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Before seeing it with her own eyeballs, Vi thought rooms like the Kiramman manor kitchen only existed in storybooks. All sweeping curves of burnished steel and blue slate-tiled floors that were toasty underfoot, enormous Art Deco windows framed in brass filigree, it held enough polished chrome to make half of Zaun’s scrap mongers weep openly at the waste.
They were gathered here because Mel had decided—on a whim born of boredom, mild mischief, or some unholy combination therein—that nothing soothed the soul quite like “a casual evening of interdisciplinary cultural exchange.” That translated, apparently, into drinking everything in Caitlyn’s very expensive liquor cabinets and low-key reading the rest of the newly-appointed Council for filth (except Sevika, naturally; she was ‘fitting in well,’ according to Mel). Initially reluctant, Vi had finally caved when Caitlyn had fixed her with the full brunt of a smile that made Vi feel like she could wrestle a bristlehog and win.
The Mist Boquila wine had not helped her confidence, because Cait was adorable on it—high colour in her cheeks, her laugh turning breathy and snorty and mortifyingly cute—and Vi wasn’t accustomed to seeing the famously level-headed Sheriff of Piltover wobbling around like a baby giraffe learning its first steps. It was doing things to her. Emotional things. Troubling, warm things. She tried not to think too hard about what it might lead to.
Cait was handsy when she was tipsy.
For the record, Vi’d been looking forward to a nice, quiet evening on the couch.
Shadow Isles Absentia had been the evening’s first major mistake. The vile green liquid required an unreasonable ritual of special glasses, a burning sugar cube perched on a slotted spoon, topped off by something Mel called “agitation for bouquet.” It took longer to prepare than it took Lest to get ready for brunch, which struck Vi as a crime against good sense, but she’d been a jolly good sport and drunk it anyway.
It had knocked her bloody hob-nailed boots off. Now she could smell colours and taste words—mahogany was apparently tart and a bit judgmental.
After that, she’d stuck to Crown’s Guard IPA, since it was practically pisswater in comparison to good old fashioned Zaun grog.
Despite looking like a 90’s heroin chic Czech twink, Viktor was holding his liquor far better than Vi gave him credit for, maybe on his third or fourth Freljord Akvavit. Hard to tell, seeing as Vi’s own perception was folding into itself like bad pastry at this point. The absolute beefalo next to him was face down on the marble countertop, cheek pressed to the gold-veined stone, hair fanned out like a dark, defeated halo.
Meanwhile, Mel lounged with the indolent luxury of a cat raised on silk cushions, occasionally carding her jewelled fingers through Jayce’s thick hair as though grooming her favourite, if tragically pissed, Poro. The golden Medarda charm wrapped round the stem of the crystal flute chimed delicately every time she took a sip of her Noxian wine, her expression gleefully entertained by the shenanigans unfolding around her.
Vi suspected Caitlyn was drunk. Truly drunk. Not the classy, tipsy glow Cait managed at galas, but the real sort—tipping her wishbone barstool back onto its rear legs, knee caps bracing against the counter’s edge for balance, staring into the middle distance. In the hopes of preventing a catastrophe that would at minimum end in a concussion and at worst leave Caitlyn’s head cosplaying as a melon, Vi rested her arm protectively on the backrest.
In the low mood lighting, Caitlyn’s hair looked like Piltover’s midnight sky: a deep Ixaocan purple. The way it rippled when she moved her head was enchanting.
Suddenly, Caitlyn lurched forward, slamming the stool legs back to the floor with a sharp clack and startling Vi out of her admiring stupor just in time for Caitlyn to announce giddily:
“Do you think I could find the volume and area of my boobs?”
Mel’s glass paused mid-air. “What!?”
Peeling himself off the counter somewhat, Jayce managed, “Well… with a measuring tape to get circumference and height, we could calculate—”
Briefly distracted from attempting to balance a caramelised peanut on its end, Viktor interjected with the nonchalant enthusiasm of a nerd. “Actually, displacement is easier. A mixing bowl would suffice.” He popped the peanut in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Fill it to the brim, lower one breast fully—lean to 90 degrees—measure how much water is needed to refill. Repeat. Then you will know your total… boobage volume.”
As if suddenly sobered by the mere whiff of scientific endeavour, Jayce was already up, rooting through cabinets like a feral raccoon.
Mel sipped in dry amusement. “Archimedes would be so proud.”
“More like, Architiddies,” Vi proudly contributed, bookending it with a huge slug of her Demacian horsepiss.
In the middle of swallowing a gulp of fluorescent blue Ionian wine, Caitlyn sputtered, then broke out in snorting laughter.
Every time Caitlyn laughed at one of her jokes, Vi’s heart did a forward roll it was definitely not trained for.
The others stared at her incredulously.
“What? Don’t look so shocked. I read books.”
Teetering off her stool and into Vi’s hands, Caitlyn was warm and soft and very wobbly.
“Yesh, you do, kittenwhiskers.” She cooed, smooshing Vi’s cheeks, “And I’m so proud.” She followed it, by pressing a slightly sticky kiss to Vi’s fished-lips before attempting to walk without bending her knees.
Brandishing a Kitchenaid bowl aloft, Jayce cried, “Huzzah!”
“We will also need a measuring jug, Viktor mused, turning sideways in his seat.
“There must be jugs around here somewhere,” Jayce muttered as he returned to his scavenger hunt.
The word jugs elicited a snort from Vi, which earned her a truly judgmental eyebrow from Mel. So sue her. Adolescent humour still did for her. It was classic for a reason.
Everyone migrated to a low table near the hearth. Caitlyn whipped off her turtleneck with all the grace of someone removing a wetsuit mid-ocean, revealing a midnight blue lace bra with gold trim.
Mel perked up. “Is that Evelynn’s Secret?”
“Yes! Her new line! It's not available until Cogsend morning,” Caitlyn declared proudly, rosy and radiant and utterly unbothered by anything resembling modesty as she unclasped it and tossed the garment over her shoulder.
“How did you manage to snag one before release? I had to join the waiting list.” It was perhaps the closest thing to a pout that Vi had ever heard from Mel.
“Oh, through a friend. Anyway, back to the experiment at hand. Speaking of hands, someone needs to hold the bowl. And whose going to hold my other tit?”
Wobbling slightly, Jayce looked horrified.
“I volunteer as tribute!” Vi announced, hand up like she was back learning her letters at Swivenday school.
Mel, steady despite drinking enough wine to embalm a small animal, held Caitlyn’s hair while Jayce clutched the bowl with both hands.
“Now what?” he asked, keeping his gaze skyward for fear he might get more than an eyeful. He’d seen the vast cosmos of the universe, the horrors of an alternate timeline, yet a glimpse of Caitlyn’s nip would be too much?
“Science, of course!” Viktor declared, far more theatrical than Vi expected. She was learning so much tonight.
Leaning forward, Caitlyn gingerly lowered her boob into the water. As soon as her nipple caused a ripple, she exclaimed, “Ugh! It’s freezing! They’re going to shrink!”
“Are you telling me your boobs are growers, not showers?” Vi replied.
“Violet!” Caitlyn hissed. “You more than anyone know that’s—”
“Actually,” Viktor began, already rummaging through drawers, “the water should match body temperature for the most accurate measurement. There must be a thermometer somewhere…”
Vi leaned toward Mel. “Is this what rich people do when they’re drunk?”
“Of course, darling.” Mel smiled serenely. “What do people in Zaun do when they drink?”
After a brief barrage of Crashout Era flashbacks, Vi replied nonchalantly, “Dancing. Bareknuckle boxing. Knife fights. The usge.”
“Ah,” Mel nodded knowingly. “So similar to Noxus, then.”
With no frame of reference, Vi took her at her word, nodding in agreement.
“Where is the baking paper?” Viktor asked. It would seem titty displacement physics required a great many items.
“How should I know?” Caitlyn said indignantly. “I don’t live here!”
Jayce blinked. “You categorically do.”
“I mean the kitchen!”
Cupping the warm weight of Caitlyn’s left tit, Vi frowned. “Why would you use paper in baking? Wouldn’t it catch fire?”
Scandalised, Caitlyn gasped. “Philistine! It’s heat-proof!”
“Big words from the woman with her tits in a bowl,” Vi muttered.
Mel found the paper. Viktor produced a pencil from somewhere on his personage. Meanwhile, Caitlyn valiantly leaned, boob deep in Kitchenaid, water sloshing dangerously.
“Stop moving,” Viktor scolded. “We’re losing precious data.”
A shuffling sound drifted from the doorway.
Most of them turned to see—everyone but Caitlyn—and froze.
Framed in the doorway, Tobias Kiramman wore a little winky sleep hat and striped pajamas, staring with the exhausted resignation of a man who’d raised Caitlyn Kiramman for twenty-three years and thought he’d seen it all.
He had not.
Trying her best to look innocent, Vi hastily removed her supportive hand and the boob reclaimed its natural gravitational direction.
“Sir,” Jayce babbled, “it’s not what it looks like. I swear.”
Turning to look over her shoulder, Caitlyn shrieked. “Daddy!”
The Kitchenaid toppled, water cascading across the heated tiles in a dramatic wash.
Stepping to the counter, Tobias retrieved a bottle of Bilgewater Rum and a tumbler, and said, very calmly, “I shall never speak of that, if you never speak of this.” He held up the bottle for emphasis. “Please wash that well.”
He left.
The group burst into uncontrollable giggle fits.
Not to be derailed, Viktor clapped his hands. “Let us try that again, shall we?”