[this is a dream he's had too many times before, as though his mind is sneering and pointing at blatant lie he tells himself sometimes that he came out of piltover unscathed.
stupid, he's aware it's not that simple. he's also riddled too often with a sinking mire of guilt at the audacity of thinking three square meals a day and fresh air are a trial to be passed. that he didn't have the choice to turn his back, or say no, or any number of things. that for all he wanted to help he'll always be a traitor in one way or another, and to pretend that pretty, gilded piltover where he chose to go could leave any scars-
it's usually a party like this. the ball room is suitably grand, people in masks, in gold and silver accents, walking the floor silently. his cane thuds with every step, and his clothes itch with how much they cost and how few times he'll use them again. he'll come to another party in a month and people will somehow remember he wore this before, and they'll look at him in pity or smug understanding that he does not belong.
sometimes he remembers jayce enough in his dreams of these parties to endlessly try to seek him out, glimpses of red and gold that vanish as quickly as they come. sometimes the spends the entire dream staring at a clock on the wall, watching its gears shift and clank in time with murmurs. he could listen in but there's no point in it, he knows the script. this party with it's grand, wasteful hourglass ticks down grains of sand, and when he wakes he can rightfully mock his own mind for the heavy-handed symbolism.
there's a flutter of something through the dream, that some edge of his thoughts recognizes as unnatural but his dreaming mind is quick to meld into the narrative. the midnight hour turns to golden evening, and hears a pair of women murmur about the new guest, the strange new guest. it makes him curious enough to glance through the crowd, a slow approach to what seems to be an entrance he didn't notice before and the gaggle of people surrounding it to get a better look.
(and enjoy viktor's dreaming mind warring against the idea of anyone wearing dull greys to this sort of thing, pal, trying to wrap him in something with strong lines and clean metallics, as if imparting obvious favoritism in a sea of gaudy colors and caricatures of luxury.)]
[Well, of course he's dressed sharply, all crisp blues with silver trim run riot over the vest and jacket, in the way that an ambassador from [REDACTED] should appropriately be dressed. Of course, and this is murmured about around the crowd as Palamedes makes his way through the entrance to the ballroom, pausing—
just a moment—
to look over his shoulder at the door swinging shut behind him, but it closes definitively before he can see whatever he needs to see.
So: the party. Frankly, he didn't want to come to this, but his mother insisted, and what else is the "ambassador" title supposed to be for?, and rather than listen to her chuckle at him over his trim and tails, he just goes.
Something that must be rakishly funny comes out of his mouth as he looks back at the people surrounding him because most of them laugh, and he's not really paying attention to any one introduction as he nods at this mask or the other smile or this pair of fluttering lashes, no— he wants to... like, not be here. That'd be great.
It takes him a full minute to extricate himself from those guests thrilled about the new face, and he is shuffling away with his glasses off, rubbing them inelegantly on the hem of his shirt (which he has scandalously untucked for this purpose, call the guard) when he spots Viktor in his path. That is to say, he whips his glasses up in front of his face to check his polishing job so quickly that he nearly elbows Viktor in the head, first thing, on his approach.
The room kind of stutters for a moment, like everything shifts abruptly to the left and snaps back again before anyone can notice. Palamedes blinks and puts his glasses all the way on. Ah-]
[viktor idles by the crowd, farther back near the edge, waiting more to hear from word of mouth the passing curiosity than to make any bold attempts. no point in that, he is an assistant to the dean- no, no, that's not right the cofounder to Hextech, often overlooked but nonetheless in the fine print.
(there is the oddest thought he bats away about being something more dashing, more dramatic, to wow the audience but there is no audience aside from the crowd who already know who he is or pretend not to rather than admit it.)
soft murmurs behind fans send words this way, ambassador this and quite unorthodox that. he's ready to move on, curiosity mostly sated, when the disaster nearly strikes. well, not really, an elbow skimming too close from a man moving too hastily is more amusing to him than the others, who all seem on the edge of their seats like they expect social bloodshet.
viktor, meanwhile, has his tongue promptly tied because the man in front of him is- well, handsome. pretty eyes. (the word 'meet cute' springs in his head like an invasive thought and he, once again, ignores.) he slaps on a polite smile, no harm done, but rather than manage it fully the ambassador speaks and viktor can't help a snort of laughter.
ah. he'd look around to check how that went over but at the moment he gives himself the right not to care.]
And you've just arrived. Imagine how unbearable it will be once you've spent some quality time with the party.
[Ah, and that makes Palamedes laugh in turn, although he doesn't wonder at all what anyone else will think of that, because - well, he wasn't going to ordinarily, but now? When a handsome man with a charming accent and adorable little beauty marks makes him laugh, the first thing he's enjoyed about this city besides its cool port technology? The rest of the party might as well have vanished into thin air.]
And here I am, dressed like this.
[Not ostentatiously like the rest of these people, obviously, but that's the part that sticks; where did the silver-coated ambassador wander off to, he can already picture them wondering— horrible. Can he not exchange pleasantries and then go sit in a corner to read.
Well. It's a whole thirty seconds in, but this conversation, he's enjoying? He looks at Viktor, really looks at him for a second, even squinting, and some corner of his brain flares with recognition. He snaps his fingers, aha—]
I know you— you're the founder. [co-, whatever. the tall one isn't here, he doesn't have to remember that right now. anyway, obviously he has done his research.] You're on the back of the pamphlets they hand out at the port.
[Which sounds absurd on every level when he says it, but it doesn't matter, does it. His sleeping brain whirs right past that into information he actually knows, which comes out as:]
I read your paper on the way here. The one about water filtration. I liked it, but you use the phrase 'as we can see' about thirty times throughout, did you know?
[viktor's lips quirk despite himself, and not even in the typical polite smile. normally he'd roll his eyes about being even remotely swayed by a pretty pair of eyes but eh, why not? if it made the evening a little more entertaining, and if he didn't start some sort of incident. even the latter would at least be interesting and, ultimately, heimendinger's problem.
he's ready to make some vague flirting comment back about how the man is dressed when oh, he's recognized. that's not new, persay, but it's usually followed with asking where jayce is or business talk.] Oh wonderful, I was hoping those were out of circulation by now. Co-founder yes, and I am Viktor.
[he offers his hand, though a look of genuine surprise nearly stalls him when- oh, an academic. some part of his head rings around the thought of red pens and a wholly inappropriate flush of warmth before he can't help some of the polite society mask falling to a little snort.]
Oh, did you count? Please, tell me about the 'lackadaisical approach to citation,' that's one I get a lot. Apparently quips in the footnotes is 'unprofessional.'
[Co-founder yes, yes, sure. Palamedes is certain the other founder is just as intelligent to speak with, but he isn't standing right here, and frankly— Viktor is better-looking. Ahem. This is not the diplomacy his mother would have had in mind, but who cares about that right now. Palamedes takes the offered hand and does not shake it, not yet, because first he must make his Comment:]
It is, but I thought it was entertaining. I especially liked when you used a footnote to refer back to a different footnote and said, what was it? 'We've been over this already.' Really, it's impressive you snuck that one through the editors at all.
[The Oversight Body would never, which is a shame, because it is funny. The choose your own adventure footnotes are something he'd love to have a go at with a red pen, but luckily he's only the audience, and not the editor.
And he's still got this hand, and for a moment is eminently distracted by other things he'd like to have a go at, but ah- yes. Right.
Maybe he's thinking about something else or maybe the ambassadors from [REDACTED] are just a little off from Piltover standards, because rather than shake Viktor's hand, he bows his head to kiss the back of it utterly without shame. Hmm, yes, that seems correct, this was a good choice he's made.]
That said— my name is Palamedes, and I'm not from around here.
[Maybe they don't like footnotes in this place. Who can say.]
Editors are a gullible lot. They'll trust my good nature and best intentions rather than follow through to make sure of it. That or they're lazy, but I try to be generous.
[he doesn't. he thinks most of the editors of the academy's favorite papers are likely underpaid and pretentious to boot.
the ambassador holding his hand during the little spiel is... endearing, honestly. as though he doesn't want to distract himself from his commentary with shaking it, or forgot himself entirely to making the comment. both are amusing, and viktor wonders for a moment what his angle actually is. there had to be one, there always was at these unbearable affairs.
not that it's a matter he has long to consider, because instead of finally shaking viktor's hand he kisses it. viktor blinks, somewhere there's the quiet flutter of fans and murmurs.]
Neither am I, Palamedes. [he finds himself saying, sounding the name out like it intrigued him. whatever the angle is he knows his own is going to be pursuing the first interesting thing to happen at one of these parties since he's started attending them.] But I've lived here long enough to be an adequate guide, if you'll have me.
[Oh, the co-founder has jokes, that's very attractive and novel of him. Palamedes makes a noise that is somewhere between a little hum and a short puff of breath, a noise that suggests he might have thought nobody in this city knew what jokes were until this very moment. No offense to everyone who is absolutely watching him hold this guy's hand and kiss it at his leisure, but...
Well! It wasn't as if his mind wasn't already made up - Viktor is charming and handsome and did not recoil in Society Shame (tm) from his hand kiss, and wants to take him around to see some sights - but the attitude does help.
Palamedes dedicates one fraction of a second to concocting the excuse he will need to present to his mother later- 'He's the co-founder, was I supposed to say no?'- and then nods, giving Viktor's fingers a brief and-maybe-somewhat-affectionate squeeze before letting go to gesture... off somewhere. He's not the guide here.]
I think I would like that. So— I'm in your capable hands.
[viktor's lips quirk, more a small smile than a smirk, as he offering his arm. they are so very proper society after all, and there's something amusing to playing up the ridiculous steps of the social dance, keeping his posture straight and eyes dancing with amusement.
it's nice to be in on the shared joke, just this once.
walking through the crowd is a careful matter, more to keep from catching any eyes and ending in long conversation. a good thing he hasn't seen heimendinger around, as genuine as the man was he'd rather not get stuck in a rambling story when he has a pretty boy on his arm and some level of mischief between them.]
The food is more price than taste, as any proper banquet should be. Does it matter if the fish is good if you can say it's rare and imported live? [he murmurs into pal's ear as they pass a platter of it.] Piltover hospitality.
[Ah, alright- Palamedes loops his arm through Viktor's with an amused hum, marginally more interested in watching his new favorite person at this party than the party itself as they start to wander around. He's quite good at myopically ignoring everything else around, so it's easy to keep focusing on Viktor and blow off all the local rich people in turn. Viktor can mutter in his ear about fish whenever he likes, actually...
Or, at absolutely full volume, Palamedes simply says:] Fish is horrible, actually.
[And oh, are people turning to look at him with slightly less intrigue and curiosity than before? Oops. He snorts and covers his mouth with his other hand, just for a moment. Really racking up the Piltover points.]
They're looking at me like I'm not right. Hey— [a tug on Viktor's arm, ahem,] I think you're breathtaking. Do you want to get out of here?
[viktor can't help a snort himself, wrestling on a mild look cracking at the seams with amusement. as people look on with derision he can't help but see it as points in pal's favor, as a delightful break from script.
there's some curling anxiety about playing nice, hextech's image even if his face is never the cover of it anyway. surprisingly easy to brush aside when a pretty boy is calling you breathtaking and offering to take things further.]
You insulted the overpriced, mediocre fish by proxy. [honestly pal covering his mouth like that is endearing. he starts them towards some of the side doors with just a small smile in return.
there's an arch into a curling hallway, very public but quiet enough that viktor feels confident in stopping them.] That would be a very good, simple line, though I get this sneaking suspicion you meant it. [he steps in close, hand going from pal's elbow up his arm as he asks quietly,] Your place or mine?
[or to the nearby door that definitely won't go to anywhere sad and terrible.]
[Oh, swoon, nothing like a handsome guy agreeing with your fish takes and automatically leading you away from said fish to a more private setting. This is going, ahem, swimmingly. Palamedes drops his hand, now that his smirk about insulting the fish has morphed into a smirk for flirting with Viktor; very different, very nuanced.]
It can't be both? [Maybe he's very good at lines... ha.] I'm not picky; I just want to get you alone and ask you a few more things about footnotes.
[This is not a joke, there will be a quiz, unless they happen to walk into a horrible room full of peeling wallpaper and pain. He's feeling bold- almost as if he's known Viktor for much longer than the past half hour and would flirt with him in public any day, how mysterious- bold enough to tilt Viktor's chin up with his free hand and lean in to kiss him swiftly, heedless of what fussy rich people may be watching. Not for very long, because the public arch is a bad place to talk about research.]
Not just footnotes. [He glances to the side, head tilting towards the completely innocuous door, which for some reason doesn't seem to match the decor of the rest of this hallway? Probably nothing.] There?
Edited (Don't Perceive Me noticing a typo days later. i'm not here) 2022-08-30 01:56 (UTC)
[it's a good first kiss, layered with some odd logic and absolutely understanding of how to kiss the man before him. as easy as breathing, really, though admittedly breathing wasn't always particularly easy. maybe as easy as turning his back to the party entirely, more than happy to follow this man into more interesting places.
somewhere the string band swells, and viktor's lips quirk a little too fondly to be a proper smirk.]
I would hope not just footnotes. There's an entire paper for you to ruthlessly dissect. [and more scandalous matters. he takes pal's hand again to lead them to the door, a little stutter of uncertainty at what viscerally feels off, though the warm evening light of the evening washes over it.
he opens the door and with it an odd understanding of the situation, as though struck suddenly with all he forgot in his act. there is no walking through, they are simply someplace else, still hand in hand.]
I'll keep you up all night with my criticisms, don't worry. I've brought a red pen.
[The party will rage on, or pettily gossip on, and they don't have to pay one whit of attention to any of that. It's looking like it's going to be an excellent evening after all, Palamedes thinks, giving Viktor a sideways little grin before the door, hm—
Well, something about the door. It's like the world tilts and straightens back up again in the split second it takes Viktor to open the door, and here they are, standing back in the room Palamedes swears he'd just left. The party, that was - what was the party? He twists to look over his shoulder, frowning at the innocently closed door now behind them, then looks back to Viktor. Now the Piltover experience feels fuzzy and strange, a proper dream, but Viktor is still here, so - it's Trench Bullshit Again, isn't it.
Hastily he looks down at his hand, just to see if his ring has reappeared, which it has, which means yeah: it's Trench Bullshit Again.]
Well— hmm. I don't know how this is happening again. [The last eerie shared dream was so long ago, what gives.] Ideas?
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no subject
stupid, he's aware it's not that simple. he's also riddled too often with a sinking mire of guilt at the audacity of thinking three square meals a day and fresh air are a trial to be passed. that he didn't have the choice to turn his back, or say no, or any number of things. that for all he wanted to help he'll always be a traitor in one way or another, and to pretend that pretty, gilded piltover where he chose to go could leave any scars-
it's usually a party like this. the ball room is suitably grand, people in masks, in gold and silver accents, walking the floor silently. his cane thuds with every step, and his clothes itch with how much they cost and how few times he'll use them again. he'll come to another party in a month and people will somehow remember he wore this before, and they'll look at him in pity or smug understanding that he does not belong.
sometimes he remembers jayce enough in his dreams of these parties to endlessly try to seek him out, glimpses of red and gold that vanish as quickly as they come. sometimes the spends the entire dream staring at a clock on the wall, watching its gears shift and clank in time with murmurs. he could listen in but there's no point in it, he knows the script. this party with it's grand, wasteful hourglass ticks down grains of sand, and when he wakes he can rightfully mock his own mind for the heavy-handed symbolism.
there's a flutter of something through the dream, that some edge of his thoughts recognizes as unnatural but his dreaming mind is quick to meld into the narrative. the midnight hour turns to golden evening, and hears a pair of women murmur about the new guest, the strange new guest. it makes him curious enough to glance through the crowd, a slow approach to what seems to be an entrance he didn't notice before and the gaggle of people surrounding it to get a better look.
(and enjoy viktor's dreaming mind warring against the idea of anyone wearing dull greys to this sort of thing, pal, trying to wrap him in something with strong lines and clean metallics, as if imparting obvious favoritism in a sea of gaudy colors and caricatures of luxury.)]
no subject
just a moment—
to look over his shoulder at the door swinging shut behind him, but it closes definitively before he can see whatever he needs to see.
So: the party. Frankly, he didn't want to come to this, but his mother insisted, and what else is the "ambassador" title supposed to be for?, and rather than listen to her chuckle at him over his trim and tails, he just goes.
Something that must be rakishly funny comes out of his mouth as he looks back at the people surrounding him because most of them laugh, and he's not really paying attention to any one introduction as he nods at this mask or the other smile or this pair of fluttering lashes, no— he wants to... like, not be here. That'd be great.
It takes him a full minute to extricate himself from those guests thrilled about the new face, and he is shuffling away with his glasses off, rubbing them inelegantly on the hem of his shirt (which he has scandalously untucked for this purpose, call the guard) when he spots Viktor in his path. That is to say, he whips his glasses up in front of his face to check his polishing job so quickly that he nearly elbows Viktor in the head, first thing, on his approach.
The room kind of stutters for a moment, like everything shifts abruptly to the left and snaps back again before anyone can notice. Palamedes blinks and puts his glasses all the way on. Ah-]
Sorry— hi. Worst party I've ever seen.
[normal things for ambassadors to say]
no subject
an assistant to the dean- no, no, that's not rightthe cofounder to Hextech, often overlooked but nonetheless in the fine print.(there is the oddest thought he bats away about being something more dashing, more dramatic, to wow the audience but there is no audience aside from the crowd who already know who he is or pretend not to rather than admit it.)
soft murmurs behind fans send words this way, ambassador this and quite unorthodox that. he's ready to move on, curiosity mostly sated, when the disaster nearly strikes. well, not really, an elbow skimming too close from a man moving too hastily is more amusing to him than the others, who all seem on the edge of their seats like they expect social bloodshet.
viktor, meanwhile, has his tongue promptly tied because the man in front of him is- well, handsome. pretty eyes. (the word 'meet cute' springs in his head like an invasive thought and he, once again, ignores.) he slaps on a polite smile, no harm done, but rather than manage it fully the ambassador speaks and viktor can't help a snort of laughter.
ah. he'd look around to check how that went over but at the moment he gives himself the right not to care.]
And you've just arrived. Imagine how unbearable it will be once you've spent some quality time with the party.
no subject
And here I am, dressed like this.
[Not ostentatiously like the rest of these people, obviously, but that's the part that sticks; where did the silver-coated ambassador wander off to, he can already picture them wondering— horrible. Can he not exchange pleasantries and then go sit in a corner to read.
Well. It's a whole thirty seconds in, but this conversation, he's enjoying? He looks at Viktor, really looks at him for a second, even squinting, and some corner of his brain flares with recognition. He snaps his fingers, aha—]
I know you— you're the founder. [co-, whatever. the tall one isn't here, he doesn't have to remember that right now. anyway, obviously he has done his research.] You're on the back of the pamphlets they hand out at the port.
[Which sounds absurd on every level when he says it, but it doesn't matter, does it. His sleeping brain whirs right past that into information he actually knows, which comes out as:]
I read your paper on the way here. The one about water filtration. I liked it, but you use the phrase 'as we can see' about thirty times throughout, did you know?
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he's ready to make some vague flirting comment back about how the man is dressed when oh, he's recognized. that's not new, persay, but it's usually followed with asking where jayce is or business talk.] Oh wonderful, I was hoping those were out of circulation by now. Co-founder yes, and I am Viktor.
[he offers his hand, though a look of genuine surprise nearly stalls him when- oh, an academic. some part of his head rings around the thought of red pens and a wholly inappropriate flush of warmth before he can't help some of the polite society mask falling to a little snort.]
Oh, did you count? Please, tell me about the 'lackadaisical approach to citation,' that's one I get a lot. Apparently quips in the footnotes is 'unprofessional.'
no subject
It is, but I thought it was entertaining. I especially liked when you used a footnote to refer back to a different footnote and said, what was it? 'We've been over this already.' Really, it's impressive you snuck that one through the editors at all.
[The Oversight Body would never, which is a shame, because it is funny. The choose your own adventure footnotes are something he'd love to have a go at with a red pen, but luckily he's only the audience, and not the editor.
And he's still got this hand, and for a moment is eminently distracted by other things he'd like to have a go at, but ah- yes. Right.
Maybe he's thinking about something else or maybe the ambassadors from [REDACTED] are just a little off from Piltover standards, because rather than shake Viktor's hand, he bows his head to kiss the back of it utterly without shame. Hmm, yes, that seems correct, this was a good choice he's made.]
That said— my name is Palamedes, and I'm not from around here.
[Maybe they don't like footnotes in this place. Who can say.]
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[he doesn't. he thinks most of the editors of the academy's favorite papers are likely underpaid and pretentious to boot.
the ambassador holding his hand during the little spiel is... endearing, honestly. as though he doesn't want to distract himself from his commentary with shaking it, or forgot himself entirely to making the comment. both are amusing, and viktor wonders for a moment what his angle actually is. there had to be one, there always was at these unbearable affairs.
not that it's a matter he has long to consider, because instead of finally shaking viktor's hand he kisses it. viktor blinks, somewhere there's the quiet flutter of fans and murmurs.]
Neither am I, Palamedes. [he finds himself saying, sounding the name out like it intrigued him. whatever the angle is he knows his own is going to be pursuing the first interesting thing to happen at one of these parties since he's started attending them.] But I've lived here long enough to be an adequate guide, if you'll have me.
no subject
Well! It wasn't as if his mind wasn't already made up - Viktor is charming and handsome and did not recoil in Society Shame (tm) from his hand kiss, and wants to take him around to see some sights - but the attitude does help.
Palamedes dedicates one fraction of a second to concocting the excuse he will need to present to his mother later- 'He's the co-founder, was I supposed to say no?'- and then nods, giving Viktor's fingers a brief and-maybe-somewhat-affectionate squeeze before letting go to gesture... off somewhere. He's not the guide here.]
I think I would like that. So— I'm in your capable hands.
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it's nice to be in on the shared joke, just this once.
walking through the crowd is a careful matter, more to keep from catching any eyes and ending in long conversation. a good thing he hasn't seen heimendinger around, as genuine as the man was he'd rather not get stuck in a rambling story when he has a pretty boy on his arm and some level of mischief between them.]
The food is more price than taste, as any proper banquet should be. Does it matter if the fish is good if you can say it's rare and imported live? [he murmurs into pal's ear as they pass a platter of it.] Piltover hospitality.
no subject
Or, at absolutely full volume, Palamedes simply says:] Fish is horrible, actually.
[And oh, are people turning to look at him with slightly less intrigue and curiosity than before? Oops. He snorts and covers his mouth with his other hand, just for a moment. Really racking up the Piltover points.]
They're looking at me like I'm not right. Hey— [a tug on Viktor's arm, ahem,] I think you're breathtaking. Do you want to get out of here?
no subject
there's some curling anxiety about playing nice, hextech's image even if his face is never the cover of it anyway. surprisingly easy to brush aside when a pretty boy is calling you breathtaking and offering to take things further.]
You insulted the overpriced, mediocre fish by proxy. [honestly pal covering his mouth like that is endearing. he starts them towards some of the side doors with just a small smile in return.
there's an arch into a curling hallway, very public but quiet enough that viktor feels confident in stopping them.] That would be a very good, simple line, though I get this sneaking suspicion you meant it. [he steps in close, hand going from pal's elbow up his arm as he asks quietly,] Your place or mine?
[or to the nearby door that definitely won't go to anywhere sad and terrible.]
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It can't be both? [Maybe he's very good at lines... ha.] I'm not picky; I just want to get you alone and ask you a few more things about footnotes.
[This is not a joke, there will be a quiz, unless they happen to walk into a horrible room full of peeling wallpaper and pain. He's feeling bold- almost as if he's known Viktor for much longer than the past half hour and would flirt with him in public any day, how mysterious- bold enough to tilt Viktor's chin up with his free hand and lean in to kiss him swiftly, heedless of what fussy rich people may be watching. Not for very long, because the public arch is a bad place to talk about research.]
Not just footnotes. [He glances to the side, head tilting towards the completely innocuous door, which for some reason doesn't seem to match the decor of the rest of this hallway? Probably nothing.] There?
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somewhere the string band swells, and viktor's lips quirk a little too fondly to be a proper smirk.]
I would hope not just footnotes. There's an entire paper for you to ruthlessly dissect. [and more scandalous matters. he takes pal's hand again to lead them to the door, a little stutter of uncertainty at what viscerally feels off, though the warm evening light of the evening washes over it.
he opens the door and with it an odd understanding of the situation, as though struck suddenly with all he forgot in his act. there is no walking through, they are simply someplace else, still hand in hand.]
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[The party will rage on, or pettily gossip on, and they don't have to pay one whit of attention to any of that. It's looking like it's going to be an excellent evening after all, Palamedes thinks, giving Viktor a sideways little grin before the door, hm—
Well, something about the door. It's like the world tilts and straightens back up again in the split second it takes Viktor to open the door, and here they are, standing back in the room Palamedes swears he'd just left. The party, that was - what was the party? He twists to look over his shoulder, frowning at the innocently closed door now behind them, then looks back to Viktor. Now the Piltover experience feels fuzzy and strange, a proper dream, but Viktor is still here, so - it's Trench Bullshit Again, isn't it.
Hastily he looks down at his hand, just to see if his ring has reappeared, which it has, which means yeah: it's Trench Bullshit Again.]
Well— hmm. I don't know how this is happening again. [The last eerie shared dream was so long ago, what gives.] Ideas?