#returnedtothesea

James is twitching, flushed down to his chest and fighting the urge to squirm under Thomas’ gentle, firm hands. He wants- wants badly enough that the heat of it is dizzying, the sight of Thomas’ mouth so close to him but not touching nearly unbearable. The thought of putting it into words--

He trembles when Thomas speaks, pushes a forearm over his own eyes. Has to swallow the instinct to protest. Deeper than his shame runs the absolute conviction that Thomas is the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen; that loving and being loved by him cannot be wrong; that he wants James to ask, wants to hear it from him. 

James takes a moment. His forearm is warm against his too-hot face and he pulls it away finally, looks down at Thomas again, hands curling anxiously into the sheets. 

He curls one of them into Thomas’ hair instead, stroking through it. Traces the curve of Thomas’ ear with his fingertips, just to see if it makes him shiver. 

@songofthestone / @returned-to-the-sea

Through the haze of sleep, the first thought Raphael has is that Harry should be careful climbing the ladder. His shoulder might be more or less healed, but there is no doubt in Raphael’s mind that it’s still delicate, and prone to aching. 

With his hair half-obscuring his face, Raphael doesn’t open his eyes, but breathes in deep as he properly starts to wake, rolling further onto his side to face his friend. The floorboards creak softly under Harry’s weight. He crawls closer, and Raphael realises (with a flush of pleasure that would embarrass him if he were more awake) what Harry’s come to him for.

He lifts an arm, and with it the thin blanket, and silently invites Harry in.

When Harry is close enough, Raphael wraps that arm around him to pull him in the rest of the way, tucking Harry’s head under his chin and burying his face in that soft, golden hair. He catches the smell of soap and clean cotton, and beneath that the nameless but unmistakable scent of Harry himself. It makes his heart ache. It makes him want to pull Harry on top of himself and stay like that for an age.

Two years and he’s still sleeping by the fire. 

Two years and he can take a cup of rich sweetness from Thomas’ hands without feeling guilty but still has to quell the urge to raise every defense he has when the room is mentioned. The room. His room. 

He’s known for a long time that they mean for it to be his room. He’s used it maybe a handful of times in the past two years, but the thought of claiming it--the thought of keeping anything in it, if he even had anything to keep--terrifies him. 

You don’t have to use it, Thomas says, smiling so genuinely that Silver wants to throw his drink at him, But it is yours. And then Silver nearly does throw the drink, heart pounding suddenly in his chest, but he keeps both hands clasped around the mug and stays very still in his chair by the fire and doesn’t bolt.

If he accepted the room as his own he would have somewhere to retreat to; a safe, quiet place that he could ask people not to enter, where no-one could look at him. 

But then if he accepts the room as his own he will have to leave it behind and before that he might have to confront the fact that he--that he’s never--that the last time he had a room, it--

Silver’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks down at the mug in his hands. Stares at the dark liquid in it and resolves not to throw it in Thomas’ face literally or metaphorically. He isn’t smiling, for once. Doesn’t even try.

There’s a fondness in his anticipation, louder at last than the bitter edging of unease or the dark, wild snap of mistrust. God help him, he’s looking forward to Silver’s crooked grin, his bouncing stride, the sight of him rumpled and sleepy by the hearth. The tension between them, never quite out of sight, feels almost balanced now. The sight of her then, of Madi, real and sharp eyed and beaming, speaking fiercely, touching him with all the stern fondness he had missed so deeply feels like a cruel, piercing blow.

Chest to chest, her arms holding him fast, his own limp and awkward: stilled by shock, he hears himself, croaking stupidly into the thick silence.

“You’re here.”

His frantic eyes settle, to stare endlessly at Silver, who has still not stepped inside, and whose face is solemn, shadowed, and scared. “I didn’t think -” his tongue feels clumsy, and he tries to marshal his thoughts but they teem and crowd, blurring in his mind. That I’d see you again. That you’d want to see me. That we weren’t some half swallowed fever dream. That you and he could ever endure that madness.

That you survived.

He blinks, his blood hot and desperate for something solid; some tether to cling to. It drags his lost and aching gaze to Thomas leaning against the doorframe, his smile soft and curious, watching their silent grief unfurl. Flint brings his arms around her back, gripping tight for a heartbeat before stepping back. He settles his hands on her shoulders, and takes her in, the chaos dancing in the pit of his mind quietens at the sight of her. He’s being appraised, he realises, her steady, softening stare roaming over his features, his life, his mind.

“He didn’t say.” He finds the words tumbling unbidden from his lips, a quiet little admission of all the things Flint doesn’t know, and all the things Silver doesn’t tell them.

She settles under his hands, the gentle weight of them. This is not the man she knew, not entirely. He is not so far changed that she cannot recognise him, but she sees - finally - what Silver had meant when he’d told her that he had unmade Captain Flint.

Until now there was no proof of his survival save for John Silver’s word, and love him though she may, Madi has learned that such a thing cannot ever be fully trusted. Even when he tells the truth, she senses gaps - omissions - things he doesn’t let her see.

“Hm. No, I didn’t think so.” Her eyes don’t leave him. She sees the tall, white man that must be Thomas Hamilton in her peripheral vision, but her focus is only on Flint, drinking in the sight of him whole and alive, looking better-rested and happier than she’d ever seen him. It’s an uncomfortable thing to be confronted with, in some ways. To know that he and his loved ones gained peace at such a cost. In her bitterest moments she could care less for the things that were gained through Silver’s betrayal: she still grieves for a war that never was.

“I was not certain whether I would come,” she admits, one hand lifting to rest briefly atop his where it sits on her shoulder, before dropping again. “If it would cause more harm than good. But I like to think, even with the look on your face--” And she’s smiling, eyes bright and fond, almost teasing him. “--that it will be the latter.”

"My dear lieutenant, your company has been the only thing sustaining me tonight,” Thomas laughs, voice habitually lowered, though he highly doubts anyone will overhear them from the loud chatter in the other room. 

He nearly reaches for him- catches himself just in time before he can properly lift a hand to press it affectionately to James’ chest. Thomas smiles, keeps his hands to himself, though the distance imposed on them is eternally frustrating. 

“You are under no obligation to stay, if you would rather excuse yourself,” he assures him, gently. “The choice is yours, as ever.” 

James looks so tense and uncomfortable that Thomas aches- he wants to touch, to soothe him, Christ, has half a mind to dismiss everyone early to do just that, but- 

Thomas regards him, head tilting ever so slightly, like he’s realised, perhaps, what the problem might be.

“You belong in that room, James. In every room of this house, in fact, no matter who else is in it.” 

James’ heart is not pounding. He had thought it might, with the looming danger of being dismissed from Thomas Lord Hamilton’s service, but his pulse feels slow and steady in his chest, too calm for the events about to unfold. 

His face is carefully neutral, hands behind his back; the sight of Thomas drives a scarlet spark through him, even now, and he believes more than ever that what he did yesterday evening was right. That Pickram - or his friend, James cannot remember now who received the worst of his wrath - deserved his bloodied face and his likely permanently-misshapen nose and jaw. 

He would do it again, he thinks wildly, even as he braces himself. He would do it again without hesitation or apology.

Something in his gut flutters nervously at the endearment Thomas greets him with; the slight start of his hand, almost reaching towards him. James resolutely does not move. The knuckles behind his back are bruised and aching but in this moment he barely feels them at all.

“You didn’t hear? I assumed someone would have told you by now.”

Thomas doesn’t know, which means the duty of telling him falls to James. He should be grateful for that- grateful for the opportunity to explain himself- but all he feels is a low and steady dread.

James’ eyes flicker over Thomas’ face, the bruises on his jaw and beneath his eye throbbing. His heart is no longer as steady as it was.

“I struck a fellow officer.” If only it was as simple as that. If only it had been just one blow. James takes a breath, as if steeling himself, and shifts his weight slightly. “He and his… companions made an attempt to provoke me,” (he could lie, if he wanted to, but he cannot imagine telling a lie to this man and sleeping at night afterwards) “Through insulting your wife’s name, and yours.” 

He hesitates.

For once, he doesn’t feel Flint before he hears him. Silver stiffens, back turned to him at first, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. For all that he trusts Flint - for all the he knows he isn’t Flint anymore, and that Flint was never capable of harming him anyway - there’s still something deeply unnerving about his presence, sometimes. Something other, too subtle to be spoken but deep enough to be felt.

“Unless something truly unfortunate happens to this horse and I in the next few hours, I should think so, yes.” 

It’s only then that he half-turns towards him, just enough to look at Flint in the shadows. If he were a better man, he’d be softer about it; reassure him, perhaps, that this isn’t a lie, that he really does intend to come back. He isn’t even sure he’s going to reach his destination before turning back, can already feel unease settling in his gut.