Archive of Our Own ^beta

“A bit lower please. We want to be able to reach the berries.”

Flint glared down at Silver, clutching the unwieldy ball of greenery that he was trying to tie to the inn's rafters. This was how people got themselves killed. Not fighting a war on a ship, but falling off a stool and breaking their neck while putting up ridiculous Christmas decorations.

“Well,” Silver said, smiling contentedly when Flint finally got down from his perch. “I think that's a fine kissing ball, don't you?”

It was… big. Garish. A roughly ball-shaped arrangement of holly and mistletoe, decked with bright red ribbons. The puritans in town would be horrified, but then they didn't come into the inn anyway.

“I'm not sure I see the point of it,” said Madi.

“Any young lady standing under it must allow a gentleman to kiss her,” Silver explained with a grin. “And then he removes a berry. Once all the berries are gone, there is to be no more kissing.”

“Mmhm. You do see the flaw in that idea, don't you, dear husband?”

Silver burst out coughing, startling Flint more than he cared to admit. Clearing his throat, Silver raised his eyebrows at Madi. “What's that?”

“Few young ladies come into the inn.”

A smirk spread on Silver's face and he took a step towards Madi. “I see one right here.”

She snorted and backed away with a smirk. “Not with your coryza.”

“I second that,” Flint said quickly.

“Oh come now, it was just a drippy nose and it's all but gone. I barely had a fever.”

“For someone who barely had a fever, you certainly behaved as though you were going to die,” Madi remarked.

Flint felt his cheek twitch and shifted uneasily. “Well, your kissing ball is up now, and I've got cooking to do.”

“You're spending your life in that kitchen these days,” Silver called after him as he left the public room.

Tension squeezing into a tight ball between his shoulder blades, Flint stood just inside the kitchen door and took a deep breath. Then he gathered flower, lard and butter on the table and started combining them. He watched his own hands as they rubbed the fat into the flour, and as the strange mixture turned to crumb, then to dough. It was strangely soothing.

“Well, that was rude,” Silver said as he entered the kitchen.

“I told you, I've got work here.”

“You've been acting like this ever since I was taken ill.”

“Like what?”

Silver chuckled, but it was a rather sad sound. “Like I'm a leper.”

Flint sighed and squeezed the dough a little harder. “I'd just rather Madi didn't get taken ill too.” She wasn't used to these climes, he couldn't help thinking, and she'd already had a fever not a month ago.

“Well me neither, but I don't see how it concerns you. Are you worried that Thomas will be put off if we're both sniffling when he arrives?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It's a legitimate question. Look at all the food you're making. If someone likes lavish feasts at Christmas, it's him. It's obvious you're trying very hard to make this perfect.”

Flint scowled at him. “It's got nothing to do with Thomas, John.”

“Then what?”

Flint wordlessly rolled his dough into a ball and covered it with a piece of linen.

“Huh, fine.” Silver sniffed and made to leave the kitchen.

“John.” Flint moved around the table and caught Silver's shoulders before he'd taken three steps.

Big blue eyes stared up at him, puzzled and unsure. Flint wrapped his arms loosely around Silver's waist and bent to press his forehead to Silver's. He was thankful to find it cool again.

“I thought you didn't want me to spread my plague.”

“It's not…” Flint sighed and kissed his forehead. “It's complicated.”

“You're complicated,” Silver said, pressing a kiss to Flint's throat. “Join me in bed tonight. I know Thomas should be arriving later, but I've missed you.”

Flint squeezed him closer, trying to ignore the tremble of his own limbs, the tightness in his throat. “All right. I'll sort it with him.”

It nearly surprised Silver that Thomas' arrival wasn't heralded by a bright star glittering in the heavens, a song of heavenly trumpets and the glowing light of a halo.

However often Silver saw him – and it was more and more frequent these days – he couldn't quite get over the impression that Thomas had some otherworldly, angelic quality. The golden hair, the bright eyes, the easy smile. It was obvious why Flint had fallen for him. And somehow, despite years of torment, he was still absolutely flawless.

Madi's grin as she greeted Thomas lit up the room. It wasn't a bad substitute for a heavenly halo.

“Madi, how lovely to see you,” Thomas said, bending low to kiss the hand she offered him. Then he turned to Silver, holding out his hand, smiling brightly. “Hello, John.”

“Hello,” Silver replied, shaking his hand a bit more stiffly than he'd intended to.

“How was your journey?” Madi asked, taking Thomas' arm to lead him to the small study near the kitchen.

“Oh, just fine. Though I do think that I can smell snow.”

“You always smell snow,” Flint said with a hint of a smile. He'd been waiting in the study, moving around restlessly like a caged animal. He'd regained his poise, now.

“Well, what can I say? I like the snow. Every season has its delights.”

“Yeah, nothing like the delight of a carriage getting stuck in the snow and the horses slipping on ice during a long journey.”

Thomas sighed, and cupped Flint's face in both his hands. Silver just about had time to close door, shielding them from the view of the patrons, before Thomas was kissing Flint thoroughly.

“I'd forgotten how grumpy you are in the winter,” he said, smiling and pressing his forehead to Flint's.

Silver tried to ignore the pinching, burning sensation in his chest. Whenever he saw them together, the scene always just looked so perfect, Flint with his beautiful coppery locks and beard, his strong body relaxing into Thomas' lean frame as though it was always meant to be there.

Feeling like an intruder in this scene, Silver was about to give them some privacy when an irrepressible tickle took his throat. He cleared it, coughed, and coughed some more. The tickle insisted, making him cough until his eyes watered. He saw Flint's face, eyes wide and apparently horrified at the interruption, and still Silver couldn't make it stop.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

Thomas merely looked quizzical. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Just a bloody tickle. Was a bit ill this week and the cough still bothers me sometimes.”

“I'll get you some water,” Flint said immediately, and hurried to the kitchen.

Silver made a face, trying to breathe around the insufferable tickle. “Sorry, really. I didn't mean to interrupt.” Or to make a fool of himself. More of a fool of himself.

“Think nothing of it.” Thomas came closer, and rubbed his back soothingly. His light touch made Silver shiver. “Have you tried pennyroyal water? My physician swears by it.”

The unrelenting tickle was threatening to make Silver retch now. He tried to cough discreetly to relieve it. “Can't say I have.”

“Here,” Flint said, thrusting a cup of water into Silver's hand.

Silver drank gratefully, only then noting the deep frown creasing Flint's brow, the pallor of his lips, the flare of his nostrils. He really was embarrassed that Thomas was being exposed to sick people, wasn't he? It didn't look as though Thomas minded, though; he seemed more puzzled by Flint's behaviour, considering the pensive way he was watching him.

“Thanks,” Silver told Flint. “I feel much better now.” He gave Thomas a little smile. “Pennyroyal water, was it? I'll see if I can procure some.”

With that, he fled. There was nothing quite like feeling awkward and inadequate in one's own home, and nobody was as good at making him feel it as Thomas.

He lay curled in the stifling bed, eyes screwed closed, shuddering at each choking, racking, wheezing cough that shook the body beside him. When the coughing quietened it was only to be replaced by the rattle of desperate breathing.

Flint clawed his way away from the noise, from the body sharing his bed, from the insufferable heat of the fever.

It was Silver, he reminded himself, as he got to the edge of the bed, and his mind returned to the room they were in, and not the one he was remembering. It was Silver, and he was snoring. Not a rattle, just a snore.

Gingerly, Flint laid his palm across Silver's forehead. There was no fever. Silver moaned in his sleep and turned over, clearing his throat as he did so. Not a cough, just a tickle. Flint knew all this; he'd reminded himself of it a hundred times in the past few days.

Nevertheless, he got out of bed and found his clothes in the dark. Sleep wouldn't come again that night.

Silver stepped down the next morning, his back stiff and his mood gloomy. He could have been in a good mood. He'd slept well for the first night in a week, his throat had stopped throbbing, and a drink of that pennyroyal water had improved the dreadful tickle – somewhat to Silver's annoyance since it was Thomas' brilliant idea.

But he'd woken up to find that Flint had left their bed at some point during the night, probably to pay Thomas a visit. It seemed natural enough, seeing as Silver had commandeered Flint on the evening Thomas had arrived. Still, Flint had never done that before, never actually left the bed without a word to be with one of his other partners. Silver fought hard not to let the jealousy eat at him, but he wasn't having much success. Not with how distant Flint had been recently.

Fine way to wake up the day before Christmas, to be sure.

As Silver got downstairs, the feeling that something was off started niggling at him. Something should have been there and wasn't. He stood there blinking a while until he realised.

“Where's the kissing ball gone?” he asked Madi, who was wiping down the bar.

She sighed. “Please don't get upset.”

“Oh god, don't tell me you dismantled it. Do you know how long–”

Madi put up a placating hand. “I didn't. Thomas moved it.”

Several angry answers choked Silver, until he just about managed to speak in a civil tone. “Why?”

“Because three strange men tried to kiss me yesterday and James nearly nearly twisted the arm off one of them when he threw him out. It just doesn't work in here, John.”

Silver huffed. “You could have asked me first.”

“I know.” Madi made a face. “I tried to make him wait, but you know how Thomas gets when he has an idea.”

“Where is it, then?” Silver asked, trying not to roll his eyes too visibly.

He found out that Thomas' brilliant idea was to move the kissing ball to the kitchen. The kitchen! To think Flint spent most of his time calling Silver ridiculous. If that wasn't a ridiculous idea, Silver didn't know what was.

“Absolutely not!” were the words that greeted Silver when he entered the kitchen. Flint was in a huff and Silver felt slightly vindicated.

“You know it makes sense!”

The kissing ball was hanging from a hook above the space between the table and one of the cupboards, the exact area Flint stood in when he was working. It didn't look completely out of place, Silver had to admit grudgingly. The fire and the scents of roasts and spices went well with the greenery.

“Come back and tell me that when a poison berry drops into your mince pies.”

“Oh they're hardly deadly,” Thomas said with the kind of grin that suggested that any argument presented to him was silly and unfounded. “We used to dare each other to swallow them when I was at Eton and nobody ever came out the worse for it, apart from an upset stomach.”

Flint's face twitched. “You wh– never mind.” He shook his head, then looked at Silver over Thomas' shoulder. “I tried to stop him but he was already tying it up there by the time I came in.”

“Why in the kitchen, though?” Silver said.

“Oh, that's easy,” Thomas said, obviously delighted to be asked. “Because the kitchen contains the only people in this building who deserve kisses.”

He attempted to prove his point by pulling Flint under the mistletoe and kissing him, but only managed to get a small peck on the lips before Flint wriggled out of his embrace with a scoff.

Thomas' eyes, puzzled and a little hurt, met Silver's across the kitchen. On the one hand, Silver was somewhat relieved. Flint wasn't being off with him in particular. He was being off with everyone. On the other hand, this unusual behaviour was getting a bit worrying.

“James? What's going on?” Thomas asked softly.

“What's going on is I've got a goose to pluck as well as a hundred other things to do, and I don't have time to mess around.”

Silver was sure that Thomas would have some retort for this, and he was actually disappointed when Thomas sighed and gave Flint's shoulder a squeeze before moving away. Silver followed Thomas out of the kitchen, glancing at Flint over his shoulder as he went. He was rattling pots in a cupboard.

“It's not just me, is it?” Silver asked Thomas as they got back into the public room. “James is being… weird, right?”

“He's given himself a lot of work in the kitchen, hasn't he?” Madi said from behind the bar.

“I thought it was to impress Thomas.”

Thomas shook his head with a small frown. “Do you know, we were together two years, but somehow he always managed to be elsewhere at Christmas.”

“Well, he wasn't like that last year, was he?” Silver asked.

“I wouldn't know,” said Madi. “You were both at sea, remember? He said it was the best time to travel to the West Indies.”

“Right, it's when we went out to get some of your people off Maroon Island.” He tried to remember if there had been any kind of celebration, but apart from double rations of rum he couldn't recall anything.

“I can't say I know a lot about his background,” Thomas said after a moment's thought. “He'll tell you stories about his childhood, but only the ones that aren't all that significant.”

That sounded eerily familiar to Silver. He wondered now exactly how much Thomas knew about Flint. Silver had found out a good deal of things about him from poking around for information in Padstow, but he doubted Thomas had ever even been there.

“So I wonder…” Thomas continued, “perhaps his family were puritans? Christmas might have been a sort of forbidden frivolity?”

“His name isn't If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned McGraw,” Silver said. “And his family was Irish.”

“I know that,” Thomas snapped. “There were puritans in Ireland too, you know. Have you never heard of James Ussher?”

“Actually, no, which suggests that there can't have been all that many puritans in Ireland.”

“Or that you lack an education.”

“Enough,” Madi snapped before Silver could come up with a sufficiently scathing retort. “You are helping nobody with your sniping.”

“You're right, I should be going,” Thomas said. “I've got places to be today.”

“Visiting fancy friends in Bristol, I suppose?”

“The poorhouse, actually, and areas where the less fortunate live.” The absolute honesty in Thomas' smile, the absence of any kind of gloating at Silver's mistaken assumption, rubbed Silver up the wrong way all the more. “It's all part of Christmas, giving to the less fortunate.” Thomas grabbed a basket that smelled of still-warm bread and bid Madi goodbye.

Silver glared at Thomas' receding form, hating him all the more because he knew that he would have loved to be handed bread when he was starving, especially by someone with Thomas' angelic face. Was Thomas actually born the image of perfection or was he doing it on purpose to irk him? Deep down Silver knew it was all sincere, not some way of showing off his superiority or buying a place in paradise. No, Thomas was genuinely nice. As well as being a pretentious arse.

“So. About James,” Madi said.

“Well he won't talk to me, I tried. Doesn't look like he'll talk to Thomas either. So…”

Madi considered this for a moment and gave a nod. “I will try. And you, sort things with Thomas. That can't be doing James any good either.”

“Sort them? What's there to sort?”

“This tension, between you two.”

“And how do you propose I do that, then?”

“You could go with him, do some good deeds and actually get to know him a little.”

“That's a terrible idea, you saw how we–”

“I did, and you need to get beyond that. Find a way of working together.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, carding her fingers through his hair. “For James and me, if not for yourself.”

Silver let out a pained sigh. “Fine. Jesus. The things I'd do for the pair of you.”

Madi merely nodded, a hint of a smile on her lips, then helped him pull on his coat.

Plucking a bird was cathartic, Flint couldn't help thinking as he sat by the table with a dead goose on his lap. Tugging out handfuls of feathers relieved his more savage frustration, and pinching out smaller feathers with more deftness allowed him to focus completely on something other than the thoughts going around in his head.

“May I help you?”

Flint blinked, surprised to find Madi standing beside him. He hadn't heard the door open. Then again, the boiling pot of what would soon be plum-broth was loud in his ears.

“I…” He had a hundred small jobs to do and he couldn't think of a single one to give her.

“You look tired.” She pulled a chair up beside his.

“Well, there's quite a lot to–”

“Yes, to prepare. For a celebration which, apparently, you have not taken part in for several years.”

Flint made a face, and pulled at a small feather shaft that didn't want to budge.

“A celebration which, in my understanding,” and here, Madi closed her hand over Flint's tightly, preventing him from moving, “is meant for rejoicing. Does it not represent the birth of a new hope for mankind? It cannot be by accident that it takes place when days are becoming longer, surely?”

“I suppose not,” Flint said with a sigh, staring at her hand covering his.

“Then why is it, my dear, that you are behaving as though this were some solemn, sombre day?” He felt the fingers of Madi's free hand twine in the hair at the nape of his neck. He briefly let himself get lost in the small comfort.

“I haven't celebrated Christmas with any sort of joy since I was a young child,” he told her. “Usually, I keep out of people's way at this time of year.”

“So you really do avoid spending it with people? Thomas said you didn't spend Christmas with him after you got out of that plantation.”

Guilt squeezed at Flint's chest, dark and heavy. Not with him after the plantation, not with Miranda in Nassau. Not even with them both in London. He'd never felt up to it. He still didn't.

“I thought it was better for him. We were already arguing quite a bit under normal circumstances, so…”

Madi shook her head, but squeezed his hand tighter. “James. You need to tell us these things.”

“I don't like to talk about it.”

“Yes, I had gathered that,” she said with a small chuckle. “Now hand me that goose.”

Rolling his eyes a little, knowing how childish he must have looked, Flint did what he was told. Madi reached for a knife. “There wasn't much more you could do with your bare fingers, you know,” she told him, scratching the down off with the blade.

“I know.”

He sat there numbly for a while, listening to the scratch of the knife, the boiling pot, the crackle of the fire. So warm and familiar, all of them. He wondered, as he had wondered hundreds of times before, why he couldn't let the past go, why it had to haunt him year after year.

“You don't need to tell us anything that makes you uncomfortable,” Madi continued. “But you do need to tell us that you're not feeling well.”

“I'm not sick,” Flint muttered.

She looked up at him, dark eyes glittering like embers. “Do not try that with me. You know very well what I meant.”

He stood up and went to fish out a bag of almonds from a jug hidden at the back of the larder, far from Silver's greedy fingers. They still needed to be blanched, and he needed something to do with his hands.

“I'll be fine again in a few days, Madi,” he told her, pouring water from a pitcher into a pot and setting it on the fire to heat.

“Until next year.”

“It's how it is. I'm too old to change.”

“But you have changed.” Suddenly she was beside him, sliding her fingers down his hand, twining them with his. She gave him a small smile. “You've chosen to stay, this year.”

He sighed. “That was a mistake. I thought… perhaps, with you and John and Thomas… perhaps you could enjoy yourselves, and not pay much attention to my mood.”

“And how could we do that?” She leaned closer to him, pressing her shoulder against his arm. “We love you. You are part of this household and part of our world. If one of us suffers, we all do.”

Flint had to squeeze his eyes shut, then, because tears were stinging them. Her palm against his was burning hot, her fingers tight, reassuring.

“Something bad happened, I suppose? During this time period?”

Christ, but she never gave up. Flint swallowed the knot that was aching in his throat, and nodded. Her thumb rubbed against his wrist, and it was all he could do not to crumble. How had he become so weak?

“You're safe now, with us. Remember that, James.”

She tugged at his shirt, and he bent until she reached his temple with her lips and pressed soft kisses there. Her words and her lips broke his heart in ways he could barely explain to himself. Flint pulled her into an embrace, buried his face in the top of her head, and fought hard not to weep.

This was ridiculous, he told himself. He'd gone through so much, grief and war and horror, but what that had happened near forty years ago still plagued him more vividly. One would have thought the events of passing years would have buried it, but it still lived on as a ghost, an unwanted Christmas visitor.

“It's good that you are trying to be with us in such ways as you can. I can tell it's no easy thing,” Madi went on, palms gently smoothing down his back, lips pressing along his jaw. He could feel himself come loose, and squeezed her tight against him.

Their lips met. The world fell away and there was only the heat of her mouth, the sound of her breath, the slide of her fingers down the back of his neck. She pulled back, smiling.

“It would be better, though,” she continued, wiping a thumb over his cheek, “if you let John know it has nothing to do with him. He is taking it quite hard, you know. And this, in turn, is making him unpleasant with Thomas.”

Flint rolled his eyes. Silver and Thomas weren't on the warmest terms. Things had evolved quite a bit since their first meeting, and Flint was rather sure that Thomas was perfectly ready to get better acquainted with Silver, but Silver resisted. Thomas frightened and awed him, Flint supposed. He understood the reaction for having experienced it himself.

“I take your point, my dear,” he told Madi, lifting her chin to kiss her lips lightly. “As always.”

“Good.” She smiled, giving him a squeeze. “Now, I hear that there is work yet to do for your feast to be completed.”

As Silver had expected, Thomas was insufferable.

He had a bright smile and a kind word and a bloody coin for everybody. The grace with which he offered food to the old ladies shivering in their shawls, to the hollow-eyed mothers holding suckling children on their hip, to the crippled and the demented, would put saints to shame.

“You're so kind, sir, and keeping company to a crippled man on Christmas Eve, too,” someone told Thomas on the street, eyeing Silver next to him. Thomas' chuckle – at Silver's outraged face, no doubt – only served to wind Silver up further, no matter how kindly Thomas then explained that Silver was an innkeeper and contributing to the good deeds.

But Silver kept his temper. He kept it through endless conversations with the elderly and the raving, through comments and questions about his leg, through ice-laden streets and bustling docks where people pushed and shoved. He wouldn't give Thomas the satisfaction of showing any weakness.

It was when he saw Thomas giving away farthings to a group of street urchins that Silver finally snapped.

“They don't need it, you know?” It wasn't an angry remark, so much as dry and cynical, but he knew it was a mistake the moment it came out of his mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“They're just little chancers. Well fed, hand-me down clothes maybe, but living decently enough. Far from miserable.”

“So?”

“So, it's a waste of money.”

Thomas looked at him quizzically, a smile curling his lips. That was something else that drove Silver crazy, the fact that he was barely ever fazed by anything.

“Why is it a waste of money?”

“Oh come on. They don't need it–”

“Perhaps they don't.” Thomas came closer to him, and they walked along the docks back to the city's winding streets. “Neither do I need a silken shirt, nor you three rings on your fingers. Neither do we truly need the feast James has been preparing for us. I fail to see why gifting someone a small luxury is a waste, if it brings them joy.”

“And what about those who miss out on a meal because others are getting a luxury? Those that are actually starving?”

Thomas cocked his head to one side, watching him. “This is rather personal to you, isn't it?”

“That's beside the point,” Silver snapped, pulling his coat around himself. He should have known better than to engage in any conversation with Thomas.

“Well, I'll grant you that, but it's still a valid question.”

“Jesus Christ, you don't know when to drop something, do you?”

“Actually, I wouldn't mind knowing more about you, John. Although I suppose that was presumptuous, seeing as even James and Madi don't appear to know much about your background either.”

“You– how dare you, you sanctimonious prick! What I tell them is none of your fucking business!”

He felt as though the dock had gone silent all around him, before its bustle started up again.

Thomas didn't even have the good grace to look a little bit sorry. He just stood there watching him carefully, God knew why. Was he appraising him? Admiring his handiwork at winding Silver up? Trying to find more clues? After a while, Thomas released a long breath that swirled in foggy tendrils on the cold air.

“All right. We'd best be on our way, then. I hear there are people by St Stephen's that could do with a bit of help.”

Silver followed in silent fury. It was getting bloody cold and his back was slowly starting to seize and cramp from standing around for hours, but he was all the more determined to show himself strong and resilient.

The gloom of night was already falling onto the streets by the time they got to the church. Silver had to stand through more of Thomas randomly giving out food and coin, until he saw a little group huddled in a recess. Two grubby, pale, thin children.

With a sigh, he hobbled to them and wordlessly offered the eldest – a girl, by the look of it – a handful of pennies, about a shilling's worth. The children's eyes grew wide as the coins dropped into the girl's outstretched hands.

“Buy something to keep yourselves fed and warm, yes?”

“Yes sir,” the other child, probably a boy, whispered in an awe-struck voice.

Silver wanted to roll his eyes, to tell him that being lucky today didn't mean that they'd even live through the winter – and that if they did, a life of misery and squalor was the best they could hope for. He swallowed down the words and watched the children hobble away. Giving one moment of joy didn't feel like enough.

Thomas was watching him; he could feel his eyes on the back of his neck. Silver turned and glared at him.

“Why a handful of pennies?” Thomas asked, when Silver joined him. “A shilling's less cumbersome.”

Silver rolled his eyes. “Because if I'd given them a shilling, they'd be accused of thieving.”

Thomas nodded pensively, apparently unaffected by Silver's snappish tone. In fact, he offered Silver his arm, an affectionate gesture that Silver didn't quite understand. Silver gingerly placed a hand on it.

“Evensong is about to start. Shall we?” Thomas said, drawing Silver into the church. Silver was too exhausted – and bewildered – to resist. Though he wasn't particularly inclined to attend services, Silver couldn't help but look forward to sitting down somewhere warm for a while. And the church looked inviting. It was decorated with cheery boughs, their evergreen scent filling the air, mixing with the melting candles.

Silver and Thomas sat side by side on a bench, and Silver tried to remember how all this went. When was the last time he'd been to church? He could barely remember. Thomas, of course, looked pious and solemn and bloody annoying.

“Miranda spent quite a bit of time giving alms at Christmas,” Thomas said all of a sudden.

Silver turned to him, raising an eyebrow. Thomas' face glowed in the candlelight, as the choir's voice rose about them. Silver hadn't expected the way Thomas' eyes shone, the mingling on his face of fondness and sadness.

“I used to go with her, at times,” he continued, glancing at Silver, “and she would reprimand me for… well, very much what you were reprimanding me about, actually.”

Oh, fuck. Silver sat there, not knowing what to say, aware now that what they had been doing had a significance far more personal than mere charity.

“I'm sorry,” Silver mumbled, and gave Thomas' arm an awkward squeeze through his coat.

“Not at all. It was good to be reminded of those days. You have the same sort of kindness, John. Fierce, a little cynical, but profound.”

Silver chuckled and shook his head. “I doubt that's true.”

Thomas smiled at him, and Silver briefly let himself be dragged into the warmth of it, like a man pulled out to sea by a great wave. The risk of drowning seemed very real.

Then the choir stopped singing, and Thomas turned away to listen to the service.

It had been a long day. Flint had spent it making food, both for their dinner the next day and for the patrons, and Madi had spent most of it serving patrons. That and Flint's little heart-to-heart with Madi had left him bone tired.

And now Thomas had shown up in the kitchen and bid him to join them in the parlour.

“We don't have a parlour,” Flint said, putting away the last of the dirty plates.

“Well, the study will serve as a parlour. Madi's closing up for the night, and I thought we could at least enjoy each others' company for a little while.”

There would be more washing up to do once Madi closed the bar and they had to clean all the cups. And there were still mince pies to bake, the last thing on Flint's list. Flint felt those words form on his tongue, but then he saw Silver standing at the study's door.

Actually, he didn't so much see Silver as he saw a pair of huge blue eyes, staring mournfully at him. Madi hadn't lied when she'd said he was taking it hard. And even Thomas had this look about him that suggested that he wouldn't let it go without a fight.

“Fine. One hour, then I've got mince pies to bake.”

Thomas' face all but glowed. “Splendid. Come along, then.”

When Flint stepped out of the kitchen, Thomas wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck, warm and soft. For a brief moment, the worry melted away, the plaguing thoughts quietened in Flint's mind. It wouldn't last, he knew, but he enjoyed the brief respite.

By the time Flint arrived in the study, Silver had already sat down in one of the two armchairs. There was a wooden chair at the desk, but if the four of them were going to be settling there, they were one seat short.

“I'll get a chair from the kitchen,” said Thomas. “And where do you keep your raisins, dear?”

“What?”

“Raisins. Don't you have any left?”

“Oh god, I know what this is about now,” Flint groaned, settling down in the other armchair.

Thomas beamed at him. “Well?”

“I suppose there's no way to dissuade you?”

“Have you ever been able to dissuade me from anything?”

Flint grunted. “Third cupboard to the right when you come in. And don't make a mess,” he called out as Thomas hurried away.

Silver was watching him, but pretended not to be when Flint turned to him. Flint reached to touch his hand, running his forefinger over Silver's thumb.

“I hear you gave alms with Thomas today?”

“Mm-hm.” Silver looked intensely uncomfortable. Flint had suspected from the moment Madi had told him about it that visiting poorhouses would be hard on Silver. He didn't know much about Silver's past, but poverty was high on Flint's list of things that Silver had likely lived through.

“Did it go all right?”

“Well it's fucking cold out there and we traipsed up all through town for hours on end. Other than that, fine.”

Flint had expected the tight, closed tone Silver used and just squeezed his hand gently. He was in no position to press him to speak more about it.

“And did Thomas… behave?”

Silver chuckled. “What do you think?”

Flint smiled. “If it's any consolation, that's his way of expressing his interest in you.”

“Really?” Silver pulled himself straighter in his seat, and Flint picked up on the subtle shift in his tone.

“Well, the pub's closed,” Madi said as she walked into the study. “Didn't Thomas want us in here?”

“He did,” said Thomas, coming in with a large hollow plate balanced on one hand and carrying a chair under his arm. Flint was tempted to get up and get the plate to safety, but Madi was faster and whisked it away from him.

She stared into the plate with a puzzled frown. “What on earth is in here?”

“Raisins. And hot brandy.”

“You'll burn the house down,” Flint said.

“I will not, it's a harmless game.”

“What, exactly, are you talking about?” asked Madi, suspicion dripping off her every word.

Thomas dragged an end table near the armchairs and placed the other chairs on the opposite side of it, forming a rough circle around the table. He gestured for Madi to be seated, which she did, still eyeing him with caution.

“It's called Snapdragon. I'm going to light the brandy, and the aim of the game is to pluck the burning raisins out of the plate and eat them.”

Madi stared at him. “You want us to eat flaming raisins.”

“It's a Christmas tradition.” Thomas smiled.

Madi glanced at Flint uncertainly.

“It's usually harmless,” he told her. Which meant that he'd never heard of horrible incidents involving the game, but was convinced that they likely existed.

“I would rather just watch you.” There was an edge to Madi's voice that suggested that she, like all of them, was very weary from the day and not inclined to fool around.

“James?”

“I'm not exactly in the mood for games,” he said, and instantly regretted it at the crestfallen look on Thomas' face.

“I know. It's just that back in the day we used to… Ah, never mind.”

Flint knew how that sentence was supposed to end. Thomas and Miranda used to play this. She'd tried to enrol him into a game in Nassau once, and he'd disappointed her, too.

“Go on, light it up,” Silver said. He raised his eyebrows at Thomas. “If you don't mind that it's just you and me.”

Flint blinked in surprise. Silver was actually going to take part in a game that was potentially dangerous and painful. With Thomas. For Thomas. This… was new and interesting.

Madi fetched a pail of water – just in case – and another plate to snuff out the flames. In the meantime, Thomas dimmed the lights in the room. Flint exchanged a glance with Silver, who simply smiled at him and shrugged. Thomas sat in a chair opposite Silver, and brought a candle up to the brandy.

Eerie blue flames spread over the plate of dried fruit, a hot, dangerous sea. Thomas grinned at Silver and snatched a raisin out, the flame dying out as his mouth closed over it. After a moment's hesitation, Silver did the same, his movement quick and sure. They looked at each other, tension mounting between them, and Flint wasn't sure whether it was rivalry or some strange kind of affinity.

Silver and Thomas barely broke eye contact as they plucked raisins from the plate. At one point Silver made a grab for the one Thomas was going for, laughing when Thomas reprimanded him, sucking on a scorched finger. Flint noticed Madi looking at him, raising an eyebrow.

“All right,” Thomas said with a chuckle after they'd played a good while and the flames were growing dimmer. “I couldn't eat another raisin.”

“Are you forfeiting, sir?” Silver asked with a grin.

“I'm afraid so,” Thomas said with a chuckle. “I'll get my revenge tomorrow.”

“You certainly will not.” Madi turned to Flint. “Could you use the remaining raisins in your mincemeat?”

“I suppose I could,” Flint said, heaving a deep sigh. He'd forgotten about the mince pies and got quite comfortable in his armchair.

“Maybe the two of you could make yourselves useful in the kitchen,” Madi said, as though guessing Flint's mind. “Stir this into the mincemeat, and we'll come and help you with the rest.”

“All right, all right,” Thomas said with a chuckle, covering the burning raisins with the other plate. “Thank you for your patience, Madi.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple and she rolled her eyes, muttering something both grumpy and affectionate about boys and their silly games. Then it was Silver's turn to get out of his chair and kiss her softly before he followed Thomas out. Flint watched them go, puzzled, a smile curling his lips.

“All right, where's the mince?” Thomas asked as he put the plate of raisins onto the table.

“Here, I suppose,” Silver said, pulling open the larder door. He found a large bowl covered with a piece of linen and inspected it. It was filled with rich minced beef and apple, chopped almonds and dried fruit. The spicy smell of cinnamon, cloves and orange peel was something out of a decadent dream.

“He really knows his way around a kitchen, our James,” Silver said as he let Thomas pick up the bowl. It would have been too large and heavy for him to move comfortably.

“That he does,” Thomas said, carefully placing the bowl on the table. “Though you're not too bad yourself. I hear you know how to glaze a pig and roast it until it's actually cooked through.”

Silver snorted indignantly. “He told you about that, did he?”

Thomas merely smiled at him, his eyes fixed on Silver, head tilting slightly to one side. Something had been simmering in Silver since they'd played snapdragon, a tension deep in his belly, wound up by each challenging glance. And now Thomas had that the same glimmer of a challenge in his eye.

“What?” Silver asked. His mouth had gone dry.

“I just happened to notice that you're standing under the kissing ball.”

Silver glanced up and, sure enough, boughs of mistletoe and holly dangled right above his head. He glanced at Thomas, who smirked and moved closer.

“I… does it count if…”

That was all Silver managed before Thomas' lips were brushing against his, soft but insistent. A hand wrapped around the back of Silver's neck and he shivered at the drag of Thomas' thumb along the skin of his throat. His lips parted, then, and Thomas kissed him deeper, his breath hot in Silver's mouth.

Thomas stepped back, a cheeky grin on his face as he raised a hand and plucked a berry from the kissing ball. “That's one less, but there are plenty left for kisses to come.”

Silver blinked himself back into the here and now, and shifted to stand straighter on his crutch. “We– uh. We should get on with the mincemeat. The others… Madi said they'd be there soon…”

He moved away from Thomas and set about combining the plate of brandied raisins with Flint's mincemeat. How he did this was a small mystery, as he could barely think for the memory of Thomas' lips on his. They'd felt like a gift that he hadn't known he'd wanted, that in fact he'd been adamant about not wanting, but that he now craved desperately.

His knee wobbled slightly when Thomas moved closer, peering over his shoulder. Silver could hear his breath in his ear, he could feel the heat coming off him.

“You should be stirring it clockwise,” Thomas remarked, entirely breaking the spell.

Silver scowled at him. “Says who?”

“Tradition. They say it brings bad luck–”

“Oh fuck bad luck!”

Thomas blinked and took a step back. Silver might have sounded rather more aggressive than he'd meant to.

“Look, we've all, each of us, had horrendously bad luck in our lives,” Silver said, his tone softer. “None of it had anything to do with stirring the mincemeat. It was down to the world being a shitty place full of shitty people.”

“A fair point, to be sure. But consider this: whether or not they actually do attract good fortune, such traditions bring hope for something better in the year to come.”

“I'm not sure how you do it,” Silver said, giving up on the mincemeat and leaning against the table.

“How I do what?”

“How you manage to be cheerful and positive and… well, and happy, after everything that you went through.”

“Oh, that's easy,” Thomas said, leaning on the table right beside him. Their hips and arms were touching. “I find what gives me joy, and I pursue it relentlessly.”

“And what if you… lose that thing? Life has a cruel habit of taking good things away from people.”

Thomas smiled and gave a sigh, bending his head to speak in Silver's ear. “Sometimes, you and James are a little too similar,” he murmured, his breath tickling Silver's skin. “I envy it, in that it gives you a unique understanding of him, an empathy I'll probably never quite share. But it's also why you need someone like me, or like Madi. Someone who sees hope and happiness, rather than what horrors the future might hold.”

Silver swallowed hard, uncomfortable at the fluttering in his belly, at the strange feeling that his heart was cracking open and that a glowing light lay inside. The relentless pursuit of joy. Was this part of it, for Thomas? Could he give him joy?

“And you? Do you need people like us?” he asked, feeling a burning blush spreading on his cheeks and nose. Thomas was so, so close to him, and his smile was both fond and devilish.

“My dear, I wouldn't be here if I didn't.” He bent further to press his lips to Silver's. “I can't help myself when I see someone direly in need of being freed from whatever's plaguing them.”

“And… what's plaguing me?”

Thomas shifted closer, dropping light kisses along the side of Silver's face. “I can think of a few things.” He nuzzled under Silver's ear, his voice turning to a rumbling purr. “Though at the moment, I'd say your unwelcome desire to have this sanctimonious prick under the kissing ball.”

Silver chuckled and groaned all at once, making no attempt to resist when Thomas grabbed him by the hips and pushed him up onto the kitchen table. Perched there, Silver was just about the right height to reach Thomas' lips comfortably. He kissed him hungrily, revelling in the eagerness of those lips, the heat of Thomas' body pressed up against his.

When Thomas' tongue darted out to lick along Silver's lower lip, so surprisingly lewd from one with such an angelic face, it was all Silver could do not to moan out loud. It was a wicked tongue; it plunged into Silver's mouth, teasing, sliding against Silver's in the most suggestive ways, drawing out sounds Silver didn't even want to make.

“Christ, yes,” Silver heard himself whine. Thomas' clothed cock rubbed up against the inside of Silver's thigh, sending shivers through him.

“Do you feel it, John?” Thomas purposefully pressed harder into his thigh, lips latching onto Silver's throat and sucking at his Adam's apple. At Silver's weak nod, Thomas continued: “If I'd had things my way, I would have sunk to my knees and sucked you off while you were in that armchair.”

A loud moan escaped Silver, and his face burned hotter, knowing the sound would carry. He couldn't help but wonder how it would be received by Flint, by Madi.

“Oh goodness,” Thomas cupped his face, kissing his lips tenderly. “Don't worry about it, my dear. I think they might be quite relieved to hear us moan together, rather than bicker. Now, would you like me to make you come?”

The pleasurable shudder that went through Silver at those words stole his breath away for a moment. He should have guessed that Thomas would be as formidable with his words during sex as he was during an argument.

“Yes,” he gasped, whining as Thomas' teeth glanced against his ear.

“Good,” Thomas said, pressing his forehead to Silver's with a grin. “Because I'd very much like to make you come. I'm sure it'll be the most beautiful sight.”

It was nearly too much for Silver to grasp, that Thomas thought of him like this. Nevertheless, Thomas' hands tugged at his clothes, until Silver lay on the table with his shirt shoved up to reveal his chest, sweat tingling on his skin. While Thomas was trying to unbutton his breeches, Silver slid both hands into Thomas' shirt, smoothing over the soft flesh beneath it. Then he pinched a nipple, grinning at Thomas' wanton moan.

Silver gasped when Thomas' fingers coaxed him out of his breeches, running over Silver's cock with a deftness that bordered on torture. Thomas soon had the head of Silver's cock trapped between his thumb and forefinger; when he rubbed the spot where the head of Silver's cock joined the shaft, Silver felt his balls coil with tension.

“I knew you'd have a lovely cock,” Thomas said, drawing back as though to admire it. Silver pressed his arm across his face, unable to stand the scrutiny of Thomas' gaze when he was already about to be undone. He was all the more startled when he felt the flat of Thomas' tongue lick a strip from root to tip. Panting, he drew his arm away and stared at him.

“Couldn't help myself,” Thomas said with a grin, still bent over him. He stared into Silver's eyes as his tongue flicked out to lick at the head of Silver's cock and Silver could only moan, transfixed by Thomas' gaze.

Each touch was meant to tease. Every kiss, every lick was expertly crafted to bring Silver to the edge, to have him quivering on the table without actually making him come. After licking, nipping and kissing him in every wicked way he could think of, Thomas drew back again. Silver lay there, so breathless his throat was on fire once more.

The slide of Thomas' cock against his threatened to choke him. Thomas leaned over the table now, grasping one of Silver's wrists in his hand, smothering his mouth with his lips, while his other hand pressed their cocks together. Silver felt the slick of precum along his shaft where Thomas rubbed his cock's head, obscene, exquisitely arousing.

Thomas' long fingers closed around them, and he began thrusting against Silver's cock, kissing him breathlessly. Silver arched on the table as they rutted together, so close, aching wonderfully, swallowing Thomas' moans and pants. It wasn't long until Thomas' thrust became faster, more irregular, the sounds he was making more desperate.

“Come for me, John,” he murmured against Silver's lips, squeezing the head of their cocks in his fist, and Silver knew then that he was lost.

A few more frenzied thrusts were all he needed. Silver cried out, and Thomas was crying out with him. Silver wasn't sure who had set the other off, nor did he care, in his moment of ecstasy. He watched the splatters of seed pooling on his stomach, boneless, enjoying the feel of Thomas' fingers squeezing out the last of their spend.

Thomas reclined beside him on the table, and laughed. His skin was flushed, his hair dishevelled, and his face glowed with joy. Once more, Silver marvelled at the beautiful picture before him. He couldn't help but wonder what strange twist of fate had made someone like Thomas take an interest in him.

“Whatever you're thinking, I bid you stop right now,” Thomas said, reaching to smooth fingers over Silver's forehead. “You're going to mar your pretty face with wrinkles.”

Silver laughed. “You can't keep me from my own thoughts, you know.”

“I suppose I can't.” Thomas shifted closer, kissing along Silver's lips. “But believe me when I say that I'll do my utmost to quieten the ones that plague you, and fill your head with joyful ones.”

Thomas pressed his forehead to Silver's, and for a little while, Silver actually believed he might be capable of achieving that miracle.

This was actually a very nice way of spending Christmas Eve, Flint thought to himself. He'd achieved nearly everything he'd set out to achieve, his lovers didn't seem to be at odds anymore, and now Madi was sitting on the floor, braced between his thighs as he massaged the knots in her shoulders away.

“You're rather good at this,” she mumbled, sighing as the tightness released under Flint's fingers.

“It's from making pastry dough all day.”

Madi chuckled and she squeezed his knee, then pulled herself up. Flint mourned the warmth of her body against his, but not for long. Soon she settled on his lap, curling up against him and tucking her head into the nook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, savouring the weight of her against him.

“I hope that tomorrow will be a little more restful than today,” Madi said.

“Well, we're closed tomorrow, so that should help.”

“I'm not sure whether the patrons were more exhausting, or you three boys with your various troubles.”

Flint gave a tight smile. “Should I arrange to be at sea, next year?”

“No.” She glanced up at him. “I think it is good that you are slowly facing up to the thing that is making you this miserable at this time of year.”

“Even if it puts me in a stinking mood?”

“Christmas is for family, isn't it? To be together through the long night.” Madi heaved a sigh. “I remember it vaguely from my time in the Guthrie household. I remember the food, the guests. I remember Eleanor's delight.”

Flint could barely imagine it, young Eleanor with both her parents, happy and free of worries. The thought stung at him, and he pressed his cheek against the top of Madi's head.

“On our island, my people did not celebrate anything like this. We had our own festivals. If all goes well, my mother will return to her land at last, and preside over more. You and John have made this possible.”

She went quiet then, her eyes far away. Flint remembered her people dancing and chanting on Maroon Island, but hadn't ever known the significance of these celebrations.

“But this is foreign to me, Christmas in England,” Madi continued, looking out into the dark street though the study's window. “I understand why you would want to keep yourselves warm and merry with the cold closing in. Although it appears that this desire mingles with… other things. Sadder things. I am not sure what to make of all of this.”

Flint pressed a kiss to her temple. “It must seem rather alien to you.”

“Somewhat. Any sort of great celebration comes with memories, I suppose. A childhood gone, desires never fulfilled, events that marred it? People you miss… people who will never celebrate it again.”

“Yes. All of those things, exactly.”

A moan interrupted their maudlin thoughts. It was Silver's voice. Flint frowned, wondering if he'd truly heard what he thought he'd heard. Madi shifted in his lap. There was silence for a while, until more sounds of pleasure started to issue from the kitchen.

Madi clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle laughter.

“Can you believe it?” Flint said with a chuckle. He could hear the very familiar creak of the kitchen table. He hoped the mincemeat was in a safe place.

“The aphrodisiac effect of your cooking!” Madi said between cackles.

This set Flint off, and while he and Madi writhed in silent peals of laughter, Silver and Thomas became louder and louder, more and more frantic. It could have been highly erotic to listen to them, but instead their moans somehow only served to heighten Flint and Madi's laughter.

Silence fell in the kitchen, and Madi finally stopped giggling.

“At long bloody last,” Flint muttered with a smirk.

“It wasn't that long,” Madi said, setting them both off into sniggers again.

“I mean, for John to actually let Thomas get close.”

Madi gave a shrug. “Are you surprised? I don't even think he noticed the way Thomas was looking at him. He was too wrapped up in the fear of his own shortcomings.”

“Short comings?” Flint said with a smirk, feeling decidedly silly now that he'd had a good laugh.

Madi batted at his chest. “That was terrible.” She grinned. “Do you think this means we will all share a bed?”

“We're going to need a bigger bed,” Flint said, kissing her temple. “All right, do you think they've had time to cool off? Only I'd like to see how much of my food they've ruined in the process.”

Things were quiet in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Madi moved in front of Flint and rapped at the door.

“Are you decent in there?”

Thomas chuckled in what Flint knew was a self-satisfied way. “Absolutely indecent, my dear, but you can come in.”

Madi rolled her eyes and opened the door. Thomas was arranging his shirt, looking very smug indeed. Silver had a bit of a dazed expression, and flour sprinkled in his hair. He gave Flint a grin that warmed him to the core.

“We mixed the raisins into the mincemeat,” Thomas explained, as though it was the only thing they'd been doing on that table, “but the mix could bear a bit more stirring.”

“Clockwise,” Silver said, smirking. “For good luck.”

Flint reached for the bowl, which was dangerously close to the edge of the table, and inspected it. The texture looked all right, though there would be far more raisins than he had originally intended. He was considering adding a couple more apples to the mix when he realised that Thomas was looking at him intently, a grin on his lips.

Madi poked Flint in the back and pointed at the ceiling. He was standing under mistletoe.

“Forgot to mention,” Silver said happily, though Flint barely heard him because Thomas was wrapping his arms around him and kissing him enthusiastically. Flint gave back as good as he got. “Thomas is a fiend with that kissing ball.”

Silver awoke without being sure what had disturbed him. It wasn't a dream, because he wasn't drenched in sweat or shaking or on the verge of screaming. It wasn't the cough, either – that seemed to be finally over. Madi was wrapped around him, and he around her. From the slow and steady rhythm of her breathing, he knew she hadn't moved or made a noise. Madi seldom did; she was a sound sleeper.

After a while, Silver slowly disentangled himself from her, carefully piling the blankets onto her so that she wouldn't get cold, then reached for his crutch. He opened the door to the bedroom, peering out into the hallway. There was noise downstairs, just the barest of creaks and thumps. An intruder, perhaps.

The door opposite his, the one to Flint's room, cracked open. Both Silver and Thomas gave a start when they saw each other, spooked by the eerie appearance of each other's pale face in the half-gloom. Then Thomas smiled sleepily.

“He woke up from some dream and slunk out of bed,” Thomas said with a yawn. “I thought he'd been doing better with the dreams, lately.”

“He has,” Silver said. Now that he listened carefully, he wondered how he could ever have thought there was an intruder. Flint's step in the kitchen was unmistakeable.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Thomas said. “And I'm not saying that because it's cold down there and I wouldn't mind some more rest. Well. Not just because of that.”

And so Silver found himself hobbling downstairs in the dark. The blackest night had given way to a gloomy twilight, but dawn was at least a couple hours away. Silver made no attempt to be quiet, first because it was near impossible to get down stairs quietly on a crutch, and secondly because he'd rather Flint knew he was coming. The kitchen was full of knives, and if Flint was in a jumpy state after dreaming of the horrors in Nassau, accidents might happen.

He pushed the door open and peered in. Flint was standing in the gloom, a newly started fire as only light, washing the cups from the previous evening's patrons. He was still in his night-shirt, his hair falling loosely onto his shoulders.

“I thought I'd been charged with this mission,” Silver said as he moved closer to Flint.

“What?”

“Washing up. Madi said Thomas and I should do it this morning.”

“Mm. It's fine.”

Flint seemed to be purposefully turning his face away from Silver, and Silver knew what that meant. He reached out to touch Flint's arm, stroking it gently.

“I used to be able to soothe you, when you woke up with nightmares,” Silver said. “What's changed?”

Flint turned to him, eyes flashing in the gloom, wild and pained like those of a wounded animal. His lip, like much of his lower face, was twitching, his nostrils flaring.

“Nothing's changed.” He reached to cup Silver's cheek in his palm. “Nothing's changed. It's...” Flint shivered. “It's ghosts from my past. They come back at this time of year.”

Although Flint's words were enigmatic, he laid himself bare to Silver through the unguarded expression on his face. There were anguish there, plain as day. And fear, too. Silver found one of Flint's hands and squeezed it tight.

“Do you remember the day on the cliffs when you refused to tell me your story?” Flint said.

Silver felt tension pull at his shoulders, a frown forming on his face. “I do. I thought you'd come to terms with it.”

Flint gave a small smile and shook his head. “You don't need to get defensive, I wasn't blaming you for it.”

“All right,” Silver said cautiously, unable to quite let the defensiveness go all the same.

“I was trying to say that… I understood then. I mean… I made an assumption that you had gone through something unspeakable, and I know how that feels.”

Silver nodded as the pieces started to come together. “You've been straightforward about your past, but haven't spoken much about your childhood.”

“Not if I could help it, no.” Flint smiled a little. “You're probably the person who knows the most about it.”

And only because Silver had collected clues until the story made sense – much like Flint did about Silver's past whilst pretending that he wasn't. Silver didn't mind all that much, as long as Flint didn't try to confront him with his findings. But Flint, on the other hand, Flint wanted to be discovered. He didn't want to have to spell it out, but he wanted to be understood.

“Bad things often happen in this time of year,” Silver started, cautiously. Flint made no attempt to stop him. “After all, it's cold and miserable and icy… people fall, or are taken ill…” Silver's mind suddenly connected his bout of coryza and the worsening of Flint's mood. “You really didn't like my being ill.”

“No, I did not,” Flint said, rubbing at the inside of a mug with a washcloth.

When he'd been in Padstow the previous year, Silver had found out that Flint had never known his father. He'd grown up with his mother's father. Apart from her name – pronounced like a devil's name by the innkeeper's old mother – Silver knew nothing about Mary McGraw. It was a stretch, but…

“Was it your mother?” Silver asked.

Flint's mouth twisted into a pained smile, and he glanced at Silver. His eyes were fond now, rather than wild. As Silver had wagered, Flint needed to be coaxed into this talk.

“Yeah.” It was all Flint said; he stood there motionless for a long while. Then he took Silver's hand and led him to a couple of chairs by the table. They sat down, solemn.

“My grandfather was away that Christmas, working on a naval field in Portsmouth,” Flint began, staring at their joined hands. “Half of Padstow was taken ill with a fever, and pneumonia for the unlucky. My grandmother died first… she was quite frail. And after we buried her, nobody in town was much interested in helping my mother and I, though they knew we were not faring well. My mother didn't make it either.”

Silver squeezed Flint's hand. He was pale, shaking. Shaking with anger, Silver thought. He could just see it, the holier-than-thou townspeople ignoring a sick woman and her child, not fetching a physician or checking in on them – all because she'd had a child out of wedlock.

“People are scum,” Silver proclaimed.

Flint gave a weary snort. “That they are.”

They sat there for a while, Silver stroking Flint's hand until the twitch near his mouth subsided.

“So… your staying here, inviting Thomas for Christmas… that was you making an effort to be with us?”

Flint made a rueful face. “Yeah.”

Silver shifted closer, pressing his shoulder against Flint's. After a while, Flint wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed his temple against Silver's.

“We're really a pair of miserable sods,” Silver remarked with a chuckle. “You were wrapped up in your past, and I thought… well I thought you were getting tired of things here.”

Flint's lips pressed along his cheek, his beard tickling Silver's ear. “Never, d'you hear me?” He shifted closer, fingers brushing along Silver's face, tilting it around so that he could kiss him. Silver thought he might melt at the tenderness in Flint's touch.

“Besides,” Flint said as he drew back, a little smirk on his lips, “Thomas would never let me get very far from here now he's discovered the joy of having his way with you on the kitchen table.”

“You arse,” Silver growled at him, kissing him harder to hide the fact that he was blushing. Flint chuckled, and groaned, and tangled his fingers in John's curls.

“I mean it, though,” Flint said, pulling back and looking Silver in the eye. “This, what the four of us have, it's more than I could ever have hoped for. I may be grumpy or withdrawn from time to time, but it never means that I don't love you.”

There was a lump in Silver's throat, squeezing around words he wanted to say but couldn't. He grinned, swallowing them down. “Well, if you spend your time baking to express your grumpiness, I suppose we'll keep you on.”

“Little shit.” Flint grinned and kissed Silver savagely.

“I've got to say,” Silver gasped when they stopped to catch his breath, “Thomas was right to put that thing in the kitchen.”

Flint looked up and snorted at the kissing ball above them.

“Kissing under greenery has its charm, but I have another suggestion,” he said, standing up and holding his hand out for Silver.

Silver took his hand and hauled himself upright, pulling his crutch under his shoulder. “And what is that?”

“It's still very early, and we could all use a bit more sleep.” Silver raised his eyebrows at him, and Flint smirked back. “Or at least a bit more laying about in a warm bed. The goose can wait a couple of hours before getting roasted.”

“You, a warm bed and whoever will join us, followed by Christmas dinner? Probably my best Christmas gift yet.”

Before they left the kitchen, Silver carefully plucked a mistletoe berry off the kissing ball.