The crooked mug rests against his knee, the tea inside long gone cold. Starless sky makes for a pitch black night outside. The breeze feels unexpectedly warm against his skin and he knows soon it’s going to be spring. He can hear the faint sound of cockroaches reverberate from the calloused trunks of the old apple trees that separate their home from the rest of the world.
The echoes of James’ screams are still fresh in his mind. ‘Flint’s,’he corrects himself and feels guilty about it. Thomas is well aware that Flint is just as much a part of James as is McGraw, but sometimes he needs to keep them apart. Perhaps it’s a way to separate himself from the stranger who wakes up in their bed every other night, the body he shares with James covered in sweat, the horrors from another life swimming in James’ emerald eyes, dripping from James’ features, clinging to the raw flesh beneath that is all James.
Another life, Flint’s life. A life lived and fought in Thomas’ name but all the same a life Thomas has never been a part of himself. He understands the motive behind Flint’s every action, the affairs that compelled him to make the choices he made, the implications they caused and the sacrifices they demanded. Yet, as much as it pains him to admit it, he can’t really fathom what it all must have felt like for James at the time.
Thomas can offer his compassion and he does. He spreads it thickly on the bread he brings James for breakfast in the mornings and covers James’ body in it in the evenings when the sun hangs low and the desire in his belly burns strong.
On the nights like these though, he knows compassion alone is not enough. James needs more. He needs the infallible reassurance only someone who has lived through the same horrors and survived, can provide.
The wooden boards crack under Silver’s weight as he drags himself across the porch.
"He’s asleep. Should sleep through the dawn," he announces settling down on the steps next to Thomas.
Thomas nods in the dark. He knows Silver can’t see it but his mouth, like the rest of him, feels too tired to act.
They sit in silence, appreciative of the cover the darkness provides. The night cocoons them like a humid womb. Still, both of them aware of the other’s presence, like twins who share the same umbilical cord.
Thomas can hear Silver fumble with his leg.
He can imagine Silver resting his chin on the crutch he has placed between his legs, running his palm over the stump, trying to soothe it, like so many times Thomas has seen him do in hopes of a break from the perpetual pain.
Thomas remembers seeing the deep scar across James’ rib cage for the first time and touching it with shaking hands, James’ encouraging “It’s all right, doesn’t hurt anymore” before being pulled into a kiss.
Except Thomas (now months wiser having shared his bed with a stranger) knows that this is not always the case.
Some wounds never stop hurting. They turn into scars and take up a permanent residence on one’s being to remind one of all the roads taken and all the choices made.
Some people wear them with pride, others hide them out of the same pride. Yet, he can’t stop imagining a different outcome, or rather a different beginning: What if there were no wounds in the first place? What then?
"Sometimes I can't help but wonder,” he confesses to the darkness and Silver as one, “what if we had never met all these years ago in London? Could it have spared him all those horrors?"
‘Could it have spared you them too?’ he thinks, swallowing thickly.
It is a question but he isn't sure if he expects an answer or if he even wants one.
Enough time passes for him to stop awaiting a reply.
"Please don't say that," Silver’s choked up voice sounds from beside him, "I-I can't. I'm not as selfless as you are.”
Thomas disagrees. He wants to argue. After all, it was Silver who sought out Thomas’ whereabouts and saved Flint, no, James, from the war and himself. It's Silver who tends to James every night he falls victim to Flint's nightmares, Silver who follows him where Thomas can't, sees him through the terrors of his past and returns him safely to Thomas, again and again.
“Your life in London...it is what led him to me," Silver continues as if it’s not already clear to Thomas where Silver stands on all this. That Silver would gladly go through it all again - not just in the safety of their bedroom but on the battlefield, the shores of Nassau, the decks of the Walrus - as long as it meant he would arrive finally here.
So maybe Silver is selfish after all but then so is Thomas.
He might not be able to comprehend Flint’s war but Silver’s battle? He knows it all too well.
The first light of the day breaks through the night sky illuminating the terrain. Thomas looks at Silver and he can recognize his expression - it’s the same one James wore when he stood before Thomas in the middle of the plantation, so overjoyed but fearful of judgement, tortured but arriving. Suddenly, he finds he’s reminded of his wife, who like Silver was never one definite something but rather an amalgamation of all the things she loved and all the things that loved her. He wonders how much of Madi will he be able to recognize in Silver once he is finally acquainted with her personally.
He lingers for a moment, his lungs full with gratitude, his tongue wanting to test the feeling of ‘thank you’ against the roof of his mouth.
"The nightmares have become a lot rarer ever since you arrived," he says and hopes Silver understands that he doesn’t only mean James’.
"That's good," Silver replies looking out at the barely visible tint of crimson colour the morning sky and Thomas hears the same gratitude in his voice.
He doesn’t believe in fate, never has. Coincidences have always been a better argument. However, looking at their lives, he has to agree that some coincidences seal the fate and funnily enough in this moment he feels lucky.
"We should get some sleep."
He gets up pouring away the remaining of tea and heads for the entrance.
When Silver’s footsteps don’t follow, he stops.
"Are you coming?" he asks nonchalantly, holding the door open.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” comes Silver’s reply. It’s followed by the low thud of his crutch against the wood of the porch. The screen door flaps with a light thud behind them as the rising sun continues to chase away the darkness and its secrets with unprecedented vigour.
It’s the first day of spring.
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[My Ao3] [Other works on Tumblr]
Today on the best line I have written and will ever write for Thomas Hamilton:
“That’s absolutely absurd! You very well know my preferences. If there is one thing better than a cock, it’s two cocks!”
