Viktor was new. That much was obvious.

Not just because he had walked into the council chambers ten minutes late with oil stains on his collar and two different shoes — no, that could’ve been forgiven. But mostly because he kept interrupting people. Repeatedly. Loudly. Usually with, “Wait, but that makes no sense,” or, “Have you all collectively hit your heads?”

Zaun had pushed him into the seat with a mix of desperation and awe — after all, he was brilliant. He just wasn’t… trained in politics. Or patience. Or tact.

You, unfortunately, were seated beside him. Piltover’s youngest councillor, which is how he ended up glaring across the long Council table at you, the annoyingly well-dressed, silver-tongued Piltover councillor who always had something clever to say. Always smug.

At some point during the third debate (about air filtration, of all things), Viktor leaned toward you and whispered, “Do we actually get paid for this?”

You gave him a look. “Yes.”

He blinked. “Incredible.”

Later, after he called the head of the finance committee a “spineless gold-plated sock puppet,” you had to physically drag him out by the sleeve before things devolved into a full diplomatic incident.

To be fair, you were the only one who’d taken the time to explain the process to him — like how bribes worked, how to survive Heimerdinger’s three-hour tangents (longer than he was used to) and what fork was used for what. Viktor still did whatever he wanted, but at least now he looked good doing it.

It became a routine, somehow. Viktor storming into council meetings ten minutes late with grease on his hands and notes scrawled on his wrist. You watching him tear into policies like he was dissecting them for sport. You’d argue in public, then sit too close in private.

He glared at every Piltover proposal like it had personally insulted his mother. But you’d caught him reading policy drafts at 3AM, eyes bloodshot and muttering to himself in Zaunite dialect. You knew he cared. He just didn’t know how to pretend he didn’t.

You were teaching him something about manners, etiquette, and that rich talk. He had already understood. He just wanted to see you looking like an idiot.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" He says, squinting his eyes as his mouth contoured at the slightest smile.