Today has been a day worth celebrating -- especially for Silco. Or perhaps a better way to put it would be, a day for celebrating Silco himself and his accomplishments on behalf of Zaun. The Councilman deserves it and more, in Vander's eyes; after all, for the many tragedies that have taken place over the years(some still too raw for Vander, like Vi's death), each push forward against Piltover feels all that much more meaningful.
And each and every social and political advancement is thanks to the man that is now half-out of it, draped over the bar counter. Several bottles sit nearby, and Vander has taken care to make sure that the other's drink is moved carefully aside, lest he spill any of its remaining contents on his clothes.
The words that his partner mumbles are incoherent, which only serves to broaden the bartender's smile with equal parts amusement and affection.
"C'mon, Sil," the burly man murmurs in return. "Let's get you sorted out." It takes no effort to pick the other up and hold him, but he bites back a chuckle when Silco's head immediately settles against his broad chest as if it belongs nowhere else. Likewise when his cheek nuzzles against him and he sweetly -- and while slurring his words -- expresses again how much he loves Vander.
As much as Vander enjoys the moment and the returned affection, the Councilor has had a long day and far too much to drink, and so the bartender feels it to be his (loved) duty to carry him upstairs to bed.
It’s rare he gets quite this tipsy, but the last few days have kept him in the chambers far later into the evening than usual. Silco’s reasoned and urged and debated almost until he’s hoarse against the last reluctant few of the co-councillors have finally understood why it’s so important that they agree on this last holdover. Each night he’s stumbled home well past midnight, once even having dozed off in the bathysphere to find his husband gathering him up into his arms.
Just that afternoon, the vote had finally been cast to decommission the prison and turn it over to the hands of Zaun’s people. Silco’d even been home in time to bring an afternoon treat for Vander and himself to share. A small celebration that’d turned rather lengthy with the addition of a bottle of champagne unearthed from the cellar. And another—and then another. Poor Powder’s escaped her adoptive father’s elated affections some time ago and now must be hiding in her room, or perhaps is holed up in her workshop with her definitely-not-interested-in-him-friend.
Silco hadn’t minded, not really; it’s just the age she is now. Besides, Vander’s refilled his glass frequently until the Drop’s swam around him and he’s had to lie his head on the cool of the wooden bar as he shares his plans for the island (or, at least, tries to) with his husband. It takes the councillor a moment to work out why the world suddenly starts spinning again, but it turns out that he’s just being carried again. Pressing his nose into the warm softness of Vander’s chest, the revolutionary breathes in his familiar scent and a profession of his love for this large hunk of a human slips from his tongue without entering his thoughts at all.
If the other man were hollow, he’d want to live inside him, like Vander were a cocoon—with his inebriated state the words are hardly eloquent, or even really coherent, but at least the sentiment is there as Silco’s carefully lowered onto their mattress. But the bed is cold compared to his husband’s furnace-like warmth so he refuses to let go when Vander tries to straighten again, a complaining whine escapes his throat. “D’ngo…”
He might die if those arms aren’t around him in the next few moments.
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