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Chapter Text

They were resting in the shade of a lonely tree surrounded by the grassy expanse of the Noxian steppe and listening to the wind, wordlessly and deep in thought.

Sometimes it was enough for them to simply enjoy each other's company in silence and allow themselves a moment of peace, sitting shoulder to shoulder, basking in the feeling of comfort and reassurance the presence of a close friend and loved one granted them. 

Jericho didn't remember at which point they had started to hold hands or who had made the first move, but he didn't mind. His impassive expression betrayed nothing, yet deep down he appreciated these small moments of closeness between them, a welcome escape from the cold detachment his parents treated him with. 

He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, subconsciously squeezing Marcus’ hand as he did so. The feeling of warm, calloused fingers intertwining with his was strangely comforting in a way he didn’t quite understand. 

He had sworn to dedicate his life to the empire and decided against having a partner or starting a family, for his own benefit and wellbeing as well as to ensure that no innocent people would be harmed once his plan to expose the Black Rose was complete. Yet it was in moments like these that he briefly allowed himself to dream, to wonder what it would be like if he was more than Marcus' best friend, if he could wake up next to him every morning, if he could hold his hand and receive his attention and affection whenever he wanted. 

Marcus glanced to the side to see Jericho leaning against the tree with his eyes closed, completely relaxed for once. No matter how cold or snappy his best friend could be, no matter what lofty goals he came up with, he would always be a sweet and precious thing in his eyes, as well as one of the few men he respected. 

A warm smile tugged at his lips. There were times when he entertained the idea to stop looking for a suitable wife and just ask Jericho to marry him instead, yet Marcus felt like it wasn’t meant to be. They were at odds as far as family was concerned, with Jericho making it very clear that he didn't want one. Marcus knew the decision was final, something he would have to respect, and he had no intention to force his best friend to live a life he didn't want. 

He wanted him to be happy. 

Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. He had no idea if Jericho could ever see him that way, or if he would even consider him as a partner; though it was a pleasant thought still, something he allowed himself to entertain every once in a while. 

He gently squeezed his hand in return.  

"You know you will always have a place in my family, right?" 

Jericho let out a small sigh. 

"If you insist."

Marcus rolled his eyes at the answer, then spotted a cheeky smile appearing on Jericho’s lips, though his friend hadn’t opened his eyes to see his reaction. And he didn’t need to; after all those years, they were usually able to guess what the other was thinking. 

"I know you appreciate it," Marcus said, and leaned back against the tree to signify his statement was not up for debate. 

Jericho kept smiling to himself. 

Chapter Text

If Jericho had to pick a color to describe Marcus, he would immediately and without hesitation choose red. 

He would think of the rich crimson color of his hair, a fairly unique trait among Noxians. Even as people laughed and made comments behind his back, most of them not daring to do so to his face, Jericho knew many secretly envied his friend. After all, red was the color of the Empire itself, esteemed and revered by its citizens. Some people even said that the bloodline of House Du Couteau was blessed to have such a trait and that it'd bring them good fortune. 

Jericho would think of the color of freshly spilled blood, glistening on polished, ornate blades and dripping onto the floor, each droplet bearing witness to the cold efficiency and skill of the Empire's best assassin. They called Marcus the deadliest blademaster of Valoran, and he found himself inclined to agree as he watched the enemies of Noxus falling at his hand one by one. A flash of black and silver, faster than the eye could see, then red. A lifeless body on the floor, forever silent, another mission completed for the glory of Noxus. 

He often thought of the color of Marcus' eyes as well, the vivid emerald of his irises contrasting the shades of red and black that surrounded him at all times in an almost defiant manner. Many of his fellow Noxians found themselves mesmerized by his eyes, and Jericho was not an exception, unable to resist their allure even though he knew the beautiful green was but a veil for the darkness hidden within their depths. He knew that, no matter if Marcus graced him with a charming smile when they were sharing a moment of closeness, or if he was looking down at another perfectly executed target, there was the same twinkle in his eyes, a sign of pride, of contentedness, of pleasure . 

Jericho remembered one particular evening, just the two of them spending time together at the Du Couteau estate, laughing, talking and drinking. He remembered how his gaze eventually rested on Marcus' lips, red and glistening wet from his favorite wine, captivating him. 

"What are you staring at, Jericho?" 

A cocky smirk. 

"Like what you see?" 

"I..." 

Tongue loosened by the wine, he admitted to it. Marcus laughed and stole a quick kiss from his lips, then took his hand and led him upstairs without another word. Jericho knew what he wanted–it wouldn't be the first time they ended up in bed together after another one of countless evenings spent in each other's company–but was surprised when his friend left him sitting on the bed and retrieved a small, inconspicuous etui from his wardrobe. 

"I have been wondering when I would get to try it out," was all Marcus said as he saw Jericho giving him a questioning look in the mirror. 

He produced an object from the etui and, with careful yet surprisingly practiced movements, applied a generous layer of bright crimson lipstick to his lips, matching his hair. Jericho didn't even have time to comment before he was on top of him, pouncing on his lap and straddling his hips with playful ease. 

"Well?" he asked, one hand reaching up to caress Jericho's long silver hair. 

"What do you think?"

Marcus was smiling once again and his lips were all Jericho could see. The paleness of his skin emphasized the luscious red, and he felt himself being drawn in, leaning closer and closer as desire eclipsed all other sensations. 

"Beautiful," he whispered, and kissed him.

Chapter Text

"Jericho...?" 

It was the first time in many years that Marcus sounded uncertain, fearful even.

Stubborn as he was, he had followed his best friend into the catacombs as soon as he had found out about his plan to look for the demon. He was too late of course, but it suited Jericho just fine, in fact he had made sure of it. The bargain had been struck without interference and he had been on his way out of the catacombs before he sensed the familiar presence nearby. 

Marcus didn't seem inclined to come closer. He had good reasons to be cautious, Jericho acknowledged to himself–the glowing red arm replacing the one he had lost, the clawed fingers and the fact that he was no longer using his cane were certainly suspicious. 

He must be worried that Raum possessed me, he thought, knowing full well that the assassin was getting ready to reach for his blades and defend himself. 

"Don't worry, Marcus. I am still me," Jericho said. There was a lot to explain, but he hoped this would answer the most pressing questions. 

Marcus' expression softened ever so slightly, as if he wanted to believe him, but his posture remained tense. He appeared to consider his statement for a moment until he spoke up again. 

"What was the first battle you ever fought?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at him. 

"A border dispute in the west. Unless you are referring to us playing with toy soldiers as children, that is." 

Jericho felt the urge to smile and allowed himself to do so for once. It was smart of his old friend to ask about memories they shared to find out if it was still him. Many years ago, when he had prepared the Black Rose purge, they had come up with such precautions in case one of them suspected the other of being replaced by a spy. 

His smile was what encouraged Marcus to relax, silently giving him permission to come closer. 

"I suppose I should be grateful that you haven't gotten yourself killed, though you have to explain... this to me," he said, casting a suspicious glance at the demonic arm. 

"I will," Jericho reassured him, "but let us get out of here first."

Marcus nodded, then took off his gloves and wordlessly handed them to him. 

I suppose he has a point, Jericho thought, a small spark of amusement lighting up his face as he carefully put them on to conceal his claws. 

Chapter Text

"I understand if you find my... new features... to be repulsive," Jericho said quietly, looking down at his demonic arm. 

They were sitting on his bed like they had done countless times when they were younger and watched the sun rise over Noxus Prime, reflecting on last night's events and what it meant going forward. 

Marcus glanced at him from the side. 

"Why would I? Simply because you have claws, feathers and red eyes now?" 

A small smirk appeared on his lips as he said the last part. 

Jericho blinked in confusion. 

"My eyes–?"

"Yes, dear, they changed as well." 

He sighed, then shrugged. 

"I suppose it makes sense."

Marcus was regarding his arm now, though to Jericho's surprise, he seemed curious instead of disgusted. 

"May I?" he asked after a few moments of contemplation. 

"Of course." 

As soon as he got permission, he traced the demonic arm with his index finger, exploring the feathery texture of the skin, then examined his claws. He seemed pleased to discover that they were as sharp as they looked. 

"These feathers suit you. Let me know if you start growing more of them, wherever it may be," Marcus said, a teasing glint in his eyes as he glanced at his friend. 

Jericho shook his head. "You are impossible." 

In response, he received a peck on the cheek. As small as this gesture was, it successfully rendered him speechless. He had known this man for decades, yet he still managed to surprise him. 

Thinking back, Marcus had always possessed this strange ability to find things to like about him. Jericho remembered how he would tell him that he looked cute with glasses or that his hair was pretty; and now he was playing with his demonic arm as if it was normal, as if it was just another aspect of him he found endearing. 

He won't abandon me, Jericho thought and released a breath he didn't know he was holding, relief washing over him. 

Chapter Text

He looks different, Marcus thought to himself, quietly regarding Jericho's face while the latter was immersing himself in his work. 

Ever since he had acquired the demon that now lived inside him, there were changes in his appearance. His glowing red arm and claws were easily the most conspicuous feature, which was why Jericho usually wore gloves; fortunately people never asked questions, knowing that he had lost his arm in Ionia. The skin of his new arm had an odd feathery texture to it and was warm to the touch, inhuman, yet more than functional. 

His hair had been getting lighter for a while, but the demonic presence within him seemed to have drained it of all its remaining color, turning it into an ashen, silvery white. Still, it was as neat and pretty as ever, not a single strand out of place while he was poring over his documents. 

Marcus allowed himself a moment of looking at his face, drinking in the familiar sight he had known for decades now. Jericho's eyes had been dark once, yet now his irises were red, a deep, dark crimson color, occasionally flaring up with a demonic glow when he was agitated or using the entity's magic. 

Sometimes the assassin wondered if his old friend's facial features had become slightly sharper or if it was just his imagination. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, trying too hard to spot more traces of the demon within someone who was near and dear to him; maybe he was simply worried. 

Jericho looked up, raising his eyebrows as he caught his gaze. 

"Is anything wrong?" he asked. 

His expression was cool and composed as usual, though there was the smallest hint of genuine concern hidden within the depths of his eyes, visible only to someone who had known him for such a long time. 

Marcus smiled.

"No. You are as handsome as ever." 

Jericho glared at him. 

"Get back to work," he said sharply and turned his attention back to the documents on his desk. 

Despite his best efforts to appear impassive, the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.