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Silco doesn't consider himself a weak man; doesn't consider himself sentimental or naive or much of a dreamer, despite his ambitions. He doesn't believe in progress without sacrifice; in victory without blood; in pleasure without pain.
No, he doesn't think himself weak at all.
All the more infuriating is it then, to find himself here every few months: standing in Babette's office with his mind a jumbled mess and his chest tight with a longing he thought he had cut out of himself years ago.
Babette is a smart woman. Silco would even go so far as to call her shrewd. And she has been blessed with a survival instinct strong enough to rival his own. She knows better than to question his irregular visits. And she's too afraid to ask what it is that he's searching for here, in her underground brothel, that he can't find anywhere else. It helps that his visits come with more money than she usually earns in a week. More than enough to pay for his entertainment and her discretion.
"The usual?" she asks, raising an overplucked eyebrow.
Her bright blue eyeshadow is smudged, the intensity of the colour giving Silco a headache.
He nods, in no mood to exchange further pleasantries, and hands her two vials of shimmer in addition to the money. She takes both without hesitation, going so far as to lick her thumb and count the bills in front of him. A bold move: to pull his integrity as a businessman and paying customer into question.
Silco indulges her, more amused than annoyed at her daring and, once she's done counting, asks:
"I assume everything is in order?"
His pointedly saccharine tone has the intended effect. Embarrassed, Babette stuffs the money into the front of her scandalously low-cut blouse and offers him an apologetic smile.
"Of course." She giggles and Silco nearly cringes. It's possible that, in her youth, her laugh had been charming, coquettish even, but now, after years of filling her lungs with smoke, it's closer to the ugly croak of a hag than the innocent chuckle of a sweet maiden. "Would you like me to show you to your room?"
Silco shakes his head.
"No need."
Babette reserves the same room for him every time. The only one that's not underground. The only one with windows and a glass dome for a ceiling that breaks the light of Zaun's many neon signs in a way that reminds Silco of his youth, of a time when he looked at them and thought that this must be what the sun looks like.
The man waiting for him on the king-size bed (so much more comfortable than the many different surfaces his younger self deemed a suitable sleeping place after yet another night of snarled words and sharp knives flecked with blood) is naked apart from a pair of boxer shorts that sit low enough on his hips to reveal a trail of dark, coarse hair. He's broad, muscular, and were they to come to stand face to face he'd easily dwarf Silco.
Silco moves closer, hands folded behind his back as he takes in the man whose company he paid a good amount of money for.
He must be younger than Silco, though not by much. Silco can tell by the silvery strands that streak his otherwise dirty blond hair and the softening curve of his belly that the difference in age is minimal. It's a surprise, albeit not an unpleasant one. Usually, Babette's girls and boys steer on the younger side. More popular with the average customer, no doubt.
Silco is not the average customer.
Letting his gaze linger on the man's chest, where a jagged scar cuts through the man's greyed chest hair, Silco continues his evaluation in silence.
The man has yet to say a word. Another pleasant surprise.
"I take it, you know who I am?" Silco asks, lifting his gaze to look the man straight in the eye.
His face is handsome in a way that is only found in those born and raised in the Lanes: harsh lines, softened by the bright shimmer of defiance in their eyes, a light that not even the cruelty of daily life could snuff out.
And is that not why you loved him? Because he thrived where others would have despaired? Because his hunger matched your own? Because your desires were reflected in his eyes?
Frowning, Silco wills the unbidden thoughts away. That's not what he came here for.
The man on the bed nods, all business. He's not trying to be coy, doesn't try to appeal to Silco's baser instincts by presenting himself as a human sacrifice ready to be devoured, writhing on the sheets and fluttering his lashes. Despite all the years as the undercity's de-facto leader, Silco has never developed a taste for groveling.
Babette chose well.
"Good. A few things before we begin: You won't, under any circumstances, call me by my name. You won't try and talk dirty to me. When I give a command I expect you to follow it without question. Do we understand each other?"
The man nods again, his expression carefully neutral.
“My name--"
Silco cuts him off before he can finish.
“I don’t care for your name.”
There's a soft click as the man shuts his mouth, followed by a moment of silent contemplation before he seemingly decides that there's no point in being offended. Silco is a customer and the customer is king.
"Take that off," Silco tells him, throwing a pointed look at the man's underwear.
He doesn't wait to watch and turns to take off his coat instead, assured in the knowledge that his commands will be heeded. Folding the coat carefully, he hangs it over the only available chair. A rickety thing, accompanying an equally rickety vanity and cushioned with cheap panne velvet. It must have been a brilliant red once but is now the colour of old blood.
Silco takes off his boots next, followed by his socks and belt.
"That's a lot of knives."
The man sounds impressed more than intimidated and when Silco turns again, he's met with a grin that shows two rows of unexpectedly straight teeth.
Silco clicks his tongue and pulls one of the many knives he keeps on his body out of its sheath.
"I have a lot of enemies."
The other is still smiling, not worried in the least, and Silco feels his chest tighten at the sight.
He once knew a man who smiled at him like this. Who had been fond of his eccentricities rather than afraid. Who hadn’t batted an eye when Silco put a blade to his throat during one of their many arguments.
Babette has chosen well indeed.
He spins the knife in a lazy circle before putting it down on the vanity and begins the slow process of ridding himself of the rest of his defenses. A dozen knives, all razor-sharp and deadly. Though his favourite will always remain the crooked blade he keeps at his hip, the hilt wrapped in leather made soft by years of use. The blade that saved his life the day he was meant to die. One last, involuntary gift from the man he once believed loved him like no other.
After the knives have been dealt with, undressing is a quick affair. He takes off his waistcoat, his shirt, pants, and underwear.
Silco doesn't consider himself particularly vain, but he can't resist a peek into the vanity's mirror once he's done.
Scrawny is the word that first comes to mind. Kinder spirits might call him lithe. But Silco harbours no such delusions. Unbending angles and harsh lines are all there is to him, from the too-deep curve of his collar bones to the sharpness of his hips. It’s a body built to repulse, to appear uninviting, hostile. A body not meant for tender touch.
"Cute ass."
The unprompted comment forces a dry chuckle from Silco. He throws the man, now entirely naked, a dry look through the vanity's mirror and rolls his good eye.
"I don't need you to flatter me."
"I know."
Silco turns but doesn't step closer, content, for the moment, to simply watch and be watched in return.
There's not a trace of disgust in the man's face, no revulsion, at least none that Silco can detect.
He has forgone the make-up today. The twisted ruin of his flesh laid bare for this stranger to feast his eyes upon.
What does he see, Silco briefly wonders. A pitiful creature inviting sympathy? A monster to be feared? Or does he see nothing but a man? Another customer? Just another face, one among many and thus ultimately unremarkable no matter how deformed?
The man's reaction, or better yet, the lack thereof, is satisfactory.
Silco pushes away from the vanity, not missing the way the man's gaze wanders from his face to his hips. Silco returns the favour.
His paramour for the night is well-endowed, cock long and thick, surrounded by a nest of wild curls, though not yet hard. Silco doesn’t take offense. They will get there sooner or later, and he's nothing if not patient.
He sinks into the musty sheets with the grace of a man far younger and makes himself comfortable between thighs thick with muscle.
"Honestly?" the man says, voice hovering somewhere above Silco. "Didn't peg you for the type to get on his knees for another guy."
"You talk too much," Silco chides and buries his fingers in the man's flesh, his short-cut nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in the soft skin.
The man hisses but doesn't shy away from Silco's touch, consummate professional that he is.
"Spread your legs," Silco commands and is quickly obeyed.
There's no prelude, no forewarning as Silco swallows the man down. He has showered before this; Silco can taste faint traces of soap that are quickly washed away as he forces himself to take him deeper.
Deeper until the tip of the man's cock nudges the back of his throat.
Silco stops moving; holds that impressive dick in his mouth, feeling it pulse and harden as it lies heavily on his tongue, the taste of it repulsive and addictive in equal measure: that salty tang that reminds him of the sea.
Above him, the man draws in a surprised breath.
Not how you expected this evening to go, did you, Silco muses silently, mouth pulled into a smirk around the dick in his mouth as he begins to suck.
Up and down he moves, letting the hard shaft almost slip from his lips on every upstroke before sucking it back into his mouth, deep enough to make himself gag on it.
The man whose name he doesn't know; doesn't care to know, gasps, the sound genuine, and beneath Silco's hands, his thighs twitch with the effort to keep himself from thrusting into the wet heat surrounding his cock.
Silco is half-tempted to allow it. To let the man grab him by his hair and fuck his throat, not letting him breathe until he has taken his fill and flooded Silco's mouth with his cum. Make him drown once more.
He decides against it, in the end. There's only one man who could ever claim such an honour, the only one deserving of it.
"Oh, fuck--"
Talkative, Silco thinks, silently disapproving, as he laps up the precum gathering at the tip and swallows it down with an audible gulp.
And that too reminds Silco of days long gone. Days spent in a bed too small for two, with fingers in his long hair that held him close. With a familiar voice whispering gentle encouragement as Silco sucked and licked and moaned like a two-dime whore, dizzy with arousal and painfully hard in his own pants.
It made you feel powerful, didn't it? Being on your knees and knowing that you could undo this man with a flick of your tongue? The same man whose name was feared throughout the Lanes, uttered only behind closed doors because people were afraid speaking it out loud might summon the devil.
They were afraid. All of them but you. And you weren't because you knew what he sounded like in the throes of passion. What he looked like lying next to you, fast asleep and with his hand between your still trembling legs.
Because you knew it took nothing but a flutter of your lashes, maybe a whispered word, and he'd tear the world apart for you. He'd die for you, kill for you, flood the streets with blood in return for a kiss and the promise of a better tomorrow. Or so you thought.
How naive you were. How awfully young. How blessedly foolish.
Silco pulls off with a slick noise and licks his thin lips clean of spit and precum, savouring the sharp taste of it on his tongue.
"Now," he says, throat tight and voice rough after such hard use, "prove to me that you know how to use this thing."
His companion for the night doesn't rise to the obvious bait, too old and experienced to let such barbs affect him and his work. With a smile on his lips and a blush on his cheeks that's half-obscured by his beard, he beckons Silco closer, holding out a hand for him to take.
Silco ignores it. He's not some blushing maiden in need of gentle coaxing.
The sheets rustle when he shifts on the worn mattress, coming to kneel over the man's lap with his slender legs a stark contrast to the powerful thighs they're bracketing. Silco stills, momentarily distracted by a scar cutting through the other man's chest hair, leaving a spot next to his left nipple bare.
"Got stabbed with a pair of scissors," the man explains, unprompted.
"I didn't ask," Silco says, yet finds himself reaching out, driven by the sudden, inexplicable impulse to touch.
The scar tissue is surprisingly smooth under his fingertips, the raised edges barely perceptible. A good, clean cut, though it's obvious nobody had bothered to stitch it up at the time.
Why waste money on luxuries such as bandages, disinfectant, surgical suture, and needles, when most of Zaun's children would not make it past their twelfth winter anyway?
Silco's own body is littered with scars, both big and small. Some so faint they're almost invisible, no more than a milky line on his already pale skin. Others an angry red, their edges thick and rough to the touch.
It's the price we pay for survival, Vander used to tell him, whenever they sat together after a job, each of them treating the wounds of the other as best they could, the blood underneath their fingernails not yet dry.
Have you ever seen a topsider with a scar, Silco had shot back, receiving a blank stare in return.
Then it's not survival we pay for. We pay for that which we cannot change: being born in the Lanes.
Silco blinks, torn from his thoughts by calloused fingertips tracing a path down his sides and hips. They come to rest in the curve of his hip bones, where they rub soothing circles into his skin.
"You alright?" the man underneath him asks, one of his bushy brows raised in question, the expression on his handsome face so gentle, Silco wants to cut his eyes out.
No. He's not. He's coming apart at the seams, haunted by the memory of a dead man and the promises they once made to each other when they were young and stupid and believing themselves invincible.
"Your fingers," Silco pants, emphasising his words with a roll of his hips.
He's hard, despite or because of the pain he can't say, and the pleasant fog of arousal that settles in his bones and clouds his mind is a welcome distraction from the whispering voices of his past that have come to haunt him.
Writhing on top of this stranger, Silco watches with half-lidded eyes as he reaches blindly for the bedside table (cheap plywood with chipped edges, painted over at least half a dozen times) and opens its single drawer with practised ease. After some rummaging, he produces a small vial of oil with a triumphant cry.
"Can you--"
Silco silences him with a glare and arches his back while lowering his head on the man's chest. He smells like clean sweat and heady arousal, and Silco breathes him in like a man possessed.
It's not quite right. It's not him. But it's close enough. Silco has always been a talented liar. He can lie to himself and pretend.
"What are you waiting for?" he snarls, his patience on the brink of running out when finally— finally!—a pair of hands grab his ass and pull his cheeks apart, exposing him to the stale air.
Silco's breath hitches and his one good eye flutters close when oil-slick fingers rub lazy circles into the sensitive rim of his hole, the intent clear.
"There's no need for tenderness," he snarls. "I won't break."
The fingers halt and though his companion doesn't outright deny him, he hesitates.
"Do it!" Silco snaps and cries out a moment later when two fingers sink into him, the oil barely enough to ease the way and nowhere near enough to take the sting out of it.
Silco groans, the muscles in his thighs twitching as he forces his body to obey him, to stay still and not shy away from the pain, but to give into it, to embrace it until the stinging burn gives way to pleasure and the lines between both are blurred.
"More," he demands breathlessly, fucking himself on those fingers, meeting every slow thrust with a roll of his hips.
Another moment of hesitation, before a third finger joins the others and Silco rewards his paramour with a high-pitched hiss.
It's not enough. It’s not like it used to be: the rhythm not quite right, the in-and-out too slow, too measured. He’s afraid, Silco realises. But afraid of what? Hurting him? Harming him?
It'd be sweet if it weren't so insulting. He can't be broken that easily. Can't be hurt in a way that matters, not like this.
Vander understood. Vander, who looked at him and did not see a weak thing in need of protection. Vander, who would give him blooming bruises and a row of bite marks around his neck, that made it look like he wore a band of red pearls. And never once did he apologise. Silco doesn't think he could've forgiven him had he tried.
In and out the fingers move, rigorously preparing Silco for what's about to come, for what he has been craving since he crossed the threshold of this place and put money into Babette's hand.
"Enough," he pants after another thrust that has his cock twitching.
His partner stops abruptly, but he doesn't pull his fingers free, not just yet, and Silco feels the last drops of oil drip down his stretched hole and onto the man underneath him.
"You sure? I'm big."
He's not bragging. He's simply stating a fact, one that Silco is already well-aware of. He wouldn't be here otherwise.
"And I had bigger," Silco deadpans.
He gets up on his elbows to look at the other man, to take in his flushed face, the broad-bridged nose, the neatly coiffed beard.
Vander used to shave it all off in his youth, neither patient enough to make an effort with his grooming nor trusting Silco with a knife this close to his throat to take him up on his offer to do it for him.
It was only after...everything that Vander started to grow it out. Silco never got to touch it, never had the pleasure of running his fingers through it and seeing for himself how the texture differed from the hair on Vander's head.
It's coarse, Silco thinks as he runs a hand down this man's cheek and chin. Surely, Vander's would've felt similar.
"Fuck me already.”
Silco groans when the fingers pull out of him, leaving him woefully empty. The man digs his still oil-slick fingers into the sensitive flesh of Silco's waist, his broad hands easily encompassing it in its entirety.
Silco doesn't resist when those same hands push him down into a kneeling position so that he’s perched above the man's cock.There's a wet smack when he playfully slaps his cock against Silco's hole and the sheer gall of it coaxes a whine from Silco's throat.
"Do it," Silco presses out between clenched teeth, his frustration giving way to desperation. "And make it hurt."
Blinding light explodes behind his eyelid, followed by a wave of purest pain as he's split open by this stranger's cock.
He hears screams, only to belatedly realise that they're his own.
"Fuck!" he curses, arching his back as his fingers tighten in the man's chest hair.
That's it. That's what he came here for, the unforgiving drag of a hard cock inside his ass, fucking all the words right out of him.
He moans when the grip on his waist tightens and that thick cock sinks deeper and deeper into him, forcing Silco's body to yield to the merciless intrusion until there's nowhere else to go and Silco's ass sits flush against the man's balls.
Bracing himself with his hands on his lover's thighs, Silco leans back and begins to move.
The pain has yet to fade, this sweet ache that ebbs and flows whenever Silco lifts his hips. He rides the man with fevered abandon, his nails carving red lines into the meat of those powerful thighs as he chases this particular high that he knows will silence the voices in his head.
"Harder," he demands, his nails drawing blood.
Underneath him, the face of the man he paid for sex melts away, his features becoming a vague mask, still human but blessedly nondescript. He could be anybody. Silco only wants him to be one man.
The fingers around his waist twitch, locking him in a bruising hold, all restraint forgotten, overwritten by the pleasure Silco's sinewy body brings.
He's lifted up by his hips as if he weighs nothing, only to be slammed down on the man's cock. The sheer force of it punches all air from Silco's lungs. Thrust after thrust, until he's no more than a panting mess, his sight obscured by strands of sweaty hair that have come loose from their careful style and now cling to his forehead and temples.
And yet, despite the pleasure, despite the pain, it's not enough. Silco can still think, can still remember enough to notice the difference. Miniscule but undeniable: the voice that's not deep enough; the thighs that are as thick as he remembers, but not nearly scared enough; the nails digging into his skin that are too short, too well-manicured. Just different enough to have him aching for that which he cannot have.
Frustrated to the point of rage, Silco reaches forward and grabs the man by his neck.
"Give it to me," he snaps. "Give me my money's worth."
The man groans in protest but he sits up obediently, spurned into action by the fear of losing money, and the sudden motion makes Silco whimper.
"You asked for it," the other reminds him, clearly not pleased but in no habit to argue with a customer.
The biting comment sitting on the tip of Silco's tongue is drowned by his own wet moans as the man rolls them over and pins Silco underneath his body. The weight of him is almost suffocating and the muscles in Silco's thighs are burning in protest as they're spread impossibly wide to accommodate the bulk between them.
Like this, the hot drag of the man's cock is even more maddening, strangling all of Silco's words. He's trembling, every thrust making him feel like he's being torn apart and put together again. He's drunk on lust, the high of it better than any shot of shimmer could ever be, and the incessant voices in his mind are no more than a faint whisper. Almost there.
There's a hand roaming over his body, over his spread thighs, his flat stomach; surprisingly nimble fingers tugging on his nipples and twisting until Silco is whimpering. But when the same hand reaches between his legs, seeking his leaking cock, Silco stops it, his own fingers curling around the man's wrist.
"No," he says and tugs the hand away from his crotch, pulling it up to his neck instead. "If you're so desperate to grab onto something, grab this."
The implications are clear and his partner is smart enough to catch up on what Silco wants without asking questions.
Gradually, the grip around his throat tightens, cutting off his air supply bit by bit.
There's an undercurrent of panic surging through him, buzzing beneath Silco's skin, as he's being strangled. His legs are shaking, feet tangling in the sheets as they desperately try to find purchase.
It's so very familiar, this onslaught of fear, of anger and humiliation, and though Silco no longer has the capacity for speech, his lips move voicelessly around another man's name.
He's still hard, despite the fear, his cock trapped between two bodies, untouched but leaking a steady stream of precum. It sticks to both their bellies, his and his partner's, and pulls at Silco's skin whenever another sharp thrust has him sliding backward on the bed.
Silco isn't the kind to beg. Even if he could've spoken around the fingers squeezing all the air from his lungs, he wouldn't have done so. But inside the sanctity of his own head, he's coming apart.
A litany of please, please, please fills every fissure of his frazzled mind, the need to come, to let go, so overwhelming it pushes away all other thoughts.
The other man is still moving inside him, using his meaty fingers around Silco's neck to keep him in place. Silco cants his hips as much as possible, not content to simply lay there and take whatever another deems worthy to give him.
He's losing himself to the violent sway of their bodies, his entire being reduced to this most basic of human needs, a need so all-consuming it leaves no room for doubt, for regret, for sadness, or fear.
Teeth close around his neck, replacing the choking hand in a move so unexpected it has Silco cry out. His chest is burning, the muscles constricting painfully as he draws in much-needed air.
He's a filthy mess. He can taste it on his tongue as he pants for more air. He stinks of sex and sweat and of the remnants of tobacco from the smoke he had before coming here.
Shooting stars flash in and out of his blurry vision when another thrust almost has him keening, their colour a nauseating mix of purples and greens.
Silco is close, so close, and judging by the faltering rhythm of his companion, so is he.
"Do it," Silco taunts, voice barely above a whisper but sharp as a blade.
A shiver runs through the other man, strong enough for Silco to feel it in his own bones.
The man is mumbling indecipherable nonsense under his breath, his gibberish accompanied by the snapping of his hips.
Once, twice more his hips stutter against Silco's and then he's buried so deep, Silco forgets how to breathe, and perfect darkness explodes behind both his eyes.
He comes to with a flutter of lashes and the phantom sensation of a hand affectionately carding through his hair.
The first thing he becomes aware of is the pain, not unbearable but enough to let him know that he won't be able to walk properly for at least a few days.
The second thing he notices is that he's not alone.
He makes a grab for a knife that isn't there, realising too late that he's still naked.
"Care to explain to me why one of Babette's girls barges into my quarters at the Last Drop at three in the morning, out of breath and on the verge of tears, babbling something about you dying on someone's dick?"
Silco's body relaxes in an instant, all the tension in his muscles gone the moment the deep timbre of his second-in-command registers in his brain.
"No," he says, voice hoarse. "Not particularly."
He blinks, forcing the world back into order, and takes in his surroundings. He's still at the brothel, lying in the overly large bed, his naked body covered by a blanket stinking of dried cum and sweat. Charming.
Next to the bed, lounging in the chair by the vanity, is Sevika, appearing every bit as displeased as she sounds. She takes several long drags from a cigar that looks suspiciously like one of Silco's own. He doesn't ask.
"Poor Priap thought he had killed you," Sevika huffs, exhaling plumes of smoke through her nostrils.
"Who?"
Sevika clicks her tongue, somehow managing to convey all-encompassing disapproval with a single sound.
"The guy you paid to make a mess of you."
"Ah."
The smell of tobacco is pleasant, covering the stench of sex that still hangs heavily in the air.
"I assure you, I cannot be killed that easily," he assures Sevika, and reaches out, presenting his open palm, waiting.
Sevika glares at him and pulls the small case of cigars Silco suspected she had on her from a hidden pocket inside her vest. She hands him one of his own cigars with minimal grumbling, then lights it with a match she ignites on the edge of the vanity.
Taking a drag is agony but he relishes it: the way the smoke fills his lungs and reminds him that he can still breathe, that he's still alive.
They sit in silence for a while, taking drags of their cigars in turn. If Sevika is bothered by his state of undress, then she doesn't show it.
"You can't keep doing this."
Silco halts, his half-smoked cigar hanging off his delicate fingers, the ambers at the tip gleaming.
"Oh?" he intones, and tilts his head, throwing Sevika a questioning look.
She returns it without blinking.
"Come here every few months and scare the living daylights out of Babette's people because you're trying to work through whatever fucked up shit you and V-"
"Don't," Silco cuts her off, all playfulness in his voice gone.
Sevika groans in frustration but obeys, falling back into the chair, cigar clenched between her teeth and her arms crossed over her chest.
"I'm a regular here, as you well know. And I'd like it to stay that way."
Silco chuckles dryly and sits up.
"Are you implying that my actions reflect badly on you?"
He swings his legs over the bed and comes to stand on wobbly feet.
Sevika levels a glare at him then winces.
"You look like you got mauled by a murk wolf."
Silco waves her off and makes his way over to the vanity, assessing the damage in the mirror.
Her estimation isn't too far off. He looks indeed like he got attacked by a wild beast. There are teeth marks around his throat and nipples, his hips are littered with bruises and he must have bitten down on his lip before he passed out. It’s swollen and flecked with dried blood.
“I need a shower.”
“Among other things.”
He shrugs off Sevika’s comment and gathers his clothes. Perhaps there's some truth to her words. A small possibility that he miscalculated, that he let things get too far. Perhaps an apology was in order. Damage control so that Babette and her staff wouldn't deny him their services at his next visit.
“Can I trust you to handle things?"
He’s halfway to the adjacent bathroom when he asks, throwing her a look over his shoulder.
For a minute lasting a lifetime, Sevika stares at him, her expression grim, before her shoulders sag and all the fight leaves her with an exasperated sigh.
“Don’t I always?”
Silco gives her a tight smile that she doesn’t return and closes the bathroom door behind him.
There are hands in his hair, combing out the many tangles with indefinite patience.
Are you not afraid of me, he asks him, his hands never once stopping their gentle ministrations, and Silco laughs.
Afraid, he echoes, eyes closed. Why would I be afraid of you?
He feels like being embalmed in cotton, surrounded by a warm summer breeze even though no sun ever reaches down here. He turns on his side and presses his nose into the armpit of the man lying next to him.
Everybody else is.
Silco laughs and throws one skinny leg over the other’s hips, content to stay like this for the rest of all eternity.
Everybody else is stupid.
Is that so?
They don’t know you like I do. They only know the hound. They've never seen you like this.
And they never will. You’re the only one.
Silco hums, more pleased by the admittance than he’d ever care to admit.
See? This is why I’m not afraid of you.
Because you think I wouldn’t hurt you?
Because I know you wouldn't, Vander. I know.