#The Art in the Heart

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

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There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance. 

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.”

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

Chapter 2

[tammykaos]

✨🦄🐬🦖🌊 I JUST WANNA BE PART OF YOUR SYMPHONYYYYYYY✨🦄💖💕🐟🐬

[spooksier]

young artist posting your work online, heed my warning. im holding your face so gently in my hands, you have to stop caring about numbers right now and start caring about making the weirdest and most self-indulgent art you possibly can

[gothamitee]

What will you be tonight? That’s the question

[camilleflyingrotten]

Thinking about the Good Omens S1 body swap…

LATER

[donutdrawsthings]

People all over the world are thinking of you!

[ur-daily-inspiration]

mountaineer’s axe with heart-shaped holes and bronze reinforced shaft. japan, muromachi period, 14th century

[kalicocal]

ONE FUCKING BREAK. CAN THEY NOT GET A GODDAMN SECOND TO FUCKING BREATHE?!?!?!

[dewdropdraws]

He does this in the cave breakroom

[hollisartsblog]

guess who rewatched across the spideverse🫡

[kilgarraara]

I just think they're neat

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 5

You and Silco bond over your shared dreams for the Undercity. He's a man of many words, but he still has to prove himself a man of action...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 3.6k

beta reader: @silcoitus <3!

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

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You feel drained after you let go of Silco’s hand, as if all the strength leaves your body when the point of contact is broken. When you feel the urge to yawn again, you don’t suppress it. Silco doesn’t notice, already turned away from you to examine the photos again.

“Do you need anything else?” you ask him, belatedly realizing you haven’t offered him anything to drink yet. He shakes his head as you walk over to a cabinet to grab a cup. You shuffle some of the photos around to make room for it before setting it down on the table. “If you need water, there’s a pitcher in the refrigerator.”

“Thank you,” he says mechanically, too lost in thought to give you his full attention.

If this were any other guest, you’d be worried about being a proper host to them, but the late hour and the heist has worn you down. It makes you grateful that Silco has something to occupy himself with. 

The walk over to your wardrobe is difficult, fatigue dragging you down like quicksand. You grab some pajamas at random and toss them onto your bed, not caring if they match.

You reach around your back to unzip your dress. The puller does its best to elude your grasp, as if it can sense your eagerness to go to bed. When you finally grab and try to pull it down, it only unzips a small way before getting stuck, refusing to go any further.

You take a deep breath and hold it, exhaling slowly through your mouth to keep from cursing out loud. “Hey, Silco?”

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. 

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Chapter 6

[scoutingthetrooper]

these are the best cards on the planet and no one can tell me otherwise

(etsy)

[wolfythewitch]

Offer me that deathless death

Oh, good God, let me give you my life

[bebs-art-gallery]

© pet_foolery