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The club was called HOLE when Ed owned it. All capitals, no 'the', just HOLE. Now he's retired and Izzy owns it, now there's been a solid few years and a shitload of money put into revamping the place that almost pushed them both into enormous breakdowns by the end of Ed's time at the helm, it's called Swallows, plural. Both of them think the other is a fucking idiot with not a single finger on the pulse of what makes a place worth spending your night, or decades of your life. They were in tune once, forever ago. A real, classic, solid dream team. It's more of a 'weary codependent' sort of vibe these days.
But Ed's still here most nights, like a bit of furniture or the ghost of some poor bastard who fell into the wet concrete of the foundations and died there. Can't seem to stay away, no matter how much he hates what Izzy's done with the place. It's so... sleek now. Well-run. Clean. None of the weird cool shit Ed used to collect and stick up on the walls or on the shelves behind the bar because his flat was already full of it. Like no offence or whatever but if your choice is between having a wired together bat skeleton from a closed down Victorian museum on your club wall and not having one, who's fucking picking option two? Izzy, apparently. He can be such a buzzkill sometimes.
"You again," the man himself grouses from behind the bar when Ed slips onto his usual stool, coming over to fastidiously wipe an invisible smear off the polished surface with the cloth he's always got on his person somewhere.
"Me again," Ed confirms, making himself sound cheerful just to be annoying. He watches Izzy produce a glass from the rows under the bar—a nicely-weighted crystal one, fancy, not one of the cheap ones Ed used to buy because they kept getting smashed by rowdy punters anyway—and pour him a whisky without having to be asked. "How's business?"
Izzy gives him a baleful sort of look, but Ed's pretty sure he can detect a bit of a smile hiding in there. Izzy's proud of himself and what he's rebuilt here. Kinda nice to see, really, after the fraught several years when neither of them did much of that at all. "Same as when you asked last night, and the night before, and—"
"Alright, fucksake!"
Izzy smirks and buggers off to serve someone else, and Ed swivels on his stool to indulge in a bit of people-watching. It's never quite as fun this early on, when nobody's really drunk yet so nobody's trying to stumble to the toilets in twos and threes, all stifled giggles and conspiratorial side-eye like they think they're being so fucking sneaky and nobody can see what they're trying to get away with. The dance floor is only like a quarter full, not the heaving sweaty mass of anonymous bodies it'll become later on. He's got to start coming out for the night later, just skip this whole slow boring bit altogether. Only problem with that is how fucking slow and boring it is at home, too.
The only thing really worth looking at is what must be some kind of stag or hen party spilling over a couple of the bigger booths to the side, and Ed wonders idly if they're settling in to make a full night of it or they're just taking advantage of the early happy hour cocktail deals before moving on somewhere else. A tall bloke with epically incongruous sideburns is wearing the whole tiara and veil and L-plates nonsense and talking at some of the others, gesturing emphatically with one hand while the other clutches an entire sharing jug of Tequila Sunrise so he can drink from it solo like it's a teacup. Ed recognises him vaguely, he thinks, although he doesn't know the guy. He's just been around before. Maybe he's one of Ivan and Fang's little crushes, one of the far too many pretty young regulars who always manage to evade the door fee by flirting outrageously with the bouncers.
"Fucking tourists," Izzy grumbles, shooting the group a malevolent look when he comes back over to refill Ed's glass. "What's the point of having a leather night when that lot come dressed like a bunch of Barbie dolls regardless?"
"Mneh mneh mneh," Ed mocks when Izzy leaves again, but quietly so he can't hear. Hasn't got the energy for a squabble tonight—or most nights, really, not any more. He'll just sit on his silly little stool and drink his silly little drink and have a silly little dance later when there's less of a risk of being singled out in someone else's people-watching session, and maybe he'll get lucky and find some terrifying muscly older woman or sweet cuddly bear to go home with later, or at least out to the back alley or the mop cupboard for a physically satisfying, emotionally undemanding quickie. That's more or less how things have settled for him now. Bit of a change from the glory days when it seemed like everyone within a fifty mile radius of London who enjoyed leather and eyeliner and cheap strong drinks was fighting for his attention and approval, but that's ageing for you.
One of the stag-hen-Barbies breaks off from the rest and weaves around the few brave dancers on his way to the bar. Ed's bored of watching the group already and moved on to snooping at a couple having a fascinating argument that's either about zoos or shoes—he can't quite tell over the pulsing music, even though it's quieter over here away from the speakers—and that means the first he's really aware of the guy is the scent of roses accompanying him when he leans on the bar and politely waits for Izzy to notice him.
"Fuck, you smell good," Ed says. Blurts, maybe. It's not even flirty! He'd have done a fucking better job of it if he'd been trying, go all out on the trick with the lowered head and the coy look up through the eyelashes that's never yet failed him in his thirty-mumble years of using it. But it just kind of fell out of him like badly-stacked Tupperware out of a kitchen cabinet, and now he's either got to pick them all up or pretend he did it on purpose and leave them scattered there like that was his intention all along.
Only then the guy glances at him and smiles, notching a deep dimple into one of his cheeks, and Ed suddenly forgets what metaphors even are, never mind how he's meant to navigate concluding this particular one.
"Oh! Thank you. Would you believe I sprayed a dab on this morning and it's still going strong? Lovely stuff."
Lovely stuff, Ed mouths silently, stricken with the sudden urge to taste those words, roll them around in his mouth a little bit, see what it feels like to be the kind of bloke who says shit like that to a stranger propping up the bar in a half-deserted nightclub.
"Here," the man says, offering his neck. "Help yourself."
That cartoon sound effect plays in Ed's head as he stares for a moment at the stretch of smooth skin, slightly flushed from the heat of the club and sparkling a little bit where the bar lights are glinting off the fine gold hairs: screeching tyres, smashing glass, a yowling cat.
He leans in and inhales.
Roses explode and rain down on all of his senses, rich and red and luscious and decadent.
"Rose Prick," the man tells him.
Ed murmurs, "Yeah, mate, you can say that again."
"Ahem," Izzy says pointedly from behind the bar with a face like a gargoyle licking piss off a thistle.
"Ah, there you are! Two more bottles of your finest champagne on my tab, if you please," the guy says, turning his megawatt smile in that direction instead. Somehow, Izzy doesn't even flinch. He always had an incredible poker face, but this is fucking superhuman. Ed's gone all wibbly, just from the proximity. And then he gets another glance, an inquiring eyebrow raise, a return of the dimple bracketing a warm smile. "Can I offer you a tipple? What are you drinking there?"
"Uhh," Ed says, soft and dazed and lost in pretty eyes and smile lines. Fuck, he used to be cool. But Mr Champagne doesn't look bothered, actually—he looks charmed. Hopeful. Like he'd be graceful about taking the no if Ed said no, which lots of guys aren't. Not that he's going to say it, but it's nice to feel like he could without it turning into a whole thing. "Whisky. But maybe you could pick me something nice."
Oh. What the fuck, Edward. He thinks it. He sees it in Izzy's not-quite-suppressed smirk when he turns back from fetching the bottles. But his future husband (maybe, at least in his dreams, if he's lucky tonight and they don't turn into the usual lurid nightmares about tentacles and spiders) looks touched, and... well, that's a bit nice all on its own, isn't it?
"Ooh, like a game? See what I can do with first impressions? Alright—one moment, please excuse me."
He dashes off back across the dance floor to his group, a bottle in each hand, and thrusts them at the Sideburns Bride Guy who's very obviously been rubbernecking with his mates like a row of meerkats and looks like he's trying to urgently shoo him right back across the club to Ed.
"Really?" Izzy asks, leaning his elbows on the bar top now like he's settling in for a good long taunting session, as if the bloke who's been engaged to Jack Rackham for going on twenty years but still can't get him to commit to a date has any right to judge other people's taste in men. "That ponce?"
"Fuck off. Bet I marry him before you marry Jack," Ed grumbles.
Izzy's grin shows his teeth. "Ooh, that was low, Eddie," he says, loading up on the sarcastic tone of admiration. "Lower than your standards. Quite a feat."
"You're the worst wingman in history, you know that?"
"Am I?" Izzy says, grin spreading wider. The fucker is enjoying himself way too much here for Ed's liking. In the old days he might have snapped and started a fight, or made him go and clean the toilets or something—but, well, he's mellowed a bit since retiring to save his crumbling mental health. Even his usually hot anger feels tired these days. "Don't forget," Izzy goes on, "I know his name, off his tab card. Could tell you it, for a price."
Fucking unbelievable. "A price," Ed repeats, deadpan.
"Yeah."
"How much?"
"Barter, not cash." Izzy leans in closer and gives Ed a hard poke on the shoulder with his fingertip that he never fucking would have dared when Ed was still his boss. "Don't fuck him in my club. Piss off somewhere else and let your hair down for once. I'm sick of seeing your mopey face."
Ed smacks his hand away, trying to work up a good hard Paddington glare like the old days, but it's a reluctant little laugh that takes him over instead. "Fuck you, Iz. Tell me."
"Stede Bonnet," Izzy says, as if that's a totally reasonable collection of syllables to bestow on a human being. "Use it wisely. And if you can't do that, at least use it loudly."
He fucks off then, annoying last word haver that he is, moving off to take someone else's order just as Stede Bonnet reappears at Ed's side.
"Back!" he announces with that megawatt beam again, like Ed's not already slurping him up with his eyes. He settles himself on the next barstool, a little bit awkwardly like he's not really used to the height of it, and actually fucking offers his hand like they're at a business meeting and not a mostly-empty queer nightclub at seven o'clock on leather night.
Ed takes it. It's really fucking soft.
"I'm—"
"No, wait, don't tell me," Ed interrupts. "I'll guess."
Stede laughs. It's a nice sound, friendly. Fuck, Ed misses having friends. "I'm afraid there's not much chance of that," he says, a bit apologetic, "but I'm interested to hear what you think I look like."
"Hmm," Ed muses, really making the most of it. He lets his eyes wander everywhere, the way he hopes his fingers might get to do later: over the tall soft swoop of Stede's blond hair, his turquoise wire specs, his pretty hazel eyes and big handsome nose, that fucking dimple hovering at the side of his expectant smile, and then further down to the silver necklace peeking like a secret in the open V of his white linen shirt, which now Ed is looking he thinks might be undone one button lower than it was before? Very promising. There's a sweet little puff of strawberry-blond hair showing, too, and Ed reeaally wants to get his teeth on that. Maybe tug a little bit, not hard, just to see what kind of a noise he'd make. "Reckon you look like a... Stede."
Maybe Ed's whole life has been leading up to this moment, actually. Maybe all the relentless shit these last few years has been worth it to be right here, right now, seeing the delight-suspicion-amusement journey like Stede's entire lovely face is a flip book Ed's just ruffled. "Well, I think you might have been given some sneaky inside info there," Stede says, leaning his face on his curled fist so he can study Ed right back.
And Ed knows what he's seeing, because he's got mirrors and a healthy self-regard for his own physical attributes at least, if not always the rest of the mess contained within. His beard's short these days, a pleasing mix of silver on his chin and a darker moustachey bit that Ed likes on himself even though Izzy says it makes him look like a badger, or a skunk if he's in one of his bitchier moods. He's got his silver hair pinned up tonight, all loose and soft and gently curled, baring his neck, and his favourite long dangly dagger earring.
There's something he's found he likes a lot about being softer and prettier now than people seemed to want to let him be back when he was on show all the time at the club and events and occasionally the papers when he did anything worth gossiping about. It's even better on nights like tonight, pouring himself into the full leather gear for the first time in a while and deciding on a whim to try something other than his usual loose long hair and thick sooty smear of panda eyeliner. Something about the hard edges and dark shades and sharp little studs and buckles everywhere contrasting with the gentle spiral of a few absolutely perfect slut strands, a matching pair of cat eye flicks, a translucent smear of rosy lip gloss just barely tinting his mouth a shade darker than its natural colour... dunno. It just feels good. And Stede agrees. It's obvious from the heat in his cheeks and the hungry roving of his eyes.
"You can do me if you want," Ed offers, then wants to close his head in the fire escape door. "My name," he clarifies hastily. "You can guess my name, too, I mean. If you want."
Coward, Izzy mouths at him from down the bar.
So, because he never backs down from a challenge, Ed makes his voice all smoky and low and suggestive and adds, "Unless..."
And that's how they end up in the back of a black cab sitting very close together, and in Stede's apartment building's lobby while he fumbles with his penthouse lift key one-handed because he's holding Ed's hand with the other, and then in his bedroom, where he keeps saying Edward, Edward in a soft little murmur against his neck between kisses there, because of course Ed told him without making him guess. Too hungry to hear it spoken out loud to fuck about playing games any more, and he was right—it sounds fucking incredible, and it's partly because of the blatant desire in Stede's voice when he says it but partly just the simple warmth of hearing home in his accent, in this place that's so unfathomably far away from it.
"Making you miss your party," Ed says, finally getting the decadent pleasure of pushing all ten fingers through the thick golden mass of Stede's hair after they've both tumbled onto the bed already half-entwined. He doesn't feel particularly apologetic, though, nor does Stede seem to give anything even approaching a fuck about abandoning his friends.
"Lucius said he'd never speak to me again if I didn't, quote, go and get that Disney princess he insisted was burning holes through me with his huge pretty eyes," Stede admits, laughing at himself—but Ed's gone still, and of course Stede notices. How could he not? He's got the entirety of his body pressed to the entirety of Ed's. He can feel fucking everything.
Stede raises himself on an elbow braced against the mattress, looking down curiously at Ed's face. He's old-movie-star handsome like this in the golden lamplight, all rumpled and flushed, and he's just so broad. Biceps for days. Shoulders like he's been built out of breezeblocks. None of that tedious gym bro stuff, Ed's felt no hint of carefully sculpted abs or any shit like that beneath Stede's shirt—there's maybe even a bit of a belly instead, soft and comfortable like his own, the fucking perfect shape for a needy bitch who likes a cuddle after. But, damn, he's just so reassuringly solid. Ed feels delicate under him. Been a while since he's allowed himself a bit of that.
"Did you like it?" Stede asks. He sounds fascinated, like a butterfly's come and landed on his hand or something. "When I said that?"
"Yes," Ed tells him. He's not ashamed of bedroom stuff—he likes what he likes, and if anyone's got a problem with it they can piss off and clear the space for someone who's not—but the answer tumbles out of him immediately, like it's being drawn out by a magnet. After years, decades even, of bottling stuff up until it finally sent him fucking insane, there's just something about the shape and presence and vibe of this almost-stranger that makes Ed want to roll over, soft parts and secretly soft heart all on display for him.
"Okay," Stede says, quiet and full of wonder like this is as much of a treat for him as it is for Ed. He strokes the tips of his first and middle fingers down the lapel of Ed's leather jacket, touching the rainbow pin, the little enamel bi flag, the shrinky dink skull and crossbones. "Can I keep saying it?"
What if Ed just turns into glitter and floats away in the breeze like a dandelion clock? What then, Stede Bonnet?!
"Please," he whispers instead, feeling all dry-mouthed and deliciously apprehensive. He licks his lips, still feeling the lingering tingle of kiss friction, and waits and yearns and waits and yearns for an eternal moment before Stede reaches for him again, gently touching Ed's cheek with the back of his curled fingers.
"Princess." His fingers brush over Ed's cheekbone, achingly tender. "Look at you blushing for me. So pink and soft and pretty."
"Please," Ed whines again, not even sure what he's begging for, only that it's making him feel fucking woozy, like he's not getting enough air in him.
"The leather is..." Stede's voice trails off, and there's a visible slide in his throat when he swallows. "Edward, my god, it's sensational. But—tell me, won't you, if you'd rather not? I just wonder if you'd let me dress you in something else."
No need to wait to find out what kind of dreams he'll be getting tonight—Ed's almost entirely certain he's already in one, and it's only the throbbing needy ache of his dick filling too much of his tight trousers that's keeping him tethered to reality.
"What, you mean something pretty?" he asks, hopeful, and Stede's smile is luminous.
"I'm sure I can find something suitable," he says, like they're not already lying in the middle of his massive bed on a heap of silky pillows and buttery soft, comfortably creased linen sheets. He lets himself linger a moment more, like he just can't make himself go without taking another kiss from Ed's eager mouth, then makes an adorably grumbly sound low in his throat and tears himself away to stand up.
I miss you, Ed wants to say at once, like the hopeless romantic loser he very very definitely is. I've never in this life or any of my past ones wanted someone as bad as I want you. Come back. Come back. Come back.
But even for him that's a bit insane, isn't it? After meeting this bloke only half an hour ago, unfashionably early in a half-empty club? So Ed scrubs his face in both palms, probably fucking up his eyeliner but whatever—Stede's kissed him there, anyway, kissed all over his eyelids and crow's feet and the soft places where his dark circles live when the depression-insomnia gets extra bad, although he's doing relatively okay with that this month, so he's probably a smudgy ridiculous mess already, and if things continue the way it looks they're heading he's about to get much more dishevelled.
Instead of worrying about it, he sits up against the plush velvet headboard and gets his first proper look around. He was way too busy trying to swallow Stede's entire tongue when they first stumbled in here, getting the vague impression of a big space with lots of pink and teal and gold and flowers on his way to being guided down on his back on the bed, but way too distracted to pay much attention to his surroundings. There's an actual chandelier, he sees now. Two! Two chandeliers. Obviously old but very well-cared-for floorboards showing between bits of furniture around the perimeter of the room, broken up by an enormous, probably antique and/or viciously expensive pink rug in the middle. Instead of painted plaster or wallpaper like a normal person, the walls are teal wood panelling with gold-painted fancy bits. There are flowers in vases everywhere. There's silky velvety drapery everywhere. There are mirrors. Everywhere. Big ones in swirly gold frames.
"Fuck me," Ed breathes, not meaning to. Then, "Fuck off," in the same tone of awe when Stede crooks a little ornament on a shelf and half of that panelled wall opens up like a massive door.
Luckily he does seem to understand that's a positive sort of 'fuck off' and not a directive to actually go forth and multiply. "I had a few secret passages built into the apartment," he tells Ed, brimming with obvious glee at getting to share his fucking mental little folly with someone who's as thrilled by its wholly unnecessary existence as he is. "You know, just for fun. This is my auxiliary wardrobe," he explains, giving the words a delicate sort of emphasis like he wants to make sure Ed gets it's not exactly a jeans and t-shirts sort of space, although what it is for remains a mystery until he adds, "Stops Lucius from swiping all my nicest clothes when he visits," and reaches an arm around the open doorway to grab something from a wall hook.
Two somethings, Ed realises when Stede clicks the secret door back into place and brings them over to the bed, laying them out for him to look at: a silky, satiny, vibrant yellowy-gold robe covered in glinting embroidery, and a deep pink velvet one covered in a birds of paradise print.
"That one," Ed says immediately, putting his hand gently but firmly on it like a cat calling dibs on the escaped family hamster. "Sorry, you didn't even offer yet, love the yellow too, but... this one. Please." He can feel his eyes getting big, full on Puss In Boots pleading mode. "Stede. Please?"
"Of course," Stede says, and he sounds breathless and a little bit dreamy, just... just fucking gazing at Ed. Sitting there enraptured on the end of his big fancy bed in his big fancy bedroom, watching a stranger he just met who's covered in tattoos and leather and hair and wearing big fuck off stompy boots he didn't even get a second to remove before they got all over the covers grope his beautiful velvet bird robe. Might as well have actual cartoon hearts throbbing in his eyes, and they'd be at least as big as the ones throbbing in Ed's. That's a fucking wild feeling. Just—hope, suddenly, after a big old stretch scraping through life without it. Certainty. Warmth. Sanctuary, even, or something kind of like it. It's been a while since Ed felt any of that. A really, really long one.
"Got my dirty boots all over your bed," Ed says, suddenly not exactly nervous but something similar that he can't quite name. Apprehensive? On tenterhooks? Maybe it's alright to say he's just fucking ready and willing. "Gonna take 'em off, okay?"
"Oh, let me," Stede says, and there's a tinge of desperation in his voice. He doesn't do anything as elegant as 'get' to his knees—he fucking slams to them, and it's only the plush padding of the gorgeous rug that saves him from obliterating his kneecaps.
With Ed, Stede's significantly more gentle. It's, like, fairytale, Cinderella type stuff, if the film wasn't made for kids but horny, lonely, touch-starved forty-five year olds. Stede works the laces so carefully, touching them like they're precious objects themselves and loosening their hold on the leather across Ed's insteps and ankles until he's able to lever the old Doc Martens off one after the other and place them neatly under the bed beside his own gold velvet monogrammed slippers.
"Hi," Ed says stupidly, because he's forgotten how to say literally anything else with Stede still fucking kneeling there on the rug holding Ed's feet in his lap, one on each thigh. He's relieved to see good socks contrasting against Stede's lavender skinny jeans, basic black and grey stripy ones without any holes, and not the offensive comedy ones Jack always flings at him for birthdays and holidays with slogans like 'Eddie's Wanking Sock' or a customised repeating print of Jack's stupid head wearing a tinselly reindeer antler headband and flickering his tongue in the V of his first two fingers. Stede doesn't seem the type of guy who'd find that amusing. Truth be told, Ed doesn't either, not since he was like twenty, but his place is old and gets chilly and socks are socks and it keeps Jack from dumping weirder shit on him—like the 'rock carving' he picked up last time he had a couple of boring prison months to pass because he thought it might give him a chance to tunnel out early, only he wasn't trusted with the right tool like the bloke in the film and instead resorted to just kind of knocking some pebbles together until they broke and then calling them modern art sculptures. He keeps presenting them to Fang now, who's pretty sure Jack's fucking with him hoping for a reaction but is too kind and chill to call him on it in case he's actually serious and just deluded, not wanting to risk hurting his feelings. That would be way more annoying than socks with a fart button in each heel that parps with every step. God, thank fuck Ed didn't pick those tonight to cheer himself up by pissing off Izzy.
"Hi," Stede replies, soft and smiling. He dips his head, holding eye contact the whole time, and presses a long, lingering kiss to Ed's knee, long enough that he has to take in a breath halfway through. He hums a hungry little sound of pleasure when he does, letting his eyes slide closed and crushing his nose against the leather to inhale greedily again. "You smell good."
"Yeah," Ed says, helplessly hypnotised by the slick of spit on Stede's licked lower lip. "That'll be all the dead cow I've wrapped myself in."
Nooooo, he whines to himself in his head. Stop. Shut the fuck UP.
But Stede responds like it's an absolutely reasonable thing for a hookup to say. Like, reverse-gaslighting? Is that even a thing? Is it what's happening here? 'Realising you're acting like a really weird cunt because you're nervous only for someone to meet you on your comfort level' oddly enough doesn't seem to show up much in those magazine articles Ed sneaks a glance at now and then in the dentist's waiting room, but as aphrodisiacs go it's got to rank above oysters, that's for fucking sure.
"Mm, but there's tobacco too," Stede says, taking another good sniff like he wants to be sure he's translating his senses correctly. The tip of his nose traces over an old crease on Ed's leather trousers, bumping against one of the horizontal straps of his knee brace, sliding higher. "Not the stale smoky old pub carpets smell. It's fresh, almost fruity. Sublime. And I think something vanilla-y, creamy, sweet—is it honey?"
"I—yeah, guess so," Ed manages to croak out of his dry throat. "Got this nice milk and honey soap. Probably that, I reckon."
"Oh, yes, that'll be it. May I?"
Stede's pointing at Ed's waist now, eyebrows raised, waiting for permission. Maybe his waist. Could be his dick. Or his belt. Or who fucking knows, Ed's purple t-shirt, even.
Ed nods.
His fly, as it turns out. Stede falls on it with a greed he's barely keeping on this side of politely eager, getting the zip down in a second then having to take his time sliding the belt through the buckle and popping the top button open. He's fucking cute when he's rushing, losing a bit of his elegant cool to frustrated eyebrow twitches and a pouty mouth, but his grin returns when he's got Ed's dick, as well as the black boxer briefs it's trapped behind, poking out between the two halves of his zip. Stede falls on him there as well, nothing as deliberate as sucking or licking but kinda just breathing on him, warm and damp against Ed's bared belly and jersey underwear until a soft little groan escapes him and he crushes his nose against the naked, sweaty patch of tattooed skin and dark hair just above the elastic waistband.
"There you are," he says, breathless and reverent, and presses his nose there even more fiercely like he wants to crawl right inside Ed's navel and take up residence maybe somewhere around the region of his soul.
They begin peeling off Ed's tight trousers together, and he's not even sure which one of them started it. Maybe it was both of them. Maybe everything about this fucking bonkers, brilliant night only works because every single action feels like they're each making half and meeting somewhere in the middle, action completed and the next one set up to begin.
Brace off, trousers off, socks and underwear off, t-shirt lifted carefully over Ed's hair so as not to knock his artfully messy updo crooked, Stede sits back on his heels and simply says, "Wow."
"Yep," Ed agrees, eyeing him right back. But the soft, plush pink velvet robe keeps catching his attention too, bright against the creamy linen, and of course Stede notices, and of course it makes that look in his eye go even more hot and hungry.
"Hands in here, please, Edward," he commands, reaching both arms around Ed's body to pass the fabric behind him and present a sleeve on either side for him to slide into—and fuck, it's soft. It's heavy and drapey and warm, touching his bare skin everywhere like an impossible, full-body hug. Warmer still is the return of that smile to Stede's mouth and eyes when he draws the two halves together at Ed's middle. It's part satisfaction, Ed thinks—the very familiar although somewhat distantly remembered pleasure of having a plan and executing the plan and discovering it was indeed a good plan—but there's more to it than that.
"There we go," Stede murmurs, and there's the sweetest little tremble in his voice before he clears his throat and steadies his smile, letting it relax him. "Look at that. You wear fine things well."
I'll cry, Ed thinks, very calmly and suddenly. Reckon I'm gonna cry, but guess what? I don't think he'd mind. I don't even think I'd mind.
"Come here," he begs, reaching for Stede and getting a handful of bicep and one untucked tail of his shirt. "Please. Stede. Please come here."
Stede nods, but hesitates. "Clothes on or—"
"Off," Ed demands, making him laugh. He can't help Stede with the fancy little buttons, he's too wound up for any of that. Just rests there against the heap of cushions and watches and waits until Stede is barer than he is, no robe to half-hide any part of him. It makes him look vulnerable in the loveliest of ways—not weak, or ashamed of anything about himself, or wishing he could be anywhere but under the spotlights of his fussy pink bedside lamps being studied as though the stranger draped across his bed has never seen another bloke in the buff before. It's more like he's saying without words: I never show anybody this much of me, but I want to show you.
When he joins Ed on top of the covers it's just as easy and natural as before to settle into an embrace, like they've been doing it for decades and their limbs have already learned to hold all the muscle memory of where they need to slot to be the most comfortable. Stede hooks one of Ed's bare legs up around his hip and their dicks nudge together when he settles there between his tattooed thighs.
"I probably ought to have told you I have only a theoretical knowledge of what I'm doing here," Stede admits, but Ed only shrugs and collapses into another kiss that feels like it might not end any time this year. The generous dribble of lube that appears between them after the quiet roll and click of a bedside drawer shows that Stede knows plenty to be going on with, and when he tries an experimental little rock of his hips it sends the hot wet length of his dick sliding fully up the side of Ed's to bump deliciously against the head of him.
"Don't stop," Ed begs, feeling Stede rub the smooth line of his jaw against the soft whiskers on Ed's before planting a kiss there as carefully and deliberately as a prized flower. "Please. Don't. Any of it. I wanna feel you til the sun fucking burns out."
"Okay," Stede agrees, just the briefest little breath of a word against Ed's mouth and greedy tongue before he rocks his hips again and gets a whimpering little moan to fall out of him. "Oh. That's lovely. That little sound you made. Please do it again?"
"Didn't do it on purpose," Ed tells him, laughing breathlessly just because he realises he's happy, like fully fucking content for the first time in years as he lets his exploring fingertips wriggle their way into Stede's blond hair again and start to make their home there. "You've got to find it and get it out of me yourself."
"Is that so?" Stede says, crinkling at the outer corners of his lovely eyes with a smile that Ed could swear he can actually feel, not on Stede's mouth when he goes in for another kiss but just in every single cell and breath of him. Stede reaches between them to smooth the pink velvet over Ed's chest, and he lets his hand rest there to join the steady rise and rise and not much fall of Ed's expanding lungs and heart. "You're so beautiful," he says suddenly, a new note of vague urgency there in the pace of his words and the pace of his shifting hips and dick. "You're... I didn't think it would be like this."
Ed makes a noise that's supposed to be how but comes out more like a ragged sigh. Stede understands him anyway. Ed's starting to get the feeling that maybe he always will? And if that's a lot to suddenly have dumped on his emotional control centre, which he thinks it probably is by any existing metric in the world, it doesn't fucking feel like it. It feels like opening windows in a haunted house to let the ghosts out and the sunshine in.
"Like I've won a prize I never knew I was playing for."
"I'm a prize?" Ed asks, lightly rubbing the tip of his nose against the tip of Stede's and trying to decide where to store that idea so he can take it down off the old brain-shelves later like some priceless little vase and try to learn every one of its glittering facets.
"Mm. Yes, but also no," Stede tries to explain, gasping out an honest to god giggle when Ed traces his nose sideways across his cheek and jaw to steal another sniff of that rose cologne from his thumping pulse. In return—not quite in retaliation, but something much softer and fonder—Stede flips open the two halves of Ed's velvet robe and resettles the press of his body, letting Ed feel the reassuring solidity of him like the world's most fucking gorgeous weighted blanket, or the ballast on a ship. "I think merely the chance to know you," he tries, slow and soft and taking his time over the words. "That it's even possible. Eight billion people in the world, give or take, and not one of them for me, I always thought, and yet you're here." He sinks a little lower to balance his weight on his elbows and forearms, freeing his hands to cup Ed's cheeks and study his undoubtedly dazed, probably wet eyes. "Edward. You're here."
"You're here," Ed murmurs back, finding a light, meandering path for his fingernails to take up and down Stede's sweating bare back that gets him instantly shivering and—fuck!—even whimpering a little bit. "All the cheap happy hour cocktail joints in all the towns in all the world and... well, you know."
He trails off, unsure if it's all a bit much, but Stede kisses him again—his mouth, his cheek, the bridge of his nose—and finishes, soft with wonder, "I know. I walk into yours."
"Don't stop," Ed begs again, the blood-prickling need for him racing hot through his entire body. "Walking in, or this, or—or any of it. Please." He shifts beneath Stede's steadily rocking hips, meeting the nudge of his dick just right with his own and racing effortlessly towards a firework explosion with Stede only a heartbeat behind him.
Stede whispers a little while after, when Ed's lying heavy and drowsy in his arms under the covers with his head tucked into the rose garden of Stede's neck, "Stay."
"'M not moving," Ed manages, and feels a soft, sweet little kiss against his temple. "I stay. You don't stop. Sorted."
"Perfect," Stede says, audibly smiling, and—yeah, he's not wrong. It really could be.