Archive of Our Own

There were several things John Silver disliked about being a pirate. At the top of the list and in no particular order were the long hours and low pay; the noise, confusion, exhaustion; the buccaneer blouse with frilly sleeves he was expected to wear; the high odds, on any given adventure, that he'd be hit in the head with a slice of pizza.

Adventures were what DeGroot, the dinner shift manager at Chunk o' Cheez, called birthday parties, and birthday parties were exclusively arranged for children. Last night's adventure starred a giggly nine-year-old named Rebecca who was surrounded by a family who adored her and two or three well festooned presents that quite obviously represented hours of sacrifice on her parents' parts. The dad had clapped Silver on the back and handed him a ten dollar bill; the mom had smiled conspiratorially as Silver snuck up behind Rebecca's chair with Chunk's lowest priced party dessert, an ice cream cake with a parrot eating a wheel of Swiss drawn on top in cheap icing.

He tried to not dwell on those sorts of families too much, even though they were the good ones.

Tonight's adventurers were more the norm, the types Silver was familiar with down to his teeth. At the big table by the mechanical animal stage were children up to their eyeballs in boxes and gift bags and balloons. These kids had already spilled gallons of soda, overturned chairs, yelled at other guests, whined, and attacked each other. The birthday boy in particular was just a miniature version of his parents. And with this type of crowd, food fights broke out constantly, because an enormous wasteful mess was what these people considered a good time. Silver was a thirty-year-old who wore a fake sword as part of his work uniform, and he still felt more than justified in his judgements.

Pizza sauce would stain badly if not treated quickly; Silver could be an evil pirate if he had to be.

"Rrrrgh," he said, leaving out the 'matey.'

He had caught the slice of meat supreme with extra cheese before it could hit him in the tricorn, slapped the piece down on the table top, and bent down to the kid. The kid's shocked face was almost as satisfying as a 25% tip. Silver needed to put a fine point on the matter, and since he wasn't allowed to stomp this entitled child to death with his peg-leg -- a fake one, of course, borrowed from the restaurant and which fit over his prosthetic -- he would have to do more than growl.

"Try that again, and I will sail to your house in the wee hours of the morn, swim to shore, pry open your bedroom window, slither inside, and slit your throat in the bed where you slumber," Silver said low into the kid's ear.

Okay, he didn't really say that and he wouldn't really say that; kids, even brats, were just kids. (It isn't the kid's fault, he repeated to himself six times fast. It's not your fault either. You can handle this.) But sweet fucking christ how he wanted to say something that vulgar anyway.

What he actually said was, "Our corporate policy allows me to throw you and your whole family out into the parking lot if you try that again," and sure, the kid's shock morphed into confusion, because he was eight, and what the hell did he know about corporate policies, but in the end Silver's delivery worked. Silver knew perfectly well he looked like a real pirate, or close enough, anyway: slightly sweaty, in disheveled clothes streaked with crusty blood-colored sauce, hair frizzing out of its ponytail, beard a week past its prime, fake parrot pinned to his shoulder; and he sounded like a real pirate, in that his voice was wrecked after working eleven evenings in a row rrrrgh'ing at customers. He had also learned to be as direct as possible, keeping steady eye contact and giving no hint of humor.

"Mom," the kid said, volume rising. "Mom."

"Look," DeGroot said a half hour later. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm still gonna have to bench you for a few days. Maybe a week. You can't get in the customers' faces like that. What are you doing?"

Silver threw the peg on his desk and took up his crutch. "Keep it."

DeGroot shook his head and sighed. "You're taking the nuclear option when there's no call for it."

"I've wanted to quit forever," Silver said. "You know that."

"Yeah, but where are you gonna work instead? This town doesn't have that many restaurants. Or businesses, period." DeGroot had always sort of hated Silver; Silver distantly appreciated that he seemed sincerely to be trying to help.

"I need to get out of this town anyway," Silver said, and shit if that wasn't the truest statement he'd made in a month.

Dobbs stuck his head in the office door. He was wearing both the Captain Hook hat and an eyepatch, which Silver thought was maybe overmuch. "We got your parrot down from the light fixture. Not sure how you even got it wedged up there. You play baseball in college or something?"

Silver had never been to college, not even to watch a baseball game. "My athletic abilities are limited to parrot tosses."

Dobbs handed DeGroot the bird. "The family's still here," he told Silver. "The dad says he wants to have a word with you in the parking lot. Should I tell him five minutes? Ten?"

"That's not going to happen," DeGroot said. "Tell them I'll speak to them again in a minute." Dobbs shrugged and scooted out the door. DeGroot raised an eyebrow at Silver. "We'll mail your last paycheck tomorrow."

An hour later Silver sat on the '70s puke green couch in the snot colored rent-by-the-week motel room he'd been staying in for the five months since he and Madi broke up, and pulled out his phone. He dialed and the phone shook in his hand just a little. He had seventy dollars in the bank, plus the ten dollar bill from last night in his back pocket. It was 12:02 a.m. His leg and head were warring for which could throb worse. If she didn't answer he was going to need to start making another plan for the rest of his life immediately.

"John," Max said without preamble. She sounded weary. "It's late. What do you want?"

Silver mustered up his most congenial timbre. "Max, it is wonderful to hear your voice. How are you? Uh-huh. Listen. Have you ever thought about hiring additional staff?"

~

Eighteen months later; 12 January

If there were awards for saddest weeks of the year, surely the ones following New Year's would win. Every afternoon for about an hour the sky turned a lighter shade of gray where, if you just happened to know where the sun was supposed to be, you could imagine it still hanging there behind a thick bank of clouds. Otherwise, a dreary mizzle wandered in around dawn and clung like a clammy hand to everything. Inside the the little flower shop, Silver tried to burn as many unscented candles as possible to provide inviting light and cut maybe a twentieth of the pervasive chill. Max had insisted on taking down all the Christmas merchandise, which made sense except for how January was the month most in need of twinkle lights. Soon sparkly hearts would appear to add some disco glitter to the atmosphere for a couple of weeks before the flop-sweat parade of desperate straight men began. Silver hadn't found the energy yet to consider Valentine's nor the shipments supposed to arrive in two weeks bearing four leaf clovers and bunnies.

He did already want to drink all the Irish whiskey on earth. If he could figure out how to parlay that into festive shop decor he'd be set.

Max was not overly hands on at this location, often having other, more important business interests to attend to elsewhere. There were long-term plans for turning the second through fifth floors into apartments, since the building was paid for in full and the town's main street association was starting to gain some traction. Still, things moved slowly in a town as small as Averyville. Silver liked that in a way, even on a Saturday as dreary as this one, with the street lights on at three in the afternoon and no customers since well before lunch.

He wagged his dish of leftover loaded potato casserole into the old overflow refrigerator next to a bucket of pink carnations. When he stepped back out into the shop, wiping his hands on his jeans, he came to a halt that nearly locked up his bad leg. Even in subpar lighting the man's suit was the most stunning shade of crisp blue Silver had seen in ages, and it had nothing on the person wearing it. A customer! A handsome, frowning customer.

Joy.

"Good afternoon," Silver said cheerfully. A pair of suspicious green eyes shifted to his and Silver regretted his entire life. Those were the eyes of someone who had sized him up in 0.003 seconds and found him wanting. Silver tried not to wilt from the sheer remorse of existing so clumsily in a world that had created this...this...man. "May I help you?"

"Just looking." The man tugged at the sleeve of a beautiful shirt cuff, blazing white against his beautiful suit jacket sleeve. He was studying the wall of hand-thrown vases and a selection of bromeliads.

"I've met the artist," Silver said, pointing to the top shelf, as though the man had asked. "She also weaves; we sell several of her scarves and shawls, and she makes beaded jewelry like the earrings on that rack over there, and, I'm told, has recently started designing silk flags." The man turned to look at him. "You know, like those little flags people put in their gardens or by the front door? Seasonal, or for holidays." Silver cleared his throat. This was the handsomest customer who had ever graced the shop in Silver's tenure and though handsome customer's fists were unclenched he was also, Silver knew in his soul, the most disgruntled person who'd ever come in.

Worse even than frequent shopper and local thrift store propriestess Leslie that time she bought a fern infested with mealybugs.

"If there's anything I can help you with, or if you'd like to order flowers for an upcoming occasion--"

"All right, honestly?" Handsomely disgruntled customer looked Silver dead in the eye and said, "I'm looking for a gift that says, 'You are making a dreadful mistake. Call me when you've figured out what a fucking hash of things you've made.'" He spoke the way some people chewed tinfoil.

Silver felt two things: lust like a plague of locusts, and the words 'uh-oh' waft through his brain.

He rallied all his used car salesman mojo. "Personally, I am not a fan of air flowers; they just look like a bunch of weeds, and why someone would want them growing on their refrigerator door, I do not know. Silk flower arrangements in patriotic colors should be banned but since they're not we have a fine assortment on clearance." He swept his hand through the air towards a shelf at eye level with the customer. "Has anyone ever truly enjoyed being gifted with an angel knickknack? Furthermore, the chocolates on the shelf behind you are nasty, overpriced, and chalky. They're what you buy someone you're breaking up with, pro-tip."

"That's not really what--"

"We had someone ask about flower language a few months ago," Silver said, squaring his shoulders and standing up more straightly in case it made him look authoritative. "We are well past the Victorian age and yet there's something appealing, don't you think, about a bouquet that really says something? So you should know the symbolism of scarlet geraniums, depending on where your lore originates, means stupidity, folly, and/or childishness, and a gift of one to a man conveys bad luck. Sounds like your recipient may already be suffering from that, but if you're interested in compounding their misfortune, we do have at least one type of red geranium in stock right now."

"Geraniums aren't in season right now." The man said this like he'd caught Silver out.

"Nothing's in season here, which is why we source most of our plants this time of year from points far south." Silver gave him a half smile. "Nature of the floral industry beast."

The man appeared to think about it. He stared at Silver while doing so, and Silver withstood the onslaught, wishing the whole time he'd put on a nicer shirt that morning or combed his hair recently or, god, graduated with a masters or taken up fencing or done anything with his life more substantial than not perishing up until this moment. He could text Madi later -- a breakthrough, he'd say. (It had been weeks since they'd spoken but so what, she'd be secretly happy to hear from him.) I finally met a man so gorgeous I considered doing something about it. And she'd text back, What's wrong with him? To which Silver could then reply, He looked at me like I was something he wouldn't cross the street to piss on if I were on fire.

And Madi would type, Oh honey.

Silver's half smile faltered. Something flickered in Handsome Disgruntled's eyes and then, to Silver's amazement, he backed down. His whole posture changed. He shuffled his feet, glanced around the shop with a sigh. He looked tired, ten years younger, a little ashamed and unnecessarily lovely as candlelight danced over his features and set off the copper in his hair and neat beard. Silver was fascinated.

"The geranium will do," the man said. "Does it come in a planter?"

"There are several to choose from," Silver said, moving to the cold case. "It's already in this one with the stripes." Red stripes on a white pot, to match the red blossoms. "Or we have a selection over here--"

"That one's fine, thanks." The man started to walk to the counter. Silver followed. "How much?"

"Ten dollars," Silver said automatically.

"For both the plant and the pot?"

"I'll throw in a couple of plant food packets too."

"No, I just meant, that doesn't seem like very much for both." The man put his elegant hands flat on the counter.

Silver plopped the geranium in a box and started stuffing tissue paper around the base to steady it. "Offseason discount." He risked looking up.

"That isn't necessary," the man said. "How much is it really?"

Silver ducked down to grab the master list clipboard and paged through to the annuals section. "The plant is seven, and this pot is, uh. Oh. Twenty. Listen, I can switch it out fast--"

"Twenty seven is fine." The man took out his wallet and handed Silver two twenties. "If it's easier, round it up to thirty."

"Easier like I don't know how to work the math on forty minus twenty seven plus tax?" Sometimes Silver went as many as two or three hours without remembering he was intrinsically an asshole.

Disgruntled customer didn't seem to mind. He smiled, a real smile. Well, a real smirk anyway, like he'd raised his estimation of Silver to 'Would feel bad this piece of shit was on fire across the street.' Silver gave him his change, a satisfying eleven-eleven, and managed not to linger as the cash and coins passed from his hand to the man's.

"Thanks for the assistance," slightly less disgruntled customer said, pulling the flower across the counter. He picked up the box and turned to go.

"Any time," Silver said.

At the door the man looked back to give him a goodbye nod and then took his insulting gift away to points unknown. Silver leaned against the counter, winded like he'd just run a marathon. What even the fuck, he thought.

~

That evening, thinking about the customer made balancing a checkbook a more tedious than usual chore.

(Green eyes, long fingers; freckles, drawn delicately; sturdy build, a muscular body beneath that expensive suit.)

Silver persevered and at the end of the task was gratified to note he had more than seventy dollars in his checking account. Not a lot more. Enough to cover his monthly payment to Rackham. Rent was a pittance compared to most places he'd lived but the catch was, the house was a hodge-podge: remodeled kitchen and cozy bedroom were remnants of a log cabin Rackham's uncle had built with his own hands ages ago. The rest of the house was a scuzzy crack den where Rackham's uncle had died after years of substance abuse and questionable aesthetics. Mold and racoons had been forcibly removed and replaced with the cheapest materials Rackham could've found -- like, found on the side of the road.

Silver, despite his better sense, had started thinking of the quiet house as his own. A handful of plans were on his to-do list. The roof needed therapy. The windows were shittily drafty. He'd vowed to himself, since the move, he'd buy only what he absolutely needed, second hand as much as possible, quality materials or anything that could be reused; he mostly succeeded. He wanted a different life here, and some days, regardless of the prevailing dank weather, it seemed possible. The house was fine, a work in progress, but if he ever needed to leave, there wasn't anything, really, to keep him tied to it or the town. Just the way he preferred.

Sitting on his small used couch he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders; his leg ached as if to keep something in his stomach company.

~

18 January

The worst parts of winter weren't short days growing longer far too slowly, or even the heightened dangers of black ice, flu, depression, or rickets. The worst was waking up and being cold as soon as the bedcovers were thrown off. Friday morning Silver arose from bed into what felt like the great, awful outdoors, chilled air hitting him like an avalanche as he creakily stretched. Abnormal chill. Instantly-foot-numbing chill.

In the house's spooky utility room, the furnace sat silent. Silver flipped the switch on the side to off, then on again. Nothing. No sign of life. A death in the family. The thermostat said the temperature in the house was a balmy 51F degrees.

Fuck.

Rackham hid his sympathies well. "John, my lad. It is six o' seven in the a.m. I do not have a furnace in my pocket. Call a repairman as you must. Or repairwoman, at that. Someone else, of any gender at all. I insist." And he hung up.

Okay. Okay. Options. 1) Watch youtube videos on furnace repair. 2) Wait for library to open. They have books on everything. How hard could it be to repair a furnace of undetermined age and decay? 3) Wear all clothes simultaneously while thrilling to sounds of frozen pipes exploding. 4) Set part of house on fire, as sacrifice to Helios to send raging sunlight, pronto.

Silver looked out the kitchen window. Were those enormous snowflakes piling up on the sill outside? He opened the front door and a handful of snow floated into his face like slow-motion confetti tossed at a party where he was very, very stoned. God, he missed getting stoned. No time for that now. He'd have to call for repairs. The pipes really could freeze and blammo. He could be felled by hypothermia or frostbite, and what could be more exciting than the opportunity to lose another limb.

On his phone he looked up local HVAC companies. There was one, Monty Heating & Cooling. He called; wait time, 32 minutes, we are experiencing a higher than expected volume of calls blah we value your call blah blah please stay on the line blaaaah. Next?

He dug out a phonebook that had come with the house, previously used to smush a roach. It listed two companies, the busy one and then, in much smaller letters, with no accompanying ad or other info, the number for Walrus Heat & Air. The phonebook dated from five years ago. Well, worth a shot.

The phone rang and rang, and on the sixteenth ring was answered by someone who had awakened to take the call. Awesome. People loved being pulled from deep sleep to answer the phone, especially when the caller had dialed the wrong number.

"I'm so sorry--" Silver blurted, over top a gruff voice saying, "Walrus Heat and Air."

Silver felt his blood pressure ramp up.

"Hello?" the gruff voice asked more gruffly.

"Hi," Silver ventured. "I have a malfunctioning furnace."

A pause. "Is it working at all?"

"Doesn't seem to be. It must have departed this mortal coil sometime in the earlier hours of the morn." Silver mentally slapped himself for talking like he was back playing a part at Chunk O' Cheez.

"Make and model?" Gruff sounded more awake.

"Um. It's an old furnace? An Armstrong, I think? On the side, where water dripped on it for years, it has a rust spot that's shaped like two cows sharing a slice of watermelon. If that helps."

The silence on the other end of the phone stretched and stretched like a balloon full of shaving cream. If it burst, there was going to be a mess.

"What's your street address?" Gruff sounded resigned to his fate.

"1121 Arbor Lane."

A rustling sound. Was it possible Gruff had a paper map he was consulting like an old-timey orienter?

"You turn off Route 10--"

"Yeah, I got it. Give me 45 minutes."

"Sure, yes, great. Thank you so much, Mr.--"

Click.

Silver took a quick shower, dressed in layers, finger-combed his hair down from its hysterics, brushed his teeth -- ugh, he hated doing that before breakfast, what a waste -- and took five minutes to tidy the living room and kitchen. No use seeming like a complete slob. He texted Idelle, who texted back a series of frowny emojis and "Come in when u can." He sighed and tied his boot lace. He was pouring milk over a bowl of cereal when a beat-up pickup rattled into the driveway.

He opened the front door to be friendly before the driver had made his way up the walk, which gave Silver the opportunity to feel his whole soul evaporate like so much steam upon sight of his arriving savior. He looked back into the house as the man approached.

"Troubles?" Gruff, aka Disgruntled Customer, asked, stepping onto the porch.

Silver turned to him and smiled. "Just making sure I hadn't left any fires burning."

Gruff raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. He was dressed in jeans and standard blue collar work boots, but his gray woolen peacoat cost more than Silver's entire life. Even in bad light it set off his eyes and his ginger accents. There was a pillow crease still crisscrossing one cheek, the sight of which made Silver feel warm everywhere. Maybe Gruff could just move in, live here, and keep winter at bay through the inexplicable power of his hotness.

"Am I coming in to fix the furnace or no?" Gruff almost had another smirk on his face; Silver wanted to kiss it off his face so badly his mouth went dry thinking about it.

Fucking get ahold of yourself, man.

"Yes, right this way, Mr.-- What is your name again?"

"James Flint. I go by Flint."

"John Silver. Silver's fine." He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Furnace's at the back of the house."

Flint stomped snow off his boots, came in, and left a leather messenger bag on the kitchen table. "Anything else you can tell me about the furnace?" he asked as they entered the utility room and he dropped his shoulder bag of tools to the floor.

"Not really. I run it as little as possible since it's expensive and I'm-- I'd rather put on an extra sock and spare the cash."

"You weren't wrong about it being old." Flint was prying off the rusty front cover with the tip of a pocket knife.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Bowl of cereal?"

"No, thanks. Just going to take a look and see what I can see." No nonsense. Flint was already deeply involved with prodding the furnace innards like a county coroner.

"I'll be...out here. If you need anything."

Flint grunted, and didn't look up. Silver went and ate his soggy bowl of wheat nugs and called Rackham again.

"I'm not paying for any of it," Rackham said by way of greeting. "Deal's a deal."

"If the pipes--"

"Too bad, so sad. If you move out I'll have the house winterized and the whole debacle goes back on the market next week."

"I loathe you," Silver said.

"Uh huh. You coming to games night tomorrow? Try to win back your handstand trophy?"

"Fuck off."

"Your loss."

Silver hung up.

Flint came out from the back dusting off his hands. "The blower motor's definitely shot, and the whole thing's seen a lot of action. It was pulling too many amps, probably for quite some time. Not sure how it didn't crap out before."

"What's that going to cost to repair?" Silver stood up to ask.

Flint shook his head. "I'd advise against repairs, strongly. Throwing money into a hole would be wiser."

"You sell used furnaces, by chance?"

"No, that's-- Not a reputable thing. New HE furnace for a house no bigger than this one is only a couple thousand."

"I don't-- Yeah, that's. You have payment plans?" Silver felt colder by the second. He had just, just paid back Max's loan. Fuck.

"You can finance. All the local banks--"

"No, I. That isn't an option."

"I can't sell you one on a payment plan."

"You won't, you mean. I could pay you $150 a month, plus interest." Maybe. A hail mary: "Plus interest. You, not a bank, would wind up better off if we were partners instead of enemies in this."

The thunder in Flint's face could've scared away a whole hillside of bears.

Silver felt a flare of anger. "So that's it? You'll go back to your nice warm house and nice warm--"

"I'm not a charity."

"Maybe you should be," Silver snapped.

Flint blinked. Something cleared in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Silver said quickly, and exhaled. "I'm sorry, it's not your fault my furnace is busted and you were very nice to come all the way out here this early and I know you are just an honest businessman trying to run an honest business--" He stopped at the corner of Flint's mouth turning up. "What?"

Flint started, "You." He cleared his throat, looked away. "You reminded me of someone, for a second."

"Your last customer?" Silver tried to dial himself down. "Sorry, sorry. You probably get sob stories all the time."

"I don't," Flint said, "but only because I don't answer the phone or take jobs that often."

Silver tipped his head. "That seems like a spectacularly bad business model."

"It is." Whatever look Flint was giving him now was far too obscure for Silver to figure out. Other things were easier.

"You don't need the money," Silver said flatly. "What did you do, retire from private equity a billionaire at 30 or something?"

"My husband died," Flint said.

A pang shot clean though Silver's chest. "And he left you his fortune?"

"He left most of that to his orchestra," Flint said, "and I." He took a breath and let it out slowly. "I changed course."

"To become a furnace and air conditioning repairman?" Silver sat down at the kitchen table and gestured for Flint to join him.

"To be my own boss. When I wanted to be." Flint took a seat. He gave Silver a thoughtful look. "You haven't asked me how the geranium went over."

Silver narrowed his eyes and smiled. "I imagine you make friends wherever you go."

Flint snorted. "The recipient loved it. They still made a terrible mistake, but they loved the flower."

"Old fling?"

"Former colleague." Flint's hands fidgeted. "She'll figure out the mess she's in eventually."

Silver wanted this conversation to last forever and also did not want to freeze to death in his (Rackham's) godforsaken house. "What's the cheapest furnace you can install?"

"Plus labor and warranty there's a Trane that'll run you $1800, roughly."

"I can give you $120 a month for fifteen months." Silver leaned forward. "Fifteen months isn't that long. You know where I live and where I work, and I bet you won't notice one cent of that missing from your checking account."

Flint rubbed a hand over his face. "Why? Why should I extend this amount of credit to you?"

"I'm a hard man not to like." Silver smiled, less meanly this time. "Please. I'm asking you to do me this courtesy, because it is fucking cold in here, and it's January."

"You don't have anyone--"

"No. I don't." Silver let the smile drop on that note, but didn't flinch away. It'd been some time since he'd had to beg for anything. It was almost comforting to find out it still sucked.

Flint studied him for a minute. He opened his messenger bag, took out a notebook and pen, and thumbed to a blank page. On the top of the sheet he wrote 'Silver furnace,' and on the first line, '$30.'

"Do you have thirty dollars on you?" he asked without looking up from drawing a bunch of boxes on the page.

Fifteen boxes, Silver counted. He stood up to grab his wallet off the counter. He had a twenty and nine $1s. He scrounged up a dollar in coins from the junk drawer. He waited, standing beside Flint until Flint looked up and held up a hand. Silver put the money in his palm like he'd been taught to do at his first job, when he was twelve, change first, making sure the customer wasn't about to spill it, then paper from largest to smallest in value, in a neat stack.

Flint stood up, tossed the coins in the bag, folded the cash and tucked it into a pocket on the side of the bag; he put one check mark in the first box on the page. "You should call your manager or boss or whoever, and tell them you won't be in until after lunch."

"Why's that?"

"You're going to help me install your brand new furnace."

"Ah." Silver smiled again. Flint didn't. "Maybe I could work off some of my debt as your apprentice."

Five hours later Silver was covered in a thin layer of grime, dead spiders, dust, duct tape residue, and sweat. Sweat like it was high summer, like the house was remotely warm.

Flint was about to flip on the new furnace. Silver shot out his right hand to stop him.

"Just. Wait." Silver wiped the back of his neck. What came off on his left hand was somehow both slimy and sticky. There were spider corpses in all crevices of his body. It was 923 degrees in the utility room.

Flint was waiting patiently, an expression of true expert assholery on his handsome face. "Whenever you're ready." The pulse in his wrist was strong, if a little quick, under Silver's fingers.

"Okay." Silver let go.

At a flip of the switch the new furnace whirred awake. Silver stood there sweating, standing close enough to Flint their arms touched. In less than a minute warm air had started to blow into the house's ducts, making them creak and pop. Flint patted the side of the casing.

"I'll be back in a week for another thirty bucks," Flint said.

"You really don't trust me to pay you, do you?"

No response. Flint put his sweater back on, and gathered up the ninety tools his bag had somehow held and hoisted said bag on his shoulder.

"You'll let me know about that apprenticeship, yeah?" Silver said, following him to the door in another minute.

"Don't quit your day job just yet," Flint said.

Silver stuck out his hand. "Thanks." This time he tried to sound as sincere in his appreciation as he felt.

Flint took his hand after a beat. "You're welcome."

And if there was something equally sincere in his voice, or his eyes, when he said it, Silver was honestly too tired to care.

That was a farce, Silver thought, knocking his head against the shower tile surround. He was taking his second bath of the day to rid himself of any arachnoid afflictions. Maybe he could be at the shop by 2:30 and stay a couple of hours late doing something, anything, to not have to forfeit a whole day's paycheck. If he hurried, maybe he could outrun every thought and feeling he had about his new friend James Flint.

Or, maybe he'd break his neck trying to get out of the fucking tub.

He mulled what he'd learned about Flint in the time it took to install a furnace:

- Flint knew how to install a furnace without electrocuting himself or blowing up a gas line and everything on it.

- He had broad, freckle-splattered shoulders, strong arms, and a chest -- holy god that chest -- that all looked so startlingly gorgeous in a tank top, when he'd taken off his sweater Silver had dropped some kinda doohickey gadget on the floor.

- Flint probably knew how to employ the doohickey as a lethal weapon and it was sheer dumb luck Silver hadn't been rightfully murdered.

- Flint knew how to swear like a proper sailor.

- Which was fitting, because he'd been navy? Or marines? Or coast guard? At some point?

- He thought Silver was a form of life only slightly superior to dead spiders.

- He'd still talked to Silver, in fits and starts, about the weather (gruesome), Christmas presents (he was reading a book about the tea trade building empires given to him by his best friend, Miranda) and desserts (pro fruit cake, con fudge), how Averyville needed more public accommodations (Silver agreed), and did Silver know there was a dead skink under the water heater? (No.)

Silver paced himself and was at work by 3. There were a few walk-ins; he helped Joshua water the jade, agave, and rubber plants. He took apart a few arrangements that were long in the tooth and reassembled the non-wilted flowers into a couple of discount "grab-n-go" bouquets for the next day. He swept, and put away a bunch of ribbon bolts. He unboxed and tagged more glitter hearts, which were, true to form, selling like herpes. (Or hotcakes.) He left the shop at 10:47 p.m. in the best shape of its life, provided you didn't open any drawers, closets, or cupboards or notice the cobwebs in corners or how the windows hadn't been washed since August.

He thought about Flint the entire time, and fell asleep before midnight, exhausted with imagining Flint's hand heavy and warm in his own.

~

The first week passed more quickly than Silver thought it would.

"Ahoy," he called out.

Flint was standing at his door at five after seven on Friday. Silver could speak only for himself, but the day had seemed way longer and stupider than necessary.

"Good evening," Flint said.

"Thirty bucks worth the trip out here, huh?"

Flint's teeth were shark white in the dim light. "On my way home anyway. It won't be a problem to drop by."

Won't it? Silver thought, feeling sort of like he wanted to jump out of his skin.

"Come in," he said, brushing past Flint to unlock the door. "Pardon the mess."

Flint eyeballed the crate of dishes on Silver's kitchen table while Silver dug cash out of a jar by the sink. The old china plates, cups, and bowls were white with tiny turquoise flowers along the edge, and Silver had traded an ailing amaryllis for them.

(Leslie had forgiven him for the mealybugs.)

"I now own four dinner plates that match," Silver said, immediately aware of how pitiful a statement it was.

Thankfully, Flint had no particular response. He took his money and after a few minutes of painful small talk took his leave.

Silver went to bed early. It gave him more time to jack off to the thought of being on his knees, unzipping Flint's jeans, the head of Flint's hard cock wet and silken under his tongue.

It gave him more time to completely disavow having jacked off thinking about that.

The second Friday, Flint beat Silver home again but by less than a minute -- Flint wasn't even at the top of the steps when Silver pulled into the driveway.

Inside, Silver handed Flint thirty one dollar bills.

"You seem to have had a better day than you did last Friday," Flint said, counting his money with amusement in his eyes.

"Do I?" Silver had enjoyed purposely collecting the ones throughout the week. "And how was your day?"

"Bearable." Flint pocketed the cash. He opened his mouth like he was going to expound on the topic, then noticed a water-spot on the ceiling. "Did your roof start leaking this week?"

"When it was raining on Tuesday," Silver said. "I think those big gusts of wind must've driven it under a few of the shingles."

Flint gave him a look that said: That is not how roofs work.

Four evenings later, Silver arrived home to find Flint hammering at something on the overhang over the porch. Silver squinted up and waved. "Squirrels love it up there. Hope you're finding the view equally interesting."

"Funny you should mention squirrels," Flint said. He leaned over and dropped something on Silver which bounced off him into the yard. When Silver fetched it he discovered it was a walnut, its green outer shell gone but its dark inner one completely intact. "Someone wedged it up under a shingle, which brought up another shingle, which is how the water came in."

Silver liked how Flint had said 'someone' like the squirrels were people. "That bastard Fred, always causing trouble."

"I read once that females do most of the heavy lifting in squirrel world." Flint had his head propped up on one hand as if he were sunbathing.

Silver shook his head. "It was Rhonda then; she's been gunning for me since I took down the bird feeder."

"Hmm." Flint went back to hammering.

Silver went inside and drank three cold glasses of water. In another ten minutes Flint knocked on the door before coming in.

"Thanks very much," Silver said, "for the roof checkup. You can add your fee to my tab."

Flint nodded. "I'll. Be going. See you Friday."

Silver waved a little wave. After Flint had closed the door behind him Silver made himself stand there for four or five deep slow breaths. Maybe, he thought, Flint and I have crossed paths as the universe's way of teaching me patience. Too bad he'd always hated being taught lessons.

Friday seemed far too far away.

~

7 February

"Still can't believe Flint sold you a furnace on credit." Sprinting full throttle on a treadmill with a 6% incline, Billy was hardly even breathing hard but sounded grumpy anyway.

Silver, on the other hand, was hanging from the pullup bar across the room like a sloth. His arms felt like overcooked noodles. "He's being pretty nice about it."

Billy grunted. "There'll be a catch. There's always a catch with a guy like that."

"I'm not sure what that would even entail. Can't squeeze blood from a turnip and all that."

"Never mind Billy, John," Gates said from the desk in the corner, where he was entering numbers in the books for the farm he co-owned with Billy. A toy tractor was being used as a paperweight on a stack of seed catalogs. He peered over his little round spectacles at Billy. "You need to let some things go, kid."

Billy cranked the incline to 7%.

Silver had been working out weekly in the BoneGates basement since his second month in town. The equipment was well used, just a bunch of things Billy had collected over the years. Silver liked Billy and Gates and most of the other motley crew who turned up -- seasonal farmhands, friends, their neighbor Vonda, who hogged the kettlebells -- and the user fee of zero dollars fit Silver's budget. Sometimes he brought snacks as a tip.

BoneGates itself sounded like a hipster speakeasy that exclusively served artisanal small batch absinth while Scandinavian death metal played overhead but was instead an industrial corn and soy farm slowly being converted to agritourism. Silver had worked under the table for them occasionally and it had been agreed he would again when summer was in full swing. Gates was thinking about planting grapes to establish a winery; Billy had already started experimenting with hard cider in addition to their small apple orchard's regular cider and u-pick-it lines of business. The six-week mazes after harvest had for two years running proven many people would pay cash to experience claustrophobia and panic attacks in a giant field of old corn husks.

"At the shop we've been thinking there's enough interest in a community garden to put out the word about having a meeting," Silver said. He dropped from the pullup bar and shook out his stinging hands. "If you were still interested in participating."

"Yep," Billy panted.

"You should tell Flint about it," Gates said to Silver. "Bet you dollars to donuts he'd be interested." He looked at Silver like he was thinking of saying something else.

Silver said, "I'll mention it tomorrow."

"You do that," Gates said, still looking like he had other advice to impart.

Dooley and Logan came in, high fiving and cutting up as they made their way to the the free weights. Whatever else Gates wanted to say was abandoned.

~

In the shower, he imagined Flint pressed up behind him, steadying, his grip firm as he stripped Silver's cock with a slick fist and they breathed in steam together, Flint's cock rubbing against Silver's hip. He felt Flint's mouth on his throat, and came when Flint bit down, and pictured turning in his arms to work Flint to completion too. In the shower he washed away all the evidence, and stayed until the water turned cold and he could forget everything he'd just imagined.

~

8 February

"Do you have any used boards or wheels I could buy off of you?" Silver asked, opening the door for Flint.

Flint didn't miss a beat. "Yes. How--"

"In my experience, guys driving old pickup trucks have a difficult time passing a pile of trash without picking through it, just in case there's something useful in there." Silver smiled.

"I feel like I should be insulted." Flint folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. "But I do have some things in the back, if you'd like to check them out."

This was how four old wooden crates Silver had salvaged started to become a passably useful bookcase/cart. Flint was like a door to door peddler of tools and services and Silver was not shy about taking full advantage. Flint had removed his expensive sweater to reveal a well fitted black t-shirt. Silver was going to owe Flint money forever, and if he thought about it for longer than a second, it bothered him on some level; dependency was problematic. On the other hand, those arms as Flint stacked one crate atop another...

Help, Silver thought.

He considered himself a person with strong self-preservation skills, yet, because his mouth didn't always ask his brain's permission before speaking, he said, "You have the wardrobe and general air of someone who buys large companies to scrap them for parts as a hobby. Earlier you said you 'changed paths' but it seems more like you became a furnace repairman on a dare."

Flint didn't pause in his gluing, or caulking, or whatever it was he was doing with something gooey in a tube to the spaces between the crates. "I spent four years fund-raising for the orchestra my late husband built, and another year transitioning the established foundation to run without me. After which, I was tired." He was watching his own handiwork with an expression Silver could only describe as falsely blank.

Something sat in Silver's mouth like orange pith. "That doesn't really explain choosing a complicated service job over other things."

"I worked for an HVAC company before-- Back a long time ago. The underlying principles have remained despite technological advances, and I needed to get out of office spaces. Thought about going back to-- Anyway, I like working with my hands." There was gunk on his fingertips and a lot of unexplained ends to his statements Silver really wanted to ask about.

Silver's instincts to prevent bodily harm -- his own -- finally kicked in, so he let the matter drop. "I hear you're friends with Hal Gates."

Flint brightened. "Yeah, we go way back. Great guy."

"And you know Billy."

Flint darkened. "Yes."

Intriguing, Silver thought. "Sounds like they have some interesting plans for the farm."

"They do at that."

"I'd love to hear your thoughts about gardening."

If Flint found that to be a non-sequitur, he didn't appear to mind. "It's supposed to snow six inches by morning."

"Last summer several customers expressed an interest in a community garden, and Max has been talking up the idea with Idelle and her other managers, gauging if they think it might be viable."

"Can't see why it wouldn't be viable, if it's set up correctly. You have an interest, I take it."

"Growing my own food is extremely appealing," Silver said. "In theory."

"Six inches of snow on the ground makes summer seem like a paradise. You forget about the mosquitoes, caterpillars, weeds, blights, too much rain, too little rain. Sunburn. But. It's a good idea. There's surely a need for it, in a town like ours. And learning to grow your own food's a skill that should serve you well." Flint nodded, like he was at least a little bit impressed. He stood up. "Give me that second board." Silver handed it over and Flint fitted it on top of the top crates. "That centered?"

Silver took a few steps back. "Yes."

"You don't want to check?" Flint toed the tape measure on the floor.

"Nah, it looks fine."

Flint let out a slow breath. His long-suffering face and his ready to bite face were the same face, Silver thought.

It was still a very good face.

"Nails," Flint commanded.

Silver was able to guess what that meant; he handed over the hammer and fed Flint nails one after another, and only three or four times did he think he was about to get a smashed finger for the trouble. In a few minutes the top board had been securely fastened to the crates and he suddenly owned a...funky rolling shelf unit thingamajig made entirely from upcycled trash. Classy all the way. Flint stood squinting at his own achievement with an expression that was half pleased, half regretful.

"I guess I should paint it," Silver offered, like that would make it less distasteful an object that existed in the universe.

"I kind of like it the way it is," Flint said, sounding surprised by the admission. He shook his head as if coming out of a fugue state. "Not that-- It's yours. You should do whatever you want with it."

"Soapbox derby, obviously."

"Yeah?"

"Gonna ride this baby all the way to small town glory." When Silver grinned at Flint, Flint smiled back before, Silver noted, he could help himself. "Or maybe I'll just put books on it." The smile on Flint's mouth faded but remained in his eyes. "You should stay for dinner," Silver said, "as a thank you. From me, I mean."

"I," Flint started. "What are you serving?"

That punched a laugh out of Silver. "There's leftover sweet potato-peanut butter stew in the fridge--" He stopped at Flint's wide horrified eyes. "Or I could call for pizza delivery."

Flint shuddered. "If you don't make me eat sweet potato-peanut butter stew I will pay for the pizza."

"I'm not going to make you eat anything," Silver said, already getting his phone out of his back pocket. "One extra large anchovy, pineapple, and mushroom coming up."

"Fantastic," Flint said, the way one might compliment an explosion that's leveled a children's hospital.

Silver grinned again and Flint, being Flint, sighed.

~

9 February

"So, you like this guy," Madi said. Somewhere on her end of the phone a bird whistled, for additional sound effect.

Mostly the conversation had consisted of Madi talking about her life, which was going well -- dissertation about to take her to South Africa for five months, new girlfriend, her parents were renewing their vows for their 25th anniversary -- and Silver saying, "Wow, congratulations" or "Right, right, uh-huh." He'd called because it was a mature thing to do, it had now been months since they'd last spoken, and she was one of his best friends; he was happy for her on some level floating high above his actual body. On planet earth he was just itchy and a little heartsick. He didn't know he'd said so much about Flint that Madi could draw any conclusions on his behalf.

"John?" Madi prompted.

Silver let himself think about Flint for a second, and oddly felt better. "We might be becoming friends."

"You are capable of being a very good friend."

"Well. I try." Silver queasily remembered all the people he'd left behind, one time, place, and disaster or another.

"Take care of yourself, and good luck with Thursday," Madi said. "I gotta run."

"'Bye."

Silver sat staring at the phone for a while after he'd disconnected. When he looked up Idelle, Joshua, and Max were all watching him with amused-concerned expressions from their various locations in the shop. The shop itself was teeming with red roses, glitter hearts, stuffed animals, novelty balloons, and chocolate everything (bars, boxes, body paints). Valentine's was nearly upon them. He bit back a hiccup of nausea.

"You couldn't have saved that call 'til you were home?" Idelle finally asked.

Silver ran a hand over his face.

"Friend, huh? He seems like an awfully generous friend to me," she said with a pointed look.

"There's a word for that," Joshua said.

"There's more than one word for that," Idelle said.

"Leave him alone," Max said. "Far be it from any of us to judge a private arrangement between two consenting adults."

"I am not trading sexual favors for a heated house," Silver protested.

"More than one way to keep a man warm at night." Idelle's voice had taken on a lilting quality to accompany her impish expression.

"We are just friends," Silver said.

"We know," Max soothed.

Joshua jabbed a card pick into a tulip arrangement like he was gigging for frogs at the bottom of the vase. "Why don't you just ask him out?"

Silver threw a sprig of grevillea at him. "Because that's not. He's not." His cheeks went pink. "And anyway, I'm not." His throat tightened.

Max wrinkled her forehead at him. "Not what?"

The shop door chimed right then, thank god, and Silver quickly took his leave to greet their customers.

Max's question hung in his mind all evening like a misheard song lyric.

~

11 February

The wildness of Flint's hair gave him the rugged air of an intrepid outdoorsman who'd traversed the barren wilds to arrive in Silver's kitchen with two toolboxes.

"I'm afraid to ask," Silver said, "what project you seem to think will require so many tools."

Flint looked abashed for a second, before picking up the smaller of the toolboxes and hefting it into Silver's hands.

"Thank you?" Silver said.

"One, your bathroom faucet leaks. Two, I was going through some boxes in my storage cage in the basement at my apartment complex," Flint said. "And I found a lot of duplicates of just standard household tools -- progressive screwdrivers, nails, hammer, that kind of thing."

Silver sat the box on the kitchen table. Its latch made a pleasing click when he flipped it up. Indeed, the box contained a Home Depot-esque treasure trove of the aforementioned, plus a tape measure, a small level, a baggie of loose screws, a plastic box of thumbtacks, green wire wrapped around a piece of cardboard, a wrench, a pair of pliers. Most of the items had seen some action. They were a bit dinged, or greasy; the putty knife had puttied before.

"Are these...mine?" Silver asked, a funny warmth in his lungs.

"If you'd like them," Flint nodded. "I've no need for them and you'd put them to good use, with all your various projects in progress." He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't not smiling either.

"You should add the cost to what I still owe--"

"It's a gift," Flint said.

Despite being willing, at times, to plead his own case, Silver and outright handouts were an uncomfortable combination. He felt something inexplicable, looking down at his newfound handyman windfall.

And then up at his, hmm, newfound handyman.

Except: that wasn't what Flint was. He was a creditor.

Silver spoke before he could talk himself out of it. "Well, thank you. A lot. This is super. This stuff will definitely be put to good use and I'm grateful to you for thinking of me."

Boy howdy, golly gee. Shucks, Mr. Flint. Silver walked away to the fridge before he could start flossing his teeth with hayseed. The cold from the fridge made his face feel better.

Like Flint had been thinking of him in any way other than that of a charity case. Get it fucking together, John.

He yanked two beers off the fridge's bottom shelf and handed one to Flint.

"Least I owe you," he said.

Flint took the bottle; his eyebrow wanted to say something, Silver could tell. That Flint's eyebrow didn't was gracious of it.

~

The next morning as Silver cleaned up in his less leaky bathroom he realized it was only Tuesday.

~

15 February

Pulling up in the driveway, Silver thought about how many times he'd come home to someone waiting on his front step, stoop, or porches over the years. If he subtracted Flint's visits, the number fell to one.

(Madi, the night she'd said, I'm sorry, but. He couldn't say what she'd said after that; all he remembered clearly was the hollowest feeling he'd ever known.)

Flint was sitting on the wooden church pew Rackham had won at an auction, which Silver had in turn won playing screw your neighbor. It was by no means the strangest object any of the regulars had wagered -- Anne's pendant of platinum and human teeth had been so off-putting people tried desperately to lose that hand -- and it gave the porch a sense of decorum it otherwise lacked. Or maybe it was Flint's mere presence that raised the elegance of the space. He wore a long dark blue coat and a somber expression, like a pastor about to rise and deliver a frightful sermon to an unworthy flock of sinful sheep-like congregants.

When Silver came up the stairs he saw a brown sack at Flint's feet. He also saw Flint's fidgety hands. Something in Flint's expression shifted, as if he were simultaneously fighting being glad to see Silver and actually glad to see him.

Like that isn't your own wishful thinking, Silver told himself.

"Beautiful weather we're having," he said. The air smelled like cold rain. "Did you bring reinforcements?"

"Of a sort." Flint stood and waited as Silver unlocked the door. "You survived yesterday."

Silver gave a little laugh. "It was brutal."

"I worked on a furnace yesterday and a delivery woman from your shop, I think, showed up with three dozen roses for the owner."

"Mrs. Gladstone!" Silver shook his hair out of a ponytail. "Those were the prettiest roses we had, too. Mr. Gladstone--"

"Elvis."

"Elvis Gladstone? God. Anyway. I heard he insisted on those pink ones, bless him. They had a scent and everything, like real roses are supposed to." Silver watched Flint take off his boots.

"My grandmother had a rose bush with roses like those," Flint said. "Big as a fist and the color of a sunset. Mrs. Gladstone was delighted with the bouquet, at any rate."

"I'm glad," Silver said. He thought fleetingly about asking how Flint's Valentine's had been and reeled himself back in.

The sack contents were revealed to be several rolls of foam weatherstripping. Flint looked at him.

"Not the 12-pack of lager I was hoping for," Silver said.

"What's the point in buying a higher efficiency furnace if all the warmth out is going to ooze out through terrible widows?" Flint said, tossing a roll at him.

Silver caught it and managed not to fall down in the process. "You say that like there are low efficiency furnaces being manufactured, and if there are you neglected to mention it." He tossed the roll back.

"This won't take an hour."

"It's Friday. Is there anything grimmer than weatherstripping some windows on a Friday evening?"

"Did you have plans?" Flint had his head tilted, like he was inquiring with genuine interest. He'd taken off his coat, underneath of which was a sweater the color of his eyes that looked soft enough to swaddle a baby in.

What if, Silver thought, I just stepped forward and buried my face in his chest?

What if I went back outside, climbed up on the roof, and threw myself off of it?

"Let's at least eat some food first," Silver said, lurching away from Flint toward the kitchen. He went and took the lid off the crock-pot on the counter. An aroma of spicy shredded chicken blasted out. "For burrito bowls." Off Flint's puzzled quirk he explained, "I forgot to buy burrito...burritos. You know, the wrappers."

"Ah."

Silver took out two bowls, heaped up two servings, and gestured for Flint to join him at the table. Flint hesitated a second, then sat, taking a napkin from the basket.

"Valentine's is stressful. You don't want to be the detail someone remembers for the wrong reason," Silver said. "Though I suppose that could be said for a lot of things. And to be fair, nothing's as stressful as a funeral or wedding. You have a big wedding?"

"No, it was a private ceremony at Thomas's sister's house," Flint said between bites. "We were in her backyard and all her dark red peonies were blooming."

"May?" Silver asked, when he was actually thinking, Thomas was Flint's dead husband's name.

It was a nice name.

"Twelfth," Flint said. He was eating like his wedding was nothing much to discuss; a wistful look had crept into his face. "Thomas said my hair clashed with the flowers, and he was correct, which we discovered when looking at photos a week later. The peonies were also full of ants, which we discovered when we cut a bouquet and stuck it on the picnic table for the wedding lunch."

"We buy peonies locally, when they're in season, and the ant slaughter at the shop is impressive," Silver said.

"This is really good," Flint said, smoothly changing the subject with his fork lifted up. "It's not going to kill me, is it?"

"This chicken cooked all day per instructions. If it kills you, it's on my ex. Don't take it personally; she was probably just trying to kill me."

"She have reason to want you dead?"

"Eh," Silver said, before smiling. "Nah. Our breakup was amicable."

See, there. The easiest of lies. His relationship with Madi had dissolved after rational decisions were made by logical, well-intentioned individuals who loved each other but whose romance had met the end of its road. If he didn't take too deep a breath, he wouldn't even feel the scars in his lungs, or the ones that seemed to have been scratched into the walls of his chest.

"How long's it been?" Flint asked quietly, interrupting the narrative running in Silver's head.

"Hmm?" Silver blinked at him. "Oh. Two years. Closer to two years than not." He'd spent two years reconciling himself to reality; not everyone got a home in this life, but he could create a corner of peace for himself, for awhile, and that would have to suffice. He felt Flint's gaze on him. He took a bite of chicken and chewed with determined thoroughness. Swallowed. "We're still friends. That's what's important."

Flint went back to eating. "You're friends with Rackham, I take it."

Silver couldn't place Flint's tone. "We've grown friendlier in the year or so I've been in town. This is technically his house, after all."

"You called it a hellhole one time."

"I'll have you know I filled up part of that hole with fresh new dirt just last night." Silver finished his bowl. "Give Rackham this much credit: he and Anne pulled out all the asbestos tiles and replaced the world's most frightening toilet before I got here. Vane -- you know Vane, right?"

"I do."

"Never heard him say more than five words per conversation."

"Me neither. Got into a fistfight with him once, however."

Silver lit up. "Tell me more."

"No."

Silver huffed. "Anyway, he painted, I think, and someone they all know named Sharpshoot ripped out the carpet, possibly with his bare hands, revealing these real wooden floors you see beneath your very feet. I spent five months prying up carpet staples and hand-sanding off the glue, which is why the boards look so shiny if you personally have some sort of degenerative eye disease."

Flint hid a smile by taking a drink of beer. "You're featured on Rackham's Instagram page currently."

Silver paused halfway to wiping his mouth on a napkin. "What does that mean?"

"Throwback Thursday, or something." There was something innocent in Flint's expression that made the hairs on the back of Silver's neck stand up. "Some Thursday last year someone must've thrown quite a party." When Silver didn't answer -- because he was busy trying to remember any parties from last year and there was nothing in his memory but tumbleweeds -- Flint said, "You did not seem to be suffering any pain. Or clothing, for that matter."

Oh fuck. That night at Vane's.

Would it be strange if I covered my whole head with this napkin, Silver thought. "Yes, well. As you should well know, sometimes air conditioners break."

For instance, when some tattooed bouncer named Rocko, devoid of a visible neck, pours a liter of tequila on an outdoor AC unit while yelling, "Motorhead forever!" Luckily or not that hadn't been the party's only bottle of Don Julio. The whole event was a decent example of why Silver rarely reached intoxication levels voluntarily unless he was lying on his own bedroom floor.

"These windows aren't going to weatherproof themselves," he said with an overabundance of mirth as he scooted back from the table.

("im going to murder u," he texted Rackham while Flint was opening up a roll of stripping. All Rackham sent in response was a kissy face emoji.)

~

He was still awake an hour after showering and climbing into bed. He'd tried to keep his hands at his sides and it was making him feel like a robot rusted into place. He knew Flint more nearly every day now, they were becoming friends, he shouldn't-- Fantasies are benign, he bargained. He was perfectly capable of envisioning something and remaining aware it wasn't true. He tugged off his pajamas; the sheets were cool against his bare skin, and the lube on his fingers, in his palm, cooler still.

His skin was hot, and ached. Everywhere he touched himself he thought of how basely he and Flint might mark each other. But this time, imagining such roughness made his stomach roil. He pictured undressing Flint, kissing every inch, lying between Flint's legs to kiss his mouth most of all; of straddling Flint, sheathing him in himself, of them slowly moving together, and pleasure coursing slippery and warm inside him. He came hard enough he hardly had time to wipe off his chest and stomach before falling asleep, his limbs trembling with guilt.

~

17 February

"I do not wish to further agitate you, but I can't help but think this winter, which is starting to feel infinite, is somehow a manifestation or perhaps even an extension of your mind, your darkest thoughts, your gravest fears -- your mood, at any given time, made measurable in inches of rain, ice, or snow -- and further I don't wish to add to your doldrums but I'm starting to resent these inclement powers of yours just the smallest amount," Silver accused.

Flint, growly confusion on his face, thumped up the porch steps heavily. At the door he let out a large breath. "Have you gone without food or water for an abnormal length of time?"

"How's that?" Silver followed him into the living room.

"You seem slightly deranged."

"It's after 1 a.m., so it actually has been many hours since I last ate, yes."

"It's--" Flint sat down on the couch like someone who had thought better of it on the descent. "I didn't realize it was so late." His fingers, pink like he'd recently scrubbed them with that gritty soap he favored, twisted around each other; there was smear of grease at his temple.

"Hard installation?"

"The old furnace was in the basement, which was only accessible from the outside. And in terms of cleanliness the stairway and basement both made your utility closet look like a microchip factory." Flint exhaled again. "Also, they had a doll collection." At Silver's chuff of laughter he shook his head. "Listen, these dolls lined the shelves by the furnace, hundreds of them, all of them sitting there, dead eyes facing out, little frilly bonnets and dresses covered in dust and spiderwebs."

"Creepy." Silver sat down beside him with his hands tucked under, to keep from taking Flint's in his own. "You gonna be able to sleep tonight or should I boil a pot a coffee?"

Flint just shuddered, as though he'd narrowly escaped with his life.

Silver had never in his life wanted to curl around someone so badly. Instead, he said, "I heard a piece your husband conducted on the radio this morning." He'd been searching for a local weather report on the radio in the bathroom, and an announcer's words, "Up next, the New London Ensemble conducted by the late great Thomas Hamilton," caused him to fumble his tube of toothpaste.

"Which piece?" Flint seemed sort of pleased.

Silver knew he was going to ask that. "Something Spanish? With clicky things?" He tapped his fingers together. "Clackers? It was very jaunty."

Flint smiled at the corner of his mouth. "Castanets. And yes, jaunty. Thomas's Madrid phase lasted a couple of seasons. He loved working with that group." He'd stopped fidgeting, and the way he looked at Silver seemed fond.

Residual fondness, Silver thought; fondness by proxy. At least mentioning Thomas hadn't been a massive blunder. He had no idea why Flint was here, on his couch at dark o'thirty, but that was all right. He'd take whatever scraps Flint had to offer. That wasn't hideously pathetic, right?

Don't answer that, Silver told himself.

"Oh," Flint said, sitting up like he'd remembered why he was visiting. "Did I leave an AC line splitter here?"

"It's sweet of you to assume that's something I'd be able to identify on sight." Silver took and let out his own dramatic breath. "But I haven't seen any obscure gadgets lying about. You're welcome to search around."

Flint looked at him for an oddly long beat, like maybe he could find the splitter on Silver's face.

He's so tired, Silver thought. If I covered him up with a blanket he'd fall asleep in a heartbeat.

"Well, I should go," Flint said finally. "Thanks for letting me check."

Exhausted, Silver thought. "Maybe you should crash here tonight."

Flint stretched out his left leg, the knee of which definitively popped in the process. "Nah. I've already imposed." He'd leaned back, snugged against the cushions. After he yawned, he closed his eyes and didn't open them again.

The little lines beside his eyes, and the freckles along his jaw, were the softest things Silver had ever seen.

You are such a goddamn idiot, he thought to himself. Acting like you wouldn't run for the hills the second he even considered wanting to be with you. (Ha. Running. Not your forte either, anymore.) It's just lust, and nothing wrong with that, theoretically, but don't feign you're a good guy here. Don't pretend you wouldn't turn it all to shit faster than he could split a line.

(Also, don't pretend you know what a fucking line splitter actually does.)

Flint had definitely fallen asleep. Silver took the blanket from the back of the couch and unfurled it over Flint's lap and his own. He snapped off the lamp on the end table. He wasn't prone to sleeping sitting up. Oh well. An arc of moonlight inched across the living room floor; he watched it for an hour or more, and listened to Flint breathe. Somewhere Silver fell asleep, and woke stiff-necked to an empty house, beneath the entirety of the blanket.

~

20 February

Flint walked into the shop around closing time. He had been on the job somewhere; even his beautiful coat was dusty. He plonked an electric drill down on the counter in front of Silver. Idelle's eyebrows climbed into her hairline as she passed by with a bucket of gladiolas.

"Excellent," Silver said, grinning. "Local solitary bees will thank you for your kindness in the weeks ahead."

"I should give you some instructions," Flint said.

"The instructions say I literally just drill holes into a block of wood, then hang it somewhere near a garden or flower bed."

"That seems easy enough," Flint said slowly, suspiciously.

Silver waited a beat. "I promise not to accidentally trepan myself." Flint didn't blink. "Or you could come home with me and drill the holes yourself." That sounded exactly as dirty out loud as he'd feared it would.

"Let's do that," Flint said.

He followed Silver to the house and as soon as they were stepping from their respective vehicles a monsoon was unleashed. They ran to the house -- Silver hadn't sprinted on his prosthetic in a while and ouch -- and nearly fell through the door. Too late: they could not have been more drenched than if they'd jumped in the bay. Rain sheeted down the windows and drummed on the roof like fists.

"This will be the ultimate test of your roofing skills," Silver said. He studied the ceiling where the water stain had been painted over. So far, all seemed dry and dandy.

"It'll hold," Flint said, not in boasting, just with confidence. He wiped his hands down his wet face and shook the water off his hands. A puddle had formed at his feet.

Ask, or no? Silver decided to risk it; it was a harmless question. "Would you like something more comfortable to change into?"

Flint paused in the middle of rubbing his hands together as if they'd gone numb. His expression was unreadable.

Silver rushed to explain, "That wasn't a propo-- You just look like you're freezing, and you're dripping wet, and it's too bad out for you to risk the roads at this point even if you wanted to leave already, so you may as well be dry and I have a few things that would fit. Technically they're some of Billy's clothes he left here a few weeks ago--"

Okay, Silver thought, watching Flint twitch at Billy's name, that could be misconstrued. But he forged ahead.

"--And anyway, you're welcome to them. And to stay as long as you need or want to, don't, I wasn't saying-- The roads probably are terrible right now but you're welcome to stay even after the storm lets up, not trying to rush you out." He made himself stop talking. For a second. He was aware of standing in his own puddle and of every single cold drop of water rolling down or off of his body.

Just stand there and wait for an answer, he told himself. When Flint didn't answer immediately, Silver added, "And don't worry, since this isn't a made for TV movie I'm not going to try to seduce you or anything," because his treacherous brain wanted to see if dying from mortification was scientifically possible.

He made himself not look at Flint.

He made himself look at Flint.

A peculiar thing happened: when he looked over, Flint looked down. Quickly. So quickly Silver almost hadn't seen that Flint had been looking at him, and that his face--

Silver stood very still in his puddle. Flint had almost, strangely, impossibly-- He'd almost looked like he was disappointed Silver said the thing about not trying to seduce him. If anything Flint was relieved there would be no kissing. It's not like Silver even wanted to seduce him. Well. He did. But he wasn't going to. Seducing him would be insane. Pushy. Akin to betrayal of whatever friendship there was between them.

"Dry clothes, then?" Silver heard himself say.

Flint half-smiled, still starting at his own spreading puddle. "Sure."

Ten minutes later, Silver was wearing a normal sized dry pair of sweatpants and a dry t-shirt and Flint looked like he'd been shrunk with an alien ray. Silver had tried hard not to laugh and failed, oh god how he failed. He was wheezing. Billy's sweater sleeves dripped down as far as Flint's knees, and the neckline dribbled off one shoulder. The cargo pant legs went past his ankles and out across the floor like snakes. On the plus side, Flint's hair was curling at the ends as it dried, giving him a rakish swashbuckler allure; his glare was pure malice.

"You shit," he told Silver, which only caused Silver to cry with laughter.

Flint's own laughter, a second later, was dearly gratifying.

In another hour:

"Hey, so." Flint was sweeping up sawdust. "I thought I should give you credit for something."

"What's that?" Silver was the person brushing the sawdust out of newly drilled holes in a block of wood with a tiny paintbrush.

"Walrus Heat & Air has officially contracted with the town of Averyville to take on special cases, for certain residents who need a furnace repaired or replaced in an emergency." Flint pushed a pile of sawdust into a dustpan. "Monty has a contract for the public housing concerns, all that, but Eleanor, er, Mayor Guthrie agreed there are sometimes cases that fall outside of the bureaucratic perimeters for public assistance, and while the local utilities have relief programs, sometimes there are still unmet needs."

Silver stared. "How--"

"There was some money," Flint said, "in an account. Long story short, I bankrupted Thomas's father getting that money."

"Whoa," Silver breathed. "That sounds impressive."

"It was," Flint said shortly. "It was also." He was paying a lot of attention to the sawdust. "Not entirely kosher."

"Thomas's father's money, or how you wrested it from him?"

"Both."

"Ah." Silver's mind bubbled with questions he was wise enough not to ask.

(He hated being wise enough not to ask.)

"The money felt too tainted to use. Or maybe I felt too tainted." Flint paused. "No. I definitely don't regret crippling Alfred Hamilton. In a manner of speaking." He looked over as if to check he hadn't offended.

Silver waved the paintbrush to say, No offense taken.

"I invested the funds and pretty much left them alone, anyhow, and the assets grew, over the years, and I'm in a position to put them to what will be a good use culled from a bad situation. Gates is going to work with me again since the farm isn't planting as much this year, and we think we can hire two or three apprentices."

Silver perked up.

"Not you." Flint slapped his hands together over the trash can. "But. Your situation--"

"Ongoing situation."

"--was the seed for the concept. In some ways, it's just a band aid, but practically speaking it's difficult for people to change their lives, much less their communities, if they're freezing to death. And hopefully, by June or July we'll also have an aid infrastructure set up for people who need air conditioning. So. It's a start."

Silver sat with this news. His eyes burned. Eventually he could speak in a normal voice. "It sounds like a much needed program." He wanted to say, Thomas would be proud of you, but he wasn't brave enough. "So you're saying my furnace slate has been wiped clean."

"No."

"Damn."

Flint rolled his eyes as he stood up.

~

22 February

Silver woke to his phone buzzing.

A text from Flint: "Having dinner w Miranda out of town tonight. Will see you next week."

"no worries," Silver texted back.

He then proceeded to worry about everything all day, like a grade A loser.

~

23 February

Silver and Joshua were cleaning up a lawsuit's worth of greenery shed in the process of making new casket saddles when Anne came into the shop after lunch trailing Rackham and Vane behind her like tetchy overgrown toddlers. While Anne made a beeline for Idelle, Rackham nodded hello to Silver and Joshua and went to take a phone call in the part of the store where the house plants for sale lined the windows. Joshua dragged the large waste cans and pans out to the back, and Silver could hear him saying hi to Charlotte, one of their delivery people who was loading up the van for the afternoon shift.

Vane was left to his own devices. He never ceased to look out of place in the store, in part because though it was winter he was just barely wearing a shirt and partly because he was obviously baffled by the existence of, in no particular order, flowers, alive or dead, lotions, artwork, kitchen linens, greeting cards, pottery, and jewelry that didn't feature dragons. It was somewhat hard to picture him even eating with utensils; when he picked up a tea cup it was with the puzzlement of someone who had only in passing even heard about tea, and decided it was something only pussies drank.

Silver leaned his broom against the checkout counter and walked over. He broke open one of the boxes of bourbon balls Vane was squinting at -- Silver could vouch for the candies being less ball and more bourbon -- and pried out one piece.

Vane took it like he was being handed a turd.

"Just eat it," Silver said.

Vane put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed, staring down Silver the whole time. He swallowed. "They're okay."

Silver half nodded, half shook his head in silent wonder.

Rackham wandered over, looking interested. "Are we sharing?" The three of them stood there demolishing the rest of the box. "Mr. Silver here has of late made the acquaintance of Mr. Flint," Rackham told Vane, "and it seems to have flourished into an intriguing partnership."

Silver said, "I wouldn't go so far--"

"He's a wily one, is he not?" Rackham said. "Our Mr. Flint." He had a crafty look about him. "An upstanding businessman, a respected and productive member of the community. No malefactor he."

Vane smirked. "Lay off."

"It strikes me as surprising and, yet, not surprising at all that you and he have fallen into each other's orbit," Rackham said to Silver. "But perhaps you are not so very different as you might first appear on the surface."

Max had never told Rackham anything specific about Silver; Silver knew that, if only because he'd never told Max many hard and fast details of his former lives. Whatever Rackham believed about him, Rackham had deduced. Silver wondered if it was the same for Flint, and then just as quickly decided he did not want to know. Knowing too much could be just as bad as knowing too little, Silver had discovered plenty of times.

"You seem more villainous than usual, Jack," he said. "Are you feeling well?"

Vane gave Rackham a sideways glance. "He's okay."

Rackham looked back, just a split second of eye contact; it struck Silver suddenly that there was some...something between Rackham and Vane that he had failed to notice before, and it surely showed in his own expression, because Rackham cleared his throat.

Anne stalked over, take-away bag in hand. "She's at the inn today."

Lasagna fumes wafted out of the bag and clashed with the chocolate in Silver's mouth. "Max might stop by on her way home, if you want to leave that for her."

"It's lunch," Anne said, like Silver was simple, "and we'll take it to her right now."

"She'll be happy to see you," Silver said in his most ingratiating manner.

Anne glared. Rackham smiled. Vane was still looking around as though he'd fallen into a hellscape. Anne clawed Rackham away from the last chocolate and Vane followed.

"Cheers," Rackham called out as they left.

A scent of garlic left in Anne's wake hit Silver exactly the wrong way as the door slammed shut behind them. He made it to the stool behind the register and sat before he could fall down. In the back Idelle and Joshua were talking about Charlotte's crazy delivery yesterday, to a lady whose husband had sent flowers for his mistress to the wrong address, i.e. the house where he lived with his wife, who was home, but for a moment Silver's brain interpreted the chatter as the white noise of customers and coworkers at Chunk o' Cheez, and there was no way to stop the reminiscence from flooding over him.

Madi, seated on the bench in the employee locker room, her lips pressed together, her eyes filled with tears. They were already over, living apart; this was the last time he'd see her for months. She was going to go everywhere, do everything, change the world, and he was supposed to want to go with her. He'd moved two dozen times, had twenty jobs, been all over the place, scraped and stolen and survived; what was more of the same with someone he loved? Why didn't he want that? What the fuck was wrong with him? She'd offered him more than anyone else ever would, and he could change. He could be enough.

He braved looking at her, the only courage he'd had to show her in such a long time, and worked hard to speak without crying. "I'm sorry."

"We're both going to be fine." Madi waited until, Silver guessed, she thought he wouldn't try to impale himself on his plastic sword, then rose, royal and elegant, keeping hold of his hand.

Dobbs yelled "Shiver my timbers!" out in the dining room and kinda killed the mood.

"If you were a no-good pirate," Madi said, letting go of Silver's hand, "I would've followed you anywhere."

And there at the end, she'd smiled. She'd kindly fibbed about following him anywhere, but she did have a wonderful smile.

He let that be the end of the trip down memory lane. He was on his fifth or sixth slow intentional breath when Rackham came back into the shop, walked up, and dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter.

"For the bourbon balls," Rackham explained, with an out of character apologetic tint to his voice. Back at the door, he stopped, hand on the handle. "You and Flint," he said, with a thoughtful expression. "I can imagine you might be good for one another."

Before Silver could reply, Rackham had fled back into the rare afternoon sunshine.

~

24 February

Silver's poverty, and therefore his limited furniture ownership, proved useful when hosting an informal gathering of community garden prospects. He'd borrowed some folding chairs and a six foot table from Joshua, and their inclusion to his living room plus a baker's dozen more people than usually present filled up the space comfortably.

Sunday's turnout was, he'd admit, more than he'd hoped for, and entertaining in its composition. On the couch sat Leslie and two other frequent shop visitors, Stella and Bev. They were collectively around 276 years old. Nearby were middle-aged couples the Patels and the Garcías, and two unrelated teenagers with a questionable number of facial piercings. Billy and Ben were leaning against a living room wall, chatting and munching peanuts. Added to the mix were Anne, who'd forgone her typical scowl to tuck into a heaping plate of nachos, and Rackham, who was eyeing the queso like its existence dismayed him.

"Would a crudité platter not have sold this whole concept more elegantly, dear John?" he sniffed.

"It's the end of February. But Leslie brought some homemade buttermilk biscuits and some blackberry jam she put up herself last July, if that should suit you better," Silver said.

Idelle and Max arrived with a minute to spare, and the meeting was called to order.

"What we're thinking is," Billy started, "we'd like to petition the town for a zoning change that would allow a two-acre plot on the corner of mine and Gates's property -- the southeast corner of Elm and Gravel Roads -- to be used as a community garden. Two years ago there was corn grown on that plot, and last year alfalfa; the soil should be in pretty good shape. It drains well, and we'd let the town tie into the irrigation system that's already in place."

Max picked up, "I have access to a variety of sources and contacts for seeds, fertilizer, and a few tools at a wholesale rate. Families, households, businesses, or individuals who participate get a share of the output, and the rest will be donated to a local food bank or otherwise distributed to those who are food insecure through a system we haven't devised yet."

"You're going to have a preliminary meeting with Mayor Guthrie?" Flint asked.

Silver, startled by Flint speaking (by Flint being there at all), fumbled a black olive, which rolled across the floor, where it was eaten by Bev's miniature poodle Lulubelle. "We left a message yesterday with her personal assistant."

"As some of you may know," Max said, eyeing Flint warily, "our mayor and I do not always agree on matters of policy. But I do believe she will be open to this idea."

"And if she is," Silver said, "we'd draft a formal proposal."

Flint said, "I think she'll be amenable to the concept, but she's also been under a good amount of pressure lately to cater to other interests."

"We don't even have a local farmers' market," Anne stated. "Would anyone lose anything if people grew a tiny percentage of food or flowers in a community garden?"

"Of course not. But that's not why there might be objections," Flint said.

"More about who's in line, who has the mayor's ear?" Max asked.

"Likely," Flint said.

"Well, then we get in line," Bev said. She'd polished off a bowl of queso and was spooning jam onto her third biscuit. "It's about time this town had something as simple, as sensible, as a community garden. Two acres! My mother single handedly took care of that much land every evening after a twelve-hour shift at the shipyard."

The meeting broke up in another thirty minutes, with Flint planning to call Eleanor directly in the morning. Billy looked unenthused by his participation but remained cordial. The next meeting would be held at the flower shop a week from Tuesday, and everyone agreed more blackberry jam wouldn't go to waste. Idelle talked asparagus horror stories with the Patels, while Stella and one of the teenagers bonded over what sounded like an extensive heirloom seed collection they had each accumulated.

Silver found himself up to his elbows in suds at the kitchen sink while Flint took drying duty. Everyone else had gone home. Flint kept looking over his shoulder at something, as if he expected someone to pop out from under the couch. The fourth time he did it he'd worked up a frown.

Silver said, "What are you--"

"Where did you get that painting in there?" Flint asked.

"Oh. I forgot that was up," Silver said. The large oil painting of an argosy on choppy water just beyond a wet beach was framed in rustic cherry and had decorated the inside of Silver's bedroom closet for months. "I put it up with my trusty new hammer and nails." He didn't mention how many nail holes he'd made while attempting to hang up the damn thing, since the painting covered them all up. The power of art, Silver thought. He'd liked the colors.

"Where did you get it?" Flint looked like a ghost had passed over his grave, Silver realized.

"Trillium's, last year. It was in one of those booths Joji runs, specializing in estate sales. Why?"

"I painted it," Flint said, stalking over to it.

Silver gaped at him. "Beg pardon?"

"It was mine. Those are my initials." Flint pointed to the tiny JMH inked in below a kelp-covered rock. Silver went over to see. "James McGraw-Hamilton."

"Uh," Silver said intelligently.

"James McGraw, Thomas Hamilton," Flint said, like it explained anything.

Silver's mind spun. "You changed your name when he died?" he asked, before he could help himself.

Flint shrugged, started walking back to the sink, his shoulders slumped. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"I don't know how the painting wound up at Trillium's," Silver said, "I swear. You should take it back--"

"No, no. That's not necessary," Flint said. "It must've been in the house when Thomas's father..." He trailed off, studying the damp tea towel in his hands. He looked up when Silver crossed back to the kitchen.

"Wow. So, you, like, went through some hardcore shit when Thomas died, huh?" Silver opened his eyes very wide so Flint would know he was taking the piss.

Flint gave a little huff. "Now that you know my real name your life may be in danger."

"I'll take my chances," Silver said, since he wasn't the only one who could take the piss.

"I'm glad you ended up with the painting," Flint said. "Though a landfill would've been appropriate too."

"Is that a crack about my house?"

"No."

"You should just go ahead and move in anytime," Silver joked. "This parceling stuff out -- in? -- is weird. Also, we might live in the smallest county on earth, I dunno." He cleared his throat and put his hands back in the soapy water, to prevent himself from doing anything stupid with them. "It's a good likeness of a ship," he continued. "You will not be surprised to learn I know little about the Age of Sail other than it was a long time ago and sometimes there were pirates."

"Well," Flint said, "you're not wrong."

"I paid ten bucks for that painting and if you don't mind me saying so I believe you have at least ten dollars' worth of talent."

"Thank you," Flint said, tone desert dry. He had narrowed his eyes the way he did when he was trying not to find Silver amusing. He stood a little closer, until his arm and hip were brushing against Silver's again, and remained that way for the duration of the washing up.

For just a minute more Silver let himself imagine it meant something, anything. Then he changed the subject, and moved away.

~

The next night at 9:15 someone knocked on his front door.

"Hello," Flint said, smiling bright as noon.

"Hi." Silver didn't manage to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Come in."

Flint's two steps through the door were very faintly wobbly. He was also dressed in a hoodie -- Silver would've bet money he didn't own a hoodie, much less would be caught dead wearing one outside -- and pair of navy blue flannel pj pants. Now those, Silver conceded, were pretty swanky. For pjs. That Flint had worn clear across town, at night.

On a bike. A 10-speed was leaning against the porch rail.

Silver peered at him while Flint divested his sneakers.

"Nice evening?" Silver asked.

"Bracing." Flint rubbed his hands together. He smelled like cold air and bourbon.

Silver could bottle that scent and become a millionaire. In the meantime, though...

"Did it help?" Silver moved to fetch him the throw from the couch.

"What?"

"Biking over here in the dark and bitter night." Silver kept his tone light. "Sober you right up?"

He had the throw in his hands and decided to take another tactic. Flint had sort of propped himself against the kitchen counter; the expression on his face was one of a man who'd discovered the floor was the type he might find in a wacky funhouse -- tilted, polka-dotted, tiled with disco ball mirrors.

"Hey," Silver said, approaching quiet and calm to touch Flint's elbow. "Why don't you come lie down?"

"Hmm?" Flint was staring at him with glossy green eyes. Silver had to shake off the desire to just let himself be hypnotized by them.

"Come on." Silver took him down the hall to his bedroom. He'd left a jar candle burning and the little room smelled of mulled apple cider.

"Mmm," Flint said, letting Silver lead him.

Silver wondered if he should be legit worried. He pushed back the quilt, blanket, and top sheet. "Clean," he said, patting the mattress. "Changed the sheets this morning." Flint gave him a look. "Okay, I was in here for maybe thirty minutes reading. They're still clean sheets, though, since I've had a bath."

Way to brag, buddy, Silver thought, cringing inwardly.

Flint was leaning on him, like the journey from kitchen to bedroom had been arduous.

"Here." Silver helped him climb in and covered him up with the linens.

Flint sat propped against Silver's three giant pillows. He turned his face to one and inhaled slowly, eyes closed, like he was indulging in some scent he found there. Or like he was fighting a wave of nausea.

"Stay right there." Silver ducked out into the bathroom at record speed, with a fleeting thought to how nimble he'd become with his crutch, and fetched the small waste can from under the sink to place beside the bed. "No judgements. Just. Try to hit the can as best you can if you need to vomit."

Flint opened his eyes and kept staring. Finally he smiled, small and pleased. "I'm not gonna puke."

"Yeah?" Silver breathed out a laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Gonna hold you to that."

Flint looked marginally less ill than he had a minute ago. Definitely drunk. Maybe a little fixated. He seemed to be fascinated by Silver's hair. Inebriation plus candlelight probably flattered better than any styling goop Silver could've afforded. That, or the combination made him look like he had a head full of wriggling worms.

"So, you were just taking a leisurely bike tour and decided to come see me."

"I was coming to get my weekly payment," Flint said, a touch of the old sternness back in his voice, "and then remembered today was only Wednesday."

"Ah, the most crushing sort of disappointment, thinking it's Friday when, no, Wednesday."

Flint hummed, his eyelashes catching gold as his eyes closed, and opened, and closed, and opened. And closed.

I'll let you sleep, Silver thought, but Flint opened his eyes again.

"What'd you say?" Flint asked.

"I didn't say anything. You were falling asleep on me," Silver chided.

"Oh." Flint blinked at him a couple more times.

"Hey." Silver took a breath. "You want to tell me why you were drinking so much tonight? You don't have to tell me, but if you wanted to, you could."

Flint frowned, and blinked, and stared, like Silver was puzzling. Like Silver was amazing, for having asked something accidentally important. "He'd have been forty today," he said slowly. "Thomas."

Silver's throat seemed to close up. "So it's his birthday," he made himself say. He felt like he was speaking from the other side of the moon, in a too breezy voice. His Pirate Adventure voice. "Tying one on in memorial, huh? He'd have appreciated that?"

"Thomas was a one glass of red wine with a steak once a quarter kind of drinker." Flint looked a bit embarrassed. "Although we did polish off a bottle of champagne the night we got married." He scratched his ear. "I don't... He wouldn't have recommended anyone else do that. Breakfast the next day was an experience. We had a good time anyway. We always had a good time," he repeated, looking away.

"Sounds like it," Silver said.

"He would've loved this whole thing about a community garden. Right up his alley."

"He liked to garden?"

"Well, in containers. Herbs, mostly. Nightshades in the summer. He was big on statement bouquets also, that was a line item in his budget at the orchestra office. Fresh cut flowers for the receptionist every Monday. Bless Beth's heart. Sunflowers, irises, daisies or stargazers, 52 weeks a year."

Silver knew from personal experience being trapped in a small space with even a single stargazer and its sickly scent was heinous, so for Beth's sake he also hoped she had enjoyed the bouquets.

Flint had closed his eyes yet again, though he was still thrumming his fingers on the quilt top.

"It's dumb. He'd be mortified at my behavior -- he didn't care one whit about birthdays."

"Forty might've changed his mind. Isn't forty when the mid-life crises hit? Maybe he'd have danced 'til dawn and then bought a sports car to prove his virility."

Flint's eyebrows said that issue, of Thomas's virility, had never been one in question. "Maybe," he said anyway. "He did like good food, and old books, and going to the theatre, which with his schedule at the orchestra didn't happen that often, unless he was in the production." Flint went quiet for a moment. "He liked being married. I don't think he regretted much. That wasn't how he lived."

There were dark circles under his eyes, and Silver was nearly knocked back by the urge to press his mouth to them. "I'm sorry he's gone," he chose to say instead.

Flint turned his cheek to the pillow. "Me too."

He'd fallen asleep. His hands were still.

Silver watched him for another minute, the rise and fall of his chest. Flint looked young and more defenseless. It made Silver feel responsible for him, protective, like if someone had burst through the door just then he could've strangled them, no hesitation. He felt that realization like Billy had walked in, handed him a 100 pound barbell, and commanded, Hold this for the rest of time.

Stupid boy, he told himself. Flint doesn't feel the same way even a little, so you need to let this go. He made himself stand up. He went over and blew out the candle.

"You can stay in here too," Flint murmured. He yawned. "You should stay in here too, it's your bed."

"You're my guest," Silver argued, moving back. "You slept for sixty whole seconds. Now see if you can do it for one-twenty in a row."

Flint opened his eyes. His hand found Silver's. "You should stay in here too," he repeated softly. His eyes glittered in the dim light from the hallway.

Such a mistake, Silver thought, his throat stinging as he leaned more heavily on his crutch. But what's one more in a lifetime of them.

"Move over," he said.

Flint scooted back, taking one of the pillows for his own use. He'd already made the bedclothes warm; Silver shivered to climb in under them, the heat from Flint's body also seeming to surround him with Flint curled on his side, facing Silver.

Silver rubbed his eyes. It was late and he needed to be in the shop by 8 a.m. Stop dwelling, he thought. He came to you because you're safe. Stop wishing for this, for this...thing you can't have. Flint was watching him as if he were talking, as if he wanted Silver to be talking. Silver hoped he wouldn't wake up with too bad a hangover.

A sharp stab splintered down Silver's leg. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily.

"Cramp?" Flint asked, sounding fully awake and concerned, pulling down the covers.

"Yes," Silver exhaled on a ripping wave of pain. He clutched at his leg, trying to find the spot where it would hurt the least to press down.

"All right," Flint soothed, chasing Silver's hands away. "Here?" He pressed his thumbs down in little circles, taking direction as Silver guided his hands lower. Flint massaged the meat of Silver's thigh down to the scar. Silver tried to focus on the stiffening, temporary agony of the cramp until it was something he could almost clutch in his hand, a piece of broken glass gingerly held.

Another breath; another breath. The twitching muscle began to unclench in Flint's hands.

"There," Flint said, "there."

"Thank you," Silver whispered, sniffing. He was shaking a little. "Hasn't done that in a while."

Flint still had his hands on him, was still easing out the ache. He was so near. Even in such low light Silver could tell his face was full of empathy and sadness. It was far too hard to look at. Silver closed his eyes, and reached down to move Flint's hands away.

"It's better now," Silver said. "Thanks." His pulse was racing, the taste of adrenaline and tears burnt at the back of his throat. He kept his eyes shut tight.

"Okay." Flint didn't do or say anything else for a long moment. Then he brought the blankets up again, covering Silver too. "Goodnight."

"'Night," Silver said, wishing to be unconscious as fast as possible.

Neither of them fell asleep easily.

~

Flint was gone when Silver woke before dawn. Silver willed himself back to sleep.

~

And was awakened by nine rapid fire texts from Idelle, which culminated in "can u take today off and work inventory sunday?"

"yes," he sent, flopping back down on the bed. He tried to justify staying there and succeeded.

~

After dinner he finally bathed and put on clean pj flannels and a t-shirt, and sat in the living room making check marks in a couple of catalogs of seeds: purple dragon carrots, English cucumbers, yellow finn potatoes, pattypan squash, baby broccoli, chocolate tomatoes, parsley, paprika peppers. He was considering going back to bed when there was a knock. One peek out the window, and Silver took a deep breath and held open the door. Flint carried in a large cardboard flat, in which were seated five glazed pots of freakishly healthy herbs. Spiky chives, a veritable forest of rosemary, sage, fragrant lavender; enough basil for two gallons of pesto. The pots had been hand-painted in shades of blue and turquoise that seemed to reflect a churning ocean that must've existed somewhere on the other side of the world.

Flint set the lot down on the kitchen counter and looked at Silver with an expectant expression.

Silver touched a smooth basil leaf. "Are you. Are these. For me?" He hadn't meant to sound so gobsmacked, or nervous.

Flint nodded. "If you'd like them."

"Where did they come from?" Silver was struggling not to feel overwhelmed.

"Miranda."

"I'd like to meet Miranda someday," Silver said.

"She'd like that too," Flint said, smiling at the corner of his mouth. "Anyway, she's moving--"

"Before I even get to meet her?"

"--to a new condo. She's downsizing. Soul searching, she said, and she's decided she's giving up being keeper of the herbs."

"Is that an official appointment of some sort?"

"They were Thomas's," Flint said. When Silver didn't respond -- couldn't respond for wondering whether Flint really remembered anything from the night before -- he continued, "Thomas killed at least five houseplants annually for I don't know how long. Miranda used to say he was a harbinger of despair for all living things brought into the house, woe to the peace lily. And then one March he managed to grow, from seed, and keep alive these five herbs, in these pots we bought when we were on vacation. It was an Easter miracle, according to Miranda. Or a passover miracle. Or a baseball spring training miracle; whichever you prefer.

"He doted on them, which, how to say nicely, I thought was kind of nuts. But endearingly so," Flint said. "When he died, Miranda took them because I was not in a position to keep up with them." He shook his head, as if to dislodge some memory he didn't want to relive.

His eyes were-- Silver couldn't describe them; he was spellbound, and heartbroken, all at once.

"Anyway, Miranda says her memorialization has been fulfilled, and she, and I, were wondering if you'd like to have the plants now." Flint blinked. "I should emphasize, you're not obligated to keep them alive, they're only herbs--"

"I will absolutely keep them alive," Silver said fiercely, "how dare you imply I won't?" But he smiled to temper his words, and hoped his voice wasn't really as rough sounding as it had been in his ears.

Flint held his gaze. Silver could see his relief and palpable happiness.

"They are just herbs," Flint said again. "No pressure."

"I'll take good care of them," Silver said. "I promise."

It was maybe the silliest possible declaration to make with such gravity, if Silver pretended he was talking about an herb garden.

Flint started opening up the other item in the flat, an insulated lunch bag. He brought out a jar of what appeared to be cut up strawberries and another jar of something white. "Have you had dessert?"

Silver moved to take out two bowls. "Is that marshmallow cream in there?"

"Just regular cream."

"Hmm."

Flint tipped his head. "You pour the cream over the strawberries."

"Okay." Silver tipped his own head. "Strawberries aren't in season."

"That's why these have sugar on them. Also, eating only foods in season is boring. We'd all have scurvy here if we only did that. Besides, strawberries are fruit, cream is...proteinish. This dish is practically a health food." Flint divided the ingredients between the two bowls. Silver popped spoons in each. "I spoke with Eleanor, by the way. Meeting's scheduled at her office for March 27th; anyone who wants to attend can."

"Did she seem malleable about the idea?" Silver walked towards the living room.

"Yes." Flint grinned. "She's also about thirty seconds from a divorce."

"Hey, way to gloat."

"If her husband disappeared tomorrow no-one would miss him."

"I'll take your word for it. Remind me not to get on your bad side," Silver said, sitting down on the couch, "more than I already have."

Flint sat down right beside him, leaving no space between them.

Just a couple of dudes hangin' out, Silver thought, havin' some dessert. He tried a spoonful of strawberries. "This is tasty."

"You sound like you expected it not to be," Flint commented.

"It's just. Strawberries and cream. Fresh. Very fresh. And sweet? But not too sugary. It's like the fancy equivalent of how I used to eat a plate of Cheetos with peanut butter right off the spoon; this dish is that level of easy." Silver couldn't look at Flint and talk, not when he knew Flint was about to laugh. "Who invented this? Was someone passing a strawberry to someone else and dropped one in a bowl of cream that was just sitting there, and they said, 'Kismet'?" He chanced turning his head to Flint; his pulse jumped. "Tastes likes spring, doesn't it? For some reason I wasn't expecting it to taste like melted strawberry ice cream, but I guess that's essentially what strawberries and cream, um. Is."

Silver shut the hell up, noticing how steadily Flint was watching him. Flint took his bowl away and sat it and his own down on the floor.

Oh? Silver thought.

Flint sat back up and reached for Silver's hand. His eyes drifted to Silver's mouth; his thumb memorized the map in Silver's palm.

Please, Silver thought. Please let me.

He leaned into Flint and pressed his mouth against his once, and pulled back.

"Is that it?" Flint asked. His eyes were very green.

Silver traced his thumb across the fleshiest part of Flint's lower lip, watching how Flint inhaled as if he felt even that lightest touch everywhere, and Silver leaned forward again, replacing his thumb with his mouth, thrilling to the way Flint opened for him, the wet heat of his tongue slipping soft against his. One of them, or both of them, made a sound of delight, a breath caught, and Silver thought, please, please. Flint kissed him with Silver's head in his hands like Silver was something precious, like he was asking please too.

Silver climbed into his lap to straddle him and their kisses deepened until he had to pull away to take a breath. Flint nipped at his mouth but let him.

Silver tried to find a path back through his lust muddle to coherency. "Would you like to go out sometime?"

The smile in Flint's eyes nearly unraveled Silver. "You know we've sort of been dating this whole time, right?"

He waited while the words sprang around in Silver's brain like a bucket of bouncy balls poured on a concrete floor.

"Yes?" Silver said. He could tell Flint was trying to be patient. "I guess I didn't realize you were plying me with the traditional Averyville courting gifts of furnaces and herbs."

Flint's mouth went sly. "Also that toolbox."

Silver quirked an eyebrow. "Bribery works."

At that Flint did look a little discomfited. "That's not--"

Silver kissed him quiet, and pulled away again with a satisfied smile. Flint stroked a thumb down his jaw and studied him, all the adoration Silver had willfully misread showing on his face. Silver slid his fingers into Flint's hair; the next kiss was softer, as Flint tightened his hands on Silver's hips. Soft kisses became a contrast to how fucking hard they both were in their respective pants, and how much Silver wanted to learn everything that would make Flint speechless.

He said, "Would you like to--"

"Yes, please."

"Good," Silver gasped, with Flint sucking at his throat.

"Mrgh," Flint said, grimacing as Silver tried to lever himself off the couch without maiming either of them in the process.

Sitting on the edge of his bed Silver unstrapped his prosthetic, which he'd only put back on in the first place out of the misguided notion, earlier, that he might stay awake and be productive for a few hours. Alternately, helping Flint unbutton his jeans and get out of a sweater was a form of extreme productivity. Flint reciprocated by tugging off Silver's pjs and rucking up his t-shirt; Silver was on his back before the shirt actually came off completely, both of them laughing at the tangle of his hair getting in the way of any suavity.

Flint fit on top of Silver and between his legs so well Silver closed his eyes against the sensation of it for a moment, his mouth pressed to Flint's shoulder and his hands clutching at him like he was falling.

"Shh," Flint said against his mouth, and gave a small gasp as Silver massaged him down to his buttocks. "Do we need to use anything?" he asked.

Silver blinked up at him. "Oh. I haven't been tested since I was with Madi." He bit his lip. "But. There hasn't been anyone since Madi either. You?"

"Tested clean a month ago."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm," Flint said, kissing him again. "Is there anything else we need to discuss before we go any further?" He rolled off to the side and brought Silver's leg with him, rubbing his hip.

Silver's mind whited out somewhat while he tried to think of how to say what he wanted to say. "I've not been. Like this. With a man in a long time." His words trailed to a whisper.

Flint went still, looking at Silver, searching his eyes. Silver didn't look away, though his breaths became shallow.

"I know," Flint said, very gently.

Silver ran the flat of his hand up along Flint's sternum, stroking him there and feeling him almost vibrate in response. Oh this chest, with its watercolor freckles and dusting of ginger hair; it was genuinely the most mesmerizing chest Silver had ever touched. "Anything you don't know?" he said, hoping Flint would take it for the permission it was.

Flint kissed Silver's earlobe, like he was only just able to keep from biting him there. "I don't know how you taste," he said, easing his fingertips down the center of Silver's chest and lower, until his scorching touch was curling around Silver's cock.

"Ohhhh-kay," Silver said, and rolled back over on his back.

Flint's mouth was so much warmer than his hand had been, and there was nothing tentative in the way he figured out what Silver liked best; little wisps of fire radiated down Silver's legs and up the tender undersides of his arms into his palms as Flint took him in. Silver put his hands in Flint's hair to try and ground himself, breathing through and arching into the rhythm Flint set, listening to the softest wettest noises of his sucking, the sounds of Flint's pleasure that Silver found himself greedy for, unable to prevent his own cries as he came. Flint kept his mouth on him, lapped up every spent drop. He began to climb back up into Silver's arms with kisses on his belly, his hardened nipples, his clavicle, along his throat and jaw, until his mouth was on Silver's again and Silver could savor the bitterness there.

"Hi." Silver pushed Flint over a little, to be able to work a hand between them. "Show me," he said, feeling bolder with the slick silk of Flint's huge hard cock in his fist.

Flint covered Silver's fist with his hand at first, but Silver learned quickly; Flint wrapped his fingers around Silver's wrist, as if to feel the tendons there at work. It was almost unbearably intimate, as they watched each other. Silver broke, because the sight of his task was itself too gorgeous to pass up. After just a few minutes Flint was striping Silver's stomach with come, gasping laughter until Silver kissed him through the last of it.

"God," Flint whispered.

Silver stroked his wet hand down Flint's chest. Flint shivered and looked vulnerable for a moment, some fragility around his eyes Silver wanted to kiss away.

"Stay tonight," Silver said and Flint nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

Silver reached behind him and found his discarded t-shirt to wipe them both down with. Flint was already almost asleep, his eyelashes copper against his cheeks. Silver pressed a faint kiss to each eye before pushing his head under Flint's chin. Flint wrapped his arms around him, then startled. Silver made a questioning sound and rolled away a little.

Flint tucked and tugged the quilt around them, until they were burrowed up in it. He massaged Silver's stomach and down his hip and leg. "No cramp?"

"None." Silver had never felt the absence of pain more profoundly than at this moment. He made another small noise as Flint put the pad of his thumb gently beneath Silver's left eye.

"This freckle," Flint said, moving forward, "this one perfect little freckle right here." He kissed the spot and then Silver's mouth. His eyes were bright again like he'd passed through that immediate post-orgasm instinct to fall into a coma. "May I ask you something?"

His polite tone, as though they were sitting in a cafe or classroom, made Silver smile. "Sure."

"I've been trying to figure out what soap you use."

"Why--"

"You smell like autumn."

"Dead leaves, forest fires? Wet dog?"

"Like cinnamon and cloves. And maybe a little bit like dead leaves, but in a pleasant way."

Silver lightly dotted his fingertip along the freckles lining Flint's cheekbone. "It's this soap we sell at the store, ‘A Medieval Formula of Four Thieves'."

"Ah, like the legend."

"Yeah." Though Silver had cared less about the lore than he had related to the simple concept; in his own days of yore he'd burgled enough, and participated in other petty crimes enough, to put four gravediggers to shame. "The best part is how using that soap protects me from contracting the plague."

"That is good news," Flint agreed. He was nuzzling Silver's throat, his beard scratchy, his hands bringing Silver closer. "I never imagined you would feel this good." His voice sounded rough.

'You too' was beyond Silver at the moment. But he could capture Flint's mouth again with his own, could use his hands and tongue to spell out everything, rising over and moving down Flint's body, between his strong thighs, thighs where the freckles faded as Silver explored the velvety inner skin, rubbing his face there while Flint put his hands in Silver's hair; muscular thighs Silver could stroke from groin to knee and back again and feel Flint sigh with contentment. Silver kissed those thighs with the reverence they warranted, before he began his last speech of the evening. Before long his jaw ached beautifully with everything he wished to say, Flint's thumb gently tracing his jaw as Silver sucked him off. Flint spilt into his mouth after a few more minutes and, god, yes, it was a hundred times better than anything Silver had fantasized.

"Show me," Flint said, almost wildly pulling Silver up into his arms, and his hand hot around Silver's cock.

Coming apart in Flint's fist was also immeasurably better than his fantasies had been.

This time, Flint did fall asleep like he'd been dropped with a deer rifle. Silver watched and then followed, sleeping more soundly than he had in what seemed like years.

~

On Sunday he was the last to arrive at the shop but not late. Nevertheless, Max took one look at him and said, "Thank god," like he hadn't been seen for days and was feared dead.

"I told Idelle I'd work inventory," he said.

"That is not what I am thankful for." She walked right up and leaned in to squeeze his hand. "I was starting to get worried."

Joshua, standing nearby on a ladder, from where he could count framed photographs for sale, was shaking his head in amusement.

"About what?" Silver asked Max.

She pinned him with her lovely brown eyes. "About you," she said before pivoting to walk away. Four steps gone she looked back and said, "Nice hickey," with a completely unprofessional grin.

Ah.

~

5 March

"What else," Max asked the gathering in the store, "do we need to discuss tonight?" She was holding hands with Anne and looked altogether comfortable.

It made Silver want to take Flint's hand. He didn't, only because he wasn't sure it would be welcomed.

"Bev wanted to talk about what if any modifications would be made for the, uh, differently abled bodies amongst us," he said.

"Raised beds," Bev said forcefully. "There should be plenty of raised beds and other containers. We need to make sure there's enough space between rows for those of us with walkers, wheelchairs, canes, or crutches to be able to move around. I wouldn't say no to some specialized tools, if anyone had a source for those. Furthermore, the irrigation system's not going to trip us up, is it, Baldy?"

She pointed at Billy; Silver saw Flint duck his head to keep from laughing.

"No, ma'am," Billy said, with hands raised in placation.

"Fine, fine." Bev winked at Silver.

By the end of the meeting the participants in the appointment with Guthrie had been finalized. It was decided Anne would start inquiring about public liability insurance, should it happen there would be a need for it, as she was widely considered the least likely to be vexed or scammed by insurance salespeople. The Patels and Bev would speak with Vane about wood for raised beds, since Vane managed a lumberyard; a proposal for a formally formed committee with membership dues and board would be drawn up by Rackham, who sometimes remembered he had a valid license to practice law.

On the walk to the parking lot down the street, Flint slipped his hand into Silver's. "Wanted to do that all night," he said, looking away with an almost bashful smile when Silver grinned at him.

"You don't actually strike me as being the type of person who'd do no more than start a garden before calling it a day."

"Oh, I'm not," Flint said. "A community garden is merely a step towards dismantling an entirely depraved socio-economic system and fomenting radical change."

"See, you say it in that tone of voice, but you're not joking."

"Nope."

"'Two good men a long time gone,'" Silver sang, slightly off-key.

Flint kissed the back of his hand for that.

"I'm excited to see your apartment," Silver said, as a subtle reminder before Flint tried to drive anywhere else. It had been discussed that Flint's apartment was like some mythical location, rumored in ancient guidebooks to exist but unverified by modern researchers.

"You should maybe ratchet down your expectations," Flint said, and by a quarter to ten Silver had discovered why.

In point of fact, the apartment was a minuscule, one-bedroom in a converted brownstone, and lined with bookcases.

"I saw a book at the library once about decorating with books," Silver said, looking around with astonishment, "and you're the person they wrote it for. It's all books. Books everywhere. Floor to ceiling books."

"Some of them were Thomas's that I haven't been able to whittle away yet."

"Understandable."

"Although." Flint blushed a little, which Silver found charming. "I was always the bigger collector."

There was a dining room big enough for exactly one four-person table, on which were five or six white cardboard boxes.

"The word you might be looking for is hoarder," Silver said, marching over to investigate.

"He would've agreed with you." Flint touched one of the boxes where nine antique leather spines showed off Shakespearean titles. "I've started packing." He took a breath when Silver glanced over at him. "My lease is up in July, so."

"Really." Silver crept closer to him, slipped his hand back into his. "You're going to need more boxes."

Flint's dimple showed as they stood there looking around the apartment at the nine hundred million books he owned.

"Or you could just shovel them all into the back of the pickup and bring them over by the truck load," Silver said, all nonchalance.

"That's a plan," Flint said, swinging their hands. Bashful looked really good on him. "Something to think about anyway."

"Yes," Silver said, pressing up to kiss him. "Yes."

When you screw this up, you'll regret this moment forever, Silver thought. But he also told his brain to die in a fire.

Which...felt like a notable development, in a way.

There was one legendary sight to behold in the apartment, and an hour later Silver was viewing it with his own blessed eyes. Was helping make it happen, even, his slick fingers and Flint's working Flint open on the bed, Flint's chest flushed and his eyes shadowed as candlelight bathed the room gold.

"I need," Flint gasped, tipping his head back on the pillow, throat bared like an offering.

"I've got you." Silver rubbed his left hand over Flint's thigh and crooked the fingers inside him. "So pretty," he said, as Flint bent his leg up further and his breath stuttered again.

Silver pulled out his fingers. Flint gave a whine; Silver sped up squeezing more lube into his palm and held his breath slicking up his cock. As soon as he was done Flint was yanking him forward by the hips; he'd sat up a bit and their skulls clacked together.

Silver had to laugh. "Mercy," he said loudly and pushed Flint back down while Flint brought up his legs. He was laughing too, and it somehow made Silver's sliding into him feel even more brilliant, their laughs turning to moans as Silver got control of his limbs enough to fuck Flint properly.

"Oh god," Flint said, voice reedy.

Silver kissed him to slow them down, and because kissing him was its own immense pleasure. The small stiffled moans Flint made told Silver the pleasure was mutual; neither of them was distracted, being kissed.

Flint whispered at his ear, "I love you being inside me," and it took all the physical and mental strength Silver could muster not to come right there.

Silver shifted back up a little and Flint grinned at the look on his face. Time seemed to stretch, languid and liquid, until being measured fell away to relentlessness. When Flint came, he pulled Silver to orgasm with him, and they stayed interlocked, still kissing, for a long time after.

They'd been basking for maybe thirty minutes. Flint rubbed his fingertips against Silver's scalp.

"Hmm?" Silver blinked at him.

"Can we sleep at your house?" Flint asked, with just the merest hint of impatience.

Silver smiled.

~

A week later Silver was searching for a heavier sock or two in his bedroom wardrobe. Spring was days away, so nature, that spiteful bastard, had opted for blizzard conditions in the region. Flint had been called out on a job and wasn't around to be disturbed; trashing the room over a pair of socks seemed excessive but Silver could've sworn he owned one pair he could wear with his snow boots. He was determined to find them even if it meant dumping out a whole drawer at 7 a.m. At the back of it he found two pairs of bright red wooly socks. When he pulled out the second pair something clinked in the drawer.

His whole body crackled cold as he picked up an old jam jar with a gingham lid.

The jar. Oh shitting hell. The jar. The gold ring inside tinkled, a merry sound against the dingy glass.

All those months ago, in the otherwise empty employee locker room, the most private location Silver could offer, Madi had put a small box down on the bench with the sort of care normally reserved for handling plutonium. Behind Silver's eyes it had seemed as though a blizzard had erupted, like a cheap plastic snow globe had been shaken too hard. The thought nearly made him laugh and he knew if he made a single noise it would come out as a sob.

Madi shifted her gaze to him.

"No," Silver said, when he could. "It's yours always."

He lowered his eyes. His sash was coming untied; his boot wasn't scuffed enough.

"This is not negotiable," Madi said. "You must take back the ring."

She wasn't saying it to hurt him. He understood; it was a gesture as much as a gift; the ring was worth a small fortune; he could haggle for a good price at a pawn shop, put that money in the bank, and live off it comfortably for… For a few weeks, anyway. It'd be a cushion, a life preserver, a deposit on a less scary apartment or a downpayment on a less depressing car, but he just couldn't-- It was just a fucking ring.

"John," she said, putting her hand atop his. "It's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen, you know." She tightened her hand. "But it is not mine, and I cannot keep it."

They'd said their goodbyes, to that future they wouldn't be living in together. He'd put the ring in his pocket, and gone back to work.

Silver sat on the floor. He was due at work in thirty minutes. He took off the lid, tipped out the ring, and pocketed it again. He'd go at lunch.

As he finished getting ready his hands shook, and he just had to let them.

~

After work Silver distracted himself first with the maintenance of the herbs -- watering, pruning, a little fertilizer, a rearranging on the window sills -- and then with cardboard toilet paper rolls and a bag of potting soil. This was his life now: he was a person who saved and prepared toilet rolls to use for planting seedlings. Other people were taking similar actions; Joshua was starting tomatillos, Stella was very into golden beets. Silver was a gardening novice but also, apparently, a nerd, and he was friends with others like him.

Well. Once he'd been friends with criminal lowlifes and thugs, so he was coming up in the world, like a mutant, difficult to eradicate weed.

Flint didn't arrive until almost eight. Silver was almost gratified to note Flint had once again been working somewhere more disgusting than Silver's utility closet.

"What's this?" Flint spread out the stack of cash on the corner of the kitchen table like he expected it to hiss.

"It's Friday," Silver said.

Flint pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure I want to know where this much money came from."

Silver leaned against the counter, arms uncrossed, trying to keep his expression as open, as harmless, as he could.

Flint stepped into his space, put his hands on either side of him on the counter. There was a line between his eyes Silver wanted to soothe away; he smelled like sweat and dust. Snow was melting on the lapel of his coat. His eyes softened, looking at Silver.

"Come take a bath with me," he said, wrapping Silver in a hug, his face at Silver's throat.

In the shower they washed each other, unhurried, Silver propped between the tile and Flint, their tiredness soothed with soap. Silver combed cobwebs out of Flint's hair. Flint kneaded the twitching muscle in Silver's bad leg. Their careful touches turned more carnal; as the warm water started to run out Flint was easing a third finger into Silver. All the heat in Silver's body seemed to congregate at that spot Flint found inside him, and the tub echoed his muted, helpless moans.

They dried off perfunctorily at best, and were still somewhat damp, if warm, on the couch as Silver straddled Flint and sank oh so slowly down on his cock. Flint kept his hands on the backs of Silver's thighs as a guide, and the extra warmth there of skin on skin grounded Silver. He rode Flint, favoring his good leg, hands braced on Flint's chest. Flint's eyes never left his.

"Tell me," Flint said, nodding encouragement.

Silver shook his head. "I can't," he whispered, feeling precariously close to losing control. "It's too much, it feels too good."

"I know," Flint said, kissing Silver. "You're so sweet." He made it sound like the filthiest thing Silver had ever heard. "Tell me." He was deep inside Silver, thick and hot.

"Please," Silver said, all desperation.

Flint put his right hand around Silver's cock. "Like this?" he said, sliding his fist along him, his thumb making circles on the wet head. "A little harder?"

"Oh god," Silver gasped, jacking up into that grip, "please."

Flint kept his mouth on Silver's, and his hand around Silver's cock; when Silver came he cried out, Flint following quickly, another heat bursting wet deep inside Silver as he was held still, Flint's fingers on his hip no doubt leaving bruises.

As they recovered Flint kissed away the tears that had rolled down Silver's cheeks. A towel was fished off the floor and utilized once more. He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped Silver loosely with it.

Silver put his head on Flint's shoulder and gave himself another moment to rest.

"I stole a coin collection a long time ago," he said, his raw voice coming out very quiet. "An expensive coin collection. I buried it in a patch of woodland where I liked to go sometimes. I stole the coins one night as I-- When I was running away. The property was being developed into a new subdivision. Most of the acres had been cleared when I went back, years later, but not where the box was buried. I dug up the coins and left, again."

Flint stroked his hands down Silver's back, over and over.

"Sold the coins off one at a time, which took me several years. I never spent the money, not a cent of it, for-- I kept it all in a jam jar. Madi and I, we were at this jewelry shop, I don't know, just window shopping, and I saw this ring, this gold ring."

"An engagement ring?"

"Not really," Silver admitted. "I mean. I never asked her. But it was one of those rings, you know? It looked like her, like it belonged on her finger. So I bought it. She gave it back when we broke up." His lungs ached. "And when I got home I put it in the jar and forgot about it. You don't have to believe that," he said wryly.

"I've met you," Flint said, a trace of sarcasm in his tone Silver was grateful for, "so that seems completely plausible."

"Anyway." Silver exhaled. "I found it this morning and took it to Muldoon & Sons at lunch and sold it. That much closer to paying off that godforsaken furnace."

Flint laid his hand on the side of Silver's neck. "You really didn't have to do that."

Silver sat up. "Yeah, I did." He smiled, a sad quick thing.

Flint kissed him, let Silver kiss him in return. He watched Silver and seemed to find a way to ask what Silver knew he was smart enough to figure out. "Whoever you were running away from. Are you still running?"

Silver took in a shaky breath. "I swear I'm trying not to."

"They're dead?"

"Yes."

"Good," Flint said with some vehemence, like he had been plotting murder for Silver's benefit.

And Silver was not at all sure he would be able to tell more, ever; but Flint's eyes, shining now, made him feel vindicated, somehow.

After a few more minutes' rest, Flint said, "Those toilet paper rolls you're keeping in here are an interesting choice of accessory."

"Oh. Yes. They serve a dual purpose, my friend; they are not merely decorative. Gonna grow a variety of peas called Avalanche."

"Okay."

Flint was edging towards being unperturbed, Silver thought.

"I've been thinking," Flint said. "You got interested in gardening ostensibly out of pragmatism. Gardens equal food, food equals not starving. It's a type of practical risk, a garden, low stakes if you know there's food in the pantry and money in the bank and whatever grows is just a supplement. Otherwise, the stakes get higher fast. Either way, you're actively planning for a better future. There's something hopeful about a garden, is my point." He rubbed a thumb under Silver's eye. "You deserve to have that hope."

I love you, Silver wanted to whisper.

"On the other hand," Flint said, with cunning cut to his eye.

"Oh god."

"Has anyone ever mentioned you have a tendency to draw incorrect conclusions? That you often ignore crucial evidence and have a mastery of self-sabotage bordering on pathological?"

"Yeah, not telling me anything I wouldn't have already heard if I'd, you know, ever gone to therapy. I assume." Silver was being manhandled around and wound up mostly with his back to Flint's chest while Flint both rearranged the literal blanket and acted as one himself.

"The first time I saw you at the flower shop," Flint said, his breath warm on Silver's ear and throat, "I was enraged by how beautiful you were. Then you opened your mouth."

"Right. Yeah."

"You proved to be the most confounding person I have ever known, and I love you more than I can possibly say."

Silver turned in Flint's arms a little to show off his faux outrage expression. "You are, hands down, my least favorite customer."

"I get that a lot." Flint pressed his forehead against Silver's.

"What does any of that have to do with gardening, anyway?"

"Nothing. Just making an observation."

"Ah." Silver meant to speak again without tears in his voice and as usual failed miserably. "I love you too, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Flint's mouth on his was so soft, so warm. "I know."