Chapter Text
It takes the better half of a month, but eventually, the workshop gets finished.
It stands just beside the cottage, close enough that Viktor is able to hear the faint ring of hammer on metal from the kitchen and smell the shavings of wood when the door is left open. The timbers are straight, the walls weather-tight—their handiwork etched in every line and joint of the structure. It is by no means grand or ostentatious like their lab had been, but he finds himself proud of it nonetheless.
Even if he cannot bring himself to linger inside for more than a few moments without feeling uneasy.
That was fine. He preferred to watch from the threshold, to let Jayce move freely without interruption, hands dusted with sawdust and sweat, entirely absorbed in his work. His participation was not needed, so it was only sensible not to offer it, telling himself that his role was better suited to observation than interference despite the other man's less than subtle attempts to coax him into assisting him on a project.
The truth was simpler, and far less flattering: he had not been ready to share that space with him. Not yet.
The workshop is still relatively new, but Jayce has already received a few commissions, most from the neighboring townsfolk who had received his work before. So far, the patrons have comprised of an elderly woman soothing her arthritis with personalized cane, a young couple commissioning the restoration of a delicate music box for their newborn, and their neighbor, Rina—a young woman whom Viktor had taken a liking to immediately on the singular basis that she had brought a whole tray of baked pastries for them as a housewarming gift—who had requested assistance for a broken clock.
Viktor has no doubt that, with Jayce's expertise and skill, there will soon be many more.
Stepping across the doorway, Viktor enters the workshop with a tray in hand, carrying a small assortment of bread and cheese, still warm from the oven. The noise draws Jayce’s head up from where he was seated by the workbench, and for a moment, Viktor allows himself to simply watch the way his hair sticks faintly to his forehead, the dust tracing along the handsome line of his jaw.
"Since you have undoubtedly forgotten to eaten," Viktor explains without being asked, placing the tray beside the various tools strewn about.
Jayce looks up from the preliminary sketch he was drafting and smiles, the sort that softened everything about him. Affection gentles his voice. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Viktor does not let the shiver that runs down the length of his frame show outside of a barely perceptible twitch of his fingers, instead only acknowledging the appreciation with a tight, "You are welcome."
His voice does not shake, but he's sure the warmth that has risen to his cheeks has given way to a slight flush that stubbornly refuses to fade. Jayce has become more liberal with his usage of endearments recently, extending them beyond the bedroom and into casual conversation, and the shift has been nothing short of frustrating.
Especially since Jayce isn't even doing it intentionally.
Before Viktor can retreat, Jayce's arm winds around his waist, pulling him closer until he is nestled comfortably against the taller man's side. He doesn't protest, going easily, and a kiss is pressed to his shoulder in reward.
Mind and body easing at the contact, Viktor's eyes flicker curiously over the drawing before him, the schematic only half-finished. "What is this one for?"
"A bracket for that hearth hook you keep saying we need," Jayce answers while his hand dips to rest over Viktor's lower back, the warmth of his skin soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. "An easy enough design, but ah, well, what do you think? Should I alter the angle of the curve here, or leave it straight?"
Viktor traces the lines of the sketch, noting the precision Jayce has already achieved. His opinion is unnecessary, and yet indisputably wanted. He is not so oblivious as to assume that this isn't another one of Jayce's efforts to include him in his work, but he finds his usual reservations momentarily absent in the face of his friend's—lover's?—earnest inquiry.
Viktor inclines his head in thought, finger brushing over the corner of the page. “Hm. The angle already appears sufficient," he determines, leaning his cheek upon Jayce's shoulder just slightly. "It should provide the necessary leverage while maintaining stability."
He pauses, continuing, "Though you may wish to taper the end to prevent undue stress on the mount over time. It would not compromise function, but it could prolong its longevity."
Jayce hums appreciatively, taking his advice with an understanding nod. Viktor already knows he will implement it. "Thought you might say that,” he smiles, chuckling. "But I figured I'd run it by you anyway."
Jayce doesn't release him just yet, and the feeling of his hand stroking absentmindedly down his spine and waist feels too pleasant to interupt. After a moment, Jayce captures his attention again by speaking.
"Would you mind looking over some of the other sketches I made?" He asks with a hopeful look of quiet anticipation, his breath warm against the side of Viktor’s ear. “I have a few commissions I haven't started on yet and—well, I’d like to hear your thoughts."
A little too quickly, he remedies, "If you aren't busy, of course."
I would do whatever you asked of me.
Viktor shifts, his head resting more firmly against Jayce’s shoulder when he gets tugged closer, letting his weight be supported in full. "I am not currently occupied. You may show me."
Jayce's eyes crinkle happily, and Viktor thinks he would be content witnessing nothing else until the sun falls below the horizon and does not rise again.
"Great. There aren't too many so I won't keep you here that long." Jayce reaches over to slide a few sketches in front of him, all detailing a variety of different mechanisms and fittings. "There's one in particular I want you to take a look at first, it's been annoying me all morning..."
Jayce's hand slides a little lower along Viktor’s waist as he speaks, stroking the slowly increasing softness along his hips before drifting to the top of his thigh, comforted by the feel of him in his arms.
Viktor's pulse stirs at the contact, but it is so familiar to him now that it does not distract him from listening to Jayce's voice as he continues explaining the outline, detailing the subtle curves and notches, the places where leverage would matter the most. He follows the lines with his eyes, his mind partially on the papers before him and partially on the heat of Jayce’s hand lingering along the swell of his upper thigh, his bare upper thigh.
He hadn't had the chance to change into something more decent, wearing only what he slept in the night before—a soft cotton shirt and shorts that end mid-thigh. He had thrown on a robe before he had left, but it does little to conceal his body from Jayce's hands, which have now begun to play with the lace trim at the hem.
Jayce tilts his head downward, lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath Viktor’s ear as he murmurs softly. "Still listening?"
Ironically, Jayce's mouth drifts lower then, brushing along the line of Viktor’s jaw before trailing down to the column of his throat where a mole rests. It's a mindless movement, like the amount of skin on display had distracted him and he just couldn't help himself.
Viktor tilts his head a fraction, letting him have his way. A sigh leaves his lips before he can smother it, catching. "I think the more appropriate question would be are you?"
Jayce’s lips linger, unhurried, his breath hot against his throat as though he had every right to have him here, half-dressed and standing among blueprints and filings. And he does.
Viktor has made sure to leave little doubt of that.
"You know," Jayce begins conversationally, hands moving to grip him firm around the waist. "I seem to have lost my train of thought."
Viktor gasps as he's hoisted up onto the workbench, his hands instinctively seeking purchase on Jayce’s shoulders, gripping at the strength there. The taller man's arms tighten, keeping him falling. A warm grin is flashed his way, endearing and playful. "Care to remind me?"
Before he's given the chance to speak, Jayce's hand slides underneath the waistband of his shorts and underwear, thick fingers dipping between the soaked folds of his cunt while his thumb massages the plump swell of his cock. His hips jerk, a whine spilling from mouth that he can't stifle, soft and high and utterly whorish.
"Hm?" Jayce prompts when he doesn't answer, sounding far too pleased as he plays with him.
"You—" Viktor starts, face burning red as arousal pools deep in his belly, drenching Jayce's fingers. He squirms. "You are insufferably—"
Jayce laughs, low and filthy, and the roughness of it is so unfairly attractive that his thighs squeeze around the hand in-between them. And then he's being kissed, and all rational leaves him just as quickly as his voice, replaced by shuddering, muffled little moans pressed against Jayce’s lips.
As a reward, he gets two fingers stuffed inside of him, sliding deep and curling expertly against that nice, spongy spot inside of him that makes his vision blur. He's still loose from the night before, his body accepting the intrusion without discomfort. Always easy for the man who holds his entire soul in his hands, always ready.
Jayce breaks the kiss but only just, lips pecking his in rapid succession, one right after the other.
"Sorry," he says breathlessly into Viktor's mouth, moving to nuzzle against his cheek, his jaw, his throat. "You just act so sweet when I touch you like this, it's hard to think straight."
Viktor shudders, clutching tighter at Jayce’s shoulders as fingers spread him open. He can hear how wet he is, obscene and loud in the quiet, his slick coating Jayce’s hand and dripping down his wrist. Shame curls through him, sharp and familiar, but it never lasts long—not when Jayce’s lips find the tender spot just beneath his ear again and start mouthing over the bruises there.
"Always letting me do whatever I want with you," Jayce continues, breathing so heavily each word sounds like a groan. "And you—God, you enjoy it so much. How could I stop?"
A flush spreads across his cheeks like a flame rekindled, embarrassment spiking his arousal even higher, if it were possible. He spares a moment to be grateful Jayce cannot see his face at the moment, certain his expression is utterly betrayed by want—as it always is whenever Jayce is near.
Jayce's fingers leave him, but Viktor does not mourn the absence for long, the other man making quick work of undressing him, an endeavor that consists of him hastily tugging his shorts and underwear down his legs and abandoning the rest.
Still in his robe, Viktor resists the temptation to cross his legs to preserve some semblance of faux modesty, but all it takes is a broad hand resting on his thigh for them to part, unfurling as he bears himself.
Jayce's pupils dilate almost instantly, the sound of his breath leaving him audible even past the blood rushing in his ears.
"Good, that's good," Jayce praises, and he sounds so desperately undone it makes Viktor's stomach twist with both arousal and something shamefully similar to satisfaction. "Lay there just like that—perfect, that's perfect, sweetheart."
Viktor, blushing so intensely he’s certain the skin beneath Jayce’s hands must be warm to the touch, follows his instructions and lays backwards against the workbench, scattering blueprints and scribbled notes around him. He is on display like this, but it does not feel subjugating. Rather, it feels like being at the center of Jayce’s entire attention, and that focus makes his blood sing in ways both electric and humiliating.
Electric because every nerve ending he possesses is alive with the awareness that he is about to be fucked, and humiliating because he's about to be fucked here.
In the workshop he helped build with his own two hands, right alongside Jayce.
He hears the sound of a buckle coming loose, the weight of metal clinking against wood as Jayce strips himself down just enough to fuck him, clothed otherwise. It's rushed, fumbling, the man clearly not wanting to waste a single second leaving him untouched, as if every moment he spends between Viktor’s parted thighs is one stolen from heaven itself.
Viktor dares a glance upward, and the sight sears him. Jayce, already flushed from labor, is near feral now, disheveled and panting like he has run a mile, every muscle drawn tight with the effort of restraint he does not truly possess.
His hands leave imprints of warmth along his sides as Jayce grips his hips, dragging him closer to the edge of the bench until his back nearly arches off the wood, legs strewn over the man's forearms.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Jayce whispers as he looks down at him, the words so raw and aching that Viktor almost wishes he had not spoken them aloud, lest he mistake them for something more than they are. Yet he cannot stop the shiver that wracks him, nor the soft, ruined sound that escapes his throat.
He forces a response, murmuring, “Flattery will not improve your precision, you know.”
Jayce only shakes his head, his forehead dropping briefly to Viktor’s sternum as though to collect himself. When he lifts it again, his pupils are blown wide, gaze drinking him in with all the hunger of a man starved. Not of pleasure, but of having his lover so thoroughly within his arms again.
“I don’t care about precision,” Jayce says hoarsely, voice breaking on the confession. His mouth seeks out his again, sloppy and deep, knowing how soft it always makes him to be kissed. “I just—need you. Right now.”
Viktor lets his limbs slacken, lashes lowering as he slumps against the table, inviting the bite of teeth and the ache of bruises. "You have me."
The groan he recieves warms his entire body, and his eyes snap open with a startled, heaving gasp when Jayce, in one brutish movement that makes his cunt flutter around nothing, yanks him forward and slides inside of him.
His back arches, seizing as he goes from uncomfortably empty to so fucking full he can feel it in his throat in the span of a few seconds. "Hnn—Jayce."
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he does not wipe them, letting them slide freely down the smooth plane of his cheeks as pain is rewritten into pleasure, pervading the very marrow of him and sinking into muscle and sinew alike.
After all, he knows Jayce likes seeing him cry.
Jayce’s hands slide to grip his thighs more securely, spreading him wider, tilting him against the edge of the workbench so that he can fuck himself deeper, knowing just how to mold his body into the perfect fit for his cock.
“Such a good boy,” Jayce groans, voice ragged, pressing his forehead to Viktor’s temple, hands holding him firmly as if the world might tear him away if he let go. He kisses his tears away in the same breath that he grinds slow and deep. “So fucking good for me.”
Viktor’s knees tremble under the force of the praise, teeth gnawing at his lower lip while a full body blush stains his cheeks and throat like rouge. Jayce grunts when he tightens involuntarily in response, one hand moving to palm over his breasts and stomach, nearly encompassing the full width of his abdomen as he splays it across his belly.
It feels nice, the warmth of him so endlessly pleasing it is a newfound bliss in and of itself, though his mind is not operating on a high enough plane to comprehend much beyond the base sensation, let alone the reasoning behind the gesture.
Which is why it takes him so long to realize that Jayce is not only pressing his hand flat against his stomach to pin him in place, but to feel the way his cock is buried inside of him, the small swell there undeniable.
An anguished moan slips past his lips, a stuttery little whine accompanying the shameless sound shortly after when Jayce jerks his hips again, as if unawaringly responding to his pleasure by granting him more of it. "Fuck. Fuck."
The next thrust is rough, unrestrained, and the strength in it sends a sharp jolt of bliss straight through him, melting his mind into sweet nothingness as his body gets used for its now intended purpose—a nice, warm little space for Jayce's cock.
Jayce noses at his temple, lapping up the sweat there as he fucks a home into him, which subsequently brings him within holding distance, a liberty Viktor takes full advantage of by draping his arms over the man's shoulders to bring him even closer, wanting to feel the full weight of him.
Jayce rails him straight into an orgasm and beyond it, pressing him flat against the wood as Viktor’s body spasms uncontrollably beneath him, keening loudly and scratching at his back.
Jayce doesn't stop, he doesn't even pause, only coos endearments at him that prolong his pleasure into soft bliss. Sensitivity leaves him sweet, mellowed and tamed like a feral thing brought to heel by a warm hand petting down its spine. It is humiliating, but only when he is coherent enough to register it, which at the moment he is not.
He knows Jayce takes an unequivocal amount of enjoyment in fucking him right out of his own head and into something soft and docile, unresisting of pleasure, affection, and everything else Jayce chooses to give.
Viktor shudders, whimpering brokenly against his shoulder Jayce's shoulder as he takes every thrust. His words are scattered, little fragments spilling out between sobs of breath. “Ah—nnh—Jayce—slow, I—”
As if knowing he does not mean it, Jayce slows only fractionally, just enough to drag out the sensation, hips grinding forward in a slow, filthy grind.
“Steady,” Jayce soothes, his lips brushing along Viktor’s shoulder in a ghost of a kiss. “I’ve got you.”
Viktor floats in that nice, warm post-orgasmic haze while Jayce grows rougher, more selfish in the pursuit of his pleasure, and even the oversensitivity can't prevent him from enjoying each thrust, savoring each groan, wanting more even when it feels as if his body can not take anymore.
He is proven wrong not even a moment later when the feeling of Jayce coming inside of him, hot and pulsing right into his womb, wrings another climax out of him, messier this time, juices dripping down his thighs and tears pooling over his cheeks.
His tongue feels too heavy for his mouth, unable to form words outside of a repeated mantra of the man's name. "Jayce." He sniffles, gasping as he tries again, "Jayce."
Jayce brushes away the damp curls of hair clinging to his forehead so he can kiss him there, voice roughened with strain. "Shh, it's okay, baby, you're okay. Breathe for me. You did so well. Can you stand?"
Viktor, unsure if he can coordinate a single limb into motion, agrees anyway, allowing himself to be hoisted to his feet by strong arms. He wobbles unsteadily, but the grip around his waist holds firm, refusing to allow him to stumble.
Jayce reaches up to wipe the last of his tears from his face, falling back on the frustratingly persistent quality of fretting after sex. "You okay? That wasn't...too much, was it?"
Viktor swallows, tasting salt, and nods once. “I am—functional,” he manages, the word clipped, though the faint tremor in his voice betrays him. “Barely.”
“Functional is perfectly fine,” Jayce smiles, guiding Viktor toward the edge of the workbench where he can steady himself. “Here, lean on me a moment.”
Viktor does, unable to substain himself otherwise, and bites his lip to withhold a shudder at the feeling of his seed starting to drip down his legs, mourning the loss while simultaneously feeling so mortified he could die from the heat flooding his face.
The situation is made infinitely worse when, instead of helping him get clean, Jayce retrieves his short and tugs them right back up his hips, pulling them over his thighs and leaving him a wet, sticky mess flushed with tears and leftover arousal.
Viktor stiffens in shock, speech caught somewhere between indignation and disbelief. "Jayce—"
The taller man's fingers press into the hollows of Viktor's hips, and when the brunet dares a glance at his face, the intensity behind his eyes makes him falter mid-sentence. They're fixated entirely on him, burning with satisfaction that gleams dangerously close to pride.
A kiss is placed to his throat, far too chaste for the filthy words that accompany it. "You can stay like this a little longer, can't you?"
Viktor swallows hard, heat flaring across his chest, cheeks, and ears. “I—this is…improper,” he protests, but there is no real conviction in the words, as if knowing Jayce is not truly asking him. He is expecting it.
His acquiesence earns him a smile, all canines. "Good," he says, satisfaction radiating from every pore. "You can head inside while I finish up here and then we can start on lunch, okay?"
Another kiss is pressed to the crown of his hair, and Viktor, helpless to deny him anything, leans into it. "Yes. Alright."
Pulling the robe tighter around himself as if that will somehow preserve a shred of dignity, Viktor hobbles to the entrance on unsteady feet. "Be quick," he mutters, almost in afterthought.
Jayce smiles at him again, and this time it's softer, similar to the ones he is used to seeing. "Always."
Viktor returns to the cottage, flushed a harsh shade of rose at the prospect of being caught like this, half-dressed and dripping his lover's come. It is unlikely anyone will visit at this time, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility.
Upon entering, he throws his robe, the fabric thoroughly ruined and likely beyond salvaging, into the laundry and wishes he could do the same to the arousal still simmering reprehensibly in his stomach, as if it had never left to begin with.
If only it were so simple.
But even the shame cannot smother the now universal truth—that he will spread his legs for Jayce again the moment he is asked.
The thought first occurs to him when he is reorganizing the pantry.
Their stores are sufficient enough for now, with sacks of flour stacked neatly beside jars of dried beans and lentils, a few baskets of potatoes and onions resting on the lower shelves, and a small assortment of preserves—courtesy of Nina—lined up in tidy rows along the top row.
The middle shelves, however, remain pitifully bare.
Most fresh food, like vegetables and fruit, is hard to come by, at least in regards to a reasonable price, that is. With their current income barely covering the necessities, prioritizing what lasts the longest and what can be purchased in abundance is more essential than purchasing anything perishable or delicate. What is brought is usually reserved for canning and preserving.
Viktor's graze unintentionally drifts to the window above the sink, to the patch of earth just beyond the fence lying bare and uneven.
The soil looks poor, damaged from previous storming, but not entirely beyond repair. With effort, he could coax something useful. Herbs, perhaps. Maybe a handful of vegetables to spare them yet another trip into town.
He drifts his fingers over the smooth rim of a jar, as if by occupying his hands he can silence the thought.
A garden implies more than produce. It implies intention. Roots. And he does not know if he has the right to put down roots here, not when so much of what he has now is borrowed, given freely by hands stronger and steadier than his own. It is easier to conceptualize the idea as a theory, a set of neat possibilities that exist only in the mind, rather than a commitment with tangible consequences.
After all, he knows nothing of cultivating plants beyond the most rudimentary principles, magical green thumb notwithstanding, and the idea of commiting to a project that would require both patience and expertise unsettles him. It is one thing to tend to the laundry, to sew or to cook, tasks that offer their reward within hours. A garden demands more. A garden asks one to believe in futures.
And Viktor, for all of his optimism in procuring a better life for those who needed it the most, has never been particularly skilled at believing in his future.
And yet, when he looks at the patch of ground again, he cannot help imagining what it might look like in bloom.
Once all of the chores have been completed, Viktor retires to the couch, book in one hand and tea in the other.
It's one of the few novels Jayce had bought secondhand for him while venturing into town, having developed a proclivity for refusing to return empty handed despite Viktor's insistence that it was unnecessary, that he had no use for such gifts, as thoughtful as the gesture might be.
His protests had, predictably, not dissuaded the man in the slightest, and Viktor isn't so prideful as to admit that he doesn't enjoy them. It is a good way to pass the time, if nothing else, and an opportunity to learn more about the little town he has taken residence in—even if he has a tendency to gravitate more towards the romantical than the practical. A guilty pleasure reserved solely for literature, and one he will never admit aloud.
Viktor is just about to bring the teacup to his lips when the sound of the front door creaking open catches his attention.
He glances up, catching sight of Jayce standing in the doorway, hair sticking to his forehead and damp from sweat. His eyes wander around the cottage as soon as he steps inside, a motion that would qualify as casual if it weren't for the hurried look in them, the slight tension in his shoulders that only abates when he finds Viktor laying on the couch.
"Viktor," he greets, and the relief there, however faint, is palpable.
Something in him lightens at the sound of his name, a thread of warmth unraveling into unhampered affection that blossoms outwards and settles deep, rooting in his ribs.
Without a word, Viktor sets the book down and opens his arms invitingly. "Come here, my love."
Jayce doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in long, swift strides, closing the distance between them until he is nestled between Viktor's legs on the couch—which is fortunately big enough to fit them both—forehead resting on his sternum and arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Viktor shifts to accommodate him, draping an arm across the broad width of his shoulders.
When the two of them get comfortable, Viktor permits himself one moment of indulgence by kissing Jayce on the temple. "Finished for the evening?"
Jayce hums softly against him, a warm, rumbling sound that vibrates through Viktor’s chest.
"Mhm," he replies into the fabric of his shirt, nuzzling his head against his stomach with a contented sigh. "Got done with everything a few minutes ago. Only thing left is to install it into the hearth tomorrow morning."
His words are muffled, half-swallowed by the brunet's clothes as his nose nudges against his stomach like a great overgrown cat seeking attention. He pauses then, "I'm not too heavy, am I?"
Viktor lets out a quiet laugh, the sound dry but no less amused. “You are heavy, yes,” he answers truthfully, fingers combing idly through sweat-damp hair to make it obvious that he does not mind. “But I suppose I will endure it for the sake of sharing your body heat."
Jayce does not look reassured, ever concerned about hurting him, until Viktor plants another kiss on the crown of his head and murmurs against his hair, “Stay. You know I would push you off if I wished otherwise.”
That earns him a smile he can feel more than see, the curve of it pressing faintly into his shirt. Jayce’s arms tighten in answer, a quiet, stubborn sort of hold that tells Viktor he would not be dislodged even if asked.
It is absurdly comforting, this weight sprawled across him, this man who treats his lap as though it were the safest place in the world. It makes a foreign kind of feeling curl through him, one he does not dwell on it for fear of losing himself in it.
He knows how ardently Jayce enjoys receiving his affection, how much it delights him to see him initatiate anything, and how much that, in turn, softens the edges of his own guilt for taking so much delight in bestowing it. He still feels as if he is undeserving, but that feeling is secondary in the face of Jayce's happiness.
There is so little he can give Jayce in return for all that he has done, so if such a simple pleasure can make then other man so unreservedly content like his now, then he will provide it without question.
His own feelings are irrelevant. All that matters is granting comfort when comfort is needed.
Taking another sip of tea, Viktor deliberates if it's worth it trying to maneuver himself out of Jayce's hold to place the cup down, and finds the attempt futile.
So with no other option, Viktor rests it lightly atop his head.
Jayce snorts, but doesn't bat him away, not even sounding remotely indignant despite trying to. "What, am I your table now?"
Viktor suppresses a faint smile, letting the corner of his lips twitch in amusement. "Well," he begins pragmatically, as if his words were an empirical observation, "You are remarkably sturdy."
Jayce laughs, a full, easy sounds that's just as warm as the rest of him. Viktor never realized how soothing it was to listen to until he'd been deprived of it, and now, there's nothing he'd rather hear more.
"I suppose I have no choice but to take the promotion then," he says with a playful chuckle, tilting his head to press a quick kiss against Viktor’s ribs. "Though I think I prefer having your hair hands in my hair than acting as your furniture."
"Spoiled," he chastises with a tsk, as if his hands were not automatically drifting down to obey the moment Jayce spoke.
The taller man makes a sound of complete and utter pleasure, and Viktor smiles wider in spite of him himself, an expression that fades just as quickly as it came as he remembers his idea from earlier that evening.
Intrinsically, he knows Jayce would be nothing but supportive if he voiced his intentions to start working on the plot of soil out back—but the words stick somewhere in his throat, and he hesitates.
Jayce feels the way his fingers pause and gives him a gentle nudge, curious. "Viktor?"
Viktor resumes stroking his hair, deriving comfort from the action even as indecision renders him silent for a moment longer. Finally, he exhales, and begins speaking, knowing he will lose his nerve if he does not.
"I...have been thinking," he murmurs carefully, as though speaking too loud will prevent him from fully articulating his thoughts. "About the small patch of land in the back of the cottage."
Jayce shifts his weight, giving him his full attention, and it loosens his tongue enough for him to keep going.
"Since our expenses are usually stretched thin, I thought…perhaps I could try cultivating something," Viktor continues, not letting himself falter just yet. "Nothing, eh, extravagant—just a small garden with a few vegetables or herbs."
Jayce lifts his head, meeting his eyes. "A garden?"
Viktor nods in affirmation. "Yes. Precisely."
"Though I am not sure in my capability to maintain it properly," he reveals, beginning to lose confidence. "I have little knowledge concerning agrarian practices beyond the most rudimentary, so my attempts could just result in failure. It would be slow going, at the very least."
"Slow's fine," Jayce says immediately, sitting up a little to face him more directly. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with slow, or failure, if that's what you're concerned over."
The man reaches out to grasp his wrist, fingers massaging the thrum of his pulse before bringing his hand up to his lips, encouraging. "You know you have my support for anything, Viktor. If you want to start a garden, I'm with you. Just tell me when, and we'll head into town as soon as next morning."
Viktor finds himself faltering at the earnesty, still unused to having someone so unwaveringly invested in his whims, however small or contrary. "I—yes—well, I wanted to discuss it with you before making any decisions," he stutters out, flustered even though there's no reason to be.
Jayce thumbs Viktor's pulse, feeling the slightly accelerated beats of his heart. "You make it seem as if you're asking for my approval rather than my opinion."
Darkened eyes meet his, fixated intently on his face. "Are you?"
Viktor's face heats, imbued with a rosy red flush that spreads from his ears to his throat. Jayce follows it all the way down and then lingers on where his bruises still adorn the brunet's skin.
Viktor does not say yes or no, only breathes, "...Will you give it to me?"
Jayce smiles softly at the words, leaning closer to let his forehead brush against Viktor’s temple, kissing there. It does not matter that such a question is redundant since Jayce has already assured him that he has his support. He is not asking for it this, time.
He is asking for his approval, just as Jayce had implied.
“Always,” he replies, low and warm and absolutely certain. “I’ll give it to you. Anything you want, Viktor…I’ll help you make it happen.”
Viktor exhales, shoulders lightening as most of his ambivalence gives way to repose. If he can not trust in himself, he can trust in Jayce. Just as he always has.
"We can start small, if you want," Jayce tells him reassuringly upon noticing the conflicted frown resting on his lips. "Maybe grow some herbs in the planter by the windowsill first, see how they turn out."
Jayce rubs a gentle circle over the knobs of Viktor's fingers. "It doesn't have to be perfect," he reminds. "The point is that it’s yours. Whatever grows, whatever doesn’t—the effort itself is worth something."
"Even if it fails?"
Jayce smiles, and Viktor doesn't think he will ever tire of seeing it, the warmth in his expression, so simple and absolute, is worth more to him than anything else he could possibly possess.
“Even if it fails,” he repeats. "Because then we can try again until we get it right. Just like we always done."
And that, Viktor realizes, is all that's needed.
"I think I would like to attempt it on my own first," Viktor decides, not wanting to put strain on Jayce's injury alongside desiring to see how much he is capable of managing himself.
Jayce doesn't seem dissapointed in the slightest. In fact, he seems almost proud, eyes alight with a quiet sense of satisfaction that makes Viktor’s stomach roll pleasantly.
“Of course,” he replies, and there's that approval again, strong and decadently sweet, addicting in every sense. “Whatever you want, baby. You’ll do great. I know you will.”
The feeling of not only being supported, but believed in, is still as exhilarating as it had been when they were working together in the lab, mind and soul magnetized to one singular purpose that only each other had ever fully understood.
It's enough to still his doubts, to put his mind at ease.
And enough to imagine that perhaps he could plant something small, something manageable, and see it take root. The thought no longer seemed so impossible when Jayce was looking at him like that, so assured, as if Viktor had already succeeded before he even begun.
With his decision made, Viktor lets the idea flourish, wandering if he truly is capable of cultivating life beneath his hands.
Only time will tell.
By the next morning, Jayce insists on accompanying him into town despite Viktor’s suggestion that he should rest and will not be long. The man is adamant, stubborn as always, though when Viktor finally extracts a reluctant promise that he will see to their other errands while this one is completed, Jayce yields—though not without pressing a lingering kiss to his lips in parting, as if to remind him whose arms he is expected to return to.
Like there could be any other place he would stray.
When he reaches the market, the town is already stirring with life, with carts clattering and the muted calls of vendors pervading the air.
He walks slowly, taking note of the now familiar streets and the occasional friendly nod from a passerby. It's pleasant, if not still a little strange, to be on the receiving end of such polite reception—something he has never earned in all of his years in Piltover. Most were not overtly hostile, of course, but neither were they welcoming, least of all accepting.
His steps slow as he approaches the stall he was looking for, an assortment of dried herbs hanging in small bundles and neat little clay pots filled with seedlings presented neatly before him. The elderly vendor, a thin man with graying hair tucked under a faded cap, looks up from arranging his wares and offers a brief smile. Viktor recognizes him faintly, having spoken to him once before when purchasing dried herbs, cordial and brief.
“Morning,” the man—Laurus, if he recalls correctly—greets, lifting his chin in acknowledgment as Viktor approaches. “Back again, I see. What can I do for you today?”
Viktor hesitates for a fraction of a second, lips pursing in deliberation. "I was considering attempting a small garden behind the cottage, and thought I might start with herbs. Though, admittedly, I have little knowledge about cultivating plants beyond the eh, very basics."
It's hard to resist the urge to flush in minor embarrassment over his lack of experience, but the man takes it in stride, even seeming eager to offer guidance in his line of work.
"A fine idea," he says without judgement. "And about time someone made use of that soil. Storms were hard on it last season, but it's not beyond hope. Herbs will take easy enough. Potatoes, carrots, maybe beans, if you've the patience."
Words slightly stammered, Viktor replies, "I, ah, don't think I am quite so ambitious as to attempt anything beyond herbs at the moment. Perhaps in the future."
However, his voice lacks conviction, and he finds himself glancing down at the various harvest of produce lining the boards. Laurus picks up on his indecision and kindly gives him a suggestion.
“Why not start with something simple?” Laurus says. "Potatoes are easy enough if you give them space and sunlight, and lettuce is tolerant of a novice’s hand. Start with planting a few of each, see how they fare. If the yield is good, you can expand next season."
Viktor considers this, and finds the idea tentatively appealing. There would be no harm in experimenting, to see what works and what doesn't, he has the time for it, and he's sure that he has enough patience to see it through.
"Alright," he says after a moment's silence. "That sounds feasible. I will start with parsley and rosemary, then."
He hesitates, his eyes flicking over the array of vegetables and seed packets again, and then, on a quiet impulse, he adds, "And…perhaps a few extras, just in case I wish to experiment early."
Laurus chuckles, nodding approvingly. "Wise. A little experimentation never hurt a gardener. Keep notes, see what thrives, and adjust as you go. That’s how the soil teaches you."
Viktor nods, committing the advice to memory, feeling a rare, cautious sort of excitement over starting something new.
“Yes, I will do that,” he finds himself agreeing, his voice turning earnest as he raises his head to say, “I…thank you, Laurus. Your guidance is…appreciated.”
The man waves his arm dismissively, telling him not to concern himself such formalities, and that if he has any further questions, he is always welcome to ask. With that in mind, Viktor purchases what he needs and politely bids goodbye to return to Jayce.
He visits the library before he leaves, where he peruses the shelves in search of books on horticulture and gardening, ones that deal with basics more so than advanced practices. He is not ready to delve into that level just yet.
By the time he makes his way back to the cottage, it's with a small, newfound sense of purpose that lightens more than it burdens, Jayce's words from the night before still echoing in his mind—It doesn't have to be perfect. The point is that it's yours.
And as he settles into bed that night, intent on applying his knowledge the following day, Viktor thinks there might be some truth there, after all.
Unfortunately, reality proves far less forgiving than theory.
His first attempt is nothing short of catastrophic, and by midday, Viktor is standing in the yard with dirt smeared up his wrists, sweat clinging damp at his collar, and a growing knot of frustration lodged tight in his chest. The soil, stubborn and rocky, refuses to yield the way he thought it would, every attempt at turning it over snagging against roots and stones as if the earth itself resents his intrusion.
He follows Laurus's instructions as best he can, measuring out neat little furrows, mindful of spacing and depth, but each attempt comes out uneven, messy, a pitiful parody of what he'd envisioned the night before.
He does not know why the failure feels so sharp, why it pains him so severely; he is used to failure, expects it, knows that to experiment is to invite imperfection, an avenue to learn and to improve.
This, however, feels more personal, a confirmation of what he had always feared—that he is not suited for this life, this kind of domesticity that he has denied from so many others.
The garden suddenly seems absurd, a luxury far beyond his reach—beyond his capacity, his merit. What was he thinking? That he could settle into this quiet life, this town, and flourish as if he had not once pursued evolution at the cost of so much destruction? As if he had not aimed to end the very world itself?
He could scoff at the thought.
He does not cry. Instead, he rises to his feat, though the motions feel leaden, as though the limbs themselves do not belong to him. His body is present, but his mind is not, emotions dulling into a muted apathy as he makes his way back to the cottage, removing his gloves and boots mechanically.
He spots Jayce as soon as he steps in, the man bent over some small metal contraption in the living room, likely one of his more trivial projects that requires little effort to complete.
However, Jayce glances up as soon as the door is shut, and all it takes is one look at his expression before he's standing up and immediately crossing the room.
"Hey, Viktor, what's wrong? What happened, sweetheart?" Jayce asks as he raises his hands to cup his cheeks, worry reflected in the tight crease of his brow.
Viktor's hands fall to his sides, and he allows a long, ragged exhale to escape, the words catching somewhere between indignation and despair.
"...Everything" he admits flatly, voice tight, "...went wrong. I-"
Jayce doesn't wait for him to continue, gathering him into his arms and holding him close. His breath shudders out unevenly, but he does not resist the contact, even as his skin buzzes with revulsion—not at Jayce, but at himself for accepting the comfort he shouldn't recieve.
Jayce is saying something, but his mind does not process it. He is aware, dimly, of being guided to the couch, but whatever is spoken is going in one and ear and throughout the other, his body feeling foreign to him still, not entirely present.
He figures Jayce will hold him for a little while, maybe offer some empty platitudes, that unfortunately, will not reach him. Not now. Not when the wound of his own failure is still so fresh.
The last thing he expects is to be put on his knees.
His eyes widen, startled at the sudden gesture, but Jayce's hand is firm on the back of his neck, gently guiding him down until he's resting on his knees in-between the taller man's legs.
"Jayce....?" He questions faintly, voice trembling.
"There," Jayce praises tenderly, stroking the back of his hair as he cradles his head to keep him n place. "There you go. That's better, isn't it?"
And Viktor flushes a deep, burning red, because it is.
It's a humiliating revelation, but one that has his body reacting before his mind can follow suit, melting into the touch as if he were a prized pet. When he tentatively lets his cheek rest on Jayce's thigh, he is rewarded immediately with a soft hum of approval.
"Good, that's it," Jayce remarks adoringly, and Viktor makes a noise caught somewhere between embarrassment and objection. "You don't have to think about anything, just rest here for me. Can you do that, honey?"
Viktor feels another shudder through him, even as his mind hones in on the request, the order, that's been given to him. It pulls him from his earlier spiral, to be offered a command, something he can fulfill without thought or expectation of failure.
He nods, shoulders already loosening, muscles going slack as surrenders his mind along with his body to the only man he has ever wanted to possess both. “Y-Yes…”
Jayce continues petting his hair, thumb massaging the delicate skin of his neck. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, doesn’t force words Viktor cannot absorb. He only pets him, steady and possessive, like he is something that belongs here at his feet, something meant to be kept.
“Good boy,” he hears, a murmur that sinks into him deeper than any platitude ever could. Not an argument. Not even reassurance. Just certainty.
It was almost too much. His throat tightened, pulse faltering, but he could feel his mind beginning to drift free. It was not like before, where numbness had dulled him into vacancy. It felt softer, warmer somehow, a blissful emptiness that was oddly fulfilling.
Time could stretch endlessly like this, and he would be none the wiser.
Jayce leans back slightly, but Viktor hardly registers it, world narrowed down to the hands in his hair and the strong, muscled thigh beneath his cheek. The other man smells vaguely of soap and sweat, and Viktor unconciously nuzzles closer, comforted by the scent and warmth he can feel.
Jayce tenses momentarily, fingers tightening a fraction before relaxing again. Viktor barely notices, lashes fluttering low, and it's only when Jayce adjusts himself for a second time, breathing ragged, that he realizes he's hard, not uncomfortable like he presumed, but hard.
Viktor stiffens slightly at the realization, face burning hotter as all the air leaves his lungs. Oh. Oh.
Jayce notices the change immediately, shifting his weight to pull away a little. "Don't worry about it," he says hurriedly, though the words come out strained. "You don't have to do anything, just focus on me, Viktor. That's all."
It's already too late, however, his attention diverted to the other man's cock and the way it strains against the fabric of his pants. His mouth salivates, arousal swooping so heavily in his lower stomach it makes his legs want to squeeze together.
A small, involuntary whine escapes him.
Jayce goes still, the hand on the back of his neck faltering as he audibly swallows, throat dry. "You want to...?"
Viktor, eyes glossed over, doesn't respond so much with words as with action. His lips part instinctively as he leans forward just enough, letting his mouth press clumsily against the clothed shape of the man's cock, wanting it in him. He whines again, a small, trembling sound that would humiliate him if there was a single thought left in his head besides somehow getting his lover to fuck his mouth for the first time. To keep him full.
Jayce sucks in a heaving breath before letting out a strangled groan. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, gathering his hair behind his head in a loose fist. "Yeah, yeah, okay, sweetheart. I'll let you."
Viktor keens, the permission reverberating through him like a bell chime, and he tentatively lets his hands rest on Jayce's thighs for balance before his fingertips make quick work of the man's belt—this, at least, being something he is familiar with.
His nerves coiled tight in anxious anticipation. He had not done this before. His prior condition had made kneeling to serve impossible, and most lovers had been too impatient with the accommodations that might have allowed it. He was remarkably ill-equipped to provide much pleasure, especially since Jayce was, to put it simply, big.
That does not stop him from pulling the taller man's cock free, nor curling his fingertips around it in a futile attempt to encompass the girth. Jayce is too thick for him to fully encircle him, but all that realization does it make his mouth water further.
Jayce moans at the touch, features furrowing with pleasure that looks overwhelmingly attractive on his face. He doesn't push him, legs spreading wider to give him more space.
The weight of his gaze is heavy, intent on where Viktor's fingers are holding him, spread wide with no chance of meeting. "God, your hands are pretty. So small." Jayce sounds enamored, his roughened voice edging on worshipful.
Viktor’s too focused on the bead of precum glistening at the head to answer, but the praise sinks into him anyway, and he releases a soft, shuddering breath before giving in to desire and letting his lips kiss Jayce's cock.
The contact could almost be considered chaste if it weren't for where he was kissing, and he can feel Jayce throb beneath his lips, body jerking at the soft brush of his mouth. Satisfaction preens at the reaction so he does it again, planting sweet, deliberately teasing kisses down the length of the man's cock before parting his lips to suck the head into his mouth.
He hums contentedly at the taste, surprised but not repulsed, and hopes his inexperience is not too blatant as he slowly lets his head sink further down, tongue sliding along the underside before swirling around the head in what he hopes is pleasurable.
Although he possesses the ability to suppress his gag reflex—a skill honed over years of necessity to mitigate his unfortunate tendency to throw up under duress—he still only manages to take in less than half before struggling.
He whimpers in frustration, pulling back to pant heavily before returning, wanting to do better, needing to do better.
Jayce doesn't give him more than he can take despite the way his body quivers in restraint, only guides him back down with a gentle hand, groaning. "Easy, sweetheart. Don't rush, you're doing well. So well."
Another blush creeps up his neck, but if Jayce is dissuaded by his lack of skill, he doesn’t show it. Instead, Jayce tilts his hips ever so slightly, letting Viktor take him a little deeper, one hand resting on his head and the other gripping onto his hair.
"That's it, relax your throat—fuck—just like that, honey. I'll guide you." True to his word, Jayce does, fucking his throat in shallow thrusts, careful not to choke him.
It would be condescending to be talked to like this, but right now, all Viktor feels is submission, a warm, tingly feeling that turns his brain right off and leaves him pliant to be fucked in any which way he is told to.
It's pleasant, and dare he say, comforting, almost, to have his mouth full, his senses overun by the musky taste of the man's cock and the warmth of his hands holding him in place.
Or at least, right up until the moment Jayce loses control of himself, it was.
Viktor barely registers the warning in Jayce’s sudden groan before fingers are pulling tighter into his hair and guiding—forcing—his head down to take the rest of him.
He chokes immediately, gagging, but all it does is pull another guttural grunt from Jayce's lips, fervent and pleasure-filled, devoid of restraint.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, flowing down his cheeks, but Jayce doesn't stop, doesn't even pause, only savors the pleasurable spasm of his throat as it convulses around him.
"Fuck, it's too much, I know, sweetheart, I'm sorry." Jayce's voice comes out strangled, a little guilty, but he doesn't slow, like even attempting to pull free would kill him. "Just try to relax for me—shit, sweetheart...you're—god, you're so good for me."
And Viktor feels himself falling to pieces.
It's still too much, his mouth stretched wide and his throat struggling to accommodate the intrusion, tears mixing with the drool escaping his lips. But at the same time, it's exactly what he wanted. To be deprived of the option to decide how much he can take and instead forced to recieve.
"Mmph—" He tries to breathe through his nose, but he can only take in so much oxygen that way, dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision even as his body melts into the sensation.
Jayce pulls his head off, but only enough for him to catch a breath, lips glistening, saliva dripping down his chin, before shoving him back down, the tip of him nudging against the back of Viktor’s throat in a thrust so deep it makes him gag while simultaneously making his eyes roll.
Jayce's hands move from tugging his hair to grasp his face, and Viktor moans at how easily they wrap around his whole head, physically moving him in time with his thrusts. He succumbs to it without complaint, wishing he could rub against something to relieve his arousal, but there is nothing. He can only take.
Another tear slips loose, and this time Jayce whipes it with his thumb, softly, sweetly. Even through his blurred vision he can see the absolute adoration on his face, the expression something that could almost be called awe, as if the sight of him, messy and flushed and gagging, is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
“Look at you,” Jayce pants, wondrous in his lust, entirely adoring in his selfishness. “God, baby, you’re perfect like this. So pretty on your knees, getting your throat fucked like a good boy. You can take a little more, I know you can."
Viktor's hands clench where they rest on his thighs, eyes nearly meeting the back of his skull when his head is pressed down all the way, nose buried in the wiry curls of his groin.
If he had even the slightest amount of friction, he could orgasm like this, from nothing but getting throat fucked and manhandled. His guilty pleasure has always been enjoying having Jayce throw his weight around during sex, to be rough, to be selfish. To be mean.
He has only a fraction of a second to prepare himself before Jayce is abruptly pulling out and coming on his face, painting his skin in thick ropes of white with a loud, bitten off curse. The luxury of being allowed to breathe again is utter relief, but all he can focus on is the agonizing discomfort of being empty.
And even worse, being denied the opportunity to swallow.
He sucks in large, heaving breaths, his tears coalescing with Jayce's seed and his own saliva to make what he is certain is an unsavory sight. But Jayce doesn't recoil; instead, he groans low and deep, a feral sort of sound that seems like it's torn involuntarily from his throat.
And then he's being hauled into Jayce's lap, strong arms banding around his waist while the solid muscle of his thigh presses up between Viktor's legs, applying just enough pressure to his soaked pussy that he keens, hips instinctively bearing down while his head falls limply onto the taller man's shoulder.
He feels kisses being laid frantically against his temple, his jaw, wherever Jayce’s mouth can reach, clearly not giving a single damn about the mess he made of him. Viktor moans weakly, turning into each one, still sniffling.
"Sorry," Jayce breathes against his slickened skin, voice low, broken by guilt but still steeped in hunger, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose control like that, I just—you felt so good. I couldn't help myself."
Viktor lets his head loll further into Jayce's neck, barely comprehending what is being said and instead savoring the deep sound of his voice, small whines of pleasure escaping his bruised throat on each feverish little grind. "Jayce, Jayce."
His arms, held loosely around his lover's frame as if the man were the center of his gravity, clutch tighter, short puffs of air falling intermittently from his mouth each time he grinds just right. Apart from the mindless swivel of his hips, his body is limp, and he's almost certain he is drooling again, oversensitive and unaware of it.
Hands stroke languidly down his ribs, skimming over his stomach before returning to cradle his sides, adoration woven into every touch. "Feeling good?"
Viktor mumbles something completely nonsensical, an amalgamation of soft noises and unintelligible syllables that form something close to, "Uh-huh..."
It's far from his usual eloquence, but Jayce does not seem to mind, nuzzling against his sweaty temple with a labored groan. "So cute, you're so cute."
It's said more to himself than Viktor, though Viktor hears it anyway, hears the inflection of pride, hunger, and unrestrained admiration wrapped into a single, ragged breath as he continues. "If this is how you behave after I fuck your throat, I'll have to do it more often, put you on your knees whenever you get upset and make you all sweet again."
Viktor's thighs squeeze around Jayce's leg, trembling and shaking through his orgasm as he comes so heavily he can barely hold himself upright, gasping and scratching weakly at the other man's back as he holds him through the twitches and shudders, crooning his approval right into Viktor's ear.
Viktor slumps against him, panting unevenly as he floats in that warm, empty state of bliss, mind rendered soft and docile with no will of his own. It is a safe feeling, his senses only able to process what Jayce does to him, and nothing else. Needy, he nuzzles into his lover's throat again, kissing there with kittenish little pecks that miss their mark entirely.
Jayce doesn't stop holding him, hands roaming lazily over his back and shoulders, guiding him to nestle closer, to lay fully against him. They stay like that for a long time, Viktor unable to conjure even a semblance of coherency until he feels his face being lifted and his cheeks being gently dabbed at with a cloth—of which the whereabouts remain a complete mystery.
Glossy-eyed and fucked-out, Viktor allows him to fuss, not that he would have been able to oppose him. Once he's semi-decent, Jayce's thumbs brush underneath his eyes, and when Viktor blinks softly at him in response, returning to himself a little, the man smiles.
"There you are," Jayce comments tenderly, tucking his hair behind his ear while he sniffles.
Viktor, still not entirely present, exhales out a soft, wavering sigh. His chest rises and falls unevenly, sweat-slicked hair sticking to his forehead, and his lips open as if to speak, though the words fail him.
He only manages a quiet, almost breathless, “…here.”
Jayce's smile softens at the small, fragile sound, his lips brushing over his forehead. "Good," he says, relieved. "You were out of it for a little bit there, I wasn't sure if I'd overdone it."
Viktor buries his head in his throat once more, needing the contact as if it were air itself. His throat is sore, yes, and his knees a little bit bruised, but the comfort of being held, of being looked after, outweighs every twinge of discomfort. In this moment, all he feels is pleasure.
Jayce moves underneath him and panic immediately overtakes him at the thought of being left, of losing this warm haze he's fallen into, and without knowing it, he whines in distress.
Jayce tights his hold around him as soon as he hears it, shushing him with an influx of reassurments. "Shh, I'm not going anyway, just getting us more comfortable, that's all. You're okay, we're okay."
Minutely, he relaxes, feeling embarrassed at his overreaction. "Sorry..."
A comforting hand slides down Viktor's back, a trail of warmth following his fingertips. "You don't have to apologize, you were perfect, Viktor. Absolutely perfect."
Viktor hides his burning cheeks by tucking his face further into Jayce's neck, and the man responds by kissing the side of his head. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Viktor, now functioning at a slightly higher brain capacity, stiffens, embarrassment returning. "It's silly. A foolish concern."
Jayce's fingers cup the back of his head, stroking his hair. "If it's bothering you, then it's not silly. You can tell me, if you want to. Is it about what happened in the garden?"
Viktor reluctantly nods, feeling ridiculous as he admits, "Yes." He clears his throat before explaining, "I thought…I thought I could manage it on my own. That I could keep things in order. But it all feels…absurd now. Too much, too far beyond me.”
Jayce tilts his head slightly, meeting his eyes. His expression is full of unmistakable tenderness. “Viktor…” he murmurs softly. "The garden doesn’t need to be perfect. It’s not...a test. You don’t have to—you don’t have to fix everything. It's okay if it doesn't go right the first time."
It is a sensible reassurement, and one that would not have needed to be said if the dejection of failure hadn't weighed on him so heavily. Now, with his mind a little more clear, unburdened by his previous shortcomings, he can admit Jayce is right.
"...I told you it was silly," he mutters with a sigh.
"You don't have anything to prove to me, Viktor," Jayce tells him reassuringly, his tone softening then to say, "I'll always be proud of you. There's nothing you could do to make me think otherwise."
Viktor is unable to form a proper response to that declaration, but he does exhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut as he lays his head on Jayce's arm. He does not need to, however, as the man continues speaking.
"If you still want me to, we can try again tomorrow, see how it goes with two pairs of hands instead of just one. If it still doesn't work, then at least we know we tried." Jayce draws small patters over the ridges of his vertebrae. "What do you think?"
Viktor rubs his face a little further into Jayce. "I think I would like that," he murmurs. "If you were there with me."
Jayce moves to brush the hair from his face, words falling easily. "Then I will be."
And Viktor knows, that it is as simple as that.
Having fallen into a light doze, Viktor tenses a little when Jayce moves again to adjust the two of them, the action making him profoundly aware of how sticky he is. And how uncomfortable.
Janna, he really is going to have to stop ruining his clothing this way.
Despite feeling as if he could spend a millennia languishing in Jayce's lap like a permanent fixture, he is more than aware of the disheveled state he is in, and determines that a bath is in dire order.
However, attempting to stand proves to be more of an arduous endeavor than he anticipated, and he winces, the ache in his knees persisting into a throbbing pulse.
Jayce is there to balance him immediately, rubbing the sore area on his legs where he had been kneeling guiltily. "I should have put a pillow beneath your knees," he frowns, clearly upset with himself for his lack of consideration.
Viktor kisses him in placation. "I do not mind," he says steadily. "It means I will feel you for longer."
A miserable groan rumbles from Jayce's chest, half-pained, half‐aroused. "Viktor."
Viktor exhales through his nose, faintly amused despite his fatigue. "Yes, my dear?"
Jayce just gives him a look, one that says you know what you did, and he takes that as his cue to kiss his pout away as well.
Later, after he's freshly bathed and in clean clothes—ones he resolves not to ruin this time—he returns to the living room with Jayce, the two of them sharing a quiet dinner together.
Jayce makes him a cup of tea later with lemon and honey to soothe his throat, and even though nothing is out of the ordinary, it is the lightest he has felt in a long time.
The following morning, Jayce does join him in the garden, though his assistance arrives in the form of mostly being a reassuring presence rather than helping—Viktor had been adamant in his refusal to let him kneel even once—but it was more than enough for him to make another attempt. His presence alone had given him confidence.
And truth be told, Viktor just enjoys having him close.
By late afternoon, Viktor has made enough progress to be satisfied with himself. Although it is far from perfection, he feels triumphant all the same. For trying. For not allowing himself to succumb to resignation before even trying.
This is the moment where it first begins.
Jayce had already headed inside a few minutes prior, Viktor insisting that he only has enough strength left to pack away the tools before following him in. He bends slowly, carefully gathering his tools, and goes to remove his gloves next.
A drop of blood hits the soil before he can.
His hand stills from where it had been reaching out, and he frowns, confusion prickling at the back of his mind before he raises his fingers to his nose. They come away bloody.
His frown depends. A nosebleed. He hasn't had them in a long while so experiencing one now is, well, unexpected. However, he does not pay it much mind, reasoning that he has spent more time around nature these past few weeks than he ever had living in Zaun, so it is only logical he would experience seasonal allergies. It is the middle of spring, after all.
Wiping his nose, he walks back into the cottage without sparing it another thought.
The next few days pass without incident, or so he believes. He wakes, tends to his morning routine, helps Jayce with breakfast, and returns to the garden to toil in it until he is satisfied with how far he has gotten. After that, he usually has lunch with Jayce, the two of them never missing spending a meal together.
He is wiping a glass dry when the nausea first hits him.
Jayce had retired to the workshop a few minutes ago with a small kiss to his temple, telling him to come get him if he needs anything, and Viktor had waved him off with a dismissive hand, remarking that, despite how closely they are attached at the hip, he can manage a few hours without him.
(Even if he does not like it.)
He pauses mid-motion, however, when he feels a sudden, twisting lurch in his stomach. It is not enough to make him gag, but it does leave him winded, fingers trembling where they remain on the glass.
No.
He takes a deep breath, but all that does is worsen the feeling, and his vision tilts for a heartbeat, the edges of the room collapsing inwards, and he sways, catching himself against the counter. He exhales shakily, telling himself it is nothing—he has felt queasy before after a long morning spent overexerting himself. But the certainty in that explanation does not settle in his chest. Instead, a cold twist of worry spreads through him.
And he is right to worry.
The retching comes without warning. He bends, hands pressed to the edge of the counter, and his stomach heaves violently. The taste of bile, copper, and fear fills his mouth, and Viktor gags, blinking rapidly to clear the spinning room. His knees threaten to buckle under him, though he steadies himself with a careful grip, chest rising and falling raggedly.
No, no.
He has just enough to make it to the bathroom before he's emptying the entire contents of his stomach into the toilet. Gasping, he tries to get his breath back, but it's as if his body has forgotten how. He can feel his chest constrict painfully as he connects the pieces, and his heart drops to the very pit of his stomach.
Oh, God, please no.