#forgedofoaths

@forgedofoaths

It took Vander a moment to register what Silco had said, thanks to getting his work shirt and jacket on. It wasn't until he was fixing his helmet on his head that it hit him -- and his eyes went wide. The creeping redness in his face made his feelings all-too obvious.

"Oh come on!" The large man groaned. "Now I'm going to be thinking about that all day!" A cruel punishment, indeed. This was going to be a very long shift, unless...

Huffing quietly, then regaining his composure, the miner crept up behind Silco and slipped his arms around him from behind, pulling him back and holding him firm against his body. He buried his face against Silco's raven locks, enjoying the scent and feel of them, then pressed a kiss to the top of his head. A trail of slow, lazy kisses was placed down along the other's head, then cheek, then jaw -- meanwhile his hands roamed across his partner's torso. One slipped beneath his partner's shirt, tracing a line up his abdomen and to his chest. The other trailed down his abdomen and beneath the waistband of his pants.

"If I have to suffer," Vander murmured huskily into Silco's ear after a suckled kiss was delivered to the side of his neck. "Then so do you, my pretty little bird."

Reveck would be back. He always came back.

But for now, for this moment, Silco was here -- whether another hallucination or a dream, it didn't matter. He was here, and Vander could sense him more than he could see him. His sight had dulled, darkness creeping ever inward from the edges; but the familiar presence was there, with a heartbeat that, somehow, he would recognize anywhere -- even if it was hastened by fear.

And that voice... It left him nostalgic for long days and longer nights at The Last Drop, laughing and conversing as they exchanged drinks, finding those peaceful moments to be few and far between, and it made them all the more cherished to him.

What the man would give to go back to one of those moments.

What words were uttered were all that he could muster, voice simultaneously his and distorted from abuse. Raspy from days that bled into years of yells and cries that fell on deaf ears each and every time. Even his head felt too heavy to raise for more than a moment at a time, and each time that he glimpsed his visitor's horrified expression, he wanted so desperately to reach down to him, to touch that handsome, beautiful face and reassure him that it was alright.

It was alright.

This was the end.

Wasn't it? Something within bade him to close his eyes and rest. Rest, and this time it would be the last; he would be at peace. But something else within him urged him to hold on, to keep fighting it, to focus. Focus on Silco. So he did, he focused as hard as he could on his partner's face, even as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He could see him. He could hear him.

It didn't register that a set of footsteps had approached, nor did he grasp that his partner had killed his tormenter, even with the red coating Silco's knife. Even with the chemist's body lain out, and for once it was Reveck's blood that he was seeing, rather than his own. He didn't notice as his body was slowly, steadily lowered to the cold ground. No, but he could feel that touch, could feel the touch he'd longed for for so, so very long, removing his restraints then moving him and cradling his head. The heartbeat was so strong, it was so loud and frantic, but it sounded so real. Hazy heterochromatic eyes drooped closed, focusing on the sound and the touch... Letting himself find that comfort he'd been denied for so long, letting himself drift away. And then the injector embedded into his back went off. The tubes winding around and through his body surged to life with that vibrant green chemical, and Vander writhed and seized up. His body had been mutilated, mutated, deformed and reshaped into something half-human, half-beast, claiming neither as his identity, and with the severe and sudden pain, it contorted in unnatural ways. His eyes went wide, glowing with such intensity; from his gaping mouth spewed blood mixed with that green compound. Then, like a frenzied dog, he began to froth at the mouth from the sheer, unmitigated pain.

His left hand clutched at his throat, while the right -- its forearm and digits encased in Chemtech -- clawed desperately at his chest, dragging out more blood laced with that same chemical.

No matter how old they were getting, Vander would never relinquish his title of Bozo One. (Affectionately.) The argument of who held which nickname was something near and dear to his heart -- and he would always be glad that Silco, too, kept it going.

Which was made clear by a rather boisterous laugh from the large man over Silco's reaction.

Although the grin finally lessened into a soft smile, the bartender raised his right forearm, turning it in order to show it to the younger man. He rested the index and middle fingers of his opposite hand upon a familiar old scar. Once upon a time, he would have kept the mark hidden, considering it a mark of shame over what he had done to his dearest friend and partner -- as well as what he had allowed to happen on The Day of Ash.

"A tattoo," Vander explained, and his fingertips traced along the scar. "I was thinking, the numbers 1088. Thoughts?"

@forgedofoaths

It was almost strange, how Jayce had managed to settle into his own little piece of the Lanes. Having an old forge and some workbenches already present helped, especially since they just needed a quick clean and some reconnected lines. Having a one-person flat to call his own was more familiar yet more unexpected; he was used to the solitude, the quiet, the routines, but not to the comfort. Jayce at least had some clothing to his name now, too. The differences in style compared to Piltover were apparent, but not distasteful. He could particularly appreciate the practicality and range of movement - not to mention the proper sizing - in his pocketed trousers, boots, and sleeveless shirts. Violet's spectre was never gone from his sight, but the burn of glassy blue eyes didn't seem quite as searing lately.

Right as he finished adjusting the knee-hinges on his newly refurbished brace, movement drew his gaze upward. Jayce straightened where he sat, setting the small wrench aside on his worktop. The lift? His eyes flicked in its direction for half a breath before returning. True, he hadn't heard its rumble today, despite the streets not being that crowded yet.