[ Silco is coming to terms with the pineapple; he doesn't dislike it, but the presence of sweetness in the meal has been startling enough to temporarily confuse his preferences. The carrots are sweet too, but in a different way, artificial and sticky and expected. He puts the pineapple to the side, to be reattempted later; refreshes his palate with a sip of wine; all of this allowing him to seem stoic in the face of conversation turned confessional. But fllirting has its own unexpected sweetness, too.

He puts the glass down, thumbing the stem a moment. ]

I've thought about you quite a lot these last few days. Mostly in the context of my own history with these kinds of things. Which, I suppose is inevitable, given the mirror becomes a window to the past.

[ But he's digressing. Glancing eye contact, trying to keep himself on track. To actually say something meaningful and honest so Stephen can understand a little better what he's getting himself into, even if Silco is growing concerned that the moment he's seen in any real clarity, this enjoyable flirtation will end. ]

Understand that aside from my daughter my relationships for the past fifteen years have been — transactional, in one way or another. And before that was something ill-defined.

Yes.

[ One simple word made burningly earnest, silken voice gone rough on it.

He hadn't known, of course, that he was starving himself, had been very deliberate about seeing to the distraction of his needs with ruthless efficiency. But "intimacy with a man his own age" hadn't been on the list.

There's more in him but he doesn't really know how to talk about it without the scaffolding of a negotiation. ]

It does mean I can be, I suppose, defensive. Of my autonomy, of the vulnerability that passion requires of me.

[ Weakness, he'd called it, and he makes Stephen fight for every inch of it, but that's ultimately what it is to him, the soft underbelly, the ruinously exploitable desires, the loss of total control. Silco eyes his potatoes, a little tense. ]

[ This is the main difference, Silco thinks, between the two of them: Stephen is good. He really means that, Silco can see it, studying him carefully, that he wouldn't exploit Silco's avaricious hunger at being made to come apart. And it's true enough that Stephen hasn't presumed anything about him from Silco kneeling in the bathroom to suck him off, or crawling drunk and slutty over the bar to him. There's safe harbour in this, beyond anything he's had before.

He exhales a small slow breath. ]

I trust you.

[ Mostly. When he's rational enough for trust, when trauma doesn't slap that decision from his hands. It's not the first time he's felt it, but somehow it's easy to share here, mild-mannered, almost quiet, in between another bite of steak. He's almost finished his plate, and he's not sure what he's going to do with himself then, how to distract his hands and eyes. ]

That doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for you. I think it's better when we're both playing to win.

[ Sexually, anyway. This domestication, deeply held truths about himself shared over a candle-lit dinner, this is much less of a battle. If there was still a chance he could return home to Zaun he'd be reluctant, but that death freed him from certain responsibilities. Now there's only Jinx — and, newly, this.

He's flushing again. Maybe he can blame the wine. ]

[ Silco has a manipulators acute awareness of how power flows — politically, sexually, conversationally. Stephen stutters, tenses a little, and it shifts the direction of what they're doing. Silco's defenses (around research, autonomy, weakness, sex) were being, if not attacked then softened.

And now they're not.

He puts his fork down with a careful click, sits back in his chair rather than leaning in. Dabs his mouth with his napkin, letting Stephen stutter through what he's trying to say, considering the spaces of what he doesn't, words swerved. It's fine, he finds that as much a game as the rest of it.

He resists the urge to point out that nobody's here on purpose. Not the point. ]

The place with 'a lot of sex'.

[ Tenderness you took where you could get it. He can imagine where this is going, or at least the shape of it. Regrets doing it on the table rather than with the advantage of touch and teeth to stop Stephen stepping so carefully. Though Silco isn't any less deliberate. ]

Will you tell me about it?

[ Silco doesn't particularly catch the plurality simply because it doesn't strike him as odd. Piltover has monogamy, of course, it's how they solidify their power, by creating houses and passing wealth and title down to their offspring. But it's not the same in the undercity.

No, what strikes him is the usual need: to be the best. The most valued, of many. But it's without particular jealousy. They've known each other a month or two, things are only newly unfolding between them. Silco knows that his history, with so few people allowed in it, is not the norm. ]

All right.

[ He props his chin in his hand, fingers covering his mouth. Considers his emotional response: it doesn't quite correspond to that logic. The drugs — the ReSculpt — does tend to twist the psyche towards insecurity. Irritating. He ignores it; if it bothers him once the withdrawals are past he'll revisit the topic. ]

My ex showed up, as it happens, so I do take your point.

[ Sometimes the world simply shifts on its axis and takes the best laid plans with it. ]

Vander.

[ There's a yes in his tone, the tip of his head. Silco at least seems unperturbed. Death doesn't stick here, so he can't just quietly make the problem go away, but he's got it handled. ]

He's agreed to a — truce. For Jinx's sake. Missed her whole teens and still considers himself her father. It's touching, really.

[ Silco does not seem touched.

He spears the pineapple he set aside with a fork and bites into it, considering the flavour more seriously now that it's not such a surprise. ]

Her parents were our best friends, once. They died when she was four, in our attempted revolution. And our relationship with them.

[ Those last words dry, bitter. Pain too old to really hurt anymore.

He finishes the pineapple, letting the silence hang for a moment. Just when it seems he mightn't be going to say more, and they can end this digression. ]

He blamed my explosives. Gave up on our dream. Co-operated with Piltover enforcers to bring the survivors to heel. Everyone returned to their miserable lives. I was furious, at the time, but I understand it better now. He would rather Jinx and her older sister live to experience a hard world than lose them fighting for a better one.

[ He'd made the same choice in the end. Is there anything so undoing as a daughter? ]

But no, we never co-parented. So I imagine this will be a learning experience for us all. But we weren't talking about my past.

[ Lightly impatient: ]

Everything, obviously.

[ He'd much rather hear it from Stephen than from someone else, too, especially since Jemima had been so unforthcoming. ]

Let's start with what you're talking around telling me.

[ Silco rolls his eyes so hard his neck actually moves. ]

Barely.

[ And, with insidious honesty: ]

If you won't give me specifics I'll go asking for them.

[ Network post: raise your hand if you or someone you know has fucked Stephen Strange. Silco's eyes flicker wide, innocent. ]

Was it men and women? Were any serious? Platonic? For a long time? Are you married?

[ Chin still in hand, rapid-fire questions accompanied with a stab of his other finger in the air like he's listing them off. It's important to know his competition. ]

[ Strange rattles off answers that really only lead to more questions and Silco gives him a flat look. The tip of his shoe taps Stephen's ankle beneath the table. ]

You're being infuriating again.

[ Though that doesn't usually result in a whole lot of talking, so perhaps it's a strategy. ]

[ Silco sips his wine. ]

I do.

[ Voracious and unashamed about it. But then he relents incrementally. ]

Only if you're comfortable.

[ With the telling, yes, but with the choice of time and place to tell, too. He can be patient. Neither of them are going to finish this food. ]

[ Silco commits this strange and all together too long list to memory, head tipping as he makes a mental schedule of instalments. It's a pleasing idea. He may be talking about other people, after all, but he's going to be talking about them with Silco. ]

The Christmas ghost.

[ Missing the Scrooge reference entirely, of course; his first exposure to Christmas has been this month past, enjoying the excuse to spoil Jinx. ]

But not here.

[ He pushes his chair back, gets up. Moves around the table to bend and take the kiss he's been thinking about for a while now. Long fingers curling into Stephen's tie, tugging. If they're going to talk about past lovers they're going to do it somewhere more comfortably entwined. ]

[ A little huff of amusement as Silco also remembers the armchairs, his sharp nose still right in close. ]

I think we can make do.

[ He picks the chaise solely because the bed feels like a step too far. It's still a pleasant little dinner date, low light, conversation — but, heady with wine and wanting, Silco nudges Stephen bodily into a chair more suitable for sprawling and climbs into his lap, drapes shamelessly over his chest and shoulders. ]

Better.

[ Low enough it's all rasp. He toys with the tie wound around his fingers, fidgeting, tucked too close for eye contact. Calm certainty betrayed by the rapid thrum of his pulse. ]

Go on.