Work Text:
7:03 a.m. — The Bean There, Done That Café — Somewhere in Piltover
Lux Crownguard slammed open the door like it owed her money.
It didn’t. It owed her a functioning central nervous system, seven hours of sleep, and one (1) working thesis draft. All of which she was not getting.
The bell above the café door made a noise that sounded suspiciously like someone being tased underwater.
The barista behind the counter didn’t look up. She was upside-down on the espresso machine, legs dangling off the side, painting flames on a coffee cup with a permanent marker. The tip was in her mouth. She was humming “Careless Whisper.” Loudly. And off-key.
Lux took a breath.
She took another.
Then she opened her mouth and said, “Can I get a decaf iced oat milk cinnamon vanilla cloud fog with no foam, extra light on the syrup, and—”
The barista’s head swiveled up, feral and sharp-eyed. “Ma’am, that’s not a drink. That’s a cry for help.”
⸻
There was a long, dangerous silence.
Lux was already on the verge of tears. She hadn’t slept, her right eye had been twitching for twelve hours, and she had started hallucinating her thesis footnotes whispering anti-mage propaganda.
“Okay,” she said, voice cracking like dry toast. “Rude.”
The barista hopped off the counter and landed like a feral raccoon in human form.
Her name tag read:
☠︎ JINX ☠︎
Don’t ask. I don’t work here.
Lux looked at the tag. Then at the chaos goblin attached to it.
“…Do you actually work here?” she asked.
Jinx looked around the café — which, notably, had three broken chairs, one cat that may or may not have come with the building, and a chalkboard sign that said “Cursed Lattes. No Cops.” — and said, “Define work.”
Lux opened her mouth.
Jinx cut her off. “Wrong. You’ve already lost. Now what’s your trauma, sunshine?”
Lux blinked. “What?”
“You asked for a drink that doesn’t exist. That’s code for ‘please make fun of me until I spiral and confess my darkest secrets.’”
“I just wanted something warm!” Lux squeaked.
Jinx poured a triple shot espresso, tossed in a cinnamon stick, and muttered “godspeed” under her breath. Then, using a Sharpie, she labeled the cup:
💀 CROWNGUARD SPECIAL™
Contents: 65% emotional instability, 25% academic stress, 10% repressed lesbianism.
⸻
Lux sat in the corner booth with her drink and immediately tried to choke on it. Possibly on purpose.
At 7:21 a.m., she opened her laptop.
At 7:22 a.m., her laptop blue-screened and played a MIDI version of the Demacian national anthem.
At 7:24 a.m., Jinx sat down across from her, still holding the cinnamon stick like a wand.
“So. Mage girl, huh?”
Lux froze. Her right eye twitched.
“Did you—? Are you spying on me?”
Jinx shrugged. “Your aura screams ‘secret magic shame’ and your family name screams ‘hi, I voted for mage blood bans!’ I connected the dots.”
“I’m not ashamed of being a mage!” Lux said, voice wobbling.
Jinx raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not,” Lux insisted. “I just—okay, fine, maybe a little ashamed. A healthy amount. Like, controlled shame.”
“Ah yes,” Jinx said. “Classic gay mage repression. I’ve seen that look before.”
Lux blinked. “You’re gay?”
“Babe,” Jinx said. “Look at my whole vibe.”
Lux did look. It was like staring directly into the void and realizing the void had tattoos, combat boots, and enough emotional damage to start a podcast.
“Right,” Lux mumbled.
Jinx leaned in and whispered, “You ever considered dropping out and becoming an unlicensed tattoo artist in Zaun?”
Lux dropped her pen. “…Maybe.”
⸻
8:02 a.m. — Still at the café — Still not doing homework
Lux had told Jinx she had to study.
Jinx had responded by taping motivational quotes to her laptop, such as:
• “If God won’t let you pass your midterms, commit arson.”
• “Capitalism is the real GPA killer.”
• “Sleep is a bourgeoisie myth.”
Somehow, this was helping.
Lux had written 600 words.
Only three of them were the word “sobbing.”
⸻
8:30 a.m. — Lux is gay. Jinx is chaotic. The coffee is sentient.
“So you’re into politics,” Jinx said. “Like… morally?”
Lux blinked. “I’m a political science major.”
“Right. So that’s like regular lying but with more reading.”
Lux inhaled sharply. “I’m writing about how Demacian institutional power structures weaponize purity ideology against subversive identities—”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Jinx said, holding up a finger. “Say it in normal.”
Lux puffed up. “They say mages are dangerous because it’s easier than saying ‘we fear what we don’t understand and refuse to do systemic reform.’”
Jinx slow-clapped. “Damn. That’s hot.”
Lux choked on her coffee.
⸻
9:03 a.m. — The Cat is on the Register. Lux is Questioning Reality.
“I think the cat just charged someone for a scone,” Lux said faintly.
Jinx didn’t look up. “Yeah, that’s Chairman Meow. He handles accounting.”
“I have so many questions.”
“Don’t. He bites.”
⸻
9:45 a.m. — Final Diagnosis: Lux is In Love.
Jinx stood on the counter, yelled “THIS IS A WORK OF ART,” and held up a latte with a foam art rendering of what appeared to be Garen Crownguard in a crop top.
Lux stared at it.
“Why does he have cat ears?” she whispered.
“Because he’s a submissive little war criminal.”
Lux passed out.
⸻
10:12 a.m. — Closing Time
Lux was awake again. Somehow. She’d finished her thesis. It was maybe unhinged, maybe brilliant. She’d also doodled a heart next to Jinx’s name on her to-do list. (She pretended not to see it.)
“You coming back tomorrow, Blondie?” Jinx asked, chewing on a cinnamon stick like it was a cigarette.
Lux paused.
“I don’t know if this place is real or a manifestation of my psychological decline,” she said honestly.
Jinx grinned. “Isn’t that love?”