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Mel wakes in the early hours of the morning to a hand on her back. Sevika is tracing her thumb along the ex-councillor’s sigils with an uncertain gentleness; the kind that only comes from believing the other person is asleep.
Years of good politics is all that keeps Mel’s breathing steady; she feels suddenly off-balance - thrown by how much this means to her. In all the time they’ve had this arrangement Sevika has never been one for affection.
It’s a shame she’s such a light sleeper. Sevika is being ever so careful not to wake her - Mel feels a little bad, deceiving her like this.
The tip of a nail skims the ridge where metal dips into the soft arch of Mel’s back and she finds herself leaning into the touch. The press against the gold burned into her body is muted, dull. A line of separation that fuels her need for contact where she can take it. A knuckle brushes the back of her neck and two fingers run down the length of her spine. Something in her crackles; she swears the touch is static under her skin.
Mel breathes sharply and the hand pulls back. Her sigils spark - snap, follow the trace of contact in little involuntary arcs. Heat rises to her face.
She’s been caught.
There’s a pause - then a hum. “Did I wake you?”
The bed creaks. She feels Sevika shift and knows without looking there are eyes trailing the back of her head. Mel stills for half a second then turns with an easy smile.
“Not for anything I didn’t want.”
Sevika has her hand tucked just beneath her shoulder. Her expression is loose, casual - but her eyes are wary. She’s overstepped, or thinks she has.
“I’m serious.” Mel murmurs. She reaches forward and stops when the other woman stiffens, hand barely brushing under her chin. “You don’t have to lie so far from me.”
“We’re not lovers.” Is the blunt reply. Sevika holds her gaze, mouth twitching down. “We’re not even friends. Let’s not make this what it isn’t.”
“And what is it?” Mel bites back the harshness in her tone. She needs this. Needs what they have and more if she can take it.
After a moment Sevika sighs and turns to stare at the ceiling. She answers with another question: “What do you get out of this, Medarda?”
It’s Mel’s turn to stiffen. She drops her gaze; hand falls back to her lap. She fidgets. What good answer is there to that? She shares her bed with a stranger a few times a year like clockwork. The true enigma is that Sevika always agrees.
Mel traces a thumb over the gold burned into her knuckle and flexes her hand nervously. “Noxus is lonely but Piltover is worse; this house is full of ghosts. Most nights I wake screaming.”
She blinks, finds her eyes wet - feels like baring her neck to a sword. She joins Sevika in watching the ceiling. “When I take you to bed I don’t dream, I’m sorry to use you like that.”
Silence - a pause. Sevika snorts and Mel watches her sit at the edge of her vision; feels the bed lift as her acquaintance stands and wanders over to their discarded clothes.
The revered head of the Medarda clan rolls miserably on her side and closes her eyes. She decidedly doesn’t want to see Sevika dress herself and she won’t suffer the further humiliation of watching her leave.
Mel ignores the ruffling of fabric and the footsteps until they stop at her side of the bed. She holds out for less than half a second before cracking an eye open to see Sevika thumbing an unlit cigar with metal fingers that looks altogether too delicate for her frame. The undercity councillor looks down at her with mild bemusement. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Mel glares. “You’re horrible.”
“Sure.” Sevika says and takes a seat. She brings one leg up to her chest and rests her arm against her knee. “But you knew that.”
“I don’t know you at all, actually.” Her words come out harsher than she means. Noxus has sharpened her edges; given her thorns where she doesn’t need them. Mel winces - places a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “That’s sort of the point. I’m pursued by an enemy who takes the form of those I love - more than what we have would put you in danger.”
“Oh?” Sevika hums. She shifts to meet her gaze and Mel feels suddenly rooted to the spot. “There’s a range between strangers and lovers you know.”
Breath catches in her throat - heat rises to her face. Mel clasps her hands and looks away. “Not to them.”
It’s a poor defence.
“You’re a shit liar.” There’s a pleased edge to the response.
Sevika takes Mel’s chin and Mel shudders - feels herself go limp. She obeys the light hand that tilts her head back to meet her eyes.
“I’m a politician.” It's a plea.
Sevika snorts. “You’re a warlord.” Her lips twitch with easy irony: “I’m a politician.”
Mel could cry. There’s an ache in her at the truth of the words. She pushes herself into a sitting position and when Sevika doesn’t object she tucks her face into the crook of the other woman’s neck. “Please, just let me have this.”
Neither of them move for a while. Sevika wraps an arm around Mel’s waist and returns to tracing the armor embedded in the warlord’s skin. Her touch is light, casual. Mel would say absentminded but she knows better than that. Sevika’s hand kneads against her sigils and the metal bends, soft under her touch.
Mel shifts - rests her head against the other woman’s lap. “Why do you agree to this?” She asks into the silence. “I can’t imagine you have any love for my status.”
Sevika stills for a moment. She turns, stares at nothing in particular. The walls are bare; all Mel’s paintings were relocated to Noxus years ago. “I was curious. Wanted to see what you wanted.”
“Was?”
She laughs and Mel realises she hasn’t heard the sound before. “Still sharp then. Sure, I was curious.”
Sevika leans back, hand resuming the soft exploration of Mel’s armour. When the sun rises neither of them will speak of any of this.
She sighs. “You’re not the only one who gets lonely, I suppose.”