Work Text:
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
- John Donne, The Good Morrow
Jayce creates weapons. Gory things, sharp and strong. They assist or protect a killer. He’s used to his late father’s forge, to the molten heat, the heavy hammering, the sweat on his tongue. Cackling flames and tawny hues. The commissions of mercenaries, the patronage of armies. What he’s not used to is creation of a different kind – those that invoke life, not extinguish it.
Viktor creates art. Magic, really. Sculptures that somehow come alive, loveliness unmatched only by Venus (something Jayce would, quite frankly, counter – their loveliness is only unmatched by their creator). Each crevice its own masterpiece, each chisel carefully crafted, loved. Hauntingly beautiful. Uncannily real.
But most importantly, they’re all Viktor. In all his creations, there is a slither of himself, a hint of his insides. It is likely unintentional – something only Jayce notices, when he’s spent one too many hours examining the figures, their human features. Like a shade who was not honoured, who flits around the bloodied shores, who is so close to a person, yet so far.
Just out of reach – untouchable though touchable. Viktor is the same, in a way, Jayce often thinks. There is some sort of mask, some sort of tarnish that glints over his skin. As if he himself is but a mould, as if he is the one creation to be discarded. To be neglected. All others are cherished. Attention in each line.
There is something absent in their marbled complexions. So stunning, so lifelike – but as a dead spring flower preserved in ice is. There is something off. As if they are made to make up for some flaw, some perceived failure in their creator. I am worth it – do you not see what my hands have formed?
Such statues stand in temples, propped up, the focus of every offering. Surrounded by painted friezes and glorious pillars, revered by all who gaze upon them, mouths agape in blissful wonder. While Viktor – Viktor, who’s own bony hands constructed such divinity – scurries away in his workshop, sits small, curves in on himself.
Keeps his head down. Sits for hours and hours, days on end, chipping away at some new masterpiece, golden eyes dead in tiredness. Miniscule next to the statue’s grandeur, its radiance.
And he will finish, and he will look at his creation, and he will frown. He will scrutinise it. Not good enough, not good enough. He will glance down at his leg, at the runes cut into his arms. Another failure, another flawed creation. Is that all I can ever achieve? Jayce has seen it – each time.
He likes being at Viktor’s workshop – it’s quiet when the forge is not, dim rather than overwhelmingly bright. It allows Jayce to work on his own art, his own desire to evoke life and not just destruction. To be able to see his creation marvelled at, surrounded by peace, rather than becoming clashing bronze in battle, striking swords, bloodied cuirasses. To protect life, encapsulate it somehow – not enable it to be stripped away.
But this? This is something he hates about the studio. Seeing Viktor’s fragility in his own self. The way nothing can ever satisfy the other man. Ever unsure of his work, as if his confidence lives in his alias, and fractures upon reality.
I wish you could see yourself as you see others.
Why do you only value the art you create, not the art you are?
The other is just as much a work of genius, of tender care. Deserved to be presented, not shunned behind a curtain. But he cannot see it. Jayce wishes he could show him – how he’d worship the altar of him.
Tracing his beauty marks as if they were a constellation, running up the ridges of his nose, the contour of his cheekbones, the softness of his thin limbs as a pilgrim treasures the path beneath him, constantly following, chasing chasing chasing. Heaped gifts cannot convey one’s devotion.
That is simply a fantasy Jayce keeps locked tight away in his chest. It’s not like men can’t unite; but it is often viewed as adolescent – something brief, simply a release of energy, a practice for when you’re in bed with a wife, bringing glory to your state, raising sons of your own. It is masculine – if you’re not the one taking it. Brave, to some. Satisfying in its own right, but displaced by one’s duty to settle down - to, regardless, fit the mould.
It is intellectual too, to a certain branch of men – some kind of granting of wisdom. An exchange of souls and minds. Love between men is only praised when it aligns with this – this Sophoclean male utopia. The moment it’s physical, all encompassing – shame, shame is all you’ll find. Disgust. You can love, you can live – but here you will not find respect. Here, affection is weakness.
So Jayce simply drapes a blanket over Viktor’s finally resting form, smooths it over his structured shoulders, and heads home. He ignores the hammering of his heart.
“I heard they’ve commissioned that friend of yours for the festival.”
Jayce glances up at his mother with tired eyes, scooping at his bowl with his spoon. She’s folding up their washed clothes disinterestedly, looking at him fondly.
The festival of Venus. A time of paraded dancing, wine – fresh delicacies before the harshness of winter comes.
“Viktor?"
She gives a warm smile, nodding in acknowledgement.
"Yes, that's it. Quite the talent, isn't he?"
Jayce gives a bittersweet sigh, groans and rubs at his temple.
"He is. Not that he'll ever acknowledge it himself."
She knows his emotions, knows the intangible admiration he holds for the other man. It was something he had tried to keep away, keep hidden, years ago. Had made him colder and blunt, explosive and confused.
But she could tell, she could always tell. It was only on one day, when he'd completely cracked, fallen to his knees, that he'd properly told her. Rambled with red eyes and choked sobs, explained how he felt wrong, so wrong.
She had just cradled his head to her chest, rocked him as she had when he was young, when they were alone and but strangers to a town that appeared too big for them. She was all he ever truly had. She had wiped at his tears, kissed his brow. I know.
Jayce used to wish he was there again, in the whirling snowstorm, wished he had never survived. Used to stand up on high cliffs, stare out at the purple hues of the night sky, wish he could be anyone but himself, anywhere but here.
But who would hold his mother's hand, who would return to her in the dark of night, comfort her, if not for him? Who would she have to cherish?
And it was Viktor. Viktor who had interrupted him. Viktor who had saved him. Viktor and his creations and - and his smile. The tilting of those eyes.
And gods, is he glad he did. Looking at the warm, considerate, loving smile plastered on his mother's face - gods, is he glad he did.
Jayce briefly caresses the bracelet wrapped around his wrist in reassurance, the one Viktor had given him that night.
He takes another bite, furrowing his face in intrigue again. With slight anxiety. What did Viktor have to hide from him? Viktor, who saw him at his worst, at his most flawed.
"So, what's this about the festival then? I've been at his workshop most days this week and I've not heard anything."
Ximena paces round the table, giving an exasperated breath as she heaps up more fabrics.
"Well, the priestess claimed that they want bronze statues to commemorate the celebrations."
"Bronze? Ma, Viktor makes marble. And - and he tells me everything! And I see all of his projects."
He gives an expressive gesture of confusion, scrunches his eyebrows.
"He’s told me nothing about this...”
He knows he’s pouting as he says that last phrase.
Ximena shrugs, remarking in a questioning voice, “Yes, and since I had heard it involves metal work, I had assumed he would’ve asked you for assistance. Thought it was some hidden project you were keeping away from me in anticipation.”
“No.”
She plants a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
No. His mother’s remark lingers in the back of his mind as he adorns himself, walks out their house, heads down to the forge. Turns his attention to the hard material. It's strong, unlike Viktor's sculptures.
Can't fracture as easily, though just as malleable from the start. No . I thought he would’ve asked you.
Were they not close enough? Perhaps Viktor felt too stubborn to ask him. To ask for help.
That sounds about right.
Viktor has always been stubborn.
He did not allow care, did not like to be coddled. He was too stubborn to appreciate his own potential, his talent, himself. Too stubborn to see that Jayce was right here.
Ready and willing to appreciate him. A part of him felt it selfish, though. That he would be loving Viktor for him. Unconditionally, without limits – it could go two ways, Jayce had thought.
On the one hand, it could lift Viktor up, reveal to him that yes – he was deserving of this, of goodness. Despite his humble origins, his illness, his leg. All factors he knew Viktor hated, viewed as flaws. But it could also crush him. Pressure him.
Trapped as a blade hammered on an anvil, a deer hemmed in by hunters on one side, a river on the other. Crushed by guilt, by the expectation of being something broken, something needing to be fixed. The only thing he must fix is his attitude.
Yes, Viktor was stubborn.
But so was Jayce.
They had met around the same time he was commissioned by the Medarda household – Noxian imports, spears and shields, engraved armour. It was expected, of course. Metal work is structural too, an art form in its own right. It’s not that Jayce only makes weapons. It’s just – what’s most needed. It’s not that he likes making them either.
But it is what people need, what they ask of him. Viktor had critiqued him then, made a snarky comment. Yet it had felt like a warm compliment, a hushed, intimate whisper. Because behind it was a badly masked intrigue, of curiosity.
The Academy Viktor was a part of was a close-knit group of artists, philosophers, scholars – intellectuals, or they called themselves that anyway. Jayce had never gotten to do art. To be gentle and calm and soft. He was all rough hands, smoke and dirt.
But Viktor showed him, gave him the opportunity. He saw potential in his skills, past the ordinary blades, the common girdles and pauldrons and breastplates. Instead, he now longed to craft an armour of a different kind, to mimic it in clay, to mimic it with paint.
So they worked. Together. In tandem. Viktor on his statues, Jayce, apprenticelike, with clay. Albeit initially, hilariously messy.
Mirroring, replicating – examining the other man with such detail he could not say the moment it became infatuation. Little drawings of Viktor’s body, his bumped nose, those golden eyes.
He could sculpt him without reference, he had inhaled every miniscule detail, could remember each crevice and dent and mark.
Sometimes Viktor came by the forge instead, watched Jayce work with a glint in his eye and a complexed look that caused a thumping deep in Jayce’s chest. Pressing charcoal to papyrus, staring. Always staring. As if Jayce was something to figure out, some sort of enigma.
It’s early morning still by the time Jayce arrives at Viktor’s workshop this day. The smell of pine, of sawdust, the chirps of locusts and birds and the hustle of the forum. He runs a hand through his overgrown hair, scratches at his beard. Nervous. Why is he nervous.
Past the curtain. As expected - Viktor is huddled on the floor, chipping away. Projects littered about, some unfinished, some utter perfection.
Jayce knocks on the wooden column softly, stares at him softly. Viktor’s head spins and stares at him and oh. Oh. Nothing can feel sweeter than the way his mouth breaks into a gentle smile, not even ambrosia itself. No divine nectar could match this; the relieved creasing of his eyes, the relaxation of his shoulders.
“Jayce. I was hoping to catch you today.”
He lifts his cane, bending on his knee and propping himself up. Dusts himself off. Scrutinising himself even now as he looks down, up.
“I was wondering if you could assist me – properly this time. As an equal, a partner.”
Partner. Jayce feels like exploding.
“Anything you need, yes. Of course.”
He watches the older man pace – gesturing as he talks, his typical expressive mannerisms on display. How Jayce adores them.
“You see, the council have –“
“Hired you for the festival?” He supplied with a toothy grin, a scrunched nose.
“Oh.” He’s taken aback, almost flustered – not that Viktor ever felt possible to fluster. He was always so composed. Calculated, like you could take no action at surface value. Unlike Jayce. He knew he wasn’t subtle.
Then, teasing. Coy. He so easily transitions, so easily collects himself.
“Stalking me, Talis?”
Jayce knows he blabbers.
“Well I – of course not! I just…my Ma mentioned it this morning. And I was hoping you’d…”
He falters off, embarrassed to finish his train of thought.
“What? Ask you to help me?”
He nods ashamed. Viktor offers a jokingly jeering smile. Eyes glaring into him, burning. Like stepping into the light after being locked in the dark. Blinding.
“An egotistical little thing, aren’t you?”
He feigns offense to cover his satisfaction. He fails.
“I am bigger than you – “
Ignoring him, Viktor continues.
“Luckily for you, you are correct on this front. I need your skills here. For the cast. It’s going to be a bronze heifer, quite the spectacle. To be placed by the main altar. Mimicking the sacrifices, of course. I can do the wax and clay, the design, the forming – but not the metal work.”
“Oh, thank the gods.”
His voice is breathy, so obviously relieved. Viktor quirks an eyebrow at him. Purses his lips, corners tugging ever so slightly. Gods, he’s gorgeous. He’s also terrifying. Like how the bards describe the divine when they disguise themselves in mortal flesh.
They appear human, but there’s something radiant about them, transcending the limits of body and shape and size and beauty.
“I apologise. I’m not trying to diminish you by assuming you needed my help. I was just worried. Worried that – no, it doesn’t mean anything. Sorry.”
How is he meant to reveal that he was simply scared, worried – do I mean so little to you? He can’t say he’s terrified of that.
Viktor doesn’t press the matter. He turns back to a fresh sculpture – there are no features yet on it, save for the indented bone structure of the upper skull. It appears a man – it’s possibly too early to tell.
“What are you working on?”
“My own side project, shall we say. It’s personal.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll put it on hiatus once we start the heifer.”
“Of course.”
“I can hear you sulking. Come, you must finish your own sculpture too.”
Jayce decides to test the waters, simply for amusement.
“And why should I, may I ask?”
He hears a sigh and a tone of feigned annoyance.
“Do you want me to find someone else for this?”
There is no true ice to his words, like a ripe fruit that’s simultaneously bitter and sweet.
“I – No.”
“There’s a good boy. Now be a dear and do as I said.”
Jayce ignores the flipping of his stomach - a routine custom at this point – and settles down on his own wooden stool. Newly birthed butterflies fluttering out. He laughs a little internally. Gods, he must appear an obedient dog begging for scraps.
He sits. Stares at his work. It stares back. I can see you, it almost says. Who’s to say he can’t either?
“So, partners?” He perks up.
Viktor fails to suppress a smile. “Partners it is.”
Jayce tries not to let his giddiness overpower him. But he’s never really been a fighter.
Over the course of the time leading up to the festival, they work on the detailed wax castings. The mould delicately figured around it. Wax melted, bronze solid and now hollow. Smooth hands running over the indents of the creature, the realistic dip of its stomach, the attention to detail. Its nuzzle, its sensitive eyes.
They celebrate the completion with fresh wine, the finest from Silco’s vineyards.
Viktor, cheeks tainted pink.
His hands, his hands that are capable of creating as the Earth itself was generated, the sky and the moon and the stars. Soft, they’re soft in his hands. Tentatively traces the tendons and knuckles. Another creation. Another perfect creation. Why, why, why. Why can’t Viktor see. No creation compares to him.
They glance at each other, hold stares until Jayce can no longer and diverts his eyes. It’s usual. Neither of them ever bring it up. A brief touch to the shoulder, the indent of the spine – the tensing of the jaw or the clenching of the hand. They’re usual. They mean something, yes. But they don’t acknowledge them.
Acknowledging would be too real, too vulnerable, too fragile. A discarded painting kept hidden behind a curtain in one’s workshop. Always there, ever present. Not to be displayed. Only sometimes, selfishly, do you unravel it, shun away the cobwebs, take it all in. You push it away almost as quick as you embraced it. Shunned, it’s covered again.
But you know it’s there.
“What do you see?”
Viktor swirls his drink. Long arm resting on his knee. Head tilted down, gold eyes slanting up. Gilded like those statues of the divine that rebound the sun, that warmly shine light upon your face. The beauty mark beneath the left eye. Viktor twirls a brown lock, caressing at his neck, between his slender fingers.
Jayce digs his nails into his palm.
He drinks the sight in as if it were ambrosia. As if he were a ravenous exile. Frothing, gleaming.
“Mm?”
He considers what to say.
“When you look at your work, what do you see?”
The other is silent, considering. He makes a thoughtful hum.
“I see the flaws, mostly. What if I’d made an indent there, or oh, the eyes should be more spaced out. The proportions are unrealistic, something’s off about the hair."
He takes a sip of his wine.
"Things like that. But they’re good enough. People praise them. I suppose that’s good enough. It doesn’t matter what I see.”
Silly, silly man. Never satisfied.
Jayce understands. But he doesn’t agree.
“Do you want to know what I see?”
Viktor shuffles around awkwardly, shrinking back. Almost hesitantly – “Alright.”
Jayce shifts on his legs, placing down his drink, leaning in. Staring, beaming with beaded eyes. Then considerate, almost bashful, slightly quieter. Smaller.
“I see you. Your talents, your efforts. All your experiences conveyed, intricately, through an inanimate piece of the Earth.”
And Viktor smiles. But it falters, as if a voice inside his mind is uttering doubts, letting his insecurities gnaw away at any positivity he hears.
So, Jayce keeps going.
“You are like your own god. As our Earth birthed the mountainous valleys and peaceful brooks. You produce as she did. Moulding chaos into form. Creating life. Angelic. Beautiful. Like something you’d find in Neptune’s palace, surrounded by the refracted rays of above, the swishing of seaweed and bursting vibrant corals."
He knows he's rambling.
"Like something displayed on Mount Olympus itself, cloaked in gold, withstanding the harshest of lightning and thunder. Revered by even the gods themselves. Mighty Jupiter praising it in his halls.”
“Careful now.” Viktor jokes, but his voice conveys his devastation. “They don’t take kindly to human arrogance.”
“I know, I know. I couldn’t think of a better comparison.”
He’s not quite sure how to respond to Jayce’s compassionate words. For once, he almost feels rendered speechless.
“I appreciate it. I really do.”
Viktor realises then, too, the weight of the shame on his shoulders. The guilt he carries with him, like its lodged underneath layers of skin, embedded into his very own sickened bones.
“I’m sorry. It’s not your occupation to force me to care about myself.”
“No, it’s not. That’s something you do on your own. But I’m with you, and I’m reminding you.”
That you are worthy goes unsaid.
“But I need to remind you too – I need you to know that – “
Jayce’s hand gently rises to meet his shoulder – it encompasses it, covers it all in his palm.
“You do. You stopped me from giving up. When we first met. You – your presence…it grounds me. Fixes me to a spot, orbiting. When you pivot, I feel my own soul pivot too. When you’re away, there is still a connection, you’re still with me. There’s some force that entwines us, binds us to a cyclical union.”
Viktor knows his eyes shake, know they water. But Jayce’s grip is firm, his gaze is fixed. His hands cradle his cheeks, cup his face. Wipe under the eyes, over his tired lines. Trace the marks on his face.
Jayce’s voice is so fragile. So weak. Like an icicle dependant on the force of the wind for its own stability. Thin and frail and beautiful.
“You’ve shined plenty enough already. Even Sol needs rest, hours of darkness, before rousing his chariot once more. I promised you. Now you must promise me.”
Viktor shuns him away with a frustrated, tangled noise. Pushes himself away, forces himself to look away. Fragmenting underneath the pressure of no longer being invisible.
“There’s nothing I can give you. Nothing that matches your compassion. Nothing that can quench its hunger.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Everyone needs something.”
What I need is you.
“Promise me.”
A vow. Venus blessed. Myrtles bloom. Inextricably bound.
Jayce gets to work right away when he’s home. Clay, supple in his hands. Lovingly carving. Traces each mark. Scratches each line with his nail. Moulds the nose, the lips. Caresses the cheeks as he softens their outlines. Stares at his creation. Smooths his hand over it. In the corner of his forge. Stares at the face, so close to what he loves.
It’s not enough, it can never, never be enough – nothing can surpass the real thing, the real Viktor. But he stares at it either way.
And if he shamefully presses his lips to the pliant material…what god would deny him? He kisses and imagines his kisses are returned.
Whispers, holds. His fingers indent the malleable clay. He presses them into the shoulders, the back of the neck, cradles it there. Soft. Scared that somehow his touch will taint, will bruise. That it will all crumble beneath the pressure of his love.
He places his chin on the wet shoulder, nestles his head into the crook of the familiar neck.
A brief respite.
Sleep takes him, eyes red, at his work bench.
Viktor finds Jayce’s workspace empty. Empty but for a statue in the corner, placed as if to be hidden, as if it were to never be unveiled. And Viktor is nothing but curious.
What he finds he did not expect. He imagined, perhaps, a beautiful woman. Curly long locks, full lips. One who had caught Jayce’s eyes at the market, possibly, or maybe a client. Maybe some rich patron.
Or perhaps a pretty man, a walking Adonis. Not something frail, broken. Something youthful and vibrant and complete.
But no.
No.
What he finds instead is himself.
And oh. Oh.
It feels intimate. As if it was meant for Jayce alone. As if no one could behold this, not even the Muses. It’s a secret, a secret longing one keeps clutched to the chest, buries deep inside, locks away and reshapes the key.
A song not sung but known, an inhabitable, foggy wasteland that you somehow can traverse. As if in your dreams, when Sleep has gently cradled you, some version of you knows.
He knows.
A gentle lullaby, the gentle rocking of a ship at sea. The predictable pattern of the cosmos above.
Yes, he knows.
He realises Jayce must have smoothed his roughened fingers back and forth, softly, gently, over his face, cradled his cheeks. Viktor realises he held the back of his neck – there are dents there. Markings in the shoulder too. The faintest, feathery touch to the lips, ever so slightly giving itself away.
He sees the figure now not as himself. It’s Jayce’s Viktor. It’s a proclamation of his love. Of how he would love him, if he could, if he…
It is not perfect. Viktor hates that it is not perfect. Because in some inconceivable way, it means that he is perfect. Whole. To Jayce.
He sees the draped sliding of the substance, the intricate, insanely intricate contours of his face. He imagines the care and love, entertains the fantasy.
Imagines Jayce’s hand caressing the clay – his skin.
Imagines his soft gaze, his shaky breaths.
Imagines Jayce’s fingers on his neck – as he leans –
“Viktor?”
He jumps around faster than he intended to, wincing at the pressure that stings in his thigh. He steadies himself on his cane. The cane Jayce had made for him with love and care and gods dammit.
A shame suddenly overwhelms his body, a feeling he knows all too well – no artist wants their work to be seen unwanted.
Jayce holds himself smaller, inward. Eyes wavering, shaking. Mouth opening and closing without certainty.
“You weren’t meant to see that – it’s not finished. And, well – “
His voice too falters as he walks forward, a defensive arm raising, a drumming beat ringing over and over.
It’s beautiful.
Viktor coughs instead.
“I…I see.”
He regrets it instantly, the furrowing of Jayce’s face, the way his mouth sinks. How he bounces his leg nervously, bites his teeth down into his bottom lip.
He tries again. Plasters on a smile that, surprisingly, does not feel forged.
“I – I’m not used to this, Jayce. To being...seen.”
There’s an anticipated silence, like Jayce is waiting to be cast out.
“But it – it’s very sweet. Of you. Very sweet indeed.”
At the reassurance, Jayce’s shoulders untense slightly. Viktor moves closer.
Marble is elegant, precise. But here – here is tangible, charming in its own flawed way.
“Who am I fooling, it’s beautiful. It’s raw. Real.”
He hears Jayce take a sharp gasp.
Viktor focuses on the figure’s face, analysing it. Facing himself. Stares back at Jayce in awe.
“You’ve even added my moles. There is so much detail, gods – even the slight, barely visible lines on my forehead. How did you – remember all of this?”
He gestures with his hands, trying to convey an ounce of his admiration. But there is fear there, too. He can hear it. Jayce sees him. A shuddering thought.
Jayce is flustered by the praise, as if he’s unused to it, has no clue how to respond to it. Viktor’s art may be paraded, but he hides himself away. Jayce, on the other hand, stands tall, always. It’s in his nature to simply be – interwoven amongst crowds, glanced at from afar.
He is used to admiration, of a kind – but not this sort. People ogling at his muscles, tracing his jaw, people desiring the quality of his craftsmanship. But not this. Not his art, not his feelings, displayed so raw, so open. No. That has not been praised, has not been visible, understood.
Two sides of the same coin. Viktor has not been seen - a purposeful act, a purposeful masking of his own skin. Jayce, the real Jayce, has not been seen either.
“I just looked at you. A lot. I’m sorry if it’s out of boundaries.”
Viktor looks down. Smiles. Such beauty amongst such chaos.
“I would tell you if it was.”
He tries not to think about the soft gaze he receives. But there is one thought he particularly pushes far, far into the dark caverns of his mind. That Jayce sees him as worthy of depiction. Of display. That Jayce, somehow, sees this version of him -and is content. Content in a way he himself could never be.
He has made so many versions of himself, tried with his bare hands to piece some sort of visage together. It always cracks, bleeds, falls short somehow. But here, in front of him, is something real.
Reflecting him, as he is. Not a version of him that he wishes he was, that he thinks he should be, that he thinks he is. Simply him. And that petrifies him.
He cannot accept it. He cannot conceptualise it. That whatever he is can somehow, in any form, be loved.
A tentative hand lands on his shoulder. A shaking thumb brushes his lip. He gently holds it, moves it down. Whispers.
“Goodnight, Jayce.”
Viktor had always envied Jayce. Watching him work, hammer bashing, muscles flexing. Always noting, always secretly noting that that was perfection.
That was how a body was meant to function, move, look. That was appealing, that was strong and admirable and correct. Vulcan in the flesh, working away.
It’s in a ball of frustration that he lets his hands work, gets carried away. Brain so fogged and blocked. Going on a whim, swept up by an indomitable gale. Waves crashing over and over. Focusing on something new, something fresh.
Appealing, uneven lips. Thickened eyebrows, curved ridges of a nose. Ambitious eyes, so eager to please.
He knows it’s Jayce. He sniffles, he wallows in the bubbling humiliation. Abandons it, throws the lump to the floor. Scratches and defiles the face that was there. Waste of material.
Stupid, stupid. He would only soil the masterpiece that is already Jayce. It would be but a poor mimic, a failing replica. How can one mirror perfection?
Venus’ festival comes. The streets garlanded, the paths up to the altar bustling. Heifers, snowy, led forward, paraded. Adorned, horns gilded. Huge, sad eyes. As if they know their fate.
Swift slices, harsh blows; the necks burst open like spilled wine. The bloodied stone, the cruelty of death, celebrated with cheers. The bodies heap, like wilted poppies, trodden so deep, flattened beneath the soil and grass.
Viktor often feels that way. Displaceable, solely existing for the whims of the world and its desires. Life so devalued until it comes of use, until others decree its end.
Deflated, so devoid of purpose, of life, that he becomes a shell. Not dead, no, but should be. Deflowered, spoiled, petals plucked one by one, pollen scattered by the winds. Stalk bent and low. Frail.
That is why his statues must be strong. His sculptures must be solid. Resilient when his own bones cannot be.
The crimson splatters against the bronze.
Jayce knocks at Viktor’s door. Once, twice. When there’s no response, he lets himself in. A usual arrangement – it’s become as much his space as Viktor’s. He came to drop by his propositions for some upcoming commission – a sanctuary off in Zaun.
There are figures for the pathway, for the public altar, for the private sections – paintings for the symposium halls. There will be so many trades, so much talent, all gathered. But though Viktor surpasses them all by far (in Jayce’s objective opinion), he knows he will shy away. Keep to the darkened corners of a workshop.
Let Jayce be the face of their concepts. He will remain a simple alias that people utter, that they never know a face for. That they can never remember, never memorialise.
He hurries over to his work bench, scatters around the messy piles of papyrus and charcoal and dried clay and gods, is he messy. He must drive Viktor mad. He props up his stool, clears some space. Looks around.
The blue curtain in the corner of the studio is uplifted, just a slight. Closed in a rush. Failing to cover the shining white of marble behind it, the cluttered floor. All the signs of a masterpiece in process.
It must be that personal project, that sculpture Jayce saw Viktor chiselling at a while ago.
The corner is Viktor’s space. He’s not crossed the line before - asking, requesting, if he could be welcomed across the threshold.
An artist has a right to his own privacy.
And it’s probably so personal, and Jayce shouldn’t –
But he’s so curious. Viktor saw his, why can’t he see Viktor’s? What could he possibly be hiding that he can’t share with him? He knows Jayce would worship whatever he shaped, bent, formed – knows he would praise it as if it were some divinity.
The curtain is ripped open with a force he had not intended.
As is his mouth.
For in front of him is not one sculpture, but two – three. No, four. A fifth in the corner, half disassembled. A sixth broken into fragments, likely in frustration. Parts scattered disorderly across the ground. One smashed. Another profile only just sketched out, on the desk. Stacks of the quarried marble.
He walks up to one. The one that was right behind the curtain. It entices him forward. Eyes that are not quite there staring into his soul. Guiding him inward, into an embrace. As if it’s trying to appeal to him.
And he realises – he realises it’s Viktor. He realises they are all Viktor.
But not quite accurately. They stand taller. Some wider, some more masculine, some more feminine. As if Viktor was trying to find some sort of combination, some sort of way to portray his features in a light other than his own.
Framing them, constricting them. Testing a hypothesis, finding a way to make himself, objectively, in his own mind, beautiful.
Claiming the right of creation he can grant to everything else but his own body, his own skin.
There’s a tale that speaks of statues coming alive, of solid turning soft. Pulse rising. Jayce focuses on the Viktor in front of him. The most recent work, he’d presume. He traces a finger over it – this Adonis. This is what the mortals must have thought - when they made love with a god. Such transcending beauty, such incomprehensible radiance. Blinding to the human eye.
But all he can do is imagine it as Viktor. Viktor as he is. Imagines the taunt lines of marble melting under his touch, warm skin underneath him. Or would it be cold?
The marble figure is perfect. Too perfect. Snow-white ivory masks the blemished skin – the sunken, uneven eyes displaced by hollow circles, the tired bones and slanted posture replaced by a towering physique.
It is so perfect it becomes imperfect. That is not his Viktor. His Viktor is so much more beautiful. His Viktor is real.
And a part of him cracks – the thought that Viktor, Viktor, is trying so hard. Trying so hard to create something, love something, other than himself.
As if no words can prove this to him, no divine message, no perfect statue. No masterpiece. It feels as though the figure breaks beneath his touch.
Jayce traces its lips, but only vaguely. He knows Viktor’s features too well. Knows the upper lip rises here, goes down there, not like this. Knows that the right eyelid is slightly more raised.
Knows the mouth is tilted just a bit. The incline of his nose is more prominent. The gauntness of his cheeks are more evident. His hair swoops in a different direction.
The workshop door opens with a harsh slam, and Jayce jumps. Jolts away. Conspicuously steps aside, scrambling to cast the curtain over, failing.
“What. What are you doing.”
It’s spoken with venom, with some deep, harsh edge that Viktor’s voice has never done. Not even when he snaps, when he’s tired or overstimulated. This is like a lurking beast.
The rumbling of the depths of the ocean, the harsh swirling of the tides, the thrashing of thunderous storms that send sailors sinking down to Hades.
Viktor angrily rushes over, a primordial pace in his body that appears so unfitting to his normal external composure, his soothing presence. But he does not go to Jayce.
He rushes over to his creation, like Cybele reuniting with her daughter.
In a panic, he touches all over the statue, patting it down. Tracing its face in a frenzied pattern, as if expecting something, as if waiting for something to happen. Presses harshly into its shoulder, touches down the arms, over the fingers.
Pushes his palm against where its heart should be.
He groans in frustration when it remains cold beneath him. No pulse. Still, still, still. He cannot make it, he cannot succeed. He hits the figure in vain, in futile desperation. He lets out a choked, twisted sound.
He aggressively throws the curtain back over with a yank, an aggravated huff, shoos Jayce away with a ferocious expression. Something comparable to betrayal.
Jayce raises his hand to aid him.
Its slapped away with a cold glare.
“Viktor, I’m sorry – that was wrong of me, that was – “
A stern hand is placed in front of him, bidding him to quiet.
“Don’t. Just let me…just don’t. Right now.”
Jayce swallows down, looks to the floor, looks to the ceiling. Knows he’s crying.
He feels as if he’s caged in with some crazed lion. One that’s wounded by a hunter’s spear, one that is so incensed and bitter at the world. A bubbling wildfire that destroys itself, burns its own skin, engulfs its own fields, starves itself by extinguishing its own crops.
He wishes the Lethe would wash over him. Wishes he could plummet down, the ground opening agape for him, down to the Styx. Wishes he could dive straight into its bloodied waters, letting the waves lap over his limbs, sinking him down, down, down.
Viktor, as if more composed, takes an extremely long and deep breath. Turns.
“I told you it was personal.”
A beat.
“What are you trying to achieve?”
He makes a tutting sound, raises his arms in a frenzied gesture of uncertainty.
“Perfection?”
“I’ve told you…”
He waves him off.
“Yes, yes I know.” Jayce watches Viktor, defeated, calmed, walk over. Rests himself, perched upon the desk. Runs a trembling hand through his sweaty hair.
“But I don’t – I don’t understand.”
Jayce tilts his head in expectation. I’m listening.
“The incense was smoking, I made my offering at the altar, Venus gave a flamed signal and yet – yet it didn’t work. They’re not real. I’m not better, they’re not – I still don’t -”
“What didn’t work? Viktor…”
He looks downward, dejected, curling in on himself, as if he is ashamed of his words.
“I wanted something to exist. Something like me, some better version that – that could take my place. Be the man you want me to be, parading about, boasting about my work – that lets me stay tucked away in my dark corner, lets me stay working, working. Working until my limbs go stiff and – “
“Be the man you want me to be. Do you hear yourself? I want you to be you, Viktor, I don’t want some - some alternate version of you that you deem superior. What do you want? Why is it always about what I want?”
Viktor appears defeated, like he’s going to say something he’ll regret, but he can’t quite find the strength to keep it hidden any longer.
“Because you are what I want. My dream – my dream of perfection, creation. You are what I see. But.”
“Don’t you dare say you’re not worthy of it.”
His eyes are glassy, he knows. His voice is lined with a nasally cough, when you cry and it builds up at the back of your throat and nose.
“You think you’re nothing, you’re insignificant – can’t you see you’re the centre of my own sphere? You – you showed me to live, how wonderful it is to live. Why can’t I do that for you too?”
Inseparable.
Beauty in imperfections. Enigmatic.
“You’re the closest to the heavens that I’ll ever be. To the stars. Chaos itself – everything, everywhere. I see it all here – here in the microcosm of your eyes.”
A sharp inhale.
“Why do you persist? Why do you think I deserve this – “
Jayce stands close now. In front of Viktor as he sits, presses one hand to the right of him, by his thigh. Closes him in a comforting shell, a nurturing nest. Uses his other hand to lift the other’s cheek, forces him to stare right back.
“Look at me. I see you.”
And Viktor knows. Viktor knows he does. And he sees Jayce back.
And then he breaks. Finally, finally, the jar is shattered. It was already split, already littered with cracks. It kept holding on, he kept painting over them, trying to cover the lines. It could never last. It falls under the yolk, bends beneath the plough, beneath the weight of an anvil.
Jayce simply holds him. Rubs his fingers soothingly over his neck, his hair.
Holds him as one would a fragile sculpture, holds him as he did the clay. It’s not that he’s scared Viktor will break anymore. In fact, Jayce’s scared that he will break.
He whispers softly into the other’s hair, nestles his chin against him.
“Maybe it was you.”
“What?”
“What Venus granted. Maybe you were the statue all along. That needed to come to life. Composed, masked. Never really you, never really alive.”
A soft smile turns to a coy one, almost bashful – but Viktor is never quite bashful.
“Under your touch? Yes. Yes, I am alive.”
Jayce does not entirely process how it happens.
He’s looking down at Viktor when the other lifts himself up, cups the back of Jayce’s skull. Presses chapped lips to his own. Uneven, perfect. He remembers gasping, groaning in satisfaction, elation.
So much more real. No marble, no clay – no material, no visage but Viktor’s own can do this, can feel like this.
Jayce knows he’s messy, clumsy. This isn’t really something he’s done before. But he melts, melts like he’s under the molten glow of his forge. Holds Viktor tight, fingers pressing into the firm skin. Human.
Lips move in tandem, he finds the pattern, chases each little gasp he hears, tugs at each lock of brown hair he coils around his fingers. Presses their foreheads together, slots their noses against each other. Breaks apart with a shuddering sigh, a breathy laugh, a smile that conveys his disbelief.
“While I am I, while you are you,” he begins, tentatively.
“So long as this world contains us both – the world becomes us both. All my love - it forms a private room, secluded from all else, enclosed in on itself, secure. A room that contains nothing and everything. All of it – all of creation. Here. The stars our eyes, the moon our bed.”
Viktor guides him, traces his thumb, the ridges of his bones, entwines their fingers.
“That’s a heavy burden. A heavy expectation.”
Presses a kiss to his cheek. Uncharacteristically shy.
“It’s not, it’s not. I give it willingly. I ask for nothing, nothing but for you to realise that all these imperfections? They’re what I love about you. They make you unique, real. You. And you are what I love. Not some idealised, false version of you that cannot smile at me, cannot glance my way, cannot tease me with a sardonic voice.”
Opens the door to his room, runs his hands up his chest.
An amused breath, a soft chuckle, "Since when did you misplace metal work for poetry?"
Jayce - wild, beautiful - laughs. The whole world seems to fracture. He continues his thoughts, adamant.
“Perfection is – is imperfection. Perfection is a paradox, an impossible, ridiculous paradox. ‘Good’ still has value, things don’t have to be flawless to be loved. Forget about perfection.”
“You’re too kind. Jayce.”
He does not let him speak, just this once. He lets Viktor take the lead. Props his cane against the wall. Saunters over, lights a candle. Unravels his toga, unclips the brooch.
The statue of Viktor was perfect.
But this?
This is divine.
This is Venus in the flesh.
The mocking glint in his eyes, the softness and paradoxical hardness of his frame, his limbs. Ridges of white and pink. Edges, points, curves. Marks littered across, each joining in lines, as if mapping a constellation, a collected image, assemblage.
A cluster of stars, those clouded bursts you see in the indigo sky, the silence and peace. It drapes over him, wrapping a soft blanket around them, enclosing them in this world. This world where it is only them. Eternally. No tomorrow, no yesterday. Omnipresent. All time, all moments.
Viktor’s waist – the way it bows inward. As if it were clay, Jayce wants to trace it over and over and over. He won’t touch. Not without his permission. But he wants, wants, wants. Desires to caress each line with his thumb, trace the ribs and indents and bones with feathery touches, bruise the skin and make it flower as false idols, as sculptures, cannot.
For that’s what all those figures were. They failed to encapsulate this – this is what they were missing. This is why they were empty. They were not real.
He feels like an apostle, a first disciple. Cherishing an intangible being, an angel of air, its matter formed into this. This. Viktor. His own love’s sphere.
Viktor guides him, rushes an arm up his shoulder, his neck. Caresses the skin. For the second time, Jayce thinks he might explode. He lets himself be dragged with a gasp, lets Viktor run his delicate fingers through his beard, through his hair.
Tangles and pulls. The other is deeply pleased with the sound he releases. Eyebrows furrowed already; eyes desperate already.
“Beautiful.”
Hands undress him, smooth over the thick skin of his chest, the muscular toning of his arms. Drape down his chest, feathery, ticklish. Fingertips teasingly catching his nipple, rousing a pathetic, breathy strangled sound. Involuntary. He would be embarrassed if it were anyone but Viktor.
“Sensitive?”
The way he nods, looking downward, as Viktor manhandles him – now that is just as pathetic, he thinks. The hands tease lower, hesitant, slow. His throat feels dry, parched. When he speaks it sounds wrecked, ruined.
“Haven’t – haven’t done this.”
Viktor’s face breaks into a reassuring smile, gentle hands rubbing circles into his rough skin.
“I’ve got you.”
Those hands – hands that have fashioned masterpieces. Made life from nothing, they are revered, and praised, and beautiful. They now hold Jayce in a way that makes him inconceivably emotional. They are appreciative, caring. More attentive than when holding those sculptures.
Viktor moulds those analytically, constructing an image. Here, he is committing an image to memory. He is not creator, but worshipper. Trying to comprehend beauty, beauty that is so inhuman.
No longer forming lines but tracing them. Remembering each detail, each aspect that makes Jayce Jayce. A perfect visage – it’s one you can’t encapsulate. One you can only touch, try to learn, as if it were some untraversed land, some holy doctrine. Yes – divinity cannot be confined to a mortal shell, to a mere artistic imitation. You know it is transcendent. Know it is beyond you. Fascinated by its being.
Jayce knows he shakes, knows he claws, tugs, clings.
Viktor’s voice is hardened, thicker; rich. Deeply sweet. Tone controlled, composed. But vulnerable. Now it is vulnerable.
“You cherish me, Jayce. You’ve worshipped me.”
A statue he can finally taint, make impure. Lovingly spoil, tenderly adorn. Pliant beneath his hands, soft and warm and real. He tenderly marks the muscular neck, mouths at its outline. Ruin perfection. Fuck perfection.
“Let me worship you, too.”
Jayce - with his swollen, reddened lips, his flushed cheeks, burning ears. Lying back, staring up, mouth agape, eyes expectant. Hair tousled. Chest heaving, abdominals tensed. Sculpted thighs that Viktor wants to grab. Skin he wants to cherish, over and over.
He sees me. I see him.
This room is everywhere. They possess their own world. The sun shines on them and finds it has warmed the whole realm. Their bed the centre, that which all encircles around. They are immaterial, metaphysical. They are simultaneously real, human – tangible, in the here and now. Paradoxical. Perfection. It is this contradiction.
This reality that they design to be their own. Two souls, which are one. Ruling their own domain. Co-dependent, yes. Perhaps those philosophers were correct – the splitting of the whole, the constant searching for the lost half.
All the heavens condensed into their bodies, their eyes and hands. A longing finally fed, an end to the ravenous hunger. No gods – no gods could claim this. No rising morrow, no passing of time – this love has no decay, no destruction. Nothing erodes at it, no water washes away its cliff, no period rots its wood.
That is what Jayce thinks, what Viktor thinks.
He lets him take him. One time, more. Welcomes his embrace, traces his figure. Thrashes, speaks quiet, whines loud, whispers tenderly. Cradles the other as if he’s cradling the entire concept of being, the entirety of everything.
And Viktor knows.
There is no better creation than this.