Chapter Text
The walk to the bar was pleasant enough for Silco, filled with small talk about just how much Vander’s hand hurt, how swollen it felt and how he “didn’t know how Silco was so covered” when tattoos hurt that badly. It was endearing. It felt easy. Talking to Vander felt easy.
Vander had picked a bar called Jericho’s on the outskirts of the Lanes. It was a grubby dive bar which Silco always avoided like the plague. In all honesty, he was surprised when Vander had picked it. The pristine, clean-cut aesthetic that Vander had adopted was a far cry from someone who looked like they’d be a regular at somewhere like Jericho’s. Silco had been there before, many years ago when he was a younger man, and he remembers not particularly liking it then, but perhaps that was because of the clientele, because every time he walked in he was dubbed a “dirty little thing”.
Once inside the stench of stale beer and greasy food assaulted Silco’s nose. It was decorated with number plates, old pin-up artwork and motorcycle advertisements. A thick layer of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, curling and parting almost hypnotically as people walked underneath it. It looked like looming storm clouds, discoloured and heavy. The tattoo artist's boots stuck to the floor and peeled up almost comically as he took every step closer towards the mahogany bar top. Did they not wash the floors? This was vile.
Silco tried to disguise the disgust on his face - for an old anarchist who was covered in tattoos he was very much a clean freak. Running an environment that had to be clean and sterile probably didn’t help either, he picked up on dust and grime wherever he went. Silco would frequently run his finger tip along surfaces in cafés and shops and tut to himself at any sign of dust (much to the dismay of Jinx). How could others be so unsanitary? Did they not have any respect for their establishments? Do kids these days just not care about—
“Why don't you find a table? I'll grab us some drinks.” Vander smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing as he did so.
For such a towering brute of a man there was a gentle softness to him. Behind the façade of a muscular oaf, he seemed to have a soft core. Silco would compare him to a bear. Squishy, quite adorable and large, but you most definitely wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him. That revelation alone was enough to make Silco's stomach do a flip. Of course, he rationalised it. That's not love, or even lust. It's hunger. He's starving. He barely touched the cake that Vander brought him.
He made a mental note to try it tomorrow and give his feedback to Vander. He'd be extra kind, of course. He couldn't be rude to his client's son.
Silco nods and eyes up the selection of available seating, running through each one methodically. That one is too close to the door, so there will be a draft. That one is right next to the jukebox, so it'll be loud, and he doesn't quite fancy yelling over Tom Petty’s ‘Yer So Bad’. There's a drunk patron at that one, and that'll simply annoy him. He eventually settles on one in the far corner of the bar, away from all previously mentioned annoyances, and also is conveniently half-hidden. He'll sit in the seat furthest away just in case anyone he knows walks in.
After getting comfortable in the booth Silco didn’t have to wait long for Vander to appear with two ice cold pints of lager in his hands. Not Silco’s first choice, but it’ll do, at least Vander tried his best.
Vander flashed his best smile before taking a seat, it seemed almost proud, a sort of ‘I did it!’ look.
“Sorry it took long, Jer always likes to talk my damn ear off.” Vander muttered, pointing with his thumb towards the large, blue haired barman.
“You were only gone for 3 minutes.”
“You were countin’?”
“We got in at 7:03 according to that clock by the jukebox.” Silco nodded with his chin towards the aforementioned, bottle-cap shaped clock, “It’s 7:06 now, but I think the clock is slightly behind.” He looks down at the watch on his wrist, then back up to the clock again, before his eyes settle on Vander’s own. “Yes, it’s behind by about thirty seconds or so.”
Vander nodded slowly at that, looking half impressed, half slightly weirded out by just how detail-oriented Silco was.
“You always this perceptive?”
Silco wanted to laugh in his face. Of course he’s perceptive, he had to adapt to be. He’s partially sighted, went through unimaginable trauma, and lived to tell the tale. He’s always on edge. Always uptight. Always looking for a way to escape, to track where he had been and when he was there should need to tell anyone. Silco always knew the exact time things happened and filed them away in his brain.
But Vander didn’t need to know that yet. Or, perhaps, ever.
There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence where Silco simply nodded and grabbed a hold of his drink, his slender fingers trailing the condensation dripping from the pint glass. Vander watched almost transfixed, his eyes following every small movement from the tattoo artist. Eventually Silco lifted the glass to his lips, taking a tentative sip before putting it down again and wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb.
“If it ain’t your thing you can just get somethin’ else. Just add it to my tab, yeah?” Vander offered with that dopey, lopsided smile, his head cocking to the side as he spoke.
“You come here often, then?”
“Pretty frequently. I like the people, the atmosphere.” Vander motioned around the grubby bar, almost proudly showing it off to his date.
No, this wasn’t a date. Absolutely not. It’s just new friends getting to know each other better.
“That lot over there come in here basically daily. We all shoot the shit and just have a nice time.” Vander motioned over to a table of younger men. One rather broad one with a moustache and goatee gesticulating wildly as he tells a tale whilst a smaller blonde man opposite him watched with a semi-amused grin. Another in a garish fur coat playfully slapped the moustachioed man, causing him to jolt back like he’d been hit with something much larger and heavier. Dramatic. Young and foolish.
“When my boys could legally drink I brought them here for their first pints.” He continued, “Claggor had a great time, but Mylo could barely hold his booze.” Vander said with a small snort, “One pint and he was gone.”
Silco let out a genuine chuckle at that. He remembers days like that fondly, where he’d have two bottles of cheap beer and be gone. He could never handle his booze back in the day - he’d end up swinging at the closest man who looked at him wrong after just four beers. Connol and Felicia would have to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him off like a naughty child. He'd learned to handle his alcohol better in his old age, he could comfortably share a bottle of wine without wanting to stick a switchblade into someone's side.
“You have a nice laugh.”
“Shut it.” Silco waved his hand in the air dismissively, a small heat beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. Is he blushing? Surely not. He hasn’t blushed in years.
“Your ears are goin’ red.”
“Vander.” His gaze darted up, pointed, serious, but with a small glint of mischief. “Shut it.”
The rest of the evening fell into a nice rhythm of conversation. They talked about the kids, their businesses, how Vander was actually terrified to set up a poncy coffee shop in the centre of Zaun but bit the bullet and did it anyway. The way they spoke so openly and candidly made it felt like they’d known each other for years, like some red string of fate was connecting them and bringing them together.
Vander didn’t mention Silco’s eye. Silco didn’t mention Vi. It was like they came to a silent agreement that those topics were reserved for if, and when, the other man felt more comfortable. There was no prying or curiosity, which deep down Silco was thankful for. Everyone always rudely asked about his eye, it was nice to finally be around someone who didn’t make that the main focus.
Over their third pint Vander leant in, his beer and tobacco tinged breath warm on Silco’s face.
“I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
“You walk past my shop all the time, you’ve probably seen me smoking.”
“Nah, nah. I’m talkin’ about years ago. You just look familiar. I can’t stop thinkin’ that I know you from back in the day.”
Vander cocked his head to the side as if inspecting a piece of modern art, that stupid man bun flopping to the side with the movement. There was a brief moment of silence, Silco not wanting to say anything in case it was wrong or ruined Vander’s concentration. The barista looked completely in the zone, like he’s recalling every face he’d seen over his lifetime. Then finally, “You weren’t in B&B were you?”
Shit. B&B. Silco hadn’t heard that name in years. Fuck.
B&B, a Zaunite rebellion group led by several men and women who wanted to protest the government's treatment of their city. Two decades ago funding was pulled from Zaun to make Piltover a more prosperous and opulent city. They wanted to make it appeal to tourists - to make it the ‘City of Progress’. Zaun was left in the dirt, quite literally. Trash piled up on the streets, rodents ran wild, education was poor, and there were fuck all jobs available.
B&B, or Blisters & Bedrock, was formed as a way to protest Piltover's actions. What started as a small anarchist group turned into a full blown punk movement. The group frequently protested, usually peacefully, on the bridge between Zaun and Piltover. Graffiti was sprayed on Piltovian Councillors property, flags were hung with the Nation of Zaun logo proudly spraypainted on the centre. They were there to make a statement, to show that Zaun was not to be forgotten.
But with any group there were people who were out to cause trouble. A few riots ensued, people were locked in Stillwater prison and it ultimately culminated in the Day of Ash - one particularly large and violent riot which caused Silco’s partial-sightedness.
It was a tough period in Zaun’s history and they’d done well to get to where they are now. Zaun was still under control of the same government, but the local community worked tirelessly to make Zaun actually functional and liveable. Zaunites looked out for one another. They wanted to prove they could care for themselves, and that they didn’t need Piltover to be under the same governance as them.
Silco swallowed thickly, his body visibly tensing at the mention of the group.
“Yes.” He eventually muttered, his voice barely audible over the jukebox.
Vander's brows raised at that, a small “Ah.” escaping as he leaned back into his seat. No more needed to be asked. Vander clearly understood it was a sensitive topic for the tattoo artist and wasn’t going to pry about Silco’s personal history with the group any further.
“Me too.” The barista said after a beat of silence. “Perhaps we saw each other at some of the protests? Maybe we made a flag together one time?” He smiled, his hand miming using a spray can. “Was never any good at that shit, I ain’t no artist like you.”
Silco’s posture relaxed at that statement. Vander clearly didn’t want to pry and simply wanted to relive the good old days, the times when B&B was a genuinely nice community to be a part of. It felt like a family at times, those struggling to make ends meet coming together to try and make a change in the world, even if they had to carve it out of the bedrock covered in blisters.
Vander complimenting him was adorable. Adorable.
No. Not adorable. Foolish. Silco could never think Vander was adorable. He wasn't a puppy.
“I designed the Nation of Zaun logo we used, actually.” Silco smirked, a hint of pride tinging his usually flat and monotone voice. “So if you fucked it up back then it means I've probably smacked you around the head before.”
Vander barked out a laugh, his fist slamming on the table causing the pint glasses to wobble slightly. Much to Silco’s shock not a single patron turned around to find the source of the laugh. So he did visit frequently then - frequently enough for people to recognise the laugh and not think twice about the source of it.
“Wait, did you used to have a little purple streak in your hair? Right at the front?” Vander motioned to the front of his face, his finger swiping back and forth as if to mock some sort of emo-bang.
“Oh, fucking Janna…” Silco slumped forward on the table, his head in his arms as he shook his head in defeat. He’d rather not be reminded of how he looked back then. The purple streak, the hair down to his ass, the crooked—
“You had a nose ring, right? In the center? You was always fiddlin’ with it, trying to get it straight and it made it look like you were pickin’ your nose!”
Silco snapped his head up, his finger pointing sternly at Vander.
“That was Sevika’s first ever piercing and she pressured me into getting it. It looked terrible on me.”
“Who the fuck is Sevika?”
“My piercer. The one who drank cheap wine and couldn’t come in today.”
“Right, well she did a shit job. It always looked wonky.”
Silco motioned to his nose, a flair of dramatics in his movement as if to make his point even more obvious.
“Why do you think I took it out?”
“Don’t know. Maybe you got fed up being accused of pickin’ your nose in front of fifty odd punks who all were lookin’ for a fight?”
“I’d rather be remembered as the man who designed our logo, not as a nose picker.”
“Sorry to say, Silco,” Vander snorted, one large finger playfully coming forward to point at Silco’s nose, “But I remember you as the nose picker man, not as some graphic design genius.”
“This date is over.” Silco sighs, his voice unusually playful. He shakes his head, turning his gaze away from Vander. The words rolled off his tongue easily, without second thought. They were uttered so easily in fact, that Silco didn’t even register what he’d said.
There was a beat of silence. Vander cocked his head to the side once again like an inquisitive puppy, his eyes crinkling at the corners at Silco’s words. The barista looked genuinely happy, like he’d finally broken through that wall Silco had been putting up since the moment they first met.
“We on a date now, are we?” Vander asked, voice slow and smooth like honey.
Silco’s eyes widened, a lump forming in his throat - half anxiety, half embarrassment. He managed to swallow it down, take a deep breath and quickly regain his composure. He was good at doing that, resetting himself and taking back control of a situation.
Then, when he finally felt ready, with a playful middle finger flicking up in Vander’s direction, he mumbled, “Oh, fuck off.”