Archive of Our Own

Vander flinches when he finds Silco in his room, even though he really shouldn’t be surprised. At this point, he should probably be used to Silco waiting for him in his room like this, sitting in the armchair in the corner that he used to curl up in all the time back before… before. 

Silco is not curled up now, not comfortable and soft, with a warm smile in place, reserved only for Vander in their private moments. 

There is nothing soft about Silco, now. Hasn’t been in a long time. 

He’s all sharp corners and edges that you could cut yourself on, his long legs crossed elegantly, his back perfectly straight, cigar dangling between his delicate fingers, a carefully composed figure. With the glow of the small lamp on Vander’s bedside table halfway across the room, Silco is thrown mostly into shadow, only the cigar and his left eye glowing eerily. He’s a creature of the dark. He’s intimidating , and Vander’s heart starts beating faster in his chest, some animal instinct inside him recognizing the acute danger radiating from Silco. 

“What are you doing here?” Vander snaps after closing the door behind him. He doesn’t need anyone else to know about any of this. “How did you get in here?” 

Silco doesn’t answer immediately. He takes a careful drag from his cigar, taps the ash carelessly onto the floor. Vander bristles where he stands, but doesn’t move. 

“You should really work on your security, old friend,” Silco finally says, smoke spilling from his pinched mouth. He’s not even looking at Vander.  “Any petty thug could get in like this.” 

Vander’s gaze follows his, catching on the window across the room, the crack where it’s been pushed not-quite-closed. Ah. 

The thought almost amused him, Silco slinking in through the window like a cat, but Vander doesn’t laugh. He huffs out an annoyed breath through his nose, and Silco tilts his head in his direction, in that mocking way of his. 

“That was closed when I left.” 

“Really? I could have sworn you’d left it open,” Silco says, playing at innocence. It doesn’t suit him. 

Vander takes a step in Silco’s direction, fist clenching at his sides, then stops himself. Silco doesn’t seem bothered by this aborted display of dominance, his intact eyebrow cocked. It’s a good facade; Vander cannot tell for the life of him what’s really going on in Silco’s head, underneath the superiority he wears like armour, underneath the air of disinterest, the derision dripping from his gaze as he looks Vander up and down.  

“What are you doing here?” Vander repeats, voice low, barely contained. His throat feels rough with the desire to growl far less civil things at Silco. 

The cool amusement that was there only moments before drops from Silco’s expression, and he unfolds his slender frame from the armchair. The old thing seems even more ratty in contrast to Silco’s fine suit. 

“Don’t play dumb, Vander,” he says, each word like a knife, dripping with venom. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

Vander doesn’t respond. He does growl, though, a wordless sound that makes Silco sneer with disdain. As always, Silco brings out the worst in him, some base part of him rearing its head, wild and uncontrolled. 

In a way, Silco is right, but only halfway: Vander knows what he’s here for , but he doesn’t know why. This careful dance of theirs is well-practiced by now, and Vander knows the motions, knows his cues, knows where to move and how. But he’s never known Silco’s reasons, not since the first time he came back, crawling into Vander’s room in the middle of the night like a haunting. 

There’s no rhyme or reason to Silco’s visits, never has been in the years since they started this, the years since… since. The time in between is always unpredictable; that’s probably by design, so that Vander can never be prepared for the gut-punch shock of Silco appearing in his room. More than once, Silco waited long enough for Vander to wonder whether he’d disappeared for good this time, fled the city or been stabbed to death and left to rot in a gutter somewhere. 

But so far, SIlco has always returned. That’s the one certainty about this arrangement, then: That Silco will come back. 

That, and what he wants from Vander during these stolen hours. 

Taking another drag from his damned fancy cigar, Silco steps closer to Vander, though not up to him, walking past with measured steps. He looks at Vander from the corner of his eye, narrow and calculating. The silence between them stretches, though it’s not actually quiet at all, shouts and music drifting in through the thin walls, pipes clanging and machines droning in the distance. The Lanes never sleep, not really. 

Almost luxuriously, Silco exhales, tipping his head back, his thin lips pursed as he blows a plume of smoke up towards the ceiling. Then, so abruptly it almost startles Vander, he turns towards him, fully, facing Vander across the distance between them, his eyes intense, burning, the right one bright with fury, the left one bright with decay. 

Heat and guilt churn in Vanders gut. 

“Take your clothes off,” Silco orders. 

He keeps looking at Vander as he says it, his voice brooking no argument, stance authoritative, gaze unforgiving. There’s nothing seductive about it, nothing lovingly teasing, the way there might have been once upon a time. Only coldness. The heat inside Vanders glows brighter despite that.

He lets out another growl between clenched teeth, feels like an animal as he does. But he doesn’t protest. He never does, not when it comes to this. 

Slowly, Vander leans down to unbuckle his boots. He keeps Silco in his line of sight as he does so, his leaping heart reminding him that Silco is a predator, and that turning his back to him could prove deadly. Part of Vander wants to kick the boots in his direction, maybe hit him in the shin, but he suppresses the urge, just like he suppresses the urge to march over to Silco and loom over him, press him up against a wall and- well. That’s where the fantasy gets a bit hazy. 

No matter what his instincts tell him to do, shouting at him to fight or flee, Vander stays where he is, stepping out of his boots under Silco’s watch, gaze chilly, attentive. 

The belt is next, the metallic snick of it almost deafening in the space between them. Vander lets it drop to the floor with a thunk, and Silco raises a brow at him, like Vander is a child who was never taught any manners. Vander grins at him, wide and dangerous, showing all of his teeth, and steps out of his pants. 

Though Silco is still keeping up his facade, the way his eyes travel over Vander’s body as he reveals it is impossible to miss. No way of telling whether he likes what he sees or not, but Vander doesn’t have to guess for that one; he figures if Silco didn’t, he wouldn’t keep coming back. 

Once he’s divested himself of his shirt and stands before Silco entirely bare, safe for the brace on his forearm, he notices the chill in the room, caressing his skin and raising goosebumps along his skin. Summer is over, the heating’s not on yet, and the window is still open, letting in a foul-smelling but somewhat crisp stream of air. Or maybe the shiver that runs down his spine is simply brought on by the weight of Silco’s stare, nothing to do with the temperature at all. 

It’s disconcerting, how Silco’s eyes are like ice and fire at once; hard and unforgiving, and somewhere underneath that, set ablaze. Vander has never felt shy in front of Silco, and he’s not starting now, but being considered like this, with such removed calculation and undeniable sparks of hatred, makes something roil in his chest. He wants to move, wants to take his restless energy out on something, on Silco or the punching bag he keeps in the training room. 

The situation feels eerily familiar, but wrong, twisted. Nothing is how it should be. 

He wants Silco to look at him the way he used to, not with hatred or indifference but with warmth. With affection. 

He wants Silco to never look at him again. 

He wants Silco to disappear and leave for good this time, or else he wants to make him. 

He wants everything all at once, and can have nothing of it. 

“Hm,” Silco makes, low, somewhat appreciative.

He puffs at his cigar again, and Vander wonders where he gets the damn things. They’re expensive. Back in the day, Silco smoked shitty self-rolled cigarettes like the rest of them. The smoke rings, though, are the same, precise and pretty; Silco’s sharp mouth pursed sharper as he sends one flying directly at Vander. There’s too much space between them; it dissipates before it reaches him. 

Then Silco moves, begins to cross that empty space that feels miles long. His footfalls make the floorboards creak as he takes one measured step after the other. Vander doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place. Instead he stands still, fists balled at his side and jaw clenched, muscles growing taut as Silco closes the gap between them. 

This time, when Silco takes a drag, he exhales the smoke right into Vander’s face. The heavy taste of tobacco floods his mouth as he inhales, the thick plumes invading his nostrils. Vander holds it in his lungs for a long second before he breathes out, his throat itching only a little. He looks right at Silco the whole time, at the poisonous glare of his left eye and the heavy-lidded sharpness of the right one. 

If Silco wanted him to cough, he’s going to be disappointed. He should know better anyway. It takes more than some cigar smoke to get a reaction out of Vander; he was right there along with SIlco, after all, slaving away in the mines, the air too thick to breathe with dust and chemicals, and out in the streets when the Grey still slithered through the alleys. Both of them have been shaped by it, made into hardy creatures. 

The corner of Silco’s mouth quirks up in something almost resembling a smirk. It brings back another memory, sends something shivery down Vander’s spine that he tries very hard not to show. They used to do this sometimes, when they were younger, sharing cigarettes by passing the smoke into each other’s mouths. It always ended in heated kisses, lips wet and wide open, something desperate and dizzy about the whole act. This is different, a poor caricature of the past, their bodies too far apart, the tension of a different flavour all together. 

Still, it sends a low flare of arousal through Vander’s body. His cock twitches. He wonders if Silco is thinking about the same thing, if he’s feeling the same thing. He doesn’t look down to check.

“What an obedient dog you are,” Silco mutters, vicious. “Doing whatever I tell you to. Hold still now, won’t you?”

The arousal gathering in Vander pulls tighter, concentrating between his legs. A groan leaves his mouth despite his best efforts to hold it back. His cheeks flush with humiliation, but he doesn’t move. 

Not even when Silco lowers the cigar from his mouth and presses the cherry red tip of it right to the centre of Vander’s chest. 

Bright hot pain flares beneath the ambers. Vander grits his teeth so hard he’s worried he might crack them. A sound somewhere between a hiss and a whine catches in the back of his throat. Every muscle in his body is telling him to move, to run, to push Silco away. 

Silco presses harder, twists the cigar against his skin. A horrid smell rises from his chest; charred hair and burning flesh mixing with the tobacco. It nearly makes Vander gag, but he holds that back too, just like he keeps a tight leash on the urge to lash out at Silco, to grab him by his pale throat again and make him stop. 

The pain radiates out and out, burns hotter and hotter, and then Silco stops. 

Vander deflates where he stands, panting, sweating. He makes a conscious effort to unlock his cramped muscles, to loosen his jaw. A delicious cocktail of fury and arousal is coursing through his veins. Silco watches him, almost curious, brow raised. Then they both look down at his handiwork at the same time. 

The mark he’s left on Vander is perfectly round, bright red and angry looking. It sits right in the middle of his sternum, symmetrical in its own fucked up way. It’ll be a bitch to take care of, will chafe against his shirts all day long. It’ll scar, probably. There’s a fucked-up symmetry to that, too. 

The phantom pain of a knife slashing along his forearm makes Vander swallow heavily, the anger inside him receding and making room for something more shameful, more cowed. It won’t be the first mark Silco has left on him, but still none of them could ever compare to the one he gave Silco. 

“Get on the bed,” Silco tells him, voice unreadable again. 

Vander obeys. 

Silco watches him, twisting the extinguished cigar between his slender fingers. Once Vander has positioned himself in the middle of his bed, propping his pillows up against the headboard and leaning back against them, Silco moves again, turning his back on Vander for the first time. 

He puts his cigar into the small ashtray on the side table next to the armchair; it's empty apart from that, has been since Vander quit cigarettes and picked up the pipe. He’d say he doesn’t know why he still keeps it around, but that would be a lie. The reason is standing in front of him. 

Fingers now unoccupied, Silco gets to work on his clothes. Vander allows himself to look at him more carefully, cataloguing every detail he can catch, undisturbed and undistracted for a few precious seconds. 

Silco moves towards him as he unfastens his vest and then his neat shirt, both made from much more expensive material than the clothes he used to wear. His motions are swift, effective. The sickly neon light falling in through the dirt-stained stained window illuminates him, makes him look almost otherworldly. Silco is all sharp lines and getting sharper every year. 

Somehow, he’s still the most beautiful man Vander has ever laid eyes on. 

Neither of them speaks as Silco shrugs his shirt off, placing it on top of the dresser before he gets to work on his pants. He ducks his head, looking at his belt as he unfastens it, and his hair falls out of its meticulous style. Something bitter and nostalgic rises in Vander’s throat. Silco always used to be vain about his hair, taking great care to make it look good even when it was almost impossible to keep it that way. 

He keeps it short now, has for a while, the undercut impeccably neat. There are strands of grey sneaking into the black, an irrefutable reminder of the passage of time. Vander hates seeing it, even though he can’t deny that it suits Silco. He wonders how his hair will look the next time he visits, whenever that will be. He wonders what Silco will look like when he goes grey completely. How much will their world have changed by then? Will they still orbit each other like this, in however many years it’ll take? Or will they finally have left each other behind? 

Silco pushes down his pants, his underwear, revealing long, slender legs, pale as ever, dusted with contrasting dark hair. He’s skinny in a way that’s almost concerning, which in itself is nothing new, but he’s also lost some of the muscle definition he used to have, back in their mining days. Not doing much physical labour anymore, then. 

When he has stepped out of his shoes and pushed them aside neatly, Silco straightens up, looking at Vander again. His mouth is flat. The lines on his forehead are getting deeper every time, around his eyes, the shadows there, and on his cheeks; life is aging him more quickly than it should, but really, that’s just the way things are down here. None of them look as young as they are. 

Finally, Vander lets himself examine the left side of his face thoroughly. 

The eye looks good, or as good as it ever really gets. The infection is held at bay, by whatever means he’s found that work; he’s never told Vander about it and Vander has never asked, even though he is curious. He has seen the thing all flared up before, leaking blood and pus, the scarred skin inflamed and burning, the eye swollen almost shut despite the missing lid, the unseeing pupil twitching uncontrollably. It’s always more unsettling like that, more horrible to look at, more uncomfortable. Whatever medicine Silco has found, Vander is glad it’s working. He’s glad it’s better right now, almost relieved. 

Immediately after he thinks it, guilt rises up his throat like bile. He is the one who gave Silco that scar. He is responsible for it. It’s his fault. What kind of person does that make him, that he can’t even face the consequences of his own action when they’re at their worst? When Silco is at his worst? 

There’s a horrible lump in his throat as he watches Silco dig the oil out of Vander’s bedside table. It’s been there since they were together, and he never changed that; still keeps it stocked up, even when he hasn’t been with anyone in months, just in case. Just so that Silco will know where to look for it, if he decides to visit. That nostalgic feeling from before comes back, stronger, and mixes with the guilt and the anger and the arousal. It’s such a confusing mixture of feelings that, by all means, Vander feels like he should be going soft from the sheer overwhelming volume, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he looks at Silco’s naked body, at the lean lines of him, his cock starting to harden between his legs, everything about him so familiar and strange at the same time, and swallows the lump down and down and down. 

No space for any of that now. 

He’ll have plenty of time to wallow and contemplate later. 

Now, he needs to focus. 

When Silco throws a leg over both of Vander’s, hovering over his lap but not sitting down yet, there’s nothing tender about it, no reverence or patience. It’s perfunctory, a means to an end, like none of this really matters at all. It’s Silco’s eye that betrays him, really, as Vander looks up at his face: The expression is hard to read, but what Vander knows for sure is that all of this matters more than either of them can say, in ways he’s not sure either of them understands. 

Vander slides down on the bed, until he’s lying on his back, his head on the pillows, looking up at Silco above him. Silco looks right back, something like satisfaction at the new angle curling in the corner of his mouth. 

The inside of his thighs is pressed to the outside of Vander’s, the only point of contact between them, and still it’s enough to send Vander reeling, his blood roaring with anticipation. Silco’s skin is so much colder than his, always has been, the contrast raising goosebumps along his legs, his arms. 

Despite the lack of touch, Vander is embarrassingly hard already, standing at attention, his body’s instinctual reaction to Silco and this whole… thing. Part of him wishes he weren’t so turned on, that he was able to keep his wits about him in Silco’s presence, just once, but that part is getting more and more quiet, and when Silco uncorks the small bottle of oil and pours it over his fingers, it quiets down completely. Instead, a different part rears its head, roaring with desperation.

“Silco,” he groans, and he’s not even sure what he’s trying to say, if he’s trying to say anything at all. 

Silco raises his brow, expectantly, and reaches between his own legs without preamble. The moment he touches himself, his breath rushes out of him, sort of relieved, and the relaxing of his shoulders is followed quickly by soft, slick noises, unmistakable. 

Vander groans, helpless. The angle isn’t quite right – he can’t see the spot where Silco’s fingers disappear into himself, but hearing it, seeing the movement of Silco’s arm as he works himself open, the slight furrow between his brows that has nothing to do with anger, noticing how his breath catches before accelerating, his slim ribcage expanding faster than before… all of it is enough to drive him crazy even without a direct line of sight at the proceedings. 

“Silco,” he says again, and this time all the desperation inside him bleeds through. Above him, Silco’s eye flutters closed, his teeth closing briefly over his lower lip as he finds a good angle, and the sight of it fills his brain with static for a moment. 

“Let me help you,” Vander asks, begs, really, with the way his voice sounds. He lifts his hands from the bed where he’d kept them so far, sliding them up Silco’s thin thighs, allowing himself to fall into the familiarity of it, past and present overlapping. “Let me open you up, Sil…” 

“No,” Silco hisses, the expression of pleasure dropping from his face so quickly it’s like it was never there at all, replaced by a vicious snarl. He pulls his fingers free with a lewd noise, doesn’t bother wiping them off before he takes Vander’s wrists in his hands and pushes them forcefully up next to Vander’s head. He leans onto them, pressing Vander’s arms into the pillow, lowering his face close enough to Vander’s that he can feel Silco’s hot breath ghosting over his skin. “You don’t get to touch me like that anymore, Vander.”

Silco spits his name out like it’s poison. Vander growls at him, desire pulsing through him, robbing him of any words. He almost snaps his teeth too, but stops himself at the last second. Silco clicks his tongue in disapproval, leaning harder onto Vander’s wrists, making the bones grind together in a way that almost hurts. The pressure of it pulls at the scar on his forearm, makes it twinge – though it’s not nearly as bad as Silco’s face, the wound never healed quite right, and it’s easy to agitate. The discomfort of it has Vander biting back a hiss. 

“You’re an animal,” Silco mutters, eyes jumping over Vander’s face. “Be a good mutt, then, and stay still.”

“Fuck you,” Vander grits out, but when Silco lets him go, he does as he’s told. 

Silco’s lips quirk. “Hah. Funny.” 

He picks the oil back up, pours some more of it over his fingers. But this time, instead of going back to opening himself up, he reaches for Vander’s cock. The touch draws a moan from Vander, clever fingers wrapping around his shaft and stroking him, tight and quick, slicking him up. His fingers curl into his palms with the urge to reach for Silco, but he holds himself back, lets his eyes fall shut for a brief moment in an attempt to control himself when Silco’s hand on him feels so damned good. 

“Look at me,” Silco orders, his grip tightening in a way that has Vander’s heart racing. 

He does. The sight he’s greeted with is stunning in its own right: Silco, hovering above him, drawn in jagged lines, bathed in dirty neons, eye glowing, glowing , a creature of the Underground like no other. His gaze stays fixed firmly on Vander’s face as he moves into position, guiding Vander’s cock to his entrance. 

When Silco starts to sink down onto him, Vander stops breathing for a second. It’s so much, so intense, Silco tight and hot around him. There’s resistance there, at first, but then it gives and Vander is surrounded by Silco, being taken deeper and deeper in slow, torturous increments. 

Above him, Silco is finally losing some of that precious composure of his. He’s panting almost as badly as Vander, his brows drawn up in the middle in something like concentration. His teeth are digging into his lip again, harsh enough to leave them white and bloodless. Vander wants to lick the jagged edges of them, tongue the chipped corner of Silco’s incisor where a piece broke off after a fistfight, feel the crookedness that Vander put there himself with his own fists later on. Silco’s free hand comes to rest on Vander’s chest, nails digging sharply into the flesh. 

It must be at least a little uncomfortable for him, to take Vander as steadily as he does. Vander isn’t small, not in general and especially not in comparison to Silco, and he remembers how it used to be between them, opening Silco up carefully and thoroughly before Vander finally pressed into him. The scant minutes Silco spent on the act now don’t even begin to compare, and somewhere in the back of Vander’s head he finds it in himself to be worried. Not worried enough to comment on it, though, or to try to get Silco to stop. Too desperate for it. 

When Silco is fully seated, his entire weight settled on Vander’s lap, his breathing is ragged and his face is flushed. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his right eye fluttering closed, his head tilting back, almost like he’s savouring the stretch of it. His forehead glistens with sweat, strands of hair falling into his face, escaping their gelled back prison. Vander bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood just to keep himself from doing anything stupid, like reaching for Silco again, or begging him to move. 

It turns out begging isn’t necessary, though. Silco barely rests for a second before he begins to move, and the second he does, Vander is on fire.

Silco isn’t gentle about it, or patient. He rises only slightly then slams himself back down again, sets a rhythm so fast and rough there’s no way it doesn’t hurt him. Little choked-off groans are punched out of him with every movement, his nails scratching at Vander’s pectorals sharply enough to draw blood. The sting mixes with the still-radiating cigar burn, only a few inches away from Silco’s hands, the pain making something in Vander’s brain spark and short-circuit. 

He doesn’t touch Silco, but he refuses to lie still and let himself be used. He grips his own hair tightly, pulls, and plants his feet firmly on his shitty mattress so he can meet Silco push for push. Both of them moan, load and ragged, when he thrusts up into Silco, harsh and unforgiving. Silco is still tight around him, clenching tighter at the sensation of it. It’s intoxicating, feeling him like this, and Vander doesn’t think, his body taking over, shoving up into Silco’s heat again and again. 

Maybe he should try to keep the noise down; try not to moan as much, try to move less so the bed won’t squeak the way it does with their frantic movements. The kids are asleep downstairs, after all. But there are two sets of stairs between them, and really, Vander isn’t sure he could keep it down even if he wanted to. An impossible cocktail of arousal and anger burns through his veins so brightly he thinks it might consume him; the sight of Silco with his face contorted in pleasure and pain and fury is so stunning he can’t worry about anything else except this, except them . 

The first time they did this was only a few months after. After the river, after Silco stumbling away from his furious grasp with fear in one eye and blood in the other. Vander hadn’t really thought he’d ever see him again. Part of him had still thought Silco must have been dead, that there could be no way Silco survived the injuries, not when Vander’s own arm had been so badly infected and Silco’s injuries were so much worse than his. 

But then, one evening, Silco had been there, in the bedroom they used to share, pouncing on Vander the moment the door closed behind him. He’d been half feral, his face contorted in an ugly sneer, the left side of it unrecognizable, and for a second, Vander was certain he was being haunted by a vengeful ghost. 

Then he’d felt the cold, hard steel of a blade pressed against the vulnerable skin of his throat – the very knife Silco had taken from him in the river – and realized that, no, Silco was quite real, and quite alive, and burning up with hatred. 

When he’d drawn blood, hissing into Vander’s ear that he was going to kill him, Vander had struggled against his hold, but not as much as he could have. Not enough to actually free himself, both scared of Silco and scared of hurting him. Again. 

He’d swallowed against the knife, his heart pounding in his ears, and whispered, simply, “Please don’t.” 

And that had been enough. Enough for Silco to let go of him with a frustrated, horrible, agonized shout. While Silco walked a frenzied circle around the room, Vander had stayed there, trying to catch his breath, not talking. Inside of him, two sides had been warring: The one that felt like he should throw himself down at Silco’s feet and grovel for forgiveness, and the one that was still so angry, in so much pain, grieving his friends and overboiling with the violence he’d renounced on that bridge, the one that wanted nothing more than to finish the job he’d failed to do the first time just to make all of that go away. 

He hadn’t decided on what to do yet when Silco came back to him, grabbed his collar and pulled him in. He’d kissed Vander like it was a fight, biting down on his lip, drawing blood. Then he’d pushed Vander onto the bed, taken his pleasure from him, and Vander had let him, confused and conflicted but aroused nonetheless. Afterwards, Silco had gotten dressed again so quickly there’d been no time for something so frivolous as cuddling. 

He’d looked at Vander, still laid out on the bed, for a long moment. His right eye, blue as clean river water, looked more dead than his left one. 

“I don’t regret what I did,” he said, quietly, and Vander had to stop himself from jumping him for sounding so callous. “They’re never going to respect us. If we want their respect, we have to fight for it.” 

Vander shook his head. “You’re wrong.” 

Silco had said nothing and left through the door. Vander hadn’t expected to see him again, and decided that, if he did, he’d do what he have to this time. Silco was dangerous, his ideals were dangerous, and Vander had a family to think about now, children. 

But when Silco came back to him a few months later, Vander didn’t have the heart to do it. 

And he hasn’t found the will to since. 

He’s lost count by now, of how many times Silco has come to him. The truth is, he’s not entirely sure what Silco gets out of this. Is it revenge, in some strange, twisted way, fucking Vander and hurting him and then leaving? Gloating that Vander is too weak to end it? Some sort of closure? Vander isn’t sure. He’s not even sure what he himself gets out of it, except an orgasm and the privilege of seeing Silco again. 

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. He suspects the two of them are like magnets, always coming back together, first reluctant and then colliding, inevitable. The reasons for it are inconsequential. Vander goes along with it, even though he doesn’t understand it. 

He owes Silco that much. 

Now, he lets his body take over, lets instinct and years of memory move him the way he knows SIlco likes, maintaining a brutal pace and meeting Silco with every push. Above him, Silco looks like some sort of wretched sait, haloed by the neons. 

Fuck, Vander wants to touch him. He can’t, he’s not allowed to, but he wants.

Instead of touching, he lets his eyes wander, lingering on the spots he wants to feel. He wants to lick the knife’s edge of Silco’s collarbones, taste the salt of sweat on his skin. Wants to run his teeth over the cage of his ribs, bite blooming bruises into his sensitive skin, the way he used to. He wants to grip Silco’s hips so hard it hurts, wants to get right to the edge of crushing him, wants to feel the fragility of him. Wants to wrap his fingers around Silco’s leaking cock, the head flushed red and shining, bobbing between them but untouched so far, and jerk him off rough and fast the way Silco used to like it. 

There are scars on Silco’s body, everywhere. That much is unavoidable with the lives they’ve both lived, growing up in the shadows, working in the mines, fighting in alleyways. There’s a roughness to it, to them, that maybe they were born with. An inclination towards violence that’s in their blood. 

Some of the scars on Silco’s body, he remembers. Remembers stroking the ones that were older than their friendship with careful fingertips, tracing them with his tongue as if he could taste the history of them like that. They’re old now, and faded. 

Some of them, Vander remembers treating when they were fresh wounds, patching them up with a patch of gauze or a ripped up strip of clothes or one or two times, sewing them up himself after they’d gotten out of whatever situation they’d found themselves in. Fucking afterwards, rough and desperate and pressing down on all their new bruises to feel the pain sparking through them, a reminder they were still alive, alive, and together. 

He wants to touch them all again now, and more than that, Vander wants to touch the new ones, the ones that he doesn’t know the story of, the ones that are still shiny and red. He wants to learn their texture, wants to dig his fingers in.

And then, of course, of course, there’s Silco’s face, the most prominent scar of all, everything between them always coming back to that mess of mangled skin. This is a scar that Vander has never touched and never will. He suspects that if he ever tried, Siclo would bite his hand right off. But Vander doesn’t try. Not with this one. He couldn’t bear it. This is the only part of Silco he doesn’t want to touch. 

But the rest of him, fuck, the rest of him. 

The rest of him, Vander wants under his hands so desperately it makes him want to scream. 

It’s so strange, the mix of emotions warring inside of him whenever he looks at Silco, when they’re together like this. Anger and shame, guilt and resentment. And love, always love, twisted and rotten but love, still. Vander isn’t sure he could cut it out of himself even if he tried to. Silco is like something chronic. They’ll never be free of each other. 

Silco moves above him, around him, sending pleasure sparking through Vander, the both of them moaning with abandon, and Vander doesn’t know what to do with this, what to do with Silco. Doesn’t know whether he wants him dead or wants him back. 

The sheer magnitude of desire pumping through him makes Vander hazy, makes him lose his whole mind, everything becoming blurry at the edges. There’s only Silco, the heat of him, the maddening clench and slide as he moves on top of Vander single mindedly, a sight to behold. 

Really, it’s no wonder Vander loses the battle against his will. It was always going to happen; the loss of control predictable with Silco so close, so tantalizing. When Vander’s hands stop gripping his own hair, stop clenching in the pillow, and wander instead towards Silco’s thighs again, it feels inevitable. 

The stinging pain spreads across Vanders cheek so suddenly it takes Vander a moment to register what has happened. His hands hover in the air, unmoving, his breath knocked out of him as the skin on his face starts to burn. His head is turned to the side, he realizes, jerked that way from the force of the hit. 

Silco slapped him. 

Silco slapped him, right across the face, with all the strength to be found in his small body. It’s a lot of strength. Damn. It hurts. 

Maybe it’s the shock of it more than anything else, the unexpectedness. Vander hasn’t been slapped often; he’s been in plenty of fights, sure, but usually he gets punched. That pain is familiar, predictable; it’s one he knows to expect, knows how to deal with. This is new and feels sharper for it. There’s a wet prickling in his eyes that’s reflexive, and Vander blinks rapidly a few times until it goes away. 

Mouth hanging open, he turns to face Silco again. The movement has stopped; Silco is sitting still in his lap, Vander’s cock buried inside him to the hilt. As soon as Vander tries to speak, Silco grips his face roughly, fingers digging into Vander’s jaw and holding him in place. 

“I told you to stay still,” Silco hisses, spittle flying onto Vander’s face. His grip tightens to the point of pain. Vander growls, useless. “Are you truly this desperate? Can you not control yourself for even a few minutes? For once in your life, can’t you be good?”

Silco says good like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like it’s rotting on his tongue. Despite himself, Vander feels his cock throb, his hips twitching up almost of their own accord, lashes fluttering despite the pain and the insult or maybe because of it. 

There was a time when Silco used to tease him for his desperation in a different way, fun and lighthearted. Called him a dog, eager to mount and breed, with a goading smile on his face, almost daring Vander to act. Oh, how much fun they had with these games. Vander remembers it all too clearly: Throwing Silco around, covering him with his whole body, caging him in with his weight, and Silco letting him, Silco enjoying it. 

Things aren’t like that anymore. They’re less fun, now, more serious. Silco’s teasing has lost its fondness, and Vander has lost the privilege of touching Silco. 

Seemingly fed up with Vander’s insolence, Silco reaches for his arms again. This time, he uses one hand to hold Vander’s wrists together, pressing them into the pillow above his head. It doesn’t entirely work, because Silco’s hands are too small and Vander’s arms too big, but he lets it happen anyway, and they both pretend it's of any use at all. 

“Bad behaviour has consequences, Vander,” Silco tells him, like a teacher lecturing a misbehaving student. His other hand lets go of Vander’s face, and Vander is left panting, licks his lips, his jaw aching and cheek stinging. Anticipation and dread make his heart race. 

Silco’s fingers dance over his chin, almost gently, dragging through Vander’s beard, over his larynx, his throat, bobbing when he swallows heavily. Then, slowly, Silco rests his hand there, palm on Vander’s throat, fingers on one side of his neck, thumb on the other. 

Leaning forward, putting pressure on Vander’s wrists, Silco whispers to him, “You, of all people, should know that.” 

And then he puts pressure on his other hand, too. 

Here it is, then, the highlight of their game, the climax of this whole damned show. It would have come to this no matter what Vander might have done or said, he knows that by now. This is where they are headed, always: 

Silco’s hand, closing around his throat, finally. 

With the tightening of his grip, Silco lets out a groan, low and pleased, like this is what he needed to truly enjoy this whole thing. He starts moving again, faster now, less coordinated than before, and his fingers keep squeezing, squeezing. 

Vander gasps, and gasps, and can’t draw in a proper breath. The grip around his throat is too tight; Silco’s fingers dig into his flesh painfully, sure to leave bruises. He twitches, his mouth falling open, his feet scrambling in the messy sheets. Body trying to rebel against the attack. The struggle only makes Silco grip him tighter, ride him harder. 

If he wanted to, Vander could stop this easily. Could break Silco’s grasp around his wrists, could push him away from his throat, make him stop. But that’s not what this is about. It’s not about what could be. It’s about power, maybe, or the pretense of it, a power that’s more than just physical. And Vander isn’t sure he wants to stop it, anyway. 

“Sil-” Vander tries to say, a plea or a curse, voice coming out all raspy through the pressure of Silco’s hand. He’s not even sure what he wants to say, really. Tell Silco to go to hell and never come back, maybe. Tell him to never leave again. His thoughts aren’t working quite right. 

Silco squeezes tighter, pushing a wheeze out of Vander. “Mutts don’t talk,” he grits out, but he sounds undeniably affected, his voice rough and ruined. “Not even pathetic, domesticated lapdogs like you.”

Vander groans again, or tries to, but the noise doesn’t quite make it out. He thrusts up into Silco and gives himself over to the pleasure of it, seeks it, mindless. They both do. 

Spots are already dancing at the edges of his vision, the image of Silco above him getting blurry, head thrown back and eyes closed in something like ecstasy while he chokes Vander with as much force as he can muster. Much longer, and Vander’s going to pass out. He’s not made for this, has never been good at enduring it for long. 

The lack of oxygen is making everything fuzzy. He feels like there’s cotton stuffed into his head, his body both heavier and lighter than it should be. Sweat breaks out across his forehead, involuntary tears spilling from his eyes. And Silco is still moving, still fucking himself on Vander’s cock, unrelenting and fucking perfect. All sorts of wires are getting crossed in Vander’s brain, the hot pressure between his legs and the burning of his lungs and the pain around his throat mixing into something terrible and intoxicating. 

His eyes flutter closed; he can’t hold them open any longer with how much he’s struggling to breathe. His blood is rushing in his ears, in his groin. Vaguely, he’s aware that Silco is making noises, punched out and greedy. 

Any second now, he’s going to pass out. His lungs are screaming, his mouth open, senselessly; Silco isn’t going to let up until they’re done. Vander is pretty sure he’s drooling all over himself. What a mess he must be. Does SIlco enjoy it, seeing him like this? Out of control, a strong man brought low? 

“Va- ah!” Silco makes, the sound muffled through the pounding of Vander’s heart, and then he’s finished.

Everything becomes tight, impossibly tighter, as Silco comes, completely untouched; his thighs clamping down around Vander’s hip, his hands constricting around Vander’s wrist and throat, his ass clenching around Vander’s cock. He spurts his release all over Vander; his stomach, his chest. It’s a distant sensation, but still unbearably arousing. 

The lack of air is getting to him, has him so dizzy Vander can’t even look at Silco, can’t see the expression of bliss that surely overtakes him, smoothing the lines of grief and exhaustion and anger that are almost permanently etched into his face now. For a brief moment, Vander finds enough presence of mind to mourn this fact, before pleasure crashes into him like a gutpunch and pushes him over the edge, too. 

It overtakes him suddenly and completely, the agony and bliss mingling until it explodes out of him in a burst. He comes with a guttural sound, made broken by the pressure on his neck. White sparks fill what’s left of his vision, the inside of his head. He’s pretty sure he thrashes around wildly, but it doesn’t matter anymore as his hips push up messily, uncoordinated, seeking the deliciously tight friction of Silco as his orgasm washes through him, wave after wave. It’s not impossible that he passes out for a second or two, with how intense it all feels.

Only when he has spent himself inside Silco completely, his body going limp with the sudden relief of it, does Silco let go of him. It comes as a surprise, the sudden switch, from being on the brink of unconsciousness with no air left in his body, to suddenly being free again, and awake. 

The second Silco’s hand is gone from his neck, Vander draws in a breath so huge and gasping it leaves him coughing. It hurts going in, hurts going out again, his windpipe abused and tired, his lungs too desperate to satiate them. He sits up too fast, not thinking, and nearly throws Silco off his lap as he raises a hand to his throat, as if touching it will make the air go in easier. 

Silco tuts, reaches for his shoulder to steady himself with an air of annoyance. His face is flushed prettily, Vander notices, his lips bitten red, his hair a beautiful mess, skin glistening with sweat. The pink blush travels down to his chest, and despite the oxygen deprivation a part of Vander’s brain manages to concentrate on his pale nipples, can muster up the desire to bite them until they’re swollen and tender. 

“Get yourself together,” Silco mutters, voice back to dripping with disdain instead of pleasure, though still ragged. 

When he raises himself from Vander’s softening cock, they both grunt, the slide of it sending sensitive shivers through Vander. Almost businesslike, Silco climbs off him, vacating Vander’s lap and then the bed as if nothing of importance has happened at all, as if he is completely unaffected by it. It’s a facade, and one of his more poorly constructed ones; Vander can see the way Silco’s legs shake when he stands, can hear the quickness of his breath, see the flush of his skin and the too-quick rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t mention any of it, allows Silco the pretense. 

While Silco pads barefoot across the room, Vander stays where he is, still trying to catch his breath. His face is wet with tears and his own spit. He raises a hand to his throat, as if he could feel the bruises forming there. There’s nothing to be found, of course; the only thing under Vander’s fingers are his own stubble and the indents left by Silco’s fingernails. 

The phantom sensation that comes to him then is not that of Silco’s hand wrapped around his neck. It’s an older one - Silco’s skinny neck beneath his own hands, the fragility of him, Silco’s fingers scrabbling desperately at his arm while Vander held him under. The memory is clear as day, still, all those years later. Does Silco remember it just as clearly as Vander does? Does he think about it, when they do this? Maybe. Probably. Silco’s nails had left marks on his skin then, too. 

Vander watches as Silco bends down to pick up the pile of Vander’s clothes left discarded on the floor. The movement shows off his flat, bony backside, and Vander fixates on it, an old instinct that’s hard to shake. His spunk is dripping out of Silco, trickling from his hole, red and puffy and fucked-out, and down his thighs. Fucking filthy. 

Once, Vander might have tugged him right back into bed. Pressed him into the pillows face down and tongued him open, eating his own release right back up and kept going until Silco was a whimpering mess, dripping onto the sheets. Now, he quietly watches Silco use his shirt to wipe the mess away, and pretends the sight doesn’t make his cock twitch. 

Silco throws him a look over his shoulder, as if he knows exactly what Vander is thinking about, and raises a brow. Bastard. 

Deciding to play along, Vander asks, “Do you want me to eat you out?” The game is over; talking isn’t forbidden anymore, but his voice comes out all kinds of ruined. Every word hurts, but he swallows his pained whimper and tries hard not to grimace, not to seem affected.

Silco scoffs. “Absolutely not.” 

He finishes wiping the worst of it off, though Vander knows there’ll be some left inside, dripping out until he can get to a shower and clean himself properly. It’s a heady thought; Silco carrying some reminder of Vander with himself when he leaves. 

Out of Vander’s pockets, Silco digs his pipe and a matchbox. Then drops the clothes back onto the floor, and Vander frowns. 

“Is that really necessary?” he grumbles.  

Silco rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. He steps over the pile of clothes, uncaring, and lights the pipe as he makes his way to the dresser, where his own clothes sit neatly folded. The snick of the match, the crackle of tobacco as Silco inhales, are impossibly loud. Smoke engulfs Silco’s face as he exhales, then grimaces. 

“This is vile,” he says, looking at the pipe he’s holding as if it has personally offended him. “I don’t know how you can stand it.” 

Vander shrugs, ignores how the sight of Silco’s lips wrapped around the pipe as he puffs at it again makes his heart flutter. “Practice. We’ve smoked worse.” 

“Hm,” Silco makes.

Then he throws the pipe over at Vander, seemingly having lost interest in it. Vander scrambles for it, catching it before it can land on the bed and the ambers have the chance to set his sheets on fire. 

“Fuck you,” he mutters, raising the pipe to take a puff of his own. 

Silco ignores him and reaches for his clothes. 

Vander watches him as he plucks up his underwear, steps into it. He scratches his chest absentmindedly, drags his nails through Silco’s drying come, getting tacky in his body hair. That’ll be a bitch to clean up later. His thumb accidentally brushes across the cigar burn and he hisses as pain shoots outwards from the wound. 

Silco shakes out his shirt, as if that could get rid of the wrinkles, shrugs into it, and Vander looks at him and mentally catalogues all of the pains Silco has left him with: The soreness in his throat, bruises around his wrists, the burn, scratches wherever his nails could reach. Vander sort of aches all over, and still, he doesn’t mind. He’d go along with it even if it left him feeling much worse. After all, this is nothing compared to what he did to SIlco. 

How many times would they have to do this to get even? Is it even possible to get close? To pay back a debt like that? 

Vander doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know anything when it comes to Silco. 

He keeps quiet as Silco pulls on his too-tight pants, a costume much finer, much more expensive than anything they could ever afford back in the day. How does he afford any of it now? Silco dresses sharply these days, like a businessman, smokes fancy cigars that are hard to get down here. He holds himself differently too, like a wealthy man, a powerful man. 

Not for the first time, Vander wonders what Silco is up to these days. He never sees Silco around in the Lanes, never even hears his name whispered on the streets. It’s like he’s a ghost, like he has disappeared from the world, like he doesn’t exist anywhere, except for these brief moments, stolen away in Vander’s bedroom. It makes Vander uneasy, the uncertainty of it. Makes his hair stand on edge. 

Silco buttons up his vest, and for a second, Vander considers grabbing him and making him stay, pulling him in close against his body, smothering him in tenderness until all the tension that has built up in him over the years melts away. Considers acting like nothing ever happened, and going back to how things were, easier and lighter. 

Considers, a second later, pushing Silco out of the window he climbed in through, finishing what he couldn’t before. Putting an end to all of this, stopping whatever Silco might be up to in the darkest shadows of the Undercity before it can come to fruition. Drawing a line under this, under them, this whole chapter of his life, and never thinking about Silco again, leaving the memory of him behind for good. 

Vander does none of that. 

Instead, he smokes his pipe, slowly, leisurely, and watches as Silco finishes getting dressed, stepping into his pants and shoes, straightening out his clothes and stroking a hand back over his hair, righting the disarray it had fallen into during their tryst. 

Then it’s almost like nothing ever happened at all, Silco put together and presentable again, except for the remaining flush staining his face pink. He looks at Vander, right at him, and his gaze is intense and unreadable as always. Their time together, Vander knows, is coming to a close, and relief and regret mingle in his chest and make him nauseous. He looks at Silco, long and intent, trying to commit the details of him to memory. Sometimes, he can’t bear to look at the ruin of Silco’s face, avoids it at all costs, but tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight, Vander drinks his fill. 

“I hear you’re still on Greyson’s leash,” Silco says. A statement of fact, really, but underneath that, he’s asking the same thing he’s always asking. 

Vander gives the same answer he always gives. “If that’s what you want to call it, yes. And it’s not gonna change anytime soon.” 

Familiar loathing pulls Silco’s mouth into an ugly sneer. His left eye seems to glow brighter with it. For a moment, Vander thinks Silco is going to slap him again. Or kiss him, maybe; they used to collide like that after every fight, back in the day, anger still burning bright between them. 

But Silco does neither. He simply shakes his head in disapproval, turning away from Vander like he can’t bear the sight of him anymore. “Not done playing the coward yet, then.” 

His words rankle Vander; they’ve had this argument or some variation of it every time Silco has come to visit him since the day Vander tried to kill him. The outcome hasn’t changed yet, and it’s not going to. He wishes he could make Silco understand that, could make Silco finally see that this is what’s best for all of them. 

“Now, listen-” Vander starts, about to rehash the whole thing again, when Silco cuts him off with a sharp hand motion. 

“Ah,” he makes to shut him up, and Vander feels like a dog again. Embarrassingly, it works. “Save your breath, Vander. I don’t need to hear the lies you tell yourself so you can sleep at night.” 

Vander bites his tongue, hard, tasting blood. Breathes deeply, so he doesn’t shout when he speaks. “If you don’t want to talk, I think it’s time for you to go.” 

Silco’s gaze cuts towards him, sharp as a blade. The flush has faded from his face, all traces of pleasure gone from him, now. They’re back on opposite sides of the same old chasm again, the brief connection between them crumbling to dust as quickly as it had been built. 

Silently, Silco makes his way over to the window he came through, pushing it open. He doesn’t come back to the bed, doesn’t look at Vander, still splayed out and naked. Doesn’t go in for a farewell kiss, or anything sentimental like that. They haven’t kissed since that first time, that last time, bloody and violent, when Silco came back to him undead, reborn. As far as last kisses go, it’s not the worst one Vander can imagine. And anyway, he’s not sure what he’d do with himself if Silco offered one, now. If he even wants to kiss him again. 

“You disgust me,” Silco spits, back turned to Vander now, ready to leave. 

Vander knows he won’t get a better goodbye than this. 

He tries to think of something to say in response, tries to come up with a witty comeback, a scathing insult, the right sentence to finally push Silco away for good or else to have him moving back in tomorrow. The words I’m sorry stick in his throat like they always do. He’s never managed to say them out loud. Not once, after what happened. Maybe one day, he’ll manage it. 

Not this time, though. This time, Silco has already disappeared through the window before Vander finds the courage to even try.