Archive of Our Own

Another year, another Christmas, another season for Stede to reflect on all of his personal failings. He stares out the window of the office over the building design that’s sitting neglected on his drafting desk and watches the snow that’s drifting softly down outside, glittering in the orange glow of the street lights.

With any luck, that’ll pick up to a blizzard. A whopper. A freezing, swirling attack of weather that not even Lucius can pretend is a reasonable backdrop for an evening out, and Stede can slink home and curl up on the couch alone, and eat his feelings, watching yet more Hallmark Christmas films until he jerks awake in the wee hours, having fallen asleep with dreams of a handsome lumberjack for company—

The office door bangs open, and he shrieks. But it’s no ghost of Christmas past or future come to catalogue his problems, just one devil on his shoulder: Lucius, with a maniacal grin on his face.

“Ah, Lucius,” Stede tries. “I think perhaps the weather—“

“Is perfect,” Lucius crows. “This is exactly what it’s meant to be like. There’s no backing out of it now, Stede.” He spins on his heel, and at the last second, leans back in the door. “Unless in the event that you withdraw consent for reasons including but not limited to poor chemistry, unfortunate health status, general development of negative emotional attachment to the individual or the whole concept—"

“All right!” Stede yells. “All right, I understand.” He purses his lips. “I’m not backing out. It’s just snowy, that’s all.”

And also, he’s terrified. He’s actually terrified of finally, finally crossing the line and pursuing his newly established identity as out and gay, which is exactly why Lucius proposed this little challenge. They’re going to go out. Stede is not going to overthink things, because Lucius’ rules say he’s not allowed, and therefore he can bypass his own tendency to do just that. He’s going to take home the first willing man with acceptable enough chemistry that he meets, and they’re going to have an unspecified quantity of transcendent gay sex, and Stede will wake up in the morning as a new person, the person he was always meant to be.

Voila.

He’s not looking for Mr. Right. He’s not looking for his own Hallmark movie ending. He’s just got to get past the anxiety paralysis and do something about this before he’s so intimidated that he crawls right back into the closet and lives there forever.

Lucius has been staring at him for the entire duration of his mental journey, and Stede blinks at the realisation. His assistant points to him, points to the window.

“Grab a scarf,” Lucius says gleefully, “and let’s go find the temporary meet-cute of your Hallmark movie dreams.”

~

The thing is, Stede loves a Hallmark movie. It’s part of his Christmas tradition, watching as many goofy, improbable holiday-themed romances as he can, imagining himself meeting someone in one of those fateful circumstances. Maybe even someone who loves romance the way he does! They could watch Christmas movies together, judging every one against their own romance, finding it all lacking because they'll be just that passionate.

Sure. Feels unlikely. He can dream, though.

They’re less than a week away from Christmas now, five movies into the season, and the kids and Mary have flown back to Australia to spend the holidays with her family. An event that Stede was decidedly unenthusiastic about before the divorce, but now: extremely happy for them to take Doug and have the time of their lives without him. He’s ceremonially passed the baton to Doug, who now gets to receive every disapproving glare and passive aggressive comment Mary’s mother can dish out. Good luck to Doug. Godspeed.

And it’s lonely without his monthly weekend with the kids, but it’s all right. It’s fine. He’s eating things, it doesn’t exactly matter if they’re not “nutritionally sound” or whatever it is Roach keeps telling him they should be at the cafe. He’s even crying into his tub of ice-cream from time to time like a real movie character, but nobody else needs to know that.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asks Lucius, as he registers that they’re walking away from the restaurant district.

“Ohoho, just you wait,” Lucius says, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It’s going to be prime territory for finding yourself a fellow DILF, or a twink, whatever floats your boat, you’ll figure it out.”

Stede’s got no idea what any of that means and at this point he’s too afraid to ask. So he trots obediently along beside Lucius, pulse thrumming in his throat, until they’re in sight of the big park that sits at the centre of the city.

And oh, it’s alive with activity. Every tree is festooned with strings of lights, rainbow colours glittering between the leaves. There are stalls scattered around the perimeter, the homely smells of baked goods and roasted nuts and fried goodies floating through the air, and every stall has pride flags of various flavours fluttering in the (actually perfect) light flurry of snow.

There are people dancing on the bandstand, really waltzing in laughing pairs, and there’s a group behind them all dressed in black, each wearing a different bright scarf, singing a cappella Christmas songs.

It’s so wonderful, he wants to melt.

“Lucius,” he breathes. “What the hell is this?”

“Well,” Lucius says, sliding an elbow through his, tugging him forward into the crowd. “It’s the first annual Hallmark Christmas Movie Queer Dating Festival. And I thought it might be exactly your kind of thing.”

Stede has not heard such a baffling sentence in his entire life. “What?”

“It’s sort of like speed dating,” Lucius says, steering him deftly past what looks like a tent full of people… baking? They’ve each got individual tables and they’re running around looking harried, dabs of flour on noses, conversations being had in front of freezers and ovens alike. There’s a knitting stall ahead, cosy chairs inside in pairs, and as they go sliding past he can see a pair of women bent together laughing, one of them with a very competent section of fabric on her needles, the other with nothing more but a tangle of yarn.

Right. Right, yes, Stede’s starting to get the idea now. Apparently he’s been so busy at work that he’s failed to see this actual dream shaping up just down the road, and that makes him even more determined to appreciate it.

Very cheerfully he asks, “So where’s the Scottish lord tent, then?”

Lucius wrinkles his nose. “Eugh. I think you can do better than some stuffy old man with a castle.”

“Ah, no, no,” Stede says, pulling to a halt, because all of a sudden, he’s not out of his depth anymore.

No, he’s actually been preparing for this moment for years, and he beams at Lucius with a level of enthusiasm that makes his assistant flinch. “You see, it won’t actually be some stuffy old man with a castle. It’ll be a handsome young groundskeeper who answered the call for help even though he was actually a touring musician, because his last album bombed and it sent him into an existential crisis, and it turns out this very castle was once in his extended family, so he’s seeking his roots.” Stede allows himself one breath before he barrels on. “And he doesn’t know a thing about groundskeeping but thankfully the handsome man at the local garden centre is across all the necessary information. And it turns out the musician is actually the true heir to the castle and the garden’s never looked better and now he’s getting “dicked down”, as I believe you’d call it, in his rightfully-inherited four-poster bed every day, the end.”

He finishes up with a jaunty little swing of his fist, and is quite satisfied by how distinctly Lucius seems to be regretting every life choice he’s ever made.

“Christ,” he groans. “Oh, I need a fancy whisky cocktail for this.”

“If only you had a secret Scottish lord—“

Lucius snaps a finger in the air, and brings it slowly to his mouth, demanding silence, which Stede gives. “You. Are going to wander that way and find yourself that Scottish lord or a desperately bored musician or something. And I am going to look for a virile mechanic who’s caught in a tragically loveless heterosexual marriage, who doesn’t even know he’s just waiting for a lovely boy from an office to accidentally send a fax to the wrong number and ultimately tear his true queer self right out of the tiny ridiculous hotpants he obliviously wears to go rollerskating on a just friends date.”

“It’s 2024, Lucius!” Stede cries, watching the boy catch his breath. “Who’s even using fax machines anymore! Who’s rollerskating!”

But Lucius is already retreating, both middle fingers hoisted high above his shoulders.

Stede turns a circle and takes in this absolute wonderland of romance, and fears for the first time that perhaps he’s about to get more than he bargained for.

He wanders for a bit. Accepts a rainbow lanyard, and fun badge with a spaceship on it, and several friendship bracelets offered by passers-by, most with variations on GET IT SLUTS and the like. He makes a good, thorough catalogue of all the possible scenarios as he goes.

There’s a cosy book cafe, or the facade of one at least, where people are taking turns at being the barista or the customer. That looks like as good a place as any to start out! Stede wanders in and purchases himself a peppermint mocha with a mountain of whipped cream on top. He chats to the pleasant enough, handsome enough young man who’s roleplaying behind the counter, and by the time they’ve cycled through the other man’s belief that cats are apparently witches, and Stede’s caught him trying not to yawn about some excellent moth facts, he decides that there’s not enough chemistry there. In a place like this, surely he doesn’t have to aim for the bare minimum anymore.

No, there’s every possible chance that he’s going to meet—meet-cute?—someone he really, genuinely likes, dancing under the fairy lights or skipping through a snowball fight or in any number of other ways.

There’s an entire Christmas tree farm at one end, or a miniature version thereof, and as he watches a man is attempting to drag a large tree away. And then the man smiles gratefully as another man ducks over to help him lift it, and within seconds they’re laughing together like old friends.

Meet-cutes! They’re happening everywhere! Stede just has to find his.

He passes a whole tent full of costumes, decked out to look like a shop, and as he passes there’s a woman lamenting that she only just found out her absent boyfriend’s cousin’s wedding has a dress code, and it’s tomorrow morning. The person beside her lifts a truly bonkers sequinned dress as her face lights up, and—

He’s so busy watching everyone spin through their stories that he manages to wander right off the path, onto the grass.

And also, to trip with a shriek over someone’s outstretched legs.

And also, to tumble to a crashing halt on top of another body, already stammering apologies as that very warm person bursts out, “Fuck, that’s a vintage Stones tee.”

Oh, shit, the peppermint mocha. “I’m so sorry,” Stede says sincerely, scrambling to get up. There are legs everywhere, arms everywhere, warm but rapidly cooling drink everywhere.

Worse yet, the stranger is wearing the unmistakeable bright red scarf that marks him out as one of the a cappella singers Stede noticed earlier, which probably means he has to get back up there and perform. Stede finally manages to disentangle himself and sit back on the wet ground, and they both stare at the man’s front.

“Fuck,” Stede repeats. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean to do that.”

The man’s wearing leather trousers, a lovely black peacoat over the vintage shirt, that red scarf wrapped around his neck, silver hair flowing over his shoulders, a short beard to match, and a black beanie on his head.

He’s very handsome, Stede registers belatedly. He’s also very, very covered in whipped cream, not just the enormous splatter of it across his middle, but escaped splashes and flecks from head to toe. There are white pearls of it in his eyelashes. There’s a smear across his boots. Frenchie really had been generous with the whipped cream, apparently less generous with the mocha.

Stede thinks to look down at himself, and god, it’s just as bad where they were briefly pressed together. “We’re like a Rorschach test, aren’t we?”

The other man snorts. “Dunno what it says about either of us, do you?”

Thank god, he doesn’t sound furious, or miserable, because either would be terrible. Stede clambers up from the ground and offers his hand, and the man—who’s also wearing fingerless leather gloves, he notices—accepts and lets himself be pulled up.

He’s a tiny bit taller than Stede, and the motion of being pulled brings him stumbling in close enough that their breath mists together.

Stede looks up into a pair of lovely brown eyes, and feels the world grind to a halt around them, as if everyone else has been thrown into sudden slow motion, and they’re the only ones still operating at normal speed.

Oh. Oh.

He huffs a tiny, panicked laugh. The man grins, eyes crinkling, and his handsomeness is escalating to quite a concerning degree now.

“Go on, then,” he says softly. “Read my Rorschach, tell me what you see.”

His voice holds the kind of deep purr that instantly makes Stede want to curl up in his lap like a cat. Or something much more rational! Christ. He clears his throat and takes the permission, lets his eyes rove down the man’s front and back up again, only to find a tiny fleck of cream on his beard.

“Ooh, you’ve just got a little—just there.” The man brings his hand up, misses it. Pats to the left on Stede’s direction, and back to the right, and in the end Stede says, “C’mere, I’ll get it.”

His finger is halfway to the stranger’s beard when a warm hand catches his wrist, and Stede freezes.

“You can have that cream when you tell me what you see,” the man says, lifting a brow. “Could be pretty fuckin’ important, mate, could tell you everything.”

Stede swallows hard. Considers him. “I think. I think I see… tentacles.”

“Tentacles,” the lovely cream-covered a cappella singer says, sounding like this is the most delightful idea he’s ever heard. “Fuck, you can’t stop there. Go on.”

“Tentacles,” Stede repeats hoarsely, scrabbling through his wretched brain for something brilliant to say. He lands on, “Did you know that octopodes are very intelligent?”

There’s an extra sparkle in the man’s eye, and he pulls Stede’s hand closer, breathes warmly over his fingers. “So I’m a smart octopus. Lots of good ideas for shit I can do with my tentacles.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stede squeaks. “I’m sure you can think of many things. I think it’s a good first impression. I think you’re a good man…”

He leaves the standard lingering pause that says please tell me your name, before I start to think of you as Octoman and then I can’t shake it, but the man just stares at him looking confused. “You don’t know my name?”

“We only just met,” Stede says. “I’m sorry, should I—”

“No, no,” the guy says, looking over Stede’s shoulder, straightening up a little. “Name’s Ed, mate, good to meet you. And you are—”

“Stede,” he says. “And I suppose my own Rorschach says…”

Ed takes him by the shoulders and turns him a little, still glancing past him, like he’s trying to avoid being seen my someone. But when Stede glances back the only person in his line of sight is a small man with a goatee and a world-ending glare, who’s stomping along the path muttering to himself as he looks around.

Stede meets Ed’s eyes again and the understanding passes between them. He nudges Ed back a couple of steps, until he’s beside one of the park’s towering oak trees, and then he very casually leans his elbow up against the bark, like he’s a romantic hero about to kiss someone.

Ed lets out a tiny little laugh that could almost be categorised as a giggle, and Stede puts his finger to his lips. Says, “Shh,” and watches Ed’s pupils go dark. “Now about that first impression?”

Ed reaches out and traces a finger down through the cream on Stede’s shirt, making his breath stutter. It’s worse when Ed lifts that finger to his mouth and sucks the cream thoughtfully off it. “I dunno, mate, it might be a mermaid.”

“A mermaid,” Stede says, deeply amused and surprised. “Go on.”

“Appears out of the darkness, all bright and sparkly. Pulls out a guy who’s drowning a little bit—”

“—apparently pushes him down first, but who’s counting!”

“And then hides him from the biggest killjoy in the park without a second of hesitation, because he just got it so fast.” Ed takes another swipe of cream and eats it thoughtfully. “Reckon you’re a bit of a fucking lunatic, actually. And I like it.”

“Good,” Stede says, head still spinning. “Yes, good, that’s…” There’s a breath of wind that floats over them, carrying a sprinkling of snow, and it has the immediate effect of making both of them shiver simultaneously. “Damn it.”

He looks around, and just across the way there’s that mocked up clothing store. Ed’s followed his gaze, and he notices it at the same moment and grins. “Oh, yeah. Want to do something weird?”

~

Ed agreed to come to this festival thing as a last resort, mainly because all his friends are here, and he wants to be where they are. The loneliness gets too dark and cold around this time of year otherwise. And also, because it’s been tradition for him to come visit Archie and do something stupid, every holidays since they first met as ratty teens in Wellington. He’s gotta admit, her suggestion this year is the stupidest one she’s ever had.

“So you’re sick of touring,” she’d said, while they were lazing around in her apartment downing rums last week. “You’re sick of all the Blackbeard, Blackbeard stuff.”

“It’s not just me,” he tells her. “It’s us. That’s the thing, we’re a group.”

“And you’re the one with the pretty face and the tatts and the bad boy reputation, yeah, yeah, and you can sing, too. You’re only meant to do one of those things, fucking greedy doing all of them.”

He’d pulled a middle finger at her as he downed the rest of his rum in one burning gulp, because Archie can talk. She’s got all that going for her, too, and yet. She’s right, they keep on talking about him instead, and he’s stick of it. “All right, so. What’s the proposal? We going off on a fishing boat or something?”

She made a face. “No? There’s this fucking festival next week, all Hallmark movies. Cute as, Oluwande’s been working his tail off getting it all set up.”

Her partner’s boyfriend, right, yeah, Olu’s a nice guy with nice ideas. “And you want me to what, fuckin’… serve coffee or something? Dress up like a tree, nobody’ll know Blackbeard’s there staring at them?”

She snorted. “If you want, but nah. I was thinking you could… sing.”

He raised a brow. “The thing I’m trying to pretend I don’t do. Do that for a crowd.”

“Last place they’d look for you, in a community a cappella group. Who the fuck would ever believe that was really Blackbeard in there, all rugged up between Beryl and Bev, singing Christmas carols the way he used to before he got too cool for that shit?”

“You going to sing too?”

Archie snorted. “Like fuck I am.” She leaned across and snatched up the rum bottle, poured them each another dash. “One of us blends right in. Two’s a dead giveaway. I’ll find something else to do, and also…” Her eyes had flashed. “Got another challenge for you.”

Ed never backs down from a challenge. Ed would sooner die.

So he turns up at the festival, yeah, and he wedges himself in between Beryl and Bev in the a cappella line-up, and they compliment his scarf and tell him he’s doing a lovely job singing Starry Night. In return, he doesn’t tell them he bought the scarf on Etsy, and they get to think he’s a lovely young man trying something new with this whole singing business.

The rest of the crew have been co-opted by Archie’s mates, too. Fang’s manning the puppy adoption tent, where you actually can adopt a puppy, and maybe meet someone who wants to co-pick up dog shit for the next decade, very romance. Frenchie’s flitting between the coffee shop and the guitar lessons, because they’re a cappella, aren’t they? Nobody’s used to seeing Frenchie with an instrument, so they won’t think it’s actually him. Ivan’s on the axe-throwing stall. Archie’s got a snake? Somehow? Fucking huge python wrapped around her neck, and Ed’s not going near that. Izzy’s just lurking around being angry, as usual.

And then when they’ve sung their way through half a dozen carols and Bev announces she needs a run to the ladies’ room, Ed takes a walk. Sits down for a sec to rest his aching knee, which is always sore at this time of year, especially when he’s somewhere cold, and promptly gets himself pole-axed by a bloke built like a bank safe.

Well. If a bank safe also had incredibly shapely calves being squeezed to death by the tightest jeans known to humankind, and an impossible swoop of spun-gold hair, and beautiful hazel eyes, and yep! Yep.

Yep. Ed’s covered in peppermint mocha, and he thought he was being smart suggesting that they come try the clothing swap boutique. But now they’re in the change rooms and the guy’s peeling his leather jacket off over his shoulders, fingers brushing softly over his back, and Ed’s suddenly never been more aware of the existence of his shoulder blades in his life.

“At least you’re still dry here,” says this absolutely fucking lunatic as he fingers his way along the collar of Ed’s t-shirt, and by some kind of miracle he doesn’t spontaneously combust, maybe because he's too fucking cold for that.

“Wet everywhere else,” Ed croaks, and Stede just chuckles.

“Mm, you never know when you’ll get splashed all over with something creamy.”

Fuuuuck it’s not just him, is it? Is it just him? Stede’s wandered all the way back around to his front just in time for Ed to enter blind panic mode, frozen at the sight of how much prettier his already-pretty face is under the warm lights. “Do you need a hand?”

Ed hears a handy, bluescreens so hard about it that the only sound out of his mouth is a high-pitched kind of wheeze.

There’s a delicate little frown line growing between Stede’s brows. “Oh, dear. I go a little bit non-verbal sometimes, too, when things get overwhelming. Maybe a bit of body language instead?”

He reaches down for the hem of Ed’s shirt. Takes hold of it carefully, respectfully, not touching, fuck, Ed’s all too aware of how much he’s not touching, because he’s got a raging hard-on two inches from Stede’s fingertips. Stede looks up at him through his lashes. “Is this all right?”

And what the fuck could, would Ed ever do other than nod? It’s like he’s got a fuckin’ David Attenborough commentary running in his head, a voice-over narrating the decisions the other half of his brain is making without having a single thought about it first.

And now the handsome man pulls the shirt up, and his new friend lifts his arms like a child, some sort of… buried instinct from his youth. He must smell lingering hints of mint, chocolate, as the fabric eases over his head, and oh, to reach that high the other man has had to step in very, very close, so close that their bellies brush together. One might interpret it as a very unsubtle mating dance, were one into that sort of thing.

Only that man is still wearing clothes, so it probably doesn’t feel like lightning touching his skin, and the absence of the shirt is also probably why his new friend makes the most embarrassing whimper of his life to date and oh, it’s made him bump his hips forward, making full contact, and now everyone’s frozen—

Ed’s mental voiceover and his self-documentary merge in one snap, and he looks up to find Stede frozen there, holding Ed’s shirt above his head, looking down between the two of them.

To the spot where Ed’s just ground his cock against Stede’s crotch. All the way down there, past his naked chest, which Stede’s eyes drag up over next, because he’s looking up now, past belly and ship tattoo and hawk and neck, until he meets Ed’s stare and blinks.

He lets out a startled, embarrassed kind of laugh and leaps backwards. “God, Ed, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise how very much in your personal space I was getting.” His cheeks are flaming pink. “I’ll just be—over there. If you need anything…”

He’s bounding off behind the provided privacy screen before Ed can even open his mouth, and Jesus Christ, what is happening here?

Ed sighs, looking down at his peppermint mocha-splattered leathers and boots. And then he jumps half out of his skin when an arm pokes back around the screen, holding a fistful of bright clothes.

“Grabbed these for you!” Stede says, his voice high and tight. “If there’s anything you don’t like I can—”

“Looks great,” Ed manages to say, extracting the bundle. “Thanks, mate.”

It’s soft, all of it. They’d walked in here with the challenge of dressing each other, and sure, there was a limit—though fucking hell, this place is absolutely full of the coolest thrifted gear Ed’s ever seen. And Stede’s done an incredible job of picking the right sizes, perfect tones, fabrics so gorgeous Ed just wants to roll in them.

He wiggles out of his leathers and boots, and slips on a pair of deep pink velvet trousers first, a little flared at the bottom. He twists in the mirror, admires his ass. They’re warm, too, just as fuzzy on the inside, and he feels instantly better. There’s a green silk shirt that’s got a crossover neckline that dips almost to his navel, which might look like it was going to be useless against the weather out there, but last of all, there’s the most bananas coat he’s seen in his life, a huge white cloud of a thing with a massive hood, which drops to knee length. It’s like someone skinned a polyester yeti and Ed fucking loves it.

He gets it all on, checks himself out in the mirror for a bit. Boots have a little heel on them, and it's doing great things for his ass. He’s so fuckable. So fuckable, Jesus Christ, he almost feels sorry for this guy, because if Stede was hoping not to get laid he’s fresh out of—

Fuck.

Fuck, wait. Archie’s challenge. Archie’s little bet, the one they both take fifty times too seriously every year. It’s like a blood sport to the two of them.

“You always meet someone this time of year,” Archie had said, poking his thigh with her toe. “And then you take ‘em home and fuck ‘em. And then they break your heart, so.” She’d levelled him with a deadly stare. “No taking anyone home this year.”

He’d laughed. Actually laughed, because come on. “The one fucking joy I get from this season.”

She’d lifted her brow. “Kinda the point, yeah? So much other stuff to look forward to instead.”

That’s not—he’s not a one-trick pony. Does more than just fucks people and cries about it when they don’t want him after. An Ed Teach is for life, not just for Christmas. He could hear the sad ad music playing in the back of his head, feel his own puppy dog eyes getting big and glittery, all those past abandonments howling around him.

“I look forward to stuff,” he’d said gruffly. “Heaps of stuff. Fuckin’ love a bit of snow.”

“When it’s not on you,” Archie had countered.

He’d made a face at her. “I dunno, peppermint mocha. There. It’s sugar, it’s coffee, it's chocolate, it’s mint, it’s fucking great.”

“Cool,” Archie said. “And any people stuff you like?”

“People are great,” Ed said.

Sounded unconvincing even to him. He’s sick to fucking death of people. All the Blackbeard, Blackbeard, sing us a verse of Silent Night, like he’s the performing puppy now, begging for doggy heaven so he doesn’t have to have a single further conversation with anyone about how many times their grandmother plays his first album every Christmas.

“Maybe you’d like to spend Christmas around some people, then?” She’d rolled her eyes. “Since the tour got called off this year while we pretend everything’s fine and we’re all just having a much needed rest.”

“We are having a rest.” He’d gestured to the sofa around them, at the novelty socks on his feet where they’re pretzeled up onto the chair, little dancing Christmas trees all over them. “I’m resting right now.”

Archie had sighed. “Look, Jack writing himself off naked lugeing was a bummer but like, not before time, amiright?”

She was a little right. He shrugged.

“And now you’ve got a chance to do normal guy things at Christmas.”

“Normal guys fuck,” he said, not pouting about it.

She’d leaned over and thumped him in the arm a little harder than needed. “Other normal guys, yeah. You? You’re not taking anyone home, or else you owe me a thousand. And a solo on the next album.”

And she’d stuck her hand out, and he’d had to shake it, and here he is.

Unfuckable, while looking his hottest. It’s a Christmas tragedy.

He sighs. Shrugs his dead yeti over his shoulders a little more, and steps out of the change room, landing right in front of Stede.

Stede’s face journey is incredible. It’s like watching a guy get hit by a truck in slow motion, or no, maybe that’s a little lacking in Christmas spirit. It’s like watching a guy get kicked in the chest by a reindeer in slow motion. First his expressive brows draw together in surprise. Then his eyes go wide in a way Ed’s only read about in books, right as his jaw falls open. He visibly takes a punched-in breath, swallows, tries to talk, fails to get out anything other than a wheeze.

Ed puts a hand on his hip, pops it and strikes a pose. “Think you’ve got a future in fashion design,” he says, all sultry, like a guy who knows he’s going to have this mountain of fur ripped off him as soon as possible.

“Mm-hmm,” Stede squeaks. “Yes, I think—I think that all works.”

Ed gives him a little chin nod. “What are you changing into?”

Stede frowns at him. “Me?”

“You, Mr. Rorschach.”

Stede looks down at himself and finally seems to remember he got the other half of the mocha all over his pretty pink sweater. “Oh. Damn. Well, that’s—”

“I’m gonna choose for you,” Ed says, and nods to the change room. “In there. No peeking.”

Stede’s cheeks have a lovely high blush on them now, and he laughs a little nervously. “Phew. All right, I suppose you very generously allowed me to dress you, so…”

He slides past Ed with a gust of peppermint, and Ed turns back to the little store, grinning, his idea fully taking shape.

~

“Oh, Ed,” Stede says, twenty minutes later. “I’m not sure—”

“Shh,” Ed says, stepping in close, brushing a stray curl away from Stede’s forehead with such tenderness that his knees weaken. “You look fucking amazing.”

Stede looks like… Ed, sort of. If Ed was… much less cool. Silly thought, Ed would be cool in anything. He pivots from side to side, inspecting himself in the mirror. The leather trousers are brown rather than black, because it was all they had—and knowing that Ed had a plan here is really doing something for him. They certainly emphasise his lack of endowment in the ass region, but that’s not news. They’ve got fiddly little criss-crossed laces at the hips and the calves, and Stede’s wearing a pair of long brown boots over them, and yes.

Yes, actually, he likes this. He’s never been short on self-confidence, honestly. He knows that he’s a handsome man with a number of good assets. There’s just uncertainty in letting someone else take over where his own fashion standards are exacting.

But Ed seems to know exactly what he wants, and wants is the right word, because there’s this… aura of desire emanating from him. It’s something Stede can’t recall ever having had beamed his way before, but he could bask in it. Soak in it. Lap it up—

“Tried to find a leather jacket to go with it so that we could get the, you know, the whole swap thing down.” When Stede stares at him uncomprehending Ed does a little shimmy. “I’m taking a turn at being a fancy man. You’re taking a turn at being… me.”

Stede smiles at him. “Impossible. You’re incomparable.”

Ed does that soft little intake of breath that Stede so enjoys already. “Well, I’m comparing you. Comparing the fuck out of you.” He pivots Stede by the shoulders so that they’re standing side by side in the mirror. “I dunno, the shirt maybe wasn’t the best idea—”

“I love it,” Stede says firmly.

Like Ed’s shirt, it’s cut almost to his belly button, held together by a series of ties that don’t do much at all to hide the breadth of his chest, which is, vain as it might be to think it, one of his greatest assets. Ed certainly seems to have a hard time pulling his eyes away.

“I’ll get you a scarf,” Ed says, and then his eyes brighten. “Or hey, fucking make you a scarf.”

“Ooh,” Stede says brightly, because he’s never knitted before. “Perhaps we can make each other a scarf.”

His coat will keep him warm until then, he’s fairly sure. Ed’s chosen a long brown one with a faux fur collar to match his own. Standing side by side in the mirror, they look incredible together.

“Like a pair of pimps who escaped from 1975,” Ed says, sounding amused. “Gotta light up the town together.”

Stede sticks out his elbow, and Ed takes it. “Shall we boogie?”

~

They do try the knitting stall first, and it takes all of ten minutes for Stede to understand that they’ve both desperately underestimated the time required for this craft, even if one actually manages to master it. What they end up with instead is a mess of matted and tangled yarn, which Stede solemnly attempts to wrap around Ed’s neck like a scarf anyway, until Lucius’ friend Wee John barks at them to be careful, unless they’re into breathplay. The way Ed's eyes go wide at that and his breathing goes shallow is something Stede's going to file away.

They end up legging it out of there once Stede's also got a pile of yarn around his neck, hand in hand and giggling, until they get to a slope down which people are tobogganing, if you can call it that, sliding down a slope that has an angle that can’t be more than about twenty degrees.

“Oh,” Stede says, watching a young man catapult himself off the plastic board at the end of the slope, tumbling in a screaming whirl of arms and legs. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Come on, mate,” Ed says, his voice so warm against Stede’s ear that he shivers. “Not gonna leave me to do this all on my own, are you?”

Stede pivots. Bumps Ed’s nose with his own, catches a breath. Those eyes are sparkling with mischief, and Stede would, in fact, follow Ed directly off a cliff right now. He can do anything with Ed by his side.

“All right,” he says, straightening his fur-collared coat. “What could possibly go wrong?”

The answer to that, he discovers, is that Ed could insist that they both ride on the same slide, and Stede couldn’t possibly say no to being wedged in between his thighs, with Ed’s arms tight around his waist. The person manning the ride counts down, three, two—and Ed launches them early with a wild whoop, and they go rocketing down the slope under their combined body weight, as Stede screams at the top of his lungs and sees his life flash before his eyes.

They do fly off at the other end, tumbling over until he’s flat on his back, staring up at the slowly drifting snowflakes and at Ed, who’s landed right on top of him.

Stede’s breathless. All his breath is rushing out of him as mist, goodbye to that, no more breathing while Ed’s looking at him like that.

“You good?” Ed says, still giggling, squeezing his arms. “Nothing broken?”

“Everything fixed, in fact,” Stede says hoarsely. It’s wild to feel that way, but god, it does.

Ed’s laughter dies away as he stares down into Stede’s eyes, his expression soft. “Kinda does feel a little like that, doesn’t it?”

Stede nods, wordless. Ed leans in closer. Stede’s lids flutter, and he opens his mouth to have the life breathed back into him.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

His eyes snap open again, and he looks up to find—

“Lucius!” Ed’s pulled back, too, staring up at the boy, and a bolt of irritation shoots through Stede. “We were having a moment!”

“At the bottom of the toboggan slope, in front of me and god and everyone,” Lucius says, a lurid pink drink in his hand. He looks remorseless. He’s also not backing away at all. “And this is?”

Ed heaves himself up off Stede and straightens his yeti coat with one imperious shrug. “This is Ed,” he says. “And you are?”

Lucius squints at him as Stede clambers up. “This is Lucius,” Stede says, to make up for his assistant’s rudeness. And then he adds, “He’s on the naughty list this year.”

Lucius clicks his tongue as he winks. “You know it.” He leans in closer, still squinting. “I know you from somewhere.”

Ed scoffs. “No you don’t.”

Lucius looks unconvinced. “What do you do for work?”

“Lucius!” Stede snaps. “We don’t just go around asking people what they do!”

“Some of us don’t,” Lucius says, looking no less smug than before. “I mean, nobody has to answer. But I’m sure people who don’t have anything to hide wouldn’t care.”

“Oh my god.” Stede gets hold of Ed’s elbow and starts to tug him the other way, calling back over his shoulder. “Haven’t you met cute anyone yet? Meet cuted? Whatever, I don’t care! Go away, look for your own person.”

“I’m your person?” Ed says, ten steps away, pulling Stede to a halt. His eyes are still glittering, filled with the reflections of a thousand fairy lights. He’s got two dozen strands of yarn hanging like an avant garde necklace around his neck, and a yeti over his shoulders, and Stede’s never liked anyone more in his life.

“You could be,” he says, voice thick with unexpected emotion. He reaches for Ed’s hand and squeezes it, their fingers equally cold. “I think you might be.”

Ed huffs out a watery little laugh and tugs Stede closer. “This past couple of hours has been the best time I’ve had in ages. Months. Maybe ever? I don’t know, man, you make me happy.”

Stede’s bowled over by the emotion of hearing those words come out of Ed’s mouth. Honestly he’s not sure anyone has ever told him that before in his life. “That’s lovely. Oh, Ed, you’re lovely, can I—”

He leans in again. Ed leans in again. There are tiny flecks of snow glistening on Ed’s lashes. His mouth is so warm, even before their lips have met. His eyes flutter closed in anticipation, and Stede couldn’t possibly look away from this: the beginning of the rest of his life. He can practically hear the swells of the violins building in their own Hallmark moment.

And he cops a bright burst of hard coldness to the side of his head for his trouble, breaking away from Ed with a shout of surprise.

“Archie, you dick,” Ed yells, already bending down to scrape up a fistful of snow. Stede swipes the last bits of ice off his neck and squints over at Ed’s friend, who’s laughing from across the clearing.

“You got fucked up, bro!”

“I’ll show you fucked up!” Ed yells, balling the snowball in his fists. He pelts the ball at her and she ducks, very limber, only to come up with a pre-made snowball in her hands. And Ed’s already leaning down to gather his next bit of ammunition, and Stede can see exactly where this is going.

As if in slow motion he flings himself in front of Ed as Archie hurls her snowball, and the thump of the snow against his chest is oddly satisfying in the instant before it explodes, showering his face with stinging ice.

Ed roars and throws his snowball, which catches Archie firmly in the face this time, sending her toppling backwards.

“Jesus Christ,” Ed says breathlessly, leaning down to pull Stede up. “You took a snowball for me. You okay?”

His eyes are all glittery as he says it, like Stede’s some actual hero here. “I’m okay,” he confirms, with a glance back over his shoulder. “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine,” Archie says, popping up beside them so suddenly that Stede startles again. “Who’s this?”

“Here we fucking go,” Ed says with a groan.

Archie punches him in the arm. “Just checking back in on the old challenge, mate.”

Ed grimaces. “Challenge is going fine. Fuck off.”

“You fuck off,” she says cheerfully, and then she turns to inspect Stede, and he’s struck with a sudden bolt of recognition.

Archie. Archie Archie?

“Wait,” he says faintly. “Hold on, you’re—you’re Archie Ranjan.”

She scoffs, waves her hand. “Get that all the time. She wishes she was me.”

“No,” Stede says, tapping his chin. “No, I’ve got every album Kraken Chorus has released.” He scans over her, trying to work out what’s so familiar, until he lands on her hat, which makes him hoot. “This beanie! The red one! You were wearing it on the cover of A Hallowed Night. I just listened again on Tuesday.”

Archie winces. “Maybe I got the hat because I liked it on my doppelgänger?”

Stede’s still giddy. “You’re my favourite band every Christmas. I had tickets to the show!” He looks to Ed, disbelieving. “I’m only here because you had to cancel!” Remarkable. Incredible. And it dawns on him belatedly that he’s being terrible, because Archie probably gets this all the time, and she’s just trying to enjoy an evening out anonymously. “Your secret is safe with me!” he says, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. And then the thought hits him and he has to lean in. “So you know Blackbeard?”

Archie bites her lip. “You a Blackbeard fanboy, then? Got the hots for him or what?”

“He seems lovely,” Stede says, because he’s not about to confess all his fantasies to Blackbeard’s bandmate. “At least from what little I see of him; he seems to avoid the media more than the rest.”

“Oh, he can be a real dick,” Archie says, shooting a look across at Ed, who doesn’t look like he agrees. “But yeah, I know him. Been friends since we were kids. Love the guy, just want him making healthy choices.”

Stede’s spent many winter nights staring at the cover of one Kraken Chorus album or another, thinking about how lovely Blackbeard’s voice is.

And his eyes! He’s got beautiful eyes, soulful and brown, very reminiscent of Ed’s eyes, actually.

Huh. He swivels. Ed’s looking at him, with those same eyes. No, the same eyes, and Stede feels his mouth drop open.

Ed puts a graceful finger to his lips and says, “Shh.”

He splutters. Looks back at Archie, who’s very smug. Looks back at Ed. “But your beard!”

Ed shakes his head wearily, runs a hand over the short silver of his shaved face, which is so very different to the way he looks with the long curly beard that's his signature. “Needed a change, man. Just got so fucking tired of everyone expecting the same shit.”

And the tone is there, right there, exhausted and worn down and resigned, that makes Stede realise Ed must fear he’ll want the same. “Ed. Edward.” He turns to face Ed fully, ignoring Archie, and takes his hands. “This has been the most fun I’ve had in forever, too. All thanks to you. Just Ed.”

Ed nods, tearful. “I know, man. I feel it too. It’s just—”

“Ed!” There’s the angry little man who was stalking around before, and Stede’s beginning to realise that this meet cute has begun with one, and then evolved to feature multiple less cute meets with meddling people from both of their lives. “There you are. They want you up there singing in a minute. It'll be good for you.”

Just the thing Ed’s been trying to avoid. “You’re going to sing?” Stede asks incredulously. “In order to… have a break from singing?”

Ed shoots Archie a look, and another at the angry little man. “That’s what I said. And that I figured someone would notice, but nobody’s picked it yet.” He grins. “Besides you.”

The other man snaps to look at Stede, brows drawn into a frown, voice getting gruffer by the minute. “I’ve got an NDA in the car—”

“No,” Stede says firmly. “No need, I’m not going to say anything.” He looks Ed up and down, really seeing the bone-deep tiredness there. “What it we do one more weird thing?”

~

So, uh. Stede’s not much of a singer. Archie’s clutching Ed’s arm as she tries not to laugh, both of them watching Stede up there with the a cappella group, swaying in the wrong direction to Bev and Beryl as his slightly off tones float out.

“He’s doing it for me,” Ed says, a little overwhelmed with how that feels. This guy he’s just met has volunteered to go take Ed’s place on stage just to give him a rest, he’d said.

He’s beaming every time he catches Ed’s eye, really putting his whole chest into singing along with A Holly Jolly Christmas.

It’s terrible. It’s absurd. It shouldn’t be this hot, but fuck, looking at Stede up there with his big orange coat and his golden hair glowing under the bandstand lights, looking back at Ed with so much light in his eyes, has heat simmering all through Ed.

“A thousand bucks,” Archie reminds him, nudging him in the side. “And a solo on the next album.”

He sighs. He’s got more riches than you could shake a stick at, and a thousand’s no skin off his nose. “You got a song in mind?”

“Hmm,” Archie says, tugging him to the side, pushing him back, now swaying in time to Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. “Dunno, there’s a lot of stuff that hasn’t had the Christmas treatment yet. Barbie Girl. Mambo Number Five.”

She’s joking, or he thinks she is, but fuck. All their actual songs have been sanitised, all the life stripped out of them, rendered beautiful in the spectrum of their collective voices, but just… so fucking boring. He looks down at her. “What about a few songs?”

She raises her brows, then narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

Tonight hasn’t just been an escape from all the stress. When he thinks about it, this is… something, how free he feels here. As much as he’d like to believe it’s because of Stede, he reckons it’s more than that.

“I didn’t have to be me tonight,” he tells her. “Not that guy on the front of every album, who everyone thinks they know.” None of them do know him, not the way Archie does. And she knows that, too. For once there’s no sarcastic reply, so he keeps going. “First time in ages I haven’t felt like I was treading water, waiting to drown, because there’s no show waiting for me, til the new schedule’s up. The show's the problem.”

“You want to quit,” she says, face serious. “You reckon you’re done?”

Up on stage, Stede leans in toward Bev and finishes off the song with an extended note that—even from here—Ed can hear breaking before the rest are done, and it makes him chuckle.

“I think I’m done, yeah.”

She squeezes him. “Think you’ve earned a bit of a rest, mate.”

“What d’you think, you want to be the new lead singer?”

She scoffs. “Been doing this as long as you have. Feels like we could all do with a break, actually.”

That gives him a completely different feeling, a little wash of panic. “I don’t want to break up the band, fuck.”

Archie lets go of his arm, slides her arms around his waist instead. “None of us wanted to stop as long as you wanted to keep doing it. Doing it for you as much as anything, y’know? So I reckon what makes you happy… probably does the same for us, too. We’ll find something new. Something better for all of us.”

There’s polite clapping all around them now as the a cappella group take their final bows, and Stede’s getting squashed into grandmotherly hugs in all directions, cheeks pink with the cold.

“You think I really have a chance?” Ed asks. “At something… normal?”

Archie just laughs, leans up and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Mate, I’ll pay you a thousand bucks to give it a try this time. Bets are off.”

Before he can take her up on that, she’s dashing off into the crowd, and Stede’s coming toward him like a vision of an angel, descending the stairs from the bandstand as people seem to melt away.

And Ed’s been interrupted what feels like a dozen times tonight, and he’s not going to waste any more time. He steps forward. Walks toward Stede. Meets him halfway.

Stede’s eyes are shining. “Did I do it right?”

Ed lets out the fondest laugh of his life. “Yeah.” He steps in closer, loops his arm around Stede’s waist. “Got some more advanced tricks of the trade I could show you.”

“Yeah?” Stede’s dimple comes out fully when he smiles like that, a little mischievous, a little shy. “Like yodelling?”

“Like—” Ed breaks off with a snort. “You really are a fucking lunatic.” And before Stede can second guess that in any way, he adds, “I still love it.”

“Catch!” Lucius yells, sidling past quickly, and Ed braces for another snowball, ready to curse both of their crews to hell.

But Stede’s hand goes up easily and he snatches something out of the air. Laughs when he sees it, then lifts it above them both. It’s a sprig of mistletoe, bright green leaves and little white berries. “I do believe the rules are the rules.”

Ed nods. Leans in. Brushes his cold nose against Stede’s, gets as close as brushing their lips together, and then Stede pauses.

“What was this challenge, Edward?” His hazel eyes are serious when Ed pulls back. “The one that Archie mentioned? I just…” He swallows. “I really like you, very very much. And I think I deserve to know if I’m only in your arms because of a bet.”

Ed huffs out a laugh. “Shit, no, mate, you’re losing me a bet.”

Stede’s brow arches. “Am I?”

Ed nods. “Archie challenged me not to take anyone home.”

“From a dating festival.” The glimmer is back in Stede’s eye again. “Does that happen… often?”

Ed shrugs. “Haven’t always made the best choices.” He squeezes Stede tighter. “Betting on this one, though. Already told Archie she won.”

“Because she challenged you not to take someone home.”

Ed nods.

Stede searches his gaze. “And you’re going to take me home.”

Suddenly it feels presumptuous. “If, uh. If that’s what you’d like.”

Stede grins. And then he giggles. And then he tips his head back and cackles, and Ed just stands there holding him, confused as hell, feeling his mouth twitch with a smile at Stede's laughter.

When Stede finally gets himself together, he reaches up to touch Ed’s cheek. “Oh, Ed, god, I’m sorry, it’s just…” The mistletoe is still clutched in his other hand. “I was here on a bet, with Lucius. Or a challenge, that I would take home the first suitable person I met.”

Ed stares at him. “And you met me.”

He bites his lip and nods. “I did.”

“And I met the criteria.”

Stede winces. “I can see that it might sound… not entirely sincere, but I promise—”

“He challenged you to take someone home,” Ed says again, and watches the confusion pass over Stede’s features before he leans in, brushing Stede’s ear with his lips. “Guess you lose, too.”

“Oh.” He can feel the way Stede sags. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“I’m taking you home,” Ed purrs, squeezing the solid width of Stede’s torso. Fuck, he can’t wait to peel off all these clothes. “You’re not taking me home. There you go, we both lose. Pair of losers, us.”

Stede’s face brightens like he’s just won the lottery. “We are, aren’t we?”

Ed nods, but he also reaches for Stede’s wrist, lifts it back above both of their heads. “If I don’t get to kiss you in the next three seconds I’m gonna lose my—”

Stede lunges in and interrupts with his lips, kissing Ed soundly on the mouth. He lets out a startled breath before he drops Stede’s wrist. Stede tosses the mistletoe aside, slings his arms around Ed’s neck instead, and Ed dives into kissing him. Hears a whoop somewhere behind them, lifts his middle finger without even looking. Stede’s mouth is warm, and sweet, and he’s letting out little moans every time Ed moves, and yep. Yep, they’re about to need a room here.

“My place,” he gasps, breaking away. “Rented it just for the weekend. Like a fucking… castle, man, four-poster bed and everything.”

And now Stede’s really beaming. “Take me home, m’lord.”

Definitely not going to awaken anything in him, that. "I want to get you in my bed," Ed murmurs, "and do some unspeakable things to you."

"Mmhmm," Stede squeaks. "Very willing."

"But maybe tomorrow we could just... stay in? Watch some Christmas movies?"

Stede nods, eyes brimming up with tears, like he's accepting a proposal. "I would love that."

He offers his elbow, and Stede takes it, and they waltz off into the drifting snow, heading for, he's pretty damn sure, their happily ever after.