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Soft Hearts and Electric Souls
Darkness streaked through the streets of Bilgewater, slicing the scene up into a million little sections, painting the landscape ten tones of black and white.
As the night animals prowled, so did the broken hearts.
The stars were gone, even the most vibrant ones hid beneath the shrouds of mist.
The night's not sober as the pale purple attempts to mingle with the dark, and the man slumped against the corner doesn't mind it one bit, as his fingertips search the neck of a whiskey bottle.
The man, from his gold tipped boots to his maroon silk vest, up to his gold tipped brimmed hat doesn't look like he belongs there.
The night is too quiet and without the ringing of the bars or excitement, the air tastes of alcohol and depression. The lanky man is slumped against an alley corner, thinking up a million outcomes that could have happened, but he doesn't question it.
He's a tactical man and he, Twisted Fate, isn't exactly known for spilling much, but for being the lightest hands of all of Valor. He's a thief and a gambler, a swindler and Love's fool.
The man pushes his hat further down upon his locks of braided black hair and he whispered something so lightly into the darkened corners, he didn't even catch the last syllable.
He should have known all along, but at the time, locating the source of problem and resolving the confliction in a manner of disregard had seemed like just the keeper. Now, Twisted Fate no longer knows if he had made the right decision because his heart aches when it shouldn't even have ever hurt.
Twisted Fate had told himself more than ten times over that he was no lover. Perhaps, he was a lover, then he should have known that the lonely moments just get lonelier the longer he's in love.
For once in his life, he had tangoed with one of the most feared assassins out there; the living shadow herself: Evelynn; the Widowmaker.
Everything was going smoother than he could have hoped for and he doesn't deny it that he had tripped himself over his own foot.
Soft hearts and electric souls, Twisted Fate told himself, his sigh ghosting into the night air with mixtures of alcohol and an attempt at disinterest but it fails.
No doubt, the moment he met her, he was immediately struck in place with a kind of feral attraction. Clearly, with her blueish skin and her unearthly hair and sixteen inch waist, she was no human; no, he was her lover.
They had danced, swept the floors until each midnight called.
Until she had dumped him.
The gambler and card master swears once, sharp and lashful and he clutches the side of his head in pain, attempting to block out the slowly surfacing buzzing that was now clouding every inch of his mind and the pain that was gripping his body, setting himself aflame in uneasiness and every negative sensation.
The feeling in his heart is so raw that avoiding it didn't seem like an option, so in response, the man washes himself down with another bottle of liquid. With one swift motion, the bottle is thrown to the ground, left in pieces.
Perhaps it was finally seeing half-clear, that the thief realized that the cobblestone wall is no longer as interesting as he would have liked and he drops his gaze under that gold tipped brimmed hat.
With one spiteful glance down at the collection of empty bottles, he pushes himself unstably to his feet, the world mirrored and disfigured. He swings himself around, brushes off the imaginary dust from his cloak, and he gives a mocking bow to the shadows.
The lanky man would be off soon, but he'll always come right back; day after day, until one day, someone hits him with a wake up bullet or half a gallon of smokescreen.
Lady Luck has given him a fleeting smile, for that stray bullet is arriving real soon, perhaps a little unbalanced and always smoking a cigar, but he'll make it there in one piece with that feral growl and unforgetting grin.
XxX
Life isn't easy as an outlaw on the constant run, in fear of more than a little death. The danger is what filled his veins, that sends him into a kind of feral frenzy of actions.
It's addicting and delicious.
Malcolm Graves, was his name.
The man pats himself for another cigar before lighting in a matter of seconds. He tilts his head upwards for a moment, before he looks around, his prized gun balanced against the base of the ground.
He glances upwards, and his cigar-stained breath ghosts into the air in a thick trail of mist before it dissipates. The outlaw blinks once, hefts up his gun a little higher before he chews on the butt of the cigar.
The sky was still a little light, and the tint of Bilgewater salty seas was in the air. As each wave crashed against the shorelines and docks, it rocked the line of boats in a very subtle manner.
The man sighed, before his posture became undeniably rigid. He reminded himself not to be distracted by the calming sights and attend with the matters at hand first.
He needed to restock his supplies before dusk for one of the more important heists.
If he planned correctly, a fortune was waiting for his taking, and take he will.
As the man glanced up once more at the peaceful night sky, he couldn't help but lose the years of frustration in the sight that seemed too innocent to be true. In his eyes, such a serenity was rare, and he wanted to believe its actual existence and simply inhale in the substance for a few more minutes.
His tongue wet his top lip and he suddenly felt the thirst not for danger, but for a good drink.
As the man's worn boots cracked down the pathways of barnacle-encrusted roads of wood and stone alike, he whistled a small tune of interest.
XxX
When Malcolm Graves opened the door to one of his more favorite pubs, he couldn't help but notice the depressed looking man in the corner.
The hatted man was interesting in a unique way and Graves didn't know where to start, so he told himself that there were many types of lunatics often found within Bilgewater.
Upon further inspection, Graves had to agree that the man's hat was absolutely ridiculous with his overpriced cloak and possibly silk vest. The outlaw then seemed to realize who the thoughts belonged to, glanced at himself once, and decided that questioning his lunacy was a waste of time and effort, so he wasn't going to start pointing fingers just yet.
Although Graves didn't have an eye for clothing, it was none less than clear that the hatted man's attire was expensive; unkempt, but mostly expensive.
This made the man very interested. The hatted stranger vibes of danger of gamble, but mostly depression.
A strange emotion seized the outlaw, and he strained his neck to get a better look at the man.
The man's hat was tipped to just the degrees that Graves could not see his eyes. So, he strained his neck once more, almost tipping his drink over the polished wooden table while doing so.
Perhaps, Twisted Fate was just playing coy, or maybe even luring in another warm body for the night, because he was going exactly against every one of Malcolm Graves' intents, but so tantalizingly and temptingly close that the outlaw had no intent of dropping his gaze or interest.
When Graves wanted to see his eyes and their exact shades of blue, he'd tilt his head to such a degree that it was barely on sight, but so far away that it made the gunman squint, then blink several times before recalculating what he saw, let it slip in mind, then pick off where he left off.
Or perhaps, Twisted Fate wanted to be left to his grief in solitude and think over every moment that could have made it or broke it in his last relationship and he simply didn't want to bother with the task of looking up, or show any signs that he noticed the other man, because he did.
Maybe, it was just a simple concept of showing his disinterest and unfocused mind, but it could have probably passed off as alluring and seductive.
When Graves finally decides to stand up, pick up his double-barreled gun that is as big as his torso, and maybe as heavily so, Twisted Fate's thoughts are half a million miles away, somewhere in between Noxus and Zaun.
The Card Master is floating on a cloud and he can't come down. Every thought started so small, then he couldn't remember why he was there, sipping on his sixth round of ridiculously expensive alcohol and then he's staring at an infusion of cloth and leather, then the tips of a gun barrel.
Bringing his sight up, up the gun barrel where it meets strong and callused hands, and above that a muscular body- his sight blurs once from the intoxication and Twisted Fate is already about to let a banterous or snappy remark slip but he stops.
He rubs his eyes under his brimmed hat, tilts his hat back into its rightful place and returns his gaze back towards his liquid of existence.
The thief and card master doesn't meet the gunman's gaze, but only offers a fleeting glimpse before he's glancing down once again, not quite sure how to place and calculate his current status, so he chooses to avoid it instead.
His hands close around the beverage's bottle and he just keeps looking down, like he's in a soundless white room, waiting on Eternity to knock for him, but he can't, because there is no eternity to chase after and there is only reality to follow by.
Finally, the long and awkward moment passes, with Malcolm Graves forgetting that he's staring at Twisted Fate, and Twisted Fate no longer realizing his concentration has broken, and the miniature cannon in front of him is very much real, physical and not something he can simply wipe off his mind just by shaking his locks of black hair and tilting the edges of his brimmed hat.
Without a word or with the thief's consent, Malcolm Graves pulls the nearest wooden chair over, carefully places his prized gun on the polished surface and sits with a small grunt.
The outlaw pulls out a cigar and fishes out a lighter almost too quickly for the eye- damn, he wished he could do that with reloading bullets- and exhales quickly after inhaling.
Spraying the Card Master in his shroud of cigar content, he offers one to the man with cigarette-stained teeth. Another wisp of white evaporates into the air, and Graves attempts to swallow it back down, before his attention is returned to the hatted man.
Twisted Fate doesn't even look at the aged parchment of the makeshift packaging, before he goes back to looking very much depressed, but now, very much annoyed.
The man doesn't bother to show his annoyance, hoping the other would simply leave him be, or hope he isn't retarded, and got exactly what he meant; that he isn't interested in whatever the other one wanted.
He isn't being tactical for once and he doesn't bother.
Malcolm Graves isn't taking any of it and the father he pushes, the more the thief seems to be shifting away.
At first, it was dumb gut reaction, but now it was completely determination to do exactly what the other man doesn't want, not because Graves isn't that inconsiderate, but because well, gut reaction.
As the outlaw's thoughts go full circle, Twisted Fate ends up taking the cigar into his feather-light fingertips not because he wanted to, but because Malcolm Graves was practically shaking the packaging inches from his nose now.
Twisted Fate hoped that the gunman knew exactly how much mental pain that he was causing him at the moment.
The thief sticks the cigarette between his teeth, exhales somewhat loudly before he goes back to his alcohol studies. Silently, the ghost of a grin crosses Graves' features, and without warning, the man brings the lighter to the end of the stick and lights it, inflicting a tiny groan of protest.
The gunman leans back in his chair before he's tipping it on two back legs, and he's swinging his earth-stained boots upon the perfectly polished surface of the table.
If this bothered Twisted Fate, he doesn't show it.
“You play poker?” Malcolm Graves suddenly asks, tilting his head in the direction of Twisted Fate's attire, where an ace sat, clipped in, one with the hat.
Slowly, Twisted Fate blinks, an almost aggressive and proud expression fills his sharp features before he's dropping it faster than one of Gangplanks gunpowder filled barrels of explosives.
“That's a yes?” Graves asks for confirmation, before he waits more than five seconds in silence, “that's a yes, I suppose,” the man echoes.
As per usual, there is no response from the hatted man and Graves silently curses himself out of the sides of his cigar. He wasn't a man to start conversations and even now, he had the least of idea why he was even bothering with the man; as much as he knew, the lanky man was probably planning to slice his neck with a poker card.
Graves exhales once more, takes his cigar into his pointer and middle finger before his eyes widen, and he's staring at the once clean hat atop of the other man's head. Graves reminded himself that spraying someone who may have use to him with cigarette ashes wasn't the brightest idea, but what was done was done.
“I'm just going to-” The gunman reaches for the jet black and gold rimmed hat, “wipe-”
Then, Twisted Fate is recoiling with a hiss, his body language similar to that of a spooked cat, his hat askew, his blue eyes exposed to the full lighting of the pub.
“Nobody touches the hat,” the man stumbles through the first few syllables before he finishes off with an arrogant drawl.
“Oh....” Graves mutters, distracted by how how otherworldly those eyes are before he retreats with an amused grin, “thought you were mute.”
Twisted Fate fixes the other man with a taunting look before he tilts his hat back into place and brushes his hat slowly, missing the cigar shavings by a miles.
“You are,” Twisted Fate glares at the man, “drunk?”
“You are,” Malcolm Graves mimics, “depressed, why?”
“Nothing that concerns of you.”
“This one's a feisty one!”
“You-”
Malcolm Graves coughs loudly, unable to keep his amusement to himself. He offers his right hand to the other man.
“Malcolm Graves.”
XxX
A few months later-
As the two partners in crime crashed down the pathways of Piltover with the Devil on their trail, Twisted Fate panted heavily, his lanky features wracked with exhaustion, the breath of a last laugh on those lips.
While Malcolm Graves, stopped constantly to shoot bullets back at their pursuers, yelling orders to the wind because Twisted Fate was only taking them as suggestions.
“Glad I'm partners with you, hotshot,” Twisted Fate laughs, tucked underneath his expensive and gold tipped cloak is a striped top hat that looked suspiciously like a certain Piltovian officer's.
Malcolm Graves offers an annoyed huff in response, silently wondering which direction was the lesser poison. When the two men had finally became partners in crime, Graves realized it wasn't the dangers of every day, a little death but rather the always talking, ticking time bomb next to him.
“Hotshot, why the long face?”
“Trying to keep your ass alive, Fate.”
“I look pretty alive to me.”
“I wish you stayed depressed and unloved.”
“That was a low blow, Malcolm,” Twisted Fate mewls, bumping Graves playfully in the shoulder, resulting in a stray bullet that did nothing more than to unfaze the man.
Once again, Graves does not offer up another word, but focuses the life-threatening task at hand. He found that it was often easier to ignore the thief than to go against his words.
“I'm feeling something,” Twisted Fate announced with that charming, trademark smile of Bilgewater, with his pointer finger up to the tip of his hat.
“Our possible death?”
“No, Malcolm.”
“Fate-”
Twisted Fate hums the tune of a old Bilgewater love song, his voice shaken up considerably by the lack of breath and exhaustion.
“Got any clues?”
Malcolm Graves' dark eyes widened suddenly and he slammed into the lankier man without question, dropped, rolled and sent him and the his partners in crime into the ground with breathless groans. Graves' gun crash landed next to them, and his heart gave a small jerk, hoping that it did not break.
Twisted Fate complained loudly about Graves getting his vest muddied as one of Caitlin's bullets streaked by, missing them by a few inches, when the original mark was directed at Twisted Fate's head only seconds back. It would have been fatal and unrecoverable if it had found its mark but Twisted Fate was blind to it all, complaining loudly about his clothes and how Graves had managed to ruin another one of his more expensive ones.
“Think I'm in love,” Twisted Fate suddenly decides, an elbow digging into Graves' stomach, the two sprawled across the concrete ground, panting and tired, “also, think we ought to run.”
“Hey Fate, I think you're right. In fact, I need to tell you something,” Graves murmurs, craning his head to whisper in the thief's ear, lips almost brushing with skin before he pulls back quite suddenly and backhands the man.
As his hand connected with the other man's cheek, the after effects of the action echoes all throughout the streets and bounces off the walls. Not another second passes, and Malcolm Graves is dragging a very complaining and whining and half-shocked card master down the streets, his prized gun in fine condition and back safely in his left hand, his right hand grabbing Twisted Fate by the arm who was shaking red and blue cards at his face threateningly.
“I think I'd love you more if you shut the goddamn up for three whole seconds.”
“Your life and death no matter matters to me.”
“Glad to hear. Quit yapping.”