[Ed says it more like he's trying to convince himself, because he is. He wrenches a laugh from somewhere black and accusing, pure Blackbeard.]
Now you want to talk! Now you...
[Ed staggers a single step forward. He pants and feels himself rocked with fresh outrage. New anger. It feels so fucking real; nothing like the arguments he constructs in his head, where they tread the same ground every time.
(Where Ed gets to say everything he wanted to say. Where he doesn't shake or embarrass himself. Where he wins the interaction.
He imagines a miracle resurrection from death where they kiss as often as he imagines telling Stede he never cared for him at all. Deep down, he knows which one he wanted more.)
Reality is him gaping at Stede, mouth dry and eyes wet, sobriety creeping nastily in at the edges of his brain. Nothing like realizing the love of your life and source of your worst grief isn't actually dead to kill your buzz.]
They said you were dead. [God, but he's glad he's not-] You should have fucking stayed that way. [-because he missed him. Because now he can-]
[ I don't feel shit, he says. Definitely not true. Ed's an easy read when he's upset. Always was. Curse of a very large, tender heart.
There was, between leaving home and finding what was left of his crew, a stretch of time where Stede entertained the idea of a simple reunion. Not easy, per se, and his mind had had plenty of time to circle the prospect that maybe Ed was happier without him as much as Mary and the children had been. Or maybe the opposite, maybe too much damage done to that tender heart to do anything but send Stede right back off, but-- straightforward, at least.
Between finding his crew and getting here was even a short-lived dream of simply making it to the Revenge quickly at all. Beating out the rumor mill, at least.
Fast and straightforward have been off the table for a grip, now.
All that's really left is messy. ]
Drawing my weapon is the exact opposite of what I just said.
[ Does Stede expect that to turn the angry tides? No. He expects he'll need to take the rest of his deserved lumps before he can get through properly. But he wouldn't have a notorious issue with wishful thinking if he didn't give it a shot. ]
[If he runs Stede through, maybe he'll begin to understand how it felt. How Ed feels. Like he's gasping for air every time he so much as moves, and every inhalation is just another reminder of where he is, a trigger for that hot pain to flash through him, an ache that makes him unable to sit still, and it loops like that, an ouroboros of hurting and remembering and hurting again.
He rests a hand on his sword, but doesn't actually draw it. Hard to be steady, when you're in four fingers and some change. Easier to nick something important. Something that can't be healed.
It feels like they're standing on a chunk of earth out in some void. The bottle in Ed's hand has an odd gravity, too heavy and wet with condensation. He drops it, because it doesn't matter. The wind whips past the end of the alley, a sound like distant howling. Ed wavers; Blackbeard, Edward. The bruise blue bags under his eyes are almost as big as the pleading look he levels at Stede. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword.]
[ Being told to show some self preservation by the person who is probably angrier at you than anybody else in the world (the person whose heart you've utterly broken, most accurately, but if he's good at anything it's failing to conceptualize that much) is something that can be so personal.
Stede feels hopeful in light of it, despite everything. Grateful. He holds his hands up, fingers spread, the definition of "I will personally be having nothing to do with my sword."
It's Ed. Ultimately. Ed won't kill him. Or if it's that bad somehow, if it turns out he would, well. Self preservation is for men who have something on the horizon that they need to reach at all costs, and here he's already gone and reached it.
It's hard to spit out a lengthy list of things that are important to say. The I missed you, the what you did to my crew was unjustified and you know it, the I can explain, please I can try to explain, the I am shatteringly head over heels in love with you and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove it if there's even half a chance you'd let me-- ]
I'm sorry I left you. For starters.
[ Fairness has to win out over importance, sometimes. He owed this much to Ed before he owed anything to anyone else in the fallout. ]
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no subject
[Ed says it more like he's trying to convince himself, because he is. He wrenches a laugh from somewhere black and accusing, pure Blackbeard.]
Now you want to talk! Now you...
[Ed staggers a single step forward. He pants and feels himself rocked with fresh outrage. New anger. It feels so fucking real; nothing like the arguments he constructs in his head, where they tread the same ground every time.
(Where Ed gets to say everything he wanted to say. Where he doesn't shake or embarrass himself. Where he wins the interaction.
He imagines a miracle resurrection from death where they kiss as often as he imagines telling Stede he never cared for him at all. Deep down, he knows which one he wanted more.)
Reality is him gaping at Stede, mouth dry and eyes wet, sobriety creeping nastily in at the edges of his brain. Nothing like realizing the love of your life and source of your worst grief isn't actually dead to kill your buzz.]
They said you were dead. [God, but he's glad he's not-] You should have fucking stayed that way. [-because he missed him. Because now he can-]
Draw your weapon.
no subject
There was, between leaving home and finding what was left of his crew, a stretch of time where Stede entertained the idea of a simple reunion. Not easy, per se, and his mind had had plenty of time to circle the prospect that maybe Ed was happier without him as much as Mary and the children had been. Or maybe the opposite, maybe too much damage done to that tender heart to do anything but send Stede right back off, but-- straightforward, at least.
Between finding his crew and getting here was even a short-lived dream of simply making it to the Revenge quickly at all. Beating out the rumor mill, at least.
Fast and straightforward have been off the table for a grip, now.
All that's really left is messy. ]
Drawing my weapon is the exact opposite of what I just said.
[ Does Stede expect that to turn the angry tides? No. He expects he'll need to take the rest of his deserved lumps before he can get through properly. But he wouldn't have a notorious issue with wishful thinking if he didn't give it a shot. ]
no subject
[If he runs Stede through, maybe he'll begin to understand how it felt. How Ed feels. Like he's gasping for air every time he so much as moves, and every inhalation is just another reminder of where he is, a trigger for that hot pain to flash through him, an ache that makes him unable to sit still, and it loops like that, an ouroboros of hurting and remembering and hurting again.
He rests a hand on his sword, but doesn't actually draw it. Hard to be steady, when you're in four fingers and some change. Easier to nick something important. Something that can't be healed.
It feels like they're standing on a chunk of earth out in some void. The bottle in Ed's hand has an odd gravity, too heavy and wet with condensation. He drops it, because it doesn't matter. The wind whips past the end of the alley, a sound like distant howling. Ed wavers; Blackbeard, Edward. The bruise blue bags under his eyes are almost as big as the pleading look he levels at Stede. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword.]
Spit it out, then.
no subject
Stede feels hopeful in light of it, despite everything. Grateful. He holds his hands up, fingers spread, the definition of "I will personally be having nothing to do with my sword."
It's Ed. Ultimately. Ed won't kill him. Or if it's that bad somehow, if it turns out he would, well. Self preservation is for men who have something on the horizon that they need to reach at all costs, and here he's already gone and reached it.
It's hard to spit out a lengthy list of things that are important to say. The I missed you, the what you did to my crew was unjustified and you know it, the I can explain, please I can try to explain, the I am shatteringly head over heels in love with you and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove it if there's even half a chance you'd let me-- ]
I'm sorry I left you. For starters.
[ Fairness has to win out over importance, sometimes. He owed this much to Ed before he owed anything to anyone else in the fallout. ]