Author's Note: I received an email notification the other day about a comment left on one of my works. Truth be told, I was surprised to see it coming from . I had not used or seen this site in years (and it appears this text had not been updated since Oct 8, 2014—my sincerest apologies).

Thank you to Beck for reminding me of this piece with the kindest, sweetest words. Thank you for your hope and thank you for the visits and the revisits.

The next chapter (The Morning Star) will be available on Archive of Our Own under Zjol. The link is in my profile. Unfortunately, I will not be updating here anymore. You will also find other fanfics I have been working on!

Cheers.

Ezreal had been blinking away sleep and sun from his eyes, holding the door wide open for the chill to enter his home.

It was nearly noon, but he would have slept for a few hours more. He had not been able to pull himself from bed early as of late. He tried not to dwell on the cause.

"Ezreal?" came Jayce's voice. "May I come in?" He was still standing on the doorstep, dressed in a warm coat, his dark hair slicked back and eyes full of worry. The autumn wind whistled. Something was of the essence and it lay heavy in the air.

Ezreal shook his head to clear what was left of his slumber and stepped aside. "Yes," he said, voice still thick with sleep. He tried to clear his throat. "Yes. Of course, come in."

Jayce passed the threshold and had the grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry, I should have sent post ahead." Ezreal gave a smile. He tried not to note how estranged it felt, nor how it seemed that his cheeks were stiff.

"It's not a problem," Ezreal replied. "Tea?"

"Please."

Ezreal left Jayce pacing in the living room to put the kettle on, then moved to his bedroom to change into clothing that wasn't his sleepwear. In passing of a mirror, he made an effort to smooth hair from his face and he tucked what strands he could behind his ears.

He re-entered the kitchen and pulled out a handled tray, a teapot, and two sets of cups and saucers from the cupboards. He briefly allowed a pause. He wasn't sure if he had any milk or cream. Sugar, yes, but perishables were of a different mind.

He spoke out into the hall, knowing his voice would carry in the modest space: "I don't think I have any milk or cream."

Jayce emerged from the hall and padded over to join him in the kitchen.

"I don't think I have any milk or cream," Ezreal repeated, as Jayce crossed into the room. The man gave a smile.

"A shame," he sighed. "And I had just been about to praise Caitlyn for instilling in you the true Piltover custom," he continued, in jest. He reached past Ezreal and lifted the kettle as soon as it started its squeal. "I don't take my tea with much," he said, "do not worry about the milk and cream."

"I don't suppose you'd mind some mint tea?"

"I would love some mint tea."

Ezreal measured out careful spoonfuls of the dry leaves before making room for Jayce to pour the boiled water into the teapot. There was an air of balance and routine about the man. Ezreal was grateful for it.

They sat down in the living room and poured out two cupfuls. Jayce was a man of his word and took his tea straight. Ezreal preferred sweetener to accompany his. He stirred in a cube of sugar, the spoon tinkling against ceramic. He had almost forgotten the reason for Jayce's impromptu visit. The silence had grown too comfortable. He gently blew at the steam, unsure of what Jayce could possibly need from him. After a taste, Ezreal promptly added another cube.

Jayce set his cup and saucer down. He looked pensive as he shifted in his seat, his eyes focused on something off in the distance. He was uncomfortable, but he was too often in his own good graces to be uncomfortable about the smallest of issues. "I don't mean to step into your boundaries, Ezreal, but I would like to know how you are doing."

The blond peered at him blankly. He fumbled with his words, thoughts disorganized and fleeting. "I'm alright."

Jayce still looked discomfited as he picked up his cup. Ezreal couldn't see why—it was a perfectly apt question to ask friend about a change.

He turned, sipping at his tea as he peered over Jayce's shoulder to the window behind him. The day had warmed up to an afternoon sun and it shone in dauntlessly on the two of them. Jayce, Ezreal realized, had drawn aside the curtains when he had been in earlier.

For a brief moment, Ezreal was glad his abode wasn't as cluttered as he felt. Though to give himself some credit, he hadn't been wholly spread all over any place. He had attended his matches and, other than sleeping in later than not, he had barely been out of the ordinary. He hadn't even said a thing.

"Who told you?" Ezreal asked.

A frown passed over Jayce's features. He took a while to gather his answer. "I don't suppose that it would surprise you if it was from Draven."

"No, it wouldn't," Ezreal lied.

Jayce allowed a sliver of pity slip. "He wasn't flaunting it by any means…"

"He's Draven," Ezreal said with pursed lips. He's always flaunting. It lay between them, unspoken, but not thought. Jayce was less steadfast in the notion, but again, his politeness was inconvenient.

Ezreal sipped at his tea. A question that had been burning in the back corners of his mind resurfaced in a near blurt of it. Ezreal steadied his voice, before he thought better. He washed it back down another mouthful.

Jayce already had the teapot in hand to refill both cups.

Ezreal gave his thanks. "I want to know how many people he's told, but I feel as though it'd be easier to count those whom he hasn't."

"Don't say that," Jayce chastised. Ezreal gave a rueful smile. "I would not say he's necessarily—"

"Proud?"

"I was going to say happy."

Ezreal did not quite have a response to that. He must have remembered the night differently. "I suppose that is a relief."

"He seems," Jayce began carefully, "not quite himself. Upset, even. Though, I do not know him very well."

"He seemed unlike himself," Ezreal agreed. He tapped his fingers on the tea cup. "I think Darius swayed him." Jayce stilled. "The man is always spouting that...Noxian nonsense," Ezreal continued. "I did not think Draven had cared."

Jayce gave sigh of reprieve and cast his eyes down. "The Blood Brothers care deeply for their home state," he murmured. Ezreal glanced at him. "Old ways die hard. You are young, but we have had to grow up in the aftermath of war."

Ezreal found that to be preposterously apologetic. "But Darius," he pressed, "the way he is, you would think it had never ended. I had always wondered why and how the two were so different from each other." Ezreal placed his cup gently down on the table. And after a thought, with some regret, "I suppose they aren't really."

Jayce was ponderously silent. Ezreal stirred sugar into his new cupful of tea. He knew he had to wean himself from the sweetness at some point, but there was a time and place for everything. He did not think he could stomach anymore bitterness.

Jayce looked out the window to give the sky a faint frown. "From what I know," he began, "they were raised surrounded by violence. I would hardly imagine the bowels of Noxus to be very kind to two young boys growing up."

Something pulled in his chest. "Draven never told me about his childhood," Ezreal replied stiffly. "He refused to. I used to feel guilty when talking about mine."

The look Jayce bore was of soft understanding. "You two came from different times. He might have felt best to not bring up the past."

"I suppose," Ezreal grumbled.

Jayce smiled, though downcast. "They are inseparable. Do not blame yourself."

"I don't blame myself," Ezreal said. "I want to blame Darius."

"But you don't?" Jayce asked.

"No, I don't."

"You are leaving?" Draven asked. He could hardly hide the surprise in his voice.

"I have been called to return to Noxus."

"For how long?"

Darius glanced at him. "For as ever long they need me," he answered. Draven felt his frown deepen further. He could already feel the creases in his face.

"The League needs you," Draven said stubbornly.

"The League can operate without me," Darius said brusquely. "Noxus needs me now."

Draven sat back in his seat, attempting an air of nonchalant disbelief. They were in Draven's home, seated across each other in matching armchairs. The leather was of a dyed red, rich and dark as wine. It suited them both.

"When did you decide to finally tell me?"

"I only received word of it this morning."

"Did you tell him yet?"

Darius made a displeased noise. "Draven, don't be childish."

"I will be as childish as I damn well please."

Darius glowered at him. His age was beginning to show, Draven thought to himself. They shared the same hair, the same green eyes, same skin tone, and he could only to shudder to think about ever eventually acquiring the same gaunt look.

"Are you at least going to tell me why?" Draven asked, looking at his nail beds.

In his peripheral, Darius made no immediate move to reply. He was solemn in his silence and it was already beginning to wear on Draven's nerves.

The elder brother was as casually dressed as he would allow; a dark grey shirt with long sleeves and pressed black pants. A silver Noxus crest in a form of a brooch was fixed on his left breast. Draven stared at it, inexplicably forlorn. Always on duty, the man. Even in the plainest of affairs.

Finally, as if he had surrendered to any familial feelings he had left, Darius drew a spent breath. "'Why' what?"

"Have your pick," Draven said.

"I am not here to play games with you," the elder said crossly. There was a snarl to his voice and Draven fought to keep from flinching. "Be forward."

The younger Blood Brother considered that. He made sure to meet his eyes as he levelled his voice: "Who is Jayce to you?"

It seemed that Darius was already having trouble abiding by his own principles. He was silent so long that Draven was near to giving up on ever hearing an answer.

"A mistake of wantonness," he acquiesced.

Draven gave a scowl. "I don't like being treated like an idiot, Darius."

A retort was well poised on the elder's lips, before he cut him off,

"Any man hungers for sex, but to hunger for one man is of a different matter."

"I made an error in judgement," Darius said firmly. "It has been dealt with."

Draven plucked at the leather arm of his chair. He was lying to him. "You kept that from me," he muttered.

"I keep many things from you."

Draven allowed a wry smile to stretch across his face. "I remember a time of when we were family, Darius."

Darius was quick to answer that one: "There are a great many important matters that you would not be privy to." Then came a well rehearsed and well worn of a phrase: "An executioner need only obey the state."

Draven scoffed.

"I should not have expected you to have let that go."

"You needed the discipline, Draven," Darius fumed. "You still do."

Draven rose from his seat. "I don't understand why you bother with visits, brother." He took a step, arms rising to only fall with exasperation. He fought to keep his hands from clenching. "You only ever end up lamenting the past. Time has moved on and you best keep up."

"You forget where your loyalties lie," Darius spat, standing.

"So have you."

"My loyalty is with Noxus—"

"Your loyalty is with power," Draven all, but shouted. "You only use Noxus as an excuse to seize it."

Darius hit him, hard. The blow sent Draven reeling and seeing spots. He took steps back, only to have the armchair in the way, and he fell none too gracefully back into the seat.

He pressed his fingertips to the point of pain, gingerly feeling along the quickly swelling cheek. This, he mused, would last for the next couple weeks.

He looked up at his brother standing above him. Darius had a curious expression on his face as he stared him down. It was of anger and it was of hate. It was only curious being that neither were felt quite to be pointed.

"I don't suppose you would need my help finding the door," Draven said. Darius straightened up, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked about to say something. Draven didn't want to hear it.

Time passed painfully, with much unsaid between them. Darius left without a word. Draven wasn't sure of when he'd see him again.

Draven brooded for days. He was not one to brood, that was much more of Darius' activity. The Executioner preferred surrounding himself with the company of adoring fans. Brooding was new to him.

And so he brooded. He stayed in his home, nursing hard drinks, and spent time sitting in the various spots scattered about.

In the parlour, the red wine leather armchairs reminded him none too gingerly of Darius and their farewells, or lack thereof.

The velvet seats of the dining room left him feeling too warm and sweaty, he couldn't quite stay long on that. That left him wondering what he had been thinking when he made that purchase.

The leather loveseat in his bedroom was as comfortable as he remembered. It was of a navy hue so dark, it looked near black. Ezreal had looked particularly appetizing on it. Draven moved on to brood elsewhere.

—

The night was dry with only a wisp of wind blowing now and then. The chill did not set deep. Winters were fairly mild here in the League. Wistfully, Draven dreamt of home.

He thought of the cold that pillaged the manor in the Noxian winters. The fireplace had always been roaring, filling the rooms with its dry heat. As soon as Darius had the means to afford so, he had refused for them to live in freezing squalor. Such were the perks of being powerful.

The vaulted ceilings of the main hall were trailed proudly with woven tapestries of the Noxus state and military crests. The dining table was long and fit for great company, not as though Darius had ever invited guests. Darius did not like having people around.

Draven reminisced about the stillness and quiet of their manor in Noxus. He was truly more the one to crave crowds and the rowdiness that followed, but for his brother's sake, he knew better to draw it home.

With respite, Draven leaned his forearms on the railing of his balcony. His skin was already prickling with goosebumps.

Their home hadn't been as warm and as spacious as Darius had made later in life. Their beginnings were in the bitter cold of winter and sweltering heat of summer. In the cramped rooms prone to drafts, constant crowding of the weak, the crippled, the old, the orphaned—the unwanted—all holed up in the underbelly of Noxus. There was no pride there.

The bruise had already mostly faded away. Draven gingerly prodded at it with finger. It was down to a sickly yellow colour, spotted with some purple.

His grown in stubble hid the worst of it. The stubble also hid the sharp lines of his cheekbones and his jaw, but a compromise had to have been made. Only a few days more, he told himself, just long enough for the bruise to completely recede.

He continued to stare into the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the edge of the counter. His hair was down and pulled back from his face. Alongside the stubble, he resembled his elder brother more than he cared to admit. He itched for the razor.

He hung his head, tearing his eyes from his reflection, and expelled a weary sigh. He looked like him, but he was not to be like him.

With some sorry form of resolve, he straightened up and reached for a brush and went about pulling all his hair into a simple plait.

Jayce was a stout man; broad shoulders, thick arms and legs. Draven remembered Jayce to have been much more boisterous and cocky, but the man had retreated from the limelight, step by step over the years.

Age, Draven thought. Had to be the aging.

He wastefully spent a moment to wonder whether he would let that happen to himself.

Other champions milled about the foyer, barely taking note of the match. He felt a couple curious eyes on his back as he watched the arcane screen, but he simply brushed them off. He needed his attention for the words. They were small, but he was able to make out Jayce's name.

With a cursory glance at the time stamp, Draven warranted that there would only be a half hour left to wait, and wait that half hour he could.

Draven pushed into the armoury and looked over the small crowd, surprised to find he was able to recognize a couple champions unwinding after the match.

The air was tired and sweat-filled, thick with ozone and of iron. In passing, he picked up the faint scent of soot.

The indiscernible constant hum of idle chatter permeated the room, but Draven did not give it much mind.

He sidestepped a gaggle of yordles, taking care in not stepping on any of them. It was not from any altruistic desires, it was at most from the knowledge that yordles had claws and pointed teeth and inferiority complexes over being so damn small. He gave Rumble a particularly long look.

The armoury was a circular room, the walls racked with shelves and lockers. The ceiling was domed, the League's insignia sprawled across in the stained glass of the panes. When the sun shone through in a brilliant rainbow array of colours, the lit candles could hardly compete.

By the centre of the room was the neat arrangement of benches, for seating, and work tables, for impromptu repairs or whetting.

It was understandably bustling, but that didn't keep Draven from being miffed about the crowd.

Brushing past some noones and nobodies, he slinked up to a particular Piltovian. Jayce's back was turned to him.

Draven had every intention to be upfront about it. Every intention.

Jayce offered him a look of mild surprise when he had finally turned around. Draven felt words catch in his throat. He thought that as strange. In return, Jayce gave an uncertain, but easy smile.

"Draven," he greeted, not unpleasantly. He looked almost apologetic. Perhaps even embarrassed.

The Piltovian was about the same height as Draven, though there was something elevating his presence. A certain sense of what Draven could not quite pin down. "I'd like to have a word." Draven allowed no time to fumble.

Jayce smiled again, eyes gently crinkling. "Yes, let us," he replied. Draven wanted to wipe the floor with his face.

"Having talks seems to be as much as I'm doing these days," Jayce admitted.

They had found themselves a quiet corner by the Halls of Justice, marked by slender trees and mossy pavement. Draven would have preferred a tavern, but Jayce seemed drawn to pacing on the uneven stones.

The Noxian could only perceive it as nervousness, though Jayce's sure demeanour lent for a hard read.

"Talking is not so bad," Draven replied.

"Especially if you avoid what you mean to say." Jayce passed a sidelong glance.

There it was again. Draven did his best to ignore it. "Has my brother mentioned any news to you?"

Jayce gave a small smile to mask the urgency rising to his face. "I am not surprised he hasn't."

Liar. Draven, for the first time in awhile, admitted to feeling uncomfortable. This was his brother's affair, not his. He felt ill-fitted to discuss any matters relating to it and he dreaded to follow.

He gathered the courage to look up at Jayce. He still had a smile on his face, but it lacked the stiffness.

"You make the same face Darius makes when he's frustrated."

Draven forced down the feeling of sudden and inexplicable jealousy. "I'm not making a face," he said. He had never known anyone to have been close to Darius. His brother was off-putting to most and cared not for social affairs. No one could stand to be with that man longer than one would need to.

Jayce gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Are you Darius' first?"

"Is this truly what you wish to discuss?" Jayce did not look upset.

Draven scowled and regretted it when Jayce flashed a small smile of amusement. He just knew, could utterly sense, that Jayce was drawing more comparisons between him and his brother.

"I think this is something you discuss with him, not me," Jayce answered amicably. Too amicably.

"You had me thinking of how little I truly know about him," Draven explained. "I do not know if he has people he considers friends, I do not know if he has ever dated, or bedded. I have always assumed he did not partake in any of such until I saw—you know."

"I know," Jayce said dryly.

"So, I would best ask you."

The Piltovian was unconvinced. "Darius is a private man."

"Meaning you have little clue as to whether you're his first."

"Meaning you are more like to know than I am." Jayce looked peeved, "And this is not a matter I would discuss with anyone."

"I only want to know what he has told you." Draven found a dry patch of grass and sat down, beckoning a reluctant Jayce to join to him. The afternoon sun was waning to set on the horizon. The light was warm and the sky was cloudless. He set about studying it and rallying the rest of his guts.

"Darius and I are neither noblemen nor lords," he began. Jayce gave him a look of confusion, but did not stop him. "We do not come from a long line of powerful Noxian families. We were street children."

Jayce was still. "I know."

It was obvious as to who had told him. "Then you must know how we escaped it."

Emotions flickered across Jayce's features. Draven caught dread, some pity, and sorrow. Those were familiar expressions he would prefer to forget.

"I would love to seize the credit, but it goes to Darius alone. He worked hard and harder still to pull me through. I was young enough to leave behind and be forgotten."

"He is of your blood," Jayce said quietly. "Your brother. Of course he had helped you. He loves you."

"No," Draven warned. "Darius does not love."

Jayce gave a bark of laughter and pressed a palm to his forehead in a show of disbelief. "At a point of time, not nearly as distant as I wished it to truly be, I might have said the same of you." He leaned back on his hands, looking uncharacteristically serene and calm. "I am enjoying this talk we are having together, truth be told," he said. "It has been much too tense lately."

"You are insufferable," Draven said, though not too unkindly. "How Darius has the patience with you, I do not know."

"He is a private man, Draven. You ought to know that," Jayce said, looking up to the sky. "He is much different when we are alone."

"I am sure you will tell me next that he is sweet and gentle," Draven muttered disdainfully.

"I would not call him gentle," Jayce reminisced. "Though perhaps sweet, in his own way."

Unbelievable. "He is on his way back to Noxus," Draven said. See how sweet that is.

Jayce barely looked fazed. Draven's stomach dropped. "A man like him, he must have some work to attend to."

"He is not intending to return."

A beat passed and Draven knew he had made his mark. Albeit a small mark. Jayce made a quiet sound, a short hum, in return. It stirred some in the centre of his chest. "Private as always," Jayce said, barely above a murmur.

Draven decided he liked being jealous of him more than feeling sorry for him. It was better to ignore everything else.

Jayce broke him out of his brief reverie. "How long has he been gone?"

Draven considered it. His fingers toyed with the grass. Perhaps a week, or two, by now. "A couple days," he answered. He continued to tear at the green blades. He wondered whether Darius would be staying at their home. Whether he had settled in his office with a fire roaring in the hearth. Noxus would be approaching winter now and her winters were cruel.

"I had hoped," Jayce said gently, "that you came to me to talk about Ezreal."

Draven's thoughts immediately scattered and he frowned.

"Your beard," Jayce pointed out, as if it answered anything.

"What of it?" Draven resisted the urge to run a hand over his jaw.

Jayce shrugged off the sharpness of his tone. "You surprised me. I thought maybe you had..," he paused, struggling to find the words. He gave an apologetic look. "Changed," he said finally.

"You thought that I grew a beard because I was upset about parting?"

"Perhaps not," Jayce replied, looking like he had a sudden epiphany. "You are upset with Darius." Draven despised the look.

He got up to his feet. Jayce followed him promptly, still wearing that damned expression.

"Draven." It was forceful and familiar and unlike him. Draven contemplated on answering out of curiosity, but something was sitting heavy in his chest.

"Did your brother…"

Draven tuned the rest out. His heart beat slow and his blood felt thick. His head pinched in on his temples and he winced, feeling the world whirl. He must have rose too quickly.

Suddenly, he felt warm pressure on his shoulder, then on his face. He jerked away. "Don't touch me," he spat. It was decidedly venomous and sharp.

Jayce took a step away and looked him over with concern. It would have been better with disgust.

Thank you for reading. The next chapter (The Morning Star) will be available on Archive of Our Own under Zjol. The link is in my profile.