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He stank of the river. It worked into the only clothes he had, soaked his hair, seeped into the cuts covering his eye. The eye couldn’t be saved. He curled into the rocks and sand and garbage at the water’s edge and he screamed. Silco screamed, hoarse and raw, coughing up river water and filth and blood. He should be dead. Vander should have killed him. He shouldn’t have pulled himself up on that riverbank to scream and retch and survive.
Somehow, Silco survived.
Even with nothing to live for, he survived. The revolution gone up in flames, died before it could ever live. No hopes for a free Zaun. He tore at the ground, and his voice broke, and he swore in all the languages they spoke in the undercity and Silco wondered how long it would take him to die.
The caves along the river were a network of places to hide. If he could drag himself to one of those caves he could rest. Recuperate. Find a way to plan once more, if the revolution could be saved. If there was anyone left who still wanted to fight.
Maybe, he could sleep first. Maybe, he wouldn’t wake up.
“Do you see, Viktor? We can save the eye.” Silco didn’t recognize the voice. He didn’t know anyone by that name. None of it meant anything, in his delirium. It was cold, clammy, like he was feverish somehow. That made sense, with everything that had happened. An infection was all but certain. He wavered in and out of consciousness, he couldn’t see a damned thing. Didn’t know if he’d ever see anything again.
If the last time he saw Vander it would be with those eyes so full of hate.
Vander had always looked on him with such kindness. Vander was huge, he was terrifying in his intensity, in his anger. The kind of man people shied away from. But he always had a smile for Silco. His storm colored eyes would soften, and he would look at his partner like Silco was the only thing he could see. His diamond, his canary in the coal mine, singing so sweet.
But that night on the river, all Vander had held in his eyes was hate. His kind features twisted in rage. Like it had been Silco’s idea alone to cross the bridge. Like he alone had stoked the fires of the riot, like he had dragged Felicia and Connol out there, killed them himself. Vander had held him under the water, let the filth seep into his eye, the one the Enforcers had taken. He’d grabbed Silco even when the smaller man tried to run, held him by his hair and his throat, until he stopped breathing.
No, he would never see Vander again. Never wanted to see Vander again, if that was the way Vander was going to look at him.
His good eye opened to strange lights, to purple glow, to parts of the cave system at the river’s edge that even Silco didn’t know. He could hear movement, he could hear machinery, he could hear life around him. But he couldn’t move. And attempting to only proved that he was restrained. Why had he been restrained? His eye worked, he could hear. He could feel, and it was cold. Desperately cold. His clothes were rough with filth, unwashed, he could feel the way his hair matted over, stuck to him. He was alive, whatever that meant for him. Whatever shape he was in, Silco was alive.
“Hello.” A voice came from his blind side. “It is good to see you awake.”
He tried to turn his head, through the pain, through the mess and the blur and the wave of dizziness that hit. A tall man, thin, eyes pale and unnaturally focused. He held in his hand a syringe, filled with purple liquid. The glow was sickening, Silco already felt like he was going to pass out again. But he couldn’t tear his good eye away, even as the man brought the needle towards the heart of the damage, the other eye.
There was a child here. A child. Watching, unbothered by the horrors he saw. By the needle, piercing Silco’s eye. By the machines or the sickening purple liquid that glowed and swirled and burned in his system and offered him unimaginable power if he could survive the pain. The child stared at him with golden eyes, tracking each movement.
The man spoke again, and the child watched the man with an alert curiosity. “I am hoping that this will help your eye to recover some of its sight. Do tell me how that feels, will you?”
The pain was indescribable, rocketing through his system, burning, searing, ice cold all at once. It shot through his eye, through his head, until all he felt was that blade, burning cold, the drug in his veins. He didn’t scream, he didn’t know if he could. And if he screamed, what would this monster do?
Silco let the pain pass over and through him, until nothing remained but the promise of power.
It was like that every time he woke. The child never spoke, the man only asked how it felt. And slowly, some vision returned to his eye, just shapes, just shadows, but it was enough. And he stayed awake longer, long enough that he could drink, could eat. Could wash, in the tunnels where it seemed these strangers lived. Reveck, the man was called, and the called the child Viktor, though the boy never spoke.
Reveck was a madman. He had created this swirling, whispering terrifying thing, called it Shimmer. It offered healing, it offered power, it could change everything. Turn the tide against Piltover. If the man wasn’t mad. If the man wasn’t fixated, to the exclusion of all else, on his creations. On undoing death itself. If he hadn’t roped an innocent into it. But Viktor hung on Reveck’s every word. Watched him, helped him. The boy was so small, stumbling over the rocks, his little cane catching on the uneven ground. Silco couldn’t help but see Felicia’s girls in him.
Felicia’s girls, now orphans. Had Vander taken them in? Was Vander’s rage quelled by the tiny girls, if they needed someone? Silco would have taken them in. He would have raised them like his own, at Vander’s side. He thought Vander had understood that. If something happened, they would take care of the girls. Together, like they always were.
Never again.
Time meant nothing in those caves, in the tunnels. Silco was still too weak to leave, and so he started to learn what it was that Reveck was doing. The drugs and the medicines he made. He learned that Viktor spoke a language they spoke deep in the Sump, an old thing, older than Zaun. Silco had picked up the language from the miners when he was a child, they used it in the mines, so the foremen and overseers didn’t understand what the miners didn’t want heard. He learned Viktor preferred not to talk at all, if he didn’t have to. That his parents didn’t wake up anymore.
Silco promised when he got better, he would help Viktor lay them to a proper rest in the river. Viktor told him that he knew they were dead. He just didn’t want to think about it that way. If they were sleeping, they were happier than when they were awake. They didn’t have to suffer anymore.
Death was so common in Zaun. Children orphaned, left to fend for themselves. Silco had never even known his family. He only remembered the mines, raised there, taught his letters and numbers in charcoal dust. He learned the mines, their songs, their languages, their legends. He learned to love the broken and cracked pieces of the undercity, the harsh edges, the darkness.
Reveck didn’t care about Viktor. Took care of the boy because he was a valuable assistant, ensured he had food, the necessities, little else. Viktor was a tool to him. Occasionally, an experiment. The boy had been exposed to the Grey, and it would kill him. This, to Reveck, was valuable data.
Valuable data. That was what forced Silco’s hand. The children of Zaun were more than data. More than an experiment for a Piltovan exile. The sons and daughters of Zaun were more than fuel for this madman’s science.
He told Viktor they were going to lay his parents to rest. That they deserved a proper send off, in the river.
But the child was clever.
“We’re not going back, are we?”
“Only if we have to.” Silco told him, as they sat at the water’s edge, watching the bodies as they sunk beneath the polluted waves.
“Can I stay with you?”
“Of course.” Silco could feel every bone in the child’s crooked back, his shoulders, when he wrapped an arm around Viktor, pulled him in close. They had nothing, between the two of them. Nothing at all. But Silco was used to nothing. He could make do.
“Do you think he’ll be angry?”
“No.” Silco tried to rub warmth into Viktor’s tiny body, gathered him closer. Viktor felt so fragile under his hands. So breakable. And he placed all the trust he had to offer in Silco, curled up to him, looked to him for comfort. Those huge golden eyes, usually so alert, so eager to learn, looked lost. Looked sad, weak. Like he could finally show his aches, the hurt that wrapped itself around such a young thing like a blanket.
This was why Silco fought. This was why he survived. For a free Zaun, for a city that didn’t suffer like this. For children like Viktor, abandoned by the world, left to die. For them, he would fight. For them, he would learn to stand again. He would build a new Zaun. He didn’t need Vander. Vander was weak, he didn’t have what it took to enact the base violence necessary for change. Silco would have to find a way without him. Find out who would still support the good fight.
Viktor didn’t deserve to grow up like Silco had. Felicia’s girls didn’t deserve the world they had been born to. He had to keep fighting.
He’d have to take the eye out, there was no way it would survive without the treatment Reveck had been inflicting on him. There were surgeons, back alley and indelicate, but serviceable. He would live with one eye. Work with one eye. It would be good enough.
They’d manage.
2.
The fever wasn’t going down. Viktor wasn’t getting better. Three days now, and his breath rattled in his lungs, tears in the child’s eyes. He didn’t eat, barely kept water. The boy was dying, sure as anything.
Silco had kept him just over a year now. Just over a year, raising the boy like his own. He and Vander had always said they’d like to care for an ankle biter or two. A child, to call their own. And now Silco was sitting here, on the floor of a rented room in the roof of Babette’s, holding Viktor to him and pleading with Gods he didn’t believe in to just let the boy live.
Babette’s clientele didn’t care about the eye, and the money was good for a room, for the medicine that Viktor needed. A meal, mostly for the boy. They mostly wanted a warm hole, a warm mouth, and Silco didn’t mind so much. Turn his brain off and just let himself get fucked out, he could think later. Later usually came once he’d gotten food, whatever Viktor needed. A book or two, if they’d found their way down from Piltover. The boy loved to read, anything he could get his little hands on. So Silco would dig through secondhand shops that sold the Piltie’s salvage, for any books to bring back.
Viktor hadn’t reached for them in three days. Hadn’t moved from the mattress piled on the floor, where he was shaking bundled tight into every blanket, every discarded coat, every layer he could find and still he shivered. This was why their freedom was so needed. This was why Silco still worked, on the nights he couldn’t sleep, when the hunger gnawed at his hollow stomach and he watched to make sure Viktor didn’t stop breathing in the night. They still had to find a way out from under Piltover’s heel, a way to save themselves. No matter what happened.
He dabbed Viktor’s cracked lips with a damp cloth, hoped it was enough to get water in him. They needed a doctor, and a better one than they could get in the undercity. And he knew who could make contact with topside, who might know a doctor. Who had been making deals with them since the bridge. It wasn’t right. He couldn’t. He couldn’t go, couldn’t face him again.
But it was for Viktor. The child deserved better than the hurt, the rot left from the bridge. From the river. He shouldn’t be made to suffer for the sins of his caretaker.
“Come on.” He wasn’t sure if Viktor could hear, if Viktor was aware, but he spoke to the boy as he lifted him, wrapping him up in one of Silco’s jackets. Took his cane, strapped a mask over his face. He’d stolen the mask off of a dead enforcer, when he took Viktor in. The child had enough trouble breathing. If there was anything he could do to help, he would. He made sure to tighten the mask proper, wrapped around the back of his little head, against his messy hair. Held him close. Viktor was overheated with fever, shaking, he felt so small and crooked in Silco’s arms.
The Lanes were more clean, more stable. Fewer people out and about at this time of night, so dark it was almost morning. Electric lights in some places, not the bleeding neon of the real Zaun. Vander had been trying to assimilate, over the last eighteen months. Trying to blend in with lower Piltover. Trying to appeal to them. Like they would ever accept the undercity. Like they would ever grant Zaun even a fraction of what the lowest parts of Piltover had. Silco had always known that. But Vander was still trying.
The Last Drop was closed, the lights down, but there was still one on behind the bar. Silco could see it from the windows. That single, warm light that hung over the bar. Silco had sat under it so many times, having his dinner late, working in one of his notebooks. Building the Nation of Zaun under Vander’s warm gaze. He’d kissed Vander for the first time under that light. And his key still worked, Vander hadn’t changed the locks. Even after everything, he hadn’t changed the locks.
Vander had grown a beard. It suited him. He hadn’t looked up from where he was cleaning, restocking the bar, save to call that they were closed. Come back tomorrow if he needed to talk. That voice. Oh, he knew that voice so well. Knew every tone, every sigh, every sound. He stood stock still, cradling Viktor in his arms, felt the shake and rasp of the child’s breathing against his chest. Watched him, the pang of familiarity, of fear. The last time he had seen Vander, the river. The burning, right behind his eye. He tasted the water, the acrid mix of pollution and smoke from the fire on the bridge. He would never be the same again.
And yet there was Vander, his hair grown out, the scruff of his beard made him look warm, kind. That rage, the anger, the fire that Silco had once loved about him was so far away. But he could still feel those hands around his throat. He could still feel the rage, the way Vander had held him down. Pulled him back when he tried to run. And here he stood, like he had not only survived that night, he had come out of it better. Better, stronger, while Silco had fallen so low he couldn’t even save one boy without crawling back home. Home. No, this wasn’t his home. It had never been his home. It was Vander’s, and he had just been allowed to stay for a time. It had always been Vander’s.
He had just been an intrusion on this warm space. Small and sharp and feral, lashing out in fear and anger and always wanting more.
And when Vander’s steel colored eyes turned on him of course he wanted to run. Of course he wanted to turn tail, hide in that attic room at Babette’s. He could leave Viktor here. Viktor would have a better life in the Lanes. Safer. He’d be taken care of.
“Fuck, Silco?” Vander’s voice hadn’t changed. Disbelief, nerves. Fear. His eyes skated over Silco’s body, taking in what had changed, what hadn’t. He didn’t harden to anger, though. He didn’t turn to the rage Silco had once seen in his stare. Perhaps he would have, but his storm eyes settled on the form of the child Silco carried, and calmed. “What?”
“He’s sick, Vander. He needs help.” It wasn’t enough. There was so much he needed to say. So much that ached in him, that tore at him, that clawed at his throat and bit just behind his teeth. So much was left unsaid. So much that would only hurt more. “Please.”
“Don’t know what you’d want me to do. I’m not a doctor.” Still, Vander left his cleaning rag on the counter, went around the bar. Silco couldn’t help his backwards step, the fear creeping up his spine. The way he tightened his hold on Viktor imperceptibly. Back to the Pilt, back to the water in his lungs, back to the acrid smell of fire and filth and blood. The harsh breath in his ear as Vander dragged him back into the water, shoved him under. He held Viktor closer, felt the rattle in the boy’s breathing. Viktor wouldn’t survive Vander’s rage. Silco barely had.
“Not gonna’ hurt the kid, Sil. Just let me see him.” Vander held his hands up, placating. As if being unarmed was going to solve anything. Anything at all. And yet still, even the offer calmed Silco enough to lower his shoulders. He shifted Viktor, just slightly, cradled the back of his head, let Vander get a better look.
This close, he could smell the pipe smoke, bitter and tender and warm. The bar and the cleaning rags and all the things that made up Vander. How it used to comfort him, that smell. He used to steal breaths off of Vander’s pipe, he hated the taste but he loved the way it made him feel like Vander was a part of him. Coiling through his lungs, flowing through him. He used to tell Vander that he wanted to crawl inside him. Carve out a home in his ribcage. Live within him.
Vander reached for the boy. Didn’t touch.
“How long’s he been sick?” Vander asked, quiet, hesitant. The air between them felt so thick, painful, aching with all the things left on the shores of the Pilt, in scars and infections and orphaned children, in the mining gauntlets hanging from the rafters above the bar and in Silco’s missing eye.
“A few days, but he’s never been well.” Silco hated himself for how his heart ached at the admission. Hated himself for how clearly Viktor had taken space in his life, become important to him.
“I’ve got a Piltie I can get in touch with, but it probably won’t be till morning.” Vander finally, finally looked at Silco’s face. Finally, finally saw him. And Silco saw Vander in turn, saw the moment he broke, the moment he crumbled. The moment everything hit, everything he had done. All the hurt Vander had left in his wake. “But I’ll get the message out now. You two can stay here. Haven’t changed the office at all.”
Silco looked away. He couldn’t face those eyes any longer. Just nodded. It made sense, to stay here. The doctor would come here. The Lanes were safer, the air was just slightly cleaner. Better, for Viktor to breathe. Better for him to heal. If he could heal. These could be the boy’s final nights. Silco just wanted them to be comfortable. So he nodded, a small movement, enough to dislodge the touch Vander had almost made to his hair. Don’t let Vander touch. He stepped away, turned toward the stairs. “I’ll take him up there. Thank you, for the doctor.”
The office hadn’t changed, at all. A sofa, the canvases Silco used to paint on. The bookshelf, all of his books. He used to steal them, from anywhere, pull them from Piltover dumpsters or library turn in baskets when they went topside to pull a job. The same books were sitting on the shelf.
He set Viktor down on the sofa, rested his head and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He was still shivering, breath hard, arms wrapped around his frail body. Silco let his hand rest on his shoulder, rubbing gentle circles against him, sat on the floor beside the boy. He’d stay, as long as he needed. Stay awake, make sure Viktor kept breathing. Awake was good. Awake was safe. Awake kept them stable, kept them safe. Kept them alive.
He didn’t sleep. This place felt alive, felt violent. Felt like it wanted him gone, like hands around his throat. Like the dirty water in his lungs. It felt like Vander’s pipe smoke and it curled around him, cloying and violent. He sat on the floor, back against the sofa that Silco used to fuck him into, and he rested his hand on Viktor just so he could feel his boy breathe. His boy. When had Viktor become his? When had he started thinking of Viktor like a son?
Vander had been the one who wanted kids. Vander had been the one who wanted to make a family in a place like this. Who had thought that they could. Silco had been the realist. He’d always been the one who had known they couldn’t. It would never be right, never be safe. And now here he was. Brushed Viktor’s soft hair away from his face, and watched him sleep and it mattered now if the boy lived, and if he thrived. And if he was well.
He could leave. He could walk out the door now, leave Viktor there. He’d thrive in the Lanes. Vander wouldn’t abandon the boy, not now that he had been introduced. Not now that he knew the boy. But would he be willing to let go of Silco, now? Now that he had seen him again. He’d reached out for Silco, not in hate or anger, but the way he used to. Like he needed to be close. Needed to know that Silco was real. Would he let Silco go again?
If he crept away now, perhaps he could go unseen. Slink back into the darkness. Become nothing once more. Viktor would be cared for. He could work only for Zaun, for the sons and daughters of this city. It would be the smart thing. It would be the smart thing, there was work to be done. A revolution to be had, and he couldn’t build it sitting on the floor of the office he had once dreamed in, trying to save a single child. One child did not a nation make.
There was a tiny speck of a girl standing in the doorway. Blue hair, huge eyes. One of Felicia’s girls, the younger one. He’d only met her a couple times. Powder. Named for the blasting powder from the mines, that stained their hands and seeped into their lungs. She stared at Silco, unmoving, unspeaking. Silco watched her a few moments, his hand still on Viktor, hesitating. Of course Vander had taken the girls in. He’d known that. Why was he so shocked to see one of them?
She was gone as soon as she arrived, back into the hallway, her footfalls near silent. It was something they learned young, down here. How to move so quietly. How to go unnoticed.
He could slip out the same way. Viktor would be safe. He could disappear.
But Viktor looked upon him with such care. Such adoration, like a child looking at his father. Viktor trusted Silco, to keep him safe. And even if Silco was leaving him in a safe place, Viktor didn’t like to talk to people. Didn’t speak too much of the common tongue.
Silco couldn’t abandon him.
He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke, Vander was standing in the doorway, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He set one on the table, close enough for Silco to take, but not so close they touched. He watched Silco, careful, the ache was clear in his steely eyes. He’d been crying. But Silco couldn’t say anything. He could barely even watch. The mugs were still the same ones. So much was just the same. This place was a memorial, a monument. Frozen in time, no matter the warmth it exuded.
One of the books he once had was a book of fairy stories. They weren’t like the regular fairy stories, most of them had tragic endings, messages about love that would never be reciprocated, protagonists who had to earn mortal souls. One of the stories was about a little girl selling matches in winter. As the night got longer and colder, she lit each of her last matches to stay warm, imagining the kindness of a world that was beyond her grasp. Viktor had latched on to that story, asking for it even though it made him cry.
Silco hadn’t understood that until he reached for the mug of coffee Vander had set down. The beast of a man rested in the doorway, he seemed to think he wasn’t a threat. That he was just staying because he cared. That he just wanted to see Viktor, still sleeping, burrowed into the sofa and the blanket. The messy mop of dark hair stuck out from the blanket, he still had the breathing mask strapped around his young face. And Vander watched him, and there was a part of Silco that wanted to leap to his feet, wanted to grab his knife and gut the man he once loved for daring to even look at the boy.
The coffee was still just how he liked it. Black and strong, still hot, a little overdone, bitter. He’d gotten so used to the stale instant coffee they had in the mines that he didn’t want anything else anymore, and so Vander had learned to brew his coffee just a little too much, put just a little too much in, so it came out over-bitter. Silco didn’t want it any other way. He hid the fondness in a long stare at the black sludge that was his coffee, pretended it wasn’t nostalgic. That he couldn’t still feel the kiss good morning this cup used to come with. Pressed to the top of his head, his brow, his lips. He could feel all of it. The warmth, the chapped cut of his lips. His heavy hands on Silco’s waist. Once upon a time, this was a piece of every morning. They needed to be touching, as often as they could. As much, as close as possible.
“The doctor’s on her way. Only one who’s willing to cross the bridge for us.” Vander offered. “She overcharges, but hey, it’s decent medicine.”
Silco nodded. It would break into the money he had stored away, money to get them something real, start rebuilding what he had for Zaun. Viktor could have a real bed, wouldn’t have to share. But money could always be earned again. Viktor might not have another chance.
“I’ll have to run back and get my cash stores. Don’t let anything happen to him.” Silco narrowed a glare at Vander. He knew Vander wouldn’t hurt a child, but he didn’t want it to go without saying.
Vander raised his hands, like that was any indication he meant no harm. But all the things Vander could do with those hands, Silco knew full well it meant nothing.
“Viktor, right? He’s just a kid. I wouldn’t do anything to him. I promise, Sil. I swear.”
Sil. Like they were still together. Like he could still call Silco those pet names, still sweet talk him, just like they used to. Like it would be so easy. He could just waltz back in here, they could just lapse back into each other’s space. Silco could seek protection from those hands that held him under. He could reach for that embrace, without fear.
But even thinking of Vander, alone with the child, made him want to retch. All he could think of was the river. The water, filling his lungs. The way the callouses scratched into his throat. His strength, the hatred in his eyes. Silco had barely managed to escape, and sometimes he still woke with the feeling of water in his lungs, saw the indents in his throat, the bruises. Some nights even the bedding was too much, even a blanket was too much, felt like he was sinking, like drowning. The first night Viktor wanted to hold on, the first night he trusted Silco like that, when he called for comfort, crying in soft, hitching sobs, Silco cried with him. Not because he felt for his ward, but because the tiny arms around his neck pulled him under.
Vander reached, gentle, but he stopped. Didn’t dare to touch Silco. And that was all for the better. Silco didn’t know what he would have done with touch. Instead, he slipped away before he could become too afraid of what might happen to Viktor.
All he had to do was go to Babette’s and get his savings. It would be quick. Viktor would be alright. Vander would never hurt a child. But Vander would never hurt him either, and now look at where they both were. Silco had to get back. He had to get back, had to keep Viktor safe. That was the important part. Get the money, get back to the child.
“You’re back, hun.” Babbette was helping tidy the front room when Silco came in. It was sinking in, how little he had slept, how little he’d eaten over the last day or so. The stress, the exhaustion settling in.
“Just for a minute. V’s sick, I need to get something from upstairs so I can pay the doctor proper.”
She nodded, solemn. Babbette was good, or she tried to be. As close to good as someone could be down here. She just wanted the people who worked for her to be safe. It was the best anyone in this cesspit could hope for. And she had never made a move for Viktor. Never asked about him, never indicated that he could make them more money. Some of the others had. Had insisted that he could pull a fortune.
Silco had killed for less.
He grabbed the small bag of coins that he’d hidden in his attic room, the savings he’d been putting aside for Zaun. Money would come again. But Viktor wouldn’t have another chance.
“You make sure that boy lives, doll.” Babbette told him, when he came back down. “We deserve something good in this world.”
Silco nodded to her. But his throat was closing up, his eyes stung, he hurt. Because he knew how dire it all was. He knew how bad it could all go. How much it could hurt if Viktor didn’t make it.
There had been days, in that cave, when he wanted to burn it all down. When getting revenge had been more important than anything else. He’d made plans, ways to ruin Vander, ruin Piltover. Ways he could destroy both cities for all that had been done. He had planned ways that he could kill, that he could burn it all down. Nothing else had mattered. Revenge, anger, hot and cruel. Only time had faded it. Planning and the slow realization that the only way he could have his revenge was with the nation of Zaun. With his city, with his son.
Because Viktor was his son. No matter how he looked at it, from the moment he helped the boy lay his parents to rest, Viktor was his. When they fled, Viktor was his. And to lose him, that desire to burn it all down. That hot, sickening rage. And yet he still had to return to the Drop. He had to face Vander.
No one was downstairs. The lights were off, and so he followed the dim warmth upstairs, to the office. Where Vander was sitting with his son. With Silco’s boy, so fragile, so weak. His huge hand encompassed Viktor’s back as the child’s breathing rattled, as he shivered, couldn’t wake.
3.
“I looked for you, you know.” Vander didn’t get up, from where he was sitting beside Viktor. It was good. The boy latched on to warmth. And Vander ran hot. “Looked in our hiding spots, went into the mines. Even left you a letter, in case you came back. Damned stupid letter, but you know. Never was a writer. Not like you.”
Silco just watched him. Bit back the urge to shove Vander away, wrench Viktor protectively to him. The boy was resting so calm. He wasn’t shuddering so violently, like he normally did. Wasn’t fighting rest. Silco couldn’t make it worse. But his nails dug into the palms of his hands, he trembled and he couldn’t for too long.
Once, this had been the life he wanted. A free, safe place. A child, with Vander. Love and care and security. And to see Vander, sitting with his son. Rubbing the shivers out of his thin back, soothing the rattling in his breathing. Stroking his messy hair away from his face. Vander was so caring with the tiny boy, and Silco ached for it. This had been all he wanted, once upon a time. Had fantasized about in those dim nights when he was up too late planning. When the money ran out and he was too hungry to sleep and he distracted himself with idealizations of their future.
“You tried to kill me. You left me in the river to die. You abandoned Zaun and cut a deal with the enforcers.”
“I know. I was scared, Sil. We lost so much that night.”
“But we had so much more to gain. Everyone saw how much violence Piltover has. We could have kept pushing.” Silco’s voice shook. So many people had died that night. Silco had died that night, in a way. He wasn’t the same idealist who had walked on to the bridge. He couldn’t see a path forward anymore without violence. Without pain. And it would take more pain, to reach any kind of resolution.
“Felicia’s girls can’t sacrifice anymore.” Vander looked down at Viktor. “He can’t. I cut that deal to protect them.”
“You protected the Lanes.” Silco spat. “Not the mines, not the Entresol. Not the sump. You got your own and left the rest of us to rot.” His voice was shaking, but he was going, he couldn’t stop. “Left children like Viktor, who don’t have that privilege of being born in the fucking Lanes.”
But the doctor was there, calling for Vander from downstairs.
“Sil, I’m sorry. I did what I had to. Let me try to make things better.” Vander stood, and this time he dared to touch Silco’s shoulder as he left, to bring the doctor up.
And she took his money before she even looked at Viktor. She was cold, impersonal. Like he was a study and not a person. Like Viktor was a specimen. And he was back in the cave, and the Doctor, cold and cruel. Uncaring, impersonal Viktor wasn’t a child to her. He was a set of lungs, degrading. He was a twisted leg, a caved spine. Symptoms of the wretchedness Piltover had perpetuated, the rot they had allowed to fester.
“Pneumonia.” She told Silco. “I’ll leave medicine. He should stay in the Lanes where it is slightly cleaner, he’s medically fragile. Your friend can take care of him.”
Like children could just be traded around here. Just be passed back and forth. Like he could just let Vander take Viktor. But Vander looked hopeful. And that frightened Silco, in a way. Frightened for what Vander might want from him. That he might want to take Viktor. Or keep Silco.
And so Silco just nodded, with no intention of staying. He took the medicine she offered him, and didn’t look at her as she left. Didn’t look at Vander.
“You can stay here as long as he needs.” Vander offered. As long as he needed. Like kindness. Vander pretended to be a kind man. Wanted everyone to see him as a kind man. But Silco had seen the cold hate. He had felt those hands around his throat. Choking, drowning was an intimate death. You had to hold, had to watch. And he had watched. Watched, until Silco had sunk beneath the filth.
“No. I cannot.” He went to Viktor, ready to gather him. Ready to leave. They had medicine. Pneumonia could be deadly, but they had to hope.
“You heard her. He needs the cleaner air.”
“And you didn’t bother saving anything but your precious own.”
“I’m one man. I can only do so much.” But his voice was broken, aching. The voice of someone who had tried, and failed. Tried, and hurt for it. Tried, and broken. And he was holding together all he could. Silco remembered that. How they had grasped just to get the mines understanding the need to fight back. He remembered how much it had taken out of them both just to get that tiny bit of revolution.
But the fight was gone out of Vander, and Silco could see it in him. He was tired. Vander just wanted to hold his little bit of peace together, keep his little bit of safety. The lanes might fall apart without Vander. He was the thing that held them together, there were no safeguards in place. Nothing built to last after him.
“And yet you cast me out.”
“I never, I was angry. We lost Felicia, we lost the bridge. Realized what I had done right after I lost you. Silco, I can’t do this alone.”
“No one can.” Silco looked at him, looked away. “We found that out together. We had to work at it, and it’s too much for just one.” Silco had stopped trying to leave. He suck to the sofa beside his son, and he looked up at Vander with the one eye that still saw anything.
“I looked for you, Sil. I realized what I’d done, and I looked everywhere for you. I thought at least I could give you a proper send off.” Vander knelt on the floor, so he could look up, those storm colored eyes red rimmed, swelled up with tears.
“And what would you have done, if you had found me?” Silco only looked at Viktor, so small, latched on to the only warm thing in the room, Vander’s body. And the answer didn’t matter. Because they couldn’t leave. No matter what Vander said they couldn’t leave. Viktor needed this.
“I. Fuck, Sil. I don’t know what I would have done. Maybe tried to convince you to come back. Maybe tried to tell you I still love you? I don’t know.” Vander sagged, his hand was still on Viktor’s small back. Silco wanted to wrench his hand away, wanted to scream. And he wanted to curl up in Vander’s warmth and hold him. Wanted to come home. To beg for a home here. For Viktor to be allowed to sleep in a real bed, eat real meals.
“It’s just until Viktor gets better.” Silco didn’t know if it was a lie. Because when Vander was right there, and that open and earnest expression painted across his face was so hopeful, Silco wanted to stay. But he couldn’t promise anything at all.
“Aye, of course.” Vander stood, slow. “I should get some proper blankets for this room, then, suppose you two will want to kip in here.” But instead he held one arm out to Silco. Didn’t step close, didn’t force, just held an arm out. An offering, if Silco wanted to take it.
And Silco stepped into his space. His head fell to Vander’s chest and he just stood there. Made no move to hold Vander, to do anything but be there. Hands at his sides, each breath a trembling exhale, torn between rage and sadness and love and hope. Vander was slow, wrapped his arms around Silco, his hold loose enough to break at any moment, but Silco didn’t break it. Just stood there. Breathed him in, smoke and whiskey and warmth. All the things he had needed these long months.
“I know I don’t deserve this, Sil. What I did, there’s no coming back from that. And I’m not surprised you hated me. Probably hate me still. You’ve got every right to.”
“You want to try again.” Silco didn’t look at him. But he still didn’t move from the slow, hesitant embrace they had found themselves in.
“If you’ll have me.” Vander admitted.
“Well, I suppose if I’m to stay while Viktor heals, you have a chance to try again. Earn it.” Silco smiled, a teasing thing, one he knew worked wonders on Vander.
It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t a neat little thing, no tidy bows or desperate kisses. But he was willing to let Vander try. And he was willing to try, in turn. Because there was always going to be something tying him to Vander. Something in him that wanted to be in this place, in this man’s arms.
4.
Viktor enjoyed living above the bar. Once he could breathe again. After the pneumonia started to fade, and he could leave the office, he liked it. He liked being able to creep downstairs and find Vander talking to someone, he could listen in and no one really seemed to mind. He liked that Silco could plan here, instead of having to work constantly just to take care of them. He’d catch Silco planning more and more often now. Viktor would pull himself up onto the sofa in the office and watch Silco writing. Watch his plans and his machinations for the Nation of Zaun taking form on those pages. Silco had taken Viktor in, a year ago almost, and Viktor took comfort in that. He took comfort in Silco’s presence, in the fact that Viktor was never a nuisance, never asked too many questions. Patiently, he answered, he would comb Viktor’s messy hair, he would remind Viktor that a brilliant mind wanted to learn, of course he would ask questions.
He liked that they paid attention to him. That sometimes books would show up, on the shelf in the office where he and Silco slept. Books Viktor hadn’t read yet, about science and mechanics and sometimes politics. He knew those were for Silco, but Viktor read them anyway. He liked to know what Silco talked about, when he sat downstairs in the bar late at night and talked to the others who came by. Who didn’t trust him, but they knew him. And loved him, and Viktor saw it in the way they talked when the doors were closed for the night. Viktor liked to understand anything he could. Viktor wasn’t sure he understood love, not in any real way. But he knew it. The same way he knew equations, knew letters and numbers in both of his languages. He knew it, and if you knew something you learned how to see it.
Silco was happier here too. Viktor saw it. But he didn’t say anything. Viktor didn’t really know how to speak on the way Silco and Vander looked at each other, or how Silco was warmer. How his hair was growing long again. Viktor didn’t have the words to say that it made him happy to see the man smiling more. Made him feel like he had a family. Especially when Vander and the two girls were home. It was the kind of loud, warm home he had only ever heard about. The kind he imagined might exist in wealthier places. But for a few moments at a time, he could have it. The idea of a family, one that might love each other. Like he had before his parents got sick, he could hardly remember that. Could hardly remember anything but the language they gave him.
Viktor was sitting on the stairs, watching Silco talk to Vander across the bar. He was supposed to be in bed. Silco insisted that he still needed to heal. But Viktor wasn’t tired, so he sat on the stairs, reading by the light of the bar as Vander closed up. Viktor was pretty sure that Silco knew, but it got him a few more minutes. And he loved the quiet, when the bar was closed, when he could listen in, when the world was his to observe.
Silco knew Viktor was sitting on the stairs. But what was a couple more hours, when all the boy did was read? He was recovering, steadily, each day was a little easier than the last. He slept more, ate more, and while he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone else who lived in The Last Drop, he talked more to Silco, his little voice was still weak, and he only spoke the old tongue, but he did talk. And Silco admired him for that. For his recovery, his quiet strength. And so what would a couple hours sitting on the stair reading hurt? Silco acted like he didn’t see Viktor, sitting there.
Vander refilled his drink, placed a small plate in front of him. Trust Vander to notice. To make sure that Silco ate as well. Trust Vander to keep an eye on everyone. He probably knew where all three of the children were (Violet and Powder were downstairs, Violet was still awake, on her father’s old punching bag, Powder was asleep. Viktor, of course, was on the stairs. Silco kept track of them, as best he could as well.) Vander had made Silco’s favorite, an old, simple dumpling in broth, something they made in the mines with leftover rations. They had more money now, they could make it better. But Silco still wanted this, the simplicity. The reminder of who they had been, once.
But Silco said nothing about the meal. Maybe he offered Vander a small smile, maybe Vander saw it. Maybe Silco would file away the way their eyes met, to dwell on it later. Vander’s kindness, his simple care. He had promised to try, and Silco supposed that this was him trying. Silco looked at his drink, and he ate with one hand, wrote with the other. Just as things used to be. Happier times. Better times. When he had been able to love Vander without fear. But he looked at those hands, and he saw the way Vander had hurt. Had hated. That fear still latched on.
And for a moment the broth was the clouded, filthy water of the river, and Silco’s hands shook, and he dropped his spoon, he pushed away from the bar, he had to go. Had to get out of here. It wasn’t safe. Had to get Viktor, get out. Find somewhere far away. Maybe it was best they leave the city. Maybe Zaun was a failed dream. Maybe they needed to get out entirely.
“Silco?”
But Vander’s voice was so kind. So soft. It was the voice of the man he had loved, once upon a time. It cut through the poison of the water, and he saw the man who had been so gentle to the children. Who had helped Viktor, last week, when the boy was too weak even to drink tea. He sat Viktor up against his side, held the cup for him. He cut through the storm, and the pain, and he was trying. Sweet Janna he was trying.
Maybe Vander couldn’t make everything right. There wasn’t enough left, it had been washed away in the river that night, burned away on the bridge. But Silco didn’t pull away when Vander’s huge hand covered his, and he curled long fingers, until they were closed together, the hesitant touch of new lovers. Or of old lovers, finding each other through everything, despite everything.
He had always loved Vander. Silco couldn’t remember a time this man had not overtaken his life, with love, with want, with fear and anger. Even now, with this tenuous acceptance, Vander had somehow once again become the center of his world. Keeping his son alive. Keeping him here, where he could work towards Zaun, not worried about food or shelter, but about making a future. Showing him a way they could live.
And he didn’t push Silco, not once. Not since that day in the office, when Vander had held him, had they even touched, not until this, with their hands so carefully folded around each other. Like one wrong move could ruin it. And likely it could. What they had was so fragile, so weak, struggling for each moment it was allowed to live. A fluttering flame, struggling to stay lit in between their clasped hands.
“Vander.” He breathed. As if speaking too loud would snuff out the flame.
And for a moment it was just them. Just Vander and Silco, like it had always been. Like it had been since the mines, since the year they spent homeless, drifting in the alleys and saving every penny, since the day Vander bought the Drop. It was just Vander, and Silco, like that moment when their eyes had bet and Silco thought he must be so starved he was hallucinating because there was no way anyone so gorgeous could smile like that for him.
“Sil, you’re safe here. Whatever it is, you’re safe here. I promise.”
Like there was any way Silco could ever be safe again. He knew the taste of the river, of betrayal. His eye had to come out, he didn’t know when, but he could feel it rotten and wrong, sightless. The treatments the doctor had given would never keep, not without constant work. Best just pull the whole thing out. Hope his face recovered, maybe one day the scarring would go down. He might look less of a monster.
Vander was so slow in his moments, he showed everything he meant to do as he reached for the ruined side of Silco’s face. Brushed his thumb along the scars. Those rough fingers he used to plead for, he knew he should be scared of them. But in the warmth of the closed bar, in that strange fragile moment, Silco remembered only the hands he had found such solace in. Leaned against the huge palm. He let Vander trace each scar, the sadness in those storm eyes tasted like the filthy water that had filled his lungs all that time ago. Vander smoothed under his blind eye, and he leaned forward, again, he projected each inch of space that closed between them, signaling silently that Silco could flee at any moment.
But he couldn’t. Or he didn’t, or somewhere between the two. He let Vander kiss the spot where he had touched, right underneath his eye, right against the damage. He kissed the scars, his lips were rough and with each gasping inhale Silco could taste ale and smoke. He tried to breathe, he tried to breathe as normal, but Vander was so close. So, so close.
They had kissed like this, it was less than a year. It used to be their place. Silco in his seat, Vander behind the bar, and they would steal a kiss. The night before they marched on the bridge, they had kissed, right there.
But the first time Vander moved towards his lips, along the line of a scar, Silco turned away. And Vander didn’t push. He pulled away, his hand brushing along Silco’s hair, before he retreated entirely. And Silco lamented the loss of touch, lamented the loss of that tiny flame that he had thought might grow. And when Vander started to pull his hand away, Silco breathed out. It hurt. He hadn’t thought it would hurt. He was the one who had turned away. The one who had not been prepared.
Vander let Silco keep his hand, let Silco bring it to his lips. Like an apology. Like he could rekindle that tiny flame.
So the second time Vander moved towards his lips, Silco didn’t turn away. He watched those eyes, the sadness and apologies in them deep enough to drown in, and he watched Vander lean in again, watched him glance to Silco’s thin lips, his crooked, overbitten mouth, and this time Silco didn’t retreat.
He kissed Vander, and the flame sparked, and he kissed Vander, clasping his hand and squeezing. The other hand Silco used to balance himself on the bar, to lean towards Vander just like he used to. To bite against the tender kiss, to demand entrance to Vander’s hot mouth, to taste the pipe smoke and ale, the memory of every kiss they’d shared before. Vander didn’t touch him beyond their joined hands. He let Silco take the lead, let Silco show what he wanted, what he felt safe taking. Vander promised he would try. This was him trying.
Faintly, Silco heard Viktor’s cane on the stairs, the sound of the child putting himself to bed. Or perhaps simply not wanting to see his father figure kissing. Silco smiled to himself. It was the life he used to dream he would be allowed one day. Vander, who loved him. A child, or two, who needed them. The bar would be warm and thriving and Zaun would be on her way to freedom. More than Silco deserved. But everything he had in this moment, this flame, sputtering back to life, warm and beautiful between them. The fear pushed down, muted by Vander’s kiss, by the warmth of his hand. By the familiar taste of pipe smoke and ale, the feel of the callouses on his palm. Vander rubbed his thumb over Silco’s knuckles, kissed him like he was breathing again, breathing clean air after weeks in the mines. Kissed him like he was finally once again allowed to live.
And in return Silco kissed him like he was drowning. Like he was in the river, and Vander was his chance for air. Only this time, Vander didn’t hold him under. Vander held him steady, held him safe. Held him above the surf so he could breathe. So he could see, and all he knew was that it was right.
It would never be right. But this was. This kiss, this night, leaned over the bar like he had been so many nights, this was right. But it never could be as good, as right as it had been. It could never be what it was.
Silco just wanted to keep that moment.
But the kiss broke, and Vander looked at him like he was something perfect. Silco was so far from it, he ached, and he hadn’t been able to kiss right, the places where he was scarred hardly even moved anymore. Parts of his cheekbone caved in. How could Vander look at him like that? He had turned Silco into something wretched, and looked at him like he hung stars in the sky.
No one hung stars in the sky. They couldn’t even see the stars, not from where they were, brought so low. That was why he planned. Why he worked. So the kids, all three of them, who would never live as Vander or Silco had, so they would see stars. So they didn’t have to know what it was like to sleep in a mine, or an alley. To steal a name. To go nights without food, or not know if the water they drank was clean.
Silco brushed his fingers over Vander’s face, where he had grown a beard. It suited him. He was growing into the man he should be. Stable, strong. He looked like he should be a father, a leader. Silco had always wanted Vander to be the leader. Silco was better for planning, for the kind of work that needed to happen, to keep all the little gears of their world running. Vander could lead. Could nurture, could care for the people.
Could care for him. Maybe.
“I’m going to make sure Viktor’s alright.” Silco couldn’t address what had just happened. He couldn’t talk about kissing him. About feeling so right, here. About the spark, the safety. The love that had never once lapsed, even under water.
It was a lie, and Vander knew it was. Viktor was already under the blankets on the sofa, already most of the way to sleep. Silco smiled, to see him there. Smiled, to know he didn’t sleep rough, in an alley or an abandoned building. Would never sleep in the attic of a brothel again. Would never wonder where his next meal would come from again. Silco would never make him. Even if Vander wasn’t better. Even if this was a fleeting moment, a lie, Silco could leave the boy here now. Knew he was safe.
He’d lit that flame for him. For someone better. For the children of Zaun.
“You can sleep in the bed, if you want. I won’t touch.” Vander offered, when Silco heard him approach. Silco shared the sofa with his boy. Viktor didn’t like waking up alone. Silco didn’t like being away from him, not knowing if he was breathing steady, if he was safe. But he had been recovering, and it was only one door down. No harm could come to him. And Vander had kissed him so steady. Vander could hold him together.
No one could hold him together. He was floating away.
“And if I ask you to hold me?”
“Then that’s all we’ll do. I’m trying to be better. Anything we do, it’s at your pace, Sil. I, I know I fucked up. So I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
Silco nodded, slow. But he didn’t go to the bed until long after Vander had retired for the night, until all the lights in the bar were off. Until Viktor was sleeping deep, until even the gaslamps had gone off.
But Vander just turned back the blanket, held his arms out. No judgement, no questions. Nothing but that warm, calm patience, damnably kind.
“Just one arm. In case I need to leave again.” Silco knew even one arm was heavy, it was a lot, he was trusting Vander with too much, with the power to hold him down. Trusting Vander with his rest. With his vulnerability. But Vander just rested one arm around him, hand splayed out against his chest when Silco turned his back to him, rested over Silco’s fluttering heartbeat. Like animals, nesting for warmth in a burrow. He put both hands on Vander’s arm, held them.
He heard Vander’s breath even out in sleep, the faint snore he never could quite get rid of, the one that always lulled Silco into his own rest. Felt his own heartbeat start to even, his body start to weigh down, just as it always had. The power this man had over him, it was terrifying.
“I love you.” He whispered. Only when he knew Vander couldn’t hear.