Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Few things feel as good as Jayce’s unprecedentedly warm skin under the tips of Viktor’s fingers. 

Sure, the rush of a poorly executed rebellious act just to get a rise out of your family feels good. Anything driven from impulse, despite the pit of regret he’d find himself wallowing in later feels good, albeit momentarily. 

But feeling good doesn’t necessarily mean that it feels right, Viktor tells himself. He’s spent a good chunk of his life feeling good about his actions but rarely right. He chalks it off as something akin to his reluctance to belong. When you belong, most things come easily to you and not so wrong even if impulse thumps under the surface of your skin with vigor.

Touching Jayce comes easy to him and letting him touch Viktor seems to come even easier, a surprising feat considering it’s been barely even four hours since they have met. Jayce’s face, washed out by the fluorescent light above, is so close that it feels like he is stealing air out of Viktor’s lungs. And Viktor lets him, thumb tracing across the scar under his right eye, another hand finding home in the back of Jayce’s hair. 

Few things feel as good as Jayce’s skin and the tickle of the ends of his hair under the tips of Viktor’s fingers. None rarely ever feels so right though.

=

SEVENTY-TWO HOURS EARLIER, NOXUS

The night casts blue shadows across the room while Viktor sits on the sofa across his bed, his right leg crossed over his left for support. The distant murmur of Powder’s voice from the other side of the phone is drowned out by the sound of an airplane that takes off. Viktor watches the lights flickering on the runway from the ceiling-to-floor window.

“This is the fifth airplane that took off while we were on the call,” Powder says, tone lilting slightly like she’s trying hard not to be sarcastic about Viktor’s choice of residence. Viktor was not the one who chose this apartment. If it were up to him, he would’ve gotten something smaller, and more private, less Piltover–ish, he supposes. But working for Ambessa Medarda comes with certain uh, benefits . Viktor doesn’t respond to that which makes Powder continue, “Anyway, so…” A pause as she slurs the word theatrically. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Powder,” he rasps, voice low but the naked body on his bed stirs anyway. He wonders if the man is awake. When there’s no other movement, he sighs, listening to the soft whirring of another plane lifting off the ground. “I don’t think I should be there.”

There’s no answer for a while and Viktor wonders if the line is dead. He almost pulls the phone away from his ear to see but then her voice cuts back in, softer, almost wistful, “Are you still mad at me?” 

Is he…? Well, he had been initially for quite a while. Growing up, Powder had never made any unsavory comments about his disability. There were questions sure, a lot of them actually but Viktor was patient enough to help her understand. He doesn’t want to think about the incident, rip open old wounds so he tries not to. 

“Not really, no,” he tells her. If he has to be honest, he does owe her an apology but that’s for later. 

“Then why?” Powder sounds genuinely curious.

Viktor could tell her that he can’t take time off from his job but Powder is smart enough to know that his work is remote. The only reason he even moved to Noxus was because he wanted to be away from Zaun and of course, Piltover. There’s no point in beating around the bush actually and Powder is not a child, hasn’t been one for more than half a decade now.

“I don’t want to make decisions that might hurt people,” he says, hears the start of Powder’s protest about how she won’t be a part of the campaign this time, but interrupts anyway, “Last time it was you. This time it could be someone else. I don’t think it’s wise for me to work with family.”

Powder’s inhale from the other side is sharp. “He is looking for people to help him with the campaign, you know. I have seen his team. There’s no way he could win this.” Viktor knows some of the people Silco has hired. Words have come to him a few times and not through Silco. Silco has refused to discuss business with Viktor which actually leaves not enough topics for them to discuss. Viktor could really do without the weekly calls he gets from him, just to talk about mundane stuff. In a way, he understands the need to have a semblance of control over your children, albeit not biological but Viktor’s never really been good at being a son. 

Powder though, she excels at being a daughter. A rebellious one at that.

“And you think I can make him win?” Viktor tries to sound a little skeptical but he knows that he can. He has never failed any of his clients. Anything that needs fixing, he has fixed it. He is not doubtful about his capability which is beside the point.

But Powder’s a cheeky little thing. 

“I think you’re the only one who can,” she says to stroke his ego. “Look Vik, I owe him this.” There’s self-awareness in her voice, years of guilt. “ We owe him this.”

Viktor doesn’t mean to be mean about it. But the “who’s we?” comes out of him without much resistance. It’s a joke, he tells himself. 

Powder doesn’t seem to mind as she continues, relentless in her attempt, “C’mon, he’s worked so hard, Vik.” Viktor does agree with that part. “We really need someone more stable here. I really don’t see people being influenced by Fin of all people.”

“I beg to differ. I have seen him influence people.”

“You mean, chem-barons and petty criminals?” A snort. “We need someone clean-cut, someone with a face made for the camera. Someone pretty.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Powder.” 

“I wasn’t—” comes a high-note protest but then a pause. “I wasn’t flattering you.” Powder’s voice is much softer as she adds, “Simply being honest. Besides, you being involved with the Medardas is a huge plus for him.”

“He doesn’t like the Medardas.”

He almost expects her to say isn’t that why you work for them? , for her to state the obvious but she doesn’t. The change in her way of maneuvering situations such as this is prominent. Viktor can see her age catching up to her in the way she times her words, the way she deflects topics she would’ve instinctively brought up if she was a little younger. “Doesn’t mean he can’t profit from their title?” is what she says instead. “Eat the rich, remember.”

Viktor chuckles at that. “Yeah, I would, except I am a part of that world now so it would be a bit hypocritical.”

“Getting flashbacks of Vi being pussywhipped for a certain enforcer.” Viktor can almost imagine a wrinkle of her pretty button nose at that.

“Powder.”

“Yeah?”

“You should be nicer to Vi.”

“I am. I never mention the Kirammans in front of her.”

“Good.” He sits up, bending forward over his knees to massage his aching calf. A spot in the middle of his back at the left side of his spine flares at the movement. He inhales sharply, the air clinging to his bare skin sending a shiver down his body. He’s moved past his conversational quota. Besides, four am is too early for a conversation with Powder of all people. 

“Look, Powder, I see all your points and I see where you’re coming from,” he starts. “But I also think that it’s feasible for him to win this without my help.” Viktor isn’t lying when he says this. Sure, it’s going to be hard but last time he checked, Silco had a bit of a reputation among the youth of Piltover, the ones who are a little ashamed of their bourgeoisie upbringing so they compensate with their support of a former-miner-turned-politician to show how class-conscious they are. It’s juvenile but it also does help. “I can give a few pointers but I don’t see myself in Zaun anytime soon.”

Powder doesn’t say anything for a while. Viktor waits, watches the pink of the sky, the muted light of dawn that bathes his skin with its gloom. 

“You know, sometimes it’s really hard to talk to you, Viktor,” she finally says, a hint of mirth in her voice that screams melancholy, more than levity.

“I know.”

“I try not to be whiny or at least who I used to be.” 

Viktor has noticed that, chalked it off as a thing that happens as you grow up. “I know that,” he says, straightening up to rub his sleep-puffy eyes. 

“Thanks for not hating me,” Powder says with what sounds like a rueful smile in her voice.

“I don’t hate you,” he says more to himself than her.

A sigh escapes her from the other side before her voice cheers up. “Well, I’ll leave you to um,” she pauses for a second before going with, “whatever, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Viktor nods at no one, feels the tips of his hair brush against his knuckles. “Thank you, Powder.”

A hum before the line goes dead. Viktor’s chest puffs up, going down as he exhales before standing on his feet. The floor sways a little. When he looks around, he spots his cane leaning against one of his bedside tables. It’s a bit of a walk there which he manages without audibly wincing. Pressing one knee over the mattress, he hovers over the man, maintains a little distance not to startle him. 

The ‘hey’ that comes out of him is a hushed murmur. The man doesn’t budge. Viktor tries again until he turns, wide-eyed shock on his face at the suddenness of it. 

“What?” comes out of him, a little breathless.

“I am going to my office,” Viktor tells him.

“What? What time is it?” Pale hair spiked up from sleep moves as the man glances around, disoriented. “Is it morning already?”

“No, my work is more of a circumstantial sort of thing. So sometimes I get called in ungodly hours.” 

That’s not a lie. Problems don’t come with warnings. 

The guy turns to face him, solemn for a while as if he’s processing the information. He is not bad-looking but in the dim light of the bar where Viktor had met him last night after work, he certainly looked more appealing. 

“I see,” he says with a sleep-addled voice. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

Viktor’s apology comes fast while he watches the man dress. Just out of courtesy, or maybe habit, Viktor picks up the closest shirt he can find and dons it over his cotton shorts, absentmindedly mirroring the man. He wishes he could remember his name. 

“It was nice,” the man finally says when he’s at the threshold. Viktor leans against his cane, temple pressed to the open door as he offers the man a brief smile.

“It was,” he parrots. Viktor doesn’t remember much to know how much truth there is to it.

“Well then,” the man stalls, running a hand through his errant hair sheepishly. “Good luck with work.”

Viktor nods a ‘thanks’ before pushing the door closed to his back. His stomach does a flip, squeezing in places as a reminder that he had forgone dinner last night. It’s a worry for later, he decides as he gets back to his bedroom, using his free hand to slip off the shirt before sinking into his bed.

Off days like this come very rarely so the agenda for today is to sleep for as long as he can. 

FORTY-TWO HOURS LATER, NOXUS 

He’s running late. 

You’d expect that living close to an airport would help him be on time but it’s an impossible feat at this point. Viktor revels in being punctual which he mostly is. But this is impromptu—he allows himself the smallest grace for it. 

“Step through,” a security officer says curtly, gesturing at the scanner. Viktor nods towards his leg brace, familiar with the whole routine. 

“This might set it off,” he says flatly. 

The nod the officer offers him is brief, waiting as Viktor walks through the scanner which, as expected, beeps alarmingly. 

“Step aside, please,” the officer says, motioning toward a secondary screening area. Viktor complies, holding his arms out as another officer wordlessly passes a handheld scanner over his body. The device gets louder near his spine and leg brace.

“Braces,” Viktor says, tone curt but polite. “Medical necessity.”

One quick glance before the officer waves him through. Viktor reclaims his belongings which aren’t much—his trusty coat, his cane, laptop, pocket watch, and an overnight bag for clothes and medications. The plan is to return after the scandal dies down. He adjusts the back brace subtly beneath his shirt before slipping on his coat. There is the occasional curious glance as he walks over to the customs area. He would have left the leg brace at home since it’s not a high–pain day but flying is bound to wear him down a little so this stays on.

The hum of the airport hasn’t died down despite the day getting closer to an end. Midnight flights tend to be more crowded, judging by the surroundings. A mix of muffled announcements, the rhythmic clatter of rolling suitcases, and hurried footsteps reach him. His shoulders ache coolly. He can’t wait to get inside the plane and give his body the reprieve it wants.

“Purpose of travel?” the agent asks as he passes his Piltovan passport.

“Business,” Viktor replies, his tone clipped.

“Destination?”

“Zaun.”

After a brief pause, the agent stamps his passport and returns it. Viktor nods, slipping his phone out to check the latest. Sevika hasn’t gotten back with updates yet— thud.

Pain shoots into his side, his hand losing grip over his duffel bag to instinctively fly to his shoulder. 

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Let me—” the voice trails off, the man he collided with crouching to take hold of Viktor’s bag. 

“It’s fine,” Viktor mutters even though it really isn’t. On a bad pain day, he probably would’ve said something unsavory but he’s managing today fine. 

The man hands the bag over first as he straightens, his height momentarily shadowing Viktor. “I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says, apologetic. Something about the polite guilt on his face and the sunkissed skin tug at some distant elusive memory that Viktor can’t quite pinpoint. He’s too preoccupied to linger anyway. 

“It happens,” he says with a nod of thanks before he turns on his feet. There’s still some time but he boards the plane with a hastiness that shouldn’t really matter. It takes off when it takes off. He just wants to settle into his seat which he does. 

Once he has, he shrugs off his coat, draping it neatly over his lap before pulling out the tiny leather-bound journal he keeps for this particular purpose. He gets to jotting down the list of things he will have to do once he’s in Zaun. He doesn’t know how Powder will take his decision not to tell her, to be very honest. He doesn’t want to dwell on that now.

The plane is pretty empty so far which is ironic considering the amount of crowd he had to push through to get here. He’s halfway into brainstorming the recovery campaign when a shadow looms over him. He doesn’t look. At least, not at first.

“Well, small world,” comes a voice, vaguely familiar. Viktor’s head whips to find the man he had bumped into in the terminal just a while ago. “Looks like I’m your seatmate,” he adds with a charming grin while he stores his duffel bag in the overhead bin. Viktor thinks he doesn’t imagine the shiny logo, familiar, one that he has seen in everything related to the Academy in Piltover, sewn in the middle of the navy fabric of the bag.

It’s a bit of a squeeze when the man tries to make his way to the window seat, shins jostling against Viktor’s knees. An apology is muttered into the space from the man when he finally settles.

Viktor gives a faint nod, returning to his journal, though his pen hesitates over the page. Well, this is going to be a long flight.

At least, Viktor notes absently, the man smells good.

FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER, NOXUS

He is driving to work when he hears it—the news, wrapped up on a silver platter for him. There are low murmurs of advertisements first, a few traffic updates, and sports scores, and then the news segment begins.

He’s not entirely listening to it, more focused on manoeuvering through Noxus’s bustling streets, and pulling down the sun visor to keep the oddly harsh sunlight from blinding him, when he thinks he hears the word Zaun. 

His eyes flick to the dial as though staring at it will clarify what he’s just heard.

“…engaging in environmental malpractice.” The announcer’s sharp tone cuts through the interior of his car. Viktor’s ears perk up even as he gets his eyes back on the road ahead. 

“According to sources,” the announcer continues, “one of Silco’s industrial facilities in Zaun has been dumping hazardous waste into Piltover’s Silvercrest Lake, a critical source of water for thousands. The incident has already sparked outrage among Piltover’s citizens, with environmental watchdogs calling it ‘one of the worst cases of industrial negligence in decades.’”

Viktor’s fingers tighten on the wheel, knuckles white. He turns up the volume.

The announcer’s voice grows graver. “If true, this could have catastrophic consequences for Silco’s campaign and the fragile Piltover-Zaun alliance.”

Viktor can see it clear as day, already cataloging the fallout, the inevitable finger-pointing that awaits Zaun. His hand reaches for the cupholder absentmindedly, wrapping around the empty paper cup to see the beads of orange liquid stuck to the surface. He could use some more caffeine. 

The announcer’s rhythmic voice is droning on, “…an increasingly common accusation…” Viktor is barely paying attention to it, picking up on words from time to time, “Zaun’s eco-initiatives”, and then something about “an independent investigation”. The announcer is wrapping up the segment by the time he’s pulling into the parking lot of Medarda Industries. His shoulders feel tight, a dull ache right under his nape that he massages promptly with one hand, reaching for his cane with another. 

“….could mean for the balance of power between Piltover and Zaun. Stay tun—” the voice cuts off as Viktor presses the button before stepping out.

Sunlight, too sharp and unforgiving for early winter mornings, makes his eyes flutter, shoots a throb into the space between his eyebrows. He can’t tell if it’s the light sensitivity or the news he just heard that is escalating the start of a nasty migraine.

Not that it matters.

All he needs is some caffeine in him and he’ll be alright.

When Viktor clocks in, coffee in hand,  the chatter around the cubicles is already in full swing. His cane clicks rhythmically against the marble floor as he makes his way to the boardroom, nodding acknowledgment every time one of his colleagues greets him a good morning. He can see movement through the top of the frosted section of the glass that separates the boardroom from the rest. 

It’s pretty empty when he gets in, letting the door shut behind him with a dull creak. Inside, a large screen dominates the far wall, streaming live news coverage, and in front of it, arms crossed and face impassive, stands Mel Medarda.

“You heard?” She asks without looking away from the screen.

“I did,” Viktor replies, lowering himself to the nearest chair he finds. The coffee cup settles on the sleek tabletop.

“They’re not holding back,” she adds.

Viktor follows her gaze to the screen, where aerial shots of Silvercrest Lake fill the display, its once-pristine waters murky and lifeless. Protestors crowd outside Silco’s campaign headquarters, brandishing signs. Viktor catches the sight of one before the screen jumps to the anchor’s face.

Zaun’s Greed Kills —it said.

A little hypocritical for a topsider to come up with but sure, Viktor will tolerate that. 

For now, at least.

The anchor’s voice carries on, “While Silco denies these allegations, critics claim this incident reveals the true nature of his so-called ‘eco-initiatives.’”

Hazel eyes bordered with dark kohl fall on him. “Greenwashing,” Mel says flatly, her tone laced with skepticism. “That’s the angle they’re going for.”

Viktor feels his nose scrunch up slightly, lips pursing at the bitter taste the whole ordeal leaves in his mouth. This is not just a smear. They have orchestrated this to perfection.

“How much truth is there to it, do you think?”

Mel’s question shouldn’t bother him. She’s just being cautious, a necessity in her position but Viktor feels something in his voice, something ice-cold when he deadpans, “He didn’t do it.” 

“How do you know he didn’t?” 

The curiosity is genuine. Viktor can see no malice behind her words as she tilts her pretty head and waits for an answer.

“I just do,” is the only thing he says.

If Viktor has to explain how he knows, he will have to start from more than decades ago. He will have to start from the relentless drive with which Silco dragged him to crumbling nursing homes and underfunded hospitals, even to Singed’s shady practices in hopes of getting something— anything —to help Viktor breathe a little better. 

Silco is a lot of things but not this.

Not this, he mutters to himself, retreating to his office and downing a Painstem dry from his emergency drawer. Viktor shouldn’t concern himself with the aftermath of the whole ordeal. His calendar suggests that he has meetings and deadlines to worry about. He gets to them, starting with reviewing a crisis report from one of Ambessa's factories in Ionia. Wipes sweaty fingertips and cranks the space heater down before going back to flipping through the data on his tablet and noting potential solutions.

A knock on the door interrupts his pristine focus, brings out a sharp inhale from him, as he pushes out a ‘come in’, to see the doe-eyed hesitation of a junior associate as she quietly enters with a stack of reports. “Updates on the South Piltover project,” she lets him know, setting them on his desk. 

“Thank you. Close the door on your way out,” he says, eyes back on the screen.

“Uh, Viktor?”

“Yes, Reva?” He doesn’t look up, reaches for the documents instead.

“Jorik is going out on coffee duty. You want something?” 

He does—desperately, in fact. Could use as much caffeine as possible before his leg starts to get jittery. At his reaction, Reva adds, “I’ll tell him to get your usual then.”

Viktor offers her a quirk of his lips, and a ‘thank you, Reva’ that misses his usual curtness. Reva, bright-eyed, leaves him to his work. For the next hour, Viktor’s eyes sting from the brightness of the screen on the tablet, even as his migraine subsides, gradually giving up against his focus on the array of spreadsheets and analyses. Words get jotted down on the tiny leather-backed diary, bullet points about potential risks and contingency plans that might come in handy a year later if something goes down.  

He takes a twenty-minute walk towards the smoking zone to stretch his legs and give his eyes a reprieve from the screen, once he’s run out of coffee. Air, albeit bitter with smoke, fills his lungs that are better than they used to be. He contemplates giving Silco a call, but he doesn’t want to overstep, not when the man refuses to talk business with him. It’s almost juvenile how your parents’ respect for you gets so vast, the more physical distance you bring between them and you. But he’s cut from the same cloth, stubborn to a fault. He can’t blame Silco for not reaching out, not when he had explicitly told him not to include him in his mess when he left Zaun all those years ago.

Viktor could really use a cigarette. He sees one of his colleagues loiter around the zone as he smokes with his eyes on his phone, a Noxian brand—he recognizes the filter. 

He’ll pass.

He’s almost at his cabin a few minutes later, when his ears, sensitive to sound, catch a snippet of the ongoing coverage on the office TV that plays softly in the background of the cubicles. 

“Silco’s Zaun-based factory has been accused of leaking toxic waste into a Piltover water source…” Nothing new, he decides, propelling his cane forward but his feet come to a halt as the voice shifts to a sharp, measured tone. He knows it, would recognize it anywhere, the neat accent curling around the authoritative voice—“Silco claims to champion Zaun’s future. But this alleged disaster proves that he’s willing to put both Zaun and Piltover's lives at risk for profit,” Cassandra Kiramman continues. She looks good, not a hair out of place, dressed elegantly in blue. 

Viktor doesn’t think she’s behind it. The Kirammans can be cruel, sure. An image of Vi’s dark eye makeup running down her face as Viktor picks her up from a shady underground bar pops into his mind, another of Caitlyn bashing the windshield of Vi’s car with the back of a forearm-sized dumbbell, Vi’s fucking dumbbell, unbidden. But the Kirammans aren’t dishonest people. Viktor doesn’t particularly dislike them but when Cassandra says, “The people deserve a leader who prioritizes their safety, not someone who greenwashes to hide their corruption,” Viktor has to press his lips into a thin line for his emotions to not bleed into his features. 

His thumb traces over Silco’s number when he closes the door to his office behind him. 

He doesn’t call. 

=

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, NOT NOXUS

The first hour goes by in silence, apart from the sound of Viktor’s pen scribbling onto the diary and the occasional whisper of a page turning as his seatmate reads through a paperback, the ones you can find in airport book stalls, with one of those AI-generated covers where a half-naked shredded man holds onto a frail little woman with an overly theatrical pose, a cheesy title of some regency romance scrawled in an ugly font on top of their heads. His seatmate’s golden eyes have given Viktor several appreciative glances since the plane took off in Noxus about an hour ago but he didn’t speak to him, seemingly respecting Viktor’s clear desire not to talk. 

Viktor’s not stupid though.

He knows an interested man when he sees one. It would’ve been easy to chalk it off as politeness but it’s politeness when he interacts with the pretty stewardess attending to their aisle, wildly different from the way he had looked at Viktor. Viktor wonders if he should be entertaining this for a second—he’s done it before—but his nerves get to him before he can come up with a sound decision about it. 

Wine spills on top of the man’s leather stompers from over the rim of the glass in Viktor’s shaky hand. The man closes the book at that, shaking his head like it’s nothing when Viktor mutters a quiet apology. Holding his place in the book with his finger, he asks, concern evident in his tone that isn’t exactly overbearing, “Everything cool with you?”

Everything isn’t cool with Viktor. 

Viktor’s not an anxious person, not usually but as he put down his journal and got himself something to drink from the stewardess, the realization that he’s on his way back to Zaun dawned on him. It’s ridiculous, he thinks. He booked the ticket, he packed his bag, and he walked himself into the airport. All of it had been a conscious choice so this delayed reaction feels extremely unnecessary. 

“Do you have aviophobia?” is what the man next to him says.

Viktor doesn’t. But it is better than telling a random stranger the truth. A decade ago Viktor probably would’ve done it, would’ve justified it by saying that it’s always better to tell things to strangers you’d never meet again, labeling it some sort of catharsis, but that was a decade ago and Viktor’s tired. 

He only nods.

“It’s fine. Even if something did happen, you’ve got the safety card to save you,” the man says, jutting a pointy chin towards the seat pocket, before pulling it out with exaggerated solemnity. Viktor’s eyes flick over it, finding exactly what he would expect from a safety card—diagrams of emergency exits, instructions regarding oxygen masks, crash-landing positions, and so much more that Viktor already knows about. 

“You know,” the man adds, leaning in just enough so that he doesn’t invade Viktor’s personal space, but the fresh smell of his cologne, like soil after rain drifts to his nose anyway. Viktor had noticed it the moment the man had taken the seat but now he thinks the scent gets stronger. The man continues to speak, with a low conspiratorial voice, “I like to think of this as the ‘Everything-Is-Fine-Except-When-It-Isn’t’ card.”

Viktor blinks, pursing his lips slightly to prevent his lips from reacting. 

“Seriously,” the man presses, like he has something to prove, a mock-studious expression knitting his thick dark eyebrows as he examines the card. “Look at this guy here.” He points a thick long finger at the card. “Brace position, they say. But if we’re being honest, it’s more like hug your knees and pray to whoever’s listening .”

That does it. A laugh spills out of Viktor, so sudden that it surprises himself a little. 

And when the man grins at him, Viktor notices just how ridiculously good-looking he is, a prime example of the phrase—‘tall, dark, and handsome’, effortless in plain slacks and a casual button down, his dark hair trimmed at the sides neatly.

“You sound great when you laugh,” the man says, sliding the book he had been reading away absentmindedly. “A guy could fall in love,” he adds, and Viktor has to physically stop himself from reacting. 

The words sink into him, slowly like melting honey. Viktor’s not unfamiliar with people’s advances at all so he dismisses the tingle that lingers under the surface of his skin as a part of the earlier bout of anxiety from his thoughts related to Zaun. Blames it on the crowd he’d have to address and the anti-Zaunite sentiments he might have to work with. But that’s not true, is it? 

Viktor simply couldn’t care less about the Pilties that are down there to crucify him once he lands.

The lack of reaction from Viktor doesn’t seem to faze the man though, only makes his grin turn softer. “Jayce,” he offers, holding out a hand. 

Viktor takes it, acts like the way Jayce’s hand dwarfs his doesn’t make something coil tightly in his lower stomach, lets the warmth of it seep into his cool palm as he says, “Viktor.”

The first thing Jayce asks him is if he’s a writer, eyes darting to remind Viktor of the leather-bound diary that lies on his lap. Viktor doesn’t think he has the look of a writer, maybe on lazy days when he’s dressed in something loose and casual, something less distinctly Zaunite. But that’s a rare case. His clothes for work and outings mostly are the rich dark colors of Zaun, lined with hems of understated gold that Powder had once told him tends to match his eyes. That hadn’t been the intention. He was simply following Silco’s footsteps, dressing in whatever tailored offerings the man would provide him with.

It’s not like he didn’t have free will. Powder has always been the one to choose her own clothing but Viktor spent a long time of his life bed-ridden, and when he wasn't bed-ridden, a long time of it studying to get into the academy. He hadn’t realized when Silco’s style had bled into whatever personal style he had acquired throughout the years.

“No, it’s just notes for work,” Viktor tells Jayce, pressing his palm over the leather, his hand covering the diary. All it reminds him of is Jayce’s hand, the warmth of the rough skin, scattered with callus in places. He tries not to look at it.

“What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking..?” 

“I’m a fixer, like a crisis manager,” he says, looking back at curious expectant eyes.

The eyes narrow slightly, crinkling with a knowing look before Jayce leans back on his seat, looking ahead and nodding. “So you solve people’s problems,” he says like he’s trying to imagine the logistics of it. 

“Somewhat.”

“So if I get into trouble—” Jayce turns, shoulder popping as he leans in again, offers Viktor another easy smile. “I know where to go now.”

“Yeah?” Viktor feels an eyebrow arch at the casual remark. Even if it was serious, Viktor can’t imagine what he could help Jayce with unless… He presses his lips together as if the action would prevent his brain from going down the gutter. “What do you do, Jayce?” he finally asks.

“I design things. Make them.”

“Like?” Viktor waits with a tilt of his head, notices the way Jayce’s eyes flicker to his right eye and then his left. “Clothes?” Viktor ventures even though he can’t imagine Jayce going down that route so he adds something that seems more suitable, something that could explain the roughness of Jayce’s hands. “Machines?” It sounds a little silly after it comes out of his mouth.

But there’s no reaction to that as Jayce says, “Buildings.”

That seems more likely.

“So you’re an architect.”

Jayce’s nod is bashful, so utterly different from the man he was just a while back. Viktor wonders if that had been just a fluke, the quiet confidence with which Jayce had clearly gotten him to think of things he shouldn’t be thinking about. 

“Did you work under Professor Heimerdinger?” Viktor can’t help it.

Jayce’s surprise is evident in the way his eyes widen at the question. “You know Professor Heimer?”

“Well, the last I checked he was the head of the architecture department in PAT so I just assumed you worked with him at some point.”

Jayce doesn’t respond directly to it but his answering question makes sense to Viktor. “Did you go to PAT?” he asks. At Viktor’s ‘yes’, Jayce comes up with a “cool”, the word so unexpectedly boyish that it almost makes Viktor want to laugh again. He doesn’t, listens instead as Jayce adds, “And yeah, I interned for him for about a year during my master’s program.”

Viktor can imagine it—large sunkissed hand on a laser cutter, a bit too gentle as another hand works with glue, both hands busying themselves with 3D printers late into the night, hours of the same night spent sketching blueprints, fingers smudged with pencil marks flexing over keyboards to work on photorealistic renderings. It suits him. Viktor wonders what kind of buildings Jayce would design, something grandiose and inherently Piltover or something more cutting-edge. Viktor doesn’t know how to incorporate that discussion into this conversation without coming off as too nosy.

“I see,” he finds himself saying, opts for something less heavy, more casual. “Does he still have that annoying Poro?”

“He does, yes.” Jayce’s chuckle is a soft musicality, leaves his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. He seems relaxed, again now that they seem to have a common ground. “I’m assuming you’re from Piltover then?” He sounds so sure, and it’s a little funny because it’s something Viktor would definitely expect from a Piltovan.

“Close, but I’m from Zaun.”

“Which part?”

“The Entresol,” Viktor says even though a question like that back when he came to Piltover to start his academic career would sound like something thrown out of either condescension or ignorance. Most people didn’t know how Zaun worked, every level of it considered the same—the sump, as they put it, and Viktor? A sumprat. He assumes that it has changed a little now that Zaun, a gentrified Zaun, is a beacon of hope just as much as Piltover has always been labeled to be. 

Jayce seems to look like he knows what Viktor is talking about as he gives him a nod. “I’m from Piltover,” is what he says next.

It’s in good faith, Viktor knows. Jayce is just making conversation, could even be serious with his input thinking Viktor might not be able to guess. It’s a little endearing if Viktor has to be honest. “I’m sure you are,” he murmurs dryly.

Viktor notices the slit in Jayce’s right eyebrow when he frowns, voice lilting with an invisible pout as he says, “What’s with that look?”

“What look?” Viktor means it when he asks but also becomes terribly aware of the way his smirk has made its presence. He is not making fun of Jayce, not at all really. Jayce scowling like a petulant child, so at odds with his broad-shouldered confidence, stops him from explaining any further though. He presses his temple against the back of his seat, looking up at Jayce with eyes that he usually reserves for… uh, certain occasions. 

The next words that come out of Jayce are something Viktor clearly doesn’t see coming—“Are you one of those Zaunites who have a thing for not dating Piltovans?” Jayce is not smiling, no, but his scowl has faded into something more stone-eyed. 

Viktor stares for a split second, doesn’t let his thoughts take the smirk off his face as it clicks. Ah, he sees it now. “Who said anything about dating, Jayce?” He raises his eyebrows like he’s absolutely shocked, lips splitting into a smile that shows his teeth as he shakes his head in disapproval.

Jayce’s eyes dart to his lips first and then both his eyes, mouth parting as he starts with an “I…” before promptly trailing off. His jaw shifts, lips pursed to the side as he looks ahead. Viktor watches his nostrils flare, watches the way the dim light over the aisle cradles the side of his face, deepening the shadow that the faint cut under his right eye leaves. 

Viktor feels his thumb twitch, watching as Jayce finally turns with a defeated smile and a voice a bit too soft. “I’m trying to flirt with you here, Viktor.”

“I’m sure I didn’t notice.”

Jayce huffs a small laugh. “Are you always like this?” 

“Like what, Jayce?” 

“Sarcastic? Slightly mean?”

His mouth falls open with an audible gasp. “You think I’m mean?”

“Well.” Jayce tilts his head, slow and deliberate, his smile growing as Viktor rolls his eyes just to be dramatic about it. “No,” he backtracks finally, a little too smooth for his own good. “But I see the potential.”

Nice save, Viktor almost says but he has something better. Leaning back against his seat, Viktor feels the dull ache in his back, something that had slipped his mind completely for the last hour or so. He doesn’t pay any mind to it, is unsmiling, as he shifts his face closer and asks, “Do you like mean guys, Jayce?”

The question hangs in the barely there space between them.

Jayce leans in too, mirroring Viktor, but smiling as he says, “I like them a normal amount.”

Viktor only hums as a response and doesn’t wonder at all about what it might be like to have sex in an airplane. 

=

FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER, NOXUS

He doesn’t call Silco. 

Instead, in a daze, his fingers tap rapidly, dialing Powder. The line rings twice before the sound of the crowd rushes into his ear, so far from the kind that he’s used to. He had forgotten how loud Zaun can be when there’s chaos reigning unchecked. He hears Powder say something but it gets swallowed by the background noise. Viktor imagines her weaving through a crowd, moving to a quieter place as the sound slowly falls away.

“Sorry, I am on topside and these cunts won’t leave me the fuck alone,” she says with not much of a force, doesn’t wait for Viktor to acknowledge that with any response as she continues with a tight voice, “So, you saw it, I am guessing?”

“Yes.” Viktor leans against the edge of his desk, pulling out the paper cutter, a relic from his academy days when he would use it to assemble models for a completely different field of career. “What have you done so far?” he says finally, watching the tool idly spin under the press of his two bony fingers.

“We’re working on it,” Powder says defensively. “It’s a setup, obviously.”

Viktor hums in response as he adds, “But perception is what matters now. Get ahead of this before it spirals further.”

Silence fills the other end of the line and Viktor decides to put an end to the call before Powder’s hesitance-addled voice reaches him, “Is there any chance you might be coming back?”

The paper cutter halts mid-spin in his grip. Viktor stands straight, feeling the sharp end of it poke against his fingertip. 

Is there any chance he might be going back? 

“I’ll decide soon,” is the only thing he says.

The call ends with a resounding beep after that. Viktor hears it echo against the stark walls of his empty cabin, eyes darting to the leather-bound journal filled with lists and more lists and then more lists. Fingers gripping around a pen already, he reaches for it and makes another. Narrative reversal, stakeholder influence, legal contingency—he jots them down one by one into a list for a situation, he tells himself, is not his to handle.

Something from the back of his mind says back that it doesn’t really matter.

His calendar says that he needs to get started on drafting a proposal for a risk assessment initiative for a project that spans Demacia, Ixtal, and Noxus. He sits back down, stretching like a barely awake cat before falling into another few hours of undisturbed work, pretends like he’s not mentally mapping the steps he’d take if he had been back in Zaun. 

Lunch is a fairly boring affair, the aftermath of it though isn’t. Updates flare up on social media accounts on news pages, venomous hate for Zaun flooding in, but not much action to fight against it.

He’s impulsive, he knows but he can’t help himself as he hears the other end of the phone ring once, twice, and then another time before he finds himself skipping all pleasantries and saying, “This is escalating quickly.”

Silco’s voice is calm, almost resigned as he says, “We anticipated this.” And if he’s shocked by Viktor’s enthusiasm to talk business that he hadn’t touched on for the last three years, he doesn’t show it. 

“Not like this.” Viktor’s voice slices through the conversation like the blade on his desk. “This could turn into a class-action lawsuit if it isn’t contained. Legal action is next if you don’t settle this now.”

“I have people on it.” Silco sounds undeterred. 

Of course, he does. It would be foolish not to. But… but, they aren’t me —comes into Viktor’s mind out of left field. 

He doesn’t voice it. “Sure,” is what he says, and wonders if Silco hears it anyway.

Viktor spends the rest of the day monitoring the media frenzy, in between work, each click on the update fueled by the faint hope of seeing a shift in narrative.

There is none.

Hours pass and it stays like that.

By late afternoon, the impending dread solidifies into certainty. The story isn’t dying. Each passing hour increases the likelihood of lawsuits, public outrage, and irreversible damage. His fingers work before his mind even catches up to them, pulling up sites on his laptop, hovering over the confirm buttons as his eyes scan the next few flights that take off from Noxus.

He should be talking to Ambessa before this, fill someone in for the next few days of work. Maybe Reva, or even Mel but all he ends up accomplishing in the next few minutes is booking the next available flight to Zaun.

Mel’s watching the news when Viktor pops his head in with a tentative, “Hey, Mel.” 

Her office room is shrouded in dark, the only source of light the lamp that stands in the corner next to her desk, leaving a halo behind her that matches the golden glint of the office-appropriate jewelry she always tends to wear. It makes her look incorporeal, like a character out of a mythical storybook. She stays seated on her Aeron chair, wrists bent together but her eyes don’t meet his when she says, “Come on in, Viktor.”

He does, pushing the door behind him shut. His hips don’t seem to like the movement. He tries not to notice. “Hey, uh—” he starts, tilting his head and contemplates how to phrase it before coming up with an ‘I need a favor’.

Her brows arch slightly at that. “Want me to talk to Mother?”

Viktor hums in response, relief sliding into his limbs at the notion of getting one more task out of his list that keeps getting longer by the minute. “That would help, yes,” he says. 

Mel hums back. “When are you leaving?”

“Midnight.”

Her gaze finally lifts, long hours of exhaustion visible in her eyes and Viktor really hates to do this to her. He’ll buy her something, he thinks promptly, maybe that belt buckle with two clasping golden hands, one that she was scrolling over the last time they had lunch outside together. He’ll need to text Elora to ask about the brand. She still has her eyes on him, he realizes. 

At the involuntary raise of his eyebrow, she just says, “Good. Handle it.”

SEVENTEEN HOURS LATER, NOT NOXUS

Water slips through his hands, sliding and beading over the shiny metal of the sink. Viktor feels droplets of it roll down the side of his temple. When he looks up, dull tired eyes look back at him, lashes clumped with water around them and over heavy lines that fade into his cheeks. He parts his lips, hears himself inhale over the hum of the air outside the plane.

He’s been exhausted the whole day. So he really shouldn’t fret about looking the way he looks now, not when he has Jayce waiting, Jayce who probably won’t really care. Hasn’t cared this whole time anyway. With an escaping sigh, he reaches for his cane and turns towards the door, opens it with a creak.

Jayce stands at the spot that separates the tiny hallway from the aisles of seats, filling up the space so easily with how tall and broad he is. Viktor feels smaller just looking at him, wonders how they’d fit, how much Jayce would have to bend to put his mouth on Viktor. 

Hot white arousal flares in Viktor’s stomach at the notion of it. He really should get going. At the thudding sound of his cane, Jayce turns. Viktor watches the way his chest moves with every breath, moving past him as Jayce walks into the tiny lavatory. The last thing he sees is his eyes before the door slides shut. Viktor stands facing the aisles, quiet with sleep, faint sounds from seats that have passengers watching films drifting to him. What he doesn’t hear is the distinct sound of a lock click.

One, two, three—he counts and he keeps counting, feeling the way his heart feels so damn big under the barrier of his chest, beating audibly enough that he seems to feel it in his fingertips. 

He lets his head whip back slowly but surely. 

The lock simply doesn't click.  

Before he knows, he’s stepping one step, two steps, three steps closer to the door. His hand doesn’t shake but the cool air of the air conditioner reminds him of the moisture that has started to gather in his palm. He wipes it over the soft fabric of his slacks, over his thigh, and lets the door slide open. 

It moves so easily like it had been waiting for him to press it gently open all this time. His eyes meet Jayce’s as he walks in, not looking while his hand goes behind to finally lock the door. The sound echoes off the tiny space, so noisy like a declaration, like a reminder that it’s happening. 

And that he’s really going to let Jayce have him here in this tiny lavatory. His blood sings, rushing so fast toward places in his body that wakes him up thoroughly. Jayce’s skin is flushed already, eyelids heavy while he forgets to blink, eyes following Viktor’s every movement, watching as he places his cane against one of the boarded-up walls. There’s not enough space between them but they are still not touching and Jayce wouldn’t move and for a moment Viktor wonders if he can’t.

“You seem nervous,” he mutters, hears how thick his accent seems to get. He blinks slowly, looking up at Jayce through wet lashes. 

Jayce’s mouth parts and Viktor hears him breathe through it, louder as Viktor finally closes the space between them. He feels the immediate warmth that radiates off the man’s body, wants it all over him so much that he has to inhale to steady himself. He feels that one particular spot close to his spine ache, decides to ignore it like he has been ignoring any signs of pain the whole day. 

Jayce doesn’t speak but Viktor catches the way his throat bobs, hears it. 

“Am I making you nervous, Jayce?” He tilts his head, feels his fingers flex, the tip of one barely brushing Jayce’s stomach that jerks. It’s a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, one that Viktor wouldn’t notice if not for the proximity. 

Jayce blinks, closes his mouth, before parting it open to swipe a pink tongue over it. Viktor tries not to think of where he wants it. “I…” Jayce finally starts to speak and Viktor realizes that he has missed it, Jayce’s voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to…” he trails off, flushing even more. He can barely keep his eyes open. “And yeah.” A nod. “You make me nervous.” Viktor smiles at the disarming candor in his voice. 

“You can touch me, you know.”

The words seem to surprise Jayce a little, leaving him wide-eyed. Viktor bites back any teasing words that bubble up in his mind, watching Jayce’s dilemma as if he’s trying to choose where he wants to start. Viktor really should tell him to hurry the fuck up, push their pants down just enough to go about a quickie before any of the crew members start hovering around. But he can’t bring himself to do it. In fact, something about the slowness of the whole situation is so much more exhilarating. 

He waits, anticipates, watching as Jayce’s hands, Jayce’s large warm hands, finally fit around his waist, thumbs digging into the meat of his stomach before he pulls Viktor closer, abrupt and fast enough that Viktor melts into him immediately. Jayce’s hands find purchase, running over his back before one hand cradles the back of his head. 

Viktor’s eyes pull shut at the sensation, at the way Jayce gently tugs at his hair just enough so that he can press his lips on Viktor’s face without having to bend in half. Viktor’s jaw comes slack at the way open-mouthed kisses pepper down the side of his face before pulling his mouth into a kiss. They both moan into it, Viktor’s arms instinctively winding around Jayce’s neck, pulling him even closer.

The scent of Jayce’s cologne drives him a little mad but all he can do is kiss the man and let himself be kissed. He can taste the sickly sweet cheap airline wine in Jayce’s mouth, faint, feels a little lightheaded when he feels Jayce’s hands smooth down the notches of his spine, fingers tentative over the pins, and then over the brace. Jayce doesn’t ask him questions, only shudders at the way one of Viktor’s hands trickles down his front, so close to the waistband of his slacks.

This is nicer than the one-night stand Viktor had just a day ago, so much nicer than the whole damn night of selfish impersonal sex, wanting to come and afterward, wanting it to linger just enough for it to matter. He’s barely ever there these days, gladly zoned out as he lies back and thinks of something to do about minimizing risks for Ambessa’s next big business venture.

Sex shouldn’t be a chore, he’d tell anyone wanting advice. Sex shouldn’t be a chore, he rarely takes his own advice.

But it isn’t a chore now, is it?

Jayce, in all his bashfulness, looks like someone who can make him come and then make him come again and again until the weight of overstimulation and exhaustion makes him pass out with a puddle of a brain. 

Jayce looks soft too, looks like he’d win over all his friends with the way he smiles, the gap in his pearly-white teeth an endearing little thing for Viktor to look back at. He has that unassuming good-boy charm that could make his Piltovan upbringing forgivable. Viktor momentarily wishes he had lube on him, and he doesn’t know if Jayce does, and the thought is so starkly sharp in his mind that he feels warmth rise in his cheeks by the brazenness of it. 

He’s not a shy person, he’s never been.

It feels contradicting. 

Jayce’s mouth is latched onto Viktor’s neck, gently sucking at the sensitive skin, somehow knowing how to put just the right amount of pressure to have Viktor’s blood rushing straight into his groin. He has one hand at Viktor’s hip, hesitant until Viktor guides it to the swell of his ass, his stomach flipping so violently at how obscenely Jayce’s whole hand covers it. He has to force himself upright to not let his knees buckle with the vicious amount of want, squeezing over Jayce’s hand so casually like he doesn’t want Jayce to swallow him whole now.

Jayce takes the message, and grips onto his asscheek, drawing a moan out of Viktor’s mouth.

“Shh, baby, we need to be quiet,” he says with such familiarity like he’s been calling Viktor that for years but his hand continues, digging fingers into Viktor's bony ass, pulling him closer to press against him. Viktor feels the drag of Jayce’s bulge against his hip, hears the way Jayce struggles not to make sounds, even more so at the tentative press of Viktor’s knee between his legs. 

“Want to touch you,” Viktor whispers against his straining jaw, a toying hand dangerously close to Jayce’s bulging cock. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” comes out of Jayce’s panting mouth, too fast but just the right amount of needy which is honestly still not enough. “Yes, yes, please. ” And he’s so polite that Viktor’s mouth can’t help pressing a kiss under the shadow of Jayce’s jaw, over the start of stubble that Viktor imagines leaving the pale skin of his thighs a raw red. 

“So polite, Jayce,” he says under his breath, feels the weight of Jayce’s cock in his hand and mindlessly thinks of wanting it on his tongue while his hands do a quick work of unfastening Jayce’s belt. The next few moments are bleary as Viktor mutters against Jayce’s lips, “Be good for me,” and finds himself on his knees. This is going to hurt, not just a little bit at that but Viktor can’t bring himself to give a fuck now.

His head is fuzzy with want and all he wants now is to feel Jayce’s body tighten under his hold, to feel his cock pulse in the back of his throat. But something about the lack of space still helps, the soles of his shoes pressed firmly against the door, keeping him from losing balance. 

Jayce’s mouth is open, jaw slack, surprise bleeding into his tea-saucer eyes. He must have not been expecting to get blown in a cramped lavatory on his flight home but that’s okay, Viktor hadn’t been expecting to blow someone in a cramped lavatory on his flight home either.

Viktor is slow about the whole thing, with the way he tugs the zipper down, with the way he looks up at Jayce through his lashes. He watches as his eyebrows come together, mouth still open with the anticipation that has his stomach moving up and down with each inhale and exhale of his breath.

Viktor doesn’t do much about the pants and boxers, pulls them enough for Jayce’s cock to spring free, thick, and flushed, bobbing up against his lower stomach where it leaves behind a smear of precum against his skin. Viktor feels himself salivate, feels the way his own cock twitches before he splays both his hands over Jayce’s thighs and brushes his face up. Parting his lips in a teasing breath, he bumps his nose against the underside of Jayce’s cock. 

Jayce shudders at the movement, dazedly pushing his forehead to the door behind Viktor while he watches Viktor take it in his hand, watches him run his thumb over the smooth hot skin. When he grabs it firmly around the base, Jayce flinches slightly, a quivering breath escaping his petal pink lips. Viktor twists up and down the shaft with one hand, holding it with the other, shifting the skin over the head. Spreads the wetness of the pre-cum over the swollen head of Jayce’s cock with the pad of his thumb. 

Something about the way Jayce’s cock reaches his hairline in this angle makes his insides flare with raw need, has him pulling out every trick in his book. 

A breathy whine spills from Jayce’s lips when Viktor sticks out his tongue to press the engorged head over the tip of it. It has him casting a sharp and quick glance up at the man, running his tongue along the underside in a single, long motion. Jayce gasps at the sensation, hands flying to brace against the door.

It brings a smile to Viktor’s face before he drags the broadside of his tongue over the sensitive tip, spreading the wetness around.

“Please, Viktor—” Jayce’s voice gives away in the end.

Viktor only hums before gathering extra saliva in his mouth and guiding the cock to his open mouth, closing around the head. Viktor’s tongue curls along the bottom of the shaft, tastes the sweat and the faint bitterness of whatever product Jayce uses to keep his skin hydrated. Jayce has to hold his mouth shut with his palm, to keep the guttural groan from reaching outside. 

It’s so hot—the notion of someone hearing them in here. 

Adrenaline rushes down Viktor’s veins at the mere thought of it, lighting him up. He closes his eyes and hums around the cock, thinks he’s gonna lose his mind if he hears Jayce moan again. His tongue swirls around the head of Jayce’s length, matching the rhythm of his other movements, one free hand coming up to cup Jayce’s balls. When he glances up, Jayce is holding onto the edge of the small sink, forehead pressed to the door jamb, eyes on Viktor, mouth slightly open in a silent mutter.

“Feel good?” Viktor asks, popping off, his voice hoarse. 

“So good. You’re so perfect, Vi-Viktor,” Jayce stammers, eyes rolling back in their sockets as Viktor goes down again, unceremonious, bobbing his head along his length quickly. Sounds rip out of Jayce’s throat, soft and stifled. They make Viktor feel a little feverish. It could be them or maybe from the murmured appreciation, or maybe both. It makes Viktor want to lay bare and have Jayce have his way with him. 

But it’s not the place for it.

Jayce looks down at him with his teeth sunk at his bottom lip, face flushed pink with heat. His hair has escaped from the neat way he had slicked it back. And he’s a sight for the sore eyes. 

Viktor vaguely wonders how he must look in the mornings, hair disheveled and voice scratchy from sleep. And maybe Viktor’s getting a little ahead of himself when he thinks of muted sunlight spilling over Jayce’s smiling face. 

He’s glad when Jayce’s hand reaches his face and interrupts the train of his thoughts. But as his thumb strokes at his cheekbone, ever so softly, all thoughts seem to leave his head immediately anyway.

Jayce tucks a hair behind his hair, his fingers slow and soft as they run along the high of Viktor’s cheekbone. Something about it pushes Viktor to take him in further, to feel the end of his cock to press further against his tensed throat. His nose buries into the neatly trimmed hair at the base, and he gags for a split second before he relaxes his throat and breathes deeply through his nose, awaiting Jayce to take over.

A long drawn-out groan escapes Jayce at the suddenness of his movements. “Viktor, I’m—” There’s an attempt at a warning but his body thrusts forward into Viktor’s mouth anyway. It’s so hot. So fucking hot. Viktor can barely keep his eyes open as he squints up through tears, trying to hold his gaze, and feeling as Jayce’s thrusts go shallow and uneven. 

Viktor sees it coming, feels the muscles on the tops of Jayce’s thighs tighten soon enough and it has him pushing off, with a wet gasp, saliva dripping down his tongue that he sticks out. His eyes crinkle while he tries to catch his breath, to feel the rush of stale air of the airplane. Jayce’s palm is over his mouth again, trying to muffle broken moans, the panting that comes out in staccato huffs at Viktor’s hand stroking him a little harder, a little firmer and a little faster until—

Until ropes of cum spurt out onto Viktor’s tongue. 

Something in Jayce’s face shifts, eyes unblinking and watching Viktor licking him clean, so attuned to Viktor’s movements that it doesn’t even take him a second to decipher the gentle tug of Viktor’s hand over his. He’s immediate but careful in his action, bending and hauling Viktor up on his feet. Viktor feels the buzz in his legs that had fallen asleep, the sudden movement rushing blood into them with a slight cramp. He would really like to get to his seat now, even though his cock is bursting in his boxers, needing urgent relief. 

Too wrapped up in his thoughts, he chokes a little at the kiss Jayce pulls him into, the saliva on his chin smearing against Jayce’s. Jayce hums appreciatively in his mouth, tongue chasing for more of his taste and Viktor reciprocates with the force with which Jayce keeps kissing him. His hand slides into the back of Jayce’s head, pulling him in even closer, fingers brushing against the spiked hair of his undercut. 

They both groan into each other's mouths, Viktor continuing to when Jayce cups the front of his slacks with intention. Viktor, dazed, pulls himself away, leaning into Jayce’s palm that is on his face but back from the one on his crotch. His own hands smoothly glide over Jayce’s shoulders, creating a slight distance between the lower parts of their bodies even as their foreheads stay pressed together.

“Let me—” Jayce whines into his mouth, cutting off so fast when chattering nears them through the other side of the door, loud. Clicks of heels and then laughter, and it has both of them holding their breaths. The concept of time had been a thing of the past for Viktor but it comes back to him slowly, how long they must have been in here. 

Long enough for any of the crew members to notice two empty seats.

When the sounds fade away from outside, Jayce is back on him, quick and sticky. Viktor’s body bends into his touch, chasing friction for a minute before he unwillingly pulls himself away. 

Jayce’s eyes are gentle, regarding him with warmth, voice soft even as he complains, “But I wanted to make you feel good.”

Viktor’s whole body protests when he mutters, “We’ve been in here for too long.” His fingers are quick to pull at Jayce’s belt, a gesture that has Jayce tucking himself back into his pants, point taken. His dejection is prominent on his face though when Viktor thumbs at his chin, over the remnants of his saliva. “Maybe—”

“Maybe?” Jayce blinks, ears perked up like an excited pet, waits, expectant. 

It’s not the kind of comparison Viktor should be making. He shouldn’t be saying what he says next either. “Some other time,” spills out of him like a quiet declaration. He wishes he held his tongue because this is ridiculous. They are two adults, and this is nothing more than just fooling around.

“You’d see me in Piltover?” Jayce sounds surprised but not the kind Viktor’s been expecting. It’s almost as if Jayce wants it.

“I don’t know. Let’s see,” Viktor says, helps Jayce pull up his zipper, tucking his own shirt that he didn’t realize had come untucked back into his pants, anything to keep his own eyes averted. “You should get out now. I’ll have to clean myself up.”

Jayce doesn’t respond and Viktor, curious, finally looks up to see a small, reassuring smile spreading across his lips. Even under the bright fluorescent light, he looks gorgeous, with his disheveled hair and darkening bruises on his lips and throat. This time it’s Viktor who grips Jayce’s jaw and angles his face to take his lips, kisses him with fervor, breathes in the slight sweetness of Jayce’s cologne, and the smell of wine and sweat clinging onto his skin.

It’s a soundless decision when Jayce turns to open the door, careful to not attract anyone’s attention so that he can go back without being spotted. Viktor stands there, with his dick that he thinks might fall off any second, watching the back of his head move around through the ajar door before the man straightens on his feet and turns again.

Viktor’s confusion must show on his face at how Jayce grins at him. 

Viktor’s confusion slips away though when Jayce leans down and puts Viktor’s face between his hands and pulls him into a quick abrupt kiss before swiftly walking out to shut the door behind him, leaving Viktor and his tingling lips in his wake.

Few things feel as good as Jayce’s unprecedentedly warm skin under the tips of Viktor’s fingers. 

Fewer things rarely ever feel as right.

The aftermath is quite easy for Viktor to handle. It takes him a single tug before he’s spilling all over the metal bowl of the commode in the lavatory, relief from an unintentional edging coming to an end. More relief floods onto his sides when his knuckles wrap around the base of his cane, his weight now partially resting on it.

His eyes are bright when he looks at himself through the mirror, skin flushed and the opposite of the colorless sight he faced before all of it. He has marks on his throat but not dark enough for him to be alarmed. He fixes his collar and his mussed-up hair anyway before finding his way back out. 

His legs are a little wobbly, he realizes belatedly. 

Jayce’s eyes being on his face, waiting for him to close the distance, does help. He doesn’t want him to notice the change in his gait. And if he does, he doesn’t mention anything. Viktor’s sigh is long and deep when he sinks into the comfort of his seat. He closes his eyes, thinks that if he stays like this for more than a minute, he might even fall asleep. 

When his eyes flutter open, the aisles are a bit more awake than they were a while ago from the sounds of trolleys of food being dragged and the soft murmurs of the passengers. He watches for a while.

“Sleep well?” There’s a voice on his left— Jayce.

Viktor turns with half-shut eyes, blinking slowly to let his eyes adjust. Sunlight has made its way in through the window, leaving Jayce’s face a glowing yellow. Viktor lets himself stare, blames it on the sleep that keeps his head rooted to the back of his seat. Jayce’s lips stretch into a lazy smile before Viktor feels the warm swipe of a thumb over his knuckles. He looks down at where their hands are touching.

“How long was I out?” He says, has to physically stop himself from making a face at how heavy his voice sounds with sleep.

“A while. Not more than an hour though.” Jayce’s eyes are on their hands while he keeps moving his thumb in a slow circular motion. 

Viktor hums in response. “I think I needed that,” he says, watching the sides of Jayce’s eyes crinkling at his voice. 

“Yeah, you crashed the moment you got into your seat.” Jayce’s smile is kind this time. Viktor revels in it for a moment before snorting a lazy drawn-out laugh. Curious eyes follow him as he straightens up, shaking his head and reaching for the water bottle on the folder ahead. He chugs down almost half of it in one go, snorting out another short laugh that has his fingers flying up to press against his lips.

“What happened?” Jayce nudges, looking slightly pouty at being left out of whatever joke that has Viktor laughing. It’s not much, to be honest. It’s just a little embarrassing now that all of it is slowly coming back to Viktor. 

“Sorry,” he finds himself saying, keeps the quirk about his lips even as he doesn’t laugh anymore. “It’s just embarrassing,” he says as much while he puts the bottle back in its compartment.

“Why?”

Viktor shakes his head, reaching up with his now free hand, and smoothening the frown out of Jayce’s eyebrows with his thumb. “Don’t worry about it,” he adds. 

Jayce looks at him like he might protest for a while but then lets it go. But his next question is not much better—“How are your legs?”

“Tired,” Viktor admits because Jayce doesn’t seem that stupid to buy anything he says otherwise. They definitely are better than how he felt before his impromptu but much-needed nap though. Viktor’s a little glad that he brought the TENS unit he keeps with him on days such as this. “Nothing sleep and medication can’t fix,” he stops to add at the way guilt flares up in Jayce’s pretty eyes.

“And your back?” Jayce asks, tentative in his words when he continues, “I noticed that you wear a brace.”

Right, yes. Viktor doesn’t usually need a back brace. Hasn’t needed to wear one regularly since his teenage days when he finally got the spinal fusion surgery. The one he wears now is for lumbar support. He had pulled it out just to prevent the onset of lower back pain he saw coming when he was packing his bag for the flight. 

“Yeah, I…” he stalls for a while before he says, “I was born with scoliosis.” His first instinct is to backtrack immediately. It’s not something he enjoys talking about. Hasn’t even talked about in ages now that he can forgo his braces on most days. Jayce is still staring, expectant and Viktor blames his lack of inhibition on the sleep that he hasn’t rubbed from his eyes yet when he says, “I got surgery for it when I was fourteen. There is other stuff I got surgery for too but I am not in much pain as I used to be growing up. The braces, I wear for primary prevention mostly on busy days.” 

“I see.” A nod and then a smile but there’s no pity in any of those gestures as Viktor had been dreading. Something settles in his stomach, his sigh of relief purposefully inaudible. “I don’t want to come across as patronizing,’ Jayce says much to Viktor’s surprise, “...but did I hurt you in any way without knowing? If I did, I’m…”

Viktor cuts him off, “You didn’t.” He doesn’t lie. “I’d let you know if you did.” 

“Okay, I’m glad.” Jayce’s ‘thank you’ is immediate after that, and Viktor sees the way his shoulders lose the edge, relaxing into their default posture. “I know it might sound crazy,” he starts after a split second, watching the jolt in Viktor’s eyebrows. “But would you like to attend a wedding with me?”

Oh. 

Momentarily glad for Jayce to change the topic, Viktor listens while he still speaks, “I was told to bring a plus one and I didn’t really want to until…”

“Until?”

“Until I found someone I’d like to spend time with,” Jayce finishes for him. 

Honestly, Viktor’s flattered. But that sounds too much too fast. And he doesn’t even know Jayce’s full name, not yet anyway. Going to a wedding with him sounds too far-fetched. And giving him your vague medical history isn’t—a voice in his mind tells him. Right, of course. Viktor’s been a little… not himself, he supposes.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” Jayce adds as if he’s trying to compensate for the eagerness he approached the question with. “The wedding is not until a while. I’m just letting you know in case you’re still in Zaun by that time. I’d like to take you as my plus one.”

“I see.” Viktor doesn’t think he’d be here, of all places, but there’s no harm in entertaining the thought for a while. He wonders briefly how Jayce might look in a tux. It’s a pleasant thought, surely but hardly appropriate for his sleep-addled mind. “Well, I’ll let you know then,” he says, watching as Jayce gives him a nod as a response.

The silence that creeps in after that isn’t exactly awkward. Viktor might even call it a little comforting. His eyelids grow heavy, and he closes them briefly, considering surrendering to sleep again. Something about the thought that the next time he wakes up, it’d probably be when they land has him opening them almost immediately. Viktor’s not keen on losing whatever time he has up here. He reaches for the bottle of water again, gulping down whatever’s left in it. The cold liquid sharpens him slightly, just enough to make him feel grounded.

When he turns to his left, he finds Jayce looking out through the window. The shifting shadows of clouds move over his face in a dance of light and shadow. Viktor’s lips part as if to speak, though no words come to mind.

Before he can decide on anything to say, the voice of the pilot crackles through the intercom, has him looking up at the ceiling as the announcement comes cold like a splash of water on a particularly cool winter morning. 

They will be landing in Piltover in half an hour, the pilot says. 

When he looks back down, Jayce is staring at him, wide-eyed, almost alert. His voice comes slow, a contrast to the way he looks, when he says, “I don’t want to say goodbye to you when we land.”

“That so?”

“Viktor.”

Viktor stares, waits, thinks he feels his heart crawl its way out through the barrier of his chest. 

“Come home with me,” Jayce finally says.

“Jayce, I…” he starts almost on instinct. He could go. It would be nice but it also would be a bit too impulsive. The thought is a little hypocritical after all that has conspired in the span of the last few hours but Viktor has to be wiser about this. He needs to rest before he meets Silco. He needs rest, and a shower, and a proper breakfast before he has to start another long day of relentless work to get the public narrative right. Yes, Zaun. He’s going to Zaun, to work. So much of it waits for him. “I have work this morning,” he keeps it short.

Jayce’s response comes immediately, “I’ll drive you back.” Yes, he could drive Viktor back. It can’t be that far unless he lives in south Piltover that is. When Viktor doesn’t respond, Jayce opens his mouth again. “Um…” A pause. Something about his face is a little sobering when he adds, “I have been told that I come off a bit strong sometimes so if I’m making you uncomfortable—” 

“You’re not,” Viktor interrupts, thinks that it’s a little funny how it takes him back to Jayce’s hesitance about asking Viktor about his health issues. He says something similar again. “You’d know if I was.” 

It’s not a lie. Viktor doesn’t like to lie about things like that. If he has to accommodate, swallow down inherent parts of him to keep someone in his life, he’s not sure if he wants to keep that person in his life. 

“That’s good,” Jayce tells him, relieved by the assurance it seems. Viktor has a sudden, terrible urge to kiss him now but if he does it now, he might not be able to stop.

“You’re…” he starts instead, searching for the right words, something that doesn’t give away too much. “I’d go with you but you’re gonna distract me. I have so much to do today and…” He trails off mid-sentence as the weight of his own words sinks in.

He is planning to turn it around, say something less embarrassing when Jayce says, “I’ll be a good boy, I promise.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not sure if he has anything to say to that. Can’t think of any response to pull himself out of this spiral that keeps him rooted in his seat, feeling how the pit in his stomach gives away and coils hotly. Jayce’s eyes dart to his lips and Viktor almost moves in, almost kisses him, almost—

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a voice cuts in smoothly, accompanied by a fleeting shadow as the stewardess leans slightly over their row.

Viktor jolts back, blinking up at her as though she’d materialized out of thin air. Her smile is professional, though there’s a faint edge of amusement there. “Just doing a quick check. We’ll be crossing into Piltover airspace in a few minutes. Let me know if you need anything,” she says lightly, standing back upright.

Jayce clears his throat and shifts slightly in his seat, a flash of something sheepish crossing his face. “Uh, thanks. We’re good.”

The stewardess offers a brief nod before continuing down the aisle, her polished heels clicking faintly against the floor. Viktor shifts in his seat, pulling out his phone that he had completely forgotten about. Notifications slide up when he presses the screen on—emails, a few news updates regarding the state of Zaun, and a bout of text messages from Mel and Sevika. Nothing from Powder, interestingly.

Sevika’s texts are brief, mentioning how one of the councilors’ statements indirectly suggests that they might be laying the groundwork for legal action already. She also mentions how spooked some of the factory workers are, something about shutting down shifts when it blows over. Viktor responds to that with the instruction to arrange a meeting before this can spiral into a strike. Contact someone who can fast-track the environmental testing. I’ll deal with the councilor when I land—he types before hitting send. More miscellaneous texts pop in—camp pushing back. generic denial. weak as hell. come fast.

Viktor’s trying to. 

He wonders how much time he’d even get before he’s thrust into the frontlines. The cabin has begun to stir, passengers waking up to the quiet hum of overhead announcements. Somewhere, a television blares to life with the unmistakable tones of breaking news.

The screen closest to their row catches Viktor’s attention. It’s more coverage of the Zaun scandal—headline after damning headline parading across the screen.

He feels Jayce shift on his left, leaning forward slightly to get a better view. Viktor leans back so that Jayce can see. “Well, that ends the election before it even started, I guess,” comes a quiet observation from Jayce.

“I’m sorry?” Viktor’s head whips back at that.

Jayce gestures to the screen, his expression resigned. “He’ll be disqualified, right? Even if this doesn’t hold up in court, public opinion alone—”

“Not if the smear campaign doesn’t work,” Viktor says with a quiet cut-glass voice. 

“I don’t know how much of it is smear though,” Jayce says. Viktor studies him for a while, looks at the way his eyebrows stay relaxed, looks for something close to indignation, something that would suggest ire and the usual micro-aggression-ish smugness that Viktor is prone to find in people. There’s nothing there for him to pick at.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He says anyway.

Jayce shrugs slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen. “Well, wasn’t he speculated to be the mastermind behind the shimmer trade in Zaun about a decade ago?” Jayce says and it’s such a strange approach in response to Viktor’s question. He doesn’t remember the last time anyone brought this up. “So I wouldn’t put it past him,” Jayce adds, shoulders squaring under the weight of Viktor’s stare. 

“Allegedly,” Viktor offers coolly. 

Jayce hums, considering it. “I am not claiming that it’s true but there’s no smoke without a fire, right?” He’s right. He’s not far from whatever actually went down. Viktor’s the one who buried the whole thing after all.

“I’m pretty sure it was Smeech and not Silco,” Viktor says. Giving a little bit of information could be a surefire way of bringing out whatever Jayce knows. So that Viktor can come to a verdict, can tell if this isn’t just typical Piltovan ignorance. 

“I can see that.” Jayce’s eyes crinkle with a smile. But his words are thoughtful when he says, “He was a bit of a pain in the ass. Smeech, I mean,” he adds to be clear. “When I was working in Zaun.”

Oh?

Viktor’s eyebrow raise at that. “Wait, working as in…?” 

“I designed the civic center.” 

Viktor stares. He knows of the civic center. He hadn’t seen it up close because he wasn’t in Zaun to do so but it was all anyone ever talked about for months, how it connected areas of Zaun and helped with cutting down the distance. He had looked it up, to see whatever he could find on the internet regarding the designs. It was one of the projects that truly stuck out for him but it also brings up a sinking feeling in his stomach. “The one near the sump bridge area?” he tries anyway, hopes for a while that it’s another area, someplace else, not the civic center he’s thinking of.

“Yes?” Jayce confirms even as hesitance drips through his tone.

“You’re the architect behind the Entresol project?”

Jayce looks a little bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not just the architect. My company funded most of it.”

Viktor’s grip on his phone tightens imperceptibly. His voice drops, low and even. “You’re... a Talis.”

Jayce blinks, the recognition dawning on him a second too late. “Yes—wait, what’s wrong, Viktor?” Jayce’s hand moves, reaching for his but Viktor’s fast to pull it away.

“This was a mistake,” he says back, voice slow but firm, because he suddenly doesn’t want Jayce anywhere near him. The thought of his touch lurches through Viktor in a wave of something great and horrible, and he wants him off and out and far, far away. He wants him all over himself, in him, on him, everywhere.

Viktor needs a fucking cigarette, actually. 

“I… I don’t…” He hears Jayce falter slightly, some sort of hurt slicing through the way he struggles with words. “I don’t understand,” he manages. Viktor can’t bring himself to look at him, can’t bring himself to look and see when recognition might come to him. It’s a matter of time. And it’s almost a little hilarious when it comes, and there’s a breathless revelation to it. “You’re Viktor,” he says. “As in Silco’s Viktor. His…” Say it, Jayce. “Son.”

Viktor doesn’t confirm but the heavy silence is enough to answer. 

The silence this time is far from comforting. Viktor is the first one to break it. “Jayce,” he says, tastes the way the word hurts his tongue. “I can’t go to the wedding with you.” Jayce looks at him with tired eyes, doesn’t cut in as Viktor continues, voice a thin sliver of something torrential, “And it would be best if we didn’t see each other after we landed.”

“Viktor.” Jayce leans in, and it’s back again, the fresh smell of soil after rain. Viktor holds his breath. “Even if my family is endorsing the Kirammans, it doesn’t mean that—”

“Jayce,” he breathes out, risks it. “We can’t happen.”

Jayce looks at him. And for a moment, Viktor thinks Jayce will kiss him, that he’ll hold Viktor, pull him in, and kiss him, kiss all his thoughts out of his head. But he doesn’t and Viktor’s so fucking glad that he doesn’t. He wouldn’t know how to stop him. He wouldn’t know anything really.

“Sure if that’s what you want,” Jayce tells him in a sincere voice, one he must use when he’s talking to Cassandra Kiramman. It’s an unwelcome thought. Viktor blinks it away as he looks ahead.

“I’m sorry, Jayce.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Viktor doesn’t look at him. The rest of the flight stretches out in silence, far from the endless hours of easy conversations they had fallen into before they found themselves in the lavatory. Viktor knows about Jayce’s childhood fixations about wizards, about the blue wizard hat that stays collecting dust in his childhood bedroom as Jayce put it. All of that and how his mother would like to learn how to cook Zaunite dishes but he had simply failed to mention his surname.

Viktor is the first to move when they land, keeping his eyes solely focused on the overhead compartment as he fusses with Jayce’s bag to reach for his. It’s a bit of a struggle so when Jayce comes up on his feet, towers behind him, and mutters a ‘let me’, he begrudgingly allows it to happen, his eyes moving away just as Jayce’s arm slides up, muscles flexing under the fabric of his shirt. The corner of his eyes catches Jayce placing his own bag on the closest seat. It’s his cue to look so he does.

“Here.” His bag is offered to him. Viktor stares at Jayce’s grip on the handle, and then up at Jayce’s eyes as he thanks him.

A nod and then Jayce murmurs with a wavering voice, “Well, good luck with the campaign?” 

Viktor thanks him again, both of them moving sideways to let people pass through. He has to say something, anything just out of courtesy. “Good luck with the wedding,” is what he comes up with.

Jayce gives him another nod and Viktor thinks about how that’s all Jayce has been doing. His feet twitch, a not so gentle reminder that he has to go but Jayce stands in the middle of the door to the exit and Viktor doesn’t want to tell him to move. Jayce moves though, very slowly, or maybe quickly. Viktor can’t tell because Jayce is moving towards him and not away and Viktor is thinking about his fine thighs and the way his fingers move and the way his thumb swipes over his and he’s a Talis.

He’s Jayce Talis, the Man of Progress, Piltover’s finest.

And Jayce stops, stands in front of him, hesitant as his hand comes up, an olive branch. When Viktor doesn’t step back, it finds home on his shoulder, the feel of it rocking through Viktor. He wants to move, wants to push, maybe hit Jayce and tell him to never touch him, and he wants—

And Jayce’s breath is in his hair, his arms slipping under Viktor’s to tug him closer. Viktor feels himself melt into the hug almost involuntarily, cane coming up with his hand to lie vertically against Jayce’s back, feels the way Jayce’s heart beats against his chest. His nose brushes against the patch of hair behind Jayce’s ear, breathing him in, until he isn’t.

Until Jayce is taking himself away from Viktor. He moves to the side first, making way for Viktor to leave. The choice is made. Someone has to leave first.

And unsurprisingly, it’s always Viktor.

PILTOVER

There’s no crowd waiting for him at the mouth of the airport. He’s momentarily relieved by the decision to contact Sevika and no one else. Any word of his ETA leaking would have had a throng of reporters here. It’s less bright now that he’s outside, Piltover shrouded by the bands of clouds that keep the early sunlight away for a few more hours. He looks for the terminal that has an array of Zaunite taxis, spotting them through their ugly neon green vests that work as a Piltovan license. He keeps his eyes shut all the way to his place, floating between sleep and wakefulness until the man wakes him up to announce their arrival. 

ZAUN

Viktor tips him well before walking up to his building, climbing a flight of stairs to an apartment that has been locked for the last three years, if he doesn’t count the times he sent maintenance every few months. It’s not as dusty as he expected it to be when he walks in. He should’ve texted one of his regulars for a brief check-in, he briefly thinks but well, what’s done is done.

He manages to change the sheets first, laying down a set of clothes and the portable TENS unit he brought for high-pain situations. 

Shower is what comes next. 

Warm water trickles down his back, soothing the persistent ache as much as it can, and with it washes away the last remnants of Jayce Talis.

=

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