Chapter Text
The Eye of Zaun was having a slow day. It was the middle of November and bitterly cold. ‘Slow season’ is what it was referred to in the industry; that time just before Christmas when everyone was buying gifts for friends and family rather than splashing on tattoos. Silco understood that his line of work was a luxury. No one needed a tattoo. They wanted tattoos. As much as he understood, it didn't stop him complaining. It was hard when your livelihood took a hit at the same time every year for 3 months straight. The build-up to Christmas, Christmas itself, and then the January aftermath. It was bad. He was lucky if he even got one full day sit a month.
Nonetheless, Silco still came into The Eye of Zaun, hoping and praying for a walk-in appointment or someone looking to get a gift card for a loved one. He was the shop owner, so he had to show face even when he didn't want to, mostly so he didn't set a bad example for his apprentice.
He'd been in the industry coming up to 23 years and he knew the only way to succeed was through blood, sweat, and sheer persistence. Sure, some days you get no clients at all, but if you're not there then you miss out on the opportunity for a silly infinity symbol walk-in, someone wanting their child's name in an atrocious font, or the potential at a future booking. He hated the first two, it wasn’t his specialty, but work was work. Why would he turn down the money?
Some other artists, of course, didn't have that work ethic. But this was Silco's lifeblood, and the one thing in the world he truly cared about. He wasn't going to let himself, or his shop down.
The Eye of Zaun was Silcos baby. He designed every inch of it. Black floors, dark green walls coated in original, framed artwork from other tattoo artists, a neon sign of a purple eye behind the front counter, and the best quality arm rests and beds he could afford for his artists. It was cosy and welcoming, but still very much a traditional tattoo shop. There was a waiting area to the left of the entrance with old-fashioned brown leather sofas and to the right a merch station stocked with t-shirts, beanie hats, and art prints. He was never a fan of selling ‘The Eye of Zaun’ branded beanies, but Sevika had insisted it was what all the other shops were doing now. He didn't want to be like the other shops, but he had to if he wanted to survive.
A decent selection of the artwork on the walls was Silco's own; blackwork graphic style, heavily influenced by the architecture and grittiness of the Zaun he grew up in. It was dark, vaguely gothic, and industrial. Detailed, but not overly complex; almost like graphic design. He made a name for himself by creating his own niche in the industry, and although he wasn’t world-famous he did win awards occasionally when he could be bothered to turn up to conventions and put himself forward for the competitions.
Silco stood from the desk, interlocking his fingers and stretching his arms up above his head, causing his joints to pop and crack. He sounded ancient, and today he felt it. 46 and already creaking and cracking like an old man. That's what you get when your whole career is spent hunching over in uncomfortable positions, he supposed. He really needed to stretch more. He made a mental note of that.
“You didn't break a bone, did you? I heard it from over here!” Came a voice from the back of the shop. Ekko, Silco's apprentice. He was an incredibly talented young artist wanting to specialise in colour portraiture. He definitely had the skills when it came to pen and paper, but skin was a whole different medium. Silco knew he had it in him to succeed; he was smart, methodical, willing to prove himself, and had a sense of humour about him. He wasn't scared of Silco either and was ready to challenge his mentor. He had a fire in him, and that's why Silco took him on. Silco had a bout of terrible apprentices and vowed never to take one on again, but Ekko's persistence inspired him to give it one last try.
“I might be old, but I'm not frail. I was just sat down for too long.” He said back, turning to look at Ekko, unamused.
“Whatever you say, old man.” Ekko smiled back, his eyes glinting with a challenge.
Silco didn't rise to it, however. He didn't have the energy today.
He walked to the coat rack, grabbed his worn leather jacket, and slid it on. He’d had this thing since he was in his 20s. A heavy, black leather jacket, which still fit him perfectly somehow.
“I need a smoke and a coffee. Can I get you anything, Ekko?”
The apprentice shrugged, tapping his pencil absentmindedly on his sketchbook where he was practicing lettering. Silco knew he hated these little practice sessions, but to be a well-rounded artist Ekko had to learn the basics.
“Just some sort of coffee? I guess?”
“Cappuccino? Latte? Flat white? Cortado?” Silco could keep going.
Besides tattooing, his other love was coffee. He was a bit of a snob about it, every morning he would weigh out his beans, spray them gently with water before grinding, and pull shots until they were perfect, even if that meant throwing several away. It was methodical, an art, and maybe that's why he loved it almost as much as he loved being a tattoo artist.
“A coffee.” Ekko replied dryly.
You can’t just ask for a ‘coffee’.
“Americano? Or do you want milk?” Silco pushed.
“Sil, I just want a coffee.”
“I'll get you a Latte.” Silco waved his hand in the air dismissively at Ekko. “I'll be back in a bit. If you need anything just ask-”
“Sevika. I know.”
Sevika was a piercer at the studio, one of Silco’s oldest friends, and essentially the ‘shop mom ’. Or that is how Jinx referred to her anyway.
Silco and Sevika met when he was an apprentice at a disgusting tattoo shop on the other side of town. He was in his early 20s, trying to prove himself to his mentor who couldn’t give two shits about him. Silco spent most of that apprenticeship scrubbing the floors and being berated by his mentor. He had a temper in his youth, and after one particularly big blow-up, he stormed out. Sevika left the shop shortly after and they went their separate ways for a while but still kept in contact. When he set up The Eye of Zaun there was no one else he was going to ask to be their piercer except Sevika. He trusted her with his life and his business. She wouldn't screw him over.
Silco nodded and headed out the door. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of tobacco, a paper, and a filter. He'd been smoking since 17, a bad habit that he always said he would kick but never could. He took a long, deep drag, savouring the way the smoke filled his lungs before breathing out, the smoke combining with the cold air and making a pretty impressive cloud around him.
He paused momentarily, allowing himself a single moment of peace. He needed to ground himself. The stress of several slow weeks in a row was taking its toll on him and he could feel his anxiety getting worse and worse by the day.
You’re okay Sil…
He inhaled the cigarette again. Holding it briefly before breathing out, trying to regulate his breathing to ease the pent-up anxiety in his chest.
You’re fine. You’ve got this. It’ll bounce back. It always does. You know it does.
Being bundled up in the winter like this almost made Silco look normal. His collection of traditional black and grey tattoos were neatly hidden away from the world with long sleeves and jeans. Despite how long his career was, Silco vowed never to get tattoos on his hands, neck, or face; a rule he often preached to clients. Those areas were dubbed ‘job-stoppers’ for a reason. However, it was now a trend amongst younger clients and artists to tattoo those areas first; giving the facade of being more tattooed than you actually were. Maybe it was his age showing, but he just didn’t understand it. Maybe social media played a part in it? He didn’t understand social media. Ekko always helped him post pictures and use hashtags (whatever they were for?).
As he walked and smoked, the icy wind of Zaun swept across his face, causing his long black hair, just past collarbone length, to blow across his bad eye. He was partially sighted and scarred on the left side of his face after an… incident . Not exactly the best thing to happen to a tattoo artist, but he made it work. If anything, it pushed him harder to prove himself in the industry. The name of his shop was sort of a joke, him trying to make light of his condition. The Eye of Zaun. Not eyes, plural, just the one eye.
He grumbled, frustrated that his hair wouldn't cooperate. The artist stopped dead in his tracks momentarily to tie his hair back with an elastic he kept around his wrist. He left his fringe down, as he always did to partially obscure his eye, but pulled the rest back into a neat bun.
Silco decided he was going to try a new coffee place that opened not too far from his shop. The Last Drop; a pretentious name with, what Silco assumed, an even more pretentious interior. But, the local coffee guide and forums said it was a “must-try spot in Zaun”. He tended to trust the guide, so he thought he’d put his preconceptions aside and see for himself.
The walk was brisk, about 10 minutes, but the chill in the air made it feel ten times longer. He was a skinny man, so the cold went straight through him. His whole life spent in Zaun and he still wasn’t used to these winters.
Silco loved his city, it was still the same shit hole it was when he was growing up - it just had a little more going for it now. Decent bars, cafés, and a few nice stores here and there. It wasn’t as bad as it was when he was a child, but it was still no Piltover. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t want it to be like Piltover. That place was too pristine, too perfect. He just wanted the same respect Piltovians had. The punk anarchist was all grown up now, but he still held the same core values. Gone were the side-shaved haircuts, the anarchy symbol patches, and crust pants, but he was still the same person despite the toned-down aesthetic change.
The outside of The Last Drop was just as pretentious as expected. Wood panelling, a simple white Sans Serif logo on the window, burlap sacks with faux coffee branding on them, and industrial-style furniture. The place was obviously either far too warm or overcrowded judging by the condensation building on the window.
Great. You are oh-so original.
Silco walked inside, the warmth of the shop mixing with his frozen skin felt like a slap on the face, especially over his scarring. The place was decent enough on the inside, a much-needed improvement from the previous café that used to hold this unit. It was clean, welcoming, and oh good, they were playing acoustic indie music too. Much to his surprise the place was practically dead, except for 1 or 2 people working on their laptops on a table at the back.
Hipster coffee shop 101.
He walked up to the counter, taking a look at the cakes and pastries behind the glass on the counter. They actually looked decent. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but the lemon cake was screaming out to him. The coffee selection on the board looked pretty good too. It wasn’t just espresso, but also V60, Aeropress, and other niche brewing methods. Impressive. A lot better than the options at other coffee shops in Zaun.
Silco was in a judgemental world of his own, completely engrossed on trying to figure out what to order. He should go for something simple, but then again he really wanted to see if the baristas knew what they were doing. Was the microfoam going to be perfect or-
“Let me guess, single origin V60.” The voice brought Silco out of his haze. It was a chipper and friendly voice, but the assumption about his order already left a bad taste in his mouth.
Silco snapped his head up to the source of the voice, a frown already forming on his face. He was never good at hiding his reactions to things on his face.
The man who spoke was huge, and easily towered over him. Not just huge in stature either, his arms looked as if they were the size of Silcos entire torso. It was the type of physique that didn't happen from just working out at the gym, but the kind you were born with. Muscly, but a slight tummy on him. Dad body is the phrase Silco had in mind. The barista had a neatly trimmed beard, and shoulder length greying hair tied half-up half-down style with a messy ponytail. Black, loose trousers, his baristas apron and a white t-shirt which looked like it barely fit over his stomach and biceps. It was clearly a fashion choice too, not an incident with the dryer being on the wrong setting.
Silco was surprised to see someone around his age working in a place like this, the baristas were usually twenty-somethings who didn't really care about their job.
The larger gentleman noticed the frown and mockingly put his hands up in surrender. “Or just a cappuccino? Tea…maybe?” His voice inclined at the end, he was clearly trying to stay cheery but a frowning ex-punk with a temper was proving to be quite the difficult customer already.
“A Latte…” Silco said slowly, his eyes narrowing at the other man. He hated that this brute was correct. “And a V60.”
The barista cracked a small smile, his eyes twinkling as he nodded slowly. “Coming right up.”
Silco made his way to the end of the counter, watching the older barista like a hawk. He wasn't trying to judge, or notice mistakes, but he was watching to learn. His V60 always came out bitter. He wanted to be better. Maybe he was just getting something about the process wrong.
“You know,” the barista piped up as he was pouring the hot water over the coffee grounds. “Not many people order V60 here. A lot of the folks who come from Piltover do, but not many Zaunites.” He pointed out the door, vaguely motioning outside as if he was pointing at Piltover. “I guess it's too fancy for a lot of folk like us,” he looked over his shoulder at Silco, "people here like what they know.”
Silco quirked an eyebrow, taking this time to bring out his tobacco bag and starting to roll himself another cigarette for the walk back to the studio. “How do you know I'm Zaunite?”
“The accent.”
Fair enough . That was a dead giveaway. He didn't exactly sound Piltovian. His accent was too unrefined for that.
“Touché.”
“You must really like your coffee if you're ordering this. Do you uhh…” the barista looked over his shoulder at Silco once more, trying to size him up. “Run a blog or something? Video reviews maybe? You look like you could be a social media influencer?”
Does this guy think I'm 20 years younger than I actually am?
Silco licked the rolling paper and breathed out a small laugh. “If I was any of those, would you be giving me a discount?” Silco quipped back, looking up from his cigarette to meet the baristas eye. A small smirk formed on his lips, challenging the other man.
“Absolutely not.” He paused, clearly trying to sound headstrong, “I'd charge you double.”
Maybe I should take that approach to tattoos I have no interest in doing.
After a short while both coffees were made and placed in front of Silco. The barista held up his hand as if to say ‘wait a minute’ before going over to the display cabinet of sweet treats. Silco watched as the other man grabbed a slice of the lemon cake, neatly placing it inside a takeout box and then bringing it to the register.
“I didn't order that.” Silco said bluntly and rather quickly.
“It's on the house, I saw you looking at it and to be honest, I feel bad for assuming your order. You looked uh, upset.” He shrugged. “I don't wanna leave a bad taste on your mouth about our service here.”
Silco suddenly felt very self conscious. Ekko had called him something once before. A Claire? A Karmen? Some woman's name which means you're being rude to service workers. He didn't mean to be. He was just shocked at the bluntness of the baristas assumptions.
“You really don't have to I was just-”
“Seriously, it's nothin'. A gift if that makes you feel better about taking it.”
“I really-”
“Just take it. It's a bit of cake.”
The barista pushed the cake box just slightly towards Silco. A peace offering.
Silco wasn't in the mood for arguing over something so petty, so just nodded, tapping his hand on the top of the box. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
The other man smiled, and there was a brief moment where the two men stared at each other. Maybe just a fraction too long. Silco felt a slight heat at the back of his neck. It was definitely too warm in here, right? No other reason. The windows were coated in condensation and the heating was clearly on. That was all. He was just too warm .
Silco eventually broke the eye contact and cleared his throat, reaching into his pocket to get his wallet.
“I umm, I'll give you a loyalty card. You know, in case you want to come back. If you get 10 stamps you get a free coffee.” explained the barista, bringing up Silco's total on the till. He sounded slightly flustered, maybe a little anxious? He made a mental note to not be so snappy with people just trying to do their job.
Silco settled up as the barista placed the cake, two coffees and loyalty card in an easily recyclable paper bag.
Of course it was easily recyclable in a place like this.
“I hope you enjoy it.”
“I'm sure I will.” Silco gave a small, polite smile then turned on his heels to leave.
“Have a good day.”
Silco paused just before the door, turning to give the other man one more look before leaving.
The walk back to the studio with the cigarette dangling between his lips was an odd one. Usually he'd be thinking about work, what to show Ekko next, what takeout he'd get for dinner that night, if the cat was okay. But this time he found his mind lingering on the barista. His hair, the way his shirt was clearly two sizes too small, chosen that way on purpose to show his figure, his stupid smile.
He was Silcos type, and he could imagine if they'd met 20 years prior he'd have been head over heels, confidently striding over to him in the bar and draping himself over his shoulder. He was a flirt in his youth, but not anymore. That ship sailed long ago, and after the incident with his eye he didn't have the confidence to approach men anymore.
Silco inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the bitter heat settling in his mouth.
Don't even think about it. You said you were past all of that shit. Don't be an idiot, Silco. You're 46. A fully grown man. Stop it.
He let out a sigh through his nose, the smoke curling around his features. He needed to regain focus.
He probably thinks you're a dick anyway. Snapping at him like that? He owns the shop, not you. He was just doing his job and you acted so stupidly he gave you free cake.
He was thankful when he finally made it back to the shop, at least Ekko and Sevika would distract him.
The artist placed the takeout bag on the front desk, unloading the goods. The two coffees, the cake and there at the bottom of the bag he noticed it. The loyalty card.
Fully stamped.
He did not do that.
Silco picked up the card, noticing a small arrow on the bottom right next to the “FREE COFFEE” stamp. He turned the piece of card around and in the most horrific handwriting he'd ever seen, which he could barely make out, it simply said,
“See you again soon! -V”
Silco cursed under his breath, took out his wallet and placed the card inside. He hoped and prayed the coffee was bad after this. Not because he'd been given free cake and coffee after being rude, but because he wasn't sure if he would be able to look ‘V’ in the eyes.
The man was clearly an idiot. Silco was rude and short tempered, yet here he was being given an incentive to come back.
Maybe going back wouldn't be so bad? He wasn't too bad on the eyes and- oh stop it.
“What's this? Thanks Si.” Silco was so in his own head he didn't notice Ekko approach, grab his own coffee and the cake box.
He didn't respond to his apprentice and instead lifted the coffee cup to his nose, inhaling deeply. Gods that smelled good. The roast was not too dark, but not bitter either. Silco took a sip and- oh no.
He hated this.
He would have to go and see that brute again because this was far too good. The other shops he frequented were nothing in comparison. There was something about this coffee that felt like sitting on the sofa, cat in lap and a blanket over your shoulders. It was warming. Comforting.
His stupid smile and his even stupider tight shirt.
Silco sighed. A stupid school boy crush was the last think he needed on top of the work stress.
He would just go back for the coffee and nothing more. He was going to The Last Drop for another drink. Definitely not to see V.