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Silver pokes at his food and watches a slice of meat travel from one corner of his plate to another and back again. Then his gaze drifts around the room for what feels like the twentieth time. Familiar faces of Maroons and pirates everywhere, except one. It's loud. Too loud.
“Silver?”
“Hm?” He blinks, fork paused mid-transfer, and looks up to find three expectant faces of Dooley, Joji and Wallis.
“What do you say?” Dooley asks.
To what? He slowly puts his fork down to buy some time. Either he admits now that he has no idea what's going on - which would damage his reputation as an attentive listener who always has an open ear for the concerns of his crew - or...
“I think it's a good idea,” he offers, trying his luck blindly.
Dooley and Wallis immediately burst into cheers while Joji rolls his eyes.
“Told you!” Dooley shouts, and Silver smiles thinly. Wonderful. He had apparently just endorsed something. Possibly treasonous. Possibly another fuck tent. Hard to tell with this lot.
It's Flint's fault. Entirely. If he'd bothered to show up for dinner, Silver's mind wouldn't be with the very man who should have been sitting beside him, silent and sharp-eyed. But he doesn't and Silver… worries. Has he fallen ill? He'd last seen his captain this morning, at a meeting with Madi and her mother, and then he'd dropped off the face of the earth all day.
“We should discuss the details tomorrow,” Silver says, hoping to limit the scope of whatever disaster he’d just agreed to.
“Oh, all right.”
The others return to their chatter, voices overlapping, but Silver just can't bring himself to listen. No one else seems to notice the empty space where their captain should be. More laughter rings out and someone recounts something indecent involving some body parts and a lantern. The men have quickly become accustomed to life on the Maroons’ island, even if there are occasional complaints that Nassau's whores are missing.
It's not that Flint was ever a lively dinner companion. He rarely speaks unless spoken to, and even then, responses often come slow as though passed through several layers of internal review. He prefers to sit near Silver, letting him talk - but his mere presence was imposing enough that the absence of it should be noticed immediately.
“I'm retiring for the night,” Silver hears himself say, as if from far away, and then he blinks and focuses on the others again. The men smile, already distracted again.
Silver pockets a slice of bread - habit, not hunger -, then gets up, nods to Madi in greeting, and sets off. He doesn’t head toward his own quarters, but to their captain's hut.
At the door, Silver gives a perfunctory knock before pushing it open without waiting. Flint would scold someone else for the intrusion, but Silver knows the rules are different between them. They always have been.
The room is steeped in shadows, no lantern lit. Silver’s eyes adjust slowly. Is Flint already asleep? He looks at the bed, trying to see if anyone is lying there. But the bed is undisturbed. Is he still out?
Then a sudden clatter breaks the stillness - glass against wood. Silver flinches hard and his hand flies out, steadying himself against the edge of the chest of drawers.
“Fuck,” he mutters, breath catching in the quiet, pulse kicking high.
As his vision settles, shapes emerge. There, near the cupboard, half-concealed by its bulk, someone is sitting on the floor. Flint. Back curled in slightly, one leg drawn up, the other sprawled. A bottle lies on its side near his foot, probably dripping the last of its contents into the floorboards. The source of the noise.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” Silver asks, trying for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to worry.
Flint doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move.
“G' way.”
Silver assumes it's supposed to mean 'go away'. The syllables are slurred, clipped and barely coherent. Not quite drunk. Not quite not, either.
He goes over to the table and lights the lantern that stands there, so that the hut is at least bathed in some light. When he turns back around, the man slouched on the floor looks less like Captain Flint and more like something left behind after a storm. Silver has seen him in various states that could arguably be described as wretched. Shot, badly wounded, starving, with no will to live in the cages – and that had been by far the scariest sight so far.
But now. The word pitiful comes to his mind. His legs now both stretched out in front of him, he leans against the wall, and in his right hand he is already holding another bottle, half empty. He is barefoot and clad in some light breeches that reach just above his knees. He is also wearing a white shirt that Silver has never seen on him before and that seems far too big on him. Something about the way it hangs off him, swallowing his frame, makes him seem smaller.
Flint waves the bottle in Silver's direction. “Told you to go away. I don't feel like company.”
“I can see that. You want to tell me why?”
“No.” He takes a long swig from the bottle. Great.
“Maybe... Maybe you've had enough, huh?” Silver doesn't want to patronise him. Flint should know what's good for him. But... The situation is worrisome in a way that Silver can't ignore. He hasn't seen him this broken since the days just after Charles Town. So yeah. This is bad.
“Fuck off,” Flint growls and takes another swig. When he lowers the bottle, some of the rum slips down his beard, trailing across his chin and soaking into the oversized shirt.
“No. No, no, no, no.” The words tumble out in a panic, rising in pitch. Flint fumbles with the bottle, nearly drops it, then sets it aside with shaking hands. “God, fucking stupid. This... I...” His fingers claw at the damp fabric, scrubbing the spot harder and harder. “No, god, please...”
And then, just like that, he breaks. A sob cracks through him with no warning.
Silver freezes, wondering what the hell is happening. For one wild second, he considers walking out. Pretending he never saw this. Flint probably wouldn’t remember - he’s certainly drunk enough. Silver could retreat into the safety of silence, of plausible deniability. He could convince himself it never happened.
But the sobs keep coming, building like a tide, and they’re not quiet. They’re ugly. Gut-wrenching. Flint is unravelling in a way Silver has never seen. He curses softly. “Hey. Hey, calm down.” He forces his voice into something gentle.
He slips out of his coat and throws it over the chair, then moves and lowers himself beside Flint with a grunt and a wince. The damn peg makes it graceless, but he gets there. Flint doesn't react, has his face buried in his hands. “It’s just rum,” Silver says. “It’ll come out with a little water, it’s nothing. It won’t stain.”
And even if it did. It would still be the cleanest shirt Flint owns. None of them have clothes that didn't have at least a few blood spatter, dirt, or other stains of unknown origin on them.
“Really?” Flint’s voice is small. Small and broken.
“Yes. I promise.”
Flint finally gazes at Silver, cheeks streaked with tears, eyes wide and shining wet. He looks so pained in this moment that it tears Silver's heart out a little. He seems so... vulnerable and human.
Of course, Silver knows there's more to the man than the unfeeling monster he played for quite a while after Charles Town. But he's never seen him cry. He can't say the same for the other way around. While they've shared a cabin on the warship, in the worst of it. In so much pain that Silver couldn't have stopped the tears even if he'd wanted to.
“It will be all right,” Silver reaffirms, and after a moment's hesitation, puts his hand on Flint's shoulder, feeling the need to comfort him. He braces for rejection. A scoff, a shove, anything. But instead, Flint just flinches slightly, like he isn't used to being touched gently. His eyes flicker to Silver's, then away again, and he sags forward, leaning into him, heavy with grief. Another sob shudders through him.
Helplessly, Silver wraps his arm completely around his shoulders. He feels just as clumsy as when Madi came to him for comfort after the death of her father.
All right. A completely normal situation. He... He'll just let Flint fall apart against his side like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A very normal evening. With his free hand, he places the bottle of rum further away from them.
"It was his," Flint mumbles minutes later, after the sobs have slowly died away and he's calmed down somewhat.
Ah.
Silver doesn't need to ask who he is. It explains the earlier panic, the frantic rubbing, the sobs that seemed too big for the moment. Because it wasn’t about the shirt. It’s the weight stitched into the seams, the ghost still clinging to the thread.
“It is all I have left of him. Can you imagine?”
Silver swallows thickly. Words rise to the back of his throat, then die there. He doesn’t know what to say, how to make it better. Doesn’t even think Flint wants anything said. Sometimes grief just needs company, not commentary.
They just sit there for a while, in silence. Flint's breathing is still erratic. He wipes his face with the back of one hand, once, twice. His posture stays slumped. Silver slowly pulls his arm back to give him some space but stays close so that their arms and shoulders are touching.
“Tomorrow would have been his birthday,” Flint offers after another few minutes.
Silver nods slowly. Now it makes sense. The way Flint had vanished for the day. The melancholy. The drinking.
“We only got to celebrate it together once.”
“What was it like?” Silver asks hesitantly, not sure if Flint welcomes the question or not. Does he want to talk to someone about it, or will it just make him sadder?
A long silence follows. Then, softly, “Miranda and he had planned a huge party well in advance. Lots of food, music, dancing. Everything expected of a proper celebration for the nobility.”
Silver rolls his eyes and is glad that Flint doesn't look at him. How bloody pompous.
“I hated everything about it,” Flint says dryly.
That draws a short, surprised laugh from Silver. “Yeah?”
“You can't imagine how tedious the conversations were. Endless small talk, posturing, dull men with inherited titles and nothing of value to say. And I swear, half of the guests hated Thomas, while the rest just wanted his influence.”
“Oh, I think I can. It doesn't take too much imagination to picture the decadence of the nobility. Their petty problems and vain opinions. All dressed up in gold and ignorance.”
Flint scoffs. “All right, fair.”
“Not that I’m implying Thomas was like that,” Silver adds quickly, a little awkward. “I'm sure he was a truly great…”
“He could be just as pompous and proud as the rest of them,” Flint interrupts his rambling. But there’s no heat in it. Just something almost fond. “God, he could be impossibly smug when he was right. And he was right more often than anyone deserved to be.”
Silver grins. “Sounds dreadful.”
Flint smiles faintly. “Yes. But he could also laugh at himself and his peers. He just enjoyed the theatre of it sometimes.”
Silence as Flint is lost in his thoughts again.
Silver is still caught on the image. Flint in a grand hall, stiff in noble dress, sulking at the edge of this great celebration while the man he loved tried to charm a room full of vipers.
Was it easy for Thomas? To be decent? To believe in good things? Was it performance or was it real?
Not for the first time, Silver tries to picture him. Not just his face - Flint never described it and he didn't ask - but the shape of the man. The way he might have spoken, stood, smiled. The kind of presence that could hold Flint's attention so completely.
He can’t.
He just knows that once upon a time, before the endless fights and the war, Flint belonged to someone good and righteous. Thomas sounds like someone straight out of a fairytale and Silver wonders whether such a man could actually exist or if he’s simply what remains after years of grief have softened and romanticised the truth.
Flint's voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
“The celebration took place only a week after... our relationship had changed,” he continues slowly and seems far, far away. “And that was the worst part, you know?”
“Uh. Not really?”
Flint sighs. “All I wanted was to be alone with him. But instead, I was trapped in a room full of people who didn’t matter.”
Oh. Oh.
“But luckily Thomas felt the same way.” Flint chuckles softly and Silver feels the vibration against his body. “And while his guests assumed he had gone to the kitchen to request new hors d'oeuvres, he met me in the library to fuck.”
Silver chokes. “Oh god,” he croaks. Not because he's horrified, but because he knows there’s no way Flint would’ve shared that sober. None. Not in this lifetime. This is... far more personal than he ever imagined he’d be trusted with. Now he truly hopes that Flint will have forgotten everything by tomorrow, for his sake.
He nudges him good-naturedly. “Now, Captain, this story is getting a bit too raunchy for my delicate, innocent ears,” he says cheerfully.
Flint snorts. “I hear the stories the men tell. Your ears should have fallen off by now. Even I know more about Nassau's whorehouse than I care to. I know that Adams has a concerning swelling on his sack and that Dooley likes it best when a woman named Melody pinches his nipples hard while he's about to finish.”
Silver nearly chokes again. The image of Flint, stone-faced and tortured by overheard gossip, is just too much. “God, you sound so fucking offended.”
“I am offended. This knowledge gives me no pleasure. It haunts me.”
Silver breaks into helpless laughter. Not just because of what Flint said but because he sounds completely disgusted. This conversation feels so bizarre. He also must admit to himself that until five minutes ago, he hadn't thought about Flint as someone who thinks about, talks about or is involved in fucking. He always seems so far removed from human needs. Which, of course, is a ridiculous assumption.
“Unfortunately,” Silver says, recovering, “those stories circulate whether you like it or not. What's your point again?”
“My point is... I forgot my point. Where was I?”
“You and Thomas did indecent things in the library. And then?”
“Ah. We went back to the celebration. Separately, of course. Then we pretended nothing had happened for the rest of the evening. I remember Lady... well, I don't remember her name. My God, so many titles and awkwardly long names. She asked me if I believed in fate. Said she had the sense that I was on the cusp of something great. I think she meant it flirtatiously.”
Flint shudders and Silver snorts.
“But Miranda... She later scolded us for being so damn reckless.” He becomes quieter. “She always warned us that we were too careless. We never listened. In the end, she was right. But that night, I thought... if we could survive this… these games, the pretending, the endless empty conversations, then maybe we’d be all right. Maybe there’d be time.”
Silver moves his hand back up to his shoulder, knowing what will follow.
“And then,” Flint says, almost conversationally, “there wasn’t.”
He sniffles quietly.
“I miss them so much.”
“I know.” Silver gently squeezes his shoulder.
Less than ten seconds later, the next wave comes. It starts with a sharp breath, then another, and suddenly Flint is crying again.
“Sorry, I... I...” He can't get the sentence together.
“It's all right,” Silver assures him somewhat helplessly. “I've got you.”
Flint collapses in on himself further. His body folds tight, and then, without ceremony, he lays his head on Silver’s thigh, curling in as small as he can manage. Like someone who needs to vanish into themselves.
Silver keeps his hand on Flint’s shoulder, overwhelmed. Then, almost cautiously, he shifts it and lets it settle onto Flint’s head. His fingers brush over short, cropped hair that’s surprisingly soft. He tentatively moves his fingers back and forth a little. A sound catches in Flint’s throat - soft, almost questioning. It’s probably more instinctive than deliberate but it’s unmistakably good. Approving. Welcoming.
It catches Silver off guard. And yet… it makes sense. Since Madi started touching him more and more during conversations - sometimes putting her hand on his, or brushing against his arm, touching his knee - Silver has learned how nice such casual touches can feel. Much nicer than being jostled or slapped on the back by his crew mates. Instead, being touched in quiet, intentional ways. Flint doesn't have anyone to touch him like that anymore. He never lingered when others brushed against him, always stepping back first, always keeping distance. Silver's never seen him visit a whorehouse when they're in port, either. It must be lonely.
He lets his fingers slide down to Flint's neck and back up again, feeling just a little strange. Not because Flint is a man, but because he's... Flint. His stoic, fearsome captain. And yet here he is. Human. Breakable. Needing something as simple as a hand in his hair.
Drunk or not, Silver knows the truth. Flint wouldn’t have told these stories to anyone else. There’s no one else he would allow to see him that vulnerable. Or touch him like this. That trust belongs to Silver alone. Fuck. It's intoxicating. And terrifying. To know he has that kind of power over another human being. This responsibility.
Because he can think of a hundred ways he could ruin Flint. Use everything he knows about him and turn it into something sharp and cruel.
Isn't he now exactly where he always wanted to be? Where Flint didn't want him just a few months ago? In his head. Possibly in his heart too. Silver didn’t plan for that. But it’s obvious now, painfully so. To the extent that Flint is still capable of trust, of affection - it’s reserved for Silver.
It took a while for Silver to realise it, because Flint never said anything aloud, of course. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But it’s there. In the way he sacrifices what little free time he has to train with Silver on the cliffs. He's more patient and forgiving with Silver - most of the time - than with anyone else. Or the way he brings fresh fruit, unasked, when Silver’s supply runs out. The book he left last week, set neatly beside the oranges with a folded note tucked inside, saying 'I am sure you’ll like it'. And he was right.
Flint, who is so often awkward and brittle in social exchanges. He can command a ship but stumbles over simple camaraderie. But Silver has always been able to read him well and has never been bothered by his sometimes prolonged silences. Flint could talk about ships and tactics for hours, but when it came to personal stories, he was always very reserved, almost secretive. Interesting that he seems to have a tendency to overshare when drunk.
Has it always been like this when it came to private matters or is it only due to bad experiences? Maybe a bit of both. Flint had learned in the worst possible way what the wrong people could do with personal knowledge about him.
Silver's fingers gently move over the soft stubble. He doesn't want to hurt him or take advantage of him. Not anymore.
The word 'friendship' is quick to say. To create a sense of familiarity, to ingratiate himself with someone. He’s used it before. To win people. To get close enough to matter. Close enough to steer. But with Flint, he can feel it, and maybe he's the first true friend Silver has ever had. At least since his childhood. He frowns, the thought tugging at something old and half-buried. No. No, not even then. He never had a real friend. Just shifting alliances, short-term partnerships.
After a while, almost without thinking, he begins to hum softly. Just a tune with no name and no clear origin, but it lives in his bones. Spanish, he thinks. He doesn’t know the words. He’s not sure he ever did. He isn't even sure what it was meant to be - a lullaby, maybe, once offered to soothe him. The only one he’s ever known. Passed from his mother’s mouth to his ears, somewhere in that haze of childhood he’d mostly erased.
He doesn’t know what Flint hears in it, but he seems to listen and eventually his breathing becomes calm and even.
The candle burns down slowly and when it finally goes out, Silver's eyes close and he falls into a restless slumber.
***
Silver wakes up before Flint. He can tell for sure because Flint is snoring softly. His head is still resting on Silver's thigh, a little too heavy, a little too intimate, hand curled loosely against his knee. As if anchoring himself to the one person in the room who hadn’t left yet.
The thought tightens something in Silver’s chest.
Everything aches. His leg is stiff, his back twisted into some unholy angle, and his arse feels like he slept on stone. He wants to get up and yet he doesn't have the heart to wake Flint yet. His hand rests on the back of Flint's neck and without thinking, he lets his thumb shift just a little, rubbing gently over warm skin. The gesture feels somewhat scarier in daylight.
He tries to imagine how Flint will react when he wakes up. Embarrassed, most likely. Ashamed, definitely. Silver doesn't want that. He will play down the situation no matter what, he tells himself. What's the big deal? Pride is no issue between them.
The snoring stops. Flint inhales deeply, then grumbles something unintelligible. His hand shifts and tightens around Silver’s knee, then slides upward. Along his thigh. Fingers brush the inside of it, lightly. Silver barely dares to breathe, biting back a surprised moan. This is…
Flint nuzzles in, presses his face closer, like burrowing into a pillow. It sends a ripple through Silver. Not of alarm. Something... warmer. It’s a hum, low and insistent, coiling in his belly and curling downward. Arousal. An unexpected and unfamiliar feeling. No, not unfamiliar, but not felt for a long time. Unconsciously, his fingers clutch Flint's neck a little tighter, and he forgets about pain for a moment.
Flint completely stills in all his - sleepy, unconscious - movements. Silver withdraws his hand, a bit unwillingly and far too slowly. Something in his chest has gone soft and strange, and he tries to ignore it.
“Fuck,” Flint mutters and jerks up into a sitting position. “What...” He stares at Silver. Panic in his eyes as if he is on the verge of a new breakdown.
Silver smiles at him, reassuringly, as he very much hopes. No big deal. “Good morning.”
“What happened?” Flint croaks.
“You shouldn't ask me questions you don't want an honest answer to.”
“Silver. Just fucking tell me,” Flint snaps, visibly tense.
“What's the last thing you remember?” Silver asks, unimpressed by the mood swing.
“I... I was alone in the hut. I drank a bit of rum. Then...” Flint frowns. “I don't know,” he admits finally, and there’s real misery in the confession.
"The unadorned truth?"
"Yes.”
“All right, let me see. You got drunk. Not just a bit. Pretty heavily. Even before I came to see you. I was… surprised because you didn't come to dinner, so I came looking and… yeah. You spilled some rum on your… on Thomas’ shirt and blamed yourself for ruining it. You got... a bit emotional.” Silver looks at the shirt - the stain is already gone, but now in the daylight he notices that the shirt is far from fresh and completely white. It's mostly clean, yes, but he can tell that it has been worn a lot. In his drunken state yesterday, Flint had obviously reacted quite irrationally.
Silver also notices that the fabric is worn thin, nearly translucent in places. He can see the shape of Flint’s chest through it. Skin, muscle, the faint outline of his nipples beneath the linen. There’s something unexpectedly sensual about it. Distractingly so. He shakes his head. That’s the problem with hard cocks, isn't it? As soon as they are in this state, they steer every rational thought towards one thing only.
“You told me today was his birthday,” he adds quietly, seeing the pain flare in Flint's eyes. “And you told me about the last celebration, when you snuck off to the library to fuck. Or get fucked. I don't know as you didn't go into any specific details and… well, anyway. You fell asleep soon after, using me as your pillow.”
“Jesus Christ,” Flint groans. “I'm so terribly sorry. You should have woken me up or left.”
Silver shrugs. “No worries. I've had worse nights.”
Flint eyes him doubtfully. “But that was all?”
“Yeah.” Isn't that enough?
Flint seems to relax at least a little. He looks him over. “That must have been uncomfortable for you. How are you?”
“Feeling a bit stiff,” Silver admits. And then realises how ambiguous that sounds considering another part of him is very stiff right now. “My leg, I mean.” Which, in retrospect, draws even more attention to the matter. Just shut the fuck up, he chides himself.
“Yes, I thought as much, why...” Flint cuts himself off. He tilts his head slightly, and Silver sees the second the words register. His gaze drops. Flickers. Lingers. Then widens, just barely, and his lips part slightly. Silver sees his cheeks turn red. Fascinating. He wasn't aware that this process could be observed so closely.
“Sorry,” they both say at the same time.
An exasperated laugh bursts out of Silver. God. The absurdity of it.
“What?” Flint asks. No longer looking at his groin, but not into his eyes either. His gaze is fixed somewhere on Silver's shoulder.
“Nothing,” Silver says, shaking his head. “I just wasn’t expecting... the first time after...” He trails off, huffing. “I wasn’t even sure it would still work.”
Flint frowns.
Silver sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was… It hasn’t happened since… before Charles Town. I’ve barely thought about it.”
That's not true. He hadn't thought about it all the time, yes. There were long stretches, days, weeks even, when it never crossed his mind. When survival was everything. All the pain and the fighting, then the hunger during the Doldrums.
But then came the privacy of his own hut on the island of the Maroons. He tried. Lying flat on his back, one hand between his thighs. Not out of need, not even with the intention to feel good, just… just to check. To see if his body still worked and wondering if that part of him was gone too.
He desperately waited for something to stir, a flicker, anything.
But nothing happened.
He tried again. Slower. Rougher. Gentle. Nothing. His body unresponsive, just soft flesh in his hand, limp and mocking, and the deeper he tried to will himself into feeling something, the hollower he felt.
After the third time, he stopped trying.
Out of shame, mostly. Frustration, yes that too, but even worse was the realisation that his body no longer seemed to belong to him. It felt as if the loss of the leg had somehow made him less of a man, in more ways than one. He tried to pretend he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That he wasn’t broken. So what? He could still outthink anyone in the room. Still run a ship, still kill a man if he had to. Still survive.
And now, all of a sudden - Flint’s hand on his knee, a flicker of heat low in his belly, and the almost comical rush of yes, it still works. It’s like a piece of himself just came back. Almost stupid, how grateful he feels for something so primal. He is so fucking relieved that he realises way too late that he is now the one oversharing. But God help him, he wants to touch himself. Right now. Just to feel it. To prove it’s real. He shifts, adjusting not very subtly.
“Well,” Flint says and gestures vaguely, still staring at Silver's shoulder. “It seems to be working just fine. It looks... quite impressive.”
Silver huffs out a laugh. Not at the awkward compliment itself, but at the absolute dryness of the delivery, while Flint still can't even look him in the eye.
“Why, thank you,” Silver says, grinning, despite everything.
“I can go,” Flint offers and shifts. “Then you'll have the hut to yourself.”
Silver weighs up his options carefully. He doesn't miss Flint's gaze darting down once more, lingering for a second too long. The way he licks his lips, most likely unconsciously. Silver glances down, and even though Flint's long shirt covers a lot of him, he believes he can make out a visible bulge there too.
It looks like he has a choice between his own hand and that of his captain, who, for all his outward composure, seems rather eager to be of service.
He feels a sudden hunger inside him that his own hand could never soothe. He knows that. It's just so much nicer with another person.
Does Flint desire him? Silver has never thought about it before. Obviously, Flint is attracted to men, Silver knows that by now, but he's never tried anything with him. But now they're both here, in this situation, and undisturbed for once. He has to look at it pragmatically. It would distract Flint from his sorrows as well, so win-win.
“I don't know. The way I see it, you are kind of responsible for my condition. Therefore, you should take care of it.” He watches Flint closely, gauging whether he’ll bristle, retreat, obey.
Flint’s breath hitches and his throat works as he swallows. His eyes finally lift to meet Silver’s. So far, he seems one thing above all – surprised. Which is probably fair. “You… want me to?” he asks, somewhat hoarsely.
Silver lowers his voice a fraction. “Yes.”
Without taking his eyes off Silver, Flint scoots a little closer. He puts his hand on the bulge in Silver's trousers and squeezes lightly.
“Fuck, yes,” Silver sighs contentedly and tilts his head back. “Of course, I’ll return the favour,” he promises, so that Flint doesn't think he's being completely selfish. He considers himself a very generous lover.
“I didn't realise you were...” Flint falls silent, but obviously Silver knows what he means.
He looks at him and shrugs lightly. “I didn't either. I mean... I've never been with a man before,” he admits.
Flint's expression becomes even more astonished. Then doubting.
“But I guess... Does it really make a difference?” Silver asks quickly. Flint better not stop now.
“Well. I can think of a difference or two,” Flint says, rubbing his hand over Silver's hardness as if to illustrate the obvious one.
“What does it matter whose body the hands, mouth or hole belong to?” Silver argues, only partly focused. “They give equal pleasure.”
“A pastor would tell you that you'll end up in hell if you desire one of those holes,” Flint says flatly.
“Now. That's a bloody stupid assumption, without any evidence,” Silver says, meaning it. “What do all these pastors know? They are just eager to spread their pessimistic view of the world.” He never had much use for their kind.
Flint huffs and shakes his head while an amused smile plays around his lips.
Silver boldly places his hand on Flint's thigh and slides it under his shirt until his fingers graze the hardness bulging his thin breeches. He slowly traces the outline, feels his cock twitch. Flint moans softly and Silver smirks at him. “Let's carry on then, shall we?”
He expects Flint to maybe reach into his trousers now, but instead Flint pulls his hand back and stands up. Silver's hand slips away.
“There's a bed here that's a little more comfortable than the floor.”
And more intimate.
Silver thought they would just touch each other for a bit now. Then he remembers how much Flint must crave affectionate touches and closeness and gets up. No big deal, he reminds himself. The bed truly is more comfortable.
Without thinking about it too long, he takes off his shirt and drops it carelessly on the floor. Flint's gaze follows the motion, his hand tangled in his own shirt. Ah.
He walks up to Flint, touches his hip. “Hey. You want to take your shirt off too? We'll put it on the chair, yeah?” Not that it will get dirty after all.
The change in Flint’s expression is immediate and Silver recognises gratitude when he sees it, the way it softens the line of Flint's mouth. Silver shrugs with a crooked smile. He can be thoughtful when it counts.
Flint looks away for a moment, hand fisting tighter in the hem of his shirt. When he looks back, there’s something vulnerable, maybe a little shy, in his eyes.
“I'd actually like to... keep it on. You know, I think Thomas would like this. If he knew what I was doing. He always told me to go for what I want.”
The first flicker of feeling is jealousy. Sharp, ridiculous. A flare of ‘what if I’m just someone he wants because he can’t have him anymore?’.
Christ. He pushes that thought down. Fast and hard.
Yeah, no shit. If Flint's beloved Lord were still alive, he wouldn't be here. It's not like Silver has to compete with a dead man. He reminds himself what this is. Just a bit of comfort, no expectations, no strings attached.
Silver looks at Flint, still standing there awkwardly, and understands. He’s always mocked sentiment. But this? Suddenly it feels like something sacred, making his chest tight. Flint decided to share this with Silver. That doesn't mean he's not here in the present with him or that he's confused about who he's invited into his bed. He's just honest and trusting, asking to keep on the last piece of his former love like some tether.
And he just told Silver that he wants him.
He winks. “You mean we're honouring his memory right now?”
Flint nods, eyes shining with something soft.
“All right,” Silver says, grinning, while tugging playfully at the shirt. “Then let’s keep it on.”
Before Flint gets the idea to thank him for this - his expression indicates it - Silver lifts a hand slowly, letting his knuckles graze along his arm. Flint shivers, and then he nods again, small but certain.
Silver takes his hand and pulls him towards the bed. They sit down and undress, Silver taking a little longer because he's also taking off his peg leg. Thankfully, the pain is relatively manageable today despite the turbulent night.
When he glances back at Flint he looks... disreputable, even though the long shirt covers most of his body. Not all of his strong thighs, and Silver discovers that they too, like his arms, are covered with numerous freckles. Silver suddenly wishes he could draw. A painter would surely kill for such a sight.
A flicker of doubt creeps in. What does Flint see when he looks at him? Knowing that he has - had - an appealing appearance, Silver has never been shy with his former partners, but now, he feels more self-conscious than ever before and doesn't meet Flint's gaze at first. Doesn’t want to see pity, or restraint, or even careful politeness.
But then he does look up and finds Flint’s eyes on him. They’re wanting. There's heat. Silver had wondered just minutes before whether Flint might desire him, and this is his answer. Flint looks at him like he’s already memorising every inch, gaze moving over him with something quiet and intense that makes Silver suddenly feel aware of everything. The way the light cuts across his chest, the angle of his hips, the bare line of his leg - what’s left and what isn’t.
Flint looks and Silver… he doesn’t feel lesser. On the contrary. He begins to bask in Flint's admiring gaze. His whole body craves release, and he longs to be touched and wants to touch in return.
For a moment it seems like Flint wants to say something. His lips part, then close again. Instead, he just lifts a hand. His fingers skim over Silver’s chest, then lower, following the line of his stomach. Silver’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, because the feeling is so startlingly soft. It's been… a while since anyone touched him. Since he allowed someone to see him like this.
Flint’s fingers brush Silver’s side, then drift over the curve of his waist, feather-light. They pass just above the sharp edge of his hip bone and Silver’s body hums with the touch. Every nerve drawn tight and tuned to the movement of Flint’s hand.
He tries to stay still and let Flint explore. He does. It's nice. But the heat building low and steady in his stomach curls tighter, more insistent. His hips shift beneath the attention. Subtle, but Flint must notice because he pauses. Does he still have any doubts as to whether Silver is sure about this?
“Need you to touch me,” he says to make things clear.
“I am touching you.” There’s a tiny smirk.
Silver reaches for his hand and slowly guides it between his legs. “Why don't you try here next?”
Flint closes his fingers around his cock and gives it a few slow strokes. God, yes. Silver groans, arching his hips towards the hand.
“Impressive,” Flint murmurs again. He looks up and his hot gaze bores into Silver's, sending a pleasurable shiver down his spine. “You could fuck me, if you want.”
Woah, what. Silver stares at him. Did he just…
“Yes?” Flint's voice is low, and he isn't trying to mask anything. There's just open want, plain as day in his expression. His fingers caress Silver slowly, thumb brushing over his head. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Let me be good for you?”
Silver forgets how to breathe. He hadn’t expected that tone. Or that needy look on Flint's face right now, hoping for permission. To be…
“Yes,” he says without thinking. “Fuck, do you have any idea what…”
Then he regains his wits.
Because, as tempting as this offer is... “I may never have been with a man before, but I've had a finger or two up my arse. That kind of thing takes preparation. Not that the offer isn't very tempting, but I'm afraid my patience is wearing a little thin at the moment.”
“It won't take too long,” Flint says, drawing his hand back. His cheeks are clearly flushed again. “Before I turned my attention to the rum yesterday, I… I'm still pretty loose, is what I'm saying.”
“Oh?” Silver blinks. His cock throbs. “All right.”
He visualises the scene now. Was Flint lying on his back or on his stomach? He was probably on his knees, face pressed into the pillow, arse in the air. That would be the easiest way. Was he already wearing the shirt?
“God, that's… You never cease to surprise me,” he adds belatedly, and suddenly he has a very clear vision of what he wants. He slides back on the bed until he is lying in the middle of it and pushes the pillow under his head. “Do you have any oil here? Yes, I'm sure you do since you used it yesterday... Come here. Want you to ride me. Want to see you fuck yourself on my cock since you seem so very eager for it.”
The look on Flint's face is, Silver can't call it anything else, enraptured. He grins, feeling confident. “You want that too?” He takes hold of his cock, stroking it leisurely. God, it's so good to feel it hard.
Flint gives him a hungry look, nods quickly. He picks up a small bottle of oil that's beside the bed and then kneels over Silver's thighs. The soft fabric of his shirt grazes Silver's skin, making him shiver.
His hand still on his own cock, Silver watches with fascination as Flint’s right hand disappears behind his back under his shirt and he begins to fuck himself with his fingers. His expression is focused, and Silver lets his eyes wander down his body. He can see through the shirt that Flint's nipples are hard - as is his cock. It bobs up and down slightly, seeming to get even harder as Flint touches himself. Every now and then, a soft gasp leaves his lips. He seems very much into this whole situation and Silver surely won't forget this image anytime soon.
He hadn't been sure, just minutes before, what their dynamic would be. Because he knows what this man is like with power. Flint is made of command - Silver's felt it, braced against it. Being in control is his natural state. But now in private, he finds something else entirely. Given the choice, Flint seems to submit easily and it leaves Silver quite stunned. Just thinking about how readily Flint had offered himself just minutes before almost makes him moan out loud.
"What were you thinking about when you touched yourself yesterday?" he murmurs. Needs to know, now that he knows the direction Flint's thoughts are headed.
Flint blinks. Looks away. “Various things,” he grunts. Hm, not good enough.
"Me too? This?” Silver teases.
A groan escapes Flint, deep in his chest but still, he doesn’t answer.
“Don't make me guess. Tell me,” Silver demands softly, touching Flint’s thigh with his free hand, letting his fingers travel beneath his shirt. He’s so warm and soft here.
This time, Flint meets his gaze. Holds it. “Yes.” His voice is rough, stripped bare. “You. Walking in on me.”
And just like that, a new image floods his mind. Flint, flushed and wanting, alone in that darkened room, hand between his thighs, thinking about him. If Silver had gone looking for him a little earlier… He would have seen it.
“Fuck,” he groans softly and gives his cock a little squeeze. “You wanted to be caught,” he murmurs, certain of it. But he wants to hear Flint say it. “Didn’t you?”
Flint watches him for a beat longer, eyes dark. He nods. A hesitant confession.
“What then? What else did you imagine?” Silver asks. He could guess. He’s always been good at reading his partners. Picking up the smallest cues, figuring out what they desire before they even name it. And he starts to have a pretty good idea of what Flint might enjoy.
Part of Silver is coaxing these words out of him for his own pleasure, but he also senses how much Flint needs that. How much he wants to be asked. It's not about humiliation. It’s about being known. About having someone see this part of him.
There’s a long, aching pause.
“I thought about… not stopping.” Flint exhales shakily, lashes low over his eyes, like he’s forcing himself to say it. “And then… I imagined what you’d do. If you’d stay at the door and watch. Or come closer. I thought…” He makes a broken sound, arches his back, head tilting back. Because he's still working his fingers inside himself.
“I thought you’d… grab my wrists. Hold them down.” His voice is shaking now, but he keeps going. “I thought you’d lean in close. Tell me how desperate and needy I looked. Tell me to stop touching myself. That if I wanted it so badly…” another breath, deeper, “…I’d have to beg you for it.”
Fuck. A flicker of something dark and warm flares in Silver’s chest. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out. This is what Flint is fantasising about? He realises then, somewhere between a breath and a heartbeat, that he could probably ask for almost anything right now. And Flint would give it. Freely, in complete, exquisite obedience. Silver could have him on his knees. He could make him say please and beg for it. It's fucking thrilling. He almost wishes he had the patience to draw this out now to savour the opportunity even more. Maybe another time.
Flint is flushed, eyes squeezed shut. His jaw is clenched tight, muscles ticking, like he's trying to hold something back. Like he’s already second-guessing having said too much, shown too much.
As if the admission cost him a lot and Silver gets it. Flint completely laid himself bare in front of him. This wasn't just some stray fantasy blurted in the heat of the moment. This is something Flint had kept tucked away. It’s confessing he’s wanted Silver. Not just now. Not just lately. Before. How many nights has he imagined Silver’s hands instead of asking for them? Silver could ask him why he had never said anything, but he already knows the answer. Because Flint doesn’t ask for such things unless he’s sure he won’t be refused or even punished for wanting them. And Silver can’t have that. Won’t.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “For telling me. I appreciate it.”
Flint’s hand, - his free one -, flexes against his thigh, fingers twitching. Silver soothes him with a slow stroke of his hand, thumb brushing the inside of his thigh.
Flint swallows hard. His throat works once, then again. And then, so quietly Silver almost misses it, “That wasn't… too much?”
“No,” Silver murmurs, his voice dipping lower. “Look at me.”
Flint does and Silver holds his gaze.
“I want you to tell me what you need. Or you show me. And when you give me those things… You’re going to be so well taken care of,” Silver promises. Because that's what Flint needs and longs for. Direction. Praise. For being good.
He can feel the shiver that runs through Flint’s body. Feel how badly he wants that. At the same time, he seems to relax somewhat.
His head tips slightly. “Can I have it now?” he murmurs.
Silver blinks, caught off guard for half a second. “Have what?”
“My reward,” Flint says, gaze slowly flickering down, then back to his face. “Can't wait to feel you inside me. All of you.” His mouth twitches, just barely. A flicker of mischief beneath all that flushed reverence. He licks his lips. “Don't think I've ever been given a reward this… big.”
Christ. Whatever tattered shred of composure Silver had left snaps in half. He groans wantonly.
“It's all yours. Come and get it.”
Flint moves, shifts his weight. He grabs Silver's cock, spreading some more oil and brings it into position at his hole. Excitement flows hot through Silver and at the same time he thinks he's far too big. No way will this fit, it can't work - but he can't help but nod eagerly when Flint looks at him in question. He slowly lowers himself onto him and Silver moans uncontrollably as he breaches the tight ring of muscle. Fuck, fuck. His fingers search for hold in the sheets. Breathe, he must breathe, or he'll come right then and there.
Flint takes him easily, barely making a sound, he seems so concentrated. Only when Silver is completely inside him does he let out a rough gasp.
“Oh my god, fuck,” Silver groans and grabs Flint's thighs, digging his fingers into his skin as he breathes in and out slowly, trying not to think about anything else. Like, his cock, buried deep inside Flint.
Silver stares up at him, and Flint has his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. It feels just as good for him, right?
“Is it too much? Don't want to hurt you.”
Flint blinks, then gazes down at him, entranced. “No. No, it's perfect. Truly perfect.” He lifts his hips slightly. Oh, fuck.
“Wait, just… give me a moment,” Silver says quickly, holding him a little more firmly in place. “You feel so incredible,” he groans. “How can you feel so incredible?”
Maybe because it's been so long. And he can't remember ever fucking anyone who felt this tight around him.
Flint smirks and looks... somewhere between amused and proud. He slowly runs his hands up and down Silver's chest. “You too. I need to... please tell me I can move.”
“Yes, you... yes.”
Flint leaves one hand on his chest, resting the other on Silver's right leg. As soon as he starts to roll his hips, Silver can feel the muscles in his thighs tighten under his hands. They both groan.
The first movements are still slow, testing, until Flint finds a rhythm for himself. His expression looks like pure bliss as he rides him, and Silver can't stop watching his face. Lost in himself, taking what he needs from him.
Fuck.
Silver slips a hand under Flint's shirt and grabs him by the waist. He never thought they would end up like this. This is Flint. His captain. His friend. And now his lover. Silver moans, throws his head back into the pillow, without taking his eyes off Flint for more than a few seconds.
He blindly reaches for the oil and dribbles some of it onto his right hand. Then he slips his hand back underneath Flint's shirt and grabs his cock, starts stroking it. Flint's panting gets louder, his rhythm falters a little.
Their eyes meet, and Silver flashes a grin. "Yeah?" he asks, because he feels too breathless to say, 'does it feel so damn good for you too?'.
"Yeah," Flint agrees and then gives a particularly high-pitched moan as Silver rubs his thumb over a spot just beneath the head of his cock.
“Yes, let me hear you, darling. Show me how much you like it.” The term of endearment is out before he registers it. It's just. That's what he would call a woman in such a situation.
Flint freezes. Well, most of him, his cock twitches between Silver's fingers. He doesn't necessarily look shocked, more like caught off guard. Silver watches his eyes flick away, then come back.
“Slip of the tongue,” Silver says smoothly, stroking him a little harder as a distraction. “Unless you liked it?” He has an inkling he does.
Flint grunts unintelligibly and starts moving again. All right, they'll just ignore it.
Silver is already embarrassingly close. It just feels way too good. But he's also a gentleman and would not…
“You close?” he asks, tries to hide his desperation.
“Yes,” Flint gasps brokenly. “Just…”
“What do you need?”
“Your voice. Keep talking to me.”
Silver exhales through a shaky grin. Oh? “Hm. What do you want to hear?” he asks, dropping his tone low. “How fucking gorgeous you look like this?”
Flint moans. His back arches slightly, hips grinding down in a way that pulls a sharp breath from both of them.
It's hard to tell, because his face is already flushed, but Silver swears he sees the colour deepen. A slow-blooming heat spreading down his throat, across his collarbone. Silver wants to chase it with his mouth, taste where it’s warmest. Why is he so far away?
“And the way you give in to me…” he breathes. “Letting me have you like this… You have no idea what that does to me,” he murmurs, his voice catching. He is not even exaggerating. Every word he says is true.
Another moan rips out of Flint, deep and wrecked, and his eyes squeeze shut. Silver watches Flint’s thighs tremble where they straddle his hips. He always knew his words had power. But the mere sound of his voice? He hadn’t known it could undo someone like that.
He’s drunk on it.
“You like that?” he purrs, watching the way Flint’s lips part. “Me praising you for how fucking well you take my cock?”
Flint nods shakily.
“Of course you do. You love knowing how good you’re doing.”
Flint lets out a sound that’s nearly a sob. It makes Silver’s heart stutter.
“Look at you,” Silver murmurs hoarsely. “Riding me like you were made for it.”
He shifts his hips, just slightly, and Flint gasps, keening.
“That’s it,” Silver whispers, voice low and coaxing, “take what you need.”
And Flint does.
His rhythm falters, hips jerking down in sharp, needy movements. His mouth opens, but no words come. Just soft, broken sounds that shoot straight through Silver’s spine like lightning. He feels his own control fray at the edges. Feels the pull - not just of pleasure, but of something raw and possessive that he wasn’t expecting.
He breathes through the wave crashing in his chest, and pulls his hand back from Flint's cock. Instead, he lets both his hands trail up Flint’s thighs once more, feeling him shiver. “Look at me,” he says and Flint’s eyes open - heavy-lidded, overwhelmed. "I bet you can come like this. Without me touching you. Just with my cock inside you and my voice telling you to obey."
Flint whines - actually whines - and Silver groans in response.
“Please. I'm…”
Silver moves his hands to Flint's hips and pulls him down onto his cock, holds him there. “You'll be good for me, won't you?”
“Yes,” Flint moans.
“Then come for me.”
Silver feels the exact second it crashes through Flint, feels the tremble, the tightening. His mind catches on something small then. The long, too-big shirt still hanging around Flint’s frame, shifting with each movement. Better not to ruin it in this way.
With one hand, he reaches up, slips his fingers beneath the hem, and lifts it slightly - just enough to keep it clear. And just in time, because with a cry and a jerk of his cock, Flint's semen begins to spill over Silver's stomach and chest.
His gaze darts over Flint's cock, hard and twitching, over wiry copper curls and then lingers above. The shirt lifts just enough to show the curve of his stomach – soft, pale, untouched by sun or scar, a scattering of freckles like stars across skin.
Something surges up inside Silver. Fierce. Protective. Tender. His fingers brush the softness of that belly as he pushes the fabric higher. Silver wants to drag it off completely, taste every inch of that freckled skin, press him down and whisper praise into every soft place Flint never lets anyone see. Next time they do this, Silver wants to see all of him. Fuck. Where does that come from? It feels a bit like Silver is the one who is now ruined instead of the shirt.
Above him, Flint is still twitching and moaning, and he also seems to become even tighter around Silver’s cock. Silver gasps. Just wants to get deeper into Flint, wants to have him, all of him, to mark him. He pushes up into him with growing desperation, but he can't really move well in this position, so it's just quick and shallow thrusts.
"Up. Lie down," he murmurs hoarsely. “Need to…”
Flint, still half out of it, seems to catch on to his desperation and nods. He lifts himself up and they both whimper as Silver slides out of him. The loss feels wrong, and Silver needs to get back inside him as fast as possible. He rolls around, moving between Flint's legs, while praying to whoever is up there that his leg will cooperate now, just for a few more minutes.
As he gets to his knees, shifting his weight onto his right knee, he can feel Flint's semen slowly trickling down his body and for a fleeting moment he is tempted to tell Flint to lick clean the mess he made. His cock is throbbing and yes, no time for that. He reaches for it, guides it back to Flint's hole.
“Are you…”
“Want you to come inside me,” Flint rasps, and yes, that answers Silver's question of whether he's too sensitive for this now that he came.
Silver pushes back inside, groaning. Yes. This is where he belongs.
He shifts forward, bracing himself on either side of Flint’s body. The angle changes, deepens, and now he has all the space and control he needs to let his hips roll with more force, more purpose.
Flint’s response is immediate. He gasps, his breath catching as his back arches off the mattress. His arms lift, hands reaching above him until they find the bed frame where his fingers curl tight around the wooden struts.
His legs shift too - one drawn up, heel braced against the mattress, the other curls loosely around Silver’s waist, guiding him deeper, keeping him close. He meets Silver's thrusts with his whole body now, breath ragged, face flushed. Silver watches him, dizzy with the sight. He lifts a hand to Flint’s face, thumb brushing along his lower lip.
“God, look at you,” he praises. “So good for me.”
Flint’s lips part instinctively and inviting, hungry for whatever he offers. But Silver pulls his thumb away and Flint’s eyes flicker. A twitch of confusion. Disappointment? Ah.
Silver brings his hand back - this time offering two fingers, index and middle, pressing them to those same parted lips.
“Take them,” he says, voice dark with want. “Go on. Suck.”
Flint obeys without hesitation. His lips close around them, hot and eager, tongue flicking along the underside like he’s starved for it. Like he is grateful for the weight of it, the use.
The heat of his mouth, the slick glide of his tongue - it short-circuits something in Silver’s chest, and he groans, low and hoarse.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So obedient. This is what you wanted, yes?”
He slides the fingers in a little deeper, feels Flint take it without faltering. Flint sucks, properly now, his tongue tracing the seam between his fingers, lips tightening at the base like he knows exactly what this is meant to echo. Silver's hips jerk forward, thrusts turning ragged.
“You’re…” he begins, but the words catch in his throat. Too much. Perfect. Flint is perfect like this. For him.
“Want to keep you like this,” he pants. “On your back, full of me. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? You’d let me take and take and…”
Flint makes a low, desperate sound around Silver’s fingers, and Silver feels the vibration of it straight down his spine. It's what finally undoes him. His hips snap forward one final time, and he cries out, everything inside him twisting tight as pleasure tears through him, all-consuming. And then he’s spilling into Flint, buried as deep as he can go, coming hard. He seems to come endlessly. And fuck, it feels so good, so fucking good.
Silver finally draws his fingers back, shaking, and just stares at Flint for a moment. Lips wet, eyes glazed and half-lidded, seemingly content.
“Fucking perfect”, Silver mumbles, barely coherent, and then, exhausted, his body folds forward, collapsing into Flint. They’re both trembling, breathless, soaked in heat and sweat. Flint’s hand finds his waist, gripping it loosely, carefully.
Silver lets himself stay there for just a moment longer, forehead pressed to Flint’s shoulder, eyes closed, breathing him in. He lifts his hand blindly and brushes across Flint’s chest. Feels the fluttering of his heart beneath his shirt, the rise and fall of his breath. He’s about to press his lips to the damp curve of Flint’s throat when his fucking leg seizes in a vicious cramp and forces him to move.
Reluctantly, he slips out of Flint with as much care as he can muster and drops down next to him. He stretches his leg out with a groan, fingers working into the tight, twitching muscle. He’s deeply grateful that Flint doesn’t say a word about it.
Then they just lie there, side by side, for a minute or two.
It takes quite some time for him to truly come to. His body feels heavy, boneless, sated in a way he hadn’t experienced in… God, maybe ever.
Why is that?
The only clear thought in his head is that they have completely messed up Flint's bed. They fucked. He fucked Flint. And… he knows how bodies work, how desire burns and fades. But this? It had been… not just good. Not just intense. Something else entirely. Something he doesn’t have words for. There’s no frame of reference in his head for it.
His mind tries to analyse the situation, to find an explanation. Maybe… maybe because he didn't feel like he was performing this time.
He's been many things in bed. He's played the lover, the protector, the filthy talker, the indulgent brat. Whatever the other person needed, whatever the script was, he could follow it, speak the lines, sell the illusion.
But now, he did not even think about shaping himself to fulfil Flint's desire. Meeting it had felt so natural, like finally fitting.
And the tenderness he felt in between… No one’s ever pulled that feeling out of him before.
Yeah, anyway. They should probably clean up a bit. Silver shifts, prepares to get up - but there is a movement that makes him pause. Flint’s hand ghosts toward his arm. It doesn’t land. Doesn’t touch. Just hovers there for a second, fingers half-curled in a gesture that seems caught halfway through. Like Flint wants to stop him from leaving but doesn't know how to ask. It's a silent ‘please stay’.
Silver looks at his hand. Looks at him.
Flint clears his throat, pulls his hand back and looks up at the ceiling again. “This is not how I thought this day would start,” he murmurs.
Silver lowers himself back down, shoulder brushing Flint’s. All right, no cleaning up for now.
“Neither did I. But I'm not complaining.” He still feels completely dazed. Everything that had happened since last night had taken him by surprise. He hadn't planned this. But here they are. So, what if there’s a little more to their friendship now?
“Was this interchangeable hole to your satisfaction then, yes?”
Silver huffs. “Yeah. Highly recommended. I might return.”
Then he wonders if Flint's comment right now was just his usual blunt, sardonic wit, or bitterness, or insecurity disguised as dry humour. Is this regret? For whatever reason. There are probably plenty.
Silver rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his hand, searching Flint's face for the answer. He doesn't want things to become odd between them now. Not because of this.
Flint is still lying on his back, his eyes toward the ceiling, and Silver has a hard time reading him.
“Hey?”
Flint slowly turns his head in his direction.
“We good?”
“Sure.” Flint smiles, but it seems somewhat forced, doesn't it? Like a performance.
Jesus, that answer shouldn't make Silver as anxious as it does. Did he misread the situation? But Flint had wanted him too, that had been clear. Hence, what's the problem? He reflects on the last few minutes. Is it – is Flint hurt because he feels replaceable?
That's not what Silver meant with his earlier comment. He just wanted to say that it makes no difference to him whether he's with a woman or a man. Silver suspects that this was the first time in a very long time that Flint had given himself to a man again. He also suspects that Flint wouldn't give himself to just anyone. For him, it comes with trust and affection and it's not like Silver doesn't feel those things for him too. So, he still doesn't understand what the problem is. Does he have to say it out loud? But he feels at a loss for words, something he is not used to. He forces himself to overcome his discomfort.
“You know that I...” He gets tangled up in the words and the disorder of his thoughts. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. Shit. He's not good at this.
Flint’s fingers brush tentatively against his hand, which rests tense between them, and Silver feels the heat of it like a spark. “Whatever this is between us, it's important to me. You're not interchangeable. Not to me,” he says in a rush.
“That so?” Flint watches him carefully. And Silver suspects he's just feeling insecure and doesn't mean to torment him, but fuck, this is hard.
"You think I go around saying things I don't mean?” Silver jokes and yeah, that's exactly what he does most of the day. He fumbles for Flint's fingers in turn, touches the back of his hand. "I'm serious about this,” he whispers and fights the urge to hide. In a way, the confession feels more dangerous than when he told Flint that he had stolen the Urca gold.
The smile that flits across Flint's lips now is genuine and nearly makes it worth the struggle. Relief floods Silver. Good, he doesn't seem to have completely fucked up their friendship.
“I… I think I knew that. Just needed a reminder. And. You, too. I mean. I feel the same.”
Flint isn't good at these things either and that's kind of comforting. Silver smiles back, watching Flint's gaze drop to his lips and back up. The expression in his eyes is pure longing. Like it’s killing him not to touch. It leaves a curious feeling in his chest.
“Go for what you want,” Silver murmurs.
Flint leans in slowly, and Silver tilts his head in invitation, already parting his lips. But Flint doesn’t go for his mouth. He presses a kiss to Silver’s cheek instead. Then he kisses the corner of his lips, warm breath ghosting over them like he’s still considering whether to claim the rest. Silver holds still, startled. He hadn’t expected this... gentleness.
Flint’s hand rises to Silver’s neck, almost tentative, and he feels it - the faintest tremble in Flint’s fingers as they brush behind his ear.
He turns his head and finds Flint’s mouth with his own. Lips pressing in fully, firmly, and Flint melts into it like he’s been waiting for this, just this, the whole time. Silver shifts closer, kisses him deeper and… oh. So maybe it does make a difference - man or woman - because Silver’s never had a beard catch against his own while kissing. The faint scratch, the friction, the warmth - it’s strangely intimate. Different. Not unpleasant. Not at all.
Without thinking, he lifts a hand and touches Flint's face, fingers skimming along his jawline, combing lightly through the bristles, and Flint lets out a small sound, a low, half-caught breath.
The kiss turns greedy before he even notices it. Silver presses closer still, tilting Flint’s chin just so, wanting to give more, take more, be more, and Flint follows. He yields without hesitation, just like before, lips parting when Silver asks. He is by no means reserved. But he’s responsive and giving in a way that scrambles something in Silver’s brain.
When he runs his fingers over Flint's head a moment later, Flint suddenly pauses and then begins to pull back. Without thinking, Silver leans in, chasing Flint’s mouth, annoyed at the sudden space between them. Then he realises and draws back, opening his eyes.
Flint is already studying him, looking… astonished?
"What is it?" Silver asks, trying not to sound nervous. He can't say why.
“Nothing. I was just... did you do that last night?” Flint asks. “Caressed my head?”
Silver shrugs, feeling kind of self-conscious. "It seemed to calm you down,” he explains.
Flint is quiet for a beat too long. Not pulling away, not drawing closer. Just... looking at him, almost puzzled.
Silver feels exposed all of a sudden. “If it bothered you, I apologi…”
“No,” Flint interrupts, quickly. “No, it didn’t.” A pause. “I remember feeling... safe,” he adds softly. “Thank you for staying last night.” He leans back in and kisses Silver again. Grateful.
God. He’s soft. Unbelievably soft. He shouldn’t be this soft.
Silver thinks, absurdly, of Singleton. Of that day, that brutal fight. The first time he ever laid eyes on Captain Flint. He thinks of Flint on top of that man, blood-smeared, snarling and feral. Silver remembers watching it, thinking Jesus, he’s not human, but more like a beast dragged out of hell.
That same man is beneath him now - lips tender, mouth pliant, hands gentle and unsure. Is this how he kissed Thomas? Miranda? Did they teach him? Or did they simply make space for the softness that was always there? Whatever the truth, now Silver is the one Flint is offering it to. And that's... a bit of a problem. Because Silver is starting to think he could get addicted to it very quickly.
“Are you expected somewhere?” Flint murmurs against his mouth, lips and beard brushing his with each word.
Silver knows, without question, that he’s not letting Flint out of his sight today. Not on this day. Not when the weight of it has already cracked him open once. “Not until this afternoon,” he replies. Then grins. “But my combat instructor is terribly particular about punctuality. He's a really demanding man, always so strict.”
That earns him a bite in his lower lip, and he gasps softly. He doesn’t resist as Flint flips him onto his back with a surprising ease. The weight of him settles, half on top, half braced, and he enjoys the feeling more than he thought he would.
“I think he's entitled to expect a modicum of discipline.” Flint’s lips find Silver’s chin, then his neck, then lower still. His hand moves across Silver’s chest, fingertips drawing idle patterns against skin still flushed from earlier. Silver shivers and tilts his head back, letting out a low, contented noise. He doesn't want to get his hopes up too high, but maybe he can get hard again today.
“Sorry to disappoint but I've never been good at that.” His hands slide under Flint’s shirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his arse. It’s a very nice arse. One worth complimenting, frankly, but he settles for an appreciative squeeze that earns him a little moan.
Flint nuzzles into his neck, exhaling softly, then looks up. “You can learn anything if you put your mind to it.”
Silver smirks. “Yeah? I mean, you could try to teach me…”
He lets it hang there, suggestive - half invitation, half challenge -, and watches the way Flint’s mouth twitches, eyes glinting with something that’s definitely not just affection. “I'll consider it... if you continue to prove yourself a diligent student.”
"Oh, I'm very committed, darling," Silver says in an overly flirtatious manner. “Ask anyone.”
This time, it's intentional. He wants to see Flint blush again and is not disappointed.
“You just called me… again.”
“Look, it’s either that or Captain, and I’m not entirely convinced Captain is appropriate in the current context.”
Flint huffs. “God, please don’t call me Captain when you’ve got your hand on my…”
“Exactly,” Silver cuts in. “That’s what I’m saying. Very confusing chain of command.”
Flint shifts beside him, still flushed, but his voice lowers, more serious beneath the banter. “There’s also... James.”
Silver’s heart stutters, just a little. He’s heard others speak that name and it wouldn't even be the first time he's used it - but never directed at Flint himself and this feels different. He rolls the name around in his mind, testing how it feels to own it.
He traces a fingertip along the line of Flint’s shoulder. “James,” he says, slow and thoughtful. Then, with a grin tugging at his lips, he breathes, “Darling James.”
Flint groans. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” Silver says, drawing slow circles over Flint’s back with his finger, “you invited me into your bed and let me fondle your better parts.”
Flint shakes his head and only just manages to suppress a smile. Then he leans in again, his hand brushing Silver’s jaw. His mouth finds the space just beside Silver’s ear, and his voice drops low. “You know, maybe you are wrong. Maybe your combat instructor doesn't expect blind obedience and discipline. Maybe he secretly enjoys how unruly you are. Admires your confidence and likes not knowing what you’ll do next. Maybe that's exactly what he needs.”
Silver breathes out a soft, startled sound. He doesn’t quite know what to do with this honesty. He turns his head slowly until their mouths are nearly touching.
“Well,” he says, voice a little hoarse now, “sounds to me like he is in trouble.”
Flint’s answer is immediate. “Maybe he doesn't mind.”
God. He kisses Flint. Slow. Lingering. A little possessive.
“You might want to tell him,” Silver whispers, “that if he keeps admiring me like that… I might end up getting ideas.”
Silence for a heartbeat.
“I can't tell if this is a warning or a welcome,” Flint murmurs back.
Silver doesn't know that either.
But he’s already got ideas. About the next time and how he wants to touch Flint's soft looking belly. And not only that. He thinks about belonging, about having someone. He’s never wanted something like this, and he doesn’t want to want it. He really doesn’t. Such things are not meant to last. But Flint keeps letting him in. Keeps opening these tiny, impossible doors. And Silver keeps walking through them.
Flint rolls off him, staying close, and looks at him. “Say it again?” he asks.
And Silver knows exactly what he longs to hear.
“Darling,” he says, softer, more genuine this time, and now feels his own cheeks getting warm.
Flint closes his eyes, exhales slowly, like the word settles somewhere deep in him. He looks... at peace. Like for this one breath, the war inside him has gone still.
Silver watches him, something aching behind his ribs. He wonders what it would be like if he could give him this more often. For the first time, maybe, he really sees James. Not the captain. Not the ghost of a nobleman or the story whispered through camps. Just him - tired and real and for whatever reason, letting Silver see him like this.
Silver shifts a little closer, their legs brushing, their breath mingling, and lets his hand rest lightly over Flint’s chest, where the heartbeat is steady beneath his palm.