Flint sighed before taking another healthy gulp from his bottle filled with rum. He had started the night drinking from a cup, but as Thomas and Silver joined him they quickly forwent those in favor of drinking straight from the source. His body felt warm and fuzzy, and his cheeks were flushed a hot pink as his buzz set in. Looking to the men on either side of him, Flint came to the realization that if red coats suddenly burst through the door of their small home and shot him dead, he'd die a happy man. Laughter bubbled out of him like a fresh spring at something Thomas said—or, more specifically, how he said it—and Flint wondered at how lucky a man he was. Years ago, after discovering—mostly in part and thanks to Silver—that Thomas was alive and hidden away in Savannah, the red headed pirate thought he was the luckiest man alive. That God himself had deemed him worthy and had blessed him with a second chance at happiness. Then, just a few years after their reunion, when Silver had reappeared on their shores with stories of the sea and its adventures, and, most importantly, with love and hope in his eyes, Flint had thought he must've died. For there was no way a scoundrel such as himself could be so fortunate as to have both his loves in his life. Thomas, his truest love, and Silver, his fiercest.
Drawing a hand down Silver's bicep and firmly squeezing the muscle there, Flint figured it was only fair that he could only keep one of them for any long period of time. After freeing Thomas from the camp his father had stashed him in, Flint had been spoiled with the man's constant presence—something he wouldn't take for granted any time soon. Silver, however, drifted in and out of their home like the tide. He did have other obligations, after all, and had to split his time between their home in Savannah and Nassau, where he and Madi had planted roots of their own and settled down. Then there were the men, too, who even to this day vied for his attention, for his praise. They'd never be appeased with Long John Silver's retirement. And, as Flint suspected, neither would Silver. But Silver was here with him, now, and Flint thought he'd never stop feeling grateful.
The retired Walrus captain watched contentedly through heavy, half lidded eyes as Silver and Thomas animatedly debated their opinions on a book they had both read. It was a cheap, popular little thing that Silver had found on one of his prizes, and his first gift to Thomas as a partner. Flint assumed it was meant as a joke, not to be taken seriously, as it was a superfluous, easy read that would be forgotten in a decade or so. Thomas had cherished it, though, and read it immediately. And finally, after a full year of long winded promises and halfhearted evasion, Silver had finished the book himself and had stepped foot on the Savannah beach with a thing or two to say about it. Flint, in his fuzzy state, wasn't much for conversation, but merely enjoyed basking in the presence of both his loves and listening to their voices. Keeping his grip on Silver's arm, Flint leaned over and rested his head on Thomas's shoulder, fully intending on taking a nap.
He was just on the precipice of sleep when suddenly, without warning, Thomas slammed his hand on the wooden table in front of them, jerking Flint into wakefulness. "Aha!" Thomas cheered, his eyes bright and almost gleeful. "I figured it out!"
Quirking a dark brow, Silver carefully asked, "Figured what out?"
"Where I recognize you from!" Thomas's body hummed with excitement. "We've met before—in Bethlem."
Head snapping towards Silver, Flint found his head suddenly clear and his eyesight focused as he growled, "What?"
An easy smile overcame Silver's face and his eyes crinkled in a way Flint hadn't seen since his days as his Quartermaster. "Beg pardon?" To anyone else, it looked like Silver was politely confused, yet interested in where this was going.
"Yes, yes," Thomas nodded his head vigorously and leaned forward across the table to reach out and cup one of Silver's hands with his own. "It was years ago, after my father had left me at the asylum—before he brought me to Savannah," his words were coming out fast, rushed. He was excited at the prospect of having met Silver before he was, well, Silver. "We shared a room for a time."
Bringing his free hand to soothingly rub Thomas's forearm, Silver apologized, "I think you're mistaken, Thomas. I've never been to Bethlem—or London for that matter." He looked so sincere, so honest that no one else would have blinked twice at the man before them. Anyone else—Thomas included—would have taken Silver for his word and assumed it was a case of mistaken identity. Flint wasn't anyone, though. He knew Silver's mind, his ticks, his tells. Flint knew him. He saw the muscles in his throat working hard to swallow, even though the man's mouth was probably drier than the desert. He saw the slight twitch in his left eyelid, so quick you had to know to look for it. And he saw the tension in his back, no matter how hard Silver tried to remain loose and casual. Flint saw.
Thomas's brows furrowed and his mouth puckered just so. Flint knew that face as well, it was a face that shouted insecurity and indecision with just a pinch of stubbornness. Internally Thomas was trying to figure out if he was mistaken when he knew he wasn't, but was also wrestling with the fact that he had been locked away in Bethlem and then in a labor camp for a decade and wondering, self-deprecatingly, if that had somehow compromised his memory—his mind. Flint hated that look. He knew nothing was wrong with Thomas, physically or mentally, but he couldn't fight the taller man's demons for him. Flint could only support him, and reassure him against those doubts that plagued him. Resting his gaze on Silver, however, Flint decided he could fight him. "Silver," he hissed, his upper lip twitching as he restrained a snarl. "Help me outside for a moment, won't you?"
Silver stroked his beard, his lips tugging down into a frown. Flint could see the gears turning behind his eyes as he tried to think of a way to escape Flint's wrath. For as much as Flint could read Silver, Silver could also read Flint. Once, a man had suggested that the two of them had grown so close, they could read each other's thoughts. Preposterous, of course, but in moments like these it was a close thing. Eventually accepting his fate, Silver clenched his jaw for a just a fleeting moment before putting on his best, charming smile—mostly for Thomas's sake—and nodding, "Of course." Standing slowly and reaching for his crutch, Silver led the way out of the house.
Once they walked passed the threshold and were out of Thomas's ear shot, Silver turned and huffed, "Well? What have I done this time?"
"Why the fuck did you just lie to Thomas?" Flint stepped closer to the dark haired man, so close their breaths, hot and coming out fast, began to intermingle.
"Beg pardon?" Silver's face locked down, not showing anything, which just proved to Flint all the more of the lie.
Snarling, he fumed, "Don't try and pull that shit again. It didn't work in there," he jerked his chin towards the house, "and it isn't working out here. So, I ask again, why the fuck did you just lie to Thomas? You know how insecure he is about his past—how self conscious he is about his own mind—"
"I know!" Silver cut him off, his own snarl overcoming his face as he looked away and towards the dark road before them. "I—I know," his voice drawled off, barely audible to Flint's ears.
Shaking his head, not understanding, Flint asked, "Then why'd you do it?" He reached out, tenderly placing his hand against the side of Silver's neck.
"Because then I'd have to think about it—to remember it," Silver's voice croaked with more emotion than Flint had ever heard from him. He stepped back, pulling away from Flint, from his touch. "Those were some of the worst days of my life," he confided, his eyes flashing up to Flint's and then away again.
"What?" Flint whispered, more to himself than to Silver. He felt his hands and feel grow cold of a sudden as understanding hit him like a canon ball. Wincing, Flint realized his error. He'd been so caught up in the fact that Silver had lied that he didn't stop to wonder why he had done so. He'd been so preoccupied with protecting Thomas—Thomas, his beautiful, strong, and tortured Thomas—that he hadn't considered Silver may need protecting, too. Silver, his brutal, resourceful, clever Silver. The feared Pirate King was always so independent, always so adamant to deny any offered help—Flint wondered, abruptly, if the man even remembered how to ask for it anymore. Looking at Silver's hunched shoulders and white knuckled grip on his crutch, he realized he hadn't been a very good partner these last few minutes. He'd forsaken Silver for Thomas—something he swore to himself he'd never do—and placed him in this position.
Then, once the guilt had properly settled in and he registered Silver's words, and the words preceding it, Flint's mind realized something. "You—you were in Bethlem?" For such an intelligent, observant man, Flint realized he was being rather obtuse. "You were," he started again, slower this time. "In Bethlem. With Thomas." That was two of his lovers, now, that place had taken prisoner. "How?" he found himself asking.
Silver, still not looking at Flint, shrugged off the question. "What does it matter?" His voice was so small, so broken, it made Flint want to whimper. "It's irrelevant."
Suddenly, Flint remembered another conversation with Silver. One that took place under the sun instead of the moon, with swords in hand, and a mix of curiosity and disappointment running through his veins. "You've told me that before," he swallowed thickly, slowly stepping closer to Silver until he could feel the man's body heat radiating from him. "Years ago—that your past was irrelevant. That you'd absolved yourself of it," his lips barely moved, the words coming out in a murmured hush, but he knew Silver was listening intently. He could tell by the way his eyes narrowed just so. "Now it seems to me," he drew his fingers up Silver's back, catching slightly on the bones of his spine. "That is not the case. Why didn't you tell me?"
"After what you'd told me?" Silver challenged halfheartedly, tilting his head so he could meet Flint's gaze. "About the man you loved enough to start a war in his memory? About how he'd been taken from you? Thrown into the very place I refused to ever think of again." Silver shook his head and snorted through his nostrils. "I knew what pain the mere mention of that place caused you. I thought, if I could spare you just that bit of pain, then I'd do it."
"You were—you were trying to protect me?" He asked, bewildered. Flint remembered that day on the beach so vividly, and remembered how stubborn Silver was to tell Flint of his past. He hadn't understood it at the time. How could one man's past be that irrelevant? Especially when that man was John fucking Silver. But it wasn't irrelevant at all. Flint wondered how he would have reacted back then if Silver had told him of his past. Would he have even taken the man seriously? Or just assumed he was telling another lie? Memories of Thomas would've been dredged up to the surface, after he'd so carefully locked them away, it could've been the ruin of their friendship. It could have compromised him—made him distracted from the way, made him look weak in front of the men. It could have been his downfall.
Warm hands were in his hair, tugging at the roots gently, and Flint blinked, "—int. Flint!" Silver chanted, his face suddenly directly in front of his. He was so close that Flint could see the pale sprinkle of freckles over Silver's nose and cheeks. "Flint—dammit—this is why I didn't want to tell you!" Silver growled. Flint's eyes flickered to his, and whatever Silver saw in them made him calm down, made the muscles in his face relax and his fingers unclench in his hair. "For fuck's sake," he whispered hoarsely, leaning forward to bury his forehead in the crook of Flint's neck. "Don't fucking do that. Don't disappear on me like that—not again."
Wrapping his arms around Silver, Flint held the man tightly to his chest and placed a forceful kiss to the crown of his skull. "Never," he promised. "Never again." Silver shifted, letting go of the crutch and leaning more of his weight against Flint's solid form before wrapping his own arms around the red headed man. His body trembled slightly, and for a long time the two just stayed like that—unmoving, and focused entirely on the feel of the other. "Thank you," Flint's voice eventually broke the silence. Silver's head tipped up just a bit, signifying that he was listening. "For trying to protect me," he placed a kiss to his brow. "Thank you, Silver."
"I love you, James," Silver said in response, making Flint's chest grow warm and fuzzy. It always made his heart soar whenever the black haired man called him by his Christian name. In the beginning, Flint had wished Silver would use it more, but after a few uses, the red haired man realized Silver only used it when he was feeling truly, and deeply in love. He was being his most genuine when he used it, and after realizing that, Flint would never have it any other way.
"I love you, too, John," he replied, giving the man a solid squeeze.
The door to the house opened slowly, and Flint looked up to see Thomas nervously poking his head out from behind it. Catching the taller man's eye, Flint silently beckoned Thomas over. Smiling softly, he padded softly down the porch steps and the few feet until he was beside his two partners. Arms open wide, Thomas brought both men into his embrace. He didn't need words, he didn't need to understand, he just needed to be there. With Silver, with Flint. The three of them had been through so much pain, so much suffering, all alone. Never again, Flint silently vowed, echoing his words to Silver. They'd never have to go through the horrors of this world alone ever again. Come hell or high water, they'd face it-together.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed!