Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Viktor. Viktor!”

He is shaken, jarred awake.

The rousing of his consciousness is less like rising from a good night’s sleep and more akin to shaking off sedation; the span between wakefulness is unclear: seconds, hours, days. The moments before oblivion - however long it lasted - are equally unclear, an incomprehensible explosion of color and sound and sensation. He remembers Jayce’s essence drawing close to his, a brilliant flash of light, and then… nothing. His eyes struggle to adjust to a steady stream of sunlight. There is a dull ache on the right side of his face. He winces.

“Are you alright?”

A shadow moves over him. Jayce kneels by his side, blocking out the sun. Slowly, Viktor pushes himself into an upright position, soft earth shifting beneath him. Two steadying hands grip his shoulders; their presence is faint.

“I’m fine, Jayce.”

And he is, isn’t he? Headache aside. What happened? Viktor takes in his surroundings: low to the ground as they are, he finds nothing but tall grass, encircling them both, obscuring any landmarks from view. Above, blue sky. With little to see, he assesses his own state. His skin is cool metal, swirls of gray and dull plum extending from his neck down to the tips of his toes; slivers of gold intertwine with and accent his bony protrusions. He presses a thumb into his palm: a glowing purple pulse lurks beneath it. He is exactly as he was, after his human death. His blue-red blanket is twisted about his legs, making only a suggestion of modesty - something he has little need of, now.

And what of Jayce? His partner, Jayce: hovering at his side. His features are indistinct with the sun set behind him, but Viktor can see the faint gleam of four points upon his forehead, remnants of Viktor’s own touch.

“I’m alright,” says Jayce, anticipating the question. He rises and helps Viktor to his feet with one hand, and with the other untangles the blanket; he pulls it about Viktor’s shoulders. “Where are we?”

Now standing, their view has changed very little. The tall grass extends in every direction for as far as the eye can see, broken up only by distant suggestions of lone shrubs and trees. A few wisps of cloud adorn the sky, and the deep blue above them grows pale as it reaches the horizon.

“I don’t know,” Viktor admits.

“It doesn’t look like anywhere I know of. Noxus, maybe?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor repeats. There’s a stab of pain in the back of his right eye, and he covers it with his hand. He searches his memory. “...I remember thinking of a place. Somewhere peaceful. Where no one would know our names.”

“Well, it looks like it worked!” Jayce wears a warm smile, but Viktor is wise enough to tell he is forcing it. It would be typical of him to do so, for both their sakes.

“Yes. A little too well, I think.”

He wants to return Jayce’s warmth, however performative, but he struggles to meet his eyes. What has he done? His fingers grasp for the blanket, drawing it closer to him. Jayce, ever a sensitive man, must sense his disquiet, his shame. He pulls Viktor into an embrace.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” says Jayce. The vibration of his voice is felt more keenly than his touch. “And that we’re together.”

The ease with which Jayce speaks from the heart has always confounded Viktor. As much as he feels the same, he cannot bring himself to reciprocate in kind. They stay like this for long enough that keeping track of time becomes meaningless. A raw feeling lingers in Viktor’s chest, like he’s been hollowed out. Jayce applies more of his weight, as if to fill that emptiness himself. It works, keeping Viktor anchored in the here and now.

“I’m glad, too,” Viktor finally manages. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Jayce releases him, slowly. His smile is lessened, but his eyes are true. The headache begins to recede.

“Yes,” he says, “but the destination wouldn’t be my first choice.” Jayce teases him. He is too kind.

“No, I suppose we can’t stay here. My apologies.”

“Don’t be,” says Jayce. “We should probably get moving, though, if we stand a chance at finding out where we are.”

Easier said than done. Jayce speaks with conviction, but he pales as he surveys his surroundings.

“You’re right,” says Viktor.

Viktor wonders if he cannot take them elsewhere by his own power, a capability he must possess, but he senses no natural instinct as to how he might do so, nor the charge of energy that would enable such a thing. He looks down at his hand, frowning at it, as if to assign it blame.

“Hey, it can’t go on like this forever,” Jayce attempts to cheer him, albeit from the wrong angle. “That thing over there doesn’t look too far, let’s head towards that.”

Jayce shields his eyes from the sun as he points to an indistinct lump that interrupts the otherwise flat skyline. It is too small to be anything significant: a copse of trees, perhaps.

Viktor says, “I think it is only trees.”

“It’s as good a target as any, isn’t it? So long as we keep heading in one direction, we’ll come across something eventually.”

That is true. Viktor nods. Jayce takes the first steps, and Viktor follows in his shadow. It does not last: Jayce turns, puts a hand on his shoulder, and insists Viktor keep pace at his side.

✤

Most of their journey is spent in silence. Both of them have much to ponder on their own; it takes time to square up and settle down one’s thoughts before they are ready to be put to words, and so much has happened. Shared silence is not unusual for them, so it is not the uncomfortable sort of reticence, but rather one of mutual commiseration, a mute acknowledgement of each other’s grief. Occasionally, the quiet is broken. They ask after another, back and forth, and point out curious sights: a lizard with six legs, a single blade of golden grass, a butterfly with wings the color of a pale morning sky.

As it happens, the indistinct lump is, in fact, only trees: dry, gnarled things, with white bark and dark green leaves as soft as satin. They were much farther away than they appeared; by the time they draw close, the sun has shifted dramatically in the sky, and Jayce is grimacing from the pain in his leg. Not one to waste good material, Jayce frees a dying branch, breaking off bits with his hands and boot until he has fashioned for himself a crude walking stick. It took the better part of the day to make it this far, but the scenery is unchanged, bringing them no closer to any sort of shelter, let alone civilization. Preparing for a night outdoors, Jayce collects kindling for a fire, which Viktor carries for him.

They walk until nightfall. The moon is a thin crescent and the stars are numerous, weaving together in a tapestry of delicate lace. Jayce stamps his walking stick to the ground until he finds hard soil; they uproot enough grass to create a small clearing where Jayce can build his fire. The lack of light is no hindrance to him, and it is not long until he manages to ignite a pile of sticks and dead grass, illuminating their surroundings in quivering orange.

Once he has allowed himself to relax, Jayce releases a long sigh. He has not complained, but his fatigue is obvious.

“I’m impressed, Jayce. I didn’t take you for an outdoorsman.”

“Yeah,” Jayce agrees, ambivalent. “Well. I’ve had time to practice.”

Indeed, Viktor had caught glimpses of this time, memories that were not his own: a deep hole, and Jayce, at the bottom of it. A broken leg, a red fire, teeth biting into raw flesh. It pains him to think of. Jayce’s betrayals had cut deep but he did not deserve to suffer in such a manner - and by Viktor’s own hand, no less. No, not his own hand, not him: some reflection of him. Viktor cannot see the scar on Jayce’s leg, but he has spied the one on his wrist, a gash where the rune had once embedded itself, and the anomalous web surrounding it.

“I saw,” Viktor says. “Bits and pieces.”

“Ah.” Jayce does not sound surprised. He grimaces, and shakes his head, as if to shed the memory of it and force his mind elsewhere. “I didn’t expect to have to do it again so soon, though. If I had known, I would have paid more attention in Natural Sciences.”

“Maybe you should have, but I don’t think that would have translated to survival skills, necessarily.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt.”

“Mm,” Viktor concedes with a small noise, “you spent your time in that class wisely enough.”

“What, sleeping?” Jayce shifts from his seated position, laying down beside the fire, propped up on his elbow. The body tells what the mind may not. They had not been sitting close, but now Jayce is much more near, within reach, and Viktor can see his eyes struggling to stay open. “I only made it out of there intact thanks to you.”

You did a great many things in the Academy thanks to me, Viktor thinks. The early days of their partnership were of stark contrast to their later years. Jayce was always at his heels, eager to absorb Viktor’s knowledge of the Academy: the bureaucracy, its relationship with the Council, who to speak to about what, and most importantly, how to say it. It took the better half of a year for Jayce to acclimate to his role as their public face, which did not displease Viktor, but neither did it make him happy.

“Here is your chance to better apply yourself,” Viktor says softly, “now that you are out in the field.”

“Tomorrow,” Jayce mumbles.

“Go to sleep, Jayce.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He rolls onto his back. “You’ll sleep too?”

“I will.”

Satisfied, Jayce relaxes, and after two deep breaths he drifts off.

This body of his is not alien to Viktor: he knows he does not require sleep to function, although it can be induced. Jayce is kind to worry after him, but it would be prudent to stay awake and keep watch, and so he does. The fire does not last long on its meager amount of fuel. Soon after, Jayce rolls onto his side, shivering; Viktor removes the blanket from his shoulders, and drapes it over him.

The memories of others stand vigil with Viktor on this sleepless night. He thinks of Jayce, alone in his cave; of the words he spoke just before they arrived here. He thinks of the glimpses of so many lives: friends, strangers, the thousand souls that entrusted themselves to him. He looks up at the starry sky. After long enough, it feels like he is falling into it. How it welcomes him. A thousand souls, glimmering with gold, now shine above him in brilliant silver. They beckon him, peering into his face; Viktor cannot see theirs.

✤

At dawn’s first light, Viktor pulls himself out of his reverie. The sky is still dark and the air is thick with moisture. Beneath the blanket, Jayce is quivering. A light breeze blows. As it passes over Viktor’s brow, he gets the sense that it might be cold, but cannot otherwise tell. Viktor fondles a nearby stalk of grass, collecting a drop of dew upon his fingertip; his unnatural skin informs him that it is wet, but nothing of its temperature. Gingerly, he presses the droplet to his lips, feels it soak into his human flesh, tasting the hint of morning’s chill.

It is still very early. Jayce is in need of rest, but he looks terribly uncomfortable, trembling as he does, brows knit. Viktor pushes to his feet. He retrieves the blanket covering Jayce and returns it to his shoulders. He crouches down beside Jayce and touches his arm, intent on waking him.

Jayce wakes with a start, his whole body wrenching as he sucks in a staggering gasp. In the blink of an eye he is sitting upright, hand to his heart as he draws heavy breaths; Viktor is as surprised as he is.

“I'm sorry,” Jayce rasps. “I mean— It was a bad dream.” He lets out a long sigh as he rests his head in his hand.

Is that what it had been? It seemed so much like he was cold. Perhaps it was both. For his nightmare to have given him such a scare upon awakening, he bore it remarkably well. It has been some time since Viktor last dreamt, but he knows their effects as well as any. He reaches out to comfort Jayce, but is intercepted: Jayce grabs Viktor’s fingers, squeezing them tight.

“It’s nothing,” says Jayce.

“What did you dream of?”

“...That I was somewhere else. Alone.” Jayce releases Viktor’s hand and runs his palm over his unruly hair, composing himself. “It felt like this was the dream that I was waking from. You know how it is.”

“I do.”

For a while, Jayce stares into the middle distance, ruminating on his dream. This Jayce that has returned to him, haggard and deep-voiced, has been so altered by the trials inflicted upon him. Viktor studies him in the dim light, committing him to memory; surely that youthful energy still burns within him, even if Viktor cannot see it now, even if he must seek it out.

“Do you still dream?” Jayce asks, after a long pause.

Viktor shakes his head. His mind’s eye has seen much, but they are not the same.

“Must be nice.”

“There will be pleasant ones, too, Jayce.”

Before Jayce can respond, a long growl erupts from his stomach. He wraps an arm about his midsection in a vain attempt to quell the noise. How long has it been since he’s eaten? Not since yesterday morning, nearly a full day, and not accounting for all the time preceding their arrival here. There’s a sinking sensation - in Viktor’s mind, rather than his gut, where it might normally be felt. For all their discoveries, edible vegetation had not been among them; of the fauna they saw, none had been large enough to sustain a grown man. Viktor brought them here, and now Jayce suffers for it. It cannot continue. They must find something for him, and soon. They must.

Jayce dusts himself off and puts on a brave face, bringing to the fore the optimism Viktor had been searching for. “Let’s keep an eye out for something to eat, shall we?”

✤

Daylight is not to be wasted. They set out with renewed vigor, a singular mission at the forefront of their minds. To better conserve his energy, Jayce abandons his armor. He has no further use for it. Fragments from his wardrobe are donated to better secure Viktor’s attire; with some help, Viktor can move freely, without worrying that his robe might slip from his shoulders. The sun is fully in the sky when they come upon a peculiar shrub, low to the ground and wider than it is tall, half-withered. The branches on the verdant half hang heavy with fruit, round and pink with rough, bumpy skin. Jayce wastes no time. He snaps one free, and in five hungry bites the fruit disappears. Juice dribbles from the corners of his lips, soaking into his beard.

Jayce plucks another. He offers it to his partner.

Viktor holds out a halting hand. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

Viktor thinks, if I were any other person, Jayce would have connected the dots quickly and without comment, but Viktor is Viktor, and Jayce is staring at him incredulously. The question is plain on his face, even though he should already know the answer.

“You don’t need to?”

“No. You can tell just by looking.”

“I’m sorry.” Jayce withdraws the offered fruit and frowns at it, somehow wounded by this revelation.

What is he sorry for? Viktor has lost this human imperative, and Jayce might suffer a sense of responsibility - but given their current circumstances, it is more help than hindrance. Did Jayce expect a full return of his partner, broken body and empty stomach all? He spoke of Viktor’s weaknesses with such reverence, but not every evolution can be undone. His tenure on the Council inured him to bargaining: Viktor had granted Jayce his wish, and now here he is, fussing over the fine print.

Viktor snatches the fruit from him. He takes a meager bite, chews, and swallows.

“Is that safe?” Jayce asks, eyes wide.

“I wouldn’t know,” Viktor admits. The fruit’s inner flesh is bright blue. It has little flavor, but that may well be the fault of his tongue. “But my mouth still lubricates, and I have some semblance of an esophagus, so why not?”

“You never tried to before? While you were…”

“While I was at the commune? No. No, I was… preoccupied.” There is a pause. Jayce still wears a guilty look; the conversation has veered dangerously close to something unpleasant. “Why? What are you imagining?”

“I’m not sure.”

Viktor knows this to be a lie, a side-step. Jayce is always thinking. They can both be clumsy with their words, but Jayce has the stronger filter, and the greater regard for propriety.

“Tell me,” says Viktor, playfully, all the better to goad him with. He returns the fruit, letting it slide from his fingertips into Jayce’s open palm. “Are you worried I am going to be ill? Or maybe that I’ll turn into a fruit myself?”

“Give me a break. I’m serious, you know. I was just wondering… Uh. Where does it go?”

A worthy observation. Jayce has been looking. Little wonder he was so reluctant. Even sweating has become near-impossible for Viktor, springing only from the remnants of his human face.

“That is a good question, Jayce. It might be stuck forever.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I assure you I won’t be, when you have to pry me open and clear the clog.”

Jayce’s face is red. He devours the once-bitten fruit, and eats four more.

✤

Midday: they are still walking. The sky is clear of clouds and the sun beats down upon them. Jayce has since taken point, insisting he walk ahead as the tall grass now reaches their chests. It’s because I’m taller, he explained, pushing his shoulders back to stand at his full height, as if their difference in size was under any doubt. Viktor yields to his request without argument. After almost two full days of hiking, Jayce’s leg must ache constantly; he stops to adjust his leg brace now and again, and sweat coats his brow, despite the level ground and their languid pace. Whatever reason he has to conceal his discomfort, Viktor is sure he understands.

Jayce prods the earth with his walking stick as he goes, testing the obscured path before him. Gaps in the grass appear as the ground grows soft with water. This newfound, exploratory caution of Jayce’s is admirable, even if the events that have engendered it are anything but. Viktor watches Jayce’s back. Is it broader than he remembers? Does he favor his left arm, more than he did before? Have his shoulders drooped, weighed down by some invisible force? 

“Careful, the mud here is deep.”

The warning snaps him out of his contemplation, but it is too late. Viktor steps into a point between Jayce’s long strides and his thin leg sinks into the muck, swallowed up to his knee.

Now it is his turn to be laughed at. Jayce manages to contain himself, but his amusement is obvious as he turns back to lend his aid.

“I did warn you,” he says.

“...I was lost in thought.”

Jayce sets aside his walking stick and supports Viktor by his elbows. He widens his stance, grits his teeth, and lifts; Viktor ascends, his leg coming free with a wet pop. Jayce redirects him to a clump of vegetation, where the soil is sure to be firm.

“Thank you,” says Viktor.

“You’re heavier than you look.”

“What did you expect? I’m not hollow.”

“No?” Jayce raps his knuckles against Viktor’s arm, playfully, testing the noise it produces. “I guess not.”

Viktor retaliates: he reaches up and flicks Jayce’s forehead. He recoils. Hardened fingers against his skull makes for a more pronounced sound.

“Oh dear. If we’re looking for things that are hollow…”

“Very funny.” Jayce rubs his head at the point of contact. “Good to know you’re as cheeky as ever.”

Viktor hums. “You walked into that one on your own.”

“Speak for yourself! Look, you’re filthy. Wait, isn’t this my blanket? I can’t believe you still have it. It’s ruined.”

Indeed, the hem of the blanket that now serves as his robe has been stained black with mud. Such a predicament would be insufferable with human skin - wet and sticky and itchy as it dries.

“It isn’t ruined,” says Viktor, “nor is it yours. And I’m no more filthy than you. You look like a piece of gristle that’s been left out to dry.”

“Ouch,” Jayce laughs. “Trust me, I’d do anything for a hot bath right about now, and a change of clothes. A shave would be nice too, but I wouldn’t want to push my luck.”

“That would make for quite the transformation. Mostly above the neck.”

Beneath the light of the sun, Viktor studies his face, the deeper lines around his eyes and the scar on his lip. His whole countenance has changed, and in so short a time. A rapid progression accelerated by their work together, by Viktor’s work against him. How you’ve changed, Viktor thinks to say. He wants to know more, to hear it from Jayce’s mouth, not from his over-the-shoulder view. 

“You’ve changed a lot, too,” says Jayce.

What a thing to say. Has he been reading Viktor’s thoughts? That shouldn’t be possible. He concentrates on the four points on Jayce’s forehead, wills his mind to open to him... Nothing happens.

“So you’ve noticed,” Viktor says flatly. He raises an arm, heavy and hard and sickly in color, like a decayed limb; he pretends to inspect it.

“I—” Jayce frowns. The guilty look from earlier returns. “I know that. I meant above the neck.”

Viktor’s face has not changed nearly as much as the rest of his body, but Jayce has always been sentimental. His attachment to the remnants of Viktor’s humanity comes as no surprise. With his already raised hand, Viktor feels the ends of his shoulder-length hair; out of the corner of his eye, he can just make out the streaks of blonde, where brown has been stripped away.

“Does it really make so much of a difference?” Viktor wonders.

“It’s not just that,” says Jayce. “Your eyes. And the beauty mark on your cheek disappeared.”

“Did it?” Viktor touches his cheek next, where he surmises it used to be. In the clear waters at the commune, he would sometimes catch glimpses of his reflection: the more people he healed, the more his skin was overtaken. “It was only a blemish.”

“No, it was a defining feature. I liked it.”

“What?”

Viktor cannot help his bewilderment. Jayce makes that face of his, affected indignation; he has no intention of repeating himself. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Jayce Talis, the Man of Progress, mourning the loss of a single mole! How many tabloids in Piltover would have paid for this morsel of information? How many women would have painted their faces, hoping to catch his eye?

“I see,” Viktor continues. “I suppose I should have known. Miss Medarda had her fair share of freckles, didn’t she?”

If only one could see the effect words would have before they are spoken, but once they spill forth, there is no sealing them back up. The warmth in Jayce’s eyes gives way to melancholy, and his expression falters. He pulls away.

“Yes, she did,” he says.

Viktor does not need to peer into his mind to know he is thinking of her. How could he not? He caught glimpses of Medarda the Younger's heart during their brief connection. What had begun as a political relationship gave way to genuine affection - affection that had been given freely by Jayce from the outset. That is the sort of man he is, and this too, is something Viktor had seen: his concern for her, shame over harsh words. The shimmering, gleaming gold of her soul stood out from the rest; when her mind succumbed to his control, her grief was palpable.

She was not the only one Jayce left behind. So many swirling thoughts, so many faces. His bond with Caitlyn, his burgeoning friendship with Vander's daughter. His complicated feelings towards Heimerdinger. His friends on the Council, the Academy. His Hextech dream. His mother. All left behind, all snatched away from him in the blink of an eye: and for what? To wade through weeds and muck without aim? To be bereft of all he held dear? To tie himself to the one who bereaved him so? It is unconscionable to think of now. The gratitude and tenderness he felt when Jayce chose to stay by his side is undercut by deep blue remorse. These too-human emotions are cumbersome for Viktor to bear. How can he repay him? How can he console him? 

Jayce fetches his walking stick from where he planted it. Mud clings to his feet, and when he pulls his left foot free from an entanglement, he clenches his jaw with pain.

“We should keep moving.”

He checks to see if Viktor follows. He does: farther behind than before, planting his naked soles into Jayce’s footprints. The faces of those Jayce left behind, the faceless souls whose lives he stole follow closely, nipping at his heels.

✤

Once again, the sun sets, and once again, they are no closer to any sort of destination. The only landmark they come across is a jagged boulder emerging from the earth; the source of a burbling stream emerges from its base. Jayce drops to his knees and drinks greedily. Viktor watches his shoulders rise and fall as he gasps for air. He is growing more haggard by the hour, and no amount of posturing can mask his exhaustion.

There is no need to bother with another fire: the moon is bright and Jayce has loosened his collar to better avoid the humidity. After he has drunk his fill, Jayce rolls over and fiddles with his leg brace, doing his best to itch beneath where it is clamped to his thigh and tighten the ring beneath his knee. Dirt is caked under his nails and his fingers are stiff and clumsy from two straight days of gripping his walking stick. Only the memory of such pain remains to Viktor, but the pangs of empathy cannot be so easily escaped.

Jayce’s tinkering does nothing to relieve the irritation. He glares at his limb in frustration, his breath growing erratic.

Viktor kneels beside him and waves Jayce’s hands away. “Let me.”

The brace is simple in its design, but effective in its support, extending from the top of Jayce’s thigh down to his ankle. Its purpose is not identical to the one Viktor once wore, but its mechanisms are similar. It is much too tight. Loosening it without the proper wrench is an arduous task for bare fingers, but Viktor’s digits, hard yet pliable, are better suited for the task.

Jayce lets out a pained sigh as the rings around his thigh expand. “I want it tighter,” he hisses.

“No, you don’t,” says Viktor. He sets to work on the section beneath the knee, using his little finger to undo the clasp.

“There’s less pain when it’s tight.”

“There will be pain no matter what.”

Jayce huffs, a sharp exhale from his nostrils; the force of it buffets Viktor’s hair. Viktor glances at him, for but a moment. Jayce is watching intently.

Gingerly, Viktor runs a hand over the injured shin. There is nothing to be felt from beneath the fabric, no clue to aid in his assessment; neither is there a charge of energy that flows from his chest to his fingertips, no arcs of light to infect the wound with arcane healing.

“Careful,” Jayce warns.

“Was it a clean break?”

“I don’t know. I think so, or close enough to it. I wouldn’t be able to walk at all if it wasn’t.”

“We can tighten it again in the morning. It would be better if you could stay off it…” Of course, that isn’t possible. Viktor’s body might be stronger than it ever has been, but not so much as to carry Jayce on his own. “I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t… teleport us somewhere else?” Jayce sounds remorseful simply for asking.

Viktor shakes his head. He cannot. Why? It was he who brought them here, wasn’t it? Now, even reaching into Jayce’s mind is beyond him. Now, Jayce is withering away before his eyes. They must stop and take rest, somewhere with food and water and shelter. They must.

“Where do you think we are, anyway?” Jayce asks. “I thought we might be in Noxus, but we’ve been walking for two days. We should have seen mountains by now, or come across a river.”

“If I were to think of a place that was safe, where our names and faces would be unknown, Noxus would not spring to mind,” says Viktor. “It may be some remote island. We could be on a different star entirely.”

“Is that possible?”

“It is not impossible.”

This epiphany leaves Jayce at a loss for words. He stares into the grass, each blade reflecting pale moonlight like a sea of crystal knives. His eyes are glazed over, perceiving nothing. Who is he thinking of? What comfort does he long for? The shame that gripped Viktor earlier in the day returns in full.

Viktor checks the bottom of the brace, around Jayce’s ankle, coated in mud; once he is assured it is in order, he pulls his hands away, sits upright.

“We might be dead,” says Viktor.

It is a thought that has been gnawing at the back of his mind, one he has been unwilling to give credence to, but the more these empty fields stretch on before them, the more tempting an explanation it becomes.

Jayce considers this. “I don’t know,” he says with a wry smile, “the pain in my leg feels too real for that. If being dead is just like being alive, I’ve been sold a bill of goods.”

He takes the theory better than expected, even if it is in part a show of bravery. It is not as if Viktor wants it to be true - he does not wish Jayce dead. He, himself, on the other hand…

There had been little time to process it: this escalation of events. What once seemed like the perfect solution now sickens him, enough to turn his guts, had he any to turn. That he can still see the cold logic in his actions makes it all the worse. This place, this dream he has found himself in is far beyond his worth, too merciful for the magnitude of his sins.

“Viktor? What’s wrong?”

He has been staring a hole through Jayce’s chest. He, Jayce, comes back into focus. Viktor looks at him.

“I should be,” Viktor says. “I deserve to die.”

“Don’t say that!” Jayce lurches forward and speaks with such force that Viktor expects to be struck. The blow never comes. Instead, Jayce rests a heavy hand on his shoulder, drawing himself nearer to Viktor as shock splinters into sorrow. “Don’t say that. I won’t hear it.”

“How many dead, because of me? I set out to do good, and rather than simply fail, I accomplished only evil. Such destruction, and death, I could have never imagined.”

Jayce has no answers for him. He pulls himself to his knees, ignores whatever agony it causes him, and seizes Viktor, enveloping him in his arms.

“A thousand, thousand souls,” Viktor whispers against Jayce’s ear, “lost. For nothing.”

He had touched the minds of every single one of them. Those that were with him willingly, he knew intimately, if only through the transfer of their memories. Their faith in him was undeserved. What has he done? Their ghosts have been stalking him all this way, and here, beneath this waxing moon, they have caught him. If only he could have taken them to safety, if only he could mend them, and put them to rights. He would see them live on in peace, whatever the consequences to himself.

“You don’t need to bear this alone,” says Jayce. He must be warm; Viktor can feel the sweat coating his skin, close as he is. “I won’t allow you to. It wasn’t just you. Death would have come for them with or without you. From Noxus. Or shimmer. From— from me.”

It is true that Medarda the Elder’s ambitions might’ve cost significant lives without his presence, but this does not assuage him. How many might’ve been spared, had Jayce permitted Viktor’s life to slip through his fingers?

Jayce takes in a wavering breath. His grip strengthens and his shoulders heave. It dawns on Viktor that as much as Jayce is trying to comfort him, he is also comforting himself. That he must seek solace in the one person responsible for all his ills is a tragedy. How much happier would he be, how much more succor would he receive, if a soul more suited for it was here instead? Medarda the Younger, Caitlyn, his mother: it is them he should be with.

“Why are you here, Jayce? I should have left you in Piltover, where you belong.”

“Don’t insult me,” Jayce snaps, a clap of anger cutting through his grief.

“That was not my intention,” Viktor says quietly. The opportunity to drive Jayce from his side has come and gone, but his regret is no lesser for it.

“I made my choice. I—” His voice cracks. The sob Jayce has been holding back breaks free, and the more he tries to reign it in, the more he shakes. “It’s my fault. I did this to you.”

Viktor recalls his guilty demeanor, earlier, throughout the day: he feels responsible after all. Viktor cannot console him in this. Jayce is correct in his feeling, and though that does not make him culpable for Viktor’s crimes, to speak this aloud would be of little help. As much as Viktor curses himself, as much as Jayce’s actions have wounded him, his affection is too great to twist the knife. Not while Jayce clings to him, remorseful and wretched.

Jayce speaks again, in a raw whisper: “I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.”

Would he have ever been? The lengths he went to to reach Viktor say otherwise. His devotion has exceeded all expectations. What has Viktor done to deserve this? At what point did Jayce come to value him so highly? Somehow, this bond of theirs grew so gradually, so subtly, escaping Viktor’s notice as it entwined itself into every facet of their lives, strangling all else with its roots until only its verdant bloom remained.

“Let me go, Jayce.”

The grip on him tightens. “I won’t.”

No. He’s made that quite clear. Viktor lacks the strength to shake him off; if he tried, Jayce would surely release him, but to rob Jayce of his sole source of comfort would not be right, nor good, and so Viktor waits. A minute passes, then two, then four. The heightened thrum of Jayce’s pulse, pressed flush against him, abates into normalcy. His breathing settles. Slowly, his embrace relaxes. 

Jayce rests his forehead against Viktor’s shoulder before he pulls away, hiding his face from view as he speaks.

“You won’t run off while I sleep, will you?”

What is he imagining? “I’m tired of being cruel,” says Viktor.

“Not to yourself, you aren’t,” says Jayce as he straightens. There is a glassy sheen in his eyes, glistening from beneath his unkempt hair. “Promise me you won’t talk like that anymore. Wishing for your death.”

Viktor cannot make such a promise. Jayce’s sins cannot erase his own.

 “...I will try.”

That is good enough for Jayce, for now. He flops backwards to lay flat on the ground, stretching out his limbs and releasing his leg from torment. A tired breath escapes his chapped lips. Viktor moves to give him space, but Jayce reaches for him, encircling his wrist with his dirty hand.

“Stay close,” he says. “Tonight.”

A strange request - no, more akin to a demand, given how he pulls against Viktor’s hesitation, just enough to keep him at his side. Does he truly fear Viktor will run away? Or is it his dreams he seeks respite from? More than he wishes to translocate them out of the wilds, Viktor desires to peer into his mind, to see what terrors grip his innermost thoughts.

He lays down beside Jayce, shoulder to shoulder, which must soothe him, for he is not long awake. 

Viktor commits himself to another sleepless night. The souls he shepherded to oblivion demand his attention. He gazes into the night sky, and a million pinpricks of light stare back. They are too cold, too distant. If only they would descend, return to life, reprimand Viktor, and administer punishment until he is gutted and ruined enough to be forgiven.

✤

On the third day, there is a change in the wind.

They speak only a few words to each other; the previous evening has left them tender, and neither of them are willing to exacerbate this. Jayce bears his soreness and hunger with a stiff upper lip. His brave face would be less encouraging if he eschewed vulnerability entirely; the memory of his pitiful expression, tears in his eyes, serves as a reminder when Jayce is otherwise silent.

It is not long before the scenery shifts. The earth hardens beneath their feet and the grass grows short. In the morning they travel through dense fog, and when it clears beneath the heat of the sun, they find rolling hills sprung up around them. They follow the stream they camped beside, and it widens as they go, gathering up veins of water until it flows steady and strong. It is as good a sign as any. Jayce quickens his pace, a hand on the back of Viktor’s arm, keeping him within sight.

✤

The scent of salt in the air reaches Jayce first.

He does not allow himself to grow too hopeful, for it could mean a number of things, but after they climb the crest of a steep hill, they are greeted by the open sea. It is a deep, dark blue, stretching from the horizon to where it meets the shore, waves crashing against sheer cliffs of white stone. More remarkable than the sight of the ocean is what lays along the coastline: far in the distance are the unmistakable outlines of man made structures, the manicured boundaries of farmland, the tiny specks of sails on the water.

Jayce is too drained for excitement. He sighs in relief, his diminished form regaining some of its vigor, as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“We made it,” he declares.

Exactly where they have made it is not yet known. It is unfamiliar territory, and Viktor’s reservations towards approaching begin to pile up like paperwork.

Viktor cautions, “They could be unfriendly.”

“You wanted to take us somewhere safe, remember? And we don’t exactly have a choice.”

Jayce is correct. What, then, is the source of this sense of dread? It weighs down Viktor’s legs, but Jayce will not allow him to grow roots: he sets off with renewed urgency, eager for the amenities of civilization. Viktor is compelled to follow.

Viktor asks, “What if they don’t speak our language?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jayce answers in a brusque tone. 

He is a man possessed of a singular mission, a mission that affords no time for Viktor’s dubiety. In their youth, these roles were often reversed; Viktor’s feeble vacillations are foreign to his tongue.

They pass through the farmlands they spied in the distance: sprouts of wheat, beans and weeds vying for territory, white grapes on vines supported by rotting wood, emaciated orchards of apple and cherry. A handful of homes dot the countryside, and half of them appear abandoned. A man in robes herds sheep atop a nearby hill, watching them; Jayce waves to him. He does not wave back.

As they draw closer to the settlement, its indistinct features are given shape. The town has been carved out of the cliffside, its quaint buildings constructed of the white stone surrounding them. It is, by all appearances, a modest sort of place. Scant few buildings rise above two stories, and there are no defining landmarks other than four decrepit windmills situated on the outskirts. The walls surrounding the town have fallen into disrepair. When they come to the main gate, they find it open, and devoid of any guards or watchmen; entering the town is as simple as stepping forward. The streets are of white cobblestone and equally empty of people. From on high, they can peer down the hill, past rows of homes, to where the town meets the water. There, a fisherman’s wharf and a market buzzing with people awaits.

They follow the main road through town, zig-zagging as it weaves its way down the steep cliffside. The few residents they pass on their way stop to stare, openly and without reservation.

“They seem friendly enough,” says Jayce.

“Better than the alternative, yes,” Viktor agrees. “I don’t think they are used to seeing strangers.”

“Not ones so haggard as us,” Jayce says with a chuckle. Indeed, Jayce looks as if he emerged from his dirt hovel for the first time in weeks; Viktor does not fare much better, caked in grime up to his waist. “Did you hear that group of women whispering as we passed? I could make out a few words - we might be in luck.”

The ogling approaches critical mass as they reach the market. The crowds part as they make their way through, murmuring as they go. A woman stays her child with a hand on his forehead, and an old man retreats behind his stall. Jayce, emboldened by his empty stomach, pays them no mind. Following his nose to the far end of the wharf, where the fishermen tend to their produce, he comes to a stop in front of a stall tended by a wrinkled old woman, where she grills mackerel over hot coals. The aroma is heavenly - despite his lack of hunger, Viktor can taste the fish by smell alone; for Jayce, it must be even more intoxicating.

Jayce licks his dry lips, mouth watering. “I need— I’d like some food.”

The crone, whose lips are so thin they’ve all but retreated into her mouth, holds out her hand, expecting payment. Viktor spied their currency changing hands moments ago: crude copper coins, of which they have none.

“Uh,” says Jayce, eloquent as ever, “I don’t have any money.”

She withdraws her hand, and looks Jayce up and down, unimpressed. Then, she squints at Viktor, her beady eyes narrowed into slits, the glint of gold on his knuckles catching her attention. Viktor tucks his hands into his robe, but there is no hiding what has already been seen.

“Trade,” she barks.

“I—” Jayce looks to the only thing he has carried with him: his walking stick, which is nothing more than a branch. Perhaps his armor would do, had he not discarded it. At a loss, Jayce offers up all he has: “Let me work for it. I’ll do anything.”

It must be a difficult thing, to give up on the prospect of gold. Her mouth curls in distaste, but after a moment’s consideration, she turns, and points behind her. A young woman and three small girls - her grandchildren, perhaps - sit beneath the covered stall, weaving together a large fishing net. It is not the sort of busywork he is suited for, but beggars cannot be choosers, and Jayce is humble enough to be grateful.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I can help,” Viktor offers.

“No,” Jayce stops him. “I’d rather you find us a place where we can rest. And bathe - God, I need a bath.” He turns to the old woman and asks, “Do you know somewhere we can stay? Anywhere would do.”

More requests? She shakes her head, and for a moment it seems as if she might send them away. Instead, she waves the young woman over; she dips into a short curtsey, and though she addresses Viktor, she struggles to look him in the eye. Just as well. 

“I’ll find you later,” says Jayce. The children he is to be working with shuffle out of the way. One of them pinches her nose at his stench.

The young woman bids Viktor to follow. It is a short journey to the center of town, where they arrive at a two story building upon the main street, its white walls stained gray from dirt and rain. With a large window beside the door, it must have once served as a storefront; now empty, the only merchandise remaining are dust and cobwebs. Inside, it is dark and musty, the wood interior in desperate want of fresh air. The girl fidgets nervously, no doubt eager to return to her family. When he inquires after payment for the property, she looks at him as if his body had suddenly changed color. It has long been vacant, she explains, and with none to claim ownership, it is better that it is looked after than sit empty. How unlike Piltover. The sense of dread he felt before their arrival was unwarranted. Viktor thanks her, and she takes her leave.

A steep flight of stairs leads to the second floor. It creaks and groans beneath Viktor’s weight. The apartment above the shop is miniscule, but is - blessedly - furnished with the bare essentials, placed to utilize the minimal space to its maximum: a cramped kitchen, a wood-burning stove, a table for eating and working, complemented by three mismatched chairs. The bathroom is nothing compared to the convenience they enjoyed in Piltover, replete with piping that could only be described as precarious. The bedroom is as small as everything else, with one average-sized bed taking up the width of the room. A long window stretches from one corner of the room to the other, a built-in shelf below it.

Viktor tests the plumbing by drawing a bath. He peels the encrusted cloth from his body and submerges himself until he is clean. Clear water turns murky from the filth. He drains the water, fills it again, and washes his blanket-turned-robe. Beyond the table in the main room is a tall window that also serves as a door; it opens out onto a terrace overlooking the street. Viktor hangs the robe out to dry. There are no towels with which to dry himself, no blankets to replace his sodden robe, and so he lingers uncovered.

It is quiet here. Peaceful. Motes of sparkling dust spin and dance within a beam of sunlight. The bustle of the market and the calls of seagulls are far off, and their noise grows monotonous until it fades into a muted drone. A sensation washes over him, a halting feeling, as if time has come to a standstill, or wound itself into a knot. Where is Piltover? A thousand miles across the ocean, shrouded in mist, existing outside the present moment.

✤

Jayce returns at dusk. He staggers in. He balances in one hand an aged oil lamp, already lit, and in the other a basket filled with leavings from the market: bruised, darkening fruit, the crusts of bread. When he sees Viktor, naked as he is, he finds sudden interest in the wall, in the sparse furnishings.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, as if he walked in on something he shouldn’t have.

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Oh, spare me. There’s nothing to see. Unless it’s your modesty I should be protecting?”

“You can’t expect me to know how you’d feel about it,” Jayce shoots back.

“So long as you don’t mind,” says Viktor, gently. Jayce must not, given how he frowns at him. “In any case, you will have to get used to it. There are no linens, and no spare clothes.”

Jayce sighs. He sets his things on the table and collapses into a chair, which protests the sudden weight. 

“Nothing for it,” he says.

“I’ll draw a bath.” 

Jayce sighs, again, decompressing. Viktor moves to the bathroom. 

“They’re not used to strangers here, like you said.” Jayce continues the conversation from the other room, raising his voice to accommodate. “Not very friendly. But they were kind, once they realized we aren’t criminals.”

“I see they sent you home with gifts,” says Viktor.

“Merra,” the old woman’s name, perhaps, “said she would introduce me to the blacksmith tomorrow. I’m not suited for weaving nets. Those kids ran circles around me.”

“I’m sure they’ve had plenty of practice. How was the fish?”

“Amazing. It might’ve been the best I’ve ever had,” says Jayce, like he’s tasting it even now. “They call this place Erum, apparently. When I asked what sort of trade they do with Piltover they looked at me as if I had two heads.”

“They'd do that anyway. You should see yourself.”

If the people here have never heard of Piltover, they must be very far, or very remote: miles and miles away from any country of significance.

“Trust me, I can feel it,” says Jayce. “And smell it.”

“There’s no warm water, I’m afraid. I suspect we could use the stove to rectify that, but not anytime soon.”

“Oh, well. I’ll take whatever I can get at this point. I had half a mind to jump into the sea.”

When the tub is filled, Viktor returns to find Jayce fiddling impotently with his leg brace. He has already removed his coat, deposited haphazardly on the floor, but the rest of his clothes are so soiled that they cling to his body like a second skin.

“Help me with this,” Jayce asks.

Viktor does so, wordlessly, kneeling in front of Jayce as he unfastens his brace. Jayce has no hope of removing his high boots on his own, worn and sore as he is; he straightens out his legs while Viktor pulls them free. His right boot peels off with ease, but much more care is needed for the left: Jayce grimaces in pain as it slides down his shin. His trousers present another conundrum. Jayce stands and tries to force them down, but they are caked against him and damp with moisture.

“Stop that,” says Viktor. “You’ll tear them, and then what will you have to wear?”

“I’d have to steal my blanket back.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Jayce smiles down at him, humor in his eyes. They must act as a team here, as they have so many times before - though never for anything so unscientific. Jayce pushes as Viktor pulls, prudently, and once they’ve wrestled the waistline down his thighs, Jayce sits back down to let Viktor handle the rest. He manages his underwear, then his socks; Viktor moves behind him to help with his shirt.

Naked as the day he was born and with the appearance of one risen from the grave, Jayce hobbles over to the bath and submerges himself. He scrubs the filthiest parts of himself first: his hands, his hair, beneath his arms, between his legs. The water turns dark in no time.

“I’ve ruined the water already,” says Jayce, leaning to the side so he can peer out the door.

He does not ask for help, but Viktor gets the sense that he will. Viktor invites himself in, and brings the oil lamp with him. He drains the water for him and draws more, and in the low light, he can at last see the wound on Jayce’s leg. Raised scar tissue where bone pierced skin resembles a piece of chewed rope. The anomaly’s pattern wraps around the entire limb, from knee to ankle.

“Would you mind scrubbing my back?” There it is: the call for help.

“There’s nothing to scrub it with.”

Jayce scoffs. “You still have hands, don’t you?”

Viktor hesitates. His hands are ill-suited for this. Yet why should he refuse? Jayce has always been quick to lend assistance, even when unprompted. There were times Viktor resented him for this: the worried looks, the offered hands, but now… Now, they are nowhere, and Jayce is still here.

He crouches nearby, and rubs his palm roughly over Jayce’s back. Tan skin glows pink as dirt and dead skin sloughs off. Viktor observes the shallow scar above his shoulder, and the grievous gash that cuts across his back. Both have frayed at the edges, that web-like pattern decorating the transition between skin and scar.

“Does it still hurt?” Viktor asks as he smooths his fingers over the larger scar.

“No. Not like my leg.” His voice grows heavy, eyes shut.

“A side effect of so much walking. The pain should subside soon.”

When Jayce is finished, he stands about in the main room, flexing his hands and ankles, stretching his shoulders. There is nothing clean to dry himself with; the air must do the job. The dark of night settles in, and the beads of water on his skin glimmer like jewels as they catch the flickering lamplight. He is comfortable in his skin. He always has been. They have seen each other undressed more than once, an inevitability of a close partnership. Back then, it was little more than a state of being that had to sometimes occur to move from Task A to Task B, and neither of them paid it any mind. This changed, years later, when Viktor’s health began to deteriorate. He did not wish to be seen: not by Jayce, not by anyone.

Once Jayce is dry, it is straight to bed. The mattress is old and musty and coarse without sheets, but after enough time spent in the wilderness, or at the bottom of a cave, a soft bed and a roof over one’s head becomes a luxury. Viktor follows Jayce to the bedroom, though he isn’t sure why. He has no intention of sleeping. Does he expect Jayce to ask him for something, again? Jayce sprawls out, happy to have any sort of bed, eager to relax. 

Against the dark, there is only the faint violet pulse of Viktor’s body, and the diminishing glow of the four points upon Jayce’s forehead; he can just make out Jayce’s curious stare.

“There’s room,” Jayce explains, as if Viktor goes blind at night, like a bird.

He thinks of Jayce’s mangled leg, the corrupted pattern enveloping it. It pains him - does his forehead pain him too? Does he even know those marks are there?

Viktor reaches down and brushes his fingers against Jayce’s brow, brushing aside his damp hair to get a better look. It is an action of pure instinct, the kind one doesn’t parse in their mind until it’s already happened. Jayce startles. His hand rushes up to meet Viktor’s, pushing him aside, palm glued to his forehead as if he were checking for fever.

“What? What is it? Did I miss a spot?”

The answer is provided unwittingly. That was easier than asking.

“...No. I was inspecting the fingerprints on your brow. Can you not feel them?”

Jayce is flummoxed. “Fingerprints?” Not for long. “Oh. No. I didn’t even know they were there, although I guess that’s obvious now.”

Oh, to catch a glimpse of his thoughts: a night of exposed scars, and the number of those caused by Viktor, directly or indirectly, has suddenly increased from two to three.

“It must look bizarre,” Jayce says. “That would explain all those stares.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. Your squalid state was far more noticeable, and your hair was often in the way.”

“Mind you, I don’t care if anyone sees.”

“You’re not bothered?” A surge of relief.

“I’m not a Councilor anymore, or the ‘Man of Progress.’ I’m just…” 

Jayce lets out a long exhale, and raises his hand, motioning to the dark. To nothing. Is that how he sees himself? You could never be nothing, Viktor thinks, but doesn’t quite say.

After a moment of quiet, he turns his attention from the ceiling to Viktor. “Are you going to lay down or not?”

“I was going to wash your clothes,” says Viktor.

“What? You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh? Do you plan to introduce yourself in the nude tomorrow?”

Jayce clicks his tongue. “I can take care of it.”

“I would rather you sleep. You are in need of it.”

Jayce drags his forearm over his eyes. It is obvious to Viktor that he has already accepted defeat, but Jayce likes to make a show of staying in the fight.

“You don’t need to eat,” says Jayce. “You don’t need to sleep, either, do you?”

“I do not require it, no,” Viktor says quietly. “I had to wash my own clothes when I was a boy, so I will be quick about it.”

“I can’t help but feel useless. Like I’m forcing you to do this.”

“Don’t be absurd. When have you ever managed to force me to do anything?”

“A few times, at least. Here and there.”

“Try to be specific.”

Jayce falls silent. There is a long pause. “To your credit, I did have to think about it. Do you remember Councilor Shoola’s fundraiser?”

How could he forget? “Please don’t remind me.”

Jayce chuckles. “But yes, you’re right, I bow to your stubbornness.”

“Goodnight, Jayce.”

“Viktor.”

He stops in the doorway. Jayce stalls. He brushes his fingers over his forehead, then rolls over onto his side, back turned.

“Nevermind. I can’t think of how to say it.”

✤

In a matter of days they slip into a routine.

Jayce bounces between craftsmen and fishermen and farmers, working where he is needed in return for food, a meager amount of coin, donations of unwanted items and hand-me-downs: blankets, pillows, lamps and candles, tableware, soap, a second set of clothes, a simpler pair of boots. Jayce proves himself to be useful, and word spreads quickly in Erum. Soon, he finds himself in demand. And how could he not? He is good with his hands and possesses a sharp mind, suited for swift learning and ingenuity. Most of all, he can ingratiate himself with strangers as if it were as easy as breathing.

Not so for Viktor. No matter how foreign the town, no matter how neighborly the people, he cannot bring himself to be sociable.

He spends his days as he sees fit. He airs out the apartment and liberates it of what must be several years worth of dust. He takes stock of what they need. He throws the mattress over the balcony ledge and beats the mustiness out of it. He clears the opaque windows and thinks up a plan for hot water. When he tires of being indoors, he takes long, exploratory walks, familiarizing himself with Erum and its boundaries: her network of narrow alleys, the new docks that have been built atop the old, which homes outside the walls have been abandoned; the four windmills, of which only two are functioning.

The townspeople leave him to his own devices, for which he is grateful. At most, they stare as he passes by, the walking enigma that he is. Those Jayce has done some service for might nod their heads or tip their hats, acknowledging his connection to someone they’ve come to know.

The children of Erum, however, are not so indifferent. To them, Viktor is unlike anything they have seen before, a curiosity that entices their imagination. A band of children takes to shadowing him whenever they spot him. They trail behind at a distance, testing their courage; when Viktor turns, they scatter, screaming and laughing as they run to hide. Viktor does not mind them, but he does not encourage them. He has never been easy with children. Talking to them is more a test of patience than anything resembling conversation.

They grow bolder by the day. The bravest among them see how close they can get. One of them, a young boy with bright, inquisitive eyes the color of fresh grass. His hair is burnt auburn, and there is a notch in his right eyebrow; it reminds him of Jayce. He wears a patched shirt of faded color, a bloom of bruises on his knobby knees. He sneaks behind Viktor and flips up the hem of his robe, exposing the entire length of his legs. Viktor whirls around, but the child is already beating a retreat, scurrying back to his friends and rejoining them as a hero.

That night, Viktor recounts the event.

Jayce laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me. They must’ve been curious to see if your whole body is like that. Everyone is, you know - I’ve heard them talk. They call you the ‘Metal Man.’”

How trite. “I would much prefer to be asked.”

“There’s an awkward question,” says Jayce. “Besides, there’s a big difference between being told something, and seeing it for yourself. Especially when you’re a kid.”

“I didn’t expect you to defend them.”

Jayce looks up from beneath his heavy eyebrows. He sits at the table, whittling hard chunks of charcoal into writing utensils. He was given a leatherbound journal with half its pages torn out as a reward for patching a roof, and is keen to make use of it.

“I’m not,” says Jayce, “but I don’t blame them. If I were at that age, I’d be first in line to flip your dress.”

“Is it a dress now?”

“I was just trying to get into character,” Jayce explains. A grin is pulling at the corners of his mouth, revealing his teeth. “Like if I were still eight years old. How about: ‘I’d be first in line to flip my blanket.’”

“It doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

“I know,” Jayce says dryly. “But it’s funny how you always correct me.”

“So long as you know. From now on, I will endeavor not to correct you.”

“No, don’t do that! Otherwise it’s no fun.”

“‘Still’ eight years old? I might’ve been confused if you hadn’t clarified.”

“I haven’t broken character yet,” Jayce boasts. “You should be impressed.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose.”

“Like any proper eight-year-old.”

“Is it really that fun for you?”

“Sometimes. It is if it lifts your mood.”

Jayce smirks, like he’s already won. It is infectious: his good humor, his warmth.

“...I see,” says Viktor.

“Is it working?”

Viktor doesn’t answer. There’s no need to. Jayce already knows. This negative feeling, the petty frustration caused by children, the uncomfortable, unwanted moniker: it melts away, dissolving like honey in hot water. How does he do it? This spell he casts.

“That aside,” says Viktor. “The day before, I overheard one of the children telling a story. He said that in the lands far to the west, the trees grow leaves of purple, and that they pick up their roots and move in accordance with the seasons. And that the birds that nest in them will help lift the older trees, and carry them by their branches.”

A bizarre phenomenon. If it is true, they might indeed have teleported to some far off star.

“Hm? Oh. I think I might’ve told him that.”

“What?”

“I think it was one of the fisherman’s kids. He asked if I was a traveler from a distant land - which I am - and wanted to hear about my homeland. I thought it would be safer to make something up. He looked so happy to hear it, I didn’t think there was any harm.”

The only harm is that Viktor was prepared to give it credence.

“I’m surprised by you, Jayce. Telling lies to children.”

“Well, they shouldn’t have laid hands on my blanket.”

✤

There has not been a night so cool as the first one they spent in this strange land. Summer must be coming into full swing, here, in Erum, wherever Erum is. The ocean breeze is a welcome respite from the sweltering sun, but at night, when the wind dies and settles: humidity sets in. Viktor is glad to be spared from its discomfort. His flesh senses the moisture and his nose can smell the muggy air, but other than that, all he can do is watch. Jayce’s hair clings to the back of his neck and his skin shines, shines like his earnest expression as he talks back the scenes of the day: the morning mist’s descent, the white clouds at noon, the afternoon heat; his plans to improve the blacksmith’s sand casting, the fine glass brought by the trader, the slate he wants to buy; the kite he repaired, the burning sunset sky.

Jayce is at his best when he has something to put his mind to. For a man such as he, Erum is akin to a playground: there are advancements to be made, repairs to be scheduled, ideas to be implemented. He professes a desire to re-open the downstairs shop, but cannot decide on a direction. Viktor lends his ear and provides feedback. He affirms good ideas with encouragement, and steers Jayce around bad ones.

There was a time when Viktor would have shared in his excitement. His body carries the memory of that mutual passion; how his heart would race when Jayce came to him with a clever idea, the thrill when he unraveled a week-long quandary. His love of discovery has not vanished, but has been sapped of its strength. The certainty of an early death was the engine that drove him to such lengths, and now, that certainty is gone.

For the first time, he has time. What is he to do with it?

His mind wanders. A common occurrence of late. He is there, again: looking over Jayce’s shoulder. He sees himself. He sees sad, weary eyes, still grasping a fragment of hope.

✤

Sometimes, at dusk, they move their chairs to the balcony to watch the sunset. It pours into the boundary where earth meets sea like molten iron, glowing hot and red. Vendors returning home from the market pass beneath them, and the air is heavy with the scent of evening meals: mutton infused with mint, freshly baked bread, slowly melting the butter seared atop it; cherries simmered in syrup.

One night, when the sky has turned dark and the conversation has died, Viktor feels the weight of a stare. Jayce is not subtle about it; when Viktor turns to meet him, he does not avert his gaze. The light of an oil lamp dissipates as it passes through glass, bathing their backs in a soft bloom, accentuating the sharp lines of Jayce’s face. Jayce can make his body motionless, but his eyes are beyond such fine control. They twitch, move in and out of focus; the barest, most delicate signals of each thought that swims behind them.

Jayce maintains Viktor’s regard until he can no longer bear to. He looks down at his feet, as if to catch them fleeing somewhere.

“Viktor.”

“Yes?”

He turns his left wrist over, thumbing at the scar there, the warped gash where the rune used to be. Something lurches in Viktor’s chest, threatening to rise to his throat. Jayce opens his mouth; the words lag behind.

“Can you see my thoughts?”

The question is an unexpected one, but now that he’s given it voice, it seems all too obvious.

“No, not anymore. I don’t know why. But even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

He is not sure that is true. He has already tried. It would be wrong of him, yes. But a sin that leaves no trace is the apex temptation.

Jayce falls silent. He leans forward in his seat, working something over in his head with singular focus. Is this what had been on his mind, so many nights ago, that which he could not put into words? For this inquiry to give him pause, there must be more to it.

Viktor asks: “What is it, Jayce?”

Briefly, Viktor expects he will receive an answer. Jayce looks at his wrist, then at him; but he smiles, weakly, and shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.” He now knows it is safe to say so. He pushes to his feet and touches Viktor’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”

In these moments, Viktor cannot refuse him. He follows Jayce, watches him retreat into the bedroom. Jayce wished for his partner back, but something else came with him. It cannot be seen, but it can be felt: the round, repellant force between two magnets. Too much has been revealed. Too little is known. This imbalance has manifested itself into a barrier, into a tangle, yet it is too tightly wound to be safely unraveled. It sits between them like a ghost; this entity, this unspoken thing.

✤

In the early era of Hextech, sandwiches ruled the day. Then the construction of the Hexgates began, and the prospect of unprecedented trade - like a tantalizing peek of skin outside the bordello - was teased in front of the Council. To better expedite their work, the Council and their many generous friends were obliged to see to their basic needs: food, clothes, transportation. It has been many years since either of them had to fend for themselves on those fronts, save for a few exceptions. The distant know-how before their enrollment at the Academy is all that is left to them.

Now, Jayce grapples with a frying pan of heavy iron. Melted butter bubbles within, sizzling at the edges; the fish he placed down does so as well, but with far less energy. Viktor stands beside him, watching.

“The pan needs to be hot,” says Viktor. He might do a little more than watching.

“It is hot.”

“Hotter than that. I believe the idea is to sear the outside, so the internal temperature comes up slower. That way, the liquid within the fish will be trapped by the sear, and when the moisture begins to boil—”

“I get it, Viktor.” Jayce glares down at his fish, as if the heat from his eyes will do the trick. “I should have heated the pan more. There. Pass me the salt?”

Viktor does so. He offered to cook, but Jayce is the one with the human stomach - leaving it to Viktor wouldn’t sit right with him. Now that he has the utensils to do so, Jayce has taken it upon himself to prepare his own meals, rather than making do with the simple foods he takes as payment. He is clumsy and unsure of himself in the kitchen, but compared to yesterday, he has already improved. Tomorrow, he will be even better.

They sit together. Jayce is awkward about being the only one to eat, and so Viktor picks at his plate to appease him. Whatever happens to the food he ingests is unknown, but it has yet to cause any problems, which is good enough for the both of them.

“How is it?” Jayce asks, watching a flake of fish pass between his lips.

“It’s too salty.” Viktor is uncertain if his sense of taste has diminished. The necessity of food had always been his primary concern, rather than its flavor.

Jayce says, “That’s how I like it.”

Afterwards, Viktor cleans the dishes, few as they are. It is a fair trade. Jayce stands nearby, talking with him, annoying Viktor by pointing out spots he’s missed; payback for earlier.

“—I wouldn’t have choked on the pit if you had given me fair warning,” Jayce complains. The topic of the evening is, as one might expect, food. “Why are we always talking about my embarrassing moments? Do you remember the catering Mel hired that one time? From the place on Gerhard avenue.”

“Remind me.”

“The one with the quiche, and the souffle. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

Viktor purses his lips. “...It was very rich. I wasn’t used to it.”

“I’ll say. You scared me half to death. I thought the food was poisoned.”

“It might as well have been.” Viktor picks at a piece of fish still stuck to the pan. It scrapes off easily beneath his solid fingers. “The caterers must have thought so, too. I can still picture the looks on their faces, after you called Miss Medarda over.”

“Yeah, she really gave them the third degree.”

“They didn’t deserve it. It was my stomach that was at fault, and you overreacted.”

“That’s easy for you to say, but you couldn’t see yourself. All that moaning and groaning…”

“Oh, I don’t know. I couldn’t help only being used to bland food, but you were beside yourself over nothing, in hindsight. I thought you wanted to avoid discussing another one of your embarrassing moments?”

Jayce huffs, but he smiles, despite himself. Viktor returns it; he could not help doing so, even if he wanted to.

Viktor bends at the waist to dry his hands on a repurposed scrap of old sail. Suddenly, unexpectedly: the pressure of a faint touch at the base of his neck, on the topmost bolt emerging from his spine. It ends almost immediately as Viktor straightens. Jayce withdraws the offending party: his guilty hand.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepishly. He shifts gears in an instant, “You could feel that?”

“Yes.” Idly, Viktor raises his own hand, brushing over the point of contact. The sensation was different compared to the usual places: on his shoulder, his upper arm. This time, the touch carried the faintest charge of static. “I can sense pressure.”

“Oh. Interesting.”

“Why do you ask?”

Jayce avoids eye contact. “I was just curious.”

Hastily, he excuses himself for his evening bath. Inquisitiveness is like him. Inhibition is not. Viktor thinks of the children from the week before, with their unabashed snooping, and now Jayce’s reticent interest. I don’t blame them, Jayce had said. Why, then, can he not bring himself to be honest about it? There’s a sudden urge to follow him into the bathroom, to sit down in front of him and let him explore Viktor’s body to his heart’s content, to let him get it out of his system. And yet, Jayce must have his reasons to hold himself back. Does it remind him of his broken promise? His betrayal of Viktor’s wishes? Regardless of what curiosity it kindles, there is no avoiding it, and only Jayce can overcome it. The urge passes. Better to let Jayce simmer: whether he fizzles out, or boils over.

✤

It takes Jayce and two other men to carry a large piece of slate into the downstairs shop. Paper is harder to come by here than in Piltover, and Jayce has too many ideas than he can reasonably write down. He encourages Viktor to make use of it, if he so wishes; he has been encouraging Viktor often, lately. His listlessness has become more obvious now that the apartment has been put in order. There is no sense in making Jayce worry unnecessarily, and so he finds something to put his mind to. The choice is an easy one: he heads to the four windmills overlooking Erum. On the singular piece of paper he has allowed himself, he takes notes of their designs, the mechanisms of the two that work, and the failings of the two that do not. When he returns, he fills one side of the slate with drafts for plans: how they might be repaired, improvements that could be made in the process. This is not Piltover. The material and logistical limitations are far more strict, and as Viktor works within these confines, time flies by.

Jayce fails to contain his joy at finding Viktor there, once he returns. His smile is wide, eyes arced in contentment, and rather than see to his own needs, he joins Viktor, cajoling him into talking through his ideas. He offers up his input, suggesting how they might acquire the materials, and from who. As they speak, Jayce rests a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. In an instant, they are in Piltover, sent back in time. Jayce shakes him gently, a supporting gesture; inadvertently, he pulls Viktor closer.

It is familiar. Jayce’s hand leaves his shoulder and finds its way to his waist. It’s like it’s always been. Why is he so aware of it now? 

Close, they are close; but when Viktor stops to take notice, suddenly they are back in Erum, and that thing between them rears its head, reminding him why they are here, no matter how they might distract themselves from it.

✤

The apartment, their home: filling up with pieces of their shared lives. Jayce lines the windowside shelf in the bedroom with baubles, findings or gifts or otherwise. A hunk of quartz in the shape of a hand, a large conch shell, a chipped bottle found on the beach, a tiny straw doll bestowed upon him by a child, the feather of a blue-green bird. A carpet of many different patches of fabric fills out the bedroom floor. A crude mirror hung in the bathroom, with reflections so poor it hardly deserves to be called as such. A thick fragment glass, hung by a piece of twine, catches afternoon sunshine, scattering small rainbows across the walls.

Jayce is like this, collecting items alongside the events of his life. Each bauble has a story behind it, and each one can invoke a dozen different memories, all connected through the thousand fine threads that make up Jayce Talis. He holds them, shows them to others, reveals their deepest secrets.

Viktor is not like this. What few items are dear enough for safekeeping, he hides. Those that are precious to him, bound to his very soul, he hides even from himself. Concealed and out of reach, they can no longer be perceived by anyone. They will remain that way, forever: unseen, untouched, uncorrupted.

✤

Viktor boils over.

Jayce is looking at him, but he is not listening. It’s written plain on his face.

“Jayce? Are you listening to me?”

For Viktor, it is a rhetorical question. Jayce blinks. His eyes refocus, and he is at attention.

“A little,” he lies. Realizing he will fail whatever test Viktor could issue in order to expose him, he grows more honest: “Sorry, your eyes are distracting. They keep changing. Does your vision change, too?”

Viktor stares at him from across the table. Another one of these questions. It’s not the first, not the second, nor the third. It is not as if Viktor minds answering, and to do so would be easy: no, Jayce, I can see just fine. But for how long will he keep this up? Extracting morsels of information here and there, never truly satisfied, staying his curiosity over some stingy reason. Jayce cannot be honest with himself, and Viktor is tired of humoring him.

Viktor rests his elbow on the table, head propped up by his hand.

“You are intrigued by my body, aren’t you, Jayce?”

Jayce’s eyes go wide, and then he winces: eyes shut tight, brow furrowed. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Do you have to say it like that?”

“My apologies.” Viktor smiles, amused. He didn’t find his phrasing to be particularly poor, but Jayce has always had the better sense for these things. “Do you deny it?”

Jayce exhales. His nostrils flare. He has no choice but to capitulate now that the cat is out of the bag, however disagreeable its manner of release. He forces himself to meet Viktor’s stare, maintaining a thin veneer of stoicism.

“...No.”

That’s better, Viktor thinks. “I appreciate your honesty. How shall I reward you for it?”

A tremor runs across Jayce’s face.

“What do you mean?”

What does he mean? The impulsive, inquisitive touches Jayce allows himself would become far easier to bear when enacted for the sake of some undisguised goal. He prefers Jayce when he is honest. He prefers Jayce when he is experimenting, uncovering the enigma of some esoteric subject, face lit up with boyish wonder. Even if that esoteric subject is his own body. This body, tireless and free of debilitations, hard and unforgiving; difficult to look upon.

“I mean,” says Viktor, “that you may investigate me however you’d like.”

“However I’d like.” Jayce raises an eyebrow, challenging this claim simply by repeating it.

“Within reason.”

“Okay.” Jayce nods. He keeps nodding, shuffling his busy brain around. “Okay.”

Jayce stands. His chair nearly clatters to the floor, but he grabs it in time, sets it to rights. He walks away, vanishing into the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Viktor calls after him.

Jayce doesn’t answer. He is quick to return, and with him he carries that leatherbound journal, half its pages missing, and a stick of charcoal to go with it. There is a page or two of notes in it already, but has been otherwise untouched. Has he been saving it for this? No, no: Viktor won’t allow himself that level of conceit. Jayce pulls his chair closer, its wooden legs scraping against the floor, and he sits nearer to Viktor.

“Uh.” Jayce clears his throat. He shifts in his seat more than he needs to.

“There’s no reason to be so nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he insists. As if Viktor wouldn’t be able to tell. “I just don’t know where to start.”

“Your most burning questions would be a good place. No doubt you have some in mind already.”

“Right.” Jayce should not have to be told this.

Tentatively, he reaches out to Viktor, and takes hold of the arm resting upon the table; he frees it from beneath the weight of Viktor’s head, and places his hand within his larger palm. He drags his thumb over the bony protrusions of Viktor’s knuckles, feeling the difference between metal and gold.

“Do—” Jayce clears his throat, again. “Do you have different levels of sensitivity, where the gold is?”

Viktor watches his thumb move, traveling from his knuckles, to the back of his hand, to his wrist. Jayce is exploratory, but cautious; he avoids the sections where the skin is thin, where the light of the arcane peeks through.

“The gold is less sensitive, yes. Generally. But not everywhere.”

“Where?”

Viktor hesitates. With his unoccupied hand, he reaches behind him, brushing the bolt on his spine, where Jayce had touched him not so long ago. He recalls the strange surge of static. What had caused it? It is absent beneath his own touch.

“Here,” he says, “on these bolts.” 

Jayce’s lips part. He leans forward. “May I?”

Jayce’s enthusiasm has won out over his nerves. And so quickly! How vexing. A rotten urge rises to the fore.

Viktor nods, granting permission. Jayce snakes his hand behind Viktor’s neck. Without eyes on his target, he feels for it, dragging his fingertips from the base of his skull, through his slowly growing hair, down his spine until he finds his target: the raised bolt atop his back, the first of several. There is that static again. It is not dissimilar to the electric shock that gathers and discharges when the air is dry, but it is not the same, either. It is gentler, steady, carrying a subtle throb: a conveyance of the pulse of life beneath Jayce’s skin.

Viktor twitches. He sucks in a sharp breath, and a dramatic, pained noise escapes from his throat.

“Ah! I’m sorry!” Jayce pulls away instantaneously. “Did that hurt? I didn’t mean—”

Viktor snorts. His mouth splits open, and he laughs as he did when he was human: gasping, staccato inhales that want to reach his belly, but are caught by his lungs. He laughs more, watching Jayce’s face shift through a gamut of emotion.

“Dammit, Viktor!” Jayce slams his open hand against the table. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor speaks in between gasps. Moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. When was the last time he laughed like this? “I couldn’t resist. To see your face…”

Jayce waits for Viktor to compose himself. He glares, pouts; then his expression softens, relaxes into a mild melancholy, as if a nostalgic smell wafted into the room: a favorite childhood meal, cheap detergent, freshly cut grass.

Once Viktor’s laughter has subsided, Jayce says, “Are you finished?”

“Yes, I think so. Forgive me.”

“I’m going to have you make it up to me.”

“Hm, I expected as much. Not that I had any intention of denying you.”

“Good.”

A pause, as Viktor comes down from the high. “Why are you so interested, Jayce?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Your—” he swallows, “it’s fascinating. Here.” He reaches out to grab Viktor’s arm again, rougher this time. He holds Viktor’s hand in both of his: flexing his long fingers, pulling them straight, bending them back. “Your skin is solid, but moves with the joint when it flexes, as if it were still mostly water, like flesh. How is that possible? Even more incredible is that you can sense anything through it…”

He rambles on. Viktor watches him. 

Whatever complex feelings that kept Jayce from broaching this have apparently been overcome. Is this all it took - for Viktor to pardon him by way of indulgence? That evil tool, that which Jayce promised to destroy, that stole away Sky’s life. He recalls Jayce when he awoke from his cocoon: his shock, his elation, his excitement. It was the same as it is now. Is all else extraneous to him, so long as Viktor is alive and well? Was the price he paid so worth it, to keep Viktor at his side? And to Viktor… isn’t this what he wanted, as well? To keep Jayce at his side, as he is meant to be. How could they be so selfish? Clinging to each other, whatever the cost. So much destruction, so much death, all for—

“Viktor? Are you listening?”

“I am, yes,” he lies.

“Great.” Jayce smiles. He spreads his journal open, spinning a piece of charcoal between deft fingers. “Now, about the rest of your senses…”

✤

Time passes. At the height of summer, Erum is livelier than ever: the streets awash with people, the port brimming with so many boats one can scarcely see the water. Houses that once sat empty have found themselves occupied and farmer’s fields have been cleared of weeds. The ‘Metal Man’ moniker has faded away. Viktor has become Viktor, and when Jayce is otherwise unavailable, those that have need of his partner’s mind or hands seek him out instead, nosing around the first floor shop, where Viktor has begun to spend many hours. He grows familiar with several residents: the owner of the windmills, a proud man who has lost all the hair on his head, but sports an impressive beard; the slouched, bespectacled mayor and his timorous nature.

On quiet days, he climbs the steep cliffside into which Erum was carved; from there, he takes the whole view of the town. It is a beautiful sight, unobstructed by any tall buildings, a path of pure white stone descending into the deep blue sea. From above, he spies Jayce on the street far below. He is surrounded by three others as he recounts some tall tale: Viktor can tell by the way he gesticulates with his hands, the sharp points of his teeth exposed by a wide smile. His audience is enthralled. Soon, they are joined by two others, gravitating towards his magnetic pull.

Viktor had once thought Jayce was like the sun, warm and full of life, bathing others in the light of his brilliance. Now, he knows better, and sees Jayce for what he truly is: a mirror. To be beheld by him is to become the only soul living, as all the rest of the world fades away, out of focus. He reflects the individual lights that are shone on him, brightening their luster, accentuating their best aspects. Viktor is one such light: a hyaline apparition, wavering on the edge of the glass. When the mirror turns to face some other source, the light skitters away, and vanishes.

Jayce looks up. He notices Viktor. He waves. Viktor waves back.

✤

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jayce makes good on Viktor’s offer to pursue the riddles of his body. Did you think one evening is all that I needed? said the look on Jayce’s face, just three nights later. He had his notebook prepared, a chair for Viktor set facing the terrace windows; he would have a view of the moon’s reflection shimmering on the tides, while Jayce faffed about with his hands or knees or whatever else was on the docket. The minutiae of Viktor’s offer had been vague. It wouldn’t be right to refuse him. That was the second time. The following night was the third.

Now it is the fourth such night, enough to be called routine. The number of utensils Jayce assembles to assist him has increased: his notebook, loose sheets of paper, a piece of twine for taking measurements; an assortment of tools, some with a clear duty, and ones that smack of a torturer’s instruments.

Jayce sets Viktor up on a wooden stool, brought home for this express purpose; Viktor’s back is exposed this way, should Jayce require it. His blanket is folded neatly in his lap, more for Jayce’s sake than his own. Jayce kneels in front of him. He is captivated by the gold ridges lining Viktor’s torso. He observes how they expand and contract with each breath. He touches the topmost bolt below Viktor’s sternum, carefully slotting his blunt nail into the indentation. Warm static flows from the point of contact, coursing into his abdomen, his chest. It is a strange but pleasant sensation. Viktor hums, a tinny timbre vibrating up through his throat, and closes his eyes.

“Do you feel that?” Jayce is sensitive to his reactions, though he keeps himself guarded against further mischief. 

“Mm.”

“Is it the same as the ones on your spine?”

“Yes.” 

Stronger, even. But that is for Jayce to figure out.

“Interesting,” says Jayce. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“I wonder…” Which he does, but not for the same reasons. Jayce seeks answers; Viktor wants to know what he will do with them.

Viktor listens to Jayce open his notebook, charcoal etching against paper, his fingers scratching at his beard. For a moment he is silent, and then there is movement again: rummaging for something, Jayce holding something up against his chest, withdrawing and taking notes. What is he doing? Viktor peeks at him. He is taking an impression of the bolt head on loose paper. He takes measurements with twine, applying those numbers to a calculation. Why? For what purpose? He is sorting through his tools, inspecting the ends of each one, testing his grip on their handles. Enough of this.

“What are you doing, Jayce?”

“I’m thinking.”

As he always is. It hardly counts as an answer. Jayce compares the difference in circumference between the three primary bolts. Viktor is confident they are all the same size, but again, that is for Jayce to figure out. Jayce’s brow is furrowed. His head bows towards his lap, jotting something down. The fingerprint scars on his forehead have lost their effulgence; the skin there has turned rust red, the color of a burn.

Gently, Viktor presses his fingertips against his brow, and pushes. He tilts Jayce’s head back, forcing him to look up. His expression is dark, like the clouds over Piltover the first time they did this.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Jayce’s pupils dilate; he averts his gaze. He waves Viktor’s hand away.

“It’s hard to describe,” Jayce says.

Viktor understands this. Progress necessitates a certain degree of intuition, and gut instinct is not always a conveyable thing: it might be translated by equations, graphs and charts, testing by way of experiment. Words are complicated. A single phrase might carry hundreds of meanings, depending on the ears that hear it.

“Let me see your notes,” says Viktor.

“What?” Jayce closes his journal. “No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re not fit to be seen.”

That is believable, even probable, but Jayce has not cared enough to conceal them for many years. That was a habit of his that ended early on in their partnership, once he learned that his and Viktor’s opinions on Jayce’s notes were often inverted.

“What are you hiding?” Viktor asks.

“Nothing!”

“Then there should be no issue.” Viktor holds out his hand, expectant. “Give it to me. Now, Jayce.”

Jayce is too easy with him. He hands over his leatherbound book, frowning all the while.

Viktor thumbs through the pages. The paper is thick and rough, and the charcoal smeared in some areas; Jayce has been making the most of what he has, and these are certainly his notes. He has recorded nearly all of the information Viktor has relayed to him, alongside that which he has discovered on his own: his diminished sense of taste and touch, his refined hearing and vision; how he feels pressure, vibrations, and the differences between states of matter, but neither texture nor temperature; the rapid return of human sensitivity from the neck up; how he breathes as pure reflex, but requires air only to speak; the state of his saliva, the condition of his teeth; his lukewarm temperature, the weight of his body in cubic units. There are drawings in fine detail of his chest and back, repeating patterns in the dull-colored swirls of his skin.

More than that, are the extraneous sketches littered about the margins. Some take up whole pages: the view from the balcony, the windmills, the wharf at night; a strange-looking fish, the three-legged cat the blacksmith keeps; Viktor’s face. The resemblance is striking.

“I see you have not lost your talent for art,” Viktor muses. He admires the application of a graceful crosshatch, portraying the gradual shift of the sky’s color at twilight. “I was always puzzled why you did not pursue it more seriously.”

“Why enter a crowded field? And for a childhood hobby, of all things.” Jayce pauses. “Besides, my pursuit in life was determined before I showed signs of talent. I’m not sure I agree that I have any, but it’s nice to hear you say so.”

Viktor tenses. He sees the blurry outlines of shapes and color: a magnificent field of flowers, a flash of blue dropping into the hands of a child. There’s a lump in his throat. He swallows.

“I don’t see why you were so reluctant to show me this,” says Viktor. “Did you think I was going to scold you for wasting paper?”

Jayce’s shoulders droop and he smiles a defeated smile: he’s been found out. There is a precedent for that.

“That was half of it, yes,” Jayce admits.

“And the other half?”

“Uh, that was most of it, really.”

“But not all.”

Jayce is reluctant. It is easy for him to hide his face away from Viktor, seated on the floor below him.

Viktor says softly, “I would like it if you told me.”

“...It’s personal,” Jayce starts, “for you. I didn’t want you to feel like you were some sort of,” he searches for the word, “specimen.”

Isn’t that what he is? Whether or not Jayce wishes it were otherwise. The realization does not bother Viktor, strangely enough - there was a time in his life when it surely would have, but if he were to be anyone’s specimen, he ought to be Jayce’s. He does not believe revealing this would placate him, however.

“Specimens don’t volunteer,” says Viktor. He closes the journal, hands it back to him.

“You’re right.” Jayce straightens and rests a hand on Viktor’s knee; he squeezes, and shakes it gently. “Let’s work on that hot water tank idea of yours before I crash for the night, shall we?”

He pulls away and begins to gather his things, hobbling on stiff knees.

Viktor’s body is a spiteful thing. To sense human touch, but none of its warmth; when Jayce withdraws, there is nothing to remember him by. Viktor’s spine is straight, he can walk without support, and there is no pain or discomfort. It is as he always wanted. And yet… What is this? He’s traded one set of flaws for another. It is greedy of him, but he cannot help but miss… What does he miss? The cool relief of water spilling down his dry throat, the feel of a cat’s fur warmed by the sun, muscles relaxing from tension, fresh laundry against his skin; Jayce’s hand warding against the chill of the lab; pliant, willing flesh that begs and receives; the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, from breath drifting too close to his ear.

✤

Jayce: in possession of a very sharp blade. He’s used it to cut back his hair, having since grown unruly, and trim his beard: short, as he likes it. The unrefined mirror he’s hung in the bathroom serves as a poor guide, but it is better than nothing. He admires his handiwork afterwards, feeling the soft ends of his hair. Jayce had a habit of stroking his chin when deep in thought; now his fingers brush at the bristles there, checking his beard to make sure it hasn’t grown in the last ten minutes.

“Your hair is getting long,” Jayce observes, that same morning. A remnant of Viktor’s humanity: his hair still grows, albeit at a reduced rate. “You should trim it.”

“Should I,” Viktor intones.

Jayce is in high spirits - too high to notice the dark clouds gathering over Viktor’s head.

Viktor has no need for sleep, but he has fallen into the habit of forcing it upon himself, for Jayce’s peace of mind, and his own; to escape boredom, to escape the thoughts that torment him when his mind drifts. Last night, he could not: the long hours of midnight were spent staring at the wall. The ghosts of the dead would not allow him peace. The formless mass of their souls shifted in the dark; each creak of the house, every gust of wind: an insinuation of their voices. Even now, he can hear them. Why haven’t you joined us? What are you doing? Indulging in a simple life, cultivating a modest happiness. How could you?

“If you want,” says Jayce. “It was nice how you had it before. I was surprised by how much it suited you.”

Viktor looks at him. Jayce demonstrates, holding a flat hand at the base of his neck, just above his shoulders.

“Before,” says Viktor. Before? Ugly emotion gushes up from his chest, black and viscous, staining his innards, his mouth. “When was that? When you tried to kill me?”

Jayce’s gaiety is wiped clean off his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but Viktor does not want to hear it. Not his apologies, not his guilt.

“You should not have fled,” Viktor spits. “You should have made sure to finish the job.”

He can picture it clearly: Jayce’s hammer caving in his skull, smearing the earth with his gore; smashing his limbs from his body, to be tossed into the fissures.

Jayce’s expression is tight with restrained emotion. His shoulders rise and fall as he tries to steady himself, treading the line between sorrow and rage.

“I asked you not to talk like this.” His voice is low. “I won’t hear it, Viktor.”

“What choice do you have? You tied yourself to a killer, yet you recoil from talk of death.”

“Not talk of death,” Jayce says, “just talk of yours.”

Viktor sneers. “You are a coward, Jayce.”

“So what if I am?” Jayce’s ire is provoked. “What purpose would your death serve? It wouldn’t undo anything. It wouldn’t bring the dead back to life. All it would do is rob me of you. Is that what you want?”

Jayce has a dangerous look, glowering as he does. But Viktor will not be fooled: he knows Jayce must be wondering where this came from, this grievous storm, as he desperately searches for the single ray of light that might dispel it. He has endured this before. Viktor’s foul moods, seemingly sourceless, arising from the pain in his back, his leg, his lungs; Jayce was not the cause but he suffered Viktor’s truculence all the same. Back then, he might’ve wondered what the origin of such arbitrary venom was, as he does so now; but short of beating Jayce with his cane, there was nothing Viktor could do to force his understanding. Jayce’s only option was to weather the storm until it subsided, waiting like a whipped dog until Viktor grew tired of lashing out.

Viktor says, “It is what murderers deserve.”

“I’m a murderer too, the same as you.”

Viktor exhales a bitter laugh. Some refuse from the Undercity, and Salo’s shambling corpse. Less than the fingers on one hand. He does not count himself among them, even if Jayce might.

“You cannot count Salo,” says Viktor. Metal from deep within his chest vibrates with his voice. “I had gotten to him first. All you did was crush an empty shell, the same as every other husk in the commune. Men, women. Children.”

Oh, how Jayce glares at him. Viktor wishes he would match the anger in his eyes with action, to close the distance and strike him. Yet his affection runs too deep, as does Viktor’s; but in this moment, more than anything, Viktor despises him, as he despises himself.

“What do you want me to say?” Jayce asks hotly. “I know you must hate yourself for what you did, but wishing death on yourself won’t help you. Or me.”

Viktor turns away from him.

“Death would be a mercy.”

“Viktor!”

There is a brief pause, rife with tension. Jayce stays where he is.

After a moment, and in an even tone, Viktor asks, “Do you regret reviving me with the Hexcore?”

The query takes him aback, by the sound of it. “I wronged you, Viktor. I broke my promise to you. There is pain, but it isn’t regret.”

Not when I have you by my side, he seems to say. Or is that what Viktor wishes to hear? 

“And yet not long after,” says Viktor, “you sought to rectify your mistake. Why?”

As much as Viktor resents Jayce for his failure to kill him completely, so too does he resent him for the attempt. It is irrational of him. Had Viktor known the future at the time, he would have taken care of it himself. Yet the pain of Jayce’s aggression lingered far longer than the blunt, dull pain in his chest, torn open by his hammer. Why? Knowing that some version of himself had sent Jayce to do it. Why did it have to be him?

“I didn’t have a choice,” says Jayce. He has used this excuse before. He always believes it.

“Didn’t you? By the time you appeared before me, I was already dying. Again. You could’ve just let me be.”

“No, you—” Jayce winces - Viktor can hear it. The heat in his voice has cooled. “The other you made it very clear, what I had to do.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t think to ask?”

“There wasn’t any time. I had to get back!” Remorse quickly sours into frustration. “First you blame me for not killing you. Now you’re upset that I tried at all. I don’t understand you.”

Viktor shakes his head. “You never did. How could you?” He hardly understands himself. These conflicting emotions, tangled up inside of him, wound so tight it wounds him to tug at any one string.

Back turned, Viktor listens as Jayce takes a deep breath. Try as he might, Jayce cannot enter into his difficulty. He is too kind, too good. They sit in silence for a minute, then two, then four.

“That isn’t true. I know you, Viktor,” Jayce finally speaks, after he’s bled the vehemence from his voice. “I know that you were driven to do good, but the Hexcore… That sort of power corrupts everything it touches. And I was the one who put you there.”

“I put myself there first. But that is irrelevant, as were my intentions. I should never be forgiven.”

“You’ll drive yourself insane, thinking about it like that,” says Jayce. His ardent nature, his rough hands: where does he find the strength to be so gentle? “The dead can’t forgive you, but you can forgive yourself. I have.”

Jayce had always been quick to forgive. It is a quality Viktor does not possess.

When Viktor does not respond, Jayce speaks again: “I don’t want you to suffer alone. Tell me what I can do.”

How can he answer such an appeal? What he wants from Jayce is too complex; it is beyond words. If he boiled that complexity down into a simple request, he would not be able to foresee the result. If Viktor turned back to Jayce and commanded, comfort me: what would he do? What would it look like? It was never something Viktor had to ask for, let alone demand. Would it be different than when it was given freely? He wants to feel Jayce’s arms around him. He wants to feel Jayce’s hands on his neck, squeezing until his spine snaps. He wants to do the same to Jayce. It is what they deserve. They did this. They did this!

Viktor keeps his back turned. He wraps his arms around himself. There’s a burning sensation behind his eyes and a pain gathering between them.

“Leave me.”

Jayce had once refused this command. Before. Now, he does as he is told. His footfalls withdraw, the door closes behind him, and what remains is the sound of the sea: the songs of seagulls, and the crashing waves that bury all entrusted to them.

✤

Viktor takes the sharp blade in hand. He turns it over, inspecting the acuteness of the edge, its razor-thin point. The flat of the blade reflects the late morning sun. It is much like the ones they had in the lab, slightly larger, but of good quality. As curious as Jayce can be, there are lines he will not cross. It is only right that Viktor crosses them for him, to be curious in ways Jayce would never allow himself.

He raises the blade to his temple. He makes an incision by his hairline, and his human flesh can feel the wet warmth that springs forth. With a scrap of white cloth he tore from the bedsheets, Viktor dabs at this fresh wound. When he pulls it away, he sees the stain it leaves: a dark, purple-red blot, the color of poisoned Noxian wine. He wipes at the incision with a finger, gathering up as much as he can. It is more viscous than expected. He puts his finger into his mouth. Viktor is well familiar with the taste of human blood. Even with his diminished sense, he can tell its differences: the added depth of flavor, like it’s been mixed with dirt and oil; the stronger metallic bite. He goes back for more, but the cut has already closed.

Briefly, he thinks to open Jayce’s journal, to slip the blood-stained scrap of cloth between the pages, and record his observations. A treat for him to discover. Viktor predicts how he might react: it is unlikely he would be thankful. He envisions Jayce’s expression crumpling with dismay, his lips curling with disgust; the flash of anger that would follow. Would it be enough for him to lay hands on Viktor, to grant him one half of what he wished from Jayce?

The souls of the dead claw at the back of his mind. He imagines Jayce standing over him, hammer raised, bringing it down: finishing the job. He imagines Jayce cradling his lifeless corpse, clutching Viktor to his chest, bereaved: tears running down his face.

Viktor crumples the cloth, places it in the wood stove, and burns it. He cannot feel its warmth.

Once again, he takes the blade in hand. He stands in front of the mirror. His features are vague smudges of color. He cuts away at his hair until it reaches the base of his neck, just above his shoulders.

✤

It is late when Jayce returns. The smell of alcohol wafts in with him. The local mead, primitive and weak, must be consumed in large quantities to feel its most damning effects. Jayce does not walk with a stagger, or suffer any imbalance. He always did know his limits.

Viktor is there to greet him: not with any words, but his presence.

Jayce looks at him. His pupils constrict as they adjust to the low light. His demeanor is one of muted shock, like he is looking at a ghost; a ghost that had long since gone away, to haunt some other soul. Did he expect to return to an empty home? It would not surprise Viktor if he did. Jayce’s awe crumbles into something Viktor cannot identify. All the forgiveness in the world could not move Viktor to bereave him so.

The souls of the dead claw at the back of his mind. Viktor wills them silent. If he will not forgive himself, let him bear this burden, let him shoulder this sin: but let him do so in silence. One day, a reckoning will come for him, when justice will be delivered unto him; let it be when Jayce cannot see it.

Jayce loosens his collar, removes his boots. He crosses the room, and comes to stand before Viktor. He reaches through the unspoken thing. Jayce captures a strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger, where the Hexcore sapped it of color; he fondles the soft ends. He brushes his knuckles against Viktor’s throat, weaves his fingers into his hair, cups the back of his neck. His breath is humid and heady as it saturates the air; Jayce pulls Viktor closer, and touches their foreheads together.

✤

Of all the people Viktor had met at the Academy, they could, more often than not, be sorted into two distinct types: those that created with their minds, and those that created with their hands. Jayce is both these types of people. Put to it, he would be just as comfortable drawing up plans for a filtration system, sketching and designing its fine details, as he would be molding, casting, and hammering out the parts with which to build it. Hale and handsome, skillful and intelligent, honest and amiable: it seems unfair that whatever deity presided over Jayce’s birth saw fit to bestow upon him so many blessings. He was custom-built to succeed; indeed, once his image began filling newspapers and articles and magazines, he was promoted not so much as a man that had achieved success, but was resigned to it. Jayce Talis, the vaunted Man of Progress, the cream of Piltover’s finest crop.

Currently, the Man of Progress is chiseling away at a block of wood, cursing as he shaves off more than he intended. Metal is easy: if he makes too egregious a mistake, it can be melted back down, and reworked. Wood is less forgiving, which Jayce is quickly learning. It is only his second day. Or is it the first? He is doing better than most. Viktor would not mind seeing him fail miserably, for once.

“Sisuca offered to help with the water tank,” says Jayce, as he stares down the length of whatever he is crafting, one eye shut. Sisuca: the blacksmith. “And her husband invited us for dinner, two nights from now. I figured you wouldn’t be interested, so I didn’t give an answer.”

Viktor has met the blacksmith’s husband a handful of times. A sharp-witted man of middle age, his thin lips and weak chin always appear ready to collapse beneath the weight of his prominent nose.

“I don’t think I’ll be hungry,” Viktor says.

“Ha ha.”

Unlike Jayce, Viktor has nothing to occupy himself with. He could find something if he wanted to, but more and more he has found himself enjoying idle hours in Jayce’s company, doing little else but taking in his surroundings, now that he is free of death’s driving whip. He takes a turn about the room; he watches Jayce work, tidies up wood shavings that have drifted across the floor, looks out the terrace window to admire the starry sky.

“You know,” Jayce continues, “I can’t help but get the feeling that I’ve seen him before - Sisuca’s husband. There’s something familiar about him.”

“Really? From where?”

“I can’t remember, that’s the thing.”

“Deja vu? He does not exactly have the most unique face I’ve ever seen.”

“Now, now,” Jayce teases. “He has your nose.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I’m probably just imagining things.”

Viktor wanders back over to the table, where Jayce works. His project is taking shape: as far as Viktor can tell, it looks to be the handle for some sort of tool. On the seat of the chair beside him, he has left loose sheets of paper, detailing the design of his personal project. Jayce has left them unguarded. Viktor helps himself. He brings them up to look closer, flipping from front to back, surveying his sketches of the design, the measurements.

Jayce is - was - focused; his reaction to Viktor’s meddling is delayed. “Hey— I’m not ready to show you those, yet.”

“You left them out.”

Jayce complains, “I would have put them on the table if I wanted your opinion.”

“Hmph.”

That is too bad. Viktor is already looking. Upon a slip of paper is the blueprint for a tool of holy simplicity: a screwdriver. A larger one, from what he can tell, the head of which is intended to fit against a flathead bolt. Viktor visualizes the measurements Jayce has detailed, turning them over in his head. Absently, he touches the protrusions below his sternum, the large screws beneath his robe; he traces their shape with his fingertip, drawing slow circles.

“Is this for me?” Viktor wonders.

Jayce is quiet, which serves just as well as confirmation.

“It looks to be just the right size,” says Viktor. Jayce’s actions from so many nights ago click into place: the measurements, the impressions, his air of shiftiness. He must have been in a tormented state of mind, deliberating how best to approach the prospect of such unconventional experimentation. The incision Viktor made is quaint by comparison. “What is your intention, Jayce? Are you planning on taking me apart?”

“No! No…” Jayce has set aside his carving tools, and rubs at his temple. “I just…”

He need not say any more than that. He is an engineer. When there is a bolt to be loosened on a machine one is trying to make sense of, unscrewing it is the only logical course of action. Flaunting it before him, only to deny him the chance to try, would be likened to torture in any self-respecting laboratory. His profession leaves him no choice: it must be pursued.

“I’m surprised you went so far, without consulting me first.”

He isn’t, though. Not really. If their situations were reversed, Viktor might’ve done the same; the only difference would be in the efficacy of his deceit: Jayce would have no forewarning, the tools would be prepared, with Viktor expecting his ready assent. Did Jayce think to do the same? Viktor shares in his passion for discovery, after all. Despite this common insight, it is annoying that Jayce might’ve taken Viktor’s compliance for granted; even more annoying is that he wouldn’t be wrong to do so.

“I couldn’t help it,” Jayce says. “It’s right there, in front of me. Why is it more sensitive than the gold on your limbs? What purpose does it serve? It keeps me up at night, sometimes.”

“You always fall asleep so quickly.”

“You know what I mean.”

Viktor says, “I believe it is simply a remnant of my back brace. I assume you didn’t remove it, before…”

Before reviving me with the Hexcore, Viktor leaves unsaid. Jayce is smart enough to fill in the blanks; it need not be spoken aloud, lest it distracts from the topic at hand.

“No,” Jayce answers. “And yes, it must be. But that doesn’t explain its sensitivity, or why it still appears to serve some sort of function. Aren’t you curious?”

Not nearly as much as you. “I am.”

“Still,” says Jayce, through a heavy sigh. He rests his head in his hand, massaging his brow. “It’s risky. Even if it works, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t believe it will.” Viktor tries not to smile. How like Jayce, and the lines he hesitates to cross.

“You don’t believe it will. That’s not good enough.”

“There is only one way to find out,” says Viktor.

Jayce swallows. Audibly. His tremulous eyes chase emotion on one side of the room, and reason on the other. He wets his lips.

“Why should you be so reluctant?” Viktor asks. “Is this not what you wanted to hear?”

“It is, but—”

“It’s a little too good to be true.”

“Right.”

What is he imagining? Despite his body being the subject of this experiment, Viktor is having trouble hypothesizing its outcome. More than likely, the bolts on his chest are purely decorative, and nothing comes of it. And if not? Will his body fall to pieces, will he take his last breath, as Jayce looks on in horror? Again? It would be a gentler way to die. It doesn’t seem so bad, when he thinks of it like that. Jayce, perhaps conjuring a similar image in his mind, would certainly disagree.

“It’s too late for second thoughts, Jayce. Now that I’ve discovered your intentions, and you’ve put in all this work already.”

“Is this something you were prepared for, when you said ‘investigate me however you’d like?’”

“It didn’t cross my mind at the time,” says Viktor, “but hearing your explanation, it should have. I think it’s fine, don’t you?”

Jayce’s eyebrows are trying to bridge the gap between them. “Are you sure?”

Viktor returns the blueprints to the table. He takes up the wooden handle, since left to the wayside. He holds it in his palm, brings it closer for a better look, runs his fingers over its length. It needs to be sanded down, smoothed out; otherwise, it might splinter.

“I’m sure.”

✤

“Are you sure about this?”

“Stop asking me that.”

At last, the promised evening arrives. Once Jayce received permission from his subject, it was full steam ahead; the screwdriver head was molded and cast, lovingly worked into pristine shape. As expected, Jayce’s handiwork is immaculate, made all the more impressive by the lack of advancements he enjoyed in Piltover. He holds it loosely in his hands. They assume their usual posts: Viktor seated, and Jayce kneeling before him.

“I’m nervous,” Jayce says.

“I know. I suppose one of us should be.”

With few exceptions, that has been Jayce’s role in their partnership. The staying hand. Now, those hands quake with anxiety. Jayce’s breathing has grown laborious. His cheeks swell with the excess air he forces from his lungs.

“Compose yourself, Jayce,” says Viktor. “There is nothing to fear. If my lifeblood begins to pour out, you need only screw me back up.”

“That sounds like something to fear.”

“It is only the worst-case scenario. You can do this.”

Jayce responds well to encouragement. He nods, bolstering his will with two bracing breaths. Jayce aims for the first bolt of three. The flat head slots perfectly into the bolt’s groove. He gives it an experimental twist, testing the resistance. It doesn’t budge. Viktor feels the pressure only faintly; the electric current when touched directly is absent.

Viktor watches the top of Jayce’s head. He looks up. Their eyes meet.

“Don’t watch me,” says Jayce.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Viktor closes his eyes.

“I’m going to try turning it now.”

With his eyes shut, Viktor can better sense the subtle vibration of Jayce’s tensing grip; the pressure exerted by the screwdriver increases. It still doesn’t budge.

“You’re stronger than that, aren’t you?” Viktor asks.

Jayce speaks through clenched teeth: “Be quiet, Viktor. You move when you talk.”

The force increases. Viktor knew he had it in him. Jayce adjusts his grip. Then: it loosens, slipping against the threading that holds it in place. For Viktor, it is a strange sensation. His body becomes cognizant of an object that had always been, akin to someone becoming suddenly aware of their liver, or one of their many ribs. 

Jayce lets out the breath he had been holding. “Should I keep going?”

Viktor doesn’t answer; he moves when he talks.

Jayce arrives at his own conclusion. Now that the hardest part is behind him, the rest comes easy. He unscrews the bolt, gradually and with great care; he sucks air through his teeth when at last it falls free, dropping into his ready hand.

Viktor opens his eyes. The bolt is much shorter than he expected. A golden washer came free alongside it, thick and heavy. Presumably, a hole has been opened in his abdomen. He feels nothing.

“How do you feel?” Jayce asks.

“Fine. Unchanged.”

Jayce is studying his face, like he’s searching for a lie.

“Well?” Viktor prompts, impatient. “Tell me what you see.”

“Right.” Jayce squints into the cavity. “...I can’t see much. The threading is gold on the inside only up to a certain point. It’s dark, but there’s a few faint glints of purple, like what’s under your skin. Nothing’s coming out, thankfully.”

Viktor smiles. “Working yourself up over nothing, as usual.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Are you dissatisfied?”

“No.” Jayce sighs. A weight lifted from his shoulders. 

Jayce presses the pad of his forefinger against the sharp lip of the opening. The subdued thrum of electricity comes with it. Even from such a distal point in his body, Viktor can perceive Jayce’s pulse as if it were his own. Jayce drags his digit over the entrance. A tremor runs up Viktor’s throat. He catches it between his lips, holding it there; just as Jayce does, his hand steady, moving neither forward nor back.

“...Won’t you put your finger inside?”

“What?!”

Jayce goes red in the face, thoroughly scandalized, as if Viktor had suggested he commit some crime, some salacious sin. Where does he find it in himself, to produce such amusing reactions?

“You can’t be serious, Jayce. You’re halfway there already. Where is your sense of adventure?”

“You call that ‘adventure?’”

“In fact I do. Because I’m the subject, you hold yourself back? I’m disappointed by you.”

“Of course that would make me hold back! What if I… I don’t know, puncture a lung? Or your heart?”

“You should know by now that that is highly unlikely.”

“But not impossible.”

“If you don’t do it, I will. But with my diminished sense of touch…”

Jayce frowns. “I see what you’re doing, you know.”

Good. If he hadn’t learned a single thing from Medarda the Younger, their liaison would have been well and truly fruitless. But possessing the ability to detect manipulation does not immunize one to it. He’s teetering already; it didn’t take much. Viktor raises an eyebrow: I’m waiting, he says with a look.

Jayce demonstrates his acquiescence: slowly, slowly, ever so slowly. His thick finger only just fits inside. His flesh chafes against the threading. The feedback Viktor receives swells like a roll of thunder without end. Sharp pin pricks gathering in the tips of his toes, at the base of his tongue; floaters appear in his vision. He holds himself very still. It wouldn’t do to deter Jayce.

Jayce stops once he’s inserted up to the base of his nail - hardly anything. “You okay?”

“Keep going.” Viktor’s voice plays on three different octaves.

Jayce pushes forward, and meets resistance.

There. That. That Viktor feels: like Jayce’s finger has been caught in a net that is strung throughout his entire body; some sinewy, all-encompassing tendon that holds him together. Jayce’s pulse reverberates through him. Every fiber in his body pulls taut in the direction of whatever Jayce’s finger has snagged on, towards that impedance. His toes and fingers curl, his chin tucks towards his throat, his knees hike upwards; his spine burns like molten metal as it curves forward; the edges of his vision go white.

“Hah!” 

All the air in his chest exits at once. Jayce withdraws in a flash.

“Okay, okay.” Jayce’s words are a muted slur, his panicked reaction relayed in stop-motion. He’s fumbling for the bolt and screwing it back in like he’s plugging a leak in a quickly-sinking ship. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I was the one who told you to do it, Viktor wants to say, but his lips are made of lead. He can comprehend his crumpled facial features but cannot correct them. Jayce’s hands come to cradle his face, caressing the life back into him. He is shaking.

“Viktor, hey. Are you alright?”

He must have given Jayce quite the fright. He didn’t mean to. The little trick he played on him weeks ago has lost its humor. Viktor manages a nod as he relaxes back into normalcy.

“It didn’t hurt,” Viktor mutters.

Jayce laughs, breathy. The details of his face come back into focus. His eyes are bright with adrenaline: so kind, so concerned, so rapt. Has he always looked at him like this?

“Whatever you say.”

✤

That night, Viktor dreams. For all the visions he has seen, spontaneous fantasies conceived in sleep have become a thing of the past, lost alongside his humanity. When he climbs into bed beside Jayce and waits for him to drift off, the trance Viktor inflicts upon himself is akin to the abeyance of a cold machine: awaiting a command or trigger to rouse it. The passage of time between wakefulness is unobservable and insignificant. Not so tonight. It sneaks into his unconscious state like spilled ink overtaking blank paper.

He finds himself surrounded by white: the interstice in space between reality and anomaly. Jayce is beneath him. He is a young man again, fresh-faced and clean-shaven. His naked chest rises and falls with exertion; sweat coats his skin and his eyes are half-lidded with lust. Viktor watches his wet lips form around silent words. He perceives the dream as a mere passenger, stripped of sense or sound. Is this his dream he is seeing? Has he drifted into Jayce’s dream, peering through the borrowed eyes of a conjured phantom? Or is it a remnant of someone else’s memory? Jayce trembles with ecstasy, jaw hanging slack; he reaches out - to Viktor, to some other body. Viktor looks down to where his arm would be. There is nothing. The illusion breaks, and the dream dissolves into mist.

Through the window of the bedroom, dawn’s first light has begun to thaw the cold black of night. It is the hour at which Viktor wakes every morning, the point in time he has coded into his body. Beside him, Jayce snores softly. It is routine for Viktor to slip out of bed the moment he wakes: Jayce rarely has time alone, and Viktor believes it would be wise to afford him space in an unobtrusive manner. That way, he might ponder his dreams, relieve his natural urges, or ruminate on the past without fear of interruption.

Viktor has stirred, but he does not move. How strange, his dream, and so unlike the stress-filled nightmares that once hounded his human rest. Why such a dream - and why now? He looks down at Jayce, his partner: face pressed against the mattress, mouth open, drool pooling on the sheet; he is in a deep sleep. When birdsong fills the late summer air, he will roll over onto his back, and begin the ascent to wakefulness. 

The sight of him revives glimpses of his past, spied through their brief, shared connection. Jayce, cheek squished against cold rock, in the grim darkness of a cave, his long suffering in pain and in anguish. How could he, this other Viktor, have done that to him? He is back there, again: looking over Jayce’s shoulder. Such lengths this mirrored version of himself had gone to, and for what? To save humanity from himself? With the power to move between space and time, the solution to his plight strikes Viktor as alarmingly simple: return to his earliest days, and strangle himself in the cradle. An endless loop of destruction ended in a single stroke, fated to collapse in on itself. Yet he could not do it, this one simple thing. No, there was something he could not relinquish. Someone he could not relinquish.

That someone, laying beside him. An attachment that begets untold calamity. Viktor has only been shown the depth of his future devotion: he has not experienced it, not felt its weight in his heart, burdensome and languishing; he has not felt its bloom, its ripening, flourishing and sweet enough to drive him to desperation. He has always wanted Jayce by his side, for as long as he has known him, but it was not the same. It was still light. Unripe. And yet, now… Now, he cannot look away from him. Now, a burgeoning warmth in the back of his mind, beneath the gold filigree upon his chest. Now, there are no distractions: no meetings, no deadlines, no paperwork; no prototypes, no pressing research, no repairs awaiting his supervision; no illness, no pain, no decay; no people buzzing in his ear, no politics, no parties; no Hexcore, no Hextech, no Council, no Piltover, no Zaun. Now, there is only Erum, the ocean, and a sea of unfamiliar faces. Now, there is only…

Jayce stirs. He has since rolled over onto his back, sprawled out, limbs in disarray: his glorious morning form. A chorus of birdsong grows louder, and sunlight shines through the window. Viktor has risen, sits upright upon the mattress, but he has not moved. Jayce blinks himself awake. His eyes adjust to the light. He sees Viktor’s outline. He stares, unmoving, as if expecting the mirage of this waking dream to be dispelled by the displacement of his breath. Viktor places a hand against the mattress, shifting his weight as he leans closer, blocking out the sun.

“Good morning, Jayce.”

No, not a mirage. Jayce meets his gaze.

Viktor’s reflection, trapped in a solitude of his own making, chasing a fairytale ending: is this not exactly what he wanted? Viktor’s wish, Jayce’s wish, coalescing: is this not what they wanted? Jayce slides his hand towards Viktor, accuracy impinged by grogginess; he finds his hard, metal hand, enveloping it with his own. It is no different from his usual touch. It is different from how it usually feels. What is this?

Jayce smiles, content. His breath smells of sleep, and his voice rasps from his throat in a whisper.

“Good morning.”

✤

In the mid afternoon, it is very hot. The hardiest of trees wilt in discomfort and the river that feeds into the sea recedes from its banks. The people of Erum bear it as they can manage: children gather at the docks to swim, vendors fan themselves, shepherds sit beneath the shade. Viktor considers himself lucky to be spared from it. He wanders through the streets, as he so often does, a dark glint in a field of gleaming white stone. Jayce is not so lucky. He works outside, assisting Sisuca, the blacksmith, with the refinement of a batch of harpoons. He has removed his shirt and sweat pours down his back; he looks fresh from a swim. A group of young women, gathered in the shade across the street, admire him as he works. They are not subtle about it, as young women are often disinclined to be.

Viktor watches him from the street above. It is a familiar sight. Jayce is wont to attract admirers thither he goes, like a flower in full bloom, like sweet honey. Rarely does he pay them any mind, no more than he does anyone else. His kind attentions are just as likely to fall upon his admirers as they are his neighbors, the old crone struggling with her groceries, a crying child, the blacksmith’s three-legged cat. The heat must be getting to him, sweat gathering in his unexposed parts, fetid and uncomfortable; he bends over to scratch at his leg beneath his pants, where the sinewy scar protrudes from his calf, supported by his brace. The day-to-day pain has gone away, but it aches when the weather is foul, and itches when it is hot and humid.

The harpoons are large and deadly, built for the capture of fish longer and wider than Jayce is tall, and whales of even more impressive size. They are tools of trade: for hunting, for feeding the many mouths of Erum, for much needed supplies at home, and for her trading partners beyond. Their sharp ends can pierce through skin and muscle and fat like a hot knife through butter. Fired at a man, it would tear straight through, pinning the body to whatever stands behind it, suspending it from the fresh hole it carved.

Viktor thinks of Jayce’s leg, and the hammer that crushed it. That hammer, that weapon, that abominable, detestable thing. How did Viktor’s reflection feel, watching him from afar, undone and in agony by the weapon of his own making? Watching it inflict its only purpose upon its creator, watching it decay, watching Jayce disassemble it to serve as brace and cane, watching him ascend with its remains. The hammer. His leg. His scream. Oh, how it must have felt to witness. Viktor can feel it, too.

A sharp pain gathers between Viktor’s eyes. What was he just thinking? He pinches the bridge of his nose - he must be careful, for his grip is stronger than he once knew - but the pain is not eased. There’s a lump in his throat. What was he just thinking?

Below, Sisuca has said something to Jayce: he is laughing. Viktor has spied on him before, from this exact spot. He has waved to him from this exact spot. Jayce says something back, and now Sisuca is laughing. Will he not look up? One of the young women approaches, and the mirror turns to face her. The ache travels behind his eyes, down the length of his nose. He presses his hand over his right eye. The pain begins to subside. Viktor climbs the hill, to observe Erum from on high; so that all those within shrink to irrelevant specks, where he can enjoy the view of the sea: overlooking, unobstructed.

✤

They are on the terrace, watching the sunset. The conversation has been short. The day has been filled with the whispers of the dead. Willing his mind to quiet leaves Viktor drained, and distracted. 

Jayce stares, unseeing, at the horizon. Viktor peers at his profile. The valleys of his face hold dark shadows. It is an expression Viktor knows well: the one he gets when he thinks Viktor isn’t looking, when the ghosts of his past come up to haunt him, when his longing for home supersedes the contentment of the here and now. Viktor wills him to turn, to put aside pains better left behind, to look at him with warm eyes, to say a gentle word. Does he wish the same from Viktor?

The sky grows dark and Jayce pushes to his feet. He bids Viktor come inside, as he always does, but he passes by without his usual touch. Its absence is keenly felt. Has Jayce sensed the presence of Viktor’s own ghosts? Does he fear to stoke the smouldering fire of Viktor’s self-loathing? They are so close, and so far. Viktor lingers on the terrace and yearns for his return. How can he call him back, how can he say the words? They churn, mercurial and instinctual, unable to be spoken. Tear yourself away from the terrors that still torment you; look at me and only me. Speak your words of comfort, close to my ear. Rest your hand upon my shoulder, like you always used to, and I will close my eyes and try to remember the texture of your skin and the warmth of your body.

✤

In the sickly sweet blaze of early autumn, the days begin to blend together. Erum’s fishermen, owing to summer’s heat, say the storm season will be harsh, with great maelstroms that erupt overnight: lightning from black clouds, hot enough to melt steel. Towering waves as tall as buildings will crash against stone; fish will be thrown from the water and Erum will half-sink into the sea. They say afterward, when the storm clouds tire and subside, the shy sun will shrink back into the sky: small and round and perfectly red, like an ember.

The first floor shop has filled up with plans and projects and baubles, belonging to both them and others. Their plan for a hot water tank has been mostly completed, in anticipation of colder weather. The precarious piping in the bathroom has been reinforced to accommodate. That is where Viktor finds himself: the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. His reflection is sharp and clear, the glass smooth and unadulterated. The sickly purple-blue scarring above his brow and upon his cheeks has receded, retreating to the edges of his face. The mole beneath his eye has come out of hiding.

✤

The people of Erum work late into the night. Tomorrow is a festival of great significance, celebrating the turn of the seasons as the days grow short and frost creeps into the air. The sound of activity carries from the streets below, a gentle, steady din filling their home. The glass doors to the terrace have been thrown open, cooling down the room from the heat of the day. They are together in their typical way: Viktor seated upon his stool, with Jayce on the floor below him. Jayce has not bothered with the bolts, nor has he proceeded with anything remotely invasive, such was the scare Viktor gave him. In truth, during these times allotted to his exploration of Viktor’s body, he has done little of note since then. Instead, he fusses aimlessly with the superficial. This does not bother Viktor, but he cannot help but wonder what Jayce’s goal is, now that he has determined the intricacies of Viktor’s state - even if true comprehension of the workings behind it remain obscured. Without daring, what can be accomplished? More often, these nights have grown to feel like an excuse to spend time together in a particular way: for Jayce to hold his heavy limbs in his hands, to touch Viktor with his familiar friendly affection; as he so often did, and has been doing, with increasing regularity.

Jayce sits cross-legged; Viktor’s right heel is resting on his left knee. His usual implements are scattered around him. He has his journal, a new one, larger and pristine, to replace the now-filled original. After he finishes jotting something down, Jayce returns his attention to his specimen. He wraps his hand around the back of Viktor’s calf, palpating the limb as if he were trying to soften hard clay. He frowns as he does so, staring into the middle distance; his brow tenses with concentration.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor asks.

Jayce takes a moment to respond: “It feels softer, somehow. The skin, and whatever’s underneath.” His hand keeps working. “Have you noticed?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Hm…”

Is he imagining things? His hand shifts, and he presses his thumb into the side of Viktor’s leg, hard; the end of his thumb turns white.

“Be careful,” Viktor warns. He could hurt himself.

The pressure subsides. Jayce writes something down, again, holding his tongue on whatever observations or conclusions have sprung to mind. He straightens up. He grips the whole of Viktor’s ankle in his hand, and moves his foot to rest comfortably in the center of his lap, supported by his palm.

“Will you close your eyes, Viktor?” 

Viktor does so.

“Don’t cheat,” says Jayce. “I’d hate to have to blindfold you.”

“You assume I’d let you.”

“I think you would.”

Jayce is correct; the breadth of his knowledge is staggering indeed. There is no need to prove that to him, however. He listens to Jayce take something in hand, but then he is silent. The only remaining hint of his presence is where he cups Viktor’s heel, and the subtle vibrations of his movement transferred through it.

“Do you feel that?” Jayce asks.

Viktor shakes his head. “Only the hand holding my foot.”

There is more shuffling, another bout of silence. Then, the most minimal of sensations, a feather-light feedback - between his toes, of all places.

“How about that?”

“I did, yes. Faintly.”

Jayce lets out a little puff of air. Viktor can hear the smile on his face from that alone.

Viktor asks: “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing’s funny,” he says, “but you shouldn’t have been able to feel that. At least, you weren’t able to weeks ago. You can open your eyes now.”

Viktor opens his eyes. There’s a happy look on Jayce’s face, as he makes a note of this. Once he’s done, he flips back through the pages, looking over his past inspections. He glances up: his smile reveals his teeth. A nostalgic expression. Jayce wore the same joy after Viktor arose into his second life, shared the same excitement over his deductions on the Hexcore’s healing; how quickly it deteriorated, once Viktor told him the truth of its evil, and left him there.

“You think my sense of touch is returning?”

“It might be too early to say for sure,” says Jayce, “but it could be.”

“Do you like my body, Jayce?”

Jayce pauses at this unexpected query. “I like the person inhabiting it,” he says carefully. A politician’s answer, but an honest one. “Why, do you?”

“I do not miss my old body.” Only certain aspects of it.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m aware you feel responsible for it, to some extent,” says Viktor. “I won’t say you are wrong for that, but you should know that I am not unhappy with my current state.”

“Ah.” Jayce returns Viktor’s foot to the floor. “It’s not that I feel responsible - I am responsible.”

“...I know. I am trying to comfort you.”

Jayce tries for a smile, but only half-succeeds. “If you really mean it, consider me comforted. But don’t you want to regain more of your sense of touch?”

He does. He does, but he’s never said as much, never provided any clues. How does Jayce know? How has he intuited Viktor’s secret wish so effortlessly?

Viktor cannot be honest with himself. He cannot be honest with Jayce. “I don’t know. Do you want me to become human again?”

“You are human.” Jayce frowns. 

Viktor laughs behind a closed mouth. “Then we have very different definitions of the word.”

Over Jayce’s shoulder: a Viktor that had regained his human skin. Is that what he is thinking of? Hoping for? Viktor will admit - though not aloud - that it did intrigue him, but if he cannot peer into Jayce’s mind, or teleport them a small distance, what chance does he have of achieving that?

Jayce says, “Just because your body has changed, that doesn’t mean you aren’t one.”

A dozen potential replies swarm in Viktor’s head. He could argue, he could reason, he could counter: but he sees the way Jayce’s expression sobers, how his shoulders depress, and he cannot bring himself to do it.

“I suppose you’re right,” says Viktor.

There is a period of silence between them. Viktor looks aside, but he can sense Jayce studying him. After a moment, when it becomes clear Viktor has nothing more to say, Jayce pats his knee, concluding their business in his usual manner.

“I should start cooking,” he says. 

He unfolds his legs and pushes onto his feet; he offers to help Viktor up, which he accepts. As Jayce begins to pull away, Viktor tightens his grip, holding him in place.

“Jayce.”

Not so long ago, Viktor had grown used to talking into Jayce’s chest, after his health turned and his spine bowed. Here, with his back straight, he greets Jayce’s jaw, his attractive mouth and the small scar on his lip; his short beard. His eyes are difficult to meet: too focused, too expressive, too filled with things Viktor does and does not recognize. Do not raise your hopes for the perfect return of your partner, Viktor thinks, do not be crushed by the weight of disappointment; I cannot bear to see it. How can he say it? Jayce is waiting for Viktor to speak. 

“I can’t be who I once was. Not completely.”

Jayce is very still. Viktor watches his shoulders rise and fall. When he looks up to behold Jayce’s expression, somber and thoughtful, it is as if he has drawn closer through some trick of the light. He is thinking, as he always is, scanning over words he hesitates to say. Will he not speak? The inextricable tapestry that has entangled their souls has been revealed and reconciled with mute acceptance. But this strange barrier still remains, emaciated. Viktor can see it for what it is now: the nebulous difference separating them as young men, as partners - and them as they are now. Viktor wants to press past it, to say to Jayce: is it the same for you? Have you been forever changed, as I have? What is in your hidden heart? It is the last door to remain shut. They are standing at the threshold. They hold the keys in hand, but they fear to set it to the lock. What if it doesn’t fit? What if it fumbles in their hands and drops out of reach?

Jayce raises his empty hand. Viktor watches it from the corner of his eye. He thinks it will come to touch his face, to press upon the mole that Viktor has exposed to him, he longs for it: there, on the remnants of his human flesh. 

Jayce grips his shoulder.

“I know,” he says. “I know, Viktor.”

✤

The mid-autumn festival: a celebration of the middle distance. All the edges of the world seep and blend into each other, as summer fades into winter, light into darkness, hot into cold, life into death. Erum is ablaze with energy. Glowing gold lanterns are strung between homes, climbing from cornerstone to rooftop. Yellow and white pennants hang opposite to them, reflecting their light such that they appear to be burning themselves. The air is sweetened and seared: cranberries and walnuts baked into sugary bread, salted fish braised in the juices of sour fruit; mead flows like liquid amber. Fall flowers are strung into festoons to decorate homes, and woven into wreaths and garlands that the townspeople exchange with their loved ones, or bestow upon those that have done them some service. A great pyre has been erected in the town square. Music reaches every corner of Erum, and the people sing and laugh and dance wherever there is room.

Viktor has never been one for such events, but Jayce makes it known that their presence is expected. There is a procession of sorts, he explains, and given their many deeds in service to the town, they have been invited to participate. Some price must be paid, Viktor reasons, for being given a place here, and so he abides. They and many others wade through the main, winding street, surrounded by a deluge of people and petals and thin strips of paper dipped in golden paint. At the end of the procession they arrive at the wharf. They are seated at long tables, and given enough food and drink to fill any man; Viktor pretends to partake. Once Jayce is full and his cheeks tinge pink, he pulls Viktor aside, and they slip away. I hope that wasn’t too bad, Jayce says as they return home, and Viktor can say with honesty that no, it wasn’t.

At home, they set aside their gifted wreaths and garlands. Jayce has many, many more; his garlands are numerous enough to resemble a winter scarf, and he has more wreaths than he can fit on his head, so he has strung the excess on his arms. He has set a wooden ladder out on the terrace and they climb up to the roof to get a better view. Lit up as she is, Erum is a magnificent sight. Their home is removed from the center of festivities, but as it faces the main street, a steady stream of people move beneath them. Some take notice of them, perched on high as they are, and wave as they pass by.

Jayce leads them into conversation. He is not drunk but the mead has loosened his tongue. He recounts a tale from his childhood, when he hid from his mother in a private park, thinking it some sort of game. The entire park was put on lockdown, for fear of his kidnapping. It is a story Viktor has heard before, but he is content to listen, to watch Jayce’s mouth smile around his words; his animated hands.

“...Of course I don’t remember any of this,” Jayce says, “but she told me when I was older that the Enforcers were seriously unhappy. Not that I blame them - running wild for some kid that was hiding in a bathroom stall. Anyway, even though I knew I was in trouble, she still took me out for—”

“—waffles and milkshakes, was it?” Viktor finishes for him.

Jayce sighs. “I’ve told this story before, haven’t I?” He rubs the back of his neck, as he often does when he’s embarrassed.

“You have, yes.”

“You should have said something.”

“Why? It’s a funny story. I never would have guessed you were such a precocious child, putting your poor mother through something like that.”

Jayce elbows him. “I’m sure you weren’t much better.”

“I’ll have you know I was remarkably mild-mannered as a boy. I never caused trouble for anyone.”

“Right,” says Jayce, in obvious disbelief. “I’ve never once heard any anecdotes that support this claim. How about you tell me a story for once? I can’t be the only one talking. My jaw needs a break.”

“Hm. There isn’t much to tell. I wouldn’t know where to start.” Viktor threads his fingers together, gliding his thumbs back and forth, listening to the noise it produces.

Jayce mulls it over. Below, a group of young women stop to wave to him, which he returns. They run off, giggling.

“Heimerdinger always said how surprised he was when he met you, that you could read and write already. How did you manage that?”

“I was lucky enough to be sent to school,” says Viktor. “It wasn’t anything so impressive as being self-taught.”

“What was it like? School in the Undercity.”

“It was nothing like those in Piltover. Chaotic, seedy… very few learning materials, and the ones they did have were poor. It’s a wonder anything could be learnt there at all. The schoolmaster was very harsh.”

“With everyone? Or just with you?”

Viktor tilts his head, his eyebrows raising. “If he was harsh with others, I didn’t take notice. I was only concerned with myself, back then. Looking out for my own weaknesses.”

Jayce does not prompt him with another question. Instead, he looks at Viktor expectantly. Viktor can sense his nearness, their shoulders brushing as they shift and breathe.

Viktor continues: “I was sent at a young age, but not of my own volition. The woman who raised me insisted on it. I took to it well enough, but I wasn’t able to put it to good use until many years later.”

“That was kind of her, to make sure you were educated.”

“Kind,” Viktor repeats. He chuckles, a smirk on his face. Jayce’s generosity has a tendency to drift towards naivete. “I don’t think you should look at it in that light. For her, the point of being able to read was so you could take better advantage of those who could not.”

These memories of his childhood are little more than pictures with sounds. Viktor cannot recall any words. He has all but forgotten the face of the woman who raised him, taking him in after his parents died; her image is just a blur, a flutter of skirts around a corner.

“Oh.” Jayce’s face falls. “That’s horrible.”

“That’s the Undercity for you,” says Viktor. It was not his intention to deflate Jayce so. He wills himself to smile more, so that Jayce might regain his. Viktor leans closer, his tone taking on a dry humor. “You know, this might surprise you… No one will admit it when there’s Topsiders around, but people from the Undercity don’t necessarily like each other.”

“That doesn’t sound too different from Piltover.”

“Ah, spoken like a true Topsider.” Viktor elbows him back.

A smile creeps back onto his face. Jayce shakes his head, teeth emerging from behind his lips. “Yeah, yeah. But yes, I did get that impression, the few times I was there. Did that apply even to you?”

“I didn’t give them much opportunity to form an opinion.” Viktor straightens. “I mostly kept to myself, as you might’ve surmised.”

“It makes me feel a bit lonely, though. For your sake.”

“There’s no need for that. I had some acquaintances, and I was very good at amusing myself. I had a toy boat I was fond of.”

“Really? To be honest, it’s hard to imagine you playing with toys.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Believe it or not, I was a child once, Jayce. Did you think I sprang out of the fissures, fully formed?”

Jayce laughs. “I can’t say it would surprise me. But no, it’s just that you never had any memorabilia or childhood keepsakes in your room. Or… anything, really.”

“Hm.” Viktor looks critically at Jayce. He fails to dampen the amusement in his voice. “Is that your evidence for my not having a childhood? I find it rather flimsy.”

“It is unusual. Most people hold onto one or two important items, at least.”

“I’ve never been like most people.”

“No,” Jayce agrees. His eyes are warm with affection. “What happened to it? Your toy boat.”

“I lost it,” says Viktor.

There is a moment of silence: for the lost boat, perhaps. It is a comfortable one. The festivities at the wharf are ongoing. The first wave of stumbling drunks have begun to wander home. A blanket of wispy clouds obscures the moon and stars, and the glow of Erum’s lanterns is made all the more magnificent for it.

Viktor fills the silence. He asks, “What brought this on?”

It is not uncommon for them to talk of the past, but usually there is some obvious trigger, or Jayce makes the reason known simply by virtue of the subject. Tonight, Viktor is not so sure.

“I was feeling nostalgic,” says Jayce. “The lighthouse makes me think of Piltover, sometimes.”

Jayce admires the view of it. The lighthouse. Viktor follows Jayce’s fixed stare, to see what he sees, and it erupts into his vision. The lighthouse: a spire of immaculate white, standing by the sea; it is the tallest structure in Erum, and towers over all else. It splits the skyline. It obstructs the boundless horizon. The lantern room is ablaze with fire.

“I’m glad I brought it up,” Jayce continues.

“Hm?” Viktor turns back to him. The lighthouse exits his vision.

“You’ve never talked much about your past,” says Jayce. “Especially not your childhood. Even back then.”

It is true. There was little time for personal stories during the days of Hextech, not when there were more pressing matters to discuss; what time was afforded for anecdotes was happily filled by Jayce. Viktor preferred it that way. In the Undercity, it was considered wise to conceal one’s past even if there was nothing to conceal. Viktor has no great love for these old memories. He has spent so long not thinking about them, that his life as a child no longer seems to interlock, one bit with the next. One day he is hobbling out of Dr. Reveck’s cave and the next he is in Heimerdinger’s office, with no clear connection between them. 

“It was not a very happy one,” says Viktor, “or very eventful. Both of these together make for a poor topic of conversation.”

“You would see it that way. I might disagree.”

“You might, and then you would be helpless to listen as I bore you to tears.”

“No chance of that. I’m always happy to hear you talk.”

“Even when I’m scolding you?”

Jayce makes an uncertain noise, shrugging his shoulders. “That depends on whether I deserve it or not. I think I like it best when it’s unwarranted.”

Viktor laughs. How does he do it? This spell he casts.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” says Viktor. “And I don’t scold you unnecessarily.”

Jayce clicks his tongue. “Yes you do!”

He does, Viktor knows he does, but he cannot concede. Jayce’s mirth is magnetic.

“Can you name a specific instance?” Viktor asks.

“That isn’t fair. That’s like asking me to remember all the times it’s ever rained.”

“You make me sound as harsh as my old schoolmaster.”

Jayce grins. “Who else would you have learned it from?”

“Careful, Jayce. He’d string us up by our thumbs for any backtalk.”

“Now that I definitely don’t deserve.”

“I’m sure we can find some other punishment more suited to your physique.”

“Great.” He shakes his head. “Oh, whatever. So long as you’re the one administering it, I’m sure I can find a way to enjoy it.”

Caught up in the moment, Viktor teases, “When you say it like that, it almost sounds like a confession of love.”

Jayce stalls, caught off guard. His expression sobers. He goes quiet. Before Viktor has time to think, it’s too late to say anything more, too late to brush it aside with wit, too late to laugh it off.

Jayce looks down at his hands. He’s turning the unspoken thing between his fingers. He’s fitting the key to the lock.

“I think,” Jayce starts, “that’s exactly what it was.”

The world drops out of focus. Viktor looks into his lap, then beyond, to his feet, dangling off the edge of the roof. Indistinct shadows glide over the street below. There’s a lump in his throat.

Why should he be so surprised? Is this not something he expected, during all those times Jayce held himself back, allowing his eyes and hands to communicate what his lips could not? His confession is still indistinct, vague enough for misinterpretation. A man can love another in any number of ways: as a friend, as a partner, as family; as a lover. Yet it seems all too obvious, what with Jayce remaining at his side at great expense, the touches that linger beyond what would be considered friendly, the yearning in his expression when they meet each other’s eyes for too long. What has he done to deserve this? It frightens him: that a man such as he could be so loved. His mind and heart are too tangled with the definite and the undefined, with his hopes and fears. What is he to do with this? Jayce has done what Viktor could not, breaking past this barrier; but Viktor cannot find an answer, a reply.

An uncomfortable silence looms as Viktor contends with his indecision. It lasts too long, and the moment passes. Jayce straightens up and takes a deep breath.

“Anyway,” says Jayce, forcing levity back into his voice. He reaches out to pat Viktor’s knee, but thinks better of it; his fingers curl into a fist, and he withdraws. “It’s starting to get chilly - I guess winter’s not that far off, huh? Let’s go back inside.”

Jayce climbs down the ladder, and helps Viktor do the same. Viktor’s movements are rote, like that of a marionette suspended by strings of fine steel, his mind drifting everywhere but the here and now.

“I had some ideas for that water filtration system,” Jayce begins as he leads them inside, desperate to fill the quiet, to distract them. “A dedicated tank for the entire town would be an undertaking, but it would be more manageable than individual tanks in the long run, and that way…”

He rambles on, and his words fade away, like they’ve been swallowed by the sea.

Why must the future feel so much like the past? Ephemeral and indistinct, dissipating as soon as it can be observed: like vapor on glass, like a wisp of smoke, like footsteps in the dark, like a flash of lightning. Viktor holds these fleeting fragments of his past and future in hand but cannot reconcile them. Jayce takes on the burden of spinning tales of the past, but Viktor knows that he too, is guilty of retrospection; in the small hours of twilight, when the barrier between earth and sky melt into each other, when the sounds and smells of the street below evanesce, when the corners of the lab grow shadows as black as the void, when the letters on the page blur and shift into other shapes. You look into your past and say, is this story mine? Is that face mine, is that what I felt, is that what pained me? Is this life mine, or the life of some stranger, one that I’ve only glimpsed? How can I tell apart what I’ve seen and what I’ve been told? Were those words my own? Have I forgotten too well? Have I dreamt myself? Have I unraveled myself? I must remember just as well as I long to forget, as my sins seek me out, as my history trails behind me; it’s written in the margins of a book, hidden under a smooth stone, carved into the notch of a gear. You see your own murky image in phases: sprouting, flowering, wilting. You see yourself, wielding your wavering life as a weapon against death, your whole being dedicated to defeating the decay that surrounds you: in the doctor’s lair, in the Undercity, in your leg that follows you everywhere you go. You wish for mastery over it; in some cruel twist of fate, death is given to you, and taken from you, and given to you, and taken from you. You see yourself as a machine of cold efficiency, but even that is wrested from you, even that is not who you truly are. You see yourself, robed and aged and alone: but that is not you. You feel the harsh reality of your skin and wish to slip free of it, like a snake; but you have no such power. Who am I? Who are you? You are the vapor on glass, you are the wisp of smoke, you are the footsteps in the dark, you are the flash of lightning; you are what the mirror assembles each day as it turns to face you: the hyaline apparition. You skitter at its edge, but the mirror makes you as much as you make the mirror. It is the only constant that remains. As a man you cherished it, as a machine you sought to control it, as a mage you sacrificed to regain it. And finally, after all this calamity, it is yours, only yours, and you would do anything, anything, anything—

“...tor? Viktor!”

There are two heavy hands on your shoulders. Jayce is jostling you out of a trance. Wake up!

“Are you alright?” Jayce’s face is pinched with worry. He cannot help but feel responsible, perhaps, for Viktor’s stupor. He sighs, and releases his hold on Viktor. “Forget what I said, okay? Talk to me. You look awful.”

What he said? His confession? Or did he say something else, when Viktor could not hear him? It doesn’t matter. Jayce’s pull is so great it warps and bends all that draws close, and Viktor is no exception. He recalls his singular dream, how he has come to yearn for Jayce’s attention, his touch. What has Jayce done to him? What have they done to each other? This endless circling, falling into each other; the countless, countless attempts to grant this one chance. Viktor blinks the world back into focus. Whatever darkness plagued his countenance is smoothed out. Jayce has fumbled with the lock, his key has fallen out of reach; Viktor grasps his own.

Viktor rests his hands against Jayce’s broad chest. He pushes himself upwards, and presses their lips together in a chaste kiss. It is a fleeting thing, filling the small space between breaths; he pulls away, falling back onto his heels. He keeps his hands against Jayce, perceiving the subtle vibrations of his rapid heartbeat.

“Is this what you want, Jayce?”

Jayce is motionless but his irises shimmer and shake with the jumble of thoughts behind them. His lips part. He wets them with his tongue.

“I want,” he struggles to find his voice. “I want whatever you care to give.”

How careful his words are, how confused he must be. Viktor can see the outline of his throat as he swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the rush of blood in his jugular. Viktor drags his left hand upwards until it comes to rest against Jayce’s neck; the pad of his thumb grazes over that obscene vein, feeling the faint tell of muscles tightening beneath his palm. Jayce is holding his breath.

They cannot look away from each other. Viktor’s wills this image of a Jayce he’s never seen before - trembling on an uncertain edge - to be burned into his memory. Viktor leans closer, tilts his chin upwards.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

The answer comes out as a hiss on the breath he had been holding, like the release of a pent-up pressure valve; it is harsh, almost painful. Jayce’s brow furrows, his eyes shut tight. For how long has he kept this bottled up? Viktor’s fingers search out the back of his neck, the bony protrusions of his vertebrae; he pulls Jayce towards him, letting their foreheads touch, nose to nose. Their breath mingles, heavy with moisture. Jayce allows his hands to marshal forth: one slotted into the cleft at Viktor’s hip, the other splayed against his back. Viktor welcomes his gentle strength. Jayce wants him near, their bodies flush; who is Viktor to deny him?

Jayce yearns for this physical connection, seeks it wherever he can, yet he will not take the next step forward. He opens his eyes. He has given his answer, but Viktor has not given his own.

“Jayce.” 

Jayce interprets the utterance of his name as permission. He leans in for another kiss; the distance is short. Their lips meet, but Viktor puts a stop to it: he takes his other hand and wedges his long fingers between their mouths, transforming them into the cold spindles of a metal gate. He puts them against Jayce’s chin, keeping him away, a small separation.

“I want to hear you say it,” Viktor says.

Jayce shivers. He is too easy with Viktor, so willing to oblige.

“Viktor.” His voice is low, raw with emotion. “I can’t live without you.”

If Viktor still possessed his human heart, it would be liable to beat out of his chest. The thrill in his mind is reflected in his body, the energy that lurks within him rising to life: the violet lambency beneath his skin surges, undulating all the way to the tips of his fingers.

It is the same for me, Viktor wants to say. Were it so easy for him to speak freely from the heart, he surely would; the words may bubble up within, but rarely do they overspill. It is up to Jayce to fill this emptiness, and for Viktor to reciprocate in his own way until his honest sentiments cannot be held back, leaking impossibly from him like blood from stone.

“More,” Viktor whispers.

Jayce takes in a shuddering breath. 

“I love you, Viktor.”

Viktor sighs.

“Again.”

“I love you. I want— I need you. Nothing made sense when you were gone. Don’t leave my side again. I couldn’t bear it.”

It’s like hearing words you’ve waited for your whole life, in a language you didn’t know you could speak. The barrier between them untangles.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Viktor.” There is a wet sheen in his eyes. He tightens his grip. “Viktor.”

Viktor lowers his hand.

Jayce kisses him. He matches the first Viktor bestowed upon him: chaste and feather light, little more than a peck. Once, twice, a third, then a fourth; each one lingering more than the last. He endured being held back only to reward himself thusly. It is just like him. Jayce, who will take on more dirty work to better enjoy the sensation of being clean. Jayce, who saves his favorite dish for last. 

Viktor’s lips are left unattended as Jayce applies his chaste kisses elsewhere: on the mole above his mouth, the mole beneath his eye; the tip of his nose, his forehead; his gray ears, still soft like flesh; his cheek, the ridge of his jaw, his yielding neck. He is methodical, attending each site as if indulging some long-held fantasy. For how long has he wanted this? Envisioned this? Viktor has no sense for these things. Only when Jayce neared his tipping point was he able to take notice.

Viktor begins to ask: “How long have you—”

“Shh,” Jayce hushes him. He cups Viktor’s cheek, and kisses him again.

Jayce nudges Viktor’s hip and walks them backwards; he surges into Viktor once they’ve made contact with the wall, capturing his lips with heightened fervor. Viktor struggles to match him. What little experience he’s had in love was long ago, fragmented moments rendered in still images, juvenile reactions recorded by a body he no longer has. By comparison, his responses are clumsy, and slow.

Jayce is content to take his time. He uses his thumb to part Viktor’s lips and open his jaw, and Jayce delves into his mouth at an excruciating pace, like molten metal pouring into a delicate mold. His passion burns to match: each pull of his lips and every swipe of his tongue is painstakingly deliberate. He explores, claiming as he goes; the transfer of his heated breath serves to mark his territory, his possession. 

Viktor’s body cannot experience arousal but his mind melts as it is skewered over this flame. It is thrilling to be at Jayce’s mercy in this way. To be possessed, to be his. His savior, his partner, his victim, his enemy; his specimen, his friend. His lover.

The air between them grows humid as Jayce coaxes greater confidence from him. Viktor teases the bottom of Jayce’s tongue. Jayce scrapes at the roof of his mouth: it is remarkably stimulating. Viktor moans; Jayce replies in kind. Emboldened, Viktor catches Jayce’s lower lip between his teeth, nipping at it, releasing it reluctantly as Jayce pulls back. His pupils are blown wide, hot air puffing against Viktor’s open mouth. Jayce returns to the space beneath his ear, dragging his coarse beard over the still-sensitive skin, sucking at it, testing whether or not he can leave a lasting mark. Viktor drags his hands down Jayce’s chest, his abdomen; his fingers flit over the predictable bulge at his crotch.

Jayce sucks air through his teeth and grabs Viktor’s wrist away.

“Sorry,” Jayce rasps. He straightens up, frowning.

Viktor is baffled. “What for?”

“I didn’t mean to get worked up. It’s your fault.” Jayce clenches his jaw. What is he trying to do? Will his erection away? “Just leave it. It’ll go away on its own.”

Viktor huffs out a laugh. “I know how penises work, Jayce.”

“Keep talking like that,” he says, sardonic. “It’s helping.” 

Still, he smiles. He kisses Viktor; once, twice. To think how careful they were with each other mere moments ago. Now they are as easy as they ever were, as if this was nothing more than the logical next step, an inevitable conclusion years in the making.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” Viktor asks.

“Of course I do. I just…” Jayce leans forward; there’s a dull thud as his forehead comes to rest against the wall. “I can’t do anything for you. It wouldn’t be right.”

“What,” Viktor says to Jayce’s neck, “because I don’t have a cock anymore, I’m supposed to ignore yours?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Jayce shudders as Viktor kisses the shell of his ear, “but yes.”

That won’t do. Not after Viktor has seen so many new sides to him, in only one night. He thinks of his singular dream: an illusion of Jayce as a young man, in ecstasy, beneath him. What would it look like as he is now, in the flesh?

“Hm. That sounds highly illogical, from my perspective.” Viktor wraps his arms around Jayce, hugging him close; they fit together perfectly. “What if I wanted to?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jayce mumbles.

“You’re being difficult on purpose, now.”

“I learned from the best.”

Viktor grabs a fistful of Jayce’s hair and tugs his head back; a pained noise escapes him. He assumes control of Jayce’s head, and manipulates him so they are facing one another. Whatever hurt Viktor caused him has quickly burned away into a heady arousal.

“You’ve fantasized about me,” Viktor states.

Jayce swallows. “Yes.”

“Even with this body?”

“Yes.” Quieter, this time.

They are centimeters apart: Viktor endeavors to maintain this precise distance. He brushes his lips against Jayce’s and tightens the grip on his hair in the same motion.

“Tell me what they look like,” Viktor whispers. 

It is a shame, he thinks, that he cannot peer into Jayce’s mind and see them himself. He recalls Jayce asking after his ability to do so, so many months ago.

“I—” Jayce licks his lips. An attractive red colors his cheeks, flushes his neck, tinges the tips of his ears. “I think about your hands on me. Between your thighs, or using your feet. And your mouth. Mostly your mouth.”

His answer complete, Jayce looks away, grimacing. He seems to shrink, as if he’s envisioning himself crawling into a hole, curling into a ball, and peacefully passing away. There may well be more he has pictured, but isn’t willing to voice; another time, perhaps. Jayce’s reluctance, Jayce’s honesty: the gap between them is uniquely endearing.

Viktor releases Jayce’s hair, smooths it out. He caresses his chin, enjoying the vague feedback the bristles of his beard provides.

“I think I can accommodate two of those, at least. Maybe all four,” Viktor says. “Let me, Jayce.”

Jayce communicates his submission physically. His expression and shoulders drop, all the fight drained out of him. There’s no need for words. It was all a show, anyway. Viktor knows his triumph was predetermined. Viktor takes hold of him, and Jayce allows himself to be moved, complaisant as ever. Their positions reversed, he pulls Viktor in for another kiss, passionate, and with renewed purpose. Viktor yanks the hem of his shirt; Jayce makes it disappear.

Viktor strokes Jayce’s chest, his abdomen. With no fabric to separate them, the heat emanating from him reaches Viktor’s hands. That shouldn’t be possible. Is it his imagination? He can have Jayce test it, later. When he kneels in front of Jayce, he can see his entire body tense; Jayce is taut with anticipation. His erection strains in vain against its prison, a dark spot blooming through his trousers already. Viktor touches Jayce’s leg, wandering close, but never quite there. Every breath Jayce takes sounds laborious.

“If what you said about your fantasies was true,” says Viktor, looking up at him, “you did well to control yourself, during all those times spent touching my body.”

“I know. It wasn’t easy,” Jayce says, emphatically. He smirks. “I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”

Such confidence, in his tone, his expression, his chest as it rises and falls. It is what Viktor relishes above all else. Affection surges in his body, setting his limbs aglow. Viktor forgoes a reply, and presses a modest kiss against his bulge.

A strangled noise erupts from Jayce. It sounds like a groan, a cry of pain, and the mangled beginnings of a statement all at once. He always did have a penchant for drama - not that Viktor minds; he must be very excited, besides. More than likely, Viktor could finish him like this: palming him through his pants, suckling at the wet spot. A cheap way out. 

Viktor unfastens the clasp of Jayce’s pants, hooks his fingers into trousers and underwear both, and jerks them down in one hasty motion. Jayce’s cock springs free. Viktor has seen it before, but never so close, and never like this: dusky and engorged, hanging heavy from the root, leaking readily; begging for relief. Viktor bites his lip and it twitches. It is outrageous. Salacious. Viktor stares at it. He’s never done this before. No matter: the concept isn’t terribly difficult to grasp.

Gingerly, Viktor grips it with his thumb and forefinger, supporting it near the center; he pulls the foreskin back, and hesitates.

“Viktor,” Jayce manages. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh.”

Viktor kisses his swollen, sodden cockhead. His still-human flesh feels its heat and he tastes tangy salt. He swirls his tongue over the bulbous tip before taking it into his mouth. Viktor massages the slit with the underside of his tongue. The indecent noises pouring out of Jayce fuel him further: he pushes forward, taking in as much of Jayce as he can. It reaches the back of his throat. Viktor gags; he swallows through it, and allows Jayce’s cock to rest there as he acclimates to its length.

“Oh, fuck.”

Jayce is gasping for air. A string of wheezed expletives follow. Foul language ill-suits him: Viktor would chide him for it, if he could. Idly, he finds it odd that he should still possess a gag reflex. Another thing to pester Jayce about, later.

Viktor’s eyelids flutter closed. Jayce is heavy in his mouth, and searing hot; there is slight discomfort in accommodating his size, just shy of unpleasant. He pulls back, slowly, reveling in the sensation of Jayce’s cock sliding against his cheeks and tongue. They are so, so close, like this. Almost as close as they’ve ever been. I could grow to enjoy this, Viktor thinks; he already is.

Jayce is unwilling to find employment for his hands; Viktor searches out his wrists, and guides them to his head. The more contact they have, the better. When Jayce bucks his hips forward Viktor encourages him with a hum, and Jayce, ever the quick learner, needs no more direction than that: he grips Viktor’s hair and fucks into his mouth, lovingly, achingly slow. 

“God, oh God. I can’t believe…” He loses focus. Whatever thought he hoped to put to words tapering off into wanton moans, dripping from his mouth like syrup, attuning Viktor’s ears to each sound, to every little gasp.

Jayce reaches one hand to the back of Viktor’s neck and presses the pad of his forefinger to the bolt there. Warm static courses through Viktor’s body, in time with Jayce’s rapid heartbeat; a polyphonic moan erupts from deep within him. Jayce responds with a whimper. It is exhilarating, this chain reaction they inflict on one another.

“I’m close,” Jayce slurs. “I’m, cl— Viktor. Viktor.”

Viktor clutches the back of Jayce’s thighs. His eyelashes are wet with moisture; he looks past them, up at Jayce. Their eyes meet and that is what does it, sending Jayce over the edge: he comes with a guttural groan, spilling down Viktor’s throat as his hips quake with pleasure, thrusting into his wanting mouth. 

His chin tucks towards his chest, jaw slack. Viktor struggles to keep him in view, but it is well worth it: the flush that travels from his brow to his chest, his blissed out features, how he maintains eye contact through the throes of his orgasm. Viktor swallows what he can, thankful for his diminished sense of taste; his lips are tight around Jayce’s throbbing cock as excess fluid pools at the corners of his mouth.

Once Jayce has ridden out the aftershocks, Viktor releases him. He retrieves the hastily discarded shirt and wipes his mouth, and does the same for Jayce’s flagging member. Jayce is thoroughly fatigued: he collapses against the wall and slides to the floor on legs made of liquid. He takes deep breaths as he collects himself. There’s an attractive sheen of sweat on his skin.

Viktor scoots forward, kneeling between his legs. Not so vulnerable as he appears, Jayce takes hold of Viktor and pulls him into a sloppy kiss. Jayce’s mouth is dry: he siphons excess moisture from Viktor, lapping at his tongue and cheeks. Once he’s taken enough, he releases Viktor, rejuvenated, a satisfied smile on his face.

Viktor asks, “You’re not repulsed, kissing me so soon after that?”

“It’s not that bad,” says Jayce. His voice is somewhat hoarse. “Besides, it’s salty: just how I like it.”

“That’s unexpectedly vulgar of you.”

Jayce scoffs. “You’re one to talk. Are you sure you’re good to swallow all that? It felt like a lot.”

It was.

“I’ve been picking at your food nearly every day since we arrived here, but now you’re concerned about my ingesting semen?”

A wide, lazy grin splits across Jayce’s face. It is contagious. Viktor feels his own light being reflected back on him, magnified until it is blindingly bright. What is this? This indescribable joy.

“It’s very strong semen,” Jayce says, humorously. “I’ve been using it as a lubricant for all sorts of jobs around town.”

“Aha. That would explain your heroic self-control, here at home.”

Jayce’s eyes are alight with laughter. Again, he moves to pull Viktor close, but there is no need: Viktor goes to him. They kiss, light and languid and tender with all that’s been said and all that’s been left unsaid. They stay like this for a good while. The last song echoes from the wharf, a faint sound of cheering and whooping; a dog howls, far in the distance. Viktor is reluctant to relinquish him, and Jayce is pleased to be his prisoner.

After some time, when the sound of crickets begin to overpower the rest of Erum, Viktor pulls away. He strokes Jayce’s cheek, his beard. He plants a kiss against his temple, and whispers into his ear.

“You are so very dear to me, Jayce.”

Jayce embraces him; he buries his face against Viktor’s neck. “I want you to be the first thing I see in the morning.”

“I intended on it.” Viktor smooths out his hair. “Did it mean that much to you?”

“It did. To be honest, part of me is afraid that this is all just a dream.”

“Does it feel like one?” Viktor asks. It is a rare thing for a childish insecurity to enhance one’s charm.

“Almost exactly.”

“What was different?”

“In my dreams, you were much better at kissing.”

Viktor snorts. “You’ll have to excuse me - not everyone can be so well practiced. But is that not proof you’re awake?”

“I hope so.” Jayce shifts; he kisses Viktor again. “Help me up? I’m in a hell of a state… You should join me in the bath.”

Indeed, Jayce is trapped with Viktor so close, his half-removed pants acting as a snare around his thighs, set at an odd angle where one side is caught on his leg brace. Viktor rises, and helps him to his feet.

“If you insist,” says Viktor. 

What’s one more indulgence? He would grant Jayce as many as he dared to ask for.

The bathtub is a tight fit for the two of them. They linger there far longer than necessary. The night grows long, and the sounds of celebration peter out into silence. The flames of the decorative lanterns die out one by one, an ever-diminishing splendor being devoured by the dark. Jayce takes Viktor to bed, guides him, settles him down so his back is flush against Jayce’s chest. His hard body, his uncomfortable weight, the harsh and protruding points of his golden filigree: Jayce wraps his arms around Viktor without complaint. He falls asleep quickly, as he always does. Viktor follows suit, and sets the condition of his awakening not to the cold light of dawn, but to when Jayce stirs from slumber; when he whispers against Viktor’s ear, and presses his lips to slowly softening skin.

✤

Come morning, Jayce is determined to be late.

Viktor is well aware of Jayce’s prior commitments: he promised multiple townspeople that he would be there first thing in the morning, to help disassemble the decorations and fixtures from the festival, and clear the streets of refuse. Yet here is Jayce, unwilling to leave the comfort of bed, grappling Viktor to keep him bound to his side, immobile. He kisses whatever he can reach, and humps his half-hard morning wood against Viktor’s thigh. It wasn’t a dream, after all. This revelation now in hand, Jayce proceeds to transform from man to dog. The attention is not unwelcome, but Viktor will not have Jayce break his word on his account.

Attempting to cajole Jayce out of bed only serves to embolden him. Viktor’s hand is forced. He skips immediately to empty threats: you won’t lay a hand on me until springtime, and there will be no words between us until the first frost. As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jayce is dressing himself for the day, bidding his farewells, and heading out the door. He plants a kiss upon Viktor’s cheek as he goes; the spot tingles well after he is gone.

Thoughts of Jayce occupy his mind more than ever. Jayce has opened the final door, revealed his heart, stripped his soul bare. I will be forever changed by this, Viktor realises; just as he was changed from their first encounter, from his revival and death at Jayce’s hands, from the visions imparted unto him. Viktor can sense the change within him already. He spends his day in the downstairs shop, rectifying imperfections in Jayce’s design for a water filtration system. A trickle of townspeople stop in, to deliver goods, to make requests: the grocer, with his receding blonde hair and narrow nose; the weaver, her black hair seated atop her head in a bun as weighty as her upper lip. Somehow, in some way, Viktor feels a sudden familiarity with them, as if they have evolved beyond acquaintances, and into neighbors, into friends. Their smiles reach beyond the facade of politeness, and Viktor watches them go with fondness.

When he is alone, and his mind at rest, Viktor finds himself staring out of the shop’s wide window. He tracks the movement of shadows as the sun travels across the sky, anticipating sunset.

✤

Who could have expected? The nighttime study of Viktor’s body has devolved into distractions. Jayce was unprepared to administer temperature perception tests; heat is one thing, but ice is much harder to procure in Erum. Viktor’s gag reflex is left unmentioned, as bringing it up would more than likely lead to predictable activities. And so, with nothing else to pursue, Viktor humors Jayce as he assesses the taste of Viktor’s skin, a point of curiosity he was not willing to broach before. He takes stock of the flavors of gold and gray, kissing and licking as he goes; he slots his tongue into the valleys between tendon-like cords, where Viktor’s skin pulses steady purple.

This is, of course, a complete waste of time. It does not take a brilliant mind to know little can be inferred about the function of a metal from its flavor, especially not one so unique as that which comprises Viktor’s body. A tide of annoyance rises within Viktor… And yet, Jayce conducts himself with such enthusiasm, scolding him without proper forewarning would be undeserving. He watches as Jayce spreads his fingers open and kisses his exposed palm. All pretenses of his investigation are rapidly vanishing. With no further need to hide his desire, a humble tent has appeared in his trousers, just enough to be noticed, awaiting Viktor’s acknowledgement, his approval.

“Have you learned anything?” Viktor asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Your neck tastes less metallic,” says Jayce, as if he’s discovered something astonishing.

“Is that all?”

Jayce dodges the question: “If there’s something else you had in mind, I’ll do it.”

What a daring proposal. Jayce might not realize it himself. Viktor considers. Without proper guidance, more than likely these evenings of theirs will instead be filled by indulgences of physical intimacy and indecency. That on its own is nothing to object to, but Viktor is of the mind that there is more to be done. His thoughts are drawn to the last time Jayce attempted anything invasive - insertions in his mouth aside. There is no surprise as to why: Viktor can recall the overwhelming sensation of Jayce’s finger grazing his innards, the fright it caused. So little was explored as a result.

“As a matter of fact,” Viktor muses, “there is something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“One moment.”

Viktor pushes to his feet and heads downstairs. He knows where Jayce keeps his tools; finding and fetching the item he needs takes no time at all, and just as soon as he leaves Jayce sitting there, he returns. He lingers by the entrance to the bedroom, hesitating. Jayce watches him from across the room.

After a moment, Viktor says, “Come here, Jayce.”

He steps into the bedroom. Jayce is close on his heels, brimming with zeal. For all he knows, he has every reason to.

“What is it?” Jayce asks.

Viktor turns to face him. In his hands is that large flathead screwdriver: lovingly crafted, hardly used. He holds it out towards Jayce, the handle presented to him. Jayce’s giddy anticipation quickly sours once the item, and the implication behind it, becomes clear.

“Oh,” says Jayce, thoroughly deflated. “Why this?”

“You offered,” says Viktor. “And I have the feeling there was still more to be discovered.”

“But it hurt you.”

“I told you it didn’t.”

“It sure looked that way. I figured you were just saying that to spare my feelings, since it was my idea.”

I never do that, Viktor thinks to say, but it simply isn’t true.

“I assure you that was not the case,” says Viktor. 

He extends the screwdriver nearer to Jayce, who accepts it with great reluctance. Is he asking too much of him? As much as he desires Jayce’s cooperation, he does not wish to force him into unwanted action. He has done enough of that already.

“Remind me what it felt like?” Jayce asks.

Viktor tried to describe it, shortly after the fact. It was hard to find the right words then, and Jayce had been in a state of mind that hindered his willingness to accept the truth.

“...Like a very strong sneeze, only many times more powerful, and one I felt throughout my body. Although that’s still not as precise as I’d prefer.” 

Painful, pleasurable, invasive, relieving: the farther away the memory, the harder it becomes to pinpoint. The more it fades, the more he is compelled to re-experience it. He studies Jayce. He is deep in thought: brows knit, eyes unfocused and twitching with movement; he turns the screwdriver over in his hands as he stares down at it. Many years ago Viktor might’ve found his indecision vexing. He’s changed. They both have.

Viktor takes a step closer. Jayce looks at him.

“I will be able to better describe it,” Viktor says, “once we’ve tried again. And I promise to tell you if it pains me.”

Jayce raises an eyebrow. “Would you even be able to? You were a mess.”

A salient point. As expected of Jayce. 

Viktor concedes with a shrug. “I trust your intuition.”

“Great,” Jayce says flatly.

Viktor smiles. He takes another step forward, and touches Jayce’s hand. He brushes his fingers over his knuckles, towards his wrist; he traces a gentle circle around the scar there, where the rune used to be. The fine hairs on Jayce’s arms stand on end.

“Without daring,” says Viktor, “what can be accomplished?”

“And what are you trying to accomplish? Other than scaring me half to death.”

“The satiation of my curiosity, of course. Need I remind you it was your own inquisitiveness that set us on this path? You should take responsibility, Jayce.”

“It’s not as if my motivations were entirely aboveboard,” Jayce admits, a dusting of color on his cheeks.

“I know.” Viktor speaks softly, all the better to draw Jayce in. It works. He leans forward, ever so slightly. “And I’m more than willing to take responsibility for that, myself. Afterwards.”

“You don’t make it easy to say no,” Jayce says. There it is: the drop in his shoulders, his slackened expression.

Viktor feels the pull of his cheeks, the widening of his smile. “Since when have you ever preferred the easy way?”

And yet, Viktor has made it effortless for Jayce to steal a kiss from him; Jayce takes full advantage. He is gentle and so very affectionate, but when he swipes his tongue against Viktor’s lower lip, Viktor puts a hand to his chest and pushes him away.

“One thing at a time,” he chides.

“I think I make it too easy for you,” Jayce laments. He smiles anyway.

Indeed he does. Viktor turns away and slips out of his robe. He seats himself on the edge of the bed, low to the ground as it is, and tucks his thin legs to the side. Jayce takes up his post on the floor, cross-legged; he gets to work immediately, perhaps eager to be done with this, and have Viktor fulfill his share of responsibility. His muscles retain the memory of what force is required to loosen the first bolt below Viktor’s sternum. The bolt and washer come free in no time, and he sets them aside with care.

Jayce stares at the task ahead of him. He takes a deep breath, and raises his hand… Viktor bats it away.

“Let me try first,” Viktor says. “There’s something I’d like to test.”

With far less care than Jayce would afford, Viktor slots his index finger into the now-empty cavity. He drags it over the threading, and moves inwards until he meets resistance. His fingertip makes contact with that net Jayce had found; he feels it snag, a tensing in his body. Other than that, the sensation is wholly uninteresting: there is no charge of static, no warmth, no hum of life. Viktor withdraws, impassive.

Jayce gulps. “Well?”

“I felt very little, as you might expect,” says Viktor. “Your turn.”

Jayce has steeled himself once already: he does so again. He touches his finger to the ridge of the entrance, and in an instant Viktor experiences that flood of warmth, that electric hum, the echoes of Jayce’s heartbeat. It must show on his face, because Jayce stops there.

“I assume it’s different when I’m the one touching you,” Jayce posits.

Viktor nods. “There’s a… charge of energy.” There’s a slight change in his voice, as if a thin metal sheet is vibrating in his throat. “I can feel your pulse. Even your warmth, now.”

Jayce frowns. “I wish you would have said something sooner.”

“I didn’t want to unnerve you.”

“Why do you think it would?”

Viktor hesitates. Jayce looks up at him with an inscrutable expression. He knows why, Viktor thinks - they both do. But Jayce has prompted him: he wants to hear the words, even if it pains them. Jayce will not let him take the easy way out.

“I— The Hexcore,” Viktor chokes out. He looks away, towards the floor. “And its response to organic material. It must be related…”

That unholy thing: Viktor sees his blood on the table, the withering plant; Sky’s face. If Jayce never wished to touch him again, Viktor would understand. Who knows what corrupting influence it might still possess? Even if it is under Viktor’s control, diminished and powerless as he is - as it is - there is no way to know for sure.

“You don’t need to say anything more,” Jayce says. His voice is low, heavy with the weight of the part he played, his share of responsibility.

Tentatively, Jayce withdraws his hand. Viktor watches him out of the corner of his eye as he leans forward and kisses the golden protrusion beneath his chest. It feels no different, but Viktor shudders from the intimacy of it, his throat clamping down on a whimper. Jayce lingers there, for a moment, his breath condensing against cool metal.

Jayce is slow to resume, but resume he does. His fingertip slots into the entrance, a tight fit, and his other hand grips Viktor’s hip, to hold him steady; Viktor grasps his forearm.

“Don’t pull back,” Viktor says, “no matter what.”

Jayce does not readily agree, but neither does he refuse. He creeps his digit forward until he meets resistance. It is just as it was last time: intense and exhilarating. Viktor’s body lurches towards that singular point, flexing inwards. His vision is impinged and the violet light beneath his skin springs to life. Prepared for this reaction, Viktor is somewhat able to curb it. He clenches his jaw and holds his breath and squeezes Jayce’s arm.

As commanded, Jayce holds his position. Slowly but surely, Viktor’s body acclimates to their constant connection. His vision clears, his limbs relax, and the gentle thrum of electricity continues. Viktor exhales, daring to breathe once more.

“What do you feel?” Viktor asks. The metallic timbre in his voice deepens.

“It’s hard to say,” says Jayce, “with how little I’m touching. But it doesn’t feel like metal. More like a sort of… mucous membrane.”

Viktor nods, as well as he is able to. This comes as no surprise, considering the existence of his esophagus, the presence of mucus therein, and the air that moves in and out of his thoracic cavity.

Jayce still hasn’t moved. He watches Viktor closely, eyes swimming with concern.

“You okay?” Jayce asks.

“Mm, I think so.”

Viktor takes a deep breath, and in doing so his chest expands: the fibrous net gives way beneath Jayce’s fingertip. There is a sharp, painful stab. The edges of his vision go white. The pounding of Jayce’s heartbeat throbs in his head, his hands and feet, between his legs. The pain fades and blooms into an electrified current. It is an alien sensation. Indescribable.

“You pushed past it,” Viktor rasps. His ability to maintain fine control over his movements is fading fast.

“I’m sorry,” says Jayce. He must have felt it too. He is brave to hold steady, but by the sound of his voice, he is losing his nerve. “I didn’t mean to.”

“...Keep going.”

Viktor’s voice is a strained, resonant whisper. His head has tilted to the side, his neck unable to properly support the weight of his head; his view of Jayce is hindered by heavy eyelids.

Jayce does his best to stabilize himself, but the shiver he suffers as he receives this command reaches Viktor as well. Jayce has broken through the web, and as he moves forward he breaches another, and another, and another - each one weaker than the last; and as they grow weaker, the stronger the feedback they send. Every one of his nerves, or whatever their equivalent is, is alight with pinpricks that numb and catch fire all at once, and Jayce… Jayce is all around him, inside of him, filling him with his life… It feels, it feels… It feels incredible. Past the initial pain, past the initial discomfort: there could be no other way to describe it. Viktor ceases his resistance and lets the sensation wash over him.

“Ah, J— Jayce… It’s…” The rest of Viktor’s words come out in a messy slur. His lack of resistance causes his spine to bow. Everything above his shoulders seizes up, his eyes clamping shut.

“What’s wrong? Should I stop?” Jayce stays his hand.

Viktor’s lips purse together. He cannot unpurse them, as much as he tries.

“Mm-mm,” is all Viktor can manage.

He attempts to shake his head. He feels it twitch unnaturally. He gives in to the bowing of his spine, leaning towards Jayce. Trapped behind his closed lips, a high-pitched whine reverberates in his throat, up into his mouth; Jayce’s finger slips deeper, and the whine deepens with it, warping into a moan that drips with eroticism.

Viktor cannot see him but he can discern the change in Jayce in other ways. He can hear his breath hitch; he can sense the shift in the air; he can perceive his heart as it skips a beat and resumes at a maddening pace. It is the precise moment Jayce realizes what he is doing, and what it means.

“Viktor.”

His voice is full of many different things. It is a delight to the ears.

Silence settles over them. Neither of them move. Then, suddenly, Jayce pulls out and away: his finger comes free with a sticky squelch, and the connection between them ceases to be. Viktor whimpers.

“Here,” Jayce is saying, somewhere above him. “This angle’s no good.”

The mattress sinks with Jayce’s added weight. He swings his leg behind Viktor, supporting his teetering form all the while. He settles in, closer, propping Viktor up against his chest; his legs extend out on either side of him. Jayce kisses his neck, behind his ear. In this brief time apart, Viktor begins to regain his bearings: his eyes crack open, and he hoists his leaden arm up and backwards, carding his fingers through Jayce’s hair. He allows his head to loll against Jayce’s shoulder.

“Jayce,” he whispers. His lower lip trembles. “Jayce, I need… I—”

“I know, I’ve got you,” Jayce speaks against his temple. His hand is back at that wanting entrance, tracing circles over it as if it were human flesh. In a quieter voice, he says, “I love when you say my name, Viktor.”

With an angle more to his liking, Jayce slots his middle finger into the screwhole. Already, the membrane within has begun to reconstitute itself, and as Jayce’s finger passes through it tears open again, as if it were the first time. Viktor’s body tenses and jerks, his limbs flexing and extending; the hand in Jayce’s hair tightens its grip, entirely instinctual. Jayce gasps from the pain but he does not complain; instead, he strengthens his hold on Viktor, keeping him secure.

Whatever worries Jayce had in regard to potential harm have been cast to the wayside. He drives his finger in until it can go no further, his knuckle sealing the entrance.

“Hah!” Once more, the air in his chest is evacuated.

This impetuous roughness of his comes as a shock. For a moment, Viktor goes entirely numb. A cold wave creeps up from his extremities, and as it reaches his core it is dispelled by a rush of warm pleasure. Tears well up in his eyes.

“So, gh… Hm!”

Jayce laughs, airy and incredulous. “Can you hear yourself? You sound obscene.”

Viktor can, in fact, hear himself, but he is only half in control of what noises come out of him. If he sounds obscene, it is Jayce’s fault. Jayce uses his other hand to rub the two bolts beneath. He pulls his finger back, then re-inserts it, slowly. A long, low whine drones within Viktor: it stops and starts in time with his spasming neck, shifts in pitch with each millimeter of progress Jayce makes.

“I can’t believe this,” Jayce says against his ear. The vibration of his voice, firm against Viktor’s back, heightens the effect of his handiwork. “It’s amazing. Like you're sucking me in.”

Jayce moves his finger in and out, quickening his tempo, as if he were fucking into Viktor. The line separating their existence, where Jayce ends and Viktor begins, grows increasingly murky. From this miniscule point of contact, Jayce’s pulse becomes his own, he is within and without, hot and cold, solid and liquid, everywhere and nowhere. Viktor’s face pinches, hard; eyes shut tight, tears leak readily from the corners, streaming down his cheeks.

“I’ve got you,” Jayce reaffirms; he sounds stiff with arousal.

His knuckle straining white against the entrance, Jayce swirls his finger around, ripping through the adjacent fibers, disturbing whatever he can reach. Viktor’s body pulls taut and relaxes, back and forth, over and over. Pain and pleasure intertwine and it is so stimulating and so, so good.

“Oh! Jay—! Jayce… ” Viktor holds his name in his mouth as a drawn-out hiss. The words are forced out of him by reflex. Anymore he thinks to say comes out as a nonsensical jumble, a melodic whirr.

Jayce buries his mouth against the crook of Viktor’s neck. His skin is damp with sweat and Viktor can taste the salt on him as he moves inside his core. He whirls his finger around one last time. Jayce hooks his finger and scrapes his blunt nail against the inner wall of Viktor’s body.

Viktor’s eyes snap open. Everything is red. His jaw unclenches; the wail that erupts from him is otherworldly, a cacophony produced of metal and flesh. His body quivers and his limbs convulse and twitch like a dying machine: totally inhuman. Violet energy escapes where it can as arcs of electricity that vanish into the air. The red in his vision is overtaken by white until he cannot see at all. Jayce scrapes and scrapes and every atom within him oscillates with ecstasy. The sensation continues until it becomes overwhelming, unbearable; Viktor’s whine peters out into a long exhale, devoid of sound.

Sensing his role has neared completion, Jayce withdraws, carefully. It was right to put trust in his intuition. Viktor cannot see it but he can sense a part of him leaving with Jayce’s finger, clinging to it; Jayce shakes it free, and something thick and sticky snaps back inside of him.

Viktor goes completely slack, his dead weight supported by Jayce. His face is wet with tears and saliva dribbles out of his open mouth. Jayce kisses his forehead, his temple, and then shifts backwards. He grabs Viktor’s malleable hand and holds it to his painfully hard erection; in just a few shallow thrusts he comes with a grunt. Rather than bask in the afterglow, he attends Viktor: he lifts a corner of the bedsheet, and uses it to wipe dry his soiled face. Once finished, he hugs Viktor close, positioning them so Viktor’s forehead rests comfortably against his neck.

“That was…” Jayce is at a total loss. “...Unexpected.”

Viktor would laugh if he could. To him, Jayce sounds far off, as if he were speaking from another room, or outside the window. They sit like this for a long while. Strength slowly returns to Viktor, enough for him to move himself, though he is left enervated, both physically and mentally.

Eventually, Jayce jostles Viktor, gently. “You okay?”

“Mm.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that. Did you know what was going to happen, when you had me do this?”

Viktor musters an answer, his mouth moving like molasses. “No.”

“I’m glad I didn’t melt that screwdriver down,” says Jayce. “Oh, right - speaking of. Can you sit up on your own?”

“Mm.”

Jayce untangles himself and climbs off the bed. He makes sure Viktor is true to his word before he returns Viktor to rights with the speed and delicacy he’s honed over many years. The finger that had been inside Viktor is raw with irritation; there is a red ring by his knuckle, where his circulation had been cut off. Afforded a full view of Viktor’s face, Jayce smiles.

“You look like you want to fall asleep.”

Viktor tries to return the smile, but likely fails. “Join me?”

“I will,” says Jayce. “But I need a bath, and a change of clothes. Here, let me help you lay down.”

It isn’t necessary, but why should Viktor refuse? He is always so glad to lend his aid. Jayce supports his unwieldy weight, tucks a pillow under his head, and covers him with the sheet. He kisses Viktor in his usual, sweet way. Such affection, such care: if Jayce continues to fill him up, Viktor is liable to burst.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. He turns to go.

“Jayce.”

He stops. “What is it?”

Viktor looks up at him. He cannot think of how to say it.

“...Goodnight.”

He closes his eyes, and wills himself into unconsciousness.

✤

In the afternoon of a late autumn day, the pale sun shines through flagging, flickering leaves. To the east, dark clouds encroach upon clear sky. The storm season is soon to arrive, and the wharf and the farmlands beyond the walls teem with activity; the streets between them serve their purpose in the purest sense, the townspeople eager to escape the coming rain. Viktor watches the weather transition, at peace. He takes shelter behind the terrace door, and soon fat drops of rain smack against the glass. Blurred images move in the air beyond the glass: a flurry of leaves, gulls blown like loose paper. The blanket of clouds brings an early darkness. Jayce is expected home late, tonight. He will likely be drenched when he arrives. On account of the seasonal weather, the wood stove in the main room has seen little use. Viktor clears it of ash and stocks it with fresh fuel and bits of useless paper, in anticipation of Jayce's return.

When he stands, a wave of dizziness overcomes him. It is unlike anything he’s ever felt, since he awoke in this body. He feels sick. That shouldn’t be possible. He braces a hand against the wall to maintain his bearings. He is cold, then he is hot; then he is cold again. That shouldn’t be possible. What is this? A wave of nausea, like it was something he ate.

Another wave of dizziness, and he falls to his knees. There’s a lump in his throat. He feels it acutely: its hardness, its small size. The base of his esophagus clamps around it and massages it upwards. Viktor gags as it ascends, spittle dripping from his lower lip, soaking into the wood floor. He heaves and chokes and holds out his hand to catch the obstruction his body expels. The object is small and smooth and comes out in short order. It passes through his mouth and drops into his ready palm.

Coated in saliva, no larger than the end of his thumb, gleaming pure blue: the acceleration rune.

Viktor blinks back tears and catches his breath. The chill in his body remains, now for different reasons.

What? Viktor stares at it. How? As it rests in his palm, a familiar surge of energy runs up his arm, filling his core. The space around his hand distorts with latent potential. He does not understand why, but without the use of words, he understands it: this pull of power, that could move him anywhere, that could heal rotten flesh and mend broken bones, that could open and bend the minds of anyone he touches. Viktor stares at it and it stares back.

It’s ready, it seems to say, you’re ready.

Viktor shakes his head, eyes wide. He understands, he doesn’t understand. It frightens him. Why this? Why now? What does it mean? He tries to imagine what Jayce might think, what he might say. He cannot picture it: that frightens him, too. Viktor swallows, and on shaking legs, pushes to his feet. He wills himself calm but it does not work. It is good that Jayce is not here. There will be time enough to mull over its meaning, to decide how to bring it to Jayce’s attention, to determine how best to put it to use.

Viktor wipes the rune dry. He stumbles into the bedroom. On the counter and shelves beneath the window, there is a small lip beneath the countertop; his fingers quiver as he places it there, out of sight, where none would think to search. Once it is gone from his hands, the power that had gathered in them fades. Much better. It will be safe there, for now. Viktor pushes it out of his mind. He finds his calm.

✤

The storm season is upon them. Erum’s gleaming white has been enveloped in pure black. Raging clouds blot out the night sky as a stampede of rain batters the windows; the wind howls with furious bluster, shaking stone walls, threatening to tear loose the roof, rattling glass panes with each gust. Lightning illuminates the harsh edges of Erum and thunder strikes in quick succession. The storm is directly overhead. It overpowers the sound of the sea, which is surely raging: towering waves dark as ink, capped with foam, pounding at the shores of Erum, threatening to drink her whole.

The bedroom is in shadow. Three burning candles have been brought in, and their light settles against the walls in trembling spheres, banishing the dark where they rest, a serene shelter from the violence beyond. Jayce, laying on his side, sleeps peacefully; Viktor lays beside him, facing him. The bedsheets tangle about their legs, entwining them together. Most nights are spent like this, now, after Jayce is spent. Jayce’s breath is deep and slow: each exhale tickles the wisps of hair framing Viktor’s face, jostling them slightly. The candlelight casts long shadows. The outline of Jayce’s form looms large behind him, as the wall records the movements of his breath. Viktor admires the view: his handsome features, the deepened lines of his face, his beard; the small scars that cut into his lip and eyebrow; his slackened expression, the gap between his teeth; the four points on his forehead, fading like an old burn.

What has he done to deserve this? This tranquility, this tenderness. The voices of the dead are carried on the winds of this squall, but they cannot penetrate this peace, they cannot reach them. How much was sacrificed to bring them here? So many lives across so many layers of time: all for this. What has been done cannot be undone. Would it be so wrong, for some small happiness to be borne from it? Jayce, at his side, where he belongs. Jayce - his Jayce - choosing Viktor, even after all he’s wrought: death, destruction, calamity. If that was the price to obtain this, if the choice were put to him once more…

Viktor peers over Jayce’s shoulder. He sees himself: his sad eyes, his loneliness, his desperate hope; his wish fulfilled. Their eyes meet. Beneath the brim of his white hood, he smiles.

He, Viktor, smiles back.

✤

The morning after the storm is sunny and cool, with no clouds to be seen. They rise early and go about their routine. Jayce stands at the terrace door, half-dressed and sipping bitter tea, assessing what the tempest left behind.

“It looks like there’s a commotion by the docks,” Jayce says.

Viktor moves to stand beside him, following his gaze. As to be expected, the docks are in a sorry state. Several boats have been hurled onto land, while others float in the bay, capsized; mainmasts have snapped, sails torn to shreds. The corpses of silver fish reflect the sun as they sit in the streets. Many buildings along the shore have lost their windows, and some their doors; personal belongings and debris are strewn about.

Viktor can see a gathering crowd, but cannot see why. “What is it?”

Jayce points. “I think the lighthouse might’ve been struck by lightning.”

The lighthouse: it erupts into his vision, a spire of immaculate white, towering over all else. It splits the skyline. It obstructs the boundless horizon. The flame within the lantern room has been snuffed out, the storm panes surrounding it shattered. The metal muntins meant to hold them in place have been warped and twisted, like gnarled branches. The stone platform on the outer edge has fallen away, leaving only half of it intact.

“I’m going to check it out,” says Jayce.

“I’ll go with you,” says Viktor, though he desires not to. The thought of approaching it fills him with dread.

They ready themselves and head out. They navigate through detritus as they go, stepping around clumps of seaweed and torn fishing nets and driftwood, until they arrive at the foot of the lighthouse. The crowd has grown in size. Seen up close, the damage to the lantern room and the stone gallery around it is severe. Sisuca, the blacksmith, is here; she waves Jayce over.

Jayce rests a hand on his shoulder. “I should go see if I can help,” he says.

“Must you?” Viktor asks.

“There aren’t many people that can work with the steel up there. I can’t leave it all to Sisuca.”

Viktor hesitates, but cedes with a nod. “Be careful. You always push yourself too far.”

“I will.” Jayce smiles, squeezes his shoulder. “If I didn’t push myself, I wouldn’t be me.”

How right he is. Viktor watches his retreating back, fond.

Jayce, Sisuca, and a few others go inside, to ascend to the top. Close as Viktor is, he cannot see when Jayce and the others have reached the lantern room; the angle is too steep. Viktor steps backwards, until he can see the hints of bodies moving around the extinguished flame. Then, through the broken glass, Jayce emerges. He searches for Viktor from on high, and waves when he sees him. Viktor waves back.

Sisuca joins him, and they inspect the state of a thick steel muntin: it has been warped at the center, melted from the heat of lightning, and has twisted out of place. It will need to be cut away and replaced, which will be no small task. Several of these steel muntins have bent away from the lighthouse, making them difficult to reach - but Jayce will not be deterred. He steps out onto the stone gallery, standing near the precipice of where it has collapsed. He affords himself a better view of the beam he seeks, taking stock of what needs to be mended. Viktor and the rest of Erum look on.

Jayce braces himself and leans forward to survey an even more distant beam. The stone gallery, already precarious, crumbles beneath his feet. He reaches out to grab the warped beam, but his grip falters, his hand slips. He falls. The back of his head collides with a ledge on the way down. He lands on his neck with a sickening crack.

Everything stops. Everyone is still. The crowd stares at Jayce’s crumpled form, where white stone is slowly staining red.

Viktor cannot think; he cannot breathe. He cannot look away.

He stumbles forward. An ear splitting noise pierces his brain. The pain is immense; Viktor clasps his hands to the side of his head and falls to his knees. It hurts. The people of Erum have not moved: they look to the sky, mouths agape, crying out in perfect unison. Their voices blend into a harsh dissonance, pitching upwards into an unearthly screech. It grows louder and it hurts. It hurts! The pain travels from Viktor’s ears to his face, between his eyes. Something warm and wet leaks from his ears, his nose. The pain between his eyes is searing, white-hot, like an axe has been driven into his skull. His vision blurs. Everything goes dark.

✣

“Viktor. Viktor?”

He is shaken, jarred awake.

The rousing of his consciousness is less like rising from a good night’s sleep and more akin to shaking off sedation; the span between wakefulness is unclear. The moments before oblivion - however long it lasted - are equally unclear. He raises his head, which had been resting in his arms. Sunlight streams through the window. There is a dull ache between his eyes. He winces.

“You okay?”

Jayce is above him. He is sitting, propped up by pillows, in their bed. There is a clean bandage wrapped around his head. Viktor kneels on the floor beside him. He must have fallen asleep here, staying by Jayce’s side. The memories begin to pour in: why they are here, why Jayce is in the state he is. Viktor straightens up, frowning.

“I’m fine. And you? How are you feeling?”

“In one piece, as you can see.” Jayce places his palms against the mattress, and pushes himself more upright. “What happened?”

“You—” Viktor assembles the jumble of memories, stringing them into something coherent. “You fell from the lighthouse. Thankfully you were not too badly hurt. Some of the townspeople carried you here, and tended to you.”

His mind races. He sees Jayce falling and—

“How long have I been out?” Gingerly, Jayce touches the side of his head, feeling the bandage there. 

“A day, thereabouts.”

Jayce sighs. “I must’ve given you quite a scare.”

“Yes, you did,” Viktor says, accusatory. He grabs Jayce’s hand, and clings to it; he draws it close, and holds it to his forehead, hiding his stricken expression from view. “I didn’t want you to go, and look what happened! Why didn’t you listen? I thought I had lost you. I couldn’t—”

The words are strangled in his throat by a surge of negativity. He grinds his teeth together, a burning sensation behind his eyes. The fear had been immense. It’s alright now, isn’t it? Here is Jayce, his Jayce, at his side, hale and whole. Here he is: but the more the memory of his fall becomes clear, the closer that fear draws. The sound of his head colliding with the ledge, how the people of Erum gasped and shouted and rushed to his aid before Viktor could process what had happened; the pain in his mind, as if it was being split in two. He cannot lose him. He can’t.

“Hey,” Jayce speaks softly. He tries to pull his hand away, allowing Viktor to relinquish it on his own. He pats the empty space beside him.

Viktor pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. They are face to face. Jayce reaches out to him, brushing his knuckles over Viktor’s jaw, tucking his hair behind his ear, cupping his cheek. Viktor puts his hand over his, holding him there, leaning into its warmth, grateful that he can feel it so closely on his human flesh.

“I’m sorry,” says Jayce. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s not what you should be apologizing for.”

Jayce grunts. “I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

Viktor manages a feeble smile. “That’s better.” He pauses. His smile breaks. In a smaller voice, says, “I’m so glad.”

“Oh, come on,” Jayce says, cocksure. “I’ve had worse.”

A bit of bravado, to better comfort Viktor. He is too kind, too good. Viktor studies his face, still worn from his fall and the deep sleep of his recovery. His beard will need to be trimmed. Beneath the thin layer of bandages, the luminous fingerprints upon his forehead shine through. Viktor removes the hand at his cheek, and plants a kiss on the back of it. They sit in silence, savoring the here and now. They cannot look away from each other. After a time, Jayce’s eyes grow unfocused, the barest of movements in his irises; his back relaxes into the pillows.

“What are you thinking, Jayce?”

“I had a pleasant dream,” he says. He closes his eyes. “I was trying to remember it.”

✤

Despite Viktor’s protests, Jayce is back on his feet the next day. News of his recovery spreads quickly. A flood of people come by, bearing gifts: dried fruit and brown bread and cured fish, salted just the way he likes; a bottle of wine, an herbal blend of tea purported to soothe all ailments; a worn sackcloth stained by a collection of seasonal berries, gathered by children; a large bouquet of flowers and decorative leaves, a candle infused with the scent of pomegranate. The cleanup after the storm has progressed in a short time. The streets have been cleared of debris, taking the pungent smell of the sea with them; the boats that could be put to rights have been moored. Jayce watches from behind the terrace doors, and points out to Viktor the rapid progress that has been made on the lighthouse already. Better they do so on their own, Viktor thinks, but does not speak aloud.

Jayce removes his bandage when Viktor isn’t looking. The wound is healing quickly. A nasty bruise blooms on the side of his head: red and blue and black, like squashed grapes. Most of it is hidden by his hair, with a few tendrils managing to reach his temple, his cheekbone. He bears it well, and complains that his leg hurts more than his head. He is hungry, and eats well; Viktor allows him one glass of wine, but no more. They sit on the terrace afterwards, a ritual that will soon come to an end, as cold winds blow down from the hills, and the sun grows ever more timid.

Come nightfall, Jayce makes love to Viktor in one of the few ways he can. He slings Viktor’s knees over his shoulder, pressed tight together, and thrusts his oil-slicked cock through the space between his thighs, gliding against the smooth plane of Viktor’s crotch. Viktor lays on his back, engrossing himself in the excruciating intimacy of the eye contact Jayce insists upon. Jayce takes his time, indulging as he edges himself, drinking in the sight of Viktor as he gazes down at him, lips parted and cheeks red. Viktor takes deep breaths; his body senses little, but his mind races with excitement: Jayce’s love for him, the pleasure he is so eager to take from Viktor’s body.

Viktor glances down, watching Jayce slide his cock through the small gap he has fashioned for himself. It doesn’t seem right, that this is what Jayce must settle for. How much better would it be, if Viktor were still made of flesh? He imagines how good it would feel, how right it would be, if their bodies could fit together, if Jayce could fill him up and fuck him properly. In the heat of this moment, more than anything, Viktor wishes for a body that can accept Jayce; he wants to experience that ecstasy, he wants to be worshiped by him, he wants to be good for him. He must.

Jayce turns his head and plants a wet kiss on the side of Viktor’s knee, as if seeking the return of Viktor’s attention, as if intuiting his insecurity, as if reading his mind.

“You’re perfect, Viktor,” Jayce mutters, lips dragging against Viktor’s skin. “You’re perfect for me.”

Viktor bites his lip. Emotion wells up inside him. The burgeoning warmth in the back of his mind blooms: flourishing and sweet. His heart feels the weight of its ripening fruit, its terrible burden. This devotion. For how long did his mirror image nurture this feeling, all alone, bereft as he was? With Jayce at his side - Jayce, Jayce, his Jayce - it was an inevitability.

Viktor wants to laugh, he wants to cry.

“Jayce.”

Their eyes meet. There is an empty space at the base of Viktor’s throat, and it is full to bursting.

“I love you, Jayce. I love— love you. We were meant to be together. Since the beginning.”

A tremor runs across Jayce’s face. Viktor can see his throat tense, his brows furrow.

“Oh Viktor. I, ah, love you so— I love you…”

The words pour out of Jayce, over and over, strung together in a mantra. He squeezes Viktor’s legs closer together, rutting roughly between them. His rhythm is erratic, enthusiastic. Chanting and gasping for air, he chases his orgasm with a single mind and soon it is upon him, erupting from him with a hoarse shout, startling him with its intensity. He rides it to completion, humping a handful more times through Viktor’s thoroughly slicked thighs. Viktor can feel the wetness on his abdomen, and cups his hands beneath where it threatens to spill.

Jayce takes laboring breaths and wipes the sweat from his brow. He’s in a daze.

“Jayce,” Viktor whispers. “Towel.”

He blinks. “Right, sorry.”

Jayce reaches behind him, grabbing some of the stock they’ve since been keeping nearby. They tend to themselves in silence, stealing glances at each other. Viktor is glad that his body is so resilient to filth; a thin layer of stickiness will remain, but he will not be able to sense it. Jayce must be glad for it too: once they’ve both finished he snatches the towel from Viktor’s hands and tosses it to the floor. He lays beside Viktor, eager to be near.

“I love you, too,” Jayce whispers against his ear.

Viktor shivers. There is a raw feeling in his chest, like he’s been hollowed out, but it is strangely gratifying. A consolatory emptiness. It wants to be filled again. And again.

“So you were saying.”

He rolls over onto this side and kisses Jayce, tender and amorous. Viktor can feel Jayce smiling against him. His heart, whatever state it is in, sings with joy; his body is light with elation, threatening to float to the heavens on severed strings. His head spins when Jayce pulls away.

“You’re getting good at this,” Jayce teases. He props up his head in his hand, and with his other he touches the gold protruding beneath Viktor’s sternum, letting him feel his settling pulse, his energy.

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Viktor. “I’ve long since surpassed you.”

Jayce raises an eyebrow. “That’s a bold claim.”

Viktor smirks. “We should arrange a competition. Then we’ll see.”

“Fine by me. How does tomorrow night sound?”

“That doesn’t sound fair. You won’t have enough time to practice.”

Jayce clicks his tongue. Like any good challenger, he knows when to give in. The competition will commence regardless. Jayce presses the pad of his forefinger to the head of the bolt beneath his sternum, filling the notch with his soft flesh, his heartbeat. Viktor hums, eyelashes fluttering.

“How does your head feel?” Viktor asks.

“It feels great, when all my blood is elsewhere.”

“Is that so? It’s a shame you can’t keep it up indefinitely.”

“Hm.” Jayce slides his hand up Viktor’s chest, to the gold upon his clavicle; he travels up his neck, and drags his thumb over Viktor’s lower lip. “I could try.”

“Try to get more practice in, you mean.” Viktor kisses his thumb, before returning Jayce’s hand to its proper place beneath his chest. “Now answer me properly.”

“It’s fine,” Jayce insists. He allows himself to be directed, and traces circles over the numerous bolts there. “I’m fine. It’s just a minor bruise, it’ll heal in no time. It won’t even leave a scar.”

“I don’t want you doing anything demanding until it’s healed,” says Viktor.

“Anything demanding,” Jayce echoes. “Like what we were just doing?”

“That’s very clever, Jayce. Tell me, if I say ‘yes’ to that, what would your plan be?”

“I’d put myself at your mercy, and beg you not to amuse yourself at the expense of an injured man.”

“Suddenly you want a great deal of credit for a ‘minor bruise.’”

“I must deserve it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have received so many gifts.” Jayce speaks with an affectation of smugness, but his statement has merit.

“Yes, you’ve always been very popular,” Viktor says.

“I don’t mean to,” Jayce says with a beleaguered sigh. “Did I tell you the mayor invited me to attend the next town committee meeting? Despite my not being on the committee…”

“That’s quite an honor. Did you give him an answer?”

“Not yet, no. I’m still not sure why he wants me there in the first place. Besides, what would I say? Just because I know my way around a forge, doesn’t mean I know this place even half as well. We’ve only been here the better part of a year.”

“You’re a man of many talents,” says Viktor, “it’s only natural you’d be called upon. It may be your destiny.”

Jayce grimaces. “I hope not.”

“It’s entirely your decision,” says Viktor. “If you do decide to attend, it’s not as if you’re obligated to return. And if they give you any trouble, you can… I don’t know, take your cock out and see what they say to that.”

“Whenever I tried that with the Council, it always made things worse.”

Viktor laughs, and so too does Jayce. Oh, how Viktor has come to savor his smile, and he can see how Jayce likewise revels in Viktor’s own joy. Viktor reaches out to touch him: he brushes his hair, his cheek, avoiding the bruise there; he traces the line of his jaw, down his neck, over his shoulder; he tickles his arm, gooseflesh traveling in his wake. There is no texture to be felt, and only the smallest hint of heat, but the felicity it brings Jayce is well worth it.

After a pause, Jayce asks, “Do you ever wonder why you’ve lost all the power you had?”

Conversations with Jayce can be like this: darting off at odd angles, ending up in places one wouldn’t expect.

“Sometimes,” Viktor takes his time to answer. “Why, do you?”

“Every once in a while,” Jayce admits.

It surprises Viktor, momentarily, how comfortable this sort of topic has become, for Jayce to broach it with such ease. The back of his mind is drawn towards the corner of the room, the counter, the shelves: where he’s hidden it. An attenuated anxiety creeps into his mind, filling the blank spaces that have drifted away from Jayce.

“I wish I could tell you why,” says Viktor, “but I do not understand it myself. Perhaps it took all of what I had to send us here. Alive, and intact.”

Jayce must perceive the subtle shift in his mood: he grasps Viktor’s hand, and squeezes it.

“That’s always been my first thought, too.”

“Do you have other theories?”

“Not many.” Jayce stalls. “There have been times where I wondered if you sealed them off yourself, subconsciously.”

An interesting hypothesis. Viktor’s eyebrows raise as he considers this. If it is true, what could be done about it? His own body produced the answer, and it sits in this very room.

“...That would be very troublesome of me.”

Jayce pokes fun at him, “You have a tendency to be troublesome.”

Viktor glances to the space between them, where Jayce holds his hand.

“I hope you would forgive me,” says Viktor, “if that were the case."

“If you have to wonder about that, I’ve been doing something wrong,” Jayce says, emphatic and exasperated all at once.

Whatever Viktor has done to deserve this, it seems almost sinful to question it now. Viktor returns the squeeze to Jayce’s hand, and submerges himself in this love; it washes over him, a soothing elixir for any disquieted mind. His anxiety, his guilt: they drift away, his heart moved by Jayce, as the moon moves the tides.

“Why do you ask, Jayce? Did you want to leave already?”

“No, not at all,” says Jayce. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to live in a place like this.”

“Really?” Viktor looks at him.

“Yeah. A small town by the sea. Quiet and peaceful, white stone, friendly people. And windmills. I used to sketch landscapes like this all the time…” He trails off, indulging in a brief reverie. Then, he asks, “What about you? Do you like it here?”

Viktor smiles.

“I do. So long as you’re with me.”

Jayce reaches out, and pulls Viktor to him.

They touch, they kiss; they drink in each other’s breath, savor each other’s taste, drawing so close as to meld together. Time melts away, until Jayce’s vigor is restored: he presses his sex against Viktor, and Viktor takes him into his mouth until he is undone once more. Afterwards, they lay as they were before. Jayce beholds Viktor until a deep slumber takes hold of him. His eyes tremble beneath their lids, and the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. His pleasant dream has returned to him.

✤

In the small hours of the morning, Viktor has yet to sleep.

He watches Jayce as he dreams. Jayce, his partner, his Jayce: precious to him, bound to his very soul. Viktor’s mind is restless - too restless to induce his own sleep - with thoughts of Jayce and a myriad of other visions, swirling together like a palette of spilled paint. Past, present, future. He feels their familiar pull, and in a cautious hush, Viktor rises to his feet and dresses himself. He takes the rune out of hiding. It hums against his palm, filling him with its power.

When his first death drew near, creeping and inevitable, it had been many years since Viktor reminisced on his early life; he was certain he had pushed the past into the street and locked the door behind it. But Jayce has broken in, and now Viktor has no defense against his memories. They have recapitulated themselves, and on this quiet night, he finds himself cloaked in the climate of his childhood. He descends the abandoned streets, wrapped in meditation, like a monk. His dreamed disciples follow far behind, with their golden souls and forgotten faces. His mind stirs and turns; the Undercity works away at him, distant but near. He tries to tether it to the here and now, but it strays, scenting the space around him: soiled clothes and poisoned water, rotting fish, acrid oils, smog, filth, warm broth, the lanes and wharves of his boyhood.

Viktor finds himself at the end of one such wharf, drawn there unconsciously. The tide is high and the moon is full; it reflects on calm waters, a shimmering road of silver light. He has been here before, a place just like it. A memory floats to the surface: before he left the Undercity behind, before he ascended to Piltover. He, Viktor, on the cusp of manhood, his toy boat in hand: precious to him. The last remnant of his childhood. He winds it for its final journey and sets it on the water. It drifts into the dark, where the river will swallow it, where the river keeps it still.

Viktor holds the rune in his open hand. It glimmers beneath the night sky, shining blue.

It speaks without words: It’s ready for you. You may go now.

He curls his fingers around it, grasping it in his fist. Its energy courses through him. He feels its subtle weight, its growing power. He tosses the rune into the sea. It catches the moonlight one last time before it sinks beneath the waves, and disappears.