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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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6 🍹

The office was dark and still, the last of Stede’s co-workers having left hours ago ( the final interaction being a cheery ‘yer a’ight?’ from one Nathaniel Buttons– a surprisingly friendly but odd fellow from IT– which Stede had returned with a complimentary wave and a ‘yes, thanks’ as his co-worker exited for the day ). A single fluorescent bulb flickered in Stede's office, and he removed his reading glasses to paw at his eyes, the light a great strain. The beginning tendrils of a migraine itched at his temples.

Two hours. Two hours of unpaid overtime and only now was he beginning to creep towards the finishing line. And it was a line he had to cross tonight.

Chauncey and Nigel had made it abundantly clear that they found him particularly lacking. Stede wasn’t sure if it was the years of uneasy shared history, the obvious nepotism on his fathers part, or his genuinely slow working pace that set them off, but he wasn’t keen to get on their bad side (more than he already was) by missing yet another Friday deadline.

So he typed up a new fax, the keys of the typewriter click-clacking loudly, the sound echoing uncomfortably across the empty office (and uncomfortably in his ears); a lone wolf trying to call out to other capitalist wolves, but receiving no answer. His overtired head ached and his glasses kept slipping down his nose and his fingers were heavy with overwork, but at least this document was done.

Stede pulled it from the writer with a satisfying whoosh and made his way over to the communal fax machine to shoot the page off to…wherever it was faxes went (the fax ether maybe? The document void? Messages clashing against each other, like great meteoroids hitting unknown space objects, ricocheting indefinitely until they were able to reach their final destination).

Olivia was a clunky, volatile, banshee of a machine. If he didn’t know any better, Stede would have sworn she was cursed, or possessed, or hexed, or some other terrible thing that caused paper to be gobbled up into the pit of despair that was tray 2. On more than one occasion it had spat toner at an intern and quadrupled the copy order (much to the dismay of environmentalists everywhere). At the very least, Stede appreciated that Olivia seemed to respect his status as floor manager enough to not treat him equally as poorly. Or perhaps she simply respected that he was on good terms with Buttons, her known wrangler.

Stede keyed in the area code and phone number for the company he was attempting to fax with a careful reverence reserved only for Olivia’s hulking, mechanical frame and sent the fax through the copier.

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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8 🍹

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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2 🍹

And three important titles—

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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7 🍹

Stede stared at the (nearly) blank piece of paper that had come back to him, dumbfounded. They were pulling his leg, right? This is not how he saw his productive night going; stalled to a screeching halt by a misdial.

He glanced at the neon red letters of the digital clock next to the machine. 9:32pm. Who on earth was sitting by a fax, asking a corporate business to play hangman at 9:30? And why was he considering engaging with them? Surely there were easier (and quicker) ways to find and fix his error than a children's game with a stranger (a stranger who seemed to have an…interesting sense of humor, if the notes were anything to go by).

Yet even Stede could admit, there were none quite as fun.

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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26 🍹

Edward Teach learnt three things that night.

1. He was in love with Stede Bonnet.

2. Stede Bonnet had a wife.

3. Stede Bonnet’s wife was pregnant.

Edward arrived at Stede’s fashionably late (6:30pm), hoping to avoid most of the awkward uncomfortability of being the first to arrive (and the unease of being alone in a room with what was, essentially, a stranger- even if it was Stede). He drove up to the house in his old, beat-up ‘70 Ford Pinto; feeling particularly out of place in a sea of Ferrari and Porsche as his ramshackle engine rattled to a concerning stop.

It was cute; a little cottage home in the yawning pits of Los Angeles suburbia. Not ostentatiously large and opulent, like some Hollywood mansions, yet Ed still clocked that he would likely never be able to afford anything like it in his lifetime. It screamed of effortless wealth, of the American Dream; Perfect stonework facade, unweathered paint, classic white picket fence, curated lawn, immaculate garden. Did Stede tend to it himself? Ed wondered, or was he fancyman enough for a gardener? Stede enjoyed plant husbandry, but Ed couldn’t picture the man physically getting his hands dirty, on his hands and knees, working-

Ed knocked and Stede opened the door; all bouncing curls and purple paisley and soft satin. Ed was taken aback, momentary. He looked ridiculous ; like the 80s had thrown up all over him. His blue pants were printed with an unnecessarily complex forest pattern, which half-clashed with the swirling boteh of his button down, but matched the green-hazel of his eyes. The orange-fuschia bowtie Ed had gifted him was tucked under his collar and god fucking christ, it really was as gaudy as he remembered. Ed had never been so irritatingly enamored.

“Edward!” Stede greeted, his face lighting up like the 4th of July and really , who cared if he looked like a neon trainwreck when he smiled like that.

“That’s my name, Edward Teach. Born on a beach.” Ed said, his mouth moving of its own accord, waiting for his stalling mind to catch up. Shit, all the back and forth- the faxes, the letters, the pages- had led Edward here; to Stede Bonnet’s front porch, where he stood, holding an offering of a loaned book and a fluorescently orange cake. He couldn't think, he was so immediately drunk with it all, despite the fact that not a single drop of liquor had touched his tongue tonight.

Stede was there, in the doorway, and he was everything Edward thought he’d be, then somehow more. Handsomer. Brighter. Sweeter. Like fine wine. Or champagne. Beautiful, bubbly, perfect things Ed had never allowed himself to have before.

Ed had seen pictures, imagined what he would be like but he was simply more. More Fancyman. More Stede.

“Come in,” Stede said, stepping aside, somewhat breaking whatever mindless spell he had unwittingly placed upon Ed, “I was worried you wouldn’t turn up.”

“Yeah, well, had nothing better to do,” Edward replied, shrugging, grasping desperately at the remaining remnants of his cool confidence as he brushed past Stede in the entryway.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Stede said, smiling knowingly as he closed the door behind him.

“Yeah, me too man,” Ed said, truthfully this time, before extending the fruity dessert into the space between them, “uh, I’m no cook, but I know a guy. So he made me a cake. Said something about 40 oranges, which feels… excessive. But—here.”

“Oh!” Stede exclaimed delightfully, as though he hadn’t seen Ed holding it for the past few minutes, “you didn’t have to bring anything.”

“‘S a potluck. That’s what you do, right?”

“Yes, but you’re my guest!” Stede said, gingerly collecting the cake regardless, “I’ll pop this in the fridge if you’d like to join everyone in the living room, or- I think there’s a few people outside.”

Edward watched Stede scamper off with a smile, disappearing further into the house and leaving him alone in the hallway to recollect his thoughts and even out his breathing.

—-

Edward walked into the bulk of the party and his stomach dropped like an anchor. Shit— caught up in all that Stede was, he’d made a miscalculation.

Ed stepped into the living room and found himself lost, adrift; drowning in an ocean of silks and too expensive perfume and overeducation and fancy finger food. These people oozed money; seeping wealth from every pore, every perfect strand of hair, every manicured finger. He felt small, insignificant, inferior— and significantly underdressed. His purple cotton shirt, his worn-in jeans, his scuffed boots, the car grease he could never quite scrub from underneath his fingernails- Ed knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. And it had him in a biting, vice-like grip, we’ll never be like them, claws in his skin, fear choking his throat.

And the worst part is he should have expected as much- he saw the cars, the house, Stede. God, there was a reason he called him Fancyman, for fucks sake. They were from different worlds.

Ed fled to the kitchen, which was thankfully empty, save for Stede, who he pulled aside.

“Ed?” Stede made a surprised noise, and in any other circumstance the shortening of Edward’s name would have made his heart skip a beat.

“Shit, I don’t know if this is my scene, man. I don’t- I don’t think I’ll fit in with this crowd-”

“Hey, Edward. Ed. Look at me.” Stede said softly; softer than he had any right to be.

Edward did.

“If it gets too much, maybe we can have a signal, yeah?”

Ed nodded.

“You signal to me that you want to tap out and I can cover for you or- or swoop in and pull you from a particularly bad conversation?”

“Yeah, I guess that could work.” Ed murmured, already half eased, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, “What kinda signal?”

“Um, maybe if you make a particular drink? A Piña colada?”

“What if I want to actually drink a piña colada?”

“Ah, you’re right. What’s something you’d never drink?”

Ed considered for a pregnant moment.

“Old fashioned.”

“Okay, an old fashioned. If you mention an old fashioned, or I see you holding one, or you make one; I’ll get you out of there. Alright?”

“Alright,”

“There’s a good man. I know how fickle these people can be, no one will blame you for needing a breather.”

“Thank you.” Ed said, leaning against a kitchen counter.

“Of course.” Stede smiled gently, “I asked you here. I want you to be comfortable. Or, as comfortable as you can be.”

Edward managed a terse smile in return. God, Stede was just like that then? Kind and tender and considerate and so very other. It wasn’t some great deception or act that he’d put to paper.

“Now, what would you like to drink?”

“An old fashioned.”

Stede’s eyes grew wide.

“I’m kidding, fancyman. I’ll take a beer.”

—-

Stede handed Ed a cold beer from the entertaining bar outside (next to the pool, of course he had a fucking pool), the glass bottle wet and cool to the touch. Edward hit the cap against the stone bar top, the metal clinking to the ground as Stede pulled back the bottle opener he’d presented a beat too late.

“That’s one way to do it,” Stede chuckled, and Ed considered that it rather sounded like blissful, lilting music. He didn’t know how he would ever go back to hearing him laugh over a fuzzy phone line again when the real deal was so pure, so undiluted, so complete. Phone Stede felt like a blurry, partial approximation of who he truly was.

“Oh!” Stede exclaimed as Edward brought the beer to his lips in an attempt to chase away the seemingly constant fancyman thoughts, “the cravat!”. Ed had almost forgotten he’d worn it, the dark fabric half tucked into his shirt.

“You wear it well,” Stede said, sounding awfully pleased with his choice of neck ties.

“Not that well.” Edward said, tugging the cravat loose from its purple trappings, “Couldn’t figure out how to tie it. Didn’t exactly come with instructions,”

“I can fix that.”

Edward unfastened the strip of fabric; loosening a rather impressive Windsor. He knew it wasn’t the correct tie for a cravat, but it was the only knot he knew, and that was better than nothing, because he had to be wearing it.

Ed handed the black silk to Stede, the material slipping through his fingers like sand. Stepping around the bar, Stede held it like it was something precious, something to be coveted, despite the fact that it was a gift he himself had bought.

Stede stood in front of him and Edward put down the beer, bundling his hair into a loose bun between his hands, allowing for better access.

“Do your worst, Bonnet.” Ed said, as cocky as he could manage with an extremely disarming Stede in his personal space.

Stede smiled in that lovely way of his as he looped the fabric around Ed, his fingertips tickling the base of his neck, burning Edward’s skin with each accidental graze.The tie pulled through Ed’s baby hairs; smooth and silky and velvet, and he didn’t know which was softer, the fabric or Stede’s touch.

Stede fussed with the knot and Ed was suddenly distinctly aware of how close he was.

He was so close Edward could see the gold of his lashes, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was so close Ed could feel the warmth that radiated from him, feel the soft caress of his breath. He was so close he could smell his cologne and aftershave (lavender and honey and old books and something so ambrosial) and-

Fuck.

He was in love with Stede Bonnet.

It had been simmering for a while; a low boil in the deepest, darkest recess of Edward's heart, a smolder that threatened to spill over at any moment. He’d built a dam of ‘he’s a stranger’, ‘you don’t really know him’, ‘you can’t fall in love with words on a page or a voice on a phone’, but this was simply too much for his barricade to withstand. Fancyman was no stranger, fancyman was Stede. And he knew Stede. Ed knew he liked boats and plants and classic literature. He knew his handwriting by sight; he knew how he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. He knew his favourite movies and what drink he ordered at bars and how to beat him at naughts and crosses.

Now he knew the way he talked and the way he moved and fuck , the way he smelled, the way he smiled.

He was fucking in love with Stede Bonnet.

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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24 🍹

[Stede is listening to]

The ringing stopped and Stede could hear the rustling of someone handling the receiver.

“Fuck, sorry fancyman, was just closing up shop,” Came Edward’s voice, resonate and half-distracted. The knot tightened uncomfortably, the threads of Stede’s anxiety pulling taut. Of course he was busy.

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly fine! I- if you’re heading home- we don’t have to- you can go, I won’t hold you up-” Should have, should have, should have.

“Nah, I got time.” Edward said, definite and reassuring; the sound of him settling into a chair unmistakable in the background.

“Are you sure?”

“Always got time, shoot.”

“Right- how are you?”

“‘M fine.” Edward chuckled, seemingly at Stede’s stringent use of a social script despite the fact they were clearly past small talk, “Gettin’ better by the minute. How are you?”

“I’m- I’m good.”

“Good to hear. This a social call?”

“Um, kind of?”

“Kind of? Is it a business call? I could be a businessman. I can do anything.” Edward boasted, before clearing his throat, “Taxes, taxes, taxes. Wall Street. I love filing paperwork. Stick it to the man.”

“Not bad.” Stede chuckled as Edward laughed at his own antics.

“I know,” Ed said, and Stede could practically hear the cocky smile spreading across Edward’s face.

“No, it’s uh- social. Personal.” Stede paused, returning to fidgeting with his address book to soothe his nerves, “My block is having a potluck. I got an invite this morning and I offered to host. So, I was just wondering if you- if you wanted to come? No pressure, of course! You can say no, I’m a stranger, I wouldn’t blame you for-“

“Yes.” Edward cut in, quick and sharp.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Stede smiled; the tense, roped knot unspooling, his shoulders relaxing, his erratic heartbeat evening. “Do you know what a potluck is?” He asked.

“No.”

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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23 🍹

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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22 🍹

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pinacoladassmau · 1 year

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21 🍹

Five days. It peaked at five days. Five days of nothingness. No letters. No faxes. Stede paged each night (99), but, to his great dismay, the digits were never returned. It stung, more than Stede thought it would; the radio silence, the absence. It was always a possibility, he supposed. Edward didn’t owe Stede anything; not his time, not his effort, not his words. And it had been selfish for him to expect them at all. Still, they’d been friends, hadn’t they? Surely he deserved an explanation? A goodbye? He swore they were on good terms, so why? Why had Edward disappeared?

And why did the loneliness feel so excruciatingly unbearable? It was like a phantom limb; the ghost of something that no longer was, but that Stede could still sense.

It was all very dramatic and melancholy and sad, and Stede was rather embarrassed about it when Olivia eventually did rear to life, printing a fax in Edwards tell-tale handwriting.

A number. A new number. Not a fax or a pager. A phone number. It was late, but Stede picked up the receiver of his office handset and dialed the line. It trilled with the overly-familiar sound of electronic ringing, followed by a satisfying ‘click’ of someone on the other side picking up.

“Edward?” Stede asked into the dense silence that followed.

“Fancyman,” The voice crackled through the phone, curling around the word; fluid and dark and coy and half-amused by its own humour. It matched all that he knew and pictured and imagined of Edward Fuckface Teach.

“Are you okay?” Was the next question out of Stede’s mouth.

“‘M fine. I was, uh, sick, is all,”

“Oh!” Stede felt a pang of guilt; he’d assumed the worst of his new friend, never stopping to consider whether or not something had happened to Edward, until now, “You should have told me. I could have brought you soup, or- or-”

“Nah, mate. Not that kind of sick.”

Stede wasn’t sure what kind of sick he was referring to, then, but didn’t push it.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Better. And somehow worse.” Edward hummed, contemplative (not how Stede would usually describe him).

“Well, glad to hear you’re alive, at least.”

“Glad to not be dead, man. Don’t think the devil could’ve handled me,” Edward chuckled; a profound and resonate and hearty sound. Stede had read his laugh plenty, seen it in his words, noted it in his tone, yet hearing it, laced with enjoyment and sincerity, was a different story altogether. It was magic and chaos, and even though it had caught Stede off guard, knocked him off kilter for a second, he still knew, felt, understood it to be quintessentially Edward.

“You might be right,” Stede smiled against the headset, tension easing from his body. This was easy. Everything with Edward was easy. Fun. Uncomplicated (for the most part). Like drifting down a lazy river, allowing the tide to take you wherever it wished.

“I am sorry though. For leaving you hanging like that- ‘s not fair.”

“Don’t worry about me I- it was fine, really. I’m just- I’m glad you’re okay. And that you didn’t suddenly decide you didn’t like me,”

“Not like you?” He sounded hurt, “I could never dislike you, fancyman.”

“Ah- well- that’s-“ (A relief) “ ditto.”

“Only dickheads don’t appreciate boat facts.”

“I’ve heard only fuckface’s do.”

Edward laughed again, and wasn’t that just something .

Stede didn’t think he’d ever made someone laugh before. At least, not the way Edward laughed- with him. Not at him. Not politely, but genuinely. Low and real.

“You might be onto something,” Edward said, before pausing; the quiet moment stretching over the wire, soft and warm and comfortable. Stede imagined Ed’s legs, crossed and kicked up leisurely on a desk while he leaned back in a swivel chair, the receiver wedged between his cheek and shoulder, a pen twirling in fidgety fingers. He seemed like the type of person to be incapable of sitting in a chair correctly, and Stede couldn’t shake the mental image.

“Hey, about that letter,” Edward started, uncharacteristically uncertain, his confidence undercut with the sharp knife edge of hesitancy. Stede’s mood (and stomach) dropped like a cannonball.

“Shit, Edward. Is that what this is about? I’m sorry, it was too much- I’m too much, I get carried away with classic literature-”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, it is that but- Don’t need to apologize to me. Do you own the books? That the quotes were from?”

“Oh!” Stede squeaked, half in surprise, half in unabashed excitement, partially in relief, “I do.”

“Do ya think I could, I dunno, borrow them sometime? The Compton Library’s kinda lacking.”

“Of course! It would be my pleasure. What were you thinking of picking up?”

“Tch, dunno, whatever. Something by Fitzgerald, maybe. Doesn’t matter.” Edward mumbled, in feigned indifference. Stede had a feeling it mattered a great deal, and found it almost ( almost) comical how quickly Edward’s cool guy facade crumbled.

“Mm. I see. I’m sure I could find something you’d like from him, if you appreciated the taster.”

“Yeah I- uh- appreciated it.”

“Excellent! I can post it out tomorrow,”

“Thanks, man.”

“Of course. What are friends for? Thank you- for the call, too,”

“‘Course. What are friends for?” Edward parroted back.

“I should, uh, get home, though. Before it gets too late,”

“Fuck, yeah, sure mate.”

“I’ll get the book to you.”

“Mhmm.”

“Nighty night Edward.”

“Nighty night Stede.”