me, weeping in an arby’s: no - see, if flint is the odysseus of black sails, he goes home at the end just as odysseus does. odysseus goes back to ithaca. JAMES GOES BACK TO THOMAS. HIS HOME IS THOMAS.
They don’t realize at first how difficult changing the world can be. James, for all his indifference, feels his hard-won place in society start to shift, feels the way the other officers start to stare at him, feels the whispers behind his back like a hand at his throat. Thomas, for all his idealism, spends entire nights locked in his study, looks up at James with circles dark like bruises under his eyes, files away letters from his father in a drawer to forget about later.
–
They don’t realize at first how painful it will be to watch each other across crowded rooms. Thomas smiling, brushing off thinly veiled insults, working his way into the hearts of a world that denounces everything he is with his charm and his brilliance. James looks stiff and uncomfortable, because when does he not, and out of place, because he is, and all Thomas can think about is taking his face into his hands and kissing away the frown lines around his mouth.
–
They don’t realize at first how perfect it all is. James wakes up some mornings to the rustle of pages. Thomas props a book up on his knees and reaches down, stroking long fingers through loose copper hair, and James presses his forehead against Thomas’ hip and revels in the warmth of him. Sometimes in the study, James laughs when Thomas plucks the hat off his head, spins it delicately around his fingers. Then he undoes the buttons on James’ waistcoat, dropping it to the floor, and pushes him back against the desk, hands at his waist, fumbling with his shirt. As Thomas trails kisses down his back, James wonders absently whether being fucked on is the best use their work for Nassau will ever have.
–
Sometimes, Thomas slips his arm into James’ and says “Take me away, Lieutenant.” And James tilts his head and blinks up at him with a glint in his eye, “Where would you like to go, my Lord?” Thomas waves a hand, “Anywhere but here.” And James knows that “here” does not mean the house, the study, or the bedroom. “Here” is a world that builds laws so hard that they cut like broken glass when he pushes against them. It is a world that tramples down men in their own homes and leaves only themselves to blame. “Here” is not a place but an idea that follows close on the heels of every step of their lives. But barring freedom, the garden is as good a place as any for their escape. They look up towards the stars through the haze of London and James puts his hand on the small of Thomas’ back, and they almost remember why it is they are fighting.
–
Sometimes, Thomas lounges like a cat in the sun. All long limbs and gentle curves, with his elbow on the pillow and his chin propped up in one hand. His eyes are sparkling, blue and beautiful and James swears, when he looks over the side of the Walrus, that he is still staring into them.
Don’t think about Flint startling awake in the middle of the night from some nightmare. Don’t think about the way his breath steals away inside his chest, his eyes searching blindly in the darkness until he can make out the steady rise and fall of Thomas’ chest. Don’t think about the relief that washes over him in the moment. Don’t think about how, even then, he can’t settle back to sleep until those fingers intertwine with his own.
