Work Text:
“You aren’t buying that are you?”
The jab–it was almost that, almost a jab–jerked Ed’s hand back towards the display, back to where he’d just picked up the monarch butterfly hair clip. He placed it back in the display, a tense feeling shrank uncertainly from his shoulders as he took careful–practiced–steps from the display, not to look at the guy who’d spoken but to turn his head away and make a jarring laugh that lifted the corner of his mouth into a half-grin–the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” he scoffed in a voice that sounded both familiar and alien to him.
“Good.”
The reply was bitten–satisfied. The older man turned–grasped the shopping cart’s holding bar in his fists and pittered down the aisle without turning back.
It was just a fucking butterfly, Ed thought to himself–bitter.
He did buy the butterfly hair pin–shoved it up his jacket like contraband, made his way to the ditzy used classic parked in the lot–to where the older man grumbled and put bags in with increasing fervor. If he noticed Ed’s discomfort during the drive, he was too busy gruffing about people at work to comment.
They were heading to some kind of work party. Izzy (grumping the whole way) worked small white butterfly pins into Ed’s carefully woven up-do.
Ed felt very pretty. Izzy felt very fed up.
“You wear fine things well.” The blonde man said, as he tucked the red cloth into the top pocket of Ed’s expensive lavender dinner jacket. Light streamed from the shut glass door leading off the balcony–it had this halo effect on the man’s elaborate curls, framed him almost otherworldly. His eyes were dark–kind.
Ed didn’t say anything back for a hot minute–he might, if he opened his mouth now, make some kind of incoherent noise comparable to very highpitched birdsong.
There were small white butterfly pins stuck into Ed’s up-do. Ed’s skin warmed.
“They’re pretty,” Stede said. “Your butterflies. Do they have names?”
They made up names for each and every one of the butterflies. They were out there for forty minutes just...watching the city lights, making up names for Ed's butterflies.
Ed wouldn’t see the man again. For almost a year.
Ed had the apartment to himself. Finally.
He was cleaning out Izzy’s shit, when he found it–found it under a pastel pink sweater that had gone years without being worn. It was another of the things–and there were so many, so many things–he hadn’t worn or done to his hair for going on a decade.
Ed shut the drawer without taking either–he went out.
The bars were open this time of night–Ed pondered on dragging down a cold one. But veered north, to where shop windows lit the sidewalk.
Stede had texted him forty minutes ago–said he wanted to meet at a cafe. Said he didn’t like how it ended last time–so he wanted to make up, with coffee. It had been almost a year since they’d even spoken.
Ed arrived late. Stede was waiting still–cups of already cooled coffee–sorry, sorry, Ed said. There were flowers in his hair–forever, Ed would remember there were flowers in Stede’s hair.
Light fingers, ever gentle–stuck silver and gold butterfly pins into Ed’s length of graying braid. Ed hummed–heaven’s touch, the back of his neck warmed by sun through the living room window.
“You wear fine things well,” Stede commented, second time in their lives together.
Ed put his head back, into Stede’s chest. Gold and silver butterflies marched along his braid.
“I sure do, babe,” he agreed.