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A low hum, barely audible, accompanies the record spinning on the phonograph.
Save for a suave jazz that floats lazily about the place, all is quiet in the lab. Without turning back from his vantage point, Silco can scarcely hear the tell-tale clinking of glassware and the much more troubling gurgling sounds of whatever crawls within all these tubes. As for Singed, whom he knows is working with little to no regard for his back, he seems completely oblivious to the snazzy charm of the music.
They don’t need to acknowledge each other’s presence to appreciate it, and it makes the younger man feel at ease. Talking might be the core of his trade, but sometimes, it does good to put his silver tongue to rest.
After years of mutual acquaintance and cautious trust, both men can now enjoy a companionable silence when there’s nothing to trouble it.
If anything, Silco has learned to savor Singed’s carefully restrained attitude. There’s never a word higher than the last, never a glare that betrays more than it should, never a badly placed hand to wake up open-eyed nightmares. Sometimes, the scientist fallen from grace reminds Silco of a tightly wound clockwork mechanism— perfection built around copper wire, cold steel and the slightly bitter taste of rust.
A slow, cat-like smile takes hold of his lips as he ponders. He can see the edges of his mouth curl slightly upwards in his own reflection. And beyond, the beautiful darkness he likes to bathe in from a safer spot. The circular window, reinforced with an intricate steel frame that draws a curiously threatening pattern, is the only thing separating him from the filth on the other side.
The filth, and the creatures born from it. Oddly beautiful, infused with a grace that cannot be reached by mere descriptions. All of them, from the smallest fish to the largest titan, are a sight to behold, like shadows painted in shades of blue.
Singed has taught him their scientific names. And although some of them are too painfully long to be duly committed to memory, he makes a point not to forget those he likes best. The big ones that growl with huge maws littered with the deadliest of teeth; rows and rows of razor-sharp knives to instill fear in every prey they come across.
Merciless predators, he thinks. Biological wonders, Singed retorts.
Majestic, they agree.
Silco stays still, his posture neither commanding nor slouched. It’s the one he allows himself to adopt when he knows he can let his guard down. The careful, slightly tense attitude of a killer at rest.
And he watches, most intently, as the animals swim almost in time with the sensuous jazz. They seem to exude a lethal sort of grace, each one of their movements responding to a clear purpose.
It’s almost like a dance.
A slow, languid duet between monsters and water, neither willing to surrender to the other’s guidance. Here a sharp fin slices through the river’s polluted depths; there it retaliates, invading the powerful creature’s gills, in equal measure poison and sustenance. There seems to be no end to this noxious embrace. Eternities might slip by as they coil around each other, until eventually one of them falls, slain by its own vacuity— Silco knows it shall never be the vile liquid entity that laid claim to part of himself.
His corrupted eye stings, and he halts in the middle of a motion. The futile reflex of clutching the torn skin with his bare hand lingers. It is through sheer willpower, and that alone, that he finds the strength of mind to overcome his body’s self-destructive tendencies.
When he allows himself to think about what happened that night, it’s like someone is chewing his heart and spitting it back in disgust. A distorted face, a pair of hands on his throat, and water rushing through his lungs. The drowning might be what shaped him into what he is now, but this does nothing to alleviate the extreme pain it has and still inflicts.
The wound on his face is proof of that, as are his countless nightmares. He doesn’t know what is worse; memories of better times, or the betrayal itself. Whenever he hears Vander’s name—
A sensation tears the daydream apart with impossible finesse. He recognizes the touch of familiar fingers curled around his right shoulder, and the flinch that should have shaken him subsides instantly. There is no mistaking the airy contact of Singed’s hand. Silco finds solace in this practiced delicacy that could never be achieved by anyone else, and certainly not the rougher face of his past.
It’s a different hand, offered with another life. Not a gift, but a chance to be reborn.
To trust again.
Sometimes, he thinks he should shake it off and maintain the facade. Sometimes, he feels grateful for its reassuring presence at his side. Not that he would ever admit to it. They do not speak of such things.
Silco tilts his head to the side, allowing his right eye to get a good look at the taller man. He walks so silently that he hasn’t heard him at all over the entrancing rhythm of the music. Singed’s lips are pursed, and his gaze seems questioning. Not intrusive. Merely curious and, perhaps, if he can indulge in some optimism— worried.
He’ll never verbalize something as trivial, of course. The scientist comes first. The man underneath feels more like a featureless mask to everyone else.
But not to him. Never to him.
Yet that cannot be uttered either. Instead, he only nods and forces his stance to relax, even against his better judgment. The wound on his left leg burns a little, and the bandage wrapped around it feels a bit too tight. If the doctor notices, he doesn’t let it show.
“How’s it looking so far?” Silco asks, careful not to let anything unwanted escape the threshold of his lips.
There’s a short silence as his interlocutor glances at his cluttered desk. A pinkish mixture with a tinge of blue simmers in his chemistry apparatus.
“Good enough. There are adjustments to be made, of course.” A pause allows Silco to nod once more. “I’ll need to do other tests. On animals. And…”
He trails off, letting the smaller man fill in the blanks. Of course he means human subjects. Whatever he needs, he shall have. And then, no one in Zaun shall suffer under Piltie enforcers’ boots again.
No one.
“Good”, he says, right eye glinting a haunting blue while the other burns orange like a flame. And he means it.
One hand on the back of the other’s neck, and he pulls Singed into a much-needed embrace. No objection comes forth. Instead, the grip of the scientist’s fingers against his shoulder tightens, clutching not only at red fabric but also the skin and bones that lie beneath. Perhaps, Silco muses, thoughts of medical knives and dissecting processes wander, soon to be replaced with the purity of human warmth. There is no telling what this man thinks, which is, after Vander’s accursed predictability, impossibly refreshing.
A lulling silence, only interrupted by brass instruments and a distant singer’s husky voice, is all that rests between them. An obstacle easy enough to overcome. Thus, the smaller man leans in and brushes his scarred lips against his lover’s for but a second. It tastes like rust alright, after hours spent hunched over a desk with Shimmer for sole company.
He doesn’t mind. Not when Singed lets out a low, contented hum; the only acknowledgement he seems capable of when they’re not discussing medicine or chemistry. Yet he knows, from the way the other’s hand leaves his shoulder to rest on the small of his back, that there is more than what words can say between them.
Trust might be the most important ingredient in their eerily alchemical liaison, but something else entirely bubbles under the surface, as if trapped between the walls of a test tube. A feeling, perhaps, that shall never need a name— fortunately, neither of them is inclined to grant it one.
A kiss, like a riot swelling in their broken hearts, joins them in the dimly lit laboratory as now unseen creatures swim by. Mixed breaths and scents. Hands on slender backs and sharp cheekbones. Warmth radiating off their skin. Silco kills off a smirk before it’s even born, and he revels in the almost reverent touch of the older man’s fingers, barely daring to press against his pale forearm.
There is nothing clinical anymore in the way they linger, delicate as five-legged spiders. He lets his own curl around Singed’s head and rests against his shoulder, good eye closed but not seeking slumber.
He doesn’t even stir when the taller man’s position shifts. Silco can feel Singed’s left hand rest on his waist, and the right one snatches his own left to raise it at shoulder height. Soon, he’s caught up in a slight swaying motion that almost seems to follow the music’s tempo. It is only a little off beat, and not enough to be unnerving. Quite the opposite, actually.
Silco smiles faintly against the doctor’s shoulder.
These moves are nothing like the dances he knows from his youth. He’s never been one to indulge in it, but he recalls busy nights at The Last Drop, and a drunk Vander dragging his heavy carcass to the dancefloor. He would occasionally join the fun by sitting at the piano and striking up lively Zaunite tunes.
He closes his right eye, and here’s the memory, a vivid imprint on the back of his eyelid. If he concentrates hard enough to shut off the noise around him, he could even hear the sound of laughter buzzing in his ears…
But he forbids himself to.
Instead, he lifts his head and does his best to stand straighter without disturbing their dynamic. The scientist doesn’t seem bothered, as he continues to guide him through simple repetitive steps. At least, his rhythm is impeccable.
“Is this what they call a dance, topside?” Silco drawls, his voice akin to a low murmur to match the atmosphere. There is a hint of mischief in the way his accent curls around every syllable.
Singed merely nods, allowing the other man to decipher the slight upturn of his lips as a smile. In that regard, they are as similar as they could hope to be— pain and regret hiding behind what others would see as perfectly controlled restraint.
“I’m afraid”, the doctor half-whispers, “that these are the only steps I know. I have always been a poor dancer.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Worse, yes; drunk and unhinged, without any sense of dignity. An exact opposite. His grip on Singed’s left shoulder tightens.
“And it’s so different”, he hears himself murmur as if in a daze. “Slower. Calmer.” His voice blends with the music, unwilling to break its spell. “Not Zaunite at all.”
A brief humorous huff escapes the scientist on purpose. It’s a rare enough occurrence, so it prompts Silco’s intact eyebrow to rise.
“It’s not,” Singed provides as an answer.
“Obviously. You are nothing but a Piltovan renegade”, the younger man counters. “You wouldn’t know what a true dance looks like.”
Indeed, there is nothing of the rebellious Zaunite spirit in the way they sway gently, the soles of their shoes sliding without a sound across the lab floor. Nothing of Vander. Maybe it’s for the best. So when the doctor halts his movement to inquire, Silco stops him.
“It’s fine. I’ve always been terrible at Zaunite dances anyway.”
With a subtle nudge of his chin, he incites Singed to pick up the pace again, which the taller man does without complaint. They go on for a while, even when the singer’s voice fades away and the sea monsters disappear from view.
Yes— all is quiet in the lab.