Chapter Text
When Silver dragged himself through the porthole of a providential ship, hungry teeth snapping at his heels, the only thing that had mattered was his own survival. They'd set sharks on him, and he'd been trying to shake them from his trail for days. Silver could barely believe his luck. Of course, he couldn't have guessed that only hours later the ship would be attacked by pirates and his life cast into turmoil once again.
By the time the Walrus attacked his newfound safe haven, Silver had got his bearings and stolen clothes to make himself look halfway human. Unfortunately he hadn't been able to make himself look charming enough for the ship's cook to show him any lenience. Silver wasn't much good in a fight, but luck had been on his side again – in the form of an explosion going off just when he'd managed to wrest the cook's sword out of his hands. He hadn't wanted to kill him, hadn't even planned on running him through, but it was probably the best outcome Silver could have imagined.
Probably. He knew sailors and he knew pirates, and he knew life with the latter was only slightly better than with the former. It was far superior to treading into fiercely guarded territories and being chased away by his own people. There were opportunities in a pirate's life, opportunities that could give him a life away from men, away from the water. Away from people like Flint.
And here he was now, dashing after a sinking body, following the trail of blood and bubbles it left in its wake. The water vibrated with the sound of cannons and crashing debris. As Silver swam deeper, and the water darkened around him, those sounds turned to dim echoes. It was peaceful down here, far from the world of men.
Silver caught up to Flint, grabbed his heavy coat to keep him from sinking further. For what felt like hours but could only have been brief seconds, Silver marvelled at this man. This enraged, bloodthirsty tyrant who'd bashed Singleton's brains in for a page he knew Silver had stolen. This pirate who'd tracked Silver down, only to show him mercy of a sort – cruel and precarious, the promise of gold or of a slit throat. This deranged bastard who'd just killed his quartermaster and friend with his bare hands.
But now Flint was at peace, eyes closed, features serene. His hair floated around his head in a coppery halo, his arms drifting up in the water. The sight reminded Silver of a figure he had seen many times, bound to a cross, the object of faith and devotion. Was this how Flint saw himself, a martyr to whichever insane cause he'd chosen to follow?
Silver kicked off, gripping Flint tight and beating at the water with all his might to reach the surface. He'd never done this before, never beleaguered himself with anything or anyone, let alone what was likely a corpse. How much time had passed since Flint had sunk? How much since he'd last breathed?
But Flint was still warm where his face pressed into the crook of Silver's neck. Silver clung to that. Flint couldn't be dead. How could such a man give up so close to his goal and let the sea claim his life? Silver wouldn't allow it. He too needed that fucking gold and if anyone was going to help him find it, it was Flint.
The air burned Silver's lungs when he finally surfaced and drew breath through his mouth. He pulled Flint's head out of the water, but the man lay limp in his arms, showing no sign of breathing.
Men didn't understand drowning. Silver had cringed many a time seeing sailors attempting to revive a drowned man by shaking him, hanging him upside down, bleeding him, and even blowing tobacco smoke up his arse. None of that worked. Silver's mother had taught him in a past nearly all forgotten to use the secrets of her people instead of trusting men's methods. If a man was to return from drowning, he needed lungs free of water, and a beating heart and, most of all, air.
Silver had plenty of that. He pried Flint's jaw open, surprised to find it clenched so tight. There was barely any water in Flint's mouth; Silver didn't waste any time wondering why.
“You'd better not be dead, you fucking bastard,” Silver hissed at him, pressing his mouth to Flint's and closing off Flint's nose. He blew down Flint's throat, pressed tight against him, feeling the air fill Flint's chest. As he finished blowing, he slid his hand down Flint's shirt. There was a faint heartbeat.
There was no time for more. Silver barely managed to dodge before a cannon went off close to them. He hauled Flint onto his back and kicked the water hard. Flint's head lolled into the crook of Silver's shoulder and Silver hated how intimate it felt, how much he perversely enjoyed this intimacy, how aware he was of his lips tingling where Flint's beard had grazed them.
Silver swam as fast as he could, picking his way through debris and corpses. He passed a few sailors still hanging onto life, hugging scraps of timber to stay afloat. None of them paid him much mind. In the distance, Silver could make out a whole group assembling on a makeshift raft. Dufresne and DeGroot were on there. He gave them a wide berth.
Land wasn't all that far, shores covered with swampy vegetation. Silver dragged Flint onto the closest beach, wriggling uncomfortably on the sand when they got above the waterline. Flint still wasn't breathing on his own.
“Come on you fucker,” Silver muttered, pulling off his pendant and shuddering at the change. He needed all the momentum legs could give him. Besides, pirates would be less shocked to see him bare-arsed on the beach than in his other form.
Silver pressed his ear to Flint's chest. His heart still thumped dimly behind his ribs; the sound sent a wave of relief through Silver. He shifted upwards, tilting Flint's head back and breathing into him once again. It wasn't a kiss, Silver told himself.
It wasn't a kiss, but the thought had crossed his mind. Many thoughts, insane thoughts, had gone through Silver's mind since he'd met Flint. Lust had bubbled up in his belly at the sight of Flint's smile, of his razor-sharp teeth, of his face covered in blood. Silver's body had responded not with terror but with arousal at being flung against the rocks and ensnared in Flint's grip. Silver had spent his life fleeing danger, and now he was desperately trying to revive a man who would likely kill him as soon as look at him.
Flint's lips shifted beneath Silver's as he drew in a rattling breath. Silver moved back, heart bashing in his chest, to see Flint throw his head back and cough hoarsely, his eyes still half-closed.
“Good,” Silver told him, sliding a hand beneath Flint's back so as to raise his chest as Flint coughed and drew in rattling breaths in turn, rubbing it in soothing circles. “That's right, just breathe.”
“Thomas,” Flint rasped. He moved forward, pressing his forehead into Silver's shoulder, one hand coming up to cup the back of Silver's neck. Silver froze under the impossibly tender press of Flint's body against his, but then his grip reflexively tightened around Flint's back. Silver wasn't familiar with this sort of touch at all, especially not from a man like this.
“Thomas,” Flint murmured again, his voice fainter. He pushed back as though to look at Silver's face. Panic rushed through Silver as he imagined what Flint would see instead of whoever Flint was calling so softly. A bedraggled urchin with a soaking shirt plastered to him, trousers tied around his waist and barely hiding his lower half. Certainly not the sight Flint was hoping to behold.
But Flint's heavy-lidded eyes were barely cracked open. Silver saw a glimpse of blue-green, and then Flint gave a groan and slumped back into the sand, blood pooling beneath his wounded shoulder.
Silver knelt beside him, a storm of questions roiling in his mind, the imprint of Flint's fingers burning on the nape of his neck.
“Thomas?”
There was a void in Flint's bed where he expected Thomas to have been, silence where soft snores should have filled the air, cold where warmth usually resided.
“Did I wake you?” Thomas asked from his seat by the fire.
Flint shook his head, though it was a lie. Ten years had passed since he'd been reunited with Thomas, yet the panic of losing him still lurked in Flint's heart. Perhaps it had even grown, now that Thomas' hair was streaked with grey and his aching bones woke him at night.
“Do you need some liniment?” Flint asked, sliding out of bed.
“I've already procured some,” Thomas told him with a smile, holding up a pot of salve. “You really don't need to get up, love.”
Flint took no heed and dragged a blanket along with him, wrapping it around Thomas' shoulders before settling beside him on the bench by the fireplace. Flint didn't like to see Thomas out of bed in his chemise in the middle of winter. Men had caught their death for less than that.
“Maybe we should find a warmer place to live,” Flint said, drawing the pot of salve from Thomas' fingers and opening it. He swiped through the pungent-smelling liniment and began rubbing it into the fingers of Thomas' left hand.
“I like Boston,” Thomas said. “There's plenty going on here.”
Flint made a non-committal grunt as he worked the salve into Thomas' skin. Thomas certainly knew how to keep himself busy – and to take a seemingly innocuous conversation just to the edge of rabble-rousing before stepping back and watching it change the way men thought. Give him enough time, and he'd start a revolution.
“Where else would we go?” Thomas asked. “I can't imagine either of us wants to go to Charles Town, and I've no desire to get a taste of the diseases that plague the West Indies.”
“You're not wrong,” Flint conceded, finishing with Thomas' fingers. His right hand and wrist were next, then perhaps his shoulders. Years of hard labour had made Thomas strong, but had also taken a toll on his joints.
“Tell me a story,” Thomas said. “Tell me about your silver fish.”
“You know I don't like talking about him.”
“That may be, but he also haunts your every waking moment.”
“Not every waking moment,” Flint grumbled, feeling colour rise in his cheeks.
Thomas laughed, stroking Flint's face with his unanointed hand. “I'll go back to bed if you tell me a story.” He waggled his eyebrows enticingly. “I might even get some more sleep.”
Flint scoffed and caught Thomas beneath the elbow to help him stand. They tumbled into bed together – Flint barely managed to prevent the jar of salve from ruining their bedsheets – and Thomas curled up under the blankets, letting only his hands stick out so that Flint could massage them.
“Once upon a time, a little silver fish appeared out of nowhere and made a pirate captain's life infinitely more difficult,” Flint began.
Thomas' eyes glittered with mirth as he prepared to ask the question he always asked. “Was he a pretty little fish?”
“He was an annoying one,” Flint snapped back. “Didn't know when to shut up.” He could feel Thomas looking at him pointedly, waiting for a proper answer. “He was ridiculously pretty,” Flint conceded, rolling his eyes. “Smooth golden skin, eyes as blue as a summer sky, and long dark curls. He'd obviously done some hard work in his life, although it was abhorrent to him, because he was broad of shoulder, and lean, and muscular.”
Flint looked up to find Thomas smiling at him, mischief in his eyes.
“And no, the thought of taking him to bed didn't cross the Captain's mind at the time. He was very, very busy chasing a treasure galleon and fighting off a mutiny. And so was the silver fish, though his interference was probably what started the mutiny in the first place.”
“Of course, to be sure,” Thomas said with a smirk. He had heard this story many a time, and had likely gathered enough elements by now to know that Flint had been mostly at fault for it. Not that he'd admit it, even now.
“Anyway. When the Captain found himself drowning, all hope lost, the little fish dived into the deeps to rescue him. He dragged the Captain onto the beach, breathed his siren's breath into him with a kiss, and brought him back to the world of the living.”
“I really do wish I could send him a thank-you note for that.”
Flint's face twitched uneasily. “The only thank-you he got for that was me calling him by your name.”
Thomas threw his head back and laughed. “So gauche!”
“I was half-dead!” Flint chuckled a little. “But even though the Captain was rather cruel to the little fish, and used him as a pawn to keep his crew in check, when it came to the crunch, the little fish chose to remain with the Captain and his crew. He lost half his tail to save the crew, and still he stayed, and still he dragged the Captain out of deep water time and again.”
“I'm sure that's because he was profoundly enraptured by the Captain who refused to take him to bed, at this point.”
“Perhaps.” Flint heaved a sigh. “The Captain grew very fond of him, and hoped that the feeling was mutual, even as he still pined for the love he had lost. The silver fish said little about himself, about what was going on in the depths of his heart, as though he'd been cursed to only show the glistening surface of the sea rather than its depths.”
Thomas smiled. “You've really perfected your metaphors, haven't you.”
“One day, though, he was asked to kill the Captain, if he was to stop a war that he dreaded. He found that he could not, and instead he let the Captain live out his days with his lost love, disappearing from his life like as much sea foam disappearing on the waves.”
“Such drama, when he could just as soon have joined us,” Thomas said with a tut, tucking his hands away under the sheets again.
Flint tried to laugh, but his chest clenched as it always did when he thought of those words written in Madi's elegant hand. For a moment he sat still and silent on the bed beside Thomas. “I wish I knew where he was now. At least when he was still in the Bahamas, Madi could keep me appraised. It's been long now since he left.”
“Well, perhaps you should try and find him, then.”
“I don't see how I could.” Flint curled up beside Thomas on the bed, a familiar emptiness gnawing at him.
“James. You've been collecting books and newspapers and stories with a very clear intent. I've seen you actually ask people in pubs to tell you stories, and I know how much you dislike speaking to people.”
Flint shrugged. “It's just curiosity.”
“Is it, though? Or are you looking for clues about him? Trying to guess his whereabouts from sailors' tales?”
Flint said nothing. He couldn't deny it. Silver was an enigma, his very existence unlikely, and what he had done before he'd disappeared from Flint's life – well. There were times when Flint still raged about that. They were becoming few and far between, though, and the more the rage subsided, the more another feeling emerged. It wasn't one that Flint cared to examine too closely, not now that he was settled with Thomas.
Apparently, Thomas was reading his mind – or perhaps Flint's face betrayed him. With a smile, Thomas snaked his arm around Flint and drew him closer, pressing tender kisses to his temple. Flint melted into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Thomas and holding him tight, heaving a great sigh.
“One day, James,” Thomas said into his ear, “one day you'll need to go out there and find him. I'm not getting any younger, and you don't seem to be getting any older.”
Those words sent a sickening shudder through Flint, though it wasn't the first time Thomas mentioned it. Thomas often swore Flint appeared older or younger depending on his mood. Thomas swore Flint didn't age at all. Neither his beard nor his hair showed the first signs of white. Sickness barely touched him, old wounds healed fully. The implications of this were as mysterious as they were terrifying.
“Good, I see you take my point,” Thomas said, a smile in his voice. “Listen, my love. I'd rather you found your silver fish while I'm still young enough to do well during your absence. And also to appreciate meeting your slippery friend when you find him.”
“We'll see,” Flint mumbled against Thomas' throat. Yet trepidation was already growing inside of him, along with the hope of finally resolving the mystery that had been eating at him for over a decade.