john silver has never much liked the sea. never beheld the vastness of all that unfriendly blue and thought it something beautiful. never looked at a man that way. the sea is unforgiving and restless as a man. a man like flint. he is the sea. he belongs to it, and it to him. silver doesn’t like it, but he loves the sea against his will. much like most things he loves. much like most things that love him. now, he suffers fitful nights of sleep on land, body longing for the sound of crashing waves and perpetual tilt and sway of a ship. the same way his dreams are now filled with bloody hands and the shock of terrible beautiful green eyes among a galaxy of stupid lovely freckles. fuck it all. fuck the home it has made inside him now. fuck the sea. the sea, and captain james flint. he fucking knows this—what it means to be sea sick.