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Silver knows little of divinity, even less of any sacred texts and their tales.
What may have remained from lifetimes ago lies locked and shut away, crowded deep into edges of his memory, untouched.
Even still, as he watches his captain wipe crimson from his blade– weathered and exhausted, certainly, but alive, alive, alive –he swears he now knows something kindred to what a prophet may feel, struck still in the presence of Holiness.
Something bright, blinding, flooding, and scorching, and streaming from the inside out, not loud but hushed. Quiet.
Such thoughts break throughout Silver’s skull like the surrounding crash of waves as he holds onto Flint’s unflinching gaze.
The mid-noon sun is high and relentless above this stretch of shallows and island grass. Silver himself is mildly aware of his hand as it slowly falls from Israel’s back, now that he is sure his previous captor’s pistol poses no threat. He shifts onto his crutch to rise from the sand as Dooley and Joji circle the three corpses at their feet, no doubt searching for what provisions can be put to use.
All of it– no, none of it can compel him to tear his eyes from Flint as he strides forward, a fierce resolve fitted into the weary set of his shoulders, one that even Silver cannot name.
He can only watch– still, silent, that great swell of blood pounding in his head –as Flint draws nearer, till he is a mere hairsbreadth before him, his bloodied hands far too gentle as they rest to grip Silver by the shoulders.
“You.”
The word falls from Flint’s mouth, feather-soft and disbelieving. Fragile as glass.
This close, Silver can spy the flecks of gold in the vibrant forest of Flint’s irises, can see the deep, almost violet circles under red-rimmed eyes that Silver hasn’t glimpsed since their nights in the Maroon’s cages, the gauntness there Silver knows was not present only two days ago.
Flint’s gaze hasn’t strayed from his face once, seeming to memorize him in kind. His grasp is so unfittingly tremulous as his hands shift from Silver’s shoulders, to back, to rest at his elbows. Silver wonders distractedly if this man has always roused such– such feeling in him and he in kind.
He doesn’t dare chase the answer as it runs from him, burrowing deep and far away.
Here, now, in Flint’s hands– hands that have pressed a knife to his throat, hands that have roughly shoved him aside, hands that have reached back to steady him when he has stumbled with fever and panic and exhaustion –in his hands, Silver is– is safe. He is held up from stumbling back into the sand by this dauntless, giant of a man– his captain, his partner, his friend –and, Sweet Jesus.
If he sinks any deeper into this mire of thought, and questions, and even more elusive answers of who and what and all that this man is to him, he will drown, he will suffocate, he will never resurface, he knows– he knows he won’t.
“You fucking shit,” Flint chokes out finally, the laugh caught and ragged in his throat, the moisture thick on his lashes.
Flint looks at him– smiles at him, as Silver has never seen him –beholding him like he matters, and Silver wonders how he can bear the very weight of it without being brought back down to the earth– of being seen in Flint’s eyes.
“Hello, Captain,” he replies easily– light and false– all while the maelstrom-pull inside his chest threatens to drag him under. “Do hope you and Madi didn’t miss me too terribly.”
Gone, Flint’s soul cries, howls like some forsaken, mad beast.
Gone, gone, gone.
Gone, sunk, drowned beneath the waves and timber and fire.
Dragged down and out of his reach, torn from his side forevermore.
Madi stands nearest the shoreline, looking for once, in all the time Flint has known her, so heart-wrenchingly young. The water gently laps at her boots, crystalline in the setting sun. Beautiful.
Silver is gone. Nothing should be beautiful.
Flint stares, a few paces behind her but close enough to watch her tear-glazed eyes rapidly scan the horizon line, useless though they both know it is.
He doesn’t need to hear her thoughts to know what they are calling to each crashing wave with every breath.
Where are you…?
They’d both seen him fall, both watched helplessly, the terror thick and strangling, as the heavy nets dragged him down, down, down into the deep, amongst the agonized cries of their men, the ash and pounding of canon fire.
It was only Madi’s weeping that held him fast, that kept him from immediately diving headfirst through the wreckage into the burning, bloodied waters. She, and the thought of Billy and all the others, enslaved and free, waiting for them, depending on them to lead the war ahead.
His eyes clench tight against the memory, the last sight of Silver’s ragged grey coat slipping beneath, and Flint is no longer there on the beach, he’s within the bowels of a ship that he recognizes, that isn’t the Walrus, and he’s pressed close to another, the knife in his fist lowering to his side as he peers down into pale blue, earnest eyes, hallowed by ocean-dampened curls.
… When you were sinking to the bottom of the sea, who do you imagine it was who dragged you onto that beach?
He shudders, blinking rapidly, his gaze returning to Madi’s darkened silhouette against the amber skies.
Their men have almost cleared the beach, rallying with Billy’s with what little remains of their force.
Soon both he and Madi must follow, soon he must somehow tear both himself and her away from the shore, away from all thought of hope.
But how can he?
How can he when he knows, here, now, that the very earth could gape open and begin to swallow him whole, and still he would remain locked into place?
Ever searching for Silver to emerge from the tide, soaked to the skin, his rough laugher ringing at the fear on his and Madi’s faces, his eyes merry, alight with their usual intolerable mischief–
“Captain.”
It’s Dooley behind him, boots shifting in the sand, uneasy, his voice wavering slightly with it.
“Captain, Billy’s callin’. It’s time to move inland.”
Flint nods, wordless, still turned towards Madi. She approaches quietly, head bowed, the tracks of her many tears still glistening on her cheeks.
She stumbles in the sand as she reaches them and he catches her arm, at the crook of her elbow, instinctual.
Her emptied, awful gaze flickers up to his, and for a moment it isn’t her face he sees.
… I am enraged! He is my husband!
Flint swallows, begins to remove his touch but something in her softens, and after a moment of hesitation, she leans into the curve of his palm rather than pulling away. Together, they follow Dooley and the rest.
Neither of them, not once, look back.
Flint protected Madi from Billy’s rage and stood beside her because of course he would. He supported her and lent her his strength and guidance because of course he would again, and again, and again.
Just as Silver had told her, promised her that Flint would months and months ago.
The overwhelming relief of the knowledge burns hot and star-bright in his chest and he wonders if Flint notices how widely, how stupidly-open he’s beaming at the very thought.
Billy will hear from them in regards to his treachery, of that there’s no question. He’ll meet his judgment from all three, he and Madi and Flint united, if need be.
And Silver is bothered by it all, deeply– just as he knows Flint is –but for now, he lets the rumbling cadence of Flint’s voice fall over him as they walk side by side through the emptied fields.
“There will be a time to deal with him, but not now,” Flint says, coming to a stop.
Silver turns to him, expectant, as Flint nods pointedly towards Hands.
“This one, however…”
“He’s fine,” Silver shrugs, striding on. “If you’d asked me yesterday when he was considering selling me to the governor for a profit, I’d be agreement we should be rid of him. But now,” he continues, shrugging again well as he can manage, “I don’t know. I feel like we need as much help as we can...”
In an instant, he is struck still, all other sound and thought erased, all air and voice stripped from his throat.
In an instant, all he can see is her.
He would call to her, cry out, sob for her ears and her ears alone, had his voice not forsaken him.
Someone, or something, some power must hear the desperation thundering inside he knows will rend him in two any moment now, any moment. For it’s as if the slight wind carries his pounding heartbeats to her ears, alerting her of his approach.
She hears him, she must. She turns, and she’s a miracle, she’s beautiful, she’s so–
She turns, as if still unsure, still doubting but he can see the moment she finally believes her eyes.
It’s the very moment he finds the strength to run, colliding with her halfway, and it’s the crash of tide hitting earth, his lips meeting hers, his heart calling only one word, over and over and over, in time with their intermingled breaths.
Madi. Madi. Madi. Madi. Madi.
He pulls back, only just, her face between his palms, her tears wet against his fingertips, her smile small and tight and yet so open, real and here and whole and safe, and oh, he could die here.
Pressed into and held in her arms, held as he has never been held before.
It’s euphoria, it’s matchless, there is nothing but this, and yet– and yet–
He feels himself gesturing behind him blindly, with his free arm, reaching, pleading, the deep roar inside only growing stronger, pathetic in its clawing desperation.
He feels the moment Flint takes hold of his shoulder and, from one breath to the next, all the resolve that has kept him upright since he fell from the Walrus’ side abandons him.
He feels Madi shift enough to huddle into the crescent of his embrace, her sweet face pressed against the column of his throat as he falls back– tired, so tired, sinking deeper and deeper –against the broadened strength of Flint’s chest.
Silver feels more than hears the hitch in Flint’s breath and he stiffens in response, his stomach twisted tight and taut as tangled knots, and what if he’s gone too far, what if he misread, will Flint forgive him this weakness, will he hate him, will–
But then Flint sighs, a deep brush of sound, his great arms rising to hold he and Madi both, and Flint is there, whole and safe, a tireless harbor sheltering them both.
Beyond these fields, there is blackened smoke and fire and blood in the distance and Silver shuts his eyes against it.
He holds and is held and truly at that moment, he would cut down and bleed dry any who would dare to steal this from him.
Billy and his men turn on them both at the Underhill estate, and Flint himself feels nothing.
Yet another inevitably fulfilled.
He and Madi and those that remain loyal retreat back to their encampment surrounding the house that was once his in what feels like lifetimes ago.
It was scarcely a home in either his or Miranda’s eyes and yet…
He crosses the threshold, and he takes in the dust that has collected over the splintered harpsichord in the corner, the small bookshelf he built and placed beside their fire, and then slowly filled for Miranda, tome by tome, all ransacked or trashed beyond use. The broken porcelain cup Miranda always reserved for him on his visits, all of her herbs dried brittle beyond use, her garden trampled and rotted.
He takes it all in, the many ghosts of those long weary years, and the ache inside runs in thick, bleeding rivulets.
“He is dead.”
He blinks at Madi’s voice, at the desolate sight of her standing before the dimming fire, her face devoid of all pain, all anger, all hope.
It isn’t a question. She is far too wise to question any longer.
“Yes,” he says, the pain a dull, ceaseless pulse deep within his chest.
She nods stoic and taut, as if willing herself to stay upright under the anchor-weight of her sorrow and Flint wants to tear, and burn, and rage. He wants to hunt down Billy, and then Rogers, to rain hellfire onto Nassau till only its rubble remains, to fall on his knees before her, and God, and confess and beg her forgiveness for not protecting him, for failing them both as he has failed all who somehow muscle their way into his heart and hold fast.
Instead, he turns to the shadows, leaving her in peace.
Madi retires to Miranda’s room, he to the room that was once his own save for the nights he could not bear to face the terrors waiting in his sleep alone.
In his dreams, there is no Miranda, no longboat, no void–black shadow awaiting him on abandoned, bloodless shores. In his dreams, there is only his voice– Silver’s voice –and Flint running, running, and running, his sword hacking at smoke-thick choking mists, at shadowed vines and leaves and brush that claw and rake like knives at his skin, but he must find him, he can, he has to–
There is only–
Brace yourself, but I'm the only person within a hundred miles of here who doesn't want to see you dead.
Only–
Nothing is inevitable here. I’m showing you a way in which we can survive this.
Only–
You know of me all I can bear to be known.
Only–
You’ve always known, you’ve seen it…
And Flint has, hasn’t he? He has, he–
He wakes gasping, body curled and knuckles pressed to his eyes hard enough to bruise, as he fights not to hear Madi’s stifled sobs just across the narrow hall.
All is in place, the threats made, the word has been spread. All that remains is for Long John Silver to return to Nassau.
With the dawn will come the Pirate King’s assault on the town, on all of Woodes Rogers’ forces but for now, the night is lit only by clouded stars and the few fires scattered amongst tired crewmen and former slaves, amongst the many barrels and chests of gunpowder, of shot, swords and pistols, and dozens of tented, canvased shelters all surrounding Mrs. Barlow's old house.
Pillowed against some crate with a makeshift bundle of canvas and wool, Silver sits before one such fire, his legs stretched before him with Madi cradled within his arms, the warmth of her back pressed along his chest, the crook of his chin nuzzled contentedly, blissfully, into her shoulder, while the flames waver and dance in the cooling air.
Here, all is peace. Here, with the faint, sweet scent of oils she uses on her long ebony braids surrounding him. Here, with her ringed hands interwoven with his own, her voice humming some tune, low and lovely. Here, he can feel, and hear, and see her, and pretend it is only this, Madi in his arms, Flint nearby.
Both of them safe, no war, no battles to fear, no roles to fill, to burden them both, no–
“Where are you?” she whispers, and Silver starts, only just, then huffs a bit, his smile easy and true.
The question isn’t strange, rather one he’s grown familiar with in all the months since her home, her arms, and her bed became his to share in with her. Before then, before Charlestown even, his mind never used to drift as it does so often now, buried deep and near- drowning in the mire of his thoughts, shrouded and dark. But since finding her island, since she stood resilient at his sickbed what feels like ages ago, Madi has remained his tether to the surrounding world, to the present, to living. In this way, she has pulled him up from the depths of his many growing darknesses again and again, without fail.
“Where do you think I am?” he replies, as he has so often before, a lover’s caress.
“Here with me, in part, but not all of you,” she answers, simple as always. “Your eyes have not stopped searching for him since we returned.”
At that, he pulls back, the closed tightness in his throat indiscernible but choking, grasping wild, then blinks when he sees her eyes, and in them, no disgust, no accusation, no despair.
Only the serenity that struck him still with wonder when he first saw her, that he has come to treasure in her.
Her brow furrows then, only just, at what she sees laid bare on his face.
“Do you think I blame you, John? That I would withhold from you, leave you now that I know?”
Silver’s throat tightens still, all words heavy and lifeless on his tongue, all thought void. For a moment, he wants to beg, plead–
What do you know? What do you see? Tell me, tell me, it’s so dark here I don’t think I can ever find my way alone.
She pulls back further from his arms to stoke up the dying flames, calm as anything– as if she hasn’t shaken the very foundations holding him in place –the umber of her face glowing bronze in the light.
“‘Whatever he is to you, whatever you are to him,’ I told you. You did not know then, and I suspect your mind is still clouded now, but you must know, John, when you fell–“
She falters, the words breaking in her mouth, and Silver takes back her hands, clinging tighter, enough to steady, though not to hurt.
I’m here, runs through him, his fingers interlocking with hers. I’m here.
“When you fell,” she continues, soft but firm. “Flint and I continued on with no other choice before us. We could not stop even– even to grieve. But the loss of you, it... without you, he and I both were adrift. Do you understand?”
Do you understand?
Silver thinks, and once more sees Flint, his wet eyes, that unreadable look, the tremor running through him almost into Silver from where they had touched.
The surrender in him as he held he and Madi both in the fields.
No, Silver does not understand, it would be a lie to claim that he did, but– as he turns his eyes to the faint candlelight coming dimly through the distant panes of glass, knows the light’s source– he knows it would be as much a lie to tell her she is wrong in this.
In all their time together, he has withheld much. But he has never once lied to her.
He turns back, looking down, fixed and determined, into her beloved face.
“I love you,” he says, a vow, a prayer that she hears him, as Madi always seems to.
I love you, he thinks while the relentless tug inside his chest to seek out Flint tightens and he can only stare at her and hope, as she stares back, studying, her head tilted in thought.
For once, Silver makes no attempt to hide.
Whatever she sees, reads there, Silver can’t begin to guess– he still could not tell her what is there even had she begged him too –but then, like the sun rising over the cliffs of her home, her smile blooms, so patient, so kind Silver can scarcely bear it.
She rises to stand before him, bending to kiss the soft span of skin just below his hairline, a blessing.
“I know,” she murmurs, and Silver can breathe.
She pulls at his hands till he rises, then nods towards the still, old house, the light in her gaze undimmed.
“Go,” she urges, sweetly clasping his hands one last time before letting go.
“He is waiting for you.”
The sun burns dry and unforgiving at the rendezvous, where he paces near the decrepit walls. Joji, Dooley, as well as a handful of Madi’s men stand or sit nearby, scattered about listlessly, awaiting her return with Kofi.
There is nothing to do but stare at the abandoned fields, at the bright blue in the distance, so Flint paces, his steps marked in the dust. He paces, his worry gnawing away, bite-sharp with every passing second.
None of them are expecting her to return till after sundown at the earliest.
Certainly, none of them are expecting to see her suddenly running up the worn, dirt path, Kofi at her heels.
Flint’s heart plummets, ignoring the murmurs of their men as she nears and he strides toward her, almost matching her speed, meeting halfway.
She practically barrels into him, clutching at his forearms tightly, her breaths heaving, wild as he has never seen her.
“The Wrecks,” she gasps, and there are tears on her face but she is smiling, she is laughing, and still he cannot breathe. He can’t even begin to think, to believe–
“Eme– She told me– the Wrecks– Captain Berringer is sending a posse for him, he is there– Flint, he is there.”
Flint had told him once, briefly, of Mrs. Barlow’s house, describing it in scant detail. Nevertheless, it’s much as Silver would’ve expected.
Simple, dirtied and weary equally with the months it has stood without use as well as Billy’s more recent abuse. Yet somehow, retaining some measure of warmth, enough for Silver to imagine Flint, a younger Flint more akin to the one he first met, fierce and dark, but calmed while sitting with, reading with, living with Mrs. Barlow steadfastly tied to his side.
He sits now in the muted glow of the hearth, his back to Silver as he approaches, hunched slightly to stare into the flames.
“You know, it’s a miracle Rogers’ guard didn’t catch up to you within the first hour, for all your bloody racket.”
He doesn’t turn, but Silver can hear the dry quirk of his grin.
“A wonder, surely,” Silver laughs, soft, coming closer. “However, Captain, I believe there’s a great length of difference between stumbling about on the wooden planks of a ship deck then crawling on one’s belly through muddied sand and water.”
A low, dry laugh rumbles from Flint’s chest. “Alright, fair enough.”
Silver huffs, as he comes to lean against the hearth, looking down at Flint where he sits. The air between them is companionable, and easy, so very easy to forget a mere handful of months ago, Flint would have discarded him for the sake of this war if need, or his ill temper, had demanded it– either truly –and now, now he looks up at him, the undertone of his humor still written into the lines around his eyes, and it’s… well…
Silver stutters on that thought and has to look down, away, somewhere other than his captain’s face. Then, he remembers–
“I… I meant to tell you sooner that… uh,” he says, reaching into his belt, inside his coat. “Necessity forced me to make my way through the Walrus’ wreckage before continuing inland and, well…”
It had been lying there, in amongst the broken beams, and cargo, and water, and God knows how Silver had spied it, he couldn’t say, but he’d recognized it.
He’d recognized it immediately.
Slowly, he brings it forward, the wine-red binding soaked through, the pages curling, stained, but still whole, still held together, and Flint pales as though seeing a ghost, trembles as he takes the book from Silver’s hands.
“You’d mentioned it before, though we never read it together, and I…”
Flint traces the engraving in the beaten leather, his touch slow, achingly tender, and it feels wrong to stand here suddenly, wrong for Silver to watch, to intrude.
“If you’d rather I lef–“
“No.”
Flint’s voice bleeds as though scrapped raw, but doesn’t waver. When he meets Silver’s eyes again, the oceans held within his gaze are enough to weaken his knees.
“Thank you.”
Silver can’t look at him, can’t, shakes his head so he won’t have to. “Captain, it was no–“
“You alone know that it was not, is not nothing, or you would’ve left it where it lay.”
And there are no words, not to that.
Silver can only nod, nod, his eyes still at Flint’s boots, at the floor.
He shifts on his crutch absently then winces and Flint sighs, familiar once more in his weariness.
“When was the last time you let Howell see to your leg?”
Silver scoffs. “More like clamber all over–“
Finally able to look up again it seems, he rolls his eyes at the answering furrow of Flint’s brow. “Before we set sail, alright? Since, there’s hardly been time t–“
“Come on, then,” Flint says, finally rising, to set down his Meditations next to items Silver hadn’t noticed– a pitcher of water and basin, a towel woven from linen, and– had he been waiting for him?
“Invalid though I am,” Silver bites, more than a bit petulant for no good reason. “You do know that I am capable enough to redress my own wounds by now?”
“Capable, yes,” Flint agrees, without pausing. “Tonight, however, you’ll indulge me.”
“Oh, will I?”
“You will.” And with that, Flint turns to head down the long stretch of hall.
And it’s laughable, it’s extraordinary really, how far removed he is from the boy who lied to become a sailor, then ship’s cook, then crewman, then quartermaster less than a year ago. His former self would not pity the hobbled figure he is now, oh no.
Jesus, how he would loathe him.
Not for missing his chance at escape from this life, no. He has stayed in places, played far worse roles for far less.
No, that wayward, swaggering boy on two legs– one planted on the Walrus’ deck, the other already leagues away –would never, could never reconcile with this thick pulse trapped and entangled deep inside his chest, the one that arrests him of all other thought in these moments when the world is far and only Flint is near.
I don’t believe in him, he had once insisted to Billy.
Now, how he stumbles with it, with those words rattling inside him, as he follows Flint’s shadow, as the toll of of these past days shudders through him, weakening his strides.
“Sit there,” Flint instructs, gesturing into a room, solitary but for one bed, one wooden chair, and some candles lit upon a splintered washstand, before leaving again.
Too weak to bristle or argue further it seems, Silver limps over and sits heavily on the cot, bending to roll up the dirtied cloth around the stump.
There were, as he said, bandages secured by Howell before they started towards Nassau. But the repeated saltwater and sand and grime his leg had been exposed to in the last few days had stuck the fresh dressings to the scar that had become irritated again, and Silver can see the flared red of his skin, can feel the feverish heat, the scratches, the half-dried blood and sickly green fluid thick at the small crevasses of open skin.
Flint returns, bringing water, towel, more strips of linen, and what looks similar to the poultice Madi and the healers had given him on the island, one at a time.
He sits before Silver, basin filled and placed beside him– close enough for Flint to reach, to dab his towel into –his gaze scrutinizing as he looks over the wound, then back again at Silver.
“It’s not as if you haven’t seen worse,” Silver says, forcing down a shudder as Flint begins to wash the festering skin.
Flint’s scowl only deepens, not at Silver but at the reddened lines. “Is that meant to provide me some ease?”
“Perhaps not, but I did tell you I could do this myself.”
Flint shakes his head, pausing only to take up the poultice, to begin smoothing it over the wound, and that, that does make Silver quiet, curious. Flint must notice for when he meets his eyes, his gaze steady but wet, strangely bright.
“One of the apostles demanded that he be permitted to touch the wound at Christ’s side when he first reappeared to them, after his death and resurrection,” Flint says, by way of explanation.
“For proof, you see. He was not known, afterward, as the Doubter for nothing. But at that moment, more than ever before, he needed proof that his– that their Savior had been returned to him.”
Flint wipes his own hands on the towel, then continues to wring it in his hands repetitively over the basin, a restless, worrisome habit of his Silver has seen often enough. Tonight, however, his hands refuse to still and his eyes are miles away, peering somewhere shadowed from Silver. Too far off for his liking.
It takes all of his last shreds of common sense to hold himself back from reaching across to wrench it from Flint’s fists.
To take his ragged knuckles into his own and just, just hold onto him.
He settles for nudging his boot, none too gently, with his own.
“I’m no Savior, Captain,” he teases, baring his lightest smile, somewhere between winsome and bastardly. “And for all your fine talk, we both know I am nowhere close to deserving reverence from anyone, least of all you.”
I am the least of your brethren, even gone as they are, if I am counted among them at all.
Faces cascade through his mind’s eye then. Gates, Mrs. Barlow, even Thomas Hamilton as Flint himself painted him before lantern-light after burying the cache together– unabashedly honest, dauntless in the face of all challenges, faithful and true.
And good, so unflinchingly good.
There is no pang of bitterness in Silver’s musings, no envy. How could there be while he sits in communion with this one soul who took up arms against civilization itself rather than have repented for having done nothing save loved another?
No, no, there is nothing in Silver that would begrudge Flint his beloved memories, no more than there is in Madi to begrudge him this, this moment. Not when all the courses and turnings of the universe that bore Captain Flint from James McGraw’s tragedy and loss somehow willed that Silver should find himself here, now.
Sitting in comfort with– with the truest friend he has ever known.
Flint has set the basin aside, on the washstand and turned back, his gaze once more meeting Silver’s before flickering down to his leg, then back again, as if still so unsure, and were Silver a better man, a wiser, a less selfish one, perhaps this is the moment he would finally send Flint off, to care for and bandage his wounds alone.
But he’s not, he’s never been.
He nods once, consenting, mouth pressed together tightly in what he hopes is a reassuring look rather than a grimace.
Flint reaches, and Silver’s jaw clenches, already anticipating further pain. He flinches, instinctual, at the first touch but there is little if any.
Flint’s hands are rough, sea-worn, and callused, but gentle, so gentle, as they lift the newly-washed stump, and begin to wrap it in fresh strips of linen.
There is little to be heard save their own breaths, the faint crackle of ashes rising from the kitchen hearth, the distant rumble of the tide.
Silver takes in Flint’s pensive brow, memorizes the shadow of his lashes that flutter against freckled skin, his own scabbed knuckles in want of bandaging themselves atop hands that work methodically, carefully.
He knows the patterns, has studied and tirelessly taught himself to read, to recognize every movement, every sound and look of Flint’s. It is something else entirely to simply watch him, to look his full and drink in the sight, without motive or necessity or survival hounding all the corners of his mind.
“I should have followed you,” Flint says, confesses, fingers grazing over Silver’s leg, over the bandages he has just finished tying– their warmth a caress, a blade between Silver’s ribs –and that deep, swelling ache in his chest from before seems to tear in two.
“Captain–“
“I saw you fall, you were barely out of my reach, and I could’ve– I should have followed you, I should have.”
“No,” Silver says, growing frantic with every new guilty word spilling from Flint, the storm of his desperation churning and awful. “No, you know as well as I you couldn’t have. You–“
“I left you, I left you, fuck, I left you there for dead. I–“
“Goddammit, James, enough.”
Flint’s eyes are wide, struck still into dead silence.
Silver can’t begin to imagine how he looks.
“You…” Flint tries, before his jaw locks, and he can only stare, bleeding open and helpless.
It lays unsaid between them but Silver can hear it with as much certainty as he can the echo of his own heart thundering in his ears.
You’ve never said my name before.
And were it not for the cover of darkness, he would wrench himself from Flint’s eyes, his hold, his face, pale and tearful, and run, hide, he knows he would but now–
God help him, he can’t.
“Christ, if I had lost you too…”
The words fall from Flint’s lips like broken glass, thick and edged, his eyes almost unseeing with some haunted, seizing agony Silver cannot begin to fathom.
“But you didn’t… James, listen to me,” Silver pleads, his hands shaking as he reaches so slow, so as not to sending the other running, to lay one of his hands at the base of Flint’s neck, cradling, the other rising to pull him closer till their foreheads lean fully against each other.
“None of it was your fault, do you hear? You didn’t lose me, you didn’t,” Silver murmurs, trembling at the choked noise Flint heaves quietly in response, pressing himself further into Silver’s hold. “I’m alright, we– we’re alright. I’m right here.”
“Yes, yes,” Flint whispers into the air between them, as if convincing himself, so close Silver can feel the heat and brush of his breath dance across his brow.
Silver can’t help it, nor does he try to, as the hand holding Flint’s neck moves to cup the edge of Flint’s jaw, gently tracing the bone.
The fiery beard there is softer against Silver’s fingertips then he thought it would be.
Do you understand? Madi had asked him.
Silver allows his touch to stretch further, rising to brush away the moisture collecting just beneath Flint’s eyes, to stare into his verdant irises, blown wide and open, and so wrenchingly full.
And oh, oh.
I understand, Silver answers Madi silently, he thinks, he knows.
And oh, how he wants.
Silver pushes himself impossibly closer, their noses grazing, nowhere near close enough, his eyes shut, his breaths in tandem with Flint’s own. Flint’s hands are at his neck, still shaking, touching, smoothing, holding with such sweet tenderness Silver would have never have thought possible, not for him, not like this.
From one breath to another, they cling to each other, and for a moment, Silver can only see– Flint reading at his bedside as he healed after Charlestown, book in hand, steadying and there. Flint’s sharp grin lighting across his gaunt face as they hunted side by side for their survival. Flint’s hand reaching back to hold him up from collapsing with infection. Flint at their cliffs, his captain, Flint. James.
How could he have not known?
It’s Flint who backs away first, withdrawing only just, and Silver can’t stop the helpless, soft noise of protest he lets out at the growing distance.
Flint’s smile answers, hearth-warm, quiet and kind, and oh, Silver aches for him, bleeds for him, drawn to him as inevitably as the tide to the moon.
“It’s late,” Flint says, his voice still brimming with raw emotion. “You need to rest. Is Madi–“
“She left with Kofi and Eme to make further preparations for tomorrow. She’s safe.”
Flint nods, drifting from Silver as he starts to stand, to move further away. “I can–“
Silver grasps his hand in his, pulling, begging, taut and frail. “Don’t.”
Flint blinks at him, taken aback but fuck, fuck, he is so, so tired of hiding.
“Just… Don’t go.”
Not now that I– not now.
Flint lingers then a moment longer till his entire frame seems to exhale. He begins to move again, and Silver remains locked onto his every movement.
Flint stands from his chair, walking steadily to shut the door, then returns, removing his coat, his scabbard and belt, his boots, placing them each near the washstand with unmistakable intent.
Silver swallows– his heart a flighty creature deep in his chest –as he moves, slowly, wordless, to take off his coat as well, his sole boot hitting the floor with a thud, as he turns to rest his crutch against the bedpost, watching Flint all the while.
Flint dims the few candles, till only the moonlight streaming over the bed allows Silver to see as the other man comes back, to lay beside him.
For a moment, they are still in the dark– Silver’s heart pounding through his chest, loud, so loud.
His breath hitches then, deflating just as quickly as he feels Flint’s body shift on the bed– so slow –his arm encircling his waist, moving them both till Silver’s forehead is pressed into the fragile expanse between Flint’s neck and shoulder, and he is embraced entirely.
Flint’s knuckles run in repeating, dragging patterns up and down, between Silver’s shoulder blades, and maybe this thing, this simple, unnamed, horrible want is still unspoken between them, still shadowed away, but from Flint’s arms, Silver can see the moon faint but true above and maybe.
Maybe here, tonight, he can believe they will have time.
“You’ll stay?” Silver can’t help but ask, his last doubts clinging tight.
“Sleep,” Flint says into his ear, low, and fond. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
And Silver slips into the folds of sleep, with Flint’s fingers threaded through his curls, all of him finally, blessedly, quiet.