Chapter Text
Piltover, the city of progress.
The beating heart of the future itself.
The resplendent casque of the heavens, overseeing land and sea alike, a Mount Olympus constructed not by the hands of gods but by the mighty intellect of its people.
Every day, its gates bore witness to thousands of merchants, scholars, inventors, diplomats, era-defining masterminds and bright-eyed, bushy-tailed hobbyists alike. They all arrived with seemingly impossible dreams tucked neatly beneath their arms, ready to leave their names embossed in history’s roll book.
And somehow, by a miracle Ryland Grace still didn't entirely understand, he'd found himself at the center of it all: Piltover Academy.
As a kid, he’d practically worshipped the place. He’d spent long days cooped up in the library reading through its history, about the many modern-day heroes that had wandered its halls. No one could’ve convinced his ten-year-old self that the Academy wasn’t, pardon his French, the coolest frickin’ place in all of Runeterra (heck, perhaps even the world).
Now, as a scrappy, sleep-deprived student about to (by some miracle) begin his third year at the academy, Grace could honestly say that not much had changed. It hadn’t been easy, gods no, but he’d survived.
He’d learned.
Grace was incredibly grateful for that, even if it meant having to do frankly unreasonable amounts of physics exercises at eight or so in the morning.
He was grateful…
“An interesting proposition, Mr. Ikal. Unfortunately, it is incorrect.”
A chorus of poorly stifled groans swept across the lecture hall.
Grace tried not to look too frustrated as he scribbled out his own adjacent hypothesis, yet another casualty to the long line of unsatisfactory answers already crowding the page. Around him, a dozen classmates did the same.
It was kind of beautiful, in a way - here they all were, sitting side by side with the sun’s mid-morning rays beaming through the hall’s tall stained glass windows, collectively banging their heads against their desks, their frustrations washed in a rich variety of blues, greens, and yellows.
The source of their suffering, the truly fuckass problem their professor had scribbled on the board at the top of class, loomed above them like some kind of numerical mirage. It was some query involving photon propulsion, written in big, swirling letters - the kind you’d see scribbled on a cute little chalkboard outside of a cafe somewhere, advertising freshly baked brownies or artisanal sourdough or something.
Instead, here it was committing war crimes against their collective brain cells.
Dark times.
Professor Komorov smiled a toothy grin, apparently amused at their misery.
“Would you all like a hint?”
The room went oddly silent.
Students glanced at each other, jaws clenched shut.
They fidgeted with their notes, reorganized their pens by size, then by weight, then by color, rummaged around endlessly inside their bags, scribbled down invisible masterpieces - anything to look busy.
Nobody wanted to be the one to ask for help.
Not on the first day of the semester, with so many brownie points to gain and so much pride to lose.
After a rather drawn out pause, Komorov sighed.
“It is important to remember, folks, that any photon beam is ultimately constrained by diffraction. Perfect collimation is physically impossible, which should immediately eliminate several assumptions I've watched you all make over the last twenty minutes—”
The lecture hall's heavy wooden door swung open with a long, protesting creak.
About eighty pairs of eyes turned to look as the sound echoed through the room, bringing the discussion to a screeching halt.
Someone, a student, strolled- yes, strolled, in.
Grace glanced at the clock.
A full thirty minutes into the lecture.
Impressive.
“Well,” Professor Komorov said carefully, clasping his hands in front of him in a show of tight-laced self control. “Nice of you to join us, Mr…?”
The newcomer paused.
“Uh, Simon.”
“Simon…?”
“Just Simon.”
“Just Simon?” Komorov repeated, narrowing his eyes.
“As far as I know.”
A few snickers escaped throughout the room.
Grace swore he could see Komorov's eye twitch.
“Very well. Mr. Just Simon, are you aware that you are currently thirty-two minutes and...” He fished around for his pocket watch. “...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen seconds late to my lecture?”
The newc- Simon looked around the room, entirely too casually for Grace’s liking. He finally spotted the clock hung on the far wall.
“I am now.”
Grace grimaced.
“My bad,” Simon added.
“You’re bad indeed.”
The venom in Komorov’s voice could’ve dissolved petricite. He seemed to mutate before their very eyes - aged fingers tapered into razor-sharp claws, eyes compressed into nearly invisible slits, laser-focused, devastating, glinting with biblical levels of rage.
A few students leaned forward in their seats. Stark white columns stretched out around them, the air tinged with dust and dirt and death.
They sat, patrons of the coliseum.
The plebeians (mostly first and second year students) gawked, nervous, shifty, still unfamiliar with how some in the academy liked to deal with perceived insubordination. Meanwhile, the patricians could hardly hold back their grins.
Grace even held his breath, despite himself.
Damnatio ad bestias.
Their prey blinked, oblivious to his fate.
“Since you're here,” Komorov said, extending a piece of chalk, “perhaps you would be so kind as to show everyone the required equation for the problem on the board.”
Grace felt a flicker of sympathy.
The poor idiot.
Which wasn't a nice thought, but, alas.
Slowly, Simon turned to read the swooping script.
He tilted his head to the right a little.
Then the left.
Grace worried his lower lip.
Being who he was—chronically susceptible to the siren song of late-night lab sessions and the resulting inability to function before noon—he'd experienced his own fair share of academic executions. Though technically harmless, the memory of standing before a room full of students while he floundered at the mercy of his professors and whatever labyrinthian task they’d decided to conjure up remained uncomfortably vivid.
Basically, it was hard not to feel for the guy.
His silence revealed frustratingly little, yes, but it was hard not to imagine how nervous he probably was.
How scared.
Heck, terrified.
Grace didn't remember seeing Simon anywhere on campus before. Was he a first-year? Had he somehow wandered into the wrong lecture? Was this his first experience with mild to severe public humiliation?
Simon accepted the chalk.
A hush fell over the room.
Wordlessly, Simon wrote out a short equation on the board in quick, resolute strokes.
Grace squinted - the thing was tiny.
Simon stepped back, humming for a moment before offering back the chalk.
“There.”
Their professor looked… Well, it was hard to tell. He had a hand curled under his chin and another propped on his hip, seemingly pensive, staring at Simon’s answer like it was somehow causing him great physical pain.
“That is correct.”
Grace blinked.
“Please take a seat, Mr… Mr. Simon.” Komorov accepted back the chalk. “Eyes on the clock from now on, yes?”
“Sure.”
He did not sound particularly genuine, much to Komorov’s annoyance.
Grace had to resist the urge to stare as Simon wandered to an open seat near the back of the classroom.
What…
What had just happened?
His brows knit together, frowning at the ugly feeling bubbling in his chest.
“I can’t do this.” Grace whined.
“Long day?” Olesya noted dryly, taking a long sip of her drink as Grace practically collapsed onto the stone bench beside her. He let his head bang onto the table, just barely avoiding coming into quick contact with Yao’s lunch.
“He’s everywhere.”
“He?” Yao asked, not so subtly moving his meal out of harm’s way. “Is it Mark again?”
“No.” Grace lifted his head just enough to shoot him a wounded glare. “Simon.”
“Ah yes. Simon.” Olesya hummed. “Whoever that is.”
“He’s a staggering waste of carbon, that’s what.” Grace grumbled. “There I am, fighting for my life trying to solve one of Komorov’s stupid trick exercises and in comes this guy - half an hour late, by the way - and just- just- Ta-da! Here you go. Two seconds! No questions asked. I don’t know how he didn’t get skinned alive, Komorov was so pissed-“
“A new student?”
Grace shrugged apathetically. “Maybe. I haven’t seen him around before.”
“So, new guy’s smart.” Olesya shrugged right back. “So what?”
“Yeah, I mean- No offense, but I didn’t find Komorov that hard last semester-“ Yao added.
“It’s not-!” Sighing, Grace scrubbed at his face, his glasses hanging precariously off one ear.
Great.
Awesome.
“I don’t care that he’s smart!”
Yao and Olesya exchanged a glance.
Okay, maybe that was a lie. But Simon was annoyingly smart, and that was an important distinction.
“He’s- He’s rude, he’s in like three out of the four classes I had today and he was somehow late to all of them? And he has this- Ugh, I don’t know- Like he knows better than everyone else, or like he doesn’t care! He spent half of second period just doodling in his notebook, and I’m pretty sure he was asleep for third!”
“Maybe he was tired.”
“Maybe I'm tired.”
“You are, Gracey needs a nap.”
Much to his chagrin, Olesya laughed. She livened at Grace’s look of betrayal, slapping a hand over her mouth to keep from spitting out her drink.
Yao’s face, meanwhile, remained carefully still, though he could see him fighting back the beginnings of a smile.
“Thank you, Yao.”
Grace’s ears burned.
Traitors.
“And here I was hoping for a little sympathy.”
Olesya placed a hand on his shoulder, shooting him what was perhaps supposed to be an apologetic look. It was hard to tell through all the snickering. “D’aw, sorry, sorry. But, it’s a tad sweet, no?”
Grace blinked.
“Sweet??”
Yao hummed in agreement. “First day, and you’ve already noticed that much about the guy? That’s some serious dedication. Did you catch what he was doodling?”
Grace narrowed his eyes in annoyance.
“Of course not.” He lied.
“Shame.” Yao replied simply, clearly not believing him for a second.
His attention then drifted over Grace's shoulder.
“Oh, wait. Is that him?”
Grace was damn near embarrassed by how quickly he whipped around, eyes darting around the busy courtyard. Pockets of students sat around, chatting, laughing, enjoying the breeze and the shade afforded by the various trees sprinkled about. In the midst of it all, sure as day, was Simon.
He had his bag haphazardly thrown over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A handful of students wandered beside him, chatting away, though he didn’t seem to be paying them much mind. He was instead focused on fiddling with his tie, his brows drawn in frustration as he tried to yank the knot further away from his neck.
Grace found himself staring.
Which was unfortunate.
Olesya made a noise, leaning back in her seat to get a better look.
Grace didn’t roll his eyes.
“Ooooh! Grace-“
“No.”
“Graceee, why didn’t you mention he was cute?”
He gaped, horrified.
She gave him a shit-eating grin in return, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Do you mind?”
It took everything in him not to gag.
“He’s all yours.” Clutching his backpack close to his chest, Grace stood up. “If you‘ll excuse me, I have to go pressure wash my eardrums.”
“Tell Simon we said hi.”
“Die.”
Yao and Olesya shared a look, unsuccessfully hiding their snickering as Grace hurried away.
By the time evening settled over the Academy, Grace was exhausted.
Frustratingly brilliant strangers aside, the first day of the semester had come with all its usual accoutrements - a few readings, two lab reports, a research proposal, and a presentation all due within the following days.
It might’ve been tempting to stress if he wasn’t so painfully used to the workload. If he was being honest, deep down, Grace actually found a deep sense of comfort in the work.
This is what he was here to do, what he was good at.
There were no annoying classmates to worry about, no professors, no misleading tones or hard to read expressions. It was just him, data, and an ever-reliable process - proven, predictable.
A comfortable silence had fallen over the corner of the library he’d tucked himself into. The library was never noisy, of course, not truly, but at this hour of the night, it was devoid of even its usual ambiance. There were no quiet whispers amongst study partners, no footsteps against the shiny tiled floor, no light clicking of keyboard keys or book pages turned. Even the lights had been dimmed slightly, he realized, the room now mostly lit by a collection of desk lamps sprinkled across the various study stations.
Grace wondered how many night owls were still squatting around the place, similarly engulfed in their own little worlds.
He stifled a yawn, stretching out his arms above his head.
Just as he was about to hunch back over his notes, the sound of a chair scrapping softly against the floor caught his attention.
He turned his head, catching the sight of two outstretched arms just a few desks down. Someone was stretching over the back of their chair, just like he had.
Without thinking, he let his eyes travel lower.
A pair of dark brown eyes stared back.
Simon.
Grace bit back a little scream, stiffening.
Comically enough Simon seemed to do the same.
“Oh- Sorry.” The words left Grace’s lips before he had a chance to stop them, quickly ducking behind his desk’s protective partitions. His ears had begun to burn again.
Why was he here?
Okay, maybe that was a little dumb.
Simon was a student, just like him. Surely he’d gotten his own mountain of work to deal with - almost exactly the same as Grace’s, actually, considering they’d taken largely the same classes that day.
Sure, maybe it was a little weird that out of the entire library he’d chosen to sit there, just feet away from him, and maybe it was kind of a weird coincidence that’d they’d both stretched at the same time and just happened to look over at the right time where they would’ve otherwise continued to work completely unaware of the other’s existence, but- but-
The chair scrapped against the floor again, this time a little louder.
Grace felt his heart begin to rattle against his ribs as footsteps began to draw closer, gripping his pen, begging to disappear into the dark mahogany swirls the covered his desk’s surface-
“Uh, hi.” Simon cleared his throat, sounding- nervous?
Not nervous, no.
Sheepish, maybe.
Grace swore he could feel his voice reverberating through the floor.
“Ryland, right?”
His thoughts raced - how did he know his name?? His first name, specifically. It’d been forever since anyone had used it, both because professors tended to prefer surnames and- well.
People just…
People just didn’t like using Ryland that much, apparently.
Grace tried his best to hide his surprise as he turned around.
Oh.
Finally, he got to take a close look at his unofficial nemesis. He looked… younger than Grace had expected, dark brows just barely pinched above even darker eyes. His hair was haphazardly pulled away from his face, a few strands curling by his jaw, drawing his eyes to a scar running past his chin and onto his bottom lip. There were a few more scars lining his hands, tiny white lines peppering his knuckles as he held a notebook to his chest. His tie was missing - he’d seemingly, finally, gotten it undone.
“Yes.” Grace said.
His voice cracked.
Wonderful.
“Yep. Yes! That’s me, Ryland. Ryland Grace.”
He smiled anxiously.
Simon offered a minuscule smile back. “Name’s Simon,”
“I know.”
Simon blinked.
Grace blinked.
Oh, great heavens, what was wrong with him?!
"Not in a weird way," Grace said immediately.
Simon blinked again.
“Because- I- Professor Komorov’s lecture this morning! I was there, y’know, you-“ Came in thirty minutes late- NO. “He made you- You said- You-“
“I introduced myself?” Simon offered evenly, quirking a brow.
“Yes.” Grace hid his face in his hands, sighing. “That.”
Simon chuckled, not unkindly, pulling out a nearby chair and taking a seat. “Great, that’s introductions taken care of then. I’m sorry to butt in, but, is there any chance you could help me with this?”
Grace peeked out, frowning a little. “Help? You?”
It came out harsher than intended, the other shrinking back slightly. “Well, since we were in this class together, I thought- Sorry, you don’t needed to.“
“No!” Grace winced at the sound of his own voice, suddenly grateful the library was largely empty. He held out his hands in what he hoped was an assuaging manner. “No, no, I’d love to! I just- You- You seemed- You are so smart, if you of all people are having trouble, I worry I might not be of much help.”
He laughed awkwardly.
Simon’s cheeks seemed to darken somewhat, though the room’s dimmed lights made it hard to tell.
“I’m, uh,” Simon shrugged his shoulders lamely. “I’m only good at machines, really. Living things are- hard.”
Grace’s face lit up a little. “Oh, well then. You’re in luck! I was pretty hellbent on becoming a biologist for a little while there, so I know a thing or two. Let me see.”
Without really realizing it, the two fell into a comfortable rhythm.
The hours ticked by - a fair percentage spent working, sure, but the large majority wasted on easy conversation (if you could really call that a waste). Their work was nowhere near done by the time the night watch finally came to kick them out, and yet, Grace couldn’t quite seem to care. He felt oddly…jittery, a pep in his step despite the exhaustion weighting stubbornly on his shoulders.
Simon hummed quietly.
“Can’t say I’ve ever gotten kicked out of a library before.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, maybe,” Grace laughed some. “I’d call it a tradition at this point.”
A pause.
“Are you okay to get home on your own?”
Simon made a face.
“Really?”
“Hey, I’m serious! It’s late, I don’t even know if the guards are still patrolling, someone could-“
“Ryland, the scariest thing up here are the guards.”
Waving a hand, Simon turned on his heel.
“I’ll be fine. G’night!”
Grace held up a hand, watching him disappear into the night. “Goodnight!”
Smiling despite himself, Grace headed home.