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Silver doesn’t bother to look up when Flint walks into their shared hut, used to the captain’s constant comings and goings by now. He just keeps sharpening his dagger, mostly because he hadn’t had anything better to do ten minutes ago and now he’s committed.
This isn’t to say that he isn’t just as busy as Flint, but - he’s considerably less mobile most of the time. After a certain amount of time on his feet, he has to take a rest, lest he be thrown to the stern, disapproving Maroon healers.
“How was Rackham?” Silver asks, carefully sliding his knife back into his holster. When no answer is immediately forthcoming, he glances up at Flint, confused.
There’s an odd look on Flint’s face, like he’s looking at Silver for the first time.
“Captain?”
“I was just - I overheard the men talking, on my way back.”
Silver quirks a brow. “And?”
Flint pauses for a moment, weighing his words, before his curiosity seems to win out over any sort of hesitation. “Were you and Muldoon…”
Oh.
“For a time, yes.”
Flint shifts his weight, crosses his arms. He seems discomfited, somehow. “I didn’t know.”
“I gathered that,” Silver replies.
“What I mean is that - when he died, and you were so distraught,” Flint elaborates. “I didn’t understand. I thought he was a friend at most, or that you felt some sort of responsibility for his death.”
Silver does feel responsible for Muldoon’s death. But whatever seems to have thrown Flint is certainly not Silver’s guilt.
“It wasn’t like what you’re thinking. I wasn’t - we weren’t in love. He was a friend, and we would sometimes….but it was nothing like you and your lord.”
Silver shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting with his necklace. He’s never had anything like what Flint had with Thomas Hamilton, and he’s painfully aware of it.
“Why him?”
Silver blinks, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Flint makes a vague sort of gesture, like he hardly knows why he’s asking himself. “Of all the men aboard, who would have been happy to…lend a hand, why Muldoon? Why start a relationship with any of the men, for that matter?”
“I don’t know. He was nice, once he got over the whole pig thing, and he was funny, in his odd sort of way, and…” Silver trails off, suddenly frustrated. “What difference does it make? He’s dead.”
Flint shrugs, sitting against the small table in the room to face Silver more fully. “I suppose he just doesn’t seem your type.”
“My type?” Silver echoes, incredulous and slightly miffed. “No, I suppose he isn’t. But let’s not pretend you and I aren’t aware that the only reason I even looked at him was because - ”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Flint moves closer, his eyes oddly wide. “No, finish what you were going to say. What am I supposed to know?”
Silver sighs, looking away from Flint and out their small window. “I was only with him because you don’t want me.”
Flint inhales a sharp breath, but Silver doesn’t dare look back to read his expression. It’s humiliating enough, knowing what he feels isn’t reciprocated, knowing that Flint would never -
A hand cups his cheek, turning his head to face Flint. “You, John Silver, are an idiot.”
And before Silver can squawk in indignation, before he can demand that Flint explain what the fuck he means by that, Flint kisses him.
And, well, perhaps Silver is a bit of an idiot, after all.