Archive of Our Own

He hated how he felt after recordings like this. There was so much pressure; There was excessive pressure; everything had to go well and be attractive for social media, showing a professional image in front of the camera even though inside they were constantly thinking "don't screw up, don't screw up..." while trying to keep their fingers from getting stuck. But besides that? The sweat. Viego preferred to end up with numb, red fingers from the friction than a sticky, sweaty body. He cared about his work too, you know?

He just hated admitting that he had a good synergy with Miss "I'll burst your eardrums without warning".

He had a lot of messages in his mobile notification bar, however, he was too angry with himself and fed up with the heat that he locked himself in his car and sped back home.

A building located in Whitley Heights, so white that if the sun hit it it would temporarily blind you, but quite homey… A house that was empty several days a week and that didn't change when Viego returned home. She was no longer in her sewing room—a room that had remained exactly as it was before the divorce, and she didn't have the courage to throw away the materials—and there were no pets either, so the house was as lifeless as his relation… him.

He washed with ice-cold water and spent a good while scrolling through Twitter while cooling off with an ice cream until several private messages from Olaf appeared, suggesting they go out for dinner and maybe party afterward.

The messages appeared quickly and in a rush until they were buried under notifications from AliExpress promoting a huge discount on music equipment and other trinkets. He struggled with his phone until he opened the drummer's chat.

Viego checked the time on the screen. Past seven… Oh, was it almost eight already? He'd been reading stories and gossiping about old controversies since he got home. The definition of severe mental decay.

He put on his headphones and Gasoline by one of his favorite metalcore bands started playing. The screams in the intro calmed the tumult of his thoughts, making him focus on more important matters like: What the hell was he going to wear? It was horribly hot, it was still sunny outside, and just getting up from the sofa had him panting. He grunted under his breath as he rummaged through his closet; Few garments were in light or bright colors, and most were tight-fitting and dark in color. In the end, he opted for white linen pants and a blue polo shirt.

He frowned when the reflection showed him the image of a wealthy young adult. He had a different style than the rest; he liked designer clothes with minimalist prints or embroidery, as well as linen dress pants. The vain side of him that always made Isolde laugh. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Kayle would send her Instagram posts with transitional outfit ideas, or they would share opinions on fashion. And with Sera… She had bought him baggy clothes and helped him accessorize them with chains and piercings that he wore on stage.

«And he’d bought her an outfit, clothes that screamed ‘I’m a walking pink stereotype’ from miles away. And how they laughed…»

But she wasn’t his friend anymore, and he wasn’t obligated—no matter how much he wanted to wear something different—to wear that new outfit. It wasn’t his style at all, and the drummer would definitely make fun of him for abandoning his expensive clothes.

Classist.

He looked at himself in the mirror again; he’d pushed Seraphine out of his life and his problems by calling her fake when he had the same prejudices. No. No. Seraphine had played with him, leaving him with one more scar on his heart and without the ability to know who to trust. She was the bad one, she was the one with personality problems, pretending to be sweet and understanding while trying to piece her soul back together all while feeding her ego… She was the bad one, not him! He gripped the sink tightly, a pathetic attempt to quell his anger and avoid smashing the soap dish against the mirror. Thankfully, the sound of the doorbell snapped him out of his trance.

“We’ve been calling you, and you haven’t answered,” Kayle grumbled, stepping aside as Olaf started complaining about the outfit.

“Go back upstairs and change. Can’t you see we look like bums?” the man remarked, before his friend nudged him with her elbow.

“And please, wear something that matches the red.” She rolled her eyes, making small circles with her index finger to point out Viego’s red streaks in her hair.

He could have left them outside, given them one of her venomous glares, and slammed the door in their faces… Instead, he took a deep breath and invited them in. Olaf was the first, heading towards the guitarist's refrigerator in search of a snack while Kayle grabbed his arm, leading him back to the workbench, his closet.

Ten minutes later, the two of them got out, picked up Olaf, and got into the car. The two adults sat in the front, and the boy sat in the back. The latter had his arms crossed and wore an expression that suggested keeping his distance. They started the engine and turned on the radio; 2000s pop music invaded the small space, making Kayle tap the steering wheel gently and move her lips as she silently sang Kesha's "TikTok".

They went down to the city while discussing their deep dislike for the narrow streets of the Whitley Heights neighborhood, while also turning up the music and constantly repeating that the restaurant Kayle had found was trending on social media.

In the end, he found that going out to dinner with his two colleagues was pleasant… And that the outfit change his friend gave him saved him from the stares of people interested in his wallet, that and the fact that he went more unnoticed even though he had snow-white hair with red highlights.

The place was small but cozy, mostly in earthy and reddish tones, with paper lanterns on the ceiling and walls plastered with posters of the region. For a moment, the memory of Sera's apology faded in her mind as she focused more on the smell of barbecue, Olaf's loud toasts, and that particular joke with Kayle's wasabi.

He also didn't have time to think about the pink-haired girl when his friends dragged him back into the car, pulling him toward a nightclub. The restaurant's quiet, ambient music was replaced by the thumping of giant speakers, neon lights, and more 2000s music.

They rented a private room because Olaf kept insisting he had things to show them: several videos from the Pentakill chat, featuring the out-of-focus tech crew—probably filmed by Karthus—joking around with Sona until Sera's first guttural growl made them jump and shout things like, "Turn that off!" or “Turn down the volume!” with panic in their voices. Short, low-quality clips that would be uploaded to Instagram for the entertainment of younger audiences. Oh, Thresh had it all meticulously planned.

Then, taking advantage of the fact that the club staff had brought them drinks, Olaf made the first move, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his legs.

“So… are we just going to keep ignoring the fact that you’re not okay?” the man inquired, watching intently as the younger man took a sip of his alcoholic drink.

“What the hell is going on between you two?” Kayle finally said, crossing her legs as she leaned back against the armchair.

Viego sighed heavily. In the end, this get-together had been a trap, and he was between a rock and a hard place. He took another sip of his Black Russian, mentally preparing himself for the fact that he would have to show his vulnerability once again… But these were his friends. He had known them for years, and also from social media before joining Pentakill. He was in a safe place. Putting his cocktail down halfway, he began to explain everything that had happened between him and the band’s newest recruit; from that night after the first audition, their “reconciliation,” the dates, the memes…

“Holy shit,” Olaf whispered, his face slightly furrowed as he tried to piece everything together. “So you were dating?”

“Are you out of your mind? With that strawberry girl?” The guy’s reaction made Kayle choke on her Angel cocktail. They both stared at the woman, who gestured for them to keep talking. “She’s so stereotyped she doesn’t even know who she is.”

“But you haven’t denied dating her…” Kayle hummed, laughing mischievously.

“I’m still reminiscing about my wife,” Viego hissed, though the rest of his speech about how he couldn’t be interested in anyone else because there was only one person who held his heart was ignored by his two companions.

They continued chatting, about Pentakill, about themselves… Empty glasses piled up on the table, some thinner and stemmed than others robust and thick. Finally, they returned to the topic of their pink-haired companion, this time snooping through the chats Viego was showing them. They were nodding, suggesting ideas on how to pick things up again based on the apology from a few hours ago, or on how to distance themselves from everything they had built professionally and without hurting anyone.

The problem with midnight resolutions, made while surrounded by alcohol and friends who care about you, is that they evaporate the moment you're alone. On the way home, besides taking pictures of Olaf, who was asleep, he kept turning over Kayle's slightly vague comment about making friends his own age or in their twenties. Until recently, he was the only young member of the group; the rest were elderly in their forties—bordering on fifty, but no one dared say so out loud—except for Kayle. She was in her mid-thirties but didn't have Viego's goofy, crazy spirit.

He stumbled home a little and collapsed onto his bed rather clumsily, glancing at Seraphine's chat. Should he? I mean, she was just as messed up, if not worse, than he was, and she hadn't even noticed. But she had played him, sold him the story of a "therapist friend," and had the nerve to act like the victim when her facade was exposed.

He sighed heavily. This was very complicated. He hadn't had to beg anyone to come back; quite the opposite. And with Isolde he never had problems of this kind… «Or because you didn’t want to realize it.» He shook his head. What had that thought been? Isolde had been quite happy during their marriage—ignoring the problems and the divorce—and she still was. That's what she lived for, wasn't it? If she was happy, he was too, even if he wasn't by her side.

Seraphine wasn't Isolde.

Seraphine wasn't his ex-wife, not even close. She was a coworker who knew his story firsthand and knew he still loved her. “Or was he still haunted by the ghost of what had been?” The real question was: Why was he comparing Seraphine to his ex? They were two opposite poles, besides, his beloved Isol… Once again he returned to the comparisons.

He turned off the screen. He wasn't going to do it. So that she can hurt him again? No, thank you; he was still heartbroken, too distraught to have more trust issues (more than he already had).

Several minutes passed, and Viego didn't know what to do. His head was spinning, and lying down felt like being in the middle of the ocean or on a roller coaster. He picked up his phone again and opened his chat with his pink-haired friend; he deleted and rewrote the message several times before hitting send.

Seraphine had a morning routine she followed religiously. The moment she woke up, she stretched and rolled over to her phone, which was charging on her nightstand, and caught up for the next half hour. Starting with deleting spam emails, postponing replies to Thresh's corporate messages, and snooping on his friends on Instagram.

The ban was set to end next Monday, and social media was already starting to demand promotional photos of Seraphine with the entire Pentakill team. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't excited to see her new concert outfit and be back online, able to reconnect with her fans.

Inform her fans, but not her old friends.

She turned off the screen, letting the small device rest on her chest as she stared at the ceiling. Her depressed friend was right. She lacked personality and lived only for the approval of others, for a few "likes." Thinking about him, she'd received a message from him that had been hidden by the nearly one hundred notifications in the group chat.

To be honest, she was scared. Friendships between two genders were completely different from same-sex friendships; as stereotypical as it sounded, if one woman argued with another, there wasn't going to be an apology from anyone. Because that meant swallowing your pride and admitting you were wrong. In contrast, with him it was about forgetting their pride, their masks, and bringing out their horrible personality while laughing at offensive jokes.

She opened the group chat, finding several videos of the recording and messages related to her voice, which almost made them deaf, but they maintained that touch of humor so the poor girl wouldn't feel bad. Indeed, the Pentakill group would have to adapt to Seraphine's fragility before hardening her and making her darkness resonate with their own.

Before leaving the group, she took a deep breath; She didn't know what the text would say—whether it would contain more evidence of her dishonesty, mark a turning point in their friendship, or offer an apology. He, too, had been rude to her, even though he had told her all her truths and acknowledged her shortcomings.

«Can we try again?»

Seraphine blinked once, twice, three times, the screen hovering mere inches from her face. She reread the four words. What the hell…? A nervous laugh escaped her, quickly stifling it against the pillow. Was that really his choice of words? Seriously? The text was so utterly awful, so prone to misunderstanding, it seemed straight out of the 4 a.m. repentant ex-boyfriend's handbook.

Her heart skipped a beat, a strange mix of relief at seeing him make the first move and utter panic at not knowing how to respond to such an involuntary declaration. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a tremendous urge to reply with something witty or play along with his dramatic game, but she stopped herself. No, she couldn't screw this up. Viego was an emotional minefield, and she didn't have the instruction manual.

She desperately needed the opinion of a functioning adult before doing something stupid online.

But what adult could she trust? She no longer had Kai’Sa’s support, or Evelynn’s venomous replies. If only they were there… their chats were further down, if she scrolled a little… just a tiny bit. It was a bad idea; if she wrote to them after three months of no contact, after all the controversy, after betraying their trust… It was another selfish act on her part.

But she couldn’t ask an adult for help either; she was twenty! She’d had a whole life to learn to survive on her own, to know how to react in these kinds of situations, and she wasn’t that innocent. Of course, she had had a relationship — which fell apart when she began to gain recognition — and friendships; but she’d never met anyone so unstable and unpredictable.

She left the message on read; With luck, he prayed to whoever was upstairs that Viego was still sleeping or that he had such a bad hangover that he wouldn't want to answer the phone. She had to think of a response, fight her own battles alone without anyone's help. He would appreciate that.

She spent the whole morning thinking about how to reply to his message; part of her wanted to respond with laughing emojis because of the kind of text she'd received. As if his last brain cell, drunk and sad, had written those four words before disconnecting. But she couldn't give that reply without offending or further damaging that strange friendly relationship they had.

She also hesitated about whether to text Sona; she was the closest thing to a mother in the group, but she couldn't bother her so early. Why was everything so difficult? She racked her brain for a neutral and calm response, very much her style, but seeing how difficult everything was, it was more worthwhile to laugh in his face first and then ask for explanations more calmly.

She sighed heavily, bringing the cup of black tea to her lips; the robust, woody, and slightly bitter flavor cleared her mind for a few seconds. Just long enough to grab her phone and open her chat.

Seraphine regretted using stickers and emoticons, but doing so only showed that the topic was meant to be funny or that she didn't take it very seriously. But she answered honestly. Although the periods at the end of her last two messages indicated she was serious.

“Whatever God wills…” she exhaled, leaving her switched-off mobile phone on the table as she took another sip of tea and snapped her fingers to call Bao.

The reply came very quickly. After a few minutes, her phone vibrated and displayed a funny sticker in the notification bar.

Seraphine took advantage of that brief disconnection to open the Maps application; she was embarrassed to ask for a place near her area since she did not have a driver's license. She swiped her finger across the map, looking at shopping malls they hadn't been to yet, a cute café, a park… But all of those were places Sera suggested.

She gave him her location, forgetting she was chatting with a guy who had a lot of red flags; she overlooked the fact that he might be able to memorize her neighborhood, the facade of her house, or save her address. But Seraphine didn't feel that uneasy tingle in her hands, and her heart beat calmly as she focused all her attention on perfecting her eyeliner.

She left the house after receiving the message from her melancholic companion, letting her know he was close; He honked the horn when he saw Sera, waiting like a fragile sculpture on the letter post of her home, with both hands gripping the strap of her bag.

The rough lyrics of ‘Choke’ greeted her as she opened the passenger door. She slumped down, and the cool leather of the seat calmed the burning sensation in her skin. She fastened her seatbelt, and before they could even greet each other, she found her companion trying to change the radio station.

“Stop treating me like I’m still made of porcelain. You call me fake, but you still treat me the same as before,” she muttered, glancing sideways as Viego turned back the radio dial. “Play some soft music for the new member of the metal band, very clever.”

“Sorry for looking out for your comfort, huh…”

“Sorry for being the unmasked Sera you were looking for.”

And they could have spent the whole trip arguing, playing that tug-of-war where neither would back down out of pride. Eventually, they made up—after the air conditioning lowered Seraphine’s temperature—until Viego decided to mock her lack of a car.

“How can you not have a car after coming this far?” he said, looking in the rearview mirror, finding Sera scrolling on her phone. “Put that down, we’re talking.”

“You’re such a control freak…” she sighed in annoyance, turning off the screen. “Maybe because I used my savings for the down payment on what is now my house? I also send money to my parents.”

“Do they live in another state?”

“China,” she said, leaning her elbow against the window.

That conversation eased things; the initial tension had vanished, replaced by his relentless curiosity as he peppered Sera with questions… until she sulked again, making him laugh.

They parked a block away from their destination, and as they got out of the car, Sera noticed that her companion liked to wear designer clothes, impeccably dressed, unlike her, who prioritized comfort over appearance. When had their roles reversed? The place he chose was a park. It was like an oasis; there were few people, fountains, and it was full of colorful trees, their fallen leaves decorating the cobblestones in shades of red and lilac.

“I honestly thought we’d go to a bar in this heat,” Sera said, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand.

“I thought you’d like it. It’s pink.” He shrugged.

Sera stopped dead in her tracks. Had that idiot chosen the place because he thought she'd like it? I mean… the park was nice, and there was a café in the middle; but she figured that by giving him a choice, he might take her to one of his usual haunts.

Then he thought about Viego's past relationship. Had he learned from his mistakes and was he actually listening? Really paying attention? Not as a new romantic interest, but showing consideration for the person he didn't want to lose. The thought of her being Viego's training ground didn't sit well with her.

"You don't have to be accommodating to me," Sera said, though that combination of words made the platinum-haired man click his tongue.

"Stop thinking you're the center of attention," he muttered, putting his hands in his pockets. "Do you want an apology or not?"

“Oh, so the apology you owe me is entirely professional? And we didn’t end things here because you ‘wanted to try again’?” Seraphine made air quotes, looking at Viego with the same venom as his words.

Viego didn't know how to respond. Technically, Seraphine was right; he wanted to rekindle that friendly relationship with his new bandmate—and because he needed to make friends his own age or close to it—and… because he was tired of feeling melancholic every day. It was okay to miss his wife; he'd been with her for many years, they'd grown up together… maybe they hadn't aged together, but he'd been there for her adolescence and when they both became young adults.

However, that awful thought of "you're still young; love comes and goes" terrified him. Couldn't he stay with the woman he loved forever? Fate—or rather, his own misdeeds—had led him to this point. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he needed to talk to someone. Olaf wasn't an option; he was over forty-five, and his true love was beer. Kayle seemed like his mother or his dressmaker, pulling his ear when necessary and openly criticizing his clothes.

Then there was the rest of the crew, with whom he didn't speak much but whom he didn't dislike either; Morde… he had enormous respect for him, even though the colossus was friendly and enjoyed silence. Sona was mute, and he didn't think he shared the woman's tastes; besides, she was Morde's wife, and surely anything he told her would go straight to him, followed by Karthus, his mentor, and Thresh. The latter was his nemesis; he hated him with all his soul, even though sometimes he told him truths that felt like rubbing salt in the wound, but he also tolerated him when he offered him a cigarette.

“Yes, I want to try again… but I need your help. Do you know how bad my word choices are? Before you came along, I was the clown at Pentakill.” He surprised himself by replying without being rude.

"Yeah… we definitely need to work on that." Seraphine nodded slowly, as if she were assessing the damage Viego had done, whose eyes lit up when she spoke in the plural. “I said we have, but there won’t be a ‘we’ if you don’t apologize,” Sera said quickly, raising her index finger.

“Fine, I apologize,” he muttered with a sly smile, watching Sera make that ‘don’t make me angry or I’ll hit you’ face again. Finally, the blow landed on his left arm. He chuckled softly and lengthened his stride, forcing Sera to trot to catch up.

They arrived at the cafe in the center of the park and he suggested if she wanted to have something on the terrace… although seeing the pink-haired girl's furious expression made him ask for a table inside the place. Seraphine was very expressive, now that he noticed.

He was in a good mood today, slightly humiliated by that message in the early hours, but he felt like having a soft drink; his companion, on the other hand, ordered an iced matcha. He ignored Sera's complaints about him having paid the bill while he frowned at the green drink; it didn't look very tasty.

"Can I taste it?" he murmured, waiting for her to sit down first.

Viego regretted being so curious. Why did he think something green would taste sweet? At least the vanilla essence softened the drink's intense grassy flavor. In any case, his reaction amused Sera.

He started slowly, explaining deliberately while alternating his gaze between Sera's blue eyes and his drinks what had bothered him about her to make him so angry. He explained that he was tired of being surrounded by fake people, not his bandmates, but other acquaintances; exhausted from the endless mourning he endured every day, whether it was because of the divorce or the void he'd created by arguing with Sera.

The ice in his drink had melted, diluting what little soda remained in his glass, but he didn't seem to care. Viego continued talking about how Seraphine's hypocrisy had bothered him, concentrating on pronouncing her name correctly… though he couldn't see any difference between Seraphine and Serafín.

After unleashing the storm within him, he was able to compliment Sera's voice on yesterday's recording, gesturing wildly as her magic seemed to add more notes to the score, or as that voice, foreign to his own, in his head, suggested he play other chords. It was almost entertaining to see him so excited that for a moment, the mourning for his marriage ceased to exist and he could be the cheerful young man who loved music.

After apologizing, they returned to the car, this time happier and without that awkward tension from the beginning. He turned on the radio and played the album ‘TRUE POWER’ by the band I Prevail at Sera's request. He was surprised when she started singing parts of the song Visceral.

Seeing her sing with such energy, Viego felt a nearly forgotten urge to avoid returning to the empty white house in Whitley Heights. He turned down the radio, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Hey… since we’re out and the car’s air conditioning is the only thing keeping us from dying of heatstroke… do you want to go somewhere? There’s a record shop near the studio that’s blasting the air conditioning. Or we could get something cold, or…”

“Oh, I thought you’d never say it… thanks,” Sera sighed, placing a hand on her chest, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Imagine if we’d only met up to apologize and then go home.”

“So you want to stay out??” His voice came out more hurriedly than necessary, making him blush.

“Of course, you idiot.”

This time, she changed the music, surprising the driver. She flipped the radio until she found a station playing the theme song from American Idiot and turned it up until the car felt like a mini disco.

They first stopped at the record store Viego had mentioned, mainly to take advantage of the air conditioning—the store felt like some remote corner of the North Pole—and buy some records of the great 90s classics.

They only left the store when Seraphine got chilled and started shivering and nagging about being hungry.

After lunch, they went to a shopping mall at his friend's request. Sera needed new clothes and had to buy pink hair dye. After her meltdown, she was determined to be the pink Banshee of the group, whether they liked it or not.

They spent hours wandering around, going in and out of the same four stores, with a hesitant Sera. She was more than surprised that Viego hadn't complained all day. Not a single dramatic gesture, not a single sarcastic comment… Nothing. The man was completely meek.

Perhaps it was his way of thanking her for that second chance.

In the end, he didn't know how he ended up being Seraphine's temporary dressmaker, handing her clothes that she might like, commenting on which cuts of clothing would suit her better than others, and criticizing with his sharp tongue the clothes that didn't suit her.

While they were in line to pay, Viego glanced at the number of items Sera was willing to buy. Four fitted tops, a couple of pastel blouses, a skirt, and another pair of linen trousers. He frowned. Could she really afford it all? She had simply picked the fabrics she liked, either by his hand or his advice, and kept them.

“Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of charity. I’m not that poor,” she whispered, tapping his shoe with her own.

"I wasn't implying anything."

“Maybe, but having your eyes on me without knowing if you wanted to snoop on my phone or were trying to read my mind is confusing, you know?”

“I could pay…”

“I’m not her, Viego.”

The conversation ended with those four words. And it was true, Seraphine wasn’t Isolde, no matter how much he squinted and saw a slight resemblance. She wasn’t a humble girl; she’d earned her keep by stealing fragments of other people’s personalities and knew what she could afford and what she couldn’t.

However, having spent years spoiling his ex with expensive gifts, paying for every whim she had (or he thought she had), had spoiled him. Viego never had a problem giving; on the contrary, he was more than happy to give the world and more to his special someone.

But she was gone, and Seraphine wasn’t her replacement.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, taking a step forward as the line moved forward. “I didn’t mean to say it in that tone.”

“No, my bad. Thank you for stopping me.” He almost, ALMOST bowed. Just thinking about it made her chest swell with heat.

They left the shop with several bags in their hands, divided between Viego and Sera. They couldn't extend the afternoon any longer because the sun was beginning to set on the horizon, they had many bundles, and there was surely a white, furry cat scratching at the front door of Sera's house.

The return journey was bearable… with Sera nodding off in an attempt not to fall asleep. The cupcake had run out of battery when the shop assistant got confused with the bill, inadvertently causing a ten-minute traffic jam.

The song “The Middle” played softly, a kind gesture from Viego so Sera could rest a bit, even though she was cursing him for contributing to her falling asleep. Unfortunately for him, he lost consciousness at a traffic light that lasted longer than usual.

For a moment, Viego hesitated, wondering if he should take pictures of a completely asleep Seraphine. He immediately understood why she had gone viral on social media; the woman was excellent meme material. She didn't do anything, and that was her defining characteristic. But for his safety—and that of their friendhip—he decided to keep his hands on the wheel and not take out his phone.

He parked in front of her house, turning off the radio and praying to whoever was listening that Sera wouldn't slap him when she woke up. He shook her shoulder gently and rather clumsily, saying monosyllables like "you... you!" before yelling louder for her to wake up.

"Screw you..." she grumbled, giving him another of her sour faces before rubbing her eyes.

The farewell was not elegant, much less romantic; they simply said a boring "goodbye" before going their separate ways.

As expected, Bao greeted his owner as if he'd been neglected for days, rubbing against her legs, sniffing the bags, and standing on his hind legs to continue sniffing their contents.

Seraphine was exhausted. She used what little strength she had left to shower, feed Bao, and thank Viego for making peace and for the impromptu afternoon they'd spent together.

The curious thing about that day was that they agreed to meet to talk about the group photos from Monday, something neither of them mentioned the entire time they were together. They didn't talk about Pentakill, nor did they play any of Karthus's greatest hits; they only talked about their problems, shared their fears, and discussed ways to improve as a duo.