Work Text:
"Viktor?" he asks, "Are you still there?"
Panic, dark, falling -
- he reaches out with a hand, or something like one. You take it, wrap yourself around it, draw him close. His panic fades.
Words are difficult, here. You thought they would need air, or ink, or thought-forms.
You feel - envy. He figured out words before you did. You think in images, colours, symbols.
You take a circle, twist it, recreate infinity. Always.
You rest more than he does. He can't stop being. Flickers, like - like a candle.
It's apt. Your light-bringer. Sunshine boy.
He laughs; sound, again, in a vacuum.
"You never called me that."
You find another symbol for him. It requires a hand, and five fingers. The third, in particular.
"What should I call you? Moon boy?"
To stand in the dark, reflecting his light.
"I didn't mean that."
Guilt. On his part, and on yours.
"Viktor," he says, and you feel what the word means to him. You flinch, shrink; you were never that beautiful.
"Viktor," he repeats, sinking into you and showing you -
Feeling seen. Drunk laughter. Being pushed to safety, at the end of all things. Your hair - black, grey, white; long, short, soft as silk; softer. Neat and clean. Scruffed up after sleep. Sticking to your face -
You laugh, remembering how that voiceless sound goes. He's hot, bright, excited. He isn't finished; he'll never be finished. He tastes like your salt.
You show him a loop - his one-track mind.
He sticks a finger through it. You laugh again. He hooks more fingers into you, tugs you into him, onto him. You remember wet. You remember need.
You need to rest.
You don't.
You have eternity. You have time. You just have to reinvent it, first.
"Can we stay here?" he asks.
You want to say yes. You could say yes.
His fire burns down low, down to embers, soft and ashy. Warm milk and old, worn blankets on a rainy day. He's persuasive. Always was, given time to think.
You rest.
You rest.
It's dark. You lean into him, drawing from his light, illuminating your colours. You make something simple; a staircase, extending upwards forever. Golden, at first, then other hues join, spreading out like an oil slick as the steps climb ever on.
You always liked the concept of 'up'. You climbed what you could, once. He lifted you, when you failed. Let you see further.
He's quiet, watching you work. Peaceful.
He touches your face - recreates it from memory. Did you have that mole before?
"You did," he touches another, above your lip. You know this one well, like the one under your eye, which you hated. He remembers their colour wrong.
Irritation, affection. Your upper lip is soft, the fine hair above it downy.
"I always thought I'd kill for that mole," he says.
'Kill'. You turn to steel at the word, cold and featureless. He stays with you regardless, finds a way to hold you, defies the rules. Steel can be warmed, but it can't feel warmth.
You feel him anyway. You can't stop.
Steel gives way to flesh, to bruises, to tears. The stairs shatter.
Panic, dark, falling.
He falls with you, catches you, spreads wings he never had. Breaks the rules to protect you, again. You can't fly without air.
"You can't fall, either."
He's wrong, you think. You don't know. Your memory should be perfect now, but it isn't. You are human. You will never not be human. You're unsure if you ever told him what you want to say.
He waits. You don't use symbols this time.
"I'm scared, Jayce."
He lifts you. Dances with you. Works from dusk till dawn with you. Talks until you fall asleep. Carries you home. Runs away with you. Stays with you.
Chooses you over safety at the end of all things.
He loves you. Takes a circle. Twists it.
Always.