Chapter Text
A frigid breeze rustled the loose sheets of paper tucked beneath your arm as you willed your hand to stop shaking long enough to unlock the doors of Iron & Glass Community Art Center, swearing under your breath as you pushed one open with one shoulder and hastily slammed it shut behind you. The drafty old building offered little respite from the cold, but at least you were out of the wind and could feel your face starting to defrost. After flicking on the lights and unceremoniously dropping your things on your already overcrowded desk, you adjusted the thermostat and set up the space heaters in each studio before finally heading to the kitchenette to brew a pot of coffee. Despite having just paid the previous month, you were already dreading seeing the utility bill for this cycle, knowing that the abrupt dip into freezing temperatures would be especially taxing on the ancient HVAC system.
Rifling through the cupboards, you grimaced as you remembered that you had used the last of the beans yesterday. Fuck . Pulling out your phone, you added another item to your neverending to-do list so that you wouldn’t forget again, and resigned yourself to a cup of cinnamon-flavored black tea. Returning to your office, you set your mug off to the side to cool and began sorting out the haphazard piles on your desk, making sure to mark the forms you had printed off that morning with a bright pink sticky note emblazoned with PRIORITY! in thick black Sharpie. You knew you should start with those, but decided to tackle your inbox instead, letting out a groan as you scrolled through the messages that had come in since you had forced yourself to put your phone away the previous night.
After what felt like twelve hours, you were startled out of your email-induced stupor by the sound of the front door slamming, followed by a series of curses directed at said door, before your coworker, Ava, swept in, depositing a paper cup on your desk with a flourish.
“It’s cold as fuck in here,” she said by way of greeting, setting her own cup down before dropping into her chair and unzipping her bag.
“I know,” you replied apologetically, “I turned up the thermostat but it’s going to take a while to warm up. The space heaters are on though so hopefully that helps a bit—” you broke off as she tossed a bag of coffee at you.
“We ran out yesterday,” she shrugged when you gave her a look.
“I was going to get more today, it’s on my list,” you told her, unable to keep the defensive note out of your voice.
“Yeah, but you have like, four million things on your to-do list already,” she pointed out, one corner of her mouth quirking up before adding, “plus, it gave me an excuse to stop by while Talia was working.”
You tried for a moment to recall whether you had heard that name before but came up empty.
“Which one is Talia again?” you questioned, unable to hide your smile at the lovestruck look on Ava’s face.
“She’s the love of my life,” she sighed dreamily, “and the creator of that exquisite cardamom vanilla latte you need to drink before it meets the same fate as that cup of tea.”
You grimaced at the abandoned mug on your desk, feeling slightly guilty, before taking a sip of your latte.
“Holy fuck. She might be the love of my life now, too,” you admitted, cradling the warm paper cup appreciatively. “You saved the receipt though, right? I can’t have you spending your own money on stuff for this place—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ava interjected, pulling out her phone. “I just sent you the receipt. The lattes were free though, Talia said she needed customer feedback before she could make it a seasonal special.”
You snorted disbelievingly.
“Yeah, pretty sure she just wanted to give you free drinks,” you said, adding a note to process the reimbursement to your checklist for the day, “but if she actually wants feedback, please tell her it’s fantastic and should be available year round.”
Ava grinned and glanced back down at her phone, thumbs flying over the touchscreen before she set it down on her desk with an air of accomplishment.
“Done,” she announced, opening her laptop.
“You got her number already?” you asked, impressed.
In response, Ava’s mouth quirked up mischievously as she rotated her cup so that you could see the phone number scrawled on the side, punctuated with an adorably lopsided smiley face.
“I expect regular updates on this,” you told her seriously, to which she broke into a full grin.
“Is that an official demand from my supervisor?” she teased, and you shook your head.
“No, it’s an official request from your lame friend who lives vicariously through you,” you replied, and she frowned.
“You’re not lame,” she said, “there are plenty of people who would love to date you, you just won’t give them the time of day.”
“Like who?” you muttered, “Creepy Craig?”
The furrow between Ava’s brows deepened.
“Who the fuck is Creepy Craig?” she demanded, and you picked up the stack of forms you had brought in that morning.
“The guy who lives on my floor whose printer I had to borrow this morning to print off these stupid forms,” you answered, making a face. “He said I was welcome to come over “ anytime ” so…” you trailed off, biting back a laugh at the disgusted expression on Ava’s face.
“Okay, well, normally I’d ask if there’s any potential there but considering the name Creepy Craig, I’m gonna guess not,” she commented.
“Definitely not,” you said emphatically. “And then he started talking about how we should have dinner together sometime since we’ve been neighbors for months and still barely know each other, so I had to shut that down immediately.”
“So what did you tell him?” she asked, and you winced as you mentally replayed the encounter.
“Um…well, I didn’t want to feel like I owed him something so I offered to trade a commission in return for the use of his printer,” you admitted sheepishly, hiding behind your cup as Ava shot you a look of supreme disappointment.
“First of all, that doesn’t sound like a fair trade at all,” she admonished you, “second of all, you’re busy enough without doing custom pieces for fucking Craig the creepy neighbor!”
“I know,” you groaned, “I just panicked. But it’s fine, I’ll just sketch something really quick tonight and hopefully our printer will be fixed by the end of the week so I won’t have to ask him again.”
Ava stared at you, entirely unconvinced.
“It’s fine,” you repeated, trying to convince yourself.
“What did he ask for?” she questioned eventually, and you pulled out your phone, scrolling to find the note you had added that morning with the name of the character he had requested.
“Valeria Stormweaver?” you told her, shrugging, thoroughly unprepared for the scoff you got in return.
“Of fucking course he plays Soulforge Chronicles,” Ava muttered scornfully, noticing your confused expression and continuing, “it’s a fucking Skyrim rip-off but the only clothing options for women are like, leather bikinis and shit. It’s trash. Here, this is what she looks like.”
Standing up, she carried her laptop over to your desk and turned it so that you were eye-level with a 3d rendering of an extremely curvaceous blonde armed with a broadsword and clothed in little more than a fur loincloth and strip of fabric struggling to contain her comically large breasts.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, wondering if you could get away with drawing her in a modern AU so that she could at least wear a crop top instead, “she might as well just be topless, one swing of that sword and those things are popping right out anyway—”
You broke off at the sound of a knock, heat flooding your cheeks as you took in the sight of a man hesitating in the doorway of the office, the corners of his mouth turned downward in a critical expression. All at once, Ava slammed her laptop shut, expression torn between humiliation and hysterics, as you bolted upright so quickly you knocked your knee into the underside of your desk. Eyes watering with pain, you attempted to compose yourself before opening your mouth and asking, in a voice several octaves higher than normal,
“Hi! Can I help you?” at the same time as the man in the doorway cast a cool glance about the room, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he said,
“My apologies for the interruption.”
Shooting a panicked look at Ava, who had hastily retreated back to her desk and was slouching so low in her chair that her forehead was barely visible over the top of her computer, you screamed internally before forcing your face into a bright smile.
“No apologies necessary, we were just—” you broke off, searching for a reasonable explanation as to why you were ogling a hyper-realistic depiction of the formidably breasted Valeria Stormweaver before clearing your throat and starting again. “Sorry, is there something I can help you with?”
The man stared at you in silence for a moment, giving you time to take in the extraordinarily mismatched eyes beneath his furrowed brows. One was seafoam green, the other an ochreous eclipse within a charcoal sclera, accentuated by rivulets of scars that ran the length of the left side of his face. The effect was so mesmerizing that it took you a moment to realize his mouth had tightened irritably under your scrutiny, and you hurriedly wrenched your gaze away, focusing instead on the tiny golden daggers that adorned the lapels of his black button-down shirt, connected by a delicate chain upon each pommel.
“My daughter is interested in taking classes here,” he replied finally, stepping over the threshold and clasping his hands behind his back as he continued his appraisal of your office. “I wanted to visit first before agreeing.”
You were suddenly all too aware of how disorganized your workspace was, and made a mental note to invest in a desk organizer of some sort.
“Well, good thing we’ve made such a great first impression,” you joked weakly, attempting to dispel some of the uncomfortable tension in the room.
He didn’t even attempt to look amused in return, and you felt your cheeks grow even hotter with embarrassment.
“Dude,” Ava whispered from behind her laptop as you contemplated fleeing the scene to move into the network of drainage tunnels beneath Zaun, live amongst rats for the rest of your life, and never speak to another human being ever again.
Unfortunately, this otherwise faultless plan was thwarted by the fact that the doorway was effectively blocked by the man staring down his aquiline nose at you, so you shelved it for another day and tried to ignore the sweat dampening your palms.
“Um, would you like a tour of the center?” you offered, relief flooding through you as he inclined his head slightly.
“If you would be so kind,” he answered, and you nodded far more enthusiastically than the situation called for.
“Of course!” you chirped, spotting the mug on your desk and adding, “would you like a tea or a coffee or anything first? I don’t have any brewed but I can make some really quick if you’re not a tea person—”
“Just the tour, if you please,” he interjected, tugging up one sleeve of his perfectly tailored overcoat slightly to check his watch. “I’m on a tight schedule.”
You nodded again, decidedly less enthusiastically this time.
“Right. Right, yeah, of course. It won’t take long,” you mumbled, quickly brushing past him so he didn’t catch the way your mouth turned down at the corners.
What an absolute disaster of a day this had turned into. From having to barter with Creepy Craig to use his inkjet while he hovered just behind you, infiltrating your breathing space with the scent of Funyuns poorly masked with Old Spice to basically getting caught looking at Soulforge Chronicles porn by the haughty parent of a potential student, all before 10a.m. Despite the very official title of ‘ Executive Director , Iron & Glass Community Art Center’ present in your email signature, you certainly didn’t feel like the executive director of anything except maybe a movie about being the biggest idiot alive, starring yourself. With some difficulty, you shoved the self-pitying thoughts down and closed your eyes for a moment to reset, determined to prove to this man that this was a respectable organization, and you were serious about the work you did. When you opened them, you glanced over at him, following his gaze as it swept over the various pieces displayed on the walls.
“What classes is your daughter interested in?” you asked, coming to a stop beside him as he peered at a self-portrait by one of your students.
“All of them,” he replied, leaning in closer to take in the details in the background. “Her preferred medium is mixed media, but she was very excited to see that you offer digital art classes as well.”
You noticed that his expression had softened slightly as he spoke, and you felt some of your earlier annoyance at his brusque dismissal of your beverage offerings ebb away.
“Oh, that’s great! Actually, Ava, who you met back in the office, teaches all of our digital art classes and she’s incredible,” you told him, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t met Ava so much as witnessed her slamming her laptop shut and scurrying away. “Her fall class collaborated on an experimental video installation that was on display at The Bridgewalker Gallery, it was amazing.”
He said nothing, but his full attention was on you now as you opened the door to one of the studios, stepping aside so that he could pass through.
“This is the digital art classroom,” you said, a note of pride making its way into your voice as you began the tour in earnest. “All of the Macs have the full Adobe Suite, as well as Final Cut Pro. We have a bunch of different digital and analog cameras, which students are free to borrow to work on projects outside of class, and we also have open studio hours each week so that they can come in to edit or whatever else they want to focus on. There’s a soundbooth in this closet, and we have a partnership with Echo Chamber if any of our students want to use their facilities to record music or ambient noise or anything to soundtrack their work. We’re working on figuring something out with the university so that students can audit their digital art courses as well but it’s caught up in red tape right now so I don’t know exactly when we’ll have that option available…” you trailed off, watching as he circled the room before offering a small nod of approval.
Given his stoicism up until that point, that tiny inclination of his head felt like a victory, and you allowed it to embolden you as you ushered him back through the doorway and to the studio next door.
“This is where I teach most of my classes — drawing, painting, sometimes printmaking, although I haven’t had enough interest in that recently to dedicate a weekly time slot to it,” you told him, straightening a few of the easels set in a semicircle around the room. “I also have open studio hours so that students can work on projects independently, or just come hang out. They’re not required to produce anything in return for using the space, so long as they’re respectful of everyone else.”
He frowned slightly.
“Isn’t that distracting for the other students?” he questioned, and you shook your head, opening your mouth to respond before he continued, “Jinx is extremely talented, but she needs structure. She needs to be surrounded by peers who are as dedicated to their craft as she is and want to learn. Not just…‘ hang out ,’ as you say.”
Scowling at the disdainful inflection in his voice, you crossed your arms over your chest defensively.
“As I was about to say, both myself and all of the other teachers here would intervene if a student was preventing anyone from focusing on their work. It’s happened before. But it’s more important to me that we provide a safe space for everyone to gather, whether or not they choose to participate in the classes. If structure is the most important thing to you, maybe you should look into the Academy of Fine Arts in Piltover rather than a community art center in the Lanes,” you responded, unable to hold back the irritation in your tone.
You thought you saw the scarred corner of his mouth curve upwards into a barely perceptible smile at the jab, but it was quickly replaced by what seemed to be his default expression of poorly concealed disinterest.
“Perhaps I will,” he said smoothly. “Thank you for the recommendation.”
God, you couldn’t wait to bitch about this guy with Ava once this disastrous tour was over.
“No problem,” you forced out, as if his thanks had been genuine. “Do you want to see the rest of the studios or—”
You fell silent as he gave a single, definitive shake of his head.
“No, I believe I’ve seen everything I need to,” he replied, and you offered an attempt at a smile that you were certain made you look like a pained ventriloquist's dummy.
“Okay, well, thanks for stopping by!” you told him, unsubtly herding him back toward the entrance. “Feel free to call or email if you have any questions or anything…” you trailed off, hoping he never took advantage of the offer.
“I take it you’d prefer a call or an email over an in-person visit then,” he commented snidely, pausing by the main doors and turning back to look at you.
“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” you said evenly, unwilling to let him ruffle you any further. “This space is for everyone.”
He was silent for a moment, his mismatched gaze flickering over your face before he stuck out one elegant hand, yours rising automatically to clasp it in a firm shake.
“Thank you for your time,” he murmured, before pulling away and disappearing out the door with a dramatic swish of his overcoat.
Or at least, that’s what you thought he was going for. The door, however, had other plans and remained firmly stuck in place while he yanked unsuccessfully at the handle. Biting back a smile, you allowed yourself a moment to revel in this obnoxious, imperious man being thwarted by a cantankerous piece of wood before brushing past him with a murmured pardon. Tugging the handle up, you dragged the door open, blinking as a blast of cold air hit you head-on.
“Sorry, it does this sometimes,” you apologized, stepping aside to allow him past you.
“It’s a fire hazard,” he admonished you, pushing the wind-mussed hair off his forehead irritably. “You should get that fixed.”
With that, he strode away before you had a chance to reply, and you resisted the urge to make a face at his retreating back before turning back inside, pulling the door shut tightly behind you.
“What a fucking asshole,” you announced as you hobbled back into the office, your knee throbbing as you flung yourself down into your chair.
Ava looked up from her laptop, amused.
“I take it he’s not going to be signing his daughter up for classes?” she asked, and you shrugged.
“Sure didn’t seem like it. He was being such a snob about everything, I told him he should just enroll her in the Academy—” you started, before Ava hissed at you, forming a crucifix with her fingers.
Letting out an undignified snort of laughter, you held your hands up in surrender.
“Sorry,” you told her, attempting to assemble your expression into one of contrition as she fixed you with a serious look.
“You should be. I told you never to speak the name of that cursed place,” she replied sourly.
“Sorry,” you repeated, taking a sip of your now cold latte. “Anyway, I doubt we passed his inspection so at least that’s one less thing I have to deal with.”
To your surprise, Ava looked slightly put out by this assessment.
“Shame,” she remarked, “I really wanted to ask him where he got that cool collar pin from.”
It had been really cool, but you would rather accept a dinner invitation from Creepy Craig than admit it, so you gave an unimpressed shrug.
“Probably some expensive Piltie boutique with a name like Brass & Brawn Provisions or something stupid like that,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“That sounds like the name of a sex shop,” Ava pointed out, and you felt your face heat with embarrassment.
“Thanks for that,” you muttered, “ really don’t want to imagine that guy in a sex shop.”
Opening your laptop, you attempted to refocus on your inbox, oblivious to the way Ava exaggeratedly mouthed, “Sure.”
Despite its disastrous beginnings, the remainder of the day leading up to your drawing class was unexpectedly productive. You managed to catch up on your inbox, at least temporarily so, and finish the tax exemption renewal forms that you had printed that morning. In a sudden burst of motivation, you and Ava even attempted to repair the door yourselves before admitting it was probably left to someone with a full toolkit rather than one Phillips-head and a tape measure.
Undeterred by your failure as a handyman, you wrapped up your work for the day and began setting up your classroom, greeting students as they began to trickle in and took places behind their respective easels. You were just about to begin a brief lecture on the techniques you would be focusing on for that evening’s assignment when the studio door opened, admitting a sharp-featured girl with two waist length blue braids. She clutched a sticker-adorned sketchbook to her chest almost protectively, chewing nervously on her lower lip as all eyes turned toward her.
“Hi,” you said brightly, taking a small step toward her. “Are you here for class?”
She nodded, and you gestured to the unclaimed easel closest to her.
“You can set up right here,” you told her, relieved to see the tension in her shoulders dissipate slightly as the rest of the class fell into conversation while she settled in.
After making sure she had all the supplies she needed, you introduced yourself, urging her to let you know if she had any questions.
“I’m glad to have you here—” you broke off uncertainly, realizing you hadn’t caught her name.
Her mouth quirked up in a fleeting smile so similar to her father’s that you were entirely unsurprised when she told you,
“It’s Jinx.”