Chapter Text
If Vi wasn’t already aware that today is an important day, she might have been alarmed by the group of attendants standing around her bed when she wakes up. But this date has been marked in her mental calendar for a while now, thanks to Caitlyn’s copious reminder notes.
Some of these notes arrived with her morning gruel— gruel meaning oatmeal and fruit and tea, because that’s the slop Kirammans eat. Vi lifted her cup and there it was: One month!
Some notes appeared on her door; some fluttered to the floor. Ten more days. Nine more. Eight!
Some were even written in the scant open space between Vi’s tattoos. Her left bicep still broadcasts a slightly faded Tomorrow...
Caitlyn had taken it upon herself to scrawl these friendly— and, they both know, superfluous— notes over the past several weeks. “You’re my betrothed, Vi,” she’d explained. “And writing these keeps me from the fact that I can hardly wait until the day you’re my wife.”
Betrothed — some words are simply better, Vi thinks, in that silky accent. And the word is already more than enough, with its formal romance. The first time Cait introduced her as such, Vi had nearly sweated through her suit in an effort not to pin her to a wall right then. Whichever Piltovan elite they’d been entertaining that day might not have approved.
Now Vi props herself on her elbows, looking dazedly at the servants all waiting to wait on her. Then she flops back down.
She can’t recall the last time she and Cait slept in separate beds. Normally they are expert invaders of space. Even in times of injury or disagreement, more comfort is found being together than apart. It feels wrong to wake without Cait’s familiar shape in her periphery, or at least Cait’s recently-vacated sheets next to her, still rumpled and warm.
Yet here Vi is, in a separate bed, in a separate room. She doesn’t like it, but she knows it’s necessary. Well, it’s tradition. “Tradition” and “necessary” are traditionally two separate categories in her book, but Vi’s book on life is not often cracked open in these parts.
Hell, she never consulted it much before, either.
She groans and tries sitting up again. She takes her sweet time stretching, then flashes a grin at her appointed audience. Claws of magenta fall in her face. She blows it out of the way. “Showtime already?”
“Yes, Miss Vi—”
Vi holds up a fist for quiet as she scoots off the bed. The look she fastens on the servant who spoke is gentle. “Come on, Mabel. I know for a fact you don’t call Cait ‘Miss Caitlyn’ after she insisted there’s no need. I don’t need the courtesy title, either. You don’t have to go there for me.” Jaws splitting in a cavernous yawn, she raises her arms— another fantastic stretch— then drops them. She peeks around at all the faces, mentally checks off the names that go with each one. You’ll get the hang of it eventually, Caitlyn had promised her. Vi wonders when eventually is.
“‘Kay. Let’s do this,” she says.
Vi sets aside her defensive instincts and lets the league of miracle workers push her along as needed. From bed to bureau, bureau to shower, shower to mirror. At least they trust her to clean herself properly— a small mercy in the madness. Vi swims along pleasantly, persisting and allowing, a faint grin and hum on her lips the entire time. She can only imagine what wringer they’re putting Cait through right now. Must be the sort of wringer that, Vi assumes, when someone is pushed through, causes them to emerge covered head-to-toe in ribbons and robes.
“Do I get to eat breakfast somewhere in this schedule?” Vi swings her head around the swarm of people surrounding her, unable to catch an eye. “‘Cause if that could be squeezed in...”
Somebody chucks an apple, which Vi catches without a wince. It’s gone five bites later. So when just enough heads are turned the other way, she takes matters into her own fists and slips away. Fleet-footed over the plush patterned hallway runner, Vi closes her eyes and plays pretend-parkour between walls and corners, mindful of any scuffs she might leave behind. Not like that would be possible— there isn’t a speck of dirt on her body.
The past few years have been a ride, a carousel that passes through patches of shade and sun. It’s all cyclical. A methodical falling and re-falling apart. The war carries on, though it feels broken-in now, like everyone is sticking to an uncomfortable routine. It’s called the Topsiders’ War or the Zaunite Rebellion, depending on where you are. Skirmishes pop up on the map in bursts, then settle into a lull. The Council recently passed new legislation to promote free trade between the two sister-cities. Sharing is caring, after all.
The death— disappearance?— death-appearance?— of Jinx, the ultimate symbol of outcry and protest, only briefly slowed down developments in the undercity, a term which has now been reclaimed as a label of pride. Some knots in Vi’s chest loosened, while others have grown tighter.
Like an itch under a bandage, it always bothered her how rumors and public murmurings molded Jinx into something far bigger than she could ever realistically be. A monkey-puppet, a cyborg with the golden middle finger. One act of terrorism, and she is their anti-hero. One more slip from Vi’s grasp, and now she has become their martyr in the abyss. How could Vi lose her father and sister, on the same day, twice? Maybe the third time will be the charm, she thinks wryly.
Whenever they’re lounging and idle in Cait’s study, Vi paging through the endless supply of books, calmly content to take up space in her space, and Caitlyn floats over from her desk, every time Vi braces for her to say the words she has been reluctantly waiting to hear for the past two years: I found her. But no blue, braided, bomb-happy target has been hit yet. So to speak.
As Vi traverses the longest hallway in all of Runeterra, an attendant with a tea cart rattles in her direction. “Morning,” Vi says. She swipes a biscuit (or two) off the tray, along with a news bulletin. “Thanks, Clyde!” she calls over her shoulder, already mid-chew and mid-sprint.
A strange burst of energy propels her. She swings around another corner. Every day she discovers a new nook, a new bathroom, a new hideout for illicit activity. Although disorderly sheets or scattering papers from Caitlyn’s desk tends to be their preferred niche. “Don’t distract me, Violet” turning into music, a staccato of gasps and “Please don’t stop.”
In these intervening years, Caitlyn has settled into her new role as a diplomat. She will never be able to fully shrug off her cloak of aristocracy, but she now has a foot firmly planted in both cities. Her desire for fieldwork still roams restless in her bones, and at last she has found an outlet for it. “How can we fight for progress, and make a difference, from the top of that tower?” Cait once said mid-rant, pacing in front of a casually reverent Vi, strands of midnight falling in her face. “We have to be there. In it and part of it.”
Across the bridge, she travels around, gives speeches on realistic reformation, takes questions and listens. Sometimes Ekko appears with her. The venue does not matter. She will speak from the steps of vandalized and rebuilt statues; from the front porch of an elder; the next block over from a familiar brothel. Vi often accompanies her on these endeavors, acting as moral support and an emotional bodyguard. Caitlyn takes the heckling and name-calling— “pirate” being a popular choice— with that well-honed stone face of hers. So few get the privilege of seeing that stone break.
Only once did she completely collapse in Vi’s arms afterward, just out of sight of prying eyes. Vi held her together like a stitch to a sweater. She murmured, with one hand cradling Cait’s face, her thumb catching a stray tear— “Take it in stride. What you’re doing is working.”
Caitlyn sighed. “Is it?”
Vi tipped back her chin so they could look more fully at each other. “There’s justice now. And I can tell you’re thinking about old stuff, so let me just say... good behavior rarely makes history.”
“Don’t we know it,” Caitlyn muttered flatly.
“And y’know what else? You’re the best buccaneer on both sides of the bridge.” And Vi flipped up her patch and kissed the scar underneath. “It’s what you have to be.”
Emotional bodyguard is the truth, because Cait isn’t really in need of a bodyguard in the traditional sense. One day about a year back, Vi was mid-rage with boxing gloves and punching bags in the room specially dedicated for her training, when Caitlyn walked in. She caught Vi’s gaze and Vi felt it then, their love, so tactile and sure in her palm. She closed her fingers, enfolding it in long-healed knuckles.
“Show me,” Caitlyn said, simple and certain. So Vi handed her a pair of gloves. In her semi-retirement, she has become a teacher. And Cait has learned how to bring her fists to a fist fight.
On the topside, Caitlyn meets regularly with the Council to make and re-make peace proposals. She orchestrates a symphony of planned appearances at balls and galas and soirées, intent on rebuilding the integrity of Kiramman House after dark days past. Vi initially joined her at these events too, wearing the same suit over and over because she dealt with the Kirammans’ tailor once, and swore never again. Until one day Caitlyn politely forbade her from attending because, as she put it, “We always leave too early. It’s in poor taste.”
“You know what isn’t poor taste?” Vi provoked.
“Violet. You know I love you. You also know that last time at the Amity Banquet, I was in the middle of conversation with the representative from Demacia when you dragged me out. We barely made it into the corridor before we—”
“You sure you wanna finish that thought, Cupcake?” They were, at this point, halfway to the latest ball-gala-dance-party-thing, and Vi’s lips were, at this point, a heartbeat and a gasp away from being on Caitlyn’s. “Because you’re putting some bad ideas in my head.”
“I rest my case,” Caitlyn replied. “You can’t come anymore.” Her eye slipped shut, and her next exhale was into Vi’s mouth.
It isn’t Vi’s fault that Cait cleans up exquisitely for these events: infinite, intricate capes, high collars and heeled boots, her eyepatch a dark slash of mystery across her face. Alas, Vi is uninvited from the politically-essential costume parties. But it isn’t a total tragedy; she’ll still get to see Cait when she gets home.
Sometimes, these ball-gala-dance-party-things give out awards. Once and only once, the Council blindsided Vi with one.
She got up on stage when called, stood there and let them “commend” her “bravery,” and accepted the shiny token of appreciation, or acknowledgment, or somewhere in between. For Cait’s sake she plastered on the old reliable grin-and-nod, which always looks more like a grimace on her features, the scar in her upper lip still frowning out of spite. A papier-mâché mask that could flake away if she wasn’t careful. Only when they had arrived back home, standing in the dim parlor, moonlight draping itself in thin slices across the rug:
“Would you look at this. A fancy coin that’ll fix everything.” Vi removed it from where it had rested over her chest, the attached ribbon velvety smooth at the nape of her neck. She couldn’t even picture what Sevika’s reaction must have been when the Council brought up her name for this award.
Caitlyn stopped, stared, looked not just at her but into her. “Violet...”
“All that time in prison, I’m basically powerless. Then you spring me from Stillwater, we spring into action, and all that time, Cait? I was just trying to save my family.” Like a boulder knocked loose, Vi tumbled and sprawled into a sofa.
“It’s a medal of valor. You’ve been recognized for—”
“What makes me special enough to have this shiny collar put around my neck?” Vi demanded. She met Caitlyn’s stare fire for fire, trying to clarify where her scorn was directed. She can separate Caitlyn from the institution, she can, but when it’s everywhere all at once like this, it’s hard. “I’m not special,” she muttered.
“You’re special to me.”
“I only did what anyone else who gives a damn would’ve done.” Vi tossed the medal onto a side table. “This is worth nothing to me.”
“I didn’t...” Caitlyn sighed. She was using her cautious tone, measured cool and concise like spoonfuls of sugar into her tea— which is a poor analogy, because Cait only takes half a teaspoon. It’s Vi who dumps in half the canister, wants it super sweet. That’s the only way to make hot leaf juice palatable.
Vi waited for her to gather her thoughts.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask them to give you any award,” Caitlyn told her. “It must be your association with me. They see you and they’re reminded of your story.”
“Huh, right. The shadow behind the martyr.”
Caitlyn had sat next to her on the loveseat then, reaching for Vi’s hand. When given, she enveloped it in her slender fingers and rested their joined hands on her knee. It’s hands, it’s always been hands for them, hands that express and protect. “Let me try to understand,” she said softly. “All I want to do, for the rest of my life, is understand.”
It was as if her single eye was trying to make up for being alone, to have enough intensity in it to fill two. Vi glanced down, admired Caitlyn’s neatly filed nails. She never thought of hands as pretty until these hands held her. Fortune comes in many forms: in small mercies, in frank forgiveness, in troubled lovers who are so easy to love. Being held and chosen, again and again.
“I can’t be the day to her night. The reverse symbol,” Vi finally said. “I won’t be your success story of rehabilitation. But this?” She gestured a limp hand at the discarded medal. “This feels a lot like that.”
“Alright,” said Caitlyn.
“You can get me to wash my hair, you can get me to rein it in at tea time, you can get me to listen to hours of your dad’s folklore” — here Cait’s eye flashed with silent laughter— “I don’t fucking care, I love you. I can do all that. And I can stop doing other things. But sometimes...” Her breath caught.
Caitlyn stepped into the silence. “I don’t want you,” she whispered, “to ever give up anything for my sake. I will always follow you.” A pause. “Only change because you want to change. Don’t change to erase the woman I fell in love with, who snores and thinks up the most creatively profane insults and likes her sugar with a touch of tea. Hey. Look at me.” Her free hand embraced Vi’s cheek. As a reflex, Vi’s hands jumped up to rest behind Caitlyn’s neck, tangling in midnight blue wisps. Like revealing a secret, Cait smiled. “Please, Violet. Don’t morph into a stranger for me and my name.”
Shoulders slumped, Vi exhaled and went in to kiss her because come on. But a mere inch away, she was thwarted by Caitlyn’s index finger on her lips, and a single word: “Promise.”
“I promise,” Vi said. With a threatening play-bite delivered to Cait’s finger, her obstacle moved away and at last Vi’s mouth made landfall on its treasured target.
— until Caitlyn pulled back to blurt, “I can talk to my father, by the way. I don’t know why he’s gotten so—”
“It’s okay, Cupcake. I really don’t care.” Vi looked down, playing with the starched edge of Caitlyn’s jacket. “It’s... it’s cool that he’s cool with me being part of your family now. I’m honored.”
“... part of the family.” It was there that Caitlyn’s next breath became an audible clot in her throat. She blinked once, twice. Then spoke in a burst, so earnest, never not able to claim Vi’s attention entirely: “Violet. How would you feel about marrying me?”
Barely a heartbeat between question and answer. An exhaustive, emphatic, doubtless response: “Yes.”
“Yes? You— you would? Marry me?”
So many questions, but was there even a question? Vi swallowed, trying to find room for more words on her tongue. But there was nothing else. Only a wobbly, delightfully broken “Yes.”
Back in the present, Vi is nearly at her destination. For the last few steps that will take her to Caitlyn’s door, she slows her pace and skims over the front page story of a bulletin that, lately, has been starving for good news.
BRIDGING THE GAP? ponders a headline. The letters are stretched, bold and hopefully prophetic, over an image of the bridge between cities that has seen so much strife— the almighty fulcrum. On either side of the bridge, illustrations of Caitlyn and Vi are juxtaposed, their side profiles facing down each other with serious, almost menacing reflected stares. Certainly not the ideal wedding announcement.
Vi’s nose wrinkles. Her nose doesn’t look that crooked, does it?
The blurb underneath reads:
Topside + Undercity = Perfect Harmony? Head of House Kiramman is set to wed a former Zaun resident today, who also happens to be the sister of Jinx, the terrorist who is presumed dead.
On the cusp of turning twenty-six, ex-enforcer and ex-Councillor Caitlyn follows in her mother’s footsteps by making an unorthodox choice in matrimony. Nearly thirty years ago, small protests were held during the nuptials of the late Cassandra Kiramman, who selected Ionian physician Tobias as her lifelong match, an individual who was previously unknown in higher circles.
However, Caitlyn breaks from precedent today by choosing to have a private ceremony in her home, a departure from the typical pomp and circumstance of previous House Kiramman weddings. The question remains: will this new union mark a fresh beginning for the sister cities? Will Vi, as she prefers to be called, win over the heart of Piltover as Tobias Kiramman did? Or will tensions rise and true loyalties be tested? In the coming months, we are braced to find out.
Just to confirm her suspicions, Vi peers out of a convenient window, of which there are many in this house. Sure enough, a gaggle of reporters roils impatiently outside, far below where she stands. All hoping to catch a glimpse of “The Cities’ Couple,” who were star-crossed until they uncrossed the stars by sheer will. One came of age in a prison; the other came of age in a palace. Great. The headlines write themselves.
The press will be sorely disappointed. While Cait’s parents may have followed expectations and exchanged vows publicly, she and Vi have planned something a little simpler— and besides, is this house-palace not a good setting? It is a step up from where Vi’s parents got hitched: a small side room in The Last Drop, with Vander as their witness.
Vi swallows hard. With a head toss of disgust, she ditches the news bulletin and stops in front of the room she usually sleeps in.
Then she frowns. It’s unnervingly quiet around the bridal suite. Shouldn’t there be hustle and bustle inside and out? Vi taps her knuckles six times on the door, their secret It’s me signal.
Leaning one shoulder into the door, Vi grazes her cheek against the cool wood and remarks, “Are you seriously alone in there? How’d you manage that?”
Caitlyn is immediately on the other side. Her voice and presence— promised, though unseen— are a balm on Vi’s soul. “You’re alone too, evidently. Otherwise they wouldn’t let you over here.” A pause. “You can’t come in. It’s bad luck, you know.”
“Yeah.” Vi swipes hair off her forehead. “I tend to attract that.”
A shuffle from the other side, possibly a chuckle. Vi accepts the challenge. She can make her laugh.
“Don’t you wanna know how I got away?” Before Cait can fulfill the prompt, Vi goes on, “I kept trying to escape, so they asked how tight I wanted the leash to be. I said I’d go get our favorite leather one. That always digs in just right. So they set me loose to go track it down.” She clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Actually, though, I was just hungry.”
She can imagine it vividly: Cait’s eye widening just a tic, then glittering. She long ago accepted Vi as the natural escape artist that she is. And as a dirty comedian. “Violet,” she sighs.
“Tough crowd.”
“I’m nervous. And your jokes are awful.”
“Ouch,” says Vi. “Why do you sound muffled?”
“Because I’m speaking to you through a door.”
“No, it’s something else.” Vi attempts to transmit her concerned glare through the unfortunately solid material. “I wish you wouldn’t worry. Today’s supposed to be a good one.”
“Really? You’re enjoying this?”
The pure incredulity, the way Cait’s voice stretches out enjoying with emphasis, makes Vi’s heart tumble pleasantly.
“Telling the whole fucking world how much I love my wife? Yeah, I’m enjoying this. Plus, telling is only part of it. Showing is a whole other. And I’ve always been more of a shower.”
“The fact that you like all this fuss more than I do only makes me adore you more.”
“Mission accomplished,” Vi says. “I can be pampered every now and then.”
Vi thinks she hears a sniffle— or maybe she imagined it. “Oh? Were they pampering you so cruelly before you freed yourself?” Caitlyn asks.
“Yep,” Vi says, voice adopting the heaviness of feigned misery. “Torture by hairbrush.”
“You know what that is?”
“Hey—”
“Your hand does not count as a hairbrush.”
“My hand is a versatile multipurpose tool. You should know.”
“Vi!”
“Cait.”
A pause. “I quite like brushing your hair,” Caitlyn says, as if musing.
Vi cocks a grin, wishing so badly she could walk through walls. “Is that a heart I see on your sleeve, Cupcake?”
“You can’t see me at all right now.”
“I can think of a way to fix that.”
Quiet settles over them like a light dusting of snow— or ash. It’s Caitlyn who brushes it off. “I’m afraid today’s not going to plan. I—”
“Since when do we follow plans?” Vi asks.
“We’ve been known to make plans work before,” Caitlyn retorts. “And seen them through. Usually.”
Vi decides to let her wallow in the silence for a moment or two. She’ll confess when she’s ready.
“It isn’t that I’m nervous. I’m... ill,” Caitlyn admits. Right on cue, she coughs. “I woke with a dry throat, and my nose has been a faucet ever since. I sent everyone away and said I needed a moment. I can’t believe it. On today of all days—”
“Look, Cait, today doesn’t have to be—”
“Today must be perfect,” Cait says. A pause. “It’s you, Vi. And me. You and me together. Today is symbolic of that. Today is so important. Special.”
Vi chews her lip. She needs to see her, touch her, breathe her. She slumps against the door. “Can you just let me in—”
“Starting today, so much is going to change. Our new family portrait will have to be painted, and they want to have us seated for eight hours on the same day I’m to give a speech at the grand opening of the new port, and obviously I would rather sit with you for eight hours, but—”
“We can reschedule,” Vi says with a shrug. “How many paintings does that guy have to paint next week, anyway? Like, three?”
This is prefaced by a seismic sneeze: “Fifty.”
“Fifteen?”
“Fifty,” Caitlyn confirms. “I know, it’s not even mathematically possible. But I put us on the waiting list nearly a year ago.”
Vi is silent. She pictures sitting still for eight hours. She likes the mental image a little more once Cait is added to it. And a little less once stiff, elegant clothes are also added to it.
“Not to mention all the questions about an heir that will start,” Caitlyn adds gently. “You should be prepared for that.”
Vi bobs her head, air chafing her throat. “Yeah,” she says, just so Cait can hear her.
This is a discussion they have already had multiple times— that the Kiramman fortune will be distributed among various good causes upon their deaths. Caitlyn is still tinkering with the finer details of trust funds and academy scholarships to be set up, something they both agreed on. Their deaths will mark the end of the living Kiramman House, and the beginning of a charitable legacy.
But sometimes Vi wonders what it would be like. The world is rough, and yet people have kids anyway. You can try to keep kids from the worst of it, but they’ll know even what they don’t understand. She thinks of Powder. Of Isha.
Is there any worth in creating fresh eyes, eyes to see the world in a whole new way? Eyes that see a problem generations have grappled with, hands that turn the problem over and realize, here’s an angle no one has ever looked at it from. A young hand that will dart in, muddy the waters, and let the dust settle like it never has before. An innocent upheaval of history.
A kid with Cait’s eyes. With that same charming gap in her teeth. They could contribute absolutely nothing to society and still be the best thing that ever happened.
Vi scrubs a hand over her face. They may need to revisit that conversation.
“Cait?” she says after a minute. “I’d love to come in.”
“But—”
“‘In sickness and in health.’ Isn’t that a part of it?”
There’s a short, tidy fit of coughs. “We haven’t taken our vows yet, Violet.”
“I don’t care,” Vi tells her. “Wait— I mean, I do care. I care now.” When the door fails to budge, she presses, “Come on. How many times has one of us been nursed back from the brink of death or catastrophic injury, and had the other tossing and turning at our side every step of the way?”
A pause. “I haven’t kept a firm tally.” Then— “But you do toss and turn a lot.”
Vi takes a breath, softens her voice to mush. “Let me in,” she says. Her mind has exhausted itself sketching the imagined reactions of the face on the other side of the door. Now Vi needs to see her. Be replenished.
The click of a lock sliding out of place. The barrier between them falling away with a sigh, a whine of relief.
Vi steps inside.
Her eyes belong to Caitlyn. Under her unspoken command, Vi’s lips move in a trance and lock onto hers. A barely prolonged peck, an I missed you kind of kiss. It’s been too long, it’s only been half a day, but it’s been too long.
Until Caitlyn breaks away. “You’re going to get sick.”
Vi lifts her shoulders. “Worth it.”
Her bride is a sight for wanting eyes. She already knows Cait cleans up well, in her gilded uniforms and gowns and suits, so seeing her like this throbs Vi’s heart even more. Half-dressed for the day, hair swept out of her face only to fall back in it, eyepatch askew. Her nose is rubbed raw; her eye weeps. Her knee-high socks are not quite pulled up to the same level. She has an unlimited supply of handkerchiefs up her sleeve. And she is beautiful.
“First of all,” says Vi, “you should sit down.” She ignores all mumbled protests and parks Caitlyn on the unmade bed. Then Vi frowns, looking her up and down. “You’ve gotta be freezing.” Cait’s other garments and accessories are still spread over the bed. All she wears is the whisper-thin silk slip that is meant to go underneath her— oh.
Caitlyn’s gaze follows where Vi’s has become stuck. “You weren’t meant to see that yet,” she says, a defeated smile curling the ends of her mouth.
That? Caitlyn’s bridal attire isn’t only that, it is a revelation. The Kirammans’ tailor, or modiste, or whoever it is might as well retire now, because they will never make anything this incredible again. Vi’s jaw has unhinged and hit the floor.
“Holy shit, Cupcake.”
“I wish you’d seen it on me first.”
“Maybe I like it better off of you.”
Caitlyn pinches the bridge of her nose, shakes her head. The action invites another unwanted sneeze. Vi sits down next to her, bumping their knees together. Though her back is now facing it, the regalia is glue in her memory: the lines of navy and gold, the swooping sparkle of cream-colored fabric, the emblematic sash across the front, the sleeves of lace. It is otherworldly. But, Vi also thinks, it doesn’t exactly scream Cait. It must’ve been the same thing her mother wore. But that— the respect and nostalgia and grief mellowed by time passed— that makes it right for Cait after all.
“Does it help if I say it’s nicer this way?” Vi asks. “Seeing it like this, just you and me in the room?”
“It does,” Caitlyn says. “But here you are, and you look so lovely.” She skims a thumb over the apple of Vi’s cheek, right where it hurts from grinning so much. That’s a problem she didn’t used to have.
“Thanks. They really spiffed me up, huh?”
Caitlyn looks at her, suddenly in no rush. “Did they? I didn’t even notice.”
Vi blinks at her, feeling her face warm under Caitlyn’s touch. She thinks about two years ago. She thinks about how losing Jinx would always mean having Caitlyn. She thinks about their first kiss— in a sewer.
She thinks about where they first met, and where they first reached deeper into each other— nearly in the same setting. Behind bars, solitary confinement, until Caitlyn stepped behind the bars too, with an outstretched hand and a deliberateness to her step.
The second time was admittedly better. Cait, all smug as she pressed her temple to the slimed stone wall. All legs as Vi lifted and pressed her to that wall, hips cresting over and over like crashing waves, rolling, skin exposed to the damp chill, the surrounding atmosphere like a breath knocked out of her. Roaming fingertips, a vow buried in the hollow of a throat. A ragged, desperate collision. A kinship of I’m glad you’re alive.
They found a way to love, to build and rebuild it, craft it from spare parts and sweat and blood, in a place that had seen no love. Another cell Caitlyn unlocked the door of. Another cell where she was free to extract herself from behind the bars at any time, free to walk away from trouble, but she didn’t leave, she doesn’t leave, she doesn’t leave.
Vi thinks it again now, as they stare at each other. I’m glad you’re alive. She reaches up, drags healed knuckles along the supple curve of Caitlyn’s neck, parting curtains of hair as she goes, and fixes the crooked eyepatch. Vi sees Cait’s sacrifice every day on her face. What’s missing can still help make a whole.
“Let’s do it here,” she suggests.
Caitlyn lets go of a breath. Her eyebrows knit. “Here?”
“We don’t have to do the ceremony downstairs in that cavernous ballroom. C’mon, Cait. Let’s have it here. In your room—”
“Our room,” Caitlyn corrects.
“— and with some blankets over you,” Vi says. “You’re shivering.” (There will be time for uncovering later, she knows.)
“You don’t want to postpone it?”
“Do you?” Vi counters.
“Absolutely not. I can’t wait another minute, Violet.”
Vi slips a hand behind Caitlyn’s neck, her favorite spot, warm and familiar. “With us,” she says, “it’s never gonna be perfect.” She goes in for a kiss, but Cait’s hand on her chest stops her.
“Wait,” Caitlyn tells her, a teasing threat.
“Fine,” says Vi. “And you”— she shoves a stashed-away biscuit into Caitlyn’s hands— “eat.”