The Importance of Being Ezreal

Chapter 1

"What are you doing up so early?"

Ezreal tugged on his gauntlet and smoothed back his hair, watching himself in Draven's massive wall mirror. "I got summoned," he replied turning away from his reflection.

"You got summoned and I didn't?" Draven grumbled, falling back into the sheets. Ezreal looked at the dishevelled, normally extravagant executioner stretched out on the bed. His hair was a mess of tangled brown waves and his moustache was in an even more sorry state. "Like you didn't look like this when you got up," Draven remarked, catching his gaze and rolling his eyes. "Come here." Draven sat up and wrapped an arm around the explorer as he neared and pressed a hard kiss on his lips.

Ezreal reddened and pulled away. Hands flying away from him as if he burned. "I'm going to be late," he muttered, fixing his bangs hastily.

"Hey," Draven said softly, straightening up further from the bed. The blankets slid off of him, pooling at his waist. "You're not still—"

Ezreal made an appalled frown. "No, of course not," he scoffed. He fiddled with his gauntlet some more. The Noxian squinted, moustache twitching in thought. Ezreal frowned at the sceptical look Draven had and he reached down, taking the man's face in his hands and returned the gesture, though with less vigour. "I'm really going to be late," he said with a huff, turning away to hide his red cheeks. Draven grinned and dusted off the Piltovian's jacket.

"You gonna be able find your way to the Institute?" he drawled, following him to the front door. "Need me to lead the way?" Ezreal turned around with a hand on the lock and gave Draven a dose of his signature skepticism.

"I'm sure I will be fine." He looked up and down at the Noxian before him, taking in his current state of dress. Draven proudly donned a hairy chest and a pair of plain pants for sleep. "You don't look ready to go either. I'll be back before you know it," Ezreal promised.

Ezreal left the house and quickly descended down the stairs, feeling the chill of the early air. He pulled his jacket tighter and turned the corner, nearly jumping. At least, visibly.

"Morning," Ezreal said automatically. Of course the two brothers lived in the same neighbourhood. Draven would never leave his dear brother alone.

Darius looked him over with a calculating gaze then past him. Ezreal realized the man was putting two and two together.

"Odd," the Noxian grunted, ignoring Ezreal's greeting. He turned, bringing his axe to rest on his shoulder and began walking. "What are you doing here?" The Piltovian mentally translated the question as "Why are steps away coming from my brother's house?" and he was sure the man knew fully well why.

"I got summoned," Ezreal replied, deciding to dodge the question. This game of loaded vague questions had the capacity for two players and he didn't intend to lose.

The Noxian seemed to be taken off guard. As off guard as Darius could be. Which was a raise of a brow. "And now I'm walking to the Institute," Ezreal continued, watching the man warily from the corner of his eye. "And I assume you are, too, unless the Hand of Noxus is known for going on peaceful morning strolls." The air was still, like the world, time, and space around them heard. As soon as those words left his mouth, Ezreal caught the ready glint of his axe. The Piltovian was known for his jabbing quips on the fields, his outlandish boasting, coupled with moments of showing off, but right now, his life isn't measured in bars or protected by magic.

Would the League investigate his death? Notify the kin? Would his body still be recognizable? These were some questions Ezreal wasn't too keen on finding out.

"I have also been summoned," Darius said gruffly after a pause. Ezreal walked, using all of his will to not interrupt, instead, patiently and little bit relieved, waiting for the man to continue, or even elaborate. His determination performed in vain and he was left to conclude Darius wasn't a man of conversation. He also noticed that the man did not press on the issue of Draven. It was likely he was not interested in his brother's life. It's not like the entire League couldn't hear the executioner's bragging miles away. They walked in silence with Darius stalking forwards, his armour clanging against each other, and with Ezreal trailing behind, deep in thought.

The road to the Institute of War was relatively short as the residential buildings were built to encircle at an approximate 10km from it.

For some, the residential buildings were temporary or secondary residences. For others, these buildings were permanent places called home. There were many shops and restaurants carrying goods and foods from all around Valoran that separate the Institute from the residences. Many can enjoy the comfort of familiar cuisine from their home city-states. Ezreal appreciated the gesture. It was nice having the option of Piltovian food, especially when the homesickness struck. Though the proud explorer would never admit to such thing, because he was an explorer. He's used to leaving home. Or supposed to be.

As they neared the entrance of the Institute, Darius stopped abruptly, his deep red cape fluttering to a stop. The rippling fabric bore many marks of wear and tear, like an intricately woven tapestry of history, darned in places after victories. It was likely that this was the favoured cloak of the general. The man spoke as he lowered his axe from his shoulder, "I'd prefer if you and Draven were to cut ties." Taken aback, Ezreal took a moment to gather himself, but Darius had already ascended the marble stairs swiftly, the maroon fabric catching the wind.

Ezreal glared at his back, unsure of what he had meant. "Hey!" he called. He ran up the steps, taking two at a time. "What do you mean?" Darius turned his head, his eyes black as coal.

"I meant it would be for the better if the two of you stop this foolish game," he said, stopping. "It is already damaging enough to have a garish show-off for a brother; I do not want to be involved with his publicity stunts."

"It's not a publicity stunt," Ezreal seethed. Darius gave him a sceptical look and the explorer was surprised, though in hindsight, he really shouldn't have been, by the glaring similarities between the Blood Brothers.

The Noxian shook his head. "Do not mess with our kind," he pressed. "We do not value such things as love." The man uttered the word like it tasted sour. As he had spat it, he turned again, going up the stairs, his armour ringing loudly. The silver steel reflected the sparse rays of sunlight, though unevenly. The surface was scarred, dented, and seemed as if its wearer had dragged it to Hell and back. Knowing Darius, that assumption was probably made without much exaggeration. The violence and fighting and hardships shone through the Noxian's armour and weapon. Despite the marring imperfections, he carried it with pride. No, Noxians do not value love. They value strength.

Ezreal squeezed his fists tighter and ran after him. He bounded past him, reaching the doors first. He knew he was being immature, but he didn't care. He entered without looking back.

It had already been few hours when two loud and rapt knocks sounded from Draven's door. The executioner was expecting Ezreal; he had hoped they do some training or sparring later. He felt like brushing up on his axe throwing, even most parts of him argued he was perfect. Draven brushed his hair back with a hand, the silken locks spiked up with the lower portions pulled into a ponytail. He winked at himself in the mirror. "Gorgeous," he said aloud.

He opened the door to find quite the opposite. "Darius, my brother, what brings you here in such…dress," Draven trailed off, looking at the man from head to toe. Darius stood before him, bloodied and tattered. Dirt lined the edges of his armour and his axe was crusty with dried smears of blood. And that was just his clothing. He pushed past him into the house and Draven made sure to jump back to avoid any dirt touching his impeccable body. "I suppose you're coming back from a match."

"You are quite right, brother," Darius responded haggardly. He leaned his grimy axe against the wall, something which Draven frowned at, and walked into the dining room, a small room with a modest set of furniture. As modest as Draven could get. The older brother sat down on the nearest chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. The executioner followed and sat down adjacent to him, curiosity marking his features.

"So, what did you come to me for?" Draven asked, leaning back in his chair. He watched his him breathe in deeply.

"My brother, I'm going to ask you of something of great importance," Darius murmured, meeting his eyes.

"Of course," Draven said, taken aback. It was rare for the elder to come to him for help. It was more surprising because of the tone and manner Darius had asked him with. It was resigned and foreboding, thickly entwined in his gravelly voice. As much as the executioner played the dark humoured, narcissistic killer, he also knew how to play dutiful when dealt with it. Draven waited, but his brother only stared at him thoughtfully. "What is it—"

"I'm going to have to ask you to stop seeing the Piltovian boy."

Draven frowned and straightened up. "I don't—why does this concern you?" A completely genuine question. It was not to confirm the suspicions he did not have and it was not to rhetorically raise the answer to the responder. "Or is it that this concerns Noxus?"

Darius had a set grim expression, lines in his face deepening further than usual. His eyes confirmed the words that his lips would not admit to.

This was the last thing Draven expected to hear from his brother.

It had taken nearly months for Ezreal to convince his friends from Piltover that the entire thing was not a cruel joke. And another few weeks for him to convince himself. Draven ran a hand through his hair, not caring anymore that he was letting a few strands stray.

"I know you don't want to," Darius began. "But you must understand. I would never ask you do such a demanding thing unless it was extremely important."

"But Darius—"

"Noxus cannot have the brother of the Head General be so closely tied to someone from Piltover," Darius interjected sharply. "An ally of Demacia." He shifted in his seat. Thoughts circulated in his head, thoughts that seemed to soften his resolve. "I do not care that you carry such fondness for the same sex, my brother. In the eyes of Noxus—in the eyes of me—all you have to truly be is strong."

"But you're afraid Noxians will think you're soft or at least have a soft spot for Piltover through me," Draven remarked stiffly aloud, juxtaposed with an unspoken relieved thank you that hung in the air comfortably between them.

Darius hesitated, giving him a measuring look. The brothers held each other's gaze, years of familiarity infused in it.

They were orphaned at a young age.

It was not uncommon on the streets of Noxus. Through the show of strength, bravery, and fearlessness, many people perish, leaving their young behind to exhibit the same values. The elder, Darius, had fought long and hard for both of them to stay alive and together. Undefended children were victims, defended children were not. For many years of adolescence, Darius stayed resilient, up until Draven was able to fight on his own. Even then, Darius would not hesitate to aid him, like the parent he didn't have to fix his mistakes. He could have left his baby brother to die on the streets that night, or the many cold nights after, alongside the other impoverished Noxian children. It would have been easy. But he didn't.

"Yes," Darius said finally. His younger brother nodded absentmindedly and leaned back on the chair. The brothers sat, drenched in silence.

"It's very difficult," Draven started slowly.

"I understand."

"For me to do what you had asked me to do." Draven began picking at invisible dirt on his clothes. Nervousness under the guise of grooming. "Are you sure there is nothing else that could be done?" Darius rubbed his temple, adding more grime marks to his skin.

"I suppose you can hide it, but it's already a bit too late for that, isn't it?"

Draven snorted, reliving the countless surprised and disgusted looks he received.

"What's the importance of Piltover? What's happening over there in central?" Draven asked, not looking up from his picking.

"You know I cannot disclose that information to you," Darius said quietly. He looked away from his sullen brother. "I know this is challenging, believe me." Darius stood up from his chair, pausing by Draven to give his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll give you a few days to think about this." Draven lifted his own hand to cover his brother's, not caring for the flecks of dried blood and soil. "Draven. Thank you." The executioner felt a sharp pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach that he would never admit to. It was nearly unheard of for the Noxian general to express gratitude, rarer still for his brother. Draven just nodded dumbly and followed his brother out.

Darius picked up his axe and glanced over Draven once more before opening the door. He was met with the surprised face of Ezreal, whose expression suddenly contorted to cold hardness. Darius ignored and brushed past him. He could feel Ezreal's eyes burning two holes into his back.

Author's Note: Wanted to give back to the community. The title is from Oscar Wilde's play "The Importance of Being Earnest". Zjol.