Archive of Our Own

It's quiet.

Too quiet.

That's how this would start, if this scene were written like one of Stede's novels. The same lowbrow novels that start with things like 'it was a dark and stormy night'. Stede had never noticed, until Ed, how superfluous such an opener was. "All nights are dark, mate," Ed had pointed out, one sentence into a late-night read-aloud. "That's kind of…their whole thing." 

Stede had been rather put-out by this unexpected interruption, because he'd been aiming less for redundant cliché and more for spooky. It had been past midnight, and Stede had managed to get his hands on an actual book, the first he'd seen in months, and he'd had it all planned out in his head. This was supposed to be the introduction to a tale so bone-chilling, so utterly hair-raising, it would send Ed careening right into Stede's arms, where he'd likely stay curled up the entire night.

Rather petulantly, Stede had informed Ed of this.

Ed had laughed. 

"Would've done that anyway, love," he'd murmured warmly, nuzzling a little into Stede's neck. "If you hadn't noticed, there's still a big fuck-off hole in the roof. S'bloody freezing in here."

And okay, yes, Ed had a point. But he also hadn't, because it'd been the wrong point.

Because it hadn't been about the closeness, not really. They're already close, in just about every way two people can be. Intertwined, Stede had written many moons ago, but now such a word seems like a vast understatement. ‘Fused together on a cellular level’ would've been more accurate; souls stitched desperately to each other like some sort of mad-scientist experiment. Close doesn't even begin to cover it; Stede can sense when Ed needs company, when he needs touch, when he needs to be left alone, just from the shift of wavelengths in the room. Stede can verbalise the conclusion of a thought Ed has had before he's even had the chance to start thinking it. He can see a mounting dark mood by the way Ed holds his shoulders, by the pacing of his breath. He can see joy before it even begins to knead itself in Ed’s lips. He can read Ed like tea leaves, like clouds or constellations. Like a map that guides him home.

There's the obvious, physical closeness too. There's the way Ed trails his fingertips aimlessly over Stede's arms when they're having a lie-in together in the mornings, or Stede's hands smoothing through Ed's wet hair after a bath. The way Ed's impatient teeth get involved when they kiss. The way Ed clings to him when he's getting needy - or pent up or shuddering apart or spent or happy or sleepy or devastated or fuck just about anything, actually. Just about any identifiable emotion (and probably several unidentifiable ones) sends Ed's limbs winding around Stede so tightly it’s like he's hoping Stede will just say fuck it, okay and absorb him entirely; that he can live the rest of his life under Stede's skin where he belongs.

It hadn't been about wanting closeness, that night with the terrible, derivative ghost story. Stede’s already got that in spades.

It had been about chivalry.

That’s Stede’s whole MO, after all. He’s the Gentleman Pirate. He’s all about loyalty and honour and defending those vulnerable to the barbarism of the world. 

More to the point, he’s all about partaking in acts of chivalry directed at Ed, specifically.

He wants to force more trite, unoriginal dickheads to walk off more planks, to set more party boats aflame, to see more powdered wigs turn to kindling. He wants to slice anyone to pieces that dares to even sneer in Ed’s vague direction, to make anyone that’s ever said anything to Ed that isn’t effusive praise regret it for the rest of their extraordinarily short life. 

He wants Ed to feel safe. Protected and looked after.

He just wants Ed to feel like he’s got someone in his corner, honestly. He hasn’t had that in such an appallingly long time. 

Stede wants to be that person. The man who can provide for Ed; who can see to all of Ed’s needs and entertain every last whim he has. He wants to cherish Ed in the way he deserves.

So far, he’s quite sure he’s doing an absolutely crap job of it.

It’s eating him up inside, actually. To use another vapid, ‘stormy-night’ cliché. But it really is; Stede feels it gnawing at his gut like some decrepit, deep-sea creature, gumming slowly away at him. 

It’s the inn that’s doing it. 

Ed’s got a vision. Stede’s the one that helps him with the vision board. He loves being part of the planning process, even though it’s clear that Ed knows exactly what he wants and how he wants it. He asks for Stede’s input, of course, and Stede’s happy to contribute his ideas. Ed appreciates the feedback, and incorporates just about everything Stede brings to the table. “The aesthetic you’ve got going on for the rum bar is fantastic,” Stede tells him as they sketch it roughly together on scraps of vellum, sitting cross-legged on rotting floorboards. “I know,” Ed says, unabashed. “What’s an aesthetic?”  

The thing is, other than enthusiastic collaboration during these brainstorming sessions, Stede's really got nothing else to offer. Nothing of merit, anyway.

He's never done this before. Renovated. 

Never been one for DIY in any regard, if he's perfectly frank. Mary had never let him forget that time he'd tried to build a rocking horse for the children for Christmas. It had taken Louis two entire days to stop crying, and Alma had only allowed the thing to stay in her room if Stede had draped a sheet over it, because of what she called, quite simply, ‘The Horrors’. 

Too much detail in the carving and painting of the teeth, Stede thinks in retrospect. Perhaps something a little unnerving about a horse that smiled at you like that. But it hadn't been that bad.

(Sometimes Stede still sees his own creation in his nightmares. It had been that bad). 

Anyway; the inn. 

Ed's in his element. The door latch on The Revenge had only been the beginning. Ed's on the roof some days, muddling about with getting it patched, sliding down ladders quick and agile and sticking an effortless landing every time. He's patch-testing paint colours and scrutinising his options under every possible light and angle. He's taking measurements of windows to get the panes of glass replaced and bashing the broken shards out. Yanking weeds from the porch steps with triumphant grunts.

Ed is a flurry of activity, never dormant for even a moment.

Stede fumbles, pathetically, to keep up.

He'd hoped that maybe this would be different. Feel different to the Highly Accomplished/Participation Award dynamic they'd had when pirating; a more even playing field, one where they're starting at the same exact jumping-off point.

Unfortunately, for Stede, Ed is…just brilliant at all this.

Like he is at everything, sans fine dining.

It's as though Ed comes fully equipped with a how-to guide for just about every necessary skill and talent stashed away in his head, and all he's got to do is dig around and find the right volume and away he goes. Stede thinks, privately, that maybe Ned Low had been onto something, with that savant comment he'd made (the idiot part makes him wish Ned were alive for just long enough that Stede could shove that violin bow down, or up, a variety of unfavourable orifices, and then kill him again). 

Ed’s a natural. At…well, life. He’s got the natural gene.

And…naturally, Stede is useless.

He's happy that Ed is happy, of course. Ed is most happy of all when in motion, and he tackles the overhaul of their inn with voracious enthusiasm. 

Stede feels a bit like a crusty, ageing dog, following its master with eyes full of helpless devotion and cataracts. Trying its best to be useful but instead just pawing stupidly at everything and getting inconveniently underfoot. 

So much for chivalry.

Stede tries not to mope about it.

It wouldn’t be fair to Ed, for him to mope about it. It isn’t Ed’s fault that he’s so amazing, awe-inspiring, remarkable (and also radiantly beautiful while out there just casually being amazing, awe-inspiring, remarkable, etc. etc.), while Stede is, on a good day, kind-of sort-of adequate, if you squint. And tilt your head to the side a little.

It isn’t Ed’s fault Stede adores him so much, wants to look after him so much, that it hurts.

Well, it is a bit. A bit his fault. He could maybe stop. Just stop being so lovable, like, for a day or two; just for enough time to give Stede a breather. Some days Stede’s adoration for this absolutely incredible man makes his heart physically ache. It’s borderline medically concerning.

It's during a bout of this…well, not moping. Rumination. Sullen, morose rumination, that Stede notices the quiet.

He'd not realised, right up until now, how accustomed he'd become to the steady, unwavering white noise of Ed On A Mission. Hammering or chiselling or sawing, or even just the comforting sound of his footsteps (with or without the Blackbeard boots, Ed has a way of clodhopping around like he weighs a great deal more than he does. As Stede knows all too well, Ed relies heavily on noise when he’s feeling untethered, and he walks like he’s trying to ground himself by stamping his own shadow into the floor. Stede finds this far more endearing than he should).

But it’s quiet now. 

Disconcertingly so.

(That’s better - far better than ‘quiet, too quiet’. More syllables, less repetition. Maybe Stede ought to send a gentle word of advice to the editor of that particular book).

Stede’s been sitting on the veranda, watching the rippling horizon swallow up the setting sun, but the moment it becomes apparent he casts an apprehensive eye in the direction of the house.

No Ed noises.

What’s going on there?

Stede finds himself heading inside, feeling oddly…unsettled. Pensive.

“Ed?” he calls out. “Ed, darling?”

There is no reply.

Stede tries to quash the sudden worry he feels rising in him like a tide; cold and unyielding.

“Ed?”

He makes his way through the house, which is tinted a flat, granulated navy-blue. Ed hasn’t lit any of the lamps, or even stacked any logs in their brand-new fireplace for the evening.

He turns a corner, through a still-at-present doorless entryway into their makeshift bedroom, which is just as dim and silent as the rest of the place.

Stede’s eyes aren’t what they used to be, and they used to be subpar at best. He squints into the dark, familiar space; at the mattress on the floor (no bedframe yet, but comfortable enough) the pile of shared clothing they are gradually accumulating (a proper wardrobe is next on Ed’s list of projects), the offending ‘stormy night’ book in question (lying open, pages bent and crumpled from where Ed had snatched it from Stede’s hands and tossed it against the wall in favour of straddling Stede and tangling their mouths together).

And Ed.

Ed, sitting on the floor in the centre of the room, his back to the doorway, uncharacteristically still, staring at something cradled in the palm of one hand.

If he hears Stede enter, he makes zero indication of it.

“Ed,” Stede breathes, somehow both relieved and growing increasingly uneasy. “Ed, love, what are you–?”

“Shh,” Ed says, without malice.

But he doesn’t even look up.

His head is bowed, his posture frankly terrible; hunched over as he continues to stare at whatever he’s holding.

Stede can read Ed; can interpret and decipher and unravel him every which way, from every possible angle and vantage point.

But Ed's never shushed him before. Which changes matters significantly. Stede is unfettered; stranded in uncharted waters without even scraps of a guidebook to steer him in the right direction. An obnoxiously clueless tourist in the unfamiliar country of Shh. 

All the more incensed by this and definitely more than a little baffled, Stede circles around Ed to get a better look at what's captured his undivided attention. 

But it's dark, and Stede's half-blind, and he promptly trips over what sounds and feels like several pieces of lightweight wood. He stumbles, lets out a curse of pain, and would go pitching face-first into the ground if not for Ed’s free hand snapping forward and catching Stede by the knee, gripping tightly to steady him. 

“What on earth–?” Stede gripes, nudging at the seemingly arbitrary hunks of wood with bare (stubbed) toes. And his wonderful, caring, empathetic, darling Ed, who still sits transfixed as he stares into his own palm, doesn't say anything.

Feeling greater and greater righteous indignation (His poor feet! No sympathy from Ed! Is it too much to ask to have a little chivalry sent the other way?), Stede makes quick work of lighting a lantern, which sends a warm, intimate glow flickering through the warm, intimate bedroom.

Then he turns to get a proper glimpse at what Ed is looking at.

No.

Not looking.

Glaring.

Ed is glaring at the contents of his hand with what is clearly barely-contained, simmering fury, which has the propensity to become explosive with the right prodding. Ed's dark doll-eyes are wide and outraged, and they glitter dangerously in the lantern light. His jaw is clenched, his mouth pulled taut, whole body tense and ready to pop like the world's most lovely exclamation mark. 

Probably wrong of Stede, he’ll ashamedly admit, to ogle Ed this way when he's quite obviously Kraken-level pissed off about…

About…screws.

In Ed's hand is a small pile of metal screws.

Stede's not exactly sure what he'd been anticipating.

Probably not screws, though.

So. Stede has some options here.

Option 1: Feign ignorance and walk away. Leave Ed to deal with his anger on his own. Low-risk, and probably the most prudent to anyone with little to no Blackbeard experience. Obviously, Stede isn't about to even entertain this one. Out of the question.

Option 2: Ask Ed what the problem is. Requires delicacy, sensitivity, and a careful, measured approach. 

Option 3: Lighten the mood with an amusing quip. Ill-advised. Do not attempt under any circumstances. 

Stede sinks slowly to his knees, so he and Ed are eye to eye. 

"Been having a bit of a…screwy sort of day, have you?" says Stede.

Great. Nice one.

“Fuck you,” mutters Ed darkly, but Stede gets the distinct impression he’s talking to the pile of metal in his hand.

So he chalks that up as an unexpected win.

Kind-of.

More digging required.

“Um,” Stede says, treading carefully. 

It's not that he's frightened of Ed's ire because of any personal fallout; he's dealt with Ed's outbursts before, and he knows they are short-lived, empty and, these days, brutally self-directed. But that's just the problem. He doesn't want Ed to feel this way. He wants to forcefully pull the tension right out of his spine, even just a modicum of it, just for a moment. Wants to lug the heavy yoke of Ed's anger around himself, shoulder it on his behalf. To shelter him from whatever burden that he can.

“Um,” Stede says again, hesitantly. “Mmkay …? Ed, what's going on, love? What are you–?”

“There’s five.”

“...Five?”

“Five,” Ed reiterates, voice controlled, but in the same way a timed explosive might be described as controlled as it ticks from one steady, lethal second to the next.

Stede looks again at the screws held gently in Ed's warm, worn palm.

There are indeed five.

“I see,” says Stede, who doesn't.

Ed's gaze vaults up and finally lands on Stede, expression reminiscent of a rubber band pulled to its limits. There is something a little manic about the twitch in his jaw, the visible throb of the vein in his forehead. His eyes bug out as though the hysteria swelling in his brain is a palpable thing, pushing at the sockets from inside-out like mushrooms fisting through cracks.

“Count them,” Ed insists, unperturbed enough to an untrained ear, but Stede can hear his throat constricting, subtly, around vitriol.

“I can see very well that there’s–”

“Count. Them.” 

And right, okay, it's finally happened. 

Ed has snapped. He's completely lost the plot.

Poor love.

Stede makes the wise decision to placate him.

He counts them.

There's five.

Stede already knew that, because like most people, he learned to subitise at four years old.

Ed keeps his narrowed eyes trained on Stede's face.

“Out loud,” he demands.

Stede takes a deep, patient breath, and nods. 

It's isn't Ed's fault he’s cracked. And if his brains really are scrambled eggs now, Stede loves him just the same. He wonders if they can still kiss - would it be sort-of taking advantage to kiss an insane person?

“One,” Stede indulges him, slow and soothing, as though trying to pacify a rabid animal. He points to each one as he goes, the same way he did when teaching his children to count. “Two, three, four, five.”

Ed releases a slow, steady breath of his own.

“How many legs,” Ed asks, voice deceptively calm, “does a chair have, Stede?”

“Uh…four, if I'm not mistaken?”

“Four,” Ed agrees, soundly incredibly disagreeable about it. His jaw is set in a grim line. He's seething. “ Fuckin’ four. So why the fuck–?”

Ed's barely-restrained rage, at long last, detonates. His voice reaches fever-pitch and then tears away as he hurls the fistful of screws violently across the room with a wordless roar of frustration. They go pinging off walls like shrapnel, rolling into the corners and underneath the clothes pile and beneath the tent-folds of the upturned novel. 

Stede feels like this is maybe, just a little bit, of an overreaction. Even for a person whose brain has turned to soup.

“Maybe one of them’s a spare?” he suggests, with a tentative rising inflection to ease the way.

Ed lets out a burst of insane, strangled laughter. His eyelids are peeled back so far they're barely keeping his eyeballs fixed in his head.

“Oh-ho-ho no. No-no-no-no-no, that’d be too easy,” Ed spits, venomous and feral and completely and utterly irrational. His bulging eyes dart wildly, sweeping the room like there might be some double-crosser, hiding in the clothes pile and listening. “This is some puppet-master, manipulation bullshit, Stede,” he hisses. “This goes all the way to the fuckin’ top. Extra parts, that’s what they want you to think.”

Stede is finding himself growing increasingly lost.

“I…Edward, who’s they?”

“Four,” Ed snarls. He gestures wildly to the planks of flimsy, cheap wood at his feet, the pieces Stede had tripped over. “Four legs on a chair, Stede. Count them.”

“Sweetheart, is this really–?”

“Count them.”

Stede takes another, significantly less-patient breath.

“One,” he says. “Two, three, four."

“Five!” Ed explodes. 

He suddenly snatches something up and brandishes it triumphantly, waving it in the air in such a reckless fury that Stede has to duck his head to avoid getting knocked out cold with it.

And…wait, hang on.

One, two, three, four…

And then the plank in Ed's hand, still held aloft like it's a flag emblazoned with a sigil of Ed's own highly justified outrage.

There's… five?

“...Oh,” says Stede.

Ed lets the chair leg fall dramatically out of his hand like he's dropping a speaking trumpet after delivering a particularly rousing address. It hits the ground with a clatter loud enough to make Stede flinch.

Ed did always have a flair for theatrics.

Stede is, at least, beginning to follow along with the reason for Ed's…distress.

“Okay, Ed,” he says, as forbearingly as he's able. “So you’re…you’re making a chair. And you’ve accidentally cut an extra leg, but really, there's no need to–"

“Me?” Ed interjects, mortally offended. “I didn’t do this, Stede. This is some…some Swedish cult bullshit right here.”

"Some…I'm sorry?"

"This is the fucking Swede's doing, Stede, I–"

"I–I thought you liked the Swede–"

“I did, until the little bilge-rat fuck decided to intentionally fuck with my head with his motherfucking Nordic alchemy–”

“Alchemy? Ed, you’re not making a lick of sense– ”

“I swear, Stede, this is worse than when Oluwande introduced me to fucking Sudoku, I swear if I ever see that fucking toothless himbo again, I'll–”

“Ed!” 

Stede has finally had quite enough of this.

This senseless, childish temper tantrum. Which he still only just barely understands the reason for.

Sound of mind or not, he will not tolerate Ed bad-mouthing a member of his crew. Particularly not a sweetheart like the Swede. 

Ed's outburst screeches to a halt at the sound of Stede's (only slightly) raised voice. His spine slackens into a moody slouch, and he shoots a thick, surly gaze in Stede's direction, looking up at him churlishly beneath his lashes.

He's sulking.

Honestly. The nonsense Stede puts up with! He must have the patience of a saint, and he makes a mental note to remind Ed of this fact the moment they've floundered through whatever this is all about.

He gives Ed a look, one that he hopes conveys the firm reprimand he's about to receive, and Ed…

Fuck, Ed…visibly wilts in reproach.

At just a look. 

God, sometimes Stede forgets how sensitive Ed can be, particularly with regards to Stede's approval. Or the perceived lack-thereof.

With a long-suffering and quietly besotted exhale, Stede scoots forward on his knees, takes a shoulder under each palm, and squeezes Ed tight. He feels Ed's body sigh in relief against the pressure, as though Stede's grip is pulling Ed back into his skin and simultaneously sweeping the dregs of Blackbeard out to the ocean where they belong. 

“Ed,” Stede gentles, rubbing thumbs back and forth against the coarse linen of his shirt. Ed sways, sags into him, and then unceremoniously drops a defeated head against Stede's shoulder with an audible thump. Hard enough to bruise, Stede thinks. If he weren't brain damaged before, he most certainly is now.

“Ed,” Stede murmurs. “Ed, will you please explain what's got you so riled up?”

Ed takes a few long, even breaths, head still lolling against Stede's shoulder. It takes Stede a minute or two to notice that each inhale and exhale is the exact same length; that Ed is counting the seconds, the way Stede has taught him to do. 

The tension in him doesn't fully abate, but it cools from a rolling boil to a simmer, and Ed peels away from Stede with another frustrated sigh.

“D’you remember,” he begins slowly. “When the crew came back for shore leave last month?”

Of course Stede remembers.

It had been the most wonderful, unexpected surprise he'd had since Ed had told him he loved him. They'd given no warning, sent no note by carrier seagull or anything, so one day Stede had been wrapped in Ed's arms in their kitchen, very distracted from helping Ed prepare dinner and having his neck thoroughly kissed and bitten and sucked, and then his eyes had fluttered open between kisses to catch just the smallest sliver of sea through the cracked pane of the window, and then there it was.

A ship on the horizon, with familiar threadbare sails, drifting pointedly in their direction. 

Stede had just about shrieked in excitement.

And scared the everloving shit out of Ed, whose ear had been very close to his lips at the time of said shriek.

It had been the most brilliant week spent with their old friends, regaling tales of raids and daring escapes and perfectly choreographed swashbuckling and what kind of thread count would be considered trying too hard, if you were staying at an inn with an overall modest, homey kind of vibe.

They'd traded goods; landlocked necessities for seabound treasures. Roach had been overjoyed to receive some of their homegrown vegetables, explaining that he was trying to encourage the crew to eat a rainbow each day, whatever that meant. They'd had Stede read to them until his throat had grown hoarse, to tide them over for the coming months without his bedtime stories.

They'd drunk a lot of rum.

They'd poured one out for Izzy.

He'd have loved it. Never would have admitted it of course, but. Deep down. Stede knows. 

All in all it had been…an emotionally draining, cathartic, perfect week, only let down by the fact that, with the entire crew packed into their ramshackle inn like sardines in a botulism-prone can, Stede had been severely limited with regards to certain intimacies he could partake in with Ed.

He doesn't really have an exhibitionist streak, so. There'd been zero.

That had been hard. Pun fully intended.

“I remember,” says Stede. “Of course I remember.”

“Well,” grumbles Ed. “The Swede left us a little…housewarming gift. Said he was honoured to contribute a token of his culture to help brighten the place up.”

Stede's heart warms.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, how lovely!”

“Not really,” Ed seethes, strained through gritted teeth, and oh yes, Stede had almost forgotten about Ed's whole hissy fit. 

“So?” Stede prods. “What was it?”

Ed looks down at the mess of wood on the floor beside them, like an enormous plywood jigsaw puzzle.

“That,” he intones dryly.

It's only then that Stede notices the piece of parchment in amongst the clutter, folded in half like a flyer. He rifles it free and smoothes out the aggressive Ed-creases as best he can.

“MYSINGSÖ,” he reads, probably absolutely cocking up the pronunciation. “All in capitals. What's that about? Are you supposed to shout it?”

“Mate, he can't write. Honestly, it's a miracle he managed to get down anything at all, don't go criticising his grammar.”

“Not criticising!” Stede protests. He runs a finger over the crooked, towering letters, echoing the foreign word to himself, mysingsö. “Did he happen to tell you what it means?”

Ed tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle a begrudging smile.

“You'll love this,” he mutters. “Cozy island.”

“O-oh,” Stede says, finding rather mortifyingly that his eyes are beginning to burn. 

A cozy island. Good god, that's exactly what Stede wants, exactly how he pictures innkeeper-life here with Ed.

Exactly what he's always wanted to feel like to his crew. To the people he loves.

“That's,” Stede sniffles, trying very hard not to start blubbering. “That's very sweet of him, to suggest such an apt name for our inn. And to put it right on the card like that! Oh, can we consider it as a possibility, Ed? I really think–”

“Mysingsö,” says Ed. “Is the name of the chair, Stede.”

“...I'm sorry?”

“The chair,” Ed repeats laconically, “is named Mysingsö.”

Stede takes a moment to process this. 

The…chair? That couldn't possibly have been what the Swede had meant, right? Surely Ed’s misunderstood.

“I….what? What do you mean, the chair? Whoever heard of a chair with a name?”

“Folks from Sweden, evidently,” says Ed irritably. He eyes the deconstructed chair with bitchy disdain. Stede's got no idea where he's learned to put on a face like that.

“You're telling me a chair is called cozy island,” Stede says.

“I'm telling you,” Ed says wearily. “That a chair is called cozy island.”

“...Why?”

“Fucked if I know!” Ed wails, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Actually, more to the point…” Stede muses aloud. “If the Swede wanted to gift us a chair, why on earth did he gift it to us in pieces ?”

“Supposedly,” Ed mutters, voice dredged in scorn so thick that if the Swede were around to hear it he'd likely be a snivelling mess, “It's more cost effective and easier to transport if we build it ourselves. Apparently so easy that even Swedish children can do it. Oh, don't worry!” he adds, with a derisive, mad little laugh. “He left instructions!”

Ed flicks at the parchment with the back of his hand, and, curiously, Stede opens it to find…

The instructions.

“...He can't write,” Stede says, realisation dawning.

“He can't write.”

The…instructions, if you could even call them that, are wordless. 

Of course.

Instead the Swede has provided Stede and Ed with a series of shakey, amateurish diagrams. They are numbered, which should be helpful, but it's very difficult to tell what's going on in any of them. In some, certain parts are circled (aggressively, several times, to indicate extreme importance), but why such a part has been circled, Stede has no idea. The illustrations of the wooden beams look different in each diagram, and for a moment Stede thinks that maybe there’s more than one type? But upon examining the pieces, Stede can see no discernable difference other than the fact that one of them has a speck of seagull shit on it. The only part of the instructions that makes any comprehensible sense is a stick figure, right at the top, drawn with very long, wavy hair and a bit of scruff on his chin. The figure sports a frowny-face, complete with smoke coming out of his ears and a puzzled question-mark hovering over his head as he looks at all the parts. So that bit is spot on.

Next to it, a second drawing suggests that in the event of confusion or extreme hostility, Ed should throw what looks to be a message in a bottle into the sea. A tiny rendering of The Revenge bobs in the distance.

Not exactly a very reliable method of customer service, if Stede were to say so himself. 

“And this is why you were getting so worked up?” Stede asks. He hopes he doesn't sound disparaging. “You were struggling to put together this chair?”

Ed huffs moodily, folding his arms across his chest. He avoids Stede's eyes, instead directing a recalcitrant glare at the scattered chair parts.

“It's a really stupid fucking chair,” he grumbles under his breath.

Ed isn't accustomed to failure.

The thought hits Stede like a bolt out of the blue, and the moment it does, the whole situation makes perfect sense. 

Ed rarely fails.

There was the whole thing with being a fisherman, sure. He'd been ditched by Pop Pop, and Stede knows that had been rather a crushing blow for Ed. But, as Ed tells it, that had been to do with creative differences, and not really to do with Ed’s fishing abilities. Ed tells Stede that actually, he’d had to leave his fisherman lifestyle because Pop Pop and his son (Son Son? Stede isn’t sure) were too jealous of Ed’s ‘mad skills’ and natural affinity for catching upwards of two hundred fish in one day. 

The point is: Ed faces failure so rarely that he doesn’t know how to navigate it. All things come naturally to him, and when the demoralising ‘not enough’ lands, Ed buckles under the weight of it.

And Ed’s not very good at buckling. At taking punches.

He punches back.

That’s what this is. That’s what this is all about. Of course it isn’t as pedestrian as a bloody chair. 

This is Ed trying, and failing, to fail.

Is it absolutely rotten of Stede to feel a slight spark of glee at this? To see a single, rejoicing candle flame flitter in his head before he quickly snuffs it out?

Not because of Ed’s failure. Never because of any sort of smug, contemptuous need to one-up Ed in any way. They’re equals, after all - fragments of some kitschy, broken thing that have somehow managed to find each other and seal together again.

Christ - that’s what’s gotten Stede feeling so gleeful; elated, even. 

It feels like they're equals again. Facing a new, unfamiliar, difficult thing for the first time. 

And unlike Ed, Stede is quite accustomed to failure.

He's more than happy to show Ed the ropes.

Stede goes crawling on his hands and knees in search of the screws Ed’s thrown. He gathers his wits, gathers the screws, and then makes his way back to Ed who is eyeing Stede(‘s arse) with a wry expression.

“What are you doing?”

“We,” Stede emphasises, giving Ed a fiercely determined look, “are going to build a bloody mysingsö, Edward.”

And so they do.

Now, if this were one of those tacky novels that are Stede’s secret shame, the kind with idyllic, schmaltzy endings, what would happen is that Ed and Stede would work together and realise, with the power of teamwork and their undying love for each other, building a chair is actually not so difficult after all. The chair would get built, piece by piece, with a perfectly equal distribution of work, and then stand sturdy and reliable in their beautiful inn as a steadfast and unwavering symbol of their love for years to come.

This is not what happens.

It starts with the seat.

“Hold up,” says Stede, holding the instructions at every which-way, trying to decipher the Swede’s jumbled hieroglyphs. “In this image, right here, it almost looks like the part you sit on is…sagging? Sort of like fabric? Do you think this is a sort-of lawn chair, designed for outdoor use?”

Ed studies the paper meticulously, chin hooked over Stede’s shoulder to get a better look. 

“Actually…might be onto something there, yeah. Been wondering which fuckin’ bit you’re meant to sit on for ages. Started thinking maybe that’s what the fifth leg is for and the kinky fucker gifted us a do-it-yourself sodomy chair.”

Stede snorts. 

“Did any fabric come with it? Perhaps some sort of hessian, or a sheath of canvas…?”

Ed frowns. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t think so, mate. Just the fabric it came wrapped up in.”

The fabric that Ed had slashed to ribbons trying to get the pieces of wood free was, as it turns out, a rather necessary component.

There is then an issue with the frame.

“Why don’t you affix these parts, from steps two and three, and I’ll handle steps four and six?” Stede suggests. (There is, inexplicably, no step five). “And then we can bring the two sections together? Many hands make light work, as they say.”

So they do that. Stede wrenches together the front part of the frame and Ed handles the back, and then they go to cobble the bare bones together to make one, complete skeleton, and it’s happening, it’s finally all bloody coming together, and…

“What the fuck?”

Stede doesn’t understand. They’ve followed the instructions to the letter. 

Well. To the stick figure. 

Stede’s examined the Swede’s nursery-school scribblings until his eyes had fogged over. He’s considered every possible interpretation; every conceivable way those cave-wall runes could possibly be understood.

So why in fresh hell does their bloody fucking mysingsö look like that?

The not-so-cozy, not-so-island of a chair promptly topples over.

Hard to have very much structural integrity when two legs are on the ground while the other two stick vertically up into the air.

Ed is beginning to look apoplectic.

Stede thinks he himself might be about to have a fucking stroke.

“How?” he asks, staring dazedly at the monstrosity they’ve fathered. He wants to drown it in a well. “How?”

They take it apart.

This proves to be both dicey and more trouble than it's worth.

Because the process causes the frame to abruptly snap closed on Ed's fingers.

Ed jolts, yelps, then spits out an incoherent string of furious curses. Reflexively tries to rip his fingers free from where they're trapped, but Stede preemptively sees such a reactive motion flaying the skin from Ed's fingers, and he’s quick to grab hold of Ed's wrist to stop him. “Wait,” he orders, voice low and firm as he hurriedly runs his eyes over the frame to find a method of freeing Ed's hand while causing the least amount of pain possible. He manages to carefully ease the frame apart at its axis enough for Ed to whip his fingers out relatively unscathed, and Ed immediately shoves the digits into his mouth to suck the sting out of them.

The moment Stede lets go of the frame, it snaps into lockjaw like an angry crocodile. Stede snatches his hand away just in time as it falls to the floor with a bang.

And then, like falling dominoes, somehow-now- loose screws begin to fall out and roll away.

One, two, three, four, five. Off they go.

“Thish island,” mutters Ed, voice garbled around his own fingers, “Sh’ not cozy.”

And Stede isn't sure if it's because of some sort of folie à deux, or the frustration of this whole thing has finally gotten to his head, or if it's the sound of Ed's adorably peevish voice. But he feels a ridiculous bubble of laughter begin to swell in his chest, and suddenly he's giggling, looking at the absolute shambles that are the results of the last madcap hour with Ed, realising they’re somehow exactly back to where they started. Stede’s laughter grows increasingly hysterical, because how on earth have they been working industriously for a full hour and achieved absolutely nothing, other than almost amputating Ed’s fingers?

There is a sudden rush of air from Ed, followed by a snort, and Stede looks over to see his shoulders shaking, and then Ed is laughing too. They completely lose it together, laughter growing more and more uproarious each time they make eye contact. Ed half-topples into Stede’s lap, leaning into him as he tries to choke down air, but the high, bleating wheeze of his inhale just makes Stede laugh harder. There are tears in Stede’s eyes and Ed’s clutching at his belly with his uninjured hand, croaking ‘stop, stop, can’t fuckin’ breathe, shut up–’ ’ and Stede laughs out all the frustration of the last hour until his face aches.

When they’ve finally calmed enough to speak, Stede wipes at his eyes, releases the last few remnants of his giggles, and breathes:

“Darling, you are absolutely right. This is…a really fucking stupid chair.”

“‘Children could do it’, he told me - get fucked!” Ed crows indignantly. “Do kids in Sweden all have degrees in carpentry?”

“Don’t think that’s actually a degree.”

“Point still stands. Christ on a bike, the fucker very nearly ate my fingers.” He shakes his sore hand for good measure.

Despite Ed’s light tone, this subdues Stede’s mirth considerably.

“Are you alright? Can I see?”

Ed wordlessly offers his hand to Stede, who takes it and runs a careful thumb over his index and middle finger. The digits are red and already look to be beginning to bruise, purpling around the middle joints. The skin is broken too, though not deeply enough that he’s still actively bleeding - just enough that Stede can see a few thin ribbons of wet, raw flesh edging his knuckles. 

He gets Ed to flex his hand, then curl it into a loose fist, just to confirm that no, he hasn’t broken anything. He’ll definitely be sore for a while, though.

Once Stede is satisfied with his diagnosis, Ed pops his fingers straight back into his mouth, continuing to alleviate the pain of his swollen skin.

Which probably isn’t the best idea, medically. Stede should be going in search of their first aid kid and bandaging Ed up, perhaps dabbing the broken skin with some alcohol first to prevent infection.

But the image of Ed with his fingers between his lips, brow furrowed and eyes still glistening with aftertears from their fits of laughter, gives Stede pause.

It isn’t Stede’s fault, really, that his eyes flick down to take in the rest of Ed - his chest and his arms and his very grabbable waist. Endorphins bloom like spores in his brain, and something in his belly lights itself brightly.

Ed is so, so lovely. Jesus.

“Probably would’ve been worse if you hadn’t stopped me from ripping ‘em off,” Ed says casually, popping the fingers out of his mouth to examine them himself. “Still think they’ll be out of commission for a day or two.”

“Good thing it isn’t your fingers we’ll really be needing then, is it?”

Ed’s gaze shoots up to meet Stede’s, wide and stunned, and his lips part slightly, just enough for Stede to catch a glimpse of his fingers still in his mouth; at the glisten of his warm, pink tongue curled around them. He slides his fingers out slowly, bracing both hands against the floor and shuffling forward, not breaking eye contact with Stede for even a moment. He inches closer, mouth open and eyes hot, until the tips of their noses are almost touching.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs teasingly. “Thought we had work to do. Thought we were ‘building a bloody mysingsö ’, Stede.”

“Fuck the mysingsö, darling.”

“Fuck the mysingsö,” Ed agrees. “Fuck a chair. Don’t need a chair. Got a perfectly good place to sit right here.”

Stede meets Ed’s mouth with a fierce groan. Ed fucking liquifies against him, lips warm and demanding and good, tongue sliding into Stede’s mouth and tangling with his own. Stede’s fingers find their favourite place in Ed’s hair, snarling into his soft, silver curls like grabbing a fistful of space dust. Ed’s head tilts, going at Stede from the opposite angle and kissing him again, and his hands grab at Stede’s shirt to pull him impossibly close. Stede reaches up to clasp Ed’s eager hands in his own, and Ed breaks the kiss with a wince.

Fuck, his hand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry–” Stede gasps, casting fraught, worried eyes down to where he’d so thoughtlessly grabbed at Ed’s fresh injuries. Ed pants “Fuck off, s’fine, just–” and tries to hard-launch back into the kiss, but Stede’s not having any of it. He lifts Ed’s hand and presses the most gentle, chaste kiss to each sore finger, and then decides to do the same to the other ones, too - just so they don’t feel left out. Then adds a few fluttering kisses to Ed’s palm, and then his wrist - which is so often unfairly neglected; a crime, really, because the skin there is paper-thin and delicate and heartachingly soft, so soft that Stede sort of wants to feel it on his tongue, too, and so he does, licking over the dark ink there until Ed makes a small noise.

Stede glances up, and Ed’s eyes are molten. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Okay, fuck, off the floor, need to–to fucking–”

They both trip over the plywood bits as they drag each other, single-mindedly, to the bed. Ed somehow stands on a rogue screw, which embeds into his bare foot for a second before he kicks it loose with a “fuckoffbloodyfuck”. He collapses heavily onto the mattress, immediately reaching for Stede, who is quick to scramble on top of him and resume their kiss, mouths meeting wet and urgent. Ed’s lips are warm and pliant and velvety-soft, even in desperate kisses like these; even when he tries to be hard. He cups the back of Stede’s head in one hand and holds them together, won’t even let go to allow Stede to pull back for air, and Stede takes it in stride and breathes through his nose instead. It’s not the lack of oxygen that makes him dizzy, makes all his thoughts coalesce into just one; Ed. The fingers loosen from Stede’s hair and slide down his back, tugging the hem of his shirt free from his pants and yanking it over his head. Ed’s hands on Stede’s newly bare skin send an electric shudder through him; he feels the impression of each touch lingering long after Ed’s moved on to touch a new spot, like the afterburn of lightning. His legs twist and wrap around Stede’s hips, then pull up further still, until Stede realises with amusement that Ed is trying to push down the waistband of Stede’s pants using his toes.

“Hang on,” he chuckles breathlessly into the shared territory of their lips. “Let me–”

“Hurry up,” Ed gasps, clearly aiming for demanding but missing it by miles. “Hurry up, just–”

“Alright,” he tsks, a bit snippy, but it’s an act that he’s certain Ed isn’t buying. Ed’s impatience just about sets Stede on fire, each and every time it makes an appearance.

He strips himself off, Ed’s meddlesome legs getting in the way the entire time; trying to help but instead just sort of flailing about, until Stede reaches out and stops them, holding Ed’s hips fast to the bed with his hands and a firm, authoritative expression. 

“Wait,” he orders, for the second time that evening, and Ed stills, slackens; looking up at Stede with fat, innocent eyes - who me? 

Yes, you. Who else?

How he adores this man.

He quickly rids Ed of his own clothing, the oversized, comfy linens he tends to wear around the house. The benefit of these over his leathers are twofold; they are both easy to remove and pull a delicious noise from Ed’s lips when he feels the rough fabric drag over his skin. 

Ed lies beneath him, bare and needy, hair dishevelled and eyes febrile with want. The urgency has abated a little, and Ed’s movements are slow as he wraps his legs around Stede’s waist once more, drawing him in. Stede falls onto his forearms so they’re pressed chest to chest, leaning in and brushing Ed’s hair aside so he can kiss his neck. He is gentle and unhurried, tongue lingering on Ed’s skin and tasting each tattoo as he kisses and sucks his way along Ed’s collarbone and shoulder, up his jaw and down his breastbone. Ed shudders, mewls; just about folds like a fucking lawn chair when Stede sucks a bruising kiss into his hip bone.

Folds like a mysingsö, Stede thinks, a tad unhinged, letting out a breath of giddy laughter into Ed’s hip. The hot air makes Ed shiver.

“What?” Ed whispers hoarsely.

“S’nothing,” Stede says. “Stupid.”

“I love stupid.”

“I love you.”

Ed melts into the mattress, limbs loose and languid, legs tumbling from around Stede’s body to limply bracket his thighs. His eyes roll shut and he swallows roughly, like Stede’s just said the sexiest thing Ed can possibly think of, despite the fact that Stede happens to have it on good authority that Ed’s heard it hundreds of times before. And then Ed’s kissing him again, mumbling slurred words against Stede’s mouth, something along the lines of ‘fuckin’ best thing that’s ever happened to me’, and there’s those impatient teeth that Stede’s been anticipating, sinking into Stede’s bottom lip and biting down, biting the kiss in half, and Stede moans and rolls his hips forward to grind his erection against Ed’s, and Ed’s audibly struggling to smother his pretty noises now, and yes, good, because Stede is dying to hear them.

One of Ed’s floppy ragdoll arms starts patting blindly at the edges of the mattress, searching. He mumbles a victorious mmnnph against Stede’s lips when he locates his target, the bottle of oil they keep handy. Ed’s pressing it uselessly into Stede’s chest right away, at such a clumsy angle Stede can’t even grab it without repositioning himself. He draws up onto his knees to take it, uncork it, and drizzle its contents over his fingers. Ed’s already shoving a pillow underneath his hips and splaying his legs apart, eager and desperate and very helpful.

Unfortunately for Ed, Stede isn’t really in the mood to rush.

He runs oil-slick fingertips over the crown of Ed’s cock, lightly. Too lightly.

Perhaps there’s something to be said for that particular phrasing after all.

Ed keens, eyes squeezing shut. He fists the bedding, paying no mind to the broken skin of his fingers, which Stede is certain will soon begin to bleed again. His jaw tilts up, exposing a supple stretch of neck stained with lurid smudges of violet, left behind by Stede’s teeth and tongue.

Stede slides his hand over Ed again, a little more pressure this time but still nowhere near enough, and Ed makes the noise again. Breathier, prettier. His hips buck helplessly into empty air the moment the point of contact is broken, and a rivulet of pre-come wells at the tip and slides down the length of him.

It’s actually ludicrous, completely and utterly preposterous how gorgeous this man is. It shouldn’t be allowed.

“Fuck's sake,” Ed hisses, and Stede tsks at him. 

“Not nice,” he admonishes. “As you’ve just very well seen for yourself, I’m not very good at following instructions without words. If there’s something you’re after, maybe try asking for it. Politely.”

“Stede–”

Stede responds by gliding his oiled hand along Ed’s length again, actually gripping this time, exactly right, and adding a twist of his wrist at the end as a little flourish. Ed groans (‘hmngggfuck’ ), and Stede…

Stops.

Pulls away completely.

“Fucking fuck, Stede please, just–fucking fuck me, okay? Please– ”

It’s not very becoming for a gentleman to smirk. But Stede isn’t good at most things, being a gentleman included.

His fingers dip lower, stroking at Ed gently as he sighs and trembles. Stede loves this part; loves watching Ed’s face twist as he slides the first finger inside of him, then the second as the pleasure plateaus and Ed slurs ‘more’ like it’s a complete sentence, the only one he knows. Loves watching the way his mouth hangs open and his closed eyes flutter and clench. The way his tongue will dart out to lick the dryness from his lips, which are only dried out because he can’t stop panting. 

Especially loves it when Stede curls his fingers to push against that tender spot inside him, the one that sends shuddery tangles of pleasure unfurling through Ed, making him quiver and tense. The motion is like pressing an off button on his vocal cords, and Ed goes completely silent; like every cell in his brain is locked in and focused on the sensation. Ed even stops breathing for a moment or two, choking back air frantic and thirsty only once Stede eases off. 

“Ready?” Stede breathes, and Ed chokes out a weak, strained: “Been ready for fucking ages”, which makes Stede huff a laugh. He slicks himself up (too much not enough), and presses his other palm against Ed’s thigh, goes to push into him, but Ed braces both hands against Stede’s chest and resists. 

“Wait,” Ed says, voice gravelly. “Thought we talked about how I’ve got the perfect place to sit. Don’t tell me my fuckin’ clever punchline was for nothing.”

Stede grins, breathless and awed, his throat suddenly dry and sweat beading at the back of his neck, spaced between the goosebumps.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, and then Ed is flipping them around, plopping Stede onto his back and straddling him, both fire-hot palms sliding along Stede’s stomach up to his chest, where he presses with his full weight for balance. Stede’s hands find purchase at Ed’s hips, fingers digging into tender flesh, and together they line everything up and then Ed is sinking down on top of him, inch by aching inch.

They drink in slow, unison-breaths together, gazes locked and fervent and fervid and every other F-word Stede can think of. Ed’s thumbs circle lazily over Stede’s skin, which already feels twitchy and oversensitive. Everything is hot and tight and Stede wants to move maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything, but he holds back, clings desperately to the frayed threads of restraint and waits for Ed to make the first move. Ed’s muscles gradually relax, not just the obvious ones but his spine and his neck and his arms too, all yielding and soft, mouldable as fresh clay. Ed lets out a burning sigh as he lifts his hips, slowly, and then sinks back down with a slight roll that has Stede just about having an out-of-body-experience. He feels like he might just shudder right out of his skin. He grabs at Ed's sweat-slick thighs, quivering as he fights the urge to thrust up, not wanting to move too fast and risk hurting him, but then Ed groans and his head slumps forward, long hair curtaining his pretty face, and he goes “please–”, voice low and shaky and small, and Stede is completely undone.

He moves, snapping his hips up at a punishing pace, and Ed’s back arches beneath one of Stede’s palms. God, the heat and the friction and the slide of it all, the guttural, punched-out noises Ed’s making; Stede feels like he’s drowning, like he’s breaking, like he’s lying on a mattress in a dilapidated shack with everything he’s ever wanted right in his lap. Ed keeps circling his hips, pushing down and meeting Stede’s thrusts, letting out quick, fiery groans of Stede’s name. Stede shifts slightly, pulling one knee up and changing the angle, and Ed goes still and silent, eyes slipping closed and jaw loose at its hinges.

“There?” Stede manages, and Ed goes, “Ffff–”

Stede does his best to aim for that exact spot, canting his hips up with increasing desperation. He’s torn between wanting to watch Ed’s every movement, soak up every flicker of pleasure on his face, and wanting to close his eyes, because every fractious second he watches Ed, he draws closer and closer to all this being over far too soon. He wraps his hand around Ed and begins stroking him in tandem with the pistoning of his hips, and Ed lets out a helpless whimper.

“Hey,” Stede whispers, not really knowing where he plans on going with it, honestly, but just knowing he wants to see Ed’s eyes. They open, and his head whips up to meet Stede’s gaze, and it turns out that Stede hadn’t needed to follow up with anything, because the eye contact is all it takes and suddenly Ed is coming, spilling through Stede’s fingers and all over his stomach with a tremulous cry, whole body spasming with aftershocks that seem to last for ages.

And oh fuck he’s tight and slick and perfect and Stede is so painfully close but he doesn’t want to overwhelm him, knowing how sensitive Ed can be once he’s come, so he freezes in place as Ed collapses shakily against his chest, right into the puddle of his own mess, still gasping for breath. Ed puffs out an incredulous, hoarse laugh into Stede’s neck, more breath than sound, and murmurs, “Keep going you fuckin’ idiot, god, love you so much–” and Stede keeps going before Ed’s even finished the thought, keeps moving against him and relishing in the sound of Ed’s surprised little yip, chasing the peak, and then he's there;  a searing, blinding rush of euphoria barreling through him and slamming the air from his lungs, and Stede’s fists are in Ed's hair as he kisses him through it, anchored to Ed's mouth as he splinters apart; Ed the most perfect container to house Stede's moans.

Ed doesn't move for a long time; keeps his full weight draped over Stede as they breathe together; unison-breaths, just like how they started. Like their lungs are learning from each other. Stede's hands have softened in Ed's hair, and he runs them through gently, slipping them out entirely when they snag on knots and slotting them back in at a new position, to avoid causing Ed even the slightest discomfort. Ed takes deep inhales from the hollow of his throat, and says in a hushed tone, like it's a secret: “Can't tell if you smell like the inn or the inn smells like you, anymore.” And for a moment Stede wonders if he might cry.

It takes a bit of negotiation to convince Ed to finally move so they can get cleaned up. Stede's first tactic does not work: “It'll be much warmer once we can properly snuggle up together.” “M’warm right now.”

Neither does his second: “You're literally lying in your own… fluids, Edward. If it dries maybe we'll end up stuck together like glue.” “Good.”

Eventually, they end up clean and dry and disentangled, then re-entangled together under the blankets. Stede gathers Ed in his arms, spooning him, pushing Ed’s thick curls over his shoulder so Stede can brush drowsy kisses to the back of his neck. Ed lets out a gentle exhale, and then…

Then a not-very-gentle one.

Quite a huffy one, actually.

Stede frowns, pushing himself up on his forearm and leaning over to see Ed’s face.

Ed is staring at something on the ground.

A screw. 

One of the screws, that has managed to roll all the way up to the edge of their bed.

Ed is glowering at it.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” mutters Stede. “Don’t start this again.”

“Fuckin’...stupid chair.”

“Edward,” Stede says. “Edward, do you know of the term afterglow?”

“Mm.”

“Well, you’re ruining it. Kindly shut up, darling.”

Ed rolls over to face Stede, shuffling about clumsily and almost kneeing Stede in the groin, and then buries his face against Stede’s chest with yet another sulky huff.

It’s quiet for a while. They hold each other. 

“Sorry,” Ed mumbles.

“Hm?” 

“Sorry for…pitching a fit about it. Shouted at you. Wasn’t meant to be at you, probably would’ve shouted anyway, just at nothing. But you were in the room, and. Yeah. Wasn’t fair. Need to do better at that.”

Stede hears the seriousness in Ed’s confession, peeking out through the cracks. 

He considers all of this.

“The last time,” he tells Ed gently, “that you weren’t immediately good at something, I seem to recall you rather hell-bent on getting firearms involved. I’d say you’re certainly taking steps in the right direction when it comes to processing failure, love.”

Ed bristles a little in Stede’s embrace.

“Wasn’t failure. S’a stupid chair.”

“Of course, darling.”

Ed shoots the pieces a dark look over his shoulder.

“What shall we do with it?” whispers Stede, a tad conspiratorially, as though the chair might be able to hear them plotting their revenge.

“Need firewood,” says Ed. “We’re out. I didn’t light a fire tonight.”

“I noticed.”

It’s quiet.

But not too quiet. 

There’s the gentle lull of breath and the rustle of the sheets as they both shift closer. 

“I’m actually a bit glad,” Stede mumbles, quiet and barely hanging onto consciousness. “Is that wrong of me? I’m glad you couldn’t build the chair.”

“Could,” Ed retorts. “If I felt like it. You couldn’t, either.”

Then:

“Why, though?”

“You’re just so…perfect at everything. Everything you do. Been wanting it to be me, for a change. To just be…good at something.”

Ed stiffens.

“The fuck?” he murmurs, umbrage competing with sleepy confusion in his voice. “You’re good at lots of things.”

“I mean…as good as you.”

“Better than me,” Ed argues. “The best, actually, best of anyone.”

Stede keeps his eyes closed. Best not to look at him, during whatever he’s about to say.

He feels Ed flex his hand around Stede’s waist; the injured one. The one Stede had only narrowly saved from having significantly fewer fingers on it. 

“You’re better than anyone at looking after me. I’m pretty shit at that.”

Stede’s eyes flood, and he keeps them closed so Ed doesn’t see. But he tightens his hold around Ed’s midriff, and hopes the message is embossed into Ed’s skin, I love you I love you I love you.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Ed says, voice finally growing heavy with exhaustion. “Maybe we can chuck the fucking chair into the fireplace. Have a cozy island of a night. You could read me that book. I won’t interrupt this time. I promise I’ll be scared.”

Stede drifts off with a warm smile on his lips; protective, protected, and thinks maybe there is something to be said for an overused cliché.