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lullabyes22-blog · 7 months

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Mel x Silco - Something Blue AU - A Drabble Thing

Based on this ask by anonymous <3

Part of an AU meta of the Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO universe.

"You are my daughter! Your future, and your legacy, are mine to protect."

"Is that why you cast me out? Protection?" Mel lifts the blue-tipped brush. The bristles sigh across the canvas. With methodic strokes, she begins to paint. "Or was it because I stood in the way of your ambitions?"

"What I did, I did to keep you safe!"

cw: sex, angst, dysfunctional relationships, abandonment issues

Based on this ask on Tumblr:

In the married AU, how would Mel and Silco reveal their relationship to the public and possibly their inner circles (the biggest of elephant in the room being Ambessa). Perhaps a discreet kiss at a public event or just say yep we're an item.

At the outset, Silco and Mel in the FnF-verse absolutely opted for secrecy during their, er, courtship. Given their alliance is literally struck due to backroom deals and intercity espionage, they keep their meetings discreet and their trysts tightly under wraps, in the guise of visiting each others' cities in the interests of diplomatic galas, festivals, and trade expos.

In these neutral settings, they are the most likely to interact and thus their illicit dealings can be easily masked.

By the time their closeness transitions from alliance to affair, they've actually hit a conundrum. Silco, a born provocateur, delights in stirring the pot to get the upper hand. Meanwhile, Mel, having been trained from childhood to be a savvy statesperson, is more restrained, particularly with a subject as controversial as her private affairs. And yet their reactions are paradoxical: while she wants to maintain her privacy, she enjoys seeing him lose control; while he enjoys the thrill of their secret trysts, he'd also relish the look on the Council's faces once they realize his fingerprints are all over the Crown Jewel of Topside.

And yet, when they finally formalize their agreement, the dichotomy culminates in remarkably different reactions.

Silco, who's always had a subversive flair for dramatics, suddenly loses all his trademark chutzpah. His first instinct is to keep the announcement under strict lock and key, a reaction Mel finds absolutely baffling. Bashfulness, now? Here is a man who's always in control of every narrative, and who is finally in a position to dictate the terms of his relationship.

And yet...

Even among his close circle, he's cagey and close-mouthed. He shares the bare bones with Sevika (to her glowering displeasure). She is not happy with how his fraternization has rapidly crossed the line from business to home. She is also, in her foresight, not the least bit surprised. She warns him bluntly about the future political repercussions, and their impact on Zaun.

Jinx, meanwhile, has already put two and two together. Her reaction is as expected:

Boom.

"No! No no no!"

They square off in his office, where she's burst in, a fitful cannonball. Silco is sitting at his desk, his expression deliberately neutral. Jinx's face is contorted, her blue hair an alarum of distress. Her cheeks are streaked with tears.

"Jinx," Silco begins reasonably. "Please listen..."

"You're leaving me! Just like Vi!"

"I'm not leaving you. I would never—"

"No, no, NO! You're leaving because I'm a monster and I ruin everything and everyone hates me!"

"Jinx, please."

"I knew it." She grabs fistfuls of her own hair. "I knew I wasn't worth saving, or keeping, or—"

"Stop that." Rising, he rounds the desk to encompass her in his arms. "Don't you dare speak that way again."

Jinx wrenches herself loose. "Why should I listen to you? You're a liar! You're gonna marry that Piltie and leave me behind, and I'll have nobody, nothing, ever again, just like before." She's sobbing openly, her voice ragged with rage. "Just like always."

"I am not lying, Jinx." Silco's voice is strained. His is trying hard to hold it together. "I will marry, yes. But you have my word: I will not abandon you."

She laughs wildly. "You already have!"

"Jinx—"

"If you really loved me, you wouldn't do this. You wouldn't leave me all alone, again, with nothing!"

"Jinx, please. Listen to me."

"No! I won't sit by and be left with nothing! I won't! I won't!"

"My lovely—"

"No! Don't touch me!"

She bolts, a blue comet shooting up the rafters. Silco is left, hands dangling, alone.

For the next few weeks, Jinx will remain sequestered in her workshop, either in a manic burst of tinkering, or staring vacantly at the wall. Silco will try to coax her to talk to him. But she'll either ignore him or scream at him to go away. He'll have no choice but to give her space, and hope the bombshell doesn't destroy their bond. In the meantime, he'll try to keep his meetings with Mel discreet, for the sake of easing Jinx's mind. And salving her hurts.

Eventually, she will thaw.

Eventually.

Mel, on her part, is disappointed, but understanding of Silco's need to proceed at a cautious pace. She's seen his girl in the flesh, and can empathize with her fragility. She'll encourage him to do what he can to repair his relationship. But she will also gently remind him of the precariousness of their alliance, and how they must secure the groundwork they've laid. Publicly formalizing their union will do just that. In time, the shock of it will settle, and their families will have no choice but to accept it, no matter the fallout.

As for Mel's family?

She has already informed Ambessa. And, she's done so with a brazen aplomb. Despite being groomed to be discretion itself, she has absolutely no qualms about her affair becoming public knowledge. She's been banished by her clan; in the eyes of her compatriots, she is nothing. Therefore she has nothing left to lose.

Finally free of the chains of her own making, Mel is now ready to stake her claim, and no one else's. She'll take Silco out on the town and proudly declare herself his, even though the news will be met with shock, and its downside, snobbery. The Council will be livid; the public will be baffled; the press will go wild.

And Mel will just smile.

Ambessa, predictably, is apoplectic. Mel, whatever their differences, was always destined for greatness. How dare she throw it all away on a street-rat from the Lanes?

She'll confront Mel at her apartments.

"I don't believe it. Of all the men at your disposal, you'd pick a wretched, half-rancid thing?"

Mel, her back to Ambessa, slowly mixes her paint: a deep, iridescent blue. Her bare canvas sits on the easel. A possibility, beckoning.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Ambessa goes on. "Some last-ditch rebellion? To spit in my face, and that of our entire house?"

"I stopped belonging to our house the moment you banished me."

"I sent you here to carry on the torch! To solidify our foothold on Piltover's shores!"

"Perhaps my idea of a torch differs from yours."

Ambessa's hands ball into fists: ferocious, and yet imploring.

"Don't be a fool, Mel. Idealism blinds the brightest minds. And that man? He only has his eye on the prize—and your heart on a platter."

"My heart, Mother, is made up. As is my mind." Mel, her wrist steady, dips her brush. "Neither are for you to judge."

"You are my daughter! Your future, and your legacy, are mine to protect."

"What I did, I did to keep you safe!"

"Safe?" Mel echoes. The paint spreads, a cobalt teardrop. "You sent me here, alone, without the slightest consideration of how I might navigate an unknown city. You left me to fend for myself. Practically left me for dead."

"Mel—"

"I've made a home for myself. Here. In Piltover. I've built a life, on my own terms. And I am no longer beholden to you, or your schemes. So no, Mother. You will not interfere. And you will not come within five hundred yards of my future husband."

"That snake will never give you what you deserve!"

"What, wealth? Prestige? Respect? I have all that."

"Until he drains it dry—and takes your city for himself."

Mel lets off a mirthless laugh. "Oh, Mother. As if that wasn't your goal all along."

"Mel—"

"You'll not threaten him. Nor our future."

"And if I do?"

Mel stops mid-stroke. Turning, she faces her mother full-on, and there is fire in her eyes.

"Do that," she says softly, "and see what it will cost you. See what it already has." She gestures, all the paintings lining the walls. No scenes of Noxus. No memories of home. Only a thousand different vistas, of a foreign shore. A foreign shore that she will not forsake. "All this time, you've never known me. And now, you pay the price. So go on and call me a fool. Go on and pretend you're the better strategist. But the truth is, our cities are safest when Silco and I work together. Because then we are better equipped to defend ourselves against people like you."

Ambessa's scowl is a blackened storm. She stands, arms folded. "So that's how it is, then."

"Yes."

"It'll come to no good. Mark my words. Your little romance is doomed."

Mel turns away. "We'll see."

"It's a waste." Ambessa turns on her own heel. "A waste and a mistake." Then, a parting shot: "If you'd been half as ruthless as you were cunning, you'd still be standing at my side."

Mel's fingers falter, a fraction. Her spine stays ramrod straight.

"Perhaps," she says, "your side is where the mistake lies."

Ambessa's footsteps echo, fading. Then door slams shut, and Mel is alone. Her paintbrush, poised. It trembles, barely.

Then the teardrop falls, and blooms.

Blue as the sky.

A possibility, unfolding.

In the following weeks, Silco and Mel's plans gain traction. Having shared the news with their close circle, they begin to lay the groundwork for breaking the story to the broader public. Silco is a savvy businessman; Mel, a shrewd politician. Their collaboration is a well-oiled machine. Instead of subjecting themselves to the arduous process of navigating the media storm, they'll let a third party do the legwork. An independent media outlet will build up to the reveal, starting with small, local publications. As the story gains momentum, they'll transition to more prominent outlets and heavy-hitting powerbrokers.

The idea is to slowly begin seeding their relationship into the public consciousness. Two cities arm-in-arm. Two leaders, intimately aligned.

The narrative is the hook; the angle is the bait. And the truth, a bottle waiting to be uncorked.

A bold blend, filling everyone's cup with the scintillating spoils of their union.

By the solstice, the announcement hits the newsreel. The two cities are aflame with shock and a healthy dose of scandal. From the conservative quarters, there is a barrage of criticism and downright hostility. In Piltover's upper echelons, the objections are rooted in classism, with some claiming Mel's union with a Trencher will only degrade her standing, setting a dangerous precedent for future 'downscaling' of the elite, and their social stature.

In Zaun, meanwhile, there are rumblings of discord, particularly from the chem-barons. Many question whether Mel, a Topsider and a Councilor, will throw a wrench in the black market's spokes. There is also an undercurrent of anti-Piltie sentiment, which some leverage to cast aspersions on Silco's leadership. How can a man who's built up his brand on defying Topside now choose to cavort with one of the ruling elite?

And then there are those who question whether this is a ploy. Is the Council using a honeypot tactic to infiltrate and sabotage the Fissures' economy? Has Zaun's Chancellor been taken in by a pretty face and a clever tongue?

Conversely, Zaunites speculate that Mel is merely a stand-in, and that the real love affair is between Silco and the city of Piltover itself. Is his heart really set on the woman, or on the power she represents? The access she grants him to Piltover's wealth, and the influence she has in the city's halls? Is the Eye of Zaun staging a coup to overthrow Piltover, and seize control?

Mel and Silco's betrothal has opened a Pandora's Box. With every question comes a thousand more.

But they know what they're doing. The seeds have been planted. And their narrative is taking root.

Soon, their respective cities are a frenzy of whispers, rumors, and outright slander. Their names are on the tips of everyone's tongues, from the Black Lanes to Bluewind Court.

The press is ravenous, and the public is starved.

Behind closed doors, each respective city's bureaucracy and security agencies begin to dig deeper into the other. They scrutinize Mel and Silco's histories, searching for a chink in the armor. They scour their dealings for the faintest whiff of a trail, for the slightest sign of betrayal.

And yet, as the days turn to weeks, nothing seems amiss.

No backdoor deals. No subterfuge. No secret threats.

Mel and Silco appear to be two trailblazers, united by a common vision. They've been allies for years. They have a solid working relationship, and the fruits of their combined efforts are starting to manifest. Their joint-venture has generated an unprecedented surge in trade and tourism between Piltover and Zaun, as well as a slew of new scientific innovations.

With each passing day, the news cycles begin to shift. The stories change. So do the angles. The whispers have become questions. Questions, answers.

The doubts start to melt into admiration.

Among the younger generation, a sense of glamorous taboo emerges. For the Topsiders, the Eye is a folk myth, an urban legend, a veritable bad boy. Now, his mystique is amplified tenfold, and his relationship with Mel only serves to fan the flames. On her part, Mel becomes an overnight sensation, a risktaker who's not afraid to break the mold, and whose charm has captured the imagination of a dangerous outlaw.

To the Fissure-dwellers, the interest holds a different flavor: speculation, scandal and self-congratulatory schadenfreude. Zaun, after all, was once a backwater slum. Now, their star is on the rise. Their Chancellor—a black-hearted scoundrel through and through—has bagged the Crown Jewel of Topside. What was once unobtainable is now theirs for the taking. Their victory over the Pilties is twofold: their haughtiest is now Zaun's hausfrau. They've managed to seduce, and subjugate, the Council's most formidable.

Marriage, eh? Who knew that the old ball and chain would prove so positive?

Now that the barometer of public adulation has spiked, Silco and Mel deploy a different approach. Rather than keeping their distance, they begin to take calculated risks: public outings, shared dinners, even a gala or two. Their appearances are met with a fervor bordering on hysteria. The press is abuzz. Everywhere they go, they are greeted with the dazzle of cameras and avid calls.

This is, after all, a historic first.

"Silco, Silco! What do you have to say about the rumors that Mel's engagement ring is from the Fissure mines? The same ones where you worked as a child?"

"Mel, Mel! How do you respond to the critics who say your engagement is an act of nepotism, and that it violates the principles of democracy?"

"Chancellor! Is it true that you're secretly building a palace underneath the canals, and that it will be a wedding present for Mel?"

"Councilor! Are you planning on changing your last name as a Medarda? If so, what will it be?"

Mel and Silco answer the barrage with enigmatic smiles, and an equally opaque, "No comment."

Except the wall of reticence won't stave off the tide forever. The pressure is mounting. Emotions are boiling.

It's time to launch Phase Three.

By the solstice, Silco and Mel agree to do a joint interview. This way, they can put the most outlandish rumors to bed, while satiating the public's appetite for their personal lives. The interview is to be conducted in neutral territory, outside Piltover's and beyond Zaun's borders, to avoid accusations of journalistic bias. A balcony in a small seaside town in Tereshni serves as their backdrop, and the interview is a two-part special, aired live on prominent radio stations.

Mel and Silco have agreed on their talking points. They've also laid ground rules: no questions about their sex life, their finances, or their families. The interview is about their partnership, their cities, and their plans for the future. They are there to dispel the rumors, not perpetuate them.

The sit-down is a sensation. Millions tune in to listen to their story, and to marvel at the fairytale of it all. For many, it's as if the couple are speaking directly to them. The audience is starved for content, and the airwaves throb with excitement. Some are captivated by the way the couple engage each other: the chemistry is undeniable, and Silco's sardonic, acerbic wit is perfectly complemented by Mel's elegant, cutting humor. Their affair has a certain dark-and-light aesthetic: shadow and sun.

The questions and answers fly fast. The duo are a masterclass of media savvy. They detail the timeline of their relationship: their first meeting, their alliance, and its transition from diplomatic to intimate. They discuss their respective roles as heads of their respective cities, and how they will each be transitioning to more ceremonial titles to avoid a conflict of interest. Silco will remain the Chancellor, while Mel will become an 'honorary' member of the Council. They'll have less to do with the bureaucracy, and more to do with public affairs and their philanthropic endeavors.

They are, essentially, becoming statespeople. Their primary goal is to ensure a seamless, amicable transfer of power, from their current governments to their respective successors. Silco will groom Sevika; Mel, Jayce. This way, the transition is guaranteed. It is, as they say, a win-win for all parties.

As for their plans?

A wedding, for starters. In a year's time, they will tie the knot.

After that?

Well. Who knows. The future, as they say, is up in the air.

Any children?

That is where the interview stalls. Family is a no-go subject. Now the interviewer is pushing boundaries. Attempting to address the elephant in the room:

Jinx.

"You are aware, Councilor Medarda, that your fiancé has an adopted daughter. A rather volatile one. Correct?"

The mood changes in the venue. Silco's expression is darkly-inscrutable. Mel's is a mask of pleasant ice.

"I am aware, yes," she says.

"And do you plan to accept her into the fold?"

"The fold?"

"As your step-daughter. As a potential Medarda."

Silco's expression is granite. Mel's, steel. He opens his mouth to impart a succinct response. Mel lays a hand on his arm. Then, with a serene smile, she says:

"I do. If she'll have me."

Silco narrowly hides his shock. There's a silence. Then, a susurrus of whispers, as the crew react to the news.

The interviewer blinks.

"Do you mean that, Councilor Medarda?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Jinx is not a child, but one of Zaun's most innovative minds. One that has been linked to multiple attacks, and countless counts of homicide. To say nothing of her role in Zaun's independence." The interviewer is careful not to be confrontational. "Many still consider her a terrorist. And yet you would take her into your family, as a future Medarda?"

"One's past needn't define one's future. Especially one so young, and full of promise."

"But aren't you concerned? About your safety? About the safety of your city?"

"My city is her home. As hers, I hope, will be mine." Mel holds the interviewer's shocked stare. "The Chancellor's and my union is meant to herald a new age of cooperation. I see no reason why it should be confined to the political arena. As far as I'm concerned, we are family."

Silence.

Then, a flurry of flashbulbs, as the camera shutters whirr. Mel's smile is sweetness itself. But her gaze is steady.

Silco, meanwhile, is eyeing her with hooded eyes.

The interviewer is floored, but scrambles to move the conversation forward.

"Thank you, Councilor Medarda. Your statement is... intriguing."

"I expect we'll be hearing much more about it," Mel says, and shoots her fiancé a glance.

Silco gives a single nod.

"Indeed."

"Then, before we end, is there anything you'd like to add, Chancellor?"

Silco is silent for a moment. Finally:

"Yes. You asked me at the outset, why I agreed to this union. At the time, I said the reason was obvious. Now, given Councilor Medarda's answer, I'd like to make an amendment."

He turns to Mel.

"Councilor Medarda and I made a choice to enter into this union. It was not the most prudent course of action. But it was the right one. It was not borne of convenience, or obligation. It was not based on any form of calculation, or expectation. It was founded upon one simple premise: two cities, one family. And, perhaps, a chance at something more. I know this won't be the last criticism. I'm aware of the risks involved. And yet, as of now, I'm certain of only one thing."

He takes Mel's hand.

"There can be no progress without sacrifice. No victory without adversity. But most importantly, no family without trust. So if we are to build a bridge between our cities, it must start from within. Ours will be our family. Our foundation. And Jinx...will be its heart."

He smiles a crooked little smile.

"And anyone who takes issue...had best watch their step."

His tone is mild. His meaning is not.

The interview ends on a high note.

Hours later, hot off the press, the cities are abuzz. The story dominates the newsreel for the next several days. In Piltover, everything is dissected ad nauseum: from the Council's official stance on the union, to the general consensus on whether the Medardas are abetting a terrorist, to discourse around historic reparations. In Zaun, meanwhile, the conversation is more nuanced. Some are ecstatic, believing Medarda's acceptance is proof that Zaunites are finally gaining social clout. Others are wary, wondering what the lineage of known conquest will bode for a city that prides itself on working-class roots.

The only certainty: the union is now, irrevocably, a fact.

Jinx, meanwhile, stays holed up in her workshop.

She'd flung her radio against the wall because she couldn't bear the newsreel: Zaun Chancellor (that lying snake), and Councilor Medarda (that gilded bitchqueen) have been spotted at the opera-gallery-theater-exhibition-club-restaurant, and were they holding hands, or kissing, or dancing? What does this mean for Zaun’s future? Is Topside being sold off to the Undercity? Is Piltover getting the keys back to the Fissures? Or is it a trick, a ruse, a scam, a lie, a betrayal, a—

From her shoddily-assembled radio:

"I expect we'll be hearing much more about it," the dulcet female voice says.

"Indeed," replies the low sardonic rumble.

Jinx, in a blind fit of fury, nearly blasts the damn radio to shreds.

But the broadcast continues, and Jinx falls still. Her ears are like little gravity-wells, and the voices are a pair of comets: hurtling straight for the core.

"You asked me at the outset, why I agreed to this union. At the time, I said the reason was obvious. Now, given Councilor Medarda's answer, I'd like to make an amendment."

She creeps closer. Despite herself, she leans into the crackling speaker.

"Councilor Medarda and I made a choice to enter into this union. It was not the most prudent course of action..."

Got that right, buster.

"But it was the right one."

Suuuure.

"It was not borne of convenience, or obligation."

What a crock.

"It was not based on any form of calculation, or expectation."

This man is a pathological liar.

"It was founded upon one simple premise: two cities, one family. And, perhaps, a chance at something more. I know this won't be the last criticism..."

Jinx rolls her eyes. The rest is a blur. The spiel, the spin, the sales pitch. It's a load of horse manure packaged smartly into soundbites. Silco's expertise is selling stories, and he's good at it. He knows how to make a sucker look like a genius.

Too bad it won't work on her. She's his daughter, after all. She knows the game for what it is. She's heard enough, she's seen enough, and she'll hear and see no more. It's a trap, and she refuses to fall into it. She'll have nothing to do with him, or his Topside trophy wife, and she'll certainly have nothing to do with—

"Ours will be our family. Our foundation. And Jinx...will be its heart."

Jinx stops. Transfixed. The radio is crackling in her lap. Her fingers are locked around the dial. But her mind has gone blank.

Jinx.

Her name is a throbbing echo. A hammer striking a chord. A lifeforce.

"And anyone who takes issue...had best watch their step."

Jinx stares down at her radio. It's an ungodly piece of junk. One of the antennae is bent and the dial is loose. The batteries are corroded, the knob is a tangle of exposed wire, and the paint is peeling. The damn thing should have been thrown out a long time ago.

Except Jinx can't bring herself to let go.

Not when it's her only connection to Silco.

His face has gone blurry over the past weeks. She can't recall with exactitude the shape of his mouth or the seams of his scars. Sometimes, the memories feel like a dream: the way he'd stroke her hair and hum her a lullaby; the way his hands would enfold hers when she struggled to aim the rifle, or steady the drill; the way he'd sit at her bedside, reading a storybook, when she was scared or feverish. Those memories are a salve, soothing the hurt.

Then the fever breaks and it returns. The guilt. The anger. The hurt.

He's found someone else.

He doesn't love me anymore.

I'm not worth saving, or keeping, or—

Jinx's thoughts are a vortex. But Silco's voice is a hook. It drags her back. Back to the moment she saw him in the rainfall, the flames eating closer and closer, Vi gone and Vander fallen. She'd been sobbing, begging, absolutely alone, and he'd stood there. His face was a Jack-o-lantern: glowing eye and jagged teeth and a knife tucked behind his sleeve.

And Jinx had wondered, in a delirious haze: Is this how I die?

And the answer had come.

Not from her. From him.

"It's okay."

His arms enfolding her, a shield against the rain. His breath, soft and smoky in her ear. The shape of his palm, gentle against her spine. The smell of cigarettes and gunmetal and blood in the weave of his coat. His heartbeat, a counterpoint to hers. The words he'd said. The realest thing in the world.

"We'll show them."

"You're safe."

"You're home."

And, cradled in his embrace, Jinx had closed her eyes and believed.

Now, with her head in her hands, Jinx lets out a shuddering breath. Then another. Then another. Until she's no longer trembling. Until the tears have stopped.

Until her choice is made.

She's had enough.

Enough of hiding, and running, and losing. Enough of the pain and the nightmares and the ghosts. Enough of feeling alone, and scared, and forgotten. Enough of the grief and the fear and the hate.

She wants it gone.

And she knows how to get it done.

****

Dear Jinx—

If I may be so bold as to call you that,

I know we've had our share of misunderstandings. Truthfully, I cannot blame you. I understand you were hurt in the past. And I understand your suspicion, as I'm sure it has been warranted. Like your father, you have a reputation for a long memory. And yet I also know your father is a man of his word. That he has a sense of honor, and humor, and loyalty. That, above all else, he is a man who will do anything for his family.

Perhaps that is why I agreed to our union. For, although the idea was mine, the decision was his. When I told him of my desire to see both our cities prosper, he did not hesitate. He accepted my proposal the same night. I think, deep down, he has always wanted this: two cities that share a common cause, and a shared legacy. And I am glad he chose to accept my offer, as it is a chance to make it so.

Not just for our cities. But for us.

Family means different things to different people. For some, it is a blood tie. For others, a bond. And for still others, a choice. To me, the definition is rather simple: family is the place where you belong. The people who care about you, and who are willing to protect you, no matter the cost. To whom you owe a debt of gratitude. And whose debt, in turn, you are honor-bound to repay.

As your father's bride-to-be, and as your future stepmother, I want to make a vow to you.

I promise to never leave you. I promise to do everything in my power to keep you safe. I promise to care for you, and hear you, and see you.

In short, I promise to be your family. If you'll have me.

With sincere hopes of seeing you soon,

Mel Medarda

P.S.

I've included a painting, which I hope will serve as a gift. I've titled it: "Something Blue."

Please let me know what you think.

P.P.S.

I hope the wrapping paper suits your taste.

It's not easy to find a pattern with pink explosions.

****

The wedding is a spectacular affair.

The logistics are a nightmare, and it has taken weeks of coordination between Piltover and Zaun to streamline the process. Everything from security checks to seating arrangements to catering is meticulously planned. The event is meant to symbolize the future: two cities united by a common goal. In the spirit of this partnership, the nuptials are hugely publicized.

They are also split between both cities.

In Piltover, it's a regal, understated affair. The time is late-morning, under the blue curve of a cloudless sky. The venue is the grandest hall in the city, an ancient estate whose history dates back to the mercantile era. Beneath a classical pavilion of limestone and marble, a close-knit collection of guests are present: Councilors, nobles, diplomats. In a testament to the changing times, they rub shoulders with Zaunite dignitaries: chem-barons and clan leaders, who've traded their usual flamboyant finery for sober suits and demure dresses.

A few steps away, Sevika and her blackguards stand at attention.

Jinx, as predicted, is absent.

Silco's eyes scan the scenery. Behind his ribs: a pang.

He can't help it.

Today's ceremony, pure spectacle, is still a step forward. For Piltover, and Zaun. A step he'd planned to take, but not alone.

Not alone, but with his little blue urchin hanging off his arm—

"Ready, sir?"

Silco turns. Sevika, in a smart deep-viridian suit, regards him inquisitively.

Silco squares his shoulders, and nods.

"Let's get this over with."

Sevika gestures, and the doors swing open. Silco steps out. The sun is a brilliant glare. The flashbulbs are a barrage of gunfire. He and his entourage are instantly besieged by the press. Everyone wants a close-up of his nuptial finery: a black double-breasted charcoal, sleek and slim-cut, with a burgundy silk waistcoat and matching gold accents. His slicked-back hair is neatly-styled, and his eyepatch boasts a glinting blue stud.

An accessory—or a tribute.

Depends on who's asking.

"Chancellor Silco! Any final words before the big event?"

"Any last-minute jitters?"

"Is it true your bride-to-be is pregnant?"

"Will Jinx not be attending?"

Silco's good eye cuts like a blade. The questions taper off. The reporters fall back.

Satisfied, Silco walks on.

At the altar, the officiant is waiting. A string quartet plays a lusterless traditional hymn. The guests have taken their designated spots. The air is a shimmer of sunlight and a buzz of whispers.

Silco keeps his posture straight and his expression bland. But his eyes stay alert, scanning the crowd, searching for a flash of blue, a peek, a hint—

A hush descends.

The quartet strikes up the familiar strains of a marching waltz. The bridesmaids, a trio of gilded cream-clad swans, are gliding down the aisle. Silco keeps his gaze straight ahead, on the ornate mirrored archway at the end of the aisle. It shows, between its curlicued filigree, a view of the courtyard behind him. Its stone pathways and leafy hedges are a lush green maze. Beyond it is the Topside cityscape: a dazzling vista of rooftops, spires, and the glittering sea beyond.

Silco's gaze shifts, and settles.

His lip curls at the corner.

Mel is here.

As ever, she is radiant. Her dress is a masterpiece. A sumptuous ivory gown, cut in a classic bias-cut silhouette and embellished with an intricate golden overlay and delicate floral detailing. Her features are dusted as if with stardust. A golden band affixes the diaphanous veil to her richly-coiffed updo. She holds no bouquet. Instead, she is the sprig of flowers in motion, the enticing waft of jasmine and hyacinths suffusing the air with every step. As she approaches, she looks every inch the Noxian noble: chin up, gaze direct, each motion unerringly graceful.

At the altar, she takes her place.

Her fingers, fleeting, skim Silco's knuckles.

"Hello, Chancellor," she says, a coy purr.

Wryly, Silco tips his head. "Councilor."

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Just passing through."

The officiant clears his throat. The crowd hushes.

The ceremony begins.

The vows are conducted with somber dignity, and conclude with a chaste kiss. Afterward, the bride and groom lead the procession down the aisle, arm-in-arm, amidst a storm of confetti and camera flashes. Outside, a motorcade surrounds a lone limo, the black lacquer gleaming under the sunlight.

The newlyweds slip, soundlessly, into the backseat. The doors slam shut.

And they're off.

They travel along the coastal road, parallel to the scenic blue seaside. The motorcade keeps a discreet distance. In the limo, the couple sit side-by-side. Their smiles are stiff. Their muscles, frozen into pleasantly neutral masks, need time to thaw. Then their eyes meet, and formality gives way to something else.

Their lips twitch. Their expressions quaver. They both turn away. They can't help it.

Silco bites the inside of his cheek.

Mel struggles to maintain her composure.

But the visage is cracked. And the flood is inevitable.

The laughter escapes in a rush. Mel's hand flies to her mouth, her shoulders quaking. Silco lets his head loll back against the headrest. The pale curve of his Adam's apple thrums with a chuckle. The car continues, a sleek black bullet, slicing through the cityscape.

Their gazes meet sidelong.

Mel twines her fingers with Silco's. He squeezes, once.

The partition between them and the driver's seat rolls down.

"Where to, Mister S?" Dustin asks.

Silco smiles.

"Home," he says.

In Zaun, twilight slips like a silk stocking down bare skin. The Undercity, in a display of festive splendor, is decked out in fairy lights. Zaunites relish a good spectacle. A wedding is always a riot. And this one's rare as black diamonds. The bride is a Topsider. The groom is a Zaunite. The most unlikely pair in the most unlikely story.

There's already a betting pool.

Odds 3: 1 for a marriage of convenience.

Odds 2: 1 for love match.

Odds 1: 1 for a marriage borne of a single night's indiscretion.

But everyone agrees on one thing. It'll be a miracle if this doesn't end in disaster.

Meantime, hope springs eternal. So does booze.

The wedding party is held at the Last Drop. The club, decadently decked in red and black, is packed to the rafters. A livewire band plays the Sumpside Waltz. Dancers sway exuberantly to the beat. There is laughter and ribaldry; parlor games and prize fights; bed-hopping and burlesque. It's a celebration the likes of which hasn't been seen in years.

Not since Zaun's ascension.

In a private lounge upstairs, a handful of guests have gathered. They are an eclectic mix: clan leaders, business tycoons, merchants, all with a stake in Zaun’s finances. A toast, a bit of networking, and the party will resume. Meanwhile, a line of bodies—admiring, avaricious, or just plain curious—are queuing up to pay tribute to the bride.

Mel sits, a picture of poised elegance, receiving their well-wishes. At the outset, she was dressed in a sequined black-and-gold gown. The bodice was intricately embroidered with pearls, and her train was a glittering, trailing cascade of crystals. Then, as the hours waxed, the costume was peeled away, strip by tantalizing strip, until the gown lay in a shimmering pool at her feet. Her true garb, emerging from the translucent carapace, is a dramatic jet-black number, exquisitely-tailored, with a sheer panel cutting a daring swathe from décolletage to belly, and a deep slit riding each thigh. The back is a dramatic, plunging swoop. At her brow is a gold diadem with a single black diamond. Her lips are red, her eyes are lined with kohl, and her feet are encased in a pair of heels so sharp they could cut a man's neck.

It's a far cry from the pristine Piltovan bride she'd played above. Here, in Zaun, she is a siren of sinful splendor. The sight of her elicits lingering stares.

For a Topsider, the Eye's new missus is packing serious heat.

Silco, idling by the mantelpiece, is a picture of louche elegance in a smoky bespoke suit. The lapels and button-holes are edged with gold brocade. His cravat is pinned by a single blue gemstone. His hands are encased in sleek leather gloves, the hems studded with matching blue buttons. A cut-glass of bourbon rests loosely in his grip.

He and Mel have spent the evening tag-teaming. She is the center of attention, the shining lure. He is her shadow, the sharp-eyed hook. They'd prearranged the dance beforehand. A flirtatious smile from Mel, a wry aside from Silco, and their targets are snared. Soon, conversation transitions from platitude to business. By the time the Old Hungry strikes nine, Silco and Mel have secured a slew of new investments. And the party is just getting started.

Two cities: one agenda.

In between, they trade veiled glance. There's no missing the glow in Mel's eyes. The fire, simmering low. The promise, implicit and enticing. It's a look he knows all too well. One he's yet to tire of. And yet, with the nuptials still fresh, he finds his mind drawn elsewhere.

The party is in full swing. The hour is late.

Jinx is nowhere.

He'd known it would be a long shot. The chances of her showing up had been slim. The chances of her appearing as a happy-go-lucky bridesmaid had been infinitesimal. Still, the fact that she'd stayed away—

Silco's grip tightens around the glass.

"Silco?"

He turns. Mel regards him from beneath her lashes.

"For a bridegroom," she says, "yours is a singular scowl."

Silco's mouth curves, wry.

"I thought we'd agreed," he says. "Tonight, you'll smile for the both of us."

"If I smile any more, I'll split a seam."

"On your dress? I'd pay good money to see that."

"That's why I had it tailored with your tastes in mind."

Mel runs an idle finger along the sheer neckline. Silco's eye follows the movement, then flickers up. Their stares lock. Mel's expression softens.

"Dance with me."

"Now?"

"Of course, now."

The band is playing a languid waltz. The dance floor is dotted with a handful of guests. It's the perfect opportunity to make a discreet exit. And yet—

Silco hesitates.

Mel, seeing the conflict, modulates her tone.

"Please?"

Silco sets his drink down. He offers his hand. She rises and slips her fingers though his.

On the dance floor, she lays her cheek against his shoulder. They sway in a graceful circle. They've spent the day trading pleasantries and playing the game. It's tiresome, but they're both old hands. Thankfully, the night is drawing to a close. Soon, their guests will depart. And they can finally rest.

And, finally, have a moment alone.

"She'll come around," Mel murmurs.

"Hm?"

"Jinx. She'll come around. Later, if not sooner."

Silco's lips twitch, a bitter reflex.

"Your optimism is a wonder to behold."

"I can hardly let your pessimism have a monopoly on the market." She smooths his lapel, and sobers. "I understand. Neither of us is much for ceremony. But having family at one’s back. It makes a difference. Part me wishes my mother could see this."

"See what, exactly? You, in a hellpit."

"Me, brokering a historic truce. The start of something greater. Better."

"Truce is not a word the Medardas esteem."

"That doesn't make it less valuable." Her eyes dip. "Times like this, I wish she could see me. Not the heir she wanted. The person I've become."

Silco's palm settles on the small of her back.

"She sees you," he says.

"Just not the way she would've liked."

"Her loss."

Mel lifts her gaze to his.

"I see you," he says softly.

A flicker, there and gone. Then, Mel melts into his embrace. They glide together in the glow of the neon lights.

By midnight, the festivities are ebbing. The guests, trailing congratulations and well-wishes, trickle out. Sevika, who's been keeping guard by the entrance, comes up and makes a discreet report.

"No sign of her, sir."

Silco nods, once.

"Should I alert the crew?"

Silco shakes his head. "That won't be necessary."

"You're sure?"

Again, a single nod. He knows Jinx. Tonight's vanishing act isn't a warning, but a rebuke. He has no idea where she is. And if he did, he'd still keep his distance. If he's going to reach her, it won't be by coercion or cajolery. The choice must be hers.

In the meantime, he will wait.

Sevika's eyes are on him, a knowing appraisal.

"I'll have the crew check in on her tomorrow," she says, preempting his order.

"Do," Silco says.

Sevika nods. "Enjoy the rest of your night, sir."

She turns on her heel.

"Sevika."

Sevika glances over her shoulder, irreproachably aloof.

"Thank you," Silco says, quietly.

Her gaze, level, softens a fraction.

"You're welcome, sir."

Silco watches her leave. Then, a light touch on his elbow.

"Are you finished?"

Silco turns.

Mel's eyes are bright circlets of green and gold beneath heavy lids. Her updo is unraveling into sultry corkscrews. Her dewy make-up has begun to fade. Her costume—because that's what her risqué little get-up was: a costume to match the theme of tonight's theatrics—is a study in artful disarray: the bodice unlaced, the straps slipping, the buttons undone. She's practically an avatar of Undercity debauchery. And, Silco knows, she is reveling in it. Shedding the trappings of decorum, and coming alive. It's the side of her she typically keeps under wraps: the sybarite. A side he's always known was there.

In baring it now, she's not only privileging him with her trust. She's inviting him to join her. To play. To lose himself, a little. Forget, for a night, his worries.

And, perhaps, a little, the hurt.

"Your ride is ready," Mel says, a breath against his ear.

"Ride? Well, well. You're already picking up our vernacular."

"I wasn't referring to the limo."

"What then?"

Mel's lashes lift, a slow, inviting sweep.

"Three guesses," she whispers. "And the first two don't count."

Silco says nothing.

He only encircles her, and guides her deep into the shadows.

The limo drive to his private quarters is a torturous tease. The doors are barely shut before Mel's mouth is on his, hot and seeking. Silco's palms are gliding up her thighs. Their journey back is a breathless blur of lips and teeth and tongue, and Mel, in her lapse, letting loose a throaty little wail.

Silco smiles and drags his teeth down the arc of her throat.

Dustin, beet-red, has long rolled up the partition.

Upstairs, they slip arm-in-arm through the doors. The apartment is a sprawling maze, a sumptuous affair of black, mahogany and gold. The Art Noveau furnishings are elegant, the artwork striking. Mel spares a cursory glance, then sheds her heels. Silco shrugs off his jacket and begins to undo his waistcoat. She beats him to it, her palms, a whisper of satin, coasting down his torso. Fingers, deft, undoing the buttons on his trouserfront. Her mouth against his, a slow burn of need. The kind that goes on and on, steeping and simmering. The kind that's been under the skin all night, waiting to be let loose.

Silco's hands, encased in leather, skate down her spine.

He knows the feeling.

Without warning, he traps her wrists behind her back. Mel's breath catches. He takes her mouth, sliding his tongue inside and sucking out all the heat he can find. She cries out, a delicious contralto, and his teeth close around her lower lip. Her scent is a cloud of sweet heady motes—hyacinths, smoke, champagne, sweat—and he breathes her in.

"What do you want?" he whispers.

"You," she gasps.

"How?"

"Any way you like."

Silco drags his mouth away only to bite the hollow of her throat.

Then he backs her, dark-eyed, toward the bedroom.

Afterward—a languorous stretch of bodies, tangled sheets, and ragged sighs—Mel lays her cheek against his shoulder. Her body is a sated spill of sweat-sheened silk. Her hair is spread in a dark cloud across his chest. Idly, Silco loops a finger into one of the curls. She sighs, a spent little hum.

"Extraordinary night," she says.

"Hmm."

"The media likely took enough photographs to fill an album."

"Likely."

"And my mother will burn every single one."

"Doubtless."

"And between Piltover and Zaun, we've amassed enough enemies to start a civil war."

"Mm-hmm."

Mel nudges his jaw with her temple. "So. Overall, would you call it a success?"

Silco's smile is a ghostly twist.

"I'd call it a marriage." The twist deepens. "Shame, though, about your dress."

"I'm sure I'll find its shreds between your teeth."

"The wrapping never tastes as sweet as what's inside."

"Mm, flatterer."

She nestles closer. Silco, his good eye sliding shut, enfolds an arm around her.

It's a moment of strange incongruity. An entire day spent conducting themselves according to the strictest rules of decorum and shrewdest stratagems. The next, nakedly twined in bed, exchanging lazy barbs and banter. In a few hours, they'll wake, and enclose themselves back into their respective armors. Silco will slither into his tailored suits, Mel will pour herself into her sumptuous gowns, and together, they'll don the mantles of rulership. They will play their parts. They will conduct themselves without fault. They will carry on.

Until the next time, they can be alone.

The dynamics of their old affair, he thinks, remain intact. It's only the intimacy that's inverted

Something new. Something stronger. And the thought—of being known, and strong, and seen—makes him...

Mel's lips nuzzle his collarbone.

"Where are you, husband?"

Silco opens his good eye. The window, half-open, throws a pale rhombus across the bedspread. Outside, the cityscape is a mapwork of neon, as familiar as the lines on his palm.

"Here," he says. A wry aside: "Wife."

"I've always preferred the term 'Ball & Chain.'"

"Sounds like one of Jinx's pejoratives."

"Does it now." Mel's lips are a petaled curl against his shoulderblade. "Have I told you what the media are calling Mother?"

"This ought to be good."

"Zaun's Monster-in-Law."

Silco blinks. A beat, and a scoff breaks loose. Mel's smile blooms full, and she buries her laughter against his skin. It's been a long day, and a longer night. Now, passions spent and tension drained, there's only this: a rare, tactile, transitory joy. Hell, Silco thinks, if this is his wedding night, it hasn't been such a bad one. Not if he can still smile. And, for a moment, forget the ache.

For himself. For Mel. And for—

A burst of blue is framed by the windowpane. The crackling boom holds an eerie echo.

Silco goes still.

Mel stirs. "Was that a rocket?"

Adrenaline sluices. Silco disentangles himself.

"Stay inside," he says, and slips from the bed.

Mel sits up, watching as he drags on his trousers. Barefoot, he creeps out into the balcony. The night holds a biting chill. The sprawl of rooftops is silvered by the moonlight. A surreal haze of blue flecks floats in the air.

Bemused, Silco sniffs. There is the unmistakable whiff of gunpowder.

A premonition coils down his spine.

"Silco?" Mel, draped in one of his shirts, is standing by the threshold. "What's going on?"

Instinctively, Silco pivots to drag her back inside. His ears have already caught the low whump of a second rocket being launched, followed by the whistling shweeee as it arcs through the air.

"Down!" he snaps. "Get down!"

Encircling Mel, he dives for the floor. The round passes almost directly overhead, erupting fifty feet beyond them. The atoms in the airwaves jostle. The explosion echoes across the rooftops. In the ringing silence that follows, Silco's mind races. Two rockets in rapid succession. His place of residence targeted. Either it's a coup, or a terrorist attack, or—

Beneath him, Mel gasps, "Look."

Silco follows her gaze. Tiny pink lights, like fireflies, float through the air. They suffuse the cityscape with a kaleidoscopic glaze. Then, with a series of pops and hisses, the lights erupt into fireworks. A spray of corkscrewing sparks. A dazzling, dizzying, disorienting dreamscape.

Silco drags himself to his feet. Slowly, he approaches the balcony's railing. Mel, finding her feet, follows. Her shock is palpable.

Then it happens again.

A third rocket blasted skyward on a straight trajectory. The velocity peels it to nothing but a needle of smoke. At the top of the arc, the missile detonates. A bloom of cobalt explodes, a starburst of light.

Then, a cascade of blue teardrops.

Each one blooms in different patterns. Some spread with the slow-motion tendrils of a breath of frost on glass. Some erupt into a spray of butterflied shards. Others plume into a cloud of shimmering spangles.

The effect is hypnotic.

Each missile, when it is fired, has an intense familiarity. A single shot, a precise aim. Silco recognizes it in an instant.

Then he sees her.

Jinx.

She crouches, elfin, on an adjacent rooftop. Fishbones is slung over her shoulder, a sharklike silhouette. Her braids, wind-tossed, dance to separate tangents. Her face, tilted skyward, is a picture of glee. She watches the fireworks with a rapture so total, so triumphant, that Silco is struck still. His heart, in his throat, beats a drumroll. But what's most overwhelming is the sense of relief, because—

Jinx fires the last rocket. It arcs and detonates into a pyrotechnic delirium, umbrellas of brilliants color blooming open against the dark. The haze drifts back and forth. Jinx, her handiwork done, stands. A small, solitary silhouette, the moon washing over her like a baptismal tide.

Her head swivels. Her eyes lock with Silco's.

Her smile takes a shot and scores a direct hit.

In a blur, she is gone.

"Jinx," Silco breathes.

Mel, enfolding her arm through his, whispers, "Something Blue."

He stirs. "What?"

Mel's features, glossed in the radiant blue remnants, are soft. "It's the painting I sent Jinx. 'Something Blue.' It featured a panoramic view of Zaun. Bathed in blue, like the aftermath of a fireworks display. I chose the color with care. I wanted it to be the same hue as the Hex-Gates. But also to capture the shifting shades of Jinx's hair. I think I was hoping to convey a sense of homecoming." Mel's eyes lift to his. She smiles wistfully. "Now I realize that I was looking for the wrong hue. Jinx did a better job than I could've imagined."

"You—sent her a painting?"

"I did." Mel squeezes his arm. "I told her I'd like us to be a family. That I was hoping we could all belong. Together."

"I see." Silco's jaw flexes. "Did she reply?"

"She didn't have to."

Mel's stare returns to the sky, a dappled mosaic of lights. "I find booms to be a popular Zaunite mode of discourse."

Silco stays silent for a moment. Then, he dares a smile.

"You might," he says, "be on to something."

The fireworks fade, the glitter dissipating on the wind. Soon, all that's left is the lingering waft of gunpowder. And a city, brighter, somehow, in its glow.

Silco and Mel, side-by-side, contemplate the vista.

Jinx's gift, for the world to see. And, in its own way, a sign.

Blue means forgiveness.

Blue means family.

Blue means home.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane sevika #sevika #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

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