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Silco had long grown used to the burning in his lungs, and the dull ache in his face. The constant thrum of pain had become the backing track to his life. He'd been shattered and destroyed. But from the remnants, he carved himself into something new. Something harder, sturdier.
He'd long hung up his leather and gloves in favor of fitted jackets and ties. He'd found his old style left a sour taste after everything. Reminders of how naive and foolish he'd been. His hair, butchered the day he died, cut even shorter. Controlled, tamed... Not constantly stinging his rotting eye when it fell in his face, admittedly.
Still, he found himself clinging to his past, in small ways. Always keeping an eye out on Felicia's children. They were who all of this was for, after all. He didn't dare go near them himself. Ever aware they were under the care of a monster he had no interest in facing again. Not yet. But he knew they were safe. That was enough.
He'd let the beast play pretend that things were fine. That he was the hero of this story. He'd let him keep the glory and attention. That made it all the easier for Silco to pull the strings behind the curtain. Unseen, and unfiltered. He would do what was necessary for the cause.
Despite his best attempts, however, Silco found himself still cracking in moments of weakness. He was lucky tonight he was by himself when it hit. A sudden downpouring weighing down his hair and clothing. The deep chill seeping into his very bones, as the rain drowned out all other noises. The fabric around his neck suddenly feeling too tight as the rain stung across his aching eye. He had half a mind to gouge it out entirely and be done with it. But he wouldn't give Him the satisfaction of finishing the job.
Silco stumbled his way down the soaked road, seeking any shelter he could from the storm. Chastising himself for getting so worked up over some water. He was over that day. He had to be over that day. He was stronger now. The weak man drowned, and he was stronger.
He must just be late to his medicines for his eye, or hadn't slept quite enough. That must be the cause for his frantic state. He just needed somewhere dry to get some rest. To gather his wits back together. But most of all, he needed to get somewhere private. Where no one could see him in such a state. Where no one could see him vulnerable. Ever again.
Silco found his legs tracing old paths he once knew by heart, but now felt so unfamiliar. Unsure exactly where he was going, but knowing it wasn't just a blind sprint. His frantic escape from the heavy chill of the storm slowed as he approached a long closed entrance to the mines. His breath stuck in his throat, but not from hands or his clothing. But from places he'd just as soon bury in the river with his younger self. Shared spaces he vowed never to enter again.
Still... In the back of his mind, it called to him. A warm room, with a fire. Perhaps even clothes that might still fit. Dry, and private. Silco sneered at himself, but couldn't stop his legs from carrying him forward to a place that once upon a time, was a second home to him.
He refused to let himself look at the jackets on the wall. The smaller tucked so securely inside the larger. He sank himself into a chair, hands framing his face to block out the thousands of reminders around himself. He knew he had to get up. To get some warmth burning. It was all he could do to keep calm for the moment to sit there.
He wasn't sure when he'd nodded off, only that he was awoken later by the chill in his bones starting to ache. Silco pried his face from the table, rubbing it tiredly as he tried to blink the blur of sleep from his eye. He groaned, ever aware of how dry his mouth was, and how hungry he was getting. He must have slept for awhile.
Silco glanced to the glass beside him, briefly wondering if there was any booze still in this place to warm himself with. It wasn't the best choice of breakfast, but he'd had worse. He reached for the glass, and froze. Catching his name scrawled in handwriting he'd recognize in his sleep.
He should leave. Burn this place to the ground and never look back. He should destroy the place as a message to Him.
He should.
Silco moves the glass aside carefully, picking the paper up as if it too might strangle him. Burn him.
Silco,
I've looked everywhere, but it's clear you don't want to be found.
Silco tensed. He knew, of course, that He had been seeking him out after that night. He'd assumed to finish the job. But one wouldn't write a note for that. Not here.
God, I'm shit at this. I'm sorry. When she died... I lost my head. I told myself what I did to you was for the greater good, that you deserved it, but the dirt was on both our hands.
Silco clenched the note tight, crumpling the pages as he was warmed by the blood boiling in his veins. Even now, even here, he had to put the weight onto Silco. That he still held any blame for trying to help their dying home.
Anyway, you know where to find me.
Blisters and Bedrock. -V
Blisters and bedrock- the cruelest joke yet. Blisters and bedrock until he takes the necessary strike needed for change. Then it's dirt on his hands?? Blisters and bedrock until they have to actually carve it out, and break it apart. Then he's an animal for the violence.
Silco crushed the note tight in one hand, panic replaced by old pain and heartbreak, ripped open anew. Silco snatched his jacket from the wall, letting Vander's crash into the ground. He tossed his still damp coat to the floor, the thick material not drying fast in the chilly, dim room.
Tugging the old leather jacket on, Silco stormed from the mines. Oh, he knew where to find Vander alright. The hound had the audacity to keep Their Bar after everything. To leave Silco stranded with nothing. Oh, couldn't you tell how sorry he was. Forget burning the hideout down. He'd burn the bar, and the entire street with it, to get his point across.
Silco took deep pride in the way the few on the streets scrambled out of his path as he stalked towards his old home. They knew better than to cross him. Shame Vander hadn't learned that back then. He'd correct that error in judgement.
Silco rolled his eyes to find the windows to the bar dark. Bastard didn't even have the decency to keep it open the hours it used to be. Silco braced himself, ready to kick the door in, when he heard it. The shattered, raw sobs of a child. Silco paused, creeping closer to the door to listen.
Despite the distance he maintained, he was certain the screams of anguish were Powder's. He grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His blood still burnt of rage... But that was not her fault... He couldn't storm in there and rip Vander apart while she needed him. Silco sighed, slumping in on himself. How weak he still was. Silco shifted to rest his head on the door, only to find it had not fully latched.
The door swung open, and Silco stumbled inside to keep his footing. He paled, starring in tense dread, as he glanced up. Vander sat on the floor, clutching Powder tight as she wailed into his chest. Behind him, Mylo stood to the side, clothes still stained grey in patches. Claggor sat on a chair, trying to buff the scratches from his goggles.
Silco straightened himself out, glancing around the room, searching for the eldest. Slowly, he looked back to Vander's eyes, heavy with exhaustion and pain. A wordless question.
Vander pulled Powder closer, burying his face in her hair. Unable to hold Silco's gaze.
A new dread sank deep into Silco, staring down in deep heartbreak, at all that was left of Felicia. Of all that remained of the trio's dream. He let the letter fall from his hand. It seemed so small and unimportant now.
Silco walked over slowly, shaking legs lowering himself down next to Vander's side as he ignored the warmth the furnace of a man radiated.
Powder sniffled and hiccuped as she glanced to see who had come over. She didn't recoil from his mangled face as he expected, merely stared up at him in confusion, unable to recognize the man who should have been like family to her all these years.
Silco spoke carefully, trying to keep his tone even. "I've had something irreplaceable stolen from me as well..." he assured her, reaching out to carefully pet her hair.
He watched in awe as this child, who didn't remember him, gripped his hand tight. Clinging to any comfort she had left.
Silco sighed and allowed himself to press against Vander's side, petting the girl's face to soothe her. She looked so much like her mother. It ached, deep in his chest. He found, to his surprise, he didn't mind so much.
Vander shifted the child in his arms, cradling her between both of them, and slowly wrapped a warm arm around Silco, to hold him close as well. To warm them both from the chill of this loss.
Silco allowed it. There was still anger burning in his blood, a pain that demanded to be known. There were still words to be said, and talks to be had. But that could all come later. That could be handled when the joy of having a Later eased the ache of loss.
For now, Silco decided. He wanted to hold on to what was left. He wanted to be here. While he still had a chance to be.
Silco rested his head against Vander. For this moment, allowing himself to feel safe. Because at least there were still here at all. At least they had this.
It was said in the mines that the rules and regulations of the job were written in blood, cemented in place by those whose blood was spilled to write them. He wondered, here in this moment, if the same applied to the homes they'd built. Held together by a shared pain. Glued together by the blood spilled to get there.
They did not have the glittering golden splendor of Piltover. Clean and bright. The glue holding their city together was uglier, dirtier. But it was theirs. And that couldn't ever be broken or stolen.
It was theirs, together. And that was enough.