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The way his fingers fit in between Silver’s ribs - he notices this early on. He’s slender, is Silver. Lithe, almost, without much meat on his bones and when Flint grabs him, holds him, does with him what he will, his fingers, they fill those spaces.
As Silver’s beard grows in (such as it does), Flint realizes there’s a small patch under his chin - a scar, perhaps - that grows no hair. He sinks his teeth into it. Repeatedly. Gets to know it well.
The dimples in his lower back pose a challenge Flint is all too ready to accept. One night he carefully tips a small puddle of dark rum into each and laps it all up like a cat, tongue chasing the burning sweetness on Silver’s golden skin long after the drink itself is gone.
That first time Flint goes to his knees for him - it’s been a long time, years maybe, since he’s done this but he hasn’t lost his taste for it. Nor his skill at it. The others can make all the sniggering Long John jokes they want to; Flint has seen it and tasted it and known it in a way they never will. Silver’s seed is salty, bitter, thick; nothing like ambrosia or honey or anything else in those overwrought filthy poems he’s read. Just close and familiar and blessedly real.
His voice. Flint comes to know his resonance, his tones, very well. He’s got a surprisingly deep voice for such a slight man, and a way of purring, of bending Flint’s ear with his words in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He likes it and he doesn’t. What he enjoys wholly and completely, without question, is when he can make that voice go high and thin and desperate, when he’s bringing his hand or the lash down on Silver’s already pinked skin and hears him gasp yes more please.
Silver is so easily distracted, Flint sometimes finds himself becoming demanding, forceful, almost, with what he desires. He has to have Silver’s full attention on him when they’re alone, won’t settle for a breathless uncertain wavering answer when he asks him what to do next. What Silver’s own desires are, in turn, because this isn’t just about Flint. It never has been. Look at me, he says to Silver; kiss me, because he knows it’s what he wants but won’t take for himself. The pirate king: hesitant, wanting.
He’s known many men over the course of his life, some better than others (as in - he’s known them better, but some were also better men than others).
No man has he known quite like John Silver.