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The thing about poetry is that it is an art form. It does not always make sense, nor does it always follow a strict format—structured rules. Some poems follow cadence, some poems follow a certain set of limitations that force a poet to work within the realms of a specific form. Others grow wild, run free, hold their own and lay down roots and eventually live to become something wild. People are much the same.
Edward Teach is a work of art in his own right, and a poem even so. If poets had any clear understanding of what it means to write something worthwhile, they would come to terms with the endeavor of Edward Teach—they would learn to reconcile the great void of existence with the weight of violence turned passion turned love. A man who commands the attention of others, who draws every eye in the room, who captures the consciousness of those around him. A man bearing weight on his shoulders that he hardly asked for. A man who deserves to rest.
A man who, gazing at one decidedly not-dead Stede Bonnet, wonders for a moment if this is the sort of punishment a vengeful god would hand out.
“You’re back.” His voice doesn’t shake. He’s tired. Stede nods, eyes wide. The blond man opens his mouth to speak, but Ed beats him to it. “Welcome home.”
The thing about poetry is that love poems are inherently devastating. This one is no different.
He leads the way to his cabin—to their cabin—and lets Stede close the door behind them. The room, though still mostly barren, feels suddenly overwhelmingly full. Ed knows the moment Stede lays eyes on the painting by the sharp intake of breath. When he turns to face him, Stede appears unsure. Nervous as he was when they’d first met, what seems like decades ago. There’s a new buoyancy to him, a new strength to his shoulders. He’s scruffy. A pirate.
“Edward, I—” Ed holds up a hand, and Stede freezes, cutting himself off.
“Give me a minute, Stede.”
“Yes, okay, we can do that.” Stede nods once, not looking away from Ed’s face. There’s a determination in the lines at the corners of his eyes and the crease of his forehead. The corners of his mouth turn down. If Ed were a believer—but he isn’t, and Stede Bonnet is only a man.
Above them, there’s the sounds of rushed footsteps and scraping, as if boxes and furniture are being dragged along the deck. Redecoration. Ed had begun the process, but had allowed his meager crew to take the reins. The ship already looks much improved from the days following Stede’s disappearance. Ed crosses his arms, black, lightweight linen shirt moving easily with his limbs. He leans back against his desk. Stede doesn’t shy away from holding his gaze and something inside of Ed appreciates that. He has always been in awe of Stede for his seemingly endless capacity for resiliency. He stands before Ed in weather-worn clothes, with a scraggly beard and a sunburnt nose, hair tangled and shoved out of his face, and he is still the most beautiful man Ed has ever seen.
If Ed was a poet, he would fill pages upon pages with words dedicated to Stede Bonnet. If he had any control over language the way poets did, he would put ink to paper and pour out every emotion he’s had since meeting the man in the hopes that anyone anywhere could understand what it is that Stede Bonnet stirs inside Edward Teach. He would be able to explain how he feels as if he swallowed the stars with a gallon of seawater and he isn’t sure how anything else could ever fit inside him.
“Okay,” Ed finally says. “Go on.”
And on Stede goes.
Men like Stede Bonnet are born storytellers. They have a way about them, a certain characteristic that can’t be learned or replicated. He has a sincerity in everything he says or does, in the way he crafts every tale. He tells Ed about being taken out to the woods like a lamb to the slaughter. He talks about his terror, about the gunshot and the moment where he was certain he must have died—how he had gazed down on the unmoving Badminton body and pleaded with any god that would listen to wake him up from the nightmare he was trapped in. He talks about ruin, about devastation, about stripping life from people’s eyes and leaving shells of human beings in their wake. He talks about the burden of being alive, the burden of a life that doesn’t fit, the burden of a purgatorial existence. And then, never looking away from Ed, he tells him about bringing history’s greatest pirate to ruin and seeing his own name in the rubble.
“You think you ruined me?”
“Oh, Ed, not in the slightest. But in the moment…it was blatant how I ruined everything I’d ever touched.”
Stede tells him about death. About attempted murder and love confessions and understanding that love and friendship have more in common than Stede had ever dreamed they could. He tells him about a fuckery, about the unfortunate, quixotic, untimely end of one Stede Bonnet. Of jungle cats and falling pianos and a broken bouquet of flowers. Of a marooned crew, hungry and sunburnt and full of righteous rage. Of his own anger. Of his own terror. Of his own impenetrable resolve. He tells Ed of a desperate need to apologize, to beg for forgiveness and offer an explanation, to ask for an explanation in return. He tells him about anger and understanding and forgiveness. About offering forgiveness and expecting none in return.
There were storms and squalls and waves the size of ships, but Stede was determined to make it back to Ed’s side despite them all. Even if he wasn’t wanted. Even if he slept in the belly of the ship for the rest of the voyage. Even if he had to sleep in the crow’s nest in the pouring rain. He tells Ed that any of this would have been worth it only to be near Ed again. To see him every day. To know that he’s healthy. That he’s safe. That he isn’t alone.
“And despite all else,” Stede finally murmurs, his voice growing soft once more. He breaks eye contact with Ed for the first time since boarding the ship. “Or perhaps, because of it—I am a broken man. I am flawed, and I am going to fall short again and again, and I will not be able to be your Prince Charming, and I cannot promise you smooth sailing and blue skies and only love for the rest of our lives. I cannot be perfect and I want you to want me anyway.”
“I never asked you to be perfect,” Ed replies. “Not even once.”
“No,” Stede agrees. “But you deserve perfection nonetheless.”
They regard one another in the silence of the cabin. It isn’t a tense silence, nor one filled with discomfort. It’s the kind of silence that feels familiar. Feels understanding. They aren’t so much sizing one another up as they are reacquainting themselves with each other. Re-familiarizing themselves with the men they love. Ed wonders briefly if any part of Stede is disappointed with what he’s found aboard the Revenge—if he was expecting something that aligned better with the stories he must have heard on his journey to find them. If he was expecting the dread pirate Blackbeard. If he was expecting a pirate captain at all.
The thing about poetry is that it’s all subjective. Like all art, it relies on the eye of the beholder. The thing about Edward Teach is that he is entirely unsure of how he is being beheld.
There are plans to be made. Truthfully, Ed had only been stocking the ship with as much as necessary to feed the six of them on board—and not for any given length of time. Roach questions him disapprovingly about the stores, then informs him none-too-politely that they will be stopping in whatever the nearest port is in order to restock. They will also need to make decisions, Ed assumes, on how the crews will proceed.
He finds Izzy on the deck during dinner.
“What are your thoughts?” He asks his first mate, leaning his back against the railing next to him, facing the deck. “I know you must have some.”
“I think Fang’s happier.”
Ed blinks. “What?”
Izzy turns his head, looking at Ed sideways from the corner of his eye. “Fang likes them. He’s happier now that they’re back.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
“I know.” Izzy sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Are you happy, Edward?”
And, oh. Isn’t that a question? Ed looks up at the sky growing dark over them. There have been plenty of happy moments in the life of Edward Teach—less so in the life of one Dread Pirate Blackbeard—but considering whether or not he was happy, instead of just experiencing happy moments, was only something he had even attempted recently. Happiness isn’t a concept that pirates were overly concerned with. It comes last in a long line of priorities—happiness can never hold a candle to survival. Not in a life fraught with the potential of not making it through the night, or a raid, or a surprise storm. He takes a deep breath.
“I’d like to be,” he says aloud. “I’d like to be happy.”
“Can you be happy with him here?” Izzy doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound critical or judgmental or like he’s expecting a certain answer. He only sounds tired. “With him around?”
“Yeah,” Ed whispers. “I think I can be.”
Izzy hums, but doesn’t respond. He looks out over the black sea, leaning on the rail. As he looks at him, Ed realizes he looks exhausted. He looks tired. Bags under his eyes, hair stringy, jaw tight, Israel Hands looks fucking exhausted.
“I want you to be happy, Edward,” Izzy says quietly. “He fucked you up, and you did the work to get better, and now—well. Now he’s back.”
“Now he’s back,” Ed repeats.
“So,” Izzy turns and faces Ed fully. “Can you be happy?”
Ed looks at Izzy for a long time.
See, the thing about poetry is that everything is always up for interpretation.
Ed finds Stede standing in the captain’s quarters, staring at the painting, brow furrowed in thought. In the mostly-empty room, Stede takes up space and commands the room without trying. His shoulders rounded, he looks lost. Unfamiliar. As if he doesn’t belong in the space. In his own space.
“It’s like you’ve never seen a painting before,” Ed says. It’s too big in the empty air. Stede doesn’t turn around to face him.
“I’m familiar with this one,” he replies. “Mary’s a talented woman.”
“She is.” Ed crosses the room and sits on the bed. Stede doesn’t move. “Are you here to stay?”
“Yes.” He still doesn’t move. “I go where you go, Ed.”
“Okay,” Ed says. “Where are you sleeping?”
Finally, finally, Stede turns to look at him. And he looks tired. Ed wonders if he looks as tired as Stede does. As Izzy does. If their lifestyle has finally caught up with all of them and is finally taking its toll. But there is something that stands out to Ed, more so than anything else: Stede Bonnet, though exhausted, is still beautiful.
“I don’t know,” Stede says back, voice quiet. “Wherever there’s room, I suppose.”
“You could stay.”
“Ed, I told you I’m going to stay.”
“No, not—here, Stede, stay with me. Sleep here.” Stede blinks, his mouth falling open. “No pressure. But you can.”
“You want me to—stay? With you?” Stede looks at Ed like he’s said something sudden, something insane, something astronomical. As if it wasn’t something so blatantly obvious that a blind man could have seen it.
Stede looks at Ed as if he had no idea that he walked into Ed’s life one day, bloody and bruised and half-dead and changed Ed’s life forever. As if he has no idea how he’s changed everything Ed’s ever thought or known or wanted in this life. He looks at Ed as if Ed would ever pass up the opportunity to sleep next to Stede, now that he’s known his absence. As if Ed would pass up any opportunity to be next to him, to be reminded that he’s alive. He looks at Ed with an expression on his face that says “Are you sure? You want me to stay, are you sure? I left you and then I came back and I’m promising you things now, so are you sure?”
Ed scrubs his hands over his face. “Yeah, Stede, I do.”
And Stede continues to look at him, mouth ajar, face lined with shock. “Okay,” he whispers.
The thing about Edward Teach is that he never had the chance to ask anyone to stay. Never needed to. As Blackbeard, men begged to be allowed to stay. They groveled at his feet, pleaded for him to offer them space on his ship—or bartered for their lives, otherwise. People just stayed—because Blackbeard served a purpose, occupied a position of power that offered protection for those who fell under him. He never had to ask anyone to stay because they had no other options. There had never been someone who stayed for Edward Teach.
Not even Stede Bonnet himself.
But Ed won’t bring that up. Not tonight. Not while he has Stede by his side, at least for the night.
He lays back, looking up at the wooden slats of the ceiling, barely visible in the low cabin light. There are a long few moments where neither man moves or speaks. Silence settles over the captain’s quarters and both captains inside, until the shuffling sounds of Stede beginning to move around the cabin start up. Ed keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling as the cabin grows darker, candle after candle going out. In the pitch-dark of the room, the bed next to Ed dips, and then there’s a body lined up against his.
“Hi,” Stede whispers into the black.
“Hi,” Ed replies.
“I want to stay.” He doesn’t raise his voice above a whisper.
“Okay,” Ed says. “Okay.”
The dark and the silence wrap the two men up, settling softly on their skin and cushioning their heads. In the dark, Stede’s fingers bump against Ed’s, linking together and squeezing. Ed inhales slowly through his nose. Stede’s knuckles are soft where they brush against his own and his fingers are soft where they’re linked together. Holding hands. Holding fingers. A simple act of gentle intimacy that Ed had never had before. That he’d never allowed himself to have before. A simple act of intimacy that no one had ever been willing to give him, not from within the ever-tumultuous life he had lived. The act of holding hands for the sake of holding hands, for the purpose of being close with another human being, for the reminder of being alive—it’s not an act afforded to those who spend their lives fighting, plundering, pillaging. Ruining. Stede squeezes Ed’s hand again and he drags another slow breath in through his nose.
There are many things in life Ed is unsure of. He’s unsure of what he’ll eat for breakfast in the morning, or what shirt he’s going to put on. He’s unsure of how things are going to go with both Izzy and Stede on board from now on. He’s unsure of what lies in store aboard the Revenge from now on, and what this all means for himself and for Stede. He’s unsure of a great many things, but there is one that he is absolutely certain of.
Stede Bonnet is back, and Ed will be damned if he doesn’t relish in every minute of it.
So, Ed dislodges his fingers from Stede’s and shifts, opening his arm and pulling Stede in, settling his blond head on his chest and carding his fingers through his curls. Stede sighs and Ed lets him tuck his head under his chin. His breathing slows, and after he falls asleep, Ed lies awake for a long time. Accompanied only by Stede’s rhythmic breathing and the gentle sounds of the waves against the hull, Ed stares at the ceiling and cards his fingers through Stede’s curls and tries to match Stede’s breathing. The warmth of Stede’s body sinks through Ed’s own skin, warming him from the inside out, and he swallows hard.
Stede Bonnet is back. Real and alive and warm in Ed’s arms.
The thing about poetry is repetition is common—but not necessary. Themes, phrases, words are repeated for impact, for the effect they have on the reader. Repetition increases impact, increases memorability.
People are always leaving. It’s the repetition of the world.
Stede comes to find Ed on deck the next morning. Ed hears him approaching, knows it’s him by the pattern of his footsteps and the sound of his breathing, accompanied by the rattle of teacups on saucers.
“Good morning,” Stede greets him with a small smile, handing him his own teacup. Seven sugars. He remembers.
“Good morning, mate. Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in ages.” Stede takes a sip of his own tea, looking around at the other crewmembers scattered around the deck. “You?”
“Can’t complain,” Ed replies, returning Stede’s grin. Stede bumps him lightly with his shoulder and doesn’t pull away, leaving their arms aligned. Their bodies touching. Around them, the newly reunited crew goes about their morning, but Ed and Stede stand together in their bubble, arms pressed together.
“I missed this ship,” Stede says, quietly. “I feel like there’s a piece of me that’s inside the wood here and I don’t think it’ll ever come out.”
There is, Ed wants to say. There are pieces of you everywhere. In every nook and cranny of this vessel, there you are. I threw out all your furniture, I burned your clothes, and still, you remained. You aren’t only in the wood. You’re in the sails. You’re in the hull herself. You’re in the spirit of the ship and the nails in the windows and the cannons below deck. You aren’t only in the wood, you’re in me. You’re somewhere inside of me that I can’t reach, that I can’t get out even if I wanted to but damn it, damn you, I don’t want to. I don’t want to reach that deep and I don’t want to drag you out, kicking and screaming and begging me to let you stay. You’ve made a home in me and who am I to remove you? Who am I to leave such a gaping wound in your wake? I would miss you. This ship would miss you. Of course you’re in the wood. The only blood in this ship is your own. The only air in her sails is your breath. She hasn’t been the same since you left. I haven’t been the same since you left.
“Yeah,” Ed says aloud. “It feels that way, sometimes.”
The thing about captains is that a good captain—a real captain—sees his ship as an extension of himself. It’s only more profound if he’s built the ship himself.
It’s obvious in the way Stede moves around the vessel that the Revenge is everything to him. He trails his hand over her railing with a sort of kindness most men don’t even afford their dogs. Or their lovers. But as is Stede’s way: kill them with kindness. Be as mean as you are nice, and be really fucking nice. Stede handles the Revenge with more kindness than he affords most men—even his crew, who he loves dearly, receive a bitchier treatment than the ship.
Stede adores fine things and of those things, the Revenge is one of the finest.
Stede adores fine things and Ed adores him. Isn’t that something to consider?
The ship Stede had commandeered to reach the Revenge had been loaded down with fine things of all sorts that Stede and his crew had collected on their journey. They made purchases and trades at every port, led small raids against small ships and obtained their barter-worthy goods, all so that when they reached Ed, they could come aboard laden down with the finest silks and jewels and spices. They’d relocated some of the Destiny’s furniture onboard as well, once it had become apparent what state Ed had originally brought the Revenge to.
“Why Destiny?” Ed asks Stede as they sit in the crow’s nest watching the sun set. “Did she already have that name?”
“She did,” Stede replies, tilting his head back against the mast. “I was holding out for the right ship before we set sail. I figured I’d know her when I found her. I saw her and I heard her name and I knew she was the one.”
“Why?”
He blinks, turning to face Ed. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Ed scoffs. “C’mon, mate, s’the name of a ship.”
Face earnest, brow furrowed, Stede holds Ed’s gaze as he replies. “I was going after my destiny, Edward,” he says firmly. “It was only fitting.”
“After your destiny…?”
“You.”
The thing about poetry is that there is always a line meant to pack a punch. Deliver the final blow, if you will. And Stede packs a punch, to say the least.
“Me.”
“You.”
“Alright.”
“Is that okay?” Stede asks. “I mean, is it alright to say that to you?”
“Course it’s alright,” Ed says. “If it’s true, no reason not to say it. And it is true, yeah?”
“More true than anything else has ever been.” And he sounds like he means it. Because perhaps he does. That Ed is his destiny. That Ed is his happy ending, if pirates are allowed to have those.
If Ed is allowed to have one.
Because if happy endings exist, if there is a destiny out there for pirates that isn’t one ending in death by another person’s hand, then Ed would love for his to be Stede Bonnet. The only ending that could ever be a happy one would be by Stede Bonnet’s side.
“I got better with you,” Ed says after a while. “After you, I mean. I had a breakdown and then I got better.”
“You’ve always been capable of great things,” Stede replies.
“Sure,” Ed says. “But I got better. All by myself.” Stede stays quiet, this time. He’s getting more adept at reading Ed’s behavior. Relearning how to understand Ed. “You left, and that was fucking shitty of you, mate. I wanted—I asked you to spend the rest of your life with me and you fucked off.”
“I did.”
“And it wasn’t all your fault. And I’m not mad at you for it.” He glances at Stede, finds Stede staring back at him, and looks back out toward the final sliver of sun still above the horizon. “I was, though. Fucking furious. I could’ve killed you and been happier for it. And then it was all just fucking exhausting.”
“I’m sorry,” Stede says, quietly. “I really am, Ed.”
“I know,” Ed says. “I know you are. But you know what really sucked? I mean, obviously the whole dumping-you-by-disappearing thing was awful and shitty and really fucking hurt, but what really sucked was that you showed me how things could be different and then you fucked off. I got a taste of the life I wanted—the life I was craving—and then you fucked off and I had to go back to the way it was. Before.”
“You could have had that life anyway,” Stede murmurs, voice small. “If anyone could have done it, it would have been you.”
Ed shakes his head. “It wasn’t the same life without you around, Stede. It would never have been the same.”
Stede’s hand twitches toward Ed but doesn’t move from his side. Ed reaches for it, threading their fingers together. “I don’t have money or status or land,” he says quietly. “But I’d like to give you that life, Ed, if you still want it. Whatever life you want.”
The thing about poetry is there has to be a line that packs a punch.
“I just want a life with you, Stede.”
They sit and watch the stars, hand in hand, until the ocean wind grows too cold for the two men to be in the crow’s nest in only thin linen shirts. They climb back to the deck, just barely shivering, before Ed leads them both to the cabin, then to the bed. He presses himself against the wall, holding the blanket open for Stede to slide in next to him, and Stede resumes his position from the night before. Ed rests his chin on the top of Stede’s head and matches his breathing to Stede’s. Stede, who’s alive and warm and clinging to Ed like he’ll slip away in the night.
Another thing pirates don’t do is hold one another in their sleep. Certainly not without a weapon nearby, just in case. Certainly not wrapped in silken sheets, a soft wool blanket over top, with feather-stuffed pillows beneath their heads. Ed tightens his arms around Stede for a moment, and instead of tensing up in panic and reaching for whatever blade might be within reach, Stede only grunts and worms closer to Ed, and Ed’s heart swells in his throat.
Roach delivers their breakfast in the morning, setting it up as quietly as he can, as Ed looks on from the bed. He would have gotten up to help, if Stede hadn’t wrapped them both so thoroughly in the sheets during the night that it might be impossible for either of them to escape. Roach waves as he exits the cabin again, and Ed offers him a small nod before shaking Stede awake.
“Fuck, what—what time is it?” Stede yawns, rubbing his eyes.
“Breakfast time,” Ed murmurs, beginning to work on disentangling them from their silken entrapments. “Roach brought it in.”
“Smells divine,” Stede says, pushing himself into a seated position. “I hope he made scones!”
“He did, they’re on the far plate.” Ed finally frees his own legs, pulling himself from the sheets and standing. “Marmalade too.”
“I truly don’t know how I stumbled upon a crew with such talent!” He takes Ed’s hand and stands, pausing to stretch. Ed doesn’t think about the moan that leaves Stede’s mouth. “Best chef a pirate’s ever seen, I’m sure.”
“He is good, I’ll give you that,” Ed agrees. He follows Stede to the table and sits across from him. Stede wastes no time delving into the array of foods before them, but Ed finds himself content to take in the moment. In the distance, the sounds of the crew moving about on the deck begin to reach them. Footsteps above them, voices shouting back and forth.
The ship feels alive again. She has her captain back.
In the time Stede was gone, Ed had a series of self-realizations. He learned more about himself than he had ever cared to know and was forced to reconcile his inner turmoils with his outer afflictions—finding the root of all his problems to boil back down to himself. Stede was gone and Ed was content to let that be deemed the cause of his downfall—the catalyst for a destruction he had been craving for long before he’d ever heard the name Stede Bonnet.
“I used you.” He doesn’t mean to say it. Doesn’t have any forethought, any plan to let the words leave his mouth. They appear in his mouth without his permission and nothing he can do will take them back. “I wanted it to be your fault.”
“It was,” Stede says simply. His hands still, resting on the table, half of a scone in each hand. “It was my fault. I betrayed you. Abandoned you. Promised you a future and then didn’t follow through.”
“You did.” Ed swallows. “But you’re just a person, Stede. You aren’t in control of me, or the monsters inside of me. It’s my own burden to command them, not yours. I’m—I’m a person on my own. I wanted destruction. I just used you to justify it.”
Stede is quiet for a long moment, looking at Ed. He sets his scone back onto his plate and folds his hands in front of him, searching Ed’s face. “I think that just makes you human, Ed,” he finally says, voice quiet. “I think that just makes you a man who has feelings and emotions.”
Ed nods. “I know. I know that. But I still used you to justify the monster I freed. And it took some time to realize that—that you were never the problem.”
Stede scoffs. “I would argue I caused quite the problem.”
“Sure,” Ed allows. “But it was on me to control myself. It was on me to fix myself—to fix everything I’d fucked up.”
“What made you change your mind?” Stede Bonnet, only curious, never judgmental. Not of Ed.
“You died,” Ed responds, voice quiet. Firm. “You died, and I realized that you—you were just a person. Are just a person. You hurt me and I thought I could let that destroy me, let myself drown in it until there was nothing left, and that I wouldn’t be to blame because it would have been your fault. But you’re just a person. You don’t control me. My actions were my own, and they weren’t what I wanted to be.” Ed falls quiet. He looks down at his plate, at his broken scone and the marmalade smeared on it. “So I decided to fix it. You were dead. I was alive. I needed to make things better.”
“That’s an incredible feat of humanity, Ed.”
“Sure. All I did was start putting the pieces back, and it took twice the time it did to destroy it all.” He stops, clenching and unclenching his fists. “So, we need to talk about it.”
“About…”
“About you leaving. And coming back. And your expectations.”
“I thought—” Stede swallows. “I thought you wanted me here—”
“I do!” Ed cuts him off before he can spiral further. “Stede, I do want you here. And I want you around, and I want you in my life for the rest of my life. I love you, Stede.” Stede opens his mouth, and Ed raises his voice. “I love you, but I will not give myself up for you. I will love you from afar before I sacrifice my healing. I will love you in silence before I let you endanger any part of my soul. I may love you, but I cannot fix you, and I will not heal you at the expense of myself. You are a human being and I will not let your presence—or your absence—turn me back into something I do not want to be.”
Stede blinks, and then nods. “I don’t want that from you,” he says quietly. “If you’ll let me, I just want to love you.”
And Ed looks at him, at the man he loves who abandoned and betrayed him, who left him waiting all night, alone, and he offers him a small smile. “I’d like that.”
“I love you too,” Stede says after a moment. “I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve known what love is.”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “I know.”
The thing about love is that it feels just like poetry, and there’s a moment where your stomach drops out and it all makes sense.
Nothing about loving Stede Bonnet makes sense.
Edward Teach loves Stede Bonnet and nothing about it makes sense. He loves him anyway.
When they fall in bed together the third night after Stede returns, Ed allows Stede to prop himself over him and look down at Ed like a man dying of thirst looks at the sea. He looks at Ed like he’s something worth looking at. It aches.
When Ed drags him down to find Stede’s mouth with his own, the soft sigh he swallows takes root in his chest and grows flowers there. His lips are soft and his teeth are sharp when they nick against Ed’s mouth. He tastes like marmalade. He tastes like Stede, like everything Ed’s ever wanted and more. Ed wants to live in this moment, wants to live connected to Stede.
When Ed finally gets him out of his clothes and feels the soft expanse of his skin, it’s like he’s never touched a person before in his life. Everything’s new. Everything’s better.
“Ed, Edward, oh,” Stede gasps, the image of beauty. Ethereal above Ed, his eyelids fluttering as his hips grind down against Ed’s. “Oh, sweetheart…”
“Stede,” Ed whispers. “I love you.” He slides a hand between them, wraps it around Stede’s cock and twists. It’s dry, it’s perfect. It’s everything. “I love you,” he says again.
Stede forces his eyes open and looks down at Ed, blinding him with the force of his grin. “I love you, I love you,” he pants. He falls forward and captures Ed’s mouth again.
Ed flips them, puts Stede under him the way he’s always wanted to. His hair splays out, a golden halo on the pillow. He gazes up at Ed, flushed and happy, and he’s the most beautiful thing Ed’s ever seen. He’s smiling, even as Ed wraps a hand around his cock again, even as his mouth falls open on a soft cry of Ed’s name. He’s beautiful.
You’re beautiful, Ed wants to say. You’re the most beautiful person that’s ever existed. If I were a poet I would write epics for you. If I were a poet I would tell you exactly how I see you. I would show you yourself, the way you are to me. I would offer you a mirror made of gilded adoration and I would take you apart in front of it so you could finally understand what I mean when I tell you I love you. You’re beautiful and I am not a poet but you are beautiful.
He doesn’t say any of it, doesn’t have the language for it, but he falls forward and captures Stede’s mouth instead. He swallows every sound that escapes Stede’s lips and he lets them all take root in the growing garden of his chest, lets them find nourishment in the pulse of his heart and pour oxygen into his lungs. Ed kisses Stede with all the passion he’s ever had for life. He devours him like a starving man. Takes him for all he’s worth, wants to swallow him whole.
And when he knows he can’t make it feel any better with only his hand, he breaks the seal of their lips and makes his way down Stede’s body, pressing kisses to the exposed skin every couple of inches, down, down, down— he wraps his lips around the head of Stede’s cock and looks up to find Stede propped up on his elbows, gazing down at Ed with his mouth hanging ajar. He’s breathing like he’s run for hours, like there’s no oxygen left in the room, like he wants nothing in his lungs except Ed. Ed swallows him down just to hear him cry out. Ed claims him with his throat and relishes in the way Stede’s eyes roll back in his head.
When Stede comes down his throat, Ed feels nothing but satisfaction.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” Stede says, after.
“It can always be like that, if you want,” Ed promises him. “It can be like that forever.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I would want to be here anyway.”
“I know.”
The nighttime settles around them, in a cabin that’s beginning to feel like theirs, only three nights in. There’s a newfound silence in the room that takes the place of the gasps and moans, but it’s just as comfortable as every moment that precedes it. Ed lies awake, a snoring Stede in his arms, cradled by nighttime herself, and wonders how he ever got here. Stede’s bare chest presses against Ed’s own and he can feel every beat of the other man’s heart. We’re alive, Ed thinks. We’re together and in love and yet, we’re still alive. We’re alive. We’re alive. You’re in my arms and you’re alive.
The thing about being alive, of course, is that it never makes sense how you could be. How you could be allowed to be, after everything you’ve done.
The thing about Edward Teach is that he was once known as the Dread Pirate Blackbeard: cold and cruel and vicious beyond sense. More men had died at the whim of Edward Teach than had any right to. Life is war and at the end of it all, when the smoke clears and the cannons run out, the façade of Blackbeard will be gone but Edward Teach will stay. There will still be Edward Teach, left in the rubble. Despite all he’s done, despite all his flaws, despite it all, Edward Teach remains.
How is it fair, for Ed to survive when he took so many lives in his path?
Ed strokes down the back of Stede’s head, silken curls giving way under his touch. How fragile, the human head. How fragile, the human life. He smooths his hand down Stede’s bare back, feeling the warmth of life under his palm. How fragile it is to be alive at the same time as someone you love. He presses a kiss to Stede’s temple and Stede huffs a sigh, shifting to bury his face in Ed’s neck. In the dark of their cabin, pressed skin to skin, Ed understands what it means to love someone more than yourself.
The night passes slowly, the sky outside the window turning a light blush pink as Stede stirs, his lips brushing against Ed’s throat and sending shivers down his spine. He hums softly, low in his throat, and it vibrates against Ed’s chest. He scratches Stede’s scalp to prolong the pleased humming, relishing in the simple intimacy. There is something to be said for the still moments of dawn spent waking by your lover’s side. Stede comes to wakefulness slowly, sleepily. He mouths at Ed’s throat and Ed can’t help but tilt his head to allow him better access. Stede is warm and sleep-soft in the way he caresses Ed.
Warm, damp lips make their way up Ed’s throat and he allows his aching eyes to slide shut, letting himself wallow in the sensation. Stede presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin behind Ed’s jaw, under his ear, nipping gently at his earlobe. His hand trails down Ed’s bare chest, petting over his lower stomach before wrapping around Ed’s suddenly-rather-awake cock. There are sparks under Ed’s skin, chasing Stede’s touch.
“I dreamed about waking up next to you,” Stede says into Ed’s ear, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “About being able to do this.”
He strokes Ed long and slow, just this side of too dry. He has new calluses on his palms, Ed notes, that drag against the sensitive skin of his cock as he moves. He handles Ed gently. He handles him firmly. He handles him like he knows what he wants and that all he wants is to make Ed feel good.
Ed throws his head back on a gasp, mouth falling open, and he opens his eyes to find Stede propped above him. Stede’s eyes are bright as he stares down at Ed, his gaze flickering from Ed’s eyes to his mouth and back again. He picks up the pace of his strokes at the same time as he lowers himself to meet Ed’s lips, swallowing the moan building in Ed’s chest.
Everything is Stede. Ed is surrounded by Stede’s scent and Stede’s breathing and Stede’s heartbeat, the heat of Stede’s skin and the warmth of his hand wrapped around Ed’s cock. There’s a fire building in his gut, pushing its way to the surface and refusing to be ignored. If the fire had a name it would be named after the man stoking it, laying claim to Ed’s mouth like it’s always belonged to him. Like he knows it’s always belonged to him.
Like he knows that Ed’s mouth belonged to Stede Bonnet from the moment he met him.
Ed’s orgasm washes over him like a tidal wave. His back bows and his muscles lock up as he spills into Stede’s fist. Stede’s doesn’t stop stroking him even as he twitches, working to catch his breath. He finally stills and Stede pulls his hand away, looking down at it.
“There’s a cloth—”
There’s no end to that sentence as Stede brings his hand to his mouth, licking Ed’s come from his skin with an enthusiasm Ed never could have predicted. Stede holds Ed’s gaze as he pulls his hand away from his mouth. His cheeks are flushed. He’s beautiful.
Stede Bonnet is a beautiful man.
Ed reaches out a hand and cups Stede’s face. He smiles at Ed, leaning his face into Ed’s palm. Ed’s thumb moves on its own accord, stroking the soft hair on Stede’s cheek. The room around them begins to grow brighter as the sun rises outside, bathing Stede’s face in a golden glow. Small crinkles at the corners of his eyes grow deeper as he looks down at Ed, and Ed can’t stop himself from tugging Stede’s face down to his own, guiding him slowly to put his own mouth on Ed’s.
A puff of air ghosts over Ed’s face as Stede exhales slowly through his nose, sinking into the kiss. He kisses Ed with a surety that was absent for their first kiss, what seems like decades ago. He has a certainty, this time, as he slides his tongue between Ed’s lips and finds Ed’s own tongue, ghosting the tip softly over it.
Stede writes poetry on Ed’s tongue.
The thing about poetry is that it makes you feel something.
Ed feels everything.
I thought about waking up next to you too. I woke up at night reaching out into an empty room with your name on my lips. I can’t fall asleep at night because I’m terrified that I’ll wake up and the room will be empty again. You terrify me. You’re terrifying. You have my heart in the palm of your hand and you already dropped it once. I learned how to fall asleep alone because I thought I had no choice. I dreamt about you. I still do. I worry that I’m still dreaming, when I wake up and you’re here. When I fall asleep and you’re here. My heart is beating to the rhythm of your name. My pulse matches yours. I love you. I love you. I love you.
He feels everything. He pulls Stede even closer.
He pulls away. “Stede,” he whispers. “Stede.”
Stede doesn’t go far. His lips brush Ed’s as he answers. “Edward.”
Ed brings both hands to cup Stede’s face and keep him close to him. “I want you to fuck me, Stede.”
Stede kisses him again with the force of gale winds, ravaging him. He presses Ed down into the mattress with his entire body, miles upon miles of endless skin pressed together beneath the silken sheets. He lays claim to Ed’s body like there could be no question of where he should be—of who his heart belongs to. He lays claim to Ed’s soul.
There’s oil next to the bed. Ed pours it into Stede’s open palm, guides his hand to where he needs him. With a gentle touch and never more than a breath’s space between them, Ed walks Stede through opening him up. He allows Stede to carve out a space inside him for himself to occupy. He offers himself to Stede in the last way he can.
“I love you,” Ed says, as Stede sinks inside him.
“I love you,” Ed says as Stede draws back out.
“I love you,” Ed cries as Stede chases their shared pleasure.
“I love you,” Ed gasps as he comes for the second time this morning.
Each time, Stede returns that love tenfold. He returns that love with passion, with fervor. He comes inside of Ed and lays claim to the most intimate place Ed has. He marks Ed as his.
Afterwards, when Stede’s wiped them both down and the sounds of the crew have started up on the deck above them, Ed finally feels the exhaustion of his sleepless night. He finds their positions swapped, his own head now resting on Stede’s chest. He trails his nails lightly through the hair dusting Stede’s torso, scratching gently at the flushed skin and relishing in the responding shivers. Stede holds him tightly, his lips pressed against the top of Ed’s head.
“Sleep, darling,” Stede whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
For the first time in a long time, Ed allows himself to go easily into the release of sleep. Lulled into peace by Stede’s heartbeat and the warmth of his life next to him, Ed’s body relaxes and when he finally drifts off, no nightmares await him.
The thing about poetry is that it has to make you feel something.
Stede is clearly working to give Ed his space to adjust, though he never wanders too far or for long. He trails a hand over Ed’s shoulder blades when he passes him on deck, and catches his gaze from across the ship, and kisses him on the cheek any time a conversation ends and Stede’s been called away. He was a ghost on the ship for so long, his presence is a balm for the wound he’d left in his stead.
“You came into my life and I woke up for the first time, and since then, sleeping’s been harder,” Ed says, standing next to Stede on the deck. “I can’t sleep anymore because what if I wake up one day and you’re gone again? What if I wake up one day and you were never here at all?”
“Edward…” Stede’s voice is soft. “You need to rest.”
“I know,” Ed says truthfully. “I am so fucking tired.”
He turns to face Stede and finds Stede already looking at him, lips twisted in a frown. He looks sad. If Ed were a poet, he would be able to describe the look on Stede’s face—how it feels the same way you feel after a raid, when you’ve lost men. How the look on Stede’s face feels like being stranded on an island, no ship in sight. How if sadness were a person, it would be the Stede Bonnet standing in front of him.
All said and done, Edward Teach is not a poet, and Stede Bonnet just looks sad.
“How can I help?” He asks earnestly, reaching a hand toward Ed’s shoulder and then diverting, cupping his cheek instead. “How can I make it easier?”
“Stay.” It’s a simple answer, but it’s the only answer. Ed needs Stede to stay. “Just stay.”
“I will,” Stede replies. He still sounds sad. “I will.”
Ed pulls him in, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple and allowing himself to rest there for a moment. He lets himself hold Stede close and keep their bodies pressed together right here on the deck, because why would they move? Why would they waste even a moment of being together?
Stede wraps his arms around Ed’s waist, sighing gently. He matches his breathing to Ed’s. Pressed together like this, it’s easy not to think about the time spent apart, when Ed had no idea whether or not he would ever get this. If he would ever have Stede like this.
Stede Bonnet came into Ed’s life at a time when he needed to feel something—to feel anything—and in many ways, he will always be the person who made Ed feel alive again. Being gone only showed Ed that there were more reasons to continue living than just Stede Bonnet. Ed had spent so long living for other people—living to meet other people’s expectations rather than his own—that to be suddenly left to face the world somewhat on his own again had been a sort of relief.
Edward Teach had been lost long before he met Stede Bonnet, long before he had even heard of the man, and Stede had given him a reason to be found. And then he left. And then Ed was lost again, and Izzy gave him a reason to be found—albeit in a very different manner.
Edward Teach is exhausted, and he is not a poet, and he is not alone anymore, and yet he still can’t sleep.
“You’re sure you’re happy?” Izzy asks him, looking off in the distance at the sky, “You’re sure you’re…” He trails off, but Ed hears the question. He knows the ending. Are you sure you’re okay? Are you sure he’s not going to leave you crumbling in your own ruin and destruction? Are you sure about this? Are you sure? I need you to be sure.
“Yeah, Iz,” Ed responds quietly. I’m sure. I’m so fucking sure. This time is different. This time, I’m different. And so is he. And I need to forgive him because I love him and I want him around. I love him and I want it to work. I love him and I want him to stay. I think he makes me better. I’m okay, Iz. I’d be okay without him—but I want him. I want him so desperately that it feels like a part of me would rot if he left again. But it wouldn’t be all of me. Not this time. I’m okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.
Izzy seems to understand.
They stand on the deck and look off at the sky, at the slow-moving clouds, in silence. As if they’ve reached an understanding. As if for the first time in a very long time, they’ve really understood one another.
“Will you stay? For real, I mean?” Ed finally asks. He doesn’t look at Izzy—doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to see whatever emotion there must be coloring Izzy’s features. He doesn’t want to know.
“I’d like to,” Izzy replies, quietly. “If that’s—if we’re—I pledged my loyalty to you, Edward.”
“You pledged your loyalty to Blackbeard, mate,” Ed points out. “You made that very clear.”
Izzy’s quiet for a long moment. When he does speak again, he turns to face Ed and waits until Ed turns to meet his gaze. “I was wrong,” he says, simply. “It’s always been you, Edward, who is my captain. And you’ll always come before him. But—I’d like to stay. I have…unfinished business here.”
Ed watches his gaze flicker away, and when he follows it, he finds Roach on the other end, eyeing both men. The chef raises a challenging brow at Ed. Ed looks back to Izzy and finds him already glaring back at him. He nods. “Good. Unfinished business can be good.”
Izzy appraises him. “I hope so.”
“Sometimes life begins again,” Ed says. He claps Izzy on the shoulder.
“Seems like we’re running out of beginnings,” Izzy says drily, though his shoulders relax.
“Nah, no such thing.”
Ed bumps Izzy with his shoulder and holds himself there for a moment, as if to remind Izzy that though their relationship has many times been dashed against the rocks, he’s still here. He’s still here. If life begins again—if it really begins again—Ed wants to do it right this time. He moves away from Izzy, heading for the captain’s quarters. He nods at Roach as he passes, noting that Roach heads off the way Ed came.
He finds Stede in the captain’s quarters, the way he knew he would. Stede looks up from the papers on the desk, his eyes widening and then relaxing when he sees Ed. He relaxes when he sees Ed.
He relaxes when he sees Ed.
No one has ever relaxed when they see Ed. To bring someone comfort is not a luxury afforded to pirates, and certainly not to Blackbeard. To bring someone some semblance of peace is something unfamiliar to Ed. Something unattainable—until Stede Bonnet—and because of this, well, because of many things, Ed sweeps Stede into his arms and kisses him hard. He kisses him with all the anger he felt when Stede left. He kisses him with all the force of the devastation Stede left behind him. He kisses him with the passion he feels for Stede, with the sheer adoration Stede stirs up inside him. He kisses him with the bite of someone who wasted time not kissing the love of their life. He kisses him like a man starved, like a desert flower in a long-awaited thunderstorm, like Edward Teach wanted to kiss Stede Bonnet the moment he saw the man again.
“I fixed myself,” he gasps against Stede’s mouth. “And I forgive you—” He kisses him again. “—and I love you—” Another one. “—but you have to earn my trust back.” He kisses him again, long and deep and thorough, until Stede’s lips are swollen and red and slick and Ed wants nothing more than to continue prying them apart with his own.
“Whatever I have to do—” Ed cuts him off with another kiss.
“On your knees,” Ed commands softly.
And Stede goes. He goes willingly, not a moment of hesitation, like a devout man at his god’s feet. He gazes up at Ed, his hands resting palms-up on his thighs. Like an offering. Like a sacrifice. Ed cups his jaw.
He’s beautiful on his knees.
“And if I want you to suck my cock?” He asks, still quiet.
“Whatever I have to do,” Stede repeats. “I want to.”
So Ed allows Stede to free him from his trousers. He allows Stede to wrap his lips around him, still gazing up at Ed like he’s something captivating. He swallows him down like he wants it. Ed strokes his thumb over Stede’s cheek, soft with a beard that had never been there before. A different Stede, a new Stede, a Stede who is comfortable on his knees worshiping Ed. He takes Ed to the hilt until his eyes water, swallowing dutifully around him though it makes him gag. He holds himself there, his throat working, until his eyes spill over.
And oh, what a sight: Stede Bonnet on his knees with sparkling tears spilling over his flushed cheeks.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Captains?”
“Yes?” Ed calls back. Stede stays in place.
Lucius pokes his head in. Ed glances down—Stede is obscured by the desk. “We’re set to dock in about an hour.”
Ed nods. “Thank you, Lucius.” The boy hesitates, eyes flicking around the cabin. “What else?”
“Er, have you seen Stede? I thought he was down here…”
“No, I’m quite sure last I checked he was on deck.” Stede swallows around Ed’s cock and Ed shifts, leaning forward and pressing his hands into the desktop, effectively forcing his cock further down Stede’s throat. He can feel Stede working to keep himself from choking loudly. “You might check the kitchen? He said something about helping Roach finalize the rations list.”
“Ah, I didn’t check there. I saw Roach on deck with Izzy, but I guess Stede could be in the kitchen…alright, thanks, Ed.” Lucius glances around the room again before the door shuts.
Ed pulls himself from Stede’s throat, the man on his knees letting out a spluttering gasp. Lips still swollen and slick, Stede makes eye contact with Ed and swallows him down once more, maintaining his gaze. Ed threads his fingers through Stede’s curls slowly, tightening his grip to watch Stede’s eyes roll back into his head. Slowly, Ed begins to pump his hips. He maneuvers Stede’s head by his hair, guiding him up and down on his cock. He blinks his eyes open, tears spilling over his cheeks with every open and shut of his lids.
“You’re beautiful,” Ed murmurs. “You’re a vision—you’re a fucking masterpiece on your knees, Stede, fuck.” Stede groans around Ed’s cock, the tears flowing freely now. “You’re so good for me, Stede. So good.”
When Ed comes, it’s buried in Stede’s throat, eyes locked on one another.
The thing about climax is that there’s only one way to go afterwards.
The Revenge comes into port, docking with ease, and the crew spreads out to cover more ground. They all have lists of things to procure, tasks to accomplish. Ed and Stede are on different missions; Stede kisses him goodbye when they step onto the dock—”See you tonight, darling, and I’ll miss you until then,” and his voice is still hoarse. He disappears with Roach before Ed can be properly pleased by his lingering impact on Stede, but he’s being whisked off so quickly by Izzy and Fang that he hardly has time to mourn the loss of Stede’s beautiful, shredded voice.
Port is a whirlwind—pirates and traders and locals, shouting at each other and over each other. Ed thinks of a quiet life on the shore, listening to the gulls and the sound of lapping waves. Seeing ships in the distance but never needing to be on them. Having a soft bed and a view that never changes.
Stede once mentioned retirement—Ed wants it more these days.
They’re all in port when the Revenge catches flame.
They’re in port when the market freezes, caught off-guard by the molten vessel. They’re in port, not looking behind them, when the mast of the Revenge goes down.
When Ed returns to the dock, he finds Stede, and a smoldering skeleton of a once-beautiful ship.
“Stede?” When he reaches for his arm, Stede flinches. Men have always flinched from Ed’s touch, this is nothing new, yet never before has it felt like he took a blade on the wrong side. Like it struck all of the important bits. “Stede?”
“Wood burns so quickly.” Stede doesn’t turn around. “When you think about it, it’s an idiotic material to use to build a home.”
“Stede…” Ed doesn’t reach for him this time.
“Because it burns up and then it’s gone. There’s no way to just rebuild it.” Stede faces the charred, still-smoking remains of the first home to the love story of Stede Bonnet and Edward Teach. “All her memories, all her stories. Gone.” Stede sinks to the dock, hanging his legs over the side. “I came back to get the last page of the list of rations. I just needed—I guess that doesn’t matter, now.”
Slowly, carefully, Ed lowers himself down to sit next to Stede. He keeps his distance, can’t handle another rejection, but still he settles next to Stede. “I’m sorry, Stede. I know you loved her.”
Stede scoffs. “So did you.”
“Sure,” Ed says softly. “But I loved her because of you, and I still have you.”
“Our robes—”
“They’re safe,” Ed says, cutting Stede off. Stede turns to look at Ed, wide-eyed. Ed shrugs. “I had Jim and Oluwande take our robes and blankets to the tailor to have them all touched up. It was going to be a surprise for you.”
“You have our robes.”
“And our bedclothes,” Ed nods. “None of our actual clothes, I’m afraid.”
Stede shakes his head. “We can have new clothes made—we can buy new clothes—our banyans, however…Ed…”
Ed shrugs again. “It’s luck, that’s all.”
“It’s poetic, Edward, is what it is. I mean, that’s—I’m—oh, Ed.” Stede reaches for him, hesitantly. “Ed, thank you.”
“I’m sorry about your ship, Stede,” Ed says instead of acknowledging Stede’s thanks. “She was a great ship.”
“Yeah,” Stede says softly, his hand resting on the side of Ed’s throat. He turns back to look at her remains once more. “She really was. But she was our ship, at least she was at the end.”
There’s a lump in Ed’s throat that he isn’t sure how to get rid of. In most ways, the Revenge was Stede’s, first and foremost. Even as she bore the brunt of Ed’s pain and carried its weight on her shoulders, she was still Stede’s at her heart. It’s why his ghost never left, why Ed could never have truly escaped Stede Bonnet while living on that ship. The Revenge was the product of Stede’s love for the sea and his desire to escape onto the waves, and she carried that love in her bones.
But Stede is right, as well. At the end, she was theirs. In the ways that mattered, she belonged to the both of them. She carried their love story up until the end.
At his throat, Stede’s hand trembles, and Ed finally dares to move closer. He scoops Stede up in his arms, cushioning the sobs that wrack the other captain’s body. Stede buries his head in Ed’s neck, but Ed keeps his eyes on the crumbling carcass before them. Around them, the crew slowly gathers.
The death of the Revenge is a quiet affair.
The crew stands vigil even as the burnt hull sinks below the waves. Floating on the calm waves, charred wood pieces are the only proof that the Revenge had ever been there at all. In the cool evening air, Ed hauls himself to his feet, guiding Stede to join him. Stede doesn’t turn to face the empty water. Ed finds Izzy’s gaze.
“Store the rations for the night,” he commands as Stede begins to walk back toward the port. “We can make decisions tomorrow.”
“Ed,” Izzy replies, voice soft. “We still have the Destiny. Crew just docked her about an hour after we made port. We’ll have to refurnish her, but…” He trails off with a shrug. “We were just going to sell her anyway. She’s only slightly bigger than the Revenge. Our crew could sail her easily.”
“Thanks, Iz,” Ed murmurs. “We’ll figure it out.”
Izzy nods and turns to the crew as Ed follows after Stede. Our crew. Night settles around them as he follows Stede through the streets of the town. He doesn’t know where they’re headed—doesn’t particularly care. The only thing in the world that matters to him is that Stede doesn’t suffer this alone.
If Ed were a poet, he would describe the devastation in words that could make it felt. If he were a poet, Ed might tell the tale of the Revenge and the way she always held them with such care—the way she carried his love as if it were her own. He would tell the story of the Revenge and her ghosts of captains past—how she allowed them to haunt captains present. How the Revenge was never made of the finest Brazilian Cherry but instead of love and passion and the determination to create a home. How the Revenge offered a home to the homeless and gave shelter to those who were lost. How she held them all with no judgment. If Ed were a poet, he would tell the story of the Revenge in the terms that she deserved, and he would offer those words to Stede to carry in his heart.
They reach the outskirts of town before Stede finally stops, and the stars are clearly visible above them. Stede comes to a halt, chest heaving, gazing up at the sparkling sky. He must know that Ed is still there, because he speaks just loud enough to be heard.
“I fell in love with you on that ship.” It isn’t a question. It isn’t a speculation or wishful thinking or sweet nothings. He sounds matter-of-fact. He sounds certain. “I fell in love with you and I didn’t even know what love was.”
“But she did,” Ed replies, just as softly. “She was made out of it.”
Stede makes a choked noise in response, but makes no attempt to speak. Ed dares to close the gap between them, wrapping his arms around the man he loves and pulling him into his chest. He’s shaking, trembling in Ed’s arms. Ed presses his lips to Stede’s temple, closing his eyes. He feels this loss for Stede like a bullet to the shoulder.
The thing about poetry is that it is the closest we may ever get to feeling another person’s grief.
Ed absorbs Stede’s sobs into himself even as they both sink to the ground. He keeps him against his chest as he crumbles before him, cracked open in ways Ed had never wanted to see. Had never wanted Stede to ever have to be cracked open. The night around them is silent, as if the entire world had sunk into mourning. In his arms, Stede shakes apart, and Ed promises him silently that he’ll be here to put him back together.
Ed rearranges their limbs so that he can hold Stede more comfortably to his chest, rubbing a hand up and down his back until the sobs subside into hiccupping gasps, and then to shuddering breaths. Ed cards his fingers through Stede’s hair, scratching at his scalp, but stays silent. Sometimes, he finds, there is much more that silence can soothe than words could ever hope to. He knows how Stede cherished the Revenge.
After some time, Stede sags against him, as if someone had cut his strings. Ed lays slowly back, guiding him down, pillowing his head on his chest. He feels Stede match his breathing to his own.
Neither of them speak.
If he could, Ed would soothe away all of the pain Stede feels. He would strip away and follow behind with a healing salve, preventing the inevitable scars Stede might feel for the rest of his life. He would tell Stede that it’s alright to carry the Revenge with him for the rest of his life. He would promise that the world isn’t ending, that things get better, that ships have souls that fire could never touch. He would tell him she may not have you anymore but you will always have her. You will carry her with you. There are no waves that could claim the memory of the Revenge—there are no seas who could truly take her from you. I loved you on that ship and I will love you long afterward. You loved me on that ship and you have promised to love me long afterward. We still have that. We still carry her. You still wear fine things well and you are still a ship’s captain. You’ve already secured your own new ship, Stede, you already have a new home. It won’t be the same, but it will be enough. It will be enough.
After a long time, Stede shifts, tilting his head so that his nose brushes Ed’s jaw. Ed loosens his hold on him, pulling away to look down and meet Stede’s gaze.
“It feels like one of my limbs has been ripped from me,” Stede murmurs. “One of my legs, perhaps.”
“I know,” Ed replies. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s going to take months to find a new ship, Ed, I’m so sorry—I only just found you, we only just got a second chance, and everything is falling apart—Ed, oh, God, all our memories…” He trails off, eyes unfocused somewhere beyond Ed’s shoulder. Ed scratches at his scalp.
“We carry those memories with us, Stede,” he whispers. “No amount of fire could take those from us.”
Stede sniffs. “Our bed—”
With a laugh, Ed presses another kiss to Stede’s forehead. “We can get a new bed, love, a bigger one. Room enough for two men as they age.”
“You want to grow old with me?”
“Stede,” Ed sighs. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
They fall back into silence, holding their own funeral, sharing in the grief of everything they lost. Aching in the loss of their home, of the vessel that oversaw the very beginnings of their love. Ed inhales slowly, filling his lungs with the cool night air and holding Stede tightly to his chest. He lets his hand wander up and down Stede’s back, smoothing over the hard-earned muscle hidden beneath his shirt. He thinks about endings and about eulogies, about the inevitable end of things that matter. He thinks about the importance of this single moment, of holding Stede in his arms here, under the stars, just outside of town.
It’s a long time before Stede finally sits up, the sky beginning to become tinged pink with the growing dawn. Ed sits slowly beside him and allows Stede to take his hand. They don’t speak, unwilling to break the calm that they’ve become enveloped in.
Ed thinks about rebirth.
“You said I’m your destiny,” Ed finally says, voice soft.
“I meant it,” Stede replies.
Ed clears his throat, squeezing Stede’s hand. “We still have the Destiny. We have the manpower to sail her. If you—if you want.”
Stede turns to look at Ed, his eyes searching Ed’s face. “We could sail her.”
With a shrug, Ed looks away again. “Yeah, we could. She’s bigger than the Revenge, but you already know her and she’s ready to go—it would only take a few days to refurnish and get her going.”
“You’d be my co-captain?”
“If you wanted me to be.” Please want me to be.
“Of course I want you to be.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Ed turns to face him once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe life begins again, Stede—maybe this time we just…do it all together.”
Stede blinks, his jaw dropping slightly ajar. “I want to do everything with you, Ed.”
If Edward Teach were a poet, he would write about rebirth and new adventures brought to life with the dawn light, how new days bring new opportunities and brand new lives. He would write about second, third, fourth chances, and how life-changing they can be. He would write about love. About how love changes everything. He would paint the world in colors of lavender and gold—the colors of the dawn sky—and he would make you feel them. If Edward Teach were a poet, he would be able to explain how his heart beats better now and how clear it is that love is everything to do with the heart, because he suddenly knows his is there. He can feel each beat, each time it stops for a moment when Stede tells him how he loves him. If he were a poet, he might pour that heart into something as simple as words and he would give those words to the world. He would share the swelling in his chest and he would give away the gift of feeling alive at the hands of another. If he were a poet, he would explain how the world is more vibrant these days, and the colors of the sunrise settle into your chest if you look at them long enough, and the grass beneath him is softer than it had ever been before. He would look at the world and see something beautiful. He would be able to put into words how he knows now that he belongs here. How he understands now. And how suddenly, he really does understand it all now, sitting here.
If Edward Teach were a poet, he would write about how his world made sense after he met Stede Bonnet.
I want to do everything with you too, he wants to say. I want to build a life with you. I want to spend mine with you. I want what you want, and isn’t that what love is?
He wants to say it, and so he does, and Stede kisses him for saying it. Stede kisses him so hard that he falls backwards into the grass, all the air leaving his lungs and immediately being swallowed down by one Stede Bonnet, who cradles his jaw and licks into his mouth and breathes back into Ed’s own lungs. He’s heavy on Ed’s torso, but Ed feels weightless.
“I want a life with you,” Ed says against Stede’s lips. “I want it all with you.”
“Okay,” Stede promises. “Okay.”
The thing about poetry is that there is nothing so poetic as the human experience, particularly when shared with someone else.