Rarely does he think of the voice as an instrument in the sense of something played rather than as a tool wielded. He is not a musician. He is not a writer. He is the son of a ship's carpenter, and for all that the man in question may have been a little more than a stranger there must be something ancestral in words as wedges and the cut of the adze. The rhythm of a voice is the mark-making of red oker on timbers rather than any other method of notation.
It's possible his ear is simply primed to hear it otherwise tonight; no, this is not a performance but it's been a night of songs so haphazardly played that any series of clear notes in arrangement has more musicality by contrast. And it's true that sometimes John Silver speaks in small rooms and quiet places and it bears no resemblance at all to the tenor of the auger, but a string vibrating. It produces a tone to fill a room as that whisky can a cup—lapping here at the edges of a battered container, leaving a dully glowing high water mark that will resound for a short time like even after its drunk down.
Like all good music, he can feel it on the back of his neck and under his boot soles. Sat there on that narrow bed, Flint watches him as he reads—not an attentive audience, but that animal he has played at being tonight paused and keen. His eyes are very pale in their field of smudged charcoal, and the draw of his breathing even as the book is closed.
Nevermind that these books and the things in them are ones John may have no natural predilection for. It matters that he keeps choosing them anyway.
"It's a rare talent," Flint says, the line of his mouth slanting toward approval behind his whiskers as he raises a hand to collect back the book. "That thing you do to make every language your native one."
Here is the confirmation, the outcome of all that study and haggling: Flint rendered still and observant, expression falling to good humor as John's thumb lifts and the book is closed properly.
The hopping step forward John takes to return the book to Flint's hand is unnecessary. This is not a large room. John had not gone very far to make his recitation. But still: the step is taken, space between them narrowing to a scant distance, weight reallocated on the crutch, the book delivered back into Flint's custody.
"I've had some practice at it," hedges around an answer he might have given years ago: It came naturally. Things that hew too close to what else John comes by naturally; there's no need to invite that any nearer than it already is.
"There are others, if you care to hear them."
writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something
It's an unexpectedly weighted sentiment, with the words of the poem lingering in the quiet of the room. With Flint sat comfortably here, occupying this space.
John's hand lifts to the swirl of paint at his temple. Observing Flint's expression as much as taking stock of the remnants of the night's festivities on his skin.
The tilt of his face is a small thing, upward as much as it is in toward the scuff of fingertips.
"It doesn't suit me as well during the day."
And speaking of the coming year, presumably he has used up every ounce of the time allotted to him in which he may be witnessed experiencing any measure of fun by the general company. No, like the painted wolf's mask which has already evaporated, the charcoal will disappear back into whatever mysterious ether from which it was originally plucked. In the morning, all things will be as they should again.
And somewhere there is a basin and a cloth. The smudge of makeup might be dismissed as easily as any varietal of road dust, and more readily than blood. They have made a habit of this, haven't they?
The distance between them is narrow enough that, with a twitch of the wrist, he may idly lay his fingertips along the outside of John's knee.
"It's not daylight yet."
A drum of fingers, some gleam of lamplight in that pale, charcoal rimmed eye, and then Flint's attention strays along with his fingertips. He motions toward the pouch of dried leaf and the thin sheets of rolling paper.
And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
The tossed pouch is caught thoughtlessly in both hands, but the sting produced by the battered palms under the bandages can't amount to much; his grimace has faded long before John rejoins him.
"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
It's a pleasant arrangement, both of their respective positions and in activity. Watching the work of Flint's hands, John casts his thoughts back to the collected items left for him.
"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
A pair of goblets to go with the bottle she'd given him, more likely than not. Flint sniffs appreciatively—funny—, and licks the newly rolled joint to seal it. It's set neatly near the lay of John's fingers and a second rolling paper is unstuck from the stack.
"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
"Maps of both regions. Good ones, made recently. A little too broad to be useful for what we're likely to find ourselves doing there, but the sentiment is obvious."
If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
A humming consideration for that unspoken connective tissue. If there is a way in, perhaps it is through Bastien. It is a clearer path forward than attempting to divine Darras Rivain’s leanings.
“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
"To say nothing of our favorite spinster in Denerim," is idle, off the cuff and less relevant than, "He's sentimental. You might lean on that too," is.
Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
A skipped beat, in which the play of John's thumb at the bend of Flint's knee does not falter, nor does his expression necessarily shift. But it is akin to pressing down upon a bruise and finding it still aches. It requires a moment to regulate, in which John observes the work of Flint's hands and the play of shadow in concert with the charcoal on his face, before John's head tips towards the trunk in the corner of the room which still sits open, on his way to—
"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
His low hum carries some note of assent. That's not surprising, it says. These days, it seems travel on the Minanter and the Waking Sea is treacherous in every direction.
"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
A rumor tugs a smile onto John's face, amusement rising first to meet the opening phrase.
What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
It's the quieting of that thumb and the tenor of real gratitude that draws his attention up from the next square of paper and the pouch. Flint meets that eye; tips his head faintly in substitute of a shrug. He has two good ears for listening. There's little reason that only John should be expected to keep one to the ground.
He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
What a thing it is, to find himself in such a place. What a thing it is to be wanted, cared for, to be recipient of these minor demonstrations of affection.
John's hand remains still, the lay of his hand turning bracing as he leans forward over their legs. Lifts a palm to the bristle of Flint's cheek so he might kiss him, first at his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. Lingering over the act because they can. The hour is late, yes, but dawn is far off and neither of them have anywhere more pressing to be than here.
There are nights where John might make him ask, aloud and properly. But not tonight. John kisses him a third time, directly, fully, his thumb moving over Flint's cheek as he does.
It prompts an answering smile, wolfish and smug, that manifests a wrinkle in his cheek and turns Flint's mouth slanting under that series of kisses. Don't reward bad behavior like this, John. It only encourages him.
"Careful," is a faux grumble in the narrow space that forms when that last kiss softens. Somewhere between them, the back of Flint's hand has set against John's middle. Presumably, he still has a square of the rolling paper between his fingers.
A low scoff of a laugh stands in for a more tangible reply.
"Have done with it," comes as a close murmur. John has not ceded any space in answer to the nudge of knuckles at his chest; his weight still remains braced over Flint's knee so he might hold his place. "Three is enough."
Two would be enough, but if the work is already part-way to completion—
On the subject of honoring hooliganism, Flint noses into that barely there space. Kisses the corner of John's mouth where his whiskers are thinnest. What's he to do? Argue? That seems unlikely.
"Let me finish this one."
Otherwise John's bedclothes will have filaments of allegedly quality elfroot stuck in them forever, for which there are far better uses.
In the moment, satisfied with Flint's acquiescence if not the delay, John heeds the pressure of the hand at his middle. Straightens back into his own space, enough to that he might swing his booted foot up from the floor to attend its laces.
John has loosened the rest of his attire in minor ways. Laces hanging open at his throat. Belt set aside. Coat returned to it's peg beside the door. But he'd been prepared to leave this room, and so hadn't truly bothered to make himself comfortable.
"There's a tin in the drawer beside you," he advises. Flint's handiwork remains undisturbed on his thigh, but presumably the two completed joints and their emerging fellow will have to be relocated along with rolling papers and pouch.
"In the drawer," is an echo of confirmation as he reorients the rolling paper and makes to finish his work.
For all that this isn't his vice, he's patient enough with the delicacy of the work that it doesn't take him long to finish what he'd started and go rustling around for this aforementioned tin while John pulls various laces open.
"That wasn't your gift." Valuable as this bit of repeated heresay may prove to be. "Unless you don't care for the actual thing, in which case—"
Click, says the tin. It and the pouch.with the remaining unrolled elfroot are tucked back into their drawer.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's possible his ear is simply primed to hear it otherwise tonight; no, this is not a performance but it's been a night of songs so haphazardly played that any series of clear notes in arrangement has more musicality by contrast. And it's true that sometimes John Silver speaks in small rooms and quiet places and it bears no resemblance at all to the tenor of the auger, but a string vibrating. It produces a tone to fill a room as that whisky can a cup—lapping here at the edges of a battered container, leaving a dully glowing high water mark that will resound for a short time like even after its drunk down.
Like all good music, he can feel it on the back of his neck and under his boot soles. Sat there on that narrow bed, Flint watches him as he reads—not an attentive audience, but that animal he has played at being tonight paused and keen. His eyes are very pale in their field of smudged charcoal, and the draw of his breathing even as the book is closed.
Nevermind that these books and the things in them are ones John may have no natural predilection for. It matters that he keeps choosing them anyway.
"It's a rare talent," Flint says, the line of his mouth slanting toward approval behind his whiskers as he raises a hand to collect back the book. "That thing you do to make every language your native one."
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The hopping step forward John takes to return the book to Flint's hand is unnecessary. This is not a large room. John had not gone very far to make his recitation. But still: the step is taken, space between them narrowing to a scant distance, weight reallocated on the crutch, the book delivered back into Flint's custody.
"I've had some practice at it," hedges around an answer he might have given years ago: It came naturally. Things that hew too close to what else John comes by naturally; there's no need to invite that any nearer than it already is.
"There are others, if you care to hear them."
writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something
"We've a whole year ahead of us."
variety is the spice of life i hear
It's an unexpectedly weighted sentiment, with the words of the poem lingering in the quiet of the room. With Flint sat comfortably here, occupying this space.
John's hand lifts to the swirl of paint at his temple. Observing Flint's expression as much as taking stock of the remnants of the night's festivities on his skin.
"Are you intending to keep this?"
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"It doesn't suit me as well during the day."
And speaking of the coming year, presumably he has used up every ounce of the time allotted to him in which he may be witnessed experiencing any measure of fun by the general company. No, like the painted wolf's mask which has already evaporated, the charcoal will disappear back into whatever mysterious ether from which it was originally plucked. In the morning, all things will be as they should again.
"Though I mean to make use of the fur."
Fucking southern winters.
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Fucking southern winters indeed.
"There's water in the pitcher," is what's said aloud. John's thumb sets to Flint's cheek, holding his gaze.
no subject
The distance between them is narrow enough that, with a twitch of the wrist, he may idly lay his fingertips along the outside of John's knee.
"It's not daylight yet."
A drum of fingers, some gleam of lamplight in that pale, charcoal rimmed eye, and then Flint's attention strays along with his fingertips. He motions toward the pouch of dried leaf and the thin sheets of rolling paper.
"Do you want help with that?"
no subject
And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
no subject
"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
"Other notable offerings?"
no subject
"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
Considering how they tend to divide their time.
"And you?"
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"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
no subject
Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
Orchestrate it, more like.
"What proof?"
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If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
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“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
no subject
Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
no subject
"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
no subject
"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
no subject
What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
no subject
He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
my irl lol
What a thing it is, to find himself in such a place. What a thing it is to be wanted, cared for, to be recipient of these minor demonstrations of affection.
John's hand remains still, the lay of his hand turning bracing as he leans forward over their legs. Lifts a palm to the bristle of Flint's cheek so he might kiss him, first at his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. Lingering over the act because they can. The hour is late, yes, but dawn is far off and neither of them have anywhere more pressing to be than here.
There are nights where John might make him ask, aloud and properly. But not tonight. John kisses him a third time, directly, fully, his thumb moving over Flint's cheek as he does.
✨
"Careful," is a faux grumble in the narrow space that forms when that last kiss softens. Somewhere between them, the back of Flint's hand has set against John's middle. Presumably, he still has a square of the rolling paper between his fingers.
"You'll ruin my work."
no subject
"Have done with it," comes as a close murmur. John has not ceded any space in answer to the nudge of knuckles at his chest; his weight still remains braced over Flint's knee so he might hold his place. "Three is enough."
Two would be enough, but if the work is already part-way to completion—
no subject
On the subject of honoring hooliganism, Flint noses into that barely there space. Kisses the corner of John's mouth where his whiskers are thinnest. What's he to do? Argue? That seems unlikely.
"Let me finish this one."
Otherwise John's bedclothes will have filaments of allegedly quality elfroot stuck in them forever, for which there are far better uses.
no subject
In the moment, satisfied with Flint's acquiescence if not the delay, John heeds the pressure of the hand at his middle. Straightens back into his own space, enough to that he might swing his booted foot up from the floor to attend its laces.
John has loosened the rest of his attire in minor ways. Laces hanging open at his throat. Belt set aside. Coat returned to it's peg beside the door. But he'd been prepared to leave this room, and so hadn't truly bothered to make himself comfortable.
"There's a tin in the drawer beside you," he advises. Flint's handiwork remains undisturbed on his thigh, but presumably the two completed joints and their emerging fellow will have to be relocated along with rolling papers and pouch.
no subject
For all that this isn't his vice, he's patient enough with the delicacy of the work that it doesn't take him long to finish what he'd started and go rustling around for this aforementioned tin while John pulls various laces open.
"That wasn't your gift." Valuable as this bit of repeated heresay may prove to be. "Unless you don't care for the actual thing, in which case—"
Click, says the tin. It and the pouch.with the remaining unrolled elfroot are tucked back into their drawer.
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