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He was the only one who dared oppose the Hound, back then.
That was something they both enjoy, in fact – not that they were actually aware of it, for the most part. But Silco enjoyed the power trip, and the half-worried, half-admirative gazes of the others in the Drop whenever the two of them were arguing, the slight swell of pride from knowing no one else would get away with it – and Vander… Vander liked knowing that whatever he did, no matter how far he got, there would still be someone by his side, someone to always speak his mind and could never be scared away. They had both seen the monster within the other and decided that they wouldn’t have it any other way.
When they met, Vander punched two low-livess to help Silco. Knocked one of them clean out, too.
When they met again, now young adults, the violence was kept at bay for a while. Careful words, careful gestures as they circled around each other, relearnt their patterns and habits, deep into the heart of Zaun that had showed them both its worst by this point. Reigned in the impulses, the fire and their ambitions, because they remembered the moments shared, before, and something neither of them could quite pinpoint longed for renewed closeness. Better to hide the jagged edges before they hit a nerve.
It's one morning after he finished his shift at the brothel, that Silco went around the block and found Vander beating some nobody into a pulp. He stopped, and Vander paused, and they both looked at each other for what felt like a very long time. There was blood over on the wall, on his knuckles, even a few splatters across his face.
“What did they do?”
As Vander didn’t seem to understand immediately, Silco gestured to the person he was still holding up by the collar of his shirt.
“Them.” A pause. “I can’t tell if they are a man or a woman… or anything else.”
“Oh.”
The word was punctuated by the sound of the unconscious body hitting the ground. Silco leant against the wall, long legs crossed, waiting for Vander to sort through his stuttering.
“It’s… they are… He was talking about ambushing a worker from the brothel. Wait there, assault them… Him. He said the worker was a ‘him’.”
“Hum. I see.”
“… What?”
“I’m a male worker from the brothel. Isn’t that what this is about, dear?” He smiled, something sharp, as he pushed himself off the wall. “Now come on, we aren’t going to spend all day there, are we?”
He liked it when Vander’s violence was his. When it was to protect him, or better yet, when it was unleashed on his orders, voiced or not. It made people more afraid to mess with him, to even think of double-crossing him, and that cannot be frowned upon in Zaun. He would prefer to get their loyalty, get them on board with his grand dream of an independent nation – but in the meantime, fear would have to do.
For all these reasons, Silco didn’t mind it too much when the violence overflowed and he was the one to taste blood.
The first time it happened, there were arguing, of course they were, and Silco rolled his eyes, spitting from behind clenched teeth that you’re an idiot, big guy – he leant over the counter to grab the map, sliding it closer to prove his point – and I’m going to show you- He didn’t get to the end of his sentence before his head collided with the hard wood, hard enough to make his knees buckle. He would have probably fell to the floor if the counter wasn’t there to catch him. It took a few seconds for his vision to snap back into focus, and he straightened up immediately, not caring that everything around seemed to whirl just a little bit too much with the motion.
“What, was that the only thing you could think of to win this argument?”
Grey eyes went wide with the realization that he just- large hands coming up in a derisory movement, one maybe reaching towards him, and at this exact moment Silco knew he had won this round.
Those who didn’t know better, who didn’t know them, always thought Vander was the one to lead because he was big and strong and he had that charisma, paired with the silent threat of the gauntlets, that made people listen to him. Those who have been around for a short while, then, discovered the thin figure who always stood just short of Vander’s shadow, icy eyes that rarely blinked and always watched, sharp knives at the ready and an even sharper tongue. The one to whisper at the Hound’s ear, they said, the planner behind the whole organization.
That wasn’t exactually true either.
Silco was the one who found a purpose greater than them both, a way to redirect both of their violence and thirst for more, more than what life had dealt them, more than what little scraps Piltover would care to discard their way. He was the believer, and the dream of Zaun was his. Vander, for his part, was the hand to rally people, because he cared about the individuals in their little circle of followers, in a way Silco never could. He turned the shapeless concept of Zaun into people to inhabit this new nation they wanted to build.
It was the perfect equilibrium. And it worked.
It wasn’t only that they complemented each other like two halves of a broken whole, but also that one was the only person able to halt the other before he got too far – to smother the blazing anger, Vander’s blind rage and Silco’s cold, burning hatred.
And hand in hand, back to back, they slowly secured their power over the Lanes.
There had been moments of silently looking at the other – Silco when he couldn’t be heard over Vander’s booming voice, and Vander when Silco was talking fast enough that he couldn’t get a word in – and wondering what gave him the right. Moments when they were arguing, debates since long turned disputes, clenched fists, nails digging into palms, and hurtful words, chosen carefully just for that purpose. Silco had always been better at this particular game, so sometimes, when his world flashed red, Vander hit. Both of them always apologized afterwards, though they never even tried to pretend it won’t happen again. Anyway, the other’s presence, warmth and love and support, it outweighed the hurt dealt inwards, and neither of them was willing to give that up.
They had had each other’s backs for years now, had shed both their blood and others’ too many times to count. They had scars to attest of it, an array of angry red and settled silver over their skins, that the other ran his fingers over on the rare occasions that their intimate moments didn’t turn into yet another fight for dominance. When there was still a space for tender touches and not pain-pleasure, and orders, and strength. Vander sometimes looked at Silco’s lips, at the notch on the upper one, and he thought back to Silco saving his life – then his gaze snaped higher, to a bruise around one sea-green eye, and he thought that this one too was his fault.
Some days, it was just harder than others to know where the line between man and monster laid.
Some days, Vander liked it when Silco called him his, one slender hand wrapping around his throat like a collar, when the cold magnetism of his eyes became just another kind of leash to reign the Hound in. Long fingers ghosting over his bloodied knuckles, the skin split again and again and again, before a kiss was pressed to the scars as the grip around his throat tightened.
Some days, he just wanted to see this pale little thing under him, crying. It was easy to manhandle Silco’s body to his whims, crowd him against a table, hoist him up and have his way with him, however Vander saw fit. He left bites around his collarbones, ivory skin turning red and black and blue, finger-shaped bruises over narrow hips, scratches on his back from where the brick wall dug into the bony protrusions of his spine. Silco hissed, starting to protest, and Vander pressed his large palm to his mouth to silence him, roughly, not caring if it hurt. Silco bit. Hard enough to break skin. Vander barely flinched at the sharp sting of pain, only chuckled, smearing the blood over Silco’s cheek and lips with his thumb.
“Shh, love. Be good for me, okay?”
He didn’t care at all about the distinct imprint of crooked teeth around the base of his thumb – let anyone ask questions, if only they dared to. The marks were another proof of their love. Like life down there, like their fight against Topside, like everything around them- it was only natural it left bruises too.
He knew exactly how to get Silco’s muscles to tense up and then relax, knew the spots that made him cry out, pupils blown wide and chest heaving. It wasn’t long before he had him shaking- and that was when he halted, relishing in the wordless noise of outrage it elicited.
“What, I thought you wanted me to stop?”
“Just- fucking get it on qu-quickly, you asshole-”
“Oh, Sil, that’s not the way to ask for things, is it?”
Vander liked to have him beg. Especially when everything around them was going to shit, when it felt like all they had painstakingly built was quaking on its very foundations – he grasped at whatever control he could still exert – to that, and to the certitude that whatever he did, whatever he said, Silco was not going away. He kissed the bruises he left, afterwards, soft caresses meant as excuses as Silco stroked his hair, whispering into his ear, praises and promises, well aware that he was stoking the flames he had just been burnt with.
He held tightly onto Silco, who half-joked – more unnerved that he would ever let it show – that Vander could probably break his ribs like this if he wanted. The thought had made him chuckle, flexing his muscles just the tiniest bit to feel his partner tense in his embrace, and he retorted that Silco’s bones were sharp enough to cut through him, if he ever tried.
“Besides, I would never hurt you. Not like I hurt them.”
Silco kissed the corner of his jaw, tongue peeking out to lick at a mark he left, over the soft fragile skin just below his ear.
“Yeah, I would hope so.”