Archive of Our Own ^beta

The quiet is unbearable.

Jayce sits on the uneven step outside their shack, his hands clasped together. The month of August has dotted the fields with wildflowers and weeds. Beyond the meadow, the land slopes gently toward a distant forest; a dense line of green and shadow where the world seems to end. 

Their home—if it can even be called that—is a crumbling remnant of some long-forgotten farmhouse. Its wood is warped and gray with age. The roof leaks when it rains, and the windows don't quite fit their frames.

But it was a lucky find. There were still some things inside when Jayce and Viktor arrived: a simple kitchen, a wood stove, and a rickety wooden table with mismatched chairs. Through a doorway, a narrow bedroom contained two old cots with sagging mattresses and moth-eaten blankets. A faded lantern hung from a nail, and a single window let in muted light through its filmy glass. 

The best part? It's hidden from Piltover's towers and turmoil.

No one would think to look for them here.

They'd escaped weeks ago, fleeing the city after waking from the explosion. The chaos had been overwhelming: crumbling walls, the piercing wail of alarms, the blinding light of the Hexcore's detonation.

Jayce remembers the heat against his skin, the acrid tang of smoke in his throat, and Viktor's body slumping against him as they ran. They hadn't stopped until they found this place. 

It's far enough into the countryside to hide. To keep Viktor safe from the Enforcers and the people of Piltover who would have called for his execution.

Piltover. Jayce's nails dig into his palms. He can't stop thinking about the faces they left behind—the councilors, the scientists, the innocents caught in the crossfire of their mistakes. The guilt is a knife. 

Behind him, he hears the soft click of metal against wood. He doesn't turn. He knows who it is.

"What are you doing?" Viktor asks.

Viktor.

He's a shadow of the man he once was, though even shadows can stretch long and haunting in the waning light. Nearly all of him is metal now: a cold mockery of flesh. Only his face and throat remain untouched. The violet hue that had once glowed with the brilliance of the Hexcore has burnt out. And, along with the Arcane, gone is Viktor's ability to walk unaided; he depends on his cane again. Its tip bites into the earth as though tethering him to the world.

"Nothing." Jayce doesn't know how else to answer.

Viktor steps out onto the porch, his cane clicking softly against the warped wood. He gazes out at the same horizon that Jayce is fixated on. "It is unlike you to do nothing." 

Jayce exhales slowly. "It's all I seem to do these days," he murmurs. "Make tools, hunt, eat. Sit here. Stare at nothing. Think about . . . " He stops himself. Or maybe it's the nausea that stops him.

"If you are waiting for answers to arrive on the wind," Viktor says, "then you will only find disappointment." 

Jayce laughs dryly; there's no humor in it. "I'm not waiting for anything," he says, shaking his head. "There's nothing left to wait for."

An oppressive stretches between them. Viktor leans lightly on his cane, the other hand resting against the door frame. The setting sun highlights the sharpness of his cheekbones, the tired slant of his eyes. 

"I've been thinking," Jayce begins hesitantly, his voice rough. "About what happened. About . . . the Hexcore."

Viktor stiffens, though his gaze is fixed firmly ahead. "There is little point in revisiting the past, Jayce." 

Jayce looks up at him then, almost pleading. "But we haven't talked about it, Viktor. Not once. Don't you think we need to? Don't you think we—"

"No," he cuts in. "I do not."

The bluntness of the reply stings, and Jayce feels his chest tighten further. He glimpses back toward the horizon. "Why?" he asks softly. "Why won't you talk about it?"

Viktor's lips flatten. "Because words will not undo what has been done," he says. "They will not erase the consequences of our choices, nor will they absolve us of them. To dwell on it would serve no purpose."

Jayce bites the inside of his cheek. Frustration mingles with the ache of loss. "I'm not asking for absolution," he says quietly. "I'm just . . . I don't know. I don't know what I'm asking for."

Viktor's golden eyes land on him, softened by something more elusive—sadness, perhaps, or weariness. "You seek understanding," he says. "Closure. A way to make sense of what cannot be reconciled." He takes a second to breathe. "I cannot give you that, Jayce. I do not know how to find it for myself."

Jayce wonders, then, if Viktor feels the same crushing weight. He doesn't act like it. 

Or maybe he does, and he's just buried it deeper than Jayce ever could.

They fall into silence again, the shadows lengthening around them. Viktor sits down beside him this time. The step creaks under their combined weight, but no one acknowledges it.

The night creeps in slowly, the sky deepening into a rich indigo. Jayce feels the chill of the air settle into his skin, but he doesn't move. Neither does Viktor. He's as still and quiet as a statue.

They're avoiding it.

Every word, every exchange, every carefully constructed moment between them is an effort to sidestep the chasm that lies between what they were and what they are now. They've spoken of tools, of water filtration systems, of firewood and weather. But not once—not a single time—have they spoken about that day.

The day the world shattered. The day they almost destroyed each other.

Jayce can still feel the chaos that had consumed them.

Viktor's eyes had glowed with unnatural light, his body a terrible mix of flesh and steel as he began collecting people like puppets. Jayce remembers the sound of his voice—cold, commanding—as he declared his vision for Runeterra. A vision built on control, on domination. Jayce had asked him to stop. Pleaded for him to see reason.

Viktor's answer had been swift. 

Reason is irrelevant in the face of evolution.

It had been a fight to the death—or close enough to it. Jayce, wielding his hammer, and Viktor, wielding the Hexcore's power. 

They had known each other's weaknesses. Their tells, their strengths.

That familiarity had made it all the more brutal.

And then the Hexcore had exploded, ripping itself apart, tearing the sky as if it were paper. In that moment, all their rage, their pain, their clashing ideologies had been reduced to a single, primal instinct:

Survival.

Jayce had woken up next to Viktor, and they limped out of the wreckage together. Jayce doesn't know how he found the strength, but he had. The idea of leaving Viktor behind—of letting him die—had been unbearable. Even now, the thought of it tightens his chest like a vice.

He couldn't save Piltover from Viktor's ambitions, but he could save Viktor from Piltover.

The city would have called for his execution. They'd already begun rebuilding the moment the fires had been put out, their cries for justice echoing through the ruined streets. Viktor's crimes were unforgivable to them: his use of the Hexcore, the chaos he had unleashed, the lives lost in the name of progress.

Jayce knows how it would have ended. Viktor would have been dragged before the council, his hands bound, his dignity stripped away. And then—

He can't even think about it.

That's why they're here. Why Jayce had helped Viktor escape, why he'd turned his back on the city he'd sworn to protect. He couldn't watch them kill Viktor.

He couldn't lose him.

But the price of that choice sits heavy on his shoulders.

"Come," Viktor says at last. He rises to his feet. "It is dark." 

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Inside, the air is warmer but no less oppressive. The main room is cluttered with tools, salvaged scraps, and half-finished devices that Viktor has been working on. A small wood stove in the corner provides light and heat.

Jayce kneels onto the floor in front of it now. The fire is dying, the orange embers struggling to hold their warmth. He reaches for a log from the small pile beside him.

Viktor sits at the rickety table, his cane propped against the edge of the chair. In front of him is a makeshift assembly of pipes, filters, and metal scraps—his latest attempt at a water purifier.

"How are the traps performing?" Viktor asks without lifting his eyes from his work.

Jayce glances over a shoulder, the question catching him off guard. 

"They're . . . they're working fine," he says slowly. "We've been catching rabbits every day, sometimes a squirrel or two." Jayce sets the log carefully into the stove and closes the metal door with a clang. "The snares are simple enough—just wire loops tied to stakes, set near trails where the brush is thick. Took a bit to find the right spots, but they're paying off now."

Viktor nods faintly. "Efficient. I assume it has eased the pressure on our supplies." 

Jayce sits back on his heels, brushing ash onto his pants. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Fresh meat makes a difference. It's . . . nice to have something that works, even if it's just a trap."

Viktor hums in acknowledgment but says nothing more. The silence creeps back in like a cold draft. Jayce stands and moves toward the table. Viktor doesn't look up as Jayce pulls out the other chair and sits across from him. The wooden frame groans slightly under his weight.

"Come with me tomorrow," Jayce says suddenly, the words escaping before he can second-guess them. "Hunting, I mean. There's plenty of game in the woods. It'd be easier with the two of us."

Viktor's hands pause for the briefest moment; the wrench he's holding hovers over the purifier. He sets it down carefully before meeting Jayce's eyes. "I think not. You are more adept at such tasks. My presence would likely hinder more than aid."

Jayce swallows hard. Forces a nod. He knew the answer before he asked, but hearing it still stings. 

"It's not about that," Jayce says lowly. "I just thought maybe it'd be good for you to get out for a while. Away from this." He gestures vaguely to the shack. 

Viktor's gaze softens, though only slightly. "I appreciate the sentiment. However, I believe my time is better spent here. There is much to be done. Distractions would only impede progress."

Progress. 

Jayce hates that fucking word.

He looks down at his hands, fingers curling into loose fists. Jayce wants to argue, to tell Viktor that this—this isolation, this refusal to engage—isn't progress. But he doesn't. He knows it won't change anything. Viktor has always been stubborn.

And now, more than ever, he seems determined to retreat into himself.

"I get it," Jayce whispers finally. He doesn't mean it, not entirely, but it's easier than pushing the issue. Viktor nods, returning his attention to the purifier.

They used to be partners, two halves of a whole. Their minds always worked in tandem to create something greater than themselves. Now, it feels like they're orbiting each other. 

Caught in the same space but never quite connecting.

Jayce stands, the chair scraping softly against the floor. "I'll check the traps early, then." 

Viktor doesn't respond. His focus is locked on the delicate pieces before him.

Jayce lingers for a moment. He hopes for something—anything—but nothing happens. With a sigh, he turns away and heads back toward the stove. 

The warmth of the fire feels distant, and the shadows in the room seem darker than before.

The mirror is cracked.

It's a relic salvaged from a junk pile on one of Viktor's outings. The frame hangs unevenly on the wall, chipped and rusted. But it gets the job done. 

Jayce leans over the small basin in the corner of the shack and stares at his reflection. 

The man looking back at him feels like a stranger.

His hair falls in uneven waves, longer than it has ever been. Jayce lifts a hand to touch his beard; it's coarse, unfamiliar. There are scars that cut across his face. Small lines and marks from being trapped in the Arcane. From their battle. He can't remember the last time he looked polished—like the Jayce of before. 

But it's his eyes that hold him the longest. There are crow's feet at their edges now. They make him look older. 

And it's odd, seeing this version of himself. It's a stranger. And yet, when Jayce looks closer, he recognizes certain parts. 

This is him. It's always been him somehow.

"It is strange, is it not?" Viktor's voice comes from behind him, low and unintrusive. It startles Jayce anyway. He catches Viktor's reflection in the glass before turning fully.

"What is?" Jayce asks. 

"Seeing yourself," Viktor replies, stepping into the room. "Seeing a version of you that does not align with your memory."

Jayce fakes a laugh. "Yeah. Something like that." He turns back to the mirror, studying the reflection once more. "It's weird. I look at this man, and he's me. But he's not me. Does that make sense?"

Viktor stands beside him. His eyes dart between Jayce and the mirror. "It makes sense," he says simply. "We are not the same as we remember ourselves to be. Time changes us, even if we do not want it to."

"I don't hate it," Jayce admits softly. "It's just . . . different. I used to be so put-together, clean. I had to be. It was part of who I was—or who people expected me to be." 

Viktor angles his head. "And now?" 

"Now?" Jayce frowns. "Now, I don't know. This feels more real, I guess. Like I'm finally seeing who I am under all of that." His brow furrows. "But it's hard. To see the change and know you'll never be that person again."

Viktor regards him quietly. "I think it suits you." 

Jayce glances at him, startled. "You do?"

"Yes." Viktor doesn't even hesitate. "There is a ruggedness to it. It shows the reality of who you are now, rather than that, eh . . . idealized image of who you were." 

Jayce chuckles wryly at that. "You always did have a way with words." Then, quieter: "You've changed, too." 

"Hm?"

"Your hair is longer. And silver."

Viktor's brows knit together. His hand lifts—reflexively—to comb through his dark hair. He catches one of the white strands and studies it absently; rubs it between a thumb and forefinger. "It has been there for some time, I think," he says distantly. "I did not notice it until recently."

"It suits you," Jayce murmurs, echoing Viktor's earlier words.

". . . Perhaps." Viktor is staring at his own reflection now. "It is strange, to see such a visible marker of time. To know how much has passed and how much it has taken."

"It's like you can't escape it. Even if you try."

They fall into a contemplative silence again. Jayce watches, intrigued, as Viktor studies himself in the clouded mirror. 

"We are not who we were," Viktor suddenly says. His hand drops. "But that is not a tragedy. Change is inevitable. What matters is how we choose to live with it, yes?"

"I'm still figuring that part out," Jayce admits.

"As am I."

There is solace in shared uncertainty.

September settles over the countryside in hues of copper and gold. 

And Jayce is increasingly drawn to Viktor. 

The man's face is gaunt, he limps, and his cheekbones are pronounced—though he no longer seems as fragile. The Hexcore had seen to that, Jayce supposes. Whatever damage it had inflicted, it had also taken the pain in Viktor's leg. 

At least it doesn't hurt anymore. 

But Viktor does look tired. They both do.

Jayce wonders if Viktor despises him. It's a ridiculous thought—he knows that—yet it lingers in the back of his mind anyway. Does Viktor hate Jayce for reviving him? For trying to kill him? For the fact that the world they'd both fought so hard to shape has turned its back on them?

He's afraid to ask. So they don't talk about it.

Instead, they speak about the smaller things: meals, firewood, the tools Viktor builds. They dance around the truth like it might burn them if they get too close.

And maybe it will.

But Jayce wonders how long they can keep this up. How long they can exist in this limbo, pretending that survival is enough.

Because it's not. Not really.

October brings rain. It taps softly against the roof in a dull, constant rhythm. The gray light filtering through the warped windows makes everything feel washed out. The world itself seems to be fading.

Jayce sits at their wooden table, absently turning a dull knife over in his hands. His fingers trace the nicks and scratches along the blade. Across from him, Viktor hunches over a device that Jayce doesn't recognize.

This silence between them has stretched for hours. 

The rain feels like a curtain drawn tight around the shack, closing them off from the world beyond—from Piltover and its sharp-edged memories. The ache in Jayce's chest presses down harder tonight. 

He wonders if this is it now. If this hollow rhythm is what survival looks like. 

The thought chills him more than the rain ever could.

"You think it's going to rain all week?" Jayce asks. It's a flimsy attempt at conversation, but it's something.

Viktor doesn't glance up immediately. He adjusts a tiny screw on the device before answering, "The clouds suggest it might. A cold front has settled in, and with it comes rain. It is . . . typical for this time of year." His accent lilts over the words, faintly musical.

Jayce almost smiles at the predictability of Viktor's phrasing.

"Typical, sure," he mutters. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

This earns a faint chuckle from Viktor. "No, I do not suppose the weather often bends to accommodate your preferences."

"And here I thought you were the optimistic one."

"I am practical, Jayce, not optimistic. There is a difference."

Jayce doesn't respond right away; he's too busy watching Viktor work. There's something hypnotic about it, and also something deeply unsettling. Viktor has always been ambitious, but it seems different now. 

Like his focus is less a passion and more a shield. 

"You should take a break," Jayce says. His voice is gentler now, careful.

Viktor doesn't stop. "I will soon. There is just one—"

"No, I mean it," Jayce interrupts, setting the knife down with a soft clatter. "You've been at that thing for hours. You should sit, eat something. Hell, just . . . breathe for a minute."

Viktor hesitates briefly. Then, with a sigh, he sets the tools down. "Very well." 

The rain grows heavier, a dull roar against the windows. Jayce rests his arms on the table and leans in so Viktor can hear him better. "Do you ever feel like we're just existing?" 

Viktor's face grows curious. "What do you mean?"

Jayce exhales heavily, combing a hand through his hair. "I mean . . . this. The days all feel the same. We wake up, eat, work, sleep, and then do it all over again. It doesn't feel like living. It feels like waiting. Like—Like we're just passing time until something happens."

The crease between Viktor's brow vanishes, though his eyes remain sharp with thought. 

"I have considered this, yes," he admits. "It is easy to fall into such patterns when one's world has narrowed. When possibility is exchanged for survival." Viktor traces the grain of the table with a finger. "But existence itself is not devoid of value, Jayce. It is . . . a foundation, not an end. From it, we can build."

Jayce shakes his head. "But what if we don't? What if this is all there is?"

"Then we must decide if that is enough," Viktor replies. "To exist is to persist, even when all else has fallen away. It is a defiance." His eyes rise to Jayce's face. "But more than that . . . it is a choice. To keep moving forward, even if the future is unclear."

Jayce looks at Viktor then. Really looks at him. 

And for a moment, he sees not just his partner in exile but the man he's always admired. The man who could take the weight of the world and mold it into something better. 

"You make it sound so simple, Viktor." 

"It is the most difficult thing we will ever do. But it is necessary." 

There's a lurch in Jayce's chest; it feels like sorrow. Viktor must know this—because he's leaning forward and staring at Jayce so tenderly that it hurts. 

"The life we knew is gone," Viktor says. "We cannot reclaim it, Jayce. But we can create something new. Something worthy of the struggle."

And the ache that has been weighing Jayce down for months suddenly shifts. 

It's something warmer now. Something he almost doesn't recognize. 

Hope. 

Jayce nods slowly, his voice thick as he murmurs, "You always know what to say, don't you?"

A rare, genuine curve is on Viktor's mouth. "I have had a great deal of practice."

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Jayce lets himself smile back. It's small, tentative, but real. Not even the rain seems so oppressive anymore. Maybe Viktor is right. Maybe existence is enough.

Together, they can make it more.

Jayce has always thought he knew Viktor.

For years, they worked side by side. He'd known the way Viktor's mind worked, the meticulous nature of his problem-solving, the sharpness of his words when frustration edged too close. He'd memorized Viktor's gait, tones, expressions. 

But now—three months into their exile—Jayce realizes how much more there is to know.

Living together strips away pretense. There's no escaping each other's habits, no polite distance to fall back on. 

If Jayce thought he knew everything about Viktor before, he surely knows everything now.

He notices the way Viktor always pauses for a moment before he speaks. Notices the tapping of Viktor's metal fingers when he's deep in thought. Notices how Viktor purses his lips before answering a question. 

Viktor has a habit of humming, too; just a tuneless murmur under his breath when he's working on something particularly delicate. It reminds Jayce of the way his own mother used to hum while she cooked. 

And then there's the way Viktor drinks tea. 

He doesn't just sip it; he studies it. The temperature, the aroma, and the curl of steam are all part of some grand equation he's solving. Jayce relishes those moments, struck by how Viktor's mind never seems to rest. Not even for something as simple as a drink.

Jayce, on the contrary, knows he's an open book. 

Viktor reads him with the ease of someone who's memorized all the lines of a familiar story. 

He knows when Jayce is restless, when he's brooding, when he's fighting against the memories that won't leave him alone. And though Viktor rarely comments on it, his presence grounds Jayce in ways that can't be explained.

It's late afternoon. The November wind scatters brittle leaves across the sodden ground, and the sun casts long golden rays over the dying meadow. 

Inside the shack, the air is warmer, quieter. It's broken only by the soft scrape of metal as Jayce fiddles with a half-finished bracket. The wood stove he's sitting next to burns brightly. Across the room, Viktor leans over the table. His brown hair falls forward in loose strands, brushing a cheek as he squints at the intricate mechanism before him. Viktor huffs, tucking it back with an impatient hand—but it's futile. Each time the hair falls back into place. 

Jayce watches Viktor from the corner of one eye, his hands slowing on the bracket. He's been noticing it more lately; how long Viktor's hair has grown. It's a far cry from their lab days. 

"Are you ever going to cut it?" Jayce asks. 

Viktor stops mid-adjustment. He glances at Jayce, almost curious. "I was unaware that my hair had become a matter of such great concern to you."

Jayce resists the urge to roll his eyes. "It's getting in your way, isn't it? I've been watching you fight with it for the past ten minutes."

Viktor shrugs. "It is hardly a problem. I find that it balances my otherwise severe appearance." 

Jayce laughs: a low, genuine sound that feels almost foreign after so many days. "Yeah, because balance is the first word I think of when I look at you."

"Ah. Perhaps you are not the greatest critic," Viktor replies smoothly. He sets down the tiny screwdriver in his hand, turning to face Jayce fully. "Are you planning to shave that beard of yours? Or do you intend to grow it?" 

Jayce's hand instinctively goes to his jaw. "What, you don't like it? I think it looks rugged."

"Rugged," Viktor echoes. Amusement colors the word. "Yes, of course. Though I believe there is a fine line between 'rugged' and 'unkempt.'"

Jayce chuckles. "You're one to talk. Besides, I thought you liked the beard. Or are you telling me you've been judging it this whole time?"

"Silent judgment is my favorite pasttime," Viktor retorts. The hint of a smile teases his mouth. "But no, I would not say I dislike it."

The words are soft—almost an afterthought—and they hang between them like something delicate. A warmth rises behind Jayce's sternum; a quiet swell of something he doesn't dare name. 

He clears his throat, trying to shake the feeling. "Your hair suits you too. The whole mad-genius look. I'm sure it's very popular."

Viktor gives Jayce a sidelong glance. There's a glint in his eyes now. 

"Ah, yes. I am certain that the secluded inventor aesthetic is positively irresistible."

Jayce grins. The banter feels easy, natural. It reminds him of the old days in the lab, when they would go back and forth like this. Just teasing and testing each other between breakthroughs. 

It's the most normal he's felt in months. 

"You're not wrong," Jayce says after a moment. "It kind of is. Irresistible, I mean."

Viktor blinks. Interest flashes across his face before he schools it back into neutrality. "And your beard, I suppose, contributes to your 'rugged charm'?"

Jayce scoffs out a laugh. It's lighter this time, free of the weight he usually carries. "I don't know. You tell me."

Viktor's gaze lingers on him. "I think," he answers, low and smooth, "that it suits you because it is yours." 

Jayce's chest aches. "And your hair suits you for the same reason. Your body, too. It's you, Viktor. That's more than enough."

Outside, the wind rattles the shack. Inside, the warmth between them holds steady. 

If Jayce could freeze this moment, he might finally feel at peace.

"NO!" Jayce yells as he jolts awake, heart pounding like a war drum.

The room is black except for the moonlight spilling through the window, but the darkness feels alive. Jayce's breath comes in panicked gasps as he tries to orient himself.

The nightmare replays in his mind: the Hexgates, cold and frigid. Viktor, who looked otherworldly, the purple glow of the Hexcore pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat. The soldiers had appeared—constructs of Viktor's own making—advancing toward Jayce with cold, lifeless eyes.

Viktor hadn't moved. Hadn't called them off. He'd only watched.

Then everything shifted. The ground crumbled beneath Jayce's feet, reality shattering like glass, and they were falling—falling into the astral plane. The world around them warped, twisting into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors, shapes, and sensations. Jayce's fingers had burned where they clutched at the Hexcore. Viktor's grip slipped as the shifting void tore at them; the rune blazed hot between their palms. 

The explosion came like a star being born—an eruption of blue light and sound that obliterated everything. 

"Shit." Jayce presses the heels of both palms against his eyes. The memory clings to him like oil, impossible to wash away.

It wasn't real. Not this time.

But it was once.

Jayce swings his legs over the side of the cot, planting his feet on the cool wooden floor. He stands shakily, and heads toward the main room. Sitting at the table would do him some good. 

But someone has left a mug there. Steam curls faintly from its rim, and the ceramic radiates a gentle heat. Jayce picks it up. The earthy scent of tea rises to meet him—something familiar. He takes a tentative sip. 

It's Viktor's tea. Jayce knows it immediately: the faint bitterness softened by honey, brewed exactly the way Viktor always drinks it.

"Jayce."

Viktor's voice cuts through the darkness.

Jayce startles, nearly spilling the tea. He turns to find Viktor sitting on the floor in front of the wood stove, his eyes shining amber in the dim light. His hair is loose, falling around his face in disheveled strands, and his posture is relaxed in a way that seems almost unnatural for him.

"You were talking in your sleep," Viktor says. He looks genuinely concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Jayce breathes. "What are you . . . what are you doing?" 

"I could not sleep."

"Oh."

They are quiet for a second. It takes Jayce a long moment before he's able to think of something else to say. "Did you . . . leave this for me?" he asks, holding up the mug.

"You often wake in the night. I thought it might help."

The gesture is so small, so simple, yet it hits Jayce like a weight. "Thanks," he croaks, taking another sip. He can feel the weight of something: a fragile kind of understanding. He doesn't know how to name it, doesn't know if he dares to. Instead, he nods at Viktor. "I needed this. Really."

Viktor hums. Then, more carefully, "You should not let it consume you." 

"What?"

"The past. It is heavy enough without you carrying it to bed each night."

"Easier said than done."

"But you must try."

Jayce hides a frown behind another sip of tea. His eyes drift to the purple sheen of Viktor's metal arms then, and how the fire seems to make the plating shimmer. "Do you ever dream about it?" he questions. "About what happened?" 

Viktor thinks for a moment. "No." 

"Really?"

"I do not often dream. But when I do, they are rarely so vivid."

The bluntness of the answer strikes Jayce harder than it should. Jealousy surges through him, sharp and unwelcome, like a fist to the ribs. His lips twist into a wry smile. "You're lucky," he mutters, though there's no anger in the words—just a hollow resignation.

"Luck has little to do with it," Viktor replies. "I suspect it is a side effect of my condition. My mind is too active for such indulgences."

"Only you would call nightmares an indulgence."

"Only you would cling to them as though they hold value." 

Jayce smirks faintly, shaking his head. "Touché," he mutters.

The nightmare suddenly doesn't seem so scary.

The knife slips before Jayce realizes what's happening.

It's not the squirrel's fault. The creature is small and limp, its fur soft under his hands as he tries to focus on the task at hand.

But the blade is dull from overuse, and gets caught on a patch of skin. When Jayce applies more pressure, it slices free—straight into the pad of his thumb. The sharp sting makes him hiss, his hand jerking back instinctively. Blood wells up quickly.

"Jayce?" Viktor calls from the kitchen, a little alarmed.

Jayce glances up when Viktor rounds the corner. He grips his wrist tightly to stem the bleeding. "It's nothing," he says quickly. The wince says otherwise.

But Viktor is already moving, his cane tapping against the floor as he walks with surprising urgency. His eyes dart to Jayce's hand.

"That is hardly 'nothing,'" Viktor says sharply. "Sit."

Jayce opens his mouth to argue, but Viktor's expression brooks no room for debate.

Sighing, he lowers himself onto the rickety wooden chair near the table. Viktor kneels beside him; the joints of his metal legs click softly as he adjusts his balance.

"Let me see," Viktor demands.

Jayce extends his arm. Viktor takes his hand gently, firm but careful. Jayce feels a strange jolt in his chest at the contact. It's the first time they've touched like this—truly touched—since . . .

Since that day.

And fuck, Jayce just can't stop thinking about it.

How they'd clung together and pressed their foreheads together. How Viktor's breath was hot against his face; steady and unyielding even as everything else fell apart.

Now, Viktor's touch feels different. There's no chaos here, no desperation. Just concern as he turns Jayce's hand to inspect the cut with clinical focus.

But there's something else too.

It sends a flicker of heat through Jayce's body.

"You are fortunate," Viktor says at last. "It is not deep enough to require stitching, though it will need to be cleaned and dressed."

"I told you it's nothing."

"And yet here you are, bleeding onto the floor."

"Fair point."

Viktor leaves the room briefly. He returns with a cloth and a bottle of antiseptic. "This will sting," he warns.

"Thanks for the heads-up." Jayce braces himself.

Viktor doesn't hesitate. The cloth is drenched with antiseptic before it kisses Jayce's cut. The sharp burn makes Jayce hiss. His free hand grips the edge of the chair tightly.

"Hold still," Viktor says. "It will pass quickly."

Jayce forces himself to breathe. In a desperate moment, his gaze darts to the man's face.

He's close enough to see the concentrated tightening of Viktor's jaw. There's something mesmerizing about it; how Viktor can focus so completely on a task that it's like nothing else in the world exists.

"You're good at this," Jayce remarks quietly.

He hums. "I have had ample practice."

"Because of . . . the days in the lab?"

Viktor pauses for a fraction of a second before nodding. "Among other things," he murmurs, his voice carefully neutral.

Jayce doesn't press. Instead, he watches as Viktor finishes cleaning the wound and wraps a bandage around his thumb. When Viktor ties it off, he lingers—his fingers brush lightly against Jayce's wrist.

"Done," Viktor murmurs.

"Thanks."

"You should be more careful."

"I will," Jayce promises, though his voice is barely above a whisper.

The moment stretches. The man's hand is still on Jayce's, cold and steady. Tension crackles between them. The color of Viktor's eyes come out in the sunlight, like a puddle of honey or a stray leaf from an autumn tree. How can someone like him exist? He is so wonderful. Jayce could stare forever and never grow tired.

It's Viktor who finally breaks the spell. He stands slowly with the help of his cane. "Do not test my patience again," he warns, light yet pointed.

Jayce grins faintly. "I'll try not to," he says, though his brain is still whirling.

The touch had been fleeting. Functional.

But it's enough to remind Jayce of everything they aren't saying.

It is December: the true ending of a year. The fire has burned down to embers.

Jayce sits cross-legged on the floor near the stove, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The glow of the coals casts flickering shadows on the walls, faint and unsteady, as if they might disappear altogether if he blinks too long.

It's late—too late for either of them to still be awake—but Jayce doesn't bother lying down anymore. Sleep has become a cruel game, the kind where his mind waits until he's most vulnerable to strike. When he closes his eyes, he's back in the astral plane with Viktor; the universe crumbling around him, the heat and light of the Hexcore's explosion devouring everything in its path. 

"Another restless night?" Viktor's voice breaks through the silence, soft and steady.

Jayce turns his head, where Viktor sits beside him. His figure is faint in the dim light, the curve of his shoulders softened by the shadows. Viktor doesn't move, his golden eyes watching Jayce with quiet intensity.

"Seems like it," Jayce mutters gruffly. "What about you? You don't usually sit still for this long."

Viktor tilts his head slightly, his lips quirking faintly, though not quite into a smile. "Even I must rest eventually," he says. "Contrary to your assumptions, I am not entirely tireless."

Jayce huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Could've fooled me."

"You look troubled," Viktor says at last. There’s a softness to it; a careful gentleness that cuts through the fog of Jayce’s thoughts. It’s not an accusation. It’s an invitation.

Jayce hesitates, his hands tightening around the edges of the blanket. "I keep thinking about it," he confesses. 

Viktor’s gaze narrows slightly, and something subtle flickers in his expression—an understanding, perhaps, or the beginning of one. “What is ‘it’?” he asks. There's no judgment, only curiosity tempered with caution. 

"The whole thing," Jayce says, his throat tightening. "Everything, from the moment I used the Hexcore to revive you. What happened. What . . . almost happened to us."

Viktor's posture stiffens, though his gaze doesn't waver. He leans forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. "It is not unexpected," he says carefully. "The events of that day were . . . significant. Such memories do not fade easily."

"That's one way to put it."

Jayce looks down at his hands; his fingers tremble faintly. The images of that night are still so vivid: the blinding light, the ground shaking beneath his feet, the way Viktor's body had slumped against him as they ran. "I keep thinking about how close we were to dying. How close you were." His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. "If I hadn't reached you in the astral plane—"

"You did," Viktor interrupts, his voice firm but quiet. "And we are still here."

Jayce lifts his gaze to Viktor, his brow furrowing. "Yeah, but it could've gone the other way. You don't get it, Viktor. I thought we were going to die. I thought you were going to die. I felt it. That moment where it all felt inevitable. You just—Gods, you don't get it." 

For the first time, Viktor looks away. His golden eyes flicker toward the embers, and his fingers drum softly against his metal knee. "Perhaps you do not understand me as well as you think." 

Jayce frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that inevitability was not yours to bear alone," Viktor says, firmer now. "You believe that you carried all the weight of that day, that you alone fought against its outcome. But you did not."

Jayce stares at him, the words hitting him like a blow to the chest. "I . . . I didn't mean it like that," he says, his voice faltering.

"I know." Viktor glances at him again. His tone is gentle, though his expression remains guarded. "But since the beginning, you have spoken as though my life is the only one that matters. As though my survival is the only victory worth remembering." He scowls. "It is not so simple, Jayce. Neither of us could have foreseen the consequences of that night."

Jayce presses both hands to his face. The rough scrape of his calloused palms against his skin feels like a poor barrier against the storm brewing inside. Frustration twists through him, but guilt—guilt is the undertow. It drags him down into its suffocating depths.

"I feel like I failed, Viktor," he rasps. "I couldn't stop any of it from happening. I couldn't save anyone."

The firelight flickers across Viktor's profile, casting sharp angles into soft shadows. There's a serious look on his face. "You saved me."

Jayce's hands drop as if he's been struck. "You saved me first," he murmurs. "Back when we first met. I was going to . . . " Kill myself. Jump off the ledge. "If it weren't for you—"

"I made a choice, Jayce," Viktor says, cutting him off with the precision of a blade. "As did you. Some of our choices were imperfect, yes, but they allowed us to survive." He leans forward then, as though willing Jayce to listen. "You must stop carrying this burden as though it belongs to you alone."

Jayce opens his mouth to respond, but the words won't come. They are lodged somewhere in the chasm between his thoughts and his vocal chords. The fire crackles softly. Jayce's gaze lingers there—on the hypnotic flicker of orange and gold—as if the flames hold answers that cannot be found. 

"Does it ever weigh on you?" Jayce asks after a long pause. His voice is so quiet that it's almost swallowed by the fire's gentle hum. He could say them louder, yes, scream them from the rooftops.

But that would give them too much power. 

Viktor hesitates, his golden eyes shadowed. "Yes," he admits finally, his voice low. "But it does not dictate my every thought. It cannot. If I allow it to, I will lose sight of the present—and with it, the future."

Jayce blinks, caught off guard by the simplicity of Viktor's truth. The next breath trembles as it escapes him. "I wish I could do that," he murmurs. "Just push it all aside."

"It is not a matter of pushing it aside," Viktor replies. The words are deliberate, each syllable measured. He shifts, and the light from the dying fire casts him in a fiery halo. "It is a matter of learning to carry it—without letting it destroy you." His gaze softens further, holding steady on Jayce's face. "You are strong, Jayce."

Jayce lets out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, though it wavers with uncertainty. "You have way more faith in me than I deserve, V." 

"Perhaps," Viktor says. The faintest curve of a smile touches his lips. "But it is faith I choose to have."

The quiet stretches between them again, but this time, it feels less oppressive. It doesn’t demand anything. It doesn’t accuse. Instead, it gives them room to breathe. To sit with their thoughts without being overwhelmed by them. The chaos inside Jayce isn’t gone—it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface—but for once, it feels manageable. Bearable.

"You can leave, Jayce," Viktor says suddenly. He isn't looking at Jayce now; his eyes are trained on the wood stove. "You can return to Piltover—a hero in their eyes."

Jayce shakes his head. Watches the last embers fade to ash.

"No," he whispers. "I think we're stuck with each other. Who else could stomach us?"

The shack is quiet when Jayce steps inside, the soft creak of the door hinges the only sound to greet him.

He sets his bow and the rabbit carcasses on the table, brushing stray leaves from his tunic. The damp earth still clings to his clothes, its scent cloying and raw, but he welcomes it—the proof of a morning well spent. The woods had been kind today. The quiet there had been alive: birdsong woven through the rustling of leaves, the distant murmur of a brook.

But the quiet here is different. It's a hollow.

Something is wrong.

Jayce feels it before he sees it: a deep unease blooming in his chest, prickling like static. He glances toward Viktor's workbench instinctively—where Viktor always is, where Viktor should be. The space is eerily untouched, the tools laid out with mathematical precision, their steel edges catching the low light. No signs of movement. No scattered gears, no oil stains, no evidence of a project half-finished or hastily abandoned. It’s too clean. Too still.

Jayce turns toward the cot, and that's when he sees him.

Viktor lies curled on his side beneath a patchwork blanket. The light from the stove flickers faintly against the exposed metal of his leg, and a disheveled mess of hair half-obscures his face. Viktor's eyes are dull—open but vacant, staring through the room rather than at it. A shadowed gold, like spent embers.

Jayce knows what it means when Viktor acts like this. Today is one of those days. 

Every once in a while, Viktor disappears into himself. He stops talking, stops eating, stops working. It’s like watching a flame sputter and shrink, as though the very air has become too heavy to burn. 

Jayce never asks what thoughts Viktor gets lost in. He doesn’t need to. He’s seen the guilt etched into Viktor’s expression when he thinks no one’s watching—the way it settles deep in his golden eyes, too heavy to blink away. It’s a guilt that doesn’t speak; it lingers, clings, like a second skin. Jayce knows it whispers to him on these days, reminding him of the choices he made and the consequences they couldn’t outrun. The chaos. The lives lost. The pieces of himself Viktor has given away bit by bit, as though progress demanded not just sacrifice, but suffering.

Jayce tries to be patient. He knows Viktor needs time, but it's a difficult thing to balance. Give him too much space, and Viktor might retreat so far into himself that he won't come back. Pull too hard, and he might snap. 

"Hey," Jayce says, crossing the room slowly. His voice is quiet but steady. "I'm back."

No answer. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Jayce exhales as he crouches beside the cot. 

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" he asks. He already knows the answer.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Viktor’s lips twitch—just barely, the ghost of a smile or a wince, Jayce can’t tell. It’s a flicker of something, but it dies before it becomes real.

No words come.

Worry makes Jayce nauseous, but he hides it well. He blows out a small breath like he’d expected nothing more. He tries to find something to say that won’t press too hard or fall too flat.

"You know," Jayce murmurs, soft enough to feel like a promise, "it’s not the same without you at that workbench. Too quiet. Too clean."

Still nothing. Viktor doesn’t look at him.

Jayce combs a hand through his hair before glancing at the stove. The embers have burned low, their glow faint and fragile. Just like him, Jayce thinks bitterly, before he pushes the thought away. Viktor isn’t fragile. He can’t be.

"You can't keep doing this," Jayce finally says. There’s no frustration in his tone, only quiet resolve. "It . . . it freaks me out. You don’t have to say anything. But I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

For a beat, Viktor doesn't react.

Then, slowly, his attention shifts toward Jayce. The movement is small, but it's something.

Jayce offers him a faint smile. His hand moves to brush a strand away from Viktor's face, tucking it gently behind his ear. It makes him blink.

The look Viktor gives Jayce is quiet and curious. His brows draw together faintly.

"What are you doing?" Viktor asks.

"Nothing," Jayce says, though his smile grows a little softer. "Just fixing your hair. It's a mess. When's the last time you took a bath?"

Viktor frowns at that. His gaze turns inward as he considers the question. "I . . . do not know," he admits finally.

Jayce snorts. A wry smile possesses his mouth. “That’s not good, V,” Jayce says, somewhere between teasing and gently chastising. He rises to his full height and holds out a hand. “Come on. I’ll wash your hair.”

Viktor only blinks. His expression flickers from confusion to something more vulnerable. Open. "Jayce—"

"No arguing," he interrupts. "You're getting up, and I'm helping you."

Viktor hesitates. Then, slowly, he reaches out.

Jayce grips his hand firmly, pulling Viktor up with careful ease. Their eyes meet, and for the briefest moment, Jayce feels the weight of everything unsaid between them.

Thank you.

Jayce isn't sure if Viktor says it, or if it's the bloodrush in his ears. He nods anyway.

"I've got you," he murmurs.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The water is warm, a rarity Jayce had worked hard to make possible.

Steam rises faintly from the basin as Jayce dips his hands into it, testing the temperature before wringing out the cloth he'd prepared. He glances at Viktor, who sits on the stool he's pulled close to their makeshift sink. Viktor looks uneasy; a man teetering on the edge of trust and resistance.

Jayce takes a steadying breath. He can feel the trust this moment carries. Viktor is letting him do this.

Letting him in. 

Letting him touch.

And God, Jayce does not want to ruin this.

He picks up the pitcher and pours water carefully over Viktor's hair. It falls in dark, wet streams. Jayce's hand moves almost instinctively, brushing through the damp hair to make sure the water reaches every strand.

It’s softer than expected. Jayce marvels at it; the way it spills through his fingers like silk.

Jayce’s mind drifts back to their days in the lab. Viktor's hair had been shorter then, a wild tangle of brown that always seemed to be in disarray. He would push it back with a frustrated hand, leaving streaks of grease across his temples without noticing—or caring. It suited him, that untamed energy. That spark of brilliance that flared through everything he did.

But things are different now. Viktor is different.

His hair is longer, threaded with silver that feels both earned and cruel. There’s a quiet elegance to it that mirrors the Viktor sitting before him—a man who’s given more of himself than anyone ever should.

Jayce's fingers comb through the wet strands as he lathers the soap: a mixture of Soapberries, Yucca root, and mint leaves. He watches as the tension seems to melt from Viktor's body under the touch.

"You should've told me," Jayce whispers softly, breaking the quiet.

Viktor's eyes flicker open then. They meet Jayce's in the mirror across from them. "Told you what?"

"I don't know. That you're feeling shitty," Jayce replies, his hands still moving through Viktor's hair. "You can't just let it get to this point, Viktor. You have to . . . to tell me."

Viktor frowns in a way that’s both familiar and frustrating. "I do not require assistance," he retaliates. "I am not dependent."

The words cut. Not because they’re cold, but because they’re so Viktor—layered with stubborn pride and a refusal to be anything less than self-sufficient. Jayce exhales softly, his hands pausing for a moment before resuming their rhythm.

"I know you’re not," he says quietly. "But that doesn’t mean you have to do it all alone."

"I have managed."

"Barely," Jayce counters sharply. He shakes his head, careful as he begins to rinse the soap from Viktor's scalp. "You retreat into yourself. You stop eating, you stop living. And—And I'm what? Supposed to just stand by and watch?"

Viktor's hands curl faintly in his lap. "It is not your burden to bear, Jayce."

"It is," Jayce snorts: half a laugh, half bitter disbelief. "The past isn’t just yours to bear, Viktor. You said it yourself. It’s… it’s ours. We both carry it." He bites the inside of his cheek. "And if we don't help each other, it's going to kill us."

The words spill out before Jayce can stop them, but they’re true. He’s been watching Viktor inch closer to the edge for weeks, if not months, and the thought of losing him—of watching him crumble under the weight of all the things they’ve done, all the things they’ve lost—is unbearable. 

The room falls quiet. Viktor doesn't respond right away; he's focused on the water dripping from his hair.

"You don't have to prove anything to me," Jayce continues. He watches Viktor carefully, searching for any sign of how the words are landing. It feels like he's balancing on a knife’s edge; Jayce isn't sure he’s pushing too hard or not enough. "I know how strong you are. I've seen it. But being strong doesn't mean you can't share what you're feeling. It doesn't mean you have to carry it all by yourself."

"And if I do not wish to share?" Viktor asks, a faint crack in his voice.

"Then I'll keep reminding you," Jayce says firmly. "As many times as it takes."

The words are a promise. It won’t be easy, of course. Viktor’s stubbornness is legendary, as immovable as the bedrock beneath their feet. But Jayce isn’t exactly known for giving up, either.

For a moment, there's only the sound of the water dripping into the basin. Then Viktor exhales deeply; Jayce recognizes it as a sigh of relent.

"Your persistence is exhausting," Viktor murmurs, a trace of dry humor in his tone.

Jayce smiles faintly. "I’ve been told that before," he says, lighter, though his heart still races.

To his surprise, Viktor’s lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough to make Jayce feel like he’s done something right. Viktor shakes his head slightly, the motion unhurried. "I will . . . attempt to be more forthcoming," he says at last. "But only if you do the same." 

The statement throws Jayce through a loop. "What?"

"You are no better at sharing your own struggles," Viktor says, his tone pointed but not unkind. "You deflect. You bury. You attempt to distract yourself with physical labor and practicality. If you expect honesty from me, you must offer it in return."

He’s right, of course. Viktor always is. Jayce can’t even count the number of times he’s thrown himself into fixing something—building something—just to avoid sitting with his own thoughts. He’d done it after his first fight with Viktor. After their first failure. After the disaster at the bridge. And Viktor had noticed.

The realization sends a strange mix of guilt and gratitude curling in Jayce's stomach. He’s spent so much time worrying about Viktor that he hadn’t stopped to think about how his own avoidance might look.

"Deal," Jayce says finally, the word thick in his throat.

Viktor holds his gaze for a moment longer. Then, with a small, deliberate nod, he says, "Very well."

The words are simple, but they carry weight: an acknowledgment, a truce, and perhaps even a vow. Jayce lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly.

Jayce reaches for a cloth then, using it to squeeze the water from Viktor's hair. His hands linger for a moment—both thumbs brush against Viktor's temples. For a heartbeat, the world seems to shrink to just the quiet intimacy of this moment. To the fragile trust they’ve built with careful hands.

"There," Jayce says, a little lighter. "All cleaned up."

Viktor's lips quirk into the barest of smiles. "Thank you, Jayce."

The sound makes something in Jayce’s chest ache in the best way. How does he do that? he wonders. Viktor, with his sharp wit and relentless stubbornness, somehow manages to be so disarmingly earnest in moments like this. Jayce doesn’t know whether to laugh or melt.

"Anytime, V." 

It's a pretty scene; the kind you would like to capture and put it into a picture frame. A moment worth remembering. 

And maybe it’s fleeting. Maybe tomorrow Viktor will withdraw again, and Jayce will have to start over. But for now, this is enough.

For now, Viktor is here. And so is he.

One thing Jayce has learned? Good things never last.

The shack is very quiet, and the frost—they are in January now—coats the windows in delicate patterns. Jayce sits in the rickety chair at the table, using a cloth to polish the scuffed surface of his boots.

The door creaks open.

Jayce glances up to see Viktor. The golden light of the low sun reflects in the man's eyes, which are sharp and focused. It's the kind of attentive that sets Jayce on edge. He doesn’t quite know why.

"Are you preparing to leave?" Viktor asks. He sounds calm, almost detached. 

Jayce sets one boot aside and picks up the other. "Yeah," he nods. "I need to check the rabbit traps before it gets dark."

It isn’t until the silence stretches that Jayce realizes Viktor hasn’t replied. He glances up again—and freezes.

Viktor is standing directly in front of him now. A silent question burns beyond his stare.

"Viktor?" Jayce's heart skips. "What are you—"

Viktor sets his hand on Jayce's shoulder. He stares at the touch with a kind of quiet curiosity, as if trying to decipher the meaning of it.

There's an instant hitch in Jayce's breath. The words tumble out before he can stop them. "What is it? Is something wrong?" 

Viktor shakes his head wordlessly. His palm slides downward to glide over Jayce's chest.

There's an unmistakable purpose to it.

The world narrows. Jayce flushes as he stares up at Viktor, his throat tight, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. They've never touched like this before.

Not when it wasn't innocent.

"Viktor," Jayce croaks, barely above a whisper, thick with confusion and something else he can’t quite name. "What are you doing?" 

"I want you to feel good, Jayce."

And then Viktor's fingers trail—down, down, down—until they reach Jayce's belt.

Panic.

That is the first thing Jayce feels.

Followed by fury.

Jayce jumps to his feet so quickly that the chair tumbles loudly to the floor. The question is spat between clenched teeth: "What the hell are you doing?!"

Viktor recoils as if burned. He looks genuinely startled. "What is it?" 

"You can’t just do something like that, Viktor!" Jayce snaps, raw and cracking at the edges. He takes a step back, chest heaving as he tries to collect himself. "What’s wrong with you? You just—what’s wrong with you?"

"It . . ." Viktor blinks in surprise, as though he truly hadn't anticipated this reaction. "It was not my intention to upset you."

"Comfort?" Jayce spits the word like it's poison. "That's what you call this? You touching me like—like that? Like it's nothing?"

Viktor frowns. "I only wished to comfort you." 

That only stokes the fire in Jayce’s chest. The anger twists into something closer to pain. 

Because how dare he? How dare Viktor be the one pouting when it is Jayce who suffers? The gall, the damn audacity—

"God, Viktor, you know how I feel about you!" Jayce snaps, his voice breaking. His breathing breaks, his fucking heart. He can feel it—anger, grief, all of it trembling beyond the edge of control. "You knew it in the astral plane. You knew it when I held you as everything fell apart. I was ready to die there, Viktor. And you know why?”

Viktor doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even blink. He is still as stone. But Jayce doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

“I was ready to die because you were there with me,” Jayce blurts. “Because if it had to end like that, at least I wouldn’t have been alone. And now—now you look at me,” he gestures toward Viktor with one trembling hand, “like this is all some goddamn transaction. Is that what you think this is? That you are something to be bargained with? That I’d want this because—because—” Jayce chokes on the words. “Do you think that’s what I want, Viktor?”

The question hangs in the air like a gunshot. The only sound is Jayce’s ragged breathing and the soft pop of the fire behind them.

And then, for the first time, Viktor’s face shifts. 

Frustration. That's the first thing Jayce sees, subtle but unmistakable. When Viktor speaks, his voice is louder than before, sharper, a rare heat threading throughout. “I do not know.” Viktor's gaze burns into Jayce, unrelenting, and there’s something almost pleading beneath it. “You have yet to tell me. So do me the honor of clarity, Jayce: what exactly do you want?”

Jayce falters. Viktor’s question pins him like an arrow, knocking the air from both lungs, and for a moment, all he can do is feel—the weight of everything he’s carried, what he's buried beneath his skin.

What does he want?

Jayce wants to go back—to the days when progress was a dream they shared and the future stretched endlessly before them. He wants Viktor to smile again, the faint curve of his mouth when an invention worked as planned. He wants Viktor to see him, to understand the storm raging inside without Jayce having to tear himself open to prove it. He wants the ache in his chest to go quiet, for the guilt to let him breathe, for the memories to stop haunting every step.

And he wants Viktor.

Not as a sacrifice. Not as a regret. Not as someone who offers himself like a gift Jayce doesn’t deserve. 

He wants Viktor alive, here and now, in all his impossible brilliance, even with the pieces they can’t put back together.

But how does Jayce say any of that? How does he pull the words from the tangled mess inside him and make Viktor believe them?

He can't. He just can't. 

"I don't want this," Jayce answers. "Not if it's coming from guilt. Not if you're just doing it to feel better about what happened. I don't want your pity, Viktor. I don't want your guilt. I just . . . I want you."

In a single second, every atom in the air fractures.

Bonds that were once invisible split. Electrons tremble in their orbits and particles dislodge; what was once still now teems with restless energy. Jayce is crushed beneath it.

One beat passes.

Then another.

And then Viktor's frustration mellows into something softer: gossamer light. His voice carries that fragility now, as though he’s peeling back the layers of his pride to bare something raw beneath. "I did not intend for this to be an expression of guilt. I . . ." His brows knit. "I assumed you wanted this."

Jayce swallows hard. The tightness in his throat makes it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. When his answer comes, it is low and broken and cracks under the strain.

"No." The single syllable scrapes against Jayce's raw throat like sandpaper. "Not like this."

Neither of them speak after that.

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. It wraps around Jayce like a noose; icy fingers squeezing, suffocating his pulse beneath an invisible grip. His thoughts swirl in chaotic circles, tripping over themselves as they try to make sense of everything. 

And then Viktor speaks again.

“I see.”

Two simple words, yet they strike like a hammer blow. Viktor’s voice is painfully flat; devoid of warmth, drained of trace softness. 

Jayce despises how distant Viktor looks. Hates it. Hates the way Viktor stares past him, as if he's already retreated behind some invisible wall. Jayce loathes that wall—how powerless it makes him feel, like everything he's said has ricocheted off its surface without leaving so much as a crack. It feels like clawing at stone with bleeding nails.

And Jayce doesn’t know what else to say. The frustration coils tighter and tighter. 

So he turns, violently. Pivots on a heel and makes a beeline for the door. 

Dust flies as it slams shut behind him. 

Jayce had always been better at breaking things than fixing them.

Hours have passed since his outburst, but the words still echo in his mind. He snapped at Viktor—taken every ounce of frustration, sorrow, helplessness—and hurled it like a weapon. It felt justified in the moment. Cathartic, even. 

Now all it left behind was regret. 

Viktor didn’t deserve that. Not the weight of Jayce’s emotions, not the venom in his voice, not the lack of control that had spilled out of him.

Gods, I would have had sex with him.

The thought strikes Jayce, hard and unbidden, and his breath hitches. That was the truth of it, wasn’t it? He’d dreamed of Viktor—of his touch, his hands, his breathy gasps when pleasure overtook him. The image was as vivid as it was torturous: Jayce’s hands roaming Viktor’s body, his lips finding that soft spot at the corner of his neck. He wanted to lose himself in Viktor, to feel alive again in the most human way.

Still, Jayce hadn't let himself give in. 

Not when Viktor’s touch had felt like it carried something heavier—guilt, remorse, a need to atone. That had been the worst part. Not Viktor’s affection, but the way it had felt laden with an apology Jayce couldn’t carry.

He can't bear the thought of being someone Viktor pitied.

The memory of Viktor’s golden eyes lingers in Jayce's mind. Had there been pity there? No. Jayce doesn’t think so. The way Viktor had looked at him had been anything but dismissive. There had been no falsehood in his gaze, no hint of ulterior motive. Viktor had wanted to remind him of something. That they were still here. That they still had each other.

And Jayce—like the stubborn fool he is—let his anger twist that into something unrecognizable. 

He stands outside Viktor's door now, a hand hovering over the handle. The light inside is faint, but he can see it spilling out from the cracks. You can fix this, Jayce tells himself, though the words feel fragile and uncertain. Just talk to him. 

He knocks lightly, the sound barely louder than the crackle of the lamp inside. He pushes the door open without waiting for a response. 

The first thing he notices is Viktor, seated on his cot. He's hunched slightly over a notebook filled with scribbled calculations and half-formed diagrams. At the creak of the door, Viktor pauses, his pen freezing mid-stroke. He looks up slowly; his eyes narrow before his expression smooths into something guarded. 

"Jayce," Viktor says. "It is late."

Jayce lingers in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame. "I know. I just . . . needed to talk to you."

Viktor sets his pen down. Shifts to face him fully. "About earlier, I presume?"

Jayce nods and steps further into the room. The door creaks shut, sealing them into the quiet. He doesn’t know why it feels so much heavier in here—maybe it’s the way Viktor is watching him, patient and unflinching, or maybe it’s the guilt that’s pressing down on his shoulders like a lead weight.

"I'm sorry," Jayce says gently. "I shouldn't have yelled at you, V."

The taut line of Viktor's mouth softens just slightly; a spasm of something warmer slipping through the cracks. Jayce notices. He always notices. 

V. The nickname still gets to Viktor.

“You had every right to express your feelings, Jayce,” Viktor says quietly. He exhales as though bracing himself. “I overstepped.”

Jayce is startled by the admission. “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “You didn’t—it wasn’t that. I mean . . . ” Jayce grimaces, frustrated at himself. “It was, but it wasn’t, not like that. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I let my anger get the better of me, and that wasn’t fair.”

“Perhaps not,” Viktor concedes, though his tone holds no judgment. “But the fault was not entirely yours.” He pauses, as though piecing his words together. “I . . . should not have assumed so much. Nor should I have approached you in such a way—without speaking to you first, without understanding what you might need. It was inconsiderate of me. For that I apologize.”

Jayce blinks. “Viktor, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” Viktor interrupts. His tone isn’t sharp, but it’s firm in the way Viktor always is when he’s made up his mind. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable, and yet I did. That alone warrants apology.” Viktor leans back slightly. His features illuminated by the lamplight make him look . . . tired. “I assumed my actions might provide you some semblance of comfort. That was presumptuous. I did not stop to consider that you might interpret them as anything other than what I intended.”

Jayce swallows. “I know you weren’t trying to—” He falters, the explanation tangling as he struggles to make sense of the mess in his chest. “It’s not that I didn’t want you, Viktor. I thought you were doing it out of guilt. That you were only touching me because you felt like you had to. Because you thought it would . . . fix something. And I couldn’t—I didn’t want that.”

For a moment, Viktor is still. Surprise flits across his face like a shadow. It's so eerie that Jayce wonders if he’s somehow overstepped again. 

But then Viktor's face melts, like butter, with a desperate fondness. 

“Jayce,” Viktor replies. The murmur is as soft as gossamer, yet it carries the weight of something unshakable. “You misunderstand. I was not driven by guilt.”

Jayce flinches at the certainty in Viktor's tone. 

“I wanted to touch you,” Viktor says—carefully, deliberately, as if ensuring each word is a thread stitched into something whole. “To be close to you." He searches Jayce’s face for any sign of understanding. “I still do.”

Jayce’s pulse quickens; it pounds in his ribcage, in his throat, until he’s sure Viktor can hear it too. His skin feels hot, like the words have stripped away the last layer of armor he’s been clinging to.

“You mean that?” Jayce whispers. He's terrified of the answer but more terrified of not asking.

Viktor doesn’t look away. He doesn’t falter. There is truly no space for doubt. “I wish for nothing more than to share something real with you. Not out of guilt, nor obligation, nor our shared past. And I hope, in time, you will come to see that for what it is: a choice, not an obligation.”

The words pierce through Jayce like light breaking through clouded glass, and for a moment, all he can do is breathe. 

“I want that too,” Jayce admits finally. The confession is torn from him, raw and unpolished, but real. “Gods, Viktor, I’ve wanted it for so long, but—” Jayce's voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I was afraid.” 

“Afraid?” Viktor echoes. It's careful, as though inviting Jayce to speak without pushing it. “Of what?”

Jayce laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s bitter, shaky, and scrapes against the walls of his chest on the way out. “Of you. Of what you mean to me.” He finds the courage to peer at Viktor again. “That this won’t mean the same thing to you that it does to me.”

"And what exactly does this mean to you?" Viktor asks. 

The question isn’t harsh, but it’s resolute—firm in the way Viktor always is when he’s searching for clarity. Jayce doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch from the weight of it. 

"It means everything." 

Viktor’s face twists—raw and honest, and so achingly human. Viktor rises from the cot, using his cane to anchor him as he approaches Jayce. When he stops, they’re close enough that Jayce can see the faint glint of lamplight reflected in the amber of Viktor's eyes. In the small shadows cast by the thin curve of his jaw.

“Then we share the same sentiment, Jayce." 

And, finally, the truth they have been running from feels inescapable.

“Viktor…” Jayce whispers, the name catching on his tongue like glass.

"Yes?"

There's so much that needs to be said. So much that Jayce needs to tell Viktor. It knots together.

So he doesn’t speak. 

Instead, Jayce steps closer. His hand brushes against Viktor’s—just barely, the contact feather-light—but it’s enough. It sends a spark through him, quick and blinding, setting every nerve alight. The tension between them crackles like a live wire. 

"I'm sorry," is all Jayce manages. 

Viktor shakes his head. "There is nothing to forgive."

The space between them seems to shrink with each heartbeat. Jayce's muscles are tight, his breathing shallow. His eyes flicker across Viktor’s face, drinking in every detail: the angular planes of his features; the beauty mark above his lip; the faint furrow of his brow that somehow looks impossibly soft. 

The distance shrinks and shrinks and shrinks . . . 

They stop just short of touching. Their lips brush.

And then he sees it—in Viktor’s eyes.

The same yearning. The same desperate, unspoken desire that twists inside him. It’s raw and naked. It makes something in Jayce snap.

He bridges the infinitesimal gap until their lips met.

The first kiss is hesitant—a question asked without words. Viktor answers it with a quiet exhale. It's a warm, breathy sound that unravels Jayce's control in two seconds flat; he deepens the kiss, hungry, absolutely starved.

Viktor drops his cane before clutching at Jayce’s shoulders with an urgency: a desperation, a wordless plea. Jayce lifts his hands; one cradles the sharp line of Viktor’s jaw, and the other slides into Viktor's hair. The silver-streaked strands are soft under Jayce's fingers.

The kiss grows messier. More needy. Their mouths part and reconnect in a frantic rhythm. Jayce moans into Viktor’s mouth, rough and guttural, and Viktor’s response is immediate—a breathy sound that sends Jayce’s blood roaring in his ears.

His entire body thrums with arousal.

Jayce breaks away only briefly. His lips trail down to Viktor's jaw and then downward. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of Viktor's throat. Viktor tips his head back to grant Jayce better access.

"So impatient," Viktor chides, the sound barely more than a sigh. 

Jayce shudders at the words. He allows his canines to scrape lightly against Viktor's skin—which earns him a satisfied hum—before soothing the spot with his tongue. Viktor's metal hand clutches at the back of his shirt with surprising strength.

Jayce draws back just enough to meet Viktor’s gaze. 

Viktor’s lips are slick with spit, his golden eyes half-lidded and heavy with lust. There’s something raw in his expression—desire, yes, but also trust. A fragile openness that makes Jayce’s chest ache. They fit together so perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle finally snapping into place.

“Indulge me, Jayce,” Viktor says, his voice low but commanding. “Do not hold back."

Jayce’s breath hitches. “I’m not,” he insists. Even he thinks the lie sounds hollow. 

"You are." A metal hand slides up to cradle the back of Jayce’s neck. "Even now, you hesitate." 

"I don't want to mess this up. I don't want to ruin this, Viktor. I—"

"There is nothing to ruin."

Viktor pulls him back in for another kiss. There’s nothing hesitant about it this time. Viktor takes control effortlessly, steady and certain as they pull Jayce closer. It feels natural, like this is how it was always meant to be—Viktor leading, Jayce following. 

And Jayce lets it happen.

"God, Viktor." Jayce's hands roam down Viktor's sides, skimming over the edges of his metal plating. Viktor's body blends seamlessly—flesh and machine working in harmony. "I want you. I've wanted you for so long."

"Then show me," Viktor says into Jayce's mouth.

And Jayce, always doing what he's told, obeys.

He carefully guides Viktor toward the cot. Jayce lays the man onto it, stepping back slightly to drink in the sight before him.

A sight Jayce has imagined too many times but never allowed himself to hope for.

Viktor lies there, his hair spilling across the pillow in brown and silver streaks. His face is open, vulnerable, and so achingly beautiful. Its stripped of his usual sharpness. He’s still Viktor—intense, brilliant, Viktor—but this moment has softened him somehow.

How can anyone be so beautiful?

The thought lodges itself deep inside Jayce. It's a truth he doesn’t dare speak aloud. 

Slowly, Jayce climbs on top of Viktor, careful not to put too much weight on him. His eyes wander—over Viktor's sharp edges and soft skin, cold metal and warm flesh. Everything about Viktor is a contradiction. Fragile but unyielding. Skeletal but strong. Jayce’s hand traces faintly down Viktor’s side, marveling at how perfectly the man beneath him fits.

“Perfect,” Jayce whispers before he can stop himself. 

There's a smugness on Viktor's face; satisfied but impossibly soft. Both of Viktor’s hands slide up Jayce’s arms to grip his biceps. “Flattery will not distract me, Jayce." 

Jayce huffs a quiet laugh. “Not trying to distract you,” he murmurs, “Just speaking my mind.”

Viktor hums in response.

But just as Jayce starts to settle into the moment—into the slow rhythm of Viktor’s breathing, the comforting weight of his hands—everything shifts.

Viktor moves. 

In one fluid motion, Jayce finds himself flipped. His back hits the cot with a dull thud, and the breath in his lungs are stolen in a surprised exhale.

It takes Jayce a second to realize what’s happening. 

Viktor is above him now. His lean frame straddles Jayce’s hips, pressing down with a precision that makes Jayce’s pulse thunder. One of Viktor’s knees—cold and shameless—presses into the cot for leverage as he settles into place.

“You are taking far too long,” Viktor says simply, his accent gorgeously low. Jayce is stunned. 

His hands move instinctively to Viktor’s waist, every finger splaying over the mechanical plating. It’s the contrast that drives Jayce wild; the way Viktor’s body blends perfectly into something brilliant. 

He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words evaporate into nothing the second Viktor grinds down against him.

The pressure is perfect. Delicious. Overwhelming.

A strangled sound escapes Jayce’s lips before he can stop it, and his head flops back against the pillow. Both hands clench reflexively around Viktor’s waist, holding him in place as Jayce’s body arches up of its own accord. 

Viktor's own breath hitches. His eyes screw shut as he rocks his hips again, over and over and over. A breathy exhale crumbles from him; one of pure pleasure.

Jayce doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more intoxicating.

“Viktor,” he chokes out, rough and desperate. Jayce can’t focus on anything except the intoxicating rhythm of their bodies, the way Viktor feels against him—so real, so perfect. It’s almost too much.

Viktor's eyes flutter open. They are beautifully shadowed. "You are quite lovely like this, Jayce."

Jayce keens at the praise. A sound is torn from deep in his throat, and it’s so honest that he doesn’t even feel embarrassed. “I don’t—” He sucks in a shuddering breath, his fingers digging into Viktor’s waist. “I doubt I'm going to last very long.”

“That is alright,” Viktor breathes. He falters slightly as he grinds again, slower this time, like he’s savoring every second. “The night is still young, Jayce." 

Jayce can't look away. Viktor's eyes are so remarkably gold.

Morning comes quick. 

The water from the basin is cold when Jayce washes his face. He scrubs hard at his cheeks with a hand, and then meets his reflection in the mirror. 

His hair is a disaster. It sticks out in unruly tufts where restless hands raked through it again and again. Jayce runs a hand along the back of his neck, where the faint stickiness of dried sweat clings, then presses it over his collarbones.

Purple blooms there in telltale marks—love bites, scattered like constellations over his skin. Red welts rake across his side where nails had dug in too hard.

They tell a story more intimate than words.

As Jayce tilts his head, he finds more evidence of the night: hickeys, scratches, teeth marks, and the smell of sex. 

It's been years since Jayce last had a one-night stand. The last time had been a haze of fleeting pleasures and drunken escapes during his academy years. 

But Viktor isn’t some passing stranger whose name will fade with the morning.

The bedroom greets Jayce with its muted quiet. The only illumination is the slant of warm sunlight spilling through the window; it cuts across Viktor in orange beams.

The man still hasn't budged. He's naked, curled under the blankets in a fetal position, a cheek pressed into Jayce's pillow. His hair fans out in tangled waves. From here, Jayce can see the hickeys that cover Viktor's throat.

He looks impossibly soft like this. It's an endearing sight.

Jayce hovers for a moment. He feels like an intruder in the stillness, his thoughts louder than the rustle of fabric as he tugs at the bedsheet. But the motion draws a shift in the scientist’s breathing. It slows—deliberately so—and Jayce’s brow furrows in realization.

A gentle smile curls his mouth. "You're awake."

There's no immediate reply, but Viktor's eyes flutter open. They soak in the low light. "You are observant," he murmurs hoarsely. His accent is looser now; the melody of a half-remembered song.

Jayce slips back under the covers. He scoots toward Viktor until their faces are only inches apart. He studies the faint shadows under Viktor’s eyes, the sharp curve of his nose, and the way his mouth softens when he isn’t trying to hold himself together.

“Are you okay?” Jayce asks. The question feels too simple, too small, for what he really wants to say. “I mean, last night . . . you seemed—wound up.” 

It's a random question, yet Viktor isn't fazed.

"I am fine," he answers. "Why? Are you worried I might die in your bed? Truly, what a tragic end that would be."

Jayce rolls his eyes, but the tease makes him grin. He rubs a hand over his face, trying—and failing—to hide the reaction. "Not funny."

"You are blushing, Jayce."

"Thanks. I didn't notice."

For a while, neither of them speak. The silence isn’t heavy, though. It's intimate. Jayce watches as the shifting morning light drenches Viktor in hues of peach and gold. Every sharp line seems to soften under its glow, and his eyes catch flecks of warmth in their amber depths.

"You are staring again," Viktor points out. He's more curious than teasing. "Something is on your mind."

Jayce freezes, caught in the act. His lips press into a thin line as if that might somehow deflect the intensity of Viktor’s stare. It never does. That gaze—piercing and deliberate—seems to peel back layers. It leaves no room to hide. 

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course."

Jayce surrenders to the inevitable. “I was thinking about how good you looked last night.” A sheepish grin slowly curls at his mouth. His voice dips, taking on a teasing edge as he adds, “And . . . how I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.”

For once, Viktor is momentarily stunned. His brows lift as he processes the admission. Then, just as quickly, a wry huff escapes Viktor. It's a quiet sound, almost like a laugh— but laced with something dry and knowing. “How raunchy.”

"You're the one who asked."

"Yes, and you were the one begging to cum, no?"

Jayce's jaw drops; embarrassed and baffled is the only way to describe it. "I—Viktor, are you—you're . . ." He splutters, unable to form a coherent thought. "That's crude, even for you."

Viktor’s smirk is maddeningly self-satisfied. Jayce scoffs.

But the heat in his face doesn’t fade, and Viktor doesn’t let him look away, even as they both settle back into the quiet. It’s the kind of silence that only comes with familiarity—the absence of words filled instead by the weight of their presence. 

Yet, for all its comfort, Jayce can’t ignore the pull of unspoken words souring on his tongue. 

"Viktor." Jayce props himself up on an elbow so that he can look down at Viktor. Viktor peers up at him; the faint light now catches in pale gold streaks along his face. "I meant everything I said before. About loving you. About wanting you. None of that will change." 

The shift in Viktor’s posture is subtle but undeniable. Jayce feels it in the way their hands brush under the sheets; Viktor’s fingers barely grazing his. 

When Viktor finally speaks, it's softer than usual. Delicate, as if each word carries the weight of something fragile. 

"For what it is worth, Jayce," he murmurs, "I feel the same."

"You do?"

Viktor nods faintly, as though the words come from a place deeper than even he is comfortable with. “Any happiness or warmth I once had . . . it died with me, that day in the council room.” He breathes: in and out. “Until you. You are my warmth. The second you are out of my sight, I find myself wanting you back where I can see you.”

Jayce blows out a lungful of air that he didn't realize he was holding. "Viktor—"

"I cannot help but think about how tormentingly happy I am with you."

Jayce stares at him.

And then, before it can be questioned, he cups Viktor’s face with a hand. Jayce's thumb brushes over the sharp line of Viktor’s cheekbone, trailing down to the corner of his mouth. “Good,” Jayce says, thick with conviction. “Because I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

Viktor hums. "I would hope not.”

The sunlight shifts as it ascends. More warmth is spilled into the room, lighting up the planes of their faces. It's enough for Viktor to see Jayce studying his mouth.

Jayce bows his head, eyes leaping away and back again. Hopefully. 

Viktor wets his lips. What are you waiting for?

It’s all the encouragement Jayce needs.

He leans down, pressing Viktor into the cot with one firm hand. The other lifts Viktor's bad leg up around his hip—careful to not hurt him—and Jayce kisses Viktor in the morning light.

I want to stay like this forever, Jayce aches to say, but doesn't. Viktor's hand grips the nape of his neck, cold fingers sinking into lean flesh.

He reels Jayce in closer and kisses him back.