Chapter Text
When Mylo is six, his mother takes him to a beautiful bridge, overlooking a beautiful river, connected to the lone, beautiful home he’s ever known.
He had, up until now, been told to stay away from the bridge, as well as the river; that the other side was a not-so-beautiful place, with not-so-beautiful people, doing not-so-beautiful things.
This does not seem to concern his mother now, as they step onto the bridge and begin to cross.
“Where are we going?” Mylo asks, looking up at his mother’s dark, beautiful face.
She had taken him from the middle of his lessons. Told his governess he was done for the day, taken them to his room and dressed them both in cloaks, heavy and dark and too warm in the summer air, before telling him to take one toy; that they were leaving.
He’d grabbed his favorite bouncy ball, and that had been that.
The cloak makes her face hard to see, and he cannot make out her eyes.
“Somewhere beautiful,” she replies, a gentle, gazeless smile peering down at him. “Now come, My My.” The nickname is cooed, soft and kind and beautiful like her.
The wind whips at them as they get further, and Mylo shivers in its chill.
“I’m cold,” he complains, “I want to go home.”
“We’ll be home soon,” his mother says, which makes very little sense, seeing as their home is rapidly disappearing behind them. But she has never been wrong before, so instead Mylo speeds up, as fast as his little legs will carry him, to walk beside her and opposite the chill. Her larger frame blocks the wind, making it bearable.
“Almost there,” she says, after too long. She increases her pace, and by the time they reach the other side of the bridge Mylo is practically running to catch up.
Then, they step off.
He is fascinated, for a long moment, at the once forbidden view, now open to him. It is quieter, here, less people roaming the streets, less gold that blinds the vision.
“This way, Mylo,” his mother says from up ahead, and he trots forward quickly to catch up.
“Where are we?” he asks, delighted. “Is this the beautiful place?” His mother gives a soft laugh.
“No,” she says, “not yet. Come here, my love.” She holds her hand out, and he grabs it, holding tight.
They begin to walk, past buildings and trees and statues, past shops and houses and restaurants. Mylo soaks it all in, memorizing every detail.
They walk until the streets turn to alleys, the windows turn to broken glass, the dresses and suits turn to patchworks of fabric. His mother holds his hand tighter, but otherwise seems unbothered by the shift, and so neither is Mylo.
They walk until Mylo no longer remembers which way is home, and then they turn, and they are at the river once again, though the bridge is nowhere to be seen.
His mother stops, then. She stares down at it, staring and staring and staring, until Mylo begins to hop back and forth in impatience. Are they going swimming? His mother hadn’t told him to bring swim clothes.
“This world is a very large place, Mylo,” his mother says at long last, “maybe one day you’ll even see it.” She turns to him then, and he realizes with a sudden, all-encompassing fear she is crying; she has never cried before in her life, his six-year-old mind is certain. “But not, I suspect, before these two cities tear each other apart.”
“Mama?” he asks, eyes already stinging in a mirror of his mother.
“Be a good boy for me, now, Mylo,” she says, leaning down to kiss him on the head. “Stay here as long as you can, and when you can’t anymore, go down. Never go back, Mylo, never back across the river.”
She lets go of his hand, then, and he gives a panicking shout, reaching after it.
“It’s okay, Mylo,” she says, still smiling, still soft and gentle. “It’s okay. Stay here.”
He sobs, terrified in his confusion, but she’s never been wrong before, she’s never been wrong before, so he plants his feet.
She turns, heading towards the river.
His mother walks into the water, and does not return.
#
Mylo does not know how long he waits on the riverbank, mostly because he has never been good with time, but also because he does not particularly think to count.
Why count when your mother has always kept track for you?
When he grows thirsty, he drinks from the river, as close to where his mother submerged as he can get. When that gives him a stomachache, he cries until he falls asleep.
The sun falls, then rises, then falls again, and while his cloak keeps him warm, there is little to fill his belly. Eventually he grows hungry enough his stomach hurts with it, and he thinks maybe that’s what his mother meant when she said he couldn’t stay here anymore.
He decides that’s stupid, of course he can still stay here. But perhaps going to find food would not be so bad, as long as he returned afterwards.
He rises, sways from a dizziness he cannot comprehend, before eventually finding his footing.
Without any other direction, he follows his mother’s instructions.
He follows the river, down, down, down. Beyond the broken houses and glaring people, who track his movement like hawks. Beyond dusty road and crooked streets.
After a time beyond his childish comprehension, the river ends, and he simply continues, straight down where it should have been.
Down, down, down.
Until the light of the moon descends into a thick green fog, and the chirping of morning birds descends into the cawing of crows.
Down, down, down.
Until he is up again, in a world he has never known.
#
Mylo is seven, when he stops making the trek from the Underground to the riverside and back, when he abandons his mother, as she abandoned him.
#
Mylo is nine, when he is caught picking a pocket of a man he’d assumed to be too big and too brutish to notice a child’s hand ruffling around.
“I’m almost impressed,” the man says, a large, easy-going grin across his bearded face. “You nearly had me there.”
“Of course I did,” Mylo says, attempting to wiggle his hand free from the man’s iron grip. “Stupid people are easy t’ steal from.” He glares at the man when his wrist doesn’t budge, considers biting to free himself.
The man blinks, before throwing his head back in a laugh.
“I’m stupid, am I?” he asks after a long moment, still chuckling. “And just what makes you say that?”
Mylo stares.
“You look stupid?” he says eventually, unclear why it isn’t obvious. He hopes, maybe, pointing it out will upset the man, make him angry enough to loosen his grip somewhat.
Instead it seems to have the opposite effect, and the man laughs so hard Mylo’s entire body shakes with it. Why his stupidity is so amusing escapes Mylo, he certainly wouldn’t be laughing in the man’s place, which only adds to his frustration.
“Let me go!” he snaps, “I’ll give you your stupid coins back, okay? Now let me go!”
“What’s your name, kid?” man asks after a long moment, either deaf to Mylo’s very generous compromise, or simply choosing to ignore it.
“None of your business!” Mylo hisses. He squirms again in the man’s grip, kicking at his shin.
“I’d say it’s my business to know the name of the thief I caught red-handed,” the man says, still grinning, showing no indication he’s fazed by Mylo’s struggle.
“I already said I’d give your coins back,” Mylo says, somewhat desperately, “now would you–”
“Vander, Benzo says to tell you he’s out of the parts you need for the jukebox, but he does have –” a boy steps into view from the nearby shop, coming to an immediate halt when he catches sight of them both. He’s easily twice Mylo’s size, with curly brown hair and a pair of half broken glasses. Behind them, his eyes are as grey as the rainy skies Mylo just barely remembers loving.
“Is… everything alright?” the boy asks, slow and cautious like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Everything’s fine, Claggor,” the man – Vander? – replies easily, “no need to worry.”
“Oh,” the boy says, though his eyebrows remain furrowed in obvious concern. “Um, okay. Do you, uh, need help?” He looks at Mylo like he’s afraid he’s going to get his head bitten off, which is ridiculous because he looks like he could kick Mylo clean across the alley if Mylo even tried it.
“Vander!” another voice booms. An even larger man steps out from the same shop, and Mylo is beginning to doubt he’s making it out of this alive. “What in the name of the gods is taking you so long? Get lost on your way to find the pipe in your pocket?” He takes one look at Mylo before making a noise of disbelief.
“Another street rat?” he asks, “how do you even keep finding them? Swallow a magnet, did you?”
“Worse things have dogged people,” Vander replies easily, “sticky-fingered little mouse, this one.” The man – Benzo? – blinks at this, before giving a full-bellied laugh.
“Didn’t think there was anyone in the Undercity left stupid enough to steal from you!” he chortles, and Mylo makes a noise of fury.
“‘m not stupid,” Mylo snaps, “he’s stupid!” He kicks at the man’s shin again. Benzo’s laughter pauses for a short moment, before coming back, full force and harder.
“What do you think, Benzo,” Vander asks, amusement in his voice. “Am I stupid?”
“He’s got you pegged, mate,” Benzo says.
“Who are your parents, kid?” Vander asks after a long moment, once both men’s laughter has died down. “Tell them they can have a meal on the house at The Last Drop, payment for their son’s bravery.”
“Don’t have parents,” Mylo says, “I barely remember my dad, my mom ditched me for the bottom of the river.”
It’s old news, at this point. The men obviously do not share his indifference, because they grow rapidly silent, smiles vanishing from their faces. Claggor, previously forgotten, gives a sharp intake of breath.
“Not many orphans in the Undercity,” Benzo murmurs at long last, “’least not many this young, rare they survive.” Is that why Mylo has met so few children his age? They’re all dead? Go figure.
“You have anywhere to stay?” Vander asks, voice quieter than before.
“’ Course I do,” Mylo replies, puffing out his chest. “’m not stupid, you can’t live on the streets.” He’d learned that one the hard way, but there’s no reason these people need to know that.
“And you’ve got someone to take care of you?” Vander asks, “where you live?”
“Don’t need anybody,” Mylo says, “‘’m fine.”
Another silence.
“Vander,” Benzo warns.
“Well,” Vander says as though Benzo hadn’t spoken, “I’m sure you’re fine, but it just so happens I have a place to stay, if you’d like. A warm bed and three meals a day, more if Claggor has anything to say about it.” Mylo blinks, turns to Claggor, who gives a sort of a smile.
“I got nothing to steal,” Mylo replies after a moment, “no point taking me anywhere, sorry. You can check my pockets now, if you like. Now will you let me go?” Vander gives a sort of a laugh, but it sounds pained.
“I don’t want to steal from you,” he says, softly, the same way his mother had been that day on the bridge. “Just an offer from an old man taking in strays.”
“Why?” Mylo asks, examining him for some, any deceit.
“Because I was like you, once,” he says simply, “I wouldn't wish it on anyone in the world.”
“Okay,” Mylo says, “why me?” It’s not as if there aren’t hundreds, maybe even thousands, of kids like him. Most older, granted, but he hardly thinks that matters. Vander seems to actually, genuinely consider this for a moment, before giving a quiet laugh.
“You nearly stole my coins out from right under my nose,” he says, “I’d say that’s reason enough.”
Which, it’s not, not in any way Mylo can conceive, but the look on Vander’s face makes it seem like he believes it.
“Besides,” Vander continues, glances around before leaning in like he’s about to tell Mylo a secret.“The truth is I actually need some trustworthy help at the bar. Too many unsavory folk down here, who aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed.” He winks. “You seem like a smart lad, though, I’m sure you could get the job done.”
Mylo considers this for a long moment, the pros and cons of walking into a strange place with strange people to do a vague, possibly strange job.
Well, he’s done riskier things to feed himself, he eventually decides, and a warm bed is tempting any day of the week.
“Fine,” he says finally, “but ’m leaving if I want to.” The grin on Vander’s face makes a near-full recovery, and he rises with a laugh.
“Of course,” he says, nodding, “your help will be greatly appreciated however long you choose to stay.” The grip on Mylo's wrist shifts to guiding instead of restrictive, and the man turns. He begins to walk in the opposite direction of the shop, leading Mylo away. Claggor trots to catch up in the corner of Mylo’s eye.
“I’ll just put those parts on hold for you, shall I?” Benzo calls after them.
“See that you do,” Vander calls back, laughing openly at the curses that follow him.
#
When Mylo has stayed exactly 8 days at The Last Drop, Claggor sits down beside him on the couch, shaking it slightly under his weight. Mylo, who’s been throwing his rubber ball, now a patchwork of colors, against the wall and catching its rebound for the last 45 minutes, pauses to glance at him.
“Are you, um, bored?” Claggor asks with the usual soft smile Mylo finds hard to look at. “I mean, um, doesn’t that get, like, a little boring?” He motions to the ball and Mylo’s hand, looking for all the world like he’s certain Mylo must be bored out of his mind.
And sure, Mylo can’t go out much with the way Vander has been keeping him busy (intentionally, Mylo suspects) with things like mopping and dusting and counting the coins, so he’s had to find unorthodox methods of having fun indoors, but that doesn’t mean he’s bored. He can entertain himself, okay?
“None of your business,” Mylo mutters, eyes back on the wall as he throws the ball again.
“Oh,” Claggor says, a soft, embarrassed mumble that has Mylo missing the rebound in surprise. “Right, of course, I’m, um, sorry to bother you, I didn’t mean to – I mean, I just thought –” he slumps. “Nevermind.” He rises to leave, face in the opposite direction like he’s embarrassed to even look at Mylo.
He’s halfway across the room before Mylo can even process what’s just happened.
This is The Underground, isn’t it? People don’t just apologize and leave with their tail tucked, do they?
Do they?
“If I was bored,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, “just in theory, because I’m not, but if I were, what exactly would there be to, uh, do?” Claggor stares at him for a moment, like he’s trying to decode the question, before breaking out into a grin.
“I love to read, whenever I’m down here!” Claggor says, the embarrassment from before all but disappeared. “I have lots of books, you can borrow as many as you want!”
Mylo gives a frown on instinct at the mention of reading; he’d never had any particular interest, not even back in Piltover, when he’d actually had access to books; his classes on mathematics had always been far more fascinating. Still, if it keeps the sad puppy dog look off Claggor’s face –
“Ones with fighting and monsters and stuff,” he replies vaguely, throwing the ball up before catching it again.
“Oh, you mean like Nancy Harbison?” Claggor asks, heading over to a bookshelf Mylo hadn’t even noticed before. “Or Jeffrey Sanchez?”
“I, uh, I dunno,” Mylo says, wrinkling his nose. “It’s sort of… been a while.”
“That’s fine!” Claggor says, throwing a beaming smile Mylo’s way before grabbing a book from one of the higher shelves and walking over with it. “We can just try different ones and see which you like!” He sits back down beside Mylo, handing him the book. “Here, what about this one?”
Mylo peers down at the cover. A knight poses heroically on a bucking horse, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Across from him is a creature unlike anything Mylo has ever seen, more teeth than head, more wings than body. Behind the knight is a man in fancy clothes and a crown, who appears to be fainting. The title reads Tales of the Forever.
“Looks, uh, interesting,” he says, flipping through a few pages before glancing over at Claggor. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about a prince, Prince Andrew, and his knight, Tallis, who’s always saving him because he always gets into trouble.” Claggor replies, still smiling. “There’s lots of fighting, plus the creatures Sanchez writes are always super cool!”
“Alright,” Mylo says, “I’ll, um, read it later.” He looks down at the book, then back up. “Is that what you do all day? Read?” Claggor’s smile dims a bit, but before Mylo can have another heart attack over sad, downcast eyes, it settles into a small smile.
“Mostly, yeah,” Claggor says, “what about you? What did you do all day before you came here?”
“I dunno,” Mylo says, furrowing his brows as he considers the question. “Survive, mostly.”
“Oh,” he hears Claggor reply, quiet pain in his voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mylo says, closing the book with a too-loud smack. “It was fine. Stealing was fun, anyway.” He puts the book down, and something occurs to him. “There was this one place I used to go every once in a while, some kind of old training gym or something, I dunno. None of it worked anymore, but it was fun to try and hit the targets.”
Sunlight comes back to Claggor’s eyes.
“It had a shooting range?” he asks, grinning at Mylo. “That’s so cool!”
“Yep,” Mylo says, preening slightly under the unexpected praise. “I could always hit ‘em easy, every last one. I can take you, if you want.”
“Sure!” Claggor says, bouncing a little on the couch. “Sounds like fun!”
#
When Mylo has been at The Last Drop for 10 days, he takes Claggor to his secret hideout. It is down, so down not even enforcers prowl its streets, which is saying something, because they love nothing more than to stalk empty places that require no work.
Claggor appears to grow nervous as they descend, further and further away from The Underground’s crowded streets and the safety of its numbers. He’s as skittish as Mylo had been, when he’d first arrived in Zaun.
“This way,” Mylo says. He maneuvers around the collapsed door, tugging Claggor’s hand to lead him forward. Claggor stumbles a bit, like he’s not so used to maneuvering any kind of obstacles or debris, still nervous as anything. Mylo takes a moment to marvel at the fact any child could manage to grow up in this place sheltered.
“Are you, like, actually from here?” he finds himself asking, as he shuffles around a bit of collapsed ceiling. “You’re not from, like, Piltover, or something?”
“No,” Claggor replies, and Mylo hears him grunt as he attempts to follow. “Both my moms were Zaunites. According to Vander they died when I was a baby, though. He’s raised me since.”
Maybe that’s what it was; Vander certainly seems the type to shelter.
“What about you?” Claggor asks, and Mylo nearly freezes. “Where are you from?”
“Here, obviously,” he mutters, before making a noise of triumph as they arrive in the building.
“Oh, okay,” Claggor says from just behind him, “I just thought, Vander said –” he steps into view after Mylo, and falls silent as he takes in the room. His eyes are wide, and Mylo bounces back and forth in anticipation.
“Well?” he asks when he can’t wait any longer, “pretty awesome, isn’t it?” Claggor turns his gaze to Mylo, eyes sparkling.
“This is so cool!” he says, and Mylo grins in delight. “You found this place all on your own?”
“Yep!” he says, puffing out his chest. “And look, look!” He grabs Claggor’s hand, tugging him to the wooden cutouts. “They’re shaped like people, and they have little flaps and target areas! If you hit them they spin around!” He picks up a rock from the countertop to demonstrate, one of many small pebbles he’d collected and brought with him over the past few years, before chucking it at the target.
He misses, but Claggor just laughs in delight.
“That’s so cool!” Claggor says, “you could really learn to shoot here!” He turns his wandering gaze back to the room, until it settles on something. “What’s that?” Mylo follows his eyes to the strange contraption that rests on an elevated platform in the center of the room.
“You practice punching on it, I think,” Mylo says, “I dunno, it’s kind of boring.”
“Boring?” Claggor asks, laughing again. “You think punching is boring? You?”
“Nothing happens when you hit it,” Mylo explains, crossing his arms. “It’s no fun.” Not to mention that, with his smaller size, any fight he’d had to resort to throwing punches in was a fight he’d already lost.
“What happens is you punch it,” Claggor says with a small laugh. He moves out of Mylo’s grip to head towards it, and Mylo makes a noise of annoyance.
“So?” he asks, “that’s boring.” Claggor seems uninterested in his very valid argument, just hops the raised platform to stand in front of the makeshift punching bag. Mylo huffs a second time, but follows him over.
He watches Claggor examine it, circling it a few times as if to size it up. He almost looks like he knows what he’s doing, which is fairly unexpected, given the nervous wreck he’s displayed himself to be since Mylo has known him.
Maybe it’s just the people, that frighten him.
He stops at long last directly in front of the punching bag, tilting his head in consideration, before stepping back into the basic defensive stance Mylo has seen people much bigger than him use. Hands up in front of the face, because they’re strong enough to withstand a punch, but not enough to withstand one to the head, and a foot back to brace themselves.
He bounces back and forth a bit, finding his footing, before slugging forward.
The resounding smack echoes throughout the space, and the contraption gives an ominous creak Mylo has never heard from it. Claggor pauses, as though considering this outcome, before adjusting his stance slightly. The next smack is softer, though it still echoes, and the metal makes no dangerous sounds.
He speeds up, hitting various angles, this way and that. Mylo stares, increasingly shocked.
It’s a long while before Claggor stops, panting and grinning ear to ear.
“This place is so cool, Mylo!” he says, turning to him with sparkling eyes. “And we don’t even have to share? Not with anyone?” Mylo blinks out of his semi-daze, takes a second to process the question.
“Nope,” he says once it’s fully computed, “this is my secret hideout.” He pauses, considers. “Our secret hideout.”
Claggor gives a delighted laugh, cheeks rosy with joy. The noise is infectious, and soon they’re both on the floor, beside themselves.
#
When Mylo has been at The Last Drop for 14 days, he dreams of his mother.
It is vague; murky yet clear all at once, as dreams are. Them both, in the water. Her hand, tugging and tugging and tugging. He struggles, twisting and turning and gasping for breath, begging her to free him, begging her to come with him, back to the shore, back to their home across the river –
“Mylo!” a voice calls in the water, “Mylo!” He jolts, attempting to find it; searching the depths for someone, anyone who could save them both – “Mylo!”
He wakes with a start, nearly falling off the couch.
“Are you alright?” Claggor’s voice comes from somewhere above him, “you sounded like you were having a nightmare.” Mylo looks up to where he hovers, too-wide storm grey eyes painting concern across his features. His bedside lamp, positioned directly across from the couch, casts too-long shadows on his face.
Whether he was up late reading again, or had just turned it on in a hurry to see what had Mylo so upset, he has no idea.
“Maybe,” Mylo mutters, curling in on himself. “Maybe not. None ‘a your business.” He turns his back to Claggor, pulling the covers up to his nose. There’s a silence, where Claggor seems unsure what to do, and Mylo hopes he’ll drop it like last time.
“I used to have nightmares,” Claggor says eventually, to Mylo’s mild dismay. “I used to sleep with Vander most nights, ‘cause sleeping alone always made them worse.” A pause. “You could try that, it might help.” Mylo makes a noise of disbelief, turning back to Claggor in sheer indignant surprise.
“I'm not gonna sleep with Vander,” he says, “’m not a baby.” Claggor, to his credit, only blinks once before seeming to consider this.
“You can sleep with me, if you like,” he offers eventually, and Mylo stares in surprise. A pause, like he’s waiting for Mylo’s response, which evidently stretches too long. “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? It might help.” Mylo opens and closes his mouth for several moments.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” is what comes out eventually, not really even intended to be mean.
But Claggor gets that look on his face, the one where his brows crinkle and his lip wobbles, and anyone at the receiving end feels instantly like they’ve killed a puppy right in front of him. Mylo squeezes his eyes shut, tells himself he is not a kid, he can sleep by himself, Claggor is just being stupid. He has nothing to feel bad about.
“Okay,” Claggor says, rising, “sorry, I didn’t mean to- I just – I’ll just,” he turns, making quickly for his own bed. “Sorry.” He pulls the covers back, crawling in and throwing them over himself, before Mylo can even get a word out. He sticks a hand out to feel around for the light, and then they’re both in darkness.
“’night, Mylo,” he hears Claggor mumble, and silence descends.
I can sleep by myself, Mylo thinks.
I don’t need to feel guilty.
I can sleep by myself.
I’m not a child.
It’s his fault for even asking, Mylo thinks.
He’s just being stupid.
I don’t need to feel guilty.
I can sleep on my own.
I don’t need to feel guilty.
He’s just–
Mylo makes a noise of frustration. He kicks off his covers, rising into the dark, abstract shapes of the room. He makes for Claggor’s bed, hands in front of him to guide, nearly bumping his shins into the bed frame. He mumbles out a curse, wobbling slightly, before shaking Claggor awake.
“Move,” he mutters, “you’re taking up the whole stupid bed.” Claggor makes a noise Mylo can’t identify, one that might be a laugh, or even a yawn, but he shuffles to the far side of the bed as instructed. Mylo crawls under the covers, grumbling all the while, before pulling them up and over himself.
“If you kick me I’m leaving,” he mutters, refusing to so much as turn in Claggor’s direction.
“Okay,” Claggor says, soft and slurred like he’s half-asleep. “’night.” Mylo makes a noise he’s not even certain of, closing his eyes.
He does not know when he falls asleep, next to Claggor’s soft heat, but when he opens his eyes it is morning, and his dreams are empty.
#
When Mylo has been at The Last Drop for 15 days, he decides he’s going to stay.
Vander needs him, he’s said so, and Claggor would probably give that sad puppy dog face if he left, then go back to reading books all by himself.
Someone’s got to look out for Claggor, he’d be helpless on his own. And who would count the coins as fast as Mylo?
Yes, Mylo decides, he’s going to stay.
He’s needed, after all.