Chapter Text
When Vander needs something to nurture, Silco offers himself up like a sacrifice.
He comes back into Vander's life almost transactionally: Vi's life for Silco's. It's not a good way to think about it. Every time Vander does, he finds himself trying to superimpose Silco over the space Vi left behind.
Silco doesn't do him the disservice of trying to make him feel better. It's a small, mean blessing, just like Silco. He's furious. He pulls out the letter and tells Vander it isn't good enough, that he should have tried harder, looked longer. If I had sense, I would burn it and leave. You're fortunate I pity you.
But Silco doesn't burn it. He keeps it with him. Sometimes, Vander sees him fingering the edge of the paper sticking out from his coat pocket.
Silco talks of Zaun often. Talks of fighting topside. When Vander barks at him to shut his mouth before he starts another Day of Ash, he does. Rage simmers. He hovers around the bar like a black cloud. Of all the ghosts Vander wishes would haunt him, this one is the cruelest.
One day, Silco comes to the pub, sweaty and swaying. His skin is paper-white, blue eye dilated, a frightening void. Silco collapses into his arms.
"I'm out of shimmer."
Vander's seen him inject that violet purple liquid before. In another life, he would have tried to wrestle the poison away. But Silco's entitled to his own modes of self-destruction. Vander envies him the indulgence, but he has three grieving children to care for.
Withdrawal hits like a storm. Vander strips Silco of his manicured clothes and wraps him in old pajamas, warm and loose. He tucks Silco into his own bed and buries him in blankets.
Silco doesn't sleep for two nights. Neither does Vander.
It's misery. It's bliss. It's catharsis. Silco screams and curses and accuses and weeps. He becomes a conduit for Vander's grief, an embodiment of it—like Vander plucked suffering from his heart to study its shape. When Vander soothes a washcloth over Silco's forehead, he feels that he is soothing himself. Breathe. You'll be alright. Have some more water.
The third night, they finally sleep, tangled in each other. He can't remember how they ended up like that.
Vander wakes drenched in Silco's sweat. Predawn light glows in the window, pear-green. Silco is illuminated, face pale, hair sticking to his forehead in curls. His ruined eye is closed, the swelling abated.
An old impulse drives Vander. He presses his lips to the closed eyelid. He tastes tears.
A thin hand tangles in his hair. Silco draws Vander's mouth down to his own, half-asleep. Muscle memory. The kiss tastes like sickness and sleep, acid and rot. Vander doesn't give a damn. He kisses Silco lazily, deeply, for hours.
Silco brought him an open wound to mend, right when he needed it most.
Dawn blooms into a bright morning.