Chapter Text
They toast to their success. This time, Viktor has painted the sky a streaky ochre splashed across violet, and they settle down in one of the lounges from the Council building, meant for entertaining esteemed guests–all freshly created this afternoon. This was their biggest project yet, and it has taken days to perfect, days of Jayce and Viktor passing thoughts back and forth like notes, listening to the inner machinery of each other’s minds. It’s been–what, weeks? Longer? When Jayce looks outside the window, it’s becoming easier and easier to think himself back in Piltover.
Viktor has settled on the floor, back to one of the Council’s uncomfortable couches. He tosses pieces of firewood into a fireplace, each motion meticulous.
“I was just thinking…” Jayce sets down a bottle of wine, starting to pour glasses. “We always thought Professor Heimerdinger was standing in the way of our progress.” Without turning around, he knows the expression on Viktor’s face. He smiles. “And don’t try to claim otherwise now. You’d always scrunch your nose like that behind his back. He was as much my mentor as yours, but sometimes his indictments felt like the end of the world. Seems silly in hindsight. Anyways, I was thinking, wouldn’t he love our approach now?”
Jayce spins, one of the glasses extended. There is a confused sort of amusement on Viktor’s face as he takes the glass. “You were just thinking about our former Professor?”
“Who’s to say I’m not always thinking about him?” Jayce quips against the rim of his own glass. Sweetness coats his tongue, reminding him of nights spent manipulating favors out of people he couldn’t have cared less about. He always liked his wine a bit drier, so he wills it so.
Viktor laughs. It’s the one closer to a bark than a laugh, like Jayce had surprised it out of him. Jayce has gotten good at earning that one over the years.
And it’s not something he can help, really. Jayce just knows what he wants, what that sound makes him feel, and it manifests in the form of a hundred wildflowers that hover in the air for a moment before gravity takes hold of them. This has been happening a lot recently; Jayce feels with his whole being, and sometimes he can’t quite reel those feelings in before the world responds.
Viktor glances down at the new additions to their space, smile still tugging on his lips. “You know, it wasn’t that I disagreed with him, entirely. I just figured his perspective was like most things in Piltover–a luxury.”
Jayce feels the warmth in his cheeks, knowing it’s nothing to do with the wine. Viktor has always stepped gracefully over Jayce’s embarrassing remarks. His lack of control when it comes to Viktor is simply another embarrassment to overstep, surely. But he appreciates the kindness.
“How so?” he asks, settling down on the floor beside Viktor. Viktor reaches out with his gingko cane and prods the fireplace. The gesture is more habitual than strictly necessary, Jayce figures, but he appreciates the familiarity as the flame blazes to life.
Between them, Viktor traces his fingers along the wooden floorboards, dancing around the flowers. Suddenly the floorboards are gone, replaced by a pocket of rich earth. Jayce’s flowers begin to take root. A curl of a vine snags at Viktor, twining itself around his finger.
“The Professor has lived a long life–and he never let you forget it, I might add. Caution is a luxury afforded to the long-lived. So while I agree that he had sound reasoning, it never felt like something I could afford.”
“You couldn’t,” Jayce agrees. “You…well, you died too soon but it was probably not much sooner than it would have been.”
“You think we would not have cracked the code? I work best under pressure.” Viktor tuts, feigning offense. But Jayce hears the underlying sentiment, an agreement: they would not have succeeded regardless of the attack on the council. It was a race against the clock, and there were so many restraints beyond that–Viktor’s health, the council politics, the attempts at peace. Throwing his entire self into finding the solution with Viktor would’ve had him turning his back on the safety of their people, everything they had worked tirelessly for years to protect.
He should have done it.
“Well, there’s no pressure now,” Jayce says at last. “You can work poorly.”
“I am incapable of such a thing.” Viktor sips his drink, a wicked gleam in his eye. “It is why you need me to balance out your poor decisions.”
“You’re right.”
Viktor scoffs, setting down his wine. He whirls on Jayce, turning sideways against the couch. “Don’t humor me. You have been so acquiescent over these last few weeks. So compliant. Letting me say whatever I want without so much as a jab back. When did you become one to lie down and take it?”
Probably when I lost you , Jayce thinks, but knows saying as much would only further sober the mood. Or if he was tracing it earlier, maybe it was when he started to realize the nature of his affections towards Viktor. Or maybe when their work started to be successful. When there was less to bicker about in regards to the state of their project and he had to pretend like he wouldn’t do whatever Viktor told him to do without question. That was when their back-and-forth was more of a defensive front, really, so that Viktor couldn’t look him in the eye and tell exactly how fucked Jayce was. And why not now? Well, he lost Viktor. His stupid defenses couldn’t stop that. So why bother?
But it’s clear that Viktor enjoys the normalcy, and Jayce can provide that much.
Jayce turns to face Viktor as well, laying an arm over the couch between them. The back of his hand hovers behind Viktor’s head, and he flicks lightly at the curve of his ear. “Maybe I think you can use a break, since you still want to blame yourself for everything that happened. I’m taking it easy on you. Don’t want you to break.”
It’s a gamble, but Jayce notices Viktor’s silences. He’s seen more than a few admissions of guilt passing through Viktor’s subconscious. Despite what Viktor has said–about the Hexcore, about feeling like he were in a dream the whole time–and despite what Jayce has said, too, reassuring him, he knows the wound is slow to heal.
Viktor’s eyes widen in surprise that Jayce would choose to jab so close to the truth, that he would choose one of Viktor’s most hated jokes of being fragile or breakable. His pupils dilate in the firelight. “Aren’t you a saint,” he says lowly, reaching to take another sip of his wine.
“Yes, you missed that one after you left. Golden Boy, Man of Progress, Saint Talis…I should’ve grabbed you a coffee mug before Noxus invaded.”
Viktor swirls his finger gently around the rim of his glass. Cracks appear throughout as white ceramic takes shape like mosaic tiles coalescing. When finished, Viktor spins it to reveal the image of Jayce posing chest out, arms akimbo, a ring of golden light behind his head. “You were the aspect of what, exactly? Good hair?” He sips and a ring of red is left behind, blotting out the halo.
“Humility, actually.”
Viktor snorts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Better you than others we know.”
Jayce acts flattered, clapping a hand to his heart. The wine sloshes in his glass, scattering down over the flowers like blood upon the earth. Blooms unfurl, colors swelling between them. A vine tangles in his pant leg, outstretched.
“Nothing without my partner, of course. And what would you be the saint of, I wonder?”
“The end times, perhaps?” Viktor counters, eyebrow raised in a self-deprecating manner.
“Stop that,” Jayce chides. “Just a minor catastrophe. Hardly qualifies as apocalyptic.”
“What, then?”
“Innovation, maybe?” Jayce leans his head all the way back, resting it against the couch cushion. The gilded ceiling sparkles in the firelight. He sighs, admitting with a sheepish grin, “I don’t know, Viktor. I don’t think I can manage a joke for that one; I associate you with good things.”
Jayce turns his head toward Viktor; hair slips into his eyes, but he sees Viktor duck into his sightline. Jayce’s hand twitches as Viktor’s shoulder settles into the couch mere inches away.
“Well, you are kind. Kinder than me. I cannot fault you for that.”
“It’s part of the humble thing, I suppose. Let’s see. Saint of inspiration? Patron watcher of night owls? Aspect of dreamers? Good hair, too, since you brought that up earlier.”
A pause. “You may continue.”
Jayce laughs. “Oh, and I’m the one with the ego. Okay. How about hope?”
Jayce glances over, expecting to catch one of those secret, soft smiles that Viktor saves for when the verbal spar is over, when he allows himself to let Jayce see him happy. But Viktor is not smiling; he seems struck, eyes wide, blinking as if to gain a semblance of control. “Hope,” he repeats dully.
“Yeah,” Jayce says.
He watches Viktor breathe for a moment, watches the flicker of emotions across his face as he debates–a recovery, another clever quip? Or will he choose admonition, discouraging Jayce’s earnestness? Or perhaps–the most rare possibility–an honest profession of discontent? Allow Jayce a closer look at the guilt that’s been plaguing him, allow Jayce to sift through the debris to find the inspirational confidence that had once saved Jayce’s life.
Jayce allows himself this, bringing his hand from where it rests on the couch to settle on the curve where Viktor’s neck meets his shoulder. Viktor stills momentarily, coming back to himself. He raises his mug, taking another sip. All the while, Jayce can feel Viktor’s eyes on him, but he allows himself to just look at the pale of Viktor’s skin against his hand, feeling the pulse fluttering under his touch. Smooth, slow. His hand on Viktor is as natural as it always has been.
“What are you thinking about?” Jayce asks.
Viktor hums; Jayce can feel the vibration against his thumb. “I have…complicated feelings about my contributions to the world. Your praise can cause cognitive dissonance, sometimes. I am working through it. But now , I am thinking that you are comforting yourself. For what, I could not say.”
So not a complete honest profession, not yet. But at least a continued conversation. Viktor may not have divulged those complicated feelings, but the admission of having them is enough of a promise that the time will come. He is simply formulating his thoughts, as he always does. For now, Jayce yields.
“Comforting myself?” he asks.
Viktor tilts his head further so that they can look eye to eye, and the side of his jaw brushes against Jayce’s hand where it lays. Jayce makes no move to shift it.
“You reach for me when you are troubled. Do you know this about yourself?”
Yes , he thinks. “I reach for you when I’m not troubled as well,” he says, perhaps to point out a flaw in Viktor’s logic, but realizes instead that he has grown quite transparent. Perhaps he would backpedal once upon a time, flustered and floundering, but–again, he has already lost Viktor once. There is no sin in wanting to keep him here; he is no devil for saying as much. He only tries to lean into patience, that there will be a time for that conversation.
“Yes,” Viktor says, the curve of a grin pressed to the mug as he takes another sip. “You do. Still, you…linger more when in need of comfort.”
“Do you mind?”
“Now? No. Perhaps if you had asked me a decade ago, I would have said yes. I would have been lying then, but–well. I cannot be faulted for maintaining a professional distance.”
Slowly, Jayce sets down his wine. He reaches out with that hand, resting it just above the curve of Viktor’s knee. Viktor keeps his hands cupped around the mug, silently observing with an expression of faint amusement. Jayce understands the silence to be permission; Viktor has never shied away from speaking on something that displeases him, especially not when it comes to Jayce. Plus, he himself said he does not mind the touch. Anyone else, Jayce knows, and it would be a different story.
“Do you like it, though?” he asks. “Or just tolerate it?”
Viktor huffs quietly. “Do I tolerate it, you ask.”
“You don’t let anyone else touch you,” Jayce points out. “And if they manage it anyways, you tense up instantly. It’s a fair question.”
“‘Anyone else’ is not you, Jayce. Being surrounded by strangers is a lonely thing; their touch is disingenuine. But it is a lovely thing to be known. You know me.” He shifts, leaning more comfortably into the couch beside them. Jayce’s hand shifts higher, resting on the side of Viktor’s thigh. The fabric of his trousers is coarse against the pads of Jayce’s fingers; Jayce flexes his fingers unconsciously once, squeezing slightly.
Viktor continues, “Besides, I think you gain more from it than I do. You like to be in contact with others. It is a comfort I am happy to provide.”
Jayce’s mouth feels dry. As always around Viktor, his want is ever-present, but the knowledge of their infinite time together morphs it softer, more playful.
His eyes slip to his hand on Viktor’s thigh. Viktor is known to him, but even then there are parts to him that Jayce has not seen. Discovery could be a religious experience. He can picture pale skin in the light, the hairs on Viktor’s arm raising at feather-light touch, the taste of salt and wine against his tongue. He imagines ghosting his fingers everywhere, or perhaps the idea is better with his lips. He could kiss him now, he knows (he thinks). Just slip his hand higher, against the curve of Viktor’s jaw, just lean in. Catch Viktor’s exhale, press their lips together.
The thought manifests as a breeze, fluttering between them and brushing against Viktor’s lips. Viktor blinks, the thought registering in his eyes–not with surprise, no. A question.
But the inch of thigh beneath his fingers is new to Jayce, and he feels the need to memorize it first. There is so, so much more to discover. And if this discovery is religious, he can be a saint. He decides then, to take his time.
“Thank you,” he says at last.
Viktor nods, a slight furrow appearing between his brows as he attempts to dissect the expression on Jayce’s face. Jayce wonders what exactly he’ll find there. Lovesickness? Longing? Patience? He’s always been a bit of an open book. Whatever it is, understanding softens Viktor’s gaze. His eyes flit to Jayce’s lips once, then back up to his eyes. Jayce arcs his thumb in a slow sweep across Viktor’s thigh.
“So?” Viktor asks after a moment, voice tight. “What is it?”
Jayce swallows. “What is what?”
“What troubles you?”
Jayce considers again, the thoughts of losing Viktor that have haunted him over the past months, that have managed to lessen into a dull reminder, not gone but easier to manage. But it’s even less frightening now than it was before; Viktor is not sand running through his fingers. He is flesh and bone, pulse and breath. Viktor is right; the touch brings comfort.
“You do,” Jayce admits. “Almost always, you do.”
Viktor hums again. “Territory of being the Saint of Endless Night?”
Jayce laughs. “Night owls, I said. Night owls.”
“Ah, yes. Carrion birds to carry ill omen of my arrival.”
“Gods, Viktor. See, this is the trouble. This is why I’ve been so nice. Someone has to do it for you.”
“Perhaps I am being a bit punishing,” Viktor admits.
“A bit? It’s been downright self-flagellation. We’re celebrating, remember? All the good we’ve accomplished?” He squeezes Viktor’s thigh once, for emphasis, and watches the intake of breath that follows, and wants, wants, wants .
Viktor exhales slowly. “I think I am not the only one punishing himself,” he says after a long moment, leaning his head fully against Jayce’s hand. And this time, Jayce allows it to shift in response, allows it to cup Viktor’s cheek. Viktor blinks, slowly, sleepily, the fan of his eyelashes cascading shadows across his cheek, tickling Jayce’s thumb. The fire crackles beside them, and honeysuckle has wrapped its way around his ankle.
“No,” Jayce breathes. Viktor’s breath, soft and slow, casts across his palm, a kiss carried on a breeze. “This isn’t a punishment at all.” He is lucky, he realizes. So lucky. “Why rush, right?”
Viktor smiles at that, the one Jayce has been waiting for. It is a white flag, a victory, a trophy all in one.
“Why rush,” he repeats. “A luxury indeed.”