Chapter Text
“My boss is going to come out with the broom in about a minute. Thought I’d give you a fair warning.”
“Well, that seems rather rude,” He mutters, arched nose nearly brushing against the glass as he looks into the shop-window, eyes drooping and curving to follow the line of displays. You hold out a handkerchief, and he accepts it without thanks, holding it to a gushing-red nostril from a fresh, lucky punch. “Don’t artists enjoy when others need to stop and stare in awe at their work?”
“Well, not when they’re dripping blood on the storefront,” You inform him politely, his lips giving you a quirk without tearing his eyes away. “As the actual artist, I don’t mind. But my boss does.” That catches his attention, and he turns with a raised brow, “You made those?”
You nod at his words and the finger he taps against the window, confirming casually, “Slaved over them no more than three sleepless nights each. My brain was dead just from planning out the formatting alone, but as you can see, worth it.” Eyes flash back over to them, then to you, and you see that rare, honest appreciation as he looks at you with an impressed glint in his eyes, and a small, loose smirk. “Well, aren’t you a clever girl?”
Then, your boss’s broom comes swiping out between the eye-contact the two of you share, smacking the young man on the head with the bristles before he skillfully ducks and dodges the second swipe. Speeding around you while your mentor hollers, he’s joining the two other young men who are busting guts in their laughter at their friend’s plight, further down the street.
Ignoring all of it, the dark-haired young man turns to grin back at you, asymmetrical with your handkerchief pressed to his freshly-bruised, bleeding nose, and a crooked smile on his face as his eyes gleam. “I’ll be back around for a fitting later!”
“Don’t keep me waiting!” You call back with a musing grin of your own, ignoring your boss’s growl of annoyance while you watch the dark-haired man turn back to his friends, racing to fade with them into the neverending streets of the undercity.
In that moment, you are certain that you’ll never see that handkerchief you personally embroidered, nor the man who ran off with it, ever again.
It’s going to be a different night, you cleverly deduce the moment the two hulking, stone-faced thugs stride in and stand guard on either side of the door. “I’m closing.” You inform them lightly, but they just give you a brief look, and wait.
You aren’t kept waiting long.
He’s still young, but now there’s something ancient in his eye, and the scowl is already carving what will one day be deep lines on his face. The other eye is covered under a thick bandage, hair pulled back to put emphasis on the graying scars on the right side of his face. There is no greeting, no introduction, simply, “Can you prove to be discreet?”
You hum, tapping your fingers on the rusting sewing machine at the counter. “I live two blocks from the red-district. You have no idea how many shirts I’ve had to speed-mend before people return home to their spouses.”
“Ha.” He’s not amused, walking further into the small shop you’ve inherited since the passing of your mentor. Fingers trail over the material you store along your walls, and normally you would smack any grimy hands off your well-supplied fabrics, silks and leathers, but thankfully, he’s wearing gloves.
You also get the impression doing such a thing would result in the loss of your hands.
“I need to be fitted. Uniformed, something signature needs to be made.” Cutting to the chase, which you appreciate as you cross your arms, leaning against your desk as you run your gaze over his current wears. Dark. Flexible. Worn. Well-kept, but nothing special. “What’s it for?” You ask as he comes to a slow stop before the counter, gaze turning from one of the folded suits you have on display, to snap back to you at your silly question.
His visible eye pierces into you, and you have the distinct feeling that, behind the gauze, something just as deadly is fixated on you as well.
“It’s for everything.”
“It’s essential.” You say quietly, watching his hand flex around the iron-grip he has on your wrist. “For the collar, I need to measure it.” A short huff sounds, not exactly a laugh, but not exactly the snarl he was going for either, “You’re a clever girl. Can’t you can’t make a guess?”
“If I made a guess on every measurement, you’d be walking around with half of your clothes skin-tight, and the rest trailing a foot behind you.” You snark, glancing forward into the mirror in front of your new client, meeting his half-glare with a firm, but calming look in your own gaze. “… I’ll be quick. And i’ll probably never have to measure it again.”
The grip tightens even at your assurances, to the point where you’ll be wearing a long-sleeve come morning, and continues holding you captive for a moment. Eyes boring into yours so strongly in the reflection, you’d imagine you’d turn to stone if he faced you directly.
Silco releases you, and you make slow, careful movements to slid the measuring-tape up to his neck. You feel the hard-swallow he makes when you pinch it in place, turning to the desk beside you to quickly jot down the measurements, but gives no other response as you slip it off.
“Not so bad…” You mutter, and he makes that huff again as you hook his wrist to raise his arm, holding it out to get the full width of it. “It’ll be worth it. No good thing happens without hard, long, tiring work put into it.”
“That, I feel I can relate to.” The one-eyed man comments dryly, lowing his arm back to his side as you move to kneel beside him on a single knee, take the measurement of his hips down to his legs. “So… what are you looking for? I have my own ideas, but I need to know what kind of aesthetics you’re going for…”
“… We live in a world of second-hand. Scraps. Waste.” That dark growl makes you stop, and look up st him watching that partially-scarred jaw flex above you. “That ends with me. I need people to see me, and already know exactly who they will be dealing with. Someone who isn’t going to accept the… run-off of life. Not anymore… no, never again. I won’t stand for it, and I need to look the part as one who will not bow or break to such insults.” That chin jerks down at you, catching your stare with his one-eyed own.
You shouldn’t be surprised, but you still say your realization quietly, “You want me to make you look… powerful?” That was a rare request. Most brothel workers that stop by simply wanted to look pretty or seductive, while others simply wished for more well-fitted clothing, to feel nice amongst the ever-rotting city of the underground.
Staring down at you, kneeling, at his feet, he blinks. “No.”
The one eye gaze raises, and, seemingly impossible before, that seafoam eye goes even sharper, and brighter than ever before, as if he already sees what kind of man he is going to become. What you are going to make him into.
“Make me regal.”
Your chin slips, again.
Eyes glance over to what was certainly not a laugh, and you smirk as you see him struggling not to choke on the smoke he inhaled. He still isn’t used to the cigars. Catching your stare, Silco gives you a cool look with his one-eye, bringing it once more to his teeth and giving it a low, long inhale.
“Bravo,” You murmur dryly as he exhales without coughing, turning back and erasing the line you smudged in your nearing-drowse, fist curling under your chin as you carefully redraw it into place. “Hush. Piltover spices are a rarity; I’m used to the ashes.”
“Or you could spare your lungs the burden,” You suggest, but he merely shakes his head out of your line of sight, pulling back the stick to inspect it. A gift, he’d told you mildly the first time you heard the flint of a lighter. A ‘new associate’ gave it to him, and he seemed to enjoy the taste. “I think I could grow fond of it. My lungs will survive, they’ve been inhaling the Lanes for all my life.”
Silence for another moment, your drawing hand coming to a slow as you blink, once, twice… forcing a shake of your head as you feel darkness ebbing, you lean back in your seat and stretch your arms high behind you, groaning at the crackle of your spine from the action.
“… you really don’t have to stick around to watch.”
“I want to see what you are planning. How you envision it.”
“Do you not trust me?” You ask with a raised brow, and he snorts as if the answer is obvious. “Fine, then why come to me at all if you don’t?” Silco’s eye glances over again. Once again, you feel like the remains of it’s double is also peering from behind the bandage. “… I trust your work,” He admits, quietly. “You are good at what you do. Details are clean and consistent. Formatting strong in the messages it sends. I can hardly go Topside to get an outfitting… You’re my best option.”
You snort, crossing your arms over your chest with a grumble sarcastically, eyes slipping shut in partial annoyance at his dismissal, and the tiredness of a long, long night, “And here I thought you liked my work…”
“… I’m still in awe of it.”
When you open your eyes again, the daylight haze of the lanes is breaking through your window. One of the displays has been stripped of it’s jacket, and now covers your shoulders.
“If you lose one, I’m not having another made.” Your warning only warrants him to bounce the small, gleaming golden piece in his palm a bit higher, blue eye watching the gleam in the sunlight. “It’s intricate.” He comments, holding it up between his thumb and index, taking in the detail. “… it’ll do.”
You huff. ’It’ll do,’ he says…
“And this will be a part of…?” “The vest, it’ll make a good accent with the red and blacks.” You said, slipping the most current drawing of the design from the multiple sheets splayed across your desk. He leans over to inspect, eyebrow narrowing as he roves his eye over it…
Silco starts bouncing the golden piece on his palm again in his internal musings, and you sigh, sitting up and reaching for it.
It goes tumbling and rolling off onto the floor when you knock your hands together, which you give him a dry-look for as you grumble, getting down to ground level to inspect for it. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to cast that design…?”
“If it’s as much as I pay you, I imagine it wasn’t such a terrible investment.”
“You’re lucky I find you such an appealing model to work off of…”
There’s a sudden silence, and you glance up in front of you, from where he had crouched down to grab it. His fingers are less than an inch from it, but his eye is on you. A pause, then, “Appealing?”
You sigh, reaching out and grabbing the piece before it can get smudged, standing back up onto your feet smoothly. “I mean… yeah. Most of my models are men trying to look like top-dog or girls trying to flash more skin. You are…” Your ears are burning. You… could somewhat convince yourself that you don’t know why. “… you’re different. And so yeah… I find that appealing.”
The silence is loud. The clearing of his throat nearly makes you jump, as he quickly gathers his jacket, and murmurs a good-night before heading out the door.
“This?”
“…Whatever you think is best.”
You snort, putting down the fabric before holding up the next one, pressing it lightly to his chest. “Aren’t you helpful?”
Silco only hums in response. His one-eyed gaze is peering strictly forward, above your head, as you carefully drape the black fabric over his shoulder, letting out a small breath as you judge the shade clashed with the red. “Gotta get this just right…”
Another clearing of his throat, and you glance up at him while shuffling around slightly to go behind, inspect the fit in a new angle. “Don’t get sick on me… you’ve been coughing this entire time.” He assures you it’s not a cough, but still remains tense as you run your fingers over the fabric on his shoulders, another subconscious murmur underbreath.
You don’t see the way your near-silent whispers blow at the hairs at the nape of his neck, but he certainly feels them.
Unimpressed at his sudden stride away from you, you squat down to grab the fabric he’d half-thrown off in his movements. “Seriously, this is the most expensive stock I have-” “Black, red, gold, I don’t see how the exact shades are that important,” Silco snaps back at you, reaching into his pocket for a lighter and the small box of cigars he’s gotten to carrying around.
“I don’t want anything to clash,” The retort is equally rude as you stand, hand on your hip after you carefully fold the fabrics. “You want to look powerful? You want to represent this town in a way that makes Topside finally start giving us the time of day?? I have to make sure you look the best you are, and that means smoothing out even the most minor details, ensuring there’s nothing to ruin the image you want me to create for you!”
You pause, sighing, pinching the bridge of your nose. “… You want to send Topside a message?”
“… Yes.”
“You want to make people know your name the moment you walk into a room?”
“Yes.”
“You want to be strong? Powerful? Regal?”
His breath catches at the end, as he nods at the way you say it. His eye is narrowed, and bright as ice as he murmurs lowly at the thought of such a promising image, “Yes.”
Stepping forward, hiding your shiver at the tone, you gesture to the fabrics in your arm, holding his half-gaze. “Then let me play my part in making you into that.” Another beat, before he nods, stepping forward, but you raise a hand between the two of you, and place it on his chest. Stilling at the motion, he raises his chin slightly, looking down at you over his nose with a careful stillness in his form at your hand on him.
This isn’t the first time you’ve done physical contact with him, far from it.
It’s the first time he looks at you in such a way that makes your breath catch.
“And… I know I can help you dress presentable… but you have to make yourself look it too…” There’s a confused tilt on his frown. You swallow, and slide your eyes from his, to the gauze-covered side of his face.
You feel his chest rise once beneath your palm, with his slow inhale of understanding.
The underground is a rotting, forgotten place. Given the scraps and the run-offs of the topside. That’s why many come to you, looking to brighten themselves up in the shadows of Piltover.
The scars are a reminder of what the city is, and it’s history. The red eye, that makes your breath catch everytime you glance upward as you slowly pull, button and zip everything into place, is an fiery reminder to the world, the intensity of the underworld that is Zaun.
The fire in it, surrounded in darkness, is a promise for the city’s future. Eternally burning, even from the shadows.
“… The haircut works well with the form,” You mutter as you slowly smooth down his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense slightly under the touch of your palm, before relaxing at your slow, trailing fingers. You shift the buckled-dark vest on his chest, before gliding your hands down to where it stops beneath the hem of his dress pants. “Makes you look…”
“Powerful?” Silco muses, a bit distant with two eyes instead of one. He can see out of the other one, he informed you when he walked in with the shorter hair, and unshielded face. But it’s different. Something to get used to, but knowing the power it’ll give him, it’s worth it. “Regal?”
You can’t help the small smirk back at him, musing right back a bit breathlessly, “Appealing.”
His laugh is short, low, but honest. You don’t blame him; you can sense the enormity of this moment, as silly as it is when it’s simply a tailor outfitting her client.
It shouldn’t feel like you’re guiding this man down the path, towards who he is about to become. But it does, and you both feel the tension in the air from it.
You swallow, suddenly, slipping your hands from where they had settled on his hips, back up to fiddle with the gold-accented collar, smoothing the plump, white silk-tie tucked into it. “You… this is the complete piece. Do you feel ready to look?”
Silco pauses. Then reaches up, gently guiding your hands off of him, and releasing you as you step back, watching him turn and face the mirror. Face himself.
His expression doesn’t change. For a moment you can’t decide if you’re disappointed at the lack of reaction, then he silently holds out a hand to you. With a small blink, you step over to take it, and immediately ruffle his carefully-pressed vest as you grip him for stability, as he turns and latches his mouth onto yours.
The kiss is hard, gripping, long-awaited and grateful.
It leaves you panting as he pulls back, resting his forehead against yours as he breaths with equally-taxed lungs, chest rising and falling as he stares into your eyes with his duel colored ones, the lidless one alight with fire, the other hooded.
“I-i…” You lick your lips, staring up at him with wide, shining eyes. “I-i’m guessing you… find it a-appealing?”
The unscarred side of his mouth quirks up, and again there is a low, slow laugh under his breath as he tugs you in again, genuine amusement breaking though his show of thanks as you’re careful to avoid wrinkling his new fit.
“I find it perfect.”