A New Way To Grow

@intolerablexsacrifice [x]

When Hal had heard of Flint’s sudden retirement, he certainly hadn’t believed it to be anything more than some sort of ruse. Some strategy for another mad scheme – but what he hoped to achieve had been so fucking incomprehensible that he had found himself looking into it more deeply out of sheer macabre curiosity.

In the end, it had all mounted up to his own return to Nassau and a rather early retirement as well – not that he had any intention of letting Flint know his reasons for stepping off the account had anything to do with him. His ego was dangerous enough, even if it was relatively quiet these days. He’d checked in on the man a few times, noting the steady slip toward a dangerous tip in the man’s humors and knowing if he was going to make any difference in it, now was the time to do so.

He hadn’t really known what to expect from the old gesture of familiar humanity and comfort, but a full embrace was so far off the list that he just stood there, struck stupid by such an unanticipated openness from the other man. The comment jarred him out of it, and earned a laugh even as Flint drew back and seemed to retreat in as complete a way as he could manage, that old Navy propriety snapping up like a shield so fast it was a wonder the man didn’t give himself a headache.

“Takes one to know one, I think,” He shot back, even as he reached out and slung an arm around the other man’s middle and giving him a squeeze back, shaking his head against the aborted mention of gratitude and the past between them – or rather the point of it which separated them. “We all make mistakes,” He remarked, almost lightly, “If we live to learn from them, we might as well do so.”

He recognized his own crime against Flint that day, belatedly. It had been months of frustration after the fact, before he had dawned upon that little realization, and with it he had found a strange balance between annoyance and understanding. It was a place Flint had lived so well for so long, it rather made sense that even this would be something Hal could figure out how to forgive.

“But enough of all that,” Hal cleared the air between them with acknowledgement and a focus forward, “How about you walk me through this garden – let’s see how much you know.” He was fair certain it had been Barlow that had maintained it, and while that did not necessarily mean Flint didn’t know how to manage it, it did give them something to focus on for a time and would be a project Flint could maintain, which should help form routines essential to balancing one’s humors.

Stitching Of Our Hearts

@intolerablexsacrifice continued from [x]

He had been keeping up to date for months now – and he had thought perhaps he was ready. Seeing James again had stolen the air from his lungs in so many ways it had scared him. There was no denying that his heart still beat for the man and yet, he hadn’t wanted to show it – wasn’t ready to show it or accept what it might mean when he did. Instead he had simply tried to entertain conversation, catching up with the man face to face rather than through third parties.

It had been pleasant, honestly. Nerves had settled over time and things had felt right up until he had to go. James had reached out so quickly – the grip so tight and immediate that it had taken great will to stand still and civil when his own instincts were flaring with alarm at the action. He was glad he had managed it though – the hurt on James features told him clearly enough that anything harsher might have broken something between them, and that was the scariest part of all of this.

His chest is tight – a decision looms before him, one that he knows only he can make. It is that reassurance alone that steadies him enough to consider the benefits and consequences before he steps forward instead of away. The motion solidifies his choice, and he closes the distance, pulling James into a warm embrace – the same embrace he had avoided offering when he first arrived, for fear of what it might cost. Now, he knew that denying them this wouldn’t help – they both needed the solidity of knowing the other was there in more than stories from the mouths of others.

“I’ll be back,” He promised, needing James to know that he wasn’t saying something more permanent in this choice of farewell. Stepping back, he gripped the man’s shoulders the way he used to – even if they were broader, stiffer than he remembered, the gesture stayed familiar. “Thank you, James.” He didn’t know if the man really understood why he needed this – but the fact that he never forced anything meant the world to Thomas, and he deserved to know that, by some measure.

😶 | TV’s Joji to Thomas

{ Touch Starved Meme }

The pressure of another person leaning against him is not so unfamiliar as it used to be. In a world that was obsessed with making islands of men, touch was deemed an intimate affair as opposed to the natural order of social creatures. In the plantation, such ridiculous customs were not observed and the importance of physical contact to comfort weary spirits was often enacted.

Now, safely aboard the Ranger, Thomas found that pirates were wise as slaves, and saw no need to ignore the importance of interactions such as these – and the thought brought a smile to his lips as he turned to Joji and let his appreciation be seen. There was no need for words at the moment, and that in and of itself was a comfort too.

“Please don’t.” Flint looks–destroyed. Whatever part of him might have been able to form some kind of coherent argument against Thomas’ leaving, it is utterly destroyed by the devastating emotion rushing through him. “Don’t do this.” [ for thomas, alt route II: rescued, because I Love Pain ]

It had all been a whirlwind from start to finish – in the past few days, Thomas could honestly say he felt more alive and human than he had in the past eight years combined. It was terrifying, how all of it had crescendoed into a blazing inferno – as if fire alone could wash away the damaging erosion of time and bring forth from the ashes an untouched whole.

When he had first seen James again, Thomas had lost track of everything he had lost long enough to reach toward the impossible and hold on to it. Touching him, feeling him in his arms had solidified the reality of the man’s presence in ways his visage could not. He was changed – hardened and wild in ways Thomas did not recognize – and as he had watched James and his companion stir the plantation into action, he had felt something in him slip.

It had been so inspiring, so breathtaking to watch those two at work that at first – in the midst of simply having James back, of having something solid and firm to remind himself that he really had existed beyond all this once, that the bitterness had slept in his breast unnoticed. Yet the clearer it became that action would be taken – that James now possessed the ability to set hearts on fire, to weave placid acceptance into a righteous shield with which to hammer the path to freedom, it woke and it bloomed deadly inside of him.

Where had this passion been, when Thomas’ father had sent him to Bedlam? Where was the man who could stir up a riot when Thomas had most needed one to rally? Now – when he had finally reached acceptance of his fate – James swept back into his life with all the force of a hurricane, and with his words tore away the last vistages of an understandable reality.

Thomas had run with the others – there was no desire to linger, no loyalty to speak of to the place that had transformed him into whomever he was now – but there’d been no choice in the flight, either. It was run or perish, and frustrated and impotent as he felt inside, Thomas could at least acknowledge that death was not the window through which he wished to escape just yet.

Choice had not been his for so long, that lamenting the lack of it in the wake of what was meant to be freedom seemed foolish and petty. He had hated the anger inside of himself as surely as he had hated feeling as though he were obligated to be overjoyed at all this, like some swooning maiden rescued from the clutches of a horrible dragon despite years of peace with the beast standing guard over her tower!

Then – to his astonishment – choice was offered to him in the form of Jack Rackham and his most unexpected proposal. Thomas understood the man to be Vane’s quartermaster, and blissfully unaware of the complicated history between himself and the self stylized ‘Captain Flint’ the man had offered him a place aboard the Ranger when everyone had seemed to take it for granted that he would be joining the Walrus. One Captain Flint included.

Since then, Thomas had churned the idea over inside of himself, determining if he wanted this for himself or out of some damning internal need to lash out. In the end, he realized it mattered little – for so long as this anger existed inside of him and the question remained of who he even was anymore, standing in James’ shadow would only poison the good in their memories and leave them holding on to ashes in the wake of this blaze.

It was with this conviction that he reached out and gently laid a hand upon a stubbled jaw that had once been so intimately familiar, his lips could recall its secrets in silent moments of sinful reflection. His thumb traced beneath a devastated gaze that tore him asunder, but he did not grant himself the mercy to look away. He had to accept the damage here, as surely as he must face his own.

“I have to, James,” He could not bring himself to use any other name or title, not in a moment so dire as this. “Too much – there is too much I must come to terms with, to go with you right now. I have an opportunity to find myself again,” His gaze was imploring as he quietly withdrew his hand, “I will not forget that I have you to thank for that – but I cannot promise that in finding myself I will return to you. I will not leave you with that false hope.”

It was cruel, the depth of those honest words, and he felt sick with himself for them. He had to step back, to keep himself from crumbling, from taking hold of James and apologizing, throwing himself back into this without giving himself a goddamn chance, if it meant easing the hurt in that man’s face.

“I am so sorry,” His voice wavered, and he knew there was no denying that this was affecting him too. “It’s been eight years,” He managed in a final act of placation – for himself or James, he could not say. “What’s a little more time, in the face of that?”

In his usual silent way, Joji stepped up beside Thomas where the man sat, and tapped the small book in his hand against his shoulder. It was a book of poetry- English, of course, or some other western place, he wasn’t actually sure. The imagery seemed insufficient to him, but he understood that those born to this language liked it well enough- and Thomas liked to read. Joji tapped again.

Thomas was lost in thought often enough that he had become accustomed to the crew drawing him back into reality physically. He no longer jumped at the grips on his shoulder, or even felt offense at the occasional whacks upside the back of his head followed by commands – more often than not those strikes and orders kept him alive in the long run, and he could hardly expect these men to be patient with him when he was barely tolerant of his own behaviour as it was!

So at first, the tap did not receive immediate response beyond a glance up, an expectation of command shifting to a note of confusion when he saw who it was. The second tap drew his attention to the source, and he realized rather swiftly what was going on.

Charmed, Thomas accepted the book and examined it. The cover was in fine condition, as were the pages. Inspecting the spine, his lips curved in pleasure as he recognized the author. When was the last time he’d held Chaucer in his hands?

Looking up, he offered a warm smile. “This is in surprisingly good condition all things considered. Were you looking for an appraisal or – ?” He did not presume the man wished the book read to him – Thomas had seen him with books just enough times to know he was far more literate than he was verbal, so he could only assume the man was checking the worth of keeping this one. It did not yet occur to him it might be a gift.