The wind was calm that night, quite in contrast to everything else.
In a road-side town stranded on an evergreen valley, a tavern brimmed with life. Patrons by the tenths flocked about merrily, a drink on their hand, several even, and a smile on their lips, dressed in traditional gowns of vivid colors, shouting displays shimmering warmly beneath the orange light of the candle-lamps.
It was the night of the new Lunar Year in Ionia.
It was one of the rare nights where the dreading fear of the dark was no-where in sight, cast away by dozens of festive lights and a mood of faux reassurance. Noxian attackers be damned, this was their celebration and they wouldn't have it any other way.
But brighter than a thousand fires, what truly defined the night were the colors. From the dusty porches of each house, to the lamp-posts lining the walkways, one color or another was ever-present on every surface. Be it a silken tapestry hiding the dull wood of a wall, or a golden decoration dangling from a window; red, yellow, white, green – wherever you looked, your senses were overwhelmed by the many contrasts. Each person was a palette, and even the muddy dirt of the main road, trampled over by a dozen footsteps just that night, seemed to have found its inner light, and hued lowly with a calming maroon. It was almost like a competition, with everything and everyone toppling each other to stand the most bedazzling.
Yasuo hated it.
On a corner of the tavern where the darkness itself had retired in defeat, Yasuo clutched the wooden mug in front of him with a vice grip, despising all that came with the celebration. He was calm, he was silent. It was chaotic, it was loud. There was no balance, no harmony – just a sea of flesh bumping and thumping and grinding into each other. And himself. With a lengthy sigh, he brought the mug to his lips and sought comfort on the cold, amber liquid bubbling inside. Celebrations were annoying.
And they brought with them said sea of flesh, and if there was one thing that Yasuo despised more than celebrations, it was definitely people.
Because just about everyone knew of his tale, and not precisely the one he told.
And so, cornered between a rock and a hard place, the man sulked onto his chair, and took swig after swig of his Noxian beer. Because this was not a sake night.
He had to give it to those Noxians; it was a tasty beer.
His eyes never linger on the same person for more than a few seconds, and his face was as unreadable as ever. It was not paranoia, he reminded himself as the grip his other hand had on his blade softened just a tiny bit, it was self-defense. A man on his position would do just the same if he had the guts to crawl out of whatever hole he had dug up for himself – something any sane outlaw with an ounce of wit should do.
Or (and he subconsciously prided himself in being the exception), if he traveled with a certain sparrow who he, quite simply, couldn't say 'no' to.
Taliyah sat idly to his side, contemplating her reflection on the glass of water he got her, since, as he put it with that sarcastic tone of his she had grown accustomed to: "She wasn't top-heavy enough to handle some liquor". She scoffed; he wasn't top-heavy enough to handle some liquor, maybe if he grew a pair he wouldn't be in all the trouble he was in!
One night – all she had asked him was one night, this night, to put a hold on their run for…wherever they were running towards. Her smile had reached up to her ears when he agreed, but she should have known. Oh, she should have seen it coming: Tavern, dark corner, desolated booth, drinking the night away. It was so very him. No walk under the moonlight where she could stare in awe at all the colors the desert lacked, no dinner of traditional food that just might have been dead for more than a few minutes, maybe tasting some sweets even, no hand-holding, no eying each other glassily, no smiles, no nothing.
But she was stubborn, which to her it meant bold, and most often than not, his unbreakable resolve to be a stuck-up has-been forever met with her 'boldness', and they clashed in a fierce battle that lasted as much as it took her to flutter her eyelashes his way. Frankly, she often – not always, sadly – got her way with him. *Ahem* With people, she often got her way with people. Her cheeks felt hot – was she blushing? She was definitely blu–
No; she shook her head to clear her thoughts. Tonight she wanted to enjoy the festivity, and that's what she was going to do.
"Dear Master, I must say this is quite different from what I had in mind. From what I was promised" She started with an evened tone, just the slightest hint of playfulness gripping at her words. He didn't turn her way but she heard him laugh on his throat, which was more or less what she expected from an answer. But he had heard her, good.
"You asked me, pleaded me to show you the festival, little sparrow, so I, as the good-hearted Master that I am, took you to where the magic of the celebration happens. A wise man said once: 'Seeing a passerby with a smile can tell you many a-things, but seeing two passers-by with smiles tells you there's surely a tavern nearby'" He drank his liquor unapologetically. He really tested her temper sometimes. But she was Taliyah of Shurima, soon-to-be renowned stone-weaver and the boldest girl on the island of Ionia.
…She scrunched her nose as examples of bolder girls came to her mind. A sigh followed, she settled with, at least, the most stubborn. Of that she was sure.
"You know, funny thing really, there was this one friend of my father back in my village who just so happened to know that same saying…so maybe you're actually not bullshiting me this time" He turned to her and glared, spelling "language" in his eyes. She nodded – the hair of her back just slightly on edge – and continued. "But what if we make…so it doesn't apply at this very moment, and we…you know, g-go out for a, uh, a walk?" She discovered she was nervous halfway through her sentence. She sometimes forgot that she was not the wall of stoicism that she thought she was. It was annoying being young.
He actually looked at her in the eye now, his left eyebrow raised, presenting a question. That meant progress. "Little sparrow, you know I can't be seen out there, not tonight with so many cramming the village…" He spoke in one of his rarer serious tones, and he was right. She knew to some extent of the condition he was in, of his side of the story, and she believed him and respected the path he had chosen. But not that night. She was getting impatient as she was already nervous, and impatience brought nervousness and nervousness brought impatience, and so on. She practically cut him off before he could finish.
"Y-Yes! I know, I know, outlaw – I get it. B-But, but–" She closed her eyes. Inhale, exhale. She let all the insecurities out of her system. He watched her expectantly, curiously even. When she was calm again, she spoke. "C-couldn't we forget about everything for one night, this night, and just be…ourselves for a couple hours? No worrying when we turn a corner, no side-glances and looking over our shoulders every two seconds, no clutching to your sword at all times…No-one will pay attention to us with so much going on around them. Come on, Yasuo…wouldn't you like to do this…w-with…me?" She rarely called him by his name, only when she truly meant something, and she was quite sure that never in her life she had wanted something as strongly as this. And it was not so much that she was stubborn to get what she wanted, as it was clear the right word to describe her craving would be need, that she needed to get what she wanted.
And it got to him.
She could see it on his eyes, how it drove through him like a spear – and he couldn't say no to her. He tried to think about it, to argue with shadows that dissipated like smoke in his mind, but he knew it was futile and after barely a moment he was sure of his defeat.
"I–"He paused for a moment "…Fine, alright…you – you are right, we'll be just two more people enjoying the celebration like everyone else. So...so I guess we could…go…walk outside…" To see her embarrassed was a common sight – she was a walking and breathing embodiment of insecurity.
To see him, however, was a whole different story all-together.
The renowned outlaw, rugged and squared by years of wandering, victor of more battles than he could probably remember, moved by the words of a stubborn girl.
Now she was sure she was blushing. She reassured herself she hated being young and hormonal. With two fast steps she was up and putting distance between her and the table as she dove into the labyrinth of patrons. Her master was patient to finish his beverage, before he lowered the mug onto the table and dropped a couple of copper pennies inside of it. He navigated across the inn swift as a gust of wind, and found his student waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall to the side, lips crooked sideways, brows furrowed in annoyance and feet rapidly tapping on the dirt. He repressed the beginning of laughter. She was so young and anxious of life, who was he to deny her morsels of it?
He offered her a hand that she took a little too eagerly, and as he told her a joke to make as if he didn't notice it, they strolled together into the village, blending their colors in a soft purple haze.