced he would be alive, either.

‘Well, you must try it sometime.’ Baron Webley tapped a groove into the lawn with the corner of his cricket bat, aligning himself with the wickets. ‘Middle, please!’

*

Felix and his friends were very keen to maintain a relationship with Stede and Ed that allowed them, always, to have enough people on hand for a cricket match. There was speculation, kept between the two of them exclusively, around whether this was the only reason Felix and his friends were very keen to maintain this relationship, but when it came down to it they did mostly get on very well.

It was also an excellent excuse to see Stede on weekends. Despite Stede’s assertion that their recent day out had been the best day of his life, Ed worried that asking him if he wanted to repeat it might sound needy considering they'd now made some additional friends as a result of it. They maintained their meet-ups at the school, either practising Ed’s reading and writing or just chatting about whatever they’d been up to in the twenty-four hours since they’d last seen each other. But it was only on the weekends when Felix had scheduled cricket matches that they met up outside of those grounds, and neither of them acknowledged this. They did, however, make sure they met for a chat first, however short. Those minutes before somebody else turned up were some of Ed’s favourites.

They didn’t play on the beach as often. Once word had spread around Holetown of the pirate ship sighting, many parents were reluctant to allow their children anywhere near the shore for quite some time. Nothing had come of the incident. It was assumed that, since they had been sailing in a north-westerly direction, they were heading for Port Royal to wreak their havoc, but the citizens of Holetown were nevertheless unsettled. Ed felt quite alone in not being particularly moved by any of it, but was reluctant to admit the personal history that had led him to being so desensitised to potential violence. He didn’t let it affect his life quite as much as other people did, at any rate, and if they were unable to secure an alternative venue for their games he was happy enough to retire to the beach.

And Baron Webley was right: Ed was a good bowler. He found it easier, too, to always have something tangible to do. There’d been an incident during one of his first matches when he’d been fielding, and he always chose a spot to stand that seemed unlikely anyone would manage to smash a ball to: but the left-handed Matthew had done just that. Only, because no one ever hit the ball that way, Ed hadn’t been paying attention. All of the yells of “catch it!” or “get out of the way!” fell on deaf ears, as he assumed they were directed towards someone else – until Stede surfaced by his side to yank him out of the way.

No. Bowling was his strong suit. He was a poor fielder, he wasn’t the worst batsman in the world, but he was one of the best bowlers.

He might have thrown himself fully into this. He might have proposed they start their own youth league, with other people in Barbados: assemble a proper Holetown team, a first eleven and a B-team. It would be an excuse to travel the island a bit more. The Dowager and her family might even fancy journeying with him on their quieter weekends. Baron Webley had certainly taken far more of an interest in him since it had become apparent that he had some mild sporting prowess. But while the physical, playing-cricket part was fine, he was never quite sure what to say to people when the games were over. Stede had this way with words born of his status that matched the others’ manners of speaking, and they just seemed to be able to click even before any of them got to know each other. It wasn’t that any of them were nasty or aggressive, far from it. He knew he was lucky to have met such a good-natured bunch of boys (and the few girls, some of whom also played, paying no mind to their brothers’ trousers as they sprinted along the grass or on the wet sand and threw themselves at the wickets to get someone out). If someone approached him, though, and started to make small talk, while he was able to respond with the answers he thought he was being asked for, he always felt sure he was missing something. He could just imagine those same conversations taking place with Stede in his place, and the flow improving, the jokes becoming more funny. He, however, did the minimum required to not stop the conversation. Or that was, at least, how it felt to him.

He caught himself trying to borrow phrases and mannerisms from Stede once or twice. Even watching from a distance could be helpful. The well-brought-up boys carried themselves differently from him. There was more pride in their stance, as though they were prowling their estates ready to give instructions to their groundskeepers. One evening, sure no one was watching as the moon began to make itself known over the sea, he tucked one hand into the small of his back to physically push it forwards and tug his head up tall. Stede, chatting with Felix some yards away, let out a merry laugh: it felt for a second as though it were directed at Ed, and he slumped back into his usual posture before he noticed that he was merely laughing at something funny Felix had said.

Not a minute later, he was trotting back over to Ed with a wide smile.

‘What was he saying to you then?’ Ed said, a little more sharply than he would have liked. Fortunately, Stede seemed too flushed to pick up on anything untoward about his tone.

‘He’s having a party this weekend,’ he said. ‘He turns eighteen on Wednesday, but his mother and father are having the celebration on Saturday night, and he wonders if we would like to come. I think it sounds smashing.’

Ed looked up at Felix in surprise to find him watching, perhaps in wait for a response. He smiled when Ed met his eyes, and gave a joyful wave that could not have been anything other than genuine. These boys had a charming sincerity to them that Ed was learning couldn’t be faked: if they wanted to be snide, they had all sorts of ways to do that.

‘Is he having it at his house?’ said Ed, and Stede nodded. Again, he had no idea that Ed had asked the question in trepidation rather than simply to ascertain where he needed to go on Saturday. Felix was not as rich as Stede or his family, but you didn’t have to have Bonnet amounts of money to be richer than Ed.

‘And he’ll have music and all sorts of food,’ Stede said. ‘Really, I think we should go. It’d be a good opportunity to chat to everyone outside of cricket.’

That was Ed’s main concern. Cricket was what tied him to these people. Nothing else.

But Stede was glowing at the prospect, and Ed had to concede that this invitation might well warrant this excitement. He couldn’t imagine Stede having been invited to very much by his acquaintances at school, and even if he had been, it would very probably have been done in jest. This was genuine kindness, not to be sniffed at.

‘Yeah, why not?’ Ed said. ‘Should be fun. As long as his parents don’t mind letting a street rat into their house …’

Stede’s smile straightened immediately into a grumpy line across his face.

‘Edward,’ he said. ‘Don’t. I’m still completely mortified about that, and I told you how sorry I was.’

It took Ed a moment to work out what Stede was on about, a moment he spent staring at his cross little frown in some amusement.

‘Oh, for fuck’s …’ Ed shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking about that, mate, I was just being mean about myself in a fun sort of way. You have a word for that, don’t you?’

‘Self-deprecating?’ said Stede, and Ed nodded enthusiastically.

‘Yeah! That’s the one. Self-deprecating.’

‘Well. Either way, I don’t see why they should have a problem with you being there. You’re a perfectly lovely person and a pleasure to be around. I do wish you’d stop talking about yourself like that. It makes me uncomfortable.’

‘But it makes me laugh, so …’

There was something unsettling about the fact that Stede couldn’t find humour in this, almost as though he had any right to be offended by how Ed chose to speak about himself. It wasn’t as though Stede were being deliberately rude, so Ed could hardly bring himself to get angry about it. But nor could he quite forget about it, either.

‘I suppose if you can talk about yourself like that, then I could say I’m a popinjay?’ Stede said. He was smiling sheepishly – maybe self-deprecation just didn’t come too easily to him, and it was something else he had to learn.

Well. Ed was more than willing to teach him, if he had to.

‘Of course you can,’ he said. ‘But you have to be aware that I’m allowed to say that about you, too, if you say it about yourself.’

Stede’s cheeks inflated in indignation.

‘But you went ballistic when I called you –’

‘It’s called punching up,’ Ed said coolly, ignoring the fact that Stede looked as though he might float away at any minute (which was difficult, because what Stede considered to be his cross face was deeply unthreatening and almost cute, like a baby lion who hasn’t mastered a roar – there was a laugh burning Ed's chest). ‘If my mum made fun of her employers to me, that was because they were rich and ignorant. But if we ever heard them making fun of her, that would have been because they were rich and ignorant. Do you see what I mean?’

Ed could tell it wasn’t quite making sense in Stede’s head, but he was happy to see him nod anyway.

*

To his surprise, when Ed broke the news of the party to Adeline and the Dowager later that evening as they took air in the garden, they were both more excited about the prospect than he was.

‘It would take me away from you for a few hours,’ Ed said to the Dowager. ‘On an evening, too. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

The Dowager shook with the merriest laugh Ed had ever heard pass her lips.

‘Edward, how much have you actually done for me these past few weeks? Truly, I think the key to unlocking the delights of this island was being the key myself. As long as you are occupied, and you keep up your little job, I am more than happy.’

‘And as long as you are not there to disgrace yourself,’ said Adeline, smiling wryly, ‘though I suspect that is not something of any interest to you, is it? You have had ample opportunity to disgrace yourself here, and so far, so good. Now.’

She placed both hands in her lap, and Ed could have sworn she giggled at him. She and the Dowager had partaken in some rum that evening – he’d been permitted a sip, but nothing more – and this might have contributed to the Dowager’s newly sunny disposition.

‘What in the world are you going to wear? I do think you and Ralph are not too dissimilar in size ...’ She made rather a show of looking him up and down, and Ed could imagine Baron Webley’s outfits passing through her mind as she tried to assemble one that might suit him. 'I will see what I can do.'

Ed sat on the bed in wait as Adeline trawled through her husband's wardrobes, pulling out shirts and knickerbockers and coats that Ed doubted he had any need of in Caribbean weather. Each one she held up, looked at for a second, then made a little noise to indicate her decision around its suitability: most noises were something along the lines of "hmm" and the item was shelved. One or two were slung onto the bed, and Ed couldn't help but feel relieved that he wouldn't be made to try on Baron Webley's entire collection. The man owned far too many clothes, and Adeline was discerning enough for the two of them.

He was just examining the frilly sleeve of one of the possible shirts when Adeline let out a faint 'oh.'

She was holding a small piece of paper – something she'd found within a turned-out pocket, perhaps. Whatever it was, it clearly bore disappointing news.

'Is everything all right, Lady Webley?' he said, trying to ensure politeness was at the forefront of his tone rather than curiosity. Adeline shook her head briefly, then raised it to smile at Ed.

'No, my lovely,' she said. 'I am married to a rather beastly man. But then again, we knew that already, didn't we?'

She stuffed the piece of paper back into the inner pocket of a blazer and slid it out of the way. The noise she made then was a bit more than a "hmm".

There were no other hidden missives in Baron Webley's wardrobe, it seemed. Adeline found a few more garments for Ed to try on, but nothing more, and it was with her usual brisk friendliness that she suggested some combinations of outfit for him to try on while she left the room. Ed wouldn't have known these unrelated pieces of clothing even had combinations: he'd been about to sling anything on.

He could sort of see what she meant, though, when Adeline left him alone to change. The colours, while not too different from one another, didn’t always seem to flow when placed together. There might be a cut of trouser that didn’t look right with a cut of jacket, but Ed wouldn’t have known where to start in explaining why that might be. Adeline had an eye for this stuff, an eye no doubt born from having excessive amounts of clothes to pair with other clothes rather than simply the few practical pieces whose only decision-making processes involved looking outside to try to determine whether it was hot, cold, wet or dry.

And it felt wrong even to try them on. Having clothes for occasions was the most frivolous thing Ed could conceive of: why spend so much money on appearances when money could be spent on food, strong work boots, or given to the landlord? It was difficult to imagine what he might spend it on if he had so much he didn’t have to worry about it, though. Perhaps, had he been brought up wealthy, he’d have been just the same. Perhaps he’d have had a house with an entire room dedicated to knickerbockers alone.

He was admiring a purplish sort of combination in Baron Webley’s looking-glass when Adeline knocked gently on the door.

‘Ed? Are you decent?’

More than decent: he felt like nobility. ‘Yeah. You can come in.’

He turned himself away from his reflection and tried to resume a nonchalant expression (he’d been suddenly very embarrassed at his arrogance when he’d realised he was close to no longer being alone). Adeline, though, was beaming, and she was followed by both Baron Webley and the Dowager.

‘I wanted everyone to see,’ she said. ‘I hope you do not mind. I just thought you would look rather handsome, and now I can see I thought correctly. That outfit really suits you. What do you think?’

It was hard to resist bursting out with something deeply arrogant. ‘I do like this,’ he managed. ‘As long as you don’t mind me wearing it, Baron Webley?’

‘Of course he doesn’t mind,’ said Adeline, casting a sharp, sideways glance over at her husband. Perhaps she considered this lend the absolute least he could do following whatever she had found within his wardrobe. ‘He was not planning on wearing these tonight, or indeed any other night that I was aware of. I doubt he could even squeeze into many of these breeches. You might as well keep them all, Edward, they suit you far better.’

Baron Webley’s face tightened, as though his skin was holding in a barrage of rage. Ed wished they wouldn’t speak like this in front of him, or indeed the Dowager: her face was one of delight at the thought of sharing gossip about her brother-in-law’s marriage when she next played bridge.

‘I suppose you do give old outfits a certain youthful new charm, Edward,’ Baron Webley conceded. The discomfort of being caught between two people who did rather like you, but not one another, kept Ed silent, though internally he was glowing. ‘I wonder whether we have time to do something about that hair, though. Have you managed to have it cut since you arrived here? It does not look as though you have. I think something a little more sophisticated might go with such an outfit better.’

Both Adeline and the Dowager looked Ed over for far longer than he was comfortable with. Sure, he was meant to be modelling an outfit for them like one of their childhood dolls, but his hair felt more precious. It was attached to him, he grew it himself. Much as he admired Stede’s well-preserved waves, he had no interest in pursuing a haircut like that at this moment in time, and the worry that someone might be about to suggest otherwise had dampened the new flames within him at having seen the man in the looking-glass.

‘No,’ said the Dowager. ‘I think you are quite wrong, actually, brother. Edward’s hair is … him.’

*

Felix lived in one of the large houses near the parklands. It wasn't set in grounds, nor did it seem like a mansion or anything quite as intense as that, but it was still a far more luxurious house than Ed had ever seen outside of somewhere he was working. There was an instinctive desire, even, to start scrubbing the floorboards as he and Stede walked over them.

‘Where’s Felix?’ Ed said. There were people all over the place, leaning against walls and laughing together, but he recognised very few of them. One or two waved, said quick “hello”s, and it was only when they did this that he realised they were from their cricket group. Everyone was so different when they were polished up and drinking. If he had met Stede playing cricket, he might not have recognised him tonight, either.

‘I don’t know,’ said Stede. ‘I suppose he could be anywhere. He knows everyone here, after all – no doubt he’ll want to at least say hello to all of these people.’

They passed more and more strangers as they made their way through the house. Drinks found their way into their hands, something fruity and not too strong, but tasty in its own way. It slipped down well as they kept moving, and when they passed the drinks table again Ed was ready to grab another.

‘You not having another one, Stede?’ said a loud voice from behind them. Ed’s first thought was that Felix had caught up with them, until he realised the voice was female: he and Stede turned in unison to find Mary and one of the other girls – Hannah – smiling at them. Mary held up another full glass.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘This is the best one to drink while you still have taste. You’ll be on the rum later, I promise you that.’

‘Well. Thank you.’ Stede held it up in a sort of mock toast, and the girls laughed. ‘Have either of you seen Felix, by the way? We’ve been here for quite some time now but haven’t come across him yet. Feels rather rude, considering it’s his alcohol we’re drinking.’

‘Oh, no, neither of us have seen him for a while,’ said Hannah. ‘I don’t think anyone has, actually. There was a rumour going around that he felt he’d underdressed, so he’d gone back to his room to change, but that was ages ago. If it were true, I am sure he would have been back by now.’

Was Felix even here, then? They bid goodbye to Mary and Hannah before resuming their quest, interrupted by fewer people this time as they came across the same faces over and over again. 

‘I mean, it is on him, really,’ said Stede. ‘I know the polite thing to do is to greet the host on arrival, but when the host has disappeared into thin air then I suppose there isn’t a lot we can do about that.’

‘Hmm.’ Ed didn’t want to say what was on his mind, that if greeting the host was the proper way to do a party then he, of course, had to greet the host. Failings on his part would look a lot worse than the same failings committed by Stede, but he wasn’t sure Stede would ever understand that. ‘I suppose so. Maybe we could check his bedroom – just knock on the door or something – and then if we don’t find him there, go back downstairs and enjoy ourselves.’

‘You just want some more of the rum punch,’ Stede teased.

Ed couldn’t fight that. It was delicious, and though he was still slightly nervous he felt considerably calmer than he had done half an hour ago.

‘Are you eighteen already?’ Stede said. ‘I sometimes feel as though you are much older than I am.’

‘Yeah,’ Ed said. ‘And when …?’

‘July. Summer. I’ll have a party, too, I promise.’ He winked, a move that would have looked utterly bizarre on him in any other context than a party.

The door that seemed to be Felix’s was ajar. They glanced at one another before Ed went ahead and knocked, nudging it open as he did so. He recoiled in fear, terrified he’d just burst in on Felix half-naked or something similarly embarrassing, but once they could see inside it was clear there was nobody there. Perhaps that was because this wasn’t actually Felix’s bedroom? There was a large four-poster against the opposite wall, more than big enough for two fully grown adults, two small children, and perhaps a litter of puppies. Even empty it felt busy, every wall and surface embellished with such swirly decoration it felt as though the room itself was moving.

‘This must be his parents’ room,’ Ed said. He made to back away, but Stede laid a hand on his wrist.

‘No, it’s his. I came here after school a couple of weeks ago to borrow a book.’

Borrow a book. Ed would have felt strange hearing that Stede had been here without him anyway, but to know that he’d come to do that made things ten times worse. Undoubtedly it was something heavy and academic that would have been beyond his own comprehension.

He had no time to dwell on this, though. Stede was creeping into the room, and against his better judgement, Ed followed, pulling the door closed behind him.

‘OK, Stede, mate,’ he said. ‘We came up here to find Felix, right? But he’s not here. What are we doing shutting ourselves in his fancy-pants bedroom?’

‘We’re just having a minute or two to ourselves, that’s all,’ said Stede. He was wandering the perimeter, smiling at a painting of a sunset over Holetown Beach or a particular volume on Felix’s towering bookshelves. ‘I don’t know about you, but I was getting a bit flushed rushing around down there. We’ll find Felix when we find Felix.’

‘And what if Felix finds us?’ Ed said. Rooms like this were not the sorts of rooms he was invited into, unless he was helping his mother to clean them. He couldn’t imagine Felix’s reaction to discovering him there to be anything other than horror.

‘It’s a party. If he didn’t want us in here he would have locked the door.’ Satisfied with his lap of the room, Stede came to rest on the bed. It was so high off the ground that he had to hop backwards onto it, and he hissed when he spilt some of his drink in his lap.

‘Right, now we can’t go anywhere until that dries,’ Ed said. ‘Good plan.’

He was trying to be funny, but Stede was anxiously scrubbing at the front of his trousers.

‘God,’ he said. ‘This is why people don’t want to spend time with me. I’m the clumsiest, most gormless boy in Barbados. Everyone down there seems so much more sophisticated than I ever feel like I am.’

‘Calm down, Stede, it’s just a spilled drink,’ said Ed. He sat on the bed beside Stede – he was taller, so he didn’t have as far to go, and his drink stayed firmly in its glass. ‘It’s all right. It’s warm, it’ll dry in no time. And you’re not clumsy. These things happen – at least you haven’t spilled, I dunno … red wine all over this cream eiderdown.’

Ed was antsy even sitting on it. If he’d been wearing his work clothes he’d have had to burn the entire thing once he got up. He hadn’t expected Stede to look quite so uncomfortable here, though.

‘I did do that once,’ he said miserably. ‘A couple of years ago. I’d gone into my parents’ bedroom to tell them something one evening and my mother had a half-empty wine glass on her bedside table. I got over-excited, and … well. You can imagine, no doubt.’

It was clear Stede wasn’t remembering this incident with any kind of good feeling, but Ed couldn’t help but smile at the mere idea. He could imagine it. Very well, actually. Stede’s excitement over things he was passionate about was usually manifested as waving arms and sped-up speech, and a wine glass seemed like the exact sort of casualty that might arise from it.

‘You’re laughing at me,’ Stede said, and his grumpy little turned-down face had Ed laughing even harder.

‘Not at you,’ Ed said. ‘It’s just such an enduring image. You do get over-excited about things.’

‘That’s not a good thing, Ed! It means I don’t have a level head, and it definitely means I come across as very uncool indeed. That’s why I’m at a party hiding away with my best friend while I dry off from an alcoholic mishap, rather than mingling, as one is supposed to. I do like people. Very much. But the things I do often mean that they don’t like me.’

‘Plenty of people like you. If you’re talking about the likes of Nigel Badminton -’

‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Nigel Badminton any more.’

‘Good, because I was going to tell you that you shouldn’t care less about Nigel Badminton any more. Who do you mean, then?’

He had to admit, he was slightly offended that his own friendship didn’t seem to be enough for Stede right now. Nobly, he thought, he put this aside. Stede was still looking a little sorry for himself, and the miserable expression he pulled at times like this never failed to make Ed feel sorry for him.

‘I’m supposed to have – you know – been with a girl by now,’ said Stede. ‘All of those lot have. Some of them are engaged, even. I suspect that’s Dad’s plan for me, too, but I can’t imagine it. Who would he match me with?’

Ed shrugged. ‘I dunno. Not up to me, is it? But I would imagine you can tell him where to go if he picks someone you hate.’

He was thinking of Adeline’s words of wisdom. I must implore you never to follow in our footsteps. A match made in business is no match at all. Stede was smart enough to know that, he was sure, but there was still a smidgeon of worry at this. He’d forgotten all about those arranged marriages that served business interests and no one else’s.

‘There are just … quite a lot more girls here than I expected there to be,’ said Stede. ‘I’m not sure how we’re supposed to deal with that.’

‘I don’t think we have to deal with anything,’ said Ed. ‘Really. They’re people like anyone else. I mean, I’m not pretending I know many our own age. But the Dowager is tolerable when she wants to be, and Adeline’s all right. And I obviously used to live with my mum. She’s a girl and she’s probably the best person I know.’

‘My mum’s OK, I suppose. I think she’s sort of wrapped up in whatever my dad wants, though. I’d like to know what she was like before they met.’

Were there any adult women who hadn’t been ruined by the influence of a man? Ed had yet to work out what was so beastly about Baron Webley, but Adeline certainly seemed infuriated enough by him that there had to be something very wrong within their marriage.

‘It’s so deeply unfair,’ said Stede. ‘My father has given up on me already and I haven’t had a chance to prove myself yet. Perhaps when I am thirty years old and a failure, then he will have every right to call me spoiled and pathetic. But right now? It seems a bit ridiculous. He has been responsible for every facet of my life so far, so surely to point out my failings is to point out his own?’

‘You’re not wrong. I don’t think it’s possible to spoil yourself. Pretty sure someone else has to do that for you.’

Stede smiled shyly. ‘You’re so insightful, Ed. Sometimes when I’m stuck inside my own head, I think I just need you to say something like that and all the messy thoughts are untangled.’

It was the first time Ed could recall being called insightful. He’d never have given the label to himself, and he flushed at accepting it from Stede.

‘I suppose that was quite insightful. Yeah. But it’s honest, too. If he’s mad at his own handiwork, then that’s his problem.’ It had the desired effect of making Stede chuckle slightly, dipping his head so his chin was on his chest and he appeared fascinated by the dregs of his drink. One of his curls, usually so obedient, slipped onto his forehead as though eager for a sip of rum. ‘If he is mad, though, then he’s wrong to be. He did an amazing job with you.’

Stede’s chin must have been digging a groove into his chest by now.

‘All right, Edward Teach. I know you’ve had a couple but this is getting a bit ridiculous.’

‘How is complimenting my best friend a bit ridiculous?’ Ed, aware that maybe he was slightly drunk now that Stede had brought it to his attention, nevertheless swung his legs onto the bed and rose to his knees. He shuffled towards Stede, drink aloft in his right hand so as not to spill it on Felix’s beclothes or his thick, springy rug. Stede was waiting for him with an expression of amused anxiety, head still not completely raised, but he laughed again when Ed took hold of his chin and nudged it upwards so that he was looking straight up at Ed.

‘What a handsome young man,’ Ed said, doing his best impression of a cad from the sorts of stories his mother had liked to tell him, in jokey voices absorbed from nobility, when she’d had the chance. ‘I’m told he’s a diligent scholar and a devil on the cricket field, too …’

‘Edward –’

Ed affected a high-pitched, feminine tone now. ‘Oooooh, tell me more! His father says he’s a waste of space, but it sounds like he might be full of shit!’ Voice deep again. ‘You’re right. His father is full of shit. Because this guy, right here, is my best friend. He’s cool, he’s funny, he gives his time freely, but don’t think he won’t punch you right on the nose if you deserve it. And, if he does punch you on the nose, you definitely did deserve it. He’s a good guy. A great guy, even. The best one I’ve ever met, at any rate.’

‘Edward, you’re embarrassing me.’

‘In front of who?’ Ed gestured emphatically around the room, and Stede shook his head, smiling in exasperation. ‘I’m just saying, that’s all. If you don’t get to hear it from your family then you deserve to hear it from someone, and I’d be honoured if you would just sit down, shut up, and let that someone be me.’

‘I am sat down.’

‘Then shut up.’

And this mad – deranged, even, so insane that if he admitted it to anyone he knew he’d be immediately committed – desire flowed up within him to kiss Stede.

It would have been perfect. Still mad, yes, but perfect all the same. He hadn’t had enough alcohol to cloud his judgement, but he’d had the exact right amount to smooth out the rough edges of doubt and anxiety. He was kneeling above him and Stede was looking up, lips parted ever so slightly. They were alone, in the fanciest bedroom Ed had ever seen (or ever would see, no doubt). Comfortable in low light. The conditions could not have come together better even if he’d tried to assemble them himself.

The door swung open without warning: their luck had to run out sooner or later, Ed supposed, but the rate his heart shot up to in that moment was more akin to that of someone being pursued by a wild animal than someone who had been caught out sitting on a bed. Felix was grinning, though, when he appeared in the doorframe.

‘There you two are,’ he said. ‘Hannah said you’d been looking for me. I’ve been setting up all the fireworks. Come on. They’re about to start.’

There was no indication that he was offended by finding two people in his private bedroom. In fact, he even retrieved another book for Stede from his bookshelf before leading them both outside. Perhaps, he, too, had sampled a few glasses of the rum punch.

Of course he would find an excuse to lend him a book. Just as Ed had begun to feel comfortable in a place he’d felt physically sick on entering, of course Felix would do something like that, rejecting him the way a grumbling stomach rejects spoiled food. There’d been brief excitement at the prospect of fireworks, huffing to himself as they left the room.

‘I never knew you hung out with him outside of cricket,’ he said, when Felix was distracted chatting to another guest. It was something he knew shouldn’t bother him, and as such he tried to sound casual, but the alcohol had given him slightly less control over the presentation of his emotions than usual and his voice had bite.

Stede’s frown was less irritation, more concern. ‘I’ve only ever borrowed books off him. I met him after school once and came here. That’s all.’

That’s all. Ed eyed the tome under Stede’s arm warily. His reading had come along significantly since the early days of his lessons, but if he were to sit down with that book, it would have taken him a great deal longer to make his way through it than it would have taken Stede - and he would have had very little fun doing so, too. He suspected Stede was going to read this as escapism. To him, it would have been work.

But Stede forgot about it almost instantly, instead chattering on about the fireworks Felix had promised. And Ed couldn’t dwell on his frustration – nor did he want to. It had almost come from nowhere, and it was unwelcome. He particularly resented its interruption of something much softer that had been present within him before Felix had opened the door.

Word of the fireworks must have spread quickly around the tightly-packed house. The hallway was empty when they got downstairs, and the house, though returned to its usual state, seemed cavernous. The chatter was muffled, now: everyone had gathered outside, and Ed felt strangely reluctant to join them. Stede’s excitement was infectious, though. That was what kept him walking through the hallway, away from that bedroom to mix with everyone else who had no idea that his world had just shifted beneath his feet.

They stood near the house as Felix’s parents lit the fireworks, out of the way of the already assembled crowds. The gardens must have been vast in light, and even in darkness Ed could tell he would have been able to stage a proper game of cricket here, even if a really good stroke might have sent the ball through one of the back windows. And this, he knew, wasn’t a patch on the Bonnet estate.

Thoughts of Stede’s house, of Stede himself, had his heart fluttering. He was pleased when the fireworks finally started up, and the garden seemed to flinch as one like a leaf when a butterfly takes off from it. Laughter followed, as they realised what had happened, and a sea of heads turned up to the sky to watch greens and reds and golds explode into pinpricks and scatter above them. There was no need to think of anything to say when nothing could be as captivating as what was happening all around them, and he thought he might finally understand another layer of Stede’s desire to stay hidden in Felix’s bedroom for a few minutes.

When he turned to smile at Stede, he found Stede already facing him, doing the exact same thing.

Anybody could have turned around to look at them at any moment. It didn’t stop that same urge from earlier on surging up again like bile. He ignored it, turning back to the fireworks to let the echoing bangs fill his head in place of his thoughts.

Mostly. He’d never had to contend with so many thoughts in his life, and one or two of them slipped through the cracks.

Then shut up.

Yeah … he should have done it. 

Chapter Text

Dear mum,

I have been to my first party. We met some boys at the beach a few weeks ago, and we’ve become sort of cricket-friends since then. I’m an excellent bowler, by the way. Well, one of them had his eighteenth birthday, and he invited us to his party.

Ed took a tiny, sharp breath. He’d considered adding details of the most prominent moment from that party, but had decided against it when he’d remembered the worry that had paralysed him at the time. Suppose this letter were intercepted? He’d be locked away before he knew it.

It was so much fun. Rich people do behave differently from you and me, but actually these ones are quite nice, so it was all right. I still don’t think I’ll ever fit in with them properly though.

I hope you’re well, and that I can be back in England with you soon – with the money I am saving for us.

Love Ed xxx

Ed watched Baron Webley with his breath in his throat. If he made mistakes with Stede he was either very kind about them, or he was gentle enough when he teased him that Ed ended up laughing at his own silliness. If he made them now, with Baron Webley going through them with a fine-toothed comb, he’d feel about one inch tall when he pointed them out.

‘This is more or less perfect,’ said Baron Webley, sliding the letter back to Ed. Ed managed to keep his sigh of relief internal, but he was sure there was a tangible relaxing of his posture. ‘Yes. Well done – it is difficult to believe you could not write when you arrived here with us. Who did you say has taught you?’

‘My friend. Stede.’

‘Ah, yes. Well, he has done a jolly good job, I must say. Perhaps he could be a teacher when he leaves school.’

Ed could see it. Stede deserved a good experience in a school after so many years of being bullied in the one he attended, anyway. He might be better at looking out for bullies since he knew their natures so well. It might also be an argument for never walking into another school again after he left, though.

‘He’s been a really good teacher to me, yes,’ said Ed.

Even complimenting Stede to another person felt precarious since the night of Felix’s party. He tended to over-think things like this now. What was a normal level of compliment to pay a friend? Did telling Baron Webley about Stede’s teaching prowess give rise to suspicion that Ed had had a few dreams about Stede of late? And not the sorts of dreams about forgetting to wear breeches to an important event full of people, either. More the sorts of dreams that ended in real-life … well. There were consequences, put it that way, that had to be dealt with discreetly on waking.

He felt as though it changed him on the outside. And though he’d actually checked in a looking-glass, feeling as stupid as he’d been anxious, to find that if he brought such thoughts to mind on purpose nothing about him changed, he still felt nervous about it all. Talking to Stede was getting more difficult, too. The things he’d say without thinking, once upon a time, now required a thousand times more consideration than they once had before he spoke them aloud. The results were almost always the same, and Ed almost always felt like an idiot to have needed to ponder for so long. But then something else would spring to mind, and he’d worry that it might betray some of his new feelings, and he’d have to sit in his thoughts for a few moments before voicing them.

It was becoming exhausting.

‘How is your mother?’ said Baron Webley, and Ed was surprised for a second by his existence.

‘I don’t actually know,’ he said, when he’d remembered where he was. ‘I haven’t had word of her for some time. Do you have any news of the south west, sir?’

‘Nothing here, I’m afraid,’ said Baron Webley. ‘It has been a while since I have had any correspondence from England at all, in fact. My sister was always the one to pass messages across, of course, so there is no cause for that any more and I do miss it. It feels strange to think that, beyond the sea, some of my old friends and extended family are living their ordinary lives at this very moment, sitting down to tea, perhaps. And yours, too, Edward. I suppose your mother is finishing work?’

‘She most probably is, sir.’

‘Yes …’ Baron Webley glanced down at Ed’s letter again with a small smile. ‘It is so kind of you to have taken this role on for her benefit. Saving one’s money is difficult, but deeply rewarding. I am only sorry that my sister has decided to stay for rather longer than any of us anticipated. I realise it is more exciting for you here now she asks you to join her on some of her weekend ventures, but I do wonder whether a part of you would rather she tired of Barbados soon – or would rather our mother takes ill, I suppose – so she could return home, and you could go with her.’

And Ed was transported to that ship again, passengers retching in their rooms as he stood out on deck with Captain Clatworthy, watching the sea pass, but never move. The eventual voyage back to England had been his motivation for the entirety of his time in Barbados so far, but for the first time, thinking about it filled his stomach with unease.

‘I would miss it here,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve become more attached to Barbados than I’d expected to. But I do miss my mother. I’m looking forward to seeing her again – whenever that is.’

‘Hm. What a shame, that you should be separated from family you love dearly in order that family I was more than happy sharing only occasional letters with comes to live with me …’ Baron Webley cleared his throat. ‘But, of course, you did not hear me say that, Edward. We shall post this letter, and then what do you say to some bowling practise?’

*

The next time Ed saw Stede was one of their usual lunchtime meetings. They took the same form as they always had, other than Ed’s new trepidation about putting his foot in it whenever he said anything. Today, though, Stede was the one having the most trouble speaking. He greeted Ed with less enthusiasm than usual, and it seemed to Ed a mark of the close attention he paid to Stede in general that he noticed this immediately.

Of course, it took him a little longer to decide whether or not he ought to comment. In the end, the argument for showing interest in his friend beat out the argument for not looking too obsessed with him. It usually did.

‘How are you doing, mate?’ Mate had become a suffix to his sentences a lot more often of late. ‘You sound a bit flat today. Everything all right?’

Stede was gazing down at his knees, and he let out a rough sigh that ruffled his hair as it puffed up his face.

‘I don’t know, Ed,’ he said. ‘I thought I was all right, but … but ever since Felix’s party, I’ve been thinking a lot. About certain things, you know.’

There was a strange sort of flipping within Ed’s stomach not unlike the sensation of missing a stair in the dark. He took a tiny breath to try to steady himself, hoping Stede hadn’t noticed. He was always so concerned with containing the internal these days. Fortunately, Stede didn’t react. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts – he might have been thinking a lot, but not enough, clearly.

‘What sort of things?’ Ed said, as casually as he could muster.

The moment he’d asked the question, he realised Stede might have been vague about it for a reason. There was a delicate pink to his face, and he sighed, then sat in his sigh, before he said anything more.

‘I wonder sometimes whether I am socially behind,’ he said. ‘When I spend time with the others, or anyone in school, even … although I don’t care about them, they are still my age, still almost eighteen … I can’t help but feel that I might not have progressed through life at anything like the rate I ought to have been. Do you know what I mean?’

Ed had never had much time for the milestones of life. At least, not since he’d realised that some people have milestones charted for them by the map of money, whereas others must carve them in the dirt. But he could sort of see where Stede was coming from – the atmosphere at Felix’s house had been rather different than that of their outdoor games. Darkened rooms and alcohol were the antithesis of cricket in the sunshine, he supposed.

‘Yeah, I think so,’ he said, trying to keep any real expression out of his voice.

‘Yes … it was strange. I enjoyed the party, of course, but the whole thing made me feel somewhat inadequate at the same time. I mean, yes, my parents are keen for me to continue my schooling for a little longer, and yes, they will have their own plans for me … but what if I want to make plans for myself? I don’t feel as though I have the worldly knowledge or understanding to do this. I don’t even know how to drink properly, or …’

Here, he gestured vaguely, then shook his head. It was difficult to tell whether he wanted any input from Ed, but Ed, unwilling to give it to him until he could pin down exactly what Stede was taking about, remained quiet.

‘They all seem to be able to relate to one another so easily.’

Here it comes, Ed thought. He swallowed. His saliva tasted slightly acidic.

‘I mean … they talk and joke about … about that sort of thing, but I know they would all know how to initiate it if they really wanted to. They’re not scared of one another. And I do get on with people, mostly, but when it comes down to it, Ed, I think the only person in my life I’m not at least a little bit scared of is … well, it’s you.’

Finally, he raised his head. Ed was ready with a small smile that he hoped disguised the frenzied pounding of his heart.

‘If it helps, mate, I’m not the least bit scared of you, either,’ he said, and Stede chuckled.

‘I would never have expected you to be. I don’t think anyone in the world could ever be scared of me. That’s sort of my problem. There’s nothing to me. I don’t spark anything much in anyone, and … I think I’d like to.’

It took everything Ed had to stop him screaming. He was certain that whatever “sparking” something in someone meant, it was happening within him right now, and he could hardly believe that Stede couldn’t sense it at all. He’d been sure he was going to allude to their moment on the bed, before Felix had joined them – but it seemed he had experienced that moment in a way so far removed from Ed’s own version that he might as well have been attending another party altogether.

‘I think I want to have sex with a girl,’ Stede said evenly.

Even though he’d already started to fill with disappointment, Ed felt as though his stomach were about to drop out of him.

‘Oh,’ he said, hoping his strange reaction was construed as nothing more than mild surprise by Stede instead of the utter horror he surprised even himself on feeling.

‘Do you not feel the urge yourself?’ said Stede. ‘I think … I think I’ve been feeling it for a long time, but I was never quite sure what it was. Well, now we’ve got friends who know about this sort of thing –’

‘And when are you having these conversations to know they know about this sort of thing? Hm?’ Ed said loudly. He was unable to resist aggression now, and despite Stede’s sudden look of hurt he ploughed straight on with it. Stede would never know why he was so upset, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Because it’s certainly not when we’re on the beach, is it?’

‘Look, Ed, it’s just the odd … you know how it is!’ Stede was almost pleading now. ‘I’m not planning these huge gatherings with them behind your back or anything, it’s just in the usual conversations you have when you bump into people around the place.’

That explained it all. Stede bumped into people because Stede’s life was so much more like those people’s than Ed’s was – even if this was the true explanation, though, it did nothing for Ed’s irritation. Perhaps there was no malice intended, but the incidental reason was almost as alienating.

‘You don’t understand what it’s like when you spend all day around boys,’ said Stede. ‘I’m sure that’s what has caused so much confusion in my life so far. Meeting Mary and – and the others, it’s sort of made me realise what’s possible when you’re our age.’

Had Stede really been that innocent? After all, it was hardly as though Ed had spent his life hanging around with girls his own age or anything like that, but he knew what went on. He simply paid attention – and he’d never met a girl who had made him consider performing such acts himself. He didn’t need to. He understood these things without personal experience.

But of course Stede had been that innocent. This was Stede. Sometimes, after so much time spent moulding him into a slightly more rebellious and less uppity person, Ed forgot that at his core, he’d grown up in a vastly different world from his own. And yes, maybe this world had hidden the concept of sex from him until now. That wasn’t difficult to believe when he really thought about it.

He just didn’t like thinking about it.

‘All right. Fine. Makes sense, I suppose,’ he said gruffly.

It was embarrassing, not being able to keep his emotion out of his voice. He wished more than anything that this could just be an ordinary conversation, and that he could unleash his sorrow and humiliation somewhere later: by screaming at the sea, perhaps, or into a pillow when everyone else in the house had gone to sleep.

‘I know you think I like them better than you,’ Stede whispered.

‘No. You’re wrong. That’s not it at all.’

It was a bit it. There was just quite a lot more to it than that.

‘Edward.’ Stede looked as though he were about to lay a hand on Ed’s shoulder, but thought better of it: Ed felt strangely lonely at the idea that Stede might have stopped himself from making physical contact. ‘You are my best friend. OK? None of this has changed that. Nothing will ever change that. I want you to understand that. Even though we’re from different worlds, or whatever phrase you would use …’

Oh, Stede. He was trying so hard.

‘It’s not even – necessarily –’ But this wasn’t the bulk of the problem right now, and Ed had to bite back his argument about the night at Felix’s. He was realising, slowly, that he was the only person present in that room who had thought twice about what had happened there. ‘Look. I appreciate that this doesn’t mean anything to you, or that you don’t see class, or whatever. But sometimes you really do need to see it, because it is there. Like … the fact that you have these incidental conversations when we play cricket, for example – do you think I’m having those? Of course not, because I have no idea how to strike those conversations up, and when anyone talks to me, I don’t know how to talk back to them properly. We don’t share the same knowledge or experience or anything, and sometimes, what they’re saying sounds like complete nonsense to me. So it’s not always necessarily about whether or not someone is bullying me for being poor – it’s more subtle than that, and it isn’t always born out of a proper hatred. That’s the scary thing. It’s not bad guys and good guys, it’s people who don’t understand what they’re dealing with. And that’s what makes it so hard to just … to see you getting on with them like it’s nothing and to know that that’s never, ever going to be me.’

He was surprised by a solid sort of burning in his throat as he gasped out his final sentence: he ducked his head, terrified of what might follow and whether Stede would notice, but after a couple of deep breaths he managed to quell his emotions again. This was not a proportionate reaction to what Stede thought the problem was, and if probed, Ed wasn’t convinced he would be able to lie. For all his bluster about class – which was very much a true reflection of his feelings around their little cricket clique, however much he liked them all – he could not drag his mind’s eye away from Felix’s bed, and Stede’s voice seemed to be repeating his assertion that he wanted to have sex with a girl over and over and over again. There probably wasn’t any subtext to his specificity, but Ed wished he’d ended the sentence with the word “sex”.

But what to say, to truly address the matter Stede thought was at hand?

He swallowed again, sweeping a hand across his eyes just in case, before raising his head.

‘Hannah. She seems quite keen on me, doesn’t she?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Stede. ‘Are you keen on her?’

Ed did consider for a moment. No, was his instinctive answer, but by that, all he meant was that he’d never felt the desire to sleep with her. Objectively she was pretty, fun, and a good batswoman. There would undoubtedly be many people who’d feel that desire towards her, but he wasn’t one of them.

‘That wasn’t what I meant, exactly,’ Ed said. ‘I was just thinking that I might talk to her about you. If all you want is to do that, then maybe she would be interested in just doing that, too. Then I could also let her know that she’s wasting her time with me in a subtle way. I think it would need to be subtle since she’s never made a move on me, but I’d hate for her to do that and have to be rejected outright. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t make any sense, and of course it’s not a guarantee she would be interested in you anyway, so you mustn’t be upset if she isn’t –’

‘Of course I wouldn’t be,’ said Stede. ‘I am not expecting women to bow to any fleeting whim of mine. I would only be interested in someone who was interested back, naturally.’

‘Well, I could speak to her, then, and we’ll see,’ said Ed.

Was this the sort of thing that friends were supposed to do? It seemed like it might have been, but it felt perverse and strange when he began to steel himself at their next seaside cricket match.

Hannah, though, was very easy to talk to. Ed did worry at first whether his sudden interest in striking up a conversation might come across as suspicious, but on the contrary Hannah was delighted when he opened up a dialogue about spin bowling, and from that initial point alone she managed to summon up several minutes of animated chatter during which Ed only had to chip in to agree. Genuinely agree, too. She knew her stuff.

‘I wondered whether you had played back in England,’ she said eventually. ‘But then I heard that you hadn’t really. That’s very impressive. It took me years to learn a spin like yours.’

‘Yeah, but it’ll take me years to not run away from the ball when it comes at me when I’m fielding,’ said Ed. ‘We all have things that take us a bit more work, and we all have things that come more naturally. Bowling is just mine.’ He cleared his throat. In all of their punditry he’d quite forgotten why he’d started speaking to her in the first place, and it was disappointing to remember. It took him far too long to try to force Stede into the conversation, and even then he wasn’t happy with the result. ‘The way … erm … backwards strokes are Stede’s, you know?’

Hannah pondered this for a moment: Ed had only seen Stede bat this way once or twice, and he readied himself for pushback.

‘He’s a good all-rounder,’ Hannah said carefully. ‘In fact, I wonder whether he’d be a good umpire. It’s a shame we usually need everyone for the numbers so we can actually play.’

What a revelation! Stede would be good at that – he liked the rules, he liked to tell people they were wrong, and he liked to be seen to be in charge of things. He had confidence in decisions that Ed could only dream of – in this context, at any rate.

‘Yeah … you should speak to him,’ said Ed. ‘That’s a really good idea, and I’m sure he would agree. He might even be able to find some more people at school to make up for the shortfall in terms of players, if we did decide we needed a proper officiant.’

‘It would have been helpful the other week when Mark and Jeffrey almost came to blows over that LBW,’ Hannah chuckled. ‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea.’

Mission failed, perhaps. Hannah was not about to march over and offer herself up on a plate, but this was Stede’s game, and Ed was more than happy to let him play it his way. Any more interference would have felt inappropriate. As long as he had nudged her his way, what he did with that was up to him.

Was it selfish of him to hope that “what he did with that” was absolutely nothing?

Chapter Text

The problem with gentle hinting was that Ed now lived in a constant anxiety that felt something like the Sword of Damocles. He’d started the process – now, all he could do was wait to see if it came to the fruition Stede wanted, at which point he knew he would have to battle fierce emotion to present a reaction that didn’t upset anybody. It was such a horrible feeling, but not one that he thought he’d be able to accurately explain to anyone, had they asked. As such, all of his efforts were spent on presenting a front of his usual perkiness, especially to Stede. Often, this looked like throwing himself more enthusiastically than ever into lessons, both those he gave and those he received.

He even turned down invitations to meet up outside of school where he’d once have torn Stede’s arm off at such opportunities. Their time before cricket was cut as short as possible, often with some excuse at the Dowager’s expense. It said a lot about his assimilation to his life here that Ed really did feel bad about using her this way, and hoped that Stede wouldn’t think too poorly of her. It wasn’t as though he were ever going to confess the truth to absolve her.

It was made even worse by the fact that Stede, of course, had no reason to suspect that anything unusual were happening inside Ed’s head. He entered into all of their meetings with his usual juddering enthusiasm, and Ed began to suspect that that would be how he entered into the eventual meet-up when he’d have to tell Ed all about whatever happened with Hannah – whenever that ended up being.

Dinner conversation rarely touched on Ed, which suited him just fine. Other than a cursory enquiry into how the day’s work had been, Baron Webley normally dominated with news of the town. Most of this involved people he had had disputes with, Adeline rolling her eyes whenever he was focused on his plate. Ed still got on well enough with both of them, and Baron Webley continued to be an invaluable resource in improving his cricketing skills, but it was easy to see why Adeline found him so frustrating at times.

The Dowager’s turns in conversation reverted to misery, too, though rather less of it. Hers was milder in intensity – some gossip she’d heard from some friend of Adeline which was of very little consequence, so much so that Ed and Adeline followed some of these threads as though they were ripping yarns. One particularly hot evening, though, she brought news of a different variety to the table. Even the Baron paused his chewing to listen once he’d grasped the general gist.

‘It seems pirates are establishing their own hideout in Nassau,’ she said gravely. She’d barely eaten anything from her plate, as though holding back this information had been filling her up instead. ‘Mrs Haselrig’s husband works on merchant ships, and she says he saw it himself. She says he is lucky to be alive, in actual fact.’

Ed, who very much doubted that Mrs Haselrig’s husband had been anywhere near a pirate in his life, but who was still invested, raised his head.

‘That’s almost a week’s journey away,’ he said.

‘It is far closer to us now than it was in England!’ the Dowager said. ‘He told her, he said that it has been established by a fearsome pirate in order that other pirates should have somewhere to go and live by their own barbaric code … as if pirates would ever honour any sort of code! What is to say they will not spread east? There is something terrifying about the idea of them having a base, of some description.’

‘Hmm.’ Baron Webley pushed an overlarge mouthful of pork into his mouth, perhaps to give himself something to work on as he mulled this over – the others waited for him to swallow and offer an opinion. ‘I cannot imagine being the authority figure to attempt to break into that lovely little community. I am sure that is their motivation.’

There was something eerie about the prospect, but Ed was sure there was also an understanding running through his mind that the adults wouldn’t be able to comprehend. There’d been a code of sorts in Bristol, too, among the people he rubbed shoulders with now and again: you knew who had first dibs on certain spots ripe for leftover food, and you knew who to turn in and who to leave alone if you saw them doing something untoward.

You knew who needed help and who needed disposing of, if it came to it. Without thinking, Ed slipped his hand into his pocket to nervously finger his silk.

Still. If he knew that Caribbean the way he thought he did – and he was confident enough in that assertion, as Stede had been passing the highlights of his geography lessons – the danger was miles and miles away, and was likely to stay there.

*

It was close to Easter when Ed noticed Stede and Hannah chatting animatedly as he helped Felix to pack up his wickets. He wasn’t close enough to them to hear the content of their conversation, but Hannah’s merry little laughs were almost too much for him anyway. He turned away, knowing in that moment that he was likely going to struggle to sleep all weekend. He was sure beyond doubt when they left together, heading in another direction entirely from Stede’s house.

He therefore waited for Stede on Monday lunchtime with a nasty nausea swirling around in his stomach. He’d struggled to get his fish, left over from the previous night, down him today, and he was hungry for having missed it but if someone had offered him a veritable feast he wouldn’t have been able to touch a bite of it. There was no way the conversation he was about to have with Stede was going to make him feel good in any way, shape or form. He was regretting his own role in setting the meeting up in the first place. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d been regretting it the moment he’d done it. That should have been a warning sign.

Stede and Hannah. No. It didn’t make sense.

When Stede arrived, it was with his usual bouncy enthusiasm. There was no extra eagerness, no unusual flush to his cheeks. He’d eaten his lunch, as ever, and come straight to Ed, as ever. There was nothing different about him. Only on realising this did Ed work out that he’d expected him to have changed somehow.

‘Hi, Ed,’ Stede said. ‘Beautiful day today, isn’t it?’

He sat on the bench. There was no paper today. A day off, then? Stede must have wanted to talk, which made sense considering everything that had happened at the weekend, but Ed suddenly felt like striding into one of the classrooms and gathering up the driest textbooks he could find for them to study in silence instead.

‘Gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Yeah. How are you?’

Stede let out a very deliberate sigh.

‘Ed,’ he said. ‘I am … perfect.’

Perfect. As though his life had been missing something until now, as though the final piece of the puzzle was that. It might not have been what he’d been building towards. For a few seconds, Ed allowed himself to believe that he was simply happy to see his friend on such a sunny afternoon. But the next words out of his mouth dispelled that illusion straight away.

‘Oh, it was fantastic,’ Stede said, with a short chuckle. ‘It was … well, I don’t want to betray her trust by giving away too much. But she was wonderful. And, if I do say so myself, I was wonderful. I’m only going on what she said afterwards, of course. I was very worried I would be terrible at it, but apparently I did everything right, and she said that she would recommend me to anyone.’

‘Is she going around recommending you to people?’ Ed said. ‘Is that normal?’

Stede’s glowing triumph faded a little. ‘I don’t actually know. When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound normal. Maybe that isn’t what she said at all.’ He shrugged. ‘My head was sort of all over the place, you know? When your body has been through something like that, it takes you to a different plain of existence, Ed.’

God in Heaven. He’d had sex once and now he was the expert? Ed had never felt particularly strongly about his virginity either way until now, but Stede smearing his new sexual congress all over the place was giving him second thoughts - and not thoughts he’d expected. There were very few things he wanted to be doing less than sitting here and listening to Stede banging on about the banging on he’d been doing, but it wasn’t out of some sort of purity or protection of Hannah’s privacy – although these were elements of his unease, the fact was that Stede’s anecdotes were putting pictures in his mind of Stede that were setting his abdomen on fire while simultaneously making him want to burst into tears.

‘That’s great, mate,’ was all he could manage to say. He clapped Stede on the shoulder, almost recoiling immediately when he thought he might have been too obvious. ‘Really. Well done.’

Well done. Stede might have been telling him about an award he’d won for being the best at spelling in English.

‘Thank you,’ said Stede. ‘I am pleased with myself, I must say. I’m not sure either of us is in a hurry to do it again, but that’s only because we aren’t officially boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that, and these things ought to be kept within those proper confines in the ideal world. It would be rather devastating to fall pregnant, then have to tell your parents that the father was some random boy from your cricket team, after all. No … Hannah and I, we’re just friends with an added bonus. A shared experience that elevated us both, but that must remain a one-off for fear of diluting its potence otherwise. What we had, we had, and we are more than happy to leave it at that.’

‘All right, so are you more than happy to leave it at that?’ Ed snarled.

The horror in Stede’s wide eyes mirrored the horror Ed felt within himself at what he’d just said. It had come unbidden, a snap response to Stede’s final words rather than something he’d really intended to do. And, much as he was mortified to have been so cruel, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, either.

‘Ed, what –?’

‘I’m happy for you. All right? But I don’t think people go around giving a full debrief when they’ve just got their end away, and I never asked to hear it. It’s actually making me feel a bit sick, if I’m honest.’

‘Oh, that’s very nice. Thank you, Edward.’ Edward. It only came out when he was cross, or worried about Ed’s opinion of him. ‘It’s supposed to be a beautiful thing, not grotesque toilet humour. I can’t believe you would equate it with that.’

‘I didn’t,’ Ed said. ‘You just did that yourself. I just mean that that’s your private business, and hers too, and has nothing to do with me. If I’d wanted to do that with her I’d have asked her myself, and whoever she chooses to do it with is none of my business. I assume she gave you permission to mouth off about her personal life the way you have been?’

‘I –’

‘Because if not, you’d better stop talking about it, hadn’t you?’

He was so angry all of a sudden that he was worried his face might burst into flames. It was difficult to get his words out right. There was so much he wanted to say, with such force, that they were getting tangled up on their way out and his point wasn’t coming across quite as seriously as he wanted it to be. Judging by Stede’s new silence, and his wide-eyed agitation, though, it was at least getting across.

Even above the laughter and chatter from the nearby dinner hall, Ed could hear his heart beating in his ears.

‘You have a problem with me and her, don’t you?’ Stede said eventually. ‘That’s what this is about. If your issue was really … all the stuff you said it was, you’d have brought that up straight away. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ Ed said. ‘Other than all the stuff I said it was. I suppose I’m just not like your toff friends, who gossip about this sort of thing among themselves the way they gossip about everything among themselves. Minding your own business is an important skill to learn in life where I’m from. I don’t think you lot have quite got your heads around that, though.’

It had seemed for a moment as though Stede were about to explode the way Ed had. After this outburst, though, he’d deflated slightly. He was looking at Ed in that tense, hesitant way he looked at him when he was scared he was going to say something he considered innocent, but that Ed might have told him was actually offensive – that hadn’t been Ed’s intention this time, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved that it might have come to his rescue in a sense.

‘I only wanted to share something nice that had happened to me,’ Stede said. ‘If you can’t come to your best friend with things like this, who can you come to?’

Absolutely anyone else, Ed wanted to say. Scream, even. I just never, ever want to hear about you shagging someone else.

He just shrugged, sighed, and shook his head, all at once. There was a timeline of moving images running through his head as he tried to work out what to say, before deciding that saying nothing at all was his safest bet. Those little touches, the laughter, the way their gazes lingered on one another … that strange, drunken conversation in Felix’s bedroom, Stede looking utterly devastated, even early on in their friendship, over the idea of hurting Ed in their fake fight.

Stede and Hannah. No. It sounded like two names from different partnerships, hastily smashed together: salt and sugar, knife and serving spoon.

Nothing like Stede and Ed.

END OF PART ONE

Chapter Text

PART TWO

Even if no one else – the Dowager, Stede or otherwise – felt up to a walk to the beach, Ed often took it upon himself to go anyway.

The warnings of pirates hung over Holetown constantly these days. They did unsettle him if he thought about them too hard, but his solution to this was to simply not think about them very much at all. The beach had become a safe haven: so many of the best times he’d had here had taken place on the sand, and it was the best place for some clarity, too. The sound of the waves functioned like a mental blank canvas on which to paint his thoughts, away from any sense of duty or anyone’s still-unfamiliar upper-class accent trying to bother him. Here, despite the temperature and the damp air and the clear sky, he could feel closer to home.

He and Stede had passed little more than the time of day of late. Ed had tried to behave normally, but he knew fine well that any attempt would devolve into in-fighting. He was too defensive these days; scared, even. And not sharing the real reasons for that was stirring a storm of paranoia within him that fed into the fear. The likelihood of saying something he’d regret was too high.

For Stede to have suddenly gone so out of his way to have sex with someone … what else could have brought that on but he and Ed’s strange moment on the bed? Ed understood that dates and crushes and all those sorts of things were a topic of discussion amongst the others. He’d overheard it for himself, he knew. It hadn’t ever interested him, though, and he’d never saw fit to question that because he’d never wanted an interest in it. If it happened, it happened; if it didn’t, he was busy enough anyway. Whatever motivated the desire to be intimate with someone in that way hadn’t taken him over when his body had changed the way it had seemed to with most of his peers, and he’d been patiently waiting since without wanting to hurry anything.

And then Felix’s party had turned all of that upside-down.

He had puzzled it over multiple times, most often while he lay in bed with too many thoughts running through his head to be able to sleep. His memory could hardly have been as accurate as a painting of the moment, but whatever was left inside his head had been pulled apart, second by second, over and over again. Ed knew he had had a drink. He hadn’t been drunk, but he’d spent his childhood close enough to alcohol to know the effect even a little bit of it could have on a person. He knew that judgement could be affected, as well as perceptions of what was happening. It was possible, then, that his reading on the situation could have been a bit different to the situation itself.

But he had felt so … he didn’t even know how to explain it. He hadn’t been looking down at Stede with an overriding desire to – well. He didn’t even like to think that to himself, let alone speak it aloud. Not that he’d even felt that way anyway, at least not at the time. He’d considered it since, while trying to puzzle it out, but when they’d been on the bed together all he’d considered had been a kiss. And it hadn’t been born of a sudden, unquenchable lust. There had been desire there, certainly. But it had felt two-way, like a desire between them that had been formed by their friendship as opposed to a desire from Ed to Stede. The best comparison Ed could come up with was that of the women who worked the docks: had Stede approached him to offer him a night to remember in exchange for money, he would not have been interested. If Stede had approached him to walk him home, hand-in-hand, he would have bitten Stede’s arm off before he could even brush his fingers against him.

But there couldn’t have been anything between them to feel, if Stede had been so keen to pursue such a thing with Hannah. This was where Ed began to doubt himself. That alcohol, weak as it had been, must still have had a part to play in messing with his memories of that evening, otherwise Stede wouldn’t have gone out of his way to make sure he’d slept with a girl. He didn’t even like Hannah in that way – she was, to him, nothing more than a nice girl who’d been willing to do him what was essentially a favour. Stede hadn’t been overjoyed to have slept with her; he’d been overjoyed to have slept with someone.

It wasn’t something Ed could relate to. If it was an animalistic urge, he was more than capable of satisfying that without tangling with someone else. But he was suspecting that there might be more to it than that in certain cases …

‘I wondered whether I’d find you here eventually.’

Ed started, just as shocked by the familiarity of the voice as he was by the voice itself. He sat in his shock for a moment so as not to upset Stede with the twisted expression on his face when he turned around – he made sure to rearrange it into something completely impassive before he did this, only to find Stede looking upset anyway. He might have come directly from dinner. He certainly wasn’t dressed for the beach in a long, maroon tailcoat. He looked almost, in fact, like he could be getting ready to take a ship to sea instead, whereas Ed was in the same old shirt and trousers he wore every weekend. They were starting to show signs of wear from being dragged across the sand during daring catches in cricket, in fact. It was a shame Stede didn’t learn needlework in school.

Stede. He should have known. He should have found somewhere more private to sit, somewhere that only his bravery and agility could have got him and that Stede would have found difficult to follow. It was a wonder, in fact, that he hadn’t found him earlier. His own stupid fault, really.

Even more stupidly, he shuffled over on the sand as though he were taking up most of a bench and wanted to give Stede space to sit beside him. If Stede noticed how ridiculous this gesture was, he gave no indication of it.

‘Hey,’ Ed said. ‘I suppose you can sit down, if you like.’

‘I mean … I know I can. You don’t own the beach.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if your family did.’

He couldn’t be certain, but he thought tears might have started to gather in Stede’s eyes at that. If they were, he didn’t acknowledge them, settling himself down on the sand. It was dry, fortunately – Ed would have been worried about the seat of his breeches otherwise. Was he on his way out somewhere? Did he just happen to be strolling down the beach as he made his way to someone’s estate for a no-reason, pompous gathering?

‘This is our problem, I think,’ Stede said under his breath. ‘There are things that get under your skin that I don’t really understand. Aren’t there?’

Ed almost burst out laughing. God bless him – he wasn’t wrong. Their friendship up until this very moment had been underpinned with those subtle clashes in values that came from having grown up in such contrasting circumstances, but of course that wasn’t why he was sitting alone, gazing out at the sea and wondering whether he might be happier going it alone on a pirate ship, where he maintained a professional relationship with a small crew and nothing more, than trying to fit in anywhere on land.

As such, he didn’t know how to answer this. Luckily, Stede did enjoy the sound of his own voice enough to carry on regardless.

‘I’ve done a lot of thinking about this, while we haven’t been meeting up so often,’ he said. That was certainly a polite way of putting it. It must have been obvious that Ed had been avoiding him: how sweet of Stede to pretend that he hadn’t noticed. ‘I do think that maybe I’m not the sort of person you ought to be friends with, sometimes. I worry whether I might say things that are insensitive by accident, and then I worry whether you would ever tell me if I did. How do I know I’m not full of shit?’

There was a fine line between admitting wrongdoing and self-serving self-pity, and Ed felt Stede was growing dangerously close to the latter. ‘Stede –’

‘Would you tell me, though?’

‘Of course I would. I did, didn’t I? Or do you not remember the time you insulted me to a bunch of people you didn’t even care about?’ Ed sighed: he hadn’t meant to get quite so angry quite so quickly, and he gave himself a moment to calm down again. ‘And do you not remember that, afterwards, you told me you valued me more than any of them, and would stand up for me if it came to it? Which you have. You’ve proven your worth as my friend. So don’t say you’re not the sort of person I ought to be friends with. I can work that out for myself, thank you very much. I didn’t grow up scrapping for my life without learning a few harsh lessons about mankind.’

Yes – some of that self-pity had been for attention, judging by the way Stede couldn’t help but smile across the horizon at that.

‘But,’ Ed said, keen not to stroke his ego too much, ‘you also have a point. I do think that the way we see the world is quite different, and I do think that makes things … I don’t know. Not hard, exactly, but …’

Those differences weren’t easy to communicate. It wasn’t as though he could draw a picture to illustrate what it was like to be on guard all the time, compared with the ability to be warm and open with everyone you met. If he tried to delve too deeply into his past, in an attempt at providing some much-needed context as to why they might struggle with this invisible rift between them, he was sure that Stede would push himself up off the stand, run away, and never contact him again.

‘The way you socialise,’ Ed said, ‘and the way I socialised, if you could even call it that. Can you imagine if we swapped lives? If, when the Dowager decides to return to her ailing mother in England, you accompanied her on the voyage, and I moved into your estate to disappoint your dad? You’d be eaten alive on the streets of Bristol, and I’d offend everyone I spoke to when I didn’t understand some vital social nicety. That’s the sort of stuff you mean, isn’t it?’

Ed was quite happy to pretend that was he meant, too. There was no need to start on the discomfort he’d felt at his own feelings of late, wondering whether Stede had conceded and had he, in fact, been pursuing more girls in the absence of more regular meetings with Ed? Stede was nodding, anyway. Ed didn’t have to work hard to conceal his real thoughts when Stede was agreeing with the ones that, though they weren’t inaccurate, he was mostly using as a mask.

‘Then maybe we just need to accept that,’ said Ed. ‘Because I don’t think it’s about to change any time soon.’

‘No. Neither do I.’ Stede took a deep breath, gazing out to sea. He wrapped both arms around his knees to pull them to his chest. What he said next, he said to the waves.

‘I’ve missed you, Edward.’

Ed closed his eyes. The flurry of motion inside his chest made him feel slightly dizzy for a moment or two.

‘D’you know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bit of a dick. I will admit to that, and I’m sorry. I’ve missed you, too.’

It was easier than beginning to explain his true feelings, anyway. With a smile, Stede turned back to him.

‘Back to normal for lunchtimes, then, hm?’ he said.

*

The Carmody estate held a special kind of wonder for Ed. He thought it might be the smell: it was a highly concentrated version of the one his mother brought home to him after a day’s work, and it reminded him of the happiness and relief he felt on seeing her of an evening. One of their other servants greeted them both at the front door, and Ed was shown the way to the kitchen almost immediately. His mother had explained the task he’d been brought in to do on the way, and fortunately it was an easy one.

‘They just need you to do the washing up, love. They had a big do on up here last night, that’s all, and one or two of the kitchen staff rather overdid it on the leftovers, if you know what I mean.’

She’d winked, and Ed had suppressed a giggle. The Carmodys did like to think that they, and everyone they associated with, were proper at all times, nice though they were. They had no idea that servants saw everything.

There wouldn’t be much for Ed to see today, though. He was trusted to his job and left quite alone in the kitchen, once there was a sink full of hot, fragrant water drawn up for him. This was just one of the cocktail of rich smells that clung to his mother’s clothes, and he savoured it.

But by God , were there a lot of pots to wash. No wonder this usually took more than one person – if they were to be done immediately following the party, and put away before bed, they must have needed a full production line. At least it was easy work, if mundane, but it allowed him some peace and quiet, and the resulting time with his thoughts was a rarity in his own house. He was always a little too preoccupied with worry. Here, though, with his day laid out nicely in front of him, he washed, dried, and sang under his breath.

‘Our ‘prentice Tom may now refuse to wipe his scoundrel Master’s shoes …’

Ed turned to rinse his cloth out without thinking, still singing. Something caught his eye just for a moment, but he was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t take the time to dwell on it – it wasn’t until he’d turned back around that he processed the sight as being another person, and jumped, splashing dirty dish water all down his front. He swivelled back around to find a boy about his age, standing in the corner, doing nothing more than watching him.

Ed knew the Carmodys had grandchildren, and suspected this boy might be one of them. He was dressed in the sort of suit he usually only saw on adults, which made him look to Ed as though he might be dressing up, but that he knew was a perfectly ordinary thing to do for people like the Carmodys.

‘Hello,’ the boy said. He certainly enunciated like a Carmody. ‘Erm … who are you, exactly?’

It wasn’t a strange question – Ed wasn’t here often enough to be a regular fixture, and the grandchildren didn’t live here anyway. They’d never had reason to cross paths before now. Ed still didn’t much like the way it had been asked.

‘What’s it to you? I’m washing your family’s dishes so the likes of you don’t have to. You should be grateful.’

The boy was evidently not used to being spoken to like this. His mouth fell open, and Ed wished he could pull the words back. Maybe the kid had just sounded uppity because of his stupid accent, and maybe that was an extremely polite turn of phrase in high society. But then who the hell else would he be? It wasn’t as though he’d gravitate towards the washing-up if he were an intruder.

‘I was only wondering why there was a stranger in grandmother and grandfather’s kitchen,’ the boy said. ‘There was no need to be so rude.’

‘Yes, well …’ Ed gestured to the pile of dirty dishes he would no doubt be spending the next hour or so, at least, tackling. ‘I’m not a stranger, I’m Mrs Teach’s son. I come here sometimes when grandmother and grandfather dearest have bitten off more than their other servants can chew in terms of the cleanup operation, because they don’t have to think too hard about any of that.’

The boy had dragged his lower jaw back up to meet the upper, but he was still squirming.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I never thought about that. The party was lovely – though it would have been nice if you could have been there, perhaps, instead of just tidying up after us. It can get rather boring when there is no one else your age to talk to, and all of the grown-ups just want to talk about how tall you’ve become since the last time they saw you several years ago.’

Nice problems to have. Ed nodded as though he understood. The boy had, at least, not been put off by his abruptness, but he’d still rather have been left alone to get on with what he was supposed to be doing.

‘And you think people like me are allowed at those parties, hm?’ he said. He turned back to the dishes in an attempt to indicate that that ought to be the end of the conversation, but as he did so he heard the boy’s deliberate footsteps as he strode closer to the sink. At least from this angle, Ed could roll his eyes in secret.

‘No one would have minded! They were all … piddly anyway. You would only have to have worn your suit and you would have fit right in.’

Ed was still facing away from the boy, but he was sure this time that the deep, deep breath he forced himself to take was evident in the slow rising and falling of his shoulders. He had no idea which point to tear to pieces first: the implication that he would fit in easily among drunkards, or the very idea that he owned anything so nice as a suit. That moment it took him to turn around, though, gave him a vital moment of pause. When he was facing the boy again, it was with a patient smile.

‘When I can afford a suit, I’ll be sure to ask Lady Carmody whether I might be permitted to attend her next party.’

It was still a little more snide than he would’ve liked it to be. But the boy didn’t seem anywhere near as embarrassed as he should have, merely nodding rapidly in the absence of a proper response. He seemed to know he was being insulted in some way, shape or form, but without the full understanding, had decided not to dive into it too deeply.

‘Anyway. Did you come in here for something?’ Ed said.

‘Erm … no, I just … I heard a noise, and wondered who was in here. That was all. I will leave you alone to carry on with your … well, it was lovely to meet you, Master Teach.’

Master Teach. They couldn’t have been more than a year or two apart in age. Still, Ed nodded his respect with a smile, and as the boy left the room, realised it might have been nice to have known his name. He clearly hadn’t meant to be ignorant. That was sort of how ignorance worked, after all.

*

Funny that Ed should have been thinking of the Carmodys. When he arrived back at the house, there was an envelope lying on the small table in the hall. There was a small paragraph of writing in the centre, but right at the top, Ed recognised his own name. Immediately knowing what he was going to find inside, he picked it up and tore it open, a grin stretching his cheeks to each side of his face as though they were strapped to a rack.

My dearest Eddie,

Please accept my apologies for not writing back to you earlier. I have had to find the time to speak to Yeats at Carmody – he has been most helpful in reading your letters to me, as well as helping me to respond now. I do hope my little message makes it across the ocean all the way to you in Barbados. I am so impressed that your messages made it all the way to me, and it is wonderful to imagine you living your life there in the sun, with new friends.

I hope everyone is treating you well. I have had some time off work of late, the doctor was called but all he prescribed was bed rest and I was back to it before long, as ever. He says I weaken my natural defences, doing so much work, and that I should rest more, but without your father around how can I rest?

I am much better now. This is not an attempt to drive you home, Eddie. I will see you whenever God brings us together again. Please do write to me again, even if I take such a long time to dictate a letter back to you.

All my love,

Mum

He couldn’t be certain he had understood it in full, but the interpretation he’d come up with made enough sense that he was satisfied. When he had more news, he would write her something much more elaborate.

Chapter Text

It seemed like such a stupid thing to have ever fallen out about now that Ed was friends with Stede again. Not that they’d ever broken friends, per se. Had he been asked during that time he’d have told anyone that Stede was his best friend, and simply neglected to mention that he had no idea where his best friend was or how he was getting on in that moment in time.

It seemed to have strengthened things between them, in fact. And even if this was based on Stede’s perceptions around Ed’s insecurity and not Ed’s actual insecurity, he was still working hard to make things right in such a way that actually did good work towards some of the things Ed struggled with in Barbados, and some of the things that Stede didn’t understand about his struggles. When Hannah mentioned, very casually, that they were going to have drinks one evening in the vast grounds of Mary’s estate, Ed made an excuse almost automatically. Hannah seemed unbothered, but when she left, Stede rounded on him.

‘This is exactly what I was talking about,’ he said firmly. ‘Hannah was being nice and you shot her down without a second thought! Why would you do that?’

It surprised Ed that he had to think about this: his response had felt instinctive, and to give it rationality was to pick it apart completely. He wasn’t sure he had time to do this while Stede waited, looking irritated.

‘Because she doesn’t really want me there, does he?’ Ed said, after only a few seconds’ thought. He was surprised, too, by how pathetic that sounded aloud, when in his head it had made perfect sense. Stede was watching him with a dubious frown now, and he could understand why. ‘I mean – I think Mary’s inviting everyone – it’s not a specific thing for me, I’m just –’

But he couldn’t think of a thing he was just, and for once he was quite happy for Stede to take over and explain why he was wrong.

‘The thing is,’ said Stede, ‘everything you think about them is just perception based on your past experiences, not what’s actually happening now. You need to pay attention to what’s being said, not what you assume is meant. You aren’t inside their heads.’

‘I don’t need to be inside their heads. I know how people think.’

‘No, you don’t. That’s my point. You guess how they think but how can you ever know whether you’re right? It’s easier to just assume they’re being sincere.’ Stede glanced over at Hannah. She was standing with a small group of the others, all of them chatting merrily. ‘You don’t give them the chance they deserve sometimes. I think you're so defensive about your perceived social status that you shut people out who don't necessarily need to be shut out. Would you agree? If you really, really thought about it?'

Ed frowned, almost solely to throw Stede off for a second or two: because he was right, of course, but Ed didn't want to inflate his head quite so quickly by admitting that straight away.

'You wouldn't understand ...' he attempted, but Stede waved a hand impatiently.

'Oh, I never understand,' he said. 'That's your automatic excuse for everything. I am quite willing to accept that fact, but I don't see how it impacts on relationships with people you know to be good people. Our friends aren't the Nigel Badmintons of this world. They've proven that they want to know you, and they would be devastated if you missed out on that. Matthew even asked me if you were all right the other day, because he hadn't managed to speak to you properly in weeks and he thought you were ignoring him.'

Ed had been ignoring him. He kept a running scale of accent from “posh” to “excruciatingly posh, and Matthew fell far too close to “excruciatingly posh” for Ed to even think he would be permitted to associate with him. Only now that Stede had pointed out that his standoffishness had been picked up on did he feel somewhat guilty about it.

'They're going shooting,' Stede said. 'On Sunday. And Felix is going to invite you himself, but he's already said to me that he can't wait to see you there because he just knows that you're going to be a fantastic shot. And, I must say, I'd be inclined to agree with him, if your bowling is anything to go by.'

Stede was saying all the right things on purpose. Ed knew when he was being manipulated: from the street sellers back home to his father's promises that he was going to get his act together this time, once and for all, he'd seen it all. But he couldn't bring himself to mind very much at all when it was happening at the hands of Stede. Had he not just said that he thought he was invited to things as a token gesture? If what Stede was saying was true, this would be anything but – Felix was going to invite him, specifically. He had tangible reasons for doing so.

*

Felix did invite Stede and Ed shooting. He also made reference to Ed’s fantastic bowling when he did.

Ed had assumed, stupidly, that this would be happening at Felix’s own home. At least he’d been there before, and knew what to expect. It didn’t occur to him until the day that Felix lived in a normal house, and while he had a garden big enough to gather his friends in for a firework display, it hadn’t been sprawling and vast and filled with shrubbery for wildfowl to hide in. The land his family used belonged to a friend of his father, and it would have fit the entire Carmody estate in it three times over. Ed had never even walked past anything like it back home. Green spread around them like the sea from the horizon, even rippling in the breeze in much the same way as they trod towards a small, but attractive, wooden building.

‘We only have four shotguns,’ said Felix apologetically, as though owning even one shotgun weren’t excessive. ‘We’ll have to take it in turns, and needless to say we’ll have to be extra careful to stay out of one another’s ways when we aren’t holding the guns.’

Because if you are holding a gun, it’ll grant you immunity from injury?

Ed thought it, and in his mind the group burst into raucous laughter, congratulating him on his sharp humour. The lack of guarantee that this would be the real-world outcome, however, kept his lips clamped together.

‘I don’t want to make assumptions, but we are sharing, aren’t we?’ Stede said to him.

Of course entered Ed’s mind first of all, only cleared away by his usual vetting process.

‘What about me getting to know people better?’ he said. ‘Maybe I ought to share with … I dunno … Matthew instead?’

He was teasing, of course. But Stede had never quite got his head around that dry sort of humour, and the dejection in his eyes had Ed clawing the words back immediately.

‘I’m joking, you absolute blunderbuss. Who else d’you think I’m going to share with?’

It turned out that the building was a small approximation of a hunting lodge. Ed had never been inside one before but he was confident this recreation was faithful enough, if more humid – and the trophies on the wall had been cut from small monkeys rather than deer.

To his surprise, Felix handed him the first shotgun.

‘Our star bowler,’ he said with a smile. ‘You show Stede how it’s done, all right?’

But a shotgun could hardly have felt more different to a cricket ball. He balanced its weight as evenly as possible, sure that it felt warm in his hands as though recently discharged. He knew cricket balls could do damage, of course he did, but they didn’t emanate that power the way this did. What other purpose did the damn thing have, after all?

He swallowed, feeling slightly sick. No, it was OK. This one was for shooting animals, and animals were for food. He wasn’t the sort of person who could be dangerous with a weapon in his hands, not like some of the people he’d had the misfortune of knowing back in Bristol. He had no desire to intimidate anyone with this, much less hurt them.

‘I very much doubt that I’ll shoot anything, but if I do, you can take it to the Webleys if you like,’ Stede said. ‘If I turned up home with a dead pigeon, my father would ask far too many questions.’

‘Would he ask the question wow, did my son really shoot this himself?’

‘He would ask something similar. And if I told him I did he wouldn’t believe me.’

Stede could probably have eradicated syphilis and his father wouldn’t have given two shits. At least, the father Ed had conjured up his mind based on such stories wouldn’t have.

Funny how this imaginary man looked a lot like Ed’s own father sometimes.

‘Bonnet! Shh. They’ll hide away if you make too much noise,’ said Felix.

‘But I thought you were supposed to make noise to get them to come out?’

‘That only works if you make noise where they are, not where you want them to be. Look –’

Felix said something to Matthew, and he strode ahead of the party to a small clump of bushes. Ed watched in silence, along with the others, as Matthew struck the bushes with a beating stick. Immediately, there was a ruffled squawking noise: several pigeons flew from the bush and Felix’s quick reaction with the shotgun made Ed, and several others, jump. One of the pigeons dropped to the ground with a soft flump.

‘Like that,’ Felix said, dropping the empty cartridge to the ground and moving to pick up his kill before handing it to one of the boys who was not yet holding a shotgun. ‘Not to brag or anything but please don’t be too concerned if you don’t manage to hit anything today – I’ve been doing this for quite some time, remember.’

His tone was anything but boastful. Ed believed him to be sincere, but the words still felt like a challenge: he’d been a natural at cricket, after all. Who was to say he wasn’t also a natural at this? His earlier anxiety about holding the shotgun melted away as they started walking again, more quietly this time. He’d spy the birds first. He’d have a secret sixth sense for them. He might be able to communicate with them, even …

But, after twenty minutes of hushed hunting, it was still only Felix who had anything for his dinner that night. Talking was kept to a minimum, but after each failed shot, the boy who’d just made the attempt confessed to having done very little shooting in the past. It made Ed feel a little more at home: this lifestyle was specifically Felix’s, then, rather than a general way of existing that he had no access to.

The sixth sense he’d hoped to discover did not materialise, though. He supposed Felix had been right. Why would Ed have any secret, supernatural way of detecting fowl? He’d barely even been around trees until he’d moved to Barbados. Most of the animals he’d seen in his life had been stripped of their skin, and were hanging upside-down in the windows of butchers. The confidence that should have been instilled in him at knowing he was not alone in his inexperience had almost melted away when Stede whispered to him that he hadn’t yet made an attempt at shooting anything at all.

‘I’d quite like to have a go soon, if you don’t feel like it,’ he said, and the droplet of confidence that had been left disappeared completely.

It hadn’t been a dig, or an insult. Most of the boys had traded guns already and had had a chance to try shooting something. If Stede genuinely believed that Ed wasn’t interested in trying, then no wonder he’d made the suggestion. But Ed hadn’t realised quite how on edge he was feeling until Stede’s words inflated some internal anxiety almost to bursting point.

‘I’m going to try it in a second,’ he said, trying to suppress a growl. He scanned the foliage ahead – they hadn’t come this far yet, which he assumed meant the likelihood of undisturbed birds was high enough that he could have a decent shot and move on, if he missed. ‘Matthew, could you … erm. Annoy whatever’s in those bushes for me?’

He’d forgotten the proper thing to say, but hoped he’d managed to play it off as a joke when Matthew smiled. He mounted the gun on his shoulder the way he’d seen everyone else do, aiming at the sky just above the bushes. He took a deep breath. If there were indeed any birds there, they’d move fast – were you meant to shoot in anticipation? How fast was a bullet from a gun?

It didn’t help that the others had all stopped in their tracks to watch. If they were expecting a performance not unlike what he could manage on the cricket pitch, Ed was concerned they were going to be bitterly disappointed.

Matthew beat the bushes. Half-expecting nothing to happen, Ed was not ready when a flurry of a birds flapped towards the sky, and everything that came next seemed to fill a mere second. He was used to the sound of other people shooting, but the bang right beside his ear sent his body reeling, and he was already wobbly when the power of the recoil slammed into his shoulder. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over something sticking out of the ground, and crashed into the grass just in time to see all of the birds escape, unharmed.

‘You absolute fucking shitcunt!’ he screamed.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if every bird in a ten-mile radius had taken to the skies in horror after that. The rest of the boys looked as though they wished they could: every one of them froze in their tracks to stare at him with shocked, rounded eyes.

Every one of them with the exception of Stede, that was. Stede, who knew how anxious Ed had been to come here in case he showed himself up as lowborn and common. The only shock on his face was from the sudden loud noise – at least, it seemed that way to Ed. The overriding expression was one of concern, and while he didn’t offer Ed a hand in getting up off the ground, this may have been due to the presence of the still-smoking shotgun.

Matthew was the first to laugh. The sound was more like a duck quacking than anything human, though.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That will certainly have frightened them all away, won’t it?’

There was a ripple of nervous laughter – evidently everyone was keen not to dwell on Ed’s foul outburst for too long, and while this ought to have been a relief it just reinforced to Ed that what he’d done was absolutely deplorable. Stede wasn’t ready when he thrust the shotgun into his hands – he stumbled back a little, then looked crestfallen.

‘I’m going …’ Ed gestured back towards the lodge. There was nowhere else he could go, but he nevertheless didn’t want to tell anyone outright. He couldn’t blame them for coming after him if he’d said where he was. Before he could betray his intentions any further, he turned away from the group and started to make his way back.

There were tears in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that burning.

Why couldn’t his default reaction to a setback have been oh, bother? Or crumbs? Or something similarly twee, something that might have come out of Stede’s mouth if he’d stubbed his toe? He hadn’t said that on purpose, it was just the language that was imprinted into his brain – the language he had grown up around, at the end of the day. Words like that were so heavily associated with pain, misfortune or even just the tiniest of slip-ups that it was difficult to remove them when his instinctive mind took over. In polite conversation, of course he’d never have said anything. He swore with Stede, the way he’d sworn with people at home if the company was appropriate, but …

He scrubbed at his eyes. The lodge in the distance was blurred, but he could just about make out the door handle to let himself in and thrown himself onto one of the large armchairs that had no business sitting in a temporary outdoor structure instead of a vast living room.

He’d known it couldn’t last. No matter how good he was at cricket, no matter how much Stede talked him up, his nature was too different from theirs and it had been stupid of him to think it was anything other than a matter of time before he learned that the hard way.

Or had he ever thought that?

He’d never been comfortable. He’d never been anything other than on edge, even when he’d felt at his happiest amongst them. The only person on the island of Barbados who he felt he could be his true self in front of was Stede – and it was Stede who opened the door a few minutes later, poking his head in to check for Ed’s presence before allowing his body to follow, closing the door behind him.

He sighed. Whatever he was about to say, Ed didn’t want to hear it: he knew it would be an attempt at reassurance that would not land the way Stede had intended for it to, and if he had to have any conversation at all Ed would have chosen the most frivolous, stupid distraction instead. As Stede walked towards him, he dropped his head. There was still grass on his boots: he wiped one on the other, suddenly very interested in cleaning them up.

'Hey. Hey ... Ed, look at me.' 

Ed didn't want to. He was only going to find patronising concern, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to contain a response born of instinctive anger.

'Please.'

The new, sad edge to Stede's tone was what finally drew Ed's chin up from his chest. He hadn't expected this. This scene had played out in his head with one of two endings: either Stede told him how ridiculous he was being and that he ought to come back to the range, or Stede told him how rude he'd been as though he didn't already know. He'd been preparing his reactions to both, but not this. Not Stede's wide eyes watching him as though he'd just had to deliver news of a death in his extended family.

'I promise you, whatever you think happened back there feels a thousand times worse in your head than it does to any of them in real life,' he said.

‘So? That still means it feels terrible.’

‘Yes, but … it’s that perception thing again, isn’t it? If only you would try to see things as they are rather than colouring them with the set of pencils you’ve taken over here from England, they might look very different.’

‘But the only set of bloody pencils I’ve got are the ones I’ve taken over here from England,’ Ed said. He probably would have been impressed by Stede’s analogy if he hadn’t been so edgy – anything Stede said now would feel like an attack, the sort that he’d be embarrassed to have overreacted to in the near future but that, right now, needed a real defence. ‘How the hell else am I meant to view things, Stede? Hm? You talk about this stuff like it’s easy, like I can just transplant the brain of a spoiled brat into my own skull just to see how you all view life -’

He cut himself off about a split second before Stede’s face fell.

‘Shit,’ Ed said. ‘Sorry … look, I didn’t mean …’

‘It’s OK. You’re upset.’

The near future Ed had been thinking about just a moment ago had come around a little too quickly for his liking.

‘You aren’t a spoiled brat,’ he sighed. ‘I mean, you’re obviously spoiled, but the brat thing … no, I didn’t mean that.' 

'Do you remember how excited I was when I first said a swearword?' said Stede, and Ed couldn't resist a small smile at that. It had been after their tussle, and they’d been lying in the grass together, laughing. 'Yeah ... they're not at that stage yet, but then nor was I once upon a time. And now I can ... eff and blind like a sailor.' The irony of Stede being unable to follow through on this when it really would have mattered had Ed smiling even more broadly where it perhaps should have infuriated him. 'I promise you. No one out there thinks any less of you – in fact, quite a few of them have asked me to make sure you're OK. Matthew realised straight away he'd crossed a line.'

This was the thing – the sticking point that always caused these horribly uncomfortable moments between them. Matthew hadn't crossed a line, not really. He'd just hit a nerve, one they could never have anticipated and therefore never have avoided. Ed was self-aware enough to know that the problem here was his and no-one else's. It didn't prevent the problem from feeling so all-encompassing that he was unable to get up, forced onto the ground by the weight of it all.

'Well. I'm going to go back to the others,' Stede said. He leant into Ed to give his shoulder a friendly squeeze, and Ed's stomach squeezed in turn. 'And in my opinion, you ought to come with me. But I'm not going to force you if you want to stay here a bit longer, or go home. I'm sure I can think of a convincing reason you had to go. Explosive diarrhoea or what have you.'

'Fuck off ...'

'There he is.' With a nervous smile, Stede squeezed Ed’s shoulder again.

He pushed himself up onto his feet, turned around, and offered Ed his hand. The weight that had kept him on the ground seemed to dissipate at the offer of help. He took Stede's hand, surprised at the strength with which he was pulled upright. Why did he often imagine he was dealing with Stede, the wet little schoolboy, when in front of him stood a fully-grown man?

A fully-grown man whose hand was still in his.

They stood together, neither of them speaking. The way Stede was smiling at him would seem to indicate that he knew exactly what he was doing here, but that couldn’t have made any sense. He’d simply offered his hand to lift him up. That was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. But just when Ed was starting to convince himself that that was all there was to it, Stede gently swept his thumb back and forth across the backs of Ed’s fingers, and Ed’s breath just about vanished.

‘Are you coming back with me?’ Stede said, and Ed couldn’t do anything else but nod. ‘Good. I’m so glad to hear that.’

He turned to walk back to the door. In doing so, he naturally dropped Ed’s hand: but the warmth of his touch didn’t leave Ed for a very long time.

Chapter Text

The Stede-dreams were growing more and more frequent and less and less appropriate. Too many mornings found Ed squirming awake, mortified despite his isolation. Nobody would ever know what his subconscious conjured up for him in sleep unless he told them, and he certainly never planned to, but when he came down to breakfast on such mornings he did feel as though something about his face might have transformed, a beacon of shame alerting everyone to the thoughts he was trying to suppress in order to sit down with them properly.

It made seeing Stede more difficult, too. If the Dowager, Baron Webley and Adeline were unable to sniff this out in him it was probably because this didn’t concern them. He never failed to wonder whether Stede might be able to detect it, though. That overthinking, that careful planning of every word and action, was going nowhere. At least it seemed to be working so far, but Ed was always teetering on the brink of the moment he forgot to hold back, and it kept him from being able to fully relax around the person who was supposed to make him feel most himself.

How was that fair?

Worst of all were the reading and writing lessons. God … if Ed was writing, and Stede leant in for a closer look at what he was doing, all hair tickling his cheek and breathing the same air … if Stede had  brushed against the inside of his wrist with his hand during any of those moments, he’d have been terrified by Ed’s elevated heart rate and called for a doctor.

He’d never realised it were possible to crave and fear something so badly.

Often, the pulse hike would start even as he waited for Stede. It interrupted his lunch if they were meeting at the school, and sometimes he’d have to give up on his food and bring it with him because eating had become like swallowing fistfuls of sand.

One marginally cooler afternoon, when Ed had been relaxed enough to manage to finish his lunch for a change, he was surprised to find Stede striding across the lawn with a ream of paper clutched in one hand: the only reason Ed hadn’t been quite as het up as he knew he could be was because he hadn’t expected a lesson today. It didn’t even seem to be a usual one, either, judging by Stede’s grin as he sat down.

‘I’ve had the greatest idea ever, Ed,’ he said. He did sound extremely proud of himself, but Ed had to wonder what this had to do with the sheer volume of paper he’d brought today. Ed was more than happy with his writing progress but he certainly wasn’t that fast. ‘We’re going to throw a party.’

‘Are we?’

‘It’s my birthday in two weeks’ time,’ said Stede. ‘And for the last few years, my parents have given a party. But since realising that the sorts of people I was required to invite are not the sorts of people I want to spend any time with whatsoever, I asked them to refrain from doing so this time around. They weren’t happy, which I assume means that my party was just another social occasion they were using to show off, but they did relent in the end. What this does mean, though, is that now I find myself without birthday plans for the first time in my life, and that does leave me rather empty, I must admit.’

A party … for some reason, this revelation set Stede apart from Ed in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. At least, not at first: when he started to think about it there was just something devastatingly luxurious about spending so much time and money on a frivolity for no real reason, and Stede had been able to do that every single year. Probably more than once a year, in fact. He could imagine the lavish Christmas parties, too, and parties for his parents’ birthdays, and perhaps other occasions … the way Felix had had a no-reason party that had turned his life upside-down.

Ed, who had never done anything specific for his birthday other than eaten something special if his mother had been able to afford it, nevertheless had an idea for a party replacement without needing to give it much thought. He just needed to take inspiration from one of his favourite days he’d spent here thus far.

‘What if we went to the beach?’ he said. ‘In the evening, maybe? And everyone brings different food, so it isn’t just one person that has to cook it all and drag it all there and back, and …’

He waved his hands around, imploring Stede to contribute (considering it was his birthday celebration, after all). Stede was chewing his bottom lip, but nodding along with everything Ed said.

‘And we give it a theme,’ he said slowly. ‘So people aren’t dressed up in ridiculously lavish outfits, and more importantly so you don’t feel like you have to?’

Ed’s heart skipped a beat, and he couldn’t suppress a shy smile. ‘What are you talking about in terms of a theme?’

‘Well – what about pirates?’

As soon as Stede said the word, the mental picture slipped straight into place. The lot of them, relaxing on the beach as the sun went down, dressed in those wide, billowing shirts Ed had seen so many of on the docks at home …

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Amazing. It might even scare a few people off so we can keep the beach to ourselves.’

Stede was beaming now. ‘That settles that, then! I thought today we might have a go at writing some invitations?’

What a genius move on Stede’s part. In fact, if he’d simply plonked the pile of papers in front of Ed and told him to invite people to a pirate party, he was sure he’d have been swayed in a second. Their lunchtime was spent happily copying out the details, then embellishing each invitation with an inked symbol – a treasure map, or a Jolly Roger. Stede’s came out far less blotchy than Ed’s, but he quite liked the aged, authentic look his smears gave them. He even wrote one out for himself as a keepsake.

The next day was spent planning. Stede did all the writing himself this time, thinking straight onto the paper: although he initially set out with far greater expectations of Ed than were warranted.

‘OK. What does one need for a party?’ He raised his head from his list expectantly, and Ed stared at him in exasperation.

‘The fuck you asking me for? Do you think I have ever, once, thrown a party?’

Stede shook his head at his own stupidity. ‘No. Sorry. You’re right, this one is on me …’

As he chuntered away to himself, scrawling a list of the items they – or he, really – would need to buy, Ed couldn’t resist a tiny smile. This was the first time he’d noticed Stede acknowledge the very present financial gap between the two of them without making himself a martyr to it, and he was happy to just watch him plan overly-luxurious purchases for a few minutes without marvelling at how stupid and impractical they were. If Stede wanted to go all out for this, and Stede could afford to go all out for this with whatever money his parents granted him as an allowance, then at the end of the day that was up to him. Ed would hardly sniff at the benefits. 

*

This time, when Ed and Adeline raided his wardrobe, Baron Webley knew about it in advance. Ed would need fewer clothes, so the Baron didn’t seem to mind so much that Ed was taking anything: more that Adeline was helping him. When they’d assembled something that made Ed look as though he had an entire crew in his charge – buckled boots, green silk trousers, and a shirt that billowed like a flag in the wind – Baron Webley was blustering with enthusiasm over how fearsome Ed looked, but he punctuated this with sideways glances at his wife that were almost physical attacks. Not for the first time, Ed felt that discomfort associated with being a sort of involuntary bridge between warring parties without knowing exactly what they were warring over.

His pleasure at the finished outfit won out, though. As a final touch he retrieved his red silk and tied it around his neck: it gave his entire face rather a different shape, and for the last few days leading up to the party he didn’t bother shaving in the hope that the resulting stubble would give him a sort of edge, as though even if he did carry a razor to sea, he’d be far too busy swashbuckling to have time to even consider such trifling things as hair removal. When he caught glimpses of himself, he had to admit he liked the effect. He rather hoped that other people might, too.

Yes. This was going to be a party on his level.

It didn’t stop the nerves rattling him awake on the day itself. The whole household were aware of the plans, and despite some trepidation on Adeline’s part with regards actual pirates who may or may not crash the party in confusion on seeing a collection of apparent pirates operating on the shore, they were very excited for Ed to partake in such merriment. The Dowager even lamented her lack of invitation, though when Baron Webley pointed out that had she received an invitation she would likely have turned it down anyway on account of her health, the heat, the effort involved, or some other reason, she did concede with a small chuckle that might have been her first moment of self-awareness ever.

‘I will say, though, Edward,’ she said, straightening up on the chair she was sitting in - for she now alternated her resting places around the house and grounds, and the groove in the chaise longue was starting to recover. ‘You do look dashing this evening. Were it not for the deep stress piracy is causing our Navy I would say that perhaps you ought to take it up yourself, if just for the opportunity to stand proudly on the bow of a ship with your necktie blowing behind you. It would suit you. Perhaps more than the gardening gloves, even.’

Adeline shuddered, but not so much as to knock the smile from her face.

‘Aside from the fearsome battles, looting and terrible seasickness, perhaps,’ she said.

‘Oh, but he was incredibly hardy on our voyage across from Bristol, if I remember rightly,’ said the Dowager, with what sounded like a hint of pride. ‘I spent the whole journey confined to my room with a sick bucket, and I hardly saw Edward at all.’

It had been a long time since Ed had thought about the journey that had taken him away from his mother. He’d sat with himself for days, marinating in every human emotion he imagined it was possible to feel and fortunately not in his own fluids, like every other passenger had apparently been. It was difficult to recapture those feelings now. Indeed, even remembering them made him feel prickly, as though the boy who’d wrestled with such a cocktail of emotion had been someone else and he ought not to have access to their innermost thoughts.

If he glanced to the right, the fading light outside afforded him a faded view of himself in the window – and, though many of the same worries and anxieties were still present within him, they too were less clear than they had been back then. How long ago had he made that journey? Ten months? It felt like longer ago than that. He supposed the same old way of living in Bristol had ensured that time had stagnated, whereas the novelty, as well as the struggles, of Barbados, all crammed into such a short period, had stretched it out instead.

‘Then perhaps your future lies on the sea,’ said Baron Webley. ‘Indeed, it takes an intrepid soul to set out on such a journey at such a young age, by choice. Doubtless many of your cricket chums had no say in the matter, or indeed have been born here but told many a time that they are, at heart, from a land they have never seen. In a sense you are lucky to have known two homes. I am not, of course, belittling the pain it must sometimes cause you, you understand. I myself have not seen English shores in years, yet I dream of them often.’

God, what a poncey way of saying … whatever it was he’d been trying to say. Ed had lost it in the sheer amount of words that had come out of Baron Webley’ mouth that he was sure weren’t necessary, but he smiled all the same. Perhaps your future lies on the sea. He had to admit, he was still proud of the fact that he’d been more or less the only passenger able to handle the crossing without being taken ill.

Chapter Text

Ed and Stede had agreed to meet before everyone else was due, in order to set things up and calm their minds before chaos descended. Ed secretly hoped that chaos wouldn’t descend at all – they were in public, and he knew that anything nasty would reflect on him more than anyone else – but the idea wasn’t scary, exactly. Nobody in their group was dangerous or aggressive, and drinking and merriment would no doubt excite them rather than make them break out into spontaneous fights, or begin to act like letches towards the girls.

He was mulling these prospects over as he walked across the sand, trying to imagine the worst that might happen, when he noticed Stede standing up ahead.

In actual fact, what he noticed at first was a man, because Stede wasn’t wearing any outfit Ed recognised. He was admiring it before he realised who was inside it, and when he did, he felt his face grow warm. Rather than opting for the usual breeches and jacket combination, Stede was wearing a loose white shirt that was open across his chest, billowing slightly in the wind from the water. His hair had been swept back rather than coiffured, as though anticipating the undoing effect the same wind would have had on it. And he had long trousers on: dark, wide-legged, possibly real sailors’ trousers – Ed was willing to bet Stede or his family knew where to get hold of the real thing – that elevated his height and made him look a great deal more intrepid than he ever could in his school blazer, even if they were playfighting.

More than anything else, he looked stripped back. The gap between them felt much the same size as ever, but tonight, perhaps they could pretend to be on different sides of it.

‘First things first,’ said Ed. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘Thank you,’ Stede said. A smile was creeping up one side of his lips. ‘We should have pirate names for one another, shouldn’t we? What am I calling you?’

Ed was far too busy trying to pretend that Stede’s chest, and the hair that he had not expected to exist, wasn’t having any sort of effect on him to think of a pirate name. Stede seemed too innocent for chest hair. Ed wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been completely smooth below the eyebrows – and the thought of getting to see other parts of Stede below the eyebrows, smooth or otherwise, drove the idea of a pirate name even further from his mind.

‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of this earlier,’ he said with a chuckle. Stede’s smile encompassed his whole face now.

‘OK, Captain Teach,’ he said. ‘That will have to do for now.’

Captain Teach. It thrummed with power, and Ed liked it.

‘You have quite a good name for a pirate already,’ he said. ‘Stede Bonnet … it’s unusual. It works.’

‘We’d be the most fearsome duo on the seven seas.’

Tonight, though, they were backed up by the biggest, most enthusiastic crew Ed could have wished for. Everyone had done their part, in every sense: the outfits ranged from approximations of the most lowly cabin boys to fearsome, lavish pirate kings, and the assortment of food and drink grew with every person’s arrival. There were plenty of handshakes and embraces to toast Stede’s coming of age, but plenty of comments on Ed’s outfit, too. He was always quick to assert that none of the garments were his, and he wasn’t quite sure why this mattered so much.

It was difficult to know how to turn an assortment of people into a true party, however. As everyone arrived, they began conversations, moved into little groups, and did nothing more. It was no different to a pre-cricket gathering, other than the fact that everyone was in fancy dress. In theory, this would have suited Ed down to the ground. Stede, on the other hand, was observing the crowd,

‘We need an inciting incident,’ he said. ‘Something to get things started.’

‘I don't think calling it an inciting incident is gonna do that,' Ed said with a smile. ‘But I do think you'd know what to do better than I would. You're the one who's done this before.’

‘Mother and Father have done this before,’ said Stede anxiously. ‘Not me. I don't know. Maybe one of us should make a speech, or …’

‘It's a party, not … an event,’ said Ed. ‘Maybe people just need to get pissed?’

‘Oh, we'll do that alright.’ Felix, who had sidled over unnoticed, held aloft a bottle of rum. ‘Don't you worry about that, Edward. In the meantime, why don't you give us a song from home?’

Ed couldn’t tell if he was joking. Music did seem like the sort of thing that might signify the beginning of a proper party, but he was no singer. A few others around them who had heard Felix’s suggestion, however, started nodding and cheering their agreement. Ed didn’t miss Stede’s amused smile.

‘Yes, come on, Ed! You must have some tunes from England you can show us? It has been a while since many of us have seen its shores.’

It’s been a while for me, too, Ed thought.

‘You don’t have to,’ Stede said quietly, but Ed shook his head.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘It might get things going.’

But it was song his mother had sung often that came to mind as the crowd hushed. It wasn’t going to get anybody dancing. It might instead call memories to mind – or imaginings, most likely, for the majority of these people – of another land. He couldn’t recall ever being asked to sing in front of people before, but this was the only song he was sure he knew all the words to, and he gave it his best: Over the Hills and Far Away.

It was probably quite the wrong choice. His voice shook as he started and it took some time to even out with everyone watching and listening so closely. By the time the song was coming to a close, there was silence among their friends. Only the sea, and his voice, remained. When he finished, two or three empty seconds lingered before the first couple of people began to applaud, and he let out a hard breath of relief.

‘Goodness me, Ed,’ said Mary – her voice was rather higher than usual, and she chuckled as she brushed at her eyes. ‘Who would have thought you had such a voice on you? That was truly magnificent.’

‘But – erm –’ Felix, too, seemed incapacitated by emotion, although he was a little more embarrassed about the fact. ‘Something more raucous, now, perhaps? Eh? We need to get the drinking started!’

A rousing cheer went up, and Matthew appointed himself as bartender – from there, things took care of themselves, to Ed’s relief. When he’d agreed to sing he hadn’t anticipated such a profoundly melancholy reaction. A stupid song choice, indeed. He wasn’t even in the mood for a party any more, really, until Stede laid a hand on his shoulder for just a moment.

‘Well done,’ he said, with a smile that called to mind his story about discovering the pink ixora with his classmates. Being looked upon like a delicate flower instead of a weed …

Ed needed a drink before he started coming up with even more mawkish similes.

But it had done the trick. Perhaps he hadn’t started any festivities, but Ed had certainly broken the ice, and the groups that were scattered around were bigger and louder than they had been ten minutes ago. From there, all he and Stede had to do was drink, eat, and enjoy themselves.

And so it went for a couple of hours. It felt like the first time Ed had had the chance to properly talk to a lot of these people. He remained mostly attached to Stede at first, but as time went on and conversations diverged, he realised there were people here he had a lot more in common with than he would ever have imagined. Boys he wouldn’t have been certain if they were a Maxwell or a Michael this morning shared wonderful jokes with him, and girls whose cricketing technique he’d always admired from afar finally let him in on their practise drills. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was the shared uniform. Either way, Ed had rarely felt so comfortable among such a large number of people, until a new voice cut across the chatter.

‘Baby Bonnet …’

There were a few seconds in which Ed had to cycle through their guestlist to try to work out who amongst them would call Stede something so cruel. It did only take those few seconds, though, to come to the conclusion that if anyone would do that to Stede, he wouldn’t be friends with them, and they therefore ought not to be here.

The underlying realisation was that he recognised the voice nevertheless, and he managed to place it a split second before he saw its source, strutting into the midst of the party with an especially conspicuous non-piratey outfit, as well as two friends flanking him like bodyguards. Nigel Badminton was crashing their party, and he looked prouder of this fact than a merchant docking in the Floating Harbour with a ship full of spices.

Ed sought Stede out, standing with three other boys. They’d been laughing about something until Stede had realised who had just turned up uninvited, and Ed watched his expression harden slowly. The small group’s chatter died down, and the people around them picked up on the new quiet, hushing themselves like ripples around a water droplet until Badminton and his cronies had a captive audience, and Ed’s heart was hammering against his ribcage.

‘I was rather put out not to receive an invitation to this little gathering, Bonnet,’ said Badminton. ‘Fortunately I read the details over your shoulder as you were drawing an adorable skull and crossbones on one of your invitations during arithmetic, so I didn’t have to miss out. I was never going to lower myself to the level of fancy dress, though …’

The laugh he let out then was so practised and deliberate that Ed felt slightly sick. There was no mirth there whatsoever – only threat, which the assembled guests seemed to have realised for themselves. Nobody seemed to know how they were supposed to respond to this, and Ed had to remind himself that it was unlikely any of them had met Badminton for any amount of time. Just because they all had more money than he did, didn’t mean they had everything in common with one another. A sudden, tiny swell of affection for his friends attempted to quell his anxiety, but it was unsuccessful.

‘But now I’m here, I almost regret not making the effort. God, this is quaint …’

Badminton put his hands on his hips with the same purpose as his false laugh, moving his head to observe all of the costumes. What had looked like a colourful, fun array of friends having a good time to Ed at the beginning of the night now felt childish and pathetic under Badminton’s discerning gaze. The red silk seemed to be irritating his neck all of a sudden.

‘It’s like something my mother would have laid on for my brother and I when we turned four. The nostalgia! Wow. I wish I had at least looked out a pair of tatty old breeches. You all look completely adorable.’ He snorted again, and Ed noticed one or two people looking nervously at one another. ‘I wonder whether you would be able to fight like a pirate, though, Bonnet? Hm? They can be quite ferocious, I understand. All those stories of when they come to land, pillaging whole communities for everything they have … you may look the part, but do you have any follow through?’

And, despite everything that had bonded them together – every staged fight, every quick retort, every bit of swagger Ed had passed to him – he was still gobsmacked when Stede stepped towards Badminton, leaving everyone else behind him.

‘There’s a reason you weren’t invited,’ he said. Ed could hear how much of his confidence was put on – there was a tone to his voice that he’d never heard before, and he realised that this was because he’d never needed to use it with Ed before – but there was a genuine need to assert himself there, too, born of those lessons from forever ago when Ed had managed to flip the pathetic schoolboy he’d met in the corridor into something a bit sharper. ‘It’s because none of us want you around. I’m surprised you hadn’t worked that one out for yourself.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘Exactly what Stede said. I’ve seen you here and there, and you always seem to be throwing your weight around. We aren’t fans of that sort of thing.’ 

Here, of all of the times and places in which it could have happened, came the realisation for Ed that his friends – yes, friends, he was happy to call them that as long as they were happy to call him that right back – could have taken Badminton and his family on in one of those pithy battles of status the rich liked to have with one another for no reason. Any of them here could have taken him back to estates and manors and houses full of rich foods and more rooms than any of them could have used in a day. But it was only Badminton, and the people like him who Stede unfortunately had to associate himself with every day at school, who actually went ahead with those desperate attempts to prove themselves. Being rich was no guarantee of a certain personality type, and amongst his friends as they faced Badminton down, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. 

‘Throwing my weight around? I’m just going about my life,’ Badminton scoffed. ‘As I am right this minute. This is a public place. We are allowed on this beach just the same as any of you are, and you don’t have the right to ask us to leave.’ 

‘We may not have the right, but we’re going to do it anyway,’ Stede said. ‘Just because it’s a public place, doesn’t mean you have to force yourself in on a gathering who doesn’t want you. I would never come and invade any event you had laid on. I wouldn’t be interested, and I’m surprised you’re interested in ours.’ 

Ed kept wondering whether he ought to intervene, but every time he was on the brink of striding forward Stede handled himself incredibly enough that he thought any contributions he made might fall flat in comparison. He’d undermine him instead of supporting him: all of these points were calm and extremely rational, and had someone presented him with them he’d have happily held his hands up, admitted defeat, and walked away. 

It was too much to expect from Badminton, though. He made another deliberate point of turning to his friends, forcing out that choked, stuttering laugh that he must have practised in the lead-up to this evening, because it could not have been a genuine reaction to the events unfolding around him. 

‘Invade?’ he said. ‘You mean like – like a pirate?’ 

His friends started to snigger, too, and Ed wished more than ever that he was in his work outfit, gardening gloves and all – maybe even his everyday clothes, plain though they were in comparison with Badminton’s immaculate ensemble. Anything but this, right now.

As though attuned to his thoughts, Badminton’s eyes flicked sideways to meet Ed’s. All of the nerves bubbling under the service spiked, piercing Ed’s chest. A lump surfaced in his throat as he held Badminton’s gaze. 

‘Or like this one here,’ Badminton said. His tone had grown cool, the bravado gone from his smile. ‘The pleb you’ve allowed into your circle as a sort of … pet, I imagine. What else could you possibly want with someone so far removed from your own status? We have been watching the two of you at school, Bonnet.’ He didn’t turn to look at Stede. ‘Wondering why on Earth you would ever want to get so cosy with this street urchin of a lunchtime … it’s quite disgusting, actually –’ 

Ed had been so focused on Badminton that he hadn’t seen Stede’s reactions to any of this. He certainly hadn’t been prepared for Stede, all blue and white blur, to barrell into Badminton. He had been even less prepared than Ed: the two of them toppled to the ground immediately, and Stede, advantage asserted, seized his collar before either of Badminton’s cronies had worked out what he was doing, and punched him square on the nose. 

The resulting crack hung in the air. Not even that could motivate Badminton’s boys into action: presumably they’d been brought along as nothing more than backup, but hadn’t been ready for Stede to launch such a vicious attack. They’d been imagining this would be easy, no doubt. Even Stede seemed surprised at his actions, albeit mostly furious at Badminton as he sat astride him, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Badminton was moaning, clutching at his face: there was blood streaming from beneath his fingers, and Ed felt slightly sick at how satisfying the sight was to him. 

Quietly, Felix managed to take hold of Stede’s shoulders and get him onto his feet. Badminton was in no fit state to fight back, and everyone present knew it. Ed had to wonder whether Badminton had ever been in a proper fight in his life, in fact. Presumably all of the violence he’d engaged with in the past had been instigated by himself, and levied toward weaker people he could beat easily. If he’d known Stede had been capable of this … 

‘Come on, Nigel,’ one of the other boys, now slightly paler and less upright, said. The other was snatching Badminton back as though someone else might be readying themselves for their turn, as though everyone weren’t standing around in shock at the events they’d just seen transpire. ‘He’s a fucking psychopath …’

An exaggerated term for someone who’d dished out an arguably deserved punch, maybe, but the slight awe in his voice wasn’t lost on Ed. He was feeling it, too. As Badminton and his minions dashed away, he could do nothing other than stare at Stede.

Felix released him. He was no danger to anybody else – nobody was going to deny that. But Ed hurried forward, laying a hand on his shoulder without paying any attention to his usual vetting process of how a particular word or action might look to Stede. He was unscathed, but he was shaking.

‘You … fuck’s sake, Stede, you didn’t need to …’ Ed lowered his voice: he wasn’t feeling particularly steady, either. ‘He hadn’t attacked, you weren’t defending yourself –’

‘I was defending you, Edward!’ Ed wished there wasn’t some part of him that fizzled whenever Stede used his full name. ‘Jesus Christ! How could I have stood by when he was saying those – horrible things about you?’

Ed had a whole monologue planned for a situation like this, but could he remember a word of it? Could he hell. He knew he wasn't supposed to advocate for this sort of action, but when Stede was standing before him, pink-faced and panting with little flecks of Badminton's blood on his hands, it was very difficult to understand why, exactly.

The two of them simply gazed at one another, both of them breathing hard.

It might have been nice if he'd been able to think of something he wanted to say to Stede that he could have said in front of their friends, too. Fortunately, Matthew broke the silence with a hearty laugh.

'You look like you need another rum, Stede,' he said. He was mid-pour, and the glass, in his enthusiastic hand, slopped a little of the stuff over the rim as he handed it over. It was the biggest drink Ed had seen him with all evening, but he swallowed two mouthfuls of it off the bat just as though it were pineapple juice.

It wasn't without a shudder afterwards, but Matthew had been right. It had clearly been needed. Glass emptied enough to be carried around without incident, Stede soon disappeared in a crowd of admirers, and Ed found he had no desire to join them. His admiration, though tainted with anxiety for some reason, far outstripped any of theirs, and none of them would ever understand quite how deep his respect for his best friend now ran.

*

Whose stupid idea had it been to provide so much rum?

Ed was wandering back after the fifth or sixth trip into the trees to empty his bladder, following the sound of the music and the smoky smell of the bonfire with a dreamy smile on his face, when he was accosted. How his assailant had hidden from him on an open stretch of beach was beyond him, but then perhaps he really was that lost in the contentment with how the evening had gone so far. That, and the rum. Probably.

It was a good thing he was slightly inebriated, in fact, because the sharp, sober Ed would have lashed out immediately at whoever had just launched themselves into him from behind to pin both arms to his sides with their own arms: this blurred version needed a few seconds to work out what was happening to him, a few seconds in which Stede, grinning from ear to ear, leant around Ed’s head. Their faces were so close Ed could smell the rum on his breath.

‘Hi,’ he said. Ed paused in wait for the next utterance, but none came. Only the smile remained, and it was infectious enough that it started to tug at the corners of Ed’s own lips, too. God, rum was great.

‘Hello,’ he said, and Stede’s smile became, if possible, even wider. ‘Did you follow me to watch me pee?’

‘No,’ Stede said. ‘I followed you a respectable amount of time after I saw you leave, and I waited some way away for you to return, as you have seen. I am no pervert and I resent even the implication.’

‘If you were, though, it isn’t as though you’d admit it,’ said Ed. ‘Why are you preventing me from returning to the party, then?’

‘I just wanted to see if you were OK.’

He hadn’t relaxed his grip, and his neck must have been aching from the strange, twisted angle he was keeping his head at in order to look at Ed from behind. Ed’s own was certainly starting to twinge just from looking back at him, though he would rather have run straight into the sea screaming duel invitations to any pirates who might be floating around just beyond the horizon than pull away.

‘I’m OK,’ he said, a little more breathlessly than he’d perhaps intended. It satisfied Stede, though. With a hearty nod, he retracted his arms, and Ed let his own float out from his sides just to make sure they were still working properly: the desire to wrap them around Stede in kind told him they probably were. ‘Now that I know I’m not about to be served the same dessert as Badminton.’

‘Oh, Ed,’ Stede said. His face was now glowing with the pride that had been missing after the initial fight, and it warmed Ed’s heart to see it. ‘Wasn’t it brilliant? It felt as though my entire school life had been leading up to the moment where I broke his nose, even though I would never have been able to guess that until I actually did it. Payment in kind, I think, for all of the – utter crap he has made me suffer over the years, and if you spoke to him about it I think it would be difficult for him to disagree. Not that I have any intention of speaking to him ever again, you understand, but … well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’

'Yeah,' Ed said. 'I reckon I do.'

They started walking again, albeit without intent. Stede’s flushed excitement, hair tousled and secured into place by the salty wind, was delightful. Ed wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him so unbridled and happy, and he rather fancied keeping this version of his best friend to himself for a little longer yet. Perhaps they could do this when Stede finished school, find jobs that kept them by the shore. Fishermen. Dock hands. Anything that meant Stede could dress like this again.

‘It really suits you, you know,’ Ed said, without thinking.

‘What does?’

‘That outfit. The seafaring get-up, all of it. I don’t know. There’s just something about it that makes you look …’ He searched for the word, cycling his hand in the air in an attempt to summon it before giving up. ‘Good.’

Nice. Solid. It wasn’t elaborate, but it encapsulated everything he wanted to say.

‘Well, thank you.’ Stede raised his glass with a smile. ‘I won’t lie to you, Ed. I think your piratey ensemble looks positively fantastic on you, too.’

Ed would have been the first to admit that he wasn’t particularly good at taking compliments. At least, he wasn’t particularly good at taking compliments from people who weren’t his mother. But this one took the biscuit: he could feel his face growing warm, and he knew that this meant it was beginning to turn red. Stede would be able to see. Stede would know … what?

But Stede was still smiling. Was there such thing as a patient smile? It looked like that. It looked as though he were waiting politely, nothing in mind he needed to say while Ed gathered his thoughts here in the one quiet moment of the whole day. Parties were so stressful. Having now thrown one for himself, he couldn’t see the appeal. But this? Admiring his best friend, dressed in an open shirt, glowing in the sunset? Worth it. Ten thousand times over.

Ed’s chest had started to tighten. They were already walking side-by-side, but he inched a little closer to Stede nevertheless. He watched for his reaction: nothing more than a slight raise of the eyebrows and a twitch to his smile. He wasn’t backing away. He wasn’t worried.

He took hold of Ed’s hand.

Ed swallowed. Stede had done this with such unassuming nonchalance that he felt he had to react in kind – he closed his fingers around Stede’s hand, but he didn’t look down, and he kept walking until he felt a gentle pull. Stede had come to a halt.

‘Edward.’

Should Ed have been scared? His heart was pounding even harder than it had been on watching Stede take Badminton down, but if this was what he thought it might be, then maybe his heart was right. He turned around to find Stede, waiting. Still smiling.

When he leant in, Ed moved forward to meet him.

Neither of them were practised at this. The first contact was a bump, and Stede’s resulting smile against Ed’s lips warmed him as he slid a hand into Stede’s hair. He’d never considered there to be anything other than a huge jump between friendship and romance but his first thought, at his first kiss, was that the second could hardly exist without the first. As their lips parted, as Stede was the first to venture forth with the tip of his tongue, and as they both moved from shy apprehension to a comfortable confidence together, Ed knew that, no matter how much frustration he’d nursed in the past about the way he’d begun to feel about Stede, he would never have been able to bring himself to do this until tonight.

He kept one hand entwined in Stede’s hair when he drew away, dazed and lightheaded. Stede was biting his bottom lip. He looked up at Ed through his eyelashes – was he doing that on purpose? – and Ed had to take a second to really sit with what had just happened. If he didn’t, he knew, he would wake up in the morning utterly convinced that it had been a dream.

‘You OK?’ Ed whispered, and Stede nodded.

‘Never better,’ he said.

Chapter Text

Ed had never been more thankful that Stede had taught him to write. He’d have been convinced that the events of the party had been a dream if he hadn’t got them down on parchment the second he’d arrived home, some hours after everyone had gone to bed. He didn’t produce a sensitive sonnet on the subject. His feelings wouldn’t have fit into anything like that if he’d tried. On the smallest, scrappiest fragment, he simply scrawled you kissed him.

And when he woke up, head pressured and mouth full of fur, the first thing he did was scramble to find it. The words were erratic, written by an excited, unstable hand, but they were there, and Ed fell back onto the bed to ruminate on everything. It was a good thing he didn’t have anything else to do with his day other than his usual service of the Dowager – it was an even better thing that she hadn’t awoken yet, or hadn’t as far as he could hear. If he’d been called upon to do anything he’d have made a real hash of it, slopping pineapple juice onto the floor or bringing her the wrong undergarments or something similarly stupid. There was no space in his head even for those tasks he’d learned to the point of them being muscle memory.

He and Stede had said goodbye after the party with no plans to meet the next day. It hadn’t been spoken aloud, but he suspected Stede, like him, had felt sure they would both need quite a lazy Sunday to recover from the night before. They hadn’t been wrong. Ed hadn’t drank much – he knew what “much” was, he’d been around it all his life in Bristol – but it had been enough to rough him up a bit, maybe alcohol’s equivalent of a couple of warning shoves. Not like a punch on the nose …

God, that had been hot. Now that he thought it over, removed from the fear of the situation itself, the details that were in sharpest focus inside his head were Stede’s expression, taught and determined, and the way he’d sat astride Badminton to pin him in place immediately before he’d launched the punch. He could still see Badminton’s blood, evidence that Stede had transformed into the sort of person who did not take things lying down. No. He made you lie down, if you were in his way. Baby Bonnet didn’t exist any more, and Ed glowed in the knowledge that he could take at least most of the credit for that fact.

It had been a treat of a night, all of it. Friends and fun and a bit of violence and snogging thrown in for good measure, the sort of stuff Ed overheard in conversations between boys at the school but that he’d never thought he would experience for himself. He’d certainly never thought it would be with someone like Stede.

He’d been half-ignoring the stretching sensation beneath his blanket ever since he awoke. It was par for the course, something he didn’t usually pay much mind to when there was so much to be done – it went away by itself anyway, and even if he did decide he fancied doing something with it it never lasted any great amount of time. He sometimes worried that, if he ever did settle down with a partner, should their appetite for intimacy be strongest in the morning then they might not stay settled down with him for long.

None of that mattered on mornings like this. Those rare, blissful mornings where the comfort of bed invited him to stay a little while longer, and his sleepy mind was brimming over with the sorts of feelings that helped him along as he slid his hand into his underwear, outside distractions not even a seedling of a thought yet.

The thoughts that were sprouting were of Stede. Of his gritted teeth as he faced off with Badminton, of his calves in those stockings, of the ever so slightly cocky smile, face softly lit by the sunset to illuminate every delightful crease either side of his lips, just after Ed had told him how good he’d looked.

He ate breakfast with the others. He answered whatever questions they had about the party without mentioning the altercation with Badminton, or the kiss. It seemed strange that none of them had the inclination to ask directly about either of these things, but then there was no reason they would. They may have been consuming Ed’s mind but he hadn’t let them out of it for other people to discuss, and he made it outside to sit under his favourite palm tree uninterrogated.

Would this be the sort of thing he would bring home to his mother? He tried to imagine it, returning after the party to find her waiting up for him. He couldn’t decide whether this would be out of anger or worry, but decided that in this scenario they’d agreed on a curfew and Ed had returned just inside of it. She offered him a drink, and they sat together while Ed told her about the different outfits everyone had sported, and the amazing food they’d all brought, and the rude interruption that Stede had quickly put paid to …

He felt an insidious heat creep across his skin even as he thought about what had happened next, and he felt sure this was no different to how he would react when faced with the real-life prospect of telling his mother all about his first kiss. It wasn’t that he thought his mother would find any fault with any of it. In fact, realistically, there probably wasn’t anybody he knew more suited to tell than her, and if he had any questions about what had happened or how to navigate his feelings and actions from hereon in she would be sensitive and mindful in her answers. But whether he could overcome this embarrassment to tell her about it in the first place was a whole other story, and now he was thinking about it, was he really supposed to be telling anyone at all? Yes, his resistance to Stede’s anecdote about Hannah had been more down to his own feelings about Stede than any particular invasion of privacy, but making those points had felt sincere all the same. This had been a private encounter. It involved someone else. And he didn’t do that sort of thing with just anyone, so it stood to reason that he perhaps ought not to be sharing details of it with anyone, either. If he wanted to talk about it, he realised suddenly (and with some shame at having not realised earlier), there was only one person with whom he ought to be doing that.

He swallowed bile.

How stupid, that the prospect of discussing what had happened with Stede should frighten him so much. They’d done it without any kind of trepidation. Surely the kiss itself had been the scary part, if there was going to be a scary part at all? All they had to do now was consolidate something that had already happened, but even just the idea of sitting in the harsh sunlight, at school of all places, the crumbs of his lunch freshly lodged in his teeth and the salt from the morning’s perspiration crusting on his back, deliberately bringing up a spontaneous, beautiful moment of affection that had taken place in such wildly different circumstances … it might even ruin it. There were some things, as he well knew, that didn’t need picking apart, and were best left well enough alone.

The alternative, though, was to see Stede on Monday and act as though nothing had happened.

He didn’t need to think about that option for more than a second to realise it wasn’t much of an option at all. What sort of a person did that?

Not him. However strange that conversation was going to be, he was going to have it.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Edward?’

Ed glanced up. He’d almost forgotten where he was, but was happy enough that, of anyone who could have inadvertently reminded him, it was Adeline. She was carrying two glasses of freshly poured pineapple juice.

‘How do you know I’m thinking anything at all?’ he said, and Adeline chuckled as she shifted her skirts and sank to the ground beside him.

‘You have been here for two hours. If your mind were blank, you would have realised you were thirsty. Not to mention you would have been extremely bored. I know what you are like, Edward Teach.’

Ed thanked her, then downed half of his glass in a single breath. Should he have been worried about the fact that daydreaming about Stede had quelled such a basic survival instinct?

‘You can’t have had much to drink last night, then, otherwise you would be shrivelling up out here,’ said Adeline.

Now that she’d mentioned it, though, Ed did feel as though he might be able to absorb a great deal of water if he were dropped into a full bathtub. Was that where this dull headache had come from?

‘I did, actually,’ he said. ‘I suppose I need to drink more water today to make up for it.’

‘This is how I know you truly were away with the fairies, you see. It must really have been a wonderful party.’

Ed couldn’t suppress a sheepish smile. ‘It was. Yeah. Everyone looked wonderful, they all brought lovely food … just a tiny blip when one of Stede’s bullies brought his cronies along to intervene, but Stede soon took care of that.’

He’d never have admitted this in front of the Dowager or Baron Webley. Adeline merely raised her eyebrows in apparent disbelief.

‘Really?’

She’d guessed at the true meaning of his euphemism, Ed knew. He was grateful she didn’t seem to have too much she wanted to say about it.

‘Yes. I don’t think they’ll be bothering him again.’

‘And it was definitely him who made sure of that?’

Ah. She thought it had been him. With another smile, Ed held up both of his hands to turn them around in front of her face.

‘Not a scratch or bruise on them,’ he said. ‘I’m staying out of trouble. Promise.’

‘Very well, then,’ Adeline said. ‘I just did not think Stede Bonnet had it in him.’

‘Nor did I, to be honest.’

It pained him to say it, but it was true enough. Ed would never forget the complete and utter surprise he’d felt when Stede had launched himself forward. Theory was different from practise, and although it was nice to think that he might be able to smack someone in the face if it really came to it, he’d known that what he was really teaching was confidence. Or he’d thought he’d known.

‘Adeline?’ he said.

Adeline, watching a fat, fuzzy insect on a nearby flower, made a hm noise that Ed assumed gave him permission to continue.

‘I know you said that you and Baron Webley were a business match, but was that all it ever was?’

Adeline smiled over at the insect.

‘I believe so now. At the time, I truly wanted to believe otherwise.’

Ed had been testing the water, but if Adeline really had been handed a husband on a plate, then he wasn’t sure there was anything a hypothetical conversation with her could offer him.

*

Dear Mum,

I hope you’re well. Stede had his birthday this weekend so we had a pirate party, would you believe? There are some rumours about pirate activity here but nobody was scared. We had a great time. Everyone put lots of effort into it, I think that if anyone had stumbled upon us by accident they might even have thought we were pirates come to shore. Everyone brought some food, too. There was an amazing selection, and all different things, things I’d love to show you. I must learn how to cook some of it so we can have it at home, but there was such a lot, I probably won’t have time to get all the recipes.

I do wish I was sitting next to you for this bit, because I think it’d be an easier conversation to have in person. I think you would be a good person to talk to about it. It’s even hard to write down. But I had my first kiss at the party as well, and it was with Stede. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to make of that, but I thought that you might have something helpful to say because I feel all over the place with it all, Mum. I know you’d be much better at untying all the knotted thoughts I have than I would be.

I don’t even know what else to say, because it’s almost as though I’m waiting for you to reply. I hope I get to speak to you properly soon.

Lots of love,

Ed

He wasn’t sure he’d written it as accurately as he imagined. He read it himself, over and over as he stroked the silk in his pocket, but he knew he was reading what he thought he’d written rather than what was actually in front of him – but like hell was he going to get somebody else to vet this for him. And, truly, the act of drafting the letter in the first place had been cathartic.

He folded it up and slipped it into his trunk.

*

It was with a churning stomach (despite having recovered from his hangover) that Ed walked to school on Monday morning.

He greeted Mr Taylor as usual, but felt as though he were following a script more than thinking much about what he said. When asked how his weekend had been he simply gave the same general answer as ever, then allowed Mr Taylor to rant about the stories of pirates that one of his friends, who had returned from a voyage on Friday, had brought home with him. It was difficult to know how many of these were true, exaggerated or entirely made up, but Ed nodded and frowned along in all the right places.

On any other day he enjoyed the freedom of thought his straightforward physical tasks afforded him. Today, though, his thoughts only strengthened his nausea. The closer he got to lunch, the less likely he thought it would be that he got any food down him. He managed enough to stave off questions from the other gardeners, then hurried off to wait in the usual Monday lunchtime spot on a lawn behind the main school building.

He waited all lunchtime.

Nobody came to bother him. He watched gaggles of boys from a distance, searching for the striking hair he’d recognise immediately without knowing whether seeing it would break his heart. It didn’t matter. Stede was nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t even dare to get up and look for him. In his head, if he left, Stede would arrive and feel as empty as he did. But he stayed, and Stede didn’t arrive, and the hope that he might have been kept back by a teacher almost made Ed late to return to work.

The afternoon passed slowly. The nausea was still there, but it was deeper now – an insidious, whole-body sensation that seemed to be bedding down for a permanent stay. It robbed him of his drive, and by the time he was replacing his tools at the end of the afternoon he was silently hoping that Mr Taylor had no intention of inspecting his work that day. For the first time, he wasn’t particularly proud of any of it.

The other boys left, as ever, in groups, trailing out of the front entrance with shirts untucked and hair ruffled. The difference between the day’s entrances and exits always fascinated Ed How they managed to make such messes of themselves when all they did was sit in classrooms was nothing short of baffling. He watched boy after boy make their way from the campus – some chasing one another, some even shoving. There were so many of them that he knew by sight now. He couldn’t have told anyone their names, but he felt he had their characters pinned down just from the way they carried themselves at the end of a school day. Stede, for example, sometimes walked alone, but sometimes walked with maybe two or three others. If so, they’d be absorbed in serious conversation – most probably about whatever lesson they’d just had. They didn’t run or roughhouse, but they might be found chuckling amongst themselves and that, Ed found, seemed to be consistent with the version of him that he knew.

Except he hadn’t seen him anywhere.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to leave later than others – he faffed a lot, did Stede – but the crowds had thinned out now, and those blonde curls always stood out a mile. Ed kept watch from the shed window. They were down to what he felt bad calling the dregs, those boys who found better companionship in their teachers than their families or peers, and Stede wasn’t among them. It seemed unlikely that he’d managed to sneak out before anyone else. Had he just avoided school altogether today? Claimed some stomach ache or sore throat in order to avoid a conversation he didn’t want to have?

The more Ed considered it, the more he started to believe it. Yes. That had to be the answer. He would have found it difficult to hide from Ed in the grounds, he never knew when he might need to deadhead some of the flowers in a bed underneath his classroom window. If he really wanted to stay out of the way, he would truly have to stay out of the way.

Well, he wasn’t getting away that easily. He couldn’t stay off school forever – but, even if he tried to, Ed knew where he lived.

The Dowager would just have to be cross with him tonight.

Chapter Text

The Bonnet estate was every bit as imposing as Ed had always imagined. He realised as he approached that he had spent the entirety of their friendship subconsciously ignoring the fact that Stede lived a life much closer to that of the Carmodys than of his, but he couldn’t ignore this any longer. There were multiple buildings. There were grounds. You could have spent the day walking around them.

If he were here for any other reason than worry for Stede’s welfare, he would most certainly have turned away and run all the way back to the house. It wasn’t a guarantee Stede was even going to answer the door. If either of his parents were to open it, who was Ed going to say he was? A friend from school, maybe, but it wasn’t as though that were going to cut it in this town full of settlers who all knew one another. He was an outlier, and people like the Bonnets could not only smell those a mile off – they also abhorred them.

He’d been standing in the front garden for so long that he’d probably already been seen by somebody through a window anyway. If he had, that meant whoever had caught sight of him had chosen to deliberately ignore his presence. That couldn’t have been a good sign, but it was also a hypothetical one – though it did keep nausea rippling in his stomach as he made his way slowly towards the house, until a sharp noise like a door slamming stopped him in his tracks again.

Sure, he’d find any excuse to delay this for a few moments longer, and the sound of a door felt like a good one. But when he looked up instinctively, trying to locate the source, he noticed something he hadn’t seen on his first recce of the place. Over to the side of the grounds, mostly obscured by fig tree roots, was what looked like a fancier version of the shed in which he was based at work. Perhaps a gardener had just gone in there to down tools. If there was even a chance that this was true, Ed would rather have faced someone he knew he had common ground with than one of Stede’s noble parents. Convinced, and relieved to have a reason not to approach the imposing front entrance to the house, he glanced around to make sure nobody was around to see him before zipping around to the shed.

Like the house itself, it became fancier the closer he got. The structure he worked from was more or less a large square box, weather-beaten and faded, with a soily, metallic smell emanating from it even on the outside. This was almost a second house, and in fact if he and his mother were to move into it there and then it would be an improvement on the room they’d shared in Bristol. The door was right in the centre, and there was a little peep hole right in the centre of that as well as a small window either side. The wood had been recently painted to look at one with the surrounding trees – no wonder Ed hadn’t spied it until it had made a noise. That was the whole point. It would have been gauche to have displayed the behind-the-scenes running of the household so blatantly.

Only feeling slightly braver, Ed knocked on the wooden door, taking a deep breath. A distorted face appeared in the peep hole almost straight away, taking him aback: not two seconds later the door was flung open and he was face-to-face with an ashen-faced Stede, who seized him by the sleeve, pulled him inside, and slammed the door behind them.

‘What the –?’

‘Sorry,’ Stede said, letting him go. ‘I just … I’m sort of hiding out here …’ He darted to one of the windows to check, presumably, that they hadn’t been seen. ‘I think we’re OK …’

‘We’re fine, I didn’t see anyone,’ Ed said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Telling him that wasn’t going to stop him, though, if his restless eyes and perpetual frown were anything to go by.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said. He didn’t sound particularly happy to see Ed, though that may have been a side effect of whatever was preventing him from relaxing.

‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ said Ed. ‘You didn’t turn up to school today.’

But Stede was staring at him as though he couldn’t imagine why the hell anyone would want to take such an action. It was the only response to not being able to find Stede that Ed had even considered, yet under Stede’s mildly horrified stare, he wondered whether he might have been better off accepting that Stede was, in fact, avoiding him, and running off home to accept that he would never be allowed to make and keep a real friend in his life.

It made sense. The party might have scared Stede off after all. As Ed watched, though, Stede’s eyes were beginning to swim, and all of Ed’s suspicions and worries disappeared.

‘Hey,’ he said gently. ‘What’s the matter?’

He knew immediately he’d made a mistake: ask anyone on the brink of tears how they are and it pushes them right over the edge. Stede turned away from him to throw himself onto a wicker loveseat, and Ed’s chest squeezed. He was mortified to think that Stede might not even be able to look him in the eye in a moment like this, but he checked himself: this wasn’t about him. Stede could look, or not look, at whoever he damn well wanted.

‘I’ve been suspended,’ Stede said. ‘Nigel told his father what happened at the party, and he told the headmaster, and because their family gives so much money to the school each year … not to mention their reputation around here … well, what else could he have done?’

The total and absolute rage that began to fill Ed at this felt like a ball of fire: there was even heat within him, and his body was tense as he tried to stop it from trembling so as not to work Stede up even more. He had to be the calm one here.

‘After he made your life hell, in school, for months?’ he said. He wanted to scream – he was proud of himself for keeping his voice level. ‘The day I met you, he’d just tripped you with his croquet mallet. That was on their premises, under their care. This? This was his just dessert and it had nothing to do with school! On what basis can they suspend you? Surely, if anything’s going to be done, it’s for the police … not that I would support that, of course,’ he added, when he noticed Stede’s look of pure terror. ‘What I’m saying is that it doesn’t make any sense, and it isn’t fair. He got wind of the party by accident, and he came down there on purpose spoiling for a fight. He just can’t handle himself when someone stands up to him, and he’s gone crying to daddy. I bet, wherever he is right now, he’s mortified – and if he’s not, he ought to be.’

It didn’t put a dent in the vastness of the problem, though. It was stupid of him to have even half-thought it might, and quite selfish – but he so desperately wanted to be the one to save Stede from his misery, if only because Stede’s misery was his, too.

‘Mortified or not, I still can’t go back to school,’ Stede sniffed.

‘But it’s just a suspension, right? You’ll be allowed back at some point? There’s hardly any term left before you leave anyway.’

‘It’s an indefinite suspension, which means that they’re not going to reconsider before year is over, I just know it. And I was supposed to stay on a bit longer, mother and father have always wanted me to fine-tune everything. They’ve done this very cleverly. It might as well be an expulsion, and that’s what is going to inform my plans for the rest of my life …’

The fire in Ed’s chest was nothing more than pain now, pure and simple. He’d never imagined he could feel it so acutely on behalf of someone else until he’d had to watch his mother endure everything his father had thrown at them; he’d then never imagined he could feel it for anyone he wasn’t related to. This jarred him, this all-consuming, physically debilitating heartache.

Nigel Badminton. Fucking Nigel Badminton. Ed had been sure they’d seen the last of him, that he’d grown bored once he’d realised Stede wasn’t going to sit back and be his punching bag any more. Stede hadn’t mentioned him in forever, at any rate. Nor had he turned up at lunchtime with any visible cuts or bruises. It was supposed to have been over.

It could be over, if Ed intervened.

He’d done it before. He didn’t feel any guilt whatsoever around what had happened with his father. In fact, it may have fucked him up, but if he ever stopped to really consider it he was often surprised by a little swell of pride: there were probably many lives which had been improved by that man’s absence, and even if not, his mother’s certainly had been. That had been the prime motivator, and that was more than enough. He’d never expected to be considering it again.

But he cared so deeply about Stede’s happiness that he did wonder what he might be able to do to reinstill it for a moment before realising that the damage was done. Badminton couldn’t do anything worse than this, and he was unlikely to bother trying.

Instead – in what felt like a weak, pathetic token gesture in comparison to what he was half-dreaming about doing – he sat down beside Stede and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. This was one of the very few times he didn’t second-guess himself: someone was upset, and an arm around them was pretty much universally recognised to be comforting, and if Stede wanted to read something else into that then, for a change, that would be on him. This aggressive self-talk didn’t stop Ed’s heart from fluttering when Stede rested his head on his shoulder, though. Nor did it stop him from second-guessing Stede’s motivation behind it.

No. He couldn’t read minds, useful as that would be. He needed to take this for what it was. There was enough at play here without projecting motivations onto his best friend while he was so distraught.

Did it say something, though, that they then said nothing? He even had a spiel ready, was prepared to absolutely lay into the perpetrators even if he wasn’t able to do so with his fists –  he would eventually steer things around to humour, as long as it felt appropriate. He’d be the most supportive friend ever, talking Stede up and shitting on anyone who’d ever wronged him, not just Nigel Fucking Badminton. But the words dried up as they settled in together, and Stede’s arm found his waist. What could he say that would supersede the way this felt? “I’m here for you” – no need. He was quite literally here for Stede, entwined with him, even. “No matter what, you have me” – you have me in your arms, more or less. “Everyone else can go to hell and can we please just stay here like this, all day, and forget the world outside?” – a bit much. But not untrue.

This close to Stede, Ed could feel the physicality of him in the tiniest ways that nevertheless seemed magnified when they ran through him. His heartbeat mingled with his in a jaunty little rhythm; Stede’s breath, too, jagged and quick in comparison with his own as he tried to remain grounded. The warmth of his body, the periodic little sniffs, the gurgles of his stomach … he began to wonder what it might be like to sleep like this, wrapped around someone as they stretched and sighed in the comfort of a private bedroom. The fantasy was interrupted immediately by guilt – it hadn’t taken him long to forget why he was there, and he had to drag his head back to the matter at hand as though he were hauling an anchor.

‘Ed?’ Stede said carefully. His voice, scraped out from crying, was quiet and harsh.

‘Hm?’

He felt Stede swallow. He didn’t seem in any hurry to remove his head from Ed’s shoulder.

‘When are you going back to England? Do you know?’

Ed gave the tiniest possible shrug, so as not to make Stede think he was trying to shatter the peace they’d found. ‘Whenever the Dowager decides to, I suppose. The only real pull back would be her mother.’

‘Same for you, hm?’

Ed nodded, his eyes suddenly hot and itchy. ‘Same for me.’

Stede made a little noise of interest in his throat. He wriggled his head – perhaps his neck had grown stiff – and wound his arm more tightly around Ed’s waist, a move that had an unwanted, but not unpleasant, effect deep within Ed’s abdomen.

‘I might come with you,’ he said.

The memory of that voyage over from Bristol, gazing out at the sea as the sun painted the surface orange and purple and blue, hit Ed hard. He knew the sunset wouldn’t be in front of them if they were sailing back, but in his head, Stede was by his side, arm around his waist as it was now.

And then what? What would happen when they arrived in England? Stede would be repulsed by the conditions in which Ed lived, and the money Ed was putting away wasn’t intended to take care of three people – certainly not when one of those people was used to a life like this, with his own mini-house away from his main house. He’d disembark, see the grey concrete of Bristol, and walk backwards straight back onto the packet boat.

‘You don’t want to come to Bristol with me, mate,’ Ed said. ‘There’s nothing for you there.’

He was almost offended by the utterly aghast way Stede stared at him then. What the hell would Stede know of England? He claimed to be English, and his family would have undoubtedly sworn the same if asked, but he’d been born in Barbados. All he’d known was privilege, a life lived in paradise at the expense of those it had been intended for. He had no right to be offended by such a suggestion, because it was the gospel truth. 

In any other time or place he’d have ripped it out of Stede, but this was here and now.

‘Seriously,’ said Ed. ‘I don’t know if you were paying attention to anything I’ve ever said to you, but just in case you weren’t, I don’t come from the sort of place that has anything to offer. Especially not when you compare it with here.’

He’d tried to remain as serious and gentle as possible, but Stede’s soft snigger didn’t indicate that he’d achieved the tone he was aiming for. It was his turn to look surprised now, but Stede just shook his head in amused disbelief.

‘Edward Teach,’ he said. ‘I sometimes think you’re just about the smartest person I know, but now and then you say something like this that’s so ridiculously stupid that I realise you can’t possibly be.’

‘What the fuck are you …?’

But Stede rested his hand on Ed’s thigh, and words were suddenly difficult to find.

‘If you were back in Bristol, of course there’d be something there for me,’ said Stede under his breath.

The time that had passed between now and the pirate birthday party seemed to be squashed down from each end, compressed into mere seconds. That same fluttering was whipping up inside Ed’s chest, and his heartbeat was growing faster and stronger all over again. As they sat in silence, eyes locked, Ed wondered whether this was the same sort of moment or whether something different had motivated Stede’s words. They hadn’t come from rum, but from sorrow. The blossoming desire to kiss him again was dampened by this realisation, and instead – heart still thumping as though he’d run all the way here from the school – he slipped his hand underneath Stede’s to take hold of it, fingers entwined in his lap.

They both glanced down. Stede gave Ed’s hand a gentle squeeze, and they raised their heads as one to smile shyly at one another.

‘I thought I made it very clear this weekend that I think rather a lot of you,’ said Stede. ‘I wouldn’t have been suspended if I didn’t.’

‘I never asked you to –’

‘I know you didn’t. I know. That wasn’t what I was saying at all.’

Ed, lips pressed together to stop himself from saying anything else stupid, just nodded, exhaling hard through his nose. Something about Stede’s hand and his, linked in his lap, was stopping something in his brain from functioning properly.

‘My reputation is going to crash now,’ Stede said. ‘And that will drag the reputation of my whole family down with it. The idea of starting again somewhere new is very inviting, and I don’t care what you say about your life in Bristol. I think we could make something of it.’

Ed let himself imagine it for a few blissful moments. The day the Dowager announced her wish to return to England to care for her mother, he would call on Stede, and he would help him pack a trunk of essentials. There would be resistance - Stede would want to take so many lavish outfits that he’d have no need for - but Ed would be ruthless, and if they had time they might even be able to sell a few of his fine things in order to raise more money to add to Ed’s savings. He could imagine Stede struggling with being at sea, perhaps handling the pitching and rolling of a ship in rough weather much the same way as the Dowager had on the same journey in reverse, but this was Ed’s fantasy, and as such he smoothed the surface of the sea and they enjoyed many a day wandering the decks, pointing out sea birds and dolphins and the way the clouds stirred in the wind. He didn’t allow himself the opportunity to imagine what they might do of an evening for fear that it might arouse a reaction that was inappropriate to the moment he was still sitting in, but their life in Bristol leapt out at him anyway: Ed’s mother would adore Stede, and they would update the house with the help of Stede’s good taste and their newly acquired pot of money, and maybe the two of them could go to work together. Or Stede could be a scholar, since he didn’t have much in the way of work experience, and Ed could hardly picture him down the docks … 

It wouldn’t matter. Stede might be right: they might be able to make something of it, even if that “something” was likely to be far more ambitious in Stede’s mind than Ed knew it ever could be in real life.

But this was another one of those moments when Ed had to be careful about what he said, and he didn’t point out that Stede was being idealistic. That conversation could come when he was less fragile: the rims of his eyes were still red.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ was all he said, leaving it open enough that Stede might have a chance to dream, too. He sniffed, a tiny attempt at a laugh. His thumb caressed the back of Ed’s hand.

‘I should tell you something,’ he said.

Ed’s stomach lurched.

‘I don’t know why this has come to me now. I suppose I’ve felt rather terrible about it ever since it happened, and I’ve never been sure I could keep the charade up. I did think I would last longer than this, though …’ Stede’s sigh then seemed to be directed at himself. ‘I’m still a virgin. Hannah and I shared nothing other than conversation, and we agreed between ourselves that we were each happy for the other to lie about it in order for everyone to think we were cool.’

Ed had no idea what the appropriate reaction to such a revelation was supposed to be. Ecstasy might not have been it, but ecstasy was what began to course through him as though it had been injected directly into his bloodstream.

‘How did that come about?’ he said evenly. He was trying to suppress a smile. He wasn’t sure he was doing a very good job.

‘We just … when we met, we realised that neither of us was particularly enamoured by the idea,’ Stede said with a shrug. ‘We got on very well and had a good chat, and that was lovely. You don’t always get the chance to talk to people on a one-to-one basis when we all meet up as a group, do you? And she told me that she’s always admired your bowling, Ed. That was why she’s always been so interested in you – she’s trying to learn from your technique. We talked about you quite a bit, actually …’

Stede cleared his throat, and Ed stopped trying to resist his smile. He gave Stede’s hand another squeeze.

‘Anyway, that was all we did. But I’d explained a bit about not feeling very confident around girls, and she said sort of the same thing about boys, and so we made a pact. So you must never, ever tell anyone what I’ve just told you, do you understand?’

‘I have no motivation to say anything to anyone, don’t worry,’ said Ed.

Stede hadn’t slept with Hannah. For all his supposed anxiety about lack of experience with girls, when it came down to it Stede really hadn’t cared.

A sudden clattering sound made them both jump. The speed at which Stede whipped his hand behind his back stung, but Ed understood immediately when he looked up to see a man standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, thunderous glare scanning the two of them as though expecting to find plundered goods.

‘Stede,’ he said. ‘Back to the house. Now. Your mother and I would like to speak to you, if you are quite finished moping around.’

He turned to Ed, and his eyes narrowed. This man had to be Stede’s father: he was dressed in much the same manner as Stede tended to dress, and they had the same malleable facial features – though Ed couldn’t imagine Stede’s ever looking quite as threatening as his father’s did then.

‘And who might you be?’ he said, and Ed knew instinctively that the answer to that question would require a bit of editing.

‘My name’s Edward, sir,’ he said. His name had to stay the same, in case anyone checked. ‘I work at the school and noticed Stede’s absence today. I wasn’t informed of the reason and I’m sorry to hear that he’s been in trouble.’

It was a shit lie, but it was the best he could do on the spot and under such pressure from such a terrifying-looking nobleman. Stede’s father sniffed, then shook his head.

‘I want you in the drawing room in two minutes,’ he said to Stede, and he turned away to leave without another word.

Ed would have expected to be spoken to this way by the likes of Baron Webley or the Dowager once upon a time. Never would he have expected to see anyone being spoken to this way by their own parents. Had the likeness not been evident, he would have surmised from the man’s behaviour that he were a visitor from the school, perhaps even the headteacher. Stede’s face betrayed no unusual upset, however. He was clearly used to this.

‘Are you OK?’ he said to Ed, and Ed nodded. ‘Good … I am so sorry about him. He is insufferable. You’re very lucky that you have been my friend for so long without meeting him, but your luck had to run out sooner or later.’

‘Yeah. I’m not in a rush to meet him again, if it’s all the same to you.’

Stede smiled at his shoes.

‘Why didn’t you just say we were friends?’ he said.

Stede shouldn’t have needed to ask that question. The answer was so obvious that explaining it was going to feel like explaining why it’s necessary for a person to put clothes on every morning. But Stede would know that. Stede was probably asking a slightly different question to the one that was obvious here, and Ed took a moment or two to breathe through a thought process to ensure he arrived at a proper response.

‘It’s just … easier,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

Whatever the reason, or reasons, nobody could argue with that. Indeed, Stede said nothing else as they left the summerhouse, making their way around to the front of the house so Stede could face whatever his mother and father had in store for him and Ed could leave alone knowing that, from now on, work was going to be that bit more tedious. They regarded one another, still in silence. It felt as though they could have stayed in the summerhouse for at least the whole night ahead, in order to talk through some of the thoughts and feelings that seemed to be buzzing in the air between them now. In his thoughts, Ed cursed Stede’s father for his interruption. When Stede let out a heavy sigh, he wondered whether he might have been doing the same thing.

‘Friday,’ Stede said. ‘Do you have duties at home when you finish work?’

‘No. I tend to have that evening off,’ said Ed.

‘Then … then will you come to me? My parents are at a business function that evening. We could meet here again and be guaranteed privacy. It would be nice to see you, since … you know.’

Ed knew all too well. He was already nervous at the idea of facing another day at work without Stede. He nodded, and Stede gave him a small smile.

‘If I weren’t so worried my father might be watching from the house, I’d kiss you goodnight.’

Chapter Text

The boys at school seemed to evolve into crueller specimens overnight. It was difficult to tell whether there really had been an adjustment to their behaviour, since Ed had never paid much attention to them day-to-day, or whether he were imagining things now that he had a new lens through which to view the place. But he was sure he was picking up on a few more sideways glances, and it might have been nothing more than paranoia making him feel certain anyone leaning in closer to talk to someone was talking about him, but it didn’t stop him from shuddering whenever it happened.

He knew what Badminton was like. His version of Saturday night’s events would be the one that had been spread throughout the school, and as such all sympathies would lie with him. The words he’d used about Ed from that night would no doubt have been words they all used about him, too, and while he’d always suspected as much, knowing for sure that this had been happening was a different beast. 

And, of course, there was to be no respite inside of school hours any more. Lunchtimes were spent alone, lest he arouse any suspicion by suddenly remaining in the shed with the other gardeners. He could hardly accept that he needed to complete four full working days before he could see Stede again, and it seemed strange that this school, full though it was of people who were neither of their first choices of friends, had been the most private place for them to meet up until this point. It shouldn’t have been so difficult to spend time together outside of here. Stede’s parents’ business trip was pure luck.

Not having been interrupted at the party, too, had been pure luck. If they were to rely on luck from now on, Ed very much doubted whether they’d have much time together to look forward to at all.

On Friday morning, he broke the news over breakfast as casually as he could that he had to work late that afternoon, making up some excuse about preparing for the summer. Nobody seemed to have any objections – it was so warm even in the evenings, now, that the Dowager rarely ventured out any more. It was nice to see her and Adeline chatting over pineapple juice in the garden, though Adeline’s smiles were often strained.

It was with only the slightest hint of guilt, then, that he turned to head in the opposite direction from the Webleys’ house when he left work at the usual time, hoping that nobody in town would recognise him, bump into a Webley over the weekend, and inquire about his movements on Friday afternoon. He prepared excuses all the way to the Bonnet estate just in case: he’d been sourcing weedkiller, he’d needed to have some secateurs sharpened. Something along those lines.

When he got to the summerhouse, Stede greeted him with a tight embrace before he’d even closed the door.

‘I’d underestimated how difficult it was going to be, not seeing you every day,’ he said, when he let Ed go and shut them both safely inside. ‘I’m terribly bored here, but that is secondary to the loneliness. Even just that short amount of time we spent together at lunch … I’m starting to realise that that was what always made my day.’

‘Hey. Come on.’ Ed didn't want to admit that he agreed: that would have been rather tragic. Instead, he chanced a swift rub to Stede’s tricep, and he didn’t shrink away. ‘We’ll just have to make more of an effort to see one another on weekends, that’s all. We could meet up an hour before we meet the others, or make sure we go for a walk on the beach every Sunday evening.’

‘Or meet here every Friday?’ Stede said, with a nervous smile. ‘I wish we could. We just got lucky this week.’

‘I’ll take that,’ said Ed. ‘How are you feeling about everything now?’

Stede shook his head.

‘If I’m honest with you, Ed, I really don’t want to talk about it,’ he said. ‘It has been the only topic of conversation between my parents and I all week, and all we do is go around in circles about what it means for me now, and what I can do to make sure I have a real future and all that sort of thing. I’m fed up.’

‘Understandable. I don’t think I’d make a very good careers advisor, at any rate.’

‘You would be better than you think. At least you have a job.’

Even without saying as much, they both knew the silly, half-hearted humour they were attempting was a smokescreen for something else. To Ed’s surprise – shock, almost – it was Stede who brushed it aside to reveal what they really wanted out of the evening.

‘Give me a kiss. Please.’

A fresh wave of surprise washed over Ed as he felt tears prickle in his eyes. Before they had a chance to escape he leant in, and Stede was ready, no awkward bumps or re-angling their faces this time around. Stede moved his hands to Ed’s chest and Ed, flooded with purpose at Stede’s touch, pulled him in close with both arms. Privacy ignited something within him in a way he could never have enjoyed on the beach. The sobriety of this kiss was almost jarring. There was no way to mistake it for a whim, no way it could be anything other than the only thing each of them wanted to be doing. Stede even whimpered when he pulled away from Ed, as though doing so put him in danger.

‘Mm.’ They sat in tense desire, foreheads pushed together, but it was very difficult to resist leaning in again and Ed didn’t make any effort whatsoever to stop himself. Stede had to do that for him, applying a gentle pressure to his chest with the palms of his hands. ‘I want you to sit down.’

I want never gets ran through Ed’s head instinctively until he realised that Stede’s tone had pulled something tight within his gut.

‘Sit down?’

‘Yes. If you don’t mind?’

And God, Ed almost burst out laughing at this sudden pull back from assertiveness. Smack Badminton in the face, fine – speak firmly, though? How ungenteel.

But Ed didn’t mind. Not at all. He sank onto the wicker loveseat at a speed he hoped wasn’t too eager, all the while wondering what had prompted Stede to request such a thing of him. Stede himself remained on his feet, chewing on his bottom lip as he observed Ed below him. Even his uncertainty, if that was what it was, further provoked the fizzing feelings within Ed.

‘That’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Even with this distance between them, Ed could see Stede’s chest rapidly rising and falling as he knelt on the ground.

‘I’m not … entirely sure how this is supposed to work,’ he whispered. He started to shuffle forward, and Ed’s heart skipped. ‘So please bear with me if it isn’t as good as I think it’s meant to be. But I have heard some of the others talking about this, and at first I thought it sounded a bit strange, but when I really considered it …’

‘Stede,’ Ed said. He was feeling strangely out of control of himself. Stede could probably have suggested anything to him in that moment, and he would have wholeheartedly agreed to it. ‘Just tell me what you’re talking about, mate.’

Mate. Fuck … he closed his eyes, his entire face tight in embarrassment. What a terrible choice of words for such a heavy, lust-laden moment. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d ruined it completely. But, when he opened his eyes, nothing about Stede’s gentle expression had changed.

‘What if I just …?’

And Ed inhaled as Stede, with nervous, trembling hands, started to unfasten the front of his trousers.

‘Stede,’ Ed said again, but that was all he could come up with. There was too much awe, anxiety and pure excitement running through him, blocking any rational thought and any subsequent rational words. On some level, he’d dreamed of something like this for a while now, but this realisation of what he’d assumed would remain fantasy was almost overwhelming.

‘Is this something you want?’ Stede said anxiously. ‘Please tell me if it isn’t. I promise I won’t think anything of it, and I won’t try anything again.’

‘Yes,’ Ed said. ‘It is … absolutely something I want.’

By now, he would have thought Stede could feel that for himself. There was still trepidation evident in Stede’s trembling hands, but real tenderness there, too. Ed’s breath had started to come heavy and he had no idea when. Their gazes seemed to be held in place by some invisible force.

‘What if someone …?’ Ed started, but Stede shook his head.

‘We’ll be safe. I promise.’

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Stede didn’t care. Stede was fumbling with his underwear, Stede’s palm had found his cock, Stede was going to touch him in this summerhouse with windows where someone, anyone, could theoretically walk past and see everything …

‘Are you OK?’ Stede whispered, and Ed – against his better judgement, maybe, but he knew he meant it wholeheartedly – nodded.

He was more than OK. He was already hard at Stede’s touch, and maybe once he’d have been embarrassed at imagining such a scene unfold but now he was here, everything made sense. He should have known Stede would treat early intimacy with such care. What he had known, even in those hazy, early morning imaginings, was that he would feel safe with Stede. Where sex had never interested him in a general sense, the idea of those acts had begun to click into place when they had been combined with the tentative attraction he’d felt towards his best friend.

His erection was free, and for a second Stede didn’t seem sure what to do with this. Without warning, he straightened up and leant over Ed to kiss him again, and Ed wound his arms around his neck. It was instinct, grasping at something to keep himself alive, almost: once they were entwined, Stede found a real hold on Ed’s shaft with his right hand and it was sending warm, fizzing waves up and down his body.

When Stede pulled away carefully, Ed let out a little whine.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. He was gazing at Ed with such tender desire even as he palmed at his shaft. ‘I just need to be somewhere else for this. Are you comfortable where you are?’

Ed nodded, only mildly devastated as Stede started to wriggle downwards again. What was going to happen here? He’d been mind-blown by everything so far and was struggling to imagine where they could even go from here, sitting exposed on this loveseat. Stede seemed to know what he was doing, though, and his strange, if nervous self-assuredness kept the blood pumping to all the right places. This was a side to him that Ed was discovering he, for want of a better word, loved.

Stede came to rest between Ed’s legs, face close to his shaft. Ed breathed a strangled oh, God as the realisation came to him, and Stede looked up with a determined expression.

‘I’ve never done this before … obviously,’ he said. ‘Nor have I had it done to me, either, so I can only hope that this goes OK. I just … when I heard about it … oh, Edward, all I wanted to do was try it on you. That’s when I knew.’

‘Knew what?’

Stede took a deep breath.

‘That I feel about you the way I thought I was supposed to feel about Hannah.’

If only he’d said that when they’d been face-to-face. Ed would have pulled him in for a kiss so deep and tender Stede would have forgotten all about the fabricated night with Hannah and his strange need for it that suddenly made considerably more sense.

Stede slipped his hand to the very base of Ed’s shaft, and Ed let out a sharp inhale. That little hiss, though, was nothing in comparison with the deep groan that burst out of him, unbidden, when Stede moved forward to take his cock into his mouth. The warmth was all-encompassing, the act itself strikingly intimate … Ed pushed his hips back into the loveseat’s cushions in an attempt to stop his instinctive reaction taking over for fear of choking Stede. This was his first time trying this, after all. But fuck … it was already almost too much.

Instead, Ed contented himself with winding his fingers into Stede’s hair, letting his hand move with his head rather than guiding it. The very nature of the act meant that Stede couldn’t kiss him throughout, but he wished for it anyway. This soft point of contact would do instead, for the time being. Much more and he might melt into the cushions.

Stede was inching his way down Ed’s shaft, undoubtedly taking care not to choke: the effect on Ed, however unintended, was glorious, all wet warmth creeping its way up his body in a direct reflection of what was happening between his legs. There were soft, high-pitched noises escaping him that were rooted in his throat and that were involuntary, but that caused little spikes in that whole body sensation … God, how would it feel to hear Stede making noises like that? What he wouldn’t give. But then he was making noises, Ed could just about hear them over the rushing in his ears. Small, soft. Wet. Tiny hums, of concentration perhaps, every now and then. He was trying to find a rhythm. It had taken him long enough to get this much of Ed’s shaft into his mouth, and now he was releasing him with only the tiniest bit more urgency. Then back in … 

‘Stede,’ Ed gasped. ‘Stede, I’m gonna …’

He was trying to warn him. The words wouldn’t come out the way he wanted to, but he hoped Stede could understand what he was trying to communicate: and perhaps he had. The hand he’d been using to grip Ed’s thigh instead found Ed’s hand, and he linked his fingers through his to squeeze him tightly. The motion of his head grew rougher. He had no intention of Ed finishing anywhere other than inside him, and seconds later, that was exactly what Ed did.

He’d be embarrassed afterwards. He knew that much even as his body was racked with convulsions of pure pleasure, as he pushed his hips upwards with some force that seemed to come from an entity that had possessed him for those few moments. He felt Stede’s tongue ripple: he was swallowing, over and over. Ed didn’t have anything to take care of, and it almost didn’t feel fair.

Ordinarily, post-orgasm, he’d have to get up and do something about the mess he’d made. He’d have to dress and prepare himself for a day of work, whether that be for the Dowager or for Mr Taylor. He’d have to hide any evidence of what he’d just done to himself. Without that motivation, he wasn’t entirely sure what was supposed to happen now. While Stede released him, moving back to sit on the ground more comfortably, he could only look down at him.

Now he could see his face – the same face that was always in front of him wen he spoke to Stede, not some radical, newly emboldened version – Ed almost found it difficult to believe what he’d just done. Stede cleared his throat faintly and the fact that Ed wondered how that might have felt embarrassed him. What a classless thing to have brought to mind. Almost as classless as sitting in someone else’s summerhouse with your damp genitals on display, something that Stede was now making moves to take care of. It seemed unfair that anything even needed taking care of at all.

‘I can –’ Ed started to offer, but Stede shook his head.

‘I’ve got you. Don’t worry.’

With Ed decent again, despite feeling anything but, Stede rose to his feet, then sank back down beside Ed on the loveseat. His right thigh pushed against Ed’s left, but he didn’t seem interested in deepening the contact. It was therefore with some anxiety that Ed slipped his arm around his waist: it was as though he’d needed this reassurance. He turned his face towards Ed’s to kiss him, softly. And again. Even in such a light touch, Ed could taste himself on Stede’s tongue.

‘Was that really the … first time you’d done that?’ he whispered, when they broke apart.

Stede nodded. Only now was he starting to flush, even as he smiled.

‘I was so scared,’ he said, with a nervous chuckle. ‘I don’t know how I managed to even start, to be honest.’

‘You did so well. I don’t know if I would ever have managed to start, if it had been me.’

Yet he longed for it to be him. Back in Bristol, the chatter in the gutters – and some of the acts his father accused his mother of when he was at his cruellest – had, more often than not, made his stomach turn. He’d understood them as concepts, but the motivations behind them had remained a mystery until his recent stirrings towards Stede. Now, more relaxed and content than he thought he might ever have felt in his life, he wanted nothing more than to unfasten Stede’s knickerbockers and attempt to bring that same feeling about in him. He could accept that he would be no good at it. Stede had been nervous, and his technique had likely left something to be desired, but that hadn’t mattered a bit. Now that it was over, he was almost embarrassed by how quickly he’d come: and now that he knew he was Stede’s first sexual partner, he felt sure he could elicit the same over-excitement in him.

Almost instinctively, he glanced down in search of any level of excitement between Stede’s legs. He felt slightly hollow on finding nothing. He supposed, though, after what had just happened, it probably wouldn’t be indecent of him to point it out.

‘Are you not …?’ He nodded down at the crotch of Stede’s knickerbockers, and Stede shook his head.

‘I’m too highly strung tonight,’ he said. ‘That’s why I thought it would be perfect to try doing … that over anything else.’

Presumably, he was trying to discourage Ed from resting his hand on his cock. He may have been imagining it the way Ed was, and Ed let out a tiny sigh at the idea.

It felt even more unfair than Stede having to dress him again.

‘There will be other times,’ Stede said. ‘We’ll make sure there are.’

When, though? They’d been lucky to have tonight. Ed couldn’t imagine that the conditions under which they’d be able to meet this way again would come about for a very long time. He’d never had the Webleys’ house to himself, Stede rarely had the Bonnet estate to himself, and any meetings elsewhere would be marred by lack of privacy. They could meet every night, in theory – in practice, all they would be able to do with their time together was talk. It had been incredibly fortunate that none of the other guests had disturbed their brief rendezvous at Stede’s party.

Stede’s deep sigh seemed to indicate that he’d been pondering this issue, too.

‘I wish we could just … you know. Fuck off.’

Ed’s resulting smile was dampened by fatigue. ‘Where to?’

‘England. The Republic of Pirates. A dilapidated shack in the woods, anywhere, really.’

It was perhaps strange that Ed should think of his mother in that moment, but it fit. Anxious though he was at the mere idea of Stede stepping off the boat in Bristol, he knew his mother would love him. She’d be blown away by his proper manners and fine clothing. Stede, too, would find his mother charming, especially in comparison with the parenting he himself had received throughout his life to this point.

Ed didn’t allow his thoughts to travel elsewhere – this meeting, in his head, was taking place in a sort of hazy cloud, colourless where there were no people, and for now that was where he intended for it to stay.

He found Stede’s hand, pulling it into his own lap. They fell quiet, arms still around one another’s waists as their intertwined fingers danced, threading in and out of each other.

‘I’m so tired,’ said Ed, with a soft chuckle. ‘Why am I tired? I haven’t even had my dinner.’

He knew why, really. And, judging by the smile Stede gave him then, one of embarrassment as well as understanding, Stede knew he knew.

‘It’s nice, isn’t it? The feeling you get after.’

The implication of this fizzled through Ed like a spark burning through a fuse. There might have been an explosion if he hadn't just enjoyed one.

‘Even nicer when there’s someone there with you.’

He’d never realised quite how difficult it was to reaffirm his presence in the real world after he’d climaxed by himself until he’d been afforded this chance to share the afterglow with somebody else. It didn’t even matter that Stede wasn’t feeling the same way. He was present enough in Ed’s haze. Doing it alone, from now on, was going to end with a new emptiness, Ed suspected. This seemed like a necessity, this time to process and just be quiet …

‘Ed?’

Ed started. It was starting to get dark, and his mouth was cotton-dry. A few moments ago he and Stede had been caressing one another’s hands as the sun had lowered, dazzling them both through the window. He shook his head. He felt nauseous, and slightly out-of-body.

‘Ed? It’s late, my parents are going to be home any minute … Ed, are you listening? We fell asleep. I think you ought to be heading home.’

Shit. The afterglow had been too luscious: Ed sprang to his feet, shaking himself all over to try to instil some energy into his movements. Sleeping when it wasn’t bedtime always messed his body up: despite his unsettled stomach he realised he was hungry, and his head was pounding dully.

‘I’ll have missed dinner,’ he grumbled. ‘Fuck’s sake … how did that happen? The last thing I remember was speaking to you, I’m sure that was about two seconds ago.’

‘A couple of hours,’ said Stede, with a sad smile. ‘You do work hard, love. And you know I wish, more than anything in the world, that you could go back to sleep right here with me, but I’d like us to live another day so we can spend even more time together.’

‘Yeah. I know leaving is the sensible option here, but I wish it wasn’t.’

Stede stood up. He took hold of both of Ed’s hands, stroking them with his thumbs for a moment. How was Ed supposed to leave this? As friends, a lunchtime a day had never felt like enough. The addition of weekend cricket, and the odd gathering, had barely been an improvement, particularly when those occasions were shared with so many other people. His new fear now was that no time could ever be enough – that running away with Stede, spending all of their time alone, just like this, would give rise to even more desire the way travelling somewhere new opened up possibilities of seeing the entire rest of the world. It was simply not possible.

He sighed down at their interlinked hands.

‘We could … I don’t know. Are you allowed on school grounds?’ he said.

‘No. Not that my parents would allow me out and about unsupervised at the moment anyway.’

Ed had been half-imagining a resumption of their usual lunchtimes, lessons and all – it would have been something, at least.

‘I can’t make a habit of coming home this late,’ he said, but Stede was shaking his head.

‘I don’t think that’s manageable anyway. Where would we go?’

He was right. Ed kept sorting through his mind for inspiration, but he only ever landed on the beach. The open, public beach where they could be accosted by anyone from Nigel Badminton to an actual pirate, judging by the way Holetown talked these days.

‘Well … my parents are hosting some sort of business event here next Saturday evening,’ Stede said. ‘That means they may not notice if I sneak away for a while. Is there any possibility of coming to Baron Webley’s house?’

Ed shook his head. ‘There’s always someone around. I mean, it might be nice to have you meet them …’

They might not have been his family, but they had come to feel like the closest thing to one out here.

‘But not like this. I don’t think … no. We need to be on our own while we work all of this out.’

All of this. It didn’t feel like something that needed working out when Stede was standing here, holding hands with him. If he didn’t allow himself to think beyond that, all was well.

‘The beach,’ Stede said quietly. ‘I would rather see you somewhere like that than not see you at all. And maybe it is best if we spend some time talking about this, undisturbed.’

Ed had to nod. They probably could have come to this conclusion without all of the deliberation, but it had felt necessary to at least pretend to try.

‘We can go to the north part. We might even be left alone up in the trees around there …’

‘The public toilet, you mean?’

Stede chuckled. ‘Only for us. I don’t think they are normally used for that. Either way, I can bring something clean for us to sit on, don’t worry.’

Ed had been semi-joking: there hadn’t been any worry contained within his words, but Stede reassuring him even so warmed him gently from within.

'The beach it is,' he said.

Chapter Text

He knew he’d be in trouble. He knew they’d probably have been combing the town trying to find him, and he knew that on seeing him, safe and well, they’d be furious that he’d been more than able to come home and let them know where he was, and simply hadn’t. He couldn’t find it in him to care, though. None of the feelings associated with his life outside of Stede were able to penetrate him at that moment. He’d take whatever punishment was due – he was fortunate that this had never been corporal thus far, but even if Baron Webley lost his mind and unfastened his belt Ed was doubtful he would care.

Having to leave had been punishment enough: kissing goodbye, almost tearfully and hungrily at the same time, arranging to meet again the following week on the assumption that Ed would be allowed to leave the Webleys’ house following his transgression, when he knew he could avoid this by simply not returning there. They could have found somewhere. Stede had only joked about it, and Ed hadn’t entertained it, but they could have.

Even so, his heartbeat was thrumming in his throat when he tried the Webleys’ door. It opened – thank goodness, he wasn’t sure he could have taken a night sleeping in the garden if they’d locked him out. He made to push it open, but the small space he’d already created gave way to a raised, angry voice. Adeline was screaming from somewhere deep within the house.

‘… coming here and threatening things like this, you said it was under control!’

‘I didn’t want to worry you!’ Baron Webley shot back. ‘I thought I could come up with a solution before we reached this point, but –’

‘But nothing, Ralph! I have been finding slips all over this house for weeks. You have been doing nothing to come up with a solution. Do not treat me like a fool, I am fed up of it.’

Ed’s own breathing suddenly seemed far too loud. He couldn’t decide if sneaking upstairs to bed and pretending he’d been there for hours might be the most favourable option here – surely they were too embroiled in their own argument to even notice him now. But before he had a chance, an arm from behind him reached out to push the door wide open. He didn’t even have time to wonder what had happened: the Dowager nudged him out of the way without a second’s hesitation before stepping over the threshold herself.

‘Oh! There you are, Edward! I thought when you said you would be working late, it would be for another hour or so, not … well, I was invited to a garden party over at Lady Dorrington’s estate and it is a fair walk. Mr Pendry has just accompanied me home …’ Here, she broke into a sly grin: Ed surmised that his absence hadn’t been an entirely negative thing. He got lost with all of the society names, but undoubtedly Mr Pendry was a widow, and a handsome one at that. 'He has invited me to afternoon tea next week.'

Her flustered announcement had ruined any chance Ed might have had at an inconspicuous turning-in, though. Both Baron Webley and Adeline were now standing in the hallway, pink in the face and quiet. It was Adeline who spoke first, her voice hushed as though attending to an extremely unwell patient.

‘Edward,’ she said. ‘We thought … anyway. It is late, you should … I mean, we should all be heading to bed, I think. If you have not managed to eat tonight there is a little fish left in the kitchen, but I think I am going to turn in myself.’

Had Ed not seen his own parents retire to their bedroom a thousand times after blazing rows, he would never have believed it to be possible. The glare Adeline gave her husband as she shoved past him to climb the stairs was not unlike the sort of expression he’d seen on Stede as Nigel Badminton had insulted Ed over and over again.

*

He slept poorly. His nap had removed the usual fatigue he’d be feeling at this time of night, and while he was lucky that he’d been allowed to eat, his stomach was now gurgling with indigestion rather than hunger. The biggest obstruction, however, was his mind. Its constant tussle between arousal and anxiety kept him from being able to relax – he would spend twenty minutes or so worrying about Stede, alone with his parents and with no direction, before that melted into memories of Stede with his lips around his cock, at which point he would almost begrudgingly pleasure himself into a stupor in the hope that the post-climax fatigue would lull him to sleep. It might have, had Stede been lying in bed with him. In his absence it was dissolved by his anxiety, and the cycle repeated itself once again.

He had no idea what time it must have been when he finally fell asleep – he only knew, much like he had in Stede’s summerhouse, that he had even been asleep at all when he awoke. The low, bright sunlight was a good indicator that he hadn’t had anywhere near enough rest, as was the dull ache in his head. Attempt to fall asleep again now, though, and he knew he’d sleep through breakfast. His nap the previous evening had thrown his body off-course, wonderful though it had been to snuggle up with Stede in blissful solitude.

And it was going to be a whole week before he saw him again.

Had Ed been given a week to live, it would have felt like no time at all. The seven days stretching ahead of him, however, might have been an eternity. He’d always taken for granted that he’d known his best friend’s thoughts and feelings all of the time, receiving updates at regular intervals on the most trivial of things, positive and negative. Living in ignorance of some of the bigger emotions was going to be a challenge that distracted him from day-to-day life in a manner that he would never be able to explain to the Dowager, the Webleys, or Mr Taylor. For a moment he considered feigning illness the way he had when he’d discovered the name Stede had been calling him to the boys at school, but dismissed it almost immediately when it even sounded pathetic as a thought.

That Stede was the same one who had sucked his cock last night. That frightened boy, anxious to reduce the amount of beatings he had received, had tenderly taken him into his mouth in his summerhouse. It didn’t match up. The boy from back then now seemed as though he could have been portrayed by an actor in a play, capturing Stede’s mannerisms and speech patterns but missing something vital that he now possessed.

He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He did consider committing it to parchment, but were his ramblings to be found by anyone else, he would have had to steal the nearest rowing boat and take his chances on the seven seas. The thought did, at least, give him an idea. He had some time before the rest of the household awoke, and though he couldn’t talk to anyone to help clear his head, there was an alternative.

This letter, he would actually send.

Dear Mum

It’s been busy since I last wrote to you, and you can imagine it takes me a lot of concentration to write letters, so I am only just now finding some time to sit down and write this one. With that in mind, whoever is reading this to my mother, I am sorry if it is hard to read. I didn’t want any help to write it, so it may have mistakes.

I don’t know what to do. My best friend is in trouble. I don’t want to use his name in case it gets him into even more trouble, but for the letter I will call him S.

We had a party for his eighteenth birthday, but it was interrupted by one of the bullies from his school. Well, three of them, but two were just henchmen really. It was Badminton who posed the threat. But S hit him! I couldn’t believe it even as I watched it. Badminton was making fun of me to S, and it pushed him over the edge, and he just shoved him to the ground and punched him. Badminton was so shocked he didn’t even fight back and he left.

That does mean though that S has now been suspended from school. It’s so close to the end of the year that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be allowed back, so he will never have finished school at all which might be a big problem for him. It isn’t that his family is poor, it’s more that they don’t treat him well. They’re so cross about all of this and I’m very worried about him. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him now. He’s said that if he can, he’d like to come back to England with me whenever the Dowager decides to go home. I don’t think his parents would give him the money to do that but he could probably steal some somehow. They have lots of it that they aren’t using. I don’t know when I’m coming back to England yet, but when I do do you think that maybe S could come to live with us for a while?

I promise he’s nice. You would like him a lot. He’s posh but he’s not

Suddenly realising that whoever his mother cajoled into reading her the letter would not doubt also be posh, Ed took a fresh sheet of parchment and copied out everything from the previous one again. He stopped before the backhanded insult, but the extra effort was frustrating nonetheless. He cursed himself for being so careless as he continued with a little more awareness of the eyes that might be cast over his words.

He used to be quite pathetic but I’ve shown him how to stop that. He’s shown me things too, though. I wouldn’t be able to write to you if not for him of course, but other things as well like how to be a bit more trusting of other people and not just think that they’ll hate you because you’re different from them. He still does say some stupid things but he’s such a good person. I’ve never had a best friend before so I’m not certain, but I’m sure that’s what he is to me.

Ed’s eyes prickled on writing the redacted version of what he really wanted to say. He was sure now that, had he known his mother would be the only person to see this, he would tell her a far greater proportion of the truth with minimal embarrassment.

Anyway, it’s your house so you are allowed to say no. He might be fine anyway because like I say he should be able to get some money. I just thought I would ask. I know you would really like him and he already thinks you’re wonderful just from thins I’ve told him about you.

Please write back when you can.

All my love,

Ed xxx

Two or three more scans over what he’d written told Ed it was as good as it was going to get. Whoever read it aloud would be able to correct any mistakes. He did, however, need some assistance in sending it home.

He pitched this at the breakfast table. Unsure of the Dowager’s plans, he wondered whether he might even end up on a rare walk with Baron Webley.

‘Hmm …’ It was indeed the Dowager, however, who appeared to be considering the trip to the docks to find somebody who might soon be sailing to England. ‘It is a mild enough day, I suppose. How funny – this may be the first time I have been the one to accompany you on an errand!’

Ed stopped short of making a joke about paying her, but he enjoyed the amused smiles of Adeline and Baron Webley enough anyway.

The day was indeed mild, although a mild Caribbean temperature required fewer layers than the warmest summers of Bristol ever had. It was difficult to imagine the Floating Harbour back home as they approached the shore here, gleaming like a polished sapphire as it almost always did. It seemed a shame that his letter, clutched in his hand and wrinkling slightly as he sweated, could not retain any of this warmth to give his mother a small taster of what life was like for him.

‘I am very impressed that you are able to write to your mother,’ said the Dowager. ‘Fancy – this time last year, that would have been utterly outlandish to have even considered, wouldn’t it?’

It could have been an insult, but Ed was fairly sure she hadn’t meant it to be one, and nor did he take it as one. In any case, it was true.

‘I’m very lucky I have Stede,’ he said. ‘I don’t think any of my other friends would have had the patience to teach me. Or the inclination. I probably …’

When his heart rate reached an unprecedented high, it occurred to him that this might have been the least guarded he’d ever felt in the Dowager’s presence. He’d been about to say something he would never have dared to admit to her in the not-too-distant past, and he felt almost sick at the thought until he gave himself pause. The Dowager was waiting with a polite smile. Perhaps she thought he was simply searching for the right word.

‘I don’t think I would have told anyone else I couldn’t read,’ Ed finished.

Once it was out, he wasn’t sure why he’d been so anxious about admitting this to her. Nothing she could say now could be as harsh as some of her criticisms from those early days when she’d done little aside from drink pineapple juice from her moist chaise longue and moan. And, indeed, she gave a small nod.

‘I think you have found yourself a good group of friends. I am sure none of them would have thought any less of you.’

There was another flutter within Ed’s chest, and he had to look at his now-shuffling feet to conceal his inadvertent, sheepish smile.

 ‘I hope you told your mother about them in that letter. I fear she will be worrying about you every day. Any word you can send her of people who make your life here more exciting would be exceedingly helpful.’

Ed could hardly ask to turn around and add to the letter, not when they were so close to the docks. But, as he handed it – along with a few coins – to a captain who was due to sail to England late the following Sunday on his ship the Duchess, he felt he ought to have done.

‘You must miss her,’ said the Dowager, as they began to make their way back to the house.

Ed nodded. There was nothing he felt he could say that would encapsulate quite how true that was. The Dowager, for a few moments, merely nodded back to him, a tight expression of deep thought on her face.

‘I feel somewhat guilty, admitting this to you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it is not even proper of me to do so, but I do think you are mature enough to understand my sentiment. And I daresay you may have had similar experiences. A great deal of us remember your father.’

So even prior to their initial meetings to discuss Ed’s employment, his father had been so notorious that his reputation had reached circles far beyond his means. Ed was thankful that this was all the Dowager said about him, and he threaded his fingers through the silk in his pocket.

‘Ralph travelled to Barbados with very little foresight,’ said the Dowager. ‘I am amazed at how quickly he managed to establish himself here, for he is not the best businessman, nor is he a particularly sensible man in general. But I think he would have done anything to avoid being saddled with the care of our mother. She is a cruel, dismissive woman, you see, and does not need care so much as she demands it, particularly of me. I am her only daughter, Ralph is her only son, and in her eyes each of us has a purpose – men must make money, and women must make homes. When my husband, God rest his soul, died before I could make my own, I was required to make hers, all the while listening to her lavishing praise on my brother. I might have been able to achieve similar greatness if I had been permitted to! In the end, I gave up the whole charade. I needed to get as far away from that woman as possible, so here we are. I know I irritate Ralph. Perhaps I irritate Adeline too at times, although we get on reasonably well. But Ralph deserves to feel uncomfortable in my presence, I feel, for allowing the brunt of our mother’s bitterness to come down so hard on me and me alone.’

She let out a hard little phew sound: undoubtedly this tirade had been wrapped up within her for quite some time. Society didn’t allow for such brazen expression of emotions of this variety. Ed, though, had no place in society.

‘So you understand why I am in no particular hurry to return to England,’ the Dowager said, slightly breathlessly. ‘I did not think I would ever be able to acclimatise here. I was sure I had made a rash, terrible mistake at first, but now … I think I need only consider going home if I receive word that the woman truly is unwell. But I am aware that there might be implications of that for you.’

Ed had been thinking about his own mother throughout the whole conversation. He’d thought about he’d seen her change over the course of their lives: broken, always, by something, whether that be the wrath of his father or the financial strain following his death. Not once had she put any kind of pressure on Ed, though. He was acutely aware that this was the reason he wanted to support her in any way he could. By creating a bond from love, nothing Ed did was out of any sort of obligation. He kept that money hidden in his room, not because he felt he ought to, but because he wanted it to come home with him – whenever that ended up being.

‘I suppose,’ he said. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. Perhaps the Dowager was trying to initiate a conversation about his discharge from her service, and passage back to Bristol, but in his present state of mind he didn’t feel as though it were something he could entertain. He needed a reply to the letter he’d just handed to the sea captain, at the very least, before such discussions could be had.

*

The rest of the week passed by with all of the speed Ed had predicted – that was to say, next to none. He would water the border of an entire lawn early one morning, sure that the endeavour had taken a good chunk out of his day, only to find the sun lingering just as low in the sky as it had been on starting the task. He was not sure why the time up to lunch dragged, when lunch itself dragged, too. It was difficult to make conversation with the other gardeners, and difficult to hide from the boys if he took himself for a walk. He’d never noticed when distracted by Stede, but he was realising now that they had never been as alone as he had always imagined.

The days were hot, and all the more exhausting for it. Over dinner, the Dowager would gush about her forthcoming afternoon with Mr Pendry while Baron Webley and Adeline offered only curt comments that they probably thought sounded supportive. Ed still had no idea why they were so bitter. He supposed it was none of his business, but it felt like his business when their resulting foul worlds permeated the atmosphere like the smell of rotting seaweed on a windy day. He didn’t need this, not on top of his own concerns. It was all he could do, sometimes, to emerge from the other side of the frosty atmosphere and retire to his bedchamber as early as possible to be alone with his thoughts of Stede before falling asleep late.

He'd thought he was getting away with this practise until he and the Dowager set out to Mr Pendry’s afternoon tea.

‘Are you sleeping well at the moment, Edward?’ she said.

If she was paying enough attention to notice, Ed thought, then maybe he ought to start taking better care of himself. She didn’t wait for an answer, though.

‘I am struggling myself. The heat makes it somewhat difficult at the moment, don’t you think?’

Grateful for a concrete rationale to latch on to, Ed nodded. There was no way he could even begin to explain what really kept him awake at the moment.

‘It shan’t be a late event,’ the Dowager continued. ‘I should expect things to wrap up around four o’ clock, and we shall be home in time for dinner. Of course, you needn’t starve in the meantime. Mr Pendry is a kind man. I imagine you will be happy to keep out of the way, but I feel sure he would not mind if you wished to partake of some refreshments. I would not mind if you took yourself for a walk or something similar, just so long as you were back in time to escort me to my brother’s again.’

Ed wasn’t sure why he noticed the Dowager’s phrasing so acutely. Had he expected her to call Baron Webley’s house “home”, perhaps?

This social afternoon seemed very much like many of the others Ed had seen in Holetown. Mr Pendry greeted Ed pleasantly on arrival, however, which did make a nice change from the usual affairs. He was younger in person than he had been in Ed’s imagination, or at least he seemed to be – it could be difficult to tell with some people. Perhaps the Dowager’s frailty and and perceived helplessness painted a far older picture than her years. Though there were little flashes of grey in Mr Pendry’s hair, his skin was smooth and tanned, and the swift kiss he planted on the Dowager’s cheek was a move from a society play book, no doubt. At any rate, it made the Dowager giggle, cheeks pinkening like those flowers Stede had been the butt of jokes for admiring.

It made Ed feel lonely all of a sudden.

He kept himself to himself all afternoon. Curious though he was about the nature of the Dowager’s budding relationship with Mr Pendry, he knew how he would feel if he knew someone was nosing in on he and Stede as they settled into their new, fizzling bond with as much anxiety as there was excitement. He would catch sight of them now and then, turning away immediately each time but not before noticing how much softer the Dowager looked when talking to Mr Pendry. It was as though her brother, Adeline and even Ed demanded a certain level of decorum or formality from her that Mr Pendry simply didn’t, and for him, she could unbutton. It saddened Ed to realise he’d never been able to imagine she was capable of relaxing to this extent. It saddened him further to realise that this might have been the first adult couple (not that they were one, but he knew full well how they must have felt about one another, and what they desired next) he’d ever seen who were able to behave this way together.

And, though the bulk of the agonising wait was behind him, he ached desperately for Stede.

He found himself wishing the Dowager would walk more quickly on their way home. He understood that floating-on-air feeling, of course, and would rather have dug himself a hole on the beach in which to hide than drag her out of it for his own gain. It wasn’t even as though they were short on time. They would still be eating dinner before he was due to leave, but with such little time left he felt like a coiled spring, wound up as tight as it would go: he was ready to leap forward into that secluded area of the beach to kiss Stede underneath the palm trees and explain his plan, should his mother agree to it. They would then kiss some more, perhaps all the way up until they had to leave again. He wasn’t sure. Words were still tricky when he didn’t feel as though they were helping – even trickier when they became entangled with emotions.

The Dowager rolled into the house light as feather; Ed, shaking like a taut slingshot.

There was a slamming noise within seconds of their arrival. Ed heard steps on the landing upstairs. He knew them to be Adeline’s from the light, quick gait even before she called ‘Ralph?’, and when she materialised at the top of the stairs to see them both in the hall, her face fell visibly before she rescued herself.

‘Hello,’ she said, with the hint of a sigh. ‘Have you had a good afternoon?’

‘It has been splendid,’ said the Dowager. ‘I have arranged to meet Mr Pendry again next week, he is such wonderful company. Quite the gentleman, in fact. I am sure Edward would testify to that, but we can do so later – you seem agitated, Adeline. Has my brother wound you up? I would not be surprised.’

In another world it might have been a snipe; in this one, however, both women seemed to be sharing in the same frustration. Adeline swept downstairs, worry creasing her brow. She managed a cursory smile but it looked like a great deal of effort.

‘We had a quarrel,’ she said quickly. ‘It was nothing … greater than usual, although I am loathe to admit that we even have a usual standard of quarrelling, but he stormed from the house a couple of hours ago without another word. I have some idea where he might be, of course, but I am not about to degrade myself by chasing after him, particularly not in front of those louts he calls friends, and particularly not if they are intoxicated. But he has never left like this before, so I will admit to being rather worried.’

‘And I am rather angry,’ said the Dowager – Ed could almost see the daydreams of her new companion leave her as her body stiffened. ‘If he has been up to his old tricks, then avoidance is not the solution. In fact, it will only make things worse.’

Is everybody going to keep talking about this in riddles? Ed wanted to cry. There had to be a reason this was being kept from him, and even if that reason was mere privacy then he didn’t mind, per se. But did they have to keep exposing him to it if they were never going to explain?

‘I am sorry to report that yes, he has been up to his old tricks, my dear,’ said Adeline. ‘To a far greater extent than ever before. We must discuss this sooner rather than later, but since you are home I daresay we should eat first. Oh – Edward, a letter has arrived for you.’

She nodded at the small table beside the front door. Indeed, Ed had not noticed the envelope that lay there with his name and current address on the front. His heart stilled for a second, thinking his mother might have turned a reply around very quickly in order to answer his question before realising that his letter was still waiting to leave port. Perhaps she had dictated a general letter in the interim. The handwriting may well have been the same as Yeats’, he couldn’t remember. Either way, the envelope was worn from its long journey. It had to have come from England.

He unfolded the paper inside.

Dear Edward,

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of your mother. I am not sure whether news has reached you via some other channel, but just in case this has not happened as yet, I felt it prudent that you be told as quickly as possible. I can only apologise that the news has come from me.

She suffered briefly with syphilis and was taken on 6^th August. She has been laid to rest at Saint Stephen’s.

Please pay me a visit on your return to England, whenever that may be. It was always a pleasure to see you when you accompanied your mother to help her, and I was truly sorry to hear of her loss.

With all my best wishes and deepest sympathies,

Lady Carmody

Ed read the letter again.

He was convinced there was some error in his comprehension – perhaps words here that he hadn’t mastered yet, or words he hadn’t even heard before that must have meant something else. He read it again, noticing a marked tremor to his hand this third time around. No. He wasn’t reading it incorrectly. This letter really was informing him that his mother was dead.

‘What’s –’ A lump in his throat pushed against his voice, and he swallowed. He felt sick. ‘If there’s a word that’s spelled …’ But all of the words were jumbling together in his steadily blurring vision. He didn’t look up, but he could feel Adeline stepping in closer. ‘S-Y-P-H-I-L-I-S … what does that say?’

‘Syphilis,’ said Adeline. ‘Edward, is everything …?’

He couldn’t find words. Instead, he pushed the letter into Adeline’s hand. He couldn’t bring himself to watch as she read it herself.

Nobody stopped him when he started running.

Chapter Text

Ed had never considered himself particularly fit. He’d never noticed it before, either, not until he’d compared himself to those who scored the most runs at cricket. He could dash for a short distance if needed, and in all fairness that had been almost all he’d ever needed to do in the past. So he had no idea where this rush of energy had come from that allowed him to run all the way to the beach without stopping, all the while keeping a howl of misery clenched within his chest. Even on the shifting sand, where his legs worked overtime to keep the rest of him upright, he kept going. It was almost as though coming to a stop would force him to face his reality again. And, indeed, when he skidded to a halt in the secluded section of sand close to the trees, he felt as though he might explode. An inescapable wave of nausea washed over him and he swallowed bile, leaning against a palm tree and letting himself slide down the trunk to rest on the ground. He was so dizzy he barely noticed the scraping down his back until it began to sting when he was still. Even the waves, regular and gentle and reminiscent of afternoons spent with his friends, permeated his head in a way they never could ordinarily, and he wished he could turn them off so he could make sense of the buzzing that seemed to be coming from within him.

Syphilis. He knew what that was, knew the filthy way it was spoken about in taverns and knew how it was contracted. He knew it had to have been his father who had brought it into their house. Every vice known to man had kept him away from his family, even if that same family had tried to pretend that wasn’t the case. All those years ago Ed had done the one thing he’d thought would save his mother’s life, but he’d done it too late. He was nothing more than a good-for-nothing murderer.

That was the thought still plaguing him, as he tried not to cry or vomit, when Stede’s form appeared in the distance.

Stede wouldn’t be expecting this. Stede would be here for an easy evening – an evening tinted with fraught conversation, yes, but easy all the same in comparison with the rest of his life. He’d be bouncing down the beach with the same enthusiasm Ed had been filled with earlier in the day, in the Before time of his life when he was starting to think he might be able to solve their problems and provide a future for the pair of them. How sickening, to think that that had been mere hours ago. It had been a different Edward Teach entirely who had escorted the Dowager to her afternoon tea.

Indeed, Stede was beaming as he approached. It wasn’t until he was close enough to properly examine Ed’s face that his own fell. Ed could imagine the confusion he must have been feeling. This was meant to be the highlight of both of their weeks. Without any prior indication that it wasn’t going to be, he must have been utterly baffled.

‘Hey,’ he said, in a voice as soft as the waves. He lost no time in sitting down on the sand beside him and sliding an arm around his shoulders. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘No,’ Ed said. He swallowed, then swallowed again: he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this up, and dreaded the moment his feelings gushed forth with abandon, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He swept his sleeve across his nose. ‘It’s … fuck.’

‘It’s OK. Take your time.’

But Ed knew he didn’t have time. If he didn’t get the words out in the next few seconds, then they were going to be eclipsed by sobs that Stede wouldn’t be able to understand the cause of.

‘My mum’s dead,’ he said.

The news seemed to devastate Stede almost as much as it was devastating him.

‘Oh, Ed,’ he said: he looked as though he were about to say more, but he closed his mouth after a few seconds. Instead, he pulled him in close without hesitation, which was exactly what the tears Ed had been forcing back needed to let themselves loose.

Stede didn’t say anything more. Ed was grateful for this: there were absolutely no words on Earth that could have made any of this any better, but the warmth of Stede around him kept him feeling safe, somehow. Losing a parent felt like the right sort of thing to cry into someone’s shoulder over. He’d never known hopelessness so acute, and he couldn’t envisage the intensity ever dissipating. Stede would most probably tire of holding him before he tired of sobbing, Ed would have wagered, had he been in the sort of state of mind where a wager would be possible.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He could hardly meet Stede’s eyes when they broke apart. The one glance he chanced revealed that Stede, too, had tear tracks streaking both of his cheeks, and he had to duck his head – the sight added a new storey of sorrow to what was already a very precarious pile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and Stede lost no time in squeezing both of his shoulders with one arm.

‘Jesus Christ, Ed! What are you apologising for?’ Stede pulled him in again, and the sudden compression almost hurt in a way that was instead rather satisfying: Stede, soft, jittery little rich boy, really suited this kind of assertiveness, and it was exactly what Ed needed.

‘I’ve upset you,’ said Ed. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It’s bad enough that one of us –’

‘Edward Teach, do fuck off,’ Stede said. The faux viciousness of his tone was drowned out when his voice broke. ‘Of course you’ve upset me. You’re my best friend, and your mother has just died. That is the worst news you could ever have received and there’s nothing I can do about it. Of course I’m upset.’

It was one thing for Stede to be such a comforting presence through grief, but it was quite another for him to share in it so openly. It wasn’t something Ed had ever experienced before, and the shameless empathy released yet more tears. He hadn’t realised he’d had any left in him. His head was pounding dully, used up and dried out.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Stede whispered. ‘I don’t know what else to say. I’m just … so, so sorry.’

‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s not your fault. I dunno why people say sorry when someone dies, it’s stupid, really.’ Ed wiped his nose on his sleeve again, and Stede sighed.

‘Here,’ he said: he was digging around for something within his jacket, and eventually pulled out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t offer you this before … there we go.’ Ed took it gratefully. He hadn’t thought about how disgusting a snotty sleeve might be until he’d had to use it for a second time. ‘I think people say sorry because they’re sorry to hear the news. It’s just something to acknowledge how awful that is, I suppose. But when you say that, it does seem a bit silly, doesn’t it? What would you like me to say instead?’

Ed shrugged. ‘I don’t think there’s anything. I wish you could say “I’ve found a spellbook so I know necromancy, let’s go to England and bring her back to life”, but …’

‘But you would know if I had a spellbook that had taught me necromancy. If that were true, you know the first thing I would have done on finding out about your father would have been to sail over to England and bring him back to life,’ said Stede, with a sad smile.

Ed froze. There was no reason for Stede to have thought twice about saying something like that, but he wished he had – comparing the loss of his mother to the loss of his father like that was jarring. It suddenly occurred to him that he was now an orphan. Had his mother died before his father, he would have felt like an orphan after her death just the same.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, to his lap. ‘There would be no need for you to bring my dad back. We were far better off without him.’

They should have been even better off, though. Ed should have come home with his savings and built the life they always should have had, had his father not drank away every penny of their money. The idea that he’d spent his mother’s last year on Earth so far away from her suddenly overwhelmed him again, and he braced himself for another wave of sobbing only to be filled with fury that instead made his body start to tremble.

This was, he realised, a huge part of the reason why he felt Stede would never truly understand him. Maybe if he shared this grisly element of his past …

No. Maybe if he shared this grisly element of his past, Stede would spring up from the sand and report him to the local authority (who would then, presumably, lock him up and send for the English authorities to transport him home and lock him up again). Stede might never speak to him again for fear that he might be Ed’s next victim, and he might tell everyone in Holetown so as to protect them, too: the Dowager, Baron Webley, Adeline … although Ed felt in that moment as though he had very little to live for, he might have even less if he were honest with his best friend.

And that was what drove him to the decision. His best friend, in the absence of his mother, was now the person he was closest to in the world. He trusted Stede. He cared for him, deeply, in that strange way that felt familial and friendly and all of the other ways in which it’s possible to care about someone, all at once. Where his mother had been his mother, Stede was almost everything.

If their relationship was going to be genuine, through and through, then Ed had to be honest.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said. ‘About my father. It might as well be now. I’ve lost the only person in the world I know ever loved me, so maybe if I lose my best friend once I’ve told him this, I can deal with both things at the same time and move on to the next chapter of my life.’

‘Ed, you’re being dramatic,’ Stede said. ‘And you’re scaring me a bit as well. Just tell me, if you’re going to tell me. Or, if you’re not, we can leave it. I’ll pretend you never said anything. Just because you think you need to tell me something, doesn’t mean I need to hear it.’

‘No, this isn’t something like that,’ said Ed. ‘I’ve felt as though I’ve built our relationship on an unstable foundation, having kept this from you for such a long time. I need you to hear this so you can make a decision around whether you want to remain my friend, or – take things further, or not. I want you to have all the relevant information.’

‘I am telling you, right now, once and for all, that I will always want you in my life, Edward Teach,’ said Stede. ‘There is nothing you can say that is going to change that.’

But Stede wouldn’t be imagining anything close to what Ed had been withholding. Ed’s life was beyond his comprehension. He was probably expecting Ed to confess to something like robbing a shilling from his father’s trouser pocket, or witnessing him having a physical affair with a barmaid. And it was strange, how it was only the act of considering confessing the truth to Stede that made the truth feel so insurmountable. In the moment, on that dark night by the docks when he’d seen the opportunity and the motivation had seized him and held him hostage, the act had been the most perfect solution to a pervasive problem. It was a moment he’d never be able to recreate, and never be able to truly explain.

Ready for this to end their friendship, Ed swallowed.

‘What if I told you I murdered my father?’

There was a second’s pause in which Stede’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

‘Are you trying to say that you actually did murder your father?’ he said.

Ed nodded. If he’d tried to speak, he was sure that only vomit would have gushed from his mouth.

The pause Stede needed for this revelation, now he knew it to be genuine, was far longer. Though Ed could hardly blame him, he still couldn’t help but shift on the sand as he waited for the response. It was nigh on impossible to tell from Stede’s considered expression whether he was about to be strangled or embraced.

As he watched, Stede wiped his eyes.

‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he said. ‘I know you well enough to understand that you would never act like that out of any motivation other than one that was entirely justified. Your father must have been … a beast.’

‘Honestly, if I hadn’t done that, he’d have done it to someone else. And I’m pretty sure I know who it would have been.’

Not that that mattered any more. Ed had bought her time, instilled some happiness. It couldn’t have lasted forever, but he’d hoped for a little more than this. Almost everything about his past had been forced into irrelevance by the letter he’d read that afternoon.

‘How do you feel now?’ he said to Stede. ‘Knowing you’re sitting alone with a killer?’

He did not expect Stede to kiss him. And, from the slightly stilted, stiff way Stede’s lips met his, Stede had not expected to kiss him, either.

But what else were they supposed to do? How on Earth could they discuss this when they were both in shock, when the feelings were so raw and overwhelming? Nothing either of them could say to one another would move anything forward, or solve anybody’s problems. They might as well be doing this, something pure they could share and use to express affection when, really, that was what they needed more than anything else.

Hands were moving everywhere, at a pace Ed was slightly frightened of, but he had no intention of slowing down: nor did Stede. He was the first to nudge them so that they were lying down on the sand, he was the first to slip a hand onto Ed’s ass, and he was the first to push his hips forward to find a friction that sent Ed’s body shivering and his head spinning –

He pulled away from Stede with a gasp. Stede’s eyes snapped open, then widened: he looked hurt, and the heat within Ed’s body was washed away by guilt.

‘Erm. We – er –’ He swallowed. The urge to pull Stede in close again, to attempt to undo the last few seconds, was almost as strong as the new realisation that this was not the course of action they ought to be taking at this moment in time. ‘Sorry. I just think … maybe … this might not be the time?’

He could understand why Stede had made the move. If the roles had been reversed, and Stede had come to him distraught with similar news, he’d have been in over his head. How does one comfort someone through a bereavement? Or make sense of their friend’s confession of murder? It isn’t something that can be fixed in any way, shape or form, so there aren’t words that can do anything real in terms of helping. And, sometimes, when words are beyond you, actions speak louder.

And he’d been all for it. It would not have brought his mother back, nor changed any of the circumstances surrounding her final goodbye, but the intensity and physicality had already been securing him to something real he could shift his focus to instead. The fact that that something was his best friend had made it even more luscious, and for several delicious moments he had thought that, maybe, kissing Stede, doing more than that, even, could be the answer not only to this, but to every problem he’d ever encountered.

Until he’d thought about it properly. Until he’d realised that different thoughts and chemicals drove his actions when he was turned on so strongly, and that afterwards, in the absence of those thoughts and chemicals, he would most likely feel worse than ever. Stede wasn’t a comfort blanket, he was a person, and to use him that way would have filled him with guilt and Stede with emptiness.

‘Yes,’ Stede conceded. His face was turning rapidly pink, and Ed was conscious of their proximity again, lying with their arms around one another and faces two inches apart. ‘God … sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘It’s OK. You were. That was …’ The greatest feeling in the world? It had been – though admitting that Ed wanted almost nothing more right now than for Stede to grind on him while he processed his mother’s death felt obscene. ‘Really, Stede, that felt so good.’

‘But you’re right. Now is not the time.’

Was it more weird to have this conversation entwined on the sand, or to have it while disentangling themselves from one another? They hadn’t moved yet, and neither of them seemed to want to.

‘I wanted it to be,’ Ed whispered. ‘I was hoping that was the sort of night we were going to have. Some talking, yeah, mostly about you and your situation, but lots of kissing, too. I’ve been dreaming about it all week.’

Stede wrestled with a smile for a second, as though he didn’t think he were allowed one in such a situation.

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘My parents haven’t seen much of me. I’ve been so inside my own head, in the summerhouse or in my bedroom. Private places. You know.’

A little flush of warmth swept over Ed’s body; a twinge made itself known in his gut.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait until we can be in a private place together again.’

Still, there was no movement. Lying in Stede’s arms on the sand felt like the perfect place to be.

‘There’s going to be a letter from me making its way to England tomorrow evening,’ Ed said. He had to pause to yawn. Crying was exhausting, and he was very comfortable here. ‘I wish I’d written out a copy to keep, or show you. I asked my mum if she would be happy to have you stay with us for a while, whenever I went back to England. I told her all about how great you are. I’ve told her before, of course, but … well. I think she would have loved you, I suppose, is what I’m trying to say. And the fact that you two are never going to meet breaks my heart.’

‘She raised you,’ said Stede. ‘I’m sure I would have loved her, too.’

He gave Ed an extra squeeze as he said so, and Ed’s heart fluttered so fervently it tickled the bottom of his raw throat. All this talk of love felt somehow dangerous, even as he found comfort in it.

‘Why don’t we meet here again tomorrow, then?’ Stede said. ‘What time does the ship sail? We can watch her together, wave goodbye. If … that’s not a stupid idea. I don’t know. It felt like a nice one until I said it out loud.’

‘No, you’re right. It is a nice one. Let’s do it.’

There was no way the Dowager, or indeed anybody, could expect him to be up to his usual duties, even if they did need him for something tomorrow. If they did try to make him work he would simply run again – no one had come after him tonight, and he felt sure that was out of respect for his feelings and not for lack of worrying. For the first time, Ed felt a pang of guilt. Adeline had been in enough of a state when he and the Dowager had arrived home from Mr Pendry’s afternoon tea party. She did not need a missing Ed to contend with on top of a missing husband.

‘It sails at seven,’ said Ed. ‘Maybe, by then, we’ll be able to talk more rationally.’

He might have been able to do so tonight, if the waves weren’t as soothing as a lullabye – and Stede’s arms weren’t the safest place in the world.

Chapter Text

Nobody was angry with Ed when he returned to the house in the early hours of Sunday morning, covered in damp sand. Adeline prepared him a hot, sweet, milky drink, letting him speak as much or as little as he wanted to while she made sure he was safe and unharmed. It was clear she hadn’t been to sleep herself, but Ed could, at least, hear Baron Webley’s snoring from upstairs.

‘Is everything OK? With you two?’ Ed asked between sips of his drink. He wouldn’t have dared to be so forward ordinarily, but this couldn’t have been anybody’s idea of an ordinary night.

At first, he was sure he’d overstepped a mark. Adeline pressed her lips together, glaring down at Ed’s cup – then she sighed. To Ed’s surprise, she reached out and took hold of the hand he had resting on the table beside his drink.

‘We will discuss that some other time, I think,’ she said. And, had he been more alert, Ed might have contested this. He might have told Adeline that he was eighteen years old, a grown man who had sensed discomfort within the household for a long time and wanted to know its source. Even if he couldn’t help with anything, he might at least be able to tread more carefully around everyone. There were few things that made him feel more juvenile than being left out of serious matters, and whatever was happening here did seem like a serious matter.

Ed, however, was bruised, broken, and barely awake. All he could do was nod.

Falling asleep on sand, cuddled up with a lover, might have seemed like a deeply romantic concept once upon a time. It had been far less comfortable to wake up in fear some two or three hours later, mouth parched and head pounding from all of the crying, stomach growling having missed dinner, and bones aching after taking a pummelling from solid ground, shifting sand, and Stede, who’d been wriggling around with much the same frustration. The concept was beautiful; the execution, gritty.

Waking had felt like being told the news all over again. It was much the same when he woke up for the second time, warm in his bed. The blankets were twisted, so he knew he’d spent what had remained of the night writhing around rather than enjoying restful sleep. And he felt ill at ease for a few moments without full comprehension of why: then he remembered, and his stomach lurched, and his mind tried to invent multiple scenarios in which he might have been mistaken. He knew he couldn’t have been, but the attempts were made even so. The eventual acceptance of the truth left him hollow. He tried to lie still, determined not to interact with anybody for as long as possible, until he realised that that left him with only his thoughts.

It was strange how content he was in his ill feeling, though. No matter how empty or hopeless things felt, it was never an emptiness or hopelessness that caused him any undue worry. This was how he was meant to feel, he knew. Horrific as it was, and as little of a future he could envisage for himself now that everything he had been working towards was in tatters, how else was he supposed to be reacting to such a loss? It would have been insane to have had energy and motivation, or to turn up at breakfast ready for a day of errands without any qualms. He hated those moments when a memory appeared from nowhere, something that would have been innocuous enough at any other time but that forced him into a breakdown now, but had he felt nothing he would have worried about himself. And he hated those moments when he realised he’d been distracted and, lost and desperate, he struggled to remember why he felt so low for a second or two. But it hurt, and that was good. He was supposed to be hurt. He wasn’t remotely embarrassed to be quiet when speaking to the others, or to have cried in front of Stede. He wasn’t even embarrassed about the heated kiss that had almost turned into something more. He’d never experienced a true grief after he’d killed his father, but he knew instinctively that this was what it was supposed to feel like for him.

And, when he had enough energy to think properly, he knew he would not be joining the Dowager on her trip back to Bristol.

What was there for him now? Their little house would have been taken back by their landlord. The few people he’d considered acquaintances would have long since moved on without him – even fewer would remember his existence, most probably. All of this, the crossing, the work, the life so far away, had been for nobody other than her, and with her gone, Ed was forced to examine what exactly had been in it for him.

The house in which he lived was nice, and the people within it were tolerable. They could never match his mother for warmth or consideration, but then how could they? They weren’t his mother, nor were they anything like the sort of people who could meet Ed at his level. But he got on well enough with all of them – in spite of whatever it was Baron Webley had going on at the moment. He left the house late morning to take himself for a walk, with the Dowager’s permission, because he was hung over and snapping at everyone. Ed suspected the Dowager was jealous of his being able to escape, but she and Adeline were having friends to tea that afternoon.

Even without that motivation to spend some time alone, Ed appreciated the headspace to ruminate on the Barbados version of himself that he’d got used to, and never had to consider in this way before his situation here had been turned upside-down. He got on well enough with most people, when he considered it. Having never divulged his background, there was no reason for anyone here to treat him with derision beyond the basic fact that he worked while they studied. Stede had taught him to stop assuming that of people anyway. Their cricket friends treated him well, and though he’d never reached levels of familiarity with them that Stede had, perhaps he would. He could resume matches next week if he felt up to it. Perhaps, given more time, he would settle into Holetown to a point where he could call it home, and never pine for anywhere else any more. Perhaps then he’d know how to talk to these people, and wouldn’t be racked with self-doubt any time any of them approached him to strike up a conversation. Perhaps that proper cricket league would come to pass after all.

But even if it didn’t – even if the Dowager’s mother was diagnosed with something terrifying and fatal, and she took Baron Webley and Adeline back to England with her, and Baron Webley sold the house here to another family, and his cricket friends decided to travel the world and never return – there was no denying the reason that the idea of staying here did not feel half as terrifying as it once had.

He wanted to be with Stede.

When Ed got to the beach earlier than they had agreed to meet, he was already there. He might have been waiting for hours, considering how he would present himself to Ed: he was standing tall, silhouetted against the light of the moon from the exact angle Ed was approaching from, tailcoat fluttering in the breeze.

‘Ed,’ he said. His smile looked as though it was snagged on something, but he held his hands out even so. ‘Good evening.’

‘Hey,’ said Ed. He bit back the mawkish compliment he wanted to bestow upon him. They’d just arrived, and he didn’t want Stede to think he was trying to butter him up for any particular reason. But hell, he really did look incredible. Perhaps he’d come here directly from a formal dinner, one with nobility or a business acquaintance of his father’s or something. It wouldn’t have been unlike him. Ed often forgot that that was the sort of company, other than him, he usually kept.

‘How are you feeling today?’ Stede said.

Ed didn’t really want to answer that. He wanted to pull him in for one of those illicit kisses, perhaps find a hidden cove where they might explore the tension between them in a bit more depth before the Duchess hauled anchor. But he nodded, smiling.

‘Exactly how you’re imagining I feel,’ he said. ‘Better for seeing you, though. You look amazing. Where have you been?’

Stede glanced down at his outfit as though just realising he was wearing it. ‘Oh – yes. Sorry, I should have changed, but I had to sort of make my escape so I didn’t have much time … it was one of my parents’ dinners, that’s all.’

‘Nice dinner?’

‘Lovely. The company was a little lacking, but that’s just the way it is. I’m here now.’

The stilted exchanged they were sharing had Ed feeling suddenly nervous. He was sure he’d be just as awkward had it been Stede’s mother who had died. Yesterday, he’d come in all guns blazing without knowing he was about to be met with such awful news – tonight, there were expectations. It wasn’t Stede’s fault he had no idea how to deal with this, especially not when the two of them were still exploring what they were to one another in such a delicate way. If only they could arrange this like one of Stede’s father’s business meetings. Welcome. Apologies. Item one: mourn Ed’s mother. Item two: watch the Duchess take Ed’s letter to her empty house. Item three: kiss, quite a lot.

‘I – erm. I think I can see the ship …’ Stede took a few hesitant steps to Ed’s right, closer to the shore. He was pointing towards the harbour. ‘Are you happy to watch from here?’

Perhaps it was the straightforward question, but at Stede’s suggestion Ed felt suddenly more at ease. He nodded, they settled in side-by-side, and even though they still had a little while to wait before the Duchess started to make her way across the Atlantic, there didn’t seem to be any need to speak for a while. Stede found Ed’s hand, and the two of them clung to one another in silence.

From this distance, the Duchess might have been an engorged sailboat. It hardly looked capable of such a long journey, and Ed himself felt almost as though he could have rowed the distance alone if a vessel like that could have made it. It was only the slow pulling away from the harbour that reminded him of its strength and power, and of a small piece of cargo it was carrying.

He swallowed hard. His throat was constricting, his body tensing: he was sure Stede could feel his attempts to calm himself when the grip of his hand tightened.

They’d always seemed monstrous to Ed, as much as they had fascinated him. He’d lost count of the amount of ships he’d watched leave the Floating Harbour back home. It was just part and parcel of life where he lived, but he rarely lost sight of how lucky he was to be able to marvel at such a spectacle. Sometimes, spending time at the Harbour had been the only respite from the misery of life at home. There was something poetic about imagining that now, as his final letter home began its journey.

‘Stede,’ he said. His voice was strong again. He needed it to be now. He needed Stede to know he was being serious. ‘I think I need to tell you something.’

‘You think you need to tell me something, or you need to tell me something?’

The golden sunlight highlighted Stede’s coy smile, and Ed couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘All right, I need to,’ he said. ‘I haven’t told anybody else yet. I wanted you to know first, because … well. Because you’re the most important person in my life.’

‘I would have thought that was your mother. The fact that she isn’t here any more shouldn’t cancel out her influence on you, nor her love for you, should it?’

It took Ed a few moments of battling with that lump in his throat again before he could respond to this.

‘Fine. You are the most important person in my life that I am not related to.’

‘That’s more like it,’ Stede said softly. ‘I’m flattered to be runner-up to the woman who made you into the person you are.’

God, he was making it extremely difficult to resist moving in for that kiss. Ed pressed his lips together, thinking hard. He had to focus on the task at hand. It might be that kissing followed: he certainly hoped it would.

‘I’m not going back to England. The whole point of my journey out here was to make money for my mother and I to have a better life, and without her to go back to, there’s nothing for me any more.’

Stede stared at him for a moment. It was difficult to gauge his reaction from his face alone in the low light. He seemed to be thinking quite hard, but what about, Ed couldn’t glean.

‘But what about when the Dowager decides to go home?’ Stede said. ‘Surely … would Baron Webley allow you to stay with him? Isn’t there a vacant house in England waiting for you?’

Ed shrugged. ‘Do you really think my mother owned property? The landlord will be scrubbing the place as we speak. And the Dowager doesn’t seem anywhere near as bothered about returning to England as she once was – but if she does, and if he kicks me out ... well, so what? There really is nothing in England for me any more, Stede. Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? My life is here. In Barbados.’

This is the moment, he thought. The implicit you are my life hung between them, or so he thought, anyway, as he waited for Stede to say something profound. He’d done the heavy lifting. He couldn’t labour the point any more – it would become desperate and needy very quickly if Stede wasn’t on the same page, but the longer he waited, the more awkward Stede’s stance became, and the more difficult he was finding it to meet Ed’s eyes.

‘Stede,’ Ed said. He lowered his voice, as though whispering would only count for half the persuasion. ‘I’m staying. Here. With you.’

That did it. Stede let out a sound that was very close to a whimper, and he strode to Ed to throw both arms around him, pulling him in close and pushing his face into his shoulder. Worried that he might damage Stede’s exquisite outfit, but glad of the affectionate embrace after so much unexpected tension, Ed thought it through for all of two seconds before he was squeezing Stede back.

‘You’re really going to stay in Barbados?’ Stede said. His words were muffled, but his incredulity came through all the same.

‘Yes,’ Ed said, slightly breathlessly: he was still a little awed at his own decision, but the air was also being squeezed out of him. ‘I know. It is a bit crazy. But all that money … it isn’t much, not by your standards, certainly, but it’ll get me started here. If the Dowager leaves I could try to find work with someone similar to Baron Webley. Maybe I could even work for your dad, try to find some dirt on him …’

Stede chuckled sadly into Ed’s shoulder. ‘I would die before I saw you working for that bastard.’

‘All right. I appreciate you looking out for me, even if that would be incredibly extreme. But my point still stands.’

Stede pulled his face from Ed’s shoulder, drawing back so they were facing one another head on. Ed was starting to feel unsettled at his inability to decipher Stede’s face. The unbridled joy at the news that his best friend could now stay in Barbados indefinitely was marred, and perhaps he was so overcome with emotion at the idea that he could hardly keep himself composed.

In fact, it wasn’t Barbados as a whole. It was here, on this beach, with Stede in his arms.

Stede leant away. Ed missed the warmth against his chest, but they met one another’s eyes and his stomach immediately swooped in delight.

‘Ed.’ Stede stroked a lock of Ed’s hair from his cheek, and the wind blew it immediately back out of place. The pair of them let out soft chuckles as Stede tried to sweep it out of the way again. ‘Oh, Ed.’

Even in the moonlight, Ed could see the tears that were glistening in his eyes. He moved in, took hold of Stede’s jaw in his palm, and kissed him on the mouth.

Stede was kissing him back immediately. There was no doubt in his movements whatsoever, no indication that kissing Ed was anything other than his most desperate desire. He found a tight hold on Ed that kept him grounded, an anchor against the threat of the rushing tide, and this was what cemented Ed’s resolve. He was staying here. He was going to be with Stede.

This felt like “their” spot. The awareness that anyone else could appear here at any point was there, but it was minuscule. Not worth even considering, not when Stede’s lips were warm and his arms were safe and he was kissing Ed with all of the enthusiasm of someone beginning an adventure. The idea of an anchor started to feel misplaced as their bodies writhed in rhythm. Ed had one arm around Stede’s waist and a urge to slide it downwards kicked in before his conscious decision to do it: he was kneading at Stede’s arse cheek before he could feel nervous about attempting to, and Stede made a little noise of appreciation in his throat, then pushed his hips forward. This time, the appreciative sound escaped Ed despite a genuine fear that he was far too close to an erection in a public place.

Not that that would have torn him away from Stede’s embrace. The most fearsome creatures in the deepest recesses of the ocean could never have done it. It took Stede, leaning back gently with a less gentle sucking sound, to prompt him to surface for air again.

‘Not here,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Someone might see …’

The prospect that anyone might see something had Ed’s gut churning. ‘Then where?’

Stede didn’t offer a real response at first. Instead, he swept his hands around to Ed’s chest, letting his palms linger there for a moment before diving down to start unfastening his trousers.

‘The water,’ he said – but he could have said anything. Ed barely heard him, and had to force himself to focus on those two small words when the only thing he wanted to pay attention to was the tingling sensation that was building rapidly between his legs. ‘It’s dark. If anyone does see us, they’ll just think we’re having an evening swim …’

Ed closed his eyes. Stede was nervous – that much was evident in the slight trembling of his hands as well as his voice – but he was ploughing through it. He didn’t start trying to remove Ed’s trousers once he’d loosened them, but moved to his shirt. Ed supposed it would have been a risk to undress him without his explicit consent, and he had to admit to being a little anxious all over again now that Stede had mentioned the possibility of being seen.

But there was less and less room for rational fears as time passed, and Stede’s hands worked his clothing. The sensations within him were taking the reins and his body was doing everything in its power to make its authority known. Heart hammering, breath coming hard, head almost spinning, Ed nodded. Stede, with a new fervour, planted another, rushed kiss on his lips as Ed moved in to unfasten the buttons of his loose linen shirt.

The business of it all felt like a hundred-yard sprint. Feverish kisses spliced with items of clothing dropping to the ground, the slow reveal of Stede’s body: arms, chest, legs, all the way to complete nudity … and he was hard, too, he was already there, and when Ed kicked his underwear onto the pile they’d accrued, there was no trace left within him of any of the humility that had kept an edge of nervousness about him. Stupid that there ever should have been. Standing here with him, both of them taking a moment to survey the other in wonder, felt like the reason he had come to Barbados in the first place.

‘You are so beautiful,’ Stede said. The sincerity in his voice ached. It wasn’t a platitude, nor something he thought he ought to be saying in a situation such as this one. Still, Ed shook his head.

‘How can you say that when you’re standing there in the moonlight looking like that?’

Had he been able to see properly, he was sure Stede’s cheeks would be pink.

‘Come on,’ he said. He reached his hand out, and Ed took hold of it.

The skin-on-skin contact, even an innocent action such as this one, had him tingling with embarrassment in a way that simply looking at Stede hadn’t. Stede’s hand was warm. He was sure his own was, too. Blood was rushing everywhere, and as they started walking across the sand he wondered whether he would even make it to the water. His head felt buoyant, as though it might float away on the sea.

The first splash of the sea at his ankles sent shivers up and down his body. Somehow his nakedness felt more illicit when he was partially submerged, the skin covered by the dark water a contrast to the skin still exposed to the air, and any prying eyes. Though the waves were gentle, it was difficult to move through them. The sand beneath was uneven, and keeping his balance while linked with Stede took a great deal more concentration than walking alone would have. But then he couldn’t concentrate on anything but Stede, that hand in his own pulling almost all of his thoughts from any other area of his life. Just for a little while, he didn’t need to worry about missing his mother. He didn’t even need to worry about someone spying on them from the shore.

And when the water was lapping at his navel, Stede turned to him without warning. He took hold of his face in both hands and kissed him, hard and determined. Ed wrapped both arms around Stede’s shoulders to pull him in close as he prised their lips apart: there was no hesitation any more. Arousal was eclipsing everything, and Ed wasn’t sure he’d have been able to let Stede go even if his father had come splashing towards them with a musket.

Under the water, their bodies were slipping against one another. Stede’s skin was slick to the touch, Ed’s fingers dancing along it with graceful ease. Everything felt easier here. One hand seemed to move of its own accord, and it didn’t feel as bold as it might once have done to feel for Stede’s arse cheek – Stede stirred in his arms and he took this as a sign to squeeze. God … the little jump that elicited in him had Ed’s head spinning. He was sure he was hard now, unwilling to break the kiss to glance below the surface of the water and unwilling to unhand Stede to feel for himself, but the way they were moving against one another was loaded with the sort of intensity that seemed to make it difficult to breathe. He may have been inexperienced, but he wasn’t innocent. He knew what sex was, he knew this wasn’t it, and he knew that it felt ten thousand times more incredible than he’d ever imagined it feeling even so. He nudged Stede closer with the hand that was still on his backside, and Stede whimpered when the action created more friction between their erections.

‘Edward …’ he moaned against his lips: Ed recaptured them. Somehow, he didn’t feel as though words could add anything at all to this, and besides, the shockwaves rippling through him from his cock were more intense when his tongue was duelling Stede’s.

Stede wasn’t stupid. He must have been feeling it, too: one hand left Ed’s jaw, and had to fight through slippery flesh to wriggle down between them. Ed shivered in anticipation in those few seconds before realising what Stede was trying to do, and the moment Stede’s hand grasped his cock. It took him another moment or so to find a full grip on the pair of them. Ed had to break away from him for a second: if he hadn’t, he was sure he would have passed out. Despite everything – Stede’s undressing, the walk into the water together, the hungry, insatiable way their kiss had them entwined – this felt like the first thing Ed couldn’t believe had come from his best friend. He was stroking them both now, steadily so as to maintain his grasp but firmly, moving with determination and pushing his body into Ed’s with the rhythm of his hand.

There was something about the water that made this feel even better than Ed suspected it would have felt on land. Perhaps it was the unpredictable slips of their hands, or the jolts to their bodies that the current offered. Either way, being submerged required the submission of at least some control, and the way this could cause a surprise little touch to a sensitive area or a change in pace knocked Ed, bit by bit, closer to his climax. Stede’s arm had been creeping around him: his hand now reached the back of his neck, and an erogenous zone Ed had had no idea he possessed. Unless, of course, it only had this effect on him when Stede touched him like this.

If someone had started screaming at them from the beach, Ed would have had no idea how to stop. He wasn’t sure he would even have been able to hear them. His ears were rushing, but his mind seemed to have blocked the outside world out anyway.

Stede shifted against his face, as though he couldn’t bring himself to properly move away – the words he mumbled were more vibrations in Ed’s cheek than sound.

‘Would you – your hand –’ He was close, then, if he was incapable of full sentences. ‘Would you mind – between my –’

And Ed realised with a flutter of his heart. Stede was here jerking him to within an inch of his life but the sliver of him that remained prim and proper simply could not get the word arsehole out into the open. Ed nuzzled into him, a replacement for the torrent of reassurances he wanted to offer if he weren’t nervous they might have been misplaced. He slipped two fingers between Stede’s buttocks – even on land he wouldn’t have dared to try to penetrate him, but a gentle massage of the entrance brought forth a full-body shudder. Had he been ashamed of asking, or just plain embarrassed to? Either way, he needn’t have worried. Ed wasn’t sure there was any request he would have refused him that night.

‘Is that good, love?’ he whispered, barely waiting for Stede to finish whining his faint mmhm before moving in to kiss him again with very little accuracy.

Losing control this was in front of Stede might have been uncomfortable, but the descent into hazy fulfilment they were making together was anything but. His head began to spin when he felt Stede finish: felt it in his body as it stiffened and juddered, as well as in the warm fluid that rushed up between them. It was the sound Stede made, however, that provided the final nudge towards his own climax. As his cock kicked in Stede’s fist, he slumped against him, letting the sensation overcome him after what suddenly felt like a sprint. Stede stroked through it. He gripped Ed harder than ever, as though scared his climax might send him floating away. If he was honest, in that moment Ed felt as though this were entirely plausible.

He waited until the twitching beneath his fingertips had settled before withdrawing them. He had a sudden, intense desire to be holding Stede again instead. Here, again, was that luscious feeling of contentment, only complete with someone else. Stede melted into him like liquid, the two of them merging with the water as they collapsed against one another in an embrace that felt like the only thing keeping them upright. It was almost unconscious. Ed couldn’t tell where his hands were going to slip, which part of Stede he was going to caress. His heartbeat filled his ears, the rushing water barely audible, rendered mere background noise despite the waves wrapping themselves around him.

There was no point speaking. Ed couldn’t begin to think of the right thing to say – he wasn’t sure there even was a right thing to say, really. These sensations were too intense. They kissed instead, lazy and loose. There was no effort spent, no skill demonstrated. There didn’t need to be.

‘Can we just …’ He was cut off, not rudely, by Stede’s lips. ‘What if we went out to sea forever?’

‘We would die.’

‘Would we though?’

‘Yes, Edward. We’d die.’

The thought that that might not be the worst outcome was fleeting, but it was there nonetheless. Only in death could Ed have introduced Stede to his mother …

But the time came when standing naked in the water shed its excitement and regained its vulnerability. Minds began to function, lethargic kisses were no longer distraction enough from the potential of being discovered, and eventually, they made their way back to the shore. For the first time in his life Ed thought he might have understood Adam and Eve’s shame in the Garden of Eden – where once his nudity had felt inevitable, now, waiting to dry a little before dressing again, he would not have minded one of those leaves from the paintings. Neither of them said anything. They barely looked at one another, eyes meeting only by accident and resulting in shy smiles and quick ducking of the head until they were half-dressed again, warm, sticky and gritty.

There was no point in expressing that ever-present desire for privacy. It wasn’t as though that desire changed anything, and they were both all too aware of it. But to go to sleep, here, undisturbed … it would have been bliss. This rude awakening to their reality hadn’t taken the shine off their evening, but Ed couldn’t miss the new patchwork shadows.

‘What do you want to do now?’ he said, once Stede had adjusted his knickerbockers so that they weren’t stuck, twisted, to his thighs.

It might be nice to talk, even if everything felt suddenly redundant. This was what Ed had imagined would take place tonight. And when Stede wordlessly settled himself down in the sand, Ed followed. Never mind the mess they’d make of their clothes, or the muscles that were still sore from the last time. They laid back, Ed’s cheek on Stede’s chest, and for several minutes, the sound of the sea was enough.

Until Stede spoke.

‘There’s something I need to tell you, too,’ he said. 

Ed’s heartbeat started to hammer at the bottom of his throat. He swallowed in an attempt to quell it. He would need his voice to be as strong as possible to respond to whatever Stede was about to say – this sounded intense, but he felt ready. He gave Stede a tiny squeeze, and he smiled.

‘I’m … Ed, I’m getting married,’ he said.

Every droplet of blood pumping around Ed’s body seemed to chill.

I’m getting married … no. Those were not the words Stede had just said. Surely to God, he must have been hearing things. The sea breeze, the waves, the giddiness from what they’d just done, they must all have been distorting the sound. There was no way in Hell, Heaven or on Earth that Stede had told him he was getting married.

‘No, you aren’t,’ Ed said. It felt like the only response he could possibly have given, and it brought tears straight back to Stede’s eyes.

‘I am,’ he whispered. ‘My father’s arranged it all. It’s a business match, of course. Her parents are landowners just like mine, and our marriage will be a great union for them.’

Then why did he sound like he might start crying at any minute?

Their proximity was suddenly overwhelming. Ed shrugged away from Stede, hands patting his body to make sure he was fully dressed before sitting up on the sand. He didn’t miss that this was the final straw for the tears in Stede’s eyes.

‘You aren’t getting married,’ Ed said again. ‘No. Because … because people who’re getting married don’t do this kind of stuff with other people. They don’t hide their engagement so they can get into their best friend’s pants. This is not the behaviour of someone about to get fucking married, Stede Bonnet.’

‘I’m so sorry, Ed,’ Stede said. Sitting up, he stretched his arm out in an attempt to lay a hand on Ed’s shoulder, but Ed squirmed even further away from him. Stede’s face fell further still. ‘I know that keeping this from you was a terrible thing to do, but I just didn’t know how to tell you. Not once you told me you were going to stay here.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘My parents had been talking about it hypothetically for … well, since I was suspended, I suppose. They had to have something in place for me, if not education. But it was only confirmed this afternoon, and I had been labouring under the assumption that it might never happen until today, and then … I knew it would seem like it had come out of nowhere. How was I supposed to tell you?’

‘You managed it perfectly well just now! Would it have been so hard to’ve said that before you started fucking taking my clothes off?’

‘Of course it would have! It was hard just then, too! It would have been hard at any time, and if you stopped for a second to think, you would know that fine well!’

‘I am thinking! My brain’s going nineteen to the dozen in here, Stede!’ Ed tapped the crown of his head – it almost felt like a necessary gesture, such was the level of stupidity Stede was demonstrating all of a sudden. ‘I just … Christ. How did you think I was going to feel? How would you have felt if we’d just done – that,’ he nodded towards the sea. His face, to his horror, was heating up. ‘And then I told you I was engaged to someone else?’

‘I didn’t mean for that to happen, it just sort of did!’ Stede paused to wipe at his eyes, and the amount of guilt that this triggered in Ed was minuscule. This in itself worried him. ‘You told me you wanted to stay here, you were saying all these – things, and then you kissed me, and it felt so wonderful … and now I have to come to terms with that fact that that can’t be real for me any more. It’s all arranged. What else am I supposed to do?’

Ed had to pause for a second to make sure he’d heard that right.

‘The fact that you would even need to ask that question …’ He raised his hand to his forehead. He was starting to feel sick, and he didn’t want that to cloud his judgement. ‘What do you think you’re supposed to do here, Stede? Hm? What did you just do, in fact? How would your lovely wife-to-be feel if she’d been here watching us just now? Isn’t that the sort of thing you should be doing with – I dunno – the person you want to spend the rest of your life with?’

‘Yes!’ Stede cried. ‘Of course it is! And that’s why I did it, Ed! I know it was wrong, I know I shouldn’t’ve, but I wanted this with you so badly. But that’s not how things work around here. My family pull the strings in my life, and these are the strings they’re pulling on right now.’

His words didn’t match his tone: he was raising his voice, his face tense, and it was difficult to tell where this rising anger was directed.

‘Fuck your family!’ Ed said. ‘You’re an adult, Stede. You can choose this stuff for yourself. There’s no law against not getting married to the person your dad picks out for you –’

‘It’s not as easy as that! But then I wouldn’t expect you to understand how it feels when you don’t have a family of your own.’

It had been a flippant – and not untrue – comment, but Ed’s eyes began to prickle. Stede realised straight away: his mouth rounded in horror.

‘Oh … Ed … I didn’t mean …’

‘No. You’re right. I wouldn’t understand. I killed my dad, at the end of the day. Not the sort of thing landed gentry are interested in, is it? Different worlds and all that.’ Ed cleared his throat: his voice had started to crack and he didn’t want Stede thinking he was speaking from emotion alone. ‘What I do understand, though, is that these sorts of matches are rarely happy ones. I was told that by someone who knew what she was talking about, so you don’t have to take my stupid, ill-informed word for it if that isn’t enough for you.’

‘Your word is more than enough. And trust me, I know. I do. I’m not expecting to enter into this with joy, nor am I expecting Mary to.’

‘Mary?’

Stede closed his eyes with a sigh. Evidently, he hadn’t realised he hadn’t shared her name yet.

‘Yes.’

‘So when you said it was a business match –’

‘It is a business match. It’s just, coincidentally, a match with someone we know. That’s all. It doesn’t change the arrangements. I didn’t ask for this. And nor did she, before you suggest that.’

‘What would you have asked for, then? If it was up to you?’

Which it is, Ed wanted to add. But Stede had made it clear already that he had absolutely no spine when it came to his father. He really was little better than the pathetic child Ed had met when he’d first arrived in Barbados, and he steeled himself in readiness for Stede’s answer.

Stede really was crying now.

‘You know what I would have asked for,’ he said. ‘You know.’

What could Ed do then but kiss him again? He was furious, yes, and he was hurt – but he wouldn’t have been anywhere near as consumed by these feelings if he hadn’t cared so deeply for Stede, and it was evident in their grappling hands and duelling tongues that Stede cared for him, too. No matter how spineless he was, it wasn’t for lack of desire. Not everyone had it in them to do what he had done to his father, and if Stede could have had it any other way … 

But he could. Really, he could. It would be difficult, and he might end up estranged, but it was hard to understand why this would be such a terrible outcome when Ed had been through Hell in his life so far and could make his peace with all of it because it had led him here, to Stede, to the best person he knew. If Stede couldn’t be brave and pursue him, then –

Ed pulled away, disgusted at himself for weakening. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and Stede’s evident devastation at this did sting.

‘Edward …’ He reached out a hand to take hold of Ed’s, but Ed wriggled backwards out of his reach.

‘No. You can’t do that. Not – with the full name – I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it. It’s not fair on her and it’s not fair on me.’

Stede didn’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say. Perhaps that had been his checkmate, and without it, he was out of ideas. And Ed wanted to take his words back all of a sudden – maybe it wouldn’t have been fair, not on anyone, but he did want to hear Stede say what he was so sure he was going to say. It might even prompt a reconsideration of his engagement if said aloud. But any attempt now would be ruined. This was not how Ed had imagined this happening.

None of this was how Ed had imagined any of this happening, and he was starting to fear what else might happen – what he might do – if he remained here any longer.

‘Look, I … I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I’ve been out most of the day, they’ll be worried about me …’

It was stupid of him to make an excuse. After all that, there was no need to pretend that his exit was due to anything other than fury and devastation. He tried not to look at Stede as he stood up, embarrassed at his copout, but on accidentally catching his eye he could see Stede’s sorrow still written all over his tear-streaked face.

‘Do you at least want to meet up again to talk about this? When things are less raw?’ He scrubbed at his nose. ‘Please.’

There was a tiny, rational part of Ed’s brain that could recognise why this might be a good idea. Maybe he would act on it in a month or so’s time, when it wasn't suffocating in grief.

‘Yeah,’ he said distractedly. ‘I’ll see you around.’

He wasn’t even looking at Stede any more. He couldn’t. Without another word, he turned to leave, wondering whether he wanted to look at him ever again.

Chapter Text

Ed could hear rustling next door. It wasn’t unusual to overhear a tussle of some description between his parents, but this usually happened when he was awake – it had never been loud enough to stir him from sleep before, and this unsettled him more than the usual fuss.

‘– going to get someone killed, put it away now.’

‘I should fucking well hope it’s going to get someone killed, that’s the whole point of these things.’

‘But why is he coming here? Ed’s asleep next door, you can’t bring dangerous men to our house. I pay no mind to what you do down the docks but to fight like this in front of your son – ’

‘He needs to learn to stand up for himself, don’t he?’

Ed and his mother’s definition of “standing up for oneself” different hugely from his father’s, then. Ed appreciated his mother’s attempts at standing up for him here, but the fact was that there was a dangerous man in their house much of the time anyway. She had tried to prevent him from returning again and again, but nothing was any match for such an aggressive and belligerent person as him.

‘Where did you get it, anyway? You didn’t steal it, did you?’

‘Course not. I’ve borrowed it from a friend of mine, and I’ll be damned if I tell you his name. Can’t have you blabbing, can I?’

There was the familiar sound of the door swinging open so hard it banged against the wall of the hallway, and Ed shrunk into his bedclothes. He could be reasonably sure he wasn’t his father’s target tonight, but his behaviour worried him even so. His father had a weapon. If he got in his way, irritated him at just the wrong moment, he might find himself at the wrong end of it.

‘What will we do if you get arrested?’ His mother’s voice was coming from the hallway too now. ‘Me and Ed? You’ll be in prison if you go through with this, is it really worth it?’

‘Prison? I don’t think so. When was the last time you saw the police round here? They’re all too scared of scum like us … that’s why I have to do this, see? Henry should be in prison for what he done with my money, but he ain’t, so I’m taking the matter into my own hands. That’s the only sort of justice people like us ever see.’

Ed was willing to believe that whatever this Henry had done, he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Ed’s father had a habit of believing the very worst of everyone he came across, which was probably owing to the fact that he brought out the very worst in everyone he came across. No doubt Henry had fairly won his father’s money in a drunken game of cards, and Ed’s father simply regretted initiating the challenge.

And there would be consequences. His mother was right about that. A cold-blooded murder couldn’t be ignored the way the nightly brawls in taverns were.

Thinking of his mother caused a sort of energy surge to Ed’s legs, and he swung them out of bed. Bleary eyed and anxious, he crept to his door to open it just wide enough so he could see his parents as they made their way downstairs, still bickering about the consequences of what his father was threatening to do. In his hand, Ed could see the silhouette of what looked like a musket. He’d always known his father consorted with dangerous types, but to actually see a weapon like that in his house … it left Ed’s blood running cold, yet he couldn’t stop himself from slipping through the door to follow his parents as quietly as he could. The man was drunk. He wouldn’t be able to handle himself. If anything happened to his mother while he stayed hidden away, Ed would never have been able to forgive himself.

‘Why don’t you try and get some sleep, eh? Think on this in the morning?’ Ed’s mother’s attempts at talking some sense in his father were as noble as they were fruitless. ‘What if you’re less angry about things then? You might not think such action is necessary.’

‘And he’ll think he’s got away with it.’

‘Well have you tried talking to him –?’

‘Get off me, woman!’

Ed heard the tell-tale stumbling footsteps of his mother as she was shoved aside, and in fury, quickened his pace. The front door was opening now. He could watch from there, stay out of sight until things escalated if he needed to. He’d be no good locked in his bedroom, which he could imagine would happen were he to be caught. It was incredibly difficult to stop himself rushing to his mother, though.

There were already voices coming from outside: his father’s, yes, but another, just as deep and just as slurred. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to work out that this was Henry. Ed couldn’t make out what was being said, but the tone was clear. Both men were filled with anger mere seconds into their exchange. Pressing himself against the wall to gaze through the gap in the front door, he found his mother, lurking to the side and unsure what to do with the two men who were now squaring off against one another in the street. It was a good thing it was so late. They were the only people outside, but Ed had a feeling this wouldn’t remain the case if the musket were fired.

‘– sorest loser I’ve ever come across in all my days, Teach. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Ed didn’t know Henry, but he agreed fiercely and silently with every word he was saying.

‘The fuck you doing with McLeish’s musket?’

Ed’s father didn’t seem to remember that he hadn’t wanted to drop his friend in it. Ed’s mother, however, looked as though she were trying to make a mental note of the name she’d just heard.

‘What do you fucking think I’m doing?’

And without hesitation, Ed’s father raised the musket to his shoulder.

It happened in such a blur that Ed couldn’t have recounted the events afterwards. He shoved the door open and hurled himself forward at the same time as his mother: they collided, tumbling into his father, who fell to the ground before he had a chance to fire – the musket clattered onto the pavement, and Ed held his breath until he felt sure it wasn’t going to fire itself somehow. Ed’s mother met his eyes: they gazed at one another in shock for a moment, but she regained her composure first. To Ed’s surprise, she made to chivvy Henry away. He’d been rooted to the spot, shocked as anybody else, but he took his chance and sprinted off down the road, where Ed quickly lost sight of him in the gloom.

His father, sluggish with drink, could only throw brute force at Ed to get him out of the way. It was his turn to fall to the ground now, with a thud that jarred his neck and stilled him. His father now had control again. He scrabbled for his gun, and though he was clearly shaken and a little less sharp than he had been when threatening Henry, it didn’t take much effort to point it at Ed’s mother.

‘You stupid cow –’

This time, Ed couldn’t move quickly enough.

But as intimidating as his father looked with a weapon, it didn’t equate to competence. When he tried to fire, there was nothing but the clicking sound of the trigger. The musket wasn’t loaded.

Panting, sick with relief, Ed pulled himself upright. It took surprisingly little effort to throw as hard a punch as he could muster to the side of his father’s head.

It seemed crazy to him even at the time that his first worry was not his mother’s safety, but whether or not she was about to scold him for knocking his father unconscious. He struggled to raise his head to even look at her at first. It was only the sound of her quiet sobbing that dragged his gaze towards her again, and he found her looking right at him. He felt sure she’d been looking at him the whole time.

‘Are you OK, my love?’

*

Once Ed’s feet were on solid ground, he ran.

If he ran, he couldn’t cry. He couldn’t even think, once he was so out of breath that he needed every ounce of physical and mental energy he could muster. There was a heaviness inside his head that he couldn’t shake off, one that he knew would only be released in screams or sobs. He wasn’t about to do that until he could guarantee that he hadn’t been followed. He needed his anger to be their parting note, if Stede was ever going to understand that going along with his family’s misguided wishes was nothing short of idiotic.

He needed to be alone to work out what the hell he was going to do now.

As he approached the front gate of the house, however, he wasn’t sure whether crying or vomiting were next on the agenda. Sprinting in the heat, dressed poorly for the act, had his head throbbing now as well as heavy, and his stomach was empty of food but full of anguish. Crazy, how every part of his body was physically suffering …

He could sense that there was something wrong with the house even as he made his way up the path. There was always energy emanating from it when there were people within. This evening, however, the place was flat, a lamp without oil. He knew that if he were able to get inside he’d find nothing and no one there waiting, and as he drew closer, the note pinned to the door that said Edward confirmed his suspicions.

Edward,

We sail at seven. The Duchess. Gather your things and meet us at the docks.

Adeline and Charlotte

The Duchess. The ship Ed had just watched leave for England.

The note had been written in haste – it was Adeline’s handwriting, and Ed felt certain she would have included more information, had she been in any position to. But she was on the Duchess. She and the Dowager had had no way of knowing that Ed had stood watching them leave Barbados, just as Ed had had no way of knowing that his letter to his mother was not travelling alone.

Ralph’s name had not been included. God only knew where he had fled, if he was not inside. Perhaps this meant he and Adeline were no longer a couple, even if they were married. Perhaps they never had been. Adeline had once expressed regret over her imaginings that what they had shared might once have been genuine … it should have become apparent to Ed a lot sooner than this.

He’d been calmed by confusion until now, but the typical shortness of breath and tight, panicky chest were starting to kick in. We sail at seven. They were gone. Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean, a ship was carrying the closest thing to family he had ever known here back to his homeland, where he had no family at all. As he and Stede had stood together on the beach, his life was being torn apart before his eyes.

Without warning, he retched. He lurched forward, one palm flailing until it found the wall of the house, and there he stayed for several minutes trying to swallow bile and sobs until his throat was raw and he wanted nothing more than to pass out and know nothing for the rest of the night.

It was not possible for his mind to contend with so many things at once. His mother’s death still didn’t feel real: now everything about his life in Barbados had been taken from him, too? The note from the door had drifted to the ground when he’d grappled for support from the abandoned house but he could see his name written plainly from where he stood, an invitation to escape whatever he was about to find inside the house that was now empty of its promise.

They would have paid for his passage. That fare would have gone to waste – once upon a time that amount of money would have meant nothing to them, a spoonful of sugar dissolving in a cup of tea, but they might have been able to use that now. He knew how much they would have paid, and he knew what a hit his savings would take if he paid for his own passage. He couldn’t afford to make his own way back if he wanted to do anything else afterwards, particularly now that he would have to find somewhere to live, too. It wasn’t even as though he’d be able to find the Dowager. He had no idea where she would base herself once she returned to England, and anyway she might only have been happy to entertain Ed as a companion in a foreign land. She’d never needed someone like him at home before. Why would she start now?

His eyes were burning. Finally, worried about what he might find behind it, he pulled the door open. Even the hall was desolate, which was saying something considering there had never been much furniture in there anyway.

It was futile trying to call their names, but he did so even so in an attempt to feel less like a trespasser. Without the others providing the context in which he was there in the house, it felt very much like he ought not to have been. He was still unnerved when he didn’t hear a response.

The kitchen. The dining room. The lounge … all decimated, furniture gone, dust where it had stood.

Gather your things. He might as well. Though he’d never had a hope of making that ship, it wasn’t as though he could stay here any more either. Where he’d started the day thinking he had his life figured out, now, he was facing an empty limbo.

God. Was it really only an hour or so ago that he’d been lying in Stede’s arms, utterly convinced that he were about to start a life here? That Ed might have been a different person – a stupid, idealistic one. Happy, though. The things he’d been thinking of saying … he blushed, even to himself, ruminating on it all now in this hollow hallway. If he’d been paying attention he’d have seen this coming all along, but he hadn’t. He’d allowed himself to be distracted by pure fantasy.

His room … thank God, there was his trunk. If he had to lose everything else, the least little bit of luck he could have hoped the fates granted him was to be able to hold on to his few possessions – Adeline had undoubtedly had enough to carry, and she’d have considered this eventuality in which Ed hadn’t received her message in time. Baron Webley, if he’d even bothered to search this room for anything of value that he could have left with, had probably deemed his clothing unworthy. For once in his life perhaps being a street rat was an advantage.

It didn’t give him any inspiration, though. The idea that he might literally be living on the street was not an inviting one. Where else was there, though? Stede’s marital home? Much as he got on with Felix and the others, he could hardly imagine any of their parents being happy with him turning up on their doorsteps.

Resisting the urge to vomit again, he stared at his trunk.

There was money in there, at least. Now that it would not be used to help his mother, nor would it be used to start a life with Stede, he could afford to spend some of it to find lodging for the night while he calmed himself and tried to think of a more long-term plan. The reason he couldn’t work out what to do now was, he knew, because he was in shock – rationally, he was aware that so many bombshells dropped on him in the space of a week were of course going to inhibit his thinking skills, and that he needed some time before he would regain them. This didn’t lessen his frustration, or his anger, as he dug through his clothes to find the socks that he’d stashed his money away in.

He wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but even so he felt sure that he had left his belongings in a tidier state than the one they were in. In years to come, when he looked back on that moment, he was sure he knew deep down what he was about to find before the two empty socks presented themselves, stretched and separated, at the bottom of the trunk.

Frowning, he turned around in a complete circle as though he could possibly have missed the money. He never moved it. There was nowhere else in his small room it could have been, but it had to be somewhere. Sockfuls of coins didn’t simply slip down the cracks between floorboards.

He knew. Of course he knew. But in that moment, he wasn’t ready to accept the knowledge that his money, everything he had worked for, had been stolen from him.

He doubled back onto the landing. It wasn’t out there, it hadn’t been in the hallway downstairs. He triple-checked everywhere anyway, but his heart was already sinking even at the first glance outside his bedroom door. His body felt so full of every sort of pressure that he didn’t know whether he was about to pass out or be sick or something else similarly distressing. He reached out to grip onto the bannister, suddenly feeling as though he needed something to hold on to: it took two attempts to do it properly, his hand was shaking so badly.

‘No … no …’ Through the panic, reality was setting in. Bailiffs, maybe, rooting around for anything that they considered they were owed. Or – and the idea brought him closer to that horrible retch he suspected was being suppressed – Baron Webley himself, trawling the house for something he could give his creditors. But how would he have known where to look? Ed couldn’t remember ever having told anyone in the household about his savings, his meagre savings in their eyes but the absolute world to him. He wasn’t that stupid. Even though he’d felt as though he could trust them, he knew trust was an illusion. His back was always up, he was always ready to defend himself against friend or foe. He wouldn’t have given information so precious away, not to anyone other than his mother.

And Stede.

He’d mentioned it to him. He’d never imagined Stede would be inside the Webleys’ house to be able to do anything with the information. He hadn’t seen it as a problem. In short, he’d trusted him. Foolishly.

It made no sense, to a point where Ed deemed it unlikely. But to have found such a specific hiding place without having ransacked the room … it was too much of a coincidence. Whoever had taken the money had known exactly what they were doing.

He couldn’t be in here any more.

It wasn’t as though he knew what to do next, but he made his way out into the garden. The palm tree he’d so often pondered life underneath drew him in. Tonight, though, he curled up beneath it like a cat. The effort of propping himself upright suddenly seemed too much, and he tried to empty his head lest it explode. Instinctively, he slipped a hand into his pocket to find his silk.

It wasn’t there. Wrong pocket, perhaps – he shifted onto his other side in order to reach into the other one only to find that empty, too.

No. This couldn’t be right. He always kept his piece of silk close by, transferring it between work and home clothes, making sure it was washed with the laundry and dried in the sun like everything else. He played cricket with it scrunched in there as far down as he could get it, checking every few minutes when batting; every few seconds when fielding. He’d never misplaced it. If it wasn’t where he expected it to be, he always realised within seconds where he'd moved it to, and why. Tonight, though, as hard as he racked his brain, he couldn’t fathom where he might have left it. He’d had no reason to take it out of his pocket all day.

He would have thought life couldn’t possibly have anything left to throw at him. It was this final, cruel jibe, though, that had the tears flowing until he fell asleep.

*

‘Oi … there’s someone out here, look.’

Ed raised his head. For a second he thought someone might have returned for him – Baron Webley, perhaps, wondering whether he’d managed to escape despite having no idea that he’d even needed to. Maybe even Stede. Maybe he’d thought about their argument and realised that getting married because your parents tell you to is a terrible idea, and that actually he didn’t mind disowning them because at least then he would be free to start a life with Ed.

But when his sticky eyes focused, the two men staring across the garden at him were unfamiliar. He thought for a moment they might even have been the same man replicated, such was the state of his vision, but they were simply dressed identically in light brown smocks and boots. He knew, then, that Baron Webley had owed a great deal of money.

‘This house has been repossessed!’ one of them shouted. ‘Sling your hook, you vagabond!’

Ed hardly heard him. Here was his chance to find out what had happened to everyone.

‘Why has it been repossessed?’ He probably sounded stupid, words sticking together with sleep, but maybe that worked in his favour: one of the bailiffs snorted.

‘You must be the last to know,’ he said. ‘Wager Webley, they called him in the taverns. God only knows where he’s fled now. Seems his wife has left the country – wise move, I reckon.’

So his livelihood had indeed been gambled away. It was a shame Ed had to find out while he was being turfed from the property he considered home.

END OF PART TWO

Chapter Text

PART THREE

1717

‘Over the hills and a long way off
The wind shall blow my top knot off …’

Days like these are Blackbeard’s favourite. He can merely sniff at the air to determine wind speed and direction when the atmosphere is this relaxed. At a guess he thinks they might be travelling at six knots, the perfect speed to enjoy the rolling of the waves without the danger of being tipped off the deck. It almost seems as though the Queen Anne’s Revenge is being pulled towards adventure instead of propelled forward by the wind and the sails.

Today ought to be easy.

‘Now Tom did play with such a skill
That those nearby could not stand still …’

‘Beautiful.’

Blackbeard starts. He was sure he’d been alone, but the voice of his first mate embarrasses him as he realises he has no idea how long he’s had company. The sarky tone means more than enough has been overheard, anyway, and he allows himself a cathartic eye-roll before swivelling on the spot to come face-to-face with Israel Hands – Izzy to his colleagues.

He’s standing as though he’s been summoned, waiting for instruction. He does stuff like this sometimes. It usually means he’s trying to make some kind of point, and Blackbeard hates this passive-aggressive method of communication so much that he usually tries to pretend he’s missing whatever point that is. This time, though, he genuinely has no idea what Izzy wants from him.

‘Thanks,’ Blackbeard says. At least he can pretend to take that part seriously, if only to enjoy the frustrated twitching of Izzy’s eyebrow. ‘The acoustics of the sea air are lovely this morning, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I bring news,’ Izzy says, ignoring Blackbeard entirely. Blackbeard’s used to this, too. He’s had to learn how to play things with Izzy, and here is one of those instances where giving up on the weird power play will be the more productive course of action, if the less exciting one.

‘Go on,’ he says.

‘There’s a naval ship nearby.’

That makes no sense. The last Blackbeard’s heard, which was a very recent update, is that the Navy are preoccupied with a huge goods shipment preparing to leave for Europe from Port Royal. The low-life who passed Blackbeard the information didn’t have much more to say than that, but it could be reasonably assumed that they’d be protecting a great deal of valuable cargo.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Nah, ’strue. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

Even with this assertion of proof, Blackbeard doesn’t believe him. The Navy are the last thing he needs. The ship is overloaded with evidence of recent pillagings, and he really isn’t in the mood for a fight at the moment. But he allows Izzy to lead him to starboard, and he tugs the binoculars from his hands to gaze into the distance. And fuck him sideways – Izzy’s right. The ship’s just about close enough to be distinguishable as a ship, and its flags are red, white and blue.

‘Fuck …’ Blackbeard says, lowering the binoculars. Without them, the ship is nothing more than a fly in a cup of tea. ‘Good eyes, Iz.’

Izzy gives a curt nod. Inside, though, he’s dancing. Blackbeard knows what his praise is worth. It’s why he doesn’t dole it out often.

‘They’re heading south,’ Izzy says. ‘Most likely to catch up with their mates off Jamaica. Something must have spooked them round here – I don’t think they’re interested in us, but if I were you I’d find somewhere safe to lie low for a few days just in case, boss. We ought to jettison some of our booty soon, at any rate. Maybe we could combine the two.’

‘Right.’ Blackbeard clears his throat. Izzy’s on to something, but he doesn’t want to leap to agree with him. ‘OK. Yeah. No action today then, we’re heading west. Set a course for Nassau.’

For once, Izzy doesn’t try to argue the toss. He just strides away, barking orders for Ivan and Fang. Blackbeard leans down, folding his arms on the bow and resting his chin on them with a smile. There is a part of him that enjoys the pointless back-and-forth Izzy often tries to engage him in. It’s satisfying to irritate him, and really, he suspects Izzy enjoys being irritated. But he’s not in the mood today, somehow. Or he’s not in the mood at that precise moment – he might have been ten minutes ago, but now he’s on his way to the Republic of Pirates. This is the closest thing he’s had, or will have, to a holiday in months.

*

There’s always someone to catch up with at Nassau. Piracy is a solitary occupation by its nature, but the Republic of Pirates is the one place where looking out for number one isn’t necessarily the order of things all of the time. Get a couple of rums down your neck and it almost feels like you have real friends. Wake up hung over the next morning and no one says any more about it. You’re free to go on your merry way as though none of it happened, but you feel as though you’ve had at least the tiniest bit of respite.

It's even better when you happen to be hiding out there at the same time as someone you go way back with.

You can hear the Republic from the water the way it’s possible to follow one’s ears to a good party. In any other circumstances such a flagrant advertisement of pirating activity would be a problem, but there’s an understanding that the law stays away from here. More than anything else, they’re scared. The place scared Blackbeard once upon a time, though admittedly that was long before he’d adopted his current moniker. Full of men older, bigger and more vicious than him, it had been a deeply intimidating place to set foot if you weren’t aware that giving as good as you got was more likely to save your skin than get you killed. It very much feels the other way around at times.

They skirt around the hubbub at first. There’s a spot nearby where Blackbeard likes to hide his treasure, and so as not to arouse suspicion he sends only Fang the full way with the stuff he wants to sit on for a while. Ivan keeps hold of one trunk full of booze: that will come in useful here. They’ll go their separate ways for a while shortly. No matter how well you get on with someone, the confines of a ship will test any relationship.

They’ve barely taken two steps towards Blackbeard’s favourite tavern before someone’s calling out for him.

‘Hey! Eddie!’

There’s no mistaking that obnoxious cry. Most pirates tend to keep themselves to themselves here – not Calico Jack. He and Blackbeard were mates on their first ship, and Jack didn’t win much favour with the rest of the crew for his outlandish behaviour. It had, fortunately, been just what Blackbeard had needed in his life at the time, and had cemented a sort of bond that he remains grateful for all these years later.

‘All right, Jack?’ Blackbeard jerks his head at the others to indicate they follow him, and Jack comes striding towards them all, arms outstretched.

‘Good to see ya.’ They clap out two double high-fives, high and low, before Jack reaches out for a handshake which Blackbeard pretends to accept, laughing raucously as he does every time Jack pulls his hand away and gives him the finger. ‘Word on the sea is you decimated the Prince Edward a couple of weeks back?’

‘Indeed, and got a little extra brandy for my troubles. Ivan!’

Ivan almost drops the trunk he’s straining under the weight of: apologising profusely, he sets it down on the ground to open it up and rifle through it until he produces a sealed bottle of Caribbean brandy, intercepted on its way to rich landowners in England. He steps forward with a funny little bow, handing the bottle to Jack.

‘Huh. Nice. This was all I could drink when we first tried it, so much that I’m sick of it now. Don’t do what I did. Don’t ruin it for yourself.’ Considering his disappointing lack of enthusiasm, Jack certainly keeps a tight hold on the bottle. ‘Where are we drinking now, then?’

He’s kidding. Their usual spot is Spanish Jackie’s. To even entertain the thought of going anywhere else would have been tantamount to heresy, or their version of it.

‘Look, just … get that stuff somewhere safe then take five,’ Blackbeard says absently to the crew. ‘I don’t care where. We’ll sail again on Tuesday.’

Ivan looks strangely determined. Blackbeard suspects he probably has a score to settle here somewhere. Izzy’s expression, on the other hand, doesn’t change.

‘Didn’t you hear me, Iz? Have a break. Go and jerk off, punch a baby, I don’t fucking know.’

‘I’d rather stay close, if it’s all the same to you, boss. It’s usually me who has to scrape you up after your escapades in the Republic anyway. It’d be slightly easier if I were on the scene as soon as possible. Damage control and all that.’

All right, he has a point. But nor has Blackbeard ever asked Izzy to do anything of the sort –  he’s just taken it upon himself so he can add it to his collection of things to resent Blackbeard for.

Blackbeard sighs, but shrugs his false nonchalance at the same time.

‘Fine. We’re going to Jackie’s, I’m sure there’s a remote corner you can skulk in.’

Izzy has enough acquaintances that he’ll no doubt run into someone to pass the time with over a rum. He never abandons his watch, though. There’s been many a time when Blackbeard has been deep within his drunkenness, having the night of his life, and through the chaos and debauchery he’s noticed the figure sitting alone at the far end of the room watching dutifully.

Izzy just grumbles something – Blackbeard hears a couple of distinct “f” words – and wanders off in another direction. He’ll give Blackbeard the impression that he isn’t bothered, but he’ll appear again sooner or later.

‘I dunno why you still spend so much time with him,’ Jack says with a scoff. ‘He’s such a stick in the mud.’

‘Maybe,’ says Blackbeard. He’s still watching him walk away. ‘But I think I need him, in a way.’

If he’d been talking to anyone else – well, maybe not anyone, but certainly someone with a bit more emotional intelligence than Jack – he’d have explored this a bit further. Maybe he still will, once he’s thrown a couple of rums down his throat. He isn’t sure Jack will understand even then, but Izzy’s important in maintaining a kind of balance in his life no matter how infuriating he can be.

‘You want my advice?’ Jack says.

‘No.’

Jack ignores him. ‘Never need anyone. You never know when you’re gonna have to turn your back on them in piracy.’

God, that’s deep for the start of a drinking session. To Blackbeard’s relief, though, things don’t continue in that vein. The second they’re through the door, Jack’s regaling him with the tale of the latest crew he’s fallen out with. It sounds like the whole thing was his own fault, though Jack isn’t self-aware enough to realise this. Nothing is ever his fault. Blackbeard’s long since given up on trying to convince him otherwise.

Spanish Jackie’s is always full to the brim of the worst sorts of low-lifes imaginable: if Blackbeard weren’t a pirate himself he’s sure he’d be dead within seconds of walking in here. This also means it’s the only place he ever feels at home. If rumours of his approach reach here before he does, then people are on their guard by the time he arrives – that way, he can choose who he spends time with. No one dares approach him. Conversation, and other things if he’s in that sort of a mood, are always at his instigation.

Geraldo, one of Jackie’s numerous husbands, nods at Blackbeard as they approach the bar, and within seconds there are drinks in he and Jack’s hands, and one of the waiters is clearing a table in a dark corner, or a corner that’s even darker than the rest of the place. It’s good service, sure. It would’ve been nicer if it hadn’t been earned by a reputation for murder.

The place is dingy and humid. Most of the tables are at least a bit bloodstained. It’s a disappointing night at Jackie’s if you don’t at least see someone receive a punch to the face, and mere minutes after Blackbeard’s taken his first mouthfuls of rum a conversation a couple of tables away becomes dangerously heated: his and Jack’s heads both twitch to watch, but a companion of the two men who seem close to blows manages to calm things, and Jack groans in disappointment.

‘The night’s still young,’ Blackbeard says.

‘Yeah, you’re right. Would’ve got it off to a good start though, huh?’

Jack’s the sort of person who’d go over and whisper a nasty lie into someone’s ear to stir up a fight, if he were bored enough. He’s the sort of person who’d punch a stranger in the face to start a fight himself, if he were drunk enough.

‘Anyway. That boarding of the Prince … whatever it was. That was a bold move, Eddie. You’re lucky it worked out – well.’ He raises his glass. ‘I shouldn’t say lucky. I know you’ll have worked it all out, I just also know that anyone else who’d tried the exact same thing would’ve been in their grave by now.’

‘You just have to know the sea,’ says Blackbeard. ‘I’m sure you could’ve done it. We were both taught well, after all.’

Bullshit. Jack’s never aware enough of what’s happening around him for that sort of precise thinking. This is why Blackbeard keeps their connection tight, but doesn’t keep him around: he’s a laugh and that’s about it. In short, he’s the opposite of Izzy, and if you spend all your time around Izzy you need a break once in a while.

‘Speaking of, though, Eddie – did you hear about Captain Badminton? Wasted by some fop.’

Blackbeard shakes his head, but even as he does so he thinks he might actually have overheard something somewhere before. Humming through a mouthful of rum, he shakes his head and swallows. ‘Would I know Badminton?’

'You ought to. He's got the biggest rod in the entire Navy up his ass – or rather he did!' Death's always deeply amusing to Jack. He pauses now to guffaw, spraying rum remnants over Blackbeard as he does so. 'Rumour has it it was just a merchant ship and things got out of hand. The guy what done it is nobility, from what I hear. Rich people killing rich people makes a change, though, right? They usually make us do it to one another.'

Blackbeard's fixating on the story, though. It does sound familiar, but he can't pin a person to it who might already have told him. He's been nowhere recently to see anyone.

'When was this?'

'Couple of days ago.'

'Huh.' Then there's no way Blackbeard's heard this before. Why can't he shake the feeling he has, then? There must be something else about the story that's firing something off in his brain, a nobleman murdering naval captains or something ... but that's not the kind of thing that happens day-to-day. It takes a special kind of stupidity even for a pirate.

'You look like you're thinking about something.' It almost looks like Jack might be, too, from the twitching in his moustache, but Blackbeard waves a hand to dismiss it.

'It's nothing. Not a big deal, anyway. I just thought someone might have told me already but I can't think when it would have been ... déjà vu.'

'Too much going on in that head of yours as usual, Eddie. Relax – you're on holiday.' He smirks suddenly, giving his rum the tiniest nudge to point somewhere across the bar. 'Although we do have company.'

Blackbeard knows what he's going to see before he looks up: sure enough, Izzy is making his way towards them, grim-faced and empty-handed. Even in the murk of the place Blackbeard can see that Geraldo's watching him with narrowed eyes – if Izzy sits down without buying a drink he'll turn scarlet. Anyone else, he'd have thrown out.

'Get out of it, Izzy, I've been out of your sight for all of – what? Fifteen minutes?'

'Takes seconds to get yourself killed, boss. I'm just looking out for you. That's all.'

He addresses all this to Jack, who looks on the verge of hissing at him like a cornered snake.

'God ... who the fuck do you think is gonna come at me while I’m having a quiet drink with Jack? I think you forget who I am at times, you know. I told you – at ease. I'll find you again when we're ready to leave, all right?'

Blackbeard sometimes wishes he could talk to his crew as though he has respect for them. It's not even that he doesn't respect Izzy. He's older and more experienced, and his bank of knowledge has saved them from real jeopardy more than a few times. But Blackbeard's captain for a reason, and he gets sick of being treated like a child when he's the most fierce, revered pirate sailing today. If Izzy had his own kids Blackbeard was sure he'd still be making their lunches for them after they'd left home, married and had kids of their own.

Although with Blackbeard, there may be something a bit more to it. He isn't sure. He doesn't like to think about it too often. It makes him feel sick.

To his utter relief, Izzy does leave them alone, though not without another vicious glare at Jack. It's a good thing Jack's been briefed, time and time again, on Izzy's ridiculousness. He's barely gone ten paces when Jack snorts, and swallows the rest of his rum in one mouthful.

'He's gonna lurk. We won't have any privacy here.'

'We won't anyway. We're in a public bar.'

'You know what I mean.' Jack stares him down, corners of his moustache twitching upwards. 'You comin' back to mine or what?'

Mine undoubtedly means whichever ship he’s sailing on at the moment. It doesn’t matter. His cabins are all as grimy as each other, but none of them contain Israel Hands, which is all Blackbeard needs at times like these. His trysts with Jack are effortless. Their shared histories and easy natures mean that neither of them has to play any games – something else he enjoys when he’s away from Izzy. There’s no sentiment to speak of, no beating around the bush. No one tries to one-up the other.

He doesn't even need to say anything any more. There's a hammock, salt-stained from sweat or the sea. They both know this is disgusting, but they both brush past it, grateful at least that Jack's got the cabin to himself while the rest of the crew are undoubtedly indulging on land for the evening.

'Not there? Surely?' Blackbeard says. Jack shakes his head, then nods: down at the floor.

'I can tie ya to the post there, hmm?'

Blackbeard’s day-to-day demands a lot of attention from him. Despite the small, select crew he’s assembled using years of experience, the Queen Anne’s Revenge is his ship. He’s accountable for anything that happens to it, its bounty, or its men. That’s a hell of a lot of pressure that doesn’t allow for much time off – mental as well as physical. The closest he ever comes are these encounters with Jack.

The alcohol smooths things over. They don't do it sober – not since the Hornigold days, and even then drinking would have helped with their early awkwardness – and things are all the better for it, no preamble or anything stupid to waste anyone’s time. Tipsy, they’re confident enough to launch straight into whatever needs doing. Tonight, that’s undressing, tying Blackbeard’s wrists together around one of the posts that holds up Jack's hammock, and the other necessities that ensure that most of the pain Blackbeard feels is desired.

The grime on the floor doesn’t stop the relief at giving his weight over to it. It isn’t as though he fully gives himself over to the moment as Jack takes him. They’re not swept up in a whirlwind of passion, he doesn’t forget that he’s in a dingy bedchamber in an anonymous pirate ship that smells of sweat and seaweed. It’s just the pleasure that he’s here for, the sensations that overwhelm rational thought as he surrenders responsibility to someone else who knows exactly what to do with it. Jack can tease and edge just the right amount, making him beg when necessary. Jack can talk to him without the forced respect of his crew and make him feel like any other anonymous pleb hauling anchor for some pompous pirate. Most of all, Jack can bring him to his climax in whatever timeframe they have. It’s a process this evening. His back is stiff by the time Jack is pulling out, and he’s grateful to be able to prop himself up on his forearms once Jack has unfastened the whip.

‘Hmmm.’ He picks up his shirt, scrunching it up to scrub at the semen on his stomach. ‘D’you mind if I sleep here? Won’t be offended if you say no, it’d just be nice not to have to go crawling back to that salty prick just yet …’

‘Ah, I don’t care. Doesn’t matter after we’ve both got what we wanted, does it?’

Back in the days shared on Hornigold’s ship, no one thought anything of either of them creeping along the galleys from the other’s room. Everyone else was doing it all the time anyway – the shadows in the night were more or less interchangeable. With such a small crew on the Queen Anne’s Revenge, nothing of the sort happened among them these days – unless Blackbeard was completely ignorant of something going on between Fang and Ivan, but he was confident the two of them were about as well-matched as haddock and marmalade. If Izzy suspects he’s had sex he always treats him with a different level of contempt for a few days afterwards. Blackbeard wouldn’t care, but he sometimes mis-guesses and does the same thing when he’s not so much as sniffed at another person.

It’s almost as though he has a complex or something.

Chapter Text

Why become a pirate, Ed thought, if you get such bad seasickness?

It was his way of rationalising his own irritation. What he really wanted to do was tell Sanders to fuck off. The galley stank, his retching kept Ed awake, and the whole thing was just plain disgusting. He shouldn't have been forcing other people to put up with any of it.

In truth, Ed knew a life of piracy wasn't a choice. But Jesus, if it wasn't hard enough without these other, horrible little annoyances making things worse.

Fed up of everything, he swung his legs out of his hammock. He'd fallen asleep in the clothes he'd worn the previous day, so had no qualms about wandering out on deck – the bare bones crew operating at night paid very little attention to him anyway, and Hornigold would be fast asleep in his private bunk.

He had to take these moments whenever he could find them. By night, the sea was unfathomable. It bore them like a cloud, the sound of water below the only evidence that anything was even supporting them at all. It was the sky, though, that truly captivated him. The stars visible from land were only a sample of what lay up there, and the more Ed looked, the more of them revealed themselves. They were so much more tangible from the ship, too, as though Ed could snatch one if only he climbed up to the crow's nest. What he would do with a star, he had no idea. There must have been a way he could use it to get out of this situation.

'Couldn't sleep?'

The voice from behind startled him, but Ed realised who it belonged to even before he turned around to meet its owner. Jack had been picked up from Holetown around the same time he had: young, homeless and frightened. It was a classic story. And though he and Ed hadn't had much to do with one another, Jack's constant backchat and complaining had tuned Ed into the sound of his voice very quickly.

'Fucking ... Sanders,' Ed said, with a forced chuckle. 'It's hard to nod off with all that going on. I keep retching myself from the smell alone.'

'I know. He shouldn't be allowed his meal allowance, it's only wasted on him. I wish we could toss him overboard and have done with it. In fact, what're they gonna do if we do that? Hornigold needs men, if we all deny it he can't maroon us all.'

Ed restrained himself from saying that if anyone would have a good go at marooning an entire crew, it would be Hornigold. Jack, for all his bravado, was looking edgy. There was no need to reiterate their unfortunate living situation to him – he was on the receiving end of the worst parts of it more often than most.

Ed had known pirates were arseholes. It was more or less their entire deal, at the end of the day. He hadn't joined Hornigold's crew under the impression that he'd be sailing spices back to England. But every day, he wondered whether he might have ended up serving under quite the worst pirate captain of all. Much of the time, Hornigold's cruelty seemed random, even self-serving, rather than a means to a legitimate end. His crew were largely inexperienced and Ed had to wonder whether he'd eschewed more seasoned seamen for a reason – this way, fewer people would object to his throwing his weight around.

Not everyone, though. Jack may have been young, but he had a spirit to match Hornigold's. It was just that, where most people would have said that Hornigold deserved everything he got, Hornigold himself did not agree. Ed could see a string of bruises along Jack's forearm even in the moonlight.

'Sometimes I think I'd rather take my chances swimming,' said Ed. Jack chuckled, but his mind was clearly not on the conversation any more. No wonder. Ed's joke had been shit, and Jack was capable of being far more funny.

'Tell you where I go,' said Jack. 'Nah – I'll show you. Never know who might be listening.'

He started to stride away, beckoning Ed to follow him. Ed, however, remained where he was. He was sure that what Jack had just said had probably sounded cool and mysterious in his head, but in real life all Ed felt was confused and vaguely threatened.

'Where you go?' he said. 'What do you mean?'

Jack rolled his eyes: Ed had shattered his alluring illusions, then. 'I mean where I go when I'm sick of this shit.'

It was the ship's kitchen.

On their short walk below deck Ed had been picturing all sorts. Some secret passage leading to a private bedroom, perhaps, or a huge porthole deep in the bowels of the ship with a view of bright, cheerful sea life. Something to offset the violence and drudgery of piracy, at any rate, not this warm, smelly room full of stale citrus and unwashed utensils. To even call it a kitchen felt like a stretch. It was more like a cupboard to keep food in, its graduation to a room only justified by its volume.

'I never run into anyone here at night,' said Jack. Ed had to hold back a sarcastic  I wonder why. 'I imagine it's because of the smell. I wish I could just lounge around on deck all night, but you never know who you're gonna run into up there. When you need to be on your own ... or when you need privacy with someone else ... I reckon here is as good a place as any. That's my tip for ya, Eddie.'

He clapped Ed on the shoulder, and Ed nodded. All things considered it wasn't a  terrible  place to know about. Privacy was indeed a difficult thing to come by on a vessel like this one, and although it still wasn't going to be a guarantee here, the chances of being bothered did seem much lower than anywhere else. The smell was nicer than the one in his bunk right now, too.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Much appreciated. It's getting a bit rancid upstairs, I ...'

He lost his train of thought when he noticed that Jack appeared to be glaring at him.

'What?' Ed said.

'And I thought you were one of the smart ones. I thought, of all of them, you'd be the one most likely to be able to take a hint,' Jack snorted. 'We have the place to ourselves. D'you want to make the most of that or not?'

When Ed didn't respond immediately, Jack raised his eyebrows. The realisation only hit him then, and when it did, he struggled to catch his breath for a second or two.

'I – had no idea –'

'Oh, don't flatter yourself, Whiskers, we can both do better,' said Jack. Ed's hand was at his chin in an instant, mildly panicked. He was growing used to the unshaven look – didn't it suit him? 'I just think while we're out here that we deserve a little more human connection. D'you know what I'm saying? Instead of the usual hoglike grunts we have to deal with on the daily. That's all.'

When he said it like that, Ed could understand the appeal. It was difficult to feel human on the Ranger at times. The days were so relentless that finding the time or energy to strike up a friendly conversation with a fellow down-and-out was nigh on impossible, barely desirable, and even if the moment did arise, it would never be in private.

Unless you were someone like Jack. In comparison with the sweaty bunks teeming with lice, this kitchen might as well have been Paradise.

By the time Jack was wiping semen on his trousers, though, it felt very much like a kitchen again.

'Kills the tedium a bit, huh?' he said, with a raw little laugh.

Ed just nodded. There was nothing more to add, really. It was just that he hadn't imagined that his first time would have that purpose and that purpose alone. It almost felt against the rules to ruminate on the fact that maybe, in an ideal world, he and Jack would be cuddled up in bed now rather than tugging clothing back into place, making sure they hadn't left any mess behind, and tentatively creeping back up on deck one at a time so that anyone who saw them was less likely to suspect anything about what had just happened between them.

*

'Are we all rested and relaxed, boys?'

Izzy makes a noise that sounds like it might be assent, but of course if he admitted to being happy outright that would remove a great deal of the power he believes he holds here. Fang and Ivan are far more delightful to reconvene with: they've been hustling, Fang doing his gentle giant routine until the point someone starts picking on him for it and challenges him to a fight. The only reason he doesn't do this instead of piracy, or at least Blackbeard suspects, is because word would get around too quickly for it to be a sustainable career. He's made a fair bit at it when he does meet a new face ripe for taking advantage of.

'You should've seen him, boss. He's got really good at fake crying now and all, it proper greases them up. I'm pretty sure he cracked this guy's eye socket last night,' says Ivan.

Fang's slumped demeanour betrays at least a hint of guilt, although he's still smiling. 'I feel bad about that. He moved the opposite way to what I thought he was gonna move, I never meant to hurt him so badly.'

Yeah, Blackbeard really isn't sure how this guy has survived piracy thus far – but here he is.

He lets the two of them board first, both of them chattering away about their successes the night before. Izzy's lingering as though he wants to say something. When Fang and Ivan are out of the way, though, he remains silent, simply staring Blackbeard down with that knowing,  you-got-laid-last-night-didn't-you  frankness. And Blackbeard really does try to rise above it. But when Izzy finally relents, and moves past him to get back onto the ship, Blackbeard clears his throat.

'Jealous, hm?'

If he exhibited little self-control, it's nothing compared with Izzy's suddenly puce cheeks and long, loud out-breath.

'Of you? Fuck off.'

He's being deliberately facetious. He has to be. Izzy Hands is not that fucking stupid.

'Of him, you twat.'

Even Blackbeard knows that was too far – even if he suspects it's also true. He strides along the deck before he can catch a glimpse of Izzy's face. No doubt it's puffing up like a pair of bellows.

Why the fuck else does he always tail him the way he does? Why the fuck else does he linger when Blackbeard's hanging around with someone in that way? There's nothing else that could explain all of this, coupled with the funny attitude he gets on him on mornings-after.

On what ocean, though, can Blackbeard ever bring it up? It's not as though he's done anything so definitive that he can't deny it. In fact, Blackbeard's not even sure what he's doing is deliberate. If there were an alternate set of lives where neither of them ever became pirates, and they sat down together with a proper drink and had a serious conversation about this, Izzy would still be mortified.

Not that Blackbeard hasn't wondered about it. Dreamt, even, at times. He comforts himself with the fact that he has no control over his night-time imaginings, but then again what are they doing in his head in the first place?

Fang and Ivan are busying themselves with their usual duties. They have to run a tight ship with so few of them. They seem to be getting on just fine – Blackbeard feels no need to go and check in on anything, instead striding towards the bow of the ship. If Izzy wants to follow him, he will: if he wants to slink away, he can do so without Blackbeard noticing. It doesn't matter that they both know Blackbeard will know that's precisely what he's done.

Blackbeard's not surprised, though, when he hears the soles of Izzy's boots knocking against the deck. His stride is always far more slow and deliberate than anyone else's. Even if he tried to creep up on Blackbeard in the slipperiest socks ever sewn he'd have a hard time disguising his arrogant gait.

He doesn't know what he's going to open with, so he seizes the last few paces before Izzy reaches him to throw something out there himself.

'Did you hear anything interesting on your sojourn then, Iz?'

'A few things. Bits and pieces. Maybe if you define "interesting" I'll be able to pick out the more pertinent ones.'

'I have quite a specific definition of interesting today, actually. Would you believe it? I didn't get much information about it myself, but my source wasn't that reliable, so I'd rather hear it from someone like you anyway. Do you know anything about a Captain Badminton?'

Izzy raises an eyebrow: he does, then.

'The one who was stabbed in the eye by an aristocrat?'

Ew. That's an unpleasant detail. 'The very same. So word's got about, eh?'

He turns around. Izzy has indeed stopped walking.

'It were all anyone I was with could talk about. The guy wasn't a pirate. He wasn't even an enemy. Born in Barbados. His parents were landed gentry. I'm surprised he wasn't a naval man himself.'

'Too much money to work, I suppose ...' If more than one person is talking about this mysterious aristocrat, then it's likely he exists: Blackbeard hadn't been sure when Jack had told him. Even now, if he and Izzy put their heads together, they'd come up with two separate versions of what happened - that's just the nature of news travelling for so long, and over such distance, at sea – but if Izzy's heard about this then Blackbeard has new reason to be intrigued. 'It's interesting. I'm sure I recognise the name Badminton, but I have no idea where from. Do we know him, Iz?'

Izzy shrugs. 'Might've come across him before. They're all more or less the same, at the end of the day.'

'Where did this happen? My source wasn't very forthcoming with details, he was far more preoccupied with how funny the whole thing was.'

My source isn't subtle enough censoring: Izzy grunts before responding.

'Somewhere off Martinique.'

Hmm. They're currently leaving Nassau. It's some distance to Martinique, and Blackbeard will have to look back on the weather from the last few days to try to work out what to do next, but he already has an idea. It seems Izzy may well have guessed what his next order will be. His brow is furrowed as Blackbeard's own eyes widen in excitement.

'Right,' he says. 'We're going to Martinique.'

It raises, predictably, a heavy sigh in Izzy.

'What the hell d'you want to do that for?'

'I'm curious, that's all. It's healthy to be curious about things, you know – and it's much more fun than being a cut-and-dry cynic, you should try it sometime. That guy's name is somewhat familiar to me and I sort of want to find out why that is, but even more than that don't you think there's something fascinating about the fact that he's ended up dead, and not even at the hands of a pirate?'

'You'll have come across a Badminton in the Navy at some point during your illustrious career,' Izzy says, 'and no, I don't think there's anything fascinating about any of it. These things happen.'

'No they don't! You can't just trot out a sentiment to distract me – you know as well as I do that this is a bizarre thing to happen. Why else would everyone at the Republic have been talking about it? Word spreads when there's something worth spreading, and this captured people's interests precisely because these things do not happen. I want to meet the guy who's sailing around the Bahamas wasting the King's men for no reason, and I want to find out why the dear departed guy's name keeps trying to jog something in my memory. What the hell else did we have planned for today, anyway?

Izzy gives an exaggerated shrug. 'I don't know. That's your wheelhouse, isn't it?'

'Well – exactly. And I didn't have any specific plans other than finding another ship for us to plunder, so it might as well be this one.'

They might come across someone else along the way who throws them off-course, but that's all part of it. It's been a long time since Blackbeard's been so excited about something, and the rarity of such feelings has piqued an interest that he needs to keep alive: these are the little saving graces of his otherwise treacherous and demanding life. Perhaps, if they catch up to this guy's ship, they won't even recognise his flag. Perhaps they'll let him come aboard for some rum ...

It might not come to anything at all, but the chase is, in part, where it's hard. It's difficult to predict the movements of a random ship: merchants have courses charted, pirate motivations are easy to understand, but whoever this guy is is a wildcard. Despite as much careful planning as Blackbeard can work out based on wind and tides, it really will be a case of just flinging the Queen Anne's Revenge clockwise around the Bahamas and keeping an eye on any passing ships.

When you've been on the sea for as long as someone like Blackbeard, you can tell what sort of ship you're looking at from the moment you notice it on the horizon. They may not know exactly what they're after right now, but they'll know when they find it. If.

And God, if this isn't something a bit different. Exciting, even, in a way Blackbeard's forgotten can stir up a typhoon within the pit of his stomach. The thrill of piracy, if ever there was one, is long gone – it's these little quests that get him going these days. Something just for him.

Chapter Text

Izzy has long since abandoned any faith he may have had in Blackbeard's latest mission, though Blackbeard very much doubts there was much faith there in the first place. He's even heard Izzy pissing and moaning about the whole thing to Fang and Ivan when he’s pretending to think Blackbeard isn't around. It doesn't seem to have dampened their spirits, though: fortunately for Blackbeard they're both daft enough for the sort of unquestioning loyalty that's useful when you regularly need to send men to their potential deaths. They've been briefed in much the same way as Izzy has, and neither of them objected anywhere near as aggressively as Izzy had. They'd seemed, in fact, to find the whole thing almost as thrilling as Blackbeard did. Perhaps they too were getting a bit fed up of the usual rinse-and-repeat pillaging. That makes sense. They're young upstarts. Izzy's more the son of the boss of a decades-old family business, determined to do things the way his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father, always did things, resisting any modern advances in technology or attitude.

Another couple of days down the line, with no sighting of this mysterious gentleman to speak of, Ivan seeks Blackbeard out as he's studying his map. He's trying to work out whether their target might have made a stop along the line, and has found himself full of self doubt when he's interrupted. 

This, of course, doesn't help his self-confidence whatsoever. Ivan’s going to be a lot more gentle than Izzy would’ve been, but even so suspects he's going to be grilled about his flight of fancy. It's not as though he can sell it to the crew that way, though. Self-care's not a concept any of them are familiar with. If Ivan is about to begin with the cynicism after another couple of fruitless days, Blackbeard has to put on his business helmet in order to sell the idea.

'D’you now think we might've been able to fit a few decent raids in these last few days, eh, boss?' Ivan says. It's almost absent, no real malice or doubt there at all ー in fact he doesn't look up from the boom as he says it. It's more just curiosity. But Blackbeard's possibly a little more on the defensive than he would like to be.

'We might well have been able to,' he says. 'But I don't think raids would be anywhere near as interesting as pursuing the guy who was brave enough to take down a naval captain. Don't you reckon?'

Ivan shrugs, still very much focused on his duties with the mast.

'Brave's one way of putting it. Stupid's another. Navy'll probably be on his tail which means they'll probably be on ours if we get too close.'

This is something Blackbeard's thought about. Worried about, even, if only for a moment or two.

'If they were, we'd have heard about it. D'you know what I suspect, though? That they're too embarrassed to go back to Georgie and tell him the truth. He's probably gonna get off scot free, so this might be a chance to show him who rules the waves.’

At this, Ivan raises his head as though he's spied prey.

'So ... when we meet this ship, are we gonna attack it?'

Blackbeard's thought about this as well, though he has to admit he spent quite a bit longer on that one. Unsure as he is of what exactly he's pursuing, he hasn't been able to come to a definitive conclusion. It's more or less how Ivan put it. They might come across an incredibly brave man or an incredibly stupid man, and they would need to ascertain which one it was before making any moves.

'I'm going to have to get back to you on that one,' Blackbeard says, trying to keep his voice mysterious rather than uncertain. 'We're going to have to read the situation. Either way I think a conversation with the man who had such beef with Captain Badminton that he decided the only way to settle it was murder would be intriguing.

Ivan smirks slightly.

'You don't think you have competition?'

That's the first point Ivan's made that Blackbeard hasn't already considered. It doesn’t need considering.

'Not even a bit. Christ's sake. I'm fucking Blackbeard, man.'

*

Blackbeard is starting to wonder whether his quest might prove fruitless when he sees it.

It's a lovely merchant ship, he can tell as much from the moment he spies it on the horizon. They have a look about them, a child who's on their way to school still neatly dressed with their hair in place. Pirate ships more often than not started life in such a way too, but the rot within them reduced them to the child returning home from school, flyaways and stains and bruises. They were corrupted from the inside, as though infected. Blackbeard tries to keep the Queen Anne's Revenge up to code, but the amount of battles she's withstood over the years tend to win out. Even without his flag, the sight of his ship would be a warning: just perhaps not as urgent a warning as that skeleton and his spear.

'That's them.' He puts his binoculars down, indicating the ship to Izzy. 'That's got to be them. Do you recognise that ship?'

Izzy takes the binoculars from him with more grace than usual, examining the horizon for a moment. 'No, sir.'

'And there are no flags on it to indicate anything? It's not advertising an affiliation, untoward or otherwise?'

'No, sir. I think if you are set on leaping on the first ship you suspect to belong to this mystery man, then this is probably a good shout.'

This is as onboard as Blackbeard is ever going to get Izzy. 'Excellent,' he says. 'In which case, let's get moving. We'll gauge their reaction before we make any further plans ーstand by. We might still have some pillaging to do yet.'

Izzy hands him the binoculars again, and Blackbeard immediately raises them to his eyes. He can feel Izzy's presence beside him still, though he isn't saying anything ー perhaps waiting for more specific orders. There's a grumpy little hm when he realises he isn't going to get any, then boots on the deck. He does at least give Blackbeard a bit of a berth before raising his voice to start ordering Fang and Ivan around, and Blackbeard's satisfied that they'll be moving in the right direction shortly. He keeps his focus on the ship.

It's not moving very quickly. They're catching it up before long. There can be no way they haven't been seen, unless every member of the crew has passed out from drink or illness. Or what if someone else has got to them first? They might all have been murdered, the ship cleared out and left to drift so that by the time Blackbeard and his crew were boarding there was neither booty to be had nor answers to Blackbeard's questions.

But was that a bad thing?

If this mystery continued, then Blackbeard had a purpose. Before sundown, his quest for answers might be over, and then what? Once he'd done whatever he needed to do with this crew, he was back to the usual pillaging, and he'd been so happy to have been able to think about something else for a change.

If that's the case, Blackbeard has a lot of thinking to do. Perhaps the next port of call is another few days ashore where he can get the crew out of his hair and clear his head for a little while.

'They aren't fleeing,' Fang says. 'Most ships are just dots on the horizon by now if we're on their tail. I wonder if they don't recognise your flag?'

Blackbeard shakes his head absently. 'Nobody doesn't recognise this flag.'

'But what if?'

He's like a kid sometimes with the incessant wh- words: Blackbeard wonders whether he'd feel quite so irritated if Ivan, or even Izzy, had asked him the exact same question, but as it stands he just gives his head a little shake. 'If  they don't recognise us, it's because they're ignorant, or very new to seafaring, and both of those prospects stand us in good stead.'

'And if they do know who's approaching, they might well think they can take us,' says Izzy. He speaks as though he's deciding on what to have for his breakfast, and when Blackbeard turns to face him with a shut up glare, he finds him sporting a sly smile. That's enough. Blackbeard doesn't have enough patience to ignore him today.

'Who the fuck can take us? Me?' he says. 'Hornigold's past it, his men run from me ー they remember me too well. Lowe is too busy pissing about at his seamstress' place, no doubt. There's a reason people turn tail the second they see that flag, Iz, and you fucking well know it.'

'So it's because you do get involved in battles then? Well excuse me ー I must have missed all of that. I thought it was because people assume you're far more threatening than you actually are.'

It's true. Blackbeard's used it to his advantage for a long time now. But to have it pointed out like this, by his men no less, ignites a raging fire in his chest. It's the most acute threat to his sense of self somehow: his independence, his masculinity, his livelihood ... everything.

'They could just be mates of ours,' Ivan says with a shrug, but it's just to placate Blackbeard and Izzy ー they know all of their allies by their ships, and this isn't one. 'Or ー or admirers, I suppose. Fans. Maybe they want your autograph.'

'And maybe I'll give them it. Maybe I'll even ask for one myself, if I'm impressed enough with whoever's managed to get away with such a heinous crime against the British Navy. Let's face it, it's one thing I've never got around to doing.'

He swallows sour saliva. The idea that there's some upstart out there accomplishing things he's only thus far dreamed of is making him suddenly uneasy. Maybe that's all the more reason to board this beautiful ship.

And, if that really is the case, maybe it's time he loses his no-kill streak.

'Right,' he says. His voice is hoarse. 'I've made my mind up. We attack.'

It's not a good sign when two of his men turn to face him with gasps of 'what?'. Blackbeard does his best to ignore them. Izzy, on the other hand, is doing his best to hide a triumphant smirk. His best isn’t very effective.

‘No one hangs around ready to make friends like that,’ says Blackbeard. ‘They’re spoiling for a fight.’

He knows why he's really made this decision, but the justification he's giving his men feels very much true as well. He needs this to be the case to be convincing, especially when Ivan and Fang are still looking at him as though he's about to descend into complete insanity. He can't blame them. He's been selling this as an adventure story until this moment.

'Listen, I know this is a bit of a U-turn, but how many times have I let you down before?' he says, and he's not watching Izzy but the little huff he lets out is more than audible over the sound of the water.

'Quite a few, actually.' He loves it. He loves bringing Blackbeard down even when he agrees with him. He loves a fight as much as Blackbeard suspects the crew of this ship love one, but he can't rise to it. There are more important matters at hand.

'I mean in proportion to the amount of times I haven't let you down.' He can be obtuse, too. He finally allows himself to look over at Izzy, who's shaking his head and muttering to himself as ever.

There are no more protestations. What Blackbeard says goes, after all. He's never needed to exercise his authority in an overly aggressive way, but there's an understanding that feels very similar to that understanding that pervades the seven seas: incur Blackbeard's wrath and live to regret it, but not for long. They increase their speed. They reload their muskets. They sheath their cutlasses, and Blackbeard adorns his beard with ribbons and matches. There's a churning in Blackbeard's stomach and it takes him a while to understand that it's a churning of excitement, which in turn makes him feel slightly sick. Should he feel this way about violence?

It's just that he can't remember the last time he's engaged in any. The opportunity so rarely arises when your reputation is as fearsome as his, and he wonders whether perhaps this has been the whole point of hearing about this toff in the first place. The mystery of his identity and motivation in killing Badminton be damned – this is going to be the rekindling of his love, if you can call it that, of piracy.

And something not unlike love does seem to fuel him as he leads his men onto the immaculate ship.

They’re waiting. A crew whose numbers outstrip theirs, but a crew that does not contain the Dread Pirate Blackbeard. There’s no fear within him as he charges towards the first two men his eyes seek out: a huge, bearded man in a string vest and another with a slightly more impressive beard and a hugely less impressive physique. They possess a certain madness, but not the skills necessary to fend him off. A couple of swift swipes with his cutlass and they’re dispensed, alive but injured enough to howl and back down, enabling Blackbeard to back up his men. Even as he turns to make sure they're holding their own, though, he's filled with a swell of pride. Fang has picked up a small guy in an apron – an  apron? – and he loses no time in flinging him across the deck, both of them shrieking. Ivan's locked in a sword fight with a man with the most luxurious head of blonde hair Blackbeard’s ever seen on the seas, although he, too, is shrieking, and his dodging seems to be pure luck rather than skill.

The only one he's remotely concerned about is Izzy. “Concerned” is a stretch, even – Izzy has proven year after year that he can hold his own, of course, otherwise he wouldn't still be alive – but the bearded man he's matched with is faster and slicker in his sword fighting than any of the others. He keeps one eye on the pair of them as he dispatches his own two opponents before pulling on a loose rope as another approaches somewhat reluctantly. He's holding a book and quill rather than a weapon, and he holds them to his chest as the rope trips him up. His shriek is the loudest of the lot.

‘Boss? We could really do with you being a captain right now,’ he moans. He sounds on the verge of tears.

Blackbeard looks around, head darting from left to right. He can't imagine that any of these people are in charge of this crew, and indeed none of them respond to the cry for help: although very few of them are able to, incapacitated as they are. It takes just that split second of distraction for Izzy to pin his opponent to the mast with his sword, and the guy struggles for a second before he realises he's stuck. He aims a glob of spit well, though. Even from a distance Blackbeard can see Izzy sluice it from his right eye. He can certainly hear his grumbled for fuck's sake.

No. None of these people are the captain, and that's Blackbeard's first twinge of disdain. He does give orders, yes. But he would never send his men to fight without him, and he has no time for anybody who does. He has even less time for this guy when he appears from the captain’s cabin. Unlike everyone else here he's dressed in his finery, poised more for a dinner party than a raid. It makes Blackbeard think, strangely, of the silk his mother found at the Carmody place when he was a child, the silk he'd carried to Barbados with him as a token to remind him why he'd travelled so far to work so hard – a fine piece of silk, bundled up within ragged work clothes. He'd lost it along with all of his savings, a very long time ago. It’s also been a very long time since he's even thought about it. It does nothing to dispel his irritation.

Here he is. A gentleman –  the  gentleman, he knows all of a sudden, who he’s searching for, the gentleman who'd seen to it that Captain Badminton met his end. Blackbeard has been labouring under the assumption that this turn of events was highly unusual, but despite his dress, it does seem that the man is commanding a crew of men who are not unlike pirates. Incompetent, shambolic pirates, yes: but they aren't merchants, and they certainly aren’t military. It doesn’t seem necessary, but in case he’s bluffing, Blackbeard raises his cutlass to the man’s neck.

What does a man like that want with men like them, though? He’d obviously wanted to keep his clothes, if not his nose, clean. He has on the most beautiful teal knickerbockers Blackbeard thinks he might ever have seen, along with matching tailcoat. The buckled shoes he’s wearing would hinder a quick getaway rather than help with one. And his  hair  ... blonde curls, neatly set, gravity-defying, perhaps, to stay in place in sea winds. Below the curls, though, is a pink, scared face, gazing around at his crew in nothing short of terror. The way he’s dressed right now he could have been presented to the King, but Blackbeard thinks this might be the most pathetic man he's ever seen in his life.

Without warning, a whirlwind of memory rattles the hatches of his brain. He can’t place its origin, but once it’s shaken him up, he finds he can place the face before him.

He is the most pathetic man he's ever seen in his life.

‘It’s you,’ says Blackbeard faintly.

Trembling like a palm tree in a typhoon, Stede Bonnet just stares up at him.

Chapter Text

This time, the bush remained motionless.

'Are you one of Badminton's friends?' it said, and Ed rolled his eyes.

'Well, if I was, I'd now know to tell him that you were cowering in a bush, and I'd be able to send him right to you,' he said. 'Luckily for you I haven't got a clue who Badminton is. I'm pretty sure your name is Bonnet, though. Am I right?'

It probably shouldn't have felt so satisfying to humiliate this kid, but Ed couldn't help but smirk to himself as he waited for his response.

'Yes,' he said eventually. 'Does that mean you're the new boy I saw outside my maths lesson yesterday?'

'Edward,' said Ed. He usually permitted adults to introduce him to one another this way, and would use "Ed" himself with other kids, but he didn't feel that Bonnet had earned this from him yet: he almost seemed more like an adult than a child. 'Or Teach, I suppose. If you all call each other by your last names.'

'And ... and you're definitely not friends with Badminton? In secret?'

'No. I already told you, I have no idea who he is.'

'He's a beastly bully. Well. There are actually two of them. His brother isn't much better, but it's Nigel who makes my life so utterly miserable.'

*

It is him, through and through. Now that Blackbeard’s realised, he can see that there's not a thing about him that's changed save for the lines on his face. He has the same hairstyle, the same pompous way of carrying himself – the same wardrobe, even, in style if not in actuality. The look on his face at the cutlass now tickling his neck is not unlike the look that had been on his face when Blackbeard had first witnessed that bollocking from the teacher in Barbados.

Badminton ... that's where Blackbeard knows the name from. There are two of them. Or rather there's one now, at most. He has a pretty good idea which one has recently been killed, although it's difficult to believe when the supposed killer is whimpering under Blackbeard's gaze.

And it's just like him, is it not? To run away from his comfortable marriage to attempt to live a life on the sea and end up as useless at it as he has done? To take revenge on the boy – because somehow Blackbeard doubts the man has since had anything to do with Bonnet – who made his life miserable at school? If he did indeed kill Nigel Badminton, Blackbeard wonders whether it might have been more of a freak accident than vengeance. He'd tried his best to instil a bit of gumption within him when they were teenagers, but he hadn't been that good a teacher.

'You gave it all up then, did you?' Blackbeard says. 'Took you long enough.'

The whimpering culminates in a puzzled little hmm? as Bonnet frowns up at him.

‘Boss, do you know these guys?’ says Ivan. A pretty stupid question, Blackbeard thinks. He and Bonnet are still standing stock still, gazing at one another as though seeing through time.

‘I have no idea who any of these people are,’ says Blackbeard, gesturing vaguely around the ship. ‘But this one …’

This one, however, still looks as confused as he does pathetic.

'I'm dreadfully sorry to be rude, Mr Blackbeard, but you say that as though you know me,' he says – he tries for a laugh but it ends up making him sound as though he's about to wet himself rather than confident or assertive. 'I wasn't under the impression we'd ever met before.'

Why does that hurt? Why does that threaten Blackbeard's composure when he's the one with a cutlass to Bonnet's neck? He clears his throat, trying to urge away all of the resentment that swells within it at Bonnet's thoughtless words and remind himself that he's considerably older and operating under a different name and a hell of a lot of facial hair that wasn't there the last time he and Bonnet had seen one another.

He tries not to think about the last time he and Bonnet saw one another. Instead, he forces his focus back to the here and now. He clears his throat, turning his gaze slightly to the right of Bonnet’s face.

‘You know I’m Blackbeard?’ he says, and Bonnet nods frantically.

‘Of course. That flag is infamous.’

‘And you didn’t run away.’

‘Well … no.’

He wants to ask why. He’s so curious as to what motivated Bonnet to hang around waiting to be boarded, but there’s something far more intriguing to him at this moment in time. If he could take off his beard, he would: if he could turn back time and become a teenager again for a moment, he would. He doesn’t know how else to explain it other than plain English, though it feels as exposing as stripping off all of his clothes.

‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘It’s … Ed.’

Watching the realisation dawn in Stede Bonnet's eyes has a similar effect on Blackbeard's stomach as a bottle of rum downed too quickly. He has to look away again, although the waves he chooses to focus on aren't much help. He ducks his head and swallows bile.

'Ed?' He hears Bonnet whisper. 'Edward Teach?'

Blackbeard just nods. He can hardly bring himself to accept the name in front of all these people, not least his crew. It's so far removed from who he is that it doesn't even feel as though it belongs to him any more, but the indication that it does is still anxiety-inducing.

'The very same,' he admits it as though he's been told off for something in front of a classroom of giggling peers. 'I didn't expect to see you out here.'

‘Is anyone gonna explain what the fuck is going on?’ Ivan cuts in: Blackbeard jumps at another voice. Conscious though he is that he's being watched by far too many people, he’s also felt strangely alone for a few moments.

‘We used to be friends,’ Stede says – presumably to Ivan, but he doesn’t turn his head nor move his eyes.

‘Used to. Hm. I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking about that in past tense.’

Finally, Blackbeard lowers his cutlass. There’s an evident slumping in Bonnet’s posture, and one of the weirder, more hairy guy surges forward to see if he’s OK. What a bizarre little crew of freaks Stede has amassed. He gives them all another visual once-over to confirm that Stede really has scraped the bottom of the barrel. Not one of them is familiar to him from years of piracy, which is a red flag in and of itself: they’re all new to this. And they’re new to it under the command of someone who doesn’t have the first idea, not only about how to succeed as a pirate, but of the reasons anyone would decide to become a pirate in the first place.

Blackbeard feels suddenly sick again.

‘What d’you want us to do then, boss?’ Izzy says. ‘We should make short of work of this. Look at the state of ‘em.’

‘You should see the state of yourself, you pocket-sized git,’ the man with the parchment snarls. He’s got some nerve considering how avoidant he’d been earlier, but even still it takes every ounce of effort within Blackbeard not to laugh.

Izzy, predictably enough, is less amused by this remark. He lets out an outraged grunt and draws his sword again only to be met with another from the man pinned to the mast: his match really is his match. Blackbeard feels sure Izzy’s picked the only semi-competent person in the bunch.

‘Calm down, Izzy,’ Blackbeard says, holding up his free hand. ‘I don’t think we need to hurt anybody here, OK? It’s not always the way. And, I must admit, I am curious as to how Stede Bonnet ended up captaining a pirate ship …’

‘You’re the only one,’ says Izzy.

‘In which case, why don’t you make sure none of this lot steps out of line while I have a little catch-up with my old pal?’

'Look, there's really no need to subdue my crew like this,' says Bonnet, waving his hands around a bit as he tries to indicate them all. 'We're not going to fight you.’

'Speak for yourself,' drawls a rather haggard, hairy man, in a Scottish accent. There’s a seagull perched on his head that had been absent throughout the fighting, and nobody seems to consider this unusual at all. Bonnet glares over at him.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t all rather have a cup of tea instead of an altercation? If you let Jim go, he can take charge,’ he says. ‘Then he can get you some refreshments. Roach, get into the kitchen, please.’

The man in the apron looks nervous about this idea, which is a bit rich considering he’s dressed precisely for that. Another one strides towards Stede with a confidence that balances this out, though.

'I – erm. I think I should stay up here, Captain. What if Mr Blackbeard needs something?'

'He won't, don't worry,' Blackbeard says before Bonnet can respond. The man looks defeated, and he turns very slowly to join the others. It's surprising that everyone does obey their respective captains, actually. “Captain” really doesn't feel like the right word to use about Bonnet, but there's no doubt that's the position he's assumed here, however deserving he is of it – or not.

Even when they're alone, it takes them a moment or two to do anything other than stare one another down. Blackbeard can hear his heartbeat in his ears as though he's just lifted Bonnet above his head and thrown him overboard, instead of standing motionless in front of him. He's trying to think of something to say but the pulsing is preventing any thoughts from forming. It's difficult enough anyway. Where on Earth is he supposed to start?

'What the fuck?' he says. It's all he can come up with to attempt to cover everything he wants to say, and Bonnet's resulting slump and sigh seems like a result of the same overwhelm.

'I don't know where to start,' he says. 'I'm only sorry I didn't recognise you.'

'I don't want your life story, don't worry,' Blackbeard says. He sheaths his weapon, but his hand hovers around the handle. 'I want to know what happened with Badminton. That's why I'm here.'

'Hmm. I did wonder. You seemed far too surprised to see me.'

Blackbeard shakes his head in disbelief. 'What the hell else was I supposed to be? When have you ever given me any indication that you intended to be a pirate, and a murderer at that?'

'It wasn't murder!' Bonnet cries. Blackbeard raises both of his hands: this outburst was a little more aggressive than he'd been ready for. 'Don't think I don't know what everyone's saying out there. Which is insane, by the way – I don't know how word gets around when everyone is isolated in their own ships, but I suppose that's just one of the many things about piracy I'm yet to get my head around. But I know there are rumours, I know people are talking about me in these ... violent, dangerous terms. But I didn't do it on purpose.'

'So it wasn't your way of exacting revenge, then?'

'No! Well ...' Bonnet's eyes shift from one side to the other a few times, and for a second Blackbeard's transported to the corridor outside the maths classroom again. 'It was initially supposed to be revenge, but not in anywhere near as extreme a way as this.'

'What were you going to do?'

Bonnet opens his mouth as if to speak, but thinks better of it after several seconds of looking like one of the fish in the sea below their feet.

'It was silly,' he says eventually.

It's quite the wrong thing to say. Blackbeard's now about a thousand times more intrigued than he had been two seconds ago. 'I'm sure I've seen sillier. I've been in this game a long time, although I assume you know that.'

Bonnet sighs. Now, he looks more embarrassed than anything else.

'I just wanted to play a bit of a prank on him. You know, humiliate him the way he used to humiliate me when we were in school. He never did anything to me that would cause any lasting damage, at least not physically, so I never intended to do anything to him that would ... I don't know if you remember, but I did actually punch him once. At my party.'

Bonnet may not have remembered him through his whiskers, but Blackbeard had never forgotten that evening. He doesn't know if Bonnet is deliberately omitting the fact that the two of them had shared a kiss shortly after Badminton's taste of his own medicine. He supposes it isn't relevant, but there's still a gentle churning in his gut.

'I probably hurt him more than enough with that, but this was supposed to be different. I talked to my crew, and to be honest they thought the whole thing sounded ridiculous. In fact only a few of them ever came around, and they helped me to think up a plan in which we dressed one of my crew up as his twin brother and pretended as though ... oh, God, we were tempting fate, Ed. I'll never do anything like this again.'

So he's still as dramatic as ever. Blackbeard can only wait patiently while Bonnet dabs at the beads of sweat at his temple, sighing profusely as though performing a life-saving operation.

'We pretended I'd killed him in an epic battle. We were going to present him with his brother's "body", so to speak. And when he came in for a closer look we were going to have the Swede – the blonde one, you know – jump up and scream something funny, I can't even remember. I just wanted him reduced to a quivering mess in front of his men so he could perhaps understand how it had felt for me all those years ago. Except we never actually got that far. Every attempt I made to guide him to the fake body failed, he was far too interested in me, and how and why I'd become a pirate.'

He's not the only one, Blackbeard thinks.

'So we ended up in my drawing room. Alone. And –'

Bonnet lets out a shuddering cry.

‘I think I finally saw sense. Once I was alone with him I realised how utterly pathetic and ... childish my plan was. I think when it comes to him, I was always going to be trapped in a child’s mindset. But I'm not inventive enough to come up with plan Bs on the spot, so when he had his back turned I just did the first thing that came into my head. I hit him with a paperweight.'

OK. Blackbeard has to admit he's internally impressed, though he does try to keep any outward evidence of this under wraps. He isn't sure how he wants to play this reunion yet, if he even wants to play it any way at all.

'That must have been one hell of a blow.'

'No! It wasn't! That's the silly thing. I'd tried to learn some disarming tricks from some of my crew and they'd been understandably sceptical about my dedication to the lifestyle, but that was one thing they did teach me. All I'd wanted to do was buy myself time to think, but I knocked him out. And when he fell over, he landed – eye-first – on his own bloody sword, didn’t he?'

The thought makes Blackbeard nauseous. He's heard that sound before, the squelchy sort of slicing of a sharp instrument penetrating the eyeball and then the brain. It's not the sort of thing he likes to imagine when he's trying to sleep at night, yet somehow it's often one of the many grotesque things that features even so, no matter how hard he tries to replace them with the vast surface of the ocean on a calm day, or an evening's drinking with Jack.

He can't picture Bonnet being capable even of the knockout, let alone ... but of course he isn't a proper murderer. This explains a lot. He’d even guessed as much himself, although that had been a semi-joke. So many of them are buffoons that the chances of a bona fide fight or anything of the sort were always going to be low, and Blackbeard's even a little embarrassed not to have considered this earlier.

'I've sort of let the rumours do their thing, to be honest with you. I'm uncomfortable with what happened, but Jim and Olu know more about this life than I do and they’ve assured me that letting people think I'm a deranged killer will do wonders for my street credibility. Sea credibility, even. Sorry.' He tries for a laugh but gives up very quickly, clearing his throat to signal a return to seriousness. ‘So, at the very least, there are people sailing now who think that I'm some ferocious maniac. But I'm really not. After this, I’m almost certain I don't have what it takes.'

'I could have been almost certain a long time ago,' Blackbeard mutters. He does mean for Bonnet to hear, but when he utters another little hmm? Blackbeard goes to no great pains to repeat himself. He's considering something else, something that was lost in the revelation of Bonnet's identity but that now has his brain tying itself in knots.

'You knew it was me. Before. Didn’t you?' says Blackbeard. 'As in you knew it was Blackbeard. Do you know what most people do when they see my flag on the horizon?'

To his surprise, Bonnet nods.

'They flee, I imagine?' Blackbeard nods in turn. 'Yes ... well. I would wager that's the effect you desire, at least most of the time. That was why I didn't. I wanted to be the only ship not to sail away from an encounter with you.'

All of his efforts keeping his composure are tossed to the waves when Blackbeard lets out an involuntary snort of laughter.

'You have got to be fucking kidding me, mate?' he says, and when Bonnet looks horrified, he gives up trying to suppress any further mirth. 'You're here shitting yourself after accidentally killing a guy, yet you thought you'd be able to take on fucking Blackbeard? The hell is wrong with you? I think that Lady Macbeth guilt has gone to your head ...'

'It isn't quite as insane as you think it is,' Bonnet tries to insist. His sincerity is as laughable as the anecdote itself. 'One of my crew knows a lot about you, you know. He served under you for quite some time. I was sure that with his information we'd have far more of a fighting chance than a lot of other people, but I suppose I rather over-estimated his understanding of your approach.'

Blackbeard hadn't recognised a single person on Bonnet's crew, but he has an idea which one has been lying to him.

'I'm telling you now,' he says, 'that no one who's ever sailed under me would dare spill my secrets. But quite apart from anything else, I've never seen any of those men before in my life, and despite the fact that I was holding a cutlass to your neck a few minutes ago you can trust me on that one. Anything that loser has said to you is a lie.'

And if Bonnet will believe that ...

It's hardly even funny. He's not sure why he was laughing – it feels like more of a fight or flight response than anything else. Is this not why he and Bonnet were destined to never be truly close, even after everything they'd been through together as teenagers? He – Stede, God, it's painful even to think his first name but Blackbeard suddenly feels some need to acknowledge who he's talking to – was never in tune with his position in life, never aware of the fact that others had things so much harder than he did. It was just like him to come a cropper this way. It was sheer dumb luck that he hadn't actually come a cropper. What if Blackbeard had been any other pirate? Stede Bonnet would be a memory already, and it would be nobody's fault but his own. Thinking he could take on Blackbeard based on little but fairy stories ...

He finds he can't look at him any longer. Turning away, he runs his free hand through his hair, noticing how shallow his breathing has become.

'Izzy!' he barks. 'Fang ... Ivan ... get your arses up here, come on.'

He can't help but feel pride when the others emerge from below deck: Bonnet's crew are dishevelled and defeated-looking while his men almost strut behind them, keeping them in check. To say that he never heard a peep from them would seem to indicate that their menacing presence alone is enough to keep control.

'We're taking control of this ship.' Blackbeard isn't sure he's in control of his own tongue as it forms the words. 'Izzy and Fang, I want you on the Queen Anne's Revenge – we need to find somewhere safe for it. Ivan, you're going to stay here on the ... erm.' He turns to Bonnet, whose face has turned rather pink. 'What are you calling your ship?'

There's a lengthy pause before Bonnet squeaks out his response.

'The Revenge.’

Chapter Text

There are very few things that Blackbeard genuinely fears, but the piercing look Izzy gives him immediately before he leaves for the Queen Anne’s Revenge is one of them. It’s warranted, though, that much is certain. 

He might well have taken leave of his senses. But that pull towards something new – something other than run of the mill, day-to-day piracy – is almost certainly what's driving him now, too, sceptical though he may be about the behaviour it's bringing out in him.

Because he's angry. Furious, even. This man is no different from the Stede Bonnet he knew as a teenager, and he would have thought that he'd at least have learned his lesson after their parting. Blackbeard himself has done everything in his power not to dwell on it since it happened, through behaviours and indeed substances that even posed a risk to his life at times when the memories were almost overwhelming – perhaps that's what Bonnet did, too. He had no right to be as hurt, of course, but even through his rage Blackbeard can understand why that evening might have been painful for him as well. It doesn't arouse any pity, just potential understanding as to why he is now out here being a total fucking idiot.

He was supposed to have been married! A sly glance at his hand reveals no wedding ring, although there are other, more ostentatious bands glinting there which serve as nothing but an invitation. Blackbeard does have to wonder whether he could snaffle one, if just to prove a point: then he sighs at himself. He's got to a point where pirating instincts smother almost every other thought he has at times.

Is he married, then? If so, what is he doing out here? And if not ... was it a separation? Death? Or did their little talk way back when actually get through to him, and he refused to go along with his family's wishes, choosing to be disowned and free rather than tied to wealth and a wife he wasn't in love with, and who Blackbeard very much doubted loved him, either? It's neither the time nor the place for any of these questions, and on the high seas surrounded by varying degrees of pirate (across an extremely long spectrum: Blackbeard doesn't think the lad scrawling on parchment while trying to muffle his own sobs really wants to be on it all, in fact).

These poor men. If they’d had any idea what sort of a captain they were signing up to work under, they must have exhausted every other option life had offered them, if any at all. Piracy’s rarely a choice made out of any kind of desire. Even the likes of Calico Jack, chaotic enough people who do seem to suit the lifestyle, have been moulded by it rather than influencing it with their personality. It’s hard to imagine what these men are going to turn into over time if they survive Bonnet's leadership.

'Where were you heading?' he asks Bonnet. He's sure that wherever it is, he'll try to talk him out of going, but Bonnet just shrugs.

'We didn't really have any plans, per se.' He lowers his voice and leans into Blackbeard: there's a distinct aroma of orange blossom as he does so, and even that has Blackbeard's anger spiking again ever so slightly. Who the hell has the money and time to apply scent when living on a pirate ship? 'Though I do need to think of something, and quickly. I don't know how long this new admiration of m|e is going to last, and I'm getting nervous that they'll expect me to – to kill someone else in order to keep it going.'

In a rush of emotion that's mostly made up of frustration, Blackbeard's reminded forcibly of a breathing technique he'd had to employ once upon a time in order to respond to Bonnet's stupidity without lashing out. It's as natural as ever now, even as sprinklings of nostalgia start to soften him.

'I don't know what you're expecting to happen next,' he says. 'If you're still suffering the after-effects of your first kill then you definitely aren't ready for anything else, especially not anything you have to do on purpose.'

'Well, can't you help me with that?'

Breathe. And again. Keep it going, in and out, for as long as it takes for you not to want to smack him in the face.

'Is that why you didn't run when you saw us coming? You thought the Dread Pirate Blackbeard was willing to sacrifice his time to show you how to be a proper pirate?'

'No! No ... Jesus, Ed I'm not a complete idiot. What I told you was true. I've only just thought of this since it turns out that Blackbeard is you. I mean, you're Blackbeard. I know you.' He stops to shake his head, trying to work out what it is he's meant to be saying, and Blackbeard clears his throat slightly in the pause.

'I don't think you should call me Ed,' he says.

Even saying his name to himself feels wrong, as though it should be spoken only in hushed tones, in private. Bonnet's twisted expression would seem to indicate that he feels the same. Perhaps he's noticed that Blackbeard hasn't yet referred to him as Stede.

'Yes, of course. Sorry.' Intimidated out of his blustering, he ploughs on with confidence, if in a flatter, more direct tone of voice. 'I just mean that since the ocean has brought us together, then maybe you could dish out some of your knowledge. You know, like how we sort of traded skill sets back in school.'

'You were in school. Not me. I was at work, remember?'

It has nothing to do with anything. Bonnet's as aware as Blackbeard is that this is nothing more than a deflection, but fortunately, he rolls with it. Blackbeard has to admit that he's enjoying shutting him down, but his defeated expression is very much reminding him of the drip of a boy he'd first met – and felt a little bit sorry for – in the school corridor.

'Should I introduce you to my crew? I suppose it's only polite,' says Bonnet, with that public school bravado Blackbeard despises. Posh kids are taught success from the get-go, and if those same opportunities were available to everyone he would be willing to bet that there'd be little need for piracy at all. 'Everyone, get yourselves over here. If we're going to be working together we ought to get to know one another.'

'I wouldn't say working ...' Blackbeard attempts to quell the frenzy that's already whipping up as the crew of the Revenge abandon their posts to assemble on deck, but Bonnet's getting excited and this is somehow preferable to the whimpering he was doing earlier. 

'I'll start with Pete,' says Bonnet, with a knowing smile at Blackbeard. To be a dick or not to be a dick? That is the question when the man who seems to think he and Blackbeard are already friends is presented to him, shifty as Fang when Blackbeard finds the ship’s rations depleted before they’re due to be: perhaps if he'd been the last in the line Blackbeard would have taken the bait, but he settles with as gentlemanly a handshake as he can manage and an 'all right? Nice to meet you, mate.'

It's pointed, and he doesn't miss the shuffling and chuckling among the crew.

'This is my boy and regular scribe, Lucius,' Bonnet indicates the man pertinently clutching a stack of parchment, who mumbles a shaky 'hi'. 'Ship's cook Roach ...'

Roach, still in his apron, is notably more enthusiastic, and Blackbeard suspects this will be unmatched throughout the rest of the crew. He's not wrong. Wee John, perhaps the tallest man he's ever seen, is dubious but polite and that's that, which is admittedly a surprise since he could squash Blackbeard if he had the chance. With him is Frenchie, whose accent reminds Blackbeard of home and who's equally as polite, if stumbling and awkward. Jim is introduced by Bonnet since he's apparently mute, but the frosty stare he gives Blackbeard is more than enough to get his feelings across. How Bonnet has found so many lads who could take him in a fight, Blackbeard has no idea – Oluwande would be frightening in much the same way as Wee John if not for his smile and handshake on introducing himself. The man with a bird on his head is called Buttons; the bird, Karl. Blackbeard has to resist a funny little urge to chat to the bird the same way he's been talking to the men, for fear of not being taken seriously. Truth be told, though, this is the first thing thus far that's impressed him. He moves swiftly on to the Swede, which is the laziest name he's ever come across, but he supposes it's at least going to be an easy one to remember, and Swede is sunnier and more enthusiastic than anyone pirating under Stede Bonnet has any right to be.

They're the definition of rag-tag. Observing them all as they shift their feet in front of him, torn between fear and admiration ... it's like the beginning of a children's story, a story in which a collection of miscellaneous men set out to do one thing but end up instead learning important lessons about life. Perhaps one of those lessons involves violence not being the answer. How warped.

'It's good to meet you all,' Blackbeard says. He feels suddenly as though he's seventeen again, forced to make the acquaintances of countless people who were already passing judgement before he'd made a sound: this time, though, the judgements will be very different. They may well be just as inaccurate. 'Erm. Yes.'

He doesn't know what else they, or indeed Bonnet, are expecting from him. He did say he was going to take control of the Revenge, but had that simply been the thing he thought he ought to say in the moment? No one had resisted, so he needs to do something.

At least he has the time it's going to take them to moor the Queen Anne's Revenge to think of his next steps. Not that he's able to think very clearly – he's still swept up in the thrill of the chase, wondering who Badminton's assailant was. The fact that he'd known his assailant all along isn't doing anything to quell his curiosity. He's still expecting a stranger.

At the very least, though, this might be the next step in his I'm bored of general purpose piracy journey. It's another distraction from the day-to-day, however he chooses to manage it. Whether he agrees to Bonnet's presumptuous suggestion to make him look good in front of his men or he leaves them all in the lurch somewhere remote or he turns around now, utilising the element of surprise, to attack them all again ...

No. The mere idea of doing battle against this collection of wretches doesn't sit right with him now that he knows that's what they truly are. He'd expected something else entirely when he'd boarded the ship, and resentful though he is of Bonnet's seeming lack of ability to remember any of the events of their teens he doesn't think killing, or otherwise hurting, him is going to relieve any of his ill feeling.

'What are we going to do now, Mr Blackbeard, sir?' Pete says. His audacity in the face of exposure is somehow enough for Blackbeard to respect him a little bit more, even if the sycophantic honorifics make his skin crawl.

'Let's get this straight before we go any further,' Blackbeard says. 'You really don't need to address me like that, all right? It's Blackbeard. Just Blackbeard. Do you understand?'

Quite a few of them make such a meal of nodding that Blackbeard's surprised none of them keel over.

'Right. Thank you. We're going to moor my ship somewhere safe. Fortunately we've recently relieved it of most of its booty. After that, we'll just ...'

He glances towards Bonnet, who's evidently been nodding in encouragement the entire time Blackbeard's been talking. He gives him a double thumbs up when they meet one another's eyes, and this provides Blackbeard with a flash of inspiration.

'We'll see what your captain wants to do.'

He looks up at Bonnet again to see the exact desired expression on his face: an ever-shifting demonstration of far too many feelings to handle.

It feels a little like he's toying with prey. A cat will play with a mouse to tire it out so that it can't bite back when it goes in for the kill, but Blackbeard's always thought there must be an element of fun to it, too. He's aware he's messing Bonnet about a bit here. How many shifts in dynamic have they passed through in the last half hour? It's enough to make anyone seasick. But the more he confuses him, perhaps the easier an eventual heavy conversation will be.

They're going to ignore it for a while. He knows that. He wants that, he's not ready to sit him down just yet and quiz him on the nature of his marriage to their mutual cricket friend Mary once it was set up by their respective parents rather than by their own hearts or minds. There's no way, though, that they can spend any period of time together without the need to face up to it arising. The way they left things was so frayed that it's been scratching at Blackbeard ever since, and without Bonnet around to tie them up there's been no way to soothe the irritation.

He doesn't want to admit that almost everything he's done since has been an attempt to do so.

He dismisses the crew, only thinking afterwards that they weren't his crew to dismiss, and steers Bonnet away to one side. He's still churning Blackbeard's words over, judging by the tense smile he gives him once they're alone again. At least he doesn't beat about the bush now.

'You want me to make a decision?' he says, and his voice is rather higher than it was a moment ago. 'But what if I decide that I want you to help me prove myself to them?'

Blackbeard shrugs, but says nothing. Bonnet's face tightens even more.

'God, you're doing that thing again, aren't you? You used to do it back when – you know. Where you would trick me into doing something shitty and then tell me off for doing something shitty? Well, I'm older now, you know. I've lived. I know a lot more about how the world works and I'm not about to let you play your mind games with me.'

This is not how Blackbeard had envisaged, nor wanted, this conversation to play out, but he'll be damned if he's going to take that one lying down.

'What the fuck is wrong with you?' Bonnet immediately glances around to try to see whether anyone else heard his raised voice, and Blackbeard, incensed beyond rational conversation now, seizes his chin and turns his entire head to face him again. 'When did I ever trick you? Have you painted over your past so elaborately that you're the hero even in those situations when you know you were wrong? That's cheap. That's pathetic. No wonder you needed to accidentally kill someone to gain any respect, there's no other way I can ever imagine you earning any.'

'But that's why I need you!' Bonnet protests. 'Please, Ed.'

'I told you. Don't –'

'Sorry! Sorry. Force of habit.' But it can't have been a habit for fifteen years. Blackbeard releases Bonnet’s face, and he shakes his head a little. 'You must admit, though, you did like to be right about matters of society? I think you enjoyed having that over me at times. I honestly think you're enjoying it now.’

‘I think you’re pushing it, speaking to Blackbeard like that.’

‘You would have killed me already if you were going to.’

‘Not true. I could be persuaded if you keep being a complete toff. None of that shit counts out here, you realise? It’s even more dog eat dog than your fucking prep school, or has that escaped your notice, too? Too busy playing at piracy to realise that you actually have to do a job, and that job is preventing you and your men from fucking dying?’

He won’t even admit he’s wrong. He doesn’t seem remotely embarrassed to have made the outlandish claims he’s mind, nor that he’s being accused of such dishonourable things by the most fearsome pirate currently operating. It’s as though their friendship, and everything he learned throughout it, has been wiped from his memory, and Blackbeard has to concede that this is likely out of nothing more or less than desperation. However he’s ended up on the sea, he's neither enjoying nor succeeding at his new life. That alone gives Blackbeard pause enough to rein in the aggression ever so slightly. There are other ways to make a point, after all.

Stede’s rings glint in the sunlight as he turns his hands around one another, flustered.

‘That is – that’s rich, that is. I know you aren't likely to take my word for it, but ask any of them – that crew is my entire crew. None of us have died as yet.'

'How many opportunities has fate had to kill you, though? For all I know you might just have abandoned your hoity-toity life two weeks ago. You might have absolutely nothing to brag about – in fact, I know you don't. None of your men were any match for mine and we were outnumbered by more than one hundred per cent.'

He's breathing hard, his beard rustling with it. Bonnet isn't looking anywhere near as ashamed or frightened as he should be, and perhaps he's doing that on purpose to rile Blackbeard up, but either way he is getting riled up and he hates that the tension in his whole body is giving that away.

'So listen to me,' he says. 'I am going to hang around for a bit to pass on some hints and tips, but that's it. You were at least right about needing help, I'm glad you've admitted that because otherwise time would be ticking on all of these men's lives. But I'm doing this for one reason and one reason only, all right? And you'd better get this into your head. It's not because I give a shit about you, or your welfare. I maybe feel a bit sorry for these poor fools you've roped into doing your bidding, but not for you. I'm doing this purely for my own interest. For my CV, so to speak. Another experience to add to a vast list of experiences that are nevertheless a bit samey. If your survival is a side effect then so be it.'

He holds out his hand. Even as he tries to keep it solid and businesslike, there are flutters in his gut when Bonnet reaches out to shake it. They're a lot more like the sort of flutters brought about by food poisoning than by anything else, but they're affecting even so.

'No wedding ring, eh?' he says as they shake, nodding towards Bonnet's hanging left hand. Bonnet snatches it to his chest, grasping it with the other once Blackbeard's let it go.

'That's none of your business,' he says, and Blackbeard gives him a sardonic smile.

'I was merely making an observation. It's lucky you have a fuckload of other jewellery that's probably worth more than this ship when it's combined, eh?'

The horror on Bonnet's face when Blackbeard presses one of his sturdy gold rings, lifted during the handshake, into his hand is so satisfying it's almost arousing. The action feels like a snarl of triumph. If Bonnet can't detect a simple distraction technique then he certainly does need the expertise of a real pirate in order to survive, and God only knows why Blackbeard's agreed to deliver it, but here he is.

'You –?'

'Me what?'

Before Bonnet can splutter through whatever it is he's trying to say, Blackbeard turns to walk away. Finally, he allows himself a smile.

Chapter Text

Izzy is pacing up and down the cabin. It’s making Blackbeard anxious, watching him. He does like to do this sort of stuff for effect, and ordinarily Blackbeard just buys right into it. It’s easier that way. Today, though, he’s run out of patience.

‘Iz, would you sit down? You’re making me edgy,’ Blackbeard says.

Izzy pauses only to glare at Blackbeard for a second before resuming his pacing.

‘And you aren’t making me edgy?’ he says. Blackbeard, with a deep groan, throws himself back against the back of the sofa. ‘I’m worried about you, boss. Your decisions since we discovered the identity of the bourgeoisie basher have been baffling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’ve been clouded by nostalgia.’

Blackbeard's shared very little of his past with anyone he's worked with since becoming a pirate. Not even the likes of Jack could trace his history without assistance, and Blackbeard was at his most nervous and naïve when they'd first met. There must have been some tiny clues, then, that Izzy's picked up on from the nature of Blackbeard and Bonnet's reunion alone, which is less than ideal.

‘I’m not particularly nostalgic for the period of my life I spent at the mercy of a family who ultimately abandoned me and took all of my money,’ he says. ‘My decisions haven’t been clouded at all. I have very legitimate memories, and that’s what I’m basing my decisions on.’

‘You shouldn’t be basing your decisions on anything other than the information available to you in the present,’ Izzy says. ‘You can word it however you like, sir, but it is still cause for great concern.’

‘All right.’ Blackbeard puts his hands on his hips. ‘Say I am acting out of nostalgia, which I’m not, but … what then? What’s the problem? What the fuck is that little fruit going to do to us, eh? If we’d just sailed away he’d’ve been dead by now. It’s a miracle he’s not dead already.’

‘Then he’s a liability,’ says Izzy simply.

That’s a fair assessment. And that’s the problem: Izzy isn’t being deliberately awkward in trying to oppose Blackbeard’s viewpoint this time. He’s being sensible.

But Blackbeard doesn’t think he isn’t being sensible himself. Just because Izzy has a point, doesn’t mean he doesn’t. This isn’t a case of Stede Bonnet gets killed versus Stede Bonnet gets everyone killed – Ed isn’t going to allow that. No, this is nothing more than a favour and a flight of fancy. It’s tricky to admit this even inside his own mind but despite everything, there’s no part of him that wants to see Bonnet physically harmed by some beastly pirate who just wants to plunder the ship. This, he recognises, may indeed be the nostalgia, but he isn’t convinced that’s a bad thing. 

This is just the grown-up version of the arrangement he and Bonnet had come to when they’d first met. Almost the mirror image, in fact: back then, he’d first stumbled across Bonnet being belittled by his teacher after being picked on by his fellow classmates. Now, he’s stumbled across Bonnet being belittled by pretty much everyone after killing one of his former fellow classmates. Full circle.

'It goes back to what I was saying the other day,' Blackbeard says. 'About how ... stale piracy has become. I knew back then that I'd want to do something more once I found the man I was looking for, and I think maybe "the man I was looking for" turning out to be someone I knew was a sign from the universe, or something. That's the next thing I have to do.'

'And your crew is supposed to hang around while you indulge your latest whim?'

If asked, Blackbeard will never admit that he knows what he's doing. But he makes rather a meal of looking up at Izzy from beneath his eyelids in order to plan the perfect comeback – he's tired of the conversation and he needs something cool that will shut it down with no chance of Izzy surging up again with another biting comment.

He smiles.

'When do you ever do anything else?'

*

The Queen Anne's Revenge is tucked away beneath treacherous cliffs that no sailor, save for the more weathered and slightly insane ones on Blackbeard's level, dares to venture to. He’s missing it deeply already and it’s only been a day. Everything about the Revenge, not just its name, is ever so slightly different in ways that make it unsettling to be aboard, like a pair of brand-new boots that haven’t yet moulded to his feet.

Several days of plain sailing follow. While it's definitely not the worst idea in the world to have a bit of a time to get to know his new ship-fellows, Blackbeard has to admit that the whole affair is tedious: especially as he begins to suspect that a lot of these men are going to be liabilities just the way Izzy said Bonnet will be.

It doesn't take long to establish that Jim and Olu are likely the most level-headed ones. As soon as he comes to that realisation, Blackbeard starts to wonder why the hell they decided to tag along with Bonnet – something terrible must have happened to each of them. They seem close, which makes a great deal of sense since conversation with almost any of the others must be like teaching an infant class to either of them. The fact that Jim is mute, therefore, says a lot about the others.

Then there's the general lack of respect almost every one of them harbours for their captain. Lucius assures Blackbeard that it was far worse pre-Badminton, but it’s still nowhere near a level that Blackbeard would be comfortable with. The atmosphere onboard is still sour following Blackbeard's raid. It's clear that Bonnet took no advice from the crew when he decided to hang around waiting to be attacked, and the fact that none of them lost their lives doesn't mitigate the fact that any of them could have. Blackbeard rarely sees any of them spending much time with him. Lucius does so out of duty, taking notes whenever Bonnet's taken over by hubris and is waxing lyrical on-deck. It's as though he thinks his prattling will impress the crew, though thus far it hasn't worked enough to persuade any of them to take him seriously. In fact, Blackbeard has heard more than one snide remark in barely-lowered voices, and once he walked in on Wee John doing a surprisingly accurate Stede Bonnet impression for comedic effect. He wasn't a bad actor, actually. It's important to keep track of the talent within a crew. Sometimes it's necessary to get creative to avoid trouble.

His creativity is likely to be put to the test here. He’s mulling it over one evening, watching the sun sink below the horizon from the stern, where he’s been left alone for a minute or two. Thinking time is a lot more difficult to come by on the Revenge.

Between the lot of them you could probably just about assemble one person's worth of brainpower: two at a push. He'd try to be more generous but even the likes of people like Oluwande or Frenchie can be rather dense about certain things. It's as though if everyone were too sharp they might poke holes in the ship.

It's crossed his mind that this might even be why Bonnet recruited them all. He's rich; his family’s household had had staff, for God's sake. The household he left behind will no doubt have had them, too. Blackbeard doesn't know anything about his life between their last meeting on the beach and their current voyage but he'd put money on him never having had a job. He doesn't know the first thing about hard work, but he does know about wielding power – even if he isn't very good at it. That has to be why his crew is made up of the most randomly assembled people Blackbeard has ever seen, rather than a carefully curated collection.

There are so many of them, too. If he could guarantee they might have the time undisturbed he might consider a personalised programme for each of them. Jim would be a good place to start. He doesn't speak, no, but they might be able to work with him to create a communication system that might give them an advantage in raids. At least Jim's combat skills are pretty well-developed: the same can't be said for ... well, any of the rest of them. Fang and Ivan could run classes, covering all sorts of styles until each person found the one that worked best for them. Scream and run away is the most likely strategy for survival right now. He'd concede that they're all quite new to this, but he'd been new to this once upon a time. He'd thrown himself headfirst into piracy, and if he ever needed an outlet for his terror after the fact he’d found it in some shady, smelly corner of The Mary with Jack.

There is something going on between Lucius and Pete. It's not something he's got a mere sneaking suspicion about – they flaunt it, no shame whatsoever. It's a far cry from the furtive nighttime activities Blackbeard's used to, when people knew things were going on but they were never spoken about and rarely acknowledged, especially not if stumbled upon by accident. It's difficult to find tenderness at sea but it's even more difficult to admit that you want it. These two, though ... it's nice, even if it is obnoxious. They're doing it because they like one another. They want to. If they were living a more humdrum life on land they'd still be into it.

Maybe that's what's at play here, too. Maybe there's someone in this crazy collection who Bonnet finds preferable to a wife.

No, Blackbeard thinks. He rubs his temples, growling to himself.

'Stop mind-reading. Stop ... filling in the blanks. You don't know what's happened and you don't need to know –’

'I dunno what you want with him.'

Blackbeard starts: it takes everything he has not to draw his musket, and he's glad he manages it. Lucius, the owner of the voice, is the most likely to have shat himself if threatened with a weapon, and Blackbeard can't be arsed to manage that right now. You wouldn't think he was such a wimp to look at him now, though, all folded arms and smouldering eyes. It's probably taken a lot for him to even approach Blackbeard. For that, he does deserve a bit of respect.

He's also making a good point.

'D'you know what? I dunno either,' Blackbeard says, and he jerks his head in invitation. Lucius seems surprised: after a second of consideration, though, he sidles over to join him.

'Yeah ... I think that's true. But I also think you'll work it out, in time.' He gives Blackbeard a smile that's probably not meant to be threatening, but Blackbeard's unsettled by it even so. 

'Look. I don't know how you two knew one another. If Pete weren't full of shit I would ask him what he knows about your history, but I'm not about to ask Captain Bonnet – or you, for that matter. But we've all been saying that the two of you need to have a proper conversation about whatever the hell it is that you need to have a proper conversation about. The tension's a fucking nightmare, poor Swede's so on edge he sways when he walks.'

Lucius may be a snooping little pest, but even so there's no way he'd dare come to Blackbeard with something like this if it weren't demonstrably true. And now he's thinking about it, Blackbeard knows there's an atmosphere. He does anything he can to avoid being alone with Bonnet, which isn't easy when just a few days ago he’d agreed to give him some piracy tips. It was stupid of him to think it wouldn't have an effect on the others.

'Could you guarantee us some privacy?' Blackbeard says, raising one meaningful eyebrow. He suspects he might be able to ask this of Lucius – he is one of the slightly more switched on crew members – and he does nod.

'You just tell us where and when and I'll sort something out.'

*

If one of Lucius' valuable skills is creating a diversion, Blackbeard supposes it's best to put it to the test in a situation like this one before entrusting him with it when they're under real threat.

Now that the idea has been planted, he can't bear to wait any longer. There have been one or two too many brushes past Bonnet while avoiding his eyes to ignore, and having had it pointed out by a member of the crew the awareness that other people will be noticing and whispering and judging makes him feel a bit sick when he thinks too hard about it. It's only the day after his brief encounter with Lucius that he gives him the nod, knowing Bonnet is holed up in his cabin making some plan or other – or at least pretending to. He can't imagine Bonnet has enough initiative to have any real strategies in mind.

Lucius' idea of a distraction was a wrestling tournament, which sounded insane at first but very quickly seemed to fit the atmosphere of the ship. Although Blackbeard doesn’t stick around long enough to observe it play out, he does notice Izzy’s furtive interest before he slinks off to Bonnet’s cabin.

Bonnet is indeed sitting at his desk, with a map spread out on the table before him. A glass of rum sits on one corner, though the amount left would barely wet a mouse's paw. A half-empty bottle acts as corroborating evidence.

Bonnet seems sharp enough when he raises his head, though. He doesn't show any signs of surprise to see who's disturbed his peace, giving a nod that Blackbeard takes as an invitation to come further into the cabin. The light is flickering, coming as it is from multiple candles scattered all around – they're illuminating masses of bookshelves, and the idea of naked flames and paper sitting so cosily together is too unsettling to linger on when he's already unsettled as hell.

'All right?' he says, the closest thing to a greeting he can manage when the two of them are all too aware that they've been avoiding even that nicety for such a long time. When Bonnet doesn't respond immediately Blackbeard hooks his thumbs into his waistband, peering around at the place. It's only now that he realises he's not been in here before – why would he have? If he couldn't feel the motion beneath his boots he'd be convinced that he was standing in a bedroom in a manor house. The Carmodys might have slept somewhere like this. It must have taken an age for Stede to deck out – everything is shelving and draped fabrics and atmospheric lighting, beauty rather than pragmatism. The only thing in here that's remotely useful for seafaring, in fact, is the map. The rest of it is a total waste of space.

And it's fascinating.

'I ... erm.' He tries again, taking a couple of tiny steps towards the table as Bonnet watches him. 'I dunno what's got into the others. There's a bit of a frenzy up on deck, I ... I just left them to it. They're like schoolkids, aren't they?'

The airy chuckle he lets out is misjudged. Pretending to laugh after days of nothing but frost ... God. He shakes his head immediately at his idiocy, and he notices Bonnet's lips twitch.

'What are you doing here, Ed?' he says.

Blackbeard's so happy he isn't being told to fuck off that he doesn't bother to admonish Bonnet for the uncomfortable use of his name.

'I just thought that ... maybe we need to have a chat about how this ship is going to work while there are two separate crews on board. That's all.'

'Hmm. That does seem like quite a fundamental thing to discuss when two pirate captains come together. It's taken you quite a while to broach the subject.'

'And you could just as easily have brought it up yourself. Funny how neither of us did, though, isn't it?'

Bonnet presses his lips together, staring down at his map. Blackbeard notices that he's plotted their position some fifty nautical miles west of where the Revenge is actually cruising, off the coast of Antigua, but now doesn't seem like the time to point this out.

'Let's not pretend we haven't been avoiding one another,' Bonnet says on raising his head. He gazes up at Blackbeard as though he considers him in need of a gentle telling-off before his behaviour escalates, though there's a sheepish quality to his small smile that keeps Blackbeard from wanting to smack him one. 'Is this why you've come down here? To clear the air?'

'Huh. You've seen right through me.' His thumbs are back in his waistband – his arms feel too long all of a sudden, and he doesn't know what else to do with them until he sees a spare seat beside Bonnet. Perhaps he'll feel less awkward if they're on the same level. He releases one hand to point to it. 'Can I –?'

'Oh – yes – of course.' Bonnet pulls a wooden chair out from beneath the table, and Blackbeard makes sure to shift it a couple of inches away from him before he sits down. He wants this to feel like nothing more or less than a business transaction, at least at first. That's the only way he knows how to speak to people. It's somewhat confusing when he and Bonnet both swivel to face one another at the same time, and he's reminded of a time when he was far more capable of letting his true feelings show.

He clears his throat.

'I just wanted to say that maybe we can both acknowledge that our behaviour has been petty, and a bad example to set to the crew,' he says. He isn't going to concede without dragging Bonnet down with him. 'And then once we've done that, we can discuss how to move forward as a dual crew. I don't want to step on your toes – if I'm honest, I think it's important that you steer things, at least in front of them. They need to see you get comfortable with your power, and maybe implement some consequences. You let them get away with too much shitty behaviour.'

He clears his throat again, a physical full stop – if he gets started he could go on and on for hours, after all, such is the mess Bonnet's crew are in. But that's not his opening gambit, and while Bonnet looks a little uncomfortable at being called out he does at least nod.

'Yes. I'm sure I've been petty, too. Now you mention it I must have been embarrassing myself in front of my men when they already think so little of me. Stupid, really.'

'It's OK. If you're aware of it you can change.' He sounds like a teacher, which is admittedly more or less what he is right now. Even still, it doesn't sit well with him. 'Look, I know things have been moving slowly but I don't want to rush into anything before I think you’re all ready. It would be amazing if some tiny sloop could rumble past us for me to demonstrate some technique, but we aren't going to be that lucky. We'll be able to show you some stuff in the meantime. But a proper opportunity will present itself sooner or later.'

'It's OK. I wasn't worried about any of that. I trust you.'

You shouldn't is worryingly close to being said aloud. Blackbeard contents himself with a tight smile. It was an instinctive thing, that was all. He doesn't plan on screwing Bonnet over. He doesn't.

‘Look, I’m sorry about … what I said,’ says Blackbeard. ‘You were right. It wasn’t on.’ 

‘Oh, I don’t know. You did once tell me that punching up was perfectly reasonable.’ 

Blackbeard shrugs with one shoulder. ‘Not like that. I wasn’t trying to make a valid point, I was just being a dick. I really am sorry. If you want to call out someone's behaviour you should do that instead of resorting to insults. Insults are for effect, or for drunken fights. Hey, maybe we should try one of those sometime. Might loosen you up a bit. You are still quite uptight, you know. There's no room for that on the high seas.'

'You know how I get when I drink,' Bonnet says, in a very small voice.

He's smiling, but he's directing it at his lap rather than at Blackbeard, and there's a strange moment where a sort of montage flashes through Blackbeard's consciousness: of a beach, of outfits that were supposed to resemble those of pirates, of unwelcome bullies; and a tentative, but determined, kiss.

'I'm sorry too,' Bonnet says. ‘For everything. For all the times you felt inferior back then, but especially for the last time I saw you. I wish I’d never made it so we had to say goodbye.’ 

It had hardly been a goodbye, though. Bonnet’s being very polite. Spat-out curses and tears and screaming before Blackbeard, worried that he’d turn the conversation into a fist fight, had stormed away to rejoin the people he’d just about decided he could call his family only to find they’d abandoned him. Talk about inferior – he’d never felt so low in all his life, and that included the moment he’d read the letter that had informed him of his mother’s death. 

‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long for us to see one another again,’ Bonnet says. He must have been thinking things over, too. 

‘Hm. I suppose at least you proactively went to sea already suspecting that I might also be doing that.’ 

‘And you proactively sought me out.’ 

‘Yeah, because I wanted to find out what the hell this gentleman maniac was playing at. I had no idea it was you, remember?’ It seems strange to think about that now. He chuckles gently to himself, then feels his cheeks flush: had Bonnet heard? He doesn’t want to sound like he’s gone soft already. ‘Although maybe I should’ve. Who the fuck else would’ve killed the likes of Nigel Badminton, eh?’

Bonnet isn’t shy about his own resigned laughter. 

‘I’m not subtle, I’ll give you that,’ he says. ‘I never have been. I think that’s a good quality out here, though. It sends your reputation out across the waves ahead of you like a sinister sort of … tender, and you set the tone you want. Look at you, and your … smoky beard …’

‘I must’ve learned my theatrics from you and the other aristocrats, I suppose.’ Blackbeard’s fingers go instinctively to his beard, the way they often do when he’s pondering something. He doesn’t make the connection until Bonnet laughs again, and he whips his hand away – but he knows his beard is twitching with a genuine smile now. 

‘I can’t get used to it,’ Bonnet says. ‘I can’t remember what your actual face looks like. There could be anything under there.’ 

‘I’m probably a lot uglier than you remember. I’ve aged, you know. Mind you, so have you, and you’re wearing it well – I do love the outfit.’

‘Thank you. I did wonder whether bringing my entire wardrobe might slow me down, but I’m building a brand and I think it’s working. You found me, at any rate.’ 

Blackbeard sighs. He hadn’t exactly been looking, but nor can he deny this. It doesn’t matter that it was Bonnet’s incompetence that had drawn him in: all that matters is that something did.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t half as brave as I should’ve been back then,’ Bonnet says. ‘I only realised the irony of the whole thing after you left. You came all the way over to Barbados, from England, without your mother, to try to earn the money to build a better life for you both after you literally killed your bastard of a father, and I had the gall to stand in front of you after – well, what we’d just done –’ 

Blackbeard’s been wondering whether Bonnet would bring that up. He’d wondered whether he might do it himself, in fact. The mere mention of it, euphemistic though it is, coats his skin in some strange sensation like frothing sea foam on the shore. 

‘– and tell you that I was too scared to tell my father I didn’t want to get married. You were right. I wasn’t a child any more but I’d’ve fooled anyone with my total lack of spine. You taught me better, Ed – sorry. Not a day went by where I didn’t wonder what might have happened if I’d taken my life into my own hands, until the day I did.’ 

It’s a drastic change of heart. It would have been much easier to have said no to the match back when Blackbeard had urged him to: the guts it had taken to run away when the dishonour had been far more personal absolutely dwarfed the guts it would have taken to simply follow his heart once upon a time. Spineless once, maybe, but he might have become something more akin to a sperm whale in the intervening years – years which, Blackbeard feels he must admit to himself, he knows nothing about, and should stop trying to fill in with assumptions.

‘I have two children,’ says Stede evenly.

It almost sounds as though it’s part of a separate conversation.

‘What?’

Stede nods. 

‘I know. I didn’t think I had it in me, either.’ He laughs again, but there isn’t an iota of humour in it. The only comparable experience to such a revelation that Blackbeard can bring to mind is the hopelessness of leaving his mother, but at least he’d done so with her consent, and nor had she been his dependent. This pain must have crushed Stede. ‘It just happens when you’re married, whether you enjoy it or not.’

‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

Fucking hell. The man’s opening up – pouring his heart out, possibly for the first time in years – and Blackbeard’s getting turned on. What the hell is wrong with him? 

‘So it might look great from this end,’ Stede says. He draws himself up a little taller, clearing his throat. ‘Aristocrat abandons life of privilege in order to make something of himself from the bottom up, or whatever you want to say. But I’ve left behind three people I was supposed to care for.’

When Stede phrases it like that, it’s probably the least courageous thing Blackbeard has ever heard. Lingering lust wisps away as he pictures it. To abandon one’s family is one thing, but when your family is made up entirely of a woman and children … sure, he’d left them plenty of money, but what about the shame? Unwed mothers had been pariahs back home so long as they weren’t unwed due to bereavement. It might well have been kinder to have faked his death. It was an extreme idea, maybe. But all of a sudden, Blackbeard’s imagining the life he might have lived had Stede faked his death a very long time ago instead. 

‘You left behind one person you were supposed to care for before,’ he says quietly.

He isn’t even sure Stede’s heard him at first. There’s enough ruckus coming from the wind and the sea and the wrestling tournament that his whisper could have been lost, and he wonders whether he might have meant for it to. If Stede had asked him to repeat himself he didn’t think he’d have been able to.

But he doesn’t. He just looks over at Blackbeard sadly, and Blackbeard can see the memories rearranging his features the way they often do his own.

‘Then I’ve always had it in me,’ Stede says.

There isn’t a doubt that the ability to just up and leave any situation when it’s called for is a good quality in piracy. Blackbeard can’t find it in him to say anything like that, however. He just claps Stede on the shoulder, turns away, and heads back to his cabin. He’s ready for a good, long sleep. Once he gets there, though, among all of the recollections of life before Stede’s marriage, his mind can’t seem to find the time.

Chapter Text

Inspiration strikes Blackbeard not long afterwards. It might be due to the improvement in atmosphere on the ship since he had that deep conversation with Stede – being less stressed has always been conducive to being able to think straight – but it might also have something to do with their position close to the Leeward Islands.

It’s a silly idea, the stuff of children's stories rather than anything remotely pirate-like. It's a good thing Blackbeard's sick of the usual pirate life: and it isn't as though this lot are anywhere near ready for anything proper, anyway.

Even still, it's worth running past his crew. His actual crew. He needs to remember that he's only here as a favour to Stede, and he has no real power over his men other than the inherent power that comes from being that magical combination of feared and revered. He checks with Stede whether his room is free, and asks that he be allowed some time to discuss an important matter in private with his crew. He knows, somehow, that Stede will permit it now without a fuss, and he's right. His happiness is short-lived, however, when he, Izzy, Ivan and Fang are tucked safely away from the perpetual chaos on deck, and he finds the three of them looking at them the way they might have been had he announced that he was retiring to become a fisherman.

It's not unexpected, he supposes. But he sighs even so, folding his arms and taking a moment to observe them.

'Before you say anything,' he says, 'I have a plan. All right? So you can save it.'

Izzy grunts; no one else makes a sound.

'We're not far from the Leeward Islands,' Blackbeard says. 'Where there's a naval base. Correct?'

He stares at them, one by one. When no one replies he runs along the line again, eyes narrowed, physically bending forward so that he's closer to them all. The first to crack is, predictably, Fang; Izzy rolls his eyes.

'Correct, boss,' says Fang, and Blackbeard gives him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. 'On Antigua.'

'You'd better not be suggesting –' says Izzy, but Blackbeard holds up a hand to silence him.

'You don't know what I'm suggesting. Stop passing judgement,’ Blackbeard says. Izzy's probably lashing out from the jealousy. Seeing Blackbeard touch Fang was likely too much for him. 'I'm not intending on following in Stede's footsteps and killing a naval officer out of petty revenge, don't you worry, Iz. No, all I need from them is a few of their outfits.'

He says this with the audio equivalent of a flourish. When nobody reacts with anything other than silent puzzlement, he sighs.

'I happen to know that that particular division have training exercises on Thursday afternoons. With the wind the way it is, we ought to be able to get there late Thursday morning. Anyone still around their barracks will be dealt with. I'm thinking Lucius might be able to feign some danger or something like that, but I'll work out the finer details later. I was hoping some of you might have been fraternising and the like, gathering intelligence about the crew. I'm still not sure what use some of them will be. Anyway, someone is going to break into their great big wardrobe and scout out a few of their uniforms that might fit some of us. It'll shake things up a bit, not knowing who's going to be able to wear them. They'll have to look proper in order for us to pull this off, no dangling sleeves or popping buttons. Then, the next juicy-looking vessel we come across will enjoy a boarding from the Navy – or so they think. This ship is stunning, and it's unfamiliar. It could easily pass as a ship of the Crown to the uninitiated.'

He's been thinking this over for a while. He's proud of it – in fact, it's so straightforward he's surprised he hasn't done it before, but perhaps that's a sign of his shifted mindset. The default position in the past has always been to go in all guns blazing, with craftiness deployed if necessary rather than using it as an opening gambit. He's disappointed then that the others don't immediately shower him with praise.

‘I don’t know whether they’re advanced enough for that,’ says Fang. ‘The other day the kitchen guy thought Izzy’s cat o’ nine tails was a live snake, just because it moved a bit when the Swede tripped over it.’

‘At least he knows how to use a knife,’ says Ivan. ‘Unlike some of them. I still think their captain’s playacting. I keep expecting him to turn the ship around and announce he’s going home for his tea.’

‘This is the thing, this is exactly what I’m talking about,’ says Blackbeard. ‘They’re idiots. Yes. But they’ll stay idiots unless we intervene, so at some point we’re going to need to get them more involved.’

Fang and Ivan look at one another.

‘Yeah, we’ve been talking about that, boss,’ says Ivan. ‘Why is it you even want to get them involved at all? We’re surprised you haven’t had us murder the lot of them already.’

For Christ’s sake, not them as well … Ivan’s motivated almost completely by bloodlust, so it does make sense coming from him, but Fang? This has to be the result of Izzy’s prodding and poking. Fang wouldn’t be able to bring himself to bat a shark out of the way if it had its jaws clamped on his head.

So whatever Blackbeard says next is going to be pulled apart by the three of them, too – which means he’s going to have to be very careful.

‘Do you think that us versus them would be a fair fight?’ he says. Neither man says anything in response – he waits a moment, cocking his head to demonstrate that he wants an answer, and they almost rumble in their sudden rush to comply.

‘Oh – no, boss, not at all –’

‘– like taking candy from a baby.’

‘Exactly. So there would be no honour whatsoever in butchering them, or even stealing from them. They’re far too pathetic to make worthy opponents.’

‘What about Jim?’ says Ivan, his usual cockiness back. ‘I wouldn’t fancy taking him on, would you?’

‘Then shut your mouth and don’t make me make you take him on,’ Blackbeard says evenly. ‘My point still stands. Jim’s an outlier – if you average that crew out, they’ve got about as much fighting power as a piece of seaweed, and not the kind that stops you breathing properly if you touch it. It wouldn’t just be dishonourable to kill them, it’d be cruel.’

‘And I suppose we wouldn’t even get anything out of it, would we?’ says Fang. ‘They aren’t competent enough to have stolen much yet.’

‘Yeah … yeah, exactly, and the Navy’ll be out to get ’em, too, after he took one of their own,’ Ivan adds. ‘Might as well just let that take its course. No point in making work for ourselves.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ says Blackbeard, giving Ivan a clap on the shoulder. ‘Could do with you three helping them sharpen some of their combat skills a bit more, then, just in case. What do you reckon?’

They’re just starting to get excited about this idea, and Blackbeard thinks he might have won insofar as it’s possible to win a conversation like this one, when Izzy clears his throat.

'Before we do anything else, I need a word with you.'

Fang and Ivan recognise a dismissal when they hear one: they mutter something about planning their combat lessons before shuffling off, and Blackbeard's left with only Izzy before him. His hands are on his hips, and he's very close to smiling.

'Will this take long? I need to do a bit of planning,' Blackbeard says, and Izzy shakes his head.

'I just noticed something, that's all. Thought I'd check whether you were aware of it.' He pauses, presumably for effect. 'You're calling him by his first name now.'

'Who?'

Izzy definitely is smiling now.

'So you've not noticed, then,' he says. 'Who d'you think? Bonnet. You've reverted back to thinking about him the way you thought about him before, not the way you ought to be thinking about him now.'

There's no way Izzy could know the nature of he and Stede's relationship back in Barbados. He isn't making any specific dig other than something around the general malaise he feels about Stede's incompetence. But the rage that flares up within Backbeard’s stomach at Izzy's words is so hard to contain that he has to turn fully away from Izzy for a moment to calm himself, staring up at the clouds and breathing so hard he'd be surprised if Izzy couldn't hear the air whistling through his nose hairs.

'No,' he said. 'It's force of habit. Nothing more.'

The stupid thing is, that really is it. He’d known Stede for a long time and they’d called one another by their first names. It was almost more effort to think of him as Bonnet. Stede came naturally. He can't pinpoint the moment it shifted in his mind, it was just a reversion to a tried and true mode of address. It's the association that stings, the fact that talking about Stede is to talk about a past life that's so far removed from the life he lives now that it might as well exist between the covers of a book.

'I'm just saying,' Izzy says.

'And I'm just saying. I call you Izzy, don't I?'

Finally, he turns back to him, if only to see the look on his face. He doesn’t look as though he knows what’s been said, trying to work out how what Blackbeard’s assertion relates to what he’s tried to accuse Blackbeard of. Blackbeard uses the momentary confusion to slink back to the others, claiming this mentally as a win.

He's been mixed up in his own emotions about this whole thing for far too long, and the dust is only just starting to settle after his conversation with Stede. These other men need his help. If they're anything like him, and of course they are, no one does this for fun, they were forced into piracy by circumstance, and they need someone to help them survive the lifestyle. Someone whose life story was a lot more like theirs than Stede Bonnet's ever could be. He can tell from looking at every single one of the crew that none of them has ever known the mere touch of the lush soaps Stede will have left behind, let alone owned an indoor bathtub. It's not only his reputation that's going to capture their attention, it's the background they all share. For once, he can use this to his advantage, rather than having it attract dissent.

'Right,' he says. 'Buttons – in which direction is the wind blowing this morning?'

‘The wind is blowing from the south, sir.’

'Excellent. That means we can head north east very easily. What's the date today, boy?'

He points at Lucius, who looks at him as though he's been asked what colour the sky is. 'The tenth.'

It's irritating how unfazed Lucius, among others, has already become. It's not a feeling he's proud of but Blackbeard would appreciate at least a little bit of reverence now and again, especially as this guy had been reduced to the biggest wreck of the lot of them when he and his crew had first boarded the ship.

'It is indeed. Which means that tomorrow, the division stationed at Antigua is on a training exercise.' The expressions before him are of confusion rather than comprehension, and he allows himself a calming breath before launching into his explanation. ‘I need you all to listen to me, so you understand what I want us all to do, OK? You can’t be proper pirates without doing stuff that proper pirates too, but stuff that proper pirates do is dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. We’re stuck in a bit of a vicious circle here. So I thought that I might be able to lessen the threat of your first robbery by lessening the apparent threat we pose - ships have to comply if they’re boarded by the Navy, right? So we’re gonna pretend to be the Navy. For once, my flag won’t give anyone an early warning. The Revenge has an advantage in that it doesn’t appear to be a pirate ship, and it’ll be unfamiliar to most sailors. That’ll change with time if you play your cards right. For now, though, we can play with that. What else do you think we might need for a charade like this, though?’

He should have put money on Pete calling out first, because he does, within two seconds. ‘Their uniforms, sir!’

‘Exactly. Well done. If we have a smart ship, all we need to complete the look are smart uniforms. And that’s what we’re gonna steal from the base.’

He’s surprised by how much excitement there seems to be among the crew at this: it’s not everyone, and it’s not outlandish, but it’s there. One of the few people it’s passed by is Stede, who suddenly looks as though he might be sick. Blackbeard will deal with that later. For now, he needs to ride the modest momentum he’s created.

Another is Lucius. Blackbeard could have predicted as much.

‘And that’s the master plan of the Dread Pirate Blackbeard, is it?’ he says, in that same bored voice.

‘I hope you’re writing all of this down?’ Blackbeard says. It’s nothing more than an attempt to deflect from this disrespect - he can see that Lucius is indeed scrawling, he just wants to assert a bit more dominance. Who does he think he is to try to undermine him, anyway? ‘If you’ve been in this game as long as I have you’ll learn that not only to people get wise to the same old methods, but you get bored of them, too. You have to make your own entertainment. You might as well make it out of your job.’

They set a course and Blackbeard oversees it all, making sure that any silly mistakes are rectified immediately and lessons are learned. To his mild surprise nobody pushes back against him if he interferes: in fact, he might even go so far as to say they're flattered to be corrected by him. Learning from the actual Blackbeard might indeed be something to be proud of. It's hard to imagine his own legend. He, of course, can't see the wood for the trees.

Some of them are somewhat competent, too. He doesn't need to say anything to Olu or Jim, so he just gives them what he assumes are friendly thumbs-ups. There'll be other tricks he can teach them at some other point, most likely. At least for the time being they can sort of oversee everything, and he treats himself to a moment of peace at the bow, allowing the wind to rouse him and hoping that everyone, Israel Hands included, recognises this need.

*

They approach Antigua close to the time when Blackbeard had planned for them to. Had he been on the Queen Anne's Revenge it would have been more precise, but he'll take this with an unfamiliar ship and an unfamiliar crew. It's still just as easy to moor the ship out of sight and disembark, though he does feel overstaffed observing the assembled masses before him. It's even clear in the way they stand. Any stranger happening upon them would hazard a guess that Izzy were in charge based only on his commanding stature; Fang and Ivan aren't far behind, though admittedly Fang is entranced by a couple of birds frolicking on the shore. But the others? Stede hasn't exactly fostered a culture of respect, and it's more like looking at a gang of schoolboys who have been hauled in front of their headteacher for scrumping apples than anything resembling a pirate crew. Any optimism Blackbeard had felt during their successful voyage over was washed away by the tide.

'Right,' he says – an empty opener designed to gear himself up more than anyone else. 'We need to ensure that anyone left on-site is thoroughly out of the way so a few of us can scout out the storage units and grab as many uniforms as possible. Lucius, that's where you come in.' Lucius nods deeply, smirking with the pride of being singled out for an important job and giving considerable credence to the schoolboy analogy as he does so. 'You need to create some sort of danger elsewhere - you’re going to set a fire. Swede and Roach, I want you with him as lookouts, and on guard in case the fire gets out of hand. It shouldn’t, but …’ He doesn’t know how to end that sentence without insulting Lucius, so he doesn’t end it. ‘Fang. Ivan. You'll take Pete, Jim and Oluwande into the buildings, and you'll have a look for the uniforms. OK?'

Pete is naturally the most enthusiastic about this. Blackbeard's Peter-esque denial of Pete hasn't dampened his affection as much as he might have hoped, but at least right now it's more of a help than a hindrance.

'What jobs are you setting aside for the likes of us, Captain?' says Buttons. It's strange how seasoned he can sound when he speaks, and how that doesn't remotely translate into any kind of useful skill – at least not for situations like this one. 'It almost seems to me like there are too many men for too few roles here.'

Stede, standing beside Blackbeard, is frowning. It takes Blackbeard a moment to realise that he's disappointed to have heard his own man call someone else "captain".

'Well, that's why I'm the captain and you aren't,' he says, staring straight ahead so he can't see Stede's reaction to this. It doesn't help, though. He hears a barely-disguised hmph. 'There are various points around the premises where undesirables could interrupt from, and all of those points will need diligent, reliable people manning them and ready to sound the alarm in a covert way so they can keep everyone else safe. The operation wouldn't be able to come off if not for the safety net they provide, and their failure could mean literal death for their crew mates. This is therefore an excellent team-building exercise. Buttons, you’re going to stay here at the ship. If anyone stumbles across it they'll wonder where on Earth it came from, and investigate. You may have time to take them out, and maybe send Karl out to the others, before things have a chance to escalate. Frenchie and John ...' He trusts the two of them considerably more than Buttons, which is why he's chosen an area much more likely to attract trouble than an out-of-the-way, well-hidden ship. 'You'll need to keep concealed, but I need you near the main entrance. Iz, I can trust you alone, right? Keep a steady march around the perimeter, I know you'll stay in the shadows. Stede and I are going to cover the back. I think the likelihood of anyone returning early is low, and if they do it won't be a whole lot of them at once, but we ought to take every possible precaution. Is there anyone who doesn't have a job?'

Everyone shakes their heads.

'Excellent. We'll reconvene here – lads, when you have the uniforms and you're safely out, make seagull calls. If you get into any bother, make … albatross calls. That's the same for anyone who needs to get the attention of anyone else.'

In truth, he doesn't suspect anything will go wrong. It's a mission that ought to take a matter of minutes, and they've got free reign over the site. This is naturally why he's chosen it for them to partake in before anything else – when it goes off without a hitch, the confidence boost it'll inject into the crew will be invaluable for whatever comes next.

It's Izzy who's the most hesitant to get into position. He hangs around reiterating Blackbeard's orders in an unnecessary barking tone until it's only he, Stede and Blackbeard left, and when Blackbeard and Stede start to walk to their position, he trails behind them, leaving a few yards of slack that's perhaps an attempt to not look as though he's following them both. It fails, of course. It's also, more than likely, the reason Stede hasn't spoken two words since Blackbeard sent everyone on their way.

'Izzy?'

He turns around, and it's more obvious than ever that Izzy's trying to stick by him when instead of carrying on walking, he freezes as though Blackbeard has pulled his musket on him rather than simply said his name.

'What is it, boss?'

'Nothing. I just wondered if you'd mind terribly checking in on Wee John and Frenchie? Just make sure they know where they're supposed to be before you get started. I know you've been here before, that's all.'

Flawless logic. Izzy can't protest, and doesn't, though his face is having a bloody good go. More than this, Blackbeard can’t help but smile when Stede’s betrays the deepest relief. Once Izzy has made himself scarce, however, they continue in silence. Blackbeard had expected something along the line of a happy sigh at Izzy’s exit followed by a stream of excited babble, but nothing comes.

‘You all right?’ he says. He needs to say something. The quiet between them is unsettling.

‘Yes,’ Stede says slowly. He’s looking around at the island landscape as though expecting wild animals to come bursting from within the trees, drooling from gnashing teeth. ‘I just … well, it’s a bit like old times, this, isn’t it? You and I, up to our old tricks. Getting into scrapes, that sort of thing.’

‘I don’t know if you’re remembering different times from me, but I don’t think you and I got into all that many scrapes,’ says Blackbeard. ‘Back then, teaching one another things mostly happened safely in the courtyard of the school. Even our fights were playacting.’

‘Oh, I know. But you and I likely have very different definitions of scrapes, as you would have been wont to point out had we been having this conversation back then. So in my memory, smacking Badminton in the face was very much a scrape, even if you wouldn’t call it that yourself.’

‘Hm. Yeah, all right. I suppose what I would call a scrape would be something more along the lines of smacking him on the opposite side of his head and accidentally causing his death – have you been up to anything like that?’

He was, of course, joking – even still, it pleasantly surprises him to hear Stede chuckle. He’d been expecting more of a shudder.

‘Do you think he deserved it? I’m still not sure he did. I mean, obviously he was a complete tosser as a youngster, but who’s to say he didn’t straighten up and fly right after we lost touch with him? He was only doing his job, after all.’

‘A job he chose because he’s a power-hungry bully, more than likely.’ It’s ironic that they’re approaching a building Badminton likely spent a lot of time in throughout his life, too. ‘But at the end of the day, we do all die. And I haven’t quite worked out what merits someone being deserving of it or not.’

It’s evident that this is not the answer Stede wants, and he doesn’t bother saying anything in response.

Chapter Text

It comes off only because there is nobody around. Blackbeard knows damn well there would have been complications had almost any of them run into a naval officer – they just got lucky. It isn’t long before they’re bundling armfuls of naval uniforms onto the Revenge, Stede’s crew agog and elated with their efforts and their success. This is what they need, even if it was a coincidence that they managed it.

The poor victims are the crew of a small ship with a cargo of molasses intended for Bristol. It's not something as valuable as proper sugar or the teas and coffees the British usually clamour for, so they're likely not expecting to be boarded as much as a larger ship might well be. It's important then that they don't cause any undue injury, and certainly no death – this will be something more like a fuckery than a raid. They might never know that the naval officers who confiscated their merchandise weren't legitimate. In fact, that would be Blackbeard's preferred outcome. It's also one of the reasons he won't even try on the uniforms.

'Look, my entire personality is built around this fucking beard, and I'm not about to shave it off now,' he says, when half of the crew look at him in pure horror after he admits he won't be as integral a part of the operation as they might have been expecting. 'If I go on that deck they will know exactly who I am and the whole thing will be a bust. No one's ever gonna believe I've surrendered to the Navy.'

'Of course they're not,' Stede says. Blackbeard can tell he's disappointed, too, but his attempt at rousing his crew despite what they're viewing as a setback is admirable. 'Blackbeard has plenty of experience doing things like this. It's  us  who need to have a go this time. That's the whole point.'

'Well, I can't find a single uniform that's gonna fit me,' says Wee John.

'I warned you this might happen. Men aren't homogeneously sized. It's going to be more of a lottery.'

'This one will fit me,' Swede says. He's beaming as he holds a uniform against his chest, and in all fairness it does look like it might be a comfortable fit – there is another problem, however.

'Sorry, Swede. I don't think you're going to be able to join in with this one.'

'But why not?'

He's met with the stares of all of his crewmates; not to mention the glare of Izzy.

'Your hair, you idiot,' says Fang. It’s not vicious, though, and the warmth in his voice heartens Blackbeard. Perhaps there's been all sorts of integration going on behind his back, games of cards and chit-chat and the like.

'And what is wrong with my hair?' he says, twirling fingers through a lock that’s about as shiny as you can get when you live on a ship. Maybe he breaks into Stede’s chambers when he isn’t looking to pinch the odd drop of his hair oil.

'Nah, he's right. There's no one in the entire Navy allowed hair like that,' Frenchie says. 'I think that's gonna be pretty difficult to hide, to be honest. Maybe that outfit would fit Jim. And actually, if I was going to choose someone to send onto that ship and keep their cool, it would be Jim anyway.'

There are murmurs of agreement, people looking at one another and nodding, and for a change Blackbeard fully understands where they're coming from. They may be a bit pathetic but at least they recognise that, not throwing themselves into certain death and depending on those with a bit more gumption. It's only Jim who doesn't seem as keen on this idea as anyone else, although Olu is keeping his face deliberately tight in what looks to be an attempt at nonchalance.

'Come on, Jim. Get it tried on,' says Stede brightly, but Jim shakes his head.

'Erm – I don't think Jim's very well, actually. No. I heard him in the privy earlier, it sounded like he has explosive diarrhoea. You don't want that anywhere near a clean, pressed suit,' says Olu.

It has every hallmark of a lie, not least the nasty look Jim gives him after he finishes speaking. Stede's the first to speak, though – he's noticed it too, so perhaps he isn't as ignorant as Blackbeard has thought of late.

'Oh, come on, Jim! I'm sure this would be a great experience for you. I was even thinking you could maybe lead the charge ... with someone else doing the talking, of course. You'd be so good at this, and a cool head if things get rough. Don't you think?'

Olu’s on it. 'No, I really don't think so. I think he'd be pretty bad at it, if I'm honest. He's strong and violent but he isn't that good at being rational, I don't think I'd believe him as some kind of naval type ... person.'

Olu's over-denial is getting tedious, and even Jim looks about ready to stab him. Stede, too, is simmering. Blackbeard isn’t sure he’s capable of true anger; the righteous sort, maybe. But he’s getting close now.

‘Olu, will you pipe down for a second?’ he says firmly. ‘I’m the captain around here, and I’m giving the orders. Now Jim – go and try on that suit.’

Good. He’s exercising his authority, which is all Blackbeard really needs from him at the moment. It would be useful to have Jim’s level head as part of this operation, and he’s pleased that Stede can appreciate that and is making moves to try to facilitate it.

‘No.’

There's a collective intake of breath that seems to stir the very air around them. The voice that just came out of Jim is not only a surprise because it exists – it's also distinctly higher-pitched than Blackbeard would have expected from a man. There are several tense seconds where nobody quite knows what to say, and in which thoughts can be processed. Jim's loose outfits. Jim's excessive facial hair. Jim's elective silence. If Jim were to be a woman who had disguised herself in order to join a pirate crew, it would make a strange sort of sense. Indeed, Jim is staring around at everyone with a resigned frown. There's one final surprise in store when he reaches up to peel his nose from his face. Somewhere to Blackbeard's right, Lucius retches. But it’s nothing more than wax: the real nose sits underneath, somewhat more delicate and shapely.

'And now maybe you can all see why I didn't want to take my clothes off in front of you. Although frankly taking your clothes off in front of the entire crew isn't most people's bag anyway. We aren't all Lucius.'

Had this been aimed at anyone else, they might have been offended. Lucius, though, merely shrugs, safely over his bout of nausea.

'Aye, and we aren't all Jim either, apparently,' said Buttons. 'What have we to call you now, then?'

An expectant hush falls. Blackbeard realises that this includes his own men: on glancing around at them he finds them peering at Jim with just as much curiosity as anybody else, and he can't help but smile to himself.

'I don't fucking know,' Jim says. 'I didn't expect to be found out today so it's not as though I have an action plan. Can we talk about this later? I thought we were busy right now.'

Olu does the glaring now, ensuring everyone assembled feels ashamed of themselves. He's good at it, too: despite having not been involved in the initial interrogation that forced this confession out of Jim, Blackbeard's conscience is churning. It must have taken a hell of a lot of effort to maintain that deception and to hold one's own in such a vicious, masculine environment even before you considered the absolute drip of a captain who was supposedly leading you.

Still, it's a shame Jim won't fit properly into any of these nicely tailored outfits. His – because Blackbeard can't consider him anything other than a man, not yet, and it doesn't seem that Jim is keen to rush out of that mindset either – skills would have been pretty handy. Instead they end up with a company of five. Izzy, to his mixed horror and relief, leads the charge. At least he carries himself with the same dignity as a naval officer, or even captain, even if that dignity comes from a completely different internal source. Neither Fang nor Ivan could fit into anything, and though Blackbeard did find a uniform he was sure would be comfortable on him he delegated duties elsewhere. For a change, this isn't about him. Stede gets a uniform, as do Frenchie, Roach and Pete. It's as random an assortment as Blackbeard could have hoped for, but it doesn't prevent him from itching a little once they're all dressed and ready to go.

'You're military men now, not street urchins,' Izzy says. 'This isn't gonna work if you're slouching like schoolboys.'

The adjustment Roach makes to his spine is comical: it almost looks as though he's about to be pulled into the air on a string, and Blackbeard can't suppress a snort when he notices Izzy roll his eyes. He has a point. This does depend on their professionalism, and right now Roach isn't demonstrating anywhere near as much of that as is required, but sometimes simply seeing Izzy angry is a lovely release from the constant tension in which Blackbeard lives.

He can't even be mad that Izzy's trying to assume control. He just stands back and lets him tweak the crew into position, barking advice on facial expressions and postures and elocution. Stede has a head start here, and even Izzy can't find too much to insult about him. This was the sort of life he was born for, after all – in fact, was he ever earmarked for the Navy? Blackbeard felt sure he would have mentioned it by now if so. He might well have sank comfortably into inherited land without any need to work. That had been more or less the point of being married off to Mary following his suspension from his studies, after all. But then infinite possible lives could fit into the time Blackbeard hadn’t known him, and he does look a lot more comfortable in that uniform than any of the others do.

'Right. This shouldn't be complicated – all you need to do is get them to hand over the booty in a plausible way,' Blackbeard says, when Izzy has revelled in his moment. 'I'd go with something basic that can't easily be disputed, no need to go overboard. Roach, what do you think?'

'What about telling them it has been cursed?'

'What did I just say?' He shakes his head. 'Frenchie, give me something.'

'Erm ...' At least the hesitation might breed a slightly more considered answer. 'We could tell them that there's been an infestation of mealybugs and we think theirs might be affected?'

'Better, but I don't think the Navy would have much to do with that sort of quality control.'

'We could tell them that there are pirates in the area and we're confiscating it to be stored temporarily. For their protection?'

This comes from Stede, as a sort of over-excited squawk, and Blackbeard is pleasantly surprised.

'Audacious. I like it.' Even admitting that feels like deconstructing a barrier he isn't ready to let down yet, though. 'But it's up to you. I'm here to support, not dictate, and I'm not going to be there on that ship, so ... best of luck.'

He claps Izzy on the shoulder – he's not expecting it, and he stumbles.

'Not very naval of you, that. I'd work on your posture, Iz.'

Letting them go, even if it is under the command of the person he trusts most in the world (although the word "trust" doesn't quite mean the same thing at sea as it does on land) is tricky. These men are unlikely to be armed, and the crew do look respectable as they march along the gangplank with their shiny buttons and pressed trousers, but it's still a huge undertaking for people with so little experience.

Having Izzy at the helm is a good shout. He struts across the gangplank as though he's entering a party, ready to mingle and meet eligible singles. It's his confidence that inspires the others, and Blackbeard thinks that actually the randos who have been selected by the "if the suit fits" system might have worked out pretty well. They may be daft but they aren't scared, or at least they aren't as scared as they could have been – he thinks of Lucius, standing beside him. His quill is at the ready but he isn't, and anything he writes now will resemble a hastily dropped rope more than words.

'Just give it a title,' Blackbeard mutters, and though Lucius does start, the command stiffens his resolve . Captain Bonnet's Dastardly Raid appears at the top of the page in steady enough handwriting.

There are only five men on deck, and they're fortunately looking more confused than scared as the men they believe are from the navy descend on them.

'Good afternoon, gentlemen.' Izzy affecting his exaggerated upper-class English accent always makes Blackbeard chuckle, but to the untrained ear it does sound plausible. Their hoity-toity affectations are ridiculous enough that even making fun of them doesn't sound like an exaggeration. 'There's nothing to be alarmed about, we're just here on official business. My colleague here, Officer Bonnet, will explain. It's his expertise that's brought us here.'

It's said to ensure Stede will pull his weight, as well as testing his on-the-spot improvisation skills. There's nothing more than a vague idea of what to say in his head right now, and the second or two it takes for him to start talking has Blackbeard's heartbeat thumping in his ears.

'Thank you, Officer Henderson.' Of course – Bonnet is an unknown; Hands, anything but. 'It's been reported that pirates are operating in this area, specifically targeting vessels such as this one. It's a new tactic. They've found that some of the larger ships carrying the more expensive commodities are becoming better and better prepared, so running the risk of attacking them is no longer worth their while in a lot of cases. But just last week we've had to deal with the aftermath of three ships very like this one being raided and having all of their cargo stolen. One skipper was even killed trying to defend a sack of cocoa beans.'

There's a gasp that's so loud Blackbeard hears it over the waves: scare tactics might not always work when some sailors are so seasoned to the sea, but Stede is doing very well here. Lucius is scrawling so aggressively now that the parchment isn't likely to be readable by anyone other than him afterwards, all blotches and words running into each other.

'To prevent further cargo loss we're sailing around the area speaking to ships we know are eastbound with risky commodities such as molasses. Our plan is to store it away for a week or so, and we'll reassess the situation then. All being well, you'll have your cargo ready to go shortly. Please be assured the storage facilities on the Leeward Islands are state-of-the-art.'

'How will you know where to find us? Where are we meant to go now?'

'Please return to port – where did you sail from?' Port Royal, the man tells him. 'Excellent. Officer Henderson will take down some details while our colleagues unload the cargo, if that's OK ...'

And to Blackbeard's joy – and amazement, and bewilderment, and utter, utter surprise – it's only a matter of minutes before Roach is back on the Revenge with the first barrel. The discussions on-board sound as official as anyone could imagine. Blackbeard feels it's only his extensive experience coupled with huge amounts of cynicism that might have alerted him to a potential scam here. Anyone less jaded would be forgiven for buying into everything Stede is saying. He's even talking about his naval unit, borrowing the details from the one Badminton belonged to so that any follow-up will be met with accurate details. The men even thank them sincerely before letting them return to the Revenge, Izzy hauling the final sack, albeit looking as though he feels he ought not to be delegated this sort of labour. He dumps it unceremoniously on top of the others, but even he can't suppress a sliver of a smile on realising that they have indeed pulled off an entry-level fuckery.

Pete and Roach have finished messing on with some of the barrels, and Blackbeard can see they're ready to unleash celebratory screams: he slams his finger over his lips.

'For the next ten minutes we're still the Navy, yes?' he says, and the amount of eyes on the deck that widen in fear that they might have given the game away is almost funny: several of them start imitating Blackbeard, or telling their already quiet colleagues to shut up in hushed tones. The only thing it feels proper to do is gaze down at their booty with reverence, until the ship is but a child's toy in the distance and Blackbeard gives the signal.

The resulting cheers remind him desperately of cricket wins on the beach, group hugs and boisterous public-school songs bellowed in one another's faces. Stede grins at him and Blackbeard finds his chest swelling with pride.

*

Later that evening, with the sun setting over the horizon and both crews assembled on-deck, Blackbeard thinks he might be almost as relaxed as it’s possible for a pirate captain to be. They’ve stashed the molasses safely away and there are card and dice games happening in the spaces they’ve left behind, laughter and the clinking of bottles floating on the wind.

It’s times like these, when his brain feels loose and susceptible to spare thoughts, that memories surface, unbidden. He’s quick to quell them. But for just a second, he can almost feel a very old piece of fine silk fluttering in his loose fist.

‘What’s on your mind?’

Had the silk been real, it would have fluttered from his fingers as he leaps about a foot in the air: Stede has crept up behind him, and he’s beaming.

‘Oh … nothing much. I’m just thinking about how today went, that’s all.’ He clears his throat, trying to dispel the strange hopelessness he’s suddenly feeling about losing his silk all over again. It’s difficult when Stede Bonnet happens to be tied up with the day he lost it for real and he’s standing right in front of him.

But he’s still beaming. He’s looking so proud of himself, and very much the opposite of the way he’d looked that evening on the beach. It’s hardly undue, either, and that’s what wins out.

'Where the hell did that performance come from?' Blackbeard says. Stede gives him a knowing smile.

'You know my background. Those types of people are all bluff, and that was all I had to do.'

'But in the face of so much pressure. That isn't easy.'

'Easier than killing people. For me, at least. But I imagine that's a far more advanced lesson than I'll ever reach.'

A sudden image of their first fake fight makes Blackbeard smile, finally, though it's not a comfortable one.

'I'd rather you never advanced that far, Stede,' he says. 'It's not all it's cracked up to be.'

He recognises the unease in Stede’s little frown then. There’s that knowledge that this is what’s expected of a pirate, and maybe even a smidgeon of desire to fulfil what he considers a sort of destiny as a result. It’s coupled, though, with the distaste obtained from the one accidental murder in his legacy. He rescues himself after a moment or two, gazing out at the water before speaking again.

‘What you’re saying is that you’ll always have all your experience over me, then. Indirectly. Trying to plant the seeds of inferiority so you can order me around?’

No. That wasn’t what Blackbeard had been trying to say in the slightest. But if that keeps them from getting any heavier than they’ve already become here, then he’s happy to roll with it. He gets the feeling Stede is trying to avoid this very thing, too.

'Well, it's just ... I thought that maybe , with my plethora of skill and experience, my captaincy might, you know. Supersede yours. Just a thought.'

He doesn't think it's possible to sugarcoat his assertion any more, but it still crinkles Stede's face up.

'It's my ship,' he says, as though that solves things. 'Most of these men are my men. And Jim, of course. But my point still stands.'

'But whose orders do they follow? Mine,' Blackbeard says it at the same time as Stede, and they both frown at one another, leaning back in surprise.

'They do what I tell them to do,' Stede says firmly. 'Day in, day out ... I know they maybe don't respect me as much as they do you, but they haven't mutinied yet. Chores aren't exciting but when I say the deck needs scrubbing, it gets scrubbed.'

'But do you think they could have pulled today off without my direction?'

'Of course not, but you're doing this as a favour to me, aren't you? It's a springboard, to helping me captain better. Think of today as a sort of away day, with an external facilitator sharing his skills. You're a professional in the area I need my crew to improve in, but they're still my crew.'

And Blackbeard's damned if he doesn't understand exactly what Stede's saying. This is what they teach you in posh schools – the art of arguing. Maybe all of that combat training was wasted when people like Stede could talk their way out of just about anything so persuasively. 

'All right,' he says. 'You win. For now. Officially this is your ship, and your crew. But while I'm – what was it you said? – your facilitator, I'll be calling some of the shots. Quite important shots. So if I've called one, I don't want you going over my head calling others, savvy?'

It's nothing more or less than what they've already agreed. Still, Stede looks to be thinking on it as though he's about to sign a metres-long deed.

'Savvy,' he says eventually, and he holds his hand out for Blackbeard to shake. The fact that there's a ripple in his gut at this must, naturally, be down to the motion of the water.

The fact that his gut is still rippling as they make their way back to the others is less easily explained.

'So how come you wanted to be a man?' Roach is saying.

It might have been an interesting question, had Jim not been asked it about ten times already following the uniform debacle. Blackbeard barely raises his head as he gazes over at Roach, ready to enjoy the dressing-down he's about to receive.

'I didn't want to be a man, I needed to lie low,' they say. 'And piracy was my best option. It's way more difficult to be a pirate if you're not a man.'

'He's right,' Blackbeard says. The habit of referring to Jim as anything other than Jim, and indeed male, hasn't kicked in yet, but then again Jim hasn't berated anyone for doing so thus far. 'I have pirate friends who're women and they've had to fight ten times as hard as the likes of me to prove themselves. There are extra threats over their heads, too, if they find themselves on peoples' bad sides. It's pretty horrible.'

'But it's bad luck to have women on ships,’ says Frenchie, as though none of that has any relevance.

'It's worse luck to have incompetent captains.' It's almost a hiss. 'And none of us have died yet, have we? In fact, if I've brought us any luck at all it's got to be good, right? Not many people get raided by Blackbeard and live to tell the tale, yet here we all are – with Blackbear d. We should have been killed a whole bunch of times before now, but here we are.'

It's a good thing Blackbeard's got his namesake all over his face. Praise from Jim is among the only praise from anyone here that feels deserved, and he's sure there'll be a flush to his cheeks that betrays that fact.

'But we can't call you Jim,' says the Swede. 'Even if you bring us good luck, we can't call you a name that isn't real.'

'And your name is the Swede, is it?' It comes as quick as a flash, to the point where the Swede actually flinches.

'That is a very good point. I suppose calling you Jim would be fine if you wanted to be called Jim.'

'You know what? That is fine. Let's stick to that – it's what we're all used to, and then we can just carry on as normal. In fact, now I can talk to you, things might even turn out slightly better than normal.’

Chapter Text

There’s shrieking coming from the deck that Blackbeard is finding very difficult to block out. Being at sea involves a great deal of blocking things out – he’s become an expert at it – but it also involves a great deal of alertness, and managing the balance between the two is an art. Seagull squawks, for example, he no longer hears. Even if Karl had been sitting on his shoulder singing his heart out about some fish he’d recently eaten, Blackbeard would have been able to go about his business as usual, and would wonder later why his ear hurt so much. A cannon shot into the side of the ship, however, would rouse him immediately from whatever he was doing, even if “whatever he was doing” was sleeping deeply. 

Then these noises came and confused things. 

It’s early still. The sunlight’s watery, not blinding. At this time of year that probably makes it around seven o’ clock, so some of the crew will be up and about to begin the day’s operations, none of which necessitate such a commotion. 

He smushes his eyelids into each other as hard as he can. If he can get away with it he wants another hour’s sleep. Last night had been … well, he’d spent a lot of it thinking, put it that way. Consequently he hadn’t spent much of it sleeping. His fight-or-flight hasn’t kicked in, which probably means that whatever is happening on deck isn’t an emergency, but if it is he feels sure that somebody will come and alert him. 

Not two minutes later Roach and Pete explode into his bedchamber. Blackbeard is wide awake in a second, bolt upright and reaching for his revolver in a panic before he fully realises who’s standing before him. Both men are panting with the effort they’ve clearly expended on getting down here, and being shot at is probably the last thing either of them need.

A dressing-down is warranted, though. They hadn’t even knocked – he could be doing anything in here. 

‘What is going on that so desperately needs my input that it couldn’t wait the two seconds it would’ve taken for you to announce yourselves?’ he says. ‘What if I’d been getting dressed? You could’ve walked in on me bollock naked, then how would you have felt?’ Stupid question – he’s talking to his number one fan, after all. ‘Sorry, Pete, don’t answer that. How would I have felt? And then how would you have felt when I’d killed you in a rage?’ 

‘Sorry, Mr Blackbeard,’ Roach says, ‘sir … it’s just that Lucius is freaking out up there. He’s realised it’s Christmas Eve and we haven’t made any plans for tomorrow.’ 

‘Oh, for fu–’ Ed sighs, slumping back down onto the bed. ‘If that’s all then we can talk about that later. I’m telling you now, though, that we haven’t made any plans for tomorrow because I have no intention of making any plans for tomorrow. Pirates don’t get Christmas. We’re not suddenly immune to attack just because 1700 years ago a baby was born in Bethlehem …’ 

‘But you know what Lucius is like,’ says Pete. ‘It’s still an occasion, and that means it needs celebrating somehow.’ 

‘Look, not to be an arsehole but if Lucius wanted to celebrate Christmas then he should’ve stayed on land where it’s far easier to buy presents and fresh food and all that sort of thing. There are no days off at sea.’ As far as he’s concerned, that’s the end of the matter. He’s just shuffling back under his blankets with every intention of trying to get back to sleep when another face appears between Roach’s and Pete’s: Stede, less panic and all enthusiasm, is grinning, already dressed and full of beans. 

‘Ed! You’ll never guess what we forgot about – it’s Christmas Eve! That means it’s Christmas Day tomorrow. What are we doing? A feast? Party games, perhaps?’ 

The triumph in both Roach and Pete’s eyes is almost too much to bear as they grin gleefully down at Ed. He hauls himself upright again. People may scatter at the mere mention of him on the seas, but here in his cabin it’s difficult to feel as though he has any real authority when he’s sitting here in his bedclothes with morning breath. 

‘As I was just saying to your crew, Christmas doesn’t mean invincibility. In fact, if anyone suspects that we might spend the day celebrating I’d say we’re more vulnerable to attack. I think we should probably be even more on our guard than usual.’ 

‘Let’s be honest here,’ says Stede. ‘What self-respecting pirate wouldn’t want a day off? And surely the best day for that would be a day when the Navy are less likely to have ships out after us.’ 

‘The Navy don’t have Christmas off.’

‘They run with a skeleton crew. Trust me, Ed – the likelihood of attack today really is lower than usual, but if you’d feel better I suppose you and Izzy could man the ship and keep watch.’ 

Roach claps his hands together with a feral shriek. 

‘I’ll start planning the menu!’ he cries, and he dashes away, Pete hot on his tail yelling something about how this news was going to make Lucius’ day. They leave Stede in the doorway, a tense smile on his face. 

It would have been pointless to try to shout anything after them about how this was not a final decision. Even Pete … he’s meant to be obsessed with Blackbeard. Even now he sometimes forgets that he was rumbled when Blackbeard introduces himself, talking occasionally about his undying loyalty. Only when it suits him, Blackbeard supposes. He scowls up at Stede, who gestures a vague ta-da with his hands. 

‘They’re enthusiastic. We’ll give them that.’ 

He comes to sit at the foot of Blackbeard’s bed, and while this feels like a gross overstepping of a professional line Blackbeard still enjoys a warm ripple from his feet to his scalp when Stede’s weight shifts him on the mattress. Without the others here, having a conversation with him when he’s still in his nightclothes feels less embarrassing: more illicit. 

‘They want to watch where they place that enthusiasm,’ Blackbeard says. He shuffles as upright as possible in an attempt to preserve at least some dignity. What he’s about to say merits as much of it as possible. 

‘If we’re going to … I dunno, co-captain this ship successfully then you need to be very careful not to undermine my authority,’ he says. ‘We can’t have the crew getting a no from one of us then running to the other knowing their answer’s gonna be a yes. We’re supposed to be appearing as a united front for as long as I’m working with you all.’ 

‘We are a united front! Being united doesn’t mean we have to have the same opinion about everything, you know. Being united just means there are two of us doing this job, and actually, a second opinion about pretty much any decision is never going to be a bad thing.’ 

‘It is if we’re going to fight about it.’

‘Who’s fighting?’

Blackbeard folds his arms. Nobody, he supposes. This isn’t what he’d call a fight – no one is punching anyone else, or stabbing, or shooting – but it doesn’t feel like an ordinary conversation, either. Those don’t make his skin prickle as though he’s heard a predator creeping towards him from behind. 

They certainly don’t make him tingle the way he does when Stede lies a hand on his shin and squeezes. 

‘Come on, Ed. I didn’t want to say anything but this is as much for you as it is for anyone else. When was the last time you had a break?’ 

Through the slightly heady feeling of being touched with affection, Blackbeard bristles. ‘I’ve had breaks. I’ve had lots of breaks. You can’t imagine what it was like to serve under Hornigold – all breaks, all the time. Seriously. The raids were actually a nice departure from the drinking and debauchery, we did them for a change when all that other stuff got boring.’

Stede’s smile stays even as he squeezes Blackbeard’s leg again. 

‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed.’ 

You don’t have to leave, Blackbeard wants to say – but he stops himself. The filter he’d once used way back when, dusty and cracked but effective nonetheless, has its first outing in years. 

Izzy is waiting with raised eyebrows when Blackbeard emerges, dressed and disgruntled, to find some food.

‘They won you over then, boss?’ 

Blackbeard allows himself a theatrical glare before he responds, one hand on a jutted-out hip.

‘They didn’t win me over, per se,’ he says. ‘I relented. On purpose. At least the Navy will mostly be in church tomorrow – that’s one less thing to worry about, so we might as well have a bit of down time, if just for a change.’ 

'No such thing as down time in this game. You know that as well as I do.'

'You know what I mean. The closest thing to down time it's possible to have, then. I'll have one eye out, we all will – we always do. But letting them have a bit of fun builds trust, and maybe they'll play games or something, I dunno, that foster a bit of teambuilding. Maybe you'll get pissed and kiss the Swede, I think he's been eyeing you up.'

'The only thing I'll be kissing around here is your arse, or so it seems,' Izzy says. 'I should be putting a stop to this. I don't know why I'm not.'

Blackbeard allows himself a smile.

'It's because you know I'll never allow it.'

*

It's the most motivated Blackbeard has ever seen Stede's crew. They seem to have some system in place by which everyone knows exactly what they're doing, when, and with whom: a sewing circle has appeared on-deck, of which Wee John seems to be in charge. The Swede is practising carols and truly, he’s doing a pretty decent job. Lucius and Stede have taken it upon themselves to string spangly bits and pieces around the entire ship to a point where you need to periodically squint because the sun sparkles off so many of them. In the low sunlight the effect is rather charming. It suddenly makes Stede's room full of trinkets and treasures make a lot more sense. Sometimes, it really is just nice to have things.

This would be one of those moments when, once upon a time, Blackbeard would finger his silk from the Carmody estate. He's lost count of the amount of treasure he's plundered over the course of his career, but that's for a living. There's nothing nostalgic or comforting or pretty about any of it.

It isn't as though Blackbeard ever experienced Christmas in a particularly indulgent way back home, but he does have the memories of the Christmasses of others that happened around him. The city air would begin to tingle within his nostrils early in the month, as sellers began to cook and bake their festive wares. The meats became richer, the sweets became more plentiful, and the hubris on the streets was palpable even if he was personally having the day from hell. Knowing that he would not be bought new toys the way many other children would be dampened his spirits only the smallest amount. He hadn't known any differently, after all, and he didn't have much cause to associate with such children in order to compare anyway. But Bristol combatted the cold of winter with the warmth of the festive spirit, and he would be lying to himself now if he said it didn't reach him every year.

His mother put money aside all month, and that which was kept safe from his father was spent on the last of the treats from the stalls in the city. Often imperfect or stale, the dregs that no one else wanted, Blackbeard would never have said as much in a million years. There was so much more flavour to one slightly squashed slice of plum cake than in most of the rest of the food he ate throughout the year. Of course, his mother would be expected at the Carmody estate for a good part of the day, but he was fortunate that his father would often have been out celebrating preemptively the day before and would not return until far later - once he had worked out where he was and how to get home. His mother would be home by then too, so there was never a requirement to manage him alone. He'd be so unwell from the previous night's revelry that he wouldn't bother them much at all, and there may well have been extra leftovers from the Carmodys that they kept to themselves.

Now, even if he'd thought about it in advance it would have been tricky to prepare such a thing as a festive supper. He wonders vaguely whether Stede has stashes of candied peel and nuts tucked away somewhere ready for this eventuality, and he's craving the taste of sugar all of a sudden. Even better if it was accompanied with citrus fruit ...

Which he does have a lot of. And, sure enough, when Blackbeard passes the kitchen he finds Roach buried among stacks of orange peel, he doesn't interrupt: he just smiles to himself.

A Caribbean Christmas Day is never going to be very much like a British one, least of all a Caribbean Christmas Day at sea. But knowing that they do have plans to mark the occasion gives Blackbeard that same tingle on waking that he used to feel as a boy. Simply the thought that the day was different somehow was enough to instil something inside him. He's the first on deck other than Buttons, but that's not unusual. He can often be found in strange places at unexpected times, so the bow of the ship is pretty expected in comparison.

'Greetings of the season to ye, sir,' he says, and leaves it at that. He and Karl must have important business to attend to.

Blackbeard simply lets the ship wake around him. First is Izzy, which isn't surprising. He offers a curt "Merry Christmas" and immediately busies himself with the sort of things he'd normally busy himself with, but that's no skin off Blackbeard's nose today. He has the option not to and he hasn't taken it. Next come Lucius and Pete, but that's not as intentional a move. They've clearly spent the night in some cubbyhole below decks and are furtively heading somewhere more comfortable for a couple of hours' proper sleep before the festivities start.

Stede is beaten up by a smattering of his own crew. Perhaps a lie-in is his first way of celebrating: when Blackbeard dares to suggest as much, Stede responds initially with a sheepish smile.

'You've got me there. I always resented the fact that Christmas was so heavily focused on children – they have the attention focused on them all the time. Adults have so many responsibilities, I should have liked to have had a day when I was free of them rather than being loaded with extra ones to appease ungrateful offspring. Not that I don't love my kids, of course ...' There's a little shift in his expression. 'But you know what I mean.'

'No, I don't. Not at all.'

He can imagine the Christmasses Stede must have enjoyed: his manor house festooned with plant life and candles, sitting down to dine every single day of the twelve to even more fattening food than that which he already enjoyed the rest of the year. No doubt it was even more exciting when trying to entertain small children. Receiving gifts is so much more magical before you learn about the world of give and take, of rich and poor, and take part in the mundane transactions required to sustain yourself and your family, should you have one.

It's not the first time Blackbeard's thought it strange that Stede left all of that behind. It is the most intense burst of it, though.

The food is as good as you would ever get on a pirate ship, and none of them will be developing scurvy any time soon. Jim and Olu even bring a plateful to Izzy up in the crow's nest. No amount of cajoling from the deck will bring him down, but he does seem to enjoy his dinner. There’s none of it left when he brings his plate down, at least. He even seems to experience the same post-food lull as everyone else: he’s still watching the horizon, but while before his dinner he was standing upright as the mast, now he’s letting the edge of the crow’s nest take some of his weight.

'I've had an idea,' Stede says, in his proudest voice, when people are starting to stir again. 'But I don't think you're going to like it. I'm sure there's some health and safety-related reason you won't let me do it that I've never even considered.'

'Well, if you give me some indication of your idea I'll tell you whether it would be shut down by the Occupational Health Board for Piracy,’ says Blackbeard. He’s still sort of floundering, though restlessness is starting to kick in, and he can feel his defences slipping. ‘They're pretty lax, though. I think they're short staffed. They let us get away with all sorts of lethal shit.'

'You have a point. All right, then – what if we played cricket?'

The safety of the notion isn't what Blackbeard's worried about. 'With what?'

'I brought everything we need. I will confess, I imagined we'd have a lot more down time on beaches than we've ended up being able to fit into our lifestyle, but once upon a time I did have dreams of mooring the ship for an hour or two to find food and play a few innings. Even if we had, though, I suspect it might have ended in a murder attempt. Those bats are solid.'

'Mmm, and those balls even more so. We'd have to be careful with the instability of the waves and all that.'

'But we can do it?'

Who needs kids to entertain at Christmas when you have Stede, practically glimmering in the sunlight with the joy of having Blackbeard's permission for something?

It really is as though he's forgotten the inherent perils of living the pirate's life. There's a laborious process in which the rules are explained to those unfamiliar, teams are chosen (though based on what, Blackbeard has no idea – very few of them seem to have played before, and there are even fewer he would trust anywhere near those lethal cricket balls), and little piles of rags and things are assembled to stand the wickets up in as best they can. Through it all, Izzy watches not the horizon, but them. Even from this distance Blackbeard can see his miserable little frown, and he can't resist one last shot at dissipating it.

'I reckon you've got a right cover drive on you, Iz!' he shouts, the joviality in his tone barely even faked. Not today.

'Yeah, and actually if you did come down and play I wouldn't mind sitting this one out and having a go in the crow's nest myself,' Lucius adds, but Izzy pretends not to have heard either of them. Poor Lucius is forced to the crease, where he misses Jim's perfectly good ball and is immediately out when it lands instead in wicket-keeper Roach's safe hands. Blackbeard has a feeling that was deliberate, but he's in no mood to tease.

His team win by quite a wide margin, but then he is the best player here. He's not going to be humble about that when the proof is right there for everyone to see, and the praise for being a good sportsman hits rather differently from the terrified awe in which he’s usually viewed. Of course, it wouldn’t have been half as fun had the others not been (mostly) half-decent, too. It just goes to show that talents lie all over the place, he supposes. They may not be amazing pirates but he’s identifying more and more strengths the longer he works with them.

The next surprise comes when the Swede arranges a band of sorts. The second the wickets are tucked away, there’s music: Blackbeard had been concentrating so hard on the cricket that the twilight had crept in unnoticed, but at least today there are many people who aren’t him who are here to create the atmosphere and pay attention to such things. The cricket doesn’t seem to have worn anyone out. It just takes Jim and Olu swaying into a space to create a dance floor, and the others are up too – Fang and Ivan included. Blackbeard’s smiling before he realises it.

'They're good, aren't they?'

'Hmm?' Blackbeard had been so lost in how good they were that it takes him a few seconds to register that Stede's just reiterated what's happening in his head. 'Oh – yeah, amazing.'

'I do like to encourage creative expression, team games, that sort of thing. It relieves stress and fosters better problem solving skills. Plus we can have nights like this out of the bargain.'

'I suppose you were having nights like this every weekend back in Barbados.'

It's out before he's had a chance to vet it – he supposes that's the alcohol, removing his filter. It's not as though he isn't curious, but if he'd given it a second thought he'd have realised that now, among the lights and laughter, is not the time to have voiced it. Stede certainly gives himself a moment to consider his answer. Maybe he hasn't drunk as much as Blackbeard has. Or maybe he's naturally more cautious, and the loosening element of alcohol has far less power over him.

'I suppose I was, yes,' he says. 'In a hollow, performative sort of way.'

It was always quite difficult to feel sorry for Stede knowing the sort of life he was able to live. But the people he had to stay involved with to maintain that life did leave a lot to be desired, and there's nothing to suggest that that wasn't the case right up until he took to the seas. It takes a lot to commit to this life, after all.

Ask him to dance is the next unbidden thought that makes a break for freedom. Blackbeard has to tighten his whole face in order to keep it in while he mulls over whether or not following its direction is a good idea. Stede doesn't seem bothered by the impertinent question, smiling over at the band and gently moving his head from side to side in time with the music. If there were ever a moment, it would be this one. He just isn't sure whether it's anything more than an if.

'We should dance,' Stede says.

For a split second it feels as though Stede has been poking around inside his head. Blackbeard shivers a little at the thought. 'Erm ...'

Stede stretches out his open palm towards Blackbeard, who almost recoils before realising that this is a gesture of invitation. Piracy does do strange things to one’s reactions.

'It’s OK. Everyone else is,’ Stede says softly. ‘If you're worried about losing your fearsome reputation, they're all half-cut. No one is going to think twice about either of us joining in with what the others are already doing. And it's Christmas, man. If not now then when?'

It's far too close to Blackbeard's own thought pattern, and that is what persuades him to relent, accept the hand that Stede's offering, and let himself be led onto the dance floor.

The hand between his shoulder blades is warm. The hand in his is warm, too: this says a great deal considering the temperature in the Caribbean, even of an evening, and he wonders whether he might be conjuring up his own imagined heat at Stede’s touch.

It makes sense that Stede leads. He'll have been brought up in ballrooms, and indeed he's very good at not making Blackbeard feel like an idiot as he tries to follow along with the steps. He even holds himself better when Stede is holding him, too: it's a pantomime of the way he'll stride into Spanish Jackie's when he wants to assert his power before his peers, except this feels intrinsically motivated. When he's standing upright and moving deliberately, he feels good.

He knows, rationally, that this isn’t a big deal. Lucius and Pete are more or less dry humping, Olu and Jim are doing a gavotte that really isn’t half bad, and Buttons is revolving slowly on the spot with Karl perched on the crown of his head, happy enough to be taken along for the ride. He and Stede are not the most unusual-looking people on deck.

‘I never thought, when I boarded this ship, that I would spend Christmas Day slow-dancing with my former-turned-maybe-current best friend,’ he says.

But God, does it feel ... he can't even think of the words. It just feels, it's a sensation far greater than the sum of its parts. A hand on the back shouldn't burn. A chest close to his own shouldn't weaken his heart. Moving slowly together shouldn't instil shivers within him, but here he is, unsure whether he'd be able to stay upright if not for Stede holding him. Somehow he's managing to keep it together – perhaps due to his diligent tutor, who has a hell of a lot more patience than he's ever shown in kind when trying to show him something. It's a wonder, really, that they never got around to dancing back at school. It's a skill all of the upper classes need, something they never indulged in during those occasional parties they attended with their cricket friends but something that now, Blackbeard's wondering whether the knowledge of might have changed the course of his life. Imagining they'd done this, early on, and thought nothing more of it than what it was, perhaps after a lesson or two at lunch, after something from the classroom had given Stede the idea in the first place … perhaps then he'd have enjoyed these sensations sooner, worked out what they were trying to hint at. 

All of a sudden he’s at Felix’s party, terrified of the fleeting, tipsy thought of kissing his best friend. Parties, whether in manors or on ships, do things to people. With the exception of Izzy – although that counts for nothing, since if Blackbeard ever saw him moved by anything he’d be convinced the world were about to end – inhibitions have slipped away. Tonight, the Revenge is no different from any other ship it shares the North Atlantic Ocean with, and the worries inside the drunken minds of its crew are as silly as anyone else’s.

Silly? Teenage, even. The worries of being found out: is his skin shimmering, his face reddening? There's no way there aren't any visual manifestations of what's going on inside him., but then again no one is staring, no one seems to give a shit that the two of them are dancing because everyone else is dancing, too. Has Blackbeard noticed anyone else? No. Why, then, would they be paying him any mind?

The only person who is, of course, is Stede. Unlike Blackbeard he doesn't need to keep glancing down at his feet to make sure they aren't crashing around in all the wrong places. He has a deft way of checking that they aren't about to bump into another couple while keeping most of his focus on Blackbeard, and his smile never wavers: not even when he speaks. Sometimes he'll whisper his next move; sometimes it'll just be a very kind word or two of praise, none of which Blackbeard deserves.

Actually, it's not quite true that only Stede is paying him any attention. There's a figure watching from the sidelines, keeping up his patrol even though it's unnecessary and no one asked him to. He's pretending to be focused on the sea but it takes Blackbeard very little effort to catch his eye. Once he does it once, it keeps happening: no matter where he and Stede move, Izzy is watching. It's as though nothing else interesting is going on, no music, no dancing, no drinking. To him, Blackbeard and Stede might as well be the only people on the ship.

It almost feels that way to Blackbeard, too.

*

‘You didn’t want to allow this, did you?’ Lucius says. He has that shit-eating grin on his face that he only shows off when he knows, without a doubt, that he’s right about something, and Blackbeard sighs. He’d been considering heading to bed: he doesn’t need mind games planting in his head when he’s just about ready to calm it down.

‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want to allow this, it was that I didn’t think we ought to have let our guard down.’ 

‘For my purposes that’s the same thing. But letting your guard down for one day means that tomorrow, it’ll be back up like Izzy’s cock when you tell him off, captain. You need to loosen up now and again otherwise you’ll burn out.’ 

Blackbeard searches for the snide tone or the hidden insult. To his surprise, he finds neither. 

‘I’m not being bitchy,’ Lucius says, and Blackbeard takes a small step back – is Lucius capable of mind-reading? ‘Here.’ 

He hands Blackbeard a small bunch of green felt, one of the crafts produced by John’s little collective the previous afternoon. It seems to be made of long fronds with small white beads strung together at one end. He has no idea what it’s supposed to resemble, but it is at least neatly made – this must be John’s handiwork. 

‘Just … go and find Captain Bonnet, yeah? I think he’s gone to the stern.’ 

‘And this is for him?’

Lucius’ smile softens.

‘He’ll know what to do with it.’ 

It isn’t exactly the world’s finest silk, but it is satisfying to run the felt through his fingers as he seeks Stede out. Why do they have so much of this shit on board, though? Stede really had had no idea what he was doing when he’d set out on his little adventure … this would have been so much more useful had it been gunpowder, or citrus fruit, or – well, almost anything, actually. 

Still. He thinks that maybe, if he didn’t have to give this to Stede, he might have kept it for himself. 

Stede himself is standing at the stern, as Lucius had said. He’s holding a glass of sherry, leaning on the guardrail as he gazes out toward the horizon. There isn’t another ship in sight this evening. The day has, indeed, almost passed without incident. 

‘Hey,’ Blackbeard says. Stede starts, but smiles immediately on realising who’s interrupted his daydream. 

‘Oh. Hi – is everything all right?’ 

Blackbeard scoffs. ‘What, I can’t come and speak to my mate without there being some sort of problem?’ 

He settles himself in beside Stede, letting the final scraps of sunlight illuminate him. God, this is what it’s all about, really – feeling small in the world in the most humble way, feeling far away from the problems he’s created on land, and feeling close to people who understand all of this. Stede holds up his glass. Blackbeard, without one of his own, merely nods his good wishes, and watches Stede drink with a smile. 

‘It’s nice to see you without some sort of problem,’ says Stede. ‘I wish it happened more often.’ 

‘Yeah. Well. You chose the wrong lifestyle if that’s what you wanted out of it, my friend.’ 

‘I think we could have more conversations alongside pirating. Maybe I’ll make it my New Year’s resolution. Every day, I’ll speak to you about something completely frivolous.’ He smiles at Blackbeard, then his eyes drop to the felt that Blackbeard is still twirling between his fingers. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ 

‘Oh. Erm.’ Blackbeard holds it up so that Stede can see it in all its glory – perhaps he knows what it’s meant to be. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Lucius gave it to me after he told me I needed to loosen up, he said you’d know what to do with it …’ 

Is it his imagination, the low light, or is Stede’s face turning red?

‘Oh, he did, did he?’ he says.

Gently, he takes hold of Blackbeard’s wrist. He lifts both of their arms so that the felt is above their heads. The realisation of what’s about to happen comes to Blackbeard only seconds before Stede’s face is moving towards his own, and he closes his eyes ready to accept Stede’s lips against his.

It only lasts a few seconds. When they break apart, he even wonders whether it might have been an illusion dreamt up by the liquor, but Stede’s smile hasn’t wavered. In fact, he was sure he’d been smiling as they’d kissed.

‘Merry Christmas, Edward,’ he says.

Chapter Text

Blackbeard’s track record of hangovers usually involves being wrapped up in a sort of nest for several hours after sunrise. There’s something particularly grim about being hung over on a ship. Even dry land moves when he feels this rough, so contending with actual movement beneath his feet makes things ten times worse. 

This morning, though, he wakes up when light begins to filter into his cabin. He’s vaguely aware of a sore head, and his mouth is fluffy and foul-tasting, but the usual nausea doesn’t surface even after lying in wait for several minutes. Perhaps spacing the rum out with the fancy orange punch Roach had concocted has offset the ill-effects somewhat.

Going forward, he’s going to make sure that he keeps having interval drinks in much the same way. Even after everything that happened yesterday he feels sharp enough to be able to lead his crew into battle.

Stede’s crew. Technically. He often has to remind himself of that: but this morning is the first time the revelation makes him smile to himself.

God, Stede really had kissed him last night, hadn’t he?

It’s such a cliche, but it was as though in that moment, the years that had once stretched between their teenage relationship and their professional one had been swept away by the tide. If only he could visit himself at eighteen, storming away from that beach in tears, and tell him not to worry, that this wouldn't be the end for him and his best friend if only he were patient. Very, very patient – and able to withstand copious amounts of hardship and danger.

He isn't about to let his guard down completely. A Christmas Day kiss is far too romantic, and he must remember that that's an outlier, something unusually special that isn't about to be repeated. It may well have been nothing more than the mistletoe, in fact. If he sneaks into Stede's bedchamber right this minute and attempts to wake him up with a gentle kiss to his forehead he might receive a punch on the nose for his trouble.

Best not to think too much about it, other than allowing it to dispel years of sorrow. Even if nothing else is about to happen between them, he isn't going to let that ruin this most positive aspect. They're friends again, anyway. At least he thinks they are. There's plenty of time for discussion about this, if it should come to that.

So if he isn't to think, he can't remain here. He may not be hung over but there's a film around his brain that he suspects will be blown away by some fresh air, and he might as well pop out to check on whoever’s unfortunate enough to be steering the ship this morning. Hopefully someone is. He can’t remember whose duty it was supposed to be, and he can’t remember who was and wasn’t completely wasted last night. Just as he’s starting to shuffle some wakefulness into his body, though, his door clicks.

‘Hey.’

Stede. He’s standing before Blackbeard in his dressing gown and funny little nightcap, and even in the dull light from the early sun Blackbeard can see he’s smiling. Had he been just the tiniest bit more asleep Blackbeard might have thought he were a spectre of some sort: he seems blurred around the edges, paler and flatter than usual in the gloom. But he’s brought into the room that human essence. It’s impossible to mistake another person’s warmth, their energy – their smell, even. How Stede manages to stay so clean and fragrant among such a grimy crew …

He's daydreaming even as he has the real Stede right in front of him.

‘Hey,’ he says, and Stede lets out an out-breath of amusement at the amount of time it’s taken to be acknowledged. He nods down at Blackbeard, still bundled up in his blankets.

‘May I?’

Blackbeard swallows. He loses no time in nodding: however, as he shuffles up and out of the blankets, making room, the last thing he feels able to do is relax. In such close proximity Stede is going to be able to feel the fact that his heart is racing so hard he’s surprised his ribcage isn’t playing a tune like a xylophone.

He can barely keep a handle on his breath as Stede slides into bed beside him, facing Blackbeard and tucking the covers neatly back over the pair of them as though he does it all the time. Even the way he then wriggles in towards Blackbeard feels familiar, though Blackbeard knows that despite everything, this is the first time they’ve ever cuddled up in a proper bed together.

In sand, yes. In a glorified garden shed, yes. But in a bed? Like two people who share a living space in that capacity?

‘What’s brought this on, hm?’ he whispers. He curses himself immediately for saying anything at all. He might invite rationality into the bed with them, when he wants nothing more than to lose himself in what feels like a dream.

Stede shrugs, as best he can while lying on his side. His breath is warm as it tickles the skin of Blackbeard’s cheek.

‘I very much enjoyed our kiss last night.’ Stede moves against Blackbeard again, perhaps to get comfortable, but it feels very much like a deliberate move to create gentle friction. ‘I wish I’d had the guts to take things a bit further, but I didn’t want to rush into anything. Nor did I want to be caught by … well, anyone at all, actually. I can’t think of a single person on this ship I’d’ve been happy to have seen when I pulled away from you and opened my eyes.’

Where is this going? One second Blackbeard’s cock is twitching, the next his heart seems to be sighing. He chuckles softly.

‘Me neither,’ he says. ‘I’m amazed you even tried it, come to think of it. We were right there.’

‘And now we’re right here.’

Even though Blackbeard had been hyper-aware of that fact since the second he’d recognised Stede, somehow, hearing this spoken aloud is what convinces him that it’s real. His heart rate calms; his breathing, too. He even grows slightly embarrassed at the idea that he’d ever been so on edge about this. It’s Stede, after all. Despite everything, this is his best friend. The clumsiest, most gormless boy in Barbados. Of all of the people in the world, if he could have chosen his bedmate for himself, he’d have hand-picked the one who has just slid right in with him.

He doubts that Stede can see the shy smile that curls across his face at that thought, but he wishes he could.

‘Ed, I never, ever should have married Mary.’

The swerve from comfortable familiarity to a confession of one of the biggest mistakes Blackbeard considers possible for a person to make shakes his stomach up like a tugboat in a typhoon. Whatever he’d expected Stede to say or do once he’d made himself comfortable, it hadn’t been anything as gut-wrenching as this. Yet, through his panic, he finds he’s overjoyed to hear it spoken. He already knows it to be the case – why the hell else is Stede now trying his hand at piracy? – but for Stede Bonnet to admit to a wrongdoing that he’d so earnestly, and tearfully, tried to defend at the time feels like a monumental triumph: even more so when he can smell Stede’s shampoo. 

‘Right. And admitting that makes us married instead, does it? Is that why you’re here?’

Shut up. He’s going to think you don’t want him here. God, it’s nigh on impossible for Blackbeard to treat a serious situation with the gravity it deserves … when had he lost that ability? Post-Hornigold, he thinks, maybe – when emotions clouded decisions, and a stray feeling could be the difference between life and a Minié ball to the gut.

Fortunately, he’s with the person who probably understands him best of all.

‘All right, I suppose it was a bit of a presumptuous move,’ Stede says. ‘I thought it might be a rather dashing thing of me to do, you know? I was impressed with my charm last night and had to come up with something even more charming to follow it up with, but this isn’t a romance novel.’

‘No,’ Blackbeard says. ‘No, that wasn’t what I was saying.’

‘Then what were you saying?’

He’d been trying to say anything other than what was on his mind. That’s the problem.

Perhaps admitting that is the right thing to do here.

‘I think I was just avoiding saying “I told you so”.’

Openness and honesty. That’s the way forward. None of this sneaky, conniving, second-guessing stuff that had worsened a thousandfold since his departure from land into this lifestyle of always watching one’s back. And Stede’s tiny snort lets Blackbeard know that it’s landed, that he’s no longer approaching him in anxious awe, but in the same capacity in which he’d approached him back on that beach. If only the Dread Pirate Blackbeard could sail the Revenge through time to tell Edward Teach to dry his eyes.

He feels Stede’s hand on his cheek. A warning, perhaps, in the low light: he hears the tiny breath he takes, then feels the shifting of the pillow under his head as Stede moves forward to kiss him.

God, this is fast. This is intense. Enveloped in his warmth and his scent, Stede’s kiss is as engulfing as the blankets. Without the light, the outside air, or the threat of interruption, Blackbeard feels brave. Yesterday, the element of surprise had rendered him helpless. This morning, he has time to think, and to move. Their lips part; Stede’s tongue is the first to cross the boundary, and Blackbeard is almost shocked by another tingle of arousal. He moves one arm between them, clumsily within the bedclothes, to shuffle it into the neck of Stede’s nightshirt, laying a palm on his chest. It isn’t elegant, but the way his warm skin feels against Blackbeard’s palm –

He’s shivering in pleasure until Stede wriggles away rapidly.

‘Ed – sorry –’ He’s panting, which does nothing for the motion inside Blackbeard’s underwear, but he manages to (mostly) ignore that. ‘I … erm … I don’t think we should …’

And Blackbeard has to force himself not to disagree. There’s nothing he wants more than to hiss well, I think we should right back into Stede’s face, at least for a second. It’s hot in his head: aloud, he supposes, it would sound aggressive, maybe forceful. That’s not what he means. What he does mean is that Stede is warm, and he fits comfortably within the bedclothes against Blackbeard, and he can feel his cock beginning to harden, and why the fuck shouldn’t they when whoever is in charge of the universe had tugged the Queen Anne’s Revenge across the ocean to Stede after so many years of separation? This has to have been why. This, here, the two of them free of obligation and betrothal and prying eyes.

‘... seen one another in quite a while,’ Stede is saying – Blackbeard has the uncomfortable realisation that he’d been daydreaming during part of his speech, and hopes he hasn’t missed anything too important. ‘I think emotions are running quite high … not that I wasn’t enjoying … but you know what I mean. Maybe we just … leave it at that? For now?’

He’s right. Blackbeard can see that now Stede has spelled it out: his lust had been driven by those most intense feelings, and really, he doesn’t know Stede too well at all any more. It could hardly hurt to slow things down and allow that familiarity to come back, or to start working towards it from scratch, perhaps. The Stede Bonnet Blackbeard remembers from Barbados would never have run away to become a pirate, at the end of the day.

‘Yeah, all right,’ Blackbeard says. ‘Sorry. It just sort of develops quite naturally in bed, doesn’t it?’

‘It does. I should have thought of that before I commandeered yours. Maybe next time we’ll hide in the pantry and smear one another in marmalade?’

It’s meant to be a joke. He knows that. But the mental image is so vivid he can almost smell the tang of the oranges, and he finally has to concede that he’s not doing a very good job hiding his arousal.

‘I’m sorry I have a semi,’ he sighs. ‘Ignore that.’

‘Only if you ignore mine?’

If they hadn’t been lying in near-darkness, Blackbeard would have guffawed in delight instead of merely chuckling. It feels right to kiss Stede again – gently, his lips pressed against his for only a few seconds. And it must have been right, because Stede kisses him again as soon as they part.

‘I’d better … before anyone else is up and about,’ he says. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing me come out of your room – not if you don’t want that.’

‘You’re right. I don’t. I need to work out how I feel about you coming out of my room before I start to even think about anyone else’s unwanted opinions on it.’

Stede sighs, bowing his head: or, at least, dipping his chin to his chest, which creates the illusion even if that means moving sideways rather than strictly downwards. ‘If only it were easier to have some proper privacy around here. There must be something we can do about that.’

It’s another one of those things that Stede says that serves to illustrate the gap between them rather than bridge it, but for once Blackbeard feels he understands the sentiment on Stede’s side of the chasm.

‘I don’t know. Privacy isn’t really a word we pirates understand any more.’

*

Cricket never should have caught on on a ship. It comes packaged with a hell of a lot more worries than it ever did on land: indeed, Roach has "treated" one or two cricket-related injuries since the crew got into it, though Blackbeard suspects Buttons' right hand will never be the same again. He doesn't seem anywhere near as bothered about this as Blackbeard would have been, so he can only assume that the fun and camaraderie that cricket brings to the deck of the Revenge are worth the risk.

The games they play day-to-day are much smaller and quicker than their Christmas Day tournament, owing to the fact that it's impossible to play full games with the handful of people who are off-duty at any one time. It's during one of these games that Lucius, eyes crinkling with a smile he's trying to quell, appears at Blackbeard's shoulder as he and Ivan are taking stock of their inventory. Looking through everything, it seems it'll soon be time to deposit some treasure somewhere safe.

'Captain Bonnet wants to see you, Captain Blackbeard,' he says.

Ivan makes a derisive little noise before Blackbeard can respond. 'It sounds so stupid when you say "captain" twice in one sentence,' he says. 'I'm pretty sure I know who I'd be choosing to lead the crew if it were up to me.'

'It's an unorthodox arrangement, true, but if it's working it's working.' Blackbeard can hardly say anything else with Lucius right there. 'Is he in his room?'

'He is. I will warn you he's got himself into a bit of a flap – he's quite excited about something. I'm actually sort of hoping you can talk him down.'

As endearing as it can be when Stede is all worked up like this, it's not the mindset Blackbeard's interested in right now. He and Ivan's work is important and he's a little nervous that Stede's going to derail it.

'Keep on with this. I won't be long.' Ivan nods, now midway through counting something else, and Blackbeard leaves as quietly as possible so as not to disturb him.

Stede is indeed flapping around. He's got his maps out again, and Blackbeard tries to store a reminder in his head that he needs to show Stede how maps work at some point. At the moment, any plans he tries to make must be quality controlled by Blackbeard before they can be actioned.

'All right, what's all this about?' Blackbeard says. Stede almost jumps when he looks up at him: when he realises who's interrupted him, though, he beams.

'Ah! Ed ... that was quick. I was just thinking about our next venture and I wanted your opinion.' He's rummaging through sheets of paper, and Blackbeard has to wonder how he's got by for so long without having so many things written down the way Stede has. Nothing stays within his head. He does something physical with every single thought he has, or so it seems. 'I thought we might have an overnight stay somewhere.’

There's an immediate urge to reply with overnight stays are an unnecessary risk, but it's clear that Stede has something else motivating this suggestion and he feels he needs to sit in this for a bit before trying to remind him of the realities of life. It took him a long time to learn to be more ferocious as a teenager, and adults take in knowledge far more slowly.

'Oh, you thought, did you?' He keeps his voice easy, and it's a delight when Stede nods, oblivious.

'I did. I thought a change of scenery might do the crew – and you – good. Have you been to Tortuga before? Well ... silly question, really, I know all of the stories. You've been everywhere, I imagine. You've been in this game far longer than I'll –'

'I haven't, actually,' Blackbeard says. This is a lie, but he thinks his motivation comes from the right place here, if that's possible. 'It would be nice to see it.'

Stede's mild mania seems to calm at this. He looks up at Blackbeard with a more serene smile.

'I'm so glad you haven't let piracy completely dispel your sense of wonder,' he says. 'I do think it's very important to have a break once in a while.'

'Christmas was only a week or so ago.'

Stede's still smiling.

'It was, wasn’t it? Yet it seems like forever ago at the same time. I thought that maybe ...' There's something he wants to get out, but the pink in his cheeks is evidence that it's something delicate, and Blackbeard has to smile back at him in an awkward pantomime of solidarity: he's sure he knows what's on Stede's mind, but being sure is not the same as hearing it aloud. 'I mean to say, with the crew occupied, we may well get another chance to be alone without risk of being disturbed, if you know what I mean.'

'I dunno. With your crew I wouldn't hedge my bets.'

'Be serious for a second, Edward.'

Edward. Stede had called him that at Christmas, and the word elicits the most visceral shiver within him in a lot of years.

'All right,' says Blackbeard. 'It might be nice.'

'It will be. And I do think we need to talk at some point. Would you agree?'

A thousand times yes. It's just that talking in private – truly in private, no risk of being burst in on or even just overheard – is a near impossibility on a ship like this one, and particularly with a crew like this one. Blackbeard can't even single Stede's men out this time. Ivan and Fang aren't the most subtle types, and if Izzy's on the prowl for intel he can crop up anywhere.

Still. What an idea. It's difficult not to get lost in the image of he and Stede in this office, door locked, crew on land somewhere occupied by some wild goose chase that's so elaborate it even takes the likes of Izzy an hour or so to understand it for what it is, by which time Blackbeard and Stede have both ironed out the parts of their history they didn't share, explaining how each of them ended up in such similar positions when the intervening years were undoubtedly so different. There's nothing sensitive about hearing about Stede's children, but at the same time it's not something Blackbeard wants to do under threat of interruption; nor is his descent into piracy then ascent to notoriety, but the version he wants to give to Stede is not the version most people accept as truth. 

'Yeah,' Blackbeard says to his boots. 'We seem to get around to doing pretty much anything but talking at the moment, don't we?'

He knows Stede will be blushing at that, and he doesn't raise his head to check: if he sees it, he'll be blushing, too. It's ridiculous how even alluding to illicit kisses can feel so charged when he can discuss his more violent exploits without batting an eyelid. There's something to be addressed there, he knows. Maybe during this talk they need to have.

'If I'm honest with you that's sort of why I want us to take pause for a bit,' Stede says. 'I don't know if we ought to ask explicitly for a period of time where we aren't disturbed. Maybe we should put a sign on the door of my room ...'

'And make them think we're ...?'

He's over the fear of looking embarrassed now: he absolutely must see Stede's reaction to this, and it's every bit as squirmy and endearing as he'd imagined.

'I don't mean – no, a business sign, if there's such a thing –'

'I know. I was just messing around with you. Although let's not beat around the bush – that's the sort of thing you're getting at ultimately, isn't it? I don't think you're interested in talking about the tides.'

'I am. Very interested. I still feel I have a lot to learn from you about the oceans of the world and I'm all ears.'

It's a joke. It's also sincere: Blackbeard glances down at the mess of papers on the desk that can only be described as an avalanche. There can be no way he gets any value from them other than to feel important by having them there, and he can't resist picking one of his maps up to study it. It's not bad – presumably Lucius' handiwork.

‘Never mind tides. I need to get around to passing on some of my mapping skills,’ he says. ‘This is something the whole crew would benefit from.'

'I don't know. Most of them can't read.'

'But they'll have a wealth of knowledge other than literacy that you can draw from.' He does think about ending it there, but his hackles are up all of a sudden and he can’t help but add a little extra bite. 'They're probably all a bit better versed in this life than you are.'

When this doesn't rub Stede up the wrong way, Blackbeard is reminded forcibly of the early days of their friendship. There'd be so many times, to the point where it started to get on Blackbeard's nerves, when he'd make these bizarre social faux pas with regards to his status, and that of other people, that he never seemed to understand. He's as oblivious as ever, it seems. He's just insulted almost all of the people he's supposed to be convincing to respect him. And yes, perhaps Blackbeard hasn't been overly complimentary to a lot of them since meeting them all, but even he can appreciate that between them, there is a valuable set of skills. For Stede to be so dismissive over their illiteracy ...

It was a long time ago. He must have forgotten. That's the only explanation for this that's going to keep Blackbeard from wanting to throttle him right here over his desk.

'Am I doing all right, though?' Stede says. 'Honestly? Under your tutelage, do you think I'm making much piracy progress?'

He's so close to the point Blackbeard wishes he could make that it almost hurts. That's almost immaterial now, though. His tone has softened again, and the smile that's returning to his lips is a little more sultry than it was a moment ago. It's reminiscent of their moment at the pirate party, back when they simply dressed up and played at this life with no idea of its implications. After he'd hit Badminton, and accosted Blackbeard when he was alone. He'd been a bit like this just before they'd kissed. Right now, though, it's the last thing Blackbeard wants. It seems unfair that he's still grappling with this discomfort around the man he feels he knows so intimately, even after all these years of learning more about the harsh realities of life than he'd already understood as an impoverished, orphaned teenager. This reunion could have been storybook: instead, it's every bit as confusing as their youthful relationship had been.

'Yep,' Blackbeard says, turning back to the maps. 'Loads of progress, mate. I'm really pleased.'

The shift in tone doesn't go unnoticed. 'Ed?'

'It's Blackbeard. And I'd better – my crew have been left unsupervised for far too long, I'd better go up and make sure nothing's on fire.'

Stede's crestfallen face is difficult to look at, but Blackbeard can't be here any more. The swerve from ardent bliss to boiled piss is making him feel seasick.

*

Blackbeard hasn’t realised how easy it’s been to remove adult Stede – Captain Bonnet, even, the title alone helps to separate him – from the Stede he’d once known in Holetown until he shows his true colours in moments like these. They act as a sudden rushing of water over a burgeoning fire. It’s difficult to imagine that kiss on Christmas night, or the comfortable weight of Stede in his bed, when he’s caught up in these irritations. They’d certainly irritated him when they were younger, but at the very least he had hindsight to help diffuse that. It was no wonder he’d behaved the way he had, in much the same way as it was no wonder Blackbeard had behaved the way he did. They were nothing more or less than products of their environment.

But half of becoming an adult is realising that there are ways of doing things that are different from your own, through coming to know different people and their different beliefs. Without caregivers feeding you their own morality and skewing your worldview, deliberately or not, it’s far more possible to develop your own. And most of the time Blackbeard is convinced that Stede has done just that, not just from knowing someone like him so intimately on the precipice of adulthood, but from everything that’s happened since. Something drove him from that marriage to piracy, and whether it was a push from, a pull to or a combination of both, it really ought to have shaken him up enough to understand that making comments about people’s literacy – when his own makes him privileged far beyond the average person – is ignorant at best and cruel at worst.

Is it enough to stop the attraction in its tracks? Well, no … thinking about him here, alone, it’s clear that the only reason he’s so irritated by Stede’s insensitivity is just that: he cares so much. Coming from a stranger those comments would have been no more annoying than a fruit fly landing on his arm.

The others are still playing cricket. He really should join them.

Before he can give the idea any proper thought, he’s considering his friendship with Jack. He’s not sure where this comes from, but it’s an interesting comparison to make. Jack makes offensive comments all the time. Does this not bother Blackbeard because he and Jack have always been at the same social level, or does it not bother him because Jack is an idiot who ought never to be taken seriously?

He doesn’t think it’s possible for Jack to ruin himself in Blackbeard’s eyes. He’s already too scummy, a word he’d proudly use to describe himself before anyone else managed to sneak it in as an insult. There’s nothing to ruin, not even any sparse attraction driving their occasional liaisons. It’s almost the opposite, actually: Blackbeard quite likes the scuzziness of it all, probably more than he likes Jack himself. That must be the crux of the matter. He likes Stede. He doesn’t want to be let down by him, because only from him would it truly be a letdown.

Chapter Text

By the time they’re mooring the Revenge at a quiet spot on the west coast of Tortuga, Blackbeard is equal parts keen and reluctant to have whatever conversation Stede had had in mind. The area they’ve chosen is quiet and lush, and as safe as it’s possible to be – it doesn’t seem like a hotspot for anything much, which means there really is nothing to do but take a minute.

‘It’s just for one night,’ he tells Izzy, when he faces the inevitable pushback. ‘The crew were a lot fresher after Christmas, and I’m going to send a few of them on a food-finding mission inland. There might be some wonderful but lesser-known fruit hidden away in the bushes.’

‘And I don’t count as crew?’ says Izzy. He stares Blackbeard down for a second or two, willing him to understand what the hell he’s getting at: when he doesn’t, he sighs, rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated arc possible. ‘The crew were a lot fresher because someone took all the workload from them on Christmas Day.’

‘Well, none of us asked you to. You’d have been more than welcome to join us, you just chose not to.’ Blackbeard’s not got time for this. ‘This is your second chance at a rest, Iz, and I’d advise you take it if you’re still that highly strung about bloody Christmas.’

Despite his own initial cynicism after talking to Stede, he’s decided that the whole thing isn’t the most outlandish idea in the world. It’s also a good way of getting rid of a few of them for an hour or two: namely Roach, the Swede, Buttons and Frenchie, who names himself the leader of the expedition. Had Blackbeard thought to choose someone for that position it would have been him, in all fairness. The others have the get-up-and-go to occupy themselves with other endeavours, though Blackbeard suspects Lucius and Pete aren’t going to be particularly productive.

It's not as though he’s in any position to judge, though. With a couple of the others still hanging around on the Revenge, and with one of them being Izzy, he and Stede aren’t about to start having an in-depth conversation about their intervening lives and the emotions they’ve invoked right there on the deck of the ship. They’re going to have to sneak away at a time when doing so won’t look suspicious. Stede’s room isn’t private enough – there’s always a chance that a member of the crew will misinterpret something unremarkable as an emergency and come bursting right in, or that Izzy will come sniffing around for illicit gossip the way he does when Blackbeard is spending time with Jack. It’s not as though Blackbeard is expecting this conversation to turn into something else, exactly. It’s just the fact that it has a chance at doing so, even the tiniest one, and it’s a strange enough dynamic on this ship already. He doesn’t need everyone knowing about the additional strange dynamic that’s developing – or resurfacing, rather – between the two captains.

Later on in the evening, when most people are lazing around playing card games after a day of activity, Stede approaches Blackbeard on the deck with a cheeky smile.

‘Come and have a look at this,’ he says. ‘I’ve found a good place for potential future stashing, but I need it looking over by the expert. Really, it is just a load of rocks, but …’

‘But nothing. I trust your judgement.’ Blackbeard doesn’t think twice about the words until they’re already out of his mouth. Perhaps they’re true here. They might well not have been, had they been speaking about anything else. It’s not worth dwelling on for now, though: not when Stede is twinkling with tentative excitement.

It is indeed a dangerous trek onto the rocks Stede had been referring to. They’re within the line of sight of the Revenge so they can monitor things, but in the dimming light anyone looking toward the shore from there would struggle to see two figures against the grey outcrop.

It’s less of a struggle for Blackbeard than it is for Stede. It’s as though they’re two slightly different species: Blackbeard, a hardy sort of goat, versus Stede the sheep, safe in his field. His glorious wool is less useful here than Blackbeard’s surefootedness, and there’s a hairy moment when Stede slips, but Blackbeard happens to be looking at him at the time and he’s quick with a rescuing hand. Neither of them says anything, but their hands remain interlinked for the rest of the way. It isn’t much further, but it’s enough for Blackbeard’s heart rate, already elevated from the exertion, to increase more still.

It flutters when they reach the top. Stede had been right in choosing somewhere like this. It’s more or less private, yes: but it’s also beautiful. Nothing stands in the way of their view of the sea, and Blackbeard has seen a lot of sunsets in his time but he isn’t sure he’s seen one with quite as many colours at once before. There’s a faint sliver of moon visible among a smattering of stars even as the sun’s dying light dusts the sky and the surface of the water. Blackbeard’s used to being humbled by vast oceans and their distant horizons, but from a standstill?

It's probably more to do with the fact that he’s stopped to rest than anything else, but this view is one of the most breathtaking he’s ever seen.

Stede is grinning. He’s noticed Blackbeard’s reaction, and evidently it’s just what he’d been hoping for.

‘I always think about how the moon is what’s pulling the tide back and forth. I remember you calling it witchcraft back when I found that out in school,’ he says. ‘It does seem like it, sometimes. But it’s so beautiful either way. I can’t believe you’ve never been here before.’

Blackbeard does consider keeping quiet. It feels dishonest, though, even if that is only by omission.

‘All right, I’ll come clean,’ he says. ‘You were right. Earlier, I mean. I have been here before. You can imagine what I was doing, though – hardly enjoying the view.’

Judging by the slight droop in Stede’s smile, this joke isn’t as funny as Blackbeard had intended it to be. In his defence, though, what had Stede expected? He knows damn well what this occupation entails, and he knows Christmas was an unusual break for him rather than the norm.

Until he’d joined forces with Stede, that is. Christmas would never have registered with him if the crew hadn’t battering-rammed his door down in a panic, and Christmas had ended up being one of the best days he’d had in ages. It would have been an experience he’d missed altogether if not for Stede.

‘Sorry,’ he says. It’s been a few moments since he spoke and he’s not sure Stede even registers what the apology is referring to, but he moves on so as not to risk further souring the atmosphere. ‘I just don’t do this sort of stuff very often. You know that.’

‘Well, you should do it more. Being more relaxed suits you, even if you’re still incredibly tense.’

His soft tone is the only reason Blackbeard doesn’t comment further.

‘How am I doing then, Ed?’ Stede says. ‘I don’t want to be presumptuous but it feels to me as though there has at least been some improvement. My crew haven’t mutinied, at any rate. The only concern I have is that this could be due to your presence rather than my authority. Maybe we should conduct an experiment – you could leave, or pretend to, I mean, and watch from a distance to see how the crew behave in your absence. Then if things degenerated you would still be around to step in, and let me know where I went wrong … but that might be a stupid idea.’

He says everything so quickly that it’s hard for Blackbeard to keep up. This must mean a lot to him. Well, of course it means a lot to him. You don’t abandon your wife and children on a whim – or you don’t if you’re any kind of a decent person, Blackbeard supposes. He has no idea whether he would ever be able to justify it himself.

‘It’s not a stupid idea,’ he says, with a small smile. ‘You’re doing well. But I’m in no hurry to go anywhere right now, so make the most of me.’

‘Good. I’m glad. I didn’t want you to go anyway.’

Something tells Blackbeard that that’s as close as they’re going to get to business this evening. Stede’s staring out toward the horizon with the same look of admiration that Blackbeard felt sure was gracing his own face moments ago. This might be a ploy. Any twisting anxieties around Stede and the lingering remnants of his hoity-toityness have disappeared, drops in the ocean, and no doubt this setting is to blame. Then again, half of the anxiety comes from Stede’s ignorance, and if he’s that ignorant he isn’t about to seduce Blackbeard’s frustration away deliberately. Only coincidentally.

There’s a reason they haven’t rushed into anything, though.

‘Why did you leave?’ Blackbeard says.

It almost comes out of nowhere, but Stede doesn’t betray any surprise.

‘Do you mean “why did you leave your wife and family” or “why did you leave me”?’

The second question hadn’t come to mind, because Blackbeard had never considered what had happened back then to have been Stede leaving him. Leaving, then, would have meant the two of them leaving together. But he balks slightly at the way Stede has referred to it, and he has to pause to check his tone before clarifying what he’d meant.

‘Why did you leave your wife and family?’ he says. ‘And don’t say to be a pirate. I know there’s more to it than that.’

‘I suspect you know what more there is to it, too.’

Stede sounds more wistful than irritated, although Blackbeard wouldn’t be surprised if he were concealing at least a tiny bit of annoyance at being asked something he thought was clear already.

‘I want to hear it from you,’ Blackbeard says. ‘In your own words. I think I’ve been assuming things rather than knowing them.’

‘Well, it’ll probably disappoint you to hear that I left them because I just couldn’t be there any more,’ Stede says with a shrug. ‘I … you were right. On the beach that night, I mean. What I did was disgusting, letting you think we could … and then .. Christ, I can’t even bring myself to say it. I’ve been disgusted with my behaviour ever since. I’m disgusted now. It was the first thing that came to mind when you came aboard my ship and told me who you were. All my chickens came to roost then, didn’t they? The entire reason I’m out here doing this is because I listened to neither my heart nor my best friend – or lover, I should say, because you were, Ed – at a pivotal moment in my life.’

Blackbeard can almost see the word lover seared into the air before him the way the sun lingers when you gaze at it for too long. He’d been reluctant in these intervening years to regard Stede as anything other than a friend with whom he had shared a few physically intimate moments. It was never conscious, more an instinctive way of protecting and distancing himself from events he neither wanted nor needed to recall. But the lie has dissolved here, with Stede’s assertion that they had indeed been something else entirely, and a small, but raw and fresh, wave of anger breaks over him at the idea that Stede had done what he’d done whilst very much viewing himself as being in a relationship with Blackbeard.

‘You know I’m not going to reassure you or be all nicey-nice,’ he says gruffly. ‘And it is taking everything I’ve got to once again resist saying “I told you so”.’

‘I know. If it were me, I don’t think I’d be resisting it at all.’

‘Who’s the classy one now?’

Fortunately, Stede does see the humour in this. He allows himself a quiet, breathy laugh before returning to his melancholy.

‘Ed, I am so, so sorry.’

There are honest-to-God tears in Stede’s eyes now, and where once Blackbeard might have been filled with disdain at what appeared to be a manipulation tactic, now he’s struck by the realisation that Stede’s cowardly decision had far-reaching and upsetting repercussions for him, too. Stede could never have foreseen the Webleys’ quick exit from Barbados when the Baron’s creditors had come looking for him any more than he could have foreseen their flight taking place while he and Blackbeard had been entwined in the water. His marriage had stolen neither Blackbeard’s savings nor the piece of silk he had kept on his person at all times until that final night. What it had done was imprison Stede in a life not meant for him, and as much as he could try to blame the arrangement on his family, he had ultimately been the one to make promises before the Lord and the law that he had always known he would be unable to keep. He had brought his own fate upon himself and extended it to innocents.

‘I could try to say that hindsight is a wonderful thing and all of that, but … I knew it in the moment, too. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I was so scared, Ed. I was never brave like you.’

‘Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared,’ Blackbeard says.

Stede just scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks so miserable now that Blackbeard’s arm reaches out almost of its own accord, and he steps in close to lie a palm on Stede’s shoulder blade.

‘Sorry,’ Stede says, his voice wavering, and Blackbeard gives him a squeeze.

‘No need to apologise for having feelings.’

‘But –’

‘No need to apologise for showing them, either.’

Stede is quiet for a moment as Blackbeard takes a little more pleasure in caressing his shoulder blade than the situation should warrant. A result of the dog-eat-dog world of piracy, he knows. Any human contact as tender as this … it’s like opium.

‘Unfortunately I do need to apologise for having talked at great length about myself,’ Stede says. ‘Your life will no doubt have been far more eventful than mine.’

‘I did ask, you don’t have to worry about that.’

‘Well, now I’m asking you. If you want to, would you please tell me what happened after we parted? You left Holetown so quickly …’

Nobody has ever had cause to ask about that uncomfortable era of Blackbeard’s past before now, and Blackbeard has therefore never had cause to speak about it. He’s not even sure if the details he recalls are correct any more, but with nothing else to base his memories on, he decides that whatever he tells Stede will just have to be enough.

‘After I left you,’ he says, the beach at Holetown swimming before his eyes, ‘I came back to the house to find it empty. The Webleys had gone.’

‘I know,’ Stede says.

Stupid of Blackbeard to have assumed otherwise. Nothing spreads quite like gossip among the wealthy.

‘Yeah,’ Blackbeard says, waving a hand. ‘You probably know more about that whole affair than I ever will … but they went back to Bristol. That much I do know. They were on that ship that we went to wave off – along with all of my savings.’

‘Oh, Ed …’

The raw reaction from Stede has Blackbeard’s eyes prickling. Over so many years, the taking of others’ possessions has become commonplace for him. Had he heard this story from anyone else he would hardly have been moved, but Stede’s sympathy reminds him that there are indeed circumstances under which such thieving is deplorable. How can he be upset, though? He’s done very little that isn’t deplorable of late.

But he’d been so young. He’d just lost his mother. He’d been saving more or less everything he’d earned from long, hot days of manual labour, and absolutely everything had been taken from him in one fell swoop by a man who not only ought to have known better, but who had once had more money and resource than Blackbeard could have dreamed of. His bad fortune had been the result of nothing more than his own bad judgement, and Blackbeard's younger self had had no part to play in that.

‘I lost the silk from my mother, too,’ Blackbeard says. ‘I’m sure it was around the same time. I can’t remember exactly when I last saw it, but it must have been around that day. I have to wonder whether I’d left that in the house somewhere. My only possession of any value.’

Far more value to him. It would probably have gone unsold in a junk shop yet he thinks about it most days even now, its loss felt almost as keenly as that of his mother at times. Stupid, perhaps. But he’s strangely validated by the tears that are now streaming from Stede’s eyes with abandon. Being so attached to a piece of fabric feels less childish when he can see such a response from a third party.

‘I don’t know what else to say, really,’ he finishes with a shrug. Dwelling too much on any of this is going to threaten him with tears, too, and despite what he’d just said to Stede he really doesn’t want anybody seeing him cry. It just isn’t very Blackbeard. ‘Where else does a down-on-his-luck young man go in Holetown when he doesn’t have a friend in the world?’

‘You had me,’ Stede bursts out, voice cracking. ‘Ed, I was still there. If I’d known – I would have done anything to stop you having to –’

‘I can’t take that seriously knowing you turned to this life of your own accord,’ Blackbeard says, with a harsh laugh.

‘As an adult! With life experience, someone who knew my own mind! I wasn’t eighteen and homeless …’

‘But you understand why someone who was eighteen and homeless might be drawn in?’

Stede nods, wiping his eyes again.

‘I did bits and pieces for small-time crooks for a while. Then Hornigold picked me up and it all just escalated from there … we’d be here for days if I took you through everything that’s gone on since then, but there’s the abridged version.’ He clears his throat to give himself a moment to think about whether he really wants to say what he thinks he wants to say next. ‘And I hope you know that my story is more than likely a mirror of quite a lot of the other stories on your ship.’

But he’s not bitter. The fact that Stede is so genuinely moved has heartened him: that, coupled with his evident earlier guilt, paints a more sympathetic picture than the one Blackbeard has spent the afternoon conjuring up himself. It had been easy, as well as necessary, to make himself believe that Stede Bonnet had considered him nothing more than a distraction. All of that camouflage unravels as he moves in towards Stede, mumbling a “c’mere” before taking him in his arms.

It's another one of those moments when the years between them might never have unfolded. They’ve kissed. They’ve touched, albeit without much in the way of escalation. But being held like this by his best friend is far more evocative of what they shared for such a long time than anything else that has happened between them so far, and Blackbeard can’t resist pushing his face into Stede’s shoulder to take a huge inhale.

‘I thought I was over you,’ he says. It comes so much more easily when he isn’t meeting Stede’s eyes. ‘I thought … with time … but you’re just the same. And now you’re here, and it’s like we’re eighteen again.’

‘I know exactly how you feel.’ Stede’s more composed now, but his tone is tentative. ‘And if you want us to be what we were back then, I won’t ruin it this time. I know better.’

He’s been married. He is married. He has children, for Christ’s sake. And he’s left it all, in a move that must have been a thousand times harder than avoiding it in the first place could ever have been. He was so sure that his old life was wrong for him that he gave it up for piracy.

Here, away from the Revenge with its crew and its booty and its weapons, they could almost be those eighteen-year-olds playing at being pirates all over again.

Stede’s shoulder is comforting, his embrace all-encompassing. It almost kills Blackbeard to pull back slightly so he can move his face closer to Stede’s. They sky seems to have darkened even in those few minutes spent burrowed away from it, and Stede’s features are blurred by shadow. Blackbeard takes a moment to retrace them, layering the memories of the boyish face from way back when over the lined, yet softer, one of the man before him now. The difference between the two is not nearly so stark as the difference between his own face in youth and the one he keeps hidden now, and time plays tricks on him yet again as he leans in to kiss the best friend, and lover, he knows he will ever have.

This time is deliberate. He knows what to expect and he’s even a little nervous as a result: he’s conscious that his lips will never be as soft as Stede’s and he’s never kissed anyone like this since he grew his beard and is it off-putting to  to someone so polished and what if anyone should come looking for them and what should they say if they were to be discovered … it takes mere seconds, though, before the concerns become irrelevances, as Stede pulls him in close again and their kiss grows more feverish. There’s definite motion within his trousers and they’re so tightly pushed together that he can feel Stede hardening, too. Should he be embarrassed? Ashamed, even, that he can move from emotional tumult to desperate lust like the wind changing direction? Either way, Stede is in no position to admonish him as he begins to shift his hips subtly back and forth … this is moving so quickly, and every cell within Blackbeard’s body is in such a heightened state of arousal that he’s worried other things are in danger of escalating quickly, too, if he’s not careful. He wants to lie down, to take away any even the mundane pressure of the weight on their feet, but the rocks are so uneven and jagged in places that even remaining upright risks a tumble in the throes of ecstasy.

Stede gasps when Blackbeard twists out of the kiss with a sudden thought.

‘The water,’ he says, ‘behind the rocks … it’ll be easier for – for us, and harder for them to see …’

Already he’s losing the ability to form coherent sentences, and Stede gives him a small smile with swollen lips, perhaps to demonstrate that he does understand all of the unsaid logistical issues Blackbeard is trying to solve with his suggestion.

‘Yes,’ he says – then he looks suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Although – erm – could I meet you in there? I think I rather need to find somewhere discreet before we go any further, if you understand what I’m saying?’

Blackbeard does, but the mental image of Stede trying to do this with a semi is funny enough to make him chuckle: a sound that’s quite jarring in the heavy hush between them.

‘Sorry. Of course. There’s no rush, love.’

The love comes naturally, and it doesn’t seem to make Stede think twice.

They wander their separate ways, Stede heading inland while Blackbeard clambers down the other side of the rocks towards the water. It should be safe here. It’s sheltered by a sort of curved formation of rocks and will likely be free of the more intense currents and threatening sealife. He’s often asserted himself as the most dangerous thing on the seven seas anyway, though right now he’s sure he could be taken out by a gentle bump of a perch’s nose to his calf. He’s still semi-hard, still fizzing.

There’s a bit of a ledge that will allow easy passage in and out of the water. He leaves his clothes nearer the top and climbs down, taking extra care with the parts that aren’t usually exposed to the elements before sliding gratefully into the calm water that’s spent the day warming in the sun. The moon is the only source of light now but its reflection in the surface of the water provides plenty of light to see Stede by when he joins Blackbeard, naked and smiling.

‘That didn’t take long,’ he says, lazily pulling Stede closer with one arm. Stede gives him an awkward smile.

‘Didn’t need to go quite as desperately as I thought. I think it was just nerves.’

‘You’re nervous?’

‘I am, as a matter of fact. It has been a long time and I’m not entirely sure I deserve this from you.’

‘It’s a good thing this has nothing to do with what you deserve, then. It’s about …’

But it isn’t about anything that Blackbeard can express with words. They’re kissing again before he can come up with anything that doesn’t sound forced, Stede backing him against the rock. Neither the brief pause in proceedings nor the water have done nothing to dampen their desire. Once their bodies are entwined again Blackbeard can feel Stede’s erection between them. How could he ever have been anxious about mooring here? How could he ever have thought that Stede might be wrong for him when he knows better than most that no one is perfect, and the best people can hope for is that you find someone with whom you can share this.

The ginormous boom that resounds then dispels all of these notions in a nanosecond.

The very water around them shivers with the aftershocks. Blackbeard’s in immediate defence mode, head twizzling back and forth looking for the threat, all the while knowing in his heart of hearts where the threat lies. The surprise is more the fact that it’s happening at all, and the lack of it in Stede’s expression is worrying him somewhat.

‘We need to get back to the ship –’ Blackbeard stammers.

If there’s anything that can kill romance dead it’s fear for one’s life. Their rendezvous thus far pales into irrelevance. Blackbeard’s hoisting himself back onto the rocks before he knows what he’s doing, scrambling for clothes, pulling sticky garments over wet skin and getting them stuck as he stumbles back towards the ship – which he can now see is not alone. Beyond the starboard side floats a naval vessel, and Blackbeard doesn’t need to get any closer to know that they have just fired a cannonball into the Revenge.

A few seconds of paralysis are punished by Stede seizing his arm to stop him moving any further towards the ship. He tries to shake himself free but Stede takes hold of his other arm, too.

‘No,’ he says, sounding flustered and desperate. Blackbeard swivels his head around to face him, and his face is set. ‘Ed, I need you to stay away – please –’

Blackbeard is stuck to the spot by his words far more than he could have been by his restraint.

‘You need me to …? You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’ he says, speaking it as he realises.

‘Listen –‘

‘Did you plan this?’

He frees one of his arms. Stede’s still naked, there’s no collar to seize and he doesn’t want to hurt him, so he simply flails in frustration instead. It takes Stede by surprise. He lets Blackbeard go, his hands ready to argue his point now.

‘I knew they would catch up with us sometime,’ he said. ‘And I thought that if I wasn’t on the Revenge when they did …’

He trails off under Blackbeard’s glare. Evidently he’d been hoping to be understood, not reprimanded.

‘You bastard,’ Blackbeard says, and without waiting for further protestations from Stede he sprints across the rocks, drawing his musket as he goes. 

Chapter Text

Blackbeard’s first thought that isn’t just part of a stream of swearwords is that the lessons his men have been doling out have been more effective than he’s given them credit for thus far. The battle cries he can hear on the air belong mostly to the crew of the Revenge and very few of the expressions of pain seem to be coming from them. The clashes of metal are fierce and plentiful; gunshots, nonexistent, thank God. He’s more than happy for firearms to be a last resort. It doesn’t mean his heart isn’t hammering or his throat isn’t filling with bile as he clambers aboard the ship. It’s fear he hasn’t known in years. He very much suspects that that’s the driving factor behind the bullet he immediately puts in the back of the head of the officer who, until he drops to the ground, had been launching an assault on Buttons.

All at once, there’s a pause in the fighting. Those searching for the source of the weapon that’s just been discharged don’t seem to know, collectively, what to do with their faces on realising Blackbeard is there. It’s with good reason. He should have been there all along. Even the naval officers seem to be regarding him with contempt as well as fear as they slowly notice the presence of the so far absent legendary pirate.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Izzy is kind enough to give the entire crew a voice, and Blackbeard can hardly admonish him for dissent.

‘No time for that now,’ he says. ‘I am so, so sorry …’

There’s an officer bearing down on him but he’s ready, strafing to the side and slicing through his kidney from behind as he rushes into the space Blackbeard just vacated. His appearance has at least distracted some of them from their attempted conquests over the others, but as the fighting resumes it’s clear that even the officers who aren’t now targeting him have become far more aggressive knowing now who these men work with.

It's only then that Stede, mercifully dressed, hauls himself onto the deck, and Blackbeard can see even in the low light that he’s pale. His usefulness here now is debatable, but at least he is here: Blackbeard had been half-wondering whether he might linger in fear on the rocks until the Revenge fell quiet again. He doesn’t seem to really know what to do now he’s made it onto the ship, though. From the way his gaze is flicking around the deck without focusing it’s almost as though he can’t see the true horror of what’s happening before his eyes. It takes Blackbeard a moment to realise he’s looking for him. More to reduce the time he spends shirking his responsibility than to reassure him, he dodges another man in blue and seizes Stede by the shoulder.

‘You draw your sword and you get out there and you lead your men.’ He snarls it, so far removed from the purrs of earlier that he wonders for a moment whether he might even be speaking to a different person. Stede confirms otherwise within seconds, though. He’s exactly as unwilling to go into battle as Blackbeard should have expected, and after several seconds of hesitation he physically has to launch him into the fray himself.

On stumbling into the middle of the mess he’s made, though, Stede comes face-to-face with an admiral who freezes on seeing his new foe. Stede, too, makes no attempt to attack, and a sympathetic reading of the situation would seem to indicate that this time, this is a specific reaction to the person before him than a general reaction to having to fight.

‘Stede Bonnet …’ the man says.

The quiet comes more slowly this time. The Navy are the first to pay attention to this new development, realising their leader is less interested in the fight than he had been a moment or so ago, and the ripple effect takes its time to move through the others. Through the muttering Blackbeard is close enough to hear Stede’s whimpered response of assent.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re in charge of this ship?’ the admiral says.

Stede manages a few more words this time, although they take considerable effort.

‘I am, Chauncey. Yes. Apologies for my late arrival, I was otherwise … occupied. But this is indeed my ship.’

Even the Revenge’s crew are muttering amongst themselves at his vague excuse. Blackbeard’s not had a chance to get a proper look at them all until now, but he can see that not a single one of them is missing. Even Karl is perched on the staysail, looking as though he’s raring to resume swooping in and pecking at someone’s eyes. They must all have been on the ship, or at least close by, ready for action.

It takes Blackbeard a moment to realise that Stede used the admiral’s name.

‘Then … no, this has got to be a joke,’ says the man – Chauncey? ‘If you’re the captain of this ship, that means you’re the one who murdered my brother.’

The second the word brother is out of his mouth, Blackbeard sees it. He’d never had much to do with this half of the Badminton twins, but if he’s anything like his brother, he’s as big and brash as ever – albeit with slightly less hair.

And Stede can hardly deny the accusation. He might still have a get-out if Badminton is really that incredulous that it ever happened. But to pretend he isn’t guilty of such a vicious act is to lose the only thing sustaining his reputation out here. Blackbeard, however, knows from experience that nothing makes it easier to admit to something so inflammatory in front of someone so dangerous. He knows that’s why Stede is still whispering rather than talking at a normal volume.

While everyone is transfixed, Blackbeard catches Izzy’s eye. A couple of barely-detectable gestures later and an action plan has been conveyed.

Come on, Stede, Blackbeard thinks, as angrily as he can. He knows Stede will do the right thing. There’s risk down either avenue, but reward at the end of only one.

It’s no surprise, then, when he squeaks out a ‘yes’. What is a surprise, to everyone except Blackbeard and Izzy, is the musket shot right between Badminton’s eyes: there’s a flurry of screams, followed immediately by chaos.

It’s difficult to tell who’s who when things are moving again. The most senior officers don’t seem to know which twin assailant to prioritise, compromising with a rallying, if posh, battle cry and a rush towards whoever is closest to them. Fortunately Blackbeard had anticipated that this precise result had been inevitable following such drastic action: he’s ready. Izzy, too, is mowing down anyone in uniform with abandon. Ivan and Fang, without the same warning, are nevertheless mere seconds behind. It’s a mark of how much more experience they have than the others that they’ve dispatched four or five men between them while even the likes of Olu or Jim are still hacking and slashing wildly. It doesn’t take long before mere blocking and dodging turns to attacking, though, especially not when Stede’s crew start to see the rising number of uniformed corpses. None of them are sailing away safely until the deck is covered in them. Blackbeard daren’t look to see whether they’ve lost any of their own crews yet, but the fact that the chances of that happening just sprang skyward drives every stab, slash and scream.

The ease of identification is mitigated by the sheer strength and discipline of the regiment. It feels like hours before the noise dies down, any cries now a sign of pain, fatigue, triumph or relief from his own side. He’s still reacting instinctively to every movement but it’s only ever someone he knows … as things settle, he pauses to observe the scene. There’s quiet sobbing coming from further along the deck which he can’t bear to investigate just yet, but from his brief scan of the scene it looks, finally, as though every living soul comes from the Revenge.

It takes him a moment to work out who they’re missing. Stede beats him to the casualty, and he only realises a second or two before he gets there that the man lying motionless beside the main mast is Frenchie, and that the culprit is a raw, oozing wound on the right-hand side of his abdomen.

Somehow more unsettling is the fact that the sobbing is coming from Wee John. It’s a long way for him to go to get down to the ground, but he’s kneeling beside Frenchie with his head tucked into his elbow.

No … it’s the only word in Blackbeard’s head as he throws himself onto the deck with them. No no no no no.

‘Frenchie?’ Roach’s voice is trembling as he tries to rouse him – it’s more than anyone else has attempted so far, but when Frenchie doesn’t respond the no s in Blackbeard’s head tripled in speed. Roach shakes him gently by the shoulder to no avail.

‘Not to … trivialise the situation, or anything,’ Lucius says, ‘but has anyone checked his pulse?’

He sounds as though daring to speak here could be construed as deeply offensive. The way some of them react, it may well have been. It’s Olu who nods first.

‘Mm. Yeah. I don’t think anyone … John, did you?’

‘No,’ John says. ‘I just saw the massive hole in his belly and assumed …’

As he speaks, he takes hold of Frenchie’s wrist and puts the pad of his forefinger gently against the skin on the inside. The silence among the crew as he feels could almost have given way to a heartbeat, but it’s a few seconds before Wee John sighs.

‘There’s a pulse,’ he says. ‘It’s slow, but it’s there. We need to get him somewhere to rest.’

The relief is palpable, even though Frenchie still hasn’t said a word.

‘Yes,’ Stede says. A few of them seem to notice that he hasn’t made a sound in a while, glancing among themselves uneasily. ‘Take him to my chamber, he won’t be disturbed in there. Roach, can you prepare a dressing? John –’ But John has already set about gathering Frenchie up in his arms. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

No one speaks again. They’re frozen among the corpses as Wee John navigates them, the unresponsive Frenchie hanging from his arms. Blackbeard can understand why Lucius had struggled to venture forth with his potentially life-saving suggestion earlier. It feels almost as though being the first to say anything might prompt a violent punishment in an atmosphere like this. Even with the sound of the water beneath them, Blackbeard’s heartbeat within his ears demands to be heard, proof of his survival and a reminder of how close it had come to not being the case.

It's a moment or two after John and Frenchie have disappeared from view before he feels able to take any further action.

‘I need all hands on deck,’ Blackbeard says gruffly. ‘Take anything worthwhile, then sling them overboard. We’ll need to go and pick up the Queen Anne’s Revenge as soon as possible, but then I’ll have to have a think about where we can go to hide out for a while. Keep them off our tail while Frenchie recovers.’

Stede is at his side in a second. Blackbeard, full to the brim with adrenaline and thick spite, can’t rid himself of the assumption that he is trying to avoid getting his hands dirty. His are the cleanest out of everyone’s right now.

‘Is there anything I can help with?’ he says. Blackbeard can’t meet his eyes.

‘When all of the bodies are gone, go and check on your injured man.’

He feels wrong, somehow. As though he’s separate from his body, or as though someone else is inhabiting it. He wants to take a long bath, hot to the point of pain; maybe go and hurl his guts out. He’s not sure. Something must be able to help.

He suspects drink is the closest thing he’s going to get, though. When the deck is clear, and the crews are gathered in supportive little huddles to comfort one another, he slinks away in search of a bottle or two.

*

In any other situation, refuge would be sought at the Republic of Pirates. Unfortunately, Stede Bonnet is not ready for somewhere like the Republic of Pirates. He has not been ready for anything else he’s attempted thus far, either, but there’s a far more visceral reluctance within Blackbeard here. He’d show him up; he’d betray someone; he’d get himself killed. There is no end to the list of possible ways Stede could fuck up at a place like that.

He must have fallen asleep on deck. He doesn’t remember coming up here. There’s a haze of rum, the scramble below decks to find more once he’d polished off the bottle he’d had to hand followed by an evening alone, wallowing in more feelings than he knew what to do with. The rum had helped. He certainly has no idea how he was feeling when he walked himself up here. He’s just lucky no-one else is sprawled beside him – the last thing he would have wanted would have been to share this moment with anyone else.

He's unsettled now as he tries to sit up. He’s angry, yes, but everything else takes a little while to fade back in like ships approaching from a misty horizon. Ever practical, he’s mulling over the need to transfer onto the cannonball-holeless Queen Anne’s Revenge before hiding out while everything else bubbles below the surface. He can’t quite contemplate what need to happen in real terms, though. If it were just him, the Republic of Pirates would be his first port of call. God, how easy things would be if it were just him …

After a trip back to his quarters to try to rinse away the grime of a hangover, he wanders fuzzy-headed to Stede’s room. Stede’s not there, though he has no idea where he might have ended up sleeping last night. He doesn’t have time to ponder such trivialities. Right now, the priority is Frenchie, and he finds him snoozing in Stede’s bed with Wee John and the Swede sitting in silence by his side.

The bedclothes are ruffled and damp, but otherwise unmarked: Roach has done a wonderful job dressing the wound, then, and the lack of leakage is a very good sign in and of itself. John and Swede offer nothing more than smiles as Blackbeard pulls the chair over from Stede’s desk to join them.

He’s never been so captivated by the rising and falling of someone’s chest before. Where he could well have been dead last night, now, life is unmistakable within Frenchie – the shock and the rapid blood loss had no doubt been the most urgent problems, and for now he does seem stable. But Blackbeard’s not a doctor. It isn’t just the hangover making him nauseous as he sits for a few more quiet minutes, which are interrupted only by Frenchie mumbling in his sleep. It feels like permission.

‘How’s he been?’ Blackbeard whispers. ‘Were you here all night?’

‘We’ve only been here a couple of hours,’ says John, and Swede nods gravely. ‘We came to relieve Roach and Olu. They were here all night. I reckon they’re trying to get a bit of sleep now.’

‘All right. Good. Yeah.’

He doesn’t ask where Stede is, much as he wants to. He doesn’t trust himself to keep his response hush.

‘He has definitely improved,’ says Swede. ‘They said he was waking up every half hour through the night. But now he is resting.’

Blackbeard just nods. There’s a selfish temptation to wake him – he feels he ought to be there for that moment, whenever it comes, to apologise for not being there. The very least he can do is admit fault, though where to go from there is another matter altogether that really does need his attention.

So he sits for a little while longer, but makes his eventual apologies and promises to send someone in shortly to relieve them. That someone is going to be Stede Bonnet, but he is determined to be the only one to know that for the time being.

They need to move. He needs to chart a course. But the idea of properly thinking right now … he knows he isn’t capable of being rational, and once upon a time that would have made for a rollicking adventure, whatever Izzy might have had to say about it. The risk of it being something else, though, when the emotions replacing logic are so hurt and spiteful, is far too great. Times like these always remind him why a pirate can’t sail alone. It’s just the prospect of having to bear a thousand I told you sos from Izzy that prevents him from seeking him out straight away: and when he finally does find him, organising repairs of some of the weapons that had been damaged in battle, he feels sicker than ever.

‘Hey,’ he says, and he doesn’t wait for acknowledgement before continuing. He’ll cave if he does. ‘I need to make a plan, and … I need your help.’

He can hardly bear the way Izzy tosses his head back, folding his arms slowly as he allows a smug, triumphant smile to announce itself, but looking away would be an act of cowardice. Whatever Izzy is preparing to throw at him right now will be nothing more or less than what he deserves. This is why he keeps him around. This is why they work together, despite the near-constant resentment and one-upmanship. As much as it’s humiliating for him to admit, the Blackbeards on this Earth would be nothing short of lunatics without the Izzys.

He can’t even begrudge the deliberate, swaggering steps Izzy is taking towards him now.

‘You do need a plan,’ he says. ‘And you do need my help. What a shame you’ve had to learn both of these things the hard way.’

Blackbeard says nothing. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t allow even a hint of emotion to dispel his impassive expression.

‘Where were you last night … Captain?’ Another couple of steps and Izzy is nose-to-nose with Blackbeard. ‘Seems like one hell of a coincidence that you and Bonnet were nowhere to be found during a sneak attack from the Navy. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d known about it – or someone else had. Didn’t want your day job interrupting your reminiscence with your school chum? Was that it?’

His lips curl into a more knowing smile. This close, it’s disturbing.

‘Or was it something more than that? Find a secluded cove, did you? Somewhere private to make up for lost –?’

‘I’m sorry!’

It has to burst out, otherwise it wouldn’t have come at all. Blackbeard’s almost as surprised as Izzy, although his own reaction might be in response to Izzy’s aggressive jump. He takes a deep breath to calm himself again.

‘I promise you I didn’t know they were going to attack last night, but I should’ve. I should’ve put two and two together. The Navy were after us – him – of course they were. And what else did I think was going to happen if we stayed put? So I wasn’t there, but I should’ve been. I know that. I regret that, I regret all of it, and I promise you, if I had another chance to do last night all over again, I’d have done everything differently. I let all of you down and I’m sorry.’

Blackbeard knows full well that the pause Izzy leaves here is for effect: nothing more.

‘Don’t think it escaped any of our notice that you both came running half-dressed and dripping wet,’ he says. ‘You can beg forgiveness all you like, but it’s not going to be forthcoming until you learn to think with this –’ he reaches up to tap the side of Blackbeard’s head. ‘Instead of this .’

Blackbeard should have seen it coming. If he hadn’t been so consumed with shame, he would have. But all of a sudden, Izzy’s hand is cupping his crotch.

He doesn’t have time to suppress the intake of breath. They’re so close that Izzy must have noticed. That grin, the one that means he’s obtained some useful, dirty piece of information on another pirate, punctuates a swift squeeze – then it’s over, Izzy walking away as though nothing has happened while Blackbeard is left standing stock still and alone. He’s breathing hard. The warmth of Izzy’s palm coats his cock and he can’t decide whether that’s an uncomfortable memento or a sensation he wants to dwell on for a few minutes more. And which of those, if either of them at all, was Izzy’s intention? The mind games he plays can be confusing but this is the first time Blackbeard has been left legitimately not understanding how he feels about something Izzy has done.

That in itself, though, is enough. This may well have been what Izzy had meant to do.

This whole time, he has been thinking with his crotch. Fuck nostalgia or pity or honour – the driving force has always been the remnants of feeling he had left over for Stede, and the utter bewilderment he’s feeling at such a fleeting touch from Izzy can only be proof that his cock is not to be trusted. This is what he needs to keep in mind when he returns to his cabin and re-evaluates absolutely everything.

Chapter Text

It seems that wherever Blackbeard is, Stede makes a concerted effort not to be. Blackbeard’s combed every nook and cranny of the ship four or five times over before he manages to find him, pretending to check the supplies in the pantry. It’s clear it isn’t something he’s making a real effort to do from the fact that all he’s doing is staring at a box of biscuits when Blackbeard finds him.

‘I hope you know you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.’

Judging from Stede’s hang-dog expression, he does. It’s just a shame the expression is more befitting of someone who’s been caught pilfering fruit than a man whose crew’s lives have just been jeopardised on his watch.

‘You do realise how lucky you are that Frenchie’s pulling though? That all of them survived, in fact?’ Blackbeard says. It’s meant to be a reminder that Stede has no right to feel sorry for himself, but this seems to almost perk him up.

‘Well. That’s testament to you and your crew’s excellent tutelage –’

‘Shut up. It’s testament to the Navy’s lack of preparation and nothing more – they thought they were after a normal, if rich, man. They’d have likely sent more than one ship if they’d had any idea who they were really coming up against.’ Even saying that reignites his rage. He’d stayed away for this long in order to manage this conversation rationally, but he’s starting to wonder whether that might just have put a pause on his feelings instead of calming them. ‘You should have been on that ship. They were looking for you –’

‘Then surely you understand why I wasn’t on the ship?’

Bile sears the back of Blackbeard’s throat, and any final hope of having that rational conversation dissolves within it. If he were talking to anyone else, this might be the point when violence had to take over. It is necessary, sometimes. When the opposing party is too drunk, pigheaded or just plain thick to take part in a fair debate, the only way of getting your point across is to pound it into them.

If he were talking to anyone else …

‘You selfish cunt,’ he says. ‘You … Christ. There are no words.’

And Stede just stares at him, as affronted as a schoolboy being punished for something he has literally just been caught doing.

‘It wasn’t selfish, it was selfless,’ he protests. ‘If … if I’d been on that ship we’d have been a bigger target. There’d have been more at stake, so the Navy would have been more aggressive!’

‘They were attacking your men and you weren’t there!’

How does Stede not understand the severity of this? How can he argue as though he has a leg to stand on? He truly can’t comprehend the dishonour of what he’s done, and the dishonour he’s forced onto Blackbeard by proxy, and that might be the most worrying element of his thus far shoddy attempt at piracy yet.

‘You can’t defend yourself here, Stede. Ask anyone – your crew, mine, me, for Christ’s sake. If you carry on this way then your entire remaining lifespan will be shorter than the amount of time I’ve spent as a pirate. I know what I’m talking about and I’m disgusted that you’d even attempt to disagree. You were the one who killed Badminton, therefore you were the one who should have been facing the consequences. You were happy to pretend it was murder to suit your agenda once upon a time. If I hadn’t killed his brother what would you have done? Hm? Waited for another happy accident, or for someone else to defend you?’

He pauses, ready for an answer – but he thinks better of it when Stede opens his mouth. He’s only going to come out with some bullshit that’ll piss Blackbeard off even more.

‘You should have been prepared. Your crew should have been prepared. If you didn’t tell me then I don’t suppose you bothered telling anyone else …?’ Stede shakes his head: now, at least, he does look a little more ashamed of himself. ‘What did you think was going to happen?’

‘To be honest I thought the most fearsome pirate on the seven seas might have been slightly more on guard considering all of his expertise and intuition and how much better he is at everything than the rest of us –’

Most of Blackbeard’s acts of violence are premeditated. They have to be, for his own safety. The punch he throws at Stede’s face, though, is nothing more than the result of the red mist descending, of the fury he feels at this man and his audacity and his attitude that was almost fatal for poor Frenchie. Stede’s not ready. He reels back, swearing and clutching his nose, and the sight fires Blackbeard up in a nasty, bitter sort of way. Stede deserves this and more. He's not showing anywhere near enough remorse, no, but it takes Blackbeard a moment to understand what it was about what he’d just said that had invoked his instinctive attack.

The most fearsome pirate on the seven seas. Yes. And who the fuck is Stede Bonnet? A jumped-up, ignorant, no-nothing twat who, despite having a wife, children, more money than he knows what to do with and his own fucking ship, doesn’t know the first thing about life. It takes him too much time to attempt to fight back: Blackbeard’s ready this time with a shove. Apparently he’d been a far worse teacher back in the day than he’d thought, because Stede puts up no resistance, and the thought of inflicting any more pain becomes a lot less inviting as Stede stares up at him, defiance and defeat fighting for attention.

To think that they’d been in the sea together when it had all been happening. That Stede had lured him to shore for a rest, with seductive suggestions and whispered emotional vulnerability … for this. A diversion, a reason to stay away from danger.

But that’s all any of it has ever been, surely. Had Blackbeard been thinking clearly over these last few weeks he’d have seen it – but he hasn’t been. Izzy had been right when he’d said he needed to think with his head. Nostalgia had clouded his judgement, the prospect of reigniting a connection that he still considered to be the truest one outside of the one he’d shared with his mother a tantalising one even if he hadn’t realised that was what was going on. And that’s as bad as realising that Stede’s been playing him. If he hasn’t got his intuition, then he’s useless.

‘Get out of my sight,’ he says.

‘Where do you want –?’

‘I don’t give a fuck. Just go.’

He’s barely aware that this is a stupid command when space is so limited, but if Stede managed to elude him for so long once before, he can do it again. He can help him along, in fact, by staying right here in the pantry. Roach won’t be down for at least a couple of hours, and no one else has enough cause to be here that he’s at real risk of being interrupted. There’s too much worry among the crew for Pete and Lucius to even attempt to find a private nook for their usual shenanigans. It’s a relief, but he barely feels it as he buries his face in his hands.

There is no room for softness out here. He’d once admired that in Stede, and the thought makes him nauseous now. If he’d known that life’s twists and turns were going to take him here, to deposit him on a ship with a crew who were unfortunate enough to answer to him, he’d have stamped it out the second he’d mentioned that fucking ixora. There’s softness that drives one to appreciate nature, then there’s softness that facilitates weakness: unfortunately, if you aren’t sharp, they are one and the same.

A pair of hands grips his shoulders, and he knows without turning around that they belong to Izzy. There’s no tenderness to the touch.

‘Any bright ideas, boss?’

Blackbeard says nothing. He needs to think before he decides how he wants Izzy to think he’s feeling. There is a desire, that he can’t deny, to apologise again, maybe even to surrender control and throw himself on Izzy’s mercy. If he considers it, it really might be a sensible idea. With everything he’s realised today he can’t pretend as though he’s the best person to make decisions around Stede Bonnet. It’s just a shame that he’s the fucking captain, for better or worse.

‘A couple,’ he says. ‘I need the crew out of the way. We’ll drop them off somewhere when we transfer to our ship, say it’s practical. We can’t fit as many bodies on the Queen Anne’s Revenge, whatever.’

‘Just his crew?’

‘Yes. They’ve done nothing wrong. Frenchie can rest, and we can go back for them if they don’t end up moving on themselves somehow, but I don’t want them anywhere near us.’

Izzy’s fingertips dig slightly deeper into Blackbeard’s shoulders.

‘And Bonnet?’

He’s a menace. A danger, even. He attempted to sacrifice his crew to save his own skin. He angered the Royal Navy and brought a huge threat down on his own head as well as the heads of others in some misguided attempt at petty revenge. And all for a flight of fancy, Mary and their children waiting back home. Had anyone else behaved this way Blackbeard would have had no qualms about eliminating them. The problem is, Stede isn’t anyone else.

‘I need time,’ he says to Izzy, finally turning his head to meet his eyes. Izzy forces a serious expression, but the slick smile he’d been wearing before he’d realised Blackbeard was looking is what stays with him. ‘This is a strange case. I’m going to feed him something, lure him into a false sense of security …’

He doesn’t know what else to say, but Izzy, for a change, doesn’t press him.

‘I’ll go and find you a nice, tropical island near where we moored the ship, with food and water sources,’ he says. ‘You’d better decide on a way to spin it.’

It doesn’t escape Blackbeard’s notice that his body unclenches as Izzy heads back to his cabin.

Why does it feel so uncomfortable to have Izzy onside at a time when he really does need his level head and expertise? It should make a welcome change from their usual constant butting of heads – and truthfully, it does. It doesn’t mean it isn’t also unsettling in a way. His relationship with Izzy isn’t harmonious, and not is it supposed to be. There would be little point to their partnership if they agreed on everything all of the time.

He is right about Blackbeard’s next steps. He can’t expect to be able to just drop the crew off if they have any idea what he’s doing. It’s perhaps fortunate that he isn’t dealing with the brightest buttons, and he doesn’t just mean Buttons.

He doesn’t say anything until they’re safely on board the Queen Anne’s Revenge. There’s no need to worry anyone in advance of then, not when Frenchie is still semi-out of it. The transfer goes smoothly at least. Blackbeard helps to support him across, and his body temperature seems to have returned to more or less normal, even if he is fatigued. It’s the first time he’s been reasonably confident that Frenchie will be OK, although he hasn’t voiced his concerns to anyone in the meantime. If he kept them to himself, then perhaps they wouldn’t manifest. This course of action does seem to have worked out.

Izzy has found a remote island nearby. Stede’s crew have barely begun to marvel at the real, proper pirate ship they’ve found themselves aboard before the Swede points out that land is approaching at a surprising speed, and it generates a lot of interested jabbering among the lot of them that Blackbeard realises he needs to quell sooner than expected.

‘We’re about as far away from the Navy’s patrol as we can be here,’ he says. ‘And we don’t have the resources onboard this ship for all of you at the moment. While Frenchie is still recovering –’

‘Wait just one fucking second,’ says Jim, ‘you’re abandoning us?’

Blackbeard has been avoiding Stede until now. When he glances over instinctively, his widened eyes tell him that he’s only just realised what’s happening, too.

‘I’m keeping you safe,’ he says. ‘We’ve already come far too close to losing one of you.’

‘But if we were attacked again, we’d give ’em what for, sir,’ Buttons says. Karl, happy on his shoulder, ruffles his feathers in agreement, but Blackbeard shakes his head.

‘I’d never forgive myself if something happened to another one of you. I’ll never forgive myself for what’s already happened to Frenchie.’ His blood still chills whenever he thinks about what could have happened. ‘No … we’ll build you up again once all this blows over. There’ll be other raids, other fights … you know … and we’ll be back with a bigger ship as soon as we can.’

He’s not prepared for how disappointed everyone looks. It’s difficult to believe that they don’t know what’s happening inside his head: everything he’s saying feels too insincere. He waits for the realisation, but nothing comes.

‘Edward,’ Stede says. It’s barely a whisper, and Blackbeard’s savagely pleased to hear that Stede is still nervous around him. ‘Am I –?’

‘Staying with the people most likely to run into the Navy? You absolutely fucking are.’

There are no protests as vague goodbyes are muttered. The sharper ones among the crew know that Blackbeard’s right. He would wager a lot of them are still shaken up from the battle and are in no hurry to repeat it. Their fun little fuckery had been far too amateur to prepare them for anything like that, and in the world where everything works out fine Blackbeard fantasises about all of the development he’s going to support them through to ensure they’re as tough as possible if they intend to maintain lives as pirates. For now, though, they’re safe and they aren’t clouding his judgement.

Stede, beside him, sighs. He raises his hand slightly from his side, but lets it fall again after a moment.

‘It’s for the best,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it?’

Blackbeard nods. The others are standing, stoic and silent. He’s grateful for their dignity when he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so undignified in his life.

‘I suppose … at least they might learn some more about teamwork. Pulling together, all that sort of thing.’

Blackbeard recognises the desperation in Stede’s tone. He’s trying to justify his actions, give himself a satisfying conclusion to his gross misjudgement of the situation with the Navy. There’s a moment when he ponders it, and the fact that he even needs to think does pain him, but he does find it in him to lie a hand on Stede’s shoulder.

‘Come on. Let’s get you a drink.’

He gives Izzy a nod as he and Stede head down to one of the storage rooms, and Izzy’s lips tighten.

There are several bottles down here, good stuff that he’s been keeping and that will have matured a little more since they’ve been away. Blackbeard needs the strongest he can find. He nudges Stede in the right direction, neither of them saying anything as they descend. It’s unsettling to be surrounded by such quiet after so long on such a bustling ship, even if it is a relief to have his own back. Blackbeard would try to make up some of the noise, only he feels he ought to stew in the consequences of his actions. They even search for the best bottle in silence – it’s Stede who finds it after a very brief description from Blackbeard, holding it up with a flourish.

‘Do you have any glasses lying around?’ he says.

‘Not here. We can share the bottle, if you’re not bothered about sharing my spit.’

The tiny smile they share then is as irresistible as the rum. Blackbeard takes several large mouthfuls before passing the bottle to Stede, but he’s surprised by just how much he downs, too.

‘Look,’ Blackbeard says. ‘I know I’ve been a bit … you know. These last few days can’t have been easy. How are you feeling?’

Stede lets out such a long sigh that Blackbeard’s surprised he doesn’t pass out before it ends. 

‘Sick, mostly. Stupid. And all sorts of horrible, guilty feelings.’

Blackbeard’s chest squeezes. It’s clear Stede’s remorse is genuine, it just may be too late. Or it may be that there’s no place for it in piracy. You must be certain of every decision you make, however urgent or pressured, and you must stick by them to the end.

‘It’s hard when you’re starting out. The choices you have to make aren’t easy and the consequences can be fatal. You know how close you came to that. I don’t need to tell you.’

Stede nods. Blackbeard doesn’t miss the sniff he tries to disguise.

‘Hey …’ It’s no effort to reach out and wrap an arm around Stede’s shoulder, so little effort that it feels as natural as breathing. The squeezing in his chest becomes a flutter when Stede tucks himself into him. ‘Remember how nervous you were when we first started playfighting? And how, when we first met, you could barely even swear?’ Stede nods again, chuckling softly. ‘It just takes time, and hard work. You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again.’

As though pretending to scrap in a schoolyard was anything like making a life like this for yourself.

‘Do you believe I can get there?’

The way Stede is staring up at Blackbeard, damp eyes full of self-pity, does move him. He wants nothing more than to reassure Stede, to sit here with him and share the rest of the good rum and tell him stories of his early days at sea. This Stede might well be the same boy he’d met outside the maths classroom, for all his attempts to separate the two of them. He’s still an underdog in this world, if an extremely privileged one.

So Blackbeard does what he always does when he has no idea what to say to Stede. He pulls him in close and kisses him.

The noise Stede makes is almost a squeak, but he recovers in seconds – his arms both claw desperately for Blackbeard, who relents and discards the rum to wrap his other arm around Stede’s waist. They haven’t kissed like this in a while. This frenzied passion is teenage, brought on by the most intense of emotions that aren’t being managed in the most appropriate fashion. Blackbeard’s definitely aren’t. He’s fighting back tears as he moves Stede towards the far side of the room where an anchor cable is coiled, fumbling in his pocket for a length of rope he’d stashed there prior to marooning the crew. If he breaks the kiss, he’ll betray everything. So far Stede has been compliant, no doubt assuming Blackbeard’s actions are motivated by nothing but the passion that had moved him to kiss Stede in the first place. But as Blackbeard tries to move his wrists, he finally wriggles backwards so he can speak again.

‘Edward …?’

God. Blackbeard kisses his jaw distractedly. ‘I’m just trying something, love.’

‘Tying me up?’

‘Mmhm.’

He’d never propose it like this if he were doing it for pleasure, and Stede knows that as well as he does. Don’t say anything else. Keep quiet. The sooner he realises what’s going on, the harder your life is going to be.

It’s painful to see Stede upset rather than angry. Had Blackbeard been in his position he’d have been swearing and kicking and biting, doing anything to avoid whatever fate he suspected Stede had in store for him. Stede, though, doesn’t seem to be able to move past betrayal. He’s past the point where he can pretend this is sexual any more, and Blackbeard doesn’t have it in him to play at it. Even as Blackbeard ensures he’s secure, all Stede can do is gaze up at him, wide-eyed.

‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you saying anything?’

It’s only when Blackbeard has turned around to leave that he can even find his voice to reply.

‘I’ll be back later,’ is all he can manage. Had it been Izzy, he’d have made some great threat. It probably would have been wise to have done something like that, now that he’d thinking about it. Set a precedent, assert who really is the captain around here. But when he has no idea what sort of punishment he intends to inflict on Stede, he can hardly make a threat with any accuracy – and follow-through is important in this game.

No. He leaves in silence. This must be planned, and in order to plan anything he needs a clear head. That’s just the problem here. His head is nothing but mush whenever Stede Bonnet is around.

Chapter Text

‘I’ve been watching you.’

They were four words Ed didn’t want to hear; not least from someone like the man who had just approached him. Ed was struck at first by his smell, of strong drink and salt and clothes that have been worked in but not laundered – then, by the fact that this unpleasant mixture of odours added to his imposing stature rather than taking away from it. He was tall, and broad, and carried every inch of his bulk proudly.

They’re also four words that are especially uncomfortable to hear when you’ve been trying to squirrel away a living out of petty theft for several weeks. He was so sure he’d got away with it all. He operated in areas of Holetown that hadn’t been familiar to him up until now in the hope that the people who frequented them weren’t familiar to him, either. This man certainly wasn’t. He’d have remembered.

‘That’s fucking creepy,’ Ed said. Nervous though he was to have to face up to this man, he was still confident that calling him out on what truly was creepy behaviour was the right thing to do, and might hopefully be more off-putting than reacting with nerves at what might have been seen.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ the man said, ‘I’ve just noticed that you don’t want to be watched, that’s all. You’re not bad at staying invisible. I doubt many other people have noticed you. You aren’t in gaol, anyway, are you? But I’m different. More like you, I suppose you could say.’

The temptation to spit out “I’m nothing like you” was overridden by the natural curiosity and critical thinking that had been instilled within Ed for most of his life, and honed since he’d had to fend for himself in every sense. If this man had noticed the way he’d been behaving when he’d taken the utmost care to avoid scrounging around the same spots twice, and varied his patterns so he didn’t have a routine that could be scrutinised, then he might well have had to behave similarly at some point in his life before now. That, in fact, was likely why he drank so heavily it could be smelled.

Ed's silence gave the man a chance to smile, and to speak again.

‘How about this, then? I know you used to work at the boys’ school in the centre of town. Is there a reason you were dismissed?’

There was no point asking how he knew this. There were a great many questions Ed wanted answers to, so many that they were all tripping over one another on their way from his brain to his tongue.

‘No, there … I wasn’t dismissed. I just didn’t go back there one day. It would have been …’

It was difficult to explain to himself, let alone someone else. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about it. The Monday after he’d found himself homeless he’d even managed to get himself up and ready to go, despite the dust and lack of sleep and nourishment following those horrifying first couple of days alone. But he knew it wouldn’t have been long before Mr Taylor picked up on his poor hygiene and personal grooming, not to mention his utter misery. Questions would be asked, and God only knew what the Barbadian authorities would have done with him on discovering that he no longer had an address in this country. If he were to be shipped back to England, what would he do then? Taking revenge on Baron Webley was a tempting idea but he’d have no idea where to begin in tracking him down, not least because he assumed he’d be in hiding to avoid his creditors. Even if the Dowager had returned to her home he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face her again, such a stark reminder was she of everything that had led him to the streets, to hunger and poverty, and to this conversation with this strange, windswept gentleman who was now intriguing him as much as terrifying him.

‘Edward Teach,’ he said, and it didn’t even occur to Ed to question this. ‘My name’s Benjamin Hornigold. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.’

Now it made sense. The salty air about him; the eye for detail, and for a young lad who was about as down on his luck as it was possible to be. Ed felt himself surrender something intangible but important as he nodded, and to his surprise, reached his right hand out towards him.

‘I have,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

*

Blackbeard takes several deep breaths. He keeps waiting for the one that will calm him, but it never comes – he realises with a sinking heart that this is more than likely because his deep breathing technique had come about because of Stede, so it will forever be associated with this raging emptiness rather than the calm it’s supposed to elicit, and his heart rate is as high as ever as he flings himself backwards onto his bed with a roar.

History always repeats itself. Time isn’t linear, not really, it’s cyclical. People go to war, learn nothing, then go to war again. There’s no reason for him to believe that whatever is happening between he and Stede ought to be any different, but he’d let a misguided arrogance dispel his rational knowledge of the world, and he’s mortified. What should have been so different about he and Stede? Why were they bigger or better than the rest of the world? Stede is a pathetic rich kid, as much now as he’d been on the day they’d met. The sort of man who was capable of the heartbreak he’d inflicted on Blackbeard back on that beach is the same sort of man who is capable of underestimating the grit it takes to truly commit to a pirate’s life – he’s driven by the same lack of understanding of the world’s problems outside of his own painted front door.

Only an idiot would have trusted the sort of man who dealt with the “problem” of marriage by abandoning his family. Blackbeard is an idiot.

This, he tells himself, is why it’s dangerous to feel anything for anyone. Ever.

But God, does his bedchamber feel poky now that he’s stewing here alone. He could use some of Stede’s books about the place, to give an air of sophistication. He’d be rusty on his reading, having had very little cause to sit down with the written word for any length of time recently, but he might have been able to glean the gist of them from the words he did understand. More importantly, the place would’ve felt a little more personalised, and not just … well, anyone could have been sleeping in here. Anyone had. It hadn’t been his ship from new, after all.

‘Fucking Stede fucking Bonnet,’ he growls to himself. ‘I will never trust you again. I don’t know why I ever trusted you in the first place. Fool me once and all that shit …’

‘I fucking knew it.’

Showing up somewhere uninvited, like a bailiff, is one of Izzy’s defining qualities, but Blackbeard still starts when he sees his first mate with a palm on each side of his doorframe, leaning into the room with the cruellest grin on his face.

How much money would Blackbeard have put on Izzy saying something like that? It doesn’t mitigate his irritation – he rolls his eyes with a deliberate sigh, but Izzy isn’t one to back down from a bit of passive aggression. He isn’t one to back down unless his opponent is dead, really.

‘There is nothing you can say that’ll make me feel worse than I already do, Izzy, OK?’ Blackbeard says. ‘Save your breath.’

‘I have no intention of making you feel worse,’ says Izzy. ‘Only of making myself feel better. See, I know that being humiliated like this is absolutely crushing you. You’re used to me and my ways, so you’re right. There really is nothing I can say or do that’ll have any impact on your self-hatred right now. But I can gloat, because I was fucking right, wasn’t I?’

There’s no way Blackbeard can contest this, but there’s even less way he’s about to agree aloud.

‘That rich ponce had no business coming out to sea at all. Piracy isn’t some storybook adventure. Anyone who chooses that life for themselves over a comfortable life of wealth has got a screw loose, you’ve got to admit that.’

Yes. Exactly. It made no sense for Stede, no matter how unhappy he’d been in his marriage, to have left most of his land and estate to his family to take up a way of life that would almost certainly end in his premature death. 

‘The rich aren’t like you and me, Eddie. They don’t understand the world the way we do – the way it actually is. The shit we have to do to stay alive … they genuinely cannot get their pea brains around the fact that that’s a necessity. Not a game. Stede Bonnet thought that the way you’ve lived, all these years, was nothing more than a flight of fancy, and that is pretty fucked up.’

Izzy would have hated Stede from day one. If Izzy had been walking by Blackbeard’s side on his first day in that school, and they’d come across Stede Bonnet together, Izzy wouldn’t have felt any pity towards him. Izzy wouldn’t have wasted any of his time trying to teach him to stand up for himself. Izzy would have seen him for what he was – a lost cause – from the very beginning, and Izzy would have been right.

‘What’s even more fucked up is that you bought into it all,’ Izzy says.

He really is delighting in this. That grin has neither flickered nor faded – in fact, he looks seconds away from salivating and licking his lips.

‘You didn’t just believe his drivel. You liked him.’

If Izzy were full of shit, Blackbeard could just ignore him. It says a lot, then, that his body temperature seems to rise at this, and he feels his jaw clench.

‘I bet you and him got on famously back in the day, eh? The folly of youth and all that. Were you his bit of rough –?’

Izzy was wrong. Blackbeard could feel worse: he just hadn’t realised it until he’d charged across the room and pinned Izzy to the wall by the lapels of his leather jacket, leaving him hanging some two feet from the ground.

‘You talk about him like that again and you’ll fucking know all about it, d’you hear me?’

Izzy’s shuddering under Blackbeard’s hands: it takes him a second to realise he’s laughing.

‘Touched a nerve, haven’t I?’ he says. ‘I knew that was what was making you soft. Anyone else leading that crew and you wouldn’t have given two shits, but Stede fucking Bonnet –’

‘Stede and I were friends,’ Blackbeard growls. ‘He has a wife, remember?’

‘And you wish he didn’t.’

The beach in Barbados springs to mind: the tears from that evening almost spring to his eyes, too. He has to fight them for a moment, all the while facing Izzy’s triumphant, spiteful little face. He isn’t going to back down. The damage is done, yes. Izzy knows fine well how Blackbeard feels about Stede. This is a recovery mission now – he needs to prove, to himself as much as anyone else, that that ends here.

He lowers his gaze. He can’t stand Izzy’s smug mug any more, but what he finds below is almost worse. The noticeable bulge in the front of Izzy’s trousers takes him by surprise at first, but when he thinks about it for a moment it might actually be the most predictable thing about this conversation. All of the tension, all of the frustration, everything fraught about their relationship over so many years must have come from this. He’s suspected it for so long. Why shouldn’t it be a conversation like this one that brings it to the forefront?

‘You’re hard,’ he says faintly, not looking up from Izzy’s crotch. His arms are starting to shake: he releases Izzy with care, knowing that when he’s free, he’s not going anywhere. Indeed, once his feet are back on solid ground Izzy doesn’t move from the spot. Blackbeard manages to meet his eyes again, and this time the grin has been replaced with a fierce, blazing look that’s almost pure defiance.

Immediately, Blackbeard finds his fire again.

‘Is that from picturing me and him? Does it do something for you, eh? Or is that from seeing me suffer? Which is it, Iz?’

‘I’m having a hard time picturing you and him. I can’t imagine Bonnet has the balls to fuck anyone. Fuck knows how he’s fathered children.’

It was a thought Blackbeard had had once upon a time, too. That’s the only reason he doesn’t nut Izzy in the head. He feels strange now: angry, yes, but there’s a churning in his stomach that’s only arisen in the last minute or so that’s not entirely unpleasant even as he’s a little frightened of it.

‘It might interest you to know that Stede and I never had sex,’ he says, under his breath. ‘And I don’t think he particularly enjoyed fathering children. He made it sound like it was more out of duty than anything else.’

Something compels him to lift a hand to Izzy’s jaw. Izzy looks surprised, but says nothing.

‘He did enjoy sucking me off, though. In his parents’ summerhouse, while they were out. He enjoyed jerking me off in the sea.’ He keeps his voice at the same volume as his heartbeat, thudding in his ears. Izzy closes his eyes with a whimper. ‘He enjoyed it even more when I fingered his arsehole. Mmm. I came so fucking hard that night. Why don’t you picture that, eh?’

He’s getting so fucking hard now, and he’s as ashamed of himself as he is turned on. With the hand that isn’t caressing Izzy’s cheek, he attempts to unfasten the front of Izzy’s trousers. He’s almost expecting resistance; perhaps violence. It feels as though someone has to realise that this is a terrible mistake sooner rather than later. But far from putting up a fight, Izzy is immediately helping him, and if the level-headed one of the two of them isn’t going to stop this, then Blackbeard isn’t about to, either.

‘Get those off,’ he says. ‘You are one sick fuck, you know that?’

He knows Izzy agrees. He’s just too far gone now to say anything, and as he’s tangling himself up in knots trying to get out of his sticky leather trousers, Blackbeard unfastens the front of his own to free what is now a full erection, one that he still has enough rationality left to be a little ashamed of. Before he can dwell on it for more than the couple of seconds this realisation takes, he spits into his palm. Izzy gives him an eager, lopsided grin.

It's almost as though his brain has divided itself into compartments in much the way the bowels of the Queen Anne’s Revenge are separated. He needs to be able to close the door on most of them right now, and for the most part, he is able to. Lust drives the rearrangement of Izzy’s legs, and the rough entrance into him, and it peaks as Izzy somehow manages to grunt and whine at the same time. He wants this. In his twisted way he’s telling Blackbeard exactly what he needs him to do, and Blackbeard has no problem in obeying when he knows that he, truly, is the one with the power here. He can withdraw this at any second. He thinks about it, even, imagines for a moment what Izzy’s face might look like if Blackbeard were to pull out, drop him to the ground, and fasten up his trousers again. It would be tempting if he weren’t so close to his climax. It’s taken almost nothing – who knew that this dynamic coming to a head could be such an aphrodisiac for him? He’s barely in control of his thrusts now, Izzy bouncing back against the wall like a lifebuoy in choppy water, like a ragdoll, like someone incapable of telling Blackbeard what to do or to backchat or to interfere at all with any facet of his life, and he comes with a drawn-out fuck that’s almost cried out in regret.

One compartment within his brain has a stiff lock that won’t quite click into place: the door that contains his thoughts of Stede. It creaks open immediately on his return to himself, and the image of Stede that he finds in there comes from their youth rather than from below deck. He’s just finished – they both have, and they’re gazing at one another in the Caribbean Sea in pure wonder. Post-orgasm with Stede was always a different beast. With himself – with anyone else – it leaves him empty. He’s empty now as he eases his way out of Izzy, pretending not to notice his leaking erection as Izzy moans his name with the desperation of a fatally wounded soldier begging for death.

This, he thinks, is why he doesn’t usually top. He’s no good with this sort of power – he needs it softening when he’s intimate with someone, to take control in a more subtle way that underpins the partnership rather than whatever has just happened here. He knows he should make Izzy come, but quite apart from wanting to leave him hanging for a moment or two longer, he also needs a break from himself.

‘Boss … please …’

‘You’ll come when I say so. Understood?’

Izzy has hands. He could finish this himself if he wanted to. It’s a huge indicator of what he’s after here, then, when he doesn’t, waiting quietly as Blackbeard takes several calming breaths. He and Izzy. He’d known on some level that it would one day come to this, but it still feels surreal when he reaches his hand out to grasp Izzy’s grateful erection. Blackbeard luxuriates in the moan he emits. He keeps his hand steady to take it in, knowing that once Izzy’s had his release he’s unlikely ever to hear that sound again.

It doesn’t take long. Blackbeard almost feels his cock twitching again when Izzy finishes over his fist: he definitely feels his stomach skip in second-hand ecstasy, but it’s short-lived. They regard one another, breathing hard. It’s difficult for Blackbeard to gather his thoughts when Izzy’s still letting tiny whines scrape through every breath. There’s nothing different between them here, nothing that’s changed or grown after what they’ve just done – tension keeps them in place, anger keeps them from speaking. Getting themselves decent again is going to be an awkward bump back to reality that Blackbeard wants to avoid, but this sweaty staring is growing unbearable.

It wouldn’t be appropriate to help Izzy back into his clothes. It’s barely appropriate to be there as he does it himself, and Blackbeard turns around to avoid the sight in case its wretchedness refuses to leave his brain afterwards. The longer it takes, though, the less he wants to be there at all. Even fully clothed Izzy is still going to be clammy and spent. That isn’t a state Blackbeard should see his second-in-command in.

‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ he says. It’s as casual a dismissal as he can manage, and he remains with his back to Izzy until he hears him leave the room. Only then does he allow himself a drawn-out howl, flopping back down onto his bed.

He can’t pretend there isn’t a part of him that hasn’t always wanted to do that. He can’t deny that their constant butting of heads despite a solid and effective working relationship wasn’t a result of unexplored tension. There have been many moments over their combined career when he’s wondered what might have been on Izzy’s mind and imagined answers that were hardly professional. What might have seemed like a spontaneous release to an onlooker (though Blackbeard sincerely hopes Fang and Ivan are over at the other side of the ship, or even far away somewhere having a bit of a swim) is more the crescendo of multiple years.

If he digs, he knows what’s going on here. Hell – he doesn’t need to dig all that deep. Uncover the top soil and there they are, all the horrible feelings around every facet of his life right now. The darkest storms he’s ever had to sail through having nothing on him right now. The storms he at least knows how to navigate, his intimate knowledge of the sea his companion through the tumult. There’s no prior knowledge here other than the knowledge that he’s been a prick. Human behaviour is universal. He sees the same patterns all the time. He can fuck over dozens of people using the same playbook because all of those people have common fears, insecurities, and ways of managing them. That’s how he makes a sort of living. That’s how he keeps himself, and his crew, alive.

And it failed him. He didn’t consider Stede a threat, so he hadn’t proceeded with their relationship with enough caution. But just because he’d considered Stede a less than worth opponent, it didn’t mean he’d had any cause to let down his guard. They were still pirates. Stede was still human, and Blackbeard should have remembered what sort of human he was.

No, that isn’t the problem. He did remember. He’d recognised the same frustrations from their time together in Barbados. It had taken him an age to feel comfortable around him following the way things had ended between them back then. That is the problem. But they were comfortable in the end – more than that, even, and he’s not even comfortable around the crew who’ve served him for years. Comfort is danger in this game and he’d conveniently forgotten that when his well-honed instincts had been replaced by lust.

It's such an embarrassing, base-level failure that he buries his face in his hands even as he thinks about it to himself. It’s the downfall of so many legends, top of their game. Izzy had even warned him. He’d known, and he hadn’t done anything about it. Stede Bonnet clouded his judgement. That was why he was best off locked away right now, and for at least the immediate future.

He rolls over. The conclusion he’s talked himself into coming to makes him nauseous, as much as he knows it’s right for now. Stede isn’t just locked up, though: he’s tied up. He has no access to any of the resources that keep a person alive, let alone comfortable. Is this necessary? Blackbeard isn’t sure now what he was thinking as he’d lured Stede down there – another testament to the strange, clouding effect Stede has on his brain. He supposes he just needed to get him out of the way in order to consider his next steps, but now that he has a chance to do that, nothing is coming to him. Perhaps this is a clear sign to delegate responsibility for Stede Bonnet to someone else. He’s too close to this one. Unable to see the wood for the trees. Perhaps he needs Izzy to take over until he’s ready to make far-reaching decisions.

That thought makes him feel sicker than ever, but then again most of the thoughts that he suspects to be reliable do at the moment.

Yes – that’s exactly it. Turn off his infected brain so it can get better, and trust his crew to hold the fort while it does. That is what they’re for, and that is what they’ve always done. It’s the whole point of having a crew – it isn’t just the sailing that Blackbeard can’t do alone. It’s more or less everything.

Chapter Text

It takes Blackbeard quite some time to steel himself to do anything.

Only he could fuck his second-in-command instead of enlisting him to help with possibly the most sensitive, important duties of his career. Time might be able to blur the discomfort of what had just happened, but time he does not have when he considers Stede’s immediate welfare. He thinks about approaching Fang or Ivan for a moment, but realises straight away, to his dismay, that it really is Izzy’s specific take on the situation that he needs right now.

How much time can he afford to leave it? Stede isn’t about to starve, but without water he’ll become ill quickly in the heat below decks. He can’t bear to think about any of the other implications of being tied up without other available amenities, almost as much as he can’t bear to think about approaching Izzy with either orders or a request for a favour.

Piracy is so full of lows that Blackbeard thinks he’s hit a new one approximately once a month. Every low in the past, though, pales in comparison to whatever the hell mess he’s managed to get himself into now. It’s with a rapidly intensifying nausea that he hauls himself off his bed to go and find Izzy.

He finds him in his room, doing nothing other than sitting and staring at the wall. Blackbeard suspects he knows what’s on his mind, but he clears his throat to cut through it in as unassuming a way as he can. That needs to be put to bed now.

‘I can’t speak to him,’ he says. Izzy doesn’t look puzzled by this, which is good: there’s no need to use Stede’s name, then, or stretch this conversation out for any longer than he needs to. Speaking certain things aloud might cement them as real and he doesn’t want to do that just yet. ‘It’ll send off the wrong message.’

Izzy nods sagely at his coveted spot on the wall. ‘I agree. It won’t do you any harm to stay away from him either, if I’m being frank.’

Whatever Izzy’s motivation is in saying this, he’s right.

‘Mm. Yes.’ Blackbeard even shudders as he recalls leaving Stede, empty and defeated. ‘He’s tied to the anchor cable at the moment, which isn’t ideal but I wanted to imprison him quietly and show I – we meant business. I’ll need someone to go down there and untie him, but keep him in the room. It’s not as if there’s anywhere he can go, really, but if he was desperate he might try to swim for it and if we aren’t too far from land that does have a very slight chance of going wrong for us. For now he’ll need food, water and … well, a chamberpot or something, I suppose.’

‘He doesn’t deserve one,’ Izzy says. ‘That man’s got no dignity.’

‘Maybe not, but you don’t deserve to clean up human waste, and I’m happy for that to be the determining factor for the time being.’ He exhales, hard, trying not to imagine how squalid that room is going to become in the very near future. Stede will have known nothing like it in his life. ‘Do the minimum to ensure compliance and nothing more. Don’t answer any of his questions. I just want him under lock and key until I come up with a solution to his indiscretions.’

The way Izzy draws himself up at that tells Blackbeard he isn’t going to like what he’s about to say.

‘I can think of a solution right now, boss.’

The building nausea almost rises to a crescendo, and the utter humiliation at the prospect of vomiting in Izzy’s cabin seems to be the only thing that keeps the bile in Blackbeard’s throat.

‘Yeah. Well. I need some time to ruminate on whether that solution is the right one.’

The practical aspects can be dealt with now: this certainly can’t. Not after what they’ve just done.

*

The concept of taking a holiday had only started to make sense to Blackbeard recently. He even wonders whether he might be a better pirate if only he made sure to have regular days off. They wouldn’t have to be frequent – one designated overnight stay a month, somewhere relaxing, might just do it. The Republic of Pirates didn’t count. He couldn’t turn off there. In fact, it was often harder to do so there than it was at sea, with the likelihood of bumping into a foe always high despite the understanding that they were supposed to be safe there. Anything could escalate under the right conditions.

He isn’t sure whether he needs a holiday now. There might be something else to help with this feeling instead. He couldn’t imagine that relaxation would be possible, but had the ship come under attack he also couldn’t imagine being able to launch any kind of counter-attack: the others would have to take over. The thought of rising from his bed is an impossible one, and indeed he’s done so rarely over the last couple of days. He’s been left very much alone, too, and every few minutes he flips between gratitude and resentment. He hasn’t yet settled on which one of these represents his feelings best.

He’s desperate for an update on Stede’s welfare. He also wants to pretend Stede isn’t on board the ship. He thinks he ought to get up and distract himself from the way he’s feeling, but he's bound to his bed by some unseen force that might well be tied up with those feelings. He would be terrible company, but perhaps conversation might straighten something out inside his mind that he’s unable to straighten himself. Nothing makes any sense to him and he wants desperately to feel any other way than this, but with his brain mushy with emotion like a saturated sea sponge he can’t fathom the way forward. This is, he knows, why he has withdrawn, and delegated responsibility for Stede to the others, but it’s so out of line with how he usually operates that that, too, is contributing to his inertia. He’s their captain, not a silent partner. This must be working well so far – if anything had gone drastically wrong someone would surely have interrupted his solitude to let him know – but he’s uncomfortable with the distance he’s put between himself and the whole operation, much as he knows he needs to stay away from it all to minimise the risk of ruining it all. He wishes he could find some comfort in this.

When he really thinks about it, there’s only one person who he doesn’t need to put on a face for. It’s embarrassing, yes, but it’s Jack: there’s no power struggle and no affection, no extremes on either end of the relationship spectrum to concern himself with. Every time he speaks to Jack, it’s face-value and unserious, and whatever horrible things he’s been doing or thinking about immediately before seeing him, he can always come back to himself afterwards. Jack’s almost the plumb line for his whole life.

He isn’t sure what that makes Stede. A flight of fancy, perhaps, at best – one he’s paying for dearly.

Something compels him to rise. It might have been an unconscious realisation of niggling pain after so long prostrate, or it might have been the comparison of his shipmates with his old mate. But there’s a need to check on Stede that he can’t ignore. At least he’s comfortable in his own misery: Stede is sleeping on the hard floor, a very small area on which he’s also doing every other limited activity he’s able to do at the moment. Blackbeard finds a blanket from another storage room. He’s immensely grateful that he doesn’t run into anyone else as he does so, albeit he will have to speak to whoever’s on guard duty right now. It turns out to be Fang, and if he’d had chance to choose, Fang is definitely the person he would have wanted.

‘Hey,’ he says. His throat is raw: dehydration, coupled with barely having spoken in a day or two. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Oh, fine,’ Fang says, with the air of someone occasionally feeding a kitten while its owners are on holiday. He leans in to Blackbeard to lower his voice. ‘He’s getting quieter. I think he’s realised that screaming and shouting aren’t doing him any good, and he’s only tiring himself out.’

Good. Blackbeard can’t face any pushback right now. ‘That’s reassuring. I’m just going to pop in to give him this, all right?’ He holds up the blanket.

Fang nods, and stands aside to allow Blackbeard access to the door. He swallows acid as he pushes it open, and the second he locates Stede, he fixes his gaze on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. He can only do this if he pretends Stede is more of a concept than a real person for the time being.

It’s still jarring when he’s met with silence rather than a greeting.

‘Erm.’ How to start, when a hey or how are you? or anything else of the sort is out of the question? ‘I realised you don’t have a proper bed, or – or anything, so I brought you this.’

He has to look up, now, to make sure the blanket makes it to Stede and not onto a pile of food waste, or worse. It’s as unpleasant as could be expected. Stede’s crusty with sweat stains, and there’s a subtle difference to his face that it takes Blackbeard a second or two to realise is a result of stubble. He’s never seen Stede anything other than clean shaven.

Stede says nothing. This time, Blackbeard’s ready. He gives a nod, then backs out of the room before any of the confusion of feelings within him can be given a chance to burst to the surface. He won’t be doing this again any time soon. Delegating responsibility for the immediate overseeing of the prisoner had made perfect sense, and allowing a fleeting feeling to overrule that … stupid, really. He smiles at Fang, trying to assert his comfort and security while his stomach threatens to squeeze what little food he’s eaten of late out of some orifice or other. He’d forgotten how much of a physical impact emotional turmoil could have. Yet another reason to avoid it, if at all possible. He’s going to have to retire to his room again for another prolonged period of ignoring everything and everyone in order to recover from a few seconds’ contact. Not ideal.

He isn’t ready for a raucous laughing from the deck. Fight or flight kicks in. His hand is on the handle of his cutlass within a second: it takes a few more to realise that laughter like this doesn’t tend to be a threat, and he and Fang look at one another with raised eyebrows.

‘That’s not Izzy,’ Fang says, though it hardly needs stating. Blackbeard isn’t sure Izzy knows how to truly laugh. If he ever heard a joke he found amusing, Blackbeard imagines he’d probably make a sputtering, hissing sound instead.

But nor is it Ivan. Less because he’s incapable of mirth, more because Izzy’s incapable of being that funny. It takes another moment or two before Blackbeard starts to recognise the timbre. It takes quite a few more before he can believe what he hears.

He rushes back up to the deck, hands safely removed from any weapons, to find Jack, chatting animatedly with a very puzzled-looking Ivan while Izzy looks on, impassive. Jack’s soaking wet. Has he swam to the ship? Where from? What a bizarre coincidence, after Blackbeard was just thinking about him …

'Eddie!' Jack’s enthusiasm is wildly disproportionate to the situation at hand, so much so that Blackbeard almost balks at his hearty embrace. He feels he owes it to their prisoner to remain on edge somehow, and this attempt at joviality undermines that greatly. 'It's good to see ya ... and to think I'd heard you'd taken up with that rich kid who killed Nigel Badminton!'

Even from the corner of his eye Blackbeard can see Ivan pulling a don't go there face. It's a shame Jack is facing the opposite direction. It doesn't escape his notice, either, that Jack knows Badminton's name now. Word must have spread further, and more accurately, than before.

'Taken up is a stretch,' says Blackbeard, his mind swimming with images of Stede below deck. The sweat patches are far too fresh in his mind. 'Tried to show him some tricks of the trade. Failed miserably.'

'Hm. Sounds ominous. Where is he now?'

The temptation to say something like "dead" is so strong that Blackbeard opens his mouth on the assumption that that's what's going to come out. Is there a reason he doesn't want Jack to know what he's done – what he's currently doing – to Stede? Well – yes. Jack isn't the most trustworthy of men. Then again, who out here is?

Still, he just shrugs.

'Could be anywhere. He's none of my business any more – thank Christ.'

Jack pulls a strange face that Blackbeard can't quite decipher before clapping him on the shoulder.

'Good. You don't want to be associating with amateurs, you've got a big enough bounty on your head as it is without getting tangled up in fumbled raids and killings far above your station.'

Word hasn't got out about who killed Chauncey, then. Perhaps it never would. With so many people on that ship the story might bend and twist its way through different mouthpieces until it resembled something from a children's tale, far removed from the panicked killing that had actually taken place. He can see now it had been a stupid move. All he'd been able to see in the moment had been the danger to Stede and his men. But whose fault was that?

'Yeah, you're right,' he says. He's surprised by how deeply this conversation is forcing him to think about all of this – it seems strange that he'd so recently been ruminating on Jack's straightforward, emotion-free influence on him. 'D'you want a drink? Might as well, while you're here?'

'That's what I was waiting to hear,' says Jack. He strides towards the hatch as though he's just returned home and put on his slippers after a hard day's work. 'I might hang around for a few days if that's all right with you? Where are you guys heading next? You can drop me off wherever, I have no particular place to go.'

Jack above deck, Stede below ... it almost makes Blackbeard shudder. Something is wrong about this, all of it, and Jack's appearance only serves to shine a light on the fact. Blackbeard dreads to think what might happen if he stumbles upon Stede's cell during a drunken night-time wander. Perhaps if he is that drunk, he might at least forget what he saw.

Izzy has been lurking this entire time, silent and motionless. Blackbeard realises Jack's been blathering on about something and he's taken none of it in. At least Jack's not the sort of person who'll notice. He makes his way quietly over to Izzy, who does notice what he's doing. Izzy's face is set, nothing like the usual sour, bulldog-chewing-a-wasp expression he usually wears whenever he watches Jack and Blackbeard together.

He’s going to hate this. 

It’s not so much that Blackbeard gives a shit about angering Izzy, it’s more that he can’t be arsed to deal with an angry Izzy. It will be worse than usual after what they’ve just done. It’s not the most comfortable memory to dwell on, and that’s scaring him a bit when he’s already drowning in other memories that should be far more uncomfortable. But it had been comfortable at the time – more than that. The only thing that had scared him then had been how much he'd wanted it. That's another reason why he tries to keep this stuff exclusively to Jack. They know where they stand with one another. They're nothing more or less than friends who fuck, and when it's over nothing has ever changed between them. Fucking with Izzy might have changed absolutely everything, for better or worse, and Blackbeard is not ready to navigate that while sharing such a confined space as a ship with not only him, but his former best friend and lover.

'Did you hear him say he's going to stay for a few days?' Blackbeard mutters, and Izzy nods. 'Hm. You're taking that news rather well. Can I expect none of my conversations, or anything else we might get up to while he's here for that matter, to stay private?'

That, as Blackbeard had expected, breaks him. His head snaps up, face now twisted like the coils of the anchor chain in Stede’s makeshift cell.

'Do you what you like. I've got everything I need from you.'

It's harsh, and Blackbeard's surprised by how much it stings – but he can't pretend that, if this is indeed a sort of shift in their relationship, it wasn't warranted. He just wishes this could have happened some other time. Any time but now.

To be free of Izzy's ever-present observation would have been a dream this time last week. He thinks back to the last time he saw Jack, that stop over at the Republic of Pirates where Izzy had stewed in the corner of Jackie's as he and Jack had caught up. If he'd know that all it would take was one fuck, he could have had it all over and done with months ago, if not years. One fuck.

It's on his mind still as he and Jack share a bottle of rum in his room, which he suspects may have been Izzy's intention. Where Blackbeard doesn't want to think about things for a while, Izzy is determined to plant thoughts anyway. At least the alcohol will help with that. He’s been avoiding it for the most part, knowing that its immediate soothing effect would only give way to despair and physical pain that would hamper his ability to react to any sudden changes in circumstance. If he started, he’d need to continue, so as to avoid such a concerning eventuality. With another person, though … it’s social drinking, or at least it’s far easier to convince himself that that’s all it is. Jack’s behaviour being the same as ever feeds into this fallacy.

His pondering from earlier had been right on the money, though. Jack really is the gold standard for a friendship, if that’s what you can call it. The sort of friendship someone like Blackbeard needs, anyway. He’s full of shit but he’s seen shit, and it’s just the different ways they were made that mean the rough lives they led under Hornigold turned Jack into a hard-drinking ruffian who pushes away anyone who tries to get close to him, and Blackbeard into a shrewd professional who doesn’t let anyone get close to him in the first place. The divergent after-effects don’t mean that the trauma wasn’t the same, and nobody else is ever going to understand that. That’s why they have one another. It might be the only reason.

An inelegant snort jerks him from the thoughts, albeit not the sentiment: Jack is chuckling, but it’s almost mocking. This doesn’t bother Blackbeard as much as it should.

‘The fuck you staring at?’ Jack says.

It’s only on being asked that Blackbeard realises he was staring at all. He certainly doesn’t have time to come up with a response. There’s nothing Jack can snarl that will wash away the knowledge that what they have … 

He's seized by a desperate need to belong to something, anything: he pulls Jack's face towards his to kiss him hard on the mouth.

So much for no affection. He half-expects Jack to punch him, or at the very least to shove him away with an unintelligible sound of disgust, but within a few seconds Jack's arms are around his back and he’s pressed against Blackbeard like a limpet on a keel. Jack tastes of sulphur and booze but here, like this, Blackbeard feels anything less sour wouldn't fit the moment. The affection masquerading as aggression, or perhaps the other way round, rejuvenates him like a tonic administered for malaise. Jack pushes him back onto the bed and the helplessness Blackbeard feels when under this pressure from his bulk clears away a tangled growth of thoughts that he didn't want inside his head anyway. Kissing is so new for them that neither of them wants to be the first to break it off. Neither of them knows how. This might be part of their usual fare or it might be something deeper, and any action taken may confirm one and deny another and potentially upset somebody. It's only when he starts to lose control over his lips that he pulls away. He's numb there now. The feeling's everywhere else instead. He's been ignoring his erection this entire time: Jack's, too. But here, as they stare at one another with their breath coming hard, their first-ever kiss has undoubtedly ignited something a little stronger than anything, however more physically intimate, theythey've shared before.

'You needed that, huh?' Jack says. Blackbeard can't tell whether his voice is flat from fatigue or out of choice, so he responds only with a nod. He's not surprised when Jack doesn't seem to know what to say in response. So as not to lose momentum Blackbeard leans up again, more considered this time: hands are immediately fumbling to unfasten clothes and everything feels OK again, the same old song and dance that they've performed so many times before things play out the way they both expect them to.

They don’t speak, though. Normally there’s chatter, stupid stuff, really, trying to remain macho and collected while body parts are being aligned and stretched and inserted and fluids are being sluiced from skin or floor or discarded clothing. There’s no indication that this silence is strange: Jack’s so focused Blackbeard has to wonder whether he’s secretly been drinking coffee instead of rum. It’s impossible to decide on an instigator when neither of them has actually done anything, but Blackbeard gets the sense that if he said something now, Jack would tell him to shut up.

He keeps his eyes open through it all. Every other time could have been happening behind a misted window in comparison to this, the sharpness of everything else when observing it all. The arousal is dimmed: the awareness, heightened to the point of other-worldliness. Jack’s breath. His sweat. The murky bedchamber. Sheets beneath his bare back that need changing, and have needed changing for some time. He can hear the sea, and birds, and the perpetual creaks and groans of a ship in motion that he usually manages to tune out. He’s never going to come like this, but then again is he in any rush to come? When he’s ready, he’ll close his eyes. When he’s ready.

Jack’s almost the plumb line for his whole life.

There's no discomfort or regret afterwards. The kiss isn't spoken of: it might as well not have happened, and it's only Blackbeard's still-numb lips reminding him that it did. There's no need to indicate as much, though. The motivation behind this was the safety of an encounter with someone he knows inside out – and someone he knows won't stir any feelings up like disturbed sand on a sea bed. He's still thinking vaguely of Izzy, but it's a relief that it really is vague. Jack has confirmed everything he suspected, and managing how he feels about what happened earlier is going to be far easier now.

He can do this without emotion. He doesn't need emotion. And, as he and Jack dress facing away from one another, the possibilities that this re-opens for him begin to sink in.

There is a man below him, in the bowels of the ship. This man has been playing with his feelings ever since he was a teenager. Their friendship had always teetered on a cobbled-together foundation of materials that were unable to bond. There had rarely been a period of time when Blackbeard had felt properly settled within their relationship, whether that had been due to the chasm between their classes or the specific anxiety that had arisen once he'd noticed certain new feelings developing. And just when none of those things had seemed to matter any more, Stede's decision to marry Mary just because his parents intended it to be so had forced them to matter in such a way as to destroy Blackbeard's life.

This second chapter is no different, then. The awkwardness, the affection, the betrayal ... it had all been written in the stars. If he lets Stede go, who's to say their paths aren't going to cross again, and that Blackbeard isn't going to fall into the same trap? Even if he doesn't, the careless way Stede treats others is going to get someone else killed before long. As useful as it always is to have one fewer military man hunting you down, Stede had never meant to kill Badminton. That had been sheer clumsiness, nothing more: and this lack of care doesn't just come for his enemies.

Jack has fallen asleep already. His always-slightly-tipsy default demeanour combined with climaxing always does this to him, but this is the first time Blackbeard thinks he might ever have felt lonely as a result.

It might be a good thing, though. If Jack were awake, Blackbeard feels he might have opened up and told him all about the prisoner beneath their feet.

*

Jack isn't there when he wakes up. Unlike his swift descent into slumber, this is unusual. It wouldn't have been an issue either way, though - awake and alert, Blackbeard would never have considered betraying the reality of what he's doing here. He's more than happy now just to have used Jack for clarity. At any rate, it's worked.

In search of breakfast to dull his thick head, he finds Izzy doing the same thing – sober as a judge, of course, but hands full of ship’s biscuits.

'Good night last night?' he says. There's surprisingly little malice lurking in his tone, and Blackbeard decides just to appreciate that for the time being.

'Yeah, actually. Better than expected. I think I needed to see Jack. I think he's the exact sort of no-nonsense person I need to stabilise me right now.'

Izzy's observing him with the closest thing to a smile Blackbeard's seen on his face in what feels like forever. It's almost unnerving – though perhaps that's due to what happened the other day, that inflamed encounter he still can't forget and likely never will.

'I think you're right,' he says. 'Spending time with someone so ... uncomplicated? I think that's probably the right word. Yes, it'll have done you the world of good. Brought you back to yourself.'

Uncomplicated is Izzy's barely-disguised way of saying that Jack's thick as shit. He's wrong, of course. Being loud and brash doesn't make one stupid necessarily, but Blackbeard's willing to let this one slide, given the circumstances.

'Gone, has he?' he says, and Izzy nods.

'Very early. He said not to wake you. Something about how he reckoned you needed a bit of rest after the night you'd had.'

So much for staying a few days. That is, therefore, Jack's even-worse-disguised way of saying that their kiss had scared him, which Blackbeard can't even be mad about. The only thing preventing him from throwing himself in the sea at the mere thought is the fact that he'd had a drink, and there's therefore a possibility that Jack is blaming that.

'Not a bad move. I won't be great company today, we did put a lot of rum away last night.'

'Well. As long as it was worth it?'

Izzy raises his eyebrows, and again, Blackbeard is unnerved. He's behaving almost like anyone else he knows this morning, a casual friend rather than a right-hand man who's barely tolerated his whims and wishes for years. Blackbeard nods, with an acidic swallow.

'Is – erm. Who's with –?'

'Ivan. But if you did want to go and check on him yourself ... you might be able to face him with more of a level head now. You never know.'

Blackbeard does know, though. There's something Izzy's trying to say without saying it here, and the two of them are in tune with one another enough for Blackbeard to understand what that is.

He also understands, all told, that what he isn't saying is right.

It doesn't stop him from feeling sick when he heads down to Stede’s cell. Ivan is lurking outside, taking his job far too seriously considering how little of a threat his charge is. It's been a few days since Blackbeard has last laid eyes on him, but it must be safe to assume that Stede has been anything but energised by his experience within the sparse storage facility.

'How is he?' Blackbeard says gruffly, and Ivan shrugs.

'He doesn't say much any more. Used to be a right gobshite – it got quite annoying, truth be told - but so far today he's been very quiet.'

That's good. That means he's broken: if Blackbeard opens this door now, Stede is not about to make a break for it. Even if he did he'd have neither the strength nor the spirit to evade the rest of the crew, dive from the Queen Anne's Revenge, and attempt to swim to safety.

Still, Blackbeard's saliva tastes like bile.

'Thanks, Ivan. I'll take it from here.'

Ivan attempts to hide his surprise, but there's a second when his eyes widen that Blackbeard doesn't miss.

'Are you sure, boss? Honestly, we can keep to the rota. You don't have to do this if you don't feel up to it.'

They must know. Quite apart from the tension on the Revenge and Izzy's probable shit stirring, nobody could have drawn any other conclusion from the evening the two of them had joined the battle with the Navy late and sodden. There isn't time to dwell on this, though, and nor does he want to.

‘Positive. It’ll be over soon, anyway. Go and find Izzy, he’ll give you something to do.’

At this, Ivan does something he’s never done before: he pats Blackbeard on the shoulder. It raises a smile, albeit a forced one. When he’s gone, Blackbeard isn’t even sure he can bring himself to open the door. Perhaps he should summon Ivan back for moral support, even just to lurk outside the door … but it’s wishful thinking. He needs to do this alone, and Ivan wouldn’t have left if he didn’t know this, too.

Blackbeard is not prepared for the smell. Before anything else that’s the first thing that hits him when he opens the door. It’s an unwelcome reminder precisely what he and the others have been inflicting on Stede this whole time. Everything has had to happen in this small storeroom – everything apart from washing, that is. He tries hard not to visibly wrinkle his nose but it’s difficult to suppress the initial nausea as he steps in, closing the door behind him.

And then there’s Stede.

Chapter Text

The way Hornigold presses the musket into Ed’s hands, you would have thought it were a loaf of bread. He must have plenty of them to spare, torn from the dead – friend or foe, it was no matter – and divided between new recruits when they were deemed worthy. To him, they were likely indeed as commonplace as a staple food, and as necessary for survival.

This wasn’t the shotgun Ed had made a fool of himself with at Felix’s estate. This was far more akin to the weapon his father had stolen, the one that had intensified Ed’s fear for his life, and that of his mother, beyond anything he’d experienced before. The one that had set him on the path to his father’s murder.

‘Are you sure I’m ready for this?’ Ed said.

‘Don’t you think you’re ready for it, boy?’ Hornigold had this way of speaking to you that made you feel like an idiot a great deal of the time, but here, Ed felt he deserved it for a change. ‘You’re more disciplined than some of my oldest serving men. You’ve a keen eye and good judgement. You might need a bit of practise, but there’s no reason you couldn’t be a good marksman with time, and you have to start somewhere.’

Hornigold does not know, and will never know, that Ed started a long time ago.

*

Stede is sitting on the floor opposite the door with his back against the coiled anchor cable Blackbeard had bound him to, as though he hasn’t been able to move in the intervening time. His eyes had been closed until he’d heard the door: now, they’re open lazily, but they’re fixed on Blackbeard with defiance and anger, and one of them appears to be puffy and dark. There are sweat stains in the armpits of his shirt and several days’ uneven growth on his chin. Stede will never have known such squalor. It’s a wonder he’s still able to stare Blackbeard down the way he is now.

‘What do you want with me now?’ he says. He hasn’t been drinking enough. His voice cracks like hard soil under sunlight.

Blackbeard ignores him. If Stede doesn’t already know the answer to that, he can’t help him.

‘Bit of a departure from the Stede Bonnet I used to know,’ he says, nodding down at Stede as though there could have been another Stede Bonnet present that he was referring to instead.

‘And you’re something of a departure from the Edward Teach I used to know.’

‘Oh, come on. Slumming it on filthy ships … that’s exactly the sort of thing a street rat would do, isn’t it?’

He’s desperate to add emphasis to the street rat part, but Stede doesn’t miss the point without it. He hasn’t forgotten. His eyes shift, unable to meet Blackbeard’s, which suits him just fine following the uncomfortable use of his full name.

‘Your words,’ Stede mumbles, ‘not mine.’

‘Until you borrowed them to impress your friends. Or were they ever your friends? I can never tell with you, Stede Bonnet. You relate to other people in such bizarre ways that I sometimes wonder whether you’re even a person at all.’

‘I don’t know how you can say things like that. You’re the one keeping another person locked up like a beast. It’s inhumane.’

‘You’re locked up to protect other people. You’re a physical and emotional cannon.’

‘So why lock me up? Why not just kill me?’

Blackbeard swears he feels his musket twitch.

‘I wanted to avoid that, if I could help it at all.’

‘Oh. Of course. You don’t kill people, do you? You just threaten them into submission, or let lies precede you so you don’t have to do the dirty work.’

‘And I suppose me saving your life the other day wasn’t dirty work?’

The way Stede squirms as though he really had forgotten about the events of mere days ago has Blackbeard itching to wrap his fingers around his musket again. He’s never been quite as aware of its presence as he is now. That, in and of itself, is cause for alarm.

The injury to Stede’s eye looks fresh. Blackbeard tries to ignore it.

He can’t get used to the smell. He’s been around some rotten stenches in his time but this one is uniquely affecting. It doesn’t sit right here, with him. It’s like a children’s nursery rhyme with a cheerful tune half-disguising lyrics of death and tragedy. By now Stede must be so attuned to it that he doesn’t notice it any more but Blackbeard’s stomach lurches to think that he has to sleep and eat here. He’s looking suitably uncomfortable now, at any rate.

‘Then perhaps you are here to kill me,’ he says.

And Blackbeard realises how naive he’s been in assuming that Stede wouldn’t work this out. With their shared history, this prisoner was too close to involve himself with. There was only ever going to be one consequence he was willing to dispense himself.

‘Perhaps I am. If so, you won’t know about it, will you?’

He isn’t sure if he’s trying to intimidate Stede or not. If this were anyone else, it would be a certainty. The show of everything was just as important to him as the deeds themselves: they were what had cemented his reputation so long ago. Either way, though, Stede doesn’t seem to have taken these words on board the way Blackbeard might have expected him to. He’s no less frightened-looking than he had been a moment ago. In fact, there may be more defiance in his eyes as he continues to gaze up at Blackbeard from the floor.

‘You’ll do it quickly, then? No drawn-out torture? You aren’t going to do a fuckery on me or anything like that?’

Now, Blackbeard produces his musket. This does provoke a tiny recoil from Stede, but he keeps his expression set.

‘It’s a good thing I’m a better shot now than I was when we were kids, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Otherwise it might well have been drawn-out torture.’

Stede closes his eyes to nod, and Blackbeard slips his musket back into its holster while Stede can’t see him.

‘If I’d been given the choice, I’d have asked for you to do it,’ Stede says. His eyes are still closed, and Blackbeard wonders what he’s expecting to happen. Is he resigned to it? Prepared for it, even? ‘After everything we’ve been through together, it’s the only ending that makes any sense. If it has to be like this … I couldn’t bear it if it just happened on your orders.’

He still has his eyes closed. He’ll still think Blackbeard has his musket in his hand, ready. There’s something very affecting about his calm in the face of perceived threat that Blackbeard has to work hard to ignore. He’ll never get anywhere here otherwise.

‘In the grand scheme of our lives, we’ve been through a lot more apart,’ he says gruffly.

Now, Stede opens his eyes. He can’t have been expecting to have such sentiment shot down without fanfare this way, and the look he gives Blackbeard is wounded rather than scared.

‘Ed …’

‘We had a year or so as friends when you were in school, then you elected to marry Mary rather than even attempt to build a life with me. Then I happened upon you years later after you exacted petty revenge on a school bully. I wouldn’t say we’ve been through much together at all, really. By your logic it should be Mary who kills you.’

The tears gathering in Stede’s eyes would seem to indicate that he’d hoped Blackbeard would join in with his rose-tinted nostalgia.

‘You know what I mean,’ he says, his voice as fragile as a crushed butterfly. ‘You’re being awkward on purpose. Can you not let me have my moment when I’m so close to running out of them?’

Fine. Anything to delay the inevitable, Blackbeard supposes, and he sighs and folds his arms to at least attempt to show Stede how tedious he’s finding this charade. He’s spent his whole career hardening his heart. He can keep it that way for a few more minutes.

‘Go on, then. What do you mean?’

He watches as Stede wipes tears from his face, leaving shiny, clear streaks in the grime that’s settled there.

‘You’re really so far gone that you have to ask that question.’

Proof, if Blackbeard needed it, that his heart is indeed nothing more than a stone rattling around in his ribcage. Still, he can’t pretend that Stede’s red-rimmed eyes don’t move him slightly. When he doesn’t speak, Stede sighs. He really is expected to explain something he’d thought was implicit, because Blackbeard really does feel he needs to hear it: whatever “it” is.

‘You know what I should have said to you on the beach that night,’ Stede says. ‘It made sense at the time, but it made even more sense as life went on and I was able to look back on it all. There’s only one person who’s ever made me feel understood, even when I acted in completely ridiculous ways. Not my parents. Not my wife, or my kids. Certainly not my crew, dear to me though they are – were, I suppose. I won’t be seeing them again.’

Even if Stede hadn’t paused here, Blackbeard would have felt compelled to interject anyway. ‘They’re still your crew. And they’re still very much alive, I can almost guarantee it.’

Stede nods his appreciation. He can’t seem to manage a smile.

‘When I say you’ve been on my mind every day since the day I left you, I mean it. I went back to the Webleys’ house to find you, but you were all gone. Everything was gone, in the sort of way that suggested that no one was coming back … I kept asking around, though, just in case. I thought you might have gone home, but now and then someone would recognise my description and I hoped you were still in Holetown somewhere. I never saw you, though. And the sightings dried up, I suppose once you went to sea …’

This, of course, checks out. For days Blackbeard had slept wherever he could, stealing food and avoiding his old haunts while trying to keep himself as calm as possible in order to make sensible decisions over what to do next. His storming away from Stede had felt so final that he’d assumed Stede had drawn a line under their relationship at that precise moment the way he’d tried to. Even now, even with the confirmation fresh out of Stede’s mouth, it’s extremely difficult for him to imagine being sought out like this by someone he’d prescribed total spinelessness to. What if they’d come across one another? What if Stede’s search hadn’t proven fruitless, and Blackbeard had had the chance to explain Baron Webley’s gambling, and his theft, and his total abandonment? Would pity have perhaps nudged Stede into submission, an emotionally charged realisation that their two separate impasses were supposed to converge into the beginning of a new journey?

‘Yeah,’ he says. He has no control over the tightness of his voice. ‘I was … hanging about for a bit. Hornigold found me quite quickly, though. I needed to get out and he gave me my first real chance.’

Stede nods again. Blackbeard is relieved he doesn’t think to ask him why he never came looking. If the answer is obvious, he may not be quite as useless as he thought he was.

‘You’ve been sailing ever since, then,’ he says, and Blackbeard nods. ‘Did you ever make it back to England?’

‘No. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done around here. I don’t think I’d be able to handle the weather over there now.’

He feels his insides curl the second he lets this out: this isn’t the time for weak jokes. Already he’s forgotten where he is and what he came here to do, after he’d hoped and prayed for relief from the trivial distraction of Stede Bonnet. In here, he truly is almost Edward Teach again, and he steels himself into reinhabiting Blackbeard as Stede continues to speak.

‘I suppose one does get rather accustomed to the heat. Or the sun, I should say. Heat without that is a lot less fun …’ Here, too, is a glimpse of the old Stede, the one Blackbeard might have joked with in his summerhouse. ‘That doesn’t mean I didn’t dream of what might have been, though. If I’d been brave … even what could have come to pass had your mother lived … God, whenever pirates were sighted near Holetown I always wondered whether you might have taken up with them. I suppose even back then I thought it would rather suit you. I still can’t quite believe that all of those tales of Blackbeard, all that time, were actually of you.’

‘They mostly are just that. Tales.’

‘Not this one,’ says Stede. ‘This is real.’

Blackbeard is so used to straining his neck to look down at Stede that he’s jarred when Stede gets to his feet. He almost takes a step back: Stede appears to notice his unease, and finally, his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile.

‘It doesn’t matter what might have been. This is what’s real. I have you, here, for however long you’re willing to allow this. So, in case that’s only seconds …’

And Blackbeard knows. He closes his eyes, trying to keep the budding tears firmly behind his eyelids.

‘I love you, Edward.’

It’s exactly what Blackbeard was expecting, yet it pulls something out from underneath him. He’s dizzied; flailing. The water beneath him, so easily ignorable after copious time at sea, suddenly lurches and pulls, trying to make him stumble. He only just manages not to. He only just manages not to retch.

‘Not … no. Fuck off. Not with my full name, not like this …’ He draws away, turns around, raises a hand to his eyes: his head is beginning to pound. ‘What is wrong with you, Stede? What the hell kind of love are you talking about that looks like this?’

He gestures around the room, though he hardly feels he needs to. The situation alone is the opposite of anything he’d ever have associated with love, and Stede isn’t too stupid to know that. He must be aware that Blackbeard isn’t about to turn into a jellyfish over a sentiment that can’t possibly have been true.

‘I didn’t ask for this!’ Stede cries. ‘I don’t love you because you locked me up in the bowels of your fucking ship! I just … do. I always have. I fell in love with you when we were stupid kids, and I thought I was getting my head around all those differences between us and that I could overcome them, if only I cared about you hard enough, but that obviously hasn’t worked out the way I wanted it to, has it? And I wish that was enough to stop me loving you. I wish I could be a normal, sane person, and look around me right now, and tell myself “this man is a psycho, Stede Bonnet. You need to scribble out any and all of those ridiculous feelings, because it’s not going to end well for you if you don’t.” But I can’t. You locked me in here, and if any other pirate had done it it would merely be unpleasant, but it wasn’t any other pirate, and it hurts like hell because I love you.’

A love confession should not make Blackbeard feel as physically unwell as he feels looking at Stede now. He’d never have admitted it, not to himself or anyone else, but there had been a time when he’d dreamed of this. It was a time so far removed from the present, though, that it might as well have been time within someone else’s life.

‘Go on, then. You fell in – for me when we were stupid kids. When?’

Stede brushes at his nose a couple of times.

‘There wasn’t one moment. It was a process, I had to think a lot of things through and take a blooming good look at myself while I was on. But I think it started when you forgave me for calling you a street rat.’

There had been fleeting images in Blackbeard’s head, of kisses on the beach and confessions of feelings and embraces through adversity, one of which he’d expected to be described imminently by Stede. Given all the time in the world to guess, he still would not have thought of the fight they had had that had almost torn them apart.

‘When …?’

‘Yes. I know it probably sounds strange to you. You were so angry. So angry. I used to make you angry a lot, I know, and it took me a very long time before I could understand why – I still don’t think I ever fully will – but this was the very beginning of that. We are different, Ed. That’s why I’m in here like this. And I was such a jumped-up little twat, and my values were all skew-whiff, and only when you hauled me over the coals for what I said about you, then made friends with me again afterwards, did I start to realise that. And I realised that the space between us was huge, and that if you wanted to keep it huge forever then I would understand, but … you didn’t. Despite everything, despite the shit hand life dealt you, you still had time for a jumped-up little twat when anyone else would have rightfully kicked me to the kerb. I knew, then, that you were probably the most gracious, kind person I would ever meet.’

Blackbeard’s cheeks are tender, his eyes burning. He’s grateful for the relative gloom of the store room as he takes deep breaths, trying to retain just enough of what Stede has said to keep the conversation going without dwelling on it so much that he curls up into a ball on the floor and sobs himself dry.

‘If you felt like that, then why the fuck did you try to make out like you’d fucked Hannah?’ he says sharply. It’s rude, and it’s unnecessary, but it’s the only thing he can think of to say that has a hope in hell of keeping him on track.

‘Because I was so scared that admitting anything to you would ruin everything. God, Edward … I loved being your friend, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and probably still is, if I’m honest. But … you must admit, you didn’t make it easy. And I thought that if I ever let on to you that I had those sorts of feelings towards you, then …’

‘I’m not like that. You knew that.’

‘I don’t mean … not because we were both boys. Because sometimes I wondered whether I even deserved to be friends with you. How would it have been if we’d been together, in that way? I used to imagine confessing to you, and even you confessing to me, then saying that it didn’t matter because people like us can’t …’ 

Blackbeard’s chest squeezes when Stede’s voice breaks.

‘And I have no idea if you would ever have said anything like that, but if you had, you would have been right, wouldn’t you? Because look at us now. I married for business. You had no choice but a life of piracy. I wondered, but I never needed to. We really are from different worlds.’

It always comes back to this. How many times has Blackbeard thought about his relationship with Stede in those exact terms? It’s a cliche, but cliches are born of frequency. Stede is gentry: Blackbeard is scum. This is the case now and it always has been.

‘Yet here we are,’ Blackbeard breathes.

There is an unmistakable softening in Stede’s eyes at this, and Blackbeard knows exactly what he’s about to do.

He could move. He could walk away and delegate his primary objective to someone else. He could intervene with force, perhaps even draw his musket again while Stede looks so dreamlike and end it now, leaving himself as Stede’s final thought.

In the moment, though, none of these options make a dent in the mass of his thoughts. He does the only thing that feels proper, and right: when Stede kisses him, he kisses him back.

He could tell himself that he and Stede weren’t meant to be all he wanted. That didn’t explain the way fate, if that is really what’s going on here, has pushed them back together time and time again. 

Where Jack’s kisses had been suitably sour, the stink of Stede serves only to permeate Blackbeard’s consciousness. It’s not repellent up close: it’s just him, all around, sweat and grime and everything else converging into a potent essence that smells better to Blackbeard than all of the perfumes he’s sniffed emanating from the rich people he’s brushed past in his life. There has to be some primal reason for this but he doesn't give a damn what it is right now. When Stede pulls away, it takes Blackbeard a monumental effort not to pull him right back.

‘Are we doing this?’ Stede says, eyes shining.

There’s a moment – that goes by in an instant, but that somehow contains Blackbeard’s entire life – when he considers saying no. He can see himself turning away with reluctance, reminding Stede of his misdemeanors: the reason he’s here. He would produce his musket, he would take aim, and he would fire, knowing that Stede’s final moments on Earth would at least be permeated with lust and love.

It only takes that moment to confirm that he is never, ever going to deliberately harm Stede Bonnet again.

The tears have got to spill sometime this evening, but once again he manages to stem the flow: he nods, unable to say anything, and swoops in for the kiss that will keep him in the moment and stop him from breaking down. He doesn’t know how much time they have. There’s a chance his crew will trust his process after proving himself by locking Stede up in the first place, but there’s also a chance that this prolonged visit will have caused some concern. Ivan might pop his head around the door to check in. Izzy might burst in, brimming with suspicion – he’d spill over in triumph if he saw this. But Blackbeard’s worry is weaker than his desire, and he and Stede are entwined within seconds. It’s no trouble to unfasten a sweaty shirt, to toss it onto the grim ground. He has no idea how he’s going to get Stede out of this situation, and they have to make the most of the time they do have before whatever ends it comes along.

He’s hardly watching what he’s doing, his focus entirely on touching as much of Stede as he possibly can. It’s a surprise, then, to find something slippery beneath his palm when he thinks Stede is shirtless. He breaks away for a second, glances down instinctively at the change in texture -

The slippery substance under his hand is red.

‘What the fuck …?’

He hasn’t seen it in years, but it can’t be anything else. It’s barely worn in comparison with the version he’s kept safe in his memory: Stede, unlike him, has probably taken great care of it all these years. He’s probably treated it as though it were any one of his own fine garments, washing it and pressing it after it had been worn rather than carrying it around and ignoring the effects of its exposure to all weathers and dirt and sweat. Without asking for permission, or waiting for the implication of it, he snatches his red silk from Stede’s chest and holds it up, in an attempt to convince himself that this is really happening.

‘You took it,’ he says. He swallows hard, suddenly nauseous. ‘What the hell? After my mother died, you –’

‘I didn’t take it from you,’ Stede says.

His voice is thin, worn from emotion, perhaps, and for the first time this evening Blackbeard feels a tiny stab of guilt in his gut. Why does he believe him even before he’s explained himself? It seems like a ridiculous thing to ever have accused him of already, but then he’d had so much taken from him back then in such a short space of time.

‘It must have fallen out of your pocket or something. On the beach. I don’t know if you remember the last time you saw it, but you left before me then, didn’t you? I stayed for – for quite a while, actually, just thinking, on my own. And when I went to leave, I walked along the shore for a little way and noticed something fluttering in the sand. It was partially buried, maybe you kicked a bit of sand over it when you stepped away. I don’t know. But how lucky. I picked it up, and I knew what it was, even though it was all wet and gritty and I’d hardly ever seen it up close before, I just knew. And I went to find you. I knew how angry you’d be to see me again after you made it clear you never wanted to, but I also knew how devastated you’d be to realise you’d lost this, I knew it meant something to you …’ He pauses, as though it’s the memory of his own mother’s death he’s fighting through. ‘But you’d gone. The house was empty, you were all gone. So I kept it. I don’t think I ever thought I was going to see you again. I don’t think it was anything like that … not an intention of returning it to you, nothing noble, I’m afraid. It … Christ, it was just the most stark, tangible symbol of you to carry with me in my life from that moment on. Such a representation of loss, and of – well, of love. I know you don’t believe that, Ed, but …’

But Stede loves him. Stede has always loved him. This token proves it as much as love can be proven: where his words could have been chosen carefully under duress, this accidental unearthing surely demonstrates that they were genuine. After everything that’s happened …

And the tears that have been threatening almost since Blackbeard arrived here finally burst forth. He doesn’t have it in him to stop them any more, and nor, if he’s honest, does he want to. Here and now, they finally make sense.

‘I love you,’ he sobs.

He came in here to murder the man he loves. The thought is so impossible, so heinous, that he can’t make any sense of it. He can’t speak. He’s crying so hard that he can barely breathe, and Stede pulls him onto his bare chest and holds him close which only makes him cry harder if that were even possible because he doesn’t deserve this. If one of his enemies had tried to confess love to him he’d have dispatched them without a second thought. For Stede to comfort him – him, after all of this – it’s fucked. The Dread Pirate Blackbeard has done some despicable things in his life, but this takes the crown for the absolute worst.

‘It’s OK,’ Stede is saying, over and over again. He’s kissing his hair and stroking his back and embracing him so firmly that escape would be impossible if Ed could bring himself to attempt it. He’s wrung out, limp. If Stede weren’t holding him he’s sure he would fall apart.

Only when he feels he has nothing left within him does he finally manage to catch his breath. When he does, it’s with the uncomfortable realisation that he has no idea what he’s supposed to say now, or what he wants Stede to say to him. His silk is twisted so tightly in his hand that his knuckles are white. Everything about him hurts. He’s embarrassed for his outburst, almost as embarrassed as he is about the years of concealed emotion leading up to it. They’re gazing at one another, motionless under the weight of it all, when Stede manages to reach up and dry the last traces of tears from Ed’s cheeks.

‘I’ve always known that,’ he says. ‘I’m so happy you’ve realised it, too.’

Before he can admit that it might well be too late, Ed kisses him again. The idea of a kiss immediately after a breakdown should be an insane one, but then again, what is more insane than everything that’s led them to this room? Stede’s kissing him back without a moment’s hesitation, the silk clutched between them as Ed’s fist finds Stede’s chest. He keeps it clenched even as they start to undress one another again, and Ed’s transported to the beach in Barbados on the night he thought he’d lost his only memento of home forever: there’s that same frenzied, almost panicked quality to their touching and kissing. More of it, even. Perhaps that was a consequence of openly shared love, or of the immediacy of their situation. Either way it dissolves Ed’s misery, igniting heat within him just below his navel that fuelled every movement. 

They’re doing this. They really are doing this, naked and entwined and perhaps a little teary, on the floor of the store room. It could hardly be called beautiful or romantic. It isn’t the summerhouse in the Bonnet grounds, nor is it the deserted beach of a warm summer’s evening: it is, however, enough for now. Stede’s older naked body is just as perfect to Ed as it had been the first time he’d seen it in their youth, and his desire for him is just as potent as it was back then. As few words as possible are exchanged to cement the next steps, in hushed tones, as though suddenly afraid of lecherous onlookers. It’s Ed who lies on his back, Stede above him. He’s amazed Stede has the energy – or the unfortunately required saliva – but they manage. It’s difficult to believe that this is the very first time Stede has ever entered him. As he lets the sensation overwhelm him, it’s even more difficult to believe he’s still shut up in a tiny, squalid room in the bowels of the ship.

‘Is that all right?’ Stede says. ‘You can handle it – you know – without much –?'

Ed nods rapidly, trying to shut him up with the best grace possible before he ruins the mood.

‘It’s perfect,’ he says. ‘I promise you, you’ll know if I’m having anything less than a good time.’

He reaches up, takes Stede’s jaw in his hand. It’s funny how the most intense of positive emotions can nudge him to the brink of tears again: they pause, smiling, almost shy. At this late stage it seems so silly, but Ed’s glad Stede’s taking pause along with him. They may be from different worlds, but for now at least they are very much on the same page. 

‘Have I ever told you how much I love your hair this length?’ Stede trails a hand through Ed’s tangled locks as best he can. They both chuckle when his fingers get stuck before they reach the ends. ‘I don’t suppose it’s easy to take care of at sea when it’s so long and curly. But it’s beautiful. Really suits you.’

He pulls his hips back, then eases himself inside Ed again. Slowly. Ed’s scalp tingles as he closes his eyes.

‘There we go …’ Stede tries it again, a little faster. ‘I’ve dreamed of this for years.’

Me, too. He doesn’t say it aloud. He hopes to God, Davy Jones, whoever, that Stede understands as much from the involuntary, drawn-out moan he emits instead.

It does indeed feel as though this has happened inside Stede’s head countless times before he had the chance for it to manifest: he fucks Ed with far more care and attention than anyone else has, so much so that it’s only during the act that Ed realises how self-serving most of his other past partners – namely Jack, of course – have been. There’s mutual desire, yes, but ultimately Stede is in this for Ed: and Ed, in return, is in it for Stede. He supposes this is love. It’s definitely love that drives him to touch Stede instead of himself even as his erection demands attention. He’s never, ever forgotten the way Stede had shuddered in his arms as he fingered him in the water, and that same shudder does not disappoint tonight.

Stede only gives him release when he himself is close. It seems to have been his plan all along. They’ve been quiet but he lets Ed know, in a whisper, that he’s near, that he wants Ed to come, too, if he’s able. It almost happens the second Stede wraps his hand around his cock, he’s so highly strung, but he manages to hold back to enjoy a few more strokes.

It’s not quite simultaneous, but it’s close enough to almost feel magical. The pretence of discretion vanishes for the dazzling few moments when Ed’s eyes screw shut, his body judders against Stede’s, and he feels his warm release on his chest: their cries mingle the way their bodies have been, echoing slightly in a way that their voices haven’t managed to in here before.

He doesn’t realise how tightly he’s gripping on to Stede until his body returns to its usual state. He doesn’t relinquish his grip even then. Once again, they’re gazing at one another, this time with laboured breathing. Stede’s eyes are glimmering. When Ed sweeps an anticipatory thumb under the bruised one, he lets out a tiny sob.

‘What happened here?’ Ed whispers. It’s puffy and soft under the pad of his thumb, and he’s racked with guilt when, at the tiniest increase of pressure to punctuate the word here, Stede flinches. Even after everything, he can’t bear the thought that he might have hurt him.

‘Your man came and roughed me up. I … assumed that was on your orders, but the fact that you seem surprised …?’

‘I’ve never asked anyone to – what man?’

He’s picturing Izzy, but surely Stede would have said as much if that were the case, and he shrugs in response.

‘I don’t know. It wasn’t one of your crew, it wasn’t anybody I know. He was boorish and he had a large moustache.’

Jack.

It’s too much to think about right now. Ed swallows hard. This will need some consideration later. There are far more urgent things to consider in the meantime.

‘When I leave here,’ he says, with some difficulty: his throat seems to be caving in on itself. ‘They’re all going to think you’re dead. I need it to stay that way. Do you understand?’

Stede can only nod, perhaps gripped by the same emotion that’s restricting Blackbeard’s airway.

‘I’ll come back. Promise. As soon as I can, as soon as I’ve thought about what to do.’

‘What do you mean? Can’t you just go back and tell your crew I’m really sorry, and you’ve decided to let me go?’

Ed would say something about how Stede clearly hasn’t learned anything from their conversation here were it not for the fact that he, too, is susceptible to stupidity when he’s as dazed and satisfied and full and devastated as this.

‘If I tell my crew you’re really sorry and I’ve decided to let you go, not only will I never have their loyalty again, Israel Hands will also see to it personally that you meet a sticky end sooner rather than later.’

Stede doesn’t flinch. Perhaps he’s learned more than Ed’s given him credit for.

They dress in silence. It’s difficult to imagine it now, the undressing as though there was no tomorrow.

Chapter Text

When Ed gets back to his cabin, he bursts into tears.

He’s crying for every version of himself who has ever suffered and never been able to show it. He’s crying for the child who heard his mother’s beatings and ate what meagre offerings she could cobble together while robbed of her wages and under constant threat. He’s crying for the teenager who put a bullet, and then another to be sure, in his father when he realised it was the only way he could stop him. He’s crying for the one who sailed to Barbados in search of the money that would kick-start a better life for he and his mother only to lose her before she saw a penny of it; for the one who found a makeshift family who went on to take his savings and leave him destitute; the one who fell in love, because he knows now that that was what it was even then, with the boy he believed could never fully return it.

The boy he now has to rescue from the prison that he, Ed, has locked him in.

There’s no way he can think straight now. Any plan he came up with would have to be rehashed once he’s calmed down. The problem with that is that he doesn’t feel as though he’ll ever be able to calm down with so many years of misery yet to be unleashed.

He loves Stede. Stede loves him. In the world where Stede had found him after the Webleys left, they might have been free to make that love the focal point of their shared worlds instead of survival. Stede would never have killed Nigel Badminton, and God only knows how many lives would have been spared had Blackbeard never come to fruition. This love doesn’t mean Stede is perfect. It doesn’t justify anything he’s done. But it gives Ed the comparison to understand that his terrible decisions were made as a fish out of water, and if only he - they - had been able to live life freely.

He seizes the nearest object, whatever it is, he doesn’t look and he can’t work it out from feeling, and hurls it against the wall with a hoarse scream.

The possibility of living that life now, albeit around bounties and wanted posters and former acquaintances bearing grudges, is within his reach if only he could think. Or to be more accurate, think like Blackbeard: his mind is fully Ed now, as though the mark of Blackbeard has been torn off and flung into the ocean, never to be retrieved.

It’s over, all of it. Life as he knows it. He needs to free Stede: in doing so, he’ll betray his first mate and draw a line under his own life of piracy. He’ll condemn the actions of the man he considered his moral compass, or lack thereof, in times of doubt. Izzy and Jack have been vital in keeping him alive and sane for so many years, but what sort of a life has that afforded him?

There’s a gentle knock on the door. His instinct is to yell fuck off at whoever is trying to approach him at a time when he very obviously doesn’t want another person within 50 yards, but he manages to catch himself when he realises that the knock was too inoffensive to belong to Izzy.

Interesting how that should be the reason he finds it in him to croak out a come in. And he’s right: it isn’t Izzy at all, but Fang, who peers through the door warily.

‘We heard you,’ he says, with evident trepidation as well as a hefty dose of pity. Ed wipes his sleeve self-consciously across his face, avoiding Fang’s eyes. ‘I just wanted to come and check in on you, boss. We wondered whether that meant the - deed was done. It can’t have been easy for you to do that to someone you really cared about.’

We wondered. So he, Ivan and Izzy might be reasonably convinced that Stede is dead. All he has to do is give verbal confirmation.

Or nod? It’s all he can manage when it comes down to it. Even doing that feels like he isn’t  just tempting fate, but putting on a basque and fishnets for her.

‘Oh. Well - well done, I suppose. I bet you’re glad it’s over. It’s a shame, though. I sort of liked the little guy.’

Stede is a perfectly ordinary-sized man, but compared to Fang most people do seem like miniatures. It only serves to highlight how pathetic and hopeless the whole situation is, though, and without warning Ed lets out an unbidden sob.

Fang, still lurking at a distance in the doorway, starts. Through his tears Ed can see his eyes widen, and he takes the tiniest of steps back as though bracing himself to sprint from the room, pending Ed’s next move. He then freezes for several seconds during which Ed finds himself unable to move, too: the pair of them regard one another in shared fear until Fang relents first. With a sigh, he closes the door behind him. Ed is still surprised when he crosses the room in a mere two strides, sits down on the bed, and gathers Ed up in his arms in a manner so evocative of being embraced by his mother as a child that he bursts into tears all over again.

He’s not embarrassed. How can he be? He isn’t Blackbeard any more. He isn’t a fearsome pirate leader, menace of the Seven Seas, preceded by his reputation even in children’s stories. There isn’t a cell in his body that could exercise any authority over Fang now. Indeed, quite a lot of those cells would be grateful if Fang were to squeeze them tighter and tighter, to the point of almost total lack of feeling. But Fang merely keeps him cocooned, and Ed is amazed by how many tears are still within him, waiting to be shed. Perhaps this is what being properly comforted can do to a person, and he’s just never, ever experienced it. Even if tomorrow he’s filled with shame and a deep desire to never see Fang again, for now he’s melted into his arms and he’s going nowhere.

It might be several minutes, or several hours, before Fang speaks again. It’s difficult to tell.

‘I’ll help you get rid of him, if you like,’ he says. ‘You’ll need someone big and strong.’

Not like Izzy is left unsaid, but very much implied, and Ed sniffs in lieu of chuckling. His head is starting to pound. The likelihood that Izzy will want to see Stede’s body is high, though. If he can avoid letting him get a proper look at Stede that would be advantageous. Fang, bless his sweet heart, is somewhat less observant and far more likely to accept Ed’s assertion of expiration without needing a post mortem.

This does mean that Stede needs a cause of death.

Gunfire would have been heard from almost anywhere on the ship, so Ed can’t pretend he ended up shooting Stede with his musket - a good thing, truly. He doesn’t much fancy faking a high-impact, short-range gunshot wound at short notice with limited resources, and anyway any decent pirate would consider that a waste of ammo when the victim was entirely at their mercy. His brain is kicking in again when he and Fang begin to stir. Though he’s already starting to feel the inevitable embarrassment at having broken down in front of him, if he’s thinking clearly now then it was obviously a breakdown with some kind of function. Perhaps not the function Fang thinks, but that doesn’t matter for now.

‘I would really appreciate your help,’ he says hoarsely, and Fang nods, smiling with a solemn sort of pride. ‘But - can I have a few minutes with him first? Just to say goodbye properly? I don’t imagine Ivan or Izzy will have time for sentiment so please don’t mention it to either of them, but Stede really did mean a lot to me in our youth and I can’t bear the idea of sending him on his final journey so callously, you know?’

None of it is true, but he’s welling up again at his false explanation for the time he needs to be busy, and he’s sure this goes some way to persuade Fang to agree.

The moment they part, Ed is sprinting.

A stab wound is out of the question. He can’t recreate one of those right now any more than he could pretend Stede was blasted in the chest with a Minie ball - he can’t fake blood. Could he have suffocated him somehow? It wouldn’t have been difficult, with Stede’s weakness and the element of surprise on Ed’s side.

The anchor cable.

All they have to do is make Stede’s neck look raw and bruised. If Izzy cares to look at him, he’ll have to hold his breath, but if Fang is going to see him now he’ll tell Izzy Stede is dead and he’ll have no real reason to doubt it. Ed’s not even sure why he’s so convinced Izzy isn’t going to trust him. Everything might be fine, or as fine as this could possibly be. And then, when Stede is cast into the water …

Ed will work that one out shortly.

Stede’s face brightens when Ed bursts into his cell again, but Ed taps his index finger against his lips before Stede can make a noise that might betray the plan.

‘You need to listen to me,’ he hisses. ‘Don’t say anything. In a few minutes, Fang is going to come in here. Together, he and I are going to throw you in the sea.’

Stede opens his mouth, then remembers himself when Ed shushes him.

‘You’re going to head east. Stay afloat, stay alive. I’ll be after you in the dinghy as soon as I can, OK? We aren’t a million miles away from the island your crew are on, and I’ll set you a course to find them. Now start choking yourself and get on the ground.’

Ed has to give Stede credit: he obeys immediately, perhaps puppeted by some life-or-death instinct which Ed can’t help but wish had served him better in a multitude of other situations before now. If he has any qualms, Ed isn’t about to find out about them. For now, it’s easier to assume that he understands, and is willing and able to comply.

‘If you can manage it,’ Ed says, a sudden thought occurring to him. ‘You should wave my silk above your head. It’s red - it’ll help you stand out against the water. Don’t say anything, just nod or shake your head, can you swim?’

Stede’s face is pinkening from the self-inflicted restriction on his airway, but as Ed had hoped, he nods. Of course. He’ll have been taught, most likely, at that blasted school, during afternoons spent by the shore, preparing them for eventualities that are very different from this one.

‘That’s good. That’s excellent.’ Ed hands him the silk with a pang, and Stede tucks it within his shirt again, ready for action away from prying eyes. ‘I’m going to stop talking now, but nod again if you understand.’

Again, Stede nods, and not a moment too soon: Fang knocks in much the same gentle fashion as he had done on approaching Ed’s bedchamber, giving Stede a second to leave his poor neck alone and arrange himself on the floor in a suitably dead manner. He’s done a decent job feigning strangulation. Ed is as happy as he could be to call Fang in, and when he sees Stede on the floor, he lets out a small, sad whine.

‘Poor guy,’ he says. ‘He should have just stayed on land. There’s no reason he couldn’t have led a happy life there.’

Ed’s throat seems to swell at these words.

‘No,’ he says. ‘There isn’t.’

He takes Stede under the arms, insisting Fang handle the legs out of a concern that he’d need to take the heaviest half in what he hoped disguised a worry that Fang would feel a pulse closer to Stede’s heart. It was, naturally, beating far harder than usual as he was carried awkwardly up onto the deck, and Ed’s own pounded along with it.

Izzy and Ivan are waiting on deck, assembled side-by-side as though supporting a bridegroom at his wedding. Ivan seems suitably solemn: Izzy, on the other hand, wears a predictable smirk that sends Ed’s guts into turmoil. For all his hatred of Stede, it still seems very cruel to present himself this way before Stede’s supposed corpse.

‘And to think I doubted whether you were capable,’ he says. Ed waits for the well done, the congratulations, anything to acknowledge the momentous horror of murdering a loved one in cold blood, because Izzy fucking well knows that that’s how Ed feels about Stede, and always has. He’s perceptive enough for that.

He isn’t perceptive enough to notice that the body Ed and Fang are bearing between them in very much alive, however. Or rather, if he is, he decides that now is not the time to say anything about it. For now, for Ed, that’s enough.

He’s not sure why he’d been semi-expecting something not unlike a funeral. He knows, of course, that nothing of the sort is about to happen. Even still the silence among the crew is unsettling when he and Fang carry Stede to the gunwales, lift him up, and drop him into the water below.

It’s so evocative of a true burial that Ed has no control over the way his throat constricts or his eyes smart. In the real world, the world in which Stede is likely scared and struggling in the ship’s slipstream, he knows a humongous hourglass has just been turned on its head, and that Stede’s actual life resides in that final grain of sand. That is enough to keep his emotion in place. When he dismisses the crew, his voice cracks. That may be the reason Fang and Ivan look uncomfortable as they back away in search of something that will make them look busy.

It infuriates Ed, but doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, when Izzy lingers. There was never any way he wasn’t going to have his moment at a time like this. Even though he’s won - insofar as anyone can “win” in such a situation - he’s ready for an additional last word, hovering with folded arms and lifted chin as Ed fights back the storm of tears that are still determined to unleash themselves.

‘Whatever you have to say,’ he says slowly, ‘say it, and get it over with. I think we’d both agree I’ve learned my lesson.’

His tolerance for Izzy’s sense of drama is about as low as the sea bed. He’s almost trembling with anger as Izzy observes him with his head cocked to one side. His arms remain folded. His eyes narrow. Ed can’t see any need for such an elongated break in proceedings, panicky as he is about Stede’s state in the ocean below, but as ever Izzy seems determined to milk this unpleasantness for all it’s worth.

‘If you truly had learned your lesson,’ he says, ‘your eyes wouldn’t be quite so shiny right now. You’re not detached. You must, if you’re going to continue having as illustrious a career as people have come to expect -’

But only one of those words has stuck in Ed’s consciousness.

‘Detached? Are you serious? I think being detached is what enables the absolute worst parts of me - and you, if I’m being honest. There’s no pride in not caring. If I’d spent my life less detached, a lot of other people would still be alive. I thought it was the best way to live after being hurt so much, but I should have tried to bounce back from that, not … push it all down. This is no fucking life, Iz. You know it as well as I do.’

‘No life? You’ve conquered the world’s oceans! Your name will go down in history! You’ve achieved greater notoriety than 99% of everyone else on this earth, and that’s not enough for you? You wanted some posh twat on top of it all?’

Once upon a time, Ed might have twisted himself up trying to understand the mind games Izzy was trying to play with him. That would have been Blackbeard, though.

‘No, that’s not enough for me. And yes, I did want him. I do. If things had been different I might have had him, too.’

‘Well, tough shit. They turned out like this.’

The urge to physically hurt Izzy in any way possible is strong. It’s almost as though Stede really has died. If he had, it would feel almost as much Izzy’s fault as it would have been his own. He has to take deep breaths, not only to remind himself that Stede is still alive, but to remind himself of what he has only just asserted to be true about life. Damaging Izzy is not going to help anyone.

‘How did Jack find him, hm?’ he says instead.

Izzy’s feigned confusion is as transparent as Pete’s assertions he was part of their crew. ‘How did Jack find who?’

‘Stede, you shitbag. He came and beat Stede up last night. I told him we’d split off, he had no idea he was on the ship.’

‘So you lied to him?’

‘Shut the fuck up. You told him, didn’t you? In fact, did you find him? When I was in my room, not doing anything … yes … Christ, how did I not realise at the time? You were so unbothered at the thought of him sailing with us for a few days where once upon a time you’d have torn his eyes out before the first night was over …’

He’s half-waiting for Izzy to carry on with his protestations, but nothing comes: Ed has him. These last couple of days weren’t happenstance, they were orchestrated, and that urge to hurt him is back, almost painful. It’s difficult to ignore, but he just about manages.

This is just how well Izzy knows him. Ed had literally been ruminating on the fact that Jack was the only person who could balance him, and Jack had miraculously appeared on the ship. Izzy might as well have been inside his head, in fact, something that’s served them both ever so well over the course of their working relationship and something that Ed always suspected might be used against him one day. That, he’s just realising, is a terrible way to experience a relationship, always looking over one’s shoulder. He and Stede may have had their issues, but Stede never manipulated him on purpose.

‘All right,’ says Izzy, holding his palms aloft like a schoolboy caught putting a pin on his classmate’s chair. ‘But you needed him, you’ve got to admit that.’

‘Not any more I don’t.’

He’s always known that Jack couldn’t let him down. There was never anything to be let down from with a scoundrel like him. He’s still furious at the realisation that he sought Stede out and roughed him up - what beef did Jack have with Stede? Especially a captive, weakened Stede who had no means to defend himself. He isn’t surprised, nor upset, but he’s so angry that he’s glad Jack isn’t here now. He would be very tempted to break his minutes-old promise to himself if so.

All of this is just prolonging Stede’s suffering. He hasn’t the time to fight Izzy right now: he settles for one final, piercing glare before striding away. If Izzy sees him preparing the dinghy, so be it.

He’s trembling with anger. The ropes are difficult to work, he’s so close to tears his vision is blurred, but adrenaline carries him through. His body seems to know what it needs to do, clearing out the excess ruminations generated by everything else that’s happened to him today. Slightly tricky manoeuvres make a solid sort of sense, the calculations of wind and current and direction come to him clearly. As he rows away from the Queen Anne’s Revenge, he can’t see anyone watching out for him from the deck. He’s sure, if Izzy sees him, he’ll work out what’s happening. Maybe he needs to stay away for a few days to throw him off, just in case. Convince him he’s sulking. He’s volatile enough for this to ring true, and Izzy might think they can just reset and move on. While Ed ponders his next moves, that might suit him.

He only starts calling Stede’s name after a few minutes of nothing. He told him to head east, and he’s hoping Stede managed to do so, but there’s no sign thus far: drifting a little and shouting seems like a good option now that it’s unlikely anyone on the ship will hear him, but before he gets a response, there’s movement ahead.

Stede is treading water one-handed, the other raised in the air clutching Ed’s silk. It’s difficult to see from a distance but he seems to be revolving slowly, looking around for his rescuer. How long he’s been doing this is difficult to say: he’s stronger than Ed had ever realised if he’s been treading water since he was cast from the ship, but Ed suspects he may have floated for a while to conserve energy knowing that it might take some time for Ed to follow. Indeed, when he turns to face Ed’s little boat, his face brightens.

‘Ed!’ he cries. ‘Edward! I’m here! I’m here!’

Ed’s attempts at telling him it’s fine, he can stop shouting, aren’t heard, and he’s almost laughing when he reaches Stede and hauls him into the dinghy. They embrace fiercely, Stede shivering so hard that Ed’s body shakes, too. It’s very difficult to let him go when he’s in such a state.

‘I’m sorry - your silk - it’s all wet -’

‘Jesus, it doesn’t matter … are you all right?’

It’s as though their speaking is being sped up, though whether that’s because their words are spilling forth in a panic or Ed’s mind is working at ten times its normal capacity, he isn’t sure.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t you worry …’ Stede presses a kiss to his forehead. ‘I can’t believe you found me so quickly.’

‘You were right where I told you to be. You must be exhausted.’

‘I am.’ Stede kisses him again, several times, on both cheeks. ‘I am … but it’s all right. We’re here.’

With the Queen Anne’s Revenge in the distance, and Stede in his arms, Ed can think of no reason why they shouldn’t stay here just like this for a little while longer. He’s never felt quite so real as he does now, following the brief but deeply unpleasant period of pretending to other people that he had died. He tries to quiet his own breathing for a moment to focus on Stede’s, to feel his heart beating against his own. His ordeal isn’t quite over, but it feels as though it might as well be.

‘I’m going to get you back to your crew,’ Ed says. ‘And then to your ship. It wasn’t far from where we left them. We can row a couple of the others to it, enough of you to sail it back for everyone else. It’s going to be OK.’

‘I know. I trust you.’

After everything Ed has put Stede through, this assertion feels slightly mad. He pauses to squeeze Stede a little tighter, kissing his sopping hair.

‘Good. Because then you’re going to stop playing at being a pirate.’

Finally, Stede leans away from him.

‘I’m going to …?’

‘You heard me.’ At Stede’s crestfallen face, Ed swallows hard. ‘You are not a pirate, Stede Bonnet. No sane person chooses to live like this - it’s done out of necessity, as I’m sure you know from that wonderful, ragtag bunch of freaks you call a crew. And, quite apart from anything else, the deaths of both Badminton twins don’t mean the death of the entire Navy. None of us are off the hook, and you need to lie low. You all do.’

He can’t truly be surprised at this. His silence, his half-parted lips, must be the result of his pondering, not his resistance. Ed’s still nervous that Stede is about to contradict him when he starts to speak. It would not be beyond the realm of possibility that he’s still determined to live in his own fantasyland, even after everything.

‘I really was shit at it, wasn’t I?’ Stede says.

It’s not what Ed was expecting, and as such it takes him a minute to comprehend what Stede has said. When he does, the corners of his lips are tugged irresistibly upwards: Stede, on noticing, lets out a soft snort.

Why is this so funny? They’re still bobbing about on the sea, no land in sight. Stede is still shivering. But the two of them are suddenly helpless with laughter, holding one another loosely. They melt against each other as they begin to calm, as fluid as the water beneath them when their lips meet effortlessly.

Just the two of them and the ocean.

‘I love you,’ Ed mumbles, after what feels like years. ‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you too. I always have and I always will.’ Another kiss, long and slow. ‘But what are you going to do?’ 

Ed shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t … I just can’t do this any more.’

*

Ed does not feel he deserves the warm reception he and Stede receive from the bedraggled crew of the Revenge. They seem to have done quite well for themselves for the few days, full of spirit even through a layer of muck and, in most cases, a little extra hair. Much like Stede’s faith in him, their joy seems misplaced. He takes it, though. There’s no reason not to if he wants to get them back to safety as quickly as possible. He only has to hope that one day, he will see them all again in a setting where they can shoot the breeze over good rum. One day.

Jim is a little more cautious around him than many of the others, and he thinks that might be why he trusts them to come with him and Stede to retrieve the Revenge. It follows quite naturally that Olu should come, too, and the two of them take charge to give Ed a break from rowing. It’s only when they’re on their way to the Revenge, and he’s slumped against the side of the boat, that he realises quite how exhausted he is, body and soul.

Stede, unashamed, is sitting with him. Their hands are linked in the minimal space between them, the silk clasped within them, and if either Jim or Olu have noticed, neither of them comment.

‘It was horrible, pretending you were dead,’ Ed says. ‘It felt real at times because I had to throw myself into it so fully. I can’t imagine how Mary must be feeling.’

‘Nowhere near as devastated as you. Our marriage was for our parents, not for us.’

‘Still. You are her husband. And the father of her children. That must count for something.’

Stede glances down at their intertwined hands, giving Ed’s a small squeeze.

‘Am I ever going to see you again, Edward?’

There is no way Ed can look up at Stede now. Holding hands in front of Jim and Olu is one thing: breaking down, quite another. That can come later.

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

It’s too true to think too hard about just now. He hopes they’ll meet in the future, of course he does. The teenagers on the beach desperately need that ending to their story, after the years of separation and the turbulence of their reunion. They love one another. That has to count for something.

But it’s unlikely to count for enough. However much he wants the ends of their stories to be the same, woven together like rope, their lives are frayed. There are countless threads that need tying up or snipping off, and, for a change, Stede’s are just as messy as Ed’s. It would be cruel to leave his family in limbo forever. The Navy will want justice for all of the killings he’s partaken in. If Izzy ever finds out he’s still alive there’s no doubt he will want some sort of revenge, too, albeit far more petty: akin to the sort Stede attempted to exact on Nigel Badminton.

And Ed … well, all he wants to do is scrub everything out. He wants to go back to the day he found the Webleys’ abandoned house and rethink everything about his life. He can tell himself it was desperation that drove him to sail away with Hornigold, but in hindsight he knows there was an element of pride to it, too. Had he had a shred of humility about him he might well have sought Stede out, and that might have afforded the two of them another chance.

But that’s impossible. Life is not like the foamy trails a boat leaves in its wake, bubbling and fading. They’re here, broken and defeated, because the decisions they’ve both made are indelible. 

He hears Stede sniffing over the sound of the water.

‘I think I knew you were going to say something like that. I suppose … different worlds, hm?’

Ed nods. There may be nothing powerful enough to stop that from being true.