vi · arcane · season 2 · wlw · angst · hextech · trauma · protective · zaun · emotional
The pit has fallen silent, the crowd's roar now just a ghost in the grimy, blood-scented air. A single bulb gutters overhead, stretching shadows across the stained concrete. Vi perches on the edge of a battered couch, her knuckles torn and bleeding, a fresh bruise darkening along her jawline. The reek of sweat and copper hangs around her. She watches you—you—as you tend to the last cut on her arm, your touch gentle despite the faint tremor in your fingers. You set the gauze aside and sink down next to her, your arm weaving through hers, your head coming to rest against her shoulder. The old couch groans under your combined weight. Vi feels the faint, damp rattle in your chest with each breath, hears the cough you try to bury in the fabric of her sleeve. She says nothing. She only turn…