"I suppose I should be more upset about it than I actually am," Stede says, taking a very classy sip. Ed raises an eyebrow, and Stede shrugs. "I mean, she was cheating on me. Is cheating. Our divorce isn't finalized until next week. But he makes her happy—I would feel terrible if he was a bad person, but as far as I can see he isn't, so I see no reason why I should spoil it for her."
"The guy is fucking your wife. That's where most people draw the line, you know." He's... bizarre. Ed had suspected something like that, to be fair, but he's more amused than anything.
"Well, at least somebody's doing it," Stede puts the cup on the table carefully. "And they seem to enjoy it, too. He's kind to her and to our children, and he makes Mary happy, which is exactly what I wish for her. I would very much prefer not having to hurt her the way I did, but... at least it all worked out. Of course, there's a certain amount of... Divorce is just not *done* in our circle, you see. We all have our roles to play, and we ought to keep up appearances, bury our feelings and all that. Stiff upper lip. Pretend everything is fine. But I'm tired of it—I've lived my entire life up until now playing a role I didn't choose, and I don't want to do this anymore. The play is over, the spectators can kindly fuck off."
Ed snorts. It's quite a... novel idea, yet it falls perfectly in line with the whole... Stede thing. Of course he would embrace his wife's fling, and of course he would give the most ridiculous explanation for it; and of fucking course he drinks his tea in the most posh way possible, and Ed should find this disgusting but it's... endearing. That's the word. Not a word Blackbeard would use in his life, and Izzy would have a fucking heart attack if he was there now, but it's a good word for Ed to use. A perfectly fine word.
"Anyway, sorry for oversharing. My therapist says I need to get used to voicing my feelings—I don't really have... well, friends. I don't consider those snobs friends, and the feeling's mutual." Stede looks apologetic, and Ed wants to—fuck, he really needs to go kick a puppy or something, because he wants to say Stede looks cute, and... Keep it together, buddy.
"It's okay. I don't mind. I mean, if it makes all three of you happy—and the kiddos too—then I see no reason why not."
Stede—beams. "You really think so?" Ed nods, and Stede smiles and it's so contagious that Ed can't help but smile too. Feels strange—that's not how his face usually moves. He usually smirks, or frowns, or winces—he doesn't really smile much anymore. He doesn't really—feel as many things as he does now, not anymore.
"I don't see what's the big deal with staying together if it doesn't make anyone happy. A lot of families would've been much happier if the parents just split. Instead of—making everybody's life hell." The way his own childhood was—okay, hell is a strong word. It could've been worse. Always remember that—it could have been worse; Ed should be grateful it wasn't. Yet he can't help it but wonder what would happen if...
Ed shakes his head and takes a sip of his own tea. It's a weirdly expensive blend in a very fine cup, and normally Ed wouldn't even dare to touch such fine things, but he's in Stede's world now, in a fancy tea shop for fancy people, and he has to play by their rules. That means drinking from fine china; his favorite mug, "World's worst boss", a gift from Ivan, that can hold half a gallon of the cheapest black tea brewed so strong it would actually kill a horse, is back in his office, with unfinished tea turning stale, growing mold.
"What are you planning to do now? As a free man?"
Stede shrugs. "I haven't decided yet. I resigned from the family business—I still hold some shares, but not doing any work. Thinking of maybe starting something new. Something I would enjoy. You know, turn your passion into a job, and..."
"And you won't have to work a day. That's bullshit. The biggest lie I've ever heard. Sorry, learned it the hard way. Turned my hobby into my job, and now I can't even—with a hobby you can always take a break. Do something else. Something relaxing. And if I take a break, you know what happens? I have employees that depend on me. If I quit, what will happen to them? I mean, Ivan sure, he won't starve, he's resourceful. Izzy? He'll have my balls on a skewer. Fang? He picked up another mutt recently, for a total of... fuck, I think he's got five dogs now? Six, maybe? God, he really needs a girlfriend. And what about others?" Ed sighs. "Sorry. I have a reputation in the field, an outstanding reputation, we've got a waiting list—but every time I think about doing what I always loved doing, I feel like I'm going to throw up. And this is all I have—I never dreamed of doing anything else, always wanted to have my own workshop, this is my *life*, and everything should be just fine if I could only—but I can't, here's the problem. I used to run away to the workshop every time I had a crisis, and now the workshop *is* the crisis."
Stede watches him, and if it was anyone else Ed would stab them with a screwdriver just for that expression. But somehow when Stede does that it feels like empathy, not pity; besides, Ed doesn't have a screwdriver with him now.
"I guess I never saw it that way. Always did what I hated—going home at the end of the day was the best part of it. No money can make up for the soul-wrenching emptiness when you do something you can't stand, on that I agree. You see, I was selling meat. My father was a hobbyist butcher, you know, a gentleman farmer, and he started the business because he genuinely enjoyed that, but I just don't have the guts for it. I can't stand the smell of blood, have only trained myself to eat steaks, but a whole cow? Oh no. My worst nightmare is walking into a chiller lorry and the door closing on me. Still, I tried my best—only to wake up one morning and realize that maybe freezing to death in a walk-in fridge is better than continuing to live like this." Stede sips his own tea and sighs wistfully. "So I embraced the midlife crisis. Quit my job, divorced my wife... my old buddies all think I've gone insane, but at least I'm not the person I hated seeing in the mirror anymore."
"Meat?" Somehow it's the part that catches Ed's attention. He really can't imagine it: Stede selling... meat? Hobbyist butchers. Chiller lorries. The actual fuck. He would run away from that life too, to be honest. Stede doesn't notice his confusion though.
"Yes, 'Bonnet's Meat'. Idiotic name. Can't stand it. So I tried to distance myself from my previous life, you know, the usual way it goes. Tried to change my wardrobe—bought a pair of leather trousers. But that was, um, a miserable experience." Stede sighs, and Ed hides his smile behind his cup. Stede—soft, so soft, wearing leather? "Nobody told me leather chafes so terribly! And it was unbearably hot—it was during the heatwave, you see."
Oh, Ed remembers the heatwave. Even he couldn't wear leather during that—stuck to pitch black jeans instead. Still balls-boiling hot, but at least he could function without longing for death more than his usual. "You get used to the chafing, you know."
"Yes, I guess so... but I sort of gave up on the idea. It's not really my style."
'Your style is pastels,' Ed thinks. Stede isn't a leather pants guy—if anything, he belongs in these soft sweaters he usually wears. Cashmere, he said? They are so nice to touch, not that Ed wants to touch Stede, he just really—really likes the fabric. Soft lines, soft fabrics, soft curls; soft voice when he praises Ed's yoga poses. Ed can't imagine him in leather, and he can't imagine him at a slaughterhouse; it's not where Stede belongs.
"The next step is usually getting a motorbike," Ed says, just to distract himself from going any further with those thoughts. He's seen plenty of guys in their early to late fourties coming to his workshop: a fancy motorbike that they can barely ride, a helmet hiding the bald spot, sometimes a girl barely out of school on their arm; Stede could easily be one of them. He would look ridiculous, Ed tells himself; his mind supplies: 'but cute'.
"I'm not going to say I never considered this," Stede giggles. "But I hadn't had the courage... I can barely drive. Had an old lady bicycle as a child, with a basket in front, and just never upgraded to, you know, cool boy stuff."
"I can give you a ride if you want. Whenever you're ready," Ed blurts out before thinking. He never gives anyone rides; not even his closest buddies. They can fuck off and get a cab; Ed's always riding alone. Yet, the thought of taking Stede with him—showing him his pride and joy, sharing his love—it doesn't feel *wrong*. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the way Stede lights up—Ed sees this soft smile, and his heart sings.
"If it's not much of a bother!"
"It really isn't. I've got a spare helmet, too." It's technically Fang's; Ed had been meaning to return it, but just didn't get around to it yet. It would serve a fine purpose though. "Just tell me where you need to go."
"Oh, I don't know. Just—around? Wherever you want."
"Wherever it is, then." Ed toasts him with a tea cup; Stede mirrors the gesture, glowing with delight.
Okay, maybe life sucks a bit less than Ed thought. Just maybe. He'll have to wait and see about that.