⌠- Changing clothes facing away, showing off their back (reverse) | drops a muscley billy in here to taunt flint & runs away
@tidefated
Itâs not as if heâs never seen the man shirtless before, for Christâs sake. Heâs seen Billy sweating in the sun, seen him labouring both at sea and on land, seen him scrub himself as clean as one ever gets, working on a ship. Heâs seen his back before. The shift of his shoulderblades, the ripple of muscle. The dip in his spine, going down.
But it had been Flint seeing those things. Flint, who turned away from all of lifeâs delights. Flint, who ignored any and all interests that did not serve his image. Flint, who had fashioned himself into something that could neither touch nor be touched, and ignored all things that made him wish it were otherwise.
(Fuck, but he misses Joji- Joji, who could be touched- Joji, who wanted to touch him-)
Whoever he is now, it is still forbidden. Touch is still a thing stolen and coveted in frantic, helpless bursts: Brushing Vaneâs fingers when he hands over useless trinkets and old books he knows Flint will like. Standing too close to Silver, now and then, so that their shoulders brushed as if they were on deck again, two halves of the same thing. Goading Billy until heâs left with no choice but to restrain Flint or risk having to beat him. Touch is still half-forbidden.Â
But he looks at things a little differently, now. And standing frozen in the doorway, with Billyâs back to him- Billy is something he can look at. That much is allowed. So Flint looks, and his expression would be carefully blank if not for the blazing--something in his eyes, and when Billy turns and looks momentarily surprised to see him standing there Flint somehow doesnât balk. All he did was look. All he did was look, he hasnât touched, he hasnât done anything.Â
âIf you want those cleaned-â He nods to the small heap of filthy fabric Billyâs just stripped off of himself, but doesnât break eye contact. â-Iâll do it.âÂ











