Work Text:
VANDER
The Boy was maybe ten years old, maybe younger and Vander was seeing him increasingly in the past two months, always at night.
*
The Boy would sit on the short, narrow staircase leading to the falling apart house nearly every night, very thin and short, a black silhouette illuminated by the flickering, yellow light coming from the window behind him. The cracked glass in the window would tremble with loud shrieks and insults that Vander could still hear well from where he sat on a roof of the opposite line of buildings.
The thin scar of a street, deep in the slums just above the Sump, was dark and inhabited by rough and miserable wretches. They would walk around slowly by the day, producing an animalistic snarl or profanity if one got too close. Their faces were gray and sick in the shy daylight that barely dared to reach there. At night, they would be gone inside the moldy, wet houses, the twisted conjoined siblings of buildings, those with the luxury of chemlights would become shadows behind the poorly illuminated windows covered in cracks. Those with no light would shuffle around in the darkness.
There would be mostly silence. A rattle of crow wings in a chimney that has forgotten what smoke is decades ago. The skittering feet of a rat on wet cobbles. A cling of a bottle as it rolled out of an unconscious hand.
A screaming man, a yelling woman, broken plates, slaps and tears in that one house while the Boy sat by the front door, motionless and patient.
Vander started coming there two months ago. There was no real purpose in it at first, it was simply a convenient resting spot between points A and B, A being the old store closer to Entresol which he occupied with Benzo, B being the old coal mine closer to the quarry.
The mine wasn't guarded at night and Vander would go there twice a week to steal coal and see what the miners left behind.
The particular roof from which he first saw the Boy was at about the middle of his journey - a broad, flat balcony between two houses. It was abandoned, belonging to the old printing shop below. Vander would stop here to rest his sore muscles and drink from a barrel by the eaves before heading home.
The first time he noticed the Boy, he thought he was seeing a ghost or that shadows were playing a trick on him.
A small figure sitting motionless on those stairs, entirely featureless with the lack of street lights.
Vander wouldn't have even looked if it wasn't for the screaming coming from that house.
The next time he came here, he carefully looked to see if the shadow figure was still there. It wasn't. But a moment later a fight escalated inside the house again, the front door opened, and a small child walked out, closing the door behind him and sitting down on the stairs, becoming nothing but a motionless figure once more.
Vander found himself looking for the Boy every time he passed by at night. It became a ritual. He'd cross the roofs, land on the balcony, lay down the heavy backpack of coal, take a sip from the barrel and, wiping his mouth, hurry to the edge to see the street below.
*
He started forming a clear story of the Boy based on his encounters.
Of course, he was a sumprat, one step above the lowest level of poverty. The man and the woman fought daily. She would escalate a drunken fight, he would strike her, and they would reconcile in drunken sex. Vander could hear that clearly.
What were the fights about? Was the Boy leaving to avoid becoming the center of the violence or just to become invisible? Was the woman protecting him by sending him out or was he exiled because he was the reason for their war?
Sometimes the Boy would stagger outside, hand on a cheek or clutching his ribs. Sometimes he would tumble, being forcefully pushed out of the door. Sometimes he came willingly.
Vander didn't know how long the Boy sat there every night, he would never wait long enough to see, but he imagined the Boy waited until the woman and the man became quiet, then he would snuck back inside.
He hoped there was a bed for the Boy.
*
This time when Vander came, there was no screaming. He expected to not see the Boy, yet there he was, appearing much more like an apparition in the unusual silence. Vander rested and watched.
Why was the Boy out when they weren't arguing?
The answer came fast. About five minutes later, the boy stood up and tried the door. It rattled but didn't open. He didn't repeat the attempt, just walked down to the street, kneeled to drink from a puddle, then sat back down on the stairs, head resting on his knees.
Vander could hear his stomach growl. It sounded deep and painful.
He swallowed.
*
Vander returned, uncharacteristically, the next night.
He thought about the Boy the whole day. When he ate the salty porridge with scraps of fish in the morning, when he put on the heavy hydraulic gauntlets in the mines, during the hours of hard but boring labor, chipping tunnels into the rock massif, when he ate his lunch with the other workers, black sausage with cabbage, when he washed the black grime off in a basin of boiled water, when he ate dinner Benzo brought back from the docks.
He thought about that quiet house, the locked door, the empty stomach of that small boy, growling.
Of course he couldn't help all the people in the slums, so lovingly called the End. Not even all the children. Vander was fourteen and freshly orphaned. If it wasn't for Benzo, the late teen that took him in and arranged a job for him in the mines, he would have perhaps ended up where the Boy sat.
But the Boy was very small and silent, and he did have parents and a home, though its doors were locked at night with him left outside among the bloated rats and filthy crows. And Vander had none of that but he had good friends that he considered family, and meals three times a day, and a warm bed at night.
So what did the Boy really have that Vander didn't? An empty stomach and a cold staircase.
“Still hungry?” Benzo’s melodic accent tore Vander out of his thoughts. He looked down at the stove, where he was mixing the simmering porridge. He steered.
“No…I…” he stammered, chasing the watery porridge around the pan. He frowned and glanced up at the cupboard.
“If you were really skinny and hungry, would you want something sweet or something salty?”
Benzo paused, then chuckled as he came closer to overlook what Vander was doing.
“Feedin’ a stray?”
“Is that okay?”
“If there’s something we have ‘nough of it’s porridge. Just don’t make it a habit. So, this stray of yours, is it sad too?”
“Probably.”
“Sweet then,” Benzo reached above Vander’s head and handed him a can of molasses. It wasn’t real sugar, that was for the Pilties, more of a syrupy side product of beets - incredibly sweet and thick, “add some fruit to it too.”
An hour later, Vander would head down to the End, this time for a much different reason than the coal. He carried a mess tin along.
It was late, maybe an hour till midnight, and the Boy was already on his spot, as steadfast as ever. Vander took the street route instead of the roofs. The lines of buildings on either side felt towering over him, leaning and falling, and he wondered what it would be like to be small and helpless when even with Vander’s broad shoulders and thick arms, tall as he was for his age, he felt scared.
“Hey.” he didn’t know how else to announce himself to the Boy. There was no response but a sudden tug of small shoulders stiffening in fear. Vander bit on his lip and made a step closer.
"Listen, it's okay, I won't hurt you."
As he moved another step the bony knees in ragged pants clenched together and the dirty, small hands on them turned white as they squeezed. The Boy's arms were bare, every bone visible under the filthy skin. Vander noticed the stripes of purple bruising around the thin upper arm and even thinner wrist - palm prints with well defined edges wrapping around like twisted bracelets.
The kid wouldn't look at him either, his face was mostly hidden behind a veil of overgrown greasy hair covered in a floppy hood, but Vander could see his small mouth and chin, lips pressed anxiously together and his head was darting very slightly, as he was clearly deciding between flight or fight.
Vander lifted both hands in a peace gesture.
“Whoa, it’s okay. Really! Look, I brought you something!”
The Boy was becoming visibly agitated, his feet in mismatched shoes were shuffling, hands closing and opening on the knees, his head shook as he searched for his options. The moment Vander took his bag off and opened it, the child sprung forwards, away to make some distance between them. He stopped on the other side of the street, turned to Vander, and their eyes finally met.
The Boy stared at Vander in fear, his large eyes shining behind the strands of dark, greasy hair. His face was far too filthy to make up much of his features but it was gaunt and alert..
Vander smiled.
"Hello. I'm Vander," he started slowly, scared he’d make the Boy run away, “look, I brought you food. It’s just food, nothing weird, okay? Just let me take it out, don’t run away, alright?” He carefully lowered to one knee and took out the mess tin.
The Boy stood still, eyes cautiously darting between Vander and his bag, watching his every move while Vander unscrewed the mess tin. Steam ran out, the tin kept the food warm.
Vander outstretched his hand with it to the Boy, searching his bag.
"I…I have a spoon too. Anyway, it's just porridge, but it's pretty good, and it's still warm so-"
He looked up and his heart broke a little. The Boy was a step closer, his eyes even wider than before. His lips parted, the front teeth being just a tad too large for the rest of his mouth, and now they dug into the thin bottom lip with such strength it bled. He brought his hands out to his chest, gripping his shirt in anxiety.
But he wouldn't come closer.
Vander realized that maybe this offer has happened before. A meal used to lure the Boy close to do…what?
Pull away and laugh? Hit him? Or something far worse?
Vander swallowed and set the open mess tin on the stairs, digging the spoon in it. He stepped back, gesturing to it.
"Here. I don't want to hurt you. I won't bother you, okay? I just need the mess tin back so how about I stand here and you can eat and I'll wait. No rush." He backed up away to the other side of the street.
The Boy’s eyes followed him, eyebrows knotted with distrust. Vander sat down on the opposite staircase, took out a pipe and lit it up, smiling at the Boy, who inched closer to his own spot, keeping one eye on Vander, eyes narrow. He was clearly calculating what threat Vander could be. But the food smelled so nice and it was right there and…
Vander watched the child pick up the mess tin, he pressed it to his chest with one hand and started stuffing his mouth with the other. The spoon remained forgotten as the small hand shoveled the still hot porridge into his mouth, eyes wide and tearing up from the heat.
Vander swallowed.
“Come on, not so fast. It’s… it’s hot, you’ll burn yourself. I won’t take it away or nothing. Just…sit down and eat slower.” he raised one hand as if to stop the Boy but the child backed up instead, eyes wide. His back bumped into the railing making it rattle, getting a short gasp out of him. His face contorted with pain but he wouldn’t stop eating, scooping the hot porridge by handful until the tin was empty.
He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and took a shallow breath, eyes pressed to Vander’s, who smiled at him.
“Was it alright? Did you burn your tongue?”
And this time he got a response, albeit nonverbal - a quick, resolute shake of head. Vander grinned wider.
“No that it wasn’t good or no that you didn’t burn your tongue?”
The Boy blinked. He glanced at the tin, then, wiping his mouth again with his forearm, outstretched the empty dish towards Vander.
Vander carefully reached for it. From this close, he could see that the Boy wasn’t as young as he thought, maybe eleven. His large eyes were a pale shade of teal and his face was not just filthy but as bruised as his arms.
The teal eyes were intelligent and soulful and Vander felt a cold hand clenching his chest when he looked into them. His hand accidentally missed the rim of the dish and his fingers brushed over the Boy’s.
Clung!
The Boy let go of the mess tin and jumped a few steps backwards as if Vander’s touch burned. The empty dish rattled on the cobbles. Vander blinked in surprise, lifting both hands again.
“It’s okay! Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s okay.”
He lowered to collect the dish off the ground, putting on a smile.
“How about I come back tomorrow again? Would you like that?”
The Boy’s eyes were darting now, nervous once again, he dry swallowed and Vander grinned.
“I’ll bring food again. Okay? But it’s okay if you won’t be here. You live there, right? With your mom and dad?” he nodded to the dark house behind them. The Boy followed that motion with his head and Vander caught a flash of something like pure fear in his face. He desperately turned to Vander and shrugged his narrow shoulders.
Vander nodded.
“I’ll be back. Promise.”
*
He would come back every night for the next week and he tried to always bring something different. One day he saved one of the black sausages they were getting for lunch in the mines. The next time, a piece of rye bread with canned fish, then soup with noodles, porridge with fish again, a piece of dried squid, porridge with milk.
The Boy gradually calmed in Vander’s presence. He ate slower the second time, he sat down the third time, he allowed Vander to stand by the staircase the fourth time. The fifth night, he nodded his head to the stairs and waited until Vander sat down beside him.
The sixth night, the Boy was different. His face was pale and eyes hollow and dark. Dark, fresh bruises circled his upper arms. He outstretched his hand and in the middle of that calloused dark palm lay a few cogs. He pushed his hand to Vander without looking at him.
Vander stared at it. It was very little money, it would buy maybe a single street dish. He looked up.
"What's that for?"
The Boy glanced at the open mess dish, this time with cabbage and sausage. Vander followed his thought process before he realized:
"You…want to pay me back for the food?"
A slow nod.
Vander swallowed, his mouth felt dry. He gently wrapped his large hands around the boy's and closed it into a fist.
"No. No, I don't want anything. You don't have to pay me. Okay?"
The Boy didn't look at him but his eyebrows lowered and Vander felt the small fist in his hand press forwards. He felt desperate.
"You can pay me back when you're older and have a job."
The hand pressed further.
Vander suddenly felt blind rage. He was mad at the Boy’s parents for locking him out, making him sit here every night. He was mad at himself for not being able to help him more with the pity wage he had and Benzo who never once asked about this ‘stray’ he was feeding. He was mad at the small portions he was bringing. At the dark handprints on the Boy’s arms, and his hollow eyes and the few cogs that someone gave him for…for doing something terrible that shouldn’t be worth ANY amount money for this child, but it was. It was because he wanted to pay back his debt to Vander.
“Fine! Fine. Okay.” He snapped loudly and the Boy flinched and shut his eyes but didn’t move away. Vander allowed him to press those few rusted coins into his hand and stuffed them into his pocket. He felt his face burn in helplessness.
“Look I…I need to go. Okay?” He glanced at the Boy, then at the food.
“It’s okay. I’ll be back for the mess tin tomorrow. I’ll bring food in something else. I just need to go earlier today. Been slacking at work…”
He looked up. A mistake. The Boy watched him and his face was frozen in desperation.
Oh, how this child could play Vander’s heart. He gritted his teeth a little.
“I’ll be back. I promise. Eat your dinner.” he reassured him and pushed the dish closer.
Something moved in the corner of his eye and Vander turned - he could swear the curtain in that silent, locked house moved.
*
“Benzo…”
“Hm?”
“You remember how I sometimes take food for someone?”
“Oh, yeah, that stray. I told ya not to make a habit out of it.”
It was early morning the next day, the street lamps still shone on the streets. Benzo was readying himself for another day at the docks, Vander was getting dressed for his day in the mines.
“It’s this little kid.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He lives in the End. I think his parents don’t feed him. And they lock him out at night. And I think someone might be…hurting him.”
“Hurting him how?”
“Y-you know. For money.” The few cogs, covered with filth and grease in the palm of Vander’s hand, clinked mournfully.
“Vander. Look at me.”
Vander looked. Benzo was facing him, straps of his rubber overalls half way up his torso.
“You can’t save every damn kid out there. Is he homeless?”
“No, but might as well be, I told you, the parents lock him out at-”
“He’s not an orphan either, then. So he lives in a house and has parents. Vander…he was probably gettin’ locked out even before and he lived. You can’t keep doin’ this, you gonna tie a knot around your neck takin’ care of someone else’s kid when you’re still not even growin’ a beard!”
“Can’t I take him in?” Vander rasped. Banzo rubbed his face.
“You can’t just STEAL someone’s kid. You don’t even know the situation. You can’t just steal someone’s kid. No. Sorry, Vander.”
And that cut the discussion.
Vander brought the Boy rye bread with fish that night but the Boy didn’t show up. Vander was glad. At least sometimes the kid slept in his bed then. He ate the bread for lunch the next day.
*
The Boy didn’t show up the next day either and Vander wasn’t sure if to worry or be happy for him. Should he skip the next night? Maybe things had calmed down.
Or maybe something terrible had happened to the Boy.
Vander pondered his options the whole of the next day and eventually the concern won. He packed grilled fish into a piece of wax paper and returned to the End again.
*
The Boy was there, on his regular spot. He looked up when Vander arrived.
The sight of him made Vander freeze, wide eyed and throat clenched, because he quickly realized why the Boy was missing the last two nights.
His right cheek was awfully swollen all the way to his jaw and dark with bruising, his lips were split and puffy on that side too, the dried blood was cracking around his mouth. The long, dark hair on that side was chopped off unevenly, sticking out in strands of different length. It seemed to be cut off with a knife or a pair of dull scissors.
Vander couldn't move. He felt his heart jumping in his throat and the paper package almost fell out of his trembling hands.
The Boy frowned in discomfort and lowered his head. He eyed the package.
"Oh…" Vander came closer and handed it to him, "It's just fish, I couldn't pack more without the mess-…"
The Boy reached out just with his right hand, handing him back the empty dish with a slight nod. Vander exchanged it for the package.
The Boy put it on his knees and opened it, clumsily, just with the right hand, using the left one only to hold the paper down.
His fingers were broken.
Vander carefully sat by him and helped him open the paper, then watched his attempt to eat.
He pushed a piece of the fish past his lips and chewed once. His eyes squeezed shut with pain and he pressed one hand to his cheek. He swallowed the piece unchewed, whole, then the next one.
Vander realized that his jaw might be broken, given the look of it and the unwillingness to chew. The shock inside him turned to anger.
"Who hurt you like this?" He asked slowly. Of course, the Boy didn't reply. At this point, Vander believed he might be mute.
Vander took a deep breath.
"Did…your mom or dad did this to you?"
The Boy stopped eating.
"Do they often hurt you like this?"
A pause and a shrug. So yes. Vander remembered the moving curtain.
"Is it…it's not because they saw me here, is it?"
A fast shake of a head.
"Because I'm feeding you?"
Another shake.
"Because…because of the money?"
The Boy froze, blinked. There was a long pause, then he shook his head reluctantly and Vander felt like he might black out.
"It's because of the money." He breathed out, "because you either took it away from them or-"
"Di’n't steal nothin’. 'Twas my money."
Vander glanced at the Boy.
The silent, defiant mutter of words slurred by a broken jaw and busted lips came from him.
"Okay. It was yours. So they wanted you to give it to them."
Silence. Vander swallowed a curse and made a decision. He took the Boy by his right hand and stood up.
"Come on."
Glistening teal eyes bore into him with panic and confusion. Vander forced a smile.
"It's fine! I don't live too far. Just come with me, I can make you something that'd be easier to eat and we can wash that blood off. I want you to meet my friend, too. He's a little tough but he's a good guy. Come on."
The Boy hesitantly stood up and allowed Vander to lead him. He looked back at the road often, either to memorize it or because he was scared to be seen.
*
He sat the Boy at the table and gave him the cabbage soup they had for dinner and a tin cup of tea.
In the warm light of the kitchen, he looked even worse.
Vander couldn’t tell if the dark circles around his eyes were from bruising or lack of sleep and food, but they were deep. His hair was greasy and full of lice, clothes were two decades too old and patched up at so many places there was very little of the original fabric, they were falling apart in seams. Each of his shoes was different, not just pairs but sizes as well. Most of his visible skin was covered in scabs, gashes, and maps of bruising.
“That your stray?” Benzo asked quietly from where he and Vander stood by the door. Vander, hugging his arms, glanced at his friend quickly, then back to the child.
“I think his parents…make him do stuff, get paid for it, then take his money. And I’m pretty sure they messed him up like this. Benzo, I can’t-” Benzo’s hand gripped his upper arm.
“Shush, I’m not sayin’ it’s right. But it ain’t your decision. It’s his.” he gestured to the Boy, “If the kid wants to go back to his mom and dad, it’s none of your business, Vander.”
Vander watched the Boy, who ate quietly, eyes lowered to the plate and hidden behind the uneven fringe of hair. He took a deep breath and made a decisive step forwards but Benzo held him back.
“Vander, you’re fourteen. You’re a kid. You think you’re ready to take care of someone else?”
Vander looked at him, lips tight and strong jaw clenched.
“You wasn’t too much older when you took me in. Let me go.”
The hand on his shoulder loosened and Vander stepped forward. He sat down next the Boy and watched him for a little bit before asking:
“Do you…do you want to stay here? You don’t have to go back, y'know?" He kept his voice soft. The small face turned to him a little, the Boy glances up at Benzo fast, then away.
"I gotta go back…" he whispers almost apologetically.
"Why?"
"She…He would be mad."
"Your dad would be?"
"He. He would be mad."
Vander's mouth dries out.
"But they are your parents, right?"
A small nod.
"She would…yell. And he would come here."
Vander looks at Benzo helplessly, his older friend shrugs and leaves. Vander slowly turned back to the Boy, feeling filled with sorrow and despair.
“At least tell me your name. You remember my name, right?”
“Vander.” The Boy put the spoon down and wiped his split lips with the heel of his broken hand, eyes squeezing shut momentarily in pain. Vander nodded.
“Right. Vander. What’s your name?”
The Boy turned to him. His teal eyes were too old. Older than those eleven-or-so years he walked this world. Older than the fourteen Vander spent here, or the seventeen Benzo did.
They were old and they’ve seen too much.
Vander thought about what they’ve seen.
*
The boy left by the morning. Vander offered to bandage his hand but was met with silent resistance. He let the child sleep in his bed while he took the sofa. When he woke up, the boy was gone.
He left two cogs on the kitchen table.
But at last, the boy had a name.
*
SILCO
Vander suddenly appeared two months ago.
He thought that Silco couldn't see him, hidden there on the balcony above the Print, but he could.
In his eleven years, he spent more nights sitting on the staircase than in his bed. Silco knew every sound here. Every flap of wings and tapping feet of the invisible creatures, drunken howl in the distance, phlegmy cough, creaking of furniture. He used to be scared of the sounds at night so he learned what each of them meant.
This was new and it scared him at first - clatter of feet over the broken roofs, a fall of a heavy bag, panting.
Silco stayed motionless, frozen in fear the first few nights, but then he dared to look up and watched a shadow of a man rest on that balcony.
And the man always watched him.
Silco hated being scared by that looming shadow. He wanted to sleep away the pain and hunger and cold, and the man on the roof wouldn't let him.
So he followed him.
He lost him a few times but eventually, Silco managed to keep up enough to see the man enter the colorful lights of Entresol.
He was not a man yet, a teenage boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.
He had a kind face, slightly chubby, round. His eyes were smiling. He was broad, strong for sure, and had a mane of honey colored, wavy hair.
Silco found himself envying him that powerful form and the pretty hair.
Silco followed him a few more times, when he could. He learned his name was Vander when he heard another man, an even older teenager, practically an adult, speak to him.
He thought about Vander a lot.
It made things easier.
He could remember him standing in those pretty lights when She dragged him around by the hair in drunken fits, or when He hit him when he got in the way.
Silco didn't feel anything special to Vander, but he was a person out of the ordinary and his life was an interesting one. Silco didn't have enough wild imagination to build theories about Vander, but he could assume and that was enough.
Silco hated the most those nights when he knew that Vander saw him walk out the house. When his face would burn from a slap or a punch, ribs ached from a shove or a kick, and he would stagger - he could feel Vander's eyes on him and hated him for watching. Hated him enough to try the door again, even though he knew it would be locked.
But then Vander turned from a looming phantom to a person with a voice. And that certainly made things more interesting in all the bad ways.
He would bring food.
Silco hated both of them for it. Vander for making him feel so terrible, so scared, so damn hungry, and himself for accepting it.
Because, of course, Vander will stop coming one day, will get bored, and it will hurt.
Much like the old lady down the street, who used to give Silco leftovers when he was much younger. She died the previous winter and left him even more alone than before because now he knew kindness.
He hated himself even more for these encounters.
He was so hungry it hurt. His head would spin, his stomach ache, hands shake, and knees feel weak. And when Vander offered the food, Silco ate like an animal. A stray dog, gobbling down the hot food in handfuls, ignoring the spoon because it's not big enough to feed that hunger.
He felt his eyes bulging and the food got stuck to his upper palate, and it was so hot he thought he would faint. His stomach would lurch urgently, stretching to take the portion in.
But he couldn’t stop.
He puked all of it out later anyway, when a fist struck him just below the ribcage. And then, of course, it was even worse since suddenly, there was a question of ‘where did you get this food and why didn’t you give it to us’. She would ask that. She really had him have it that day.
Vander kept coming every night then, awfully kind and friendly for no damn reason. He brought more food too.
Silco wished he stopped. Every night was harder, every day after was worse. He caught himself thinking of Vander as 'friend' and it made him miserable. He knew now that once Vander heals his pity and stops coming, or when he dies like that old lady, that it will be even more so crushing.
Silco wanted Vander to stop coming but also found himself looking for him every night and thinking about him every day.
He would climb up the roof where he first spotted Vander and imagine why he was there and what he was doing. He didn’t want fairy tales, he wanted the truth.
He was thinking of him more when he wandered through the Print below the balcony. He knew how to read well, She taught him some years back when things were still better. All the heavy machinery from the Print was gone but some of the books and pamphlets were left behind and he would come back to them and read them obsessively. It used to be the only fun he would get but now that was ruined too, because instead of the texts he had nearly memorized, all he could think of was if Vander would like this or if he would think it was silly or boring.
Silco brought a crumbled pamphlet with him the next night. It was neatly folded in his pocket. This one spoke of Piltover and called to arms. Silco didn’t understand all the words but he gave them contextual meaning. Revolution, meaning a fight for sure. Oppression, that must have had something to do with the closed bridges and the Enforcers. Injustice…Injustice he knew. He knew justice, injustice was the lack of justice.
He wanted to show it to Vander. Or even give it to him. He wanted to know what Vander thought about it, if he found it as interesting and cool as Silco did.
But if Vander hated it, it would be over. He wouldn’t come again, his new friend.
In the end, the crumbled paper stayed in his pocket, Silco didn’t dare.
*
He had a few cogs hidden. He and She didn’t know about them, of course. If they knew, they would probably be very mad, more than usual.
Silco kept them in the withered sole of one of his boots. It was tearing off and created a hidden space inside the wooden heel. He’d always put one in there after work.
It wasn’t too well paid and They would keep all the money. Silco hated it.
Sometimes it hurt quite a lot, sometimes it was just unpleasant or disgusting but They told him it was all he could do. And he had to, if he wanted to keep the roof above his head at least for the Gray season. So he didn’t argue.
He decided to give the cogs to Vander that night. Maybe he kept coming because he wanted Silco to owe him. Maybe he would stop if he paid back for the food Vander brought him. Then it would hurt for a few weeks or months, Silco would miss him and he would go hungry again, but surely it would calm down after some time and he could resume the way he was before - wandering around the abandoned buildings during the day, sleeping off the hunger and some of the beating at night. In a way, there was comfort in the stagnancy of that.
Vander got mad at him when Silco offered the money. It made Silco angry as well. Why was he behaving like this? It wasn’t much, of course it wasn’t, but it WAS money and it was ALL Silco had and he was GIVING it to Vander so that he would get out of his fucking life and stop making everything worse for him with his stupid kindness that just made him think even more about how really bad everything was.
She saw them out of the window, heard the coin jingling too. Silco watched Her pale face, those eyes, much like his own, wide with greed and glistening with madness.
At least it would be over with, he thought.
*
She went a bit too far and He had to tear her off when She mounted Silco, only half conscious and trying to protect his head, sawed off a handful of his hair with a kitchen knife, and threatened she'd cut off his ear next. If she did, He said, Silco could die of an infection, and that would mean they would lose the money he was bringing home.
They let him be for the next two days, even let him sleep inside for once.
His whole body ached but the jaw was the worst.
She knocked out one of his molars, it wouldn't stop filling his mouth with the taste of copper. Silco hoped it would maybe grow back.
He couldn't move his jaw, open or close it fully, and the pain was a constant throb that was driving him insane. It swelled up badly, almost closing his eye.
His hand hurt a lot as well, but it wasn't the first time his fingers were broken and it couldn't compare to the pain his face was radiating.
Silco couldn't eat, not that They would give him anything, he could barely drink, so he spent the time sleeping, huddled at the old, gutted mattress that posed as his bed.
When he couldn't sleep because the pain would wake him, he poked the springs coming out of the mattress. A few years ago, he attached bottle caps with poorly drawn faces on them. He knew he was too old for toys, but sometimes it was fun, poking at the spring people, watching them swing and vibrate. He would try to give them stories from the books and pamphlets from the Print, though they often turned into Him and Her, ruining his game.
He pushed Silco out the third night when he found the boy scrambling for anything to eat.
With his lips busted and jaw so sore and swollen, he couldn't suck on his sleeve to soothe the hunger, and water was making him nauseous now. There was burned rice on the stove but Silco was too tired and shaky to reach for it in time before he was pulled away.
Sitting outside, arms covered in goosebumps and stomach so empty it was eating itself, Silco realized this might be the night he dies. And if not today then tomorrow or the next night. He was too weak to find any food and they wouldn't give him any either, unless he would earn it, which, given his current situation, wasn’t an option.. Vander won't be back, Silco already paid him off the debt.
But Vander came.
He came and he took Silco with him to his warm home, a cluttered old shop with a lamp, and a stove, and a window colored with Entresol's bright, neon lights.
And offered him to stay.
Which was stupid of him because, clearly, the older one, Benzo didn't want Silco there a second longer than necessary. Silco knew the way Benzo was looking at him.
He left two cogs on the table. He wasn't sure why, it felt like the correct thing to do.
When Silco walked outside it was still dark. And He was standing there, waiting on the corner, eyes yellow in that jaundiced face. Yellow and mad. Silco frowned.
Because, of course He would be here. He or She, one of them would always sniff him out and drag him back, punish him, and he would fight back or just take it, anything to survive.
He will survive this time too.
*
VANDER
Vander hasn't seen Silco for over a year after that.
He came by every night the first week but the staircase was empty and the house was quiet.
He came by the day a few times, knocked on the door, peered through the windows, but never saw anyone inside.
He tried to ask the neighbors.
Did they move?
What happened?
Would anyone know where that little, skinny boy with dark hair and blue (or was it green) eyes was?
And no one answered.
At first, Vander was concerned, unsettled by the sudden disappearance and the weird timing of it. He worried that Silco was punished for his night adventure, or perhaps that the beatings (which seemed to be a regular thing for him) went too far, or that his horrifying job swallowed him finally.
He got no answers and soon had to stop searching for them as life slowly got in the way.
The work in the mines was harder every day. There was a bad cave in, dozens of dead and buried under the rubble. Many of Vander's friends, too. With the loss of two entire teams, Dira's Mining Company hired anyone, meaning even those unable to work as hard and as efficiently as others. The experienced miners had to work twice as hard and the wage didn't change. Vander was working double shifts.
And then, a year later, Silco came back.
*
Vander didn't notice at first. He was drying dishes from the dinner and putting them back into the cupboard. Benzo was on a night shift in the docks.
Vander hummed quietly. He was exhausted, his muscles were sore, and he was looking forward to a bath and bed.
He heard a sound, a weak creak of a chair, and turned swiftly.
He froze.
Silco was sitting on the chair by the table. The one year they haven't seen each other seemed to have added ten years to his face and eons to his eyes but Vander recognized him immediately.
His hair was overgrown and as greasy as before. The teal eyes were dark…Janna knows what he's seen, the gaunt, narrow face was a bit longer, a bit skinnier, a bit older. He was badly beaten, and most of it looked painfully fresh - the broken nose, swollen eye, bruised welt on the forehead that bled from a deep gash down his face.
He watched Vander with calm and resolution.
And he was entirely covered in splatters of dark blood.
Vander's breath got stuck in his throat by a cold hand.
His first thought was that the blood must be the boy's but then he noticed his hands, politely set on the table.
Silco clutched a knife. A very large kitchen knife, old, rusty, and with the last third of the blade missing, chipped clean off.
"S-Silco?" Was all he managed to get through his clenched windpipe.
Silco's eyes turned down to the table. Suddenly he seemed exhausted and old, the tension in his sight was gone.
"Hi, Vander."
Vander tore his eyes away from the teen and panicky darted about. He grabbed a clean rag and hurried around the table.
"Is that…that's not your blood, is it? Are you cut or stabbed somewhere?"
He searched in near hysterics, afraid to touch Silco. The younger boy shook his head:
"It's not mine."
"Then whose…what…okay, that doesn't matter now. It doesn't-"
"They wouldn't let me go." Silco replied. Vander stopped and looked at him, frozen.
Silco frowned as if thinking about something, lips parted. Then he breathed out and finished in a flat voice:
"I killed them. Both."
Vander faltered. Not because he would feel an ounce of remorse for those two people, but because of all they must have done to drive this quiet kid to finally defend himself once and for all.
He hugged Silco carefully, fully wrapping him in his arms.
"It's okay. It's okay, they deserved it. You're good. You're okay now." He whispered into his hair.
The thin arms stayed on the table, unmoving, but the grip on the knife loosened, Vander noticed with relief. The last thing he'd want to do was to wrestle it out of that skin and bone hand.
He slowly withdrew, trying to catch Silco's eyes.
"Hey…Silco. It's alright now."
The boy looked at him finally. His expression was hard and serious.
"Will you make me leave?"
"What?" Vander blinked, "No, of course not! You'll stay, alright? Let's get you a bath and some dinner, and I'll find you some clean clothes. And then we'll look at those wounds, okay? And you'll sleep. You can have my bed again. And when you feel all better, we'll find you some job. But you don't have to leave. You NEVER have to leave, unless you really want to. You hear me?"
Silco frowned and sniffled, then nodded seriously.
Vander carefully took him by one hand.
"Good. Come on now, let's get you that bath."
*
Vander heated up water in the boiler and filled a tin bath tub set on the tiles of the old bathroom while Silco was undressing. Both were silent, Silco in contemplation or thought remoteness, Vander in pensiveness.
He left the boy with a bar of soap and a towel and went on to fix him some dinner.
About half an hour later, Silco was still inside. Vander knocked and opened the door a crack.
"You still washin' off?"
"I…I don't want to put it back on." A weak voice responded to him. Vander entered.
Silco was standing by the sink where he discarded his clothes, neatly hanging piece by piece with the mismatched shoes lined on the floor. The clothes were filthy with sweat, grime, and grease, and soaked in still wet blood.
The child was painfully malnourished, his olive skin had a gray undertone. Vander swallowed and unwrapped the large towel, covering Silco's bony shoulders with it until it completely swallowed him, save for his head and bare feet.
"You don't have to. Let's throw them out later, alright? C'mon, I think all my clothes will be too huge for you but anything's better than that."
He led Silco away and into his room, sitting him on the bed.
Vander fished out a warm woolen sweater and thick winter leggings he'd sleep in during the cold months. He added a pair of hand-knitted socks that were too hot for him and set it all besides Silco.
"None of my shoes are gonna fit you. Or Benzo's. See what, I'll go for those you came in and I'll ask around for some new ones tomorrow. I think Cihla has a kid your age. I'll ask if she can hand something down."
When he came back from the bathroom, draining the completely black water and picking up the old boots, Silco was already in the kitchen.
The brown sweater was huge on him, reaching close to his knees and sleeves twice as long as his arms, and Vander's skin tight mustard leggings looked baggy on his thin legs. He tucked them into the socks. If it wasn't so pitiful Vander would have found it funny in a warm and innocent way. Now he just smiled weakly and nodded to the chair.
"Sit down, okay?"
He helped Silco back into the boots. When he brought him the dinner, noodles with smoked fish and broth, he noticed the child's hair, scowling uneasily.
"Hey…don't get sad, okay? I'm gonna cut your hair real short because it's full of bugs. It's gonna stop itching then."
Silco paused (he was eating very slowly but, clearly, he was just holding back. His hand with the fork was trembling), then simply shrugged and nodded. However, Vander did notice his cheeks and ears turning red, and the small chin trembled when he started cutting off the lice infested strands close to the scalp.
He swallowed, then forced a smile.
"Hey…it's okay, you hear? It's gonna all grow back, all clean and pretty. I'll get you a hat so your brain won't freeze off. How's the food?"
"Good."
"Cool! I can get you seconds if you're still hungry."
"That's fine."
"Okay. Well, all done! And it looks real good, seriously. You'll see how much better you feel." Vander discarded the scissors and quickly swept the clumps of hair away while Silco finished his dinner. Then he sat down by him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a roll of bandages, and a clear rag.
"Can I…take a look?" He asked carefully. Silco turned to him, his teal eyes were intense and strangely dark behind his thick eyelashes. He looked so very serious, Vander felt ashamed of himself for some reason. As if he was the child in the presence of someone older.
He swallowed and took account of his injuries. Thankfully none of it seemed too serious, though it would certainly be painful and all of it would turn black and blue by the next day. Vander imagined that Silco was used to it, which made it somewhat worse.
He forced a smile and soaked the rag in the alcohol:
"It's not so bad, right? Let's clean it up, tell me if it hurts."
Silco looked down and held. It must have hurt and sting, Vander could see it in the way Silco winced and frowned deeply, squeezing his eyes shut, but he never once took him by the offer, staying entirely quiet.
Vander gently wrapped bandage around his forehead to secure the gash above his eye.
"There, all done." He whispered, patting his shoulder softly, "You tired? I know I'm beat. How 'bout we both sleep it off? Tell you what, I gotta leave early in the morning but you can sleep in as long as you want and I'll leave you some food. And when I come back we can talk, alright?"
A slight, serious nod. Vander's face contracted helplessly.
He led Silco to his room. He found his gray, woolen hat fast, it wasn't so long ago he used it, and carefully slipped it over the boy's head.
"There! Now your head's all safe. You can sleep here again. And this time don't run away."
"I won't."
Vander grinned.
"I'll be on the sofa. You'll probably see Benxo here tomorrow, don't worry 'bout his grumbling, okay? He don't mean it. So, good n-"
As he turned, a slim, cold hand grabbed him swiftly by the wrist. He looked back. Silco's eyes were large.
"Don't…don't leave. Please."
"I will just be on the sofa in the next room."
"Can I be there too, then?"
"We…we wouldn't both fit." Vander stammered desperately.
Silco, for the first time, seemed close to tears. Whatever mask of seriousness and brave content he wore, it cracked now, and he was just a scared, abused child alone in the dark.
"Please don't go. Don't leave me."
And Vander knew he couldn't.
*
"How old are ya, boy?"
"Twelve."
"Can you lift that?" Fat finger points to a wheelbarrow full of rocks.
"Probably not."
"Hm."
It's been a week since Silco came to Vander. The black bruises on his face were healing staggeringly slow, Vander thought because of the malnourishment. He was still quiet and serious, and he kept close to Vander.
He didn't speak about what happened during the year of absence. Vander didn't pry.
Benzo wasn't too happy about the skinny, silent kid with slight buck teeth coming back to live with them, especially after Vander told him that he killed his parents in what he assumed was self defense.
Silco didn't like staying alone with Benzo. He followed Vander to work every day and hung around the mines until the end of his shift. Eventually, the foreman asked who he was and Vander blurted out: "That's my brother." Despite them looking nothing alike.
After a week, Silco came to the foreman to ask for a job.
The short, thin kid in a massive sweater with rolled up sleeves, a woolen hat covering the almost shaved head, inherited boots, and dark bruises all over his face looked like the perfect employee of Dira's Mining Company. Particularly after the recent losses.
The foreman sighed.
"How about tight spaces? You good with them?"
"Sure."
"Well," the foreman scratched his beard, "we do need a new canary. C'mon, I'll find ya some more fitting clothes, you'd get stuck in five seconds in that huge sweater."
"Okay."
*
Vander didn't know.
He found out later that day when he saw his small friend emerge from a crevice so narrow he would be barely able to stick one leg through. Silco crawled out with natural ease and looked at the chief.
"How do I know it's clear?"
The chief chuckled.
"They send them dumber and dumber. You alive, canary. No explosion, no cave in, hole big enough that you turned your ass around in it. That's how you know it's clear. You'll learn more later, now get out of the way."
She pushed him to the side and Vander's heart sank.
A canary.
Janna fends.
Their eyes met from across the tunnel.
And for the first time, Silco smiled at him, proudly.
