#taith

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan? 

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route. 

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily. 

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift. 

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them. 

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground. 

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum. 

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging. 

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist. 

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint. 

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back. 

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you. 

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame. 

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it. 

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze. 

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again. 

He must be really curious about you. 

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”  

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

He doesn’t respond. You turn around to see him sitting on a stool, legs outstretched as he holds up a photo to his face, studying it intently. He strokes his chin in deep thought.

“Silco?” you say again, walking towards him with your arm still behind you, pulling uselessly at the zipper. “Could you help me out, please?”

He finally looks up when you stand next to him. “My apologies. Did you need something?”

“Can you get this zipper for me?” you ask. You tug at it. You feel another notch open before the puller stops again, as if to taunt you.

“Sure.”

 You turn around to present your back to him, lowering your arm to your side. The stool scrapes against the ground as he swivels to face you. His first attempt with the zipper is as fruitless as your own.

Silco tsks in annoyance. “You would think that Topsiders of all people, with all of their wealth and resources, would know how to engineer a fully functional zipper.”

“Yeah,” you say absentmindedly. The dress moves up and down against your skin as Silco yanks repeatedly, using more strength with each try. Gradually, you feel the zipper yield more and more, and then—

ZZZZIP!! Goosebumps ripple from your shoulders all the way down to the small of your back at the sudden exposure to the cool air.

“Woah!” You step forwards in alarm, spinning around to prevent Silco from seeing even more of your body as the dress slips down your shoulders.

“I’m sorry!” Silco throws an arm in front of his eyes, blocking his view. “I swear it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, too tired to be embarrassed. “Just keep your eyes closed.”

“I didn’t see anything,” he says apologetically, squashing his face deep into the crook of his elbow. “The zipper was being stubborn and I was trying not to break it—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “Are your eyes closed?”

He nods furiously. You take the opportunity to step out of your dress entirely. When you turn it over in your hands, you see that the fabric is still intact. However, the puller is about to fall off, a small piece of it broken away from your and Silco’s combined efforts. It detaches entirely when you try to pull the zipper up. 

Hopefully you’ll remember to repair it later when you put the dress away. It’s a small price to pay to finally be able to undress after a long night. You hang it up and put the puller in a wardrobe drawer before taking off your underwear, burying them deep in a hamper.

“If there’s anything I can do to earn your forgiveness, just say the word,” he says worriedly, his arm still over his eyes. “I can never be sorry enough—”

“It’s not a big deal, don’t beat yourself up about it.” You grab your pajamas again and head for the bathroom, pulling the door almost fully closed. Through the crack in the door, you call out to him, “Do you need anything before I shower?”

“Would you like me to leave? I understand if—”

“I forgive you, Silco,” you say with a chuckle. “Just don’t touch my dress again.”

“I can assure you, it will never happen again,” he promises earnestly.

When you shut the door, you fight the urge to laugh out loud. His boyish embarrassment is a different side of him that you haven’t seen before. It’s refreshing to see when compared to his usual noble and dignified bearing of a revolutionary, his unyielding conviction so bright that it beams out of him like sunrays.

You let out a relieved sigh when you turn on the shower, setting the temperature to a comforting warmth. The water soothes you as you stand with your eyes closed, the heat warming through your skin into your bones.

Your thoughts drift back to Silco’s earlier request as you begin washing yourself. How serious was he about wanting your help on “future ventures”? Are the Children of Zaun in such dire need of people that they’ll recruit anyone and everyone? 

In another life, you could see yourself joining their ranks, maybe even fighting alongside Silco. After all, you love the Undercity just as much as he does. Despite your lack of battle prowess, you could make yourself useful to them in other ways.

But yours and Silco’s reactions to tonight’s events were so different. He wasn’t afraid of getting caught, even when the councilor almost walked in on him during the burglary. Meanwhile, your own nerves were so fried past the point of anxiety, it’s a wonder you were able to make it through the rest of the night at all. 

And now, even after the mission is over, he’s still up and about, ready for a full debrief while you just want to collapse into bed.

It goes without saying, you prefer your current job anyways. It’s much less hazardous and you don’t have to get into fights with Enforcers. Probably the most dangerous thing you’ve encountered in your line of work was a poorly trained pet Poro; its owners were a wealthy Topside couple who wanted you to paint a portrait of it. It wouldn’t sit still during your painting sessions, expressing its deep distrust of strangers with angry headbutts and hostile growls. You spent more of your time trying to befriend it instead of painting it, and you were handsomely rewarded when you finally completed its portrait. The couple also tipped you generously every time it bit you, which was a nice perk you hadn’t asked for.

You don’t have to risk arrest, bodily injury, or death whenever you sit down with a client. And you certainly don’t feel the same sense of accomplishment after a mission that Silco does.

The rebel life isn’t for you.  

As you shut off the water and begin toweling yourself dry, you speculate if you’re being presumptuous. Silco had only asked for your assistance; he hadn’t asked you to join the Children. There’s no need to overextend yourself.

But it makes you wonder: would Silco still seek out your company if he doesn’t need your help anymore? You’ve been useful to him so far, but there’s no telling if you can still be valuable to him in the future. That thought makes you a little sad, but that’s quickly overturned by confusion. Why should you be sad if Silco doesn’t want to see you again? You’re not even friends. Even before tonight, he was practically a stranger to you.

In fact, you’re not sure why you’re so worked up about Silco and the other Children potentially dying during their next heist. Of course, you hate the idea of anyone—especially your fellow Zaunites—getting hurt, but people die in the Undercity every day. Sometimes it’s not even at the hands of Enforcers, but just plain bad luck.

But then you remember Silco’s easy confidence and his bright smiles. His genuine passion for the Undercity that burns hotter in him than in anyone else you’ve ever met. He doesn’t just hope that Zaun will become free and independent—he knows it, as if it’s an inevitable future that no one else can see but him. It’s easy to picture him leading a charge against Piltover, or in a suit and tie at the Council’s table, ordering the other politicians around with an iron fist.

For your whole life, you’ve wanted the same things as him.

But some instinct tells you that the spark—the one that could bring about real change—is in Silco.

He has his own methods of working towards that dream, and you have yours. But someday, you want to see the same future that he does, with your own eyes.

After finishing up the rest of your bedtime routine, you grab a new toothbrush and exit the bathroom. You find Silco lying on the ground next to your bed, using his backpack as a makeshift pillow. The photos are stacked neatly on the kitchen table and the cup is in the sink.

You crouch down next to him and tap his shoulder with the toothbrush. “Here. Go brush your teeth.”

He looks at the toothbrush, then back up at you. “You’ve already given me too much tonight—”

“It’s fine. Go brush your teeth. You didn’t use mine already, did you?” you ask jokingly.

“I would never,” he says, aghast. “Are you sure?”

You nod. He smiles again and takes the toothbrush from you. “Thank you so much.”

Both of you stand up at the same time. He heads towards the bathroom while you walk over to the washer, pulling Silco’s clothes out to stuff them in the dryer. Then, you head to your closet, pulling out a sleeping bag and a pillow. You set these down on the floor next to the bed just as Silco comes out again.

“You’ve shown me a tremendous amount of generosity tonight,” he says gratefully. “I hope you’ll allow me to repay you in the future.”

“Mmm,” you hum at him, too sleepy for words. You shuffle towards the light switch.

Before you can flick them off, Silco unzips the sleeping bag.

“Get in the bed, Silco,” you say firmly.

“I won’t take your bed from you,” he protests. “The ground is more than good enough for me.”

“Get in the damn bed, Silco. And go to sleep,” you say as firmly as you can, considering that you’re ready to flop onto the floor yourself.

He looks at you in silence for a moment, then climbs into your bed and tucks himself in.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“Don’t mention it,” you grunt.

You turn off the lights. The blankets rustle as he settles in, and you flop onto the sleeping bag, not bothering to slide into it.

Silco calls out your name into the dark. “Good night.”

“Good night, Silco,” you mumble.

All too soon, the beeping of your alarm clock announces the start of a new day, its loud ringing jerking you into wakefulness. You hastily scramble up off the floor and smack it off. 

In yesterday’s craziness, it’s understandable that you forgot to silence it. Luckily, Silco is still slumbering peacefully when you look over at him, the blanket rising and falling slowly with his deep breaths.

You get ready for the day as quietly as possible before making breakfast. Even though you move as carefully and as slowly as possible, every tiny movement seems to reverberate and echo throughout your small apartment. Soon enough, Silco yawns loudly behind you, stretching his long arms when you turn around to greet him.

“Good morning,” you say with a smile, your patience fully restored after a full night’s rest. “Hope you’re hungry.”

He rolls over to face you. He looks so comfortable and vulnerable with tousled hair and heavy-lidded eyes, you feel a little bad for disturbing his sleep. Something about his smile today makes your heart skip a beat, a nervous flare tickling the edges of your nerves. 

“Good morning,” he says drowsily. “Did you make breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s almost ready.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, astonished. “I’ve abused your hospitality for far too long already.”

“Well, you’re not going anywhere,” you say, pointing out your window. The skies are still steel-gray and wet, rain drumming harshly on the glass. “Do you want to keep sleeping?”

He shakes his head, sitting up slowly and stretching again. “It would be a poor repayment of your kindness to let the food grow cold. May I use your restroom?”

“Sure,” you say as you grab plates and utensils. “Your clothes should be ready now, they’re in the dryer.”

Silco grabs his clothes before heading to the bathroom. He returns wearing his outfit from last night, dumping the borrowed garments in your washer. He helps you set the table and pour tea. 

You plate a full spread for both your guest and yourself: bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, and fresh fruit. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I made a little bit of everything,” you say. “I hope you like it.”

“This looks delicious, thank you,” he says enthusiastically, pulling a stool out for you. He takes a seat and starts on the meat, cutting up the sausage. “Would you mind me asking what you were doing at the councilor’s last night?”

“Salo wanted a status update on the mural,” you say, after swallowing a mouthful of fruit.

“Was that the full extent of his intentions?” Silco asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure,” you shrug. “What else could he want?”

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, as if he might find the right words to say on his plate. 

In a diplomatic tone, he says, “You were dressed quite… well. And you were upstairs.”

“So?”

“His sleeping quarters are upstairs.”

You look up from your meal, skeptical.

“Perhaps you weren’t wrong about Salo wanting a Zaunite mistress,” he wonders aloud.

“No way,” you snort. “As if a gentleman of his caliber would ever deign to consort with the fissure folk.”

“You were invited to dinner at his home, were you not?” he smirks.

“I’m just his employee, that’s all,” you say.

“You’d be surprised at how many men have an appetite for that,” he says. 

 “Salo’s not just any Piltie, he’s one of the ‘elites.’ A Zaunite would never be good enough for him,” you say matter-of-factly, rolling your eyes.

“I must admit I don’t know many from the Undercity who work in such close proximity to the Council,” he says, piercing a piece of sausage with his fork. “You’re the only one I know, actually,” he adds thoughtfully.

“We’re all just… dirty little animals, in their eyes,” you say bitterly. “And they’ll throw us a bone every now and then if we’re ‘one of the good ones’ that ‘earned’ it.”

You spoon more food into your mouth to cut yourself off from rambling. It doesn’t seem fair to complain about your clientele; they pay and treat you well enough, and there are plenty of other poor and unemployed Zaunites who would kill to have a job like yours.

But surprisingly, Silco nods his head in agreement. “It’s about esteem and opportunity. Everything they’ve denied us.”

He puts his fork down and stares out your window. His profile is handsome, and his proud manner is accentuated when he lifts his chin high, as if to address an imaginary crowd.

“We’ll earn their respect once we show them we have the power,” he says quietly. ”A united underground will be an entity they cannot ignore, a force they must reckon with… the Nation of Zaun.” 

“Wow… ‘the Nation of Zaun’…” you say in awe. “I like the sound of that.”

It’s a commonly held sentiment in the Undercity, but you’ve never heard that phrase before. You almost regret expressing your admiration, though, when Silco turns to you, no doubt ready to spring into another monologue about Zaun.

“I’ve spoken enough about the Undercity, haven’t I,” he says, frowning. “I hope I haven’t been a tedious houseguest.”

“No, you’re fine. It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone in your line of work,” you reassure him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. “It’s good to know that there are still people out there fighting the good fight.”

“We’ll fight for as long as it takes,” he says grimly. His jaw shifts as he bites his tongue, as if he’s physically forcing himself to change the subject. “Will you be painting the mural today?”

“Probably not; it’s going to rain again tomorrow,” you say. You smile at him, glad for the change in topic. There’s only so many ways you can tell Silco you agree with him without repeating yourself verbatim.

He proves himself to be a good conversationalist, asking you about yourself and showing genuine interest in your answers. Considering the rocky start to your relationship, you have a decent amount in common with Silco: you were both born and raised in the Fissures, survivors of lean and tumultuous childhoods that every Sumpsnipe endures. Your initial guess at his age was right; he’s only a few months older than you.

The similarities end there. He only has vague memories of living with his parents before they left him in an orphanage among the Sumps; he was told it was an act of compassion, as they had passed away shortly afterwards, succumbing to the Zaun gray like so many others. On the other hand, you’ve never known any family besides the staff at the orphanage you lived in. Your own career as a painter pulled you up and out of Zaun, while Silco worked as a miner for many years. He and his companions managed to carve out the Lanes, founding the Children of Zaun when they rallied enough like-minded people to pose a significant fighting force.

Slowly, slowly, the rain passes during your meal. Just as you’re both finishing up, the sun peeks through silvery clouds. Silco insists on helping you with the dishes but you shoo him away. He relegates himself to double-checking that all the photos you took are in his backpack.

“Wait up,” you call out to him as he puts on his boots. You walk over to your supplies and pull out the tube of blueprints for the scissor lift. It feels like a lifetime ago that he asked to borrow them in that alleyway, even if it’s only been a few weeks. “Do you still need these?”   

He looks surprised, then nods. “You are truly a fountain of generosity.”

When he kneels and opens his backpack again, you hesitate.

“You… you better give these back when you’re done with them,” you say slowly. You hold the blueprints close to your chest, reluctant to hand them over. Some illogical voice in your head tells you that he won’t go to the heist if he doesn’t have the schematics, and that withholding them will somehow guarantee his safety.  

“I will,” he says with conviction. His eyes are bright and full of promise. “I hope it’s alright to hold onto them for a while. We have much work to do first.” He extends a hand out to you.

“You’ll come find me after the raid, right?” you ask. You try to swallow your fear, clenching a fist tight around the tube to keep from trembling.

“Of course,” he says gently. “But I would be remiss not to warn you. If the worst should come to pass—”

“But it won’t, right?” you cut him off. “You promised.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Silco smiles softly at you, eyes crinkling with warmth.

You stare at him. He has that certainty on his face, his unwavering belief that can’t be shaken despite your own fears. 

Just as much as he believes in the Undercity, he believes in himself, too.

Finally, you step forward, placing the container in his hand. His smile widens as he takes it, placing it carefully in his backpack.

You open the door for him as he slings his backpack over his shoulders. When he stands up again, you step back to give him room to leave. 

But he walks up to you first, placing a hand on your shoulder. You freeze as you look up at him, your skin flushing underneath his touch.

“I am in your debt,” he says solemnly, clear turquoise eyes gazing into you. “I will do all that I can to repay it.”

“It’s fine, Silco,” you say in a low voice. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

He walks backwards away from you, waving goodbye energetically. You wave back at him, lowering your hand only when he turns the corner and disappears. 

You stand in the doorway, turning to look in the direction of Piltover. You can’t see the city from here, but you squint past the many buildings and the bridge towards the Councilor’s tower. 

Maybe granting independence to the Undercity is too much to ask of Topside, but if Silco comes back to you safe and unharmed, that’ll be good enough for now. 

The rest can come another day. 

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

You almost don’t hear it over your own voice and the rumble of thunder: a mechanical click and whirring, low like a buzzing insect. Simultaneously, a blinding, white flash bursts in your face, burning into your retinas. 

As you squeeze your eyes shut, footsteps patter away; metal clanking echoes in the distance as something jumps onto rooftops. When your eyes readjust, you carefully jump off the ledge onto the roof.

“Who’s there?” you say in a small, quivering voice.

But you’re all alone. Whoever that person was, they’re long gone by now. You pull your jacket tighter around you. You’re just about to leave when you spot something small floating to the ground.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you walk over to the thing and pick it up. It’s thin, glossy, and square, artificially smooth and warm to the touch. There are undefined shapes on it, blurred edges slowly sharpening into focus as the dull gray smears become stained with color.

The shock of what you’re looking at almost makes you drop it.

It’s a picture of you, your face blurred as you’re turning to look over your shoulder. But it has your clothes and your hair color, framed by a cloudy sky.

On instinct, you crumple the picture and stuff it into your pocket. Your body moves on its own, climbing onto the scissor lift and running away.

Stalkers aren’t unusual in Zaun, but their presence is still unnerving. No one’s ever followed you this closely before, and the picture proves that their issue with you is personal. 

Instead of heading home, you make your way Topside. You had meant to go shopping for new art supplies, and now seems as good a time as any. Hopefully you’ll be able to lose them in the streets of Piltover, where there’ll be more scrutinizing eyes. 

This one time, you’re grateful that Pilties are so judgmental of people from the Undercity; if you’re being watched like a hawk, they’ll be able to spot whoever’s stalking you. So you take your time browsing in an art store, not bothering to step away from the shop attendants that shadow your every footstep. It's late and raining hard by the time you finally leave. When you step out and take several careful, cautious steps, the tingling sensation doesn’t come back. You start walking faster to take advantage of your pursuer’s absence. 

On the second full day without rain, you return to the mural. But just as you pry open a can of paint, the feeling strikes you again. This time, your scalp tingles and stings painfully, as the stalker seemingly observes you from the rooftops. You jam the can’s lid back in place and run away again.

For days after, they don’t come back. But those close calls are enough to make you dread going to work. You keep your sessions short just in case you need to flee. The shorter workdays aren’t a problem for now, as you’re still laying down the base coat for the mural. However, longer sessions can’t be avoided when painting the finer details, as they’ll require focus and precision.

The fear of being stalked embeds itself into the very air around you, making you hyperaware of your surroundings. It doesn’t help that your nights have become restless, disturbed by nightmares of faceless figures towering over you and footsteps growing louder and louder as they approach you. 

Still, you’re determined to not let your newfound paranoia get the best of you, especially on the day after the raid. Silco had promised that he would find you, after all, so you steel yourself and head out to the mural.

To your immense relief, Silco is already there waiting for you, a triumphant grin on his face blazing like the sun. All your worries fall away as you rush to the scissor lift, impatiently slamming the button that extends it to the roof. During the ascent, you take a deep breath to calm your hammering heartbeat, hoping to regain some semblance of dignity.

As you pull yourself up and over the ledge, Silco extends a hand out to you. You take it, savoring the feel of his calluses and scars, solid and rough as you find your footing. He lets go of you all too soon to rummage in his backpack. You shove your own hand in your pocket, squeezing reflexively.

“We were right about the shipment,” he says excitedly, pulling a bottle of wine out of his backpack. “Noxian goods were just some of the many illegal imports we found last night. The councilor’s in trouble.”

“Hello to you too, Silco,” you say, laughing with relief. “Are you okay?”

The fire in his eyes diminishes to something softer, a warm hearth as he looks at you properly now with appreciation. But his smile widens as he holds out the wine to you.

“We prevailed thanks to you,” he says proudly. “It isn’t much, but we wanted you to enjoy your share of the spoils.”

“Oh—” you say, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Is this not enough? We have much more stashed away—” he asks.

“No, no,” you shake your head, hesitating. “I—I just need to hear you say that you’re okay.”

He doesn’t tell you those exact words, but instead launches into a grand retelling of last night’s events: staking out the warehouse for hours, bribing some of the less disciplined guards, knocking the rest of them out, hurrying away with as much cargo as they could carry, and dumping the rest of it in the harbor. He puts down the wine bottle and pulls a flask out from his pockets, toasting to the Children’s victory.

His tale is probably a very thrilling one, and you’ll have to ask Silco to tell it again someday. 

But right now, your attention is focused on his sleeves; despite the warm weather, he has them pulled almost all the way down to his wrist, bandaging peeking out like a dog sneaking into a dining room for table scraps.

When he holds the flask out for you to take, you instead seize his left wrist, shoving the sleeve up as high as you can. His entire forearm is bandaged past his elbow; it’s not unusual for him to accessorize with unnecessary bindings, but he hisses in pain from your manhandling.

You handle him more carefully now, fingers lightly grazing over the makeshift wrapping. The cloth is gray and dirty, smeared with dirt and coal dust. A tight, stubborn knot in the crook of his elbow refuses to untangle despite your best attempts to press your thumbs into its crevices.

“Dummy,” you say, exasperated. When you let go of him, he pulls his forearm close, rubbing it gingerly. “You broke your promise.”

“What do you mean?” he asks defiantly.

You climb over to your scissor lift and grab your bag, placing it carefully on the ledge. After pulling out a first-aid kit, you wave at him to come closer, scolding him gently, “You promised you’d stay safe.”

“There are always mishaps in battle,” he fires back, but there’s no malice in his voice. “And I’m here in one piece, aren’t I?”

“I’ll be more specific next time.” You roll your eyes and gesture again. “Besides, if you die of infection then that will count as you breaking your promise.”

“My own well-being is of no importance—” he protests.

“Silco…” You glare at him. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

His eyes widen in surprise at the anger in your voice. He’s almost meek when he finally steps forward, extending his forearm out to you. You take the flask from him and put it on the ledge next to your kit.

“What happened?” you ask, pulling out a pair of scissors to cut off the knot. You unwrap the dressing slowly, peeling it away layer by layer. On his arm is a long, jagged cut, almost spanning the entire length of his forearm. Another shorter cut closer to his wrist runs parallel to the first one. Neither are very deep, with dried flecks of blood already crusting at the edges of the wounds. His fingers are cut up as well, with tiny nicks at the joints that have already scabbed over.

“Climbed out of a broken window,” he says dismissively. When you narrow your eyes at him, he says defensively. “Time was of the essence—”

You sigh. “I know.”

Your first-aid kit is an expensive, deluxe product from a Topside pharmacy, stocked for almost every kind of emergency. First, you use a sanitizer on your own hands, making sure to meticulously scrub underneath your fingernails. Then, you carefully pour clean water onto a sterile cloth, just enough to dampen it but not soak it. 

You look up at Silco apologetically. “Sorry, this might hurt a little.”

Carefully, carefully, you dab away at the caked dirt and blood on Silco’s arm and fingers. To his credit, he’s a good patient, enduring your administrations without complaint. He winces when a particularly stubborn scab refuses to chip away, his tendons flexing involuntarily. When it finally does, a tiny droplet of blood oozes out.

“It’s a good thing you don’t need stitches,” you remark as you finish wiping up. You pull out a fresh roll of bandaging and start wrapping his forearm securely, but not too tightly. The cuts on his fingers have healed enough that they don’t need to be covered.

“That’s quite a shame; I would have welcomed the scars,” he jokes.

When you secure the wrapping at his elbow, you slide your hand down his arm, assessing your handiwork. The dressing’s grainy bumpiness gives way to Silco’s rough skin as your hand reaches his palm. 

Reluctantly, you start to pull away, but he squeezes your hand appreciatively, his thumb sweeping across the back of your hand. 

You can’t help but squeeze him back. His palm feels warm against yours, your own skin molding against his calluses.

“I missed you,” he says lightly. But when you look up, his eyes are sincere, turquoise waters as clear as a fountain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you before the raid. But I would like to ask: did you make any effort to find me?”

You look away, mouth suddenly dry. His intense and earnest gaze has your legs feeling unsteady. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

(Also, you weren’t sure how closely your stalker was following you. You would never forgive yourself if they followed you straight to his doorstep.) 

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he chuckles.

You purse your lips at him, annoyed; he didn’t deny that a visit from you would be bothersome. You open your mouth to tease him, trying too late to stave off your rising embarrassment. 

But before you can speak, he reaches out with his free hand to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger on the shell, tracing the shape of it all the way down to your lobe. His touch is gentle, a soft and tender caress. 

Wild heat blooms under your skin at his touch, no doubt spreading across the rest of your face and neck.

You yank your hand out of his grasp and jerk back, hitting your first-aid kid with your elbow. It falls sideways off the ledge and you catch it just before it hits the ground. Some of the supplies within tumble out, rolling across the roof.

“You’ll—uh—you’ll probably need painkillers for those cuts—I’ll get you some—uh—some pills and stuff later,” you stammer out. You seize the opportunity to look away from him, leaning over the ground to pick up the fallen items. “What about your friends? Are they okay?”

“They’re alright, thank you for asking.” He crouches down to help you pick up a roll of gauze. When he holds it out to you, you swipe it from him, careful to avoid touching him directly. He frowns, a little notch sinking between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t remark on your sudden skittishness. “In fact, they’ve expressed interest in making your acquaintance.”

“Huh?” You were about to grab a container of sterile water when you stop, hand still outstretched in midair.

Silco picks it up for you and puts it away in your kit. “They wish to express their gratitude, as I have mine. Your aid was a monumental factor in the raid’s success.”

After craning his neck around you to look for more medical supplies, he stands up. With the kit fully reassembled, he zips it shut, putting it back inside your bag. You get to your own feet as he turns to face you, leaning casually against the ledge.

“Our preparations were more than adequate due to your intelligence,” he says solemnly, looking straight at you. “I do not mean it lightly when I say you helped save many lives that night.”

“Oh…” You fold your arms, hugging yourself against a sudden breeze. It ruffles Silco’s hair, and he pushes his bangs out of his face. “I just took some pictures, that’s all.”

“All it takes to set off an avalanche is a pebble,” he says. “We struck a single blow against Topside last night. And we’re going to do it again and again until they finally fall at our feet.”

“Don’t call me a pebble just because I’m shorter than you,” you joke.

“We’re all ‘dirty little animals’ living in Topside’s shadow,” he smiles ironically at you. “We ought to stand united because of that. If you ever find yourself at our doors, they will always be open to you.”

“Hmm… The Last Drop is in the Lanes, right?” you ask. The name of the Children’s headquarters is common knowledge, but you’ve never been there yourself.

He nods. “I could lead you there, if you like.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say quickly. “I’ll think about it.”

Silco grins at your answer. You bite your tongue, unwilling to dampen his mood by voicing your reservations. 

So far, you have no regrets in helping Silco, but opening yourself up to an organization of strangers is a different story. If they learn about your connections to the Council, the other Children might want to exploit them.

What would Silco do in that instance? Would he stand by your choice to remain uninvolved? Or would he also pressure you to officially join their cause? He seemed respectful enough of your decision during the sleepover, but you wonder if his friends would change his mind.

Silco picks up his flask again and unscrews it open. When he offers it to you, you take it automatically, still lost in your own thoughts as you take a sip. Instead of water, the tart taste of the Noxian wine floods your mouth. Caught off-guard by the alcohol, you cough and choke. He laughs and thumps you on the back.

You don’t get any painting done at all today. Instead, you both relax, talking about everything and nothing. Silco shows you some knife tricks, his own smile as sharp and shiny as the blade dancing through the air. You make up more stories about the dark-haired woman you’re painting.

He visits you at least once a week after that. Each time he does, the fear of being stalked fades away. Maybe it’s because the harasser is scared off by his presence, or you just feel safe around Silco. Either way, his visits never fail to cheer you up. You enjoy his company, and you pay polite attention every time he launches into a monologue about the Undercity’s future. His seemingly endless well of ambition means that he always has some new insights to share. At least these conversations distract you from darker thoughts about your stalker.

One day, you tell him that you have errands to run in the Undercity. You try to ask him as casually as possible if he wants to accompany you; you’re just interested in hanging out again later, nothing more and nothing less. When he declines, you let some lighthearted disappointment show, but hide the sinking dread that sinks through your chest and into your stomach. 

But maybe you’ll get lucky. After all, the underground never sleeps, its children traversing the alleys at all hours of the night. They might provide enough cover for you to slip undetected to your destination.

________________________________________

You should have known better than to be optimistic. 

It might be easier to lose your stalker in the crowded streets, but that also means it’s harder to pinpoint what direction they’re coming from.

Every conversation you overhear seems to be about you.

When you sidestep a pair of men wearing long capes and pointy Ionian hats, their sideways glance at you seems to linger unnervingly.

A weapons vendor catches your eye and he smirks at you, licking one of his knives before he stabs his table with it.

Silhouettes in windows point at you before disappearing from view.

As much as you dodge and sneak through the lanes, you can’t outrun the sense of impending doom that chases you.

Your palms are sweaty. 

Your breath is loud and fast in your ears. 

Blood drains from your veins to be replaced by a howling anxiety. 

Your heart beats a rapid and running pace that the whole of the Lanes can hear. 

Colors and noises swirl together in a dizzying and incomprehensible spiral.

When you sidestep into an alleyway around the corner from a fruit stall to catch your breath, you review your options. You could head straight to the elevators, but that still runs the risk of the stalker following you home. If you wait it out at Babette’s, they might charge you a premium for a room, especially if you have no intention of spending time with any of her employees.

You’re forced back onto the streets when the stall’s vendor yells at you to get away from his merchandise unless you’re buying. You swiftly step around him, keeping your gaze locked forward. Even in your compromised state, you can’t afford to look weak.

An unmarked, large, multi-story building at the end of the street seems safe enough. It lies at the junction of three different avenues, and you speedwalk through the open courtyard as fast as you can. The edifice is painted over in flaking shades of orange and brown, revealing rusted gray and turquoise steel underneath. Curlicues of metal pipes encircle the front door artistically, iron vines crawling up the walls reaching up towards the sky.

The establishment seems to be a pub of some kind. Most of the chairs are filled, patrons drinking or lounging at tables and booths. You sidestep a tall woman dragging a babbling man out by the collar. From the muted smack of flesh on steel and squeals of pain, the woman used the man’s face to push open the door. You can’t help but chuckle under your breath as you make a beeline for her recently vacated booth, enticing worn red fabric welcoming you as you scoot in to observe the other customers.

Low music leaks out of a brightly lit jukebox by the entrance. The furniture looks handmade, all made of sturdy wood with metal trimmings at the joints. Tables of mismatched sizes and shapes are spread unevenly throughout the room, seemingly moved around at the patrons’ whims. Exposed lightbulbs cast warm, yellow light, illuminating assorted portraits and posters on the walls. Worn brick peeks out from underneath peeling wallpaper. Wooden barrels sit in quiet corners.

A tall, burly man stands behind a counter, wiping it down. A wide selection of various alcoholic drinks occupies a glass shelf above him.

In a more peaceful world, this place could be… cozy. Some patrons allow themselves to slouch in their chairs, even though their hands never stray too far from belted knives. One man has fallen asleep in his cups, but nobody bothers him or his pockets. A group of rowdy friends laugh and encourage each other at one of the pool tables.

“Hey.” The tall woman you walked past steps in front of you, blocking your view of the bar. She’s muscular and tough, a bright red poncho draped proudly around her shoulders. Her short dark hair is tied neatly back in a half up-do, almost girlish except for the dark scowl carved into her face. “You’re in my seat.”

You finally glance down at the table, only just now noticing an almost-empty glass of orange alcohol and a half-full ashtray in front of you, still warm from recent use.

“Sorry,” you say hastily.

You slide out of the booth as quickly as you can, scanning for an empty table. The woman’s energy tells you that she could have just as easily picked you up and thrown you to the floor, and you’re thankful that she opted to evict you more politely.

She raises an appraising eyebrow at you. You draw your hood lower over your eyes, avoiding her gaze.

 “If you grab me a drink, I’ll let you sit here.” She takes a seat in the booth, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, still staring at you. “You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, relieved.

“Tell him Sevika wants her usual,” the woman says, jerking her head at the barman.

You make your way to the counter, leaning against it. When you place your hands on its edge, it’s cool to the touch, polished to a brilliant shine. You crane your neck to look for the bartender; he’s at the far end of the counter, finishing up with another customer. 

Just as you raise your hand to catch his attention, he spots you. He slaps a towel over his shoulder and saunters over to you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before, miss,” he says, curious. The glass he picks up looks tiny in his massive, boulder-like hands. He holds it out to you flirtatiously, his wink as shiny as the spotless glassware.  

“It’s my first time here,” you say politely, taking the glass from him. You put it down carefully in front of you. “Can I get Sevika’s usual, please?”

He nods, a slow grin spreading across his wide cheeks. He pushes his short brown hair out of his face before he grabs a second cup. When he grabs a bottle of orange liquor from a shelf, you belatedly realize that you have no idea how much drinks cost here.

“Does she have a tab?” You pat down your pockets, groaning internally at your carelessness.

The bartender ignores your question, instead pouring both glasses half-full with a flourish.

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” you protest.

“It’s on the house, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully. “Welcome to The Last Drop.” 

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

“I know,” you sigh heavily. “They just grow up so fast, you know?”

He nods in understanding as he offers you his elbow. You slip your hand around it as he leads you towards Piltover Bridge. Out of the corner of your eye, you admire his striking, carved profile against the clear skies. His hair is still long on the top of his head, combed back in a neat crest that he styles with gel every morning. You miss his old hairstyle sometimes, but his undercut is so dashing. It’s fun to rub him behind his ears, as you enjoy the fuzziness of his hair shorn close to his skin. Gray has seeped into the hair around his temples, along with a wide, dandy streak above his left eye. Age and stress have begun etching long lines in his face, but they only make him more handsome and distinguished than ever. 

“Shall we pay them a visit at the Academy?” he asks. 

“No, it’s fine. I asked Viktor to meet up with them at lunch. He’ll look out for them,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than to Silco. 

You don’t talk about how worried you are for the teenagers; the coursework will be easy for them, but you hope they won’t be bullied at the Academy. Even though Piltover has officially recognized the Undercity as an independent nation, Topside’s bigotry towards Zaun still persists. It’s not going to disappear in your generation, or Powder’s, or maybe even the generation after. New policies have been implemented to make education more accessible to Zaunite youth, but the Academy’s gates might as well be shark’s jaws, considering how Powder and Ekko will be rubbing shoulders with Piltover’s most sheltered and narrow-minded. There’s only so much protection that anti-bullying rules can offer. 

“They’re strong. They’re more than capable of holding their own,” Silco reassures you, as if he could read your mind. “The Topsiders should be grateful to count Powder and Ekko among their peers.”

He comes to a stop in the middle of the bridge, and you let go of him as he leans on the railing. His gaze towards the Undercity is serene, a gentle smile still lingering on his face. In his youth, his passion for the Nation of Zaun roared like a fiery inferno. Now, over a decade later, he nurtures it like a lit hearth, with careful and persistent attention so it doesn’t burn out when there’s still so much work to do. 

“I know their parents have thanked you already but… thank you, Silco,” you tell him. You fold your arms as you lean on the railing, the metal cool and smooth against your elbows. “Powder and Ekko wouldn’t have gotten in without your help.”

“It was a simple matter of opportunity. I merely opened the doors; it was the children who walked through them,” he says. “The Topsiders have denied us for too long. It’s about time we seized it all for ourselves.” 

His grip tightens around the railing, the leather of his gloves stretching around his knuckles. Even though Piltover is finally being held accountable for their mistreatment of the Undercity, you doubt that Silco’s anger will ever fade away. He’s certainly not going to forgive them just because they gave him a seat at the table. You can’t imagine how hard it must have been for him these past few months as a Councilor, holding his temper around his colleagues as they flaunted their so-called generosity. If you were in his shoes, you would probably shout at the other Councilors every day.   

Just as you brace yourself for another monologue, Silco abruptly lets go of the handrail and extends his hand out to you. 

“It’s too beautiful a day to speak anymore of Topside,” he says airily, his smile widening. It never fails to warm your heart even after all these years together. “I made reservations for lunch. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Oh! Great,” you say, pleasantly surprised. You take his hand, squeezing it as you resume your stroll into the Undercity. “You’ll have to let me treat you next time.”

“Whatever on earth for?” he asks, curious. 

“Are you kidding me?” You come to a halt, sweeping your hand at the streets before you. 

Silco tilts his head quizzically at you as you savor the weather. Just a few years ago, the fissure folk were still choking on smog and vapors, forced to go aboveground if they wanted to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. But today is a beautiful spring day, not too cool and not too warm, a gentle breeze tickling the hem of your skirt and rolling through the scattered clouds and the baby-blue sky. You can’t help but feel a swell of pride when you spot a small garden filled with delicate, yellow flowers, its large petals reaching for the sky; it’s a special hybrid cultivated by young Zaunite scientists that feeds off the fissure gasses. Combined with Silco’s stricter anti-pollution regulations, these efforts have immensely improved living conditions in the underground. 

And the passerby are happy—smiling freely at each other; walking at a slow, relaxed pace; and calling out enthusiastically to their Councilor, greeting him as an old friend. Rowdy children run through the streets, shrieking mischievously, the first generation to have the privilege of growing up in an independent Undercity. 

“If it weren’t for you and the rest of the Children, we’d still be living like gutter rats. We get to live in the Nation of Zaun now. That’s because of your dream—your vision,” you point out.  

“And yet, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have you,” Silco says smoothly without dropping a beat. “None of this would have come to pass without your aid.” 

“I didn’t do anything!” you protest.

“Few others could match your dedication to the cause. If there were more like you, the underground would have seized independence a long time ago.” 

“That’s not true—”

“The Nation of Zaun needed the whole of the underground to unite as one. You took on more than your fair share of the labor.” He steps closer to you, his arms sliding around your waist. Your hands automatically rise to his chest, your fingers tracing the sharp point of his wide collar. 

“...Maybe,” you concede, not because he’s right, but because you don’t feel like arguing with him. Especially when he’s holding you in his arms. 

“It’s true, my lovely,” he says warmly. He plants a soft kiss on your forehead. 

You stand on tiptoe to peck his cheek before pulling away. He continues smiling at you as you take his hand again. 

“So you won’t mind if I pick dessert, then? Since I’ve done so much for the Nation of Zaun,” you say cheerfully. 

“Of course.” 

“Where’d you make reservations, anyway?” 

“They won’t be expecting us for another hour,” he says. “I thought we could visit the mural in the meantime; I’m rather nostalgic for it.”

“Sure!” You slip your hand around his elbow again, squeezing it affectionately as you both walk off. 

It’s a short, leisurely stroll to the mural. You try to make casual conversation with Silco, but you’re frequently interrupted by fellow Zaunites who greet him as they pass by. In his short tenure as Councilor, your partner has developed an automatic reflex for greeting his constituents politely; paired with his impeccable memory for names and faces, he has no problem stopping to make small talk with them. You chime in whenever you can, conscientious of your role as his long-term partner. You’re determined to show your fellow trenchers that you care about them too. 

After countless stops and starts, you finally arrive at the mural. Silco comes to an abrupt halt, his eyes darting from window to window. You watch him curiously as he cranes his neck to scrutinize the other buildings instead of the artwork. Your hand is pressed tightly against his body as his arm tenses underneath his sleeve. 

“Good afternoon, milady,” you address the mural with excessive pompousness, a deliberately poor imitation of Piltie gentry. You step away from Silco to bow exaggeratedly at your painting. “I do believe an expression of gratitude is in order for your services rendered.”

Silco’s gaze snaps towards you as he raises a bemused eyebrow.

“We never would’ve met if it weren’t for her,” you laugh, speaking normally now. “If she were a real person, I’d owe her everything.”

“What a curious sentiment,” Silco muses. “And yet I can’t bring myself to disagree with it.”

You blow a cheeky kiss at the painted woman. If you didn’t know any better, you could believe that she’s winking back at you, given the low angle you’re viewing her from. The mural has received several refresher coats of paint in the past few years, but the memory still feels more vibrant than its physical presence in front of you. 

Before you can lose yourself in nostalgia, you turn to Silco. You had hoped that your joke would gently bring him back to earth and remind him that you’re his partner, always ready to listen to him whenever he needs to talk. It seems to have done the trick, as he stares unblinkingly at you now and clears his throat. 

“I’d like to visit our rooftop, if you’re amenable,” he says casually, but your eyes are drawn to the twitch in his jaw as he bites his cheek. He extends his hand out to you again, his eyes boring into you with quiet determination. “I have something I’d like to show you.” 

You can’t help but smile at the phrase “our rooftop”. Neither of you own real estate in the area, but it still feels right to claim the spot as yours and Silco’s. “Only if you tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I will,” he promises. He steps closer to you now, hand still reaching for you in earnest. 

The leather of his glove is warm as you take his hand. Silco leads you to a nearby fire escape, the ladder already lowered to the ground. He ascends first and waits patiently for you to follow. When he offers you his hand again, you take it, squeezing it reassuringly as he leads you up the stairs in silence. 

After climbing the ledge, you can’t help but turn away from Silco to appreciate the vista, as it’s more beautiful than you remember: Topside in the distance, all pointed marble and gold, matching the bright sun and puffy clouds. The sky and river divided by a long, elegant bridge of polished steel. Zaun’s colorful rooftops look so small from this height, a scattering of rainbow confetti on the ground. 

You’ve wished for Zaun to become free and independent your whole life. A decade ago, that hope felt like a delusion, a drunken wish made by insane trenchers who spent too much time with their heads in the clouds when they should have been looking at the ground. Now, looking out at the two cities, you’re filled with a wordless, irrepressible joy. It’s hard to believe you’ve lived long enough to see your dream come true.  

A deep inhale fills your lungs with fresh air. Reinvigorated, you spin around to tell Silco you wish you had your camera with you.

Only to find him down on one knee. 

Holding open a small, black box with a ring inside. 

“Silco??” you squeak out, shocked. 

He looks up at you with an earnest but nervous smile, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Adoration shines in his eyes as he clears his throat.

“Before we met, I believed I had to dedicate the whole of my being to the Nation of Zaun,” he says slowly. “For the Undercity to flourish, I would have given everything, including my life. And then I fell in love with you. 

“At first, I was afraid I could not devote myself to you. There was too much work to be done. And then the most curious thing happened.” He swallows hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The tips of his fingers turn white as his grip on the box tightens. 

You’ve never seen Silco this anxious before, even during his many presentations to the Council in their dark, intimidating chambers where they held the very fate of the Undercity in their hands. And somehow, despite being the one standing over him, you feel so small and overwhelmed, pinned by his gaze and hypnotized by his speech. Breathing no longer comes consciously to you, and forcing yourself to take in air almost distracts you from his words.

“You understood me. You have never, ever made me choose between you and the underground. On too many occasions, you put the Undercity’s needs above your own. I suppose, in that sense, we are very much the same,” he adds with a thoughtful chuckle. “No one could blame you if you wanted more for yourself. To find another who would have you—and only you—in their heart. And yet…”

The soft, hopeful smile on his face is full of anticipation. 

You find your body moving on its own, feet carrying you forward to stand in front of him. Just like all those years ago when you felt compelled to approach this very same rooftop, to speak to the man now kneeling down in front of you. 

“I cannot begin to describe how much I need you by my side, for as long as you’ll have me,” Silco continues. “As my one and only, my lovely… my wife.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes!!” you squeal excitedly.

You grab the oversized collar of Silco’s coat, bringing him crashing into your lips as he awkwardly stumbles to his feet. He gasps out your name in between kisses and laughter, careful to hold onto the box even as his free arm winds around your waist. 

You reluctantly step back to take a good look at the ring. It’s a thin band of pale gold with a cool silver undertone, forged in the Zaunite tradition of melting together scrap metal and gold coins, a symbolic vow of everlasting love persisting through times of poverty and wealth. As Silco picks it up gingerly, it gleams in the sun, a promise of a bright future with him as he slides it onto your finger. The ring is cool and smooth against your skin, a perfect fit as you admire it delightfully. Most Topsiders would scoff at how plain the ring is, but to you, it’s the most beautiful piece of jewelry in Runeterra.

In all respects that matter, nothing has changed in your relationship with Silco. The two of you made a tacit agreement that you were committed to each other for the rest of your lives, proven over and over again throughout years of bliss and strife. That you would stay by each other's side through everything, as surely as the Undercity sleeps underneath Piltover's shadow. You’ve lost track of the countless times you declared your love for him, and vice versa; trying to determine the exact number would be harder than convincing the Council to grant Zaun a seat at their table. And yet the thrill of the promise exhilarates you like nothing else. 

Your heart soars above the clouds as you pull Silco into another kiss, the pulse point on his throat drumming away under your fingertips as you stroke his neck. His hand drags against your leg, fingers curling into claws as he pulls up your skirt. Fabric bunches between his fingers as he slots his thigh between your legs. You melt into him as he moves to kiss your cheek. 

“A thousand times I’ve imagined this moment…” Silco pants, breath already ragged with need. “I’ve wanted to fuck you on this rooftop for years now.” 

So overcome with a desperate, aching want, your hands move on their own, reaching to unbutton his pants. It’s all the approval he needs to hike your skirt up to your waist, revealing your already soaking wet panties underneath. In a blur of flying fingers, your cunt is bared and Silco’s cock is freed. He lands heavily on the ground, swiftly tucking your underwear in his coat pocket as he crosses his legs. You grab the broad shelf of his shoulders as he reaches out for you, his hands holding your elbows to guide you. His eyes gleam with excitement as you lower yourself onto his already erect cock. 

If you were any less wet and ready, the stretch of your walls might have been too much. As it is, you sink onto him easily, your groans harmonizing with Silco’s as you settle in his lap. The pleasure-pain of being split open by him is a thrill you savor every single time you make love, and today, it’s more exciting than ever. He hugs you tight as you tuck your legs around his waist, his hand sweeping up and down your back before he takes hold of your hips. Your hearts beat madly against each other, yearning to be even closer.  

You are so, so warm, full of love and sunlight and happiness. A hearth flickering in your core as Silco finally begins to rock slowly into you. Your walls flutter around him as you try to catch your breath. 

“C-Careful—Councilor,” you gasp, trying to tease him even as air is knocked out of you with every one of Silco’s driving thrusts. “The Council will strip you o-of your seat—if they ever find out how bad you are.” 

“They can all burn,” he grunts, voice thick with desire. His grip digs into you, the sharp cut of his fingernails blunted by your skirt. “I have no need—for anything else—that would distract me from my new purpose in life.” 

“And w–what’s that—?” you stutter before he kisses you, his tongue filling your mouth, another delirious spike of heat flaring as he seeks to fill you completely.

“I would build a house for us—as luxurious as you deserve.” He pulls you down onto him, his hands pressing against the bones of your hips. You yelp as his cock hits deeper inside you, sparks dancing in your eyes as your head is thrown back. Pleasure burning even higher as he bites down on your exposed throat. Silco hums in delight as he sucks, overjoyed at leaving his mark on you. 

“There will be many rooms—as many as we need—for our children—” Silco rambles. “You will spread your legs for me and I will fill you every day—endlessly—you will take every last drop until you are overflowing—as many times as it takes—”

“You sound like—you’re going to be a busy man.” You grin against Silco’s cheek, excited at the prospect of being bred by him. He abruptly sinks his teeth into your shoulder, a sharp bite coinciding with a particularly brutal lunge into you. Yelping, you cling to him for dear life as his movements ramp up in ferocity. It’s all you can do as you’re bounced on his cock, a band straining tight in your abdomen, so taut that you almost choke. Struggling to keep your eyes open, so intoxicated on the bliss that Silco inflicts on you, your hands scrambling for purchase on his chest. Crumpling the edges of his collar in your fists as you shove your face in the crook of his neck, smothering your mewls.

“How could I not be? When your cunt feels this exquisite,” he purrs. He slips one hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit with a furious speed that has your walls clenching around his cock. A pure, concentrated flare that he stokes expertly with his fingertips, you whine as it burns hot, almost too hot for you to endure. He presses his knife blade of a nose to your cheekbone, warm breath billowing against your skin as he pours praise into your ear, “So wet and tight—always ready for me—your body is such a gift, my lovely—it’s only right that I cherish it until you bear the proof of my appreciation.” 

His lips land on yours again, depriving you of your response as he kisses you harshly. Breaking off to growl, “It would be my duty to bring you to ruin—to show the world that you are mine and mine alone—my lovely, my heart, my wife—” 

Silco punctuates the last word with his deepest thrust yet, finally igniting your orgasm. Waves of rapture rolling over you endlessly, somehow burning and drowning you simultaneously in an all-consuming tempest. Feeling more than hearing your wails tear themselves from your throat. 

All you can see and feel is Silco, his hands on your body and his cock moving inside you, bringing you to ruin just as he promised.

You hang onto him with what little strength you have left, focusing on clenching your walls while he continues fucking you, until one last slam into your pussy has him cumming, pumping hot and hard deep inside you. Elongating your ecstasy as surely as the fluttering of your walls prolongs his. You scream again as his hands brand themselves onto your hips and bud, grounding points of touch that anchor you. One last groan rumbling out of his chest and into yours as he buries his face in your shoulder, his lap soaking in your combined releases. 

Silco pants hard, his long, shuddering breaths ghosting against your nape. When he rasps out your name, it sounds low and reverential, a prayer to his goddess. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Silco,” you whisper weakly. You slump into the crook of his neck, enjoying the heady scent of his body and cologne mingling with his sweat. Your head is heavy when you pull back to look him in the eyes. 

His beautiful, ocean eyes. 

Heavy-lidded and hazy, but still locked onto you. Gaze boring deeply into you. Seeing into your soul like no one else ever has. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, worry creeping into the edges of his voice. He swallows thickly before continuing, “I know it’s been some time since we last discussed having children. If that is something you no longer desire—”

“Silco… it’s okay.” You raise a trembling hand to stroke his cheek, and he leans into it, pressing his lips into your palm. He turns to kiss you again, sweet and loving, much gentler than his earlier claim on your body. Your heart trembles with joy as you say softly, “That kind of life sounds amazing… I would love to have that with you.

“We’ve worked so hard for the future of Zaun… we can take some time to think about ours.” 

The End

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

Thanks of course to @silcoitus, the smartest, kindest, most reliable beta reader anyone could ever hope to have. I have been so lucky for you to join me on this journey, and knowing that you've enjoyed this fic has been so encouraging. I've learned so much from your feedback, and if I've improved as a writer at all over the course of this fic, then that's all because of you fr <3

And thank you thank you THANK YOU, if you're still reading this. Every like, comment, reblog, and kudos helped carry me through dark times and writer's block. Being reincarnated as the Reader of this fic (specifically my OC "Iris") and isekai'd into this story is one of my deepest desires, so like... for anyone still reading this, ya'll know me better than some of my irl friends and family do, even if we've never met or spoken directly. And being seen and appreciated for that is just... so healing. I really wish I could describe it better. But it cheers me up so much whenever I see other people enjoying my writing. I lowkey wish I could show my fic to a therapist so they could figure out what's wrong with me, but ya'll reading my fic is the next best thing LOLOL

On the rare occasion that you didn’t have a commission to work on, these moments were great opportunities to sneakily sketch him, perfecting the low arch of his brow, the pointed tip of his nose, the strong edge of his shoulders… loose and candid drawings that you almost never finished before the building, burning ache between your legs grew too hot to ignore, a depthless, aching want for Silco’s skin against yours.

Conscientious of not interrupting him, you would leave tiny, surreptitious invitations for him: leaving the door open as you showered, bending over further than necessary as you poured him tea to show off your lack of underwear, letting your hands linger tantalizingly on his shoulders after you finished massaging his back. Silco would turn his hands on you, his cock already hard as he grinded against you, growling at the audacity of your teasing in between rough and sloppy kisses. As if he wasn’t the devil himself when he brought you to the edge, withdrawing the sweet punishment of his mouth, fingers, or cock at the last second, turning you into a writhing, begging mess as he bared his teeth in a roguish grin, watching you struggle helplessly above or below him. Only for him to dissolve into incoherent praise as he finally relented, allowing you to chase your release as he rapidly approached his own. Then you’d both fall into a tangle of limbs and sweet nothings, declarations of love spilled on your bed, floor, walls, or furniture.

Gradually, you started spending more nights at The Last Drop. At first, you only stayed once a week, not wanting to impose on Vander. But he always greeted you warmly whenever you arrived, as welcoming now as he was the first day you met him. He only became more enthusiastic when you made it a point to start helping him make breakfast in the mornings, supplying the revolutionaries with fresh groceries and tasty coffee beans from Topside. Silco was helpless at cooking anything besides seafood, so he was always relegated to dishwashing duty. These cozy mornings were so delightful, your heart filling with a fuzzy warmth as you bumped elbows with the two brothers in their tiny kitchen. Soon enough, you became good friends with the bartender, his sister in the burgeoning revolution.

You met the other Children of Zaun purely by accident. Despite Silco and Vander’s insistence that their doors were open to you anytime, you always felt awkward visiting their home without checking in with them first. You hadn’t mustered up the courage to use the key that Silco had gifted you until a month later. When you finally did, you regretted it almost immediately, mortified to find yourself interrupting the Children in a private meeting. They had seemed like a motley gathering of Zaunites, a common sight on any other evening. But if the locked door wasn’t already a hint that the pub wasn’t open to the general public, the fact that nobody was drinking yet should have tipped you off as well.

Silco had walked over to you excitedly before you could slip away. He was so happy that you came, you didn’t want to disappoint him by leaving early. So you tucked yourself away in a private booth, feeling out of place and hoping that no one would call on you to speak up.

But your self-consciousness fell away when Silco strode over to the bar, taking his place next to Vander to give a rousing speech about the Undercity’s future. He painted a vibrant picture of a free and thriving Zaun, where its citizens could walk freely above and belowground without fear of being terrorized by Enforcers; where laborers could bring home a fair, living wage instead of mere coins; where the skies and waters were clear of Topside’s pollution. He was a captivating speaker with boundless, infectious energy; you’d heard snippets of his speeches before, and his earnestness entranced you even when the two of you were alone.

But in front of a larger audience, his charisma evolved into a force of nature. Your eyes were locked onto his every movement: the rise and fall of his lips as he enunciated, the grand sweeping of his hand at imaginary vistas and battlefields. He absorbed all the light in the room to return it a hundred times over, a glowing beacon to guide the Nation of Zaun’s inevitable progress. It was such an inspiring speech that it had you jumping to your feet and clapping when he finished, as his fellow Children cheered him on and pumped their fists in the air.

You made an effort to visit every meeting after that. There wasn’t much you could do to help with the Children’s schemes, but you brought medical supplies and homemade snacks every time you visited. After every successful mission, you pitched in to buy everyone a round of drinks. Soon enough, the revolutionaries came to see you as a friend and honorary member of their organization. You’re happy to contribute to the cause in whatever way you can, not just as Silco’s girlfriend, but as a proud Zaunite.

As your life became more entwined with Silco’s, your days were busier than ever. But it was the most fulfilling work you’ve ever done, to care for a partner and a community you love. It enhanced your enjoyment of your own career, as you took money from Topsiders and poured it back into the Undercity. You’ve always donated a share of your profits to the Embrace, but you donate to the Children now too. It amuses you to imagine Piltover’s elite funding Zaun’s rise to power.

After all, they can barely stand the sight of a gutter rat. It’ll be all the more satisfying when one of your own is finally granted a seat at the table.

________________________________________

Your footsteps in the stony hallways of Piltover Academy are loud, reverberating off marble tile and gilded pillars before they fade away. You step onto the campus’ main square, nodding politely at students and faculty as you pass by them.

Today’s destination is another monument to Topside’s arrogance: an exquisitely carved marble fountain at the center of the plaza. Assorted statues of great scholars stand with hands raised and mouths open in spirited debate, different species all assembled in various poses on a raised platform. Stacks of books and scientific equipment spout sparkling clear water, overflowing to fill a circular basin, a literal depiction of a fountain of knowledge. Still, it’s an incredible feat of sculpting, with layered hair, wrinkled clothing, and delicate paper pages rendered so finely that their true texture deceives the eye.

Your lip twitches involuntarily as you try not to scowl at the fountain. It’s such an ostentatious display of Piltover’s wealth, squandered on unnecessarily beautifying this one school when it could have been shared with the fissure folk. The waste of clean water is obvious, but the cost of importing marble from abroad infuriates you, too. Another frivolous expense—

“Fountains… what a curious structure,” a high-pitched, lilting voice pipes up by your knee. “It’s not right to classify them purely as art, but their practicalities are hard to define. They’re a source of noise, water, decoration, and entertainment, engaging multiple senses all at once. How do you quantify such factors when determining the nature of such a structure? I do love a good conundrum.”

You look down to see Professor Heimerdinger standing next to you, his fluffy white mustache curling upwards in a pensive expression.

“I can’t speak for the sculptor, but as an artist, I’m just happy whenever anyone enjoys my work,” you say matter-of-factly.

“But you engage in the pursuit of answers whenever you make art, young lady,” he titters. “You must have some insight into questions like this. I’m curious as to what they might be.”

“To be honest, professor, I like to leave the philosophy to other people.” It takes effort to not roll your eyes at the yordle. He’s just as long-winded as Silco, maybe even more so, but much less interesting to listen to. The councilor is just as pretentious as his colleagues, even if he doesn’t demonstrate the same self-centered vanity. His neglect of the Undercity isn’t born out of hate, but apathy and forgetfulness. He prefers to lose himself in his ivory tower with his head high in the clouds. Zaun’s existence is just a footnote to him, a piece of trivia in the scholarship students’ backstories. His carefree attitude makes you want to beat him up and drag him to the underground, to make him see with his own eyes how your people have suffered under his rule for so long.

“You’d be surprised at how many of Runeterra’s greatest artists and philosophers are one and the same,” he says, blissfully ignorant of your dislike of him. “In fact, the work I have for you might be more relevant to philosophy.”

The professor gestures at the fountain. “Our archives are filled with documents from deceased scientists, writers, and philosophers. They’ve provided invaluable knowledge from times past that we still utilize to this day. I’ve never understood why the Academy doesn’t extend these conservation efforts towards every facet of education. The arts may not be as structured as the sciences, but we must study them thoroughly. After all, the insights they provide are just as useful.”

Now he’s speaking your language. You nod along patiently, waiting for him to get to the point.

“This has been in the works for quite some time,” Heimerdinger says, his chest puffing up with pride. “The Academy has finally created a position dedicated solely to the preservation of art from ages past—a Restoration Artist.”

“That sounds great!” you say sincerely.

He smiles at you. “We were hoping to offer this esteemed position to you, young lady.”

His offer is quite the surprise, and you can’t help but feel a little flattered by his acknowledgment of your hard work. Working at the Academy definitely has its own appeal, but the glimmer in Heimerdinger’s eye is too hopeful, almost expectant.

“The Piltover Galleria would like their collection restored in time for a new exhibition opening next season. Under better circumstances, you’d have more time to consider this decision, but I’m afraid I must have an answer before the end of the month,” the yordle continues apologetically.

“Wait, would I be working for the Galleria or the Academy?” you ask, confused.

“The position is contracted with the Academy, but you would be working to aid both institutions,” Heimerdinger clarifies. “As leading figures of knowledge in Piltover, it’s only right that we circulate art in as many places as we can.”

You bite your lip, stopping yourself from asking why Topsiders never share their art belowground. Instead, you hum in thought, buying yourself time to consider your reply.

“Professor… I’m so honored you thought of me for the position,” you say carefully. “I can’t give you an answer right now, but I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

“I do hope you’ll accept,” he beams at you.

After discussing the job’s logistics and conditions, you part ways with the professor. You reach the Piltover Bridge as the sun sets, drenching the sky in rich, blended streaks of orange and red. The sun dips into the river, a golden disc staining the dark waters before it sinks below the surface.

The dark silhouette of a tall, thin man leaning on the bridge’s railing stands out in stark contrast to the warm skies. You hurry towards him, excitement climbing in your heart. Silco’s attention seems focused on something beyond the horizon, but he glances towards you at the sound of your footsteps. His smile spurs you into a run, igniting your determination to close the distance between you even faster.

“Hi,” you grin at him, skidding to a stop at his feet.

“Hello, my lovely,” he says warmly.

He leans down to kiss your forehead, but you step back to scrutinize him: his face is bruised dark red and purple, a fresh swelling on the shelf of his cheekbone. Dried blood crusts at the corner of his lips.

“Are you okay?!” you ask, worried.

“Oh, this?” he asks nonchalantly. “This is nothing.”

“Does it hurt? What happened??”

“Just a chance encounter with some Enforcers. It’s nothing to worry about,” he says dismissively.

You can’t help but grimace in concern as you scan his injuries, reaching out to carefully wipe his mouth clean. “I hope you kicked their butts.”

“Of course,” he says, amused. He takes your hand, and you squeeze it before you start walking towards Zaun. “A good beating is no less than they deserve.”

“Are they still looking for you?” you ask, surreptitiously glancing around. The bridge is crowded with Topsiders and Zaunites alike, but there are no Enforcers in sight.

“Perhaps,” Silco says. “A gutter rat running circles around Piltover’s finest is quite a blow to their pride, after all.”

You laugh, even as you quicken your pace towards the elevators. “Have I ever told you that you’re my hero?”

He chuckles. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said, my lovely.”

“Do you still want to go to Powder’s birthday party tomorrow? If you want to skip—”

“These wounds aren’t enough to incapacitate me,” he says, but he furrows his brow as he ponders aloud. “Will she be put off by my injuries? I wouldn’t want to frighten her.”

“Silco, she’s a ‘gutter rat’ too,” you point out. “She’s probably seen a lot worse.”

He smiles in relief. “Then I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It warms your heart to hear Silco being so protective of the little girl. Most adults in Zaun make little to no effort to protect children from witnessing violence, as it would do more harm than good to shield them from the harsh realities of living in the Undercity. But he’s grown to care for Powder, hoping to build a safer, better world for her to grow up in.

“I left my present for her at your home,” he continues. “I must thank you, once again, for holding onto it for me.”

“It’s no problem,” you say cheerfully. “What did you end up getting her?”

“A paintball gun.”

You laugh loudly at the thought of the little girl making a mess of her room. “Felicia and Connol are going to love that.”

“It’s about time she learned how to defend herself,” Silco says, but his grin is mischievous. His eyes are gleeful, twinkling with sparks of amusement as bright as birthday candles. “I intend to teach her how to shoot as well. Free of charge, of course. Her parents should be thanking me for my generosity.”

“They’ll thank you by asking you to babysit,” you chuckle. “Honestly, though, that’s a great gift. She’s going to love it.”

“I’ll come early to help set up the festivities,” he promises. “How did your meeting with the councilor go?”

“It was… good,” you say hesitantly. “He offered me a job.”

“Oh?” Silco raises an eyebrow.

“I’d be restoring old paintings for the Academy and Galleria… but I’m not sure I want to do it.”

“That’s quite the opportunity,” he says neutrally, biting the inside of his cheek. “What are your reservations?”

You groan when you recall the details the professor shared with you. “I wouldn’t be able to set my own hours, the pay isn’t much better, and they want me to move into Academy housing for some reason.”

“That seems excessive,” he frowns.

“Yeah,” you roll your eyes. “I just need to think of a polite way to turn it down… Oh, how’s this: ‘I’m more interested in working to improve the future of the Undercity than in preserving Piltover’s past’?”

“Well put,” he says with a darkly ironic laugh. “If the councilor asks you to elaborate, I could share some words with him as well.”

“I’ll bet you could,” you say cheekily.

You listen patiently during the elevator ride down into the Lanes as he launches into a monologue about how the people of the Undercity deserve better schooling and easier access to higher education. When you disembark, you take his hand and gently squeeze it, a silent reminder for him to lower his voice. Even as you try to focus on your surroundings, you can’t help but be entranced by the gravel of his voice, how it curls like smoke in your ear, how his words fill you with hope and fury in equal measure.

The two of you reach the end of the street when you hear it:

The menacing, familiar stomp of heavy-duty boots.

You catch a glimpse of four blue and gold uniforms as you grab Silco’s arm and drag him into an alleyway.

“What—?” he starts.

You pull him past a dumpster and carefully steer him backwards into a brick wall. Just as an Enforcer turns to look at you, you stand on tiptoe and kiss your boyfriend, eyes closed in fervent passion as you fist the collar of his jacket. Silco’s muffled noises of confusion turn to a moan as you flick your tongue into his mouth, tracing the edge of his chipped teeth. His hands pull you close, your waist pressed up against his ribs as he kisses you back. Not stopping even when the Enforcers’ footsteps fade away. You shrug your bag off your shoulders, dropping it carelessly to the ground.

“I know we’re having dinner later, but…” you say breathlessly, moving to kiss his neck. “…I kind of want dessert right now.”

“What did you have in mind?” Silco asks, swallowing hard as you gently nibble his earlobe.

Arousal curls in between your legs as you unbuckle Silco’s belt. You kiss his throat as you pull down his pants, his pulse hammering away under your lips. His cock springs free, already hard and twitching. You palm the flat planes of his chest as you sink to your knees, kissing the seam where his groin meets his thigh. You nuzzle there, deeply inhaling his sweat and musk, the thick and masculine scent intoxicating you. Placing your hands on his hips to hold him steady.

Silco’s breath stutters, his chest rising and falling erratically as you press light kisses to his balls. They hang heavy and pink, and you tease them with gentle kitten licks. His skin is smooth, almost succulent as you lavish him. Licking long, dripping strokes on the drooping shape of him before you latch onto his left ball and suck. He curses under his breath as he grabs your hair painfully, pulling at your roots. You nip him disapprovingly and he relents even as his thigh jolts at your ministrations. Satisfied, you move to his right and take him in your mouth, his ball laying gently on the flat of your tongue.

“Fuck!” he mutters above you.

You turn your eyes upwards at him, raising your eyebrows. Trying to remind him to stay quiet even as your own thighs clench involuntarily. His fingers twitch against your scalp when you take his shaft in your hand. Just letting your fingers curl around the base as you suck hard, careful to not let your teeth cut into him.

He whines out your name, his voice uncharacteristically high-pitched and pathetic. The sound thrills you as you pop off him and scoot back to readjust your position. His hips arch off the wall as his cock twitches, chasing the wet and warmth of your mouth. You take a moment to admire the desperate reddening of his cock, the tip leaking a long pearl of precum. The taste is salty as you lick it off, a delicious ambrosia that has you hungry for more.

You trace the shape of his tip with your tongue, licking under the ridge where it meets his shaft. Pressing another, gentle kiss to his dripping head before you latch on, then slide your lips down his shaft, taking more of him into your mouth. You try not to gag as he bumps against the roof of your mouth, breathing slow and deep through your nose as he slides down your throat. When he fists your hair again, you let him, a small generosity on your part as you swallow around him. Your nose presses against his core, his pelvic hair tickling your lip.

“Gods—please—” he pants out frantically. Your name stumbles from his lips, somehow reverential in his carelessness, pleading for mercy as his hold on his sanity slips. “Please let me fuck your mouth—”

You hum affirmatively. It breaks the last of his self-restraint and he thrusts excitedly into your mouth. Your eyes water as you fight off the urge to gag, holding your breath as his stutters above you. The raging, feral light in his eyes delights you as he bares his teeth, brows furrowed in a deep V as he uses you. Your hands fly to his hips again as you cling to him. Fighting to stay upright as his pale body blurs in your vision, still sucking hard on him all the while. 

Silco slams into you one last time before he cums, his cock pulsing against your throat, pouring molten salt that turns thick and bitter. You let go of his legs to massage his balls, encouraging him to empty himself entirely. Gratified to hear a deep, shuddering groan peel itself from the depths of his chest. Not stopping until his cock finally stills, softening in your mouth.

You swallow gratefully, slowly pulling off him. His cock drops out of your mouth to hang loosely between his legs. He catches himself on the wall before he sluggishly pulls his clothes back on, watching you with hazy, half-lidded eyes as you slowly get to your feet and wipe off your mouth.

The abrasive discomfort in your kneecaps has you leaning over to massage them, standing up only when Silco steps closer to you. His hands wind lazily around your waist as he pulls you close.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he whispers, still out of breath. Kissing you indulgently, relishing in the taste of himself still lingering on your lips.

Your heart jumps in anticipation when his fingers slip underneath the waistband of your panties, your skin heating at his touch—

The dumpster scrapes loudly against the ground as something collides with it. Startled, you jump away from Silco and turn to look down the alley.

A man with rumpled hair and a stained shirt props himself up drunkenly on the dumpster’s lid. He swings a bottle of alcohol at you both, a sloppy toast as he pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Don’ stop on m’account,” the stranger slurs, laughing groggily at his own words.

Silco grabs your hand protectively and swipes your bag. He passes it to you as he walks swiftly out of the alley, pulling you close behind him. The stranger’s unintelligible protests dribble off as you hurry away.

“I’ll be sure to return the favor,” your boyfriend whispers to you.

Grinning, you sling your bag over your shoulder. Excitement rises in your heart at his promise as you squeeze his hand.

But your smile fades as you finally approach The Last Drop. Even though the pub should be open by now, the electric sign is shut off, a gray and dim void in the bustling Lanes. Fragments of broken glass are scattered by the entrance, a sharp and dangerous omen. One of the thin, rectangular panes matches a hole in the front door, having seemingly been knocked out.

“Fuck!” Silco curses. He lets go of your hand, striding forward to shove the door open, carelessly crushing the glass under his boots. You step carefully around the shards, pushing the door open hesitantly as fear drags your limbs to slowness.

You let out a sigh of relief when you see that the pub is only in mild disarray. Some furniture has been overturned, and several billiard balls have rolled into the far corners of the room, but that seems to be the full extent of the mess. The front door suffered a worse fate than anything else in the bar.

Silco paces the room impatiently, scanning the room to assess the damage. He’s much more agitated compared to his friends: Sevika sits in her usual booth with a cigarette between her lips, scowling at her lighter as it refuses to ignite. Vander mechanically sweeps up more broken glass. Benzo gingerly picks up a fallen chair. He sets it down, frowning as he shakes it. The shopkeeper sighs when one of the chair’s legs snaps in half, the furniture clattering to the floor.

“This chair’s done for,” Benzo calls out to the bartender. He waves a hand in greeting at you and Silco.

“What happened? Are you guys okay??” you ask, concerned.

“You should have sent for me,” Silco spits out angrily before anyone can answer your question.

“We’re alright, thanks,” Vander says calmly. “They roughed Sevika up, but they didn’t find anything. They never do.”

“Enforcers were here! Enforcers!” Silco yells, his fury searing the air. “You should have waited for us!”

Frightened, you take an involuntary step back from him. You’ve seen him angry before, but never at this volcanic temperature. Even when raging against Topside, he controls himself with a precisely sharpened discipline to turn himself into a weapon.

But now, he seems more animal than human.

Vander looks up at Silco, his gray eyes cool against his friend’s ire. “It was just another raid. This will blow over.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Silco,” Benzo says breezily. “Wouldn’t have made a difference if you were here.”

Your boyfriend turns to the shopkeeper, his lips peeling back in a snarl. “At least I know how to put up a fight.”

The larger man stands up and stomps over to Silco, getting in his face with an angry retort. The two men launch vitriol at each other, cutting words flying between them like hornets. Vander places a hand on your shoulder before you can intervene.

“I’ll handle this,” he says quietly, setting his broom against the bar.

You nod at Vander. He walks over to his friends, trying to quell their tempers.

A deep breath helps settle your nerves. You try to ignore the argument as you make your way to Sevika. She’s tucked herself deep into her usual booth, leaning against the wall. When you get a better look at her, she seems worse for wear, with rumpled clothing and disheveled hair falling in her face. Her cigarette illuminates a blooming bruise on her cheek.

“Are you okay?” you ask her quietly.

“Could use a drink,” she grunts out.

The twitch of her lips is subtle, almost imperceptible as she suppresses a wince. You look down to see her leg outstretched on the red cushion of the seat.

“Do you need ice?” You point to her leg, making sure she knows you’re not talking about the drink.

Sevika glares at you, daring you to fuss over her like any other wounded mercenary you’ve tended to after the Children’s meetings.

You hold her gaze steadily and cross your arms. 

She slumps back against the wall, dropping the facade as she lets out a pained hiss. “…yeah.”

You dart behind the bar and grab some ice cubes, placing them in a towel before you rush back to Sevika’s side. She takes the makeshift ice pack from you as you carefully undo her boots and pull off her sock. Her foot is bruised, an angry black and purple ring circling all the way around her ankle, puffy and swelling.

“It looks like a sprained ankle,” you muse. “Keep it iced and elevated. I’ll get you some painkillers—”

“Piss off,” Sevika says darkly.

You stick your tongue out at her as you pull a roll of bandages out of your bag. Despite her attitude, Sevika doesn’t protest as you wrap her ankle snugly, making sure it compresses the injury without being too tight.

“Have you eaten yet?” you ask Sevika.

She shakes her head as she ices her ankle, the grimace on her face lessening as she tends her injury. When you tell her that you’ll cook up her favorite for tonight’s dinner, she rolls her eyes. After glancing back at the men to see that they’re still arguing, you quietly slip away to the kitchen. 

As you begin prepping ingredients, you hope that your friends will join you soon. But almost half an hour passes before the growing rumble of footsteps and voices approaches the door. You turn to find Benzo holding the door open for Vander as he helps Sevika down the stairs.

“Where’s Silco?” you ask.

“He took off,” says Benzo.

“Where??”

“Not sure,” Vander says.

“Why was he so mad?” 

“We get raided every now and then,” Vander says. “Nothing to do but ride it out. Silco’s never missed one before, though.” 

You bite your lip, concerned. Knowing Silco, he’s probably at the river. As much as you want to drop everything and run to him, the clock on the wall tells you that the hour is late. It might be too dangerous to leave—

“He’s alright,” Vander says as he carefully lowers Sevika onto the couch. She grimaces as he lifts her ankle, draping it on the armrest. “Just needs to cool off.”

“You can keep his bed warm in the meantime,” Benzo chuckles.

“Speaking of beds, who was that lady you met yesterday?” you ask innocently.

Benzo throws up his hands defensively, saying loudly, “How was I supposed to know she was Sevika’s? Didn’t know she could pull a bird that pretty.”

“If you talk to ‘that bird’ again, I’ll kill you,” Sevika says vehemently.

Vander laughs heartily. He walks over to the stove to help you prepare the meal. Even without Silco’s company, you find yourself having a good time with your friends. You can’t help but worry about him, of course, but it’s only a small, gnawing kernel in your chest, easily ignored as you laugh at the men’s jokes and warn Sevika about the dangers of overexertion. When you crawl into Silco’s bed alone, you hold onto the hope that you’ll wake up in his arms.

A part of you regrets not going out to find him. But maybe the thing he needs right now is space from everyone. 

Hopefully he’ll be in a better mood tomorrow.

Unfortunately, he isn’t. 

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! My inbox is also open to requests for both sketches and drabbles, or just to chat. Feel free to say hi :3c

“Here,” the person says. You squint at the large cup they hold up to you, a white straw pointed towards your face. It’s lowered carefully to your lips, and you open your mouth automatically, grateful that you don’t have to sit up. Cool, life-giving water quenches the dryness of your mouth and throat as you gulp deeply.

“How are you feeling?” the person asks, anxious.

You blink blearily at them, then cough again in surprise.

Silco sits next to your bed, still holding the cup you drank from. He looks gaunt, his eyes sunk into their sockets, dark circles and hollowed cheeks contouring his face like a classical painting. He’s thinner than you remember, the neckline of his shirt hanging loosely from his collarbone while his skin wraps tightly over his knuckles, revealing the bumpy topography of vessels and tendons. 

The Embrace’s medical wing slowly comes into focus, and you realize you’re lying on one of the several hospital beds pushed up against the walls. The dark wood flooring matches the furniture, large medicine cabinets standing tall on the far side of the room behind a neat row of chairs. Small, conical sconces glow with warm light, bathing the room in a cozy atmosphere. A long, tan curtain partially drawn around your bed blocks you and your visitor from view, low voices murmuring on the other side.

You’ve volunteered in the infirmary plenty of times, but you’ve rarely needed its services for yourself. Silco’s presence only adds to the strangeness of the scene, and you wonder if you’re dreaming. But you focus on the comfortable warmth and softness of the blanket as it tickles your chin, a much more welcome sensation than the rancid stink in your mouth. As you clear your throat, you’re forced to conclude that you’re awake.

And you’re alive.

“Leksy?” you croak out, forced by your exhaustion to reduce your question to one word.

“She’s here, reunited with her mother,” Silco says. “Safe and unharmed.”

The relief you feel is more rejuvenating than the water you drank. “Sevika?”

“About the same, barring her injuries. She’s recovering as well as can be expected.” He watches you intensely with wide, unblinking eyes. “How about yourself? Is there anything you need?”

You cough again, much less forcefully this time. Silco stands up to smooth the blanket over you, his large hand a sweeping, soothing weight coming to rest over your shoulder.

As tired as you are, the real thing preventing you from answering his question are your emotions: concern at not being able to work when the Embrace’s staff needs help; confusion at your seeing your ex again; embarrassment at the soiled state you must be in, as you can’t remember the last time you showered. But it’s too tiring to work out what to say; your eyes shutter from the effort of staying open, and any words you try to put together fall apart like an old shirt disintegrating at the seams.

Your stomach growls impatiently. Hunger chews at your core as Silco pats the blanket.

“I’ll have dinner brought to you,” he says softly. He opens his mouth as if to say more, but he clamps his jaw shut.

Before you can speak, he strides off without another word. 

Silco returns a few moments later with Teema, Cuny, and Kharon in tow, the women descending upon you immediately. Teema throws herself on you, sobbing hysterically in relief as her weight crushes you. Cuny reminds her to keep her voice down in exasperation, even as she takes your hand and squeezes it gently. Kharon throws a large quilt over you, a luxurious comfort usually reserved for families using a private room. 

All the while, Silco hovers awkwardly in the background, stepping back after placing a bowl of soup on the bedside table. Teema snatches it and feeds you, prattling on and on about the time you spent unconscious. Apparently you had been asleep for two days, and the Children had been a huge help with the influx of evacuees, volunteering tirelessly around the clock. You were forbidden from working until you made a full recovery, a fact that soured the savory, hot soup you swallowed. 

Your ex never utters a single word, only backing off when Teema grabs some medicinal lotion. The curtain is drawn all the way shut around you as Kharon gingerly helps pull your clothes off. You watch Silco’s silhouette hunch over in a chair, his back turned to you as the women rub the soothing cream all over you, a refreshing cooling sensation that leaves your skin tingling pleasantly. 

“That boy’s been here this whole time,” Teema whispers conspiratorially to you. “He even slept here, too. Didn’t take a bed for himself, though. Just slept in that chair right next to you.” 

Even if you weren’t on the verge of drifting off, you wouldn’t know how to reply. But you’re glad that you’re not the only one who’s noticed how weird Silco is being. He has no reason to stick around. If anything, his presence only makes your heart ache again, a painful throbbing you can’t ignore as you wish your caretakers goodnight. 

After all, he’s made it clear that he no longer cares for you. 

At least, not in the same way that you still care for him.

________________________________________

The rest of the week is monotonous, as your only source of entertainment is studying the flowing lines and spiraling knots of the ceiling’s wood grain. As weak as you still are, your blankets are an extremely effective trap keeping you bedbound. So as word spreads that you’ve awakened, your friends come to you, trickling in over the next few days. 

Nyle’s family is the first to stop by the infirmary. You try to commit Nyle’s husband’s name to memory as he introduces himself to you, thanking you profusely for saving his daughter. His dandy, dark brown mustache floats in your vision as Leksy curls up on your blanket like a cat. The man’s name slips from your mind as you drift off again, Nyle whispering a fervent thanks as she and her husband depart to leave you and Leksy to nap together. 

Sevika visits you the next day, when a little more of your strength has returned. You’re strong enough to keep your head from lolling on your neck, even if you still need to be propped up by pillows to sit upright. Her thanks is brief, but the small smile she gives you is sincere. You take her flask as she slips it surreptitiously to you. Before you can ask her what’s in it, Vander and Benzo barge into the room, laughing uproariously at some unheard joke. When the nurse scolds them for being too loud, you’re seized by an impulse to hide the flask under your pillow. Luckily, Sevika is too busy rolling her eyes at her comrades to notice. 

Your friends are all a welcome distraction from Silco’s constant company. He’s quiet as a shadow, never speaking to you directly. He works diligently in the infirmary, changing sheets, taking inventory of supplies, mopping the floor, assisting with other patients, all without complaint. Never straying too far, always ready to rush to your side at a moment’s notice. Only vacating the premises for meals and bedtime.

You don’t have it in you to ask him to leave. And you’re not sure if you really want him to. On a physical level, it’s painful to talk too much, your throat recovering slower than the rest of your body. And you’re not ready to argue with him; knowing how stubborn he is, he would just ensnare you in an endless loop of rhetoric too flimsy to convince him. 

Besides, a part of you can’t help but indulge yourself. Indulge in the fantasy that any minute now, he would take your hand, entwining his fingers lovingly with yours. He would sweetly kiss your forehead, or tuck himself underneath the blanket to spoon you. Whispering sweet nothings in your ear as his arms wrap around you, making you feel cozier and safer than any blanket in the world ever could. 

In reality, he keeps his distance. Coming from anyone else, it would be a professional courtesy. But he’s careful to avoid your eyes as much as possible, even though he eavesdrops on the nurse whenever she asks how you’re feeling. He only ever approaches you to refill your cup. He’s much more sociable with the other patients, politely making small talk and listening attentively to their complaints. Although the infirmary is crowded, he makes an effort to speak with each and every single patient, as if rubbing it in your face. 

You know that your frustration with your fellow patients is irrational and unwarranted. But you can’t help it, especially after you’re abruptly awakened one day by a loud yell. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking for the source of the noise. 

A teenage boy sitting on the bed across from yours is holding his shoulder gingerly, glaring at a slightly older girl standing next to him. Silco sits on a stool between them with his back to you as he examines the injury.

“It seems to be a dislocated shoulder,” Silco says thoughtfully.

“It’s nothing,” the boy says impatiently. “I’m fine.” 

“Sure you are,” the girl says sarcastically. She smacks the boy’s shoulder, and he unleashes a high-pitched, puppylike yelp. 

“What’d you do that for?!” the patient asks, furious.

“Why don’t you try to stop me, dumbass?” she challenges him. As she raises her hand again, Silco gingerly takes her by the wrist. 

“I must ask you not to lay hands on your brother,” he says calmly. “It could exacerbate his injury.” 

“Good! Then maybe he’ll finally do something about it,” she snaps in frustration. 

“I said I’m fine—” the boy mumbles stubbornly. 

“It’s admirable that you didn’t want to burden your sister. But there’s no need to make a martyr of yourself,” Silco chides the patient. “The sooner you receive treatment, the sooner the pain will fade. Your prolonged suffering will only make those around you worry.”

The boy glances down at the floor, grimacing. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes,” Silco says honestly. “But only for a moment.”

Your ex waits patiently as the boy grinds his teeth. The sister folds her arms, tapping her foot restlessly. 

“Okay,” the boy grunts out.

Silco’s stool squeaks against the floor as he stands up to walk up to the patient. You hastily flop back down onto the bed before he can catch your eye. 

The boy inhales deeply through his nose, then lets out his breath in one long stream. “I’m ready.”

“On the count of three,” Silco says calmly. “…One… two… three—"

Popping a dislocated shoulder back into place is a straightforward procedure that you’ve witnessed and performed before, but you still wince when the boy yelps again, his loud voice echoing against the ceiling. The sister sighs in relief.

“You’ll need medication for your shoulder.” Silco’s voice floats across the room as he walks away. The doors of a medicine cabinet creak open, and you can picture his eyebrows knitting together as he scans the supplies and countless bottles. You hear cloth rustling and pills rattling before he walks back over to the teenagers. 

“Would you be able to assist me?” Silco asks.

Confused, you crane your neck to look at him, wondering if he’s talking to you. But he’s looking at the girl, who nods and takes her brother’s hand, supporting his arm as he folds it against his chest. Silco drapes a sling around the boy’s neck, carefully easing his injured arm into a comfortable position. The boy sighs as he settles his arm into place. 

“Take two caplets as needed with water, no less than six hours apart,” Silco instructs. He holds out a bottle of pills to the girl, who pockets it. “Avoid lifting heavy objects for at least a month. You should come back in a week and see the doctor; they’ll be able to properly assess your recovery.”

“Sure,” the boy mutters.

“I’ll make sure he gets here,” the girl says, rolling her eyes. But she pokes her brother affectionately on his good shoulder. 

Silco speaks solemnly to the patient. “Life in the Undercity is difficult enough as it is. Please, don’t be afraid to seek help when you need it.” 

“...thanks,” the boy says quietly. He lets his sister pull him to his feet, frowning in concentration as he adjusts his arm. 

“We’re going to get lunch,” the girl says cheerfully to Silco. “Do you wanna come with us?”

“I appreciate the invitation,” Silco says politely. “But I’m busy.” 

“Are you sure? Don’t you get a lunch break or something?” the girl asks persistently.

“Sis—” the boy mutters, embarrassed. 

“What? I’m just asking—” she says defiantly.

“No.” Silco says firmly in a low voice, his benevolent manner dissipating like smoke in the wind.

Undeterred, she lets out a pretty tinkle of a laugh. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” 

You can’t help but scowl when you note the girl’s usage of “me” instead of “us”. As Silco walks away from them, you pull out Sevika’s flask and unscrew it, pulling the covers over yourself as you drink. You try to swallow the complicated tangle of emotions rising in your chest: envy that Silco might start dating someone new any day now; insecurity at how he’s seemingly made himself invaluable to the Embrace in such a short time; fear that he might replace you entirely; anger that your own convalescence is going so slowly. The strong, honey-cinnamon alcohol burns as you gulp it down, the flavors curling against the roof of your mouth. It’s not your favorite, but you stubbornly take another sip, as if it would help fight off the tears welling in your eyes. 

________________________________________

You don’t know when you drifted off to sleep, but you’re unceremoniously awoken again when the blankets are ripped off you.

“I was looking for that,” Sevika’s voice cuts in above you.

Groggy, you blink up at her, tall and towering over you even as she leans on a brand new crutch. She frowns deeply as she bends over you, swiping the flask from where your hand curled around it on the bed. You shield your eyes from her judgmental stare, groaning as you fumble for the blankets. Her eyes pierce you as she takes in your disheveled state, but you can’t bring yourself to care about how you look, with drool on your mouth and stains on your shirt. 

“The doctor prescribed me spirits to keep my spirits up,” you snort at your own joke. 

“Could’ve just asked me to buy you a drink,” Sevika says. She lets go of the blanket to grab a stool, pulling it up to sit next to you. The crutch squeaks against the floor as she rests it against your bed. 

“Just top me up next time. There wasn’t enough to get me drunk.” You sit up, stretching your legs out as you pull the blanket back up over them. 

Sevika rolls her eyes. She pulls a deck of cards out of her pocket and shuffles them as you grab your water cup.

“Can you go easy on me this time?” you ask before taking a sip.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she replies with a smirk. She deals you a hand of five cards before dealing for herself.

You consider the cards thoughtfully, trying to strategize. But it’s hard to focus on the game when you’re reminded of how you used to play with Silco at The Last Drop, another agonizing flashback in the relentlessly unhappy montage your life has become after being dumped. Even if you weren’t distracted, Sevika proves herself a tough opponent after a short round, as she triumphantly deals The Magician and Death cards onto your lap. 

“Rotten luck, kid,” she says gleefully. 

“I saved your life and this is how you treat me?” you say jokingly. You fall back on your pillows, tossing your cards onto the bed in defeat. 

“Just because you got a concussion doesn’t mean you can’t play smarter,” she laughs as she gathers up the cards. 

“Don’t you get bored of kicking my ass all the time?”

“No.” 

“Glad you’re having fun,” you grumble. 

As you look up from the cards, you realize that Silco is nowhere to be seen. You try to be subtle about looking for him, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly as you scan the room. 

“Why don’t you just talk to him?” Sevika asks, giving you a knowing look.

“Who?” you try to ask as casually as possible, feigning ignorance.

“Did you at least thank him?” she asks, pointedly ignoring your question.

“’Thank him’? Thank him for what?” you ask, letting out an ugly laugh. You ball the blanket up in your fists, the cloth soft against your palms.  

Sevika furrows her eyebrows in exasperation, but you glare back at her. As she straightens in her seat, she tilts her head at you. Her expression mellows as some realization dawns on her.

“He didn’t tell you?” she asks quietly.

“What the hell are you talking about, Sevika?” you ask impatiently. You bite your tongue as anger rises in your chest, trying not to lash out at her. Wondering what on earth gave her the notion that you owe Silco—

“He saved you that night.”

“…what?”

Sevika looks at you, her gaze steady and serious. “After Leksy left, she went looking for help. She ran into Silco and told him where we were. He got there just as you fell.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say, confused. “Weren’t you the one who saved me? You were right there—”

She shakes her head. “My leg was slowing me down. Silco got to you first.”

“Did you hit your head, too?” you ask, still skeptical.

“He was in the neighborhood already,” she says matter-of-factly. “He’s had plenty of close calls himself. But I’ve never seen him scared—really scared—until he pulled you out of the water.”

Even as you roll your eyes at her, you remember Silco’s perfect swan dive into the river on your first date. And he taught you how to swim, too. He would be more than capable of rescuing you in the flooded Undercity, even if the circumstances were much more hazardous.

But the memory of him telling you how useless you are still stings, an ache in your chest that can’t be treated in the sick bay. It wouldn’t make sense for him to go out of his way to save you, when you’re less valuable to him than literally anyone and everyone else in the underground. 

“He wouldn’t,” you tell Sevika firmly. You swallow hard, an uncomfortable stone in your throat forcing you to breathe slowly through your nose. 

“He did,” she says simply. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you. You should ask him.”

“Why do you care, anyways?” you shoot at her.

“You’re both being idiots,” she says bluntly. “All you two do is mope about each other. It’s no fun drinking with such downers.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry you lost your drinking buddies,” you snap. “That’s so tragic.”

She doesn’t apologize or look offended, but just continues watching you. Her cool grey eyes are unwavering, a sympathetic frown on her lips. “If you just talked it out—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You lie down on the bed, pulling the blanket up over your shoulder. Sevika says your name as you grab your pillow and slam it over your ears, the pillowcase cool and smooth against your heated face. You can feel her stare sharpening into a knifepoint, trying to penetrate the pillow as you snuggle into the mattress. After a moment, her stool scrapes against the floor, soon followed by her resigned footsteps and crutch thudding away into the distance.

You’re left fuming and seething, grinding your teeth as you curl into a ball. Trembling fists held up to your chest as you squeeze your eyes shut, angry at the tears leaking onto the sheets. Helpless against the memories of Silco that wash over you now: lazy mornings in bed with him as the sunlight caressed his cheek; rubbing elbows with his comrades in The Last Drop as he placed a casually possessive hand on your waist; the press of his body against yours as you made love… 

A past life that no longer belonged to you, that you’ve tried your damndest to forget. As all the love you had for him—and still have—rots and twists in your veins, deforming into a cancer, something you’d desperately cut out of yourself if only you knew how. 

The man himself walks into the infirmary, his familiar footsteps echoing loudly in the room. His voice grates in your ears as he murmurs to another patient, asking if they slept well. A small kindness that you can’t help but still feel entitled to, furious that he won’t show it to you anymore. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, pounding away relentlessly, drowning out all noise as you peek at him from underneath your blanket, watching him refill a pitcher of water. 

He walks over to your bedside to refill your cup, the water pouring silently as he tips the pitcher ever so gracefully. Not flinching when you throw the blanket off yourself and sit upright without warning. 

“I’m moving to Piltover,” you tell Silco sourly. “I accepted Heimerdinger’s offer. I start next week.”

He jerks his head in your direction, finally looking at you for the first time in days. Jaw dropping open as surprise, consternation, and disbelief all flash across his face, his eyes darting back and forth between yours. 

But he doesn’t say anything, still staring at you as he swallows hard and presses his lips in a thin line. The tendons in his throat jump as he finally says in a low voice, “Congratulations.”

You snort at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

His grip around the pitcher tightens, his knuckles turning white. “I have no right to dictate your life choices.”

“Yeah, but you’re still allowed to have an opinion,” you say loudly, getting madder and madder at him. You cling to your blankets to stop yourself from jumping out of the bed, your fingernails cutting sharply into your palms through the fabric. 

“Far be it from me to stand in the way,” he says quietly. He swallows hard again, a deep sadness etched into his face as his gaze falls to the ground, frozen in place.

You scoff at him. He was so determined for you to join the Children, but all his forcefulness seems to have disappeared. The man standing before you is meek and speechless, displaying no hint of his true passions. 

“You’re such a dumbass,” you tell him angrily. “Did you help Leksy get back to the Embrace when she found you? Or did you just run away and leave a little girl all by herself?”

“I wanted to save you,” he whispers miserably. 

“You shouldn’t have,” you snap at him. Tears falling freely down your face now as you furiously wipe your eyes, heart thumping erratically in your ribcage as your blood turns to a liquid pain, gushing through your chest. Every beat of your heart is too strenuous of an exertion, wearing you out even as fury lights every single one of your nerves, aggravated by the intense sorrow drowning you faster than the Undercity waters. 

“Did you really think I could still live here?” you continue in a strained voice, trying your best to speak even as you fight the stone lodged in your throat. “Everywhere I go—it’s like I’m—I’m being strangled by your shadow. And I c-can’t—I can’t live like this anymore—” 

A surge of energy rushes through you as your arms move on their own, throwing the blankets to the ground. Your legs tremble as your body moves, overcome with the urge to run, as far and as fast as you can and never look back. To chase the barest, faintest hope that leaving the Undercity forever will help you extract the shrapnel of your broken heart. The pieces lodged in the depths of your soul, embedded so deeply that you can’t remember who you were before him. Hating yourself for letting your life be defined by him, hating yourself for being weak enough to fall for his easy smile and honeyed words, hating yourself for not being good enough for him or anyone. Tinged with a generous dose of embarrassment at the commotion you’re making when you trip and fall, stinging pain crackling through your knees as they collide with the floor. 

Silco rushes over to you, gathering you up in his arms as you cry and cry and cry. Those lonely nights when you cried yourself to sleep were nothing compared to the reservoir of tears emptying itself out of you now. Soaking Silco’s shirt as you can’t help but cling to him, savoring the comfort of his closeness that you so desperately missed, a craving more instinctual than the need for air. 

“I l-love—Zaun—so much,” you gasp out. “Why—why isn’t it enough?”

You had meant to say Silco’s name instead. But it would break you even more if he turned away from you again after telling him. Somehow, through the haze of your tears and misery, you faintly realize that he seems to be clinging to you as tightly as you cling to him. His arms squeeze you into his chest, his heart pounding a quickened rhythm against your cheek. A desperate embrace that could fool you into believing that he missed you as much as you missed him. It’s a fool’s hope, kindling for the tiny, irrepressible spark of joy flickering in your heart, even as it grapples with the terror that he could let go of you any second. 

But he doesn’t. He holds you for what feels like an age and a half, his hold on you never lessening. A lighthouse weathering the storm of your heartbreak, never moving even as other patients shuffle awkwardly around the two of you. You cry into his shirt endlessly, trying to catch your breath as your sobs diminish to hiccups and sniffles, drained of all energy as you fall limp in his arms, exhausted.

He presses his cheek to the top of your head, his breath ghosting against your hair. 

“Please, allow me the audacity to ask for your patience once again,” he says in a low, trembling whisper, as if he had been crying, too. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Y-you—you can t-tell me now,” you gasp out. But your curiosity can’t win out against your fatigue, your eyes shuttering heavily.

Silco effortlessly picks you up, sliding one arm under your knees and the other up your back. You reflexively curl into him, snuggling your face into the crook of his neck. You’re too weak to keep holding onto him as he lowers you into the bed, his hands delicately peeling your arms off his neck. 

“You should rest,” he says softly as he tucks the blanket under your chin. “Take some time.”

“But—” you start hoarsely before coughing. There are too many things you want to say to him, all scrambled in an incoherent tangle that you’re too weary to unravel.

“Take it anyhow.” 

Logically, it makes sense for you to wait until you feel strong enough to hold a proper conversation with him. But you can’t fight off the anxiety of waking up only to find that he’s abandoned you again.

“I will be here by your side when you wake up,” he promises, as if could read your mind. “Please believe in me.” 

He rests a hand on your face, his thumb sweeping slowly along your cheek. The gentle sweep of his fingertips against your brow soothes you, as if it sealed his vow into your skin. A vow you cling to as your eyes finally, finally droop shut… enjoying the soft press of his lips to your forehead… before you finally succumb to sleep…

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! My inbox is also open to requests for both sketches and drabbles, or just to chat. Feel free to say hi :3c

If you had known you were going to be hosting guests today, you would have tidied up. As it is now, your apartment is messy all around. The thing that Silco had knocked over was a glass jar full of paintbrushes that you had meant to put away with the rest of your supplies, but somehow ended up by the front door. It’s just one jar of many dotting your apartment like mushrooms in a forest. If they’re not filled with even more brushes, then they hold coins, tubes of paint, or eating utensils. Other larger supplies like paint cans and easels litter the place like debris.

You quickly sling your purse over your shoulder and crouch down to the ground, scrabbling to pick up the fallen jar and brushes. Silco steps aside to make room for you. As he deposits your umbrella in an umbrella stand, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He drinks in the sight of your apartment, and it makes you self-conscious. One paintbrush slips out of your grasp, and you accidentally kick it across the floor. It clatters merrily away, as if to draw even more attention to how you haven’t scrubbed the ground clean of paint in a while.

Instead of chasing it down, you stand straight and sigh. You put the jar and brushes in your pocket for now and turn to your companion.

“Can you wait here a second?” you ask.

Silco nods. You quickly hang your coat on a rack and strip off your boots. He pulls off his own shoes as you speedwalk to your bathroom. You return with a large towel and hand it to him.

“Thank you,” he smiles. He starts toweling his hair slowly, doing his best not to send water droplets flying everywhere. “Your home is quite cozy.”

“Thanks,” you say. “I think I have some extra clothes you can change into, hopefully they’re your size.”

“That won’t be necessary—” he protests.

“You’re soaking wet, Silco; you’re going to get sick if you don’t get dried off. The shower is that way,” you say, pointing in the direction of your bathroom.

“I can’t take advantage of your generosity like that,” he says worriedly.

“Silco, you’re going to take a warm shower and get changed, or else I’ll stuff you in the dryer along with your clothes,” you warn him.

“You’re already doing too much for me—”

“Fine then. I don’t want you getting any of my stuff wet. Does that make you feel better?” you ask. Actually, you couldn’t care less if he did, but his stubbornness is wearing your patience thin.

He hesitates, then finally nods. After putting his backpack down on the floor, he strides over to your bathroom, draping the towel around his neck. You grab a towel from your kitchen to wipe up the trail of water behind him.

Silco pulls the bathroom door closed behind him. As he turns the water on, you put your purse down on your kitchen table carefully, conscientious of its precious cargo. You’re about to start pulling out its contents when Silco calls out your name.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“Would you like to take my clothes now or later?”

“I’ll take them now, thanks.”

“Not at all.”

When he cracks open the door, you expect him to toss them onto the floor. Instead, his hands reach out to you, cupped to hold the bundle of clothes high above the floor.

You stand and stare at his hands, reluctant to approach. Of course he would have to strip naked to shower. For some reason, that thought hadn’t fully sunk in.

And now you’re thinking about him being fully nude in your home.

You dash forward before the door can swing open further to reveal your blushing face. As you swipe the clothes, you tell him, “Feel free to use as much hot water as you want. Go ahead and use the soap and stuff too.”

His thank-you is cut off as you gently push the door shut. You try to put your embarrassment away along with the clothes as you stuff them into your washer. After getting a cycle started, you walk over to a closet and pull out a duffel bag of clothes. These were from a clothing drive hosted by a friend, and she had asked if you could wash them for her. It was lucky that you had already done so this morning, and that there’s a full outfit close to Silco’s size including some boxers. You fold these neatly and leave them outside the bathroom on top of a stool.

As you resume pulling photos out of your purse, your eyes drift back up to your apartment, wondering what your home looks like from Silco’s perspective. All your shabby wooden furniture was bought used: a twin bed shoved into a corner, a large wardrobe next to it, an overstuffed bookshelf, a kitchen table, a cabinet, and two stools. By far the nicest piece you own is your drafting table, always kept in good condition because it sees the most frequent use. Your stove, dishwasher, refrigerator, and stacked washer-dryer are dingy but still in good condition. Everything is covered in specks or smears of paint; you try to stay on top of cleaning those off as much as possible, but at a certain point you just stopped noticing them altogether. Hopefully Silco doesn’t think your home is grubby.

Then there’s the matter of all your canvases. Most of the floor space in your apartment is taken up by crates filled with them, some blank but others are old paintings or studies that you hadn’t gotten around to discarding or selling off. You hastily stuff your closet with two boxes, fighting with a third to stay inside without sticking out. When you give up, you resort to tucking the rest of them next to your wardrobe. Everything else gets stacked or shoved up against a wall to clear the ground as much as possible.

You wonder if your cluttered walls make the apartment feel messy or cramped too. They’re covered all over with a few of your own landscape paintings, but mostly papers of studies you’ve done. Most of them are of hands, but some include faces, clothing, or shading studies.

Hopefully Silco won’t peek in any of your sketchbooks on your bookshelf; that’s where you practice drawing nudes.

The shower shuts off, and after a moment the bathroom door opens. Silco almost calls out to you but stops when he sees the clothing you’ve set out for him. He grabs them and shuts the door again. When he reemerges wearing the new clothes, he walks over to stand next to you.

“How was the water?” you turn to him and ask. 

Some of the clothes you brought him are just a little too big for him, the wide neckline of his shirt exposing the entirety of his collarbone and a sliver of his chest. Large sleeves hang freely around his elbows, softening the sharp angles of his body into something smoother. At least the pants fit well enough that he doesn’t need a belt for them.

“The water was perfect, thank you,” he says gratefully. 

“How about the clothes?”

“They’re quite comfortable. I’m tempted to steal them from you,” he chuckles.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “You can pay me back when you’re done with them.”

“Of course.” Silco crosses his arms as he looks down thoughtfully at the photos, studying them intensely. He picks one up to read it, holding it delicately. He’s so careful with it, handling it with a light touch as if it were made of gossamer. When he slaps it down on the table decisively, his triumphant laugh startles you.

“You have my congratulations on a job well done,” he says excitedly. He claps a hand on your shoulder, still warm from the shower. “What would you say to joining me on my future ventures?”

“No thanks,” you say immediately. You shudder at the thought of another frantic, improvised heist. “What did you need all this stuff for anyways?”

Instead of answering your question, Silco turns to face you, squeezing your shoulder to gently steer you to do the same. He leans in as he raises another hand to your other shoulder. His eyes shine brightly, an earnest passion burning behind them as he says, “I’ve already asked too much of you. But I’m asking for your help again. Not for me but for all the underground. If we are to become united, the Undercity will need everyone to fight for it.”

“Silco…” you say hesitantly. Your eyes dart back and forth between his.

“We’ve accomplished a lot together. And there is more yet to achieve. I hope you can remain a part of it,” he implores. Silco speaks humbly, but his gaze is unblinking and focused solely on you, the turquoise whirlpools of his eyes pulling you in.

Overwhelmed by his attention, you look away. You swallow and clear your throat to buy yourself more time. In an attempt not to disappoint him, you speak gently but firmly, “Silco… this was just a one-time thing. You can keep the clothes and the photos, and I can help you with anything else… but I’m not doing anything like that again.”

Silco’s stare softens. For a moment, you wonder if you spoke too softly for him to hear. But he lets go of your shoulders and steps back, a sad smile on his face.

“I understand,” he says. “You’ve done more than enough to help our cause tonight. History will not forget your contribution.”

“Feel free to keep my name out of it. I don’t need Councilor Salo thinking I’m a spy,” you tell him before making a sweeping gesture at the array of pictures. “Are you going to tell me what all this is for or not?”

“Both Councilors Salo and Hoskel enjoy Noxian wine. Unfortunately for them, they’re considered an illegal import,” said Silco. “We weren’t sure who was responsible for importing the spirits—and now we know.”

He reaches over and taps two different photos; one looks like a shipping manifest while the other seems to be a trip itinerary with a list of supplies. “There’s a discrepancy here. By all accounts, this airship is only carrying a modest number of shipments. So why does it need to be over-fueled? And where are the details on the cargo’s origins?”

You try to recall if you saw any documents describing that. Silco watches as you move some of the pictures around, skimming them briefly. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that written down. Did I miss something?”

He shakes his head. “The councilor is hiding something.”

“How do you know it’s the Noxian wine?”

“We don’t have complete certainty,” he admits. “But look at when this shipment is being unloaded.” Another photo is pointed out to you; this one is a schedule with a short list of names. “Midnight, with a skeleton crew. It’s suspicious. Whatever it is, it must be quite valuable. And we intend to get our hands on it.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” you ask.

At this question, Silco stands straight and proud. With a grin, he says, “The Children of Zaun.”

You look at him in wonder. It somehow doesn’t surprise you that Silco is a member of the renowned rebel group. Most people from Zaun hate Piltover, but only the loudest and proudest of radicals join the Children of Zaun. The organization spearheads the Undercity independence movement, and its members will do anything to hurt Topside. If Silco is one of them, then it makes sense that he would have taken personal offense at you mentioning Piltover in any kind of positive light, much less working for their government officials.

“So… what are you guys going to do? Just… spy on the airship or something?” you ask slowly.

“Piltover has stolen from the Undercity for too long. This is our chance to take something back.” He clenches a fist, pressing it against the table. “Ideally, it will be something we can use for ourselves. If not, we can still blackmail the councilor. Use it to bend him into submission.”

You’re no fan of Councilor Salo either, but you know he’s smart enough to have all his warehouses and ports staffed with armed guards. The Children of Zaun may have spirit, but they probably don’t have money; they won’t stand a chance against Topside’s superior firepower. Enforcers could mow them all down without a second thought. 

“Aren’t you scared? You could get killed,” you say weakly. Your arms rise unconsciously to hold yourself.

Silco waits until you look up at him again to answer. “At least, we would have the solace of knowing we died fighting for our cause.”

There’s no trace of fear or anger in his face or voice when he speaks those words. He means it as a fact, that he and his friends are ready to give up everything for the Undercity.

If those words were meant to be comforting, they have the opposite effect on you.

The simmering unease in your veins boils over into fear. You hug yourself tighter as you sit down. You were aiming for a stool but you miss, wincing as your backside collides with your stove. Instead of standing up, you ooze slowly down to the ground, succumbing to the building fatigue of the night. Your bones are heavy as you slouch, deflating with a loud sigh.

Silco swiftly kneels down next to you, calling out your name in worry.

“I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head. You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn. It’s hard to resist the temptation of curling up on the floor and just falling asleep right then and there. When you try to stand up again, your legs twitch weakly in protest. 

“Can you sit next to me?” you ask Silco. 

He nods and obliges immediately, sitting cross-legged. Concerned, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer right away. It’s hard to put together the words to articulate your feelings, exhaustion making your thoughts swim away like fish slipping out of a net. Something tells you that even if you were wide awake, it wouldn’t be easy to sway Silco from his convictions.

That he shouldn’t give up his life for the Undercity. That it’s too high of a price to pay. His selflessness is admirable, but he shouldn’t be so reckless either. It’s one thing to dedicate himself to the freedom and independence of Zaun, but the disregard for his own safety borders on carelessness.

And he’s no good to anyone if he’s dead.

Maybe he’ll tell you it’s none of your business, that it’s his life to live and he can do whatever he wants. Just because you helped him, that doesn’t mean he’s going to listen to your advice.

If a direct approach won’t work, then hopefully an indirect one will.

“Silco… I want to cash in a favor,” you say slowly.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation. He scooches closer to listen better.

You lock eyes with him, trying to imitate his steady, magnetic gaze. “Promise me you’ll come back alive. And that you’ll stay safe.”

His eyes widen in surprise. He leans back, mouth fallen open.

“That includes your friends, too,” you add. “And don’t kill anyone you don’t have to.”

He stares at you, then shakes his head in wonder. “That’s more than one favor. If I may make an observation, you’re being quite greedy.”

“Fine then. You owe me more than one anyways.” You quickly do some mental math and count on your fingers. “Saved you from Enforcers, saved you from Salo, got you these pictures… I’ll cash it all in.”

You stand decisively, your strength returning in a sudden burst. Silco scoots back, alarmed by your abrupt movement. You stare down at him and offer him a hand. 

“Promise me that you and your friends will come back alive. And don’t kill anyone you don’t have to,” you repeat yourself. “Do all that and we’ll call it even.”

He stares back at you, then grins roguishly. As he clasps your hand, you’re forced to use your whole body to pull him up, leaning back as he gets to his feet.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he says. “But I always appreciate a challenge.”

“I need to hear you say it,” you insist.

His gaze now is soft, cool waters of his eyes soothing you like rain after a forest fire. He squeezes your hand reassuringly, a comforting point of contact that you anchor yourself to.

“I promise.”

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3