Chapter Text
A cell divides, repairing damaged, dead tissue. It harvests what is needed. This one remains, this one decays. No, that is not right.
A being, a demon, sits at a door. It plays a game of skill with molecules. This one goes in, this one stays out. No, that is not right.
Flesh knits flesh back together. No, that is not right.
The Arcane knits itself back together. No, that is not right.
Viktor knits himself back together. Yes, that is right.
Viktor was not much of a liar. He had never seen the point when the world was already so desperate to guess. He was a quiet boy, a lonely one. His lips never had much to say, but his hands could never shut up. He got into plenty of trouble with his mother for it, his fingers finding all sorts of things they should not have. He would line his pockets with what charmed him, cogs and baubles and trinkets he would fix up into toys. First for him, and then the friends that never stuck. His lack of words and his limp made people often paint him as stupid, or, if they were feeling particularly patronizing that day, slow.
He liked putting his hands on things. He liked the material. To put his palms to something and know it was there, it was real. There was nothing better than feeling two disparate pieces coming together to make a whole. The locking shudder, the clicking din. It brought pure delight to that boy’s skipping heart. It could still make the man shiver when the blueprints slipped away and the prototype sat before him, gleaming and so very there.
Perhaps that is why he so despised make-believe as a child. He was devastated not to live in the now. Pulsing, beating, bleeding. That is what life was—skin and bone and marrow.
His mother was always off in her own head. She could only look towards the future. She lived her life in the calendar that was taped to their mildew-wrought wall. In the pocket watch he fixed up for her when he was eight. She could only focus on the next paycheck, on the watery medicine she spoon-fed him to fight off his cough, on the life she promised they would have when she finally saved up enough.
He hated her daydreaming. He hated how she could be staring right at him, and not see him at all. To see someone else. Someone who could give instead of take. His father, uncle. Men long gone or dead. She never said as much, but on those short days in the undercity, when he was not scrounging in filth and she was not buried under the fog of the factory, he felt her restlessness. They would curl up on the bed they shared, the one window stained with dust and smog; the sickly green of the street bulbs their only light. She would stroke the bird nest that was his hair, lips resting on the crown of his head. He would never hear any noise from her, besides her deep, lulling breaths, but he would feel her mouth shaping words on his skull. Prayers, maybe. But it felt more like she was reciting lines from a script, dialogue from a memory.
She eventually lost to it, maybe due to stress at the mill, or the growing absence of her son. That year was when he met Singed, after all.
The playhouse in his mother’s head was something he learned to live with. He said the right lines and hit the high notes, right up until she hung herself from the catwalk.
He always hated that apartment.
His mother was a performer. He was not much of one, but he would sing handsomely for her. Just for her. For an audience of one, finding the right steps was easy, even for a terrible dancer. So when she saw father or her brother… he bit back the acid in his mouth and played the part.
But this—this was different.
Viktor always thought Jayce was something of an exhibitionist.
He was extravagant, dramatic. Not just in the way he dressed, really, most of Piltover was like that, but in the way he lived. Everything was the end of the world for Jayce Talis. It could be a bit much for some, their colleagues taking aback by how every little thing mattered. How the metal of his cufflinks had to compliment the brass of his waistcoat to accentuate how the toes of his shoes were gilded.
He was not all that concerned with order, he would throw his tools around the lab and forget where they were a moment later, get oil and smoke stains all over those perfectly plucked outfits of his, but every cup had to have its coaster. Books had to be hardcover, tea had to be brewed with loose leaves. Coconut sugar over cane, always. Viktor doubted he even liked the taste, but he did it anyway.
Everything had its use for Jayce, but more than that, everything had its esthetic. There had to be an elegance to him, to what he created. He did not do this because he had to, no, this was simply how things were in his mind. Even the most basic screwdriver had to have its shiny trim. Maybe it was the Talis in him, the smith. He never could do anything by halves. Function did not have to sacrifice form, for Jayce.
It was exhausting to watch, and the feeling only grew the more he learned about Jayce. At first, he merely assumed that Jayce was pedantic, fussy. A bit outré. That quaint naïveté rich boys from ivory towers possessed. It made him… pretty to Viktor, unobtainable as he was. An innocence that made Viktor want to shove his fingers down his partner’s mouth until he choked, face red and drooling past his chin.
But then things got more intimate. Like any Piltover clock, the real vision was inside. Beneath the mahogany and the polish were the oil-stained gears and wheels, springs and weights and dials that came together like a composer’s final symphony.
Jayce cared, he cared deeply. Cared enough to forgive the Kirammans without a second thought, to send flowers to Councilor Medarda for giving them a sliver of a chance, to telegraph his mother every day without fail, to hold onto a childhood dream without shame. His heart was soft.
“Here,” his voice had been nervous, Viktor recalled the tone of it. Like he wanted the words past his mouth as fast as possible, but remembered his good manners midway through his speech. “I… got, uh, made you something.”
Viktor turned from the drafts on his workbench, a glass pen loosely held in hand. Jayce seemed to have a million of them, all spread out across their lab. The laboratory was a month old at that point, each day more feverish as new grants and sponsors kept pooling in.
Jayce held a box, not too ostentatious, but wrapped fashionably nonetheless. It was quite a long gift, whatever it was. His smile was crooked, anxious.
It got the better of Viktor. He was charmed.
He twisted his chair to fully face the man, tilting his head as a bemused grin crept up his face. Gift-giving was commonplace in Piltover, the citizens wealthy enough for generosity. Ironic, considering just where that money came from. His mother could never afford much for him, which pushed him to make his own playthings, his own games. He wondered if Jayce was satisfied with his toys as a child, or was he driven to make his own? Viktor would not be surprised if he took them apart just to see how they worked.
“What is this?” He shifted closer to the edge of his seat, reaching towards the sides of the box to grab it.
“Well, it’s gift-wrapped. Open it to find out.” Jayce laughed, releasing it into Viktor’s pale hands.
“Should I…” Viktor stared at the silk ribbon, touching the fabric with the tips of his fingers. He looked up at Jayce. “shake it?”
“I mean, you could. But it’s cushioned. You won’t get much out of it.” The other man stepped towards the table, sitting against its edge as Viktor examined the present.
“The scientific method demands I try, or I will have rotten luck guessing what it is.”
“You don’t have to guess,” Jayce laced his fingers, hands in his lap and thumbs rubbing together. “you could just… open it.”
“Where is the fun in that?” Viktor took the box by its sides once more, giving it a good shake. The gift determinedly did not rattle. He stole a glance at his partner.
Jayce shrugged his shoulders, smile crooked with amusement.
“At least I know it is not a puppy.” Viktor surmised. “I am quite awful at animals.”
“Give me some credit,” Jayce leaned his hand on the desk, face tilting. “when I get you a dog, I’ll at least poke holes in the box.”
“When?” He raised a brow, taking the bow and pulling at its knot.
“Only a matter of time.” He dragged his head to gaze at the high ceilings of the laboratory, before looking back at Viktor. “don’t you think we need a mascot?”
“A mascot? Are you not getting a bit ahead of yourself?” Viktor murmured, the delicate fabric of the bow falling to the floor. He lifted the cover.
“No,” Jayce’s voice lowered, a certain warmth behind it. “no, I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
It was a cane.
The craftsmanship was exceptional, perfectly measured, clearly adjustable, design no doubt functional. It rested in the box, cradled by rich reddish padding, the same shade of the embossed wood of its handle. It had gold inlay, and it all but screamed Jayce Talis. To be honest, as he set the package on his knees to carefully lift the cane, he expected the symbol of his House. But though the style reeked of their stock, no emblem turned up.
Viktor had had more crutches than canes in his life, his last one the fanciest of all. As the newly minted assistant to the headmaster of the University of Piltover, he thought to splurge on the mobility device. Of course, after the custom order came in he could not help but take it apart. No matter how specific he got, there was always something missing.
But then he met Jayce. Someone who only needed a look, if that. They were covalent, constructive. He would be concerned about how weak Jayce Talis made him, how quick to make him tremble if it did not feel so good.
It was no doubt modeled after his old cane, with several similarities in its design, but that had been trashed over a month ago. He returned to using the much simpler wooden cane of his graduate years, too distracted by their Hextech dream to bother ordering a replacement. Jayce had only seen the original twice, if that. But it was beautiful.
“I…” he exhaled, brushing the grip. “I do not know what to say.”
“It’s a gift. You don’t need to say anything.” Jayce stood from the bench, avoiding his gaze as he continued. “You don’t even have to use it, if you don’t want to. I tried my best at guessing, but I may have gotten some measurements wrong.”
Jayce spoke with his shoulders, the broad breath of them going up and down as he rambled.
“And I’ve never made a cane before, so I may have forgotten something, or added too much! I know I can go a bit overboard… with… stuff.” He trailed off, abruptly turning around.
“Do you like it?” He asked the words sudden and sharp like he could not help himself.
Viktor chuckled, leaning his cheek on his palm as he watched the taller man. It started off light but evolved into an unattractive cackle as another cog of Jayce Talis slotted into place.
Jayce released his own breath, shoulders relaxing as his words caught up to him. He shook his head.
“Yeah, don’t answer that. Can you tell that I haven’t slept?”
“Just a tad.” Viktor placed the box on the table, taking a hold of his gift’s handle and standing up. He took a few steps around the lab with it, but he could already tell. It was perfect.
He looked back at Jayce, the man once more on the table ledge. He had a bad habit of sitting on the desks of the lab instead of the chairs. It was endearing, if a bit annoying.
Viktor swallowed, tightening his grip.
“I like it very much Jayce.” He praised, something hot squirming in his gut. “It is perfect.”
He stopped himself there before anything untoward slipped from his lips. Best not to be inappropriate about the cane, Viktor.
“Good, great! That’s… that’s great.” Jayce pushed off his perch. “I think I’m going to go pass out now.”
“It is eleven.” Viktor raised a brow, gesturing to the Piltover blue sky.
“Exactly.” He dragged himself to the lab’s exit, stopping right before the door; palm against the frame.
“Thank you, Viktor.” He did not look back. “For, well, everything.”
“I believe I should be the one thanking you, no?” Viktor replied, his gaze fixed on Jayce’s tailored waist.
The other man snorted, glancing down at the floor as his arm dropped. “No, not at all.”
He straightened, and with one last look over his shoulder, he left.
Viktor exhaled then, sinking back into his chair. He watched the large door close, the only noise in the room the constant hum of the academy’s vents. His gaze dropped to the cane held between his hands.
“What are you doing to me, Talis?” He sighed, head falling against it.
Jayce had been a gamble. He was brilliant, his theories like nothing Viktor had ever seen before. Magic had never been in the cards for the man, so outlandish a concept both in Piltover and the undercity that it might as well have been a fairy tale. Viktor was an inventor, he specialized in mechanical engineering, the Arcane was so far off his axis it was not even on the graph. So as he saw that blackboard, and half of the apartment on the street below, he could not help but fall halfway in love with Jayce Talis.
And when he cracked open the man’s notes to see both a scientific journal and a well-loved diary—revolutionary and infatuating all at once—well, he might have just fallen the rest of the way.
“A little bit more than a month.” He muttered to himself, twisting his chair to face his desk again. He propped the cane against it, dully staring at it.
This was dangerous, stupid.
Jayce cared. It was plain to see. He cared about Viktor like he cared about everything. That single-minded intensity gave him tunnel vision on whatever caught his eye. It could make a man feel special, when all Jayce was looking at was him. But, like a solar flare, it was bound to end.
His heart was imbecilic.
Even though he knew radiation was irreversible, Viktor could not help but want anyway.
He did something quite improper then, as one thumb fiddled with the wooden handle. It was eleven, and a weekend. They had vetted several assistants the week before, but none would start working until the next. He was alone. Most likely for the day. Jayce made him heady.
So, all on his own for the rest of the afternoon, he leaned back in the desk chair and spread his legs. There was something to be said about Viktor probably, when a simple gift could bring an ache between his thighs. That he was easy, maybe. Or it had been too long since his last fuck.
He dragged his thin fingers over his crotch, unbuttoning his pants lazily. Sliding his palm into his underwear was easy enough, the wetness that had begun to gather the moment the phrase “Good boy.” near slipped out staining the fabric.
Jayce had a handsome face. That was clear to see, everyone with eyes at the academy certainly could. As a graduate student, Viktor had heard of Jayce Talis long before his trial; his name was whispered during his lectures. Through that, he knew this:
He had an especially fuckable pair of lips.
Viktor imagined it then, the spread of that man on his knees in front of him, mouth open, wet, wanting nothing more than to please him. It brought a haze to his mind, as he saw Jayce smothered in between two legs, desperate with his sweaty hair sticking to the back of his neck.
“There you go,” he would say in this dream, slowly, lethargically. As he fed himself to him. Forced himself into Jayce until there was nothing left in his head but the desire to please, to breathe. “You are very good at this.”
He panted into his hand, stroking himself hard until he had to spit in it.
Commercial enterprise was a trapping Viktor could not tolerate.
“No.” He severed white chalk against the blackboard, the sad stub of it clattering behind him. “My efforts are best put to work in the lab.”
It was well into their partnership then, three years of calculations that had finally begun to move mountains.
His mother, bone tired in the way only the factory’s fissures could cause, scrubbing ash from his hair with water the color of dirt.
Viktor raked the broken chalk across the board, scratching out reactor measurements he could repeat back in his sleep. He tapped it a few more times on the wall, a heat collecting in his ears.
Embarrassing.
He looked over his shoulder.
Jayce had taken a step back, dodging the unfortunate projectile, expression tapered into something not unlike a pout. Doubly embarrassing.
Viktor let out a breath, an uncomfortable weight on his chest. “I am not good at this, Jayce.”
“I prefer pen and paper myself.”
Viktor scoffed, snorted. A horrible amalgamation of the two.
“Do not joke.” He sighed, turning back to the board, tapping the poor excuse for chalk once more. “I would put my foot in my mouth.”
“It’s my mother’s birthday.”
“Hosted by Councilor Medarda. It might as well be a shareholder’s meeting.”
“Well,” Jayce rapped his knuckles against the board, sudden and warm and five inches away. “Her estate’s much larger than House Talis.”
Viktor suppressed a shiver. “But a humble five bedroom.”
“We still don’t have the whole place furnished.” He leaned against the board’s rim.
“Yes,” Viktor eyed him. “best get on that then, heir apparent Talis.”
The man gave a half laugh, before pursing his lips. “She’d want you there.”
“I have met your mother all of three times.”
“Well, I want you there. She’d like to know you more. The man I spend most of my days with—if he could make the trek down from his tower.”
“I do not have the time.”
“Viktor.”
“I do not want to be there.” He spat out, finally, looking up, always up, at him. “Does this ssatisfy you?”
Jayce hummed to himself, the noise which escaped his chest too sweet to Viktor’s ear.
Do you hear your own thoughts, sometimes—
“The fail-safe won’t bleed into the groundwater, Viktor.”
Viktor dragged his eyes away from the man, a nail embedding itself upon his back. Ah, yes, how obvious.
“The true argument reveals itself.” He muttered, dropping the chalk and abandoning his work. He walked over to a desk, planting himself upon it. Bad habits always catch.
“You do not know that.” As he said it, he shook his head a bit, instinctually trying to shake out the mud he felt caked behind his ears. “Nobody knows that.” He looked towards the blackboard. “I do not know that.”
“It won’t.” He followed Viktor’s steps, how unfair, eyes scanning the drafted schematics. “We won’t let it.”
“Optimistic.” He observed, scratching at the base of his cane with his thumb. “Fool-hardy, perhaps.” Most definitely.
Jayce nodded, gaze flicking towards Viktor, a look in his eyes. “We talked about numbers.”
“The Council certainly did.” Viktor could hear a ringing in his ear. “I was present.”
“The only serious debate.” Jayce took a breath. “W—”
“‘Whether the death toll from coal-powered steam engines is five-hundred times worse than Hextech, or many thousands of times worse.’” Viktor repeated. “I do know what I write in our proposals, Jayce.” He scraped a nail across the cane’s metal, similar scratches barely revealing themselves in the light. “Though I leave the debates to you.” Indignation.
“Then you're not worried about pollution.” True blue clean energy, was it? Jayce eyed him. “What are we arguing about, Viktor?”
“Five years to build the Hexgates.” He pressed his fingers down harder. “Five years for that reactor to be built. To power trade agreements.”
“The Power Efficiency Act will—”
“Do not repeat that clause to me Jayce.” He closed his eyes. “Please.”
“It’s not ideal.” A hand carefully took his own, surprising Viktor so much he jerked. “V, your hands.”
They had been rubbed raw with lye earlier, skin beginning to peel as Viktor scrubbed fluid film off, lubricant from some lock cylinder he was mindlessly taking apart. His nails bit down to the quick. Small cuts that bleed a lot.
Blood was pouring down his right inner wrist, leaking from irritated cuticles. It pooled into his elbow.
“I.” He stopped himself, letting Jayce place his cane to the side. He curled his fingers inward, hiding them in his fist. “I feel as if I am mining diamond with bare knuckles.”
“Yeah,” Jayce’s voice was low, exhausted in its own way. “I know what you mean.”
“That proposal was an unmitigated success.” His mouth tasted like copper. “No other graduates have ever received such funding.”
“Viktor.”
His mother, again, handing him something small and shiny that he can not quite recall the shape of anymore. Always be grateful.
“Apologies.” He took the outstretched handkerchief, cleaned his arm, bundled his hand in it. “I have been restless.”
“Come with me,” the words are fast, quick, always a surprise to Jayce and himself. Viktor hmms then, not quite hearing him at first. “tomorrow.”
Viktor smiled. “This very much defeats the point of the last ten minutes, no?”
“I want you there.”
“You have said this.”
“Please.” He had to say, because of course he did, because Viktor was a weak man. Viktor laughed, loudly, turning away. Do not look the gorgon in its eyes.
“No thank you.”
“Best case scenario.” Jayce posited.
Viktor stopped, kept himself from sputtering. “No.” He grabbed his cane, standing up and passing him. “Do not.”
Them, younger by not a lot, stupider by just as much. Attempting to push just that bit more out of the Arcane, oscillations that proved it could be channeled in a big enough dome to power the theoretical, back then, Hextower. Their hands, covered in sweat, assistants dismissed. Prideful, especially now.
“Optimal conditions, least amount of steps. Best case scenario. We ramp it up, the charge stabilizes, and the power remains intact.” Viktor had mumbled to himself, picking at his rolled-up sleeve. Repetition bred perfection.
“Least amount of steps?” Jayce had asked, goggles eskew. “Shouldn’t our best case be material-base?”
“I speak of mechanical computing, Jayce.”
“Punch cards.”
Viktor scoffed. “Time, material, irregardless. Your point?”
“If we want it to stabilize as quickly as possible, we might as well remove the hood. Best case scenario, we die at the same time.”
Viktor had inhaled, exhaled, and then grinned. Idiotic. “Well. That would make it faster.”
Best case scenario. The path of least resistance.
Viktor stared at Jayce. Dressed for the lab again and not for draining meetings. A bit of smoke dust stained his sleeves.
“We go there, we enjoy good wine, we leave.” There was a smile in Jayce’s voice. “Let’s celebrate our unmitigated success.”
“You just want me to meet your mother.” Viktor sniffed, worn down, a battered bluff against the sheer ocean of Jayce Talis. “For the fourth time.”
“I want us to get shitfaced.” He was staring again, in that way that made Viktor feel a bit better with how obvious he was, in his own staring. “I want everyone under the same roof for once.”
“The Kirammans will be there too?”
Jayce shrugged. “Family.”
“Family.” Viktor mimicked, head bobbing back and forth, gesturing a hand up and down. “And a pack of wolves.”
“So you’ll come?”
“What choice in this matter do I have?” He threw the handkerchief at him, and then Jayce was laughing, giggling like a schoolboy as Viktor turned away, a smile ripping his mouth apart. “Your face is a curse.”
“A curse?”
“Yes, it vexes me. Now go find me a damn bandage.”
What choice in this matter do I have? This may decay.
“Well, I do not know,” Viktor hummed into a glass, words sliding funny all around him. “You would have to ask my partner.”
“Jayce Talis?” A lady of some regard asked, her name having left Viktor’s mind in favor of anything else.
“The one and only.” He gestured down the hall, a place so full of people that Viktor knew, with great certainty, had no clue what Ximena Talis looked like. “He is hovering around his mother like poor baby bird.”
“What?” She seemed to know only questions, but she had an amused grin like she was delighted by what Viktor had said.
Decay. That was not meant to be spoken.
Viktor took another sip from his drink, covering the strained smile his face was so fond of making without his input. “He loves to answer questions.”
She nodded, slinking away. Jayce had so kindly abandoned him on request of his mother, and Viktor, too petty to leave, had sent five debutantes his way in the past half hour alone.
“You are talented at that.”
Councilor Medarda had a sort of resplendent, refractive fugue that followed in her wake. It made everyone stare at her as if they could somehow capture a fraction of her light behind their eyelids. It was like looking into a glass storefront to fix your hair, only to somehow hit your forehead on the reflection. She made you want to do things for her. It left an uncomfortable itch on the back of Viktor’s neck.
“Making a fool of myself?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her nose, her cheek. “I agree. It is a talent.”
“Deflecting.”
Viktor was a bit caught off guard, for the simple fact that the Councilor was speaking to him, just him, not at him or beside him. He deflected.
“Reality is often divided by our expectations.” Nuh uh, you are.
“Hm.” She tilted her head so very minutely at him, and Viktor grinned, with teeth.
The boy’s incisors were crooked, tiny sharp things that never grew in right.
“I imagine there is nothing but deflection up here, politicking. Academia is the same.” He finished his drink. “You often can not say what you really wish to.”
“The imperfection of a polite society,” She raised her own glass. Her nails were like molten gold. “a frustrating but apt sacrifice.”
“In my experience, politeness is the first thing people lose once they come into power.” He rotated the stem of his glass in between two of his bandaged fingers, watching the last dredges of wine stain its aureate interior. “A Piltovan exception.”
As long as you stay on your side of the stream, weirdooo.
There was a warmth to the Councilor’s smile, one with no point of origin. “I have to agree.”
Viktor placed his cup down, on some puttering tray skittering through. “It has—”
A weight, solid and full of heat placed itself gently on his shoulder. Viktor pursed his lips. Jayce quickly grabbed two more drinks from the tray and placed one right back in the man’s hands. His back tingled.
“Jayce.” He swirled the wine in the cup.
“Partner.” Jayce said cheerily, sick in its pitch, before turning to the Councilor. “Councilor Medarda. How many times have I thanked you for being a gracious host?”
“It may be upwards of a hundred, now.”
“Well thank you,” he curled his fingers around Viktor’s shoulder. “for the hundredth and first time.”
“Stealing him away,” she pointed at Viktor—ah, much more familiar—with the rim of her empty drink. “I imagine.”
“Yes, well,” he looked at Viktor. “my mother has finally escaped the in-laws.”
“Your cousins?” Viktor raised a brow. “Of the illustrious House Talis?”
“Yes,” Jayce sniffed. “in-laws.”
“Well, if she would have me.” He turned to the Councilor. “I shall see you in our next meeting, Councilor Medarda.”
“Forevermore.” She nodded, drifting away, a miasma following in her wake, which kept the path perfectly clear for her to step through. Lucky.
Viktor leaned on his cane for a moment, before flicking Jayce’s hand.
“Ow!” It was nothing more than a sting, Jayce, be a big boy about it. “Look, I know disappearing wasn’t, I’m sorry V–”
“You should wait on me hand and foot for the rest of the night, Talis.” He hissed.
“Seriously?”
“No,” Viktor blew out a breath. “but it would amuse me. You invited me here, essentially on your knees might I add, and left me to drown in bilgewater.” He shook his head, suppressing an unfortunate giggle. “You are dead to me.”
“The wine’s that bad, huh?”
“Dead,” he finished his drink. Again. “to me. Where is your mother?”
Jayce rubbed at his nose, hiding a smirk no doubt. “Leave me some time to catch up, Viktor.”
“Hm, no I do not think I will.” Bolder than usual, he pushed the man forward, in any direction that meant leaving this particular hall. “Follow the scent, Progress-Boy.”
“Did you know some manufacturers are talking about making mugs with my face on them?”
“You can not be serious.”
Ximena Talis looked just like her son, a warmth to her gaze that made Viktor falter in her presence. He would straighten his back as much as he could around her, her opinion of him meaning a lot more than it should. Viktor remembered the first year of his partnership with Jayce, when Jayce would talk with her only through letter, or telegraph, a frustration with his mother that stemmed from her lack of belief in him. With her obsession, which could likewise be called parenting, of keeping her only child safe. Viktor knew Jayce struggled with speaking aloud to her, like the words suddenly disappeared once they escaped the drafts in his journal.
He had dined with her, once, when House Talis was finally relinquished in her name again, once the grants signed to Jayce Talis were too big to ignore. He liked her. She loved Jayce. It was clear to see.
“Viktor.” She said, always softly, like his name was meant to be spoken that way. “I hope the Councilor’s Estate has treated you well.”
“It has a lot of sharp edges.” He said, like that was something you made conversation about. He tapped his cane on the floor a few times, wishing to die.
She laughed. “It was nice of her to offer her home to us. I am afraid that our own is still in the process of being revitalized.” She shook her head. “Arthur’s cousins have been fighting over that place for decades now.”
“The line of succession is suddenly such a tricky thing,” he thumbed at his cane. “when it is finally meant to fall upon those with actual merit.”
“Leaving all of House Talis out to dry, V?” Jayce asked, at the corner of his vision always.
Viktor chuckled, shaking his head, and catching Ximena’s eye before looking away. “Foot in mouth. Terminal, as you can imagine.” He hummed. “No. Your son is just someone with an exceptional mind. It is hard to measure up.”
A lull.
“Yes.” She replied, a faraway look on her face. “He is.”
“Let’s move on from my exceptional mind, please, I’ve been getting embarrassed enough tonight.” Jayce coughed, a heat on his face that Viktor had only seen on the rarest of occasions. Perhaps compliments to the parents were an endeavor he should partake more in.
The heart struggles to pump blood, until, suddenly, it implodes. Like the Hexgates, it brings in material from that other place, refilling organs, reforming them purplish. The old lungs catch this infant heart’s fresh blood, already filling with oxygen, to capture even more. A paradoxical, aspirating, feedback loop. How fascinating.
“I’ll leave you two to it.” Ximena had gotten herself on her tiptoes, looking over the heads of the crowd. “I do believe one of your cousins is making their way back over. I will make my escape.”
“Mom—”
“Escape!” She wiggled a metal finger. “It’s part of the enjoyment of a party. Your father taught me that.” And, as much as someone at a party supposedly dedicated to them can, she absconded.
“She has the right idea, you know.” Viktor pulled at his friend’s coat. “Bathroom. Now.”
Piltover was a beautiful swipe of golden, glittering buildings that reached into the sky with little regard for gravity or good sense, even through the small, arched window of one of Councilor Medarda’s bathrooms. Viktor had no appreciation for it, face halfway in the toilet.
“It’s a bloodbath out there,” Jayce unhooked the window’s clasp, letting a good amount of cool air in. It was not more than a powder room, but they were crammed inside comfortably enough, if for a few bruised elbows. “How much did you drink?”
“I stopped counting,” Viktor swiped his hair up. “your company was sorely missed.”
“And my exceptional mind?”
“Jayce,” Viktor started, stopped, started again. “I am a weak, ailing man becoming well acquainted with the Councilor’s plumbing. Give me some reprieve.”
“I had about twenty people sent my way, asking me questions that my partner was just so very unable to answer, apologies, perhaps Jayce Talis could lend an ear—”
“I could aim for your shoes, you know.”
“And free us both.” He sat down on the floor, leaning against the door and brushing his shoulder to Viktor’s back. “How long is this one going to last?”
Viktor sighed, loudly, his mouth dry and esophagus infuriated. “Get me a towel for my knee. Please.”
Jayce handed the wash towel over. “Sorry for ruining the night.”
“I ruined my own night.” He flushed the toilet again, waiting a moment before resting an elbow on the lid and leaning his temple on his palm. Fuck.
“I’m selfish Viktor.”
Viktor looked over at Jayce, and saw him, sitting there on the floor, smiling.
Viktor looked over at Jayce, and saw him, sitting there on the floor, smiling.
Viktor looked over at Jayce, and saw him, sitting there on the floor, smiling.
Smiling, frowning, pouting. Always, just, there. Doing something with his—face.
Jayce.
Jayce, in a quiet moment in Viktor’s new apartment, flipping through his journal, back and forth and back and forth, not saying a word. Thinking.
Jayce, in the lab, grease on his forehead, ranting through Viktor’s laughter about some theorem he was desperate to prove wrong. He just needed to, he would die otherwise, how could an entire field be so wrong—
Jayce, pouring him something—tea, was it, he could not recall—that he simply had to try, it came in just this morning, just a sip V—
Jayce, touching his back, gently, as he puked his guts out at the Distinguished Innovator’s Competition—
Jayce, sitting in Councilor Medarda’s bathroom, Viktor’s throat raw. His breath must have been repugnant.
Their faces had been especially close to one another’s.
How much longer will this go on?
He should have just kissed him there, vomit and all.
Why not?
Memories are mutable things.
Viktor falls from his chrysalis.