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Stede was well used to the feeling of watching Edward as though from afar, even if they were right next to one another. Tonight was no exception, wandering the room, flitting from person to person at Lucius’ monthly bachelor party, at Ed’s side but still feeling at a distance. Ed was dazzling, and charming, and brilliant, and he always existed just outside of Stede’s grasp.
He was Stede’s best, closest friend (not that the competition was steep), and certainly the cleverest, brightest person Stede knew, but on top of all that—
Well, Stede was just hopelessly, pathetically in love with him. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t sure how anyone could help themselves. Even if Edward wasn’t the most inconsiderately gorgeous person on the planet— seriously, tonight, in a blush pink suit jacket, over no shirt, paired with distressed jeans, like oh I just couldn’t be bothered to dress it up, and lord knows I don’t need to, and he didn’t, all loose curls and magnetic eyes and taut muscles and— even if that wasn’t true, he had an artist’s soul and an artist’s CV, constantly turning Stede’s eye to some newer, more beautiful lens than he’d come to understand the world through alone, and a mind like a whip, and so effortlessly cool, and he still made time, so much time for Stede, and the way he sidled up close to him, even in public, like he wanted to be seen with Stede, like Hey, nice to meet you, I’m Ed, and this is Stede, my—
“— partner.”
Partner?
Surely, he misheard Edward, or Edward misspoke, or someone replaced Edward with a remarkable lookalike with all the dazzling looks and none of the sense of the Edward he knew and loved. But Ed, attentive Ed, has already caught the shift in Stede’s demeanor, the spike of confusion surely twisting his face, and he excuses the two of them, as a pair, do not separate, and guides them to a passably quieter corner of the party.
Ed’s face is the picture of concern as he turns Stede to face him, bracketing each of his shoulders in the warmth of his palms for but a moment before quickly retreating, which is just as well because Stede’s head is already spinning and he can never quite ground himself on earth if Ed is touching him.
“Shit, love, sorry, is that okay? Partner? Just seems like, after that talk we had, boyfriend doesn’t capture the whole— ya know, of us, so—” and Ed gestures broadly between them, as though Stede does know, and up until a few moments ago, he thought he did.
Boyfriend.
Partner?
Stede is nervous as hell, all wound up and twisting his hands together as he settles into the couch, next to Ed, but a careful couple feet away. But Ed isn’t panicking, because, first of all, he does not panic, and b) Stede gets nervous about just about everything and Ed has long since learned not to take it on board himself until he actually knew what was going down. No sense in both of them getting worked up, and Ed being the calm, rational half of the relationship sometimes is actually kinda refreshing.
“What’s up, love? You know, whatever it is, I can’t be more upset than the time you had all my jeans dry cleaned.”
A joke is usually a safe bet, chisels a hairline crack in the Stede Mask of Distress that Ed can dig his fingernails into and gently pry the rest free, but today the stone wall doesn’t even wiggle.
“I don’t think you’ll be upset,” Stede says, tone telegraphing an apology, and knowing Stede, words about to make the apology explicit within at least five minutes or Ed’s money back. “But, selfishly, I think that’s why I’m so nervous.”
“Well, alright, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Well. I got an offer in Connecticut, at the Beinecke Library. I won’t just be a librarian, I’ll be a curator , it’s— it’s quite the opportunity.”
“Fuck yeah, love, that’s awesome, are you gonna take it?”
Already, Ed’s mind is scrolling through logistics— rent in New Haven vs. having to speak to a realtor, commuting into big cities for openings, renting studio space or going for gold with space at home, an extra bedroom for Stede’s wardrobe or insisting on walk in closets in every room— but Stede’s face is still doing that twisty thing, where he’s not sure about what he needs, or he is sure, but he’s scared to say it, and Ed knows Stede, knows exactly what Stede looks like when he needs Ed and feels silly for asking, so he’s happy take the weight of it off his shoulders.
“Hey, hey, if you’re worried about us being apart, don’t be.”
“Well, yes— don’t be? Oh, I—” and the twist of Stede’s face is starting to loosen, but not in a good way, but southside towards Oh-God-It’s-All-Worse-Than-Expected Expressway, so Ed rushes to cut him off at the on-ramp.
“What I mean is, obviously I’ll move with you, easy as.”
And there we go, that’s the smile Ed’s been looking for, that 3000 kilowatt beacon appended by the One Perfect Dimple.
“You’ll move with me? Oh, Ed, really?” and he’s still hesitating, which is no fucking good. “I mean, that seems like a lot of trouble for—“
“Swear to god, Stede, if you end that sentence with ‘me’, I’ll— shit, it’s hard to come up with something threatening I’d actually want to do to you— no, wait, I’ll reorganize your pocket squares. Alphabetize them by brand, I’ll do it!”
“Edward! You wouldn’t dare! You know they should be arranged—“
“— by color and then material, love, of course I know.”
And it’s all jokes and smiles and love, but Ed also knows what Stede looks like when he’s trying to push himself into an easier shape when he hasn’t quite stretched out his limbs from the last one, so another dish of reassurance is in order.
“Anyways, fuck, obviously I’ll move with you. I want to be with you , and I can make art anywhere, already have to travel for showings as it is, so it’s easy peasy, puddin’ and fuckin’ pie. Take the job, we’ll move together.”
“Oh Ed, really?” and the mask of distress finally slips all the way free. “It’s not too much?”
“Hey, stop questioning me, or I’ll think you don’t actually want me to move with you. Could always stay here: we picked out a nice apartment, all my plants are here, would hate to have to acclimate them to a different latitude for nothing—“
“Ed, please, of course, I should be so lucky for you to move with me.”
“Well, you are, so that settles it. You and me, right? Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
And he really wouldn’t.
Not even a question.
“Us? Ed, there’s no us.”
Ed’s face twists up, confused for but a moment before his eyes twinkle with mirth, which sinks a pit deep in Stede’s stomach because Ed— Ed can be— but he isn’t cruel, he wouldn’t joke—
Ed snaps his fingers.
“You’re fucking with me. Because I wouldn’t give you a straight answer on the suspenders. Listen, babe, I stand by my assessment that no one will see them under your suit jacket, so if you go with the brass clasps instead of the silver, the fashion gods will not smite you for mixing metals.”
Stede feels like he he rarely does with Ed, like he’s missed a step in a dance and he’s a quarter beat off rhythm as he tries to course correct, except he doesn’t know how long the song has been playing or which step he misremembered, all clumsy footed and wrong.
“No, Ed, please, what ‘us’?”
“Uh, the us that’s been dating for a year this September? Them?”
Stede’s not sure which of the two of them is a starker picture of incredulity.
“Edward— September?”
“Yeah, the 27th, our first date—?” And then Ed’s puzzled expression shifts into something more mischievous. “Oooh, I can’t believe I remembered and you didn’t, that’s gotta cost you massive boyfriend points. Pretty sure this means I get to pick the restaurant for our anniversary dinner.”
“Our first— Ed, we’ve never been on a date! I would know if we’d been on a date!”
“What the fuck, Stede? Uh, apparently not? Seeing’s how I took you to the museum, and you held my hand when I got teary eyed at the Klimt, and I bought you dinner afterwards. Gotta be in, like, our top five dates. Stellar example, real poster child for us dating, I reckon.”
“But—”
Ed’s been marinating in the afterglow of probably the best first date he’s been on in his life since seeing Stede off at his own place about nine hours ago. He woke up smiling , all twitterpated and giggly, ready to kick up his feet and phone a friend to spill, giving absolute 2000s Lizzie McGuire era Hillary Duff, like— like nothing he’s ever been before, that’s for sure. But Stede’s nothing like anyone he’s ever been with before. He’s so fuckin’— he’s real. With Ed, he’s real, says any damn rabbity thought that comes into his brain, and it’s always interesting, and handles Ed with all the care in the world like it’s just instinct. Meanwhile he handles the rest of the world however he damn well pleases, like it brings him personal joy. Or vindication.
It’s just so fucking fresh. People don’t talk to Ed. They talk in front of Ed, and around Ed, and about Ed. When he’s in artist mode, it’s all oh sir, your work on whatever-the-fuck was sooo inspired and were you thinking about the implications of social hierarchy when you chose newspaper clippings and you must meet Blackbeard, his work is a revelation and that shit got old so fucking fast. People didn’t get his work, because there wasn’t always something to get , but they always had to pretend, and he was oh so over that shit.
And when he’s in his sweats, Just-Some-Guy-Running-Your-Local-Older-Gays-Support-Group, he’s admin. He’s an empathetic piece of furniture. He’s been there, man, and he gets how hard it is, and he has his own stories Just Like That That He’ll Save For Another Time, cause he’s not technically there for himself. He’s there to facilitate other peoples’ healing, spend some time not so focused on his own bullshit, or whatever his therapist had recommended when he first started the project.
Thing was, none of it was ever, ever like that with Stede. Even in group. Even after Stede left the group and Ed dropped precisely 137 unsubtle hints that they should go out. Even after Stede realized (so fucking late) who Ed actually was. Even after Ed decided to stop waiting for Stede to connect the dots and just asked him out his damn self. It was always just Stede and Ed. Talking and laughing and sharing and making everyone within their blast radius nauseous on the fumes of their synchronicity.
So, it wasn’t like it was any surprise at all that their first date was a perfect ten. Just real fucking nice to think about. Nice to think about Stede picking him up for their museum date in his dad-mobile and getting the door for him like it was a given and not like literally no one had ever done that for Ed before. Nice to think about how happy Stede looked as he delivered a constant monologue of detail for every painting and sculpture and drawing they stopped for. Nice to think about how, when they got to the Klimt, the one that always got Ed right in his chest without his permission, that he didn’t even feel like he had to hold back the tears, like Stede was never gonna judge him for crying at a painting, cause his eyes were misting over themselves. Nice to think about Stede, so soo tentatively slipping his own hand into Ed’s and giving the tiniest little squeeze that somehow managed to say everything.
Nice to think about the goodnight-almost-kiss that turned into a gentle hug after Stede made the most precious picture of panic when Ed leaned in as he was seeing Stede off on his doorstep, Stede’s embrace all gentle and warm and smelling like the last wisps of floral cologne and rounded off with a firm squeeze as Stede pulled back and promised to see him again soon. Nice to think about the warm feeling that coasted him all the way back to his own apartment faster than he could think to call a cab, bundled him into bed, cozy and sated, and woke him up gently before even his alarm could ruin his morning.
Nice to roll around in bed and bask in it for— who even knows how long, before the insistent melody of his phone ringing brought him back to the surface. It was a gentle breach, a polite invitation to sit up and look around, because Stede was the only person permitted to breach his impenetrable fortress of Do Not fucking Disturb, and it was the chalky-warm tones of the Seekers track assigned to Stede’s contact that interrupted his silent morning, promising more of Stede just one swipe of the screen away.
Like he could turn down an offer that good.
“Heya, Stede” he said on a yawn.
“Edward, I am so sorry—”
“Or like, ‘good morning Edward, how are you?’”
“Yes, sorry, I mean— sorry. Damn. Good morning Edward, did you sleep well?” He sounds breathless, even through the distance of a phone receiver, and it’s adorable. How long has he been awake twisting himself into intricate silk knots over whatever little thing he had to call Ed at— he checks the phone display— 8:47 am about?
“Slept like a wine mom after a glass of Rosé and an ambien—”
“Oh that’s good, I’m— wait, Edward, so— sleep paralysis dreams about spiders? Please tell me you do not actually mix alcohol and sleeping medication.”
“What? No— Naaah, no, never. I don’t.”
He does. Sometimes . When there’s just no other choice besides a 48 hour insomnia marathon and he’s got shit he has to do the next day. Whatever. Stede doesn’t need to know his sleep paralysis demon is actually the silhouette of the Tin-Man from Wizard of Oz, seems like the kinda thing that could be used against him in the court of relationships and he’s not laying out ammo this early on.
“Anyways, what are you sorry about that couldn’t wait for your first cup of tea?”
Stede just lets out a fussy little huff. “I have had my first cup of tea. Wouldn’t dare pick up the phone without the bracing support of earl gray.”
“Right, right, and you’re stalling now, so what’s up?”
“Mmm. Mmhmm. Okay. So, I wanted to say I’m sorry about. Yesterday.”
Yesterday? Best day of Ed’s life Yesterday? Slept like a metaphor-that-Stede-can’t-pick-apart after the end of Yesterday? Okay. Sure. But why?
“Okay. Sure. But why?”
Stede’s ten pound, mid-grade density sigh through the receiver.
“I just. I know that I’m a bit odd—”
“Right, which is why I like you, but go on.”
“Ed, please.”
“Okay, okay, sorry no more derailing until you’re done, Pinkie-Pie promise.” It’s a testament to how well Stede already knows Ed that he doesn’t even pause at that, just forges on in that Stede-Determination voice that is as exciting as it is becoming familiar.
“What I’m trying to say is. I’ve never really been close to that many people, and certainly not like this. So— I might not know how to behave. And so I am sorry for that. But—” Another deep breath, a real bracer, a here-goes-nothing gust. “I would really like to keep seeing you. And I very much hope you feel the same way.”
Oh. Jesus, this guy, it's enough to give a person a complex, the way he starts everything like it’s a terminal diagnosis, when it turns out they’re already on the same page. Heavy sigh of relief, like stretch out your back until it cracks aaaahhhhh , that one.
“Yeah, I definitely feel the same way. Like, literally the same way, like I also haven’t done anything like this in a long time, and like I might mess it up, and like I wanna keep seeing you anyways. Cool?”
Ed can basically hear the bemused smile through the phone.
“Very cool, Ed.”
And honestly, it is.
“But nothing, Stede, that was a date. An excellent, romantic, well planned, super sweet date that we can tell our grandcats about for the rest of our soppy lives.”
Stede rolls his eyes. The way Edward goes on sometimes, honestly.
“Really, Edward, if it was such a perfect date, why didn’t you kiss me when you saw me off at home?” It’s a pretty solid point, Stede feels like, and he’s not sure when exactly he got himself into a position that he’s arguing against dating Edward, but the shock has worn off and his finely honed instincts to be right about things— as much and as often as possible— are kicking in.
“I cannot believe you’re the one being snarky about this when you’re the one that didn’t know you were my boyfriend for almost a year.”
Stede levels him with a serious look.
“Okay, yeah, sorry, I forgot who I was dating, since I’ve seen you get snarky with Lucius over him bringing the wrong coffee that you ordered.”
And that’s just not fair! Because—
“Lucius knows I’m allergic to almond milk! Obviously I misspoke and he should have brought me my regular oat milk latte, but that’s hardly the point! And you never answered my question!”
All traces of mischief soften from Ed’s face, and the righteous mock-fury in Stede’s chest softens just the same.
“I tried to kiss you good-night, Stede, and you looked at me like a cornered animal, so I recalculated. Good-night hug, cause I’m chivalrous.”
“And after that—?”
Stede had already made it clear— not directly to Ed, but in group— that he approached physical contact with more hesitation than the average person. That even after realizing he was gay, he could never understand what all the “fuss about physicality” was, as he put it. That the idea of sex with another man was still about as exciting to him as sex with a woman had been, which was to say not at all and actually kinda a turn-off all around, and that kissing seemed overall like a pretty weird and wet way to show affection. And after everyone in their group had reassured him that that was, in fact, “a thing” and that if he knew that he still wanted to be with men romantically, he had not in fact “blown up his whole life for nothing” like he started to spiral about, and that physical shit was not in fact a deal-breaker for everyone in the community, Ed quietly noted that down in his mental file of Things About Stede that he started instinctively keeping after the first time Stede casually dropped that he double minored in botany and etymology while getting his first undergraduate degree.
Anyways. This was a Thing Ed Knew About Stede, and really, it was fine, Ed always kinda felt like he was sexual in a social capacity anyways, the same way other people smoked when they drank, except he had sex when he was tied up with people that wanted to have sex with him. In absence of that, there was always his good old left hand, or more often than that, a very PG bath and lights out by 10pm. And as far as the rest of it, already the connection he had with Stede was so interesting and personal and different from other people that Ed was completely on board with figuring out a different way to communicate his interest if it meant more of Stede.
Only it did seem like Stede had let down some of his physical boundaries on that first date. He had been the one to reach for Ed’s hand, after all, and he did seem to be looking specifically at Ed’s lips an awful lot. (Ed checked, just in case it was general face staring, but furrowed eyebrow: nothing. Licking his lips: guaranteed attention getter 9/10 times, four out of five doctors would agree.) So Ed figured, after his curved attempt at a kiss and him curving himself into a good-night hug, that maybe it was that Stede desperately needed to set the pace himself. And freshly out and not really that big of a fan of physical contact to start with, that shit made perfect sense.
But Ed was also learning about the joys of direct communication in his old age, so he figured he’d make it crystal clear. The next time they had a date (coffee, and a walk in the park until it the chill got to both of their old bones and they settled into a library Stede didn’t work at to browse the poetry stacks) and Stede grabbed Ed’s hand in excitement to lead them to a curated display of naturalist poets and didn’t let go even after they came to a stop, Ed gestured with their joined hands.
“Hey, Stede,” and Stede’s eyes were on him instantly, wide eyed and blinking and Ed couldn’t help but think that was the face of someone just so stupid smitten, and thank god, because Ed knew he looked exactly the same. “I just wanted you to know, like, I never want to make you uncomfortable. With, like, physical contact. So if there’s anything you do want, you call the shots, alright?”
And Stede smiled, and said okay, and said thank you, and Ed said of course, because it was an of course, and that was that.
Stede finds himself spluttering a bit, which is indignant, but wholly unavoidable given the circumstances, because— well from Ed’s perspective— that certainly sounds—
“You were just being a good friend! Because I’m—” Lost for words, Stede makes a frustrated sound and just gestures towards all of himself. Ed knows him fairly well, he’ll get what he’s stabbing at, surely.
“Right, okay,” Ed says with a snort, which is uncalled for. “Being a good friend. Love, I don’t mean to come off like a prick but— you do have friends— do any of them act like I do with you? Do I act with my other friends the way I do with you?”
The thing about Ed was, historically speaking, he wasn’t just a hugger; he was a shoulder clasper, a back toucher, a hand holder, a forehead kisser, a body octopus-er, a knee-knocker, a footsie player, a butt grabber. Anything and everything, if touch was on the table, he was going for it because—
Well fuck. Feelings are messy and as soon as you put them in the shape of words, bam, that’s what they are, and it’s on the record, and people can call up the ticker tape and say “On December the 15th, you said, quote, I hate asparagus ,” and suddenly you could never eat asparagus again. Ed was a vibes based organism, and he could imbue some pretty articulate vibes into a full body hug. Getting that same message across with words was like running an obstacle course where the hurdles and the end goal were both all at once the act of expressing himself. Meanwhile, a good hug just said “warm” and “comfort” and “whatever this needs to be to you, you can have it.”
With Stede, like it always was with Stede, things were different. When Stede would get set off into twisty discomfort and a fifteen minute cool down sesh from all the smells and textures of an old friend popping back into his life and going in for a reunion hug, touch maybe said “this is way more for me than it is for you” and that was a message Ed had no interest in sending.
So he learned a new language.
And Ed, Ed loves a challenge. Loves pulling at interesting and complex things until he knows how they already work and how he can coax them into working better. And Stede is far and above the most interesting and complex thing/person/angel from heaven cursed to wander this mortal plane due an apparent clerical error period .
The first thing he learned was that Stede loved being shown that he was thought about when he wasn’t around, loved knowing he’d been thought about in general. That one was easy as anything, since Ed’s general thought profile usually broke down into 4% niggling background body sensation, 17% artistic musings and his tortured soul or what the fuck ever, 7% autopiloting his meat suit around, 3% for incidentals, and 69% (nice) Stede thoughts, Stede feelings, and Stede related schemes. A “was out at the pub and Fang said this thing that made me think of that time we went to Nantucket” was good for a big dopey smile, a “saw this at the market and thought it’d go with your velvet trousers, obviously the seafoam ones, not the mint ones, who do you take me for?” was a guaranteed shy little chuckle and a you shouldn’t have that meant he absolutely should have, and could do it again with resounding success.
The other thing was, Stede liked to feel special. Everybody did, usually, obviously. But like. Stede, you could say all day what you thought of Stede, but it wasn’t really going to stick unless you showed him. So Ed packed up all his casual pet names and platonic hand holding and put it into a box labeled “Just for Stede.” There weren’t a lot of typical hallmarks of romance Stede seemed to go for, but the ones he liked? They were all his, property of Stede, not to be offered to any rando that Ed still kept a spot for in his heart. It wasn’t that he didn’t have love to give and go around or that Stede was a jealous person. It was just that Stede was his only “love”, his only “babe”, his only hand to hold in the movie theatre when the horror film that he was definitely not scared about at all got a little too real, and it seemed that they both liked it that way.
Probably, though, definitely, actually, the biggest thing of all, and it was counterintuitive, unless you knew Stede—which of course Ed did, he majored in Stede, he wrote his thesis on Stede, he gave an EDTalk on Stede with visuals, and cited sources, and accompanying laser light effects— the thing that Stede loved probably more than at least 89% of his wardrobe and his newest Vespa was feeling like the things he did mattered. And to him, there was no more meaningful use of his time than taking care of Ed. Which, if Ed thought about it for longer than the .8 seconds it took to acknowledge the idea, would send him into violent, pathetic sobs that messed up his makeup and left him with unsexy snot trails down his face and, oh my god, if he did, Stede would just appear with a warm, damp cloth, and a gentle little tut that said I’m only hurting because you’re hurting and clean his face and bring him his favorite robe that was technically his but still Stede’s on principal because the favoriteness of it was that it was Stede’s, and he’d so softly say “there you are, good as new” and holy fuck, yeah, okay, there he goes. Send donations in lieu of flowers.
Like. It was that. And the washing his hair, meticulous routine carefully studied by Stede with handmade and laminated flashcards. And keeping on top of his med refill schedules because automatic reminders lived in the same memory hole everything in his glove box did. And careful, tentative knee massages after a particularly difficult day of stupid little exercises that kept his stupid little body stupidly functioning. And keeping prepacked fruit cups on the grocery list because Ed loved fruit, but by god he would die of scurvy if keeping fresh food in his fridge was up to him and him alone. And all these little things about Ed that no one else got to know, no one else got to care for, that Stede treated like a privilege.
And honestly, Ed got that. If Stede felt even half of what it was for Ed to make Stede smile, to make Stede glow from the inside out, like his happiness wasn’t just a costume he put on for today’s scene, but a core tenet that couldn’t help but bubble up to the surface when he was braiding Ed’s hair or putting on his tea, than yeah. It was no wonder at all how hopelessly devoted Stede seemed to be to his happiness, because Ed himself would punt a baby into the next state if it meant a better day for Stede. He would not tell him about it though. Would probably ruin the gesture. But like they say, it’s the thought that counts, and that thought would be a solid 87% Stede-centered. That’s a strong B plus, and Ed was never much for the rigor of academia, but if it was possible to get a good grade in loving Stede, then doing his homework was second nature.
Understanding is coming slowly, even as his brain makes clear sense of Ed’s words, even as his gut cedes to the instinctive trust in Ed to never lie to him, his heart is stuttering and stopping along the line. It was only that—
Ed wasn’t like him, isn’t like him. He’s more, he’s fuller, he deserves the whole dazzling scope of human experience, and that’s more than Stede would ever be able to give. That is, in fact, a worry that Stede has long harbored and even once voiced, in an oblique way.
Shortly after they moved in together for the first time, Stede had begun to realize that Ed wasn’t dating, and that he spent almost all his spare time with Stede, or with other people, but with Stede hanging on like an unwanted barnacle, and when it dawned on him, the way he monopolized Ed’s time and attention, he was struck with a deep terror.
Ed, with his whole magnificent everything and etc, was giving up Friday nights to sit on the couch watching the GBBO with Stede and taking vacation time to travel to out of the way estate sales with Stede and turning down invitations to do interesting exciting things with interesting exciting people to spend time with Stede. And it just didn’t make any sense.
So when Ed expressed interest in someone new for the first time since Stede and Ed had become proper friends, well, he made a personal mission to be as supportive as possible.
“You seem to be getting on well with Carlos, that must be exciting.”
And Stede’s words were shaped like genuine Stede Words, but they were definitely carrying a distinctly suspect vibe. Proceed with caution.
“Yeah, nice to make a new friend, haven’t had that in awhile.” All true, though really Carlos was probably destined for the Exciting-at-First-But-Just-An-Acquaintance-These-Days roster, once they had swapped all their relevant tips on paint suppliers and industry gossip about who was taking inspiration from who without the appropriate byline nods.
Stede gives a thoughtful hum, or a hum that’s designed to sound thoughtful. Distinguishing the two is an art, not a science, and though Ed is an artist, auditory processing isn’t exactly his gold medal winner, so figuring out if that rough edge on the down turn was A Thing or just that Stede needed a glass of water was hit or miss.
“Do you think— maybe you’d like to ask him out for coffee?”
So like, Carlos has been a work acquaintance, meeting at gallery showings or workshops pretty much exclusively. So Stede could mean friend coffee, but the thing was, his face was a little more expectant, a little more guarded than the level 2 apprehension warranted by your average friendship coffee, so Ed once again chose to make use of his excellent and hard won powers of communicating directly.
“Do you mean, would I like to ask Carlos on a date ?”
Now, Ed had dated poly people before, had dated multiple people at once himself, here or there. Mostly what he found was that keeping things balanced and communicative and transparent while also trying to keep his own solo life in check gave him tension headaches, but again. This was Stede, and with Stede, he was up for, at minimum, discussing anything. Though it did come as a bit of a surprise, since Stede seemed a little— he seemed a little Stede for dating around.
“Um, yes.” and Stede is blushing. “I just thought— you spend so much time with me, and surely there’s more you want from— more that life has to offer you— and you seem quite interested in this Carlos fellow—”
And that math definitely maths. Stede is worried about Ed’s fulfillment or something, which is like. A little sad, that Stede can’t see how happy and content and joyous and smitten and delighted he is every single day with what they have, just as it is, but like. Perspective. Stede didn’t really know Ed-before-Stede, by definition, so he doesn’t know not just how much better things are than they were before, but how stand-on-their-own-two-feet-no-qualifiers excellent they are, every day, just being with Stede.
Which is cool and fine, actually, because that means he gets to tell him and show him and light up his face with Stede Delighted Expression no. 7, which is his things-are-going-better-than-expected face, and features a grade 3 blush, and 60% chance of dimple appearance.
So he offers his hand to Stede, an optional physical comfort pairing to the verbal comfort that’s incoming, and Stede grasps Ed’s hand in his own. Ed presses gently into Stede’s palm with his thumb, working grounding circles as he queues up his serious (positive) voice.
“Stede, love, I want you to know, I am completely happy with my life exactly the way it is right now. There is no more . This is the happiest I’ve ever been. And you’re a big part of that.”
And ding dong, SDE#7 right on schedule, but of course Ed needs to be sure all his bases are covered, so—
“What about you? Is there— like, would you wanna date other people?”
And Stede waves it away, literally, immediately.
“Not at all, Ed, I’m just not much for dating.”
“Well, cool then, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
And that’s another successful relationship conversation navigated flawlessly and with good feelings had by all that Ed can stick in his mental scrapbook of all the ways being with Stede is cooler and better than literally every other thing, including the sections of the Autobahn that have no speed limits.
It’s starting to settle now, he can feel his heart slowly coming online, filling in starts and gasps like the hand pump air mattress he slept on for precisely one night after the divorce before furiously (with himself) driving to the nearest IKEA to purchase and then pay extra for expedited delivery of a king sized bed with four poster frame and matching percale cotton bed set.
He thinks back to the very beginning, when Ed was just an acquaintance from group that he very nervously texted, scared to overstep bounds. And then the first time they spent time together outside of group, the magnificent museum not-a-date that apparently was a date even though he spent at least a few hours every day for the following week wishing desperately that it was a date. And Ed staying the night for the first time a few weeks later and insisting he could take the couch and Stede insisting he could take the couch and them going back and forth until Ed took every throw blanket and pillow off the couch and wrapped himself up in a soft, colorful burrito on Stede’s bed and said, with no small triumph, that now no one could take the couch (if that was alright). And the first time he woke up with Ed wrapped around him and how it was the first time he ever felt comforted by that much of another person’s touch and how that overwhelmed him so thoroughly that it was all he could do to roll over and hide his head under a pillow before Ed could see him cry. And how when their leases expired at the same time and Ed said, casual as anything, that he’d be much happier if they just got a new place together, two bedrooms of course, if Stede wanted. (They ended up with three bedrooms. One for Ed, one for Stede, one for Stede’s clothes and Ed’s art supplies).
He thinks about the first time Ed said “I love you, man”, laughing about some something or other Stede was being Stede about, and how it sent him spiraling because it wouldn’t do to say it back. About the first time Ed said “I love you.” and it didn’t sound like punctuation, it was the whole sentence, and that sent Stede spiraling for an entirely different reason. He could say it back, he should say it back, and yet, if he did, he would feel, overwhelming, that though their words matched, they would be saying two very, painfully different things to one another. About how maybe he couldn’t live with that, but even more, he couldn’t leave Ed thinking he was unloved. About saying I love you a thousand different times, a thousand different ways, and never once having the courage to say what he truly meant.
But.
Apparently?
Apparently he had been. And, and apparently, if he ignored the imbalance in his equilibrium that told him he’d been misstepping and misunderstanding and that nothing was what it seemed in favor of just trusting Ed, a challenge that became easier and easier every time, apparently Ed was in fact—
It’s a tentative thing, it’s hard not to be, and his body and his voice are shaking but he keeps his eyes trained on Ed’s, steady as, not wanting to miss a moment, if this moment is what he dares to hope it is.
“Ed, when you told me you loved me, all those times, and—”
Ed’s face softens, slow and smooth, and there’s no trace of mirth left behind, but instead, gooey, Ed’s-favorite-lava-cake joy.
“And you loved me too? Yeah. Like a friend, sure, like family too, like all the non-weird ways I could love you, and a couple of the weird ones to boot. All of those too.”
“Like a partner? Like— Romantically?”
“Definitely.” As though it couldn’t be anything else.
“And you don’t mind that I can’t—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.” Ed says pointedly, but he’s still smiling. “The only thing I wish was different is that you knew.”
And then Ed holds out his hand, always an offer, never an expectation, and Stede links his fingers in Ed’s, and it’s the same comforting, grounding, reassuring pressure that it always has been. Just the right amount of contact, just the right amount of connection, that Stede knows if it was ever too much, relief would be a moment away, and yet he also knows, with the reassurance of so much (tender, gentle, loving) practice, that for once, this is something he can have that will never be too much for him.
Relief.
Like when his ears finally clear after a head cold and he no longer has to navigate life cotton-headed and muffled. Like when the neighbor’s dog finally settles down and stops barking and he can stop pretending ear plugs and a white noise machine will be enough for him to sleep. Like when the one great love of his life looks at him like that, all doe-eyed and soft, and finally, finally he knows what it really means.
And it’s so much, it’s everything, actually, but he wonders if he dare ask for just one more thing.
“Ed, if it’s okay—”
“Definitely okay.”
“— there is something I want to be different—”
“Anything. Anything you want, nothing you don’t.”
If saying what he wants is the adrenaline rushing terror of jumping out of a plane, Ed’s words are the harness and the parachute, cradling him and floating him gently back to earth. It’s Ed. It’s actually been Ed this whole time, and it suddenly feels mortifyingly silly. He regrets, disbelieves that he didn’t just come out with it directly when he first realized, a short month after they first started seeing each other outside of group, when he was working on Ed’s birthday present. As he collected prints and photos of all of Ed’s favorites of his work, as he paired them with poems that spoke to the truth of Ed’s art (which was sometimes there’s no truth, check out how neat this sculpture is, you will not believe the things I can do with chicken wire), as he had the whole collection bound and ready for Ed’s tearful reception, it had finally occurred to him. A man he knew this well, that he still found himself wanting to know more deeply, that he found himself reaching for in ways he rarely did for anyone else, that was that elusive thing people spoke of at length: it was love. It was love, for Ed, for the one and the same Ed standing right in front of him, gently grasping his hand, rubbing out the tension in his palm without a thought, staring at him, eager, unexpectant, loving.
“I’d like to kiss you.”
“Really?” There’s disbelief in Ed’s face, but gentle, not critical, like it’s only that he can’t believe his own luck.
And Stede really, really does. Not for the first time, certainly, but the experience is still unique, wanting to kiss someone fresh enough all its own, but wanting to kiss someone who— probably, most likely— wants to kiss him back is a revelation.
He nods, not sure he can put together any more words to describe the comfortable heat growing in his chest.
Ed’s eyes— always expressive, always looming larger than the moon— positively sparkle.
“Fuck, yes, you can kiss me. My lips are very kissable, they’re designed specifically for being kissed by Stedes, they don’t even work right when other people try to kiss me, like, awwwwgh, yuck, it’s all teeth and mustache and—”
Stede loves him so much, he can’t wait another moment, though he’ll never forgive himself if his first kiss with Ed is all mustache, so he reaches out and cups Ed’s face at the curve where his cheek meets his beard, and Ed’s chattering, along with the rest of him, stills.
Ed’s beard is wiry, yet soft, always well kept, even if Stede has to be called in as a pinch hitter on the cloudier days, and the familiar texture centers him.
It’s just Ed, not that Ed is ever just anything.
But it’s just them, a pair, do not separate, stood off to the side of a bustling party, centered in their own world, just as they always are, and if Stede has any say in the matter, just as they always will be, and that’s enough to bolster his courage enough to lean in, carefully but incautious, and press his lips against Ed’s, finally, finally, for the first time.
It feels—
It feels like the ground leveling, when he hadn’t realized he’d been tripping over loose cobblestones for decades. There’s excitement, there’s the undercurrent of unease he can never shake when he tries something new no matter how much he wants it, there’s comfort.
All the unsettling things people are and do that keep him at a careful distance just feel different on Ed. People always smell like something, and it’s a risky gamble that it’s something good, if not outright offensive. Ed just smells like the unperfumed scent of their clean laundry, and the mild spice of his beard oil, and underneath, an earthy, living something, and really he just smells like home. People are textured, coarse or soft or clammy or prickly or limp, and not knowing what you’re going to get means it's hardly worth the effort. Ed, cupped under his palm, entwined with his fingers, pressed gently against his lips, is exactly what he knows, what he’s always known: a rough and sturdy foundation worn soft around the edges from years of care.
And peoples’ sounds? Their clicking and smacking and breathing and chewing and coughing and all the weird, wet things they do with their mouths and their bodies that Stede has long since given up on identifying? Well, there’s a reason his mantra upon leaving the house is “phone, wallet, keys, ear plugs.”
But as Stede tilts his head just a fraction, and feels Ed adjust to match so they press just that breath closer, Ed lets out a delicate little hum that banishes every clatter of silverware and peal of chatter that echoes around the room. If Stede could make a blanket knit from that sound, program a set of headphones that play only that sound, bake a bread that tastes like that sound, he’d renounce all other earthly trappings, and he’d do it without a backward glance.
Ed, Ed’s happiness, Ed, all safely held in his hands.
It’s so much more than— it’s a lot, it’s everything, it’s enough, it’s—
Trickling slowly towards too much.
Stede, already schooling his face into what he hopes expresses both joy and contrition, gently pulls back, releases Ed from both of his hands, and makes tender, tentative eye contact.
Ed’s eyes are still closed, and as Stede offers a quiet hello , he blinks them slowly open, looking for all the world like he’s waking languidly into late afternoon sun after a good lunch and a better nap.
“Heya,” Ed says with a grin.
“That was…” indescribable, Stede thinks, but that’s far from adequate, and so he sits with it, the glow, the hum, the warmth.
“Okay?” and maybe Stede overdid it on the contrition, because Ed seems quite concerned that it’s not okay and—
“Oh no, very okay, incredibly okay, excellent, even. Just— also new.”
“Not too much?”
“No, not too much, but still quite a lot.” And then there’s that fear, that he can’t help but address, if just for the comfort of being reassured that his trust in Ed is fortified by Ed’s faith in him. “It may never— I may never be comfortable with more than that.”
Ed’s face goes on a complicated journey, rapidfire and reeling, before settling on that wide-eyed thing, that beautiful canvas that Stede now knows is just another picture of I love you.
“More? Stede, what more? That was— this—” and Ed gestures between the two of them, and Stede can almost see it, the bond that holds them close even when bodies can’t.
“This is everything.”
And just between the two of them?
He’s right.
It absolutely is.