Archive of Our Own ^beta

She wasn’t sure how it happened. When it happened.

Wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

But something had changed.

Shifted.

Somehow her investment had spilled into uncharted territory. Mel Medarda prided herself on her ability to organize. Nothing went out of place if she didn’t will it. But Jayce, known as the Golden Boy by some, had skirted past her watchful eye and waltzed into a place unknown.

Short greetings now lingered for reasons unknown. Bi-weekly check-ins had turned daily, devoid of all their initial formalities.

A simple two step turned salsa.

There was a flare to whatever this new thing was. Twists and turns that Mel couldn’t have planned, even if she’d tried. Elora teased her for her interest —for lack of a more meaningful word, one that would surely get her dismissed faster than she’d like— in the Golden Boy. Mel waved it off as nonsensical, but the thoughts hung in her mind like grapes on a low hanging vine. Beckoning her for a taste, to do away with the reticence and let spontaneity wet her palate. Occasionally, on the days more daring than others, she’d pluck one and consider the idea.

The what ifs.

And just as fast as she let go, she’d rein herself in again, letting reality pour in and wash away the hypotheticals.

Piltover needed something grand, new, not what ifs.

So they danced.

Danced around the possibility of what could be. Danced around the budding tension that so obviously bugged Viktor; should the way he groaned quietly whenever they got stuck staring at each other be any tell of his inner feelings. But he never spoke. Didn’t bother mixing himself in their tango.

So he watched. Just like everyone else who was privy to their dance. Two people stuck in a ballroom of their own making. In perfect tandem with avoiding the inevitable. Some days it was Mel leading. Her curt hello and too-soon goodbyes would leave Jayce in a mood. Longing for her to bathe him in her light just a little while longer. Viktor despised those days the most. They got nearly nothing done on those days.

When it was Jayce’s turn to lead their dance, he did it with a kind of grace born from oblivion. He’d ask about her day; chat about whatever new thing he was tinkering with when his main priority was giving him troubles; and because she never seemed bored or annoyed by his prattling, he’d go on about plans for the future and how whatever new tool —and there was always a new tool— he needed would be the death of him. And Mel, hanging on to his every word, would listen. When they would part, Elora would be there with rapt eyes, pretending not to see the beginning of love’s etchings all across Mel’s face.

“That will be all Elora.” Mel would say. Head held high with a knowing raised brow as if daring Elora to say the things she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t say.

Weeks, months, years— seven in total. Time ran, bled, spilled, and melded itself into a kaleidoscope of haunting near misses. Time took firm hold of their hands and twirled them in its blurring woes, quick and sharp. Somewhere along the line, they lost the pretense. Forgot why they were held up in an endless waltz. Snuffing the truth became second nature and lingering glances became less of a delicacy and more of a dare.

And then she kissed him.

The music stopped and suddenly nothing was confusing anymore. The dance they’d perfected became frantic and skittish. The ballroom faded and sparks turned into greedy flames. A fire seven years in the making claimed them and burned all thoughts of defiance into worthless ash.

There was no outside, no council, no life changing innovations, and no reason to deny the flower they planted that fateful day outside of the lab.

Just two people moving to a rhythm of their own making.