The first time he'd put the barrel of his gun flat to Twisted Fate's chest and watched the shotgun shells explode out the thinner man's back, Graves was too busy trying to deal with the rest of the team he'd just dove through to relish in his victory. Fate was back forty seconds later, anyway, the ever-present cocky grin unfazed by the fact that, less than a minute earlier, he was lying face-down on the ground with a fist-sized hole in each lung.
The second time, Twisted Fate came to him - Graves had been pushing the bottom lane by himself while the rest of the team held the line at the middle turret. He and his summoner had a bit of a philosophical disagreement here - Graves wanted to be where the fight was, yearned and thirsted for payback that couldn't be sated by destroying a turret. His summoner was the one in control though, begrudging as Graves was. He'd given up most of his free will on the battlefield for the chance to wrap his knuckles around Twisted Fate's skinny neck, an opportunity that, judging by the appearance of the eye above his head, might come sooner than expected.
Graves backed up into the brush, looking around for the telltale circle of cards that would herald Twisted Fate's entrance. He cocked the gun, tension rising in his stomach, and as soon as the circle appeared he dashed forward, and the explosive round, followed right after the buckshot, slammed straight into Twisted Fate's chest as soon as he'd gated in. Fate dropped again like a sack of potatoes, the card behind his back losing its golden shine as he planted face-first into his own blood. Graves wanted to gloat, but the rest of his team was calling warnings to him - seconds later, a frozen arrow hit him straight in the back and then, as he saw Warwick and Kassadin leap out of the jungle, he too was suspended in some grey unlife, waiting for the Nexus's magic to resuscitate him.
That first match against one another had been almost two years ago - Graves had been keeping track. He wondered, struggling to recount how many times he and Twisted Fate had faced each other on the Fields of Justice now, at what point did he consider his vengeance sated? But then the next question, of course, what would he do if he ever decided he'd reached that point? For nearly the whole two years he'd been in the League, and the time in Prigg's prison before that, all he chased was killing Twisted Fate. But he'd managed to do that probably half a thousand times now, and maybe he was just getting too old for this, but there wasn't any rush in blowing holes through Fate's chest any more.
Not that Fate was a slouch, either. In the hands of the right summoner that magic really shined: Fate would step out from his mid tower into a killing spree at bot. Graves would be seeing gold even after his body pulled itself back together at base. He'd feel the burn of enchanted cardboard against his neck for the whole day afterwards. Smell the tang of experimental Noxian magic wherever he turned.
Graves had always been a more careful conman than Twisted Fate; then again, he was a sorer loser. Fate lived for the thrill of the gamble - cheating only raised the stakes. Graves was the one who ever really cared about their spoils.
He should have figured, then, that Fate would eventually come to him outside of the League. Nearly two years and they still hadn't really met away from the Nexus's healing powers. Graves might catch the flicker of a cloak in a crowded bar, but before he could grab Destiny and chase after that lead, the crowd would shift and his target would vanish.
And now here was Twisted Fate, strolling up to him in the middle of the bar with that same arrogant swagger of his hips as always. The bar inside was fuller than normal; people had moved from the patio to the inside since it had started raining. There was no way Graves could react without someone else noticing, and that was how Fate wanted it. Even after becoming one of the most popular champions in the League, he was still starved for attention. Some things never changed.
"Malcolm," Twisted Fate said, leaning against the counter with a tip of his hat.
For a second, Graves imagined pressing his gun to Fate's chest, images of the first time he'd killed the man flashing across his vision. He sneered and, looking his former partner in the face, decided that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. He cracked his shotgun open, holding it with his left hand as his right fished in the pouch on his belt for a couple of bullets.
"Charmin' as ever," Twisted Fate continued, as Graves shifted to thumb the bullets into the barrel.
"Backstabbing sonuvabitch," Graves muttered, cocking the shotgun. The sound seemed to really draw the attention - and panic - of the surrounding crowd. This small bar near the Institute was popular with League Champions, so seeing them wasn't rare. Two of them fighting away from the Fields of Justice - that was a bit more exciting.
"Sure am, Malcolm," Twisted Fate said. There was a drawling patience in his voice, almost a dare. Fate's reputation within the League was nearly untouchable - Graves could sit here and shout honest insults til dusk, but that wouldn't dethrone him.
"Ain't got nothin' for you, Fate."
"Relax. I had enough fightin' for one day. Just grabbing a drink, and you looked lonely."
The words were an echo in Graves's mind. Years and years ago, Graves had stumbled into a bar to get out of the rain. He'd been nursing a Highball, eying the room for potential suckers to con, when Twisted Fate had sauntered up and introduced himself with almost that exact same sentence. Next up was -
"Up for a game of cards?"
Graves snorted and pointed Destiny square at Fate's chest. Someone yelled to alert the League Council, but nobody else in the room moved. Fate was still grinning as he soaked up the spotlight. Outside, the rain began to pour, thrumming heavily on the roof of the bar.
"This is the only answer I got for you," Graves said, grip tightening.
Fate tilted his head, eyes flashing an amused gold. He reached up, fingers tracing the gun's gilded muzzle, dancing along the rim.
Frowning, Graves watched the display, though he remained poised to shoot. Twisted Fate's thin fingers tapped a rhythm along the barrel of the gun. Once, he dipped the tips of his middle and ring finger into the left barrel, then quickly withdrew them, rubbing the gunpowder against his thumb. He put two digits under the gun and tilted it upwards, slowly, until it aimed at his Adam's apple. His eyes were a molten red now, smoldering. Graves would lie about it in a heartbeat, but it was making him hard.
Twisted Fate had always been a maestro at misdirection - a skill that, Fate had once confided in him as they counted their winnings in a dingy inn room above a bar, was essential for any street magician to succeed. Graves had been palming Aces for years, but when Fate did it it was just the world stacked against you, and there was nothing you could do about it. He could switch cards with both hands tied behind his back and someone else playing for him. Graves would watch him for the subtle tells and still never figure out how he could do it.
Point was, those eyes weren't a tell. They were exactly what Fate wanted him to see, and Graves had known him long enough to know not to fall for it.
"If you're gonna shoot me, make it fast."
Graves snorted and lowered Destiny, cracking her open again. Instead of bullets, a string of colored handkerchiefs poked out. He pulled them from the barrel, dropping them on the floor with little ceremony.
Some of the patrons made surprised noises. Somebody in the back tried to start an applause, but that died when nobody else joined in. Fate smiled in their general direction regardless, eyes an earnest, bright blue. Graves didn't bother reaching into the pouch on his belt - they wouldn't be there, though he couldn't pinpoint when they would've gone missing.
Before he could drop Destiny and wrap his hands around Fate's skinny, arrogant neck, someone grabbed him by the collar and began to shove him for the door. Graves dug his heels in, of course, but one pair of hands turned into two pairs, then three, and he was out the door despite his struggles. The rain was still pouring outside, and he landed in a sizable puddle of mud.
Graves belted obscenity after obscenity as he got to his feet. A hextech gun wasn't the easiest to keep clean, and if Destiny jammed due to the mud during a League match, well, that would just be embarassing. It was going to take hours to get her back in reliably working condition, and Graves would've just marched right back in there except when he'd gotten to his feet, he found Fate standing in front of the door too, the brim of his hat just barely sticking out from the small overhang.
"What a mess," Fate said, voice almost completely drowned out by the clap of thunder. "Storm's not gonna let up for a while, and I've got a ways to go."
Graves sneered. "You and I both know you can just use that magic of yers to gate yourself home." He wiped Destiny off as well as he could and slung her over his soaked shoulder. "I'm walkin'."
Fate shrugged and stepped out into the rain, most of it landing against his hat. "I'll walk with ya, least 'til we part ways."
Graves grunted and started heading back to the Institute and the small flats provided there. He brushed his wet hair out of his eyes, slicking it back against his head. "Do what you want."
He waited for the telltale sound of boots against the pavement behind him, and wasn't sure whether to be pleased when he heard them.