Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There’s a man trespassing on Ed’s land.

Not unusual—the boundaries of what’s technically his are admittedly pretty wishy-washy, and he never did get around to marking any kind of property line for fencing, or markings, or anything that would actually indicate the divide between technically-public and not-so-technically-public land, but still. There’s a man trespassing on Ed’s land, and he’s showing a particular interest in the chicken coop, and Ed is definitely not dressed enough to go and chase him off, or spook him off, politely inform him that he’s on somewhat private land, or give any kind of indication that he’s not particularly welcome to nose around like he is.

So Ed gives him the benefit of the doubt, and he watches.

Watches the man chat to Ed’s chickens over the little fence, his face animated and expressive as he addresses each of the birds in turn. Watches him investigate the half assembled planter Ed has laid out in the yard, the reclaimed railway sleepers frost-coated and shining in the morning sun. Watches him look at the last of Ed’s winter vegetables, the last stragglers of the spinach and carrots waiting for Ed to harvest them. He’s fascinating to watch.

He’s only around for ten minutes or so in total, and the edge of the chicken run is as close as he gets to the house, almost like he’s drawing his own boundaries of how much trespassing is socially acceptable.

Even from a distance, Ed can tell this stranger isn’t lacking in the looks department. He’s broad, and of a decent height, and his hair shines in the low morning sun, white-blonde where it falls over his face and curls a little around his ears. He’s handsome, and he’s doing a somewhat decent job of respecting Ed’s boundaries, and Ed kind of wants to talk to him. Just a bit. Just enough to know who he is. Why he’s here. Whether he’s likely to come back.

Ed’s used to visitors, though the novelty of his home has worn off in the last eighteen months or so, the uninvited guests becoming fewer and further between. He’s used to curiosity, and questions he rarely feels like answering. He’s used to people forgetting that this is, in fact, his home, and not some out of the way tourist attraction.

He’s used to strangers.

But he’s starting to think that perhaps, not all his visitors need to stay strangers.

His hair is still a little damp from the shower, but he throws some clothes on, shoving his feet into a pair of wellies by the door and pulling the nearest coat around his shoulders. He’ll just say hi. Nice and casual. Talk about the chickens, maybe give the guy some eggs to take with him.

Easy. Enough conversation to gauge whether he’s someone worth talking to, small-talky enough that he can get rid of him if it’s weird, or the guy turns out to be a creep.

Ed gives himself a once over in the mirror closest to the front door. He’s presentable. Might even go so far as looking pretty good, considering. It’s more than good enough, is what it is. He pulls the door open, half tripping over his own feet in the rush to get out.

Not that the panic did him any good. The man has gone. Disappeared back into the woods in the time it took Ed to get dressed, the footprints in the frost the only indication he was ever there.

Ed sighs, running a hand through his hair and taking the opportunity to go check on the chickens, animated and fussing for a snack now they’ve received some attention.

“You good?” he asks, peering down into the run. They’re all present, chattering up to the fence when they hear him speak. He pulls the lid off a bucket of pellets and scatters a few over the ground, smiling to himself as they squabble and fight over the unexpected treats.

“Don’t get used to this,” he murmurs. “One time only. Unexpected guest special.”

He lifts the lid of the coop, plucking a few eggs from inside and tucking them carefully into his pocket. That’s lunch sorted. Brunch maybe.

Now that he’s out, Ed takes the opportunity to wander a little, looping what he considers the perimeter of his property and checking various beds and fences for damage. It’s cold, really cold, and the sun is low enough that there are patches of frost he knows won’t melt, crunchy leaves that won’t thaw. His breath forms a cloud around his head as he walks, and there’s a moment he regrets not bringing a hat, or waiting long enough for his hair to dry a little better before coming out.

He can see the memoir now. Distracted by a mysterious, handsome stranger: the Edward Teach story.

For the second week in a row, there’s a man trespassing on Ed’s land.

Same guy, same curiosity, same unnecessarily handsome smile as he has an entirely one sided conversation with the chickens and crouches down to give the cat a few scritches behind his ears. Toaster, the bloody traitor, immediately rolls onto his back, exposing his belly and stretching his legs out in an attempt to get a rarely requested belly rub. Ed knows better than to fall for that kind of trick. He's got the bloody scars to prove it.

But this guy, handsome blondie, somehow makes it out completely unscathed, like he’s some kind of cat whisperer.

Ed’s fucking fascinated by him.

He considers going out this time, finding a way to make small talk—perhaps congratulate him on being the only human being to successfully tame Toaster on their first attempt.

But something stops him. Something keeps his feet planted firmly on the warm wood floors of his kitchen. Next time, maybe. If the man comes back, Ed will speak to him. So far, it’s been a pattern of two weeks. Same day, same time, same behaviour. If the guy makes it a proper pattern, if he repeats it for a third week, Ed will go out and speak to him. He’ll be prepared next time. He’ll be armed with small talk, dry hair, and a full outfit.

It’s not that he’s lonely out here. He’s isolated, but that’s by design.

Ed’s life is simple, relatively uncomplicated, and as free from external influences as is humanly possible. All by design, all on purpose, all for a reason. It has routine, and a complete lack of it. His days are structured, but only by the tasks that are completely necessary.

He has five chickens, a crow he thinks he might be friends with, and a partially feral tomcat.

Not that Toaster has always been feral, but something about moving to the middle of the woods seemed to awaken some kind of well-buried natural instinct in him. One that has him disappearing off for days on end, coming home only when he fancies yelling bloody murder at Ed and helping himself to the tub of catnip infused treats Ed keeps on the kitchen counter.

Plenty of animal friends out here, not as many human ones. And it’s not that Ed’s lonely, it’s just that maybe it would be nice to have a friend. A new friend. One without any kind of weird strings of the past attached.

Maybe handsome blondie could be that friend.

Worth a try, anyway.

Seven days later, just as Ed half hoped, half expected, the man returns.

He sets an alarm, gets himself up, washed, dressed and breakfasted all before the stranger’s estimated time of arrival. He gets himself out into the front garden, feeds the chickens, turns their heat lamp up a little, and starts shovelling and salting the paths he’ll need over the next few days.

Ed’s squatting down by a dodgy looking fence, doing his best to do a bodge job with a handful of cable ties and a pair of wire cutters when he arrives. Ed hears him before he sees him, the telltale sound of boots crunching through fresh snowfall pulling at his attention.

“Good morning!” The man calls, accent familiar but uncommon around these parts of the world.

“Morning,” Ed calls back, straightening himself up and wincing at the crack in his knee. Brace. He really has to find his fucking brace. Job for the afternoon, maybe.

“I hope you don’t mind me bothering you like this, but I wanted to ask you about your home. It’s beautiful.”

Ed knows it’s beautiful. He designed it that way, built it that way. Hand selected every goddamn branch and beam that made it that way. It’s getting more beautiful by the year, as the timber weathers a little and it settles into itself. The land that Ed initially cleared to build it has slowly been creeping back in, nature reclaiming what is rightfully hers, and it feels more and more like home as time passes. It is beautiful, and Ed’s not so humble that he’ll deny the praise when it’s offered.

“Yeah, she is,” Ed says. “Ask away.”

“You built her yourself, I understand,” Blondie starts. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, staring at Ed’s home like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Maybe it is. “From timber felled in this woodland?”

Ed nods. That information is easy to find online. Bit of a stir when he’d first started clearing space and harvesting trees, enough news articles to satisfy most people’s curiosities. Not this guy though, apparently.

“It’s a remarkable achievement.” The man looks at Ed, his expression a weird mix of awe and pride. “Truly, remarkable. To build something both stunning and sustainable from the land around you. Beautiful.”

He’s not asking many questions, but that kinda suits Ed fine. He doesn’t mind this kind of conversation, this is small talk he can happily engage in. Especially when the conversation partner is this easy on the eyes.

“How long did she take to build?”

“A year or so, give or take. Could’ve been less, definitely planned for less, but we got really fucking hammered by that few weeks of late snow in 2017. That set everything back a few months, but we got there.”

The snowfall had been fucking brutal, but the woodland had been beautiful, magical even. Construction may have slammed to a fucking halt, but Ed had spent days just walking through the snow, knee deep at times, taking endless photographs of the landscapes and just enjoying the unnatural silence that fell across the area while everything and everyone hunkered down for a couple of weeks.

“I feel like I’m overusing the word remarkable here, but forgive me. It’s difficult to find a word that better fits. You’re off grid?”

“Yeah.” Ed points at the small turbines at the back of the house. “Little bit of wind power, little bit of solar, a nice little log burner and some really fucking good insulation. She keeps pretty warm in the winter, relatively cool inside in the summer. Water can be a bit of an arse, but I manage. It’s easier when you’re just sorting yourself out. The animals aren’t fussy. Pretty sure Toaster’d drink directly from the fucking water butt if I let him.”

“And your chickens? Goodness they have some personalities on them, don’t they?”

Ed chuckles. “Yeah, you could say that. They keep me in eggs, keep me company, keep the cat on his toes.”

“Another personality filled little creature. Feisty little bastard!”

Ed grins. “He has his moments. Never seen him warm to someone as quick as you though.”

An entire story's worth of expressions pass over the guy's face. Guilt, that he's been caught, confusion probably, that at some point he's been watched, and finally, a warm smile that spreads across the man’s face, all pleased and proud. It’s a really fucking nice smile, a really fucking nice expression all round. Ed wouldn’t mind finding a hundred new ways to put it on his face.

“I’ve never really been an animal person,” he says, voice a little smaller than before.

“Hey,” Ed says, braving a chance and knocking his forearm gently against Blondie’s. “First time for everything, huh?”

“Yes,” Blondie says softly. “I suppose there is.”

Three Sundays become four, just as Ed hoped, but didn’t dare expect. He’s letting the kettle boil on the stove when he spots the now familiar flash of Blondie’s teal scarf through the trees. He decides to tempt the fuck out of fate, pulling a second mug down from a cabinet and shoving two teabags into the already waiting teapot. Hope’s got him this far, he figures, can’t hurt to push it a little further. The water boils, Ed pours it over the teabags, and shoves a tea cosy over the pot to let it brew. That gives him ten minutes or so, enough to small talk his way into an invitation, of sorts.

Ed pulls on a pair of wellies, wraps a scarf around his neck, and opens the front door just in time to watch Blondie lean just a little too far over the chicken fence, falling arse over teakettle into the pen and sending the birds scattering with a variety of panicked cries.

“Jesus fuck,” Ed mutters to himself, sprinting as best he can across the yard in the snow and vaulting over the fence. Blondie’s still laying flat on his back, and the chickens have recovered impressively quickly from their scare, inching back in to investigate why their new friend has done an unexpected front flip into their pen.

“Fucking hell mate, you good?”

Blondie squints up at him, then slaps a hand over his face and groans.

“My name’s Stede,” he says, slightly muffled by the cuff of his parka. It’s not the answer to the question Ed actually asked, but he’ll take the information if it’s given.

“Steve?”

“Stede, with a d. I thought if I was going to get this intimately acquainted with your ladies you should probably know my name.”

Fuck, he’s fucking adorable. Ed’s in fucking trouble with a capital T.

“Okay, Stede-with-a-d, I’m Ed. You want a hand getting up?”

“Yes please,” Stede groans, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He reaches for Ed’s outstretched hand, braces himself against the nearest fencepost, and pulls himself to his feet, staring forlornly down at the backs of his legs.

“Suppose I should be hoping for new jeans for Christmas.”

“Bit late to be updating your list, mate. Big man’s probably got his sleigh all packed and ready to go by now.”

“One can only hope for the best, Edward.”

Ed grins, forcing down the surge of fondness that is rolling in his belly. Stede is a potential friend. Platonic friend. Even if the way he just said Ed’s whole-ass name just made him want to drop to his knees just a little bit. Right here in the dregs of the snow.

“Can’t offer you jeans, but I make a mean cup of tea?”

He watches Stede assess the situation with his clothes, brushing down the backs of his legs and shaking the worst of the dirt and snow from his coat.

“I won’t stay long, but that would be absolutely lovely, thank you.”

Ed leads him to the gate of the pen, waving him through and locking it securely behind him. He resists the urge to offer an arm, instead falling carefully into step at Stede’s side as they make their way up to the house.

When they reach the large, wraparound porch, Stede beelines for one of Ed’s Adirondack chairs, sinking into it with a groan.

“You not coming in?”

Stede looks down at himself, then raises an eyebrow at Ed. “I don’t think I’m in any state to enter your home, Ed. If it’s okay with you, out here will suit me just fine. I’d hate to drip god knows what all over your floors.

Ed doesn’t point out that he’s smearing god knows what all over his porch furniture.

“Suits me fine,” he says. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Yes, please. And one. No, two. It’s a two day.”

“Wanna make it three? They’re big mugs. Reckon you deserve three.”

“Twist my arm,” Stede smiles, and Ed disappears into the house before he can do something utterly fucking stupid like kiss the soft smile off Stede’s face.

The tea has definitely over brewed a little, but Ed figures today of all days, Stede could probably do with something the spoon will stand up in. He scoops sugar, pours a little milk into each mug, and tops it up with tea, giving each one a stir and tossing the spoon into the sink for later.

He snags half a packet of chocolate hobnobs from the counter, and carefully picks up the mugs in one hand, making his way back out to where Stede is sitting in the cold, watching over Ed’s land like a strange little guardian.

“Oh you angel,” Stede murmurs as Ed hands him a mug.

“Might be a bit strong,” Ed warns, waiting for Stede to take a sip before settling into the chair next to him. The wood is cold, even through his clothes, but the mug clutched in his hands is warm enough to counter it. And Ed’ll make as many teas as he needs to, as many as Stede requests.

"It's perfect," Stede whispers.

Score fucking one for Ed.

He wiggles a stack of biscuits out of the packet and hands the rest to Stede, watching as he breaks each one into impressively neat quarters that he can dunk into his tea one at a time.

“It’s so peaceful out here,” Stede says, mouth still half full of mushed up hobnob. “I can see why you’d want to build a home here.”

Ed just hums, looking out over the garden. The sun is low, sparkling over the snow and casting long shadows where it hits planters and fence posts. A robin dances through the air, landing on a nearby tree branch and cocking its head at Ed and Stede and their potential feast. Ed snaps off a little bit of biscuit and tosses it onto a clear section of path.

It takes a moment, but the bird swings down onto the ground, pecking at the crumbs and taking the biggest chunk back to wherever he came from. Ed’s probably given him the beginnings of a terrible sugar habit, but at this time of year, he figures they need all the energy they can get, regardless of the source.

“Was there a lot of bureaucracy, building on this land?”

“Nah,” Ed says. “Well, kinda. There were a few caveats, couple of hoops, but I had a bit of an in, so I skipped some of the worst parts.”

“Caveats?”

Ed waves a hand at the house. “Sustainable, natural materials, off grid. That kind of thing. Leave no trace, if I ever leave. Nothing that has an irreversible impact on the land around me. Not impossible to achieve, but tricky? Absofuckinlutely.”

“It sounds like a wonderful challenge.”

“It was, at times. So fuckin’ worth it though. Except for the nosy strangers.”

He grins over at Stede, who’s turned a pleasant shade of pink across his cheekbones.

“Perhaps,” Stede starts, taking a sip of his tea. “You shouldn’t have built something so fascinating. I think a tiny part of you may very much like the attention.”

Ed raises an eyebrow, and receives a matching one in return.

“Maybe,” he says, hiding behind the rim of his mug. “All depends who's offering it.”

“Ah,” Stede says thoughtfully. “That’s true of most attention, I suppose.”

Ed lets the conversation come to a natural conclusion and sits back in his chair, closing his eyes as the sun shines on his face. The warmth is a pleasant contrast to the chill of the winter air, and he imagines this is exactly how Toaster feels when he finds a good sunbeam in the house. He could nap, right here, right now, if it didn’t risk freezing his dick and balls entirely off.

“Feels like a silly question, considering it’s all of twelve hours away, but are you spending Christmas here?”

It feels like a question more loaded than it seems on the surface. Ed takes a moment, deciding how much information to give out. It’s not that he actually thinks Stede is casing the joint, but Ed does live in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. It’s always a little bit of a risk.

“Dinner with friends in town, but I’ll be back here in time to feed the crew. Low key kind of affair.”

“No family?”

“Not on this side of the world, mate. I’ll give my mum a call tonight, open presents over Facetime, that kind of thing.”

“Honestly, Ed? That sounds lovely. I have a day-long dinner with the in-laws, which is going to be about as fun as it sounds.”

Ed looks over, and yup, there it is, sitting snug up against Stede’s knuckle and somehow invisible until now, a thick gold wedding band. Fuck.

Or maybe, not so fuck.

If there’s anything that will keep this strictly platonic, it’s a spouse.

“My condolences,” he says solemnly.

“Thank you,” Stede says. “Speaking of which, I really should make a move. Presents to wrap, and apparently, jeans to put through the wash. Unexpectedly busy afternoon ahead of me.”

“I’d apologise for that one too, but you’re the one who decided to get up close and personal with the chickens, so that one is absolutely on you.”

“A mistake I won’t be making again,” Stede says drily. He pulls himself up to standing, wincing as he pinches the still-damp denim away from his thighs. “This is not going to be a pleasant walk back, let me tell you.”

“Do you want to borrow something?” Ed asks, throwing all fucking caution to the wind. “I probably have like, joggers or something that will fit you.”

“Very kind, Ed, but a man has to live with his mistakes. I won’t say no to a bin bag though, if you have one. Might as well try and protect the car seat a little.”

“I’ll trade ya for the mug.”

“A fair exchange,” Stede says, handing it over.

Ed ducks into the house, desperately retreating from the resurging desire to kiss Stede something absolutely stupid.

Married, he reminds himself. Multiple times. He’s married. Hates his in-laws, but probably likes his spouse. Wife, most likely, if Ed’s luck is anything to go by. It’s good that he’s off limits though. Platonic city, population Ed and Stede. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.

He looks out of the kitchen window just as Stede does an incredibly ungainly twirl, trying to catch a look at his own arse, by the looks, and he breathes out an almost involuntary fuuuuck at the sight.

He’s adorable. He’s ridiculous. He’s hot.

And Ed can’t have him.

“Black sack for the gentleman,” he says, stepping back outside and waving it at Stede with a flourish.

“Thank you, sir,” Stede says, and Ed bites his lip against the slew of entirely unsavoury thoughts that rush to his tongue.

“Have a good walk back,” Ed says, leaning against the door frame and taking the weight off his knee. “Try not to fall into any other animal enclosures. Or homes. Or anything particularly wet or muddy.”

“I’ll try my best,” Stede says, rolling his eyes.

“Curiosity killed the cat, mate.”

“Certainly ruined his nice jeans, that’s for sure.”

He turns to leave, stepping gingerly off the porch onto the salted path. Ed watches him take each careful step with a fondness far too soft for someone he only really officially met a few hours ago, but he already figures a crush is fine. As long as he doesn’t do anything silly with it, a crush is fine. A crush is healthy. Ed’s long overdue a nice healthy little crush.

“Hey, Stede?” he calls, biting back a laugh as Stede comes to a skidding little stop, all Bambi-legged and flaily. “Next time, just knock, yeah?”

He feels a weird surge of bravery, teasing Stede. He barely knows him. They barely know each other. His response could go one of about fifteen million different ways.

Stede tilts his head like a confused puppy, the light in his hair only adding to the golden retriever vibes, and slowly lifts one hand, middle finger extended.

Ed’s stuck the fucking landing. 10.0 score.

He lets the laughter bubble up from his chest, shaking his head as Stede silently turns and continues his delicate footsteps, tiny little paces until he reaches the safety of Ed’s land boundary, the deeper, crunchier, far less slippery snow of the woodland trail.

Just a crush. It’ll be fine.

When Ed pulls the paper from the bulkiest gift in his mum’s unnecessarily large care package, phone propped up against a stack of books while he sits cross legged on the floor, it takes everything he has not to burst into tears. The jumper is beautiful, all jewel toned fair isle that Ed knows he’s going to look fucking great in, thick cuffs and collar, just how he likes, just how Mum remembers he likes.

Hand knit, every last inch. It would have taken her weeks.

And it smells like her. It’s been packed into paper and cardboard, transported halfway across the world, and has sat in god knows how many customs offices and postal vans. It’s sat under his modest little tree for a week, and it still smells like her.

“This is way too much, Mum,” he says, rummaging through the assorted snacks and treats from home she’s packed so carefully into the box. Chocolate and cookies and bags of crisps that have inexplicably survived the trip intact. And a pair of socks that match the jumper, thick and cosy and imbued with love that he can already feel soaking into his skin.

“It’ll never be too much,” Mum says, managing to keep her tone only gently scolding. “I’m your mother, it’s my job to keep you warm and fed.”

Ed chooses not to tell her that the snacks will more than likely be long gone before New Year’s even hits.

“Still,” he says.

“If it’s too much, you can share it. With friends. Or someone special? Any boys?” she asks, like Ed’s fifteen again, sitting at the kitchen table and being gently grilled about his love life.

“No, Ma. No boys,” he says, ducking his chin a little so she can’t read the lie he feels spreading in a warm flush across his face.

“Girls?”

Ed shakes his head. Even further from the truth. For the last decade or so, anyway.

“It’s not good for you to be cooped up in that house in the woods all the time. Spending Christmas alone?”

“I’m not spending Christmas alone,” he says, frowning at her raised eyebrow. “I’m going to Fang and Lucius’s tomorrow. Big friend thing."

Small friend thing, really.

“And New Year’s? Are you going to spend that with Kevin too? Or are you going to sit at home with that little menace grandson of mine?”

“I might go out.”

“Teddy.”

“Ma.”

“I’m not getting any younger here.” And well yeah, neither is Ed. “I hate the thought of you all alone in that house. It worries me.”

She always says alone, rather than lonely. She never says her fear for what it is.

“I’m okay Ma, I promise. I meet people. New people. I get out, I do things.”

She hums in a very precise tone. One that says she doesn’t believe Ed, not one bit, but she’ll let his fibs pass, for now.

“Speaking of which, don’t you have a dinner to get to? People to see, food to prepare, shit like that?”

“Language, Teddy, please.”

“Stuff like that,” he corrects.

He misses Christmas at home, too many people crammed into one house, spilling out into the garden, scrambling for a surface to sit on. Everyone bringing a plate, and a drink, grazing all day and well into the night, when the temperature dips and the fresher air of the sea rolls in.

Maybe next year he’ll go home.

Maybe next year he’ll have someone to take with him.

“I do,” she says. "Merry Christmas, I love you."

“I love you.”

“Can I give everyone your love?”

“Of course,” Ed says, before backtracking. “Not Aunty Liz.”

“Edward.”

“Ma.”

“Go to bed, Teddy. Send my love to Kevin.”

“I will Ma. Love you.” He holds up the jumper, clutching it to his chest. “Thank you, seriously. I love it.”

“Aroha nui, darling. Sleep tight”

Ed waits for her to hang up before locking and pocketing his phone. He fills Toaster’s water bowl, chucks down a couple of catnip treats, and makes himself a mug of sleepytime tea, staring at Stede’s mug, resting upside down on the draining board.

It’s just a crush, crushes are healthy, they’re fine.

Ed’s an adult. It’ll be fine.

The invitation to Fang and Lucius’s Big Queer Christmas says arrivals from midday, which means Ed won’t actually be welcome until half past, which in turn means when he wakes up at nine-thirty with the low winter sun streaming through his blinds and an erection that could cut glass, he has plenty of time to close his eyes, shove his pyjama bottoms down, and luxuriate in the laziness of Christmas morning.

He’s not thinking of Stede, not consciously, not at first. He lets his brain drift into the strange, pleasant liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, thoughts drifting as he slicks his hand up and curls it around the crown of his cock. He doesn’t think, just focuses on the slow, warm pleasure that forms in the pit of his belly and he gives himself regular, rhythmic tugs, hips rocking up to meet his fist each time he reaches the base. No thoughts at all, just his hand, and the warmth of the sun, and the complete lack of urgency of a Christmas morning wank.

No thoughts at all. Not damp, clinging denim on thick thighs. Not a shock of grey-blonde hair against snow, in Ed’s bed, between Ed’s legs. Not hands wrapped around a mug, on Ed’s jaw, spreading his thighs. Not fingers being raised in a swear, in a curling beckon, pressed gently behind Ed’s balls.

Ed’s not thinking about anything at all when he comes, hard and messy over the soft curve of his stomach, toes curling against the mattress, squeezing the tip of his cock gently through the aftershocks and residual waves of pleasure. Nothing at all.

Not a damn thing.

Fang and Lucius’s Big Queer Christmas is about as low key as any of their hosted events. Which is to say, not at fucking all. Ed eventually knocks on the door closer to one than the midday the invite requested, laden with gifts and an almost entirely sincere apology for his timekeeping. He accepts one hell of a bear hug from Fang, and is immediately handed some kind of pink drink in a champagne flute for his trouble.

“The fuck?” he asks, raising the glass to eye level and inspecting it warily.

“Don’t ask, just drink,” Lucius says with a wink, before disappearing into the actually really delicious smelling kitchen.

Dinner feels as close to home as it gets, with maybe five percent of the guests. Ed crams himself into the corner seat, right up next to Fang at the head of the table, and piles his plate high with turkey and gammon and a small mountain of roast potatoes. He dips brussels sprouts in some kind of spicy honey sauce and smushes stuffing into his leftover gravy until it resembles some kind of delicious, savoury porridge. Lucius gags at his plate, but it’s fucking delicious, and Ed tells the entire table so. Ed eats and drinks, and laughs more than he has in a long time, until his belly aches and his cheeks are sore. He wears his stupid paper crown and giggles far too hard at the shitty jokes that fall out of each cracker, and basks a little in the sweet, fond looks that Fang and Lucius spend almost the entire time sharing. He trades his set of mini playing cards for an equally tiny magnifying glass, and eats a fucking enormous brownie topped with christmas pudding flavoured ice cream.

Christmas pudding flavoured ice cream. Wonders’ll never fucking cease.

By the time the requisite Disney film is playing on BBC One, Ed’s already suffering the effects of his Christmas lunch food coma, half asleep in an enormous armchair, paper crown slipping down his forehead.

He wins two straight games of Trivial Pursuit, becomes the ultimate Monopoly slumlord, and cries through half of the Call the Midwife Christmas special. He and Lucius spend a solid half an hour yelling answers at the ridiculous annual Michael McIntyre sponsored game show, and Ed eventually falls out of the front door when the clock ticks perilously close to midnight, despite multiple promises that he absolutely isn’t imposing if he just wants to kip in the spare room for the night. He’s handed three separate tupperwares of leftovers, and gets gently bullied into promising that he’ll do this more often, that he’ll come to dinner more than once in a bloody blue moon. That perhaps he'll start hosting at his place once in a while.

The snow starts to fall as he’s pulling back into his own little personal trailhead, and he stops for a moment to watch the flakes float and dance in the beam of his headlights. The clock on his dashboard ticks over midnight and Ed wonders how Stede’s Christmas went, whether he survived his in-laws intact, whether he laughed as much as Ed laughed at his own Christmas.

Toaster meets him with a pitiful mewl when he steps through the front door, dusted with snow and balancing all of his tupperware in one hand. Ed shakes himself off, gets rid of his coat and shoes, then breaks open one of the plastic tubs to pull apart some turkey for the little gremlin. Bit of thigh, bit of breast, and a half a drumstick.

“You’re spoilt,” Ed tells him, scratching behind his ears.

Toaster ignores him, attacking the turkey like he’s been starved for days. Ed manages to tetris the remaining food into the fridge and barely gets himself undressed before he’s collapsing face first onto his bed, still unmade from the morning and still smelling a little like sweat and sex.

The rest of the week passes in as much of a blur as usual, and by the 29th, Ed has no idea what day it is, the last time he took a shower, or whether he has enough food left in his fridge to constitute a real meal. He survives mostly, as expected, off the snacks sent by his mum, punctuated by so much leftover turkey he swears he’s about to sprout feathers from certain parts of his body. He watches all of the Back to the Future films in one day, swears at the tv every time he sees Harry Potter being broadcast in this day and fucking age, and catches the tail end of Howl’s Moving Castle.

He’s not even embarrassed when he cries over a heart’s a heavy burden, because well, fuck. Ain’t that the goddamn fucking truth.

On the evening of the 30th, Ed stands in front of his bathroom mirror and has a long overdue trim of his beard, shaping it properly around his neck, trimming his moustache so it sits neatly above his lip, and carefully cleaning up the fuzzy bits on his cheeks. He’s going greyer by the year, more salt than pepper these days, but he looks good. He looks healthy. He looks far happier than he did last year, two years ago, five years ago. He takes a long, hot shower, washing the loose hair, grime, and stagnation of the week from his body. He shampoos once, twice, and a third time, combing conditioner through his hair and piling it up on his head to soak while he scrubs the rest of his body down.

Lucius had gifted him some obnoxiously neon green Lush number for Christmas, a thick shower gel that smells almost like sherbet apple, or something like that. Sour and fruity. It’s fucking delicious, and it takes everything Ed has to resist licking the damn stuff off his hands when he pours it into his palm.

It’s not that he’s expecting Stede to turn up on the 31st. It’s not an expectation, but he’s allowing himself the hope.

After all, it’s a Sunday, and Stede’s routine is Sundays.

Ed will allow himself the hope. Just this once.

Stede comes back.

Stede comes back in a ridiculous, presumably new trapper hat, a sweet little peacoat that Ed kind of wants for his own, and a smile that could light up the entire fucking forest if he let it.

Ed waits inside, lets him run through his little routine: seeking out Toaster for a fuss, chatting with the chickens—this time from a safe distance—and checking to see if anything has changed around the garden. When he straightens up and sets his sights on the house, Ed takes his cue, opening the door and leaning against the frame like he’s welcoming a lost love home.

“Ed!” Stede calls, his smile becoming impossibly wider, and Ed was a grade A moron if he thought this crush was going to be anything manageable. He waves, steps out onto the porch, and zeroes in on Stede’s left hand.

The ring is still there. Stede is still married. Stede is still presumably happy about it. Stede is still off limits.

“Stede,” he says. “Happy almost New Year, mate.”

“Happy almost New Year to you, too! Are you well?”

“Honestly? Freezing my balls off. You wanna come in?”

Stede hesitates, and Ed backtracks quickly. “Or tea? Out here? On the porch? Or hot cocoa, if you want. Got some fancy fucking stuff for Christmas, all the trimmings. Mini marshmallows, squirty cream, sprinkles, flavoured sugar stuff. You name it, I’ve got it.”

“Actually,” Stede says, staring at his feet. “I was wondering if you might like to take a walk in the woods? The snow has stayed so pristine, and I saw so much wildlife on my walk out here, and I thought it might be nice to share that. That is, assuming you haven’t already been out on a walk. I know you must know this woodland like the back of your hand at this point, living here. So it really is okay if you don’t feel like it, it was just a thought.”

“Stede, hey,” Ed says, holding a hand up to try and stall the uncontrollable flow of words falling from Stede’s mouth. “I’d love to.”

“Really?”

“Really. Listen man, I’ve spent most of this week vegging out on the sofa and completely ignoring the fact that I fucking live like, here.” He waves his hand around for emphasis. “Just let me get some shoes and a coat and shit. I’ll be like, three minutes, tops.”

He pushes the door to and pulls a pair of hiking boots from the rack behind it, tying them tight and wrapping a scarf around his neck and face, tucking it under his nose and zipping his coat over the ends to keep everything neat. He checks his reflection, neatens his hair, and grabs his keys from the counter.

“Ready?” he asks, locking the door behind him and yanking on the handle, just to check.

“Ready,” Stede beams.

“You got a route in mind? Anything in particular you wanna see?”

“I thought perhaps the amble trail? I think the loop, including us walking to and from your house, should be around two and a half miles? An hour or so in these conditions?”

Ed knows he can handle it, and Stede looks like he’s wearing way more suitable shoes than last week, so he’s willing to follow his lead.

“Then hot cocoa?” Ed asks. “Might even spike it if you ask nicely.”

“You certainly know your way into a man’s heart, Edward,” Stede says, smile curling in the corner of his mouth, and Ed might be in danger, but life’s always been more fun with a little risk involved, so fuck it, he’s going to lean in.

It’s easy to fall into companionable silence with Stede, the quiet of the woodland punctuated by the crunch of their boots through the snow and the small cracks when one of them breaks a small frozen puddle, or snaps a twig underfoot. The air around them is frigid, but the pace of the walk brings a sweet warmth to Ed’s face, something he can see spreading in a soft flush over Stede’s cheeks the longer they walk.

Occasionally, a squirrel scampers ahead of them, making impossible-looking leaps to sprint up the trunks of trees stripped bare for the winter, showering both Ed and Stede with snow when branches high above them get disturbed.

“They’re beautiful, but they can be irritating little buggers, can’t they?” Stede whines, shaking snow from his scarf for the third time in twenty minutes.

“Try living in what’s technically their woods,” Ed laughs. “Little shits think the chicken eggs are a first come, first served snack buffet.”

“They don't!” Stede gasps.

“You come live out in the woods, decide to get chickens, and the entire world is like, beware of the foxes, make sure you fox proof your pen and your coop, it’s the foxes that’ll fuck everything up for you. Nah, mate. It’s the fucking squirrels. Thieving little bastards.”

“Have you had the chickens long?”

“Few years, I think. Started with a little veggie patch, but I fucked it up so badly the first summer, with my timings and such, that I packed it in for a bit and figured I’d try something a little bit more predictable. Chickens’ll be chickens, regardless of the weather, and it’s difficult to forget to feed and water them when they’re so fucking vocal when they’re pissed at you. Toast learnt the hard way not to fuck with them, and we’ve lived in mostly happy harmony ever since.”

“And not a single one lost to a fox? Not that I know anything about chicken rearing, but that seems impressive.”

“Honestly it’s just a matter of a coop that’s like Fort fucking Knox to get into, and me remembering to get them in before dark every night. Other than that it’s easy.”

“I still think it’s impressive.”

Stede seems to think a lot about Ed’s life is impressive. In a sad, kind of wistful way. Probably too soon to go poking around in his life, mystery spouse and corresponding insufferable in-laws the only things Ed really knows about him.

There’s time for that, he figures. As long as Stede keeps coming by, as long as he keeps this routine up, there’ll be time for that.

The walk passes quicker than Ed expected, their pace faster than Stede had predicted, and between the small talk and the energy brought by fresh air and the urgency ushered by a brisk fucking wind, it’s not long before they’ve completed their loop and the house comes back into view through the trees.

“You gonna come in this time?” Ed asks, pausing to toss a small handful of chicken feed over the frozen grass, a treat for any brave wanderers.

“How could I turn down your hot cocoa offer?” Stede says, walking straight past Ed and up to the house, stopping to kick his boots against the porch step, knocking the worst of the snow and mud off.

“Well. You turned me down the first time,” Ed says. “Broke my bloody heart, mate. Personally, I think it’s very brave of me to just go straight in and ask again. Who knows if I could survive a second rejection so soon.”

“Very brave indeed,” Stede says, inspecting the soles of his boots. Apparently deeming them clean enough, he stands patiently at Ed’s door, waiting for him to arrive with the key and let them both in.

“Might be a bit cold,” Ed says, pulling off his scarf and kneeling to untie his boots. “It’s all log burners. Fuck if I’m leaving them burning while I’m out.”

“Do you not get cold overnight?” Stede asks, hanging his coat up on the hook next to Ed’s.

“Eh, I let the one in the bedroom burn itself out over the course of the night. Usually still warm enough when I get up, but worst case scenario I chuck a couple of logs on and get back in bed ‘til it’s warm enough to get out.”

“Ahh,” Stede says softly.

“Bit of a bitch when you need a pee though.”

“I’m sure!”

“Sit,” Ed says, patting the kitchen table. “I’ll warm us up.”

Stede obliges, folding his hands in front of him all neat on the table, wedding ring taunting Ed like a fucking lighthouse beacon. Married. He’s married.

He throws a couple of logs into the burner, tucking kindling and a little cotton wool underneath them and pulling out the long-armed lighter from next to the log basket. The flame catches quickly, and he adjusts the grates to allow just enough oxygen in to stoke the burn. He’d prefer it if he could leave it for as long as possible, stay warm for as long as possible.

Keep Stede there for as long as possible.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands as he wanders back into the kitchen. “What’ll it be? The full works? Marshmallows? Cream? Sprinkles? Vanilla sugar?”

“I think all of the above?” Stede says, though he looks slightly terrified at the prospect.

“You want real milk or oat? I have both, though I can’t vouch for how close the real stuff is to being on the turn. It’s been in there…a while.”

“Oat sounds fine. Wouldn’t want to risk disaster this far from home.” Stede raises his eyebrows meaningfully, scrunching his mouth up like he’s biting back a smile.

Ed’s in trouble. Oh God, he’s in trouble.

“Roger that.”

He measures two mugs’ worth of milk and pours them into a milk pan with a few heaped tablespoons of the fancy-ass cocoa John and Frenchie had given him, lighting a small flame on the stove and whisking the mixture slowly until the powder starts to dissolve. As soon as it starts to simmer, he assembles all his toppings on the counter, pulling a can of cream from the fridge and lining everything up behind his and Stede’s mugs.

Stede’s mug.

Because Stede already has a mug.

“C’mon,” he says, lifting the pan from the heat and carefully dividing the steaming cocoa between the two mugs. “I’m not gonna do all the work for you.”

He watches Stede inspect the ingredients of the squirty cream before spraying a liberal amount over the surface of his drink, twisting his wrist until he has a veritable mountain floating on the surface. He sprinkles a couple of marshmallows over the top, finishing with a dusting of vanilla sugar, then steps away from the counter, spreading his hands with a soft “tah-dah!”

“I mean, it’s nice, but—”

“But what, Edward?”

Ed holds a finger up and shifts his mug across so it’s centred between his and Stede’s bodies. He tips a handful of marshmallows onto the surface of his drink, carefully swirling a tower of cream on top, making sure to structure it so it doesn’t collapse from the inside out. When he’s happy with the cream to cocoa ratio, he scatters another small handful of marshmallows over the top, finishing with vanilla sugar, chocolate sprinkles, and one last marshmallow, balanced on the very tip of squirty cream mountain, just for good measure.

“My teeth hurt just looking at that,” Stede says, scrunching his nose.

Ed shrugs. “My dentist loves me.”

“I’m sure they do, what with the money you’re probably bringing them!”

“Did I judge your toppings?”

“Yes!” Stede cries, throwing his hands up in incredibly sweet despair. “You very much did!”

He’s so much fucking fun to wind up, the way his face screws up all indignant before he realises he’s being fucked with. Cute. He’s cute.

Ah, hell.

“So,” Ed says, carrying his cocoa to the kitchen table like it’s a primed grenade. “Got any resolutions? New year, new you kinda shit?”

“Ehh,” Stede says, noncommittal. “There are some things. Not sure I want to make them resolutions though. Somehow, making those every year makes me ten times less likely to actually do the thing I resolved to do. Always the equivalent of the annoying January gym person.”

“Didn’t have you down as a gym person.”

“Once,” Stede says, deadpan. “Never again, Edward. Good lord. Never have I been a fish so out of water, goodness me.”

“Woods more your scene?”

“Woods definitely more my scene.”

Stede takes a first sip of his cocoa, cream, marshmallows and all, and Ed wishes he could photograph his face as he lowers his mug. He’s like a child tasting sugar for the first time, expression bright and open, tongue flicking out to catch the cream that catches on his top lip.

And Ed wants to die, just a little bit.

“I can’t imagine the sugar crash I’m going to suffer later, but it’ll be worth it. Oh my God,” Stede says, veering dangerously close to what sounds to Ed like a bedroom voice. “I think this might be one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

Ed raises an eyebrow. Refuses to say it. Takes a sip of his own drink. Wipes cream from the tip of his nose. Chews on his bottom lip.

Refuses to say it.

“We really gotta get some better things in your mouth, mate.”

Eh, restraint has never been his strong suit.

“Reckon I should probably do more stuff in the community.”

Tea, this time, in the little sitting room slash reading nook. Stede’s slowly browsing Ed’s mismatched library, stacks of books of all genres on shelves he cut and finished himself. Ed’s watching the flames flicker through the grill of the log burner. He’s watching Stede browse the books. He’s watching an opportunistic squirrel steal seeds from the bird feeder.

Better the seeds than the eggs.

“Stuff?” Stede asks, a little absently. He’s turning over a copy of The Hobbit in his hands, reading the blurb like he’s never heard of it before. Maybe he hasn’t. Ed’s not sure there’s much that would surprise him about Stede. Not even the state of being a Hobbit virgin.

“I dunno. Participate more?” He’s thought about it a bit, in choppy little instances, things he could do, events he could join in with. “Love living out here, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it feels like there’s a whole world out there that I’m forgetting a bit about.”

“You have a lot of talents, Ed.”

Stede’s attention is more focused now, the book safely back on the shelf, tea mug back in hand.

“Do you think you could teach? Not in any kind of formal capacity, goodness knows I wouldn’t suggest that, but in your own way? Small groups, or individual tuition in things? Skills?”

One on one sounds a bit much, if Ed’s honest. With complete strangers and such. Groups though, groups he might be able to do. Maybe not at the house though. The house still feels a little sacred. A sanctuary of sorts.

“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll think about it. Probably not here though. Not a big fan of having people I don’t know here.”

Stede’s face twists a little. “I mean, you’ve let me.”

“Different, mate.”

Stede makes a dissenting little hum.

“Friends aren’t strangers.”

“Friends?”

“I don’t let just anyone flirt with my chickens, mate. Toaster doesn’t let just anyone touch him.”

“Well. Okay. Friends. That's—yes. Okay.”

Friends.

They’re friends.

“I think perhaps, I need to be a little more honest with myself about some things.”

Whiskey, in small, hand thrown ceramic cups. Out on the porch, watching the sun set through the trees.

Ed makes a small sound in his throat. An encouragement. Stede sounds like he’s holding the most delicate declaration on his tongue. A sheet of glass ready to shatter. Ed’s not going to be the one to break it.

“My marriage—it’s not a happy one. It was, I think. At one point. Not miserable, at least.”

Ed thinks about dinner with in-laws, about miserable Christmases.

“I know my wife isn’t happy. I know I’m not happy. I think we’ve been coasting on unhappiness for so long that we’ve both forgotten what it’s like to be something other. To feel something other, I don’t know.”

Ed’s not really sure what to say, watching Stede carefully as he chooses his words.

“There are things, thoughts. That sit, kind of—” He slowly raises a hand and waves it at the back of his head. “—around here. Who I am. Who I could be. Things I want. Possibilities.”

“Good things?” Ed asks quietly.

“I think so,” Stede says, voice smaller than Ed’s ever heard it. “I hope so.”

Somehow, despite how non-committal each of his statements have been, it’s the most information Stede’s ever shared about himself. It’s like Ed’s cracked some kind of sad code of Stede’s, a strange little friendship level up.

“Hope the new year brings you those good things, mate.”

“Me too,” Stede says, taking a sip of his whiskey. “I have a lot of courage to find, I think.”

“To courage?” Ed suggests, holding up the dregs of his whiskey.

Stede looks at him, smile soft in the fading light. He looks lighter, somehow. Like he’s managed to shift one hell of a weight off his shoulders.

For want of an understanding ear, Ed thinks, pulling a quote from the recesses of his memory.

“To courage,” Stede repeats, tapping his cup gently against Ed’s.

To courage.

The new year rolls in with something more akin to a whimper than a bang. The days get incrementally longer and lighter. The snow melts.

And Stede comes back.

Every week, like clockwork.

Greets the chickens, tells Toaster what a handsome boy he is, and waves his shy little wave as he approaches Ed at the front door, week after week after week.

Stede comes back, and they take walks around the forest trails, watch new life start breaking through the thawed ground.

Stede brings home-baked goods of really varying quality, little butterfly cakes with misshapen wings, chocolate chip cookies that need dunking in cocoa before they become even remotely edible, and brownies that pull an almost pornographic moan from Ed at first bite.

“What the fuck, Stede?”

“Are they awful? Oh god, they’re awful, aren’t they? I knew salted caramel was a bad idea, who on earth thought salt in sweets was a good idea? Just asking for trouble in my opinion.”

Ed shakes his head, holding out the other half of the brownie and pressing it against Stede’s mouth. He catches it between his teeth, and Ed’s thumb brushes past his bottom lip, and Ed swallows down the wave of something the contact prompts.

“Oh,” Stede says, still chewing with all the grace of a barn animal. “Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Look at that, mate. You’re learning. That courage is paying off, huh?”

Stede grins, all chocolatey and caramely. Ed wants to kiss him. Ed can’t kiss him.

“I suppose it is.”

Stede comes back, with new, spring-ready boots, rolled shirtsleeves, and far more enthusiasm than Ed can muster on a chilly February morning.

He helps turn over earth for spring, shifts planters, and holds the ends of long lengths of twine while Ed marks out plans for new fencing around his property line.

He fixes fences and chops wood and catches the winter sun across his cheekbones, skin going pink and freckled with exposure.

He drinks tea, brings coffee, and masters the art of cocoa topping engineering.

Stede comes back, and pushes his luck with the setting sun with each passing week, eking out the daylight as far as he can.

Stede comes back.

And he comes back.

And he comes back.

And Ed is absolutely, definitely not falling in love with him.