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Ezreal’s favorite thing in the world is adventure. Exploring ancient tombs and haunted catacombs, chasing after lost artefacts, researching forgotten civilizations, you name it. The world holds far too many secrets for him to sit still like his uncle wishes he would. But the chances of encountering something interesting are objectively pretty low, and he usually ends up returning to base carrying fewer resources than he left with.
His second favorite thing is the crackle of the loudspeaker before announcing a new game of Summoner’s Rift. Now that’s something that gets his pulse rushing with the promise of a good thrill every time without fail. He knows, when he hears that familiar voice echoing across the arena, that he’s in for some fun. Enough personalities and fighting styles out there to keep him on his toes.
Seraphine winks at him when their eyes meet in the fountain. Ezreal loves Seraphine; she’s the only one who’s willing to sing with him while they farm. Everybody else claims that he’s got a terrible singing voice and no sense of rhythm. Seraphine says that too, but she also thinks it’s funny so Ezreal will take what he can get. And she’s kind of cracked. Add that to the list of pros.
This time when they make their way down the bottom lane, though, he’s not exactly focused on that. He’s on the lookout for something much more important, something that makes his heart sing and tricks him into believing he can do poetry—an art he manages to tarnish even more than the former, somehow.
Lux emerges from the dark fog looking perfectly angelic, her golden hair floating behind her like a cloud—or maybe like wings? That fits the angel imagery better, right? She’s with… Jinx, ugh. Well, no matter. Ezreal won’t let her ruin this for him.
“Hey girl, did it hurt?” he starts off, propping his foot up on the head of one of his minions.
She stares at him blankly. Jinx tilts her head; says, “What, this?” and throws a bomb at him.
“What the— Jinx!”
“Ez, c’mon!” Seraphine scolds him as the maniac dissolves into deranged cackling. “Focus!”
“I am focused!”
Fine, maybe the circumstances are holding him back from tapping into his full potential. But that has nothing to do with him, to be clear! You can’t control what your heart longs for, right? And besides, he’s a little tired from his adventuring gig, sue him.
There’s another distraction on the enemy team in the form of their top laner, but Ezreal really has no excuse for that one. They don’t even come close for most of the game, and he swears his heart belongs to Lux anyway. Well, if she’ll take it. Which she doesn’t seem inclined to do. But hey, he’s nothing if not persistent.
It’s hard to miss Sett in a crowd. First because of the ears, yes, but mostly because he’s got the most obnoxious fashion sense Ezreal has ever seen. The man’s obviously never heard of shirts and must think that wearing white pants to a fight is a statement of some kind. By the looks of their top lane, though, he has yet to have been proven wrong.
The thing is the guy is sculpted like a god, so what he chooses to wear has, in Ezreal’s unbiased opinion, minimal effect on the end product. He’ll stare anyway.
Another thing is that people like Sett are, for all intents and purposes, designed to take down people like Ezreal as though they were made of straw, which is exactly what he does the moment he catches him around the corner of the drake’s nest.
“Hey,” he hears as he finds himself face to face with scarlet eyes and a wild grin. He has no time to form an answer, because the next thing he knows he’s being picked up by the waist and launched several feet into the air.
The water muffles the sound of his cracking bones and death comes down on him like a clap of thunder.
Yeah. He’s had better days.
The Pit is hardly a place Ezreal would call pleasant. Rowdy, wild, and crowded are better-suited descriptions—not that there’s anything wrong with such places, but this one’s just a touch too, well… rowdy and wild for his taste. The people here are mostly men, and they all look like they could snap both his arms like twigs without trying if he looks at them wrong. He makes himself smaller to snake along the wall, scrunching his nose at the foul mix of smoke, sweat, and cologne that’s been assaulting his senses since he got here. His fingers curl around the rolled-up piece of paper attached to his belt. Better not lose sight of that one, else his visit would be pointless.
The roar of the crowd fades off into a distant buzz when Ezreal steps inside a dimly lit hallway. It’s empty—thank God—so he takes his time strolling up the thick carpet, humming a tune and dragging his gaze across the burgundy walls. The left side is entirely lined with commemorative plaques and framed championship titles held by people he’s never heard of. This institution’s been up and running for a while, though, that much is obvious. There are also a few photographs, in which he manages to spot Sett either hauling giant belts above his head or gripping a fighter’s shoulder with pride. It’s kind of sweet, and also kind of disturbing.
Finally, he arrives in front of a large wooden door on which the word ‘Boss’ is engraved in gold lettering.
How quaint.
He knocks three times. There’s some shuffling on the other side before the door unlocks and the disgruntled face of a half-orc appears in the narrow opening.
“Want something?”
“You’re not the boss,” Ezreal states matter-of-factly. Somewhere inside, he hears rambunctious laughter.
“Let him in,” orders a voice he knows well. “You can leave us, it’s fine.”
The man stares him down warily—Ezreal does the same for good measure—then pushes the door open and steps aside.
The office is about as dark as the hallway, rather spacious for what it is. The only light sources are the vintage lamps mounted on the walls and on the massive desk in the center, which is covered with loose paper sheets and pouches of what Ezreal assumes is gold. Tempting, but not enough for him to try anything.
Sett has his back turned to him and appears to be bandaging his wrists, or something of the sort. Ezreal’s too busy noticing that he isn’t wearing his massive purple fur, which is hanging off the back of an armchair. He clears his throat.
“Sorry, just give me a second here,” the man says as he glances over his shoulders, his long fuzzy ears following the movements. They’re stupidly expressive as always.
Ezreal takes a cautious step forward and dimly registers the door closing behind him. He looks over to the numerous shelves of the office to pass the time, noticing the rows and rows of trophies among which sits the occasional book and photo album. Like in the hallway he just passed, there are quite a few of those—photographs, he means. He can tell that these are more personal, though. Well, it’s his office after all.
He tears his eyes away when Sett throws the roll of bandages on the armchair and begins heading for his desk.
“First time in Navori?” he asks in way of making conversation. Ezreal shoves his hands in his pockets and goes to lean his hip against the edge of the desk.
“First time in Ionia, actually. Wish I could stay longer, but eh. Next time, I guess.”
Sett hums with a knowing sort of smile. “S’ a nice place, if you ignore the Noxian bases and shady businesses like mine. But yeah, you’re right. There’s always next time.”
He falls into his chair, propping one of his feet up on the mess of documents.
“So, you here to pick somethin’ up, right?”
Ezreal nods and reaches for his belt. “I was asked to hand this over to you first. I’m guessing it’s a receipt confirmation or something.”
Sett extends his hand lazily, tilts his head at the sealed piece of paper that Ezreal drops in it, and grabs a letter opener from a pencil pot. While he peruses its contents, the blond distracts himself with the various trinkets placed in front of him. Bronze paper weights, shot glasses, a framed picture. He leans in ever so slightly to get a better look. It’s Sett sitting beside a Vastaya woman with long, white hair.
“’Kay,” Sett says with finality, discarding the document and putting his foot down to start rummaging through a drawer. From it he pulls a vial containing a blueish liquid that seems to shift when it catches the light, and presents it to Ezreal.
“Your order,” he declares impishly.
Ezreal reaches for it, noting its weight and temperature as it sits in his palm. Sett retrieves his hand to scratch his cheek.
“So, uh, what’s that thing for, anyway?” he asks, eyeing the vial with mild interest.
Ezreal squints at it for a moment; moves it between his fingers, before shoving it in his belt pouch.
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
Sett hums again, his left ear twitching when he braces himself to get to his feet. Ezreal wonders sort of hysterically if he enjoys head scratches.
“Whatever puts food on the table, right?” the man says as he grabs his pair of studded gloves off the wall.
“You said it.”
There’s an awkward gap in the conversation, Ezreal resolutely staring at the carpet while Sett shrugs his coat on. Seriously, what business does he have being built like this?
“I’m ‘bout to head down for my own match,” he announces offhandedly.” Care to stay for the show?”
Ezreal sniffs.
“Not really. Hey, can I borrow a pen?”
Sett gestures broadly. “Suit yourself.”
He’s alone for a while after that, scribbling in his journal and drafting a letter to his employer from his perch on Sett’s desk. His fragrance—woody with some musky notes, if he had to guess—lingers in the room and makes his head spin a little. Must be the enclosed space.
On his way out, Ezreal bids goodnight to the half-orc waiting in the hallway and allows himself a glance down into the arena. Sett is standing in the middle, wiping the steady stream of blood coming out of his nose. Three dudes are lying in a sad pile a couple feet away. The crowd chants their boss’s name; he flashes them a grin.
Ezreal slips away into the night.
The next time he steps on Summoner’s Rift, it isn’t Seraphine who meets him in the bottom lane. Nor is it Nami, or Morgana, or—God forbid—Lux.
He watches Sett fist bump Gwen from afar and tries to keep his surprise from showing on his face when the man walks over to him.
“Sup, Ezreal?” he greets him, running his fingers through his ruby red hair. Ezreal’s eye twitches.
“You’re my. Support.”
“Sure am.” Sett bends down to stretch his hamstrings and meets him on eye level. “You don’t look too thrilled about that.”
Ezreal shakes his head. “No, I just… Have you even played support before?”
“Course I have,” he scoffs. “What, you think I’m a rookie?”
“Technically, I’ve been doing this longer than you,” says the blond. Sett tilts his head, the shadow of a playful grin falling on his lips.
“Eh. Debatable.”
“Is it?”
“Relax, we’ve got this,” Sett drawls, now stretching his arms above his head. “Just sit back and let the pros handle it.”
“That’s my line,” Ezreal scowls.
Mischievous eyes and the flash of a cuspid.
“I know.”
He can’t quite put his finger on it, but something shifts inside of him then, like a wall crumbling down and clearing his view. He blinks as the dust settles and he stands amidst the rubble, undone by the strange sight. He’s briefly tempted to run, to cower from it, but his insatiable curiosity pulls him right where it’s staring him in the face.
Before he has a chance to investigate, though, the force field around the fountain collapses and the announcer’s voice spills out into the arena.
“Welcome to Summoner’s Rift!”
Ezreal looks up: Sett has already left, running far ahead of their minions. Assuming he’s off to place wards, Ezreal takes his time jogging down the lane and wonders. He’s usually paired up with the same supports—when was the last time he was truly surprised by his own teammates? Well, there was Tahm Kench a while ago. That one was weird. Other than that, though, he has to admit he’s fallen into certain habits without meaning to.
When he gets to the river, Neeko and Sett are having some kind of bizarre dance battle while Twisted Fate rolls his eyes at them. Neeko cartwheels away the second she sees Ezreal and morphs into a minion, which immediately fills him with immeasurable weariness. She knows damn well he doesn’t have the attention span to count those, c’mon.
Sett joins him in two long strides and pulls the nearest minions towards him, revealing her true form as she stands stunned for a moment.
Well. That’s certainly useful.
“Seeeett,” she whines, painstakingly clawing her way out of his grasp. “You’re no fun!”
“Sorry kid,” he says, sounding not at all sorry. “Just doin’ my job.”
“Pfft. Whatever.”
“You’re not half bad at this,” Ezreal concedes when Sett later manages to scare their opponents away from the drake’s nest. Sett wiggles his eyebrows at him.
“Told ya.”
Ezreal looks skyward. “Yeah, well, don’t let it get to your head. I’m still the one in charge here, got it?”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” the man pacifies as he raises his hands in surrender. “By the way, not to pry or anything, but did you learn what that blue thing was for?”
Ezreal sighs, absently firing at a stray minion.
“No, and I almost got my face blasted off for my troubles. Bastard thought he could get me to work for free, can you believe it? I’m risking my skin out there and what do I get in return? Nothing, not even a thank you, nada! I had to take the money and run, it’s embarrassing! Like I didn’t deserve it, or something. He’s not the one who had to suck venom out of his own leg and almost got crushed by a boulder! People these days are ungrateful slackers, I’m telling you.”
He notices with vague consternation that Sett is staring, his ears resolutely perked up and his head tilted to the side like he’s a puppy and not some two-meter-tall pile of muscles wearing knuckle dusters. Ezreal clears his throat.
“Not everyone, obviously, but a certain part of the elite… I guess he was an undercity crime lord, but still… depends on what you call the elite. My parents were pretty famous in their field, does that count? I kinda dropped out of college, to be fair. It’s not really my thing, anyway. I prefer seeing the world for myself. Learning on the job and all that jazz, you get me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ionia’s nice, by the way; very pretty, you were definitely right about that,” Ezreal rambles on, missing a red minion by a deplorable margin. God, he’s sweating. “Food’s really good. Hot wrestlers. I mean—”
“You talk too much,” Sett grunts as he strides into his field of vision to grab a fistful of his shirt and crash their mouths together.
For a brief moment, the only thoughts spinning in Ezreal’s head are ‘Holy shit holy shit holy shit,’ then Sett’s big hand settles at the base of his skull and he forgets what those words even mean. Heat rushes to his core and floods him with awareness—hot, devouring lips, ringed fingers in his hair, a muscular thigh pressed against his hip bone, crimson hair tickling his cheek, Sett’s smell, Sett’s arms, Sett, Sett, Sett, Sett—
He doesn’t realize that they’ve moved until his knees hit the stone wall of the alcove and his gauntlet flies backwards to steady himself. Sett has let go of his shirt at this point and snuck one hand underneath the back of his jacket, sending a full body shiver through Ezreal as he angles his head a little more. He doesn’t even know if he’s kissing back or just letting him do whatever he wants—he’s so warm all over he feels he’s about to combust, and he thinks it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go with Sett holding him down like this.
And listen, it’s not like Ezreal’s inexperienced or anything… but he’s usually the one to initiate these things; stolen pecks at the corner of a girl’s mouth and half-assed make-out sessions that always end awkwardly because he’s never not in a hurry to do anything. This time, it doesn’t matter what he does because Sett’s got him completely cornered and he finds himself not all that eager to leave.
But Sett does, of course, and it’s all the self-control Ezreal can muster not to beg for more like the pathetic yearner that he is. He blinks at him lazily, watching him wipe his own lips with his thumb and raise an eyebrow at Ezreal.
“You ready?” he asks.
Ezreal would like to argue with the implication that they should go back to the game rather than to whatever they were doing five seconds ago, but his senses tingle to awareness and he knows that their opponents are on their way. ADC instincts, he likes to call them. Comes with being the easiest target.
“Lead the way,” he says, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Amusement flashes in Sett’s eyes—Ezreal guesses he failed—but he obeys nonetheless and rolls his shoulders in anticipation.
“This ought to be good,” he purrs.
And it is. They exert so much pressure that their opponents can do nothing but sit back for most of the phase, and if Ezreal wasn’t so achingly familiar with the Rift, he’d even go as far as to call it bullying. He’s quite the nimble player—he runs and gives chase, blips in and out of range at will, fires at lighting speed the longer the game goes on—but he is forced to match the pace of his moving targets, and he’s missed more shots that way than he cares to admit.
Sett, on the other hand, pulls you in and pins you down with the resolve of a man who doesn’t fear death. One step too close and you’re his punching bag for the next few seconds or so. And while he’s busy delivering his earth-shattering blows to the poor chap, Ezreal can just swoop in and fire everything he’s got at them without worrying about misfiring.
It’s thrilling. It’s fun. It’s almost cruel.
Ezreal winces as he watches Sett pick Neeko up and body slam her into the ground. He’s glad he’s not on the receiving end of that, for once. Then again, Sett could do anything to him and he’d hardly complain. Does that make him a moron?
Diana cuffs them on the side of the head for missing an entire wave earlier; they take the scolding with good grace. They’re lucky they win this one anyway, but then again, are they really? Ezreal would argue that they— that he’s just that good, and that it has nothing to do with luck, thank you very much. It’s their loss if they can’t recognize his talents.
Well, Sett does lean in to whisper something in his ear after an especially good shot that makes it really difficult to keep walking straight, but that’s not recognition; that’s straight up filth. One would even call it sabotage. Ezreal ought to report him for misconduct.
“So,” Sett prompts him as they get transported out of the rift. “Did I live up to your expectations, O Great One?”
Ezreal scrunches his nose and looks to the ceiling.
“You were acceptable.”
From the corner of his eye, he watches Sett shrug in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way.
“That’s good enough for me,” he drawls. “Ya can’t win ‘em all.”
His words take a moment to process in Ezreal’s mind, and he turns to Sett with a frown.
“Do you believe that?”
Sett flashes him a large grin.
“Nah.”
“Hm. Thought so.”
Later that night, when Ezreal has packed his bag and has one foot out the door, he stops to contemplate his itinerary. There’s a temple he meant to visit in Noxus, but now that he’s thinking about it, it isn’t a pressing matter. He can afford wandering off for a while, right? It’ll still be there when he gets back. Hopefully.
Hey, he might as well make another trip to Ionia while he’s at it. Just for sightseeing.