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Today’s eleventeenth and final meeting is over, thank fuck. This time Ed’s survived a whole hour of sitting with the blah blah blah of another bullshit job intake, and honestly he deserves a medal for that. Or a cookie or something. Two cookies!
Not to be dramatic but he’s pretty sure he’s going to die in one of these meetings one day and nobody’ll even notice. He doesn’t even need to be on the call. Just has to say he’s there, make some polite noises greeting everyone, then zone out and think about the weekend while his brilliant plans get discussed without him.
He’s already a ghost.
He’s this close to making it out of his chair to escape the conference room when Izzy, stacking his files in the world’s neatest pile, asks all casually, “Did you call the insurance broker?”
Mother. Fucker. Ed groans. “It’s on the list.”
The fucking list is neverending, all-consuming. He circles the ring of condensation his syrup-loaded iced coffee has left on the conference table, not meeting Izzy’s eye, because he knows the kind of furious stare he’ll be getting right now.
“We needed the answer to that question last week.”
“It’s coming,” he says, and scoops up his Hello Kitty cup. “And it’ll be here in time. Stay in your fucking lane, Iz.”
He doesn’t give Izzy the time to finish yelling that they’re all in the same lane together before he’s stalking off out of the conference room and heading for the quiet of his office.
Because sure, maybe they are, but Ed's expected to swim ahead, no matter how tired he gets.
Ed’s got a plan. He’s always got a plan. Not his fault that his style and Izzy’s style are diametrically opposed; most of the time they find some middle ground in it, but lately, Izzy’s patience has been running thin with tasks being finished when they’re actually due, instead of weeks before. Ed's patience with the impatience is all but gone.
He pushes through the glass door to his office and lets it clang shut behind him, because he’ll admit, he’s been putting this one off to the last possible minute, and then a little more. And the stupid part is, it’s such a small task in the scheme of things.
But again, every molehill feels like a mountain when things are this bad inside his head, and he’s long since learned not to self-flagellate over that. It is what it is.
Ed’s not allergic to phone calls. It’s not that he can’t. He just fucking hates them, and the lower his emotional reserves are, the harder it feels to initiate those tasks. He slumps into his chair and stares at the handset like it might skitter over suddenly and bite him. Not his fault that talking on the phone makes his brain itch the wrong way. Good for Izzy that he’s Mr Great at Phone Calls 2025; never fucking answers a text without calling about it.
And Ed just knows Izzy would love to make this fucking phone call, but Ed’s the consultant listed on the policy and they’ll only answer questions from him, so.
“Buck the fuck up,” he tells himself, sounding like his dad. “It’s just a phone call.”
Still feels like a peak he has to climb as he hooks up the receiver, wedges it under his chin and sighs, all his neurons crackling at once, every bit of information immediately forgotten.
Okay, nope. He hangs it back up again, drags a notebook out of the organised chaos on his desk. Clicks his email open—he tried emailing them and they emailed him back to say he had to call—and finds the one that lists the case number, the phone number, the other bits and pieces he needs. Writes them all down so he won’t forget any of it in the moment, and picks the receiver back up again.
Dials the number, beep-beep-boop.
Immediately hits a recorded message that asks him to choose from a menu, and he’s already grinding his teeth at having to wait between each one.
Do you need to make a change to an existing policy? He presses 3.
Do you need to speak to a customer service agent? He presses 2.
Would you like to skip the queue and discuss via SMS instead?
He tried that last time, and all it got him was a link to the website and a page that, after he clicked through all the required options and answered all the necessary questions, told him to call instead.
“Not falling for that again,” he mutters, holding the line as it slides into repetitive, tinny hold music.
He punches the speaker button and drops the phone on the desk, scrubbing his face with his hands. It’s a bright day outside, but the sky’s a shade or two darker thanks to the tinting on the window, and it does something to his brain. Makes everything else feel a shade or two darker, too. Seeing the whole city stretched out there just reminds him that it's full of people having much more fun than him. Not for the first time, he wonders if running away to sea would be an insane thing to do.
Do-do dooo do-do-do goes the music blaring out of the phone, and then repeats, and it's loud, too. “They don’t have a volume control for this shit?”
He’s only talking to himself, because there’s nobody on the other end to answer him, but it somehow lifts the irritation a fraction. He checks out his own phone, but nope, no volume button there. Just this music making his ears ache, and his patience slowly eroding.
And then.
And then, cutting over the harsh music like a cool stream of water on a hot day, there’s another voice.
“Oh, hello!” it says, and hope leaps in Ed’s heart that his torture is over. But no, this is… this is part of the hold situation, because the voice goes on. “I imagine you’re not having the best time, since you’re sitting on hold. But never fear, I’ll be your hold guy here today! I’m here for you!”
“My hold guy?” Ed says, as the voice fades out and the music picks up again. He didn’t even know he needed a hold guy until this minute, but all right: sign him the fuck up, he’ll take a personal hold guy. Could hold him nice and tight. Hold him down, hold him up against a wall—
“It’s funny, I actually thought I might make it to Broadway one day,” Hold Guy says, breaking back in. He’s got a Kiwi accent, like Ed’s. A slightly nasal, lilting voice, humour flowing under the words, like he’s about to laugh at his own joke. It’s infectious. “But here I am, talking to you on hold instead.” There’s a little pause and then, “I like you better than Broadway. Don’t tell them.”
Fuck. Ed can feel his jaw dropping, staring down at the phone as this cutesy little commercial bit gets right under his skin. He’s almost vibrating with anticipation for the next bit, fingers clenched on the desk.
“It’s a bit lonely, being the hold guy,” says Hold Guy. He sounds plaintive, pouty. Ed wants to fix him, and that’s before he says, “Nobody ever talks back.”
“I’d talk back,” Ed says out loud. “Nice to meet you, mate, I’m Ed.”
But Hold Guy is already gone, and Ed’s shifting rapidly from anticipation to agitation, every time he has to wait for more. Knee jiggling, spinning a pen in circles in front of him, all with that fucking awful background music going do-doo-do-do-do in the background.
Hold Guy saves him once again. “It’s not all bad being the Hold Guy. I get to spend time with you, for one. All the tea I can drink, for another—gotta take care of those golden vocal chords!” He tosses in a slightly off-key little la-la-laaaa, then snickers at himself, and there’s something wrong with Ed. Definitely. He can’t possibly be catching real feelings after twenty seconds total of hearing this guy’s voice.
The break feels shorter next time before he says, “The only problem is, the sound guy’s hogging all the good biscuits.” A pause, and then, with maximum bitchiness, “You are, Lucius! I can see the crumbs in your beard!”
Ed’s laughing, despite himself. That sounded almost genuine.
He’s still laughing when the music cuts out abruptly, and a new voice—sardonic, flat—says, “Welcome to Revenge Insurance, this is Jim, they/them, what do you want?”
Ed blinks. “Uh, shit, sorry to bother you?”
“Eh. Did you have a query today?”
He huffs out a laugh, confused as fuck by the sudden tone switch. “Yeah, I did.”
He lays out his question—updating the scope of the work they’re doing, expanding a little from building software and into giving software presentations, basically upselling himself from industry guru into full-on influencer, or whatever the fuck Izzy thinks he should be.
Despite the rough start, Jim’s quick, competent and helpful, and gets him sorted out right away.
At the very end they ask, “Anything else I can help you with today?”
It sends heat rushing up his neck to even think such an objectively insane question, but—“D’you happen to know who the hold guy is? Like, the one who does the cute bit over the hold music?”
Jim sighs. “I do not, never heard it.”
“‘Course, why would you be calling your own helpline?” He snorts. “Just wasn’t sure if it was someone in your office, or they hired someone, or—”
“I don’t have an answer, man. Sorry.”
“No probs. Thanks again for everything, Jim.”
He hangs up the receiver with a click and stares at it for a little longer. Did he hear everything Hold Guy had to say? He doesn’t think so. If you call up, do you get Hold Guy’s patter from the start, or does it start in random places so you hear it different every time? Is there… any way to find this guy, find out more about him?
He could call corporate for the company, he guesses. Try to weasel his way in with someone high enough in the ranks who could give him the info he wants; dig through a list of contracts and find a name, but… that’s ridiculous. Stalker behaviour. Ed’s completely normal about this.
Ed spends the next twenty minutes punching less and less hinged searches into the internet, trying to circumvent the need to be insane at anyone else about this. He can be insane all on his own, thanks very much.
A search of Revenge Insurance hold guy voice actor nets him a bunch of nothing, including a Reddit thread where people are talking about it, but nobody’s got the exact specifics.
He sounds like my uncle, bro
(Lucky them, getting that living ray of sunshine in their life)
(He gives it about three seconds of wondering if it actually is their uncle and whether they might have his number before he slaps himself out of that)
Sounds like an UILF (you know)
(Hands off, dangergal233, that UILF is all Ed’s) (and definitely queer, Ed’s gaydar is honed enough to figure that out)
I thought it was really cute, actually made the wait feel better.
(Is it weird to be proud of someone you don’t know, for doing the job they were paid to do and doing it well? Ed’s proud of Hold Guy, good job Hold Guy, Ed would brag so much about Hold Guy at every family gathering that his mum would tell him to take a lap around the bloody block) (which he’d be doing with his boyfriend, Hold Guy, so they’d probably stop around the corner to kiss up against the wall of the old dairy, and—)
I think I’ve seen him on a commercial for photocopiers or something. Kiwi guy, been around for a while. Can’t remember his name, though, or what brand it was for.
Because Ed is being really, really, incredibly normal about this, he then spends twenty more minutes on YouTube typing in variations of searches for Kiwi guys in photocopier ads.
He gets a lot of photocopier ads, none of them with Kiwi guys.
He gets a lot of Kiwi guys not with photocopiers, though. Kiwi guys surfing, cooking, singing, building sheds, making papier-mâché models of fruit?
Okay, maybe he gets a little distracted by that one. The guy has nice solid hands, smoothing out all that glue-covered newspaper. Could even be Hold Guy, who’s to say! They could start out making fruit together, slide into smooshing glue on each other romantically, really just rub it into the old pecs, caress some biceps, then they’d have to have a long shower to wash it off—
He blinks, and he’s watching a video about apple orchards in Poland. Can’t remember how he got there, just fully fell down the mental rabbithole with that one, his bad.
Not apples. Photocopiers. Get back on track, Teach.
Ten minutes more convinces him it’s not photocopiers. Maybe it was a printer ad? Fax machines? Laptops?
Maybe Ed needs a new approach.
His door bangs open, not even a courtesy knock, and of course it’s Izzy standing there looking exasperated. “Did you make the call yet?”
“Sure did, Iz.” He leans back in his chair, kicks his feet up on the desk, and puts his hands behind his head. “The lovely Jimbo fixed it all up for us. All set now, you can start booking in TED Talks or whatever it is you want me to do.”
“We want you to do,” Izzy says. He’s going to crack a tooth one day, keeping them so tightly clenched when he talks. “You want to do, because this is your fucking business, not mine, as you remind me all the time.”
“Because it is.” It’s his name out there on the big neon sign, Blackbeard (the tech enterprises part of it all is silent). It’s his face that sells shit, and he’s been so fucking bored that he’s getting obsessed with the mere idea of a guy on the other end of the line who wants to be on Broadway but can’t sing for shit so he’s doing gigs talking to strangers who can never answer him—
“Monday!” Izzy snaps. “You’re going on Monday, it’s all booked.”
“Fucking great,” Ed says, all his dreams of running away with Hold Guy flickering and evaporating. Flatly he adds, “Thanks, Iz. Couldn’t do it without you.”
Would really like not to be doing it at all. Would really like Izzy to stop hassling him all the time to keep doing it. Has contemplated death and retirement in no particular order several times a day lately, which probably isn’t ideal? Maybe he should give his therapist a call. Probably could’ve done with calling her a few months back, but who’s got time?
For now, all he can do is thunk his head back against the chair and sigh like a damned man. And then in a minute, he’ll collect his shit and go home to his empty apartment and wallow.
Sometimes you don’t realise how achingly lonely you are until that breaks for a brief second, with a guy you can never have. Now it feels twice as bad as before, and Ed’s just got to live with that.
~
Ed does not do a spectacular job of living with it for more than a couple of hours. You might even say it sends him headfirst into a long-overdue anxiety spiral, more intense than he’s had in years.
It’s 3am when he swipes open the search page again.
Revenge Insurance support line hours.
He’s hoping against hope that it might tell him it’s staffed 24/7.
It’s not. The results come back immediately: you can reach the support line anytime between 7am and 7pm.
Ed’s in the blanket fort he’s built on his bed, surrounded by pillows, screen glaring at him from the dark, still hiccuping from his last crying session. Shit.
What if he just… gave it a little try anyway?
The ringing in the phone is so loud inside his little fort that it makes him wince. The line picks up right away, and his heart jumps, but there’s no hold music this time.
Just the earnest voice of Hold Guy—thank fuck—speaking a recorded message.
“Hello! You’ve reached Revenge Insurance, but unfortunately you’re either an early bird or a night owl, depending on how you personally identify, of course, and we’re not here to take your call. Please do ring back between seven (that’s the morning one) and seven (that’s the evening one), because we’ll be happy to hear from you.”
It’s a cool wave of relief, that voice. The kindness in it, the softness, the gentle care. It’s everything Ed’s been needing, and everything he doesn’t have.
He’s not going to admit to anyone how many times he calls the line back just to hear that voice. At one point he tries to Shazam it just in case anything comes up, but it’s another dead end.
In the end, he falls asleep with the phone in his hand, feeling both a little better, and a lot worse.
~
When he drags his eyes open it’s too bright in his apartment, and he squints in irritation.
Squints some more when his phone suddenly buzzes in his hand, and he lifts it up to find—oh, shit, it’s the insurance company calling him.
He panics and hits the red button, because he sure as hell doesn’t want to have to explain to someone why he called their support line twenty-three or so times last night. Who’s counting? He’s not counting.
Ah, shit. What if—
No, that’s too insane.
But—
What if that was Hold Guy calling him back? And Ed hung up on him, and now he’s mad and he thinks Ed doesn’t love him anymore (Ed doesn’t love him; Ed’s never even met him, that would be weird).
Nonetheless he finds himself pulling up the number and calling it back, hand trembling, because according to his screen it’s ten past seven am, so the support line is there to support him (maybe not exactly like this, but it’s on them for not specifying).
The line rings.
It connects.
There’s that same run of questions, the same numbers punched, for luck.
And then: do-do dooo do-do-do.
Suddenly he’s got sympathy for Izzy and his teeth grinding because Jesus Christ. He tries to remember how long it took for Hold Guy's voice to kick in yesterday. Desperately hopes the actual team doesn’t answer too fast for Ed to hear him, which should be kind likely, because how many people call up in the first ten minutes of the day?
Lots, apparently, because Ed stays on hold for long enough to hear that voice come soothingly down the line again.
“Oh, hello!” Hold Guy says, an exact Groundhog Day repeat of yesterday, only this time Ed’s naked in bed for this, and maybe that was a bad idea. “I imagine you’re not having the best time, since you’re sitting on hold. But never fear, I’ll be your hold guy here today! I’m here for you!”
“Thanks, mate,” he murmurs, letting his hand wander across his bare chest. Feels like he’s lived a whole mental life with Hold Guy since yesterday, introducing him to the family, getting all gluey together. Stands to reason he’d have a lot of thoughts about Hold Guy touching his nipple just like this, just rolling it firmly between his fingers, hard dick leaving a trail of slick where he’d be humping the back of Ed’s thigh at the same time, like—
“I'm curious to know your business,” Hold Guy says cheerfully, and it shouldn’t sound so hot, but Ed moans a little anyway. “We’ve got a customer who’s a crime scene cleaner, and another who owns a vacuum company. I wonder if they know each other!”
“You should matchmake ‘em,” Ed says breathlessly, letting that hand slide lower, tickling through the hair on his belly. “Could be a whole side business, introducing people, like… you could introduce me to you.”
That was pretty good patter, he reckons. He and Hold Guy could patter back and forth all day, make up bits about how they own a hotel, or they’re actually cocktails, tangy and zangy, or how Ed wears leather and Hold Guy wears silk—
Hold Guy does an exaggerated yawn. “I’m so sorry, I’m not much of a morning person. I know, I know, that’s what they all say. Right before they say, get on with my phone call! Well, yes! That’s what I’m doing!”
Ed’s fingers find their target, wrapping around his dick just in time to feel the way it jumps at the stricter voice.
“Tell me,” he begs as he starts to stroke. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
There’s a long space in time where Ed keeps touching himself, keeps anticipating the next words that are going to send him right over the edge, because he’s so turned on and he just needs—something. A little bit more.
There’s nothing. His arousal hovers almost painfully on the edge as the hold music goes on and on, and Hold Guy doesn’t talk again.
“Come back,” he whispers pathetically. “I need you.”
The music cuts out abruptly, and there’s a sudden loud American voice in his ear. “Good morning, Mr. Teach. Revenge Insurance, this is Pete. How can I help you today?”
Ed almost flings the phone, panicking. Just manages to scrabble up enough wits to say, “How’d you know it was me?”
Pete laughs. “Our system has a record of all our customers and their calls.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh my god. Were you okay last night?”
“Yep,” Ed squeaks out. “Just had a phone malfunction. One of those weird ones where it dials the same number a bunch of times. Fucking possessed or something, I don’t know.” He’s seized with a genius thought. “That’s why I was calling this morning, to say sorry for all the spam calls. That I didn’t make.”
“Oh! Oh, that’s no problem,” Pete says. “Can I help you with anything else, sir?”
“No,” he says reflexively, and then races to say, “wait, yes. Do you know who the Hold Guy is? The one who talks over the music?”
There’s a pause. And then, “Ye-es…”
“Yes,” Ed says, because holy shit. “And…?”
“And I can’t tell you anything else, because of company policy.”
Ed scrubs a hand over his face. “Mate, I think I’m losing my mind a little here. I just need to talk to him.”
“Because of the… malfunctioning phone calls?” Pete sounds suspicious. “Ohh-kay, that’s—no.”
“I’m not some weird stalker,” Ed says.
“Sir, that's definitely something a stalker would say—”
There’s a muffled interjection in the background, a sudden burst of conversation that Ed can’t hear, except that he’s sure at one point someone asks does he sound hot and is he single. Or maybe he’s just imagining those parts.
Either way, Pete’s back on the line a second later. “We’ll call you back.”
The line goes dead, and Ed makes a wounded noise and flops back into his pillows, blinking away tears. He… may be having a little breakdown here.
It’s not about Hold Guy at all, is it?
Nope, if he’s really objective about it, this has just pushed him over a cliff edge he was already teetering on. For months now, years, everything’s been so fucking boring. There’s no chaos, no drama, no life. He comes home to this empty apartment every night and he goes back to the office every morning and does the thing. Argues with Izzy. Trades pleasantries with everyone else, tells Fang sure, he’ll come fishing someday, never does that.
He feels like he’s disappearing, and then, and then this voice on the other end of the phone made him feel seen.
Hold Guy’s not real, though. He’s playing a part.
(Just like Ed, right? Another thing they’ve got in common).
(He’s not losing it completely, nope).
It’s just… Ed’s spent most of his life trying not to look too closely at what he wants, because he doesn’t get that. He’s not that kind of person. The minute you admit that you want it, it’s gone. And it hurts so much to lose a thing that the amount of good it feels to have it in the first place doesn’t compare, so it’s a net loss in the end.
Wanting something he can’t have? Less scope for hurt, so. Hold Guy. Wants him. Can’t have him. Should be fine.
Isn’t, really. It turns out it’s ignited something in him about wanting what he could have in real life. He wants someone to banter with, someone to laugh with. He wants a warm voice in his ear at night.
He wants to be loved, fucking hell, is that really too much to ask for?
He gives a great sniff, just as the phone starts buzzing in his hand again. What the shit, he wasn’t actually expecting them to call him back, and suddenly he’s nervous, because… yeah, well. Wanting something and getting it are two very different things.
Hold Guy might already have a partner. Hold Guy might not find Ed that interesting, which would be devastating. Hold Guy might really politely break his heart; probably should, if he’s not a total lunatic.
He swallows and hits the green button. “Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” says a dramatic English voice, pitched spy-movie low. “Hold Guy will be at the Pink Unicorn Club Open Mic comedy night this evening, 7pm. Do you understand?”
Ed’s nodding for a second before he realises he has to say something. “Yep.”
“Good.” The drama pitches up a notch. “I’ve Googled you, and I know you live here. I also know that you wear a lot of leather, and you look cool, and you’re very, very rich, and Hold Guy is also one of those things. And he’s single, and he’s lonely, and he’s driving us all insane, so I’m opening this magical little doorway to let you through. But if you hurt him you’ll have me to answer to.”
“Okay?” Ed feels like he’s tripped and fallen out of a rom-com and into a movie where English Liam Neeson’s promising in advance to hunt him down, before he’s even done anything wrong. “Uh, how will I know it’s him?”
There’s a sarcastic cackle from the other end of the line. “His voice, obviously.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He gulps. “Okay, cheers?”
There’s nothing but dead air on the other end of the line, and a new bit of hope rising inside him. He’s going to be in the same place as Hold Guy, tonight. And Hold Guy is single, and lonely, and… cool? Wears a lot of leather? Probably isn’t very very rich if he’s recording hold music, but Ed’s got that covered.
So Ed’s going to an open mic comedy night. That’s settled.
He’s been learning a lot about himself across the past day, and one of those things glimmering in the back of his mind is that when he has to do stuff alone, it feels bad.
So, he scoops up his phone again and flicks off two texts in quick succession.
One to Izzy, telling him he won’t be in today. He’s got an extensive skin and haircare routine to dive into, and an outfit to plan, and a lot more daydreaming to do. Resting his brain, because he’s not so good at recognising when that’s essential most of the time, but it very definitely is now.
One to Fang, asking if he wants to come to a comedy night tonight, see if they can catch a fish.
It only takes ten seconds for the twin replies to buzz through- a middle finger emoji from Izzy, and an earnest I’d love that from Fang.
Ed’s got this. His life’s about to change.
~
“Which one is he?” Fang asks later that night. The bar is absolutely packed, the noise a constant hum, and they’ve already seen four different people step up to the mic, none of them Hold Guy.
“I don’t know,” Ed says, feeling a little pathetic about it as he hugs his latest cocktail closer. “Mystery guy didn’t give me a description on the phone.”
He’s been scanning the crowd ferociously. There are maybe three hundred people here, and he’s seen leather on maybe fifty of them? Good leather rep. He’s worn his best leathers himself, one arm cut away to frame his snake tattoo, his hair pulled up in a slutty little bun for maximum sexy impact. He even spritzed some kind of glitter shit to make his collarbones shine. Ed’s not fucking around here, he means business.
How many people in this room are cool? Objectively hard to say, given that there’s no real agreed metric of coolness in the world. His cool might be different to English Liam Neeson/ Murdery Hold Guy-Colleague’s definition. Even harder to say if someone’s rich.
Every time someone new steps up to the mic his heart skips a beat, until they start talking, and nope.
“Maybe you should get on the front foot,” Fang suggests. “Get up there first.”
Ed stares at him. “You want me to do an open mic comedy gig.”
Fang giggles. “You’re funny, bro. You can be hilarious.”
Funny is not what people usually think of Ed, but he nudges Fang with his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“Anyway, if you got up there and told your story, maybe he’d understand.”
Or, maybe the entire room would hear how pathetic Ed is, and he wouldn’t get a single laugh. Just dead silence and everyone staring back at him with that oh shit face people give whenever he tells a ha ha funny story from his childhood that horrifies everyone else.
“You don’t have to see any of these people ever again,” Fang says. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“They could laugh at me,” Ed blurts.
“Kind of the point of a comedy night, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
Laug at, not with, and it feels like a pretty important distinction. Ed’s never been great at figuring out where the line falls in that one- it’s often too late before he susses out that people weren’t thinking the same things he was, and they’re all against him. One of the reasons he’s ended up isolated and lonely, in the end..
“Can’t be worse than that lady talking about her toaster for five minutes.”
Ed snorts. “You got me there.” He actually kinda liked toaster lady’s stories; they were relatable. Maybe his story will be relatable to one other person in the room, and that’ll make it all worthwhile. “Okay. Yeah, okay, I’ll do it.”
It takes them a couple of minutes to track down the coordinator for the gig, tucked at a table at the back, and for Ed to ask if there’s some kind of process for putting down his name.
“There is,” says the guy, who has huge sideburns and a he/him pronoun pin and nametag that reads Lucius, and also, most importantly, he has the voice of English Liam Neeson, the Murdery Hold Guy-Colleague, oh, fuck. “It’s a long list, I’m afraid—probably twenty more people before you’d get up there.”
Ed’s still stuck staring at him, speechless.
The boy arches a brow. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Ed croaks, and clears his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s me, from the phone this morning. Ed Teach.”
Lucius’ eyes fly wide, just as the bald guy beside him claps a hand on his arm. “Oh, shit, babe, that’s Blackbeard!”
“I know!” Lucius says shrilly, shaking off—aw, Pete, that’s Pete. “You look different without the big beard.”
Ed strokes his short beard self-consciously. “Shaved it off a few months back. Was time for a change.”
That was his last breakdown. Thought it was all going to turn around from there.
“It suits you,” Lucius says warmly. “So wait, hold on. You want to get up there on stage yourself?”
“Is he here?” Ed asks. “D’you know when he’s going on?”
“He’s here somewhere,” Lucius says, and Ed’s heart does that little flip-jump again. “Not here-here, but he won’t be far away. And he’s not due on until a bit later.” He taps his pen against the page. “Let me just see if I can… oop, we’ve had a cancellation.”
He beams as he runs his pen through the next name on the list. “There you are, space just opened up.”
“Cool,” Ed says, wiping his sweaty hands down on his leather. “And do I just get up there, or…?”
“That’s it,” Lucius says. “Hop up, adjust the mic if you need to, do your thing, respect the five minute timer. And good luck!”
He’s currently wearing the kind of expression Ed could imagine a shark having, if it made it onto land and learned to walk and just found someone it wanted to eat.
“Thanks,” he says weakly, and turns back to the room. Full of people. So many people. But Hold Guy’s out there somewhere, and he’s what matters.
He heads up to the edge of the stage as the previous act finishes, and Fang’s already elbowing his way gently in to stand at the front, making sure Ed’s got a friendly face right there. Fuck, he loves Fang. Fang gives him a thumbs up as the previous guy accepts the applause, bows a couple of times, then gestures to the mic.
Okay, this is it.
Ed takes a deep breath, and bounds up onto the stage, waving as the crowd cheers. The mic’s in his hand before he knows it, the lights bright in his eyes, and he’s ready. “Hello everyone, I’m Blackbeard!” He hears the gasps as a couple of people recognise him, but he puts his finger to his mouth and says, “Shh. But you can call me Ed tonight, all right? It’s just Ed here.”
Someone yells, “Hi Ed!” and the crowd cheers, and Ed’s not tearing up. Definitely not.
“I’ve got a lot of stories I could tell you tonight. Been around the world, done a lot of things. I mean, one time I even ate a man.”
There’s silence for a second, and then someone—might be Pete up the back—honks out a laugh, and it ripples through the crowd.
“I know, I know, I tried my best to get him down without tasting him, but you know how that goes. But, uh, anyway, that’s nothing compared to this week. It’s been a whole new adventure, and I didn’t even have to get up for it.”
There’s a collective ooh, and maybe he’s kind of into this. It’s what Izzy wants him doing on Monday, isn’t it? Standing up and talking to people. Maybe if he took it less seriously that wouldn’t be so bad.
“It all started when I had to call up my insurance company. Not usually the most exciting task, but this time… I met someone.” He eyes them all up, weighing the timing. “Or more like, I met him, and he doesn’t even know I exist. Because he’s the hold music.”
There’s a ripple of laughter that he waves down. “I’m sure you’re all thinking, what the fuck, man? Who catches feelings for the hold music?” He jabs a thumb at himself. “This guy, apparently. I can do anything.”
People seem to be appreciating it, but he’s still scanning the crowd, looking for a specific reaction. Still not getting what he’s looking for, either, and he hopes like hell that Hold Guy can hear him.
“So I figured I’d make it even more normal. Thought I’d come down to an open mic night where Hold Guy might be and tell the story to the whole world, in case I can find him. Like Cinderella, but with a voice instead of a foot. Wanted to let him know that he made my life better, just by being cute on the phone. Wanted to see if he might like to tell me to sit down and wait for something else next.”
Someone wolf-whistles from the back, and Ed’s genuinely laughing himself now. “Anyway, if you’re out there, Hold Guy—I’ll wait for you at the bar. And thanks for being you.”
He drops a little bow, and the room erupts into cheers. People clap him on the back as he makes his way off stage, and Fang gives him a hug so tight that he feels his ribs creak.
He makes it all the way to the bar without finding any Hold Guys on the way.
The bartender, Archie, slides him a drink before he can ask for one. “He’s out there, bro, don’t worry.”
“Thanks.”
He’s still riding the high, but he’s also feeling the drop ahead, like the world’s worst rollercoaster. What happens when Hold Guy doesn’t show? How bad is Ed’s place going to feel tonight, going home alone again?
And then, someone builds him a little more rollercoaster track.
There’s throat-clearing from the front. “Is this thing on?”
It’s the voice. The voice.
Ed turns, and there he is. Hold Guy. Couldn’t be anyone but Hold Guy, he knows it immediately. He’s up on stage, standing behind the mic, and under the lights his hair looks like a halo of gold. He’s gorgeous, looks about Ed’s age. He’s wearing jeans so tight they might as well be glued onto him, and a shirt that looks like he’s wrapped himself in a whole bird aviary, bright pink and pretty.
“Well, this is awkward,” he says, perfect hair swooping as he looks around the crowd. He sounds just like he does on the phone, holy shit, like… that shouldn’t be a surprise, but somehow it still is. This is real. And… awkward? Before Ed can spiral, Hold Guy says, “I was just about to hop up and tell a story about my life as the hold music, but someone beat me to it!”
The crowd is going nuts in an instant, and Ed is absolutely frozen. That little hint of bitchiness, oh, god, his knees are ready to fold.
“I’ve been hold music for a long time,” Hold Guy says. “You’re probably thinking oh, he doesn’t look like hold music, but!”
He takes a step back from the mic stand, and—and starts to dance, just absolutely goofy, legs kicking out to the sides like a skittish pony, head thrown back, all the while replicating that do-do-dooo hold music perfectly, droning tone and all.
It’s hysterical. Everyone’s in stitches.
Ed’s maybe in love, for real.
“There we are,” says Hold Guy, stepping back in. “Phew, I like to leave work at work most of the time, but tonight I think I’d like to bring work home, if you know what I mean.”
Someone shrieks with glee, definitely not Ed. There are feet being stomped on the floor, drum-roll style, like everyone in the room is all in on this stupid story.
And then Hold Guy turns, lifts his hand to his eyes to block out the lights, and looks directly at Ed. “I do think I’ve been unforgivably rude, not being able to reply to a valued customer, so maybe… Hold on.” He gives a devastating wink. "Do-over."
He takes a breath, then leans in and does a perfect phone ringing sound effect. Now that is a talented mouth, fuck. Brrng-brrng, brrng-brrng. Clicks and dings and then a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound a little.
“Welcome to Revenge Insurance, what can I do for you today?”
He’s waiting. All eyes in the room turn toward Ed, and Archie leans over the bar and gives him a hard shove. “Get up there!”
“Me?”
“Did you call?” Hold Guy says from the stage. “Were you looking for me?”
There’s a path clearing in front of Ed as people part in waves, the lights illuminating the way, and he’s walking down it before he can think, like a bride to the altar. He stops just in front of the stage, and Hold Guy beams down at him. And then Fang pops up behind him.
“Hold on, boss, I’ve got you.”
He’s being lifted around the waist a second later and shoved up the step onto the low stage, landing right beside Hold Guy, who wiggles the mic out of the stand and holds it out between them.
He’s got pretty eyes, god. A deep dimple on his cheek where he’s smiling wider all the time as he takes in Ed’s face. A little hint of gold and silver scruff on his chin, a deep vee in his open shirt that shows plenty of golden chest hair. He’s Ed’s perfect man.
Right, shit. This is his cue. He clears his throat. “Uh, hey, yeah. I had a question about my insurance.”
“Oh?” Hold Guy’s brows jump up. “Something I can help with?”
“Maybe, mate.” He glances out at the audience. Everyone’s leaning in. “Just wondered if you covered pirates.”
Hold Guy chuckles at the unexpected segue, but he rolls with it. “Well, we cover anything our customers want us to cover.” A little eyebrow waggle. “Are you a pirate?”
Ed ignores the extra wolf-whistles and shrugs. “Might be.” He leans in a little further and says, “Might be keen to steal your heart.”
He can see people falling against each other in the front row, howling, everyone having a good time with this.
“I really hope you mean that figuratively,” says Hold Guy. “But in either case, wow!”
Ed’s feeling so, so warm inside, just glowing with it now. “Have you got me covered for all the risks?”
There are… so many of those. But he’s maybe ready for them now.
Hold Guy nods earnestly. “I think we can arrange that.” He turns back to the crowd and lifts his hand. “I’ve been Stede Bonnet, and thank you for your time and your enthusiasm!”
He slips the mic back into the stand, and then he reaches out and offers Ed his hand. Ed takes it, lets himself get pulled off the stage and down to the bar, threading their way through a crowd that’s all cheering for them.
They come to a hard stop in front of the bar, and Stede spins to face Ed, sticks his hand out. “Stede Bonnet.”
Ed takes it, shakes. “Ed Teach. Great to finally meet you.”
Stede hasn’t let go of his hand. Still inspecting his face. “Lucius said you’d been calling to hear my voice?”
“It’s a good voice,” Ed says gruffly. “Sorry I was weird about it.”
“No!” Stede says. “No, no, I’ve just been… worried about you, I suppose. Are you all right?”
Ed breathes slowly, counts to three. Nobody’s ever cared about him that easily. “Yeah.” That’s not true, though, is it? “Okay, no. Not great. And you just sounded so kind, and you really got it, even though it’s just a recording and you’re just an actor—”
“Oh, no, I own the company,” Stede says, and for about the fifth time in a day Ed’s struck speechless. “Felt important to let my customers know that I really do care.” He finally lets go of Ed’s hand, but only to hold out his arms. “Could I hug you, Ed? Because I’m sincere about that. I do care.”
Ed nods. Leans in, lets Stede wrap him up in a long hug, the kind that makes all his stresses dissolve in seconds.
“I dreamed about us making papier-mâché fruit together,” Ed murmurs, and Stede’s hands just stroke over his back in that soothing rhythm, not questioning a thing.
“Well, that sounds lovely. I do enjoy a crafty little knick-knack.”
“Dreamed about more than that,” Ed says, because suddenly crafty little knick-knack is waking his dick up again. “Didn’t know if you’d be into it. Or, uh. With me.”
Stede’s hand slips lower, settling into the space above his hips, where he’s got a giant TRUST NO-ONE tattoo inked into his skin. “I think the odds are fair that I’d be into anything you can imagine. Very much with you.”
Ed pushes back. Needs to see his face. And yep, there’s that same glint of humour in his eye, but the expression is fifty steps more feral, and still completely earnest.
“Cool,” Ed says, the king of nonchalance, and slips his hand back into Stede’s. “Maybe we can talk about my policy back at my place. Really dig into the inclusions, get all up in the guts of what you’re covering.”
Stede’s laugh is all the music he needs. “I’d love that.”
~
By next Monday, Stede’s at Ed’s talk, sitting in the front row.
By next month, who knows? Maybe they’ll really be innkeepers. No matter what, Ed no longer feels like his life is on hold.