#you know that episode of spongebob where squidward won't admit he likes krabby patties but then spongebob figures out that he does | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vowel-in-thug · 7 years

Note

for the drabbles prompt thing could you please write some more smallpox verse? silver/thomas + 4. “Come here. Let me fix it.” thank you.

HEY ANON HOPE YOU’RE STILL HERE because i answered this 574389657348967 months after you sent it to me

this.........may be the most domestic grossness i have ever written so like...............watch out.

also shouting out @ponytailflint who literally commented again on the last smallpox fic about Thomas’s hand :)

Every so often, everything stills and quiets, and in that calm, Flint silently wonders how the fuck this became his life. It’s like he’s holding his breath, living these moments almost from the outside, watching them through a hazy glass in disbelief. He has to force himself to exhale, to not dwell on his reality too long. He’s afraid it may collapse like a dream if he looks too hard at the impossibility of it all.

He is sitting at his breakfast table with Silver and Thomas. Early morning frost sprinkles the edges of the windows as they sit down to eat together. Flint is wearing several pairs of socks. This isn’t a dream.

Above the Three Swallows Inn are just two apartments, but both have a kitchen, a parlor, and a bedroom. There’s also a hallway none of the guests downstairs can get to, so it’s become like a very large, odd home for the three of them. They still share a bed every night, but the extra rooms and the ability for actual privacy if wanted have made life a lot smoother.

Flint has developed an intense love of coffee, and is enjoying his first cup of the day while looking at the two men across the table. They are both too busy to tease Flint about his socks, or the blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders, over his day clothes. They don’t tease, but Thomas had taken the opportunity to kiss the red tips of his ears on his way to the table, while Silver had stroked the flushed bridge of his nose before sitting down.

Flint doesn’t have an aversion to the cold, exactly. He just hates how fucking pink his skin gets when the temperature drops.

“It’s not a problem,” says Silver, hand outstretched towards Thomas. “I can do it.”

“No!” says Thomas, clutching the boot in his lap. “I said I’d fix it for you. I’ve almost got it.”

Silver sighs heavily before turning back to the newspaper he normally never gets a chance to read. Thomas smiles, turning back to the boot.

It’s been a little over a month since Doctor Reynolds broke and then fixed Thomas’s hand. It had taken some convincing before Thomas finally agreed to do it -- not that Flint or Silver had any opinion on the subject. They just wanted what was best for him, after all. No, it had been at least two weeks of Thomas arguing with himself over it.

Eventually, before complying, he’d had Flint draw up a list of all the reasons why he should ignore the risk potentially damaging his hand more and the disappointment that might follow, and do it:

Write own essays

Correspondence

Properly hold a knife and fork

Table manners in general (Thomas had made him emphasize this)

Cut dressing time in half

Punch people back if necessary (Flint had crossed this out)

Jerk self off

Jerk James off

Jerk Silver off (Silver had added this one despite Thomas’s weak protests, which then devolved into a lewd a vivid conversation between the two of them that Flint thought it best not to commit to paper

So, Thomas had gone along with it, and seemingly his hand is healing nicely, but he must do certain exercises to keep the fingers strong. He’s relearning how to write and he cleans Flint’s carpentry tools and he even does some scales at Silver’s piano. But his favorite activity is untangling things. He’s collected strings, yarns, ropes, and chains -- and he loves to tangle and untangle them while studying Doctor Reynold’s medical texts, or while listening to Flint read aloud, or while hanging out unhelpful advice when Flint and Silver try to play chess.

That morning, Silver had entered the kitchen barefoot, complaining about his boot laces, and Thomas had thrown down his coveted newspaper and had snatched it out of his hand, forgetting all about his breakfast.

“How do you even manage to do this,” he mutters to himself, fingers clumsily moving over a massive knot.

Silver shrugs, not looking up from his paper. After a moment, he takes a quill and writes something down on a piece of parchment beside him.

Flint exhales.

“Would I like brandy?” Silver asks no one in particular, not looking up.

“No,” Flint says, just as Thomas says, “You can’t afford it anyway.”

Silver doesn’t react to either of these remarks, but just makes another notation on his paper.

Flint sips his coffee. The other two men prefer tea, which is fine with him. He would give his life for both of them, but he finds in himself the intense desire to covet his coffee beans for himself. It’s sharper than tea and wakes him faster, keeps him warmer longer in the center of his chest.

“Do you think there’s room downstairs for a cockfighting ring and a marionette stage?” Silver asks.

“I think you have room for neither,” says Thomas, wrenching at the laces, “because I’m going to kill myself and have my coffin and headstone entombed inside the hallowed walls of the Three Swallows Inn just so you can’t fit either of those things in that space.”

Silver just nods, and makes another note.

Flint helps himself to Thomas’s breakfast, knowing he’ll just let the porridge grow cold as he works to undo the ties. He peers at the back page of Silver’s paper.

“Looks like Mr. Singer has lost his bleedin’ cow again,” he says, squinting at the page.

Silver blinks, and flips it over. “What? Again?” He reads the ad. “It doesn’t say it’s his.”

Flint snorts, helping himself to more porridge. “‘Stray’d from a certain Perfon in Bofton on Thursday the 11th,’” Flint reads, “‘a large, red, lean Cow, with a white Spot near her Bag on the right Side.’ I wonder if his reward will be better than last time.” Last time, Singer had given the lad who’d found the cow wandering in the Common a single bag of garden seeds.

“If he did that, people would just keep stealing it,” Thomas says. “A-ha!” He holds the boot triumphantly, the laces dangling loosely over his head. “Finally! Here -- wait. Ugh. You utter bastard.”

“What?” Flint asks, cocking his head. “What’s wrong?”

Silver doesn’t move, except to take a sip of his tea.

Thomas gestures viciously with the boot. “This is the left one! Why do you even still have this!”

Silver says nothing, but continues to read the classified section of the newspaper that he never gets to read, because Thomas throws them away in case they feature a slave. But Silver has turned into a surprisingly practical businessman, and loves to scour the ads for failed taverns auctioning up their belongings, or newly arrived merchants listing their goods for a deal.

“Ugh,” says Thomas again, and then throws the boot over his shoulder. “You’re lucky my sense of accomplishment won’t leave me for hours, or I’d be really aggravated right now.”

Silver finally looks up from the paper to smile indulgently at Thomas, but when he looks back at the paper, he’s still smiling, too small for anyone but himself, but Flint sees it anyway.

“Should I buy fifty chests of prunes?” Silver asks the table.

“From what ship?” Flint asks.

A pause. “The Aurora Snow.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a Boston-built ship,” Flint says. “There’s likely as many rats as there are prunes in those chests.”

“A better question is why you’d ever want to own that many prunes,” says Thomas, poking at his half-eaten porridge. “This is a house free from shame, and there is nothing shameless about prunes. I -- damn! I’m late for work.”

Flint frowns at the clock. It’s not one he’s made, because he hasn’t made any yet, but it’s not one of Christopher’s either, because fuck that guy. “This is when you’re normally up, isn’t it?”

Thomas rushes to the coat rack, stuffing his hat on his head backwards. “I was supposed to be early today, so I’m already forty minutes late. Damn! Where’s my --”

Flint holds out his scarf, which he’d had wrapped around his wrist for extra warmth.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, taking it from him and giving him a wet kiss. “Your lips are like ice, darling. You should put on another layer if you’re feeling chilled.”

“Asshole,” Flint smiles.

Thomas presses a shorter kiss to the scar of Flint’s cheek, then moves to leave.

Without looking up from his paper, Silver tilts his face, presenting his cheek as Thomas passes.

Without pausing in fixing his hat, Thomas leans down and kisses the corner of Silver’s lips, then keeps walking to the door.

Flint sees the moment they both realize what just happened. Silver keeps staring at the paper, his eyes wide and his cheeks slightly flushed. Thomas had stopped walking like he’d run into a wall, and is standing awkwardly with one foot raised, frozen in place. He takes an abortive gesture to turn around, and Flint can see his mouth working soundlessly in profile.

Taking pity on them both, Flint gently clears his throat.

Silver finally blinks, and now he’s blinking a lot, fists clenching the paper tightly. Thomas visibly straightens, mutters, “Right. Bye,” and then leaves quickly, his scarf trailing behind.

Neither of them move right away.

Silver glances up at him and frowns. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Just stop.” He frowns harder, cheeks still pink. His sleeve is currently resting in his inkwell. He looks flustered and warm.“You know you look insane when you grin like that.”

“I know,” Flint says, and grins harder.

Silver huffs, drawing the paper up to obscure his whole face. Flint no longer feels cold, but his face still hurts from smiling so hard. He leans over the table to take the rest of Silver’s uneaten porridge. It’s not quite hot anymore, but it’s still good.

“You know,” he says, “I think he’s starting to like you.”

“Stop.”

Flint wants to tease him more, because watching Silver squirm is one of life’s greatest pleasures. But he stops himself, and instead runs one socked foot over Silver’s bare one. He traces the bumps of his toes, rubs the arch and the ball before sliding higher up to his ankle. He can’t see under the table, so he sees instead the way Silver slowly relaxes at the caress, no longer hiding behind his paper. He still is too embarrassed to look at Flint, but he shifts just a bit in his chair, just an inch forward, so that Flint can stroke up his calf, too.

This used to be his dream, and it used to be his nightmare, too, depending on how he was -- who he was -- when he woke up. This is a dream, even though it’s not a dream. It’s the understanding of what love is supposed to be. It’s unthought of. It’s that simple. It’s as instinctive as blinking, it’s as known as a heart beat. To be loved is to never have to wonder if you are loved. Flint can breathe easy, knowing there’s someone waiting up for him, behind a door or on a cliff or in a field or on a beach. He can breathe easy, knowing he has people to wait for.

Silver moves his leg minutely against him, and then casually lets one hand fall on the table towards Flint. He’s finished with his breakfast, so Flint sees no reason not to put down his spoon and take up Silver’s hand, stroking his thumb the same way he strokes his ankle.

The corner of Silver’s mouth is still wet from Thomas’s lips.

Flint exhales.

#black sails #black sails fic #silverflint #flinthamilton #silverflinthamilton #smallpox #hey look it's my suffering #you know that episode of spongebob where squidward won't admit he likes krabby patties but then spongebob figures out that he does #and spongebob just smiles at squidward like 'you like krabby patties don't you squidward'#that's flint #Anonymous

95 notes · View notes