Chapter Text
Kayn's heart beats so hard in his chest it's a wonder Ezreal couldn't hear it rattling around in his armor. He feels about ten seconds from throwing it up into his hands just so he can offer it out to his prince.
Gods but he's so beautiful.
Nothing in this life could have prepared him to see Ezreal wrapped in his cloak, protecting the fine white and gilded lace underneath. His features had sharpened in the years apart, refining from something sweet and mischievous to a face that could start a war.
Kayn would start and end any war for him.
He's going to win this tournament for him – he was already planning to, but just the thought of the ribbon in his hair sets his blood on fire.
Ezreal can't know what it means to him. Can't know how the distance had eaten at him, clutching his letters close until the whiffs of perfume on them faded away. Gasping awake in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of not being there to stop something from happening to Ezreal.
Can't know of the times Kayn has taken himself in hand at night in the quiet barracks, lip caught between his teeth as he burns with shame, picturing Ezreal's hands on him. Knowing that his idle fantasies are futile at best and dangerous at worst.
But Ezreal had never looked at him like that before.
The sultry gaze on his face as Kayn had turned around, melting into pure adoration. The brilliant flush on his face as Kayn dared to kiss his hand.
He still can't believe he'd done that. He'd be whipped a dozen times over for his impertinence if the Lord Regent saw him.
But it would be worth every lash to capture the expression of shy pleasure on his prince. He'd bleed a thousand times over and replay that little hitch of breath in his mind with every heartbeat.
He knew that seeing Ezreal again after so long was going to lay him low – but he still wasn't ready.
Not for the way they fell into step so easily, teasing jests spilling like they'd never spent a day apart. Not for the way Ezreal's short nails scratched against his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as he pet Kayn like a favored dog.
Certainly not for the command to kneel – as if he needed to be commanded to spend his every waking moment on his knees at the pleasure of his prince. As if he could ever forget his proper place, where he has so desperately yearned to be these past years. He'd beg to hear it again, anywhere, anytime, for any reason.
But he doesn't need to beg. Ezreal, his sweet prince, offers it freely. Throws himself into the embrace of a knight with no land, ties his favor into Kayn's hair with his own hands. Brands him as his champion, giving him all the courage he could ever need to face the other knights.
How could he fail now, with the strength of his prince's faith?
It's simple, he can't. There is nothing in this life that will stop him.
The other champions offer him little more than a fleeting glance as he strides into the tent near the staging grounds – he doesn't expect much more than that. A green knight, and a commoner at that, participating in his first tournament. Clad in pure black rather than the white and gold of his adoptive country, as though he couldn't even find a sponsor.
But underestimating him will be their mistake.
“Alright champions, gather round!” the handler calls them over, waving impatiently as much clanking ensues. “Most of you are aware of the procedures already, but we have a bit of new blood today.”
Smirks aimed at him. He ignores them, drums his fingers along the edge of his helm and nods his thanks.
“There will be four rounds of combat to determine a victor, the winners and losers of the first rounds will fight their match in the second.” He sweeps his gaze over them, Piltover, Demacia, Ionia, and Kayn. His voice is firm as he reminds them, “It is not our intention to lose lives this day. Fight until the round has been called, but inflict no mortal wounds.”
Kayn can certainly do that – he's been getting the hell beaten out of him with blunted swords for the last decade.
“You may use any weapon of your choosing, and any magic at your disposal, provided you do not seek the death of your opponent.”
Also quite doable – he has no intention of phasing inside the body of any of the other champions. It's usually a horrific mess for one, but – more importantly – that's something he prays that Ezreal will never have to see him do.
“Do you understand?”
A chorus of assent in the tent.
“Good. The first match will be between the champions from Ionia and Piltover.”
The woman from Ionia catches his eye, sizing him up, but Kayn merely shakes his head and jerks a thumb toward the captain of the kingsguard.
The man is particularly insufferable – Kayn hopes she trounces him.
But that leaves him with the champion from Demacia – who has no doubt been enjoying the presence of his prince around the castle for the last few years. He's a huge man in gleaming plate – his sword looking almost comically small in his hand.
“The second match will be Prince Garen of Demacia, and... Sir Kayn.”
Another prince, then. So he has almost certainly spent considerable time with Ezreal.
The man strides over to him, offering his hand – a first from any of the champions.
“So, you are the Prince's shadow then?” Garen asks as he sizes him up. “I have heard much about you.”
Kayn can only blink at him as he accepts the offered gauntlet. “Uh... you have? Er, sir... prince?”
Garen waves away the title and offers him a smile. “Ezreal spoke quite highly of you, I am looking forward to meeting you in combat.”
The words bring a traitorous blush to Kayn's cheeks as he thinks about his prince running all over a foreign kingdom, telling strangers about Kayn. He wants to bury his face in his hands and scream.
“My prince is too kind,” he laughs instead, “I was still a squire when he left, and a commoner at that.”
“Still. I am familiar with such devotion. My own sister has a similar... companion.”
“May they serve her well.” Kayn inclines his head, feeling terribly wrong-footed in the conversation. “As I hope to serve my prince.”
Garen barks a loud laugh at that, clapping a heavy hand on Kayn's shoulder, nearly sending him staggering. “I'm sure you do... I will have to keep you in one piece for him, as a favor to a friend.”
He grins in return, not letting the light-hearted taunt under his skin.
“I'll try not to jostle your circlet, Sir Garen,” he smirks, nodding toward the sparkling inlay on the man's helmet. “A friend of my prince deserves that much restraint at least.”
They grin at each other for a moment before Garen drops his arm and turns toward the rest of the tent.
“Well, shall we begin?”
The first match is maddening to watch – he's almost ready to accuse it of being rigged in favor of Piltover. The champion from Ionia moves like water, her blades spinning and twirling around her in the sun, drawing gasps and applause from the crowd.
He can see Ezreal in the box of honor next to his uncle, the black cloak now tucked under his own white one. His eyes are wide as he watches the match, looking for all the world like he's trying not to cover his eyes with his fingers.
He never had much of a stomach for violence.
Still, no real blood has been spilled – and the rules of the tournament put Irelia at a significant disadvantage. Kayn can only imagine it's difficult not to kill someone with such a lethal arsenal, leaving her mostly on the defensive as she tries not to maim the captain of the guard.
Of course, the insufferable bastard takes full advantage of her restraint, throwing himself face first into her blades because he has no honor – forcing her to drop her guard to avoid disemboweling him. The match is called in his favor when he lands a ringing blow to her temple – a dirty hit by all accounts – and Kayn spits into the dirt at the stain on the kingdom's honor.
“I won't do that to you,” he assures the Demacian prince, who looks just as disgusted where they lean side by side awaiting their turn.
“I'd let you impale yourself if you tried,” Garen assures him in return, “Pain is the best teacher in war.”
They hardly spare the 'victor' a glance as he strides from the area, choosing instead to offer the Ionian champion their commiseration.
Then it's his turn, and he steps into the midday sun, donning his helmet, braid swinging behind him. A murmur rises among the crowd – a smattering of applause for the Demacian prince as he's announced, and a wave of whistles for Kayn. He's become popular among the commoners, despite his Noxian heritage. Likely because he's often sent as the castle's errand boy to fix mundane issues deemed too unglamorous, messy, or simply not worth it to send a real knight. He's done more than his fair share of catching bandits, digging out stuck carts, and guarding provision deliveries.
And then, of course, there's Ezreal – on his feet with his fingers in his mouth to whistle, loud and shrill, the way he spent countless afternoons trying to teach Kayn to do. The Lord Regent is unamused at his side, but even his sour face washes out under the brilliance of Ezreal's enthusiasm. That blinding grin stokes the embers in Kayn's blood.
Garen huffs a laugh as he strides past Kayn to take up his position. “I have a feeling that's not for me.”
Kayn grins at him before flicking his visor down, taking up his fighting stance.
He hears the herald count them down, takes a deep breath, and fights for his prince.
Afterward he almost feels bad – it was clear that Garen is used to fighting with a much larger sword, leaving his swings wide open as the man constantly overestimated his reach. He wasn't unskilled by any means – but it was enough for Kayn to dart around him, skipping out of range of his sword before diving in to strike a blow against his armor. Truth be told, he'd have been even quicker in leathers than in his plate mail, but he's been trained to move like liquid shadow itself regardless – the difference hardly matters in a contest such as this.
Were it a contest of raw strength, a fight to the death with their preferred weapons, Kayn isn't sure the outcome would be the same. He tells Garen as much, as earnest as he can be.
“Perhaps,” the man concedes with an easy smile, “but I certainly hope to never test that. You fight well, and bring honor to your prince.”
Kayn can't help but flush with pride – it means more coming from someone who knows battle... who knows Ezreal. From someone who likely protected his prince when he couldn't.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” Garen tells him, low and sly, “Do me a favor and trounce your captain.”
“He's not my captain,” Kayn balks, feeling slimy at the comparison, “I serve the prince, not the kingdom.”
“Even better.”
The distinction is abundantly clear when he steps back into the arena for the final event – white and glimmering gold across from oily black. He offers Ezreal a salute as he's announced again – this time to a roaring crowd for both combatants. Either way, the kingdom wins in their minds.
Ezreal's hand dips into his pocket to pull out a little black scrap – waving the ribbon at Kayn for luck. He reaches back to touch the ribbon tied in his braid in return, drawing a scoff across the way.
“Putting ribbons on dogs now?” his opponent sneers, spitting into the dirt before he flips his visor shut. “Don't forget your place just because your master is back.”
Kayn smiles at him, thinking of the visceral joy of kneeling at Ezreal's feet.
“Don't worry, I won't.”
The herald counts them down once more, the crowd roaring with anticipation as he calls the start of the fight.
His opponent lunges, much like he had against Irelia, but Kayn has no such qualms about injuring him... within reason.
It's easy to sidestep his first thrust, turning his blade aside before kicking at his knee to send him staggering.
If he wants to treat Kayn like a wild dog, then he's going to have to fight one.
He comes up with a wild swing that would carve through leather and bone, sending Kayn skipping back a step again. Kayn keeps his sword at the ready as he circles, slipping around to the side to keep the man turning. It's not hard to slide under his offhand guard and clip him in the joints of his armor – ensuring the man will be bruised but unbloodied tomorrow.
The crowd roars each time Kayn gets a hit in, a combined gasp as he ducks a swing that would have rattled his head into the next century.
Regardless of how technically skilled the captain is, it's clear that the outcome is inevitable. The man is older, tiring already. Frustrated. Kayn can see the rage in his eyes ready to boil over.
“Fight me like a man!” he snarls, charging at Kayn with his sword out.
If Kayn could politely decline, he would. He doesn't want anything to do with the type of manhood that causes this . Instead he catches the tip of his sword and pivots – spinning away from him as he reaches to slap the flat of his blade against the captain's chest guard in a ringing clang.
His triumph at the sound is short lived though. He kicks himself for not expecting the hand that wraps around the middle of his braid as it follows the arc of his motion.
Time slows as he sees the gauntlet tighten on it, yanking him back into an oncoming sword. It likely won't kill him – though it is aimed for his head. If it slips into his visor he's done for. Even a skittering blow into the chain at his throat could be crippling.
He hears the crowd gasp, the terrified shout of his name.
It's not worth the risk to see if he could dodge it – though he probably could.
Especially not when he can simply-
Dissolve.
Half a heartbeat of delicious, hilarious shock as his braid vanishes into a puff of shadow.
Another as he pours himself through the shadow below the captain of the guard, seeping through the edges of his body as lightly as he can, careful to leave no trace. He gathers himself back from the shadows on the other side, materializing in a wispy swirl rather than his usual messy exit.
A quick kick to the already over-extended captain's back, and the man sprawls into the dirt. Then it's a matter of planting a boot on his back and leveling his sword to rest against that fine armor.
All in all, a matter of seconds.
The crowd erupts into chaos before the herald even announces a victor, shrieking and cheering, waving their pennants and chanting his name.
They'd be horrified to see him use his shadows properly, but he supposes everyone can appreciate a shadow when they think the shadow is fighting for them.
“The victor – Sir Kayn!”
He pulls his helmet off and removes his boot from the captain's back, offering a hand down. It's ignored, as expected, and the man hauls himself to his feet before stalking off toward the tent.
Kayn doesn't bother to watch him leave, striding instead toward his waiting prince.
Ezreal's face holds a million emotions as he approaches the box and drops to a knee – pride and awe among them, but thankfully not a drop of terror to be found.
“My prince, the victory is yours.”
His prince stands and leans over the railing until his slim fingers catch the underside of Kayn's chin – so delicate as he turns Kayn's face up to him. His eyes are unbearably fond.
Kayn would die for him. Kill for him. Live every breath for him.
“My knight,” Ezreal murmurs, just for him. Then calls out, his voice ringing into the arena. “My good people, your Champion – Sir Kayn!”
A cacophony of cheering like Kayn has never known before. He can feel his cheeks heating, keeping his eyes locked on Ezreal's as his prince beams at him.
“You did well,” his prince tells him with a smile, withdrawing his hand and turning to pluck something from behind him. Kayn mourns the loss of his touch immediately.
“Thank you, my prince.” He tries to keep his face impassive, feeling the weight of the Lord Regent's stare on him. “I fight for your honor.”
The prince laughs as he turns back around, a white rose in his hand. His thumb worries at a thorn for a moment, before he hums to himself and plucks a silk handkerchief from inside his lacy shirt.
“Here, for your victory, Sir.” He hands Kayn the rose, its stem now wrapped in perfumed silk. “Careful of the thorns.”
It takes every ounce of self control Kayn has not to shove his face into the scrap and inhale his prince's scent. Instead he cocks an eyebrow at his plate gauntlets, careful not to crush the delicate petals. “Duly noted.”
A harsh clearing of the throat finally pulls his attention away, and he meets the unamused gaze of the Lord Regent, calm and steady.
“Sir Kayn... congratulations.”
“Thank you, Lord Lymere.”
“I'm certain you must be exhausted. Please, feel free to take your leave and enjoy the festivities.”
Kayn tastes the dismissal in the offer and accepts it with more grace than he feels, rising to his feet in front of them with a nod.
He tries not to feel too smug at the way Ezreal pouts at him, an echo of his spoiled childhood companion.
“Yes, please rest, my knight,” Ezreal tells him, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he gestures to the bouquets still being thrown from the stands around them. “You've earned an evening to enjoy the flowers.”
“As you wish, my prince.” Kayn bows again, turns on his heel, and strides back toward the tent with a smile.
He'll take them up on the offer – he is tired. Stepping through the shadows under the midday sun is particularly taxing.
Besides, he has a feeling it's going to be a long night.
It’s a relief like none he’s ever known when the prince meets him in the garden under the faint light of the moon, his pale skin practically glowing. A thrill through him that, even now, they still read each other so well.
The evening had been an annoyance that Kayn hadn't counted on – that winning the tournament would mean being seated away from Ezreal at a congratulatory feast, rather than being allowed his place at his prince's back. To be so close to him and yet unable to really have him back was a special kind of torment.
Still, he hadn't touched the mead, despite the urging of the other knights. He's spent too long waiting for his prince to return to dull his senses now.
Ezreal had thrown promising smiles his way, even as someone else tasted the first bite from his plates, making something twist uncomfortably in Kayn's chest. The rest of the evening had been a waiting game, idly watching the dancers and brushing off the serving girls offering more than their wine. It wasn't until the prince had announced that he was retiring for the evening that Kayn could be excited about much.
From there it was a matter of slipping away from the festivities in the barracks. Enjoying the flowers indeed.
“Kayn?” Ezreal whispers into the darkness, eyes sweeping right over where Kayn leans against the tree in just his buckskin pants and a loose vest. “Are you out here?”
He can't resist slipping through the darkness around him, materializing behind Ezreal and dipping low to whisper into his ear. “ No. ”
Ezreal's shriek could nearly wake the dead – even muffled as it is against the palm that Kayn slaps over his mouth.
“You bastard!” Ezreal hisses, clutching his chest as he whirls on him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Kayn bows before him, offering a solemn look. “Apologies, my prince. I was merely testing your senses... you failed, by the way.”
“You can literally disappear.” Ezreal pokes him in the chest, eyes rolling. “Is that what you wrote about? How do you even do that? Can I learn to do that?”
“Yes, magic, and no,” Kayn tells him and reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Trade secrets.”
In reality, there's no chance in hell Kayn would ever let Ezreal anywhere near the tears of shadow after the agony he'd experienced during his initiation with Master Zed. He wouldn't wish that upon his worst enemy, his entire body had felt like he'd been ripped apart and remade piecemeal.
He'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Ezreal safe.
“Pretty sure I'm allowed to know all your secrets,” Ezreal grumbles, but catches his hand anyway and pulls him deeper into the garden. “But there's more I want to know... tell me everything! What happened while I was away? How are you?”
“I wrote you hundreds of letters,” Kayn laughs at him, hand flexing in memory of the hand cramps it had given him trying not to crush the awful feather pen. “You already know what's been happening.”
“Then just talk to me,” Ezreal demands, petulant and pushy as ever, “I missed your voice.”
And how can Kayn say no to that? When his prince reaches right to the heart of him and strokes gently?
“I missed yours more,” Kayn sighs, squeezing his fingers before pulling him in tight to hook his chin over Ezreal's head. He fits perfectly there, like he was made for Kayn's embrace, melting as he runs a hand up and down that narrow spine. “No one bosses me around like you do.”
“Just you wait,” Ezreal promises him, lips dragging over Kayn's collarbone as he buries his face there, “I'm going to make you do all sorts of ridiculous things for me now... I have years worth of demands to catch up on.”
Kayn buries his smile in Ezreal's hair, taking the promise to heart. “As you wish, my prince.”
“But um... first, I do owe you something.” Ezreal fidgets in his grasp, fingers playing with the end of Kayn's braid, fiddling with the ribbon still tied there.
“Is it a whipping?” Kayn jokes, stroking his thumb along the back of Ezreal's neck to soothe him, “You can keep it if it is.”
“No. It's... it's a Demacian thing,” Ezreal mumbles, and his cheeks are stained with a flush when he pulls back to catch Kayn's eyes. “For the victor of a tournament.”
“Oh? I thought the rose and silk was nice enough for me,” Kayn assures him – not bothering to tell him that he can already picture what's going to happen to that kerchief later in the darkness of his bunk. “You know I fight for you, my prince... not a prize.”
“Well, maybe you'll like this one,” Ezreal insists, his usual stubborn pout making itself known.
“I'm sure I will, if it comes from you.”
That makes Ezreal blush even harder, his hands curled tightly around the braid now as he almost scowls up at Kayn.
“Close your eyes,” he orders.
Kayn complies without hesitation, curious as to what Ezreal could have smuggled out here without much in the way of a satchel. The nervous rustling brings a smile to his lips, and he's just about to tease his prince for it-
A soft press of lips against his. Trembling and hesitant. A new sensation, but somehow familiar all the same. He can't help but inhale sharply, so shocked he can hardly think. Wills himself not to dissolve into shadow on the spot. His hands clench into Ezreal's cloak of their own accord, sliding up until one slips into that silky tumble of hair.
Ezreal shivers against him, his mouth curling into a smile, and Kayn thinks faintly that he should probably kiss back. Thinks that he doesn't even know how.
That it probably doesn't matter anyway, because his prince already knows that.
He presses into it, slow and smiling, groaning as Ezreal parts for him. As they separate and return, sharing breaths, slowly pulling back to look at each other – dazed and flushed and shy.
He doesn't know what to say.
“So, um...” Ezreal titters nervously, running a hand through his own hair. “That's, yeah. Congratulations again. For the tournament.”
For the tournament.
Right.
…
Thank the gods for Ezreal's time spent learning Demacian customs.
“Thank you, my prince.” His voice feels like gravel as he murmurs the words into the night air, doing his best to commit this moment to memory. “I'll win the next for you too.”
Ezreal's smile is a silly thing as he looks up at him, his little hands still clenched onto Kayn's shirt and hair. “Yeah? Good... I’m looking forward to it.”
He wants to lean back down – to seal his word with another kiss.
To make sure no one else ever wins a single tournament where his prince is delivering the prizes.
But the future, and whatever it may bring, can wait.
For now he tucks his prince back under his chin, warding him from the chill of the night. Revels in the sigh against his chest, long and content. The steady tattoo of his own heart beating its devotion to the man who owns him wholesale.
Whatever may come. Whatever he must do for his prince.
It will be worth it.