Five Minutes of Peace: Part III
In the rare, shimmering moments when the smoke clears over the Undercity, Silco and Vander find that their greatest revolution is simply existing together. During a quiet morning in the Lanes, a holiday provides a temporary ceasefire from the struggles of the sump.
CW: None. Pure fluff and romantic yearning.
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The Undercity was rarely quiet, but this morning, the usual mechanical roar had softened to a low hum. There were no sirens, no shouting enforcers, and no smoke-filled riots. It was a local holiday—a day to honor the "Sump-Swell"—and the Lanes were draped in colorful, albeit frayed, banners.
Vander led the way through the market, his presence acting like a prow of a ship parting the crowd. Silco walked half a step behind, his hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning the stalls with his usual analytical detachment.
Suddenly, Vander stopped, his hand snaking out to catch Silco by the elbow. He didn't say a word; he just looked at the cuff of Silco’s coat, where the dark fabric had begun to weep threads.
"You’re fraying, Silco," Vander rumbled, steering him toward a small, cramped tailor’s stall tucked between a chemist and a grocer.
"It’s a coat, Vander, not a political statement," Silco protested, though he didn't pull away. "We have more important things to spend our coin on than vanity."
"It’s not vanity to want the man at my side to look as sharp as his tongue," Vander countered. He ignored Silco’s sighs and spoke to the tailor, a hunched man with spectacles thick as bottle glass. "The best charcoal wool you’ve got. Double-breasted. Make him look like the king he thinks he is."
Silco stood stiffly as the tailor measured him, muttering about "extravagance" and "unnecessary fluff." But as Vander watched him with that steady, warm gaze—the look that said I see you, and you are worth the best of things—Silco felt a treacherous warmth in his chest. He secretly loved it. He loved that in a world of crumbling stone and toxic air, Vander noticed a few loose threads on his sleeve.
They spent the rest of the afternoon drifting through the festivities. They shared a skewers of grilled meat from a street vendor and sat on a rusted pipe overlooking the lower levels, watching the people of the Lanes laugh for once.
"Imagine it," Vander said, gesturing to the families below. "A Zaun where every morning is like this. Where they aren't looking over their shoulders for a gold-clad boot."
Silco watched a group of children chasing a clockwork toy. "It will take more than a holiday to buy that kind of peace, Vander. It will take blood."
"Maybe," Vander agreed softly, leaning his shoulder into Silco’s. "But today? Today, let’s just pretend we’ve already won."
As evening fell, the music from the main square grew louder—a frantic, rhythmic beating of drums and strings. Vander’s feet were already tapping. He grabbed Silco’s hand, his eyes dancing.
"Absolutely not," Silco said, his back going rod-straight. "I am a man of dignity, Vander. I do not 'jig' in the streets."
"Who said anything about the streets?"
Vander led him away from the lights, down a flight of narrow stairs to a secluded wooden dock jutting out over the dark, quiet water of the Pilt. The music was a faint, melodic echo here, filtered through the metal and stone of the city.
The air was cool, smelling of salt and damp wood. Vander turned, taking Silco’s hands and placing them firmly on his own broad shoulders.
"Vander, this is ridiculous," Silco whispered, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.
"Just follow my lead. It’s a simple two-step," Vander murmured. He slid his hands to Silco’s waist, his grip firm and grounding.
They moved together in the shadows. Silco was stiff at first, his mind trying to calculate the rhythm like a math problem, but Vander’s presence was impossible to resist. Slowly, Silco relaxed, his head coming to rest against Vander’s chest. He could hear the steady, powerful thrum of Vander’s heart—the real rhythm of his world.
For a few precious moments, there were just two men, swaying in the dark, holding onto the only version of peace they would ever truly know.
The walk back to the Last Drop was punctuated by the rhythmic brush of their shoulders. The new wool of Silco’s coat felt heavy and substantial, a tactile reminder of Vander’s hand on his back. By the time they reached the side entrance, the festivities in the square had reached a fever pitch, but inside the bar, the air was cool and still.
The walk back to the Last Drop was punctuated by the rhythmic brush of their shoulders. The new wool of Silco’s coat felt heavy and substantial, a tactile reminder of Vander’s hand on his back. By the time they reached the side entrance, the festivities in the square had reached a fever pitch, but inside the bar, the air was cool and still.
Vander didn't head for the office. He went straight behind the bar, the amber light of the lamps catching the glint in his eyes. "One more for the road?" he asked, already reaching for a bottle of the 'good stuff'—the glass reserved for celebrations and survival.
Silco leaned against the polished wood of the bar, the charcoal wool of his new coat making his pale features look even more striking. He looked every bit the strategist, the architect, and—as Vander noted with a slow, appreciative scan—the most handsome man in the Lanes.
"I suppose it would be a waste of a holiday to go to bed sober," Silco replied, his voice a low, teasing rasp.
Vander poured two glasses, the liquid catching the light like liquid topaz. He slid one toward Silco but didn't let go of the glass until Silco’s fingers brushed his own.
"I have to say," Vander murmured, his gaze lingering on the sharp lines of Silco’s lapels. "The tailor outdid himself. Or maybe it’s just the man wearing it. You look... dangerous, Silco."
Silco took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Vander’s. "And here I thought you bought it to make me look 'respectable.' Are you admitting you have a penchant for danger, Vander?"
"I’m admitting I have a penchant for you," Vander countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Always have."
The flirting was easy, a familiar dance they performed better than any two-step. Silco set his glass down with a soft clink and reached across the bar, grabbing Vander by the front of his shirt to pull him into a deep, slow kiss that tasted of peat and promises.
They were so lost in the moment—Vander’s hands finding the soft wool of the new coat, Silco’s fingers tangling in Vander’s beard—that they didn't hear the front door creak open.
"Oh, for the love of the Founders—get a fucking room!"
The voice cracked through the romance like a gunshot.
They broke apart instantly. Benzo was standing by the door, holding a crate of mechanical parts and looking like he’d just swallowed a lemon. He groaned, a deep, theatrical sound of pure exasperation, and didn't even wait for an explanation.
"I come back to drop off these gears and I have to see the Hound of the Underground playing tongue-wrestle? Disgusting. Absolutely unprofessional."
Benzo didn't even set the crate down. He just turned right back around, kicked the door shut with a resounding SLAM that made the glasses on the shelves rattle, and vanished back into the night.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, Vander let out a bark of a laugh that started deep in his chest and filled the entire room. Silco followed, a rare, genuine sound of amusement that smoothed away the sharp edges of his face.
"He’s never going to let us hear the end of that," Silco managed to say, leaning his forehead against Vander’s shoulder as the laughter subsided.
"Let him talk," Vander said, wrapping his arms around Silco and pulling him close. His heart felt huge, swelling with a happiness so profound it almost hurt. "He’s just jealous he doesn't have a partner with such excellent taste in coats."
They stood there in the quiet of their bar, two revolutionaries whose chests were full of something much lighter than air.