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Viktor stepped out into the crisp night air, taking a second to let the clean, still-unfamiliar taste of it linger on his tongue. He still, after all his years topside, hadn’t figured out if he was unsettled by it or not.
It wasn’t a particularly warm night, but the chill was a nice reprieve from the stifling heat of the banquet hall filled to the brim with chattering nobility. He reached into his pocket to dig out his cigarette case, frowning as he contemplated another conversation about how it was just shocking that he came from the background he did.
The flame of the lighter warmed the tip of his nose as he brought it to the end of his cigarette, and when he exhaled, it came with a long sigh of relief.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been invited to something like this: he’d attended the very same function once, when he was still a student. But since he’d been ‘elevated,’ he’d found his patience for them quickly wearing thin. He hated the way they looked at him, the probing questions, the pitying glances at his cane.
But Heimerdinger had insisted— his employer had insisted— and Viktor typically found it less taxing to do as he was told.
‘The students being honored will want to see you! This new position of yours should be a cause for celebration!’ he’d said, prattling on about unity and the incremental nature of progress in the meandering, wasteful way that only someone with no expiration date could.
It hardly felt like cause for celebration, but some part of Viktor’s rational mind knew that he was right, that it was the highest honor he was likely to achieve. He’d teach his own classes eventually, make his peace with it somehow. It was hardly the thrilling career he’d envisioned for himself, but he did his best to curb his ambitions by reminding himself that it was work, that he was feeding himself.
His thoughts drifted to the sweets table inside, and he couldn’t help the way the corners of his mouth twitched as he pondered what he might try first. He’d seen a plate of chocolate cakes with fat dollops of cream on top, guaranteed to be rich and cloying and delicious, that seemed to be the forerunner.
Viktor finally let himself smile as he thought of a younger version of himself, still filled with a sense of bravery long lost to him and without a drop of decorum, throwing himself at the sweets and pastries. He would have been far more disappointed in his older self’s title, and far more pleased with the extra perks.
He propped his cane against the railing and leaned over to rest his elbows on the intricately-carved marble, looking down at the manicured gardens below. The moon was a waxing sliver in the sky, giving just enough light to cast the world in a slight silver glow.
The light grew brighter and warmer, the sounds of the party he left behind grew louder, just for a second. Then, it was dark and quiet again, save for the sound of heeled footsteps. He felt a twitch of irritation, not bothering to look back.
That was until she said his name.
“Viktor, isn’t it? You’re the professor’s assistant.” He was so taken aback by the fact she knew it that he didn’t stop himself from looking back at her.
One of the Councilors. Worse, the young, pretty one, Medarda. He hadn’t thought it a fruitful use of his time to bother with learning any of their first names. She was dressed in something that probably cost more than the combined worth of everything he'd ever owned, with a neckline so low it was hard to tell why it bothered with a bodice at all.
She stood considering him, measuring the gap.
He waited for a beat, flicked an ash loose, before replying. “I am. Is there something that I can help you with?”
A distantly amused sound drifted past her lips. “I haven’t decided yet.” She slowed as she drew close, pausing at an ambiguous distance. Unbothered by impropriety. “I think that I might like to smoke.”
Viktor spared a second glance in her direction, and found her looking him over with burning intensity.
Ah.
Unfortunately for her, he’d already had his fill of being a cheap thrill for spoiled topsiders to whisper about to their friends, long ago.
Viktor rolled his eyes. "I'm certain that you can afford your own, Councilor.” He took another long drag and exhaled sideways. Not an offer, but not a dismissal.
“I’ve found that all of the money in the world can’t buy an interesting conversation.” She tilted her head. “Tonight’s selection is particularly dreadful."
That earned the first true hook of his interest. "It is possible that I’m simply intolerable company.”
She huffed, soft, something like a smothered laugh. “The intolerable are always more intriguing than the endlessly pleasant.” Her eyes slid over him— sharp, easier than breath.
Viktor took a step back to look her over, in his best attempt to mimic the way she dissected him with her eyes. Reluctant as he may have been to admit it, even to himself, she was… impressive. Every detail of her hair, her makeup, the way that her clothes fell. Her entire person was meticulously presented, with an obsessive eye for perfection so clear that it spoke volumes about who she was beneath layers of silk and gold.
He braced himself. “You’re easily intrigued, then.”
“I am not.” The Councilor smiled— if it could be called that. No teeth, only a fraction more curve at the lip. “But I despise the sound of my own politeness even more.” She extended her hand, tilting her fingers minutely. For a cigarette, he realized, too slowly. “May I?”
Viktor’s thumb hesitated on the battered case. He flicked it open anyway, rolled the offering between two fingers, and placed it dead-center in her palm.
Her skin, beneath his, furnace-warm and smooth.
He lit it for her and she let him, lips parted, the breath held inside her mouth as she watched him over the flame. She exhaled, slow, twisting that first plume into the cold.
“Thank you, Viktor,” she murmured, smoke curling in lazy defiance toward his eyes.
He made a show of fanning it away, lips quirking. “That was generous,” he drawled. “Next time, aim for someone deserving.”
She glanced sidelong, watching their smokes mingle on the breeze. “You’re not like the rest of them,” she said. Her voice was soft enough that it felt almost like a secret.
He straightened— the words caught in his throat, even so. “Should I thank you, Councilor? Or be insulted?”
The lines at the corners of her mouth relaxed and then retreated. She turned, letting her elbow brush the marble next to his own, neat as any well-mannered diplomat, pretending the contact was accidental. “Neither. You know very well you’re not.” For a heartbeat, Viktor half-expected her to press her advantage. Instead, she smoked.
He took another good look at her in the silence, studying how the moonlight touched one cheekbone. Both of them watching the gardens, neither quite watching the other. Her nails glimmered faint gold at the edges, and when she brought her cigarette to her lips, she did it in a practiced, almost bored sweep— until her eyes flicked to him.
He thought she might speak.
She didn’t. She tapped the ash off her borrowed cigarette, the emblem on her ring flashing.
He examined the cut of her dress again, how impeccably everything fit—money could buy taste, after all. Or perhaps just the boldness to fake it. He studied the pale cashmere of her wrap, the tendril of coiled hair freed at her temple. He let memory slide back just moments, to the second his fingers brushed her palm. Simple heat, a mundane intimacy. How little passed through his life that was simply pleasant, simply warm.
“Do you enjoy these events, Councilor?”
“Yes. And no,” she answered, and left it to linger. Each syllable carefully released, deliberate as the rings of smoke she shaped between painted fingers. “I excel at them.” The idle polish of her accent almost masked the bitterness— almost. She stepped closer to him, that silver glow lighting up her features. "Not being from here in the first place helps, I'm sure."
“You’re not?”
"Noxus," she said with a hint of bitterness, "until my mother had me sent away.”
Viktor was silent. Not for lack of curiosity, but out of instinctive caution: to reveal that you knew a thing, cared about a thing, cared about a person— dangerous currency.
He let his gaze return to the lawn below. “Exiled here?” He gestured with a wave of his arm. “That hardly seems like a punishment, whatever your crime was.”
“It depends entirely on the perspective of the person in exile,” she replied, voice light and sharp. “You’re not from here, either.”
Viktor’s first reflex was bristling denial. And then resignation cooled him again. “No. I’m not.”
She flicked her eyes sideways, pinned him. Her gaze was patient, expectant—as if trusting he might gift her such a piece of himself, not to wield, but just to weigh.
He focused on his cigarette, holding it lightly between thumb and forefinger, as if the simple movement of bringing it to his lips might steady him. He drew in, slowly, and spoke with the smoke on his tongue: “I thought that I might lose my accent, after a time. That has not proven true.”
She looked out across the gardens, at ornaments leaving their shadows on clipped grass and statuary. “Would you miss it, if you did?”
Viktor watched her shoulders move with the question. He thought first of concrete and the smell of rust, clanging pipes and the rhythm of distant shouts and thick smoke pouring from chimneys.
Of home, just out of frame. Too far, but too near to escape.
Absurdly, all he could do was nod.
She was quiet for a moment, mouth working on a curl of smoke— then a slip of something warm invaded her posture.
“You know, you don’t have to call me Councilor. Unless the formality is the point.”
He tried to conjure the shape of her name and came up empty. His mouth went dry and he covered the embarrassment with another pull from his cigarette.
Then, he did what he always did: let a bit of self-deprecation bear some of the burden for him. “It would seem forward, wouldn’t it,” he murmured, “coming from me.”
A slow, wicked smile unfurled across her face— what Viktor suspected was what her satisfaction looked like, tight-controlled and gliding over her features like light through stained glass. She tipped ash to the garden gravel in a flick as graceful as anything.
“Is that it?” She hummed. “You’ve forgotten already. It’s wonderful to know I’ve made such an impression.”
A lesser man would feel shame. Viktor found himself short on repentance. “It’s possible I never properly learned it in the first place,” he admitted.
He expected coldness, or for her to retreat behind that gleaming shield of civility. Instead, she tipped her head toward him, conspiratorial.
“You’re in luck, that I kept yours,” she said. “Though I would have preferred to earn it.”
The implication tasted bittersweet.
A fleeting smile curved one side of her lips and she took pity on him. “Mel. My given name is Mel.”
The garden lights painted honey onto her cheekbones, and left her eyes perfectly, mockingly unreadable.
Viktor savored the taste of the name before he spoke it— he couldn’t help himself. Mel. Short, unsentimental, unfamiliar.
He found the corners of his own mouth twitching, almost unwillingly, in response. “Mel,” he tried, the syllable light on his tongue. There was faint pull of something in his chest as he heard it repeated in his own voice, or else he was just light-headed from mingled nerves and too much to smoke. “I’ll try not to forget it again.”
“Mm.” Her lashes sank, a sort of long blink. “You had better not. Don’t make me regret charity toward a stray scholar.”
“I won’t,” Viktor answered, quieter this time, a promise he’d never intended to make.
He waited, sure she would depart now, that her curiosity had run its course—that she would slip back inside and vanish where he could not, would not, follow. But Mel lingered, content in stillness, something at her edges softening.
She tipped her head to watch the moon. Her hair caught its light and became—just for a second—untended.
“It’s very peaceful out here,” she murmured.
He realized then, abruptly, she was waiting for him.
Viktor surprised himself with a wave of something close to tenderness.
“Mel,” he said again, hush-voiced, savoring the name now that it was his to use. Then, “I would very much like to find you in private again, at one of these events.”
A measured silence, weighed heavy with the risk he’d taken. Viktor’s hands worked restlessly along the railing’s cold edge. Mel stubbed her spent cigarette against flawless marble, a whisper of gray vanishing to powder.
“I think I would enjoy that, Viktor.” Mel said it softly, sweetly.
He waited for laughter. For a tactful pivot. None came.
For a moment they simply were. Breathing together, faintly visible in the chilled air— his, ragged and uncertain; hers, controlled, dissipating clean at the edges.