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Silver has long believed that guilt goes away if you let it. Still does believe it, in theory. Though if that’s the case, he’s forced to wonder why, hours later after he denied Flint’s request to know the truth of his past, he’s still dwelling on the pained confusion in Flint’s voice. The obvious answer would be that Silver doesn’t want to let go of the guilt he feels over refusing Flint, but he’s not entirely comfortable accepting that interpretation of his feelings, one which only begs further questions.
The other answer would be that what Silver is feeling towards Flint isn’t guilt at all. Silver is even less comfortable with where that line of thinking may lead.
Whatever the underlying reason behind his conflict, the effects of it must be evident in his bearing, because Madi takes one look at him when he enters her room that evening and gently orders him to go lie on the bed. Silver complies, stripping off his shirt and hanging it over a chair as he goes. It’s become something of a ritual for them, now that their relationship has progressed to the physical: Silver returning to camp after a particularly long afternoon of sparring, his body even more worn down and sore than usual, and Madi offering to ease the pain with a massage.
The afternoon had been long, even though the sparring session had been cut short. Silver hadn’t realized until he was halfway down the hill that in his hurry to escape the conversation, he had left without his false leg. Going back for it was out of the question, so he had deliberately taken a meandering route back to the camp, trying to time his arrival to coincide with supper in the hopes that he could avoid being seen by as many people as possible. This strategy had the added benefit of allowing Silver to lose himself in the accumulating strain on his joints rather than in thoughts of Flint. It worked for a while. But when he finally arrived at his own hut, as the sun’s last rays were disappearing behind the mountains to the west, the boot was propped against the foot of his bed. No other signs of Flint’s presence were apparent, but that single gesture was enough to drag Silver back into the murky and unsettling depths he’d felt himself floundering in when he chose to lie to Flint back on that hilltop, and immediately doubted his choice.
Presented with the current opportunity to lose himself in the now-familiar scent of Madi clinging to her bedsheets, Silver does so gladly, collapsing face first after he removes both his leather boot and his metal one. He presses his nose into her pillow and breathes in until his chest feels ready to pop, then exhales just as deeply, feeling a fraction of the tension bleed out of his exhausted muscles.
The mattress dips as Madi settles in beside him. Silver hears the faint sounds of her slicking her hands with the oil she uses on her hair, something rich and nutty that Silver has yet to identify, then feels her firm touch at the small of his back. He groans at the pressure -- half discomfort, half relief, for the pain always flares stronger at first before receding -- and Madi hums sympathetically.
“Your day must have been more intense than usual,” she observes, rubbing circles into Silver’s skin.
Silver turns his head just enough so he can look up at her. “You have no idea,” he murmurs. “Though from this vantage point, it seems to be improving rapidly.”
Madi narrows her eyes at him even as her lips curl up into a smile that Silver returns. He hides his face in the pillow again before something stupidly sentimental can slip out of his mouth. He feels utterly, ridiculously fortunate in this moment, the way he always feels when he’s alone with Madi these days, when they can set aside the demands of the roles they play and claim a private bit of softness for themselves.
He wonders sometimes if their closeness is becoming obvious to the people around them -- they’d both agreed early on that to make their involvement public would only complicate the alliance between their respective groups, and Silver is normally quite adept at concealment, but Madi seems to have an uncanny ability to lower his defenses. More and more often he finds himself staring too long at her during their war council meetings, or sitting closer to her at meal times than he likely should, and he feels terribly conspicuous but he can’t seem to stop. Once or twice he’s caught sight of Rackham watching them interact with a suspiciously evaluative look in his eye. He wonders if Madi’s mother has noticed, and the thought chills him to the soul.
He wonders if Flint has noticed.
The notion doesn’t inspire the same instant anxiety in him. Complicated though it may make things, he can’t imagine Flint would begrudge either of them this newfound comfort. After all, as Silver has learned, Flint understands all too well what it means to find yourself drawn to someone despite precarious circumstances, or outside risk. Surely Flint wouldn’t disapprove. He may even be happy for them.
It occurs to Silver, then, that the comfort he feels when he’s with Madi -- the freedom of letting go his obligations and simply enjoying her company -- is probably not altogether dissimilar to how Flint feels around him , these days.
He thinks of how he’s seen more honest smiles from Flint in the past week than he has in all the months they’ve known each other. He thinks of himself, sitting across from Flint in that forest, telling him that there may be no one closer to you in the world right now than I . He thinks of Flint earlier today, openly acknowledging his own transparence to Silver, without anger or bitterness toward the fact, with nothing but sad bewilderment at Silver’s unwillingness to be free with him in turn.
The unpleasant guilt-adjacent feeling bubbles up inside him again, and Silver feels almost nauseous. He shuts his eyes tighter against the sensation, as if doing so could force the image of Flint’s disappointment out of his head. You think I don’t trust you , he says to the Flint inside his head. It’s not that. Please understand it’s not that. It’s just that I’ve spent so long running from myself I’m not sure I could face him if I wanted to.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking so loudly about,” Madi says casually, her hands continuing their steady motion along Silver’s abused spine, “it may be better just to say it. I should hope that by now you know I am here to listen, if you wish to share.”
After a pause, she adds, with only the faintest wry twist in her voice to indicate teasing, “Lest you think I’m overly concerned for you, I had rather hoped to enjoy your mouth on me later tonight, and I fear that would not be pleasant for either of us with you in this state. So, please, for both our sakes.”
Silver huffs a breath of laughter, muffled by the pillow. I truly adore you , he thinks hopelessly. He wants to tell her there’s nothing troubling him, but he doesn’t want to lie to her. He wants to explain to her what transpired between him and Flint this afternoon, but he fears she would misconstrue it as Flint trying to gain leverage over him, mistrustful of the captain’s motives as she is... and anyway, how can he explain it to her when he doesn’t fully understand it himself?
What comes out of his mouth instead is, “Do you ever wish I would tell you more about myself?”
Madi sweeps Silver’s hair to the side so she can press her thumbs insistently where his neck meets his shoulders. “You’ve told me plenty about yourself,” she replies.
Silver swallows. “I mean about who I was before we met,” he clarifies. “I wasn’t always a pirate, you know.” Exactly what other labels he’d worn before assuming that of quartermaster, he doesn’t say aloud, but they flash tauntingly through his mind regardless. Thief. Orphan. Urchin. Heathen. Foreigner. Swindler. Tramp. “You’ve never even asked me how I lost my leg,” he adds quietly.
The silence stretches between them, and Silver almost turns his head again to see what expression Madi is wearing, but he’s too afraid to look. Her hands are laying flat and still against his shoulder blades.
When she finally speaks, her voice is nearly monotone. “My mother has never told me of her childhood.”
Every ounce of Silver’s blood feels heavy suddenly, slowing to a paralyzing crawl through his veins, weighing him down. He doesn’t feel like he could open his mouth to respond even if he wanted to. Madi’s hands resume their action, the heels of her palms digging into the space just below Silver’s shoulders and moving in upside-down crescent arcs, down and away towards his sides, then up and in towards his spine again. This is the area where the stiffest knots of muscle always tend to collect.
“She has shared some things with me,” Madi continues. “In vague terms, general terms. And I can see the scars she bears. I can see how fiercely she fights to protect our people, how determined she is that I should not face the same cruelties she has faced. But the details of those cruelties, their specific names and forms, these remain mysteries to me.
“I am sure she wishes to spare me that knowledge. But I suspect also, that she wishes to spare herself the telling of it. And that part of her, perhaps, fears that in speaking such things aloud she would be giving them power over her. Power to define her, in ways she does not wish to be defined.”
It takes Silver a moment to realize that his cheeks are wet. He is glad his face is still obscured. Madi strokes down the length of his bare back, bringing her hands to rest on the slope of his waist.
“You’ve told me plenty about yourself,” she repeats. “I know that you are a terrible sailor, a passable cook, and a wonderful storyteller. I know that you are always eager to learn something new if you think it will help you. I know that you are strong, and stubborn, and annoyingly charming. I know that you care deeply for your men, and for your captain, and for me.” She squeezes his sides lightly. “This is all I need to know, and if I have missed anything relevant, I’m sure it will reveal itself to me in time.”
Silver swallows again, rubs his face against the pillow in as subtle a gesture as he can manage, and rolls over to gaze up at the woman who is dearer to him than he will ever be able to express. “Am I delirious, or did you just call me charming?”
Madi rolls her eyes and tugs sharply on one of Silver’s curls. “I forgot to mention that you also like to make horribly unfunny jokes when you don’t know how to tell me you care for me too.” She lowers herself until their noses are almost brushing, a smirk spreading across her face. “Luckily for you I find that charming.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmm. In a stupid sort of way.” Madi closes the distance between them, and Silver brings his hands up to cup her face with reverence, pouring into the kiss what he’s unable to tell her in words, thanking her for showing him how to move forward, secure in the knowledge of what is truly important.
Tomorrow, when he and Flint meet again, he knows what he needs to say. He can only hope Flint will understand.