Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

powder sat cross-legged on the old floor of the dusty attic, bits of charcoal smudged on her fingers, a half-finished sketch of a wind-up monkey staring up from her notebook. the late afternoon sun filtered in through the cracked window, painting the room in hazy gold. it smelled like mothballs, rusted gears, and a little bit like her childhood.

“still blowing stuff up in your notebooks?” came a teasing voice from the doorway.

powder startled and quickly shoved the sketchpad aside, cheeks flaring pink. “i wasn’t blowing it up! it’s just…mechanical theory.”

the girl leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. she was a year and a half older, lanky but strong, with oil-stained fingertips and a spark behind her eyes like she knew more than she let on. her name was wyn—vi’s best friend from the surface—who somehow made even grease-streaked overalls look like armour.

“mechanical theory, huh? pretty intense for a lazy sunday.” she walked in and flopped down beside powder, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

powder swallowed hard and tried to focus on anything other than how warm wyn was next to her. “what’re you doing here? vi’s out with claggor.”

wyn grinned, pulling a gear-shaped pendant from under her shirt and spinning it between her fingers. “yeah, i know. i came to see you.”

powder blinked. “me?”

“don’t sound so surprised.” wyn nudged her gently. “you’re more fun, anyway.”

it was meant to be a joke. a light thing. but powder’s heart did this weird little stutter, and suddenly her fingers felt clumsy, like she couldn’t remember how to hold a pencil.

for months now, it had been like this—quiet flickers of confusion every time wyn touched her shoulder or ruffled her hair, the way her stomach would somersault when wyn smiled just at her, and how sometimes powder caught herself staring too long, wondering what her lips would taste like, then immediately hating herself for it.

“do you ever…” powder’s voice caught. she fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “do you ever think about how weird it is, liking people?”

wyn arched an eyebrow. “weird how?”

“like—you grow up thinking it’s supposed to be one thing. obvious. simple. but it’s not. and then sometimes you look at someone and everything gets...loud.”

wyn was quiet for a moment. then she reached over, carefully brushing a streak of charcoal from powder’s cheek with her thumb.

“i think that means you like them, bluebell.” she said gently.

powder’s breath caught in her throat.

and for the first time, she didn’t push the thought away. she didn’t flinch from it or bury it beneath her inventions. she just sat there, heart pounding, next to someone who felt safe. someone who made her feel seen.

“yeah,” she whispered. “i think i do.”

Chapter Text

powder was used to people looking at her like she was fragile.

not in a mean way, exactly. just in that quiet, careful way adults spoke around broken glass or twitchy pets. 

it wasn’t her fault she was small or jittery or liked building things that occasionally smoked and sparked. it just meant she was different. and different meant alone—unless vi was around.

so when vi dragged someone new into their hideout in the old tram tunnel, powder kept her head down, tools clutched in her hands like armour.

“powder!” vi called, half out of breath. “come meet someone.”

powder peeked out from behind a wall of scrap metal and saw her. a girl—maybe thirteen, fourteen—taller than vi, with shoulder length hair and thick boots that looked like they’d walked through a warzone. her nails were bitten to the quick, her elbow was bandaged, and she carried a backpack with a piltover logo hastily scribbled out in marker.

“this is wyn,” vi said. “she’s…uh, sticking around for a while. vander said it’s fine.”

powder stared. wyn stared back, arms crossed.

“she doesn’t talk much.” vi whispered behind her hand.

“i can hear you.” powder muttered, flushed.

wyn stepped forward, eyes scanning the contraption powder had been working on. “is that a gear-driven firing pin?” she asked casually, kneeling down. “looks like the spring’s over-torqued.”

powder blinked. most people just told her not to blow things up.

“you know about mechanisms?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“i built a crossbow when i was eleven.” wyn said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “almost shot my neighbour’s drone out of the sky. accidentally.”

that got a tiny smile out of powder.

vi grinned. “told you you’d like her.”

the first few days were awkward. powder wasn’t used to sharing her tools, or her space, or her sister’s attention.

but wyn wasn’t loud like vi. she didn’t ask too many questions or mess with powder’s stuff. she just sat nearby, sometimes reading, sometimes fiddling with broken gadgets of her own, always close enough that powder could feel her presence. it was...weird. not bad-weird. just new.

once, powder looked up from her project to find wyn asleep on a pile of cloth and pipe casings, a wrench still clutched in her hand. the light from the old bulb above made her hair look almost silver.

and powder felt that fluttery thing in her chest for the first time—light and confusing and a little scary.

she told herself it was just because she didn’t have many friends her own age. that it made sense to get nervous around someone new. but it didn’t go away.

if anything, it got worse.

powder didn’t realise when she’d stopped thinking of wyn as “vi’s friend.”

it just sort of…happened.

at first, wyn was just there. a quiet shadow who always smelled faintly like metal and soap. she was older, sure, but not in that boring adult way. she listened. not just nodded along—really listened. when powder talked about her inventions or a dream she had or how she thought light could be stored in crystals, wyn didn’t roll her eyes or pat her on the head. she leaned in, furrowed her brow, and asked, “what kind of crystal?”

no one had ever done that.

they started working together, at first by accident. powder would be fixing a toy for the kids at the last drop, and wyn would pass her a missing screw without being asked. or powder would be frustrated with a jammed gear and wyn would calmly take the whole thing apart and say, “look. you over thought it.”

one night, powder was trying to fix a busted music box she'd found in a crate near the docks. she'd been at it for hours, fingers aching, eyes burning. she hadn’t noticed wyn come in.

“you’re gonna wreck your hands doing that.”

“i’m fine.” powder grumbled.

“here.” wyn knelt beside her, warm palm resting over powder’s smaller one. “you’re twisting too hard. let it move with you.”

their fingers brushed. powder froze. her ears burned. she pulled her hand back quickly and laughed too loudly. “you— you always act like you know everything.”

wyn just smiled that soft, sideways smile. “i don’t. i just know a lot about broken things.”

they weren’t inseparable, exactly. but they found each other easily.

some days they’d sneak out past curfew to climb up to the broken rooftops over zaun, lying on their backs side by side, staring up at the city lights that flickered like artificial stars. powder loved those nights. the silence. the closeness. the feeling.

once, wyn whispered, “what do you think it’s like up there? in piltover. where everything works. where people aren’t looking over their shoulders all the time.”

powder didn’t answer right away. she was thinking of how wyn’s voice sounded in the dark. of how close their hands were.

“i think it’s cold.” she whispered.

wyn turned to her. “cold?”

“yeah. up there, they’re too perfect. too… polished. i think i’d rather be here. where it’s messy, but real.”

wyn’s smile reached her eyes. “me too.”

it was a warm afternoon when powder first caught herself watching wyn laugh and thought, she’s pretty—and didn’t immediately shove the thought away.

they were sitting by the canal, feet dangling off the edge, throwing pebbles into the green water. wyn had grease on her cheek and one pant leg rolled up from fixing ekko’s busted hoverboard. she tossed her head back and laughed at something powder had mumbled about “boys being dumb,” and the sun caught her eyes just right.

and it hit powder like a spark in the engine—quick, hot, unmistakable.

her cheeks flared red. she looked away fast, pretending to search for another pebble, even though her heart was pounding so loud she was sure wyn could hear it.

she didn’t say anything. not then.

not yet.

but something had shifted. quietly. gently.

like a gear slotting into place.

➴

wyn didn’t expect powder to linger in her head the way she did.

it was supposed to be easy — the way it always had been. powder was vi’s kid sister. the tagalong. the wide-eyed, skittish, bright thing that never quite fit with the rest of them, always one step behind but trying so hard to keep up. wyn used to find it endearing. protective, even.

now?

now, it made her chest twist in ways she couldn’t name.

she was halfway through a cigarette behind the mechanic shop, the scent of oil and heat still clinging to her skin from her shift. her neck ached from crouching under a shitty old transmission for too long, her fingers still stained black. her phone buzzed in her pocket.

hazel: u coming tonight?

wyn hesitated.

hazel was a maybe. a distraction. soft eyes, sly smile, liked to flirt with anything that moved. they’d kissed once last week after a party, after too many drinks and too much staring at the blue-haired ghost in her head.

it wasn’t bad. it just wasn’t right.

wyn flicked ash off her knee, exhaled slow. powder shouldn’t be stuck in her brain like this. fourteen. wide-eyed. always looking at wyn like she hung the stars.

it wasn’t okay.

and still—last week, when powder had found her behind the drop after a fight with vi, cheeks blotchy from crying and hands trembling, wyn had sat with her. let her lean against her shoulder. let her cry herself hoarse.

powder had turned her face into wyn’s neck, her voice a murmur. “you always feel warm.”

wyn hadn’t slept that night.

now, she typed back to hazel: yeah. see u there.

anything to shut the feelings up.

later, at the party, she let hazel kiss her again. let her press her against the wall in some upstairs bedroom, hands wandering, mouths clumsy.

it felt nothing like warmth. it felt like trying to scrub herself clean from the inside.

she went home alone.

powder texted her that night: did you get home okay?

wyn stared at the screen for a long moment before replying: yeah. you?

mhmm. goodnight wyn.

she turned her phone face down and tried not to think about the way her name sounded when powder said it. like it mattered. like it meant something.

wyn buried her face in her pillow and told herself to stop being so goddamn soft.

they’d been sitting in the corner of the drop for over an hour, a half-finished project spread across the table. powder was explaining the finer mechanics of a new gadget she’d built, animated and focused, fingers smudged with grease as she gestured mid-sentence.

wyn wasn’t listening.

not really.

she nodded along, offering the occasional “mhmm” or “that’s smart” where appropriate, but her eyes kept drifting. powder had tied her hair back messily, loose strands brushing against her cheeks as she leaned in, focused. her voice rose and fell in that excited way it always did when she talked about her work — raw and real and so full of life.

wyn’s chest ached.

it had been happening more lately — this pull. the way her gaze lingered a second too long. the way her thoughts slipped, wondering what it would feel like to reach out, tuck that loose bit of blue hair behind powder’s ear. to ask her to say her name again, just so she could feel the way it made her stomach twist.

she looked away, focused on the tool in her hand instead. said something dumb just to keep the silence from dragging.

“you ever slow down?”

powder glanced up, blinking. “what?”

“you just…” wyn shrugged, lips twitching. “you get so into it. s’cute.”

powder blinked again, this time slower, a bit thrown. then she laughed — quick, awkward. “don’t say shit like that.”

wyn grinned, because it was easier than saying anything real. “just calling it like i see it.”

but her hand itched — with the want to reach across the table. her mouth felt too full of words she couldn’t say.

instead, she watched as powder bit back a smile, cheeks dusted pink. watched as her fingers fidgeted with a stray bolt. watched her try not to react.

the air between them tightened, all the unsaid things stretching taut like wire.

wyn sat back in her seat, arms folded, like it would somehow press everything down.

it didn’t.

god, she was so fucked.

wyn let the girl kiss her just to feel something different.

the alley behind the drop reeked of smoke and spilled beer, but she leaned into it anyway — lips sticky with someone else's gloss, hands tangled in hair she couldn’t quite care about.

the girl — tess, maybe? tilly? — giggled against her mouth, tugging her closer. wyn played along. it was easier this way. easier to press up against someone she barely knew than admit the truth pulsing beneath her skin.

she was trying to forget. to drown out the memory of powder laughing in the workshop earlier that day, oil on her cheek and blue hair fraying from her braid. fifteen now. bright-eyed, sharper than ever, with a smile that carved wyn open in ways she hated.

she wasn’t supposed to feel that way.

so wyn kissed the girl harder, hoping she'd disappear into it. hoping it would quiet the ache in her chest that always, always sounded like powder’s voice.

it didn’t.

when the girl pulled away with a flushed smile and asked if she wanted to head to her place, wyn shook her head.

"just needed a distraction." she muttered.

the girl didn’t ask questions. she just laughed, lit a cigarette, and walked off.

wyn leaned back against the brick wall, exhaling slow. her throat burned. she hated herself a little more than usual.

and still, all she could think about was powder.

Chapter Text

powder noticed it in small ways first.

vi would ruffle her hair less. wyn started coming around later in the day, or sometimes not at all. they still laughed together—powder and wyn, when it was just the two of them—but now there was a sliver of space between them. not cold. just... a step away. a pause in a rhythm that used to be easy.

one night, powder walked into the common room of the last drop and found vi and wyn in the far corner, low voices and louder laughter over two drinks they definitely weren’t supposed to have. powder paused in the doorway, half-forgotten wrench in her hand. she wasn’t invisible—vi waved her over—but the conversation shifted the second she sat down. quieter. gentler.

like she was being let into something she didn’t fully belong to anymore.

she hated that feeling.

later, powder stood beside wyn while she fiddled with a lighter that sparked every third flick.

“are you gonna tell me what you guys were laughing about?” powder asked.

wyn glanced up, then smiled, but didn’t answer right away. “it’s nothing. just a dumb story from topside.”

“everything feels like it’s from topside now.”

the words came out sharper than she meant. wyn blinked, surprised.

“pow…”

“i get it. you and vi are older. you do older-kid stuff now.”

wyn’s smile faded, just slightly. “that’s not what this is.”

“then what is it?”

a long pause.

“i don’t know,” wyn said finally. “i guess some things change. doesn’t mean i don’t wanna be around you.”

powder crossed her arms, hating how much she wanted to believe her. “you say that, but you're barely here anymore.”

“i’m here now.”

“that’s not the same.”

wyn looked at her then—really looked—and powder’s stomach turned sideways. her gaze was soft. sad. something unreadable in the silence between them.

“i missed this.” wyn said gently.

powder looked away. her heart was doing that stupid flutter again.

“yeah. me too.”

➴

a week later, vi didn’t come home until after curfew.

powder waited on the steps outside their hideout, arms around her knees, trying not to feel like she was twelve again. too small, too soft, too slow. not brave like vi. not cool like wyn.

she heard the heavy tread of boots first, then vi’s voice—laughing, a little tipsy. wyn was with her. of course she was.

powder didn’t move. just watched from the shadows as the two older girls passed under the rusted pipes. they were talking about something powder couldn’t hear. wyn nudged vi’s shoulder and vi bumped her back, easy, familiar.

something hot bubbled under powder’s ribs. jealousy. ugly and sharp and new.

not because vi was spending more time with wyn—but because wyn was laughing at something vi said in a way powder hadn’t seen in weeks.

it made her stomach twist in a way she couldn’t explain.

and then wyn turned, maybe catching movement in the corner of her eye, and spotted powder on the steps. her expression softened instantly. she broke away from vi and walked toward her.

powder tried to pretend she wasn’t holding her breath.

“hey,” wyn said. “couldn’t sleep?”

powder shrugged. “you’re out late.”

“so are you.”

“you didn’t say you were going topside.”

wyn hesitated. “wasn’t planned. just… happened.”

powder hated the wobble in her voice when she asked, “is it better up there?”

wyn frowned. “it’s different. not better.”

“but you keep going.”

“i come back, don’t i?”

powder didn’t know how to say what she really meant, so she just picked at a scratch on her knee.

wyn sat beside her, their shoulders touching in the dark.

powder felt everything and nothing, all at once.

“you’re not losing me.” wyn said, voice low.

“you’re just drifting.” powder whispered.

wyn was quiet for a long time. then:

“sometimes people drift a little. doesn’t mean they don’t care. doesn’t mean it’s forever.”

it sounded like something vi would say. powder hated that it helped.

“i liked it better when you were always here.” she mumbled.

wyn looked at her. “so did i.”

powder started saying no more.

no, she wasn’t coming to the tram yard with them.
no, she wasn’t in the mood to fix ekko’s hoverboard again.
no, she didn’t need help with the spring-loaded launcher she’d been obsessing over for days.

wyn didn’t question it at first. she still smiled when she saw powder. still ruffled her hair, still dropped by the workshop with snacks or weird machine parts she thought powder would like.

but powder didn’t meet her eyes as often. her smiles didn’t reach her cheeks. and when wyn leaned in close to look at her sketches, powder would shift away—not harshly, not rudely. just enough.

it wasn’t punishment. it was self-preservation.

because everything inside powder felt too big now.

she didn’t know where to put the way wyn’s laugh made her feel. or how her stomach twisted when she watched wyn talk to vi, heads tilted together, sharing things powder wasn’t old enough to be part of. she hated herself for being jealous. hated that every time wyn looked at her with that soft affection, it didn’t feel like enough anymore.

she was losing the only person who made her feel understood, and wyn didn’t even know it.

it was raining the night powder didn’t show up at all.

wyn had promised to help her fix the timing coils on her newest creation—a tiny mechanical firefly that blinked in patterns—but when she arrived, powder was gone.

vi shrugged. “she’s been in a mood.”

“since when?”

vi gave her a look. “you don’t notice when someone pulls away unless you’re actually looking, wyn.”

wyn stiffened. “she didn’t say anything.”

“she wouldn’t. she’s like that.”

wyn stayed quiet. because maybe she had noticed—but hadn’t understood it. powder was quiet sometimes. moody. intense in the way kids who think too much tend to be. but she’d always assumed it was just… powder being powder.

not powder being hurt.

that thought twisted in wyn’s chest.

➴

powder sat alone under the broken roof of the scrapyard shelter, knees pulled to her chest, watching a moth beat itself senseless against a cracked light bulb.

she wasn’t angry at wyn. not really.

she just didn’t know how to keep standing so close to someone who made her feel everything too much—and not enough at the same time.

she wanted to tell her. not about liking her. not yet. just… about the confusion. the ache. the way her chest felt heavy every time wyn laughed at something vi said instead of her. the way she hated herself for caring so much.

but wyn didn’t look at her like that. she never had.

and powder didn’t want to ruin what was left of the only friendship that had ever felt like home.

so she sat in the dark with her hands stained with grease, her blue hair clinging to her face in the rain, and whispered to herself:

“i think i’m in love with her.”

the moth kept beating its wings, desperate for something that only burned.

Chapter Text

she told herself she was fine.

she said it out loud once, standing in front of her workbench like saying it would make it true. her voice didn’t even shake.

“i’m fine.”

wyn had gone off again. topside. her and vi, laughing like they belonged to something powder couldn’t touch. they didn’t mean to shut her out — powder knew that. but knowing didn’t help the heat in her chest, the way her skin felt too tight around her bones.

she could still feel wyn’s fingers brushing her wrist two days ago when they’d passed each other in the hallway. a simple touch. too simple. it had branded her.

that was the problem.

everything was too much.

the workshop was quiet.

too quiet.

powder’s breathing felt wrong. shaky. fast.

she picked up a piece of scrap metal. held it in her hand like it meant something. it didn’t. nothing did right now.

she tried to work. couldn't.

her hands trembled. her head filled with thoughts that didn’t feel like hers:

she doesn’t see you like that.
you’re disgusting.
stop feeling this. stop being this.
you’re broken, powder. you're wrong.

she dropped the metal. it hit the floor with a clatter that echoed like a scream.

and then, suddenly, she couldn’t stop.

a shelf crashed. tools scattered.

her voice rose in a cracked, wordless shout as she slammed a wrench into the wall — again, again, again — until the sound of it became the only thing louder than the storm in her head.

she sobbed and she screamed and she didn’t even know why anymore. just that it hurt. everything hurt. the weight of wanting, the shame of it. the wrongness.

why did she have to feel like this?

why couldn't she not?

when the wrench slipped from her grip, her hands were shaking too hard to reach for anything else. so she curled her fingers into her arms instead, nails biting skin. hard. again.

don’t feel. don’t feel. don’t feel.

she didn’t know how long she stayed there.

she was on the floor, back against the wall, breath hiccupping in her chest like it was fighting her. her palms were raw, arms streaked red with blood. the broken bits of one of her old toy prototypes lay scattered nearby, gears and soft wires torn apart by hands that didn’t know what else to do.

the ache hadn’t gone away.

it had just taken a different shape.

a quiet knock sounded at the door. soft. cautious.

“powder?” it was vi.

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

vi opened the door slowly. her footsteps stopped cold when she saw the mess.

“shit—pow, hey—hey, what happened?”

powder curled in on herself. “go away.”

but vi didn’t. she knelt beside her, voice suddenly softer, afraid. “you hurt?”

“i don’t know..” powder whispered. her voice felt like broken glass in her throat.

vi’s hand hovered just above her back. “talk to me.”

powder shook her head.

if she opened her mouth, it would all come out.

all of it.

wyn. the want. the guilt. the wrongness. the voice that kept saying broken, broken, broken —

she couldn’t let it out.

so she stayed quiet.

vi stayed with her.

and neither of them moved for a long time.

➴

vi had never seen powder like that.

sure, powder had always been emotional — intense, even. when she was little, she’d throw things when she got frustrated, cry when things didn’t work, laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe over the smallest joke. she felt everything too hard.

but this was different.

this was scary.

vi sat in vander’s office that evening, bouncing one leg nervously. she hadn’t told powder she was coming here. she didn’t think powder would want her to. but she couldn’t just do nothing.

vander finally came in, drying his hands on a rag from the bar. he gave her a look — not angry, just worn.

“what’s going on, vi?”

vi opened her mouth and then shut it. where the hell was she supposed to start?

“she broke a bunch of stuff,” she said finally. “in the shop. it wasn’t like her normal kind of outburst. she just… lost it.”

vander raised an eyebrow. “you two fight?”

“no,” vi said quickly. “she wasn’t mad at me. i don’t think. it was like—she wasn’t even looking at me. like she couldn’t see anything but whatever was going on in her head.”

vander sat, the weight of his presence grounding the room like always. “did she say anything?”

“not much. just… ‘go away.’ and she was crying. i’ve never seen her cry like that. i don’t think she even noticed she was bleeding.”

vander’s eyes sharpened. “bleeding?”

“her hands. she—she scratched up her arms.” vi swallowed hard. “i think she did it on purpose.”

silence. thick, heavy.

vander rubbed a hand down his face, thoughtful and grim.

“she’s not okay, is she?” vi whispered. “i don’t know what to do.”

vander looked at her for a long moment. “she’s young. and she’s hurting. but she’s not broken, vi. you hear me?”

vi nodded, too fast. “yeah. i just… i thought maybe you’d know what to say.”

“i might,” vander said. “but what matters more is that you were there when she needed someone. that’s not nothing.”

“she didn’t let me help.” vi said.

“but you stayed,” vander replied. “sometimes, that’s the first thing someone needs before they can start letting the rest in.”

vander didn’t push that night, didn’t corner powder. but the next morning, when she wandered into the bar half-pretending everything was normal, he was there behind the counter.

he passed her a mug of hot tea.

said nothing about the gauze around her hands and arms.

didn’t mention the broken shelf in the shop.

just said, “sit,” in that low, patient voice of his.

powder sat.

he gave her space, and warmth, and time.

and that was the first moment she started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—she could survive the feelings she was afraid to name.

Chapter Text

by the third morning, the bruises on her palms had started to fade.

the cuts didn’t sting so much anymore. not physically, at least. they scabbed over, thin and pink beneath the sleeves she made sure to keep pulled low.

she even started wearing fingerless gloves again — something to distract, to say look here instead of there.

no one asked.

not even wyn.

powder kept her voice light.

made jokes again, sometimes. not too many. just enough to keep the questions off her back. she worked on old projects she didn’t care about. acted like nothing had happened in the shop, like she hadn’t sobbed so hard she thought her ribs would break, like she hadn’t felt something inside her splinter in a way she didn’t know how to repair.

and for a while, it worked.

people saw what she let them.

vi watched her a little too closely sometimes. powder caught her staring across dinner, or leaning in before leaving the room like she wanted to say something and didn’t.

but she never did.

powder made sure of that.

at night, though, it got harder.

the ache would come back — low and crawling under her ribs like some kind of ghost. the memory of wyn’s face when she laughed, or that time they’d laid on the roof and counted stars, or that stupid moment powder had imagined leaning in and—

she would shut it down.

hard.

bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. clench her fists until her fingers throbbed. she could not go there again.

she wouldn’t survive another spiral.

so she pushed it all down. smiled sharper. talked quicker. worked longer.

pretending got easier with practice.

➴

she saw wyn again a few days later — a quick brush in the corridor of the drop.

“hey, bluebell.” wyn said with that soft grin she always used with her. “haven’t seen you around.”

powder shrugged, heart hammering. “been busy.”

wyn tilted her head. “you okay?”

powder forced her grin. “course i am.”

and wyn — beautiful, distracted, older — smiled like that answer made sense and reached out to ruffle her hair before walking away.

the touch lingered.

so did the ache.

powder didn’t cry this time.

she just turned away, walked fast, and kept walking.

➴

it was a small thing that undid her.

not something big. not a fight or a failure or someone catching her lies. just a moment — ordinary, quiet, and sharp in all the wrong ways.

someone at the drop had brought back pastries from topside. real ones. flaky, sweet, still warm in the center. she hadn’t had one in years.

powder reached for one, fingers already closing around it when another hand got there first.

“oh — sorry, powder.” the girl said. she looked apologetic. she meant well.

“it’s fine.” powder said with a smile.

then she turned and walked away.

she made it halfway down the stairs before her chest clenched too tight to breathe.

the kind of feeling that didn’t make sense. it wasn’t about the damn pastry.

it was everything else.

the tired way wyn hadn’t really looked at her lately. the laugh wyn gave other people that powder hadn’t heard in weeks. the silence. the pretending.

and the part that hurt the most — that she had gotten so good at faking okay, no one even noticed when she started to go missing from herself.

she made it to the storage room and shut the door behind her. let herself slide down the wall, jacket bunching under her shoulders, hands in her lap.

her sleeves covered the scars just fine.

but her chest felt hollow.

like something inside her had caved in, quiet and slow.

powder didn’t scream this time. didn’t throw anything. didn’t claw at her skin.

she just sat there, blinking hard, jaw clenched against the weight of the tears.

they still came.

silent. hot. relentless.

it was easier when she was loud, when she broke things.

people noticed.

they worried.

but like this?

all the world saw was a girl who smiled at the right time and kept her voice light. who made herself small enough to be overlooked.

it was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

she’d told herself it was safer this way.

no one could hurt her if they didn’t know where to touch.

but sitting there, in the quiet of her own collapse, powder realised something she hadn’t been ready to admit:

she didn’t want to disappear.

not really.

she just didn’t know how else to live with this ache.

by the time powder made it back to her bunk, the tears had dried. her face was blotchy. eyes red. but no one saw her.

that was the point.

she slid into bed without a sound, curled tight on her side. the sheets were cold. too clean. they smelled like someone else’s detergent.

she kept her jacket on.

pulled the blanket up.

tried to imagine herself smaller than her body.

maybe if she didn’t move, if she didn’t breathe too loud, she’d stop existing just enough to stop feeling.

the next day, she woke with her jaw sore from clenching. her hands ached. her mouth was dry.

everything looked the same. which somehow made it worse.

she did the motions. washed her face. hid her hands in fingerless gloves. tied her hair up like vi used to when they were younger — a small reminder, a flicker of before.

she didn’t eat much. said she wasn’t hungry.

no one pressed.

so she survived that way.

a little less food. a little less sleep. a little more alone.

it wasn’t punishment. not exactly.

it was… management.

containment.

control.

➴

late one night, she built something she never intended to use.

a tiny box—hand-sized, with worn copper edges and a blue crystal fixed in the centre. when activated, it would flicker softly, pulsing in a pattern like a heartbeat. the circuit inside looped endlessly. there was no trigger. no end.

it wasn’t a weapon.
it wasn’t a toy.
it was just… something that felt like her.

she tucked a folded scrap of paper inside, written in shaky handwriting:

i don’t want to feel this anymore.

then she sealed the box shut with a drop of solder and shoved it to the back of her highest shelf.

out of sight. out of reach. just like the feelings.

powder didn’t know what healing looked like. she only knew how to not fall apart again.

and for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

time didn’t stop for powder.

it passed like water leaking from a cracked pipe—quiet, constant, unnoticed until the floorboards warped.

by the time she was seventeen, powder had long since stopped building toys. her creations were sleeker now. sharper. less about wonder and more about precision, control, defense.

she still had the little copper box. it stayed hidden on the shelf in the back of her new workshop, untouched but never quite forgotten.

wyn and vi were newly nineteen. legal adults in the eyes of the topsiders. the way they moved through the world had changed. quieter confidence. bigger jobs. wider reach. people listened when vi spoke now. and when wyn walked into a room, she didn’t just take up space—she owned it.

powder saw it happening. felt herself lagging behind again.

but this time, she didn’t complain.

she just watched.

they didn’t spend time alone anymore—not like they used to. not since powder was fourteen, maybe fifiteen. that was the last time wyn had sat beside her and absentmindedly twisted a wrench out of her hand. the last time they’d fallen asleep back-to-back on the roof.

but something about seventeen made powder sharper. hungrier. she noticed things more now—how wyn had grown into her voice, how she cut her hair herself and left uneven bits at the nape of her neck. how her smile was a little slower these days, like it had to be earned.

one evening, powder walked into the main room of the drop and found vi and wyn sitting across from each other at the table, talking low and fast about a council transport job gone sideways.

wyn turned, mid-sentence, and looked right at her.

and for the first time in a long time, really saw her.

“powder?” she said, like she was surprised.

powder blinked. “yeah. that's me.”

wyn smiled, and it was a little crooked. “you’ve grown up.”

“yeah,” powder said. “i noticed.”

vi laughed. “told you she’s taller now.”

“taller than milo.” powder said with a smirk.

“everyone’s taller than milo.” wyn replied, grinning.

wyn’s grin lingered as she leaned back in her chair, draping one arm along the back like she belonged there. like it was easy, still.

“come sit.” she said, motioning to the seat beside her.

powder hesitated, standing frozen for a second too long.

vi noticed. her smirk gentled.

“c’mon, pow. we won’t bite.”

“speak for yourself.” wyn said under her breath, shooting vi a playful glare.

it wasn’t much. just a joke. but something about it hit behind powder’s ribs in that old, familiar way, and she found herself moving toward the chair before she could think better of it.

she sat. close enough that their shoulders didn’t touch, but almost.

wyn tapped the table twice. “so. what are you up to these days, bluebell?”

powder looked down at her hands. “building. tweaking things. keeping out of trouble.”

vi snorted. “that last part’s a lie.”

powder shrugged, smiling faintly. “mostly out of trouble.”

when she looked up, wyn was watching her again. not teasing. just… curious. and soft around the edges in a way that made powder’s throat feel tight.

“been a while since we talked.” wyn said.

“yeah.”

“wasn’t trying to avoid you or anything. things just got…” wyn trailed off, searching.

“busy.” powder offered.

wyn’s smile flickered. “yeah. that.”

the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. but it wasn’t exactly easy, either. it was full of things left unsaid. powder wanted to ask if wyn remembered how close they used to be, if she missed it. if she ever thought about her at all.

instead, she glanced at vi. “you’re still going after that piltover scout thing?”

vi rolled her eyes. “not exactly. they want me to take some stupid test first. pretend i’m not from down here.”

“you’ll pass.” powder said, certain.

vi grinned. “damn right i will.”

the conversation moved on, but something stayed behind between powder and wyn—something unspoken, humming low under the words.

a thread, stretched thin but not snapped.

they stayed at the table longer than powder expected. the job talk faded into easy chatter—vi teasing wyn about her patchy haircut, wyn firing back with something about vi’s “council voice.” powder mostly listened, lips curled into something small and real.

at some point, someone put music on—old zaunite tapes with too much static, but it made the drop feel warm, lived in.

wyn got up to grab drinks, moving with that half-lazy, half-lethal grace she always had. she poured vi a glass first, then herself. then she hesitated. looked over her shoulder.

powder pretended not to watch.

then: “you want one?”

powder blinked. “what?”

“a drink.” wyn said, casual, like it meant nothing. “just one. i won’t tell.”

powder hesitated. she shouldn’t. vi would say no. she should say no.

but wyn was watching her with that sideways smile—mischievous and soft all at once.

so powder nodded.

wyn poured a glass, slid it over like it was a secret between just them.

vi raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. powder caught the look—half warning, half amusement—but ignored it and took a cautious sip.

it burned. a little sweet underneath.

wyn grinned. “not bad, right?”

powder coughed. “tastes like chemicals.”

“everything good does.” wyn said, and leaned back in her chair with that easy confidence that always made powder feel like the room shifted slightly to face her.

it was nothing. a gesture. a joke.

but powder tucked the warmth of it somewhere deep.

because it wasn’t really about the drink. it was about being included again. trusted. not just as vi’s little sister, but as herself . someone wyn had seen, and chosen—if only for a moment.

they were a few drinks in now—vi nursing hers slowly, wyn a little looser around the edges, one boot propped on a second chair. powder kept hers close, only sipping when they weren’t looking.

it felt good. like the three of them were something again. like before.

until wyn laughed and said, “oh, speaking of topside—vi, tell her about the girl.”

powder blinked. “what girl?”

vi snorted. “ugh, you mean caitlyn?”

“that’s the one,” wyn said, clearly delighted. “blue eyes, straight-cut morals, the whole ‘i’m not like other enforcers’ thing.”

“she’s not like the others,” vi said with a shrug. “got a decent aim. terrible taste in humour.”

“you liked her.” wyn teased.

vi grinned, just a little too wide. “liked her enough.”

something inside powder twisted. she didn’t mean to feel it. she wasn’t even sure what she felt. just that it stung, low in her stomach.

“she’s a piltie?” powder asked, trying to sound casual.

“council kid.” wyn said, leaning in like she was sharing a secret. “you should’ve seen the way she looked at vi. like she’d never met someone with real dirt under their nails.”

vi barked a laugh. “didn’t take much to have the posh girl wrapped around my finger.”

she held up both hands, flexed her fingers dramatically. “literally.”

wyn nearly spat out her drink. “vi!”

“what?” vi said, all fake innocence. “she liked it.”

powder stared at her glass, heart pounding behind her ribs like it wanted to escape. she hated how warm her face felt. how her throat was tight, and it wasn’t the alcohol.

she didn't care about caitlyn. not really.

it was just—

it was the way wyn had said vi’s name. the way she laughed at her jokes. the way everyone else got to be grown and brave and wanted.

and powder was still figuring out how not to fall apart when wyn looked at someone else.

wyn turned to her then, eyes bright. “you okay, bluebell? you look like you just swallowed a bolt.”

powder forced a smile that didn’t quite reach. “fine.”

but her drink burned a little more now.

and the warmth she’d tucked away earlier… flickered.

➴

powder slipped away before anyone noticed.

or at least she hoped no one noticed.

the laughter from downstairs was still drifting up the vents as she climbed the metal rungs to the rooftop, her fingers cold against the rust-worn ladder. the night air hit her like a sigh—cool, still tinged with refinery smoke, but at least it was quiet.

zaun never slept, not really. but up here, it came close.

she crossed to the far edge and sank down, knees to her chest, arms curled around them. the drink still lingered on her tongue—sweet burn and static. but it wasn’t that. it wasn’t vi. it wasn’t caitlyn.

it was wyn. it was always wyn.

the rooftop door creaked open behind her, and powder didn’t have to look to know who it was.

only one person moved like that—light on her feet, boots scuffing just enough to announce herself without saying anything.

wyn.

“thought i’d find you up here.” she said softly.

powder didn’t answer. just rested her chin on her knees.

wyn crossed the roof slowly, then sank down beside her, close but not quite touching. for a while, neither of them said anything.

then, casually—too casually—wyn nudged her shoulder.

“you really have grown up.”

powder blinked, her heart skipping. “you already said that.”

“yeah,” wyn said, eyes flicking over her. “but i didn’t mean it like this.”

powder turned to look at her. wyn was smiling—but it wasn’t teasing this time. it was slower. a little crooked. a little dangerous.

“you’ve got a whole curve to your hip now.” wyn added, nudging her lightly with her knee. “and you fill out that jacket a little too well.”

powder flushed instantly. “wyn—”

“i’m just saying,” wyn laughed, raising her hands in surrender, “vi’s gonna have to start punching people away soon.”

“that’s not funny.” powder muttered, trying not to curl in on herself—trying not to glow under the words.

wyn tilted her head, grinning. “it kinda is.”

powder rolled her eyes and looked away—only to catch something new on wyn’s skin.

ink.

lines and shadows traced along her forearms, curling over her wrist like a coil of smoke. another peeked out from under the edge of her shirt collar, just behind her neck—blue-black, sharp, intricate.

“you got tattoos?” powder asked, her voice a little breathless.

wyn followed her gaze, then stretched out her arms like she hadn’t even noticed. “yeah. picked up a few jobs to afford ‘em.”

powder stared. “they’re… cool.”

“thanks.” wyn turned her arms slowly, letting the moonlight catch the ink. “this one’s for my mom. the neck one i just liked the design.”

powder found herself leaning closer, drawn by the warmth of skin and the curve of ink and the space between them that suddenly felt very, very small.

she didn’t know what to say.

but wyn didn’t seem to expect her to.

they sat there for a long time—shoulder to shoulder, almost.

and powder’s whole body was a quiet ache of don’t want this to end.

the silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

wyn shifted beside her, knees pulled up, arms draped lazily over them. “it’s weird,” she murmured, voice low, thoughtful. “sitting up here again. i used to come find you and vi up here all the time, remember?”

powder nodded. “you’d bring those horrible spice chips.”

“you loved those.” wyn laughed.

“they were disgusting.”

“you were obsessed.”

powder smiled, small and secret. “you always gave me the last one.”

wyn tilted her head, a strand of hair slipping into her eyes. “i guess i was soft for you.”

the words landed heavier than they should have. not a joke, not really.

powder didn’t breathe.

wyn looked at her then—really looked. her eyes flicked over powder’s face, lingering a second too long. “you’ve got this look now. sharper. still soft, but… not a kid anymore.”

powder turned away, trying to bite back the heat rising in her cheeks.

“i mean it,” wyn said. “you were cute before, but now you’re…”

she didn’t finish. just let it hang there.

powder’s heart stuttered. her voice came out thin. “now i’m what?”

wyn shrugged, almost shy for once. “hard to ignore.”

and there it was.

powder stared ahead, eyes fixed on the skyline—on the smog and steel and the flicker of distant refinery lights. anything but wyn. anything to keep from tipping into the feeling rushing up her throat.

she didn’t know what to say. she didn’t know what wyn meant.

and worse—she didn’t know if wyn meant it at all, or if this was just the alcohol and the night and the closeness of old friends pretending things hadn’t changed when they clearly had.

“i missed this,” wyn said after a pause. “you. the quiet. no pressure to be anything.”

powder swallowed hard. “you didn’t act like you missed me.”

wyn looked over sharply.

“i didn’t mean—” powder started, regretting it immediately.

“no, you’re right,” wyn said, softer now. “i got caught up. work, vi, everything. you kind of fell into the background, and i just… let it happen.”

there was real guilt in her voice.

powder picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “it’s fine.”

“it’s not.” wyn leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. “i should’ve called. should’ve stopped by.”

“you didn’t owe me anything.”

“i didn’t have to owe you something, powder.”

the name— not bluebell, not kid—landed like a pebble dropped into deep water.

“i liked being around you,” wyn said. “still do.”

powder glanced at her then, and wyn was already looking back. their faces were too close. their knees touched now, barely, but neither moved.

powder’s pulse thudded in her ears.

it felt like something might happen.

and then—

wyn pulled back. not abruptly. not because she was scared. but because she didn’t know. because to her, it was just warmth, just nostalgia, just a memory of closeness.

not the storm it had become inside powder.

wyn smiled again—gentle, unknowing. “we should do this more. just us.”

powder nodded, but her chest felt hollow.

she wanted to stay in that almost-moment forever.

instead, she wrapped her arms around her knees and stayed silent, even as wyn leaned back and looked up at the stars like nothing had just happened at all.

Chapter Text

the drop was quiet again. mid-afternoon lull. the light came through the busted overhead panels in gold ribbons, catching dust and old pipe steam. powder was alone at the back table with a tangle of copper wire and half-assembled circuits, jaw tight from hours of chasing a misfire in the code.

she didn’t hear the door until it creaked open, footsteps slow and familiar.

wyn.

still in her work coveralls, grease smeared across the front of her shirt and a black stain down her left forearm. her cheeks were flushed from heat or effort or maybe both, a few strands of light hair stuck to her temple where she’d clearly shoved her goggles up too fast.

she looked exhausted.

she looked like everything powder couldn’t stop thinking about.

“hey, bluebell.” wyn called, already walking toward her like it was routine. like this was normal again.

powder’s heart fluttered in its cage.

“you always look like you’re building a bomb.” wyn said, peering over the table with mock suspicion. “should i be worried?”

powder smirked faintly, not looking up. “only if you touch it.”

“no promises.” wyn said, dragging a stool over and dropping into it with a dramatic sigh. “been a day. got chewed out for being late and then had to pull apart a gear assembly that smelled like someone died in it.”

“charming.”

“ruined my lunch.” wyn stretched her arms back behind her head and let out a groan — the movement pulling her shirt tight across her stomach, the line of a dark smear trailing from her collarbone to her shoulder.

powder glanced at her and immediately looked away.

which was a mistake. because now she couldn’t look. because if she did, she’d be staring.

at the way the sweat-damp fabric clung to wyn’s skin.
at the tattoo peeking above her collar — a sharp, winged shape powder hadn’t seen properly before.
at the ink-streaked smudge on her jaw, just under the corner of her mouth.

“why are you staring?” wyn asked, teasing.

powder startled. “i’m not.”

“you’re absolutely staring.”

“you’ve got grease on your face.”

“do i?” wyn wiped with the heel of her hand, smearing it worse. “better?”

powder gave her a look. “worse.”

wyn laughed — loud and sudden and free — and powder hated how it made her chest ache.

wyn didn’t seem to notice. she leaned forward on her elbows, eyes flicking to the tangle of tech between them. “you ever get tired of this stuff?”

powder shrugged. “not really.”

“vi always said you had magic hands.”

powder blinked. “she… what?”

wyn grinned. “not in a that way. you’re smart. you’re precise. you see things nobody else does.”

powder swallowed. hard.

wyn’s smile faded into something quieter. “i missed watching you work. there’s something about the way you disappear into it. like you belong to it.”

i want to belong to something, powder thought, the words catching in her chest like a hook.

wyn didn’t mean it like that. she couldn’t. but the way she said it — gentle, admiring, honest — made powder feel like she was standing on a wire, high and wind-shaken.

“you look good with grease on your face.” powder said suddenly, before she could stop herself.

wyn blinked. then grinned, wide and bright. “do i? bluebell, are you flirting with me?”

“no.” powder’s voice cracked. “shut up.”

“too late,” wyn sing-songed, “caught it. gonna put it in my pocket and bring it up forever.”

powder groaned, hiding her face behind her hands. but she was smiling. embarrassed, yes. but smiling.

wyn reached across the table and plucked a wire from her kit, twirling it between her fingers. “careful, blue. if you keep saying stuff like that, i’m gonna think you mean it.”

and powder didn’t respond.

because she did mean it. and that was the problem.

wyn leaned further in, still twirling the wire between her fingers. “so what is this thing, anyway?”

“prototype.” powder said, grateful for something to talk about. “custom trigger switch for a coil rig. might double as a voltage modulator if i can stop it from shorting.”

wyn blinked. “cool. i understood like… two of those words.”

powder smiled behind her hand. “you don’t have to pretend to care.”

“i’m not pretending.” wyn dropped the wire and rested her chin on her hand. “you look really hot when you’re talking about things i don’t understand.”

powder choked. “you—wyn— what? ”

wyn just grinned, satisfied. “what? i’m being supportive.”

“supportive and evil.”

“same thing, really.” she nudged powder’s foot under the table. “seriously though. you want help with it?”

powder hesitated. “you’ll mess it up.”

“i’ll be very gentle.”

“you’ll absolutely break something.”

wyn pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “you wound me.”

powder sighed, but slid the solder pen across the table anyway. “fine. you can hold the mesh, but don’t touch the filaments. they’re fragile.”

“yes, ma’am.” wyn leaned in eagerly, knuckles brushing powder’s as she reached for the mesh. her fingers were rough with calluses, still smudged with oil. powder’s hands were stained with copper dust and graphite.

and when they touched, just briefly, something crackled. not static. something else.

wyn didn’t seem to notice.

or maybe she did, and she was just better at hiding it.

powder tried to focus. she really did. but every time wyn leaned close, powder could smell engine grease and cheap soap and the barest hint of something floral — detergent maybe, or something wyn didn’t know clung to her. her breath tickled powder’s cheek when she leaned in to hold a connection steady, her voice low and close when she whispered, “here?”

“yeah, right there.” powder breathed, trying not to think about how close her lips were. “hold still.”

“i’m a statue.”

“you’re twitching.”

“you’re terrifying.”

“good.”

wyn’s laugh was quiet this time — softer, almost fond.

they stayed like that, pressed in together over the delicate tangle of wire and circuits. powder’s hands moved with practiced precision, but her mind was spinning, pulled taut like a wire about to snap. every time their arms brushed, every time wyn breathed out near her neck, it sent sparks down her spine.

and she knew — knew — she couldn’t do this much longer without giving herself away.

when the final joint cooled, she pulled back and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

wyn flexed her fingers dramatically. “wow. look at me. engineer’s apprentice.”

powder gave a small, tired laugh. “you did nothing.”

“i brought the vibes,” wyn said, tossing the solder pen back toward the tray. “very important role.”

powder finally looked up at her — really looked — and her heart sank.

because wyn was beaming. grease-smudged and proud of herself and absolutely beautiful in the way that made powder’s ribs hurt.

and she would never know.

she would never understand what she was doing — what her presence meant.

and powder wasn’t brave enough to tell her.

so instead, she smiled. “you brought something, anyway.”

wyn tilted her head. “was that a compliment?”

“don’t get used to it.”

they sat in that softness for another beat.

and then wyn stretched, bones cracking. “i should clean up before vi comes storming in here and accuses me of corrupting her baby sister again.”

powder flushed. “she doesn’t say that.”

“she does. she’s like—‘wyn, if i hear one more story about you dragging powder into your chaos—’” wyn paused to mimic vi’s accent, badly, and powder snorted despite herself.

wyn grinned at the sound.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, getting to her feet, casual like it was nothing.

“yeah,” powder said softly. “tomorrow.”

and then wyn was gone — just like that. boots stomping off, whistling some half-tuned melody under her breath, door creaking shut behind her.

powder stared at the project in front of her.

but her hands didn’t move.

they just sat there, empty, aching, still holding the shape of wyn’s warmth.

➴

vi found her where she always did lately — hunched over the worktable at the drop, surrounded by solder smoke and silence.

powder didn’t look up when she came in.

didn’t look up when vi dropped two bottles on the table and slid one toward her with a flick of her fingers. didn’t look up even when vi said, “it’s rootbeer. not laced. don’t start crying.”

“didn’t ask for one.” powder muttered.

“didn’t have to.” vi sat across from her, elbows on the table, scanning the mess of tech she barely understood. “you haven’t come up for air in three days.”

powder just shrugged.

vi watched her. long enough that powder finally felt it — that specific vi kind of silence that pressed on your skin like weight. that said i see you, even if you don’t want me to.

“you okay, powder?” vi asked eventually, soft.

powder’s shoulders tensed. “yeah.”

“you sure?”

“i’m fine, vi.”

“you don’t look fine.”

“i said—”

“you said you were fine the night you smashed up the workshop.” vi interrupted, her voice still calm but sharper now. “you said you were fine right before that breakdown three years ago — when you didn’t sleep for five days and locked yourself in that basement and cried when you thought no one could hear you.”

powder flinched.

vi leaned back, gaze steady. “so forgive me for not jumping to believe it now.”

powder’s throat worked. her eyes didn’t move from the wire she was fidgeting with, hands suddenly too tight around it.

vi let the silence stretch, gentler this time.

“i know it’s not about work.” she said. “and i don’t think it’s just burnout, either.”

powder still didn’t speak.

vi sighed, softer now. “it’s wyn, isn’t it?”

that did it.

powder’s hands froze.

and vi saw it — the way she froze. like the word had cracked something she was barely holding together.

vi blinked, sat up straighter. “wait—did she hurt you?”

“no.” powder’s voice was immediate, sharp with panic. “no, she didn’t—she’d never—”

“okay,” vi said quickly, calming. “okay. good. just… i thought—” she trailed off, brow furrowing, watching her sister more closely. “so… what, then? you had a fight?”

powder didn’t answer.

“did she say something? leave you out again? i know you hate when—”

“it’s not that.” powder whispered, voice thin.

vi went quiet. something shifted in her face. “then what is it?”

powder’s throat bobbed. “you really don’t know?”

vi tilted her head. “no. powder, talk to me.”

a beat. two. then—quiet, small, like it barely had the strength to exist:

“i like her.”

vi blinked. “you like—”

“i like her.” powder’s voice broke. “not just best-friend-like. not just… admire. it’s—more. and i don’t know what to do with it.”

vi stared at her.

everything slowed.

the pieces clicked together in vi’s head, slowly at first — then all at once. the rooftop tension, the drifting silences, the quiet ache in powder’s eyes every time wyn wasn’t looking.

“oh.” vi said.

and then again, gentler:

“oh.”

powder looked down, shame prickling in her shoulders. “you didn’t know.”

“no,” vi said. “i mean—i guessed maybe someday, but—”

she stopped herself. reached across the table, set a hand down close but didn’t touch. “is this the first time you’ve felt like this? about a girl?”

powder nodded slowly. “it’s different. i think i’ve… i think i’ve felt things before, but never like this. never this loud.”

vi leaned back, heart pulling tight in her chest. “why didn’t you tell me?”

powder didn’t look up. “i didn’t know how. or if i should. or if it meant anything. i kept trying to push it down.”

“and now?”

“it won’t stay down.” she whispered.

vi was quiet a long time. then she said, “you know, if you’d told me i would’ve been fine, right?”

“i didn’t know,” powder said. “it’s not just about being into girls. it’s her. it’s wyn. she’s… everything.”

vi finally reached out, let her hand settle over powder’s. warm. grounding. “she’s a lot,” vi said with a wry smile. “i get it.”

powder gave a fragile laugh. “you’re not… weirded out?”

vi shook her head. “no. just mad at myself for not noticing sooner. i’m your sister. i should’ve seen it.”

“it’s not your job to read my mind.”

“maybe not. but it is my job to make sure you don’t carry this kind of weight alone.”

powder didn’t speak for a long time.

then finally, just above a whisper: “i don’t know what to do with it.”

“you don’t have to know yet,” vi said. “you just have to let it be real.”

powder’s eyes burned. she didn’t cry. but she didn’t look away either. 

Chapter Text

powder didn’t expect vi to say, “come hang with us.”
not after everything.

but she did.

one foot already up on the couch, bottle in hand, vi looked over her shoulder and said, “you done sulking? wyn’s coming by with food. sit with us.”

powder hesitated in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. “she’s coming here?”

“yeah,” vi said, like it was nothing. “greasy and late, as usual.”

something fluttered under powder’s ribs. she didn’t answer. just walked in, quiet, and slumped into the old armchair by the back wall.

vi tossed her a bottle. this time, it wasn’t rootbeer.

powder caught it with one hand, raised a brow. “you’re corrupting me.”

vi smirked. “about time.”

before she could reply, the door groaned open and in walked wyn — hair tied up haphazardly, cheeks smudged with ash, forearms streaked with oil. she carried a bag of something fried in one hand and dropped it dramatically on the table.

“apologies,” she said, mock-formal. “your queen has arrived.”

“late, hungry, and filthy.” vi deadpanned.

wyn threw her a grin and flopped onto the couch beside her, pulling her own drink from somewhere in her jacket. “the holy trinity.”

powder tried to look anywhere else.

but wyn was hard to look away from — loud and golden and so effortlessly herself.

she turned suddenly, flashing a smile. “hey, bluebell. didn’t know you’d be here.”

powder’s throat went dry. “vi invited me.”

“good.” wyn leaned back, spreading out like she belonged in every corner of the room. “it’s better when you’re here.”

vi snorted. “don’t lay it on too thick. she’s drinking real booze tonight.”

wyn’s eyes sparkled. “is she now? whoa. she is growing up.”

powder rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the heat blooming in her chest.

they settled in — drinks cracked open, food passed around, music humming low from the busted speaker vi kept insisting “still had character.”

it was warm, easy, the way it used to be.

and then, somewhere between stories and laughter, vi got quiet.

she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, drink dangling from her fingers. “okay, i need to ask you both something, and i need you to not be weird about it.”

wyn raised a brow. “vi, we’re always weird about it.”

“fair.” vi sighed. “it’s about caitlyn.”

powder went still.

wyn perked up. “ohhh. the caitlyn?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m just saying, we were wondering when you’d bring her up again.”

“i barely talked about her—”

“vi,” wyn said flatly. “you called her ‘the posh menace’ and then told us she had the prettiest hands you’d ever seen. twice.”

vi groaned. “okay, shut up.”

powder blinked. “wait—what about her?”

vi looked into her drink like it held answers. “i think she likes me.”

“you think?” wyn asked.

“she—she flirts. but like, uptight flirting. piltover-style. like, ‘here’s a file you forgot, also i rearranged your tools and memorised your repair logs’ kind of flirting.”

powder made a face. “that’s terrifying.”

“she’s terrifying,” vi muttered. “and smart. and annoyingly good at everything. and she… cares. ”

wyn grinned. “aw. is this feelings i hear?”

“shut up,” vi snapped. “i’m serious. i don’t know what to do with it. she’s from another world, practically.”

“she’s still a person.” wyn said, shrugging.

“i’m not like her,” vi said. “she’s good. straight-backed and polished. i’m—zaun.”

“zaun’s hot.” wyn said.

vi gave her a look. “that’s not helpful.”

powder was quiet, heart thudding. she didn’t speak — but she watched.

vi, for all her armour, was soft underneath it. and she liked caitlyn. maybe even more than liked. and seeing that — vi, uncertain and open — made something settle in powder’s chest.

she wasn’t the only one who was scared.

vi caught her looking. “what?”

powder shook her head. “nothing.”

vi studied her for a second. then softened. “we’re all a little wrecked, huh?”

wyn raised her bottle. “to being wrecked.”

vi clinked her bottle against it. “and still being here.”

powder hesitated.

then lifted hers, too.

it clinked quietly against theirs.

and under the low buzz of neon and nerves, with wyn’s shoulder brushing vi’s and her eyes catching powder’s across the room — lingering — the air felt charged.

not with danger.

but with something just as electric.

vi’s phone buzzed twice before she cursed, stood up, and mumbled something about “calling her back before she climbs down here herself.”

wyn waved her off with a teasing, “tell your piltie girlfriend i say hi.”

vi shot her the finger on the way out.

and then — quiet.

powder felt it settle as soon as the door shut. the air different. still crackling from earlier, but softer now. close.

wyn leaned back into the couch with a sigh, stretching her arms over the back cushions, head tipping back lazily. she looked tired in a different way — not just work-tired, but the kind of exhaustion that only came from being known too well.

powder tried not to look at the way wyn’s shirt had ridden up at the sleeves, revealing fresh ink curling across her inner bicep. a line of abstract shapes and stars, some of them still dark with healing.

“you got new ones.” powder said before she could stop herself.

wyn opened one eye, followed her gaze, and smiled crooked. “yeah. a girl from the welding crew did ’em. traded me for rewiring her bike.”

“they suit you.”

wyn glanced at her again, more curious this time. “you think so?”

powder shrugged. “they look like you. that’s all i meant.”

“that’s a compliment coming from you.” wyn said, voice softer now. “you never say anything unless it matters.”

powder looked away. her fingers tightened slightly around her bottle.

a beat passed.

then wyn added, not quite teasing, “you’ve been quiet tonight.”

powder hesitated. “just tired.”

“you’ve been tired a lot lately.”

another beat.

then—

“you mad at me?”

powder blinked. “what? no.”

“you’ve been… i don’t know.” wyn sat up, leaned forward on her knees, her brows furrowed in thought. “different. since that night on the roof.”

powder’s breath caught.

“i didn’t say anything wrong, did i?” wyn asked, voice gentler now. “about the way you looked? i didn’t mean to—”

“no,” powder interrupted quickly. “you didn’t. it’s not that.”

“then what is it?”

the room felt too small. the corners too sharp.

powder forced a smile. “i’m just figuring stuff out.”

wyn tilted her head. “heavy stuff?”

“kind of.”

“want to talk about it?”

powder shook her head. “not yet.”

wyn didn’t press. she just nodded, eyes thoughtful.

“you always used to tell me everything,” she said after a moment. “even the weird dreams.”

“that was before.”

“before what?”

powder almost answered. almost said it.

but the words caught on the edge of her teeth.

instead, she said, “before i realised some feelings don’t go away just because you want them to.”

wyn’s brows lifted a little, not in surprise, but in something quieter. understanding. she didn’t push. just watched her carefully, like she didn’t want to miss anything powder wasn’t saying.

powder’s voice was smaller now. “it’s easier when i don’t think about it.”

“sometimes easier isn’t better.” wyn said gently.

“i know.” a pause. “but it hurts less.”

that settled between them. heavy, but honest.

wyn leaned back, then reached over — slow, casual — and bumped her knee against powder’s. “well,” she said, voice light but eyes serious, “i hope whoever’s making you feel all twisted up inside knows what a dumbass they’d be not to feel the same way back.”

powder didn’t breathe.

just nodded.

because the girl was a dumbass.

and she was sitting right next to her.

the door creaked back open with a rush of cooler air, and vi stepped inside carrying two more drinks and an expression that said this night just got more complicated.

“okay,” she announced, walking straight toward the table, “caitlyn wants to come down.”

powder blinked. “what, down here?”

“yeah.” vi set the bottles down and sank back onto the couch with a thump. “like, visit zaun. this weekend, maybe.”

“isn’t that… i don’t know,” wyn said, reaching for one of the drinks, “against the rules or whatever?”

vi smirked. “apparently not if you bribe the right council guards and schedule it as a ‘cross-sector observational exchange.’”

powder snorted. “that sounds fake.”

“totally is,” vi said, shrugging. “but it’ll get her through the gate.”

wyn took a sip and raised a brow. “so what, is this like… a date?”

vi made a face. “don’t say it like that.”

powder tilted her head. “but it is kind of a date.”

vi groaned. “you’re both the worst.”

wyn grinned. “she’s cute, though. i’ve seen the pics.”

“she is not my girlfriend,” vi grumbled, grabbing the other bottle and twisting it open. “she’s just… a girl. who i like. who likes me back. who wants to come down here for a few days and hang out and maybe touch my arm a lot and get weirdly fixated on my tool bench.”

powder gave her a look. “that sounds extremely girlfriend-coded.”

vi ignored her and turned to wyn. “anyway. i’m gonna need you to not scare her off with your whole—” she gestured vaguely at wyn’s oil-streaked limbs and smug grin. “vibe.”

“my vibe is perfect,” wyn said. “maybe she’ll fall for me instead.”

vi raised her bottle in mock salute. “if she does, i’m blaming you.”

powder tried to laugh. she did laugh — but it stuck in her throat a little.

the room had shifted again. still warm, still familiar, but fuller now. like the future was pressing in from every corner. vi, on the edge of something real with a girl from topside. wyn, arms draped casually along the couch, smiling like she didn’t just break powder’s entire world a few minutes ago without even knowing it.

and powder—

powder felt too full and too empty at once.

“you okay?” vi asked, glancing over.

powder nodded. “yeah. just thinking.”

vi narrowed her eyes. “about what?”

“caitlyn,” powder lied. “and what it’ll be like when she sees this place.”

vi snorted. “she’ll hate it. and then she’ll pretend she doesn’t. and then she’ll probably fix the leak in the ceiling because she ‘couldn’t help herself.’”

wyn laughed. “she sounds like a menace.”

“she is a menace. just in silk gloves.”

powder smiled, but didn’t say more.

the talk shifted again — to what to clean before caitlyn’s visit, whether they had enough chairs, how to hide the more illegal parts of vi’s mechanic setup — but powder barely registered it. she nodded when she was supposed to. laughed when the others did.

but her eyes kept drifting back to wyn’s arms, the smudge on her cheek, the curve of her jaw when she tipped her bottle back.

and her chest felt like it was filled with wires pulled too tight.

➴

the drop had started to thin out — the regulars peeling off one by one, the lights dimming down to a sleepy hum. when wyn stood and stretched, digging into her jacket for her cigarettes, powder pretended not to watch her every move.

“i need a break.” wyn said, already heading for the back stairs. “smoke?”

vi stood too, already pulling on her own jacket. “yeah. that sounds good.”

they didn’t ask powder if she wanted to come.

but she stood up anyway.

they didn’t question it.

the rooftop above the drop was quiet, all buzzing wires and rusted vents and the distant whir of old fans. the view stretched wide — hazy zaun lights, flickering signs, silhouettes of towers above them, sharp against the deep blue of early night. the kind of rooftop where everything felt suspended. between breath. between thoughts.

wyn sat down on a cracked ledge, legs dangling over the edge. vi leaned beside her, one foot up, lighting her cigarette with practiced ease. wyn followed, her lighter clicking open with a flash of orange. powder hovered near them before finally sitting a little behind, knees pulled up, arms looped around them.

the first curl of smoke drifted toward her.

powder didn’t smoke. didn’t really want to. but she stayed anyway — needing the closeness like she needed air.

for a long moment, none of them spoke.

then vi exhaled slowly, the glow of her cigarette briefly lighting her tired face. “so. caitlyn wants to eat at that market cart in gearlane when she visits.”

“the one with the oil-fried dumplings?” wyn asked.

“yeah.”

“she’ll get food poisoning.”

vi smirked. “probably. worth it, though.”

wyn’s laugh was low and warm.

powder listened, head against her knees, staring at the skyline and feeling… far. like her body was still there, but the rest of her had floated two feet above. everything soft. everything sharp. at once.

she didn’t realise how quiet she’d gone until wyn glanced back at her, cigarette dangling from her fingers. “you good, pow?”

she nodded quickly. “yeah. just… tired.”

“you’ve been saying that a lot.”

powder didn’t respond.

wyn didn’t push — just turned back toward the city, smoke escaping her lips like steam.

vi spoke up after a moment. “you know, she asked if i was nervous. caitlyn. about her coming down.”

“are you?” wyn asked.

vi flicked ash off the ledge. “yeah. kinda.”

“you’re vi. you don’t get nervous.”

vi gave a dry laugh. “you think i don’t get nervous about her?”

“she’s just a girl.”

“exactly,” vi said, quieter now. “but she sees me.”

something twisted in powder’s stomach at that — that word again. see.

because wyn didn’t see her.

not really.

not in the way powder wanted her to.

she picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, voice barely above the city noise. “i don’t think anyone really sees me.”

both vi and wyn looked at her.

vi blinked. “powder…”

wyn sat up a bit. “what do you mean?”

powder shook her head, instantly regretting saying anything. “nothing. it’s stupid.”

wyn crushed her cigarette out against the ledge. “hey. we’re literally up here doing the most dramatic thing possible — smoking on a rooftop at midnight. you’re allowed to say emotional shit.”

that earned a small smile from vi.

powder didn’t laugh. she stared down at her boots. “it just… sometimes it feels like i’m in the same rooms, the same spaces, and everyone’s moving forward, and i’m not.”

vi went quiet.

wyn didn’t answer right away.

then, softly: “you’re not standing still, bluebell. it just feels like that because you’re catching up to a version of yourself you’ve been avoiding.”

powder looked up, startled.

wyn didn’t meet her eyes. she was watching the skyline again, face unreadable.

but those words hit too precisely. too close.

vi, still watching, flicked her cigarette away and said nothing.

the silence returned, heavier now. not uncomfortable — but full. like they were all sitting in their own thoughts, but aware of each other in a new way.

and powder wondered how long she could keep sitting between them — loving them both, in such different ways. and knowing they were both slipping into futures she didn’t quite fit inside.

they lingered on the rooftop a while longer, the conversation tapering off into lazy half-thoughts and comfortable silences. the air had cooled a bit — not cold, but enough to make powder hug her knees closer.

wyn lit one more cigarette, slower this time, movements loose with fatigue and drink.

vi checked her phone and groaned. “it’s one a.m.”

wyn blinked. “already?”

“you crashing here?” vi asked, casually as anything. “or heading back to your place?”

powder’s breath caught. just slightly.

wyn rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, her smudged eyeliner darker in the flickering rooftop light. “i’ll stay. probably drank more than i meant to, anyway.”

vi nodded. “couch is yours.”

“thanks.”

no one looked at powder, but she nodded too, even though the weight in her chest doubled. she knew wyn crashed at the drop all the time. had since they were kids. knew it didn’t mean anything. not like that.

but tonight, it felt different. more intimate, somehow — like it belonged to a version of wyn she was no longer invited into. the one who shared cigarettes and rooftops and softly muttered jokes with vi long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

powder stood up suddenly. “i think i’m gonna head down.”

vi blinked. “you good?”

she just nodded. 

wyn looked over, something flickering across her face, but she didn’t say anything. only offered powder a lazy wave, cigarette between her fingers, smoke curling around her head like a halo.

“night, blue.”

powder managed a smile. “night.”

she walked down the stairs with her hands shoved in her pockets, heart racing for no good reason at all.

downstairs, the drop was nearly empty. the lights dimmed, the music long stopped, only the fridge humming behind the bar. powder crossed the floor quietly, boots soft against the worn metal, and ducked into the back hallway where her room was.

she didn’t cry.

but she didn’t sleep, either.

not for a long time.

upstairs, she could still hear them — vi’s voice, low and laughing. wyn’s laugh in reply. the creak of the old couch as someone sat down. the soft clink of bottles being moved aside.

she pressed her pillow over her head.

and tried not to picture wyn stretched out under the ratty blanket, bare arms inked and warm, laughter still lingering on her lips.

the hum of the drop faded. the couch creaked once more, and then everything went still.

powder lay on her side, staring at the wall. one hand curled into her blanket. her lamp cast a weak orange glow, shadows shifting with every blink.

eventually, sleep found her.

and with it, a dream.

it’s years ago.

she’s maybe twelve. the drop looks different — smaller somehow. dimmer. but still full of the voices that built her childhood. clang of tools. laughter through walls. the metallic scent of solder and oil.

she’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, trying to load a new trigger spring into one of her failed prototypes. her fingers are too small, too shaky. the pieces keep slipping.

“here,” a voice says. “you’re holding it wrong.”

wyn. fourteen, maybe. grease-smudged. confident in the way vi was, but with a gentler edge.

powder looks up at her — eyes wide, a little embarrassed.

wyn kneels beside her, knees cracking, and takes the piece from her hands. “see? you wanna use your thumb to hold it steady while you slide the coil in. like this.”

their fingers brush.

powder’s breath catches.

not because of the touch. not then.

but because wyn smells like smoke and summer, and she’s got a crooked grin that makes everything feel brighter.

“you’ll get it,” wyn says, handing the tool back. “you always do.”

she ruffles powder’s hair before standing again.

and powder watches her walk back to the workbench — heart beating fast and not knowing why.

the dream shifts.

later that same day, maybe. powder can’t be sure. but it’s warm, and the light is gold, and they’re on the rooftop.

wyn’s lying on her back, legs sprawled, oil-stained fingers tapping a loose rhythm on her stomach.

vi’s not there.

it’s just them.

“you ever think about running away?” powder hears herself ask.

luma squints at the sky. “all the time.”

“to where?”

“don’t know. anywhere.”

powder lies down too, shoulder brushing wyn’s. the rooftop smells like sun-heated metal and smoke.

“would you take me with you?” she asks.

wyn glances over, just a little smile on her lips. “course i would.”

she says it like it’s obvious. like powder is hers.

powder’s heart feels like it might crack open.

but even in the dream, she doesn’t say it.

even in the dream, she’s afraid.

she wakes suddenly.

her room is dark again. quiet. her sheets are twisted around her legs, and her pillow is damp with sweat.

there’s a noise — the faint sound of wyn’s voice downstairs, low and distant through the floorboards. a laugh.

powder stares at the ceiling.

and whispers to the silence:

“you lied.”

but it’s not really about the dream.

and it’s not really about wyn, either.

it’s about all the things powder never said. and all the years she spent not knowing why it hurt.

Chapter Text

the morning was too bright.

powder sat on the floor of her room, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them. her cheeks were blotchy, her nails still marked where they’d clawed at her sleeves — trying to stay grounded. trying to stop the swell of heat and shame and sharp, impossible ache that always came too fast, too loud.

she’d woken from the dream with a hole in her chest. then she’d spiralled.

the wave crashed over her before she even had time to think. not anger — not exactly. more like her heart cracked in half and the world went too quiet, too heavy, all at once. like she was floating behind glass.

she hadn’t screamed. not this time.

just pulled at her hair and tried not to sob so loud someone would hear.

she didn’t want them to hear.

not vi.
not wyn.

especially not wyn.

there was a knock on her door.

soft. familiar.

powder flinched, wiped at her face roughly, scrambled up to her feet like it made her less obvious. “yeah?”

the door creaked open.

wyn stood there, barefoot, hair a tangled halo of sleep and smoke. still in the same hoodie from the night before, sleeves pushed up. her tattoos peeked out beneath the cotton — dark and sharp against soft skin.

powder’s stomach turned.

“vi said you were up early.” wyn said. she held a mug in one hand — chipped ceramic, still steaming. “i made that weird tea you like. the one that smells like mint and motor oil.”

powder stared at her.

something in her throat was caught. tight. like a sob trying to decide if it was worth the fight.

“you okay?” wyn asked, stepping in.

too casual.

too close.

powder took the mug, hands trembling just slightly. “thanks.”

“you look like you didn’t sleep.”

powder forced a small, brittle smile. “didn’t.”

wyn’s eyes searched her face, something flickering there — concern, maybe. or worse: pity.

powder couldn’t bear it.

“i’m fine,” she added, too quickly. “just a weird dream.”

wyn tilted her head. “wanna talk about it?”

“no.”

silence.

just the hum of the vents and the too-loud sound of powder’s heartbeat.

wyn didn’t push.

she walked to the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, staring out at the pale haze of zaun morning. “weird vibe in the air today.”

powder didn’t answer. couldn’t. her jaw was clenched too tight.

wyn glanced back at her. “you’re always quiet after bad dreams.”

powder blinked. “how would you know that?”

“you used to tell me.”

it landed like a stone in her chest.

before she could stop herself: “yeah, well. that was before.”

wyn turned. not sharply. just slow, careful. like she’d heard the fracture underneath it.

“before what, powder?”

but powder just shook her head. the heat rose behind her eyes again — fast, wild, uninvited.

“i’m not doing this.” she whispered, turning away, hiding her face behind the mug. her hands shook, and the ceramic clicked softly against her teeth.

wyn took a small step forward. stopped. “did i do something?”

yes.

“no.”

wyn’s voice softened. “you don’t have to lie.”

powder looked at her then — really looked. wyn’s messy hair. her bare feet. the soft line of her jaw and the stupid grease smudge still on her cheek.

and she hated her.

hated how much she didn’t hate her.

“i should get ready.” powder muttered, brushing past, pushing into the tiny bathroom without another word.

wyn didn’t stop her.

didn’t follow.

but powder could feel her there, on the other side of the door — a ghost she kept dragging through her chest, over and over again.

wyn stood in powder’s room long after the bathroom door clicked shut.

the tea in powder’s mug had gone untouched. wyn still held her own — lukewarm now, forgotten in the stretch of her fingers. she stared at the closed door, lips parted slightly, like maybe she’d say something.

she didn’t.

instead, she exhaled through her nose, dragged a hand through her messy hair, and let herself fall back onto powder’s bed with a heavy sigh.

something was wrong.

not just tired-wrong or hangover-wrong. not even bad-dream-wrong. powder’s energy felt… off. thinner. guarded in a way that wyn hadn’t seen in years.

not since they were kids.

not since those long, awful days when powder would vanish into herself, into silence, shaking hands and bitten skin and long, drawn-out looks she didn’t know how to interpret.

vi had always been better with that stuff. or at least quicker to catch it.

wyn used to be better, too.

didn’t she?

she looked around the room, scanning the clutter of half-built projects, sparking wires, messy drawings and scraps pinned to the walls. it was still so powder. still the same little lab of chaos and colour and emotion and brilliance that wyn had always loved stepping into.

but it didn’t feel open anymore.

it felt closed.

like she was trespassing.

her gaze landed on the little cracked mirror above powder’s desk. the corner of it had something scribbled in permanent marker — her own handwriting from years ago.

"blow stuff up. (but in a good way.) – w"

powder had drawn a little cartoon bomb next to it.

god, that was forever ago.

wyn smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

she couldn’t shake the look on powder’s face. that tight, almost-hollow way she smiled. that sharp edge in her voice.

"that was before."

before what?

before she started spending more time with vi again?
before the caitlyn jokes and the late nights and the new tattoos?

before the lines blurred?

wyn sat up slowly, her brow furrowed. she suddenly felt a little sick.

had she pulled away without realising? had she let herself get older — freer — and left powder behind in that space where they used to belong to each other without question?

she hadn’t meant to.

but the truth hit quietly, undeniably.

she didn’t know powder like she used to.

not really.

not all the way.

she bit the inside of her cheek, stood, paced once toward the door and back again. wanted to knock. wanted to say something. but what?

i think i made you feel forgotten.

i think you still make me nervous sometimes and i don’t know why.

i think i miss who we used to be, and i didn’t even notice it slipping.

she didn’t knock.

just walked back down the hall, mug in hand, heart a little heavier.

the smell of smoke and mint still lingered in the air.

➴

the shop was quieter than usual.

wyn leaned over the bench, her goggles pushed up, elbow-deep in the undercarriage of some half-dead transport. grease streaked her forearms. her jaw clenched tight.

she hadn't said more than a handful of words all morning.

vi noticed.

she always did.

"you're gonna strip that bolt if you keep going at it like it's personal." vi said, sauntering up beside her, wiping her hands on a rag. her tone was light, but her eyes weren’t.

wyn didn’t look up. “it feels personal.”

vi whistled low. “that bad, huh?”

“woke up with a hangover and a bruise on my hip from your couch.” wyn yanked the wrench one last time, then let it drop with a clatter. “also i think i made powder cry.”

vi blinked. “damn. you really out here checking all the boxes today.”

wyn finally looked over — goggles still crooked in her hair, frustration swimming behind her eyes.

vi tossed her the rag. “want to talk about it?”

“no.”

vi arched a brow.

“maybe.”

vi smirked. “thought so.”

wyn turned back to the bench, started unscrewing a side panel like it hadn’t betrayed her emotionally. “she’s just been… weird lately. distant. off. and this morning she looked at me like i was a stranger.”

vi leaned against the table, watching her work. “she’s felt a little off to me too.”

wyn hesitated. “i asked if i did something. she said no. but it felt like she meant yes.”

vi didn’t answer right away.

just wiped oil from her fingers.

then: “you ever think she might be hurt about the way things changed between you two?”

wyn shrugged. “we grew up. it happens.”

“yeah. but not overnight.”

wyn paused again. her throat tightened. “i didn’t mean to leave her behind, vi.”

“i know,” vi said. “but meaning to or not, you kinda did.”

the silence stretched.

machines hummed. somewhere in the back, someone dropped a wrench.

vi tapped her boot against the floor. “you remember when she had that breakdown a few years ago? when you were up top for that training program?”

wyn’s shoulders tensed. “yeah. you called me. i came back early.”

“she kept saying she felt invisible. like we’d all outgrown her.”

wyn’s jaw clenched.

“she’s stronger now,” vi added. “more sure of herself. but those feelings don’t just vanish.”

wyn sat down hard on the bench, rubbing her hands over her face.

“maybe i was too loud about everything else,” she muttered. “work. tattoos. parties. you and your posh girl.” a weak smile.

vi smirked. “she’s not that posh.”

“she wears gloves to dinner.”

“okay, a little posh.”

they both laughed — but it faded quick.

wyn sighed. “i don’t know how to fix this.”

vi shrugged. “start by not treating her like a kid anymore.”

“she’s not,” wyn said quietly. “i know that.”

vi watched her for a long beat. then nudged her with her elbow. “do you?”

wyn looked up.

and for once, vi didn’t smirk.

“maybe ask yourself why it feels so different now when she looks at you.”

wyn stared at her.

silent.

and a little terrified.

➴

powder’s workshop was dim, lit only by a few overhead bulbs and the flickering neon glow bleeding in from the streets of zaun outside. the walls were close, cluttered — wires, blueprints, scattered bolts, cracked screens. her sanctuary. her chaos.

it used to calm her.

it didn’t today.

her hands were shaking again.

not badly. not like before. but enough that she couldn’t solder the coil she'd been working on — the iron shaking like a live wire in her fingers, the tip dancing too far to one side, ruining the connection.

“dammit.” she hissed, slamming it down.

the metal clattered against the bench. rolled. hit the floor.

she gripped the edge of the table, breathing hard. her lungs felt tight. her chest buzzed with static. everything in her mind was too much — all at once.

wyn’s voice.
vi’s knowing eyes.
the dream.
that morning.

that look — that confused look wyn gave her. like she’d become something unrecognisable. like she was the one who changed too fast.

but it wasn’t fast.

it had been years of this.

of aching.

of wanting.

of hating herself for it.

powder dragged her sleeve across her face. she wasn’t crying. not really. just leaking frustration. shame. the kind that built up slow, until it turned sharp.

her eyes landed on the knife.

it wasn’t meant for this. it was just her wire-stripper — old, rusted, black-handled. but her fingers hovered near it.

and suddenly she couldn’t stop thinking about the way her skin felt too tight. too hot. like she needed to puncture something just to breathe.

she picked it up.

sat down on the stool, knife balanced in her hand.

it was quiet in the room now. too quiet. like even her thoughts had stopped moving.

she pulled up the sleeve of her hoodie.

her arm was already marked — pale scars, faded lines from years ago. she hadn't done this in a long time.

she thought she was past it.

apparently not.

her breath caught as the blade pressed down. not deep. just enough.

a sting. a bead of red.

relief.

her eyes fluttered shut. just for a second.

and then—

“powder?”

she froze.

the voice was muffled. faint. just outside the workshop door.

shit.

she dropped the knife, yanked her sleeve down, wiped the blood on her pants in a frantic motion. her heart thundered in her chest.

the door creaked open a sliver.

it was milo, leaning in. “vi’s looking for you. said something about lunch?”

powder forced a breath. “i’m—yeah. just—give me a minute.”

milo nodded, lingered half a beat too long, then pulled the door closed again.

powder stared at her sleeve. at the shaking in her fingers.

her mouth tasted like metal.

she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending she was okay. 

Chapter Text

it was saturday when caitlyn arrived.

she stepped into the drop like she didn’t quite belong but was doing her best not to show it — perfectly tailored coat, boots too clean for zaun, hair pulled back with elegant precision. she looked every inch a piltie, but her eyes were kind. curious.

vi lit up the second she saw her.

“’bout time, cupcake.” she grinned, already halfway across the room to sweep her into a loose, cocky hug. “i was starting to think you got lost in a pile of silk gloves.”

caitlyn arched a brow. “they’re leather, actually.”

vi laughed. “even worse.”

powder watched from the worn-out couch, a bottle of something fizzy in her hand she hadn’t really touched. wyn sat beside her, one leg tucked under herself, grease still staining her overalls from the morning.

caitlyn’s eyes flicked over the room, then landed on powder.

“and you must be powder,” she said, crossing over. “vi’s told me about you.”

powder stood, awkward. “only the good stuff, i hope.”

caitlyn smiled, soft and genuine. “she said you’re the smart one.”

powder blinked. “she did?”

vi, from behind her: “don’t let it go to your head, kid.”

caitlyn extended a hand. powder shook it, surprised by how warm and firm her grip was. piltie hands, she thought. clean. careful. like they’d never scraped through grime or rewired a busted hover engine with bare fingers.

still… she didn’t hate the way caitlyn looked at her. not pitying. not impressed either. just… seeing her. that was rare.

the afternoon stretched comfortably — kind of.

they ordered takeout, sat around the big central table in the drop. wyn made fun of caitlyn’s accent; caitlyn took it in stride. vi leaned in every time she laughed. powder mostly watched.

she wasn’t sure where she fit into this constellation.

then vi stood, brushing her hands on her pants. “we’re out of drinks. gonna make a run with cait. be back in ten.”

powder’s chest pinched — stupid and sharp.

wyn looked up. “you want help carrying?”

vi smirked. “i want to flirt in peace. stay.”

powder watched them disappear out the side door.

silence settled. wyn leaned back, stretching, her arm brushing lightly against powder’s.

powder flinched.

wyn looked over, startled.

“you okay?” she asked.

powder nodded. “fine.”

but wyn’s eyes narrowed. she wasn’t looking at her face.

she was looking at her sleeve — where it had ridden up just a little from the stretch.

powder followed her gaze.

shit.

before she could tug it down, wyn reached — gently, not grabbing, just easing the fabric back a few centimeters.

the breath she drew was sharp and quiet.

there, against pale skin: fresh scabbing, faint red lines that hadn’t had time to fade.

“powder.” she whispered.

powder jerked back, pulling her sleeve down fast. “it’s nothing.”

“it’s not nothing.”

“i said it’s fine.”

but her voice cracked on the last word. too brittle.

wyn didn’t say anything. she just looked at her — really looked at her. something in her expression crumpled, like paper folding inward.

“how long?” she asked, barely audible.

“i don’t—” powder swallowed. her eyes burned. “it’s not like it was before. i’m not spiraling.”

“you’re hurting yourself.”

“i was hurting,” powder snapped, suddenly on her feet. her chair scraped back. “i didn’t know what else to do, okay?”

the silence that followed felt vast.

then, quietly, wyn stood too. crossed to her without rushing.

she didn’t touch her.

she didn’t crowd her.

she just said, “i should’ve seen it sooner.”

powder blinked hard. “don’t. don’t say that.”

“i should’ve noticed. i've been—so distracted and stupid and—”

“stop.”

powder’s voice broke fully now.

and wyn did. she just stood there, eyes glassy.

“i’m not a kid anymore,” powder whispered. “you don’t have to look after me. you don’t owe me that.”

“i know.” wyn said.

and then, softer: “but i still want to.”

wyn was still standing in front of her.

still quiet. still steady.

and powder hated her for it.

not really.

but kind of.

she hated the way wyn looked at her like she was something breakable. like she wasn’t already in shards. like this—this fragile mercy—was going to fix anything at all.

powder laughed, bitter and sudden. “you want to look after me? since when?”

wyn blinked. “since always.”

“no,” powder snapped. “you left, wyn. you and vi—suddenly too old, too busy, too cool to hang out with little powder. you stopped looking. you stopped seeing me.”

wyn’s mouth parted like she wanted to speak, but powder didn’t let her.

“you don’t get to come back and act like you care now just because i fucked up again. just because it’s visible this time.”

“it’s not like that.” wyn said, voice low, aching.

“isn’t it?” powder took a step back, eyes wild and wet. “you didn’t notice when i was slipping before. you didn’t notice how i was breaking every time you chose vi over me. or when you talked about other girls. or when you touched me and smiled and i thought it meant something—”

she stopped.

the words hung there. a gunshot in the quiet.

wyn froze.

“powder.” she whispered. something sharp flickered across her face — not pity, but something close. something real. “you… you thought…”

powder turned away, suddenly nauseous.

“forget it,” she said quickly. “forget i said anything. i was being stupid. i am stupid—”

“no, hey— don’t.”

wyn reached for her arm — but this time powder yanked it away.

“don’t touch me,” she choked. “you don’t get to. not after this. not after all this time pretending i wasn’t anything to you.”

wyn looked like she’d been slapped. “i never—”

“you didn’t have to,” powder hissed. “you just stopped showing up.”

the tears came fast after that. she hated them. hated the way they cracked her voice and blurred the room and made her feel young again — that useless kind of young where she couldn’t hold herself together no matter how hard she tried.

“i’m so fucking tired of caring more than anyone else.” she whispered.

and wyn…

she didn’t move this time.

didn’t chase.

she just said, “i didn’t know, powder.”

powder laughed again. harsher this time.

“exactly.”

the door creaked open with a familiar thud.

boots first. then laughter—low and breathless.

powder didn’t have to look up to know.

vi and caitlyn stumbled in with their arms brushing, cheeks pink from cold or drinks or both. caitlyn’s hair had come a little loose; vi’s jacket hung off one shoulder, smug grin tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’d just gotten away with something.

they had.

“look who managed not to get kidnapped by a gang of sewer rats.” vi called, clearly pleased with herself. she tossed a six-pack onto the table with a metallic clatter. “zaun survival skills, babe. you’re welcome.”

caitlyn rolled her eyes but smiled, biting back a laugh. “i wasn’t the one who almost slipped on a ladder and face-planted into an exhaust vent.”

“you said you wouldn’t tell anyone that.” vi mock-whined.

powder watched them from the edge of the couch, curled small. her arms were folded tightly across her chest, palms pressed hard into her sleeves. her eyes were dry now, but puffy. her throat raw. she kept her face turned just slightly, like if she didn’t fully engage, maybe they wouldn’t ask.

wyn had taken a seat at the far end of the table, half-turned away. she hadn’t looked at powder since it happened. not once.

vi grabbed a bottle and popped the cap off with her teeth. she looked around, half-smirking—then paused.

something shifted in her face.

subtle. barely there. but powder saw it.

the way vi’s eyes flicked between the two of them. the way her smile faded just a touch. she didn’t say anything, didn’t press—but she knew. something had happened.

caitlyn, still unaware, grabbed a seat beside wyn. “hope we didn’t miss anything exciting.”

wyn gave her a tight smile. “just some quiet.”

“mmh.” vi muttered, taking a slow sip of her drink. she leaned back against the wall beside powder’s chair, letting the silence thicken.

no one spoke.

the room was full—but felt empty.

vi exhaled through her nose, then tossed a bottle cap onto the table. “so… anyone wanna talk about why this place suddenly feels like a funeral, or…?”

powder flinched.

wyn stiffened.

caitlyn blinked, confused. “did something happen?”

“nope.” powder said quickly. too quickly. her voice cracked.

vi raised a brow. didn’t call it out. just watched her.

wyn stood abruptly, grabbing her coat from the hook.

“i should head out.” she said.

vi frowned. “thought you were staying?”

“i changed my mind.”

she didn’t look at powder when she said it. just kept her eyes down. her jaw tight.

“wyn.” powder started, voice low.

but wyn was already halfway to the door.

“i’ll see you around.”

then the door shut. hard.

vi waited a long beat before saying anything. then, with infuriating calm: “you wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

powder didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

she just stared at the spot wyn had left behind—like if she stared long enough, maybe she’d come back.

but she didn’t.

the silence wasn’t comfortable, but vi didn’t fill it. she just sat beside her sister with a bottle cradled between her knees, gaze flicking occasionally to powder’s profile, and then to caitlyn across from them.

caitlyn, bless her, didn’t pretend not to notice the tension. but she didn’t force anything either. she just waited, fingers laced, quiet and steady.

finally, powder breathed out — a shudder, more than an exhale. her voice came low, like it’d been trapped in her throat.

“i think i’m going out of control.”

vi didn’t speak right away.

caitlyn tilted her head. “what makes you say that?”

powder laughed — short and joyless. “because it feels like i’m watching myself from the outside, like... like i’m on fire and everyone else is just fine. like i’m too much, all the time. like i say things and can’t take them back, even when i want to. and then i hate myself for saying them. and then i hate everyone else for not getting it.”

she blinked, rapid and frustrated. “that doesn’t make sense.”

“it does,” caitlyn said, gently. “more than you think.”

powder glanced up, skeptical. caitlyn offered a small smile.

“my cousin struggles with something similar,” she said. “she described it once as feeling like her emotions didn’t have skin — that everything touched her too deeply, too fast, and she couldn’t tell what was real. one thing goes wrong and suddenly everything’s wrong.”

powder swallowed hard. her hands were shaking in her lap.

vi shifted closer. her hand found powder’s shoulder, warm and grounding.

“you’re not broken.” she said.

powder flinched, just slightly. “i’m tired of being a mess.”

“you’re not a mess,” vi said. “you’re just… bleeding in places no one taught you how to bandage.”

that undid something in her.

she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, angry and grateful at once. “i said the wrong thing. i always do.”

“what did you say?” vi asked softly.

“i told her i thought it meant something. us. all those years. i told her she left me behind.”

“did she say it didn’t mean anything?”

powder hesitated. “no.”

“then maybe,” caitlyn offered, “she just needed time to understand how much it did.”

silence.

➴

wyn didn’t stop walking until her lungs started to ache.

the drop was several blocks behind her. cold air scraped at her collarbones where her jacket didn’t quite zip, her boots thudding against slick metal grates. she could still taste the drink in her mouth — sharp, bitter — but the buzz had died somewhere between the couch and the door.

so had everything else.

she didn’t know why she left like that.

no — that wasn’t true.

she did know. she just couldn’t face it.

she couldn’t face powder’s voice breaking in front of her. couldn’t face the way she’d said you don’t get to touch me like it physically hurt. couldn’t face the fact that, somehow, she’d become the kind of person powder had to protect herself from.

wyn stopped beneath one of the old floodlamps near the edge of the rail line, the light above her flickering weakly. her hands were still smudged with grime from the shop, dried oil in the grooves of her knuckles. she stared at them like they weren’t hers.

"you just stopped showing up."

the words wouldn’t stop echoing.

they made her stomach twist. they made her chest feel tight in a way she didn’t have language for. because powder was right. maybe not intentionally — wyn never meant to abandon her, never meant to stop seeing her — but she did.

she got older. got busier. got distracted.

by vi. by everything else.

by girls that weren’t powder.

god.

wyn pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and let out a low, rough noise — something like a growl, something like a cry. she should’ve seen it. not just the scars — the everything. the way powder would light up around her, then go quiet. the way she hovered when wyn was close. the way her eyes lingered.

she’d chalked it up to childhood affection. familiarity. a little hero worship, maybe. nothing real.

but it was real.

and now it was bleeding all over the floor of the drop.

she sank down onto the low railing, legs shaking a little. the cold pressed through her jeans, grounding. unforgiving.

part of her wanted to turn around. go back. sit down and let powder scream at her if she needed to. apologise for every year she missed it — every way she made her feel small.

but the other part — the loud, scared part — said she wasn’t ready.

because if she went back now, she’d have to admit that what she felt— what she feels —for powder might be bigger than she'd let herself believe.

and that terrified her.

so she sat in the cold instead, and tried not to look like someone who had just broken something they didn’t know how to fix.

Chapter Text

the drop was unusually quiet for mid-morning.

powder stood at the far end of the workshop, fiddling with a loose copper coil that didn’t need fixing. her fingers moved with method, but her mind was elsewhere—still trapped in the echo chamber of last night’s words. her throat still felt raw, her stomach knotted like it had swallowed iron.

she hadn’t seen wyn since she left.

she hadn’t slept, either.

powder spent most of the night wide-eyed and curled into herself, replaying the moment wyn turned away like it didn’t wreck her.

she was still in the same oversized hoodie. still smelled faintly of soldering iron and last night’s cigarette smoke.

a soft voice broke through the static.

“morning.”

powder looked up.

caitlyn.

she stood in the doorway of the workshop with her coat shrugged off, ponytail neater today, though there was a sleep-soft puffiness to her eyes that gave away the late night. she held two paper cups of coffee and offered one out with a small smile.

“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” she said gently, “so i guessed.”

powder hesitated. then took the cup with a muttered, “thanks.”

caitlyn sat on the edge of the workbench across from her, glancing around the space with quiet curiosity. she didn’t speak right away.

that was what powder liked about her, she realised. caitlyn wasn’t the kind of person to fill silences just to fill them. she waited. observed.

“i didn’t mean to interrupt,” caitlyn said finally. “vi mentioned this is kind of your place.”

powder shrugged. “it’s fine. you’re a guest.”

“that doesn’t mean i want to impose.”

powder gave a noncommittal noise. then, after a beat, “you didn’t.”

caitlyn studied her carefully. “things seemed… tense last night. after wyn left.”

powder’s hands froze over the copper wire.

she didn’t answer.

caitlyn didn’t push. just nodded to herself, sipping her coffee.

“i know it’s probably not my place,” she said, “but… i hope whatever’s going on between you two isn’t permanent.”

powder huffed a humourless laugh. “you barely know us.”

“no,” caitlyn agreed, “but i know what it’s like to realise someone matters more than you were prepared for. and how much it hurts when you realise you’ve let that person fall through the cracks.”

powder blinked. the words landed heavier than they should have.

caitlyn stood after a moment, brushing her hands off.

“i’m heading topside again this evening. vi wants to walk me up. you’re welcome to come if you want.”

powder didn’t answer right away.

she wasn’t sure what she wanted.

caitlyn gave her a small, warm smile — something quietly knowing — and turned toward the stairs.

“take care of yourself, powder.”

then she was gone.

and powder was left in the stillness again, the warm cup in her hands suddenly a lot heavier than before.

➴

vi sat on the steps just outside the drop, elbows on her knees, fiddling with a bolt she’d snagged from the workbench.

caitlyn stood a few feet away, adjusting the strap on her shoulder bag, waiting patiently while vi worked through whatever was chewing at her from the inside out.

“i know that face.” caitlyn said softly.

vi glanced up, eyebrows raised. “what face?”

“the one you make when you’re overthinking but trying to look like you’re not.”

vi huffed a breath through her nose. “that obvious, huh?”

“only to people who love you.”

that quieted her.

vi’s shoulders slumped, and she rubbed the heel of her hand over her jaw. “it’s powder,” she said finally. “she’s… not okay.”

caitlyn didn’t rush her. just sat beside her, close enough to be warm.

“she had a breakdown when we were younger,” vi went on, voice lower now. “bad one. after she and wyn stopped being so close. i don’t think i really got what it meant back then, but now… i dunno. i think it cracked her open in ways i didn’t notice. and now that they’re close again — or, were — she’s spiraling all over.”

vi leaned back against the stair railing, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing. “i should’ve seen it sooner. should’ve done something. said something.”

caitlyn leaned into her. “you want my honest opinion?”

“always.”

“i think wyn’s scared,” caitlyn said. “and powder’s hurt. and they’re both pretending it’s easier to ignore the wreckage than admit they caused it together.”

vi exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

“yeah,” she said. “that’s exactly it.”

caitlyn bumped her knee softly. “you’re not responsible for both of them. you can care — you do care — but you can’t fix it all.”

“i know,” vi murmured. “doesn’t make it any easier to watch.”

behind them, the drop door creaked open.

they both turned.

powder stood in the doorway, hoodie sleeves too long again, her hair pulled back messily. she didn’t say anything — just raised her brows like, you going or what?

vi blinked. “you’re coming?”

powder shrugged. “didn’t feel like being alone.”

caitlyn offered her a soft, grateful smile. “glad to have you.”

the three of them started the slow walk through the winding corridors of zaun. the paths were familiar, but today, they felt different. quieter.

powder stayed mostly silent, hands stuffed into her sleeves. caitlyn and vi talked low between themselves at first — half-jokes, half-nostalgia. but soon they all fell into step with each other, the silence companionable.

somewhere near the lift station, caitlyn slowed, looking back toward powder.

“can i ask something?”

powder gave her a wary look but nodded.

“what do you want to happen next? with wyn.”

powder hesitated. “i don’t know.”

“that’s okay,” caitlyn said. “but don’t act like you don’t care. that’ll eat you alive.”

they reached the gate to the lift just as the warning bell rang. vi hit the button, and the platform started to descend.

powder didn’t say a word.

but she didn’t look away either.

the lift groaned to a stop at the upper platform, gears grinding into place with a familiar hiss. the air here was clearer, laced with wind instead of metal. a sharp contrast to zaun’s heaviness.

caitlyn adjusted her bag, turning slightly to vi, who was watching her with a look that said she was already counting down the days until she’d be back.

powder stood a few feet off, leaning against a rusted railing, arms still crossed tightly, gaze distant but alert. she hadn’t said anything the whole ride up, but she hadn’t turned back either. vi took it as a kind of victory — small, sure, but real.

“i could walk the rest of the way,” caitlyn said, softly. “if you want to stay with her.”

vi shook her head. “she’s okay for now. i can walk you.”

caitlyn smiled, but didn’t argue.

they walked together past the border checkpoint and toward the tram stop that would take caitlyn home. the city started to press in again — cleaner walls, sharper lights, high-glass windows reflecting the late afternoon haze. but vi barely saw it.

her hand brushed caitlyn’s, tentative, until caitlyn laced their fingers together like she always did — certain, grounding.

“you know,” caitlyn murmured, “i didn’t think i’d get used to zaun.”

vi glanced over. “still haven’t.”

caitlyn laughed softly. “maybe. but there’s parts of it that feel like home now.”

she stopped just before the tram entrance and turned to face her. vi mirrored her, eyes scanning her features like she was trying to memorise them all over again.

“i’m sorry i didn’t get to spend more time with powder,” caitlyn said. “i know she needed more than what we gave.”

vi shook her head. “you were good with her. better than most.”

caitlyn reached up, brushing her fingers lightly over vi’s cheek. 

vi leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

then caitlyn tilted her chin and kissed her — slow, certain, no theatrics. just warmth. just weight. the kind of kiss that settles instead of stirs.

when they broke apart, caitlyn lingered, their foreheads brushing.

“don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.” she whispered.

vi huffed, but smiled. “trying.”

“i’ll be back in a couple weeks.”

“counting on it.”

caitlyn stepped onto the tram just as the doors began to close. her eyes stayed on vi until the very last second.

and then she was gone, a blue blur disappearing into the lines of piltover.

vi stood there a moment longer, thumb brushing the edge of her palm where caitlyn’s hand had been.

then she turned back — toward zaun, toward powder, toward the next hard conversation waiting like a fuse too close to fire.

➴

powder sat on the low wall near the checkpoint, boot heels kicking against the rusted metal edge, fingers picking absently at a fraying thread on her sleeve. the wind tugged at her hoodie, cooler this high up, and the slow clatter of the lift descending again echoed through the narrow shaft beside her.

she didn’t really know why she’d stayed.

just… didn’t feel right to walk back alone.

the checkpoint gate creaked open, and powder looked up.

vi stepped through, hands stuffed into her pockets, shoulders looser now — like something had settled inside her. she spotted powder and offered a small nod, not saying anything at first.

powder hopped down from the wall and fell into step beside her.

for a while, the only sound was their boots on the worn metal walkway. the city pressed in above them, layered in smog and quiet.

“you and caitlyn okay?” powder asked, voice low but not sharp.

vi glanced sideways, surprised she’d asked. “yeah. we’re good.”

a beat.

then powder asked, almost too casual, “have you heard from wyn?”

vi’s steps faltered for just a second.

“no,” she said finally. “not since the other night.”

powder didn’t say anything. her jaw worked like she was chewing down words.

“i thought she might reach out,” vi added gently. “she’s probably still sorting herself out.”

“or avoiding it.” powder muttered.

vi sighed. “maybe. or maybe she’s scared she’ll just make things worse.”

powder kicked a piece of gravel across the walkway. it skittered out and vanished through a crack in the floor.

“she already did.” she said, quiet.

vi slowed a little. “you’re allowed to be mad.”

powder gave a bitter laugh. “i’m not mad.”

vi arched a brow.

“i’m not,” powder said again, sharper this time. “i just— i wish i could stop feeling like this. like every time i let myself want something, it just… slips.”

they reached the base of the old stairs, the ones that wound down toward the drop in a tight spiral. vi stopped, placing a hand lightly on the railing.

“you didn’t do anything wrong, powder.”

“doesn’t mean i didn’t scare her off.”

vi looked at her, really looked.

“she’s the one who ran. that’s on her. not you.”

powder stared at the rust along the stair rail. her throat burned.

“do you think she’s coming back?”

vi hesitated.

then: “i think she wants to. but whether she actually will… that’s up to her.”

powder swallowed thickly.

“i just want it to stop hurting.” she whispered.

vi nodded, stepping close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“i know,” she said. “but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

and that, more than anything, almost undid her.

they kept walking.