… 𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙉 𝙄𝘿𝙇𝙀.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃. It was no surprise to anyone that he was intimately familiar with the sensation of his own mouth betraying him in moments of social dures; the way words just kept coming, tumbling out in an avalanche of verbal chaos while some distant, horrified part of his brain screamed at him to stop talking, for the love of god, just stop. So when Chrissy's forehead met the cafeteria table with a soft thunk, something in Eddie's chest spun in a little maneuver that felt suspiciously like tenderness. The marker stilled against plaster. He leaned forward slightly, ducking his head to try and catch a glimpse of her face through the curtain of blonde hair now obscuring it. From his peripheral vision, he could see Gareth watching this exchange with poorly concealed interest that suggested Eddie would be fielding questions about this for weeks.  ❛ Hey, ❜ he said, his voice softer than he'd intended, losing the sardonic veneer and dissolving in the face of her obvious embarrassment. ❛ Hey, Cunningham. ❜ He reached out, then hesitated, his hand hovering somewhere in the no-man's-land between his personal space and hers. The distance felt vast, like crossing the Mines of Moria, like stepping through a portal into unknown territory. His fingers twitched with indecision, with the competing impulses of touch her and don't be weird about it and what are you even doing, Munson, since when do you initiate physical contact with people who actually have something to lose by being associated with you. ❛ Eight works, ❜ he said, ❛ eight is good. And for the record— ❜ After a moment of internal deliberation that felt approximately seventeen years long, Eddie let his fingers brush against her good arm; her skin warm beneath his fingertips.  ❛ Cinderella had a curfew and she ended up with a whole-ass kingdom, so. You're in good company. ❜

she was mentally kicking herself, whispering so softly under her breath that it couldn't be heard through the general roar of chatter across the cafeteria:  ❛ stupid, stupid, stupid. how could you be so stupid? ❜ but even as she pushed herself through the ringer, somehow the sound of eddie's voice managed to calm her just a smidge. then came the touch to her shoulder and chrissy reluctantly began to lift her head from the table, bangs slightly swept in disarray from the motion. eyes find his and she's certain the color of her cheeks match the temperature they currently felt: red hot.

but she manages a sheepish smile, somehow forgetting they had an audience of his band mates, solely focused on him. not only had he agreed to pick her up, but he managed to compare her to a disney princess in the most endearing way.

for a moment she holds his gaze, even bites her tongue before she makes a cheesy joke comparing him to prince charming. (it would be a mistake. too forward, they hadn't even established what was going on between them yet. and ... well, what if he completely hated being compared to him?)

THE PECK LANDS ON HIS CHEEK LIKE A LIT MATCH struck against flint, and the ghost of it lingers long after her lips have retreated, a phantom warmth that sinks through skin. He opens his mouth to deflect, almost certainly, because Eddie Munson has never met a sincere moment he couldn't smother with a punchline. But before the words can assemble themselves into their usual defensive formation, she's pivoting, and his half-formed joke dies unspoken, buried in an unmarked grave. She reaches into her sweater pocket before she produces a vial. Black nail polish. He watches her uncap it; the brush skating across her pinky nail in one clean, confident stroke; the slight furrow between her brows. And then she holds it up. Pinky extended. He reaches for her hand; His fingers, adorned with silver rings that have left permanent green shadows on his knuckles, cradle hers with an absurd, almost comic gentleness, then tilts her pinky toward the anemic glow of the lamp on the end table. ❛ Cunningham, ❜ he breathes. ❛ You are going to be the death of me. ❜ He means it more than he's ever meant anything, and the terrifying part is that he'd go willingly. ❛ You found it, ❜ he says, his thumb tracing over her knuckles.  ❛ That's . . . yeah. That's your color. ❜

A beat passes. His gaze travels from her nail to her face, and the expression he finds there dismantles whatever was left of his defenses.

❛ You know what this means, though, right? ❜ He lifts her hand, pinky still on display between them like a small, dark flag of allegiance. ❛ You've officially crossed into the dark side. No take-backs. I'm pretty sure it's in the handbook. ❜ He settles back against the couch, pulling her gently with him, and her hand stays in his because neither of them has acknowledged the possibility of letting go, and Eddie is certainly not going to be the one to introduce that concept into the evening. ❛ Alright, ❜ he murmurs, chin dipping toward her pocket where the vial still lives. ❛ Give me the bottle. You've got nine more to go and I've got one steady hand. ❜ 

relief washes over her as she watches him and hears those words. a laugh escapes her and she shakes her head subtly. ❝ well i wouldn't want to be the cause of your death. I could always go back to teal – ❞ she's teasing and playful in response, a snort of laughter following. ❝ if the dark side is where you're at? then i have no problem embracing it. ❞ a more genuine smile and she hands over the bottle, spreading her fingers out for him to handle the rest.

A runaway from Piltover with everything at her fingertips except what she'd truly wanted: freedom.

Silco listens. It is, after all, what he does best, his own drinks strong, the buzz of conversation around them oddly hushed because he is there, the kingpin, the Chembaron of all Chembarons, the Industrialist who greased all the wheels and cogs and made sure everyone got what they wanted, and people naturally expect some trouble.

It's his day off.

"Mm," Silco hums briefly, casual without all of the trappings of someone of his 'status', sleeves rolled up to just below his elbow, and he ponders her question.

He doesn't even know her name. She definitely doesn't know his.

and yet, this man allowed her a safe space to open up and complain about her life. (she almost feels foolish for complaining. don't others have it worse? she basically had a whole life up there ... ever suffocating as it had been.)

something about him felt ... eerily soothing. by the way others look over to where they sit, it's clear that he's someone most know of. most keep a good distance ... of which she at first believed it was because of her. but she's seen the side glances, the side-steps and bushes whispers. and yet, she can't imagine what they could possibly be concerned over.