ed pulls his hair back when he meets stede - he pushes it back the first time when he first is looking down at stede, then he wears it pulled back off his face to represent how he opens up around stede. this is the most open and available i’ve ever seen him.
then as the kraken he looses his hair again. his hair is thick around his face, almost like a veil. a mourning veil, perhaps.
so when stede and ed find each other again, when they’re both shaking with the emotion of everything they’ve been through, when they’re desperate and hurt and angry and breathless, short on hope, looking into the faces of ghosts they’ve loved -
stede’ll lift a hand. reach out. hesitate when ed flinches. he’ll hate that ed flinches. it’ll break his heart, but it won’t break his resolve. stede will be gentle. that’s how ed will know he’s real.
only stede could be that gentle.
so stede’ll reach. brush his fingers against ed’s temple, catching his hair and pushing it back so he can see ed’s face, ed’s beautiful face. the dark greasepaint around his eyes, blackening his still-short beard. stede will tuck that hair back behind ed’s ear, careful not to catch on his earring. a tiny sword. a reminder that ed can be hurt if stede doesn’t do this just right.
ed breathes hard, panting. stede doesn’t breathe at all. they’re both shaking.
stede tucks those that bit of hair away, running his fingers down the length of it all as he draws his hand back. then he reaches again, does the other side. parting the veil. pushing it away like ed is a bride and stede means to make him promises.
there you are, stede says, with a tremulous smile. there you are, ed.
i’m not him anymore, ed tells him. breath hitching now. he’d forgotten about tenderness. i’ve killed him too.
are you sure? stede asks, a bit cheeky, which makes ed laugh because what the fuck kind of question. because i’d recognise this face anywhere. edward.
his hand will be warm, when he cups ed’s cheek. ed had forgotten about warmth. when he says stede, his voice will crack.
when stede kisses him, that hand on ed’s cheek, that hand in ed’s hair, it’s like a wound reopening. it’s like a sword to the belly. a cannon blasting through.
but stede’s hand is there, already applying pressure. already stemming the bleeding. holding ed and all his pieces together, scarred and sore and shattered; taking in the breadth of everything ed is and has been and can be, and accepting all of it as one.
it won’t solve everything. it won’t heal everything into some pristine marble statue of the men they once were or the men they want to be.
but ed presses his forehead to stede’s when the kiss is over, keeps him close. allows himself, one more time, to hang on. it’s not an ending, but it is a beginning, and one more is all they need.
this will be the last one.
blakekathryn
amandla
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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