Chapter Text
Jayce
7:45 PM - Forty Five Minutes Late To Progress Day
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“I won’t take it again,” Viktor says, so quietly Jayce almost misses it. His body deflates.
Oh. Oh, thank god.
Jayce leans forward, eyebrows knitting together, too earnest to hide his relief.
“V, thank you,” he says. “Just... thank you.”
Viktor nods once, stiffly, and looks back out the window. The tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.
They haven’t spoken since the ride began. With City Hall all the way across town, Mel had insisted on sending for the ridiculously ornate carriage, with strict instructions to their portly, affable driver to move quickly, please, to make up for the scientists’ lateness. It might as well be a prison transport, for all the warmth in the air.
Unhelpfully Jayce finds himself remembering a far bumpier—though infinitely more pleasant—version of this ride months ago, to the Distinguished Innovators Competition. Viktor had sat across from him then too, sharp-eyed and smug, watching him nervously fiddle with a gear like a worry stone.
He’d made some dry comment about inventors being the worst passengers and Jayce had rolled his eyes, only for Viktor to go pale and promptly vomit into the bushes the second they arrived.
They’d laughed about it for days.
Back then, the nerves were shared. Everything was shared, really; tangled up in the same goal. Now, the rattle of wheels over cobblestone—the low hum of the city at night—forces its way into the carriage like static, but it can’t fill in the silence. It gapes open between them, wide and cold. Built from everything Jayce said back at the lab, and everything Viktor didn’t.
A tighter, more complex sadness settles in Jayce’s chest: this isn’t how the night was supposed to go.
Frankly, this was a night he’d quietly fantasized about for weeks: the both of them, slipping out of their collars, ties and mouths looser at Jayce’s place afterward. A bottle of champagne swiped on the way out. The startling, gorgeous sound of Viktor’s real laugh, bubbling up as they retell the events of the evening—sharp and giddy in the way only he can be. A night stretching into early morning, their own little world built from private jokes, safely out of reach of Piltover’s elite. Who act like Jayce belongs to them but never see the real him. The part that, lately, feels like it only exists for Viktor.
Now, that fantasy feels miles away.
“V, um. You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to. I can tell the driver to take you home.”
Viktor doesn’t look at him. Just scoffs and shakes his head. “You have never struck me as the type to waste resources, Jayce Talis.”
He rubs at the part of his arm where the needle went in.
“Besides,” he mutters. “I am already dressed. And you will not be seeing me in anything like this again.”
Jayce shifts, eyes flicking from his own rough hands to Viktor’s elegant ones, resting atop his cane. Too many times to be subtle. He wishes he could stop looking. Wishes Viktor didn’t look so good. His coat gleams when the light hits it. Jayce’s blood pulses behind his eyes.
“Fine,” he says, anger rushing back in to patch over everything…else. He folds his arms. “Is there anything I should know, then? About this drug ?” He spits the word. “Any side effects? Otherwise, I think it’s best we keep our distance tonight. Except when we have to.”
Viktor laughs, low and cold. “Fine by me.”
He adds, “No side effects so far.” Liar. “Besides the good ones. So don’t worry. No Trencher antics for you to be embarrassed by.”
Jayce feels the hot flush of shame as it blooms across his face.
Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
He’d had time now to sit with it. Not everything he said in that fight was wrong. Some came from truth, poorly delivered. But one word. One word had poisoned everything.
He hadn’t even said it to Viktor. “Like some Trencher,” he’d said. But it didn’t matter. Viktor’s face had crumpled—actually crumpled. Just for a second, before he shoved it down. But Jayce had seen it. The tears in his eyes. The tremble of his mouth before it turned to stone.
Jayce had wanted to get on his knees then and there. Beg for forgiveness, while it was still raw. But now? Now it’s too late. And worse, he’s still angry.
He drags a hand down his face.
Who the hell was he? When had he become someone capable of saying that?
The intensity of his remorse is acidic, bile rising in his throat at the mere memory. But what scares him most is how easily it came out. Like it had been waiting.
Part of him wants to blame the amount of time he’d been spending around people like the ones they were about to suck up to tonight.To absolve himself. But a darker, guiltier part of him knows this had always been in him. He’d been raised in Piltover. Raised to believe, however much he detested the notion, that they were simply better.
Looking at Viktor—someone he truly believes too good to be sharing intellectual space with the likes of Jayce—he knows he doesn’t believe that lie. But part of him still acts like he does.
And tonight proved it.
Viktor was a proud man; not forthcoming with his emotions, often impossible to read. But Jayce had always been able to sense it. The want. The effort. Viktor wanted to be known , he just didn’t always know how. He kept himself hidden, in footnotes and stillness and moments where words stopped just short of confession, very occasionally letting them bleed over.
Jayce had always tried to meet that with openness. Loud affection. Honest admiration. Love, maybe. If he was obvious enough, he thought, maybe Viktor would feel safe stepping through that door.
He sensed they’d been making progress; but after over a year working side by side, Jayce had never seen his partner come anywhere close to crying.
Until tonight.
You made Viktor cry.
More nausea.
It wasn’t the first time he’d used the word. As a boy, young and stupid, it had been as common on the school grounds as any other potty-adjacent insult. Something his mom would smack him on the back of the head for, more out of manners than meaning.
But he hadn’t understood then what he does now. What it means to someone actually from the Undercity. How it wraps itself around their history like barbed wire: shameful, dehumanizing, and cruel.
Once, over lunch on the lab balcony, Viktor had told him, offhandedly, about a former professor who used to call him that behind his back. And worse.
Jayce had frozen mid-bite. It was a bad pain day, he'd sensed, and he wondered if Viktor was telling him this because his guard was down. Or maybe he’d just upped the dose on his painkillers, unstuck his tongue.
He couldn’t remember what else Viktor had said exactly, but it was cruel. Essentially that all a Trencher was good for, when it came to contributing to society, was what he had between his legs.
Viktor had said it like a joke, but Jayce had seen the way his eyes had gone distant. It was the same look he’d seen earlier tonight.
Now in the carriage, the memory of using—practically spitting—that word anywhere near Viktor made Jayce’s want to puke.
Not just for saying it. But because he hadn’t known. Hadn’t really seen how bad things had gotten. How far Viktor had been pushed. How hard he’d fought to keep up.
The not-shimmer scared him. Petrified him, in fact. Of course it did.
He still remembered an addict he’d met during a visit to Zaun many months ago now, when he and Viktor had descended to the Entresol level to purchase materials from one of his partner’s contacts.
They hadn’t received a speck of funding yet, so Undercity prices were the best they could do. On their way down they’d passed dozens of unsavory locals. But the woman—her skin had been like wax. Twitching jaw. Once pretty blue eyes now entirely devoid of hope. A malnourished toddler on her hip, already shimmering faintly himself.
That image had never left him.
Now, he can’t stop seeing Viktor like that. Hollowed out and limping into nothing while Jayce stands alone on some stage. Viktor—remarkable, ingenious Viktor—too sick or spent to follow.
And the worst part? Jayce had made him feel like he had to be flawless to deserve to stand beside him. Had practically pushed him into the darkness himself.
A sharp rap comes from the roof of the carriage. The driver calls out a warning (“Gentleman, we’re approaching the venue.”) and Jayce watches as Viktor peels his forehead from the glass, lifts his cane and uses the end of it to knock against the underside of the roof, acknowledging the driver.
The haze of the drug seems to have lifted slightly, Jayce notes. He’s sharp again. Focused. Angry.
Jayce doesn’t know if that makes him feel relieved or terrified.
Viktor
8:00 PM - One Hour Late To Progress Day
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They disembark one at a time. Jayce steps down first, instinctively reaching out to help Viktor, but drops his hand before it lands, clearly resisting the usual urge to wrap it around his elbow. He lets the driver assist instead.
Viktor’s gloved fingers curl into the man’s offered arm, plump and powerful, as he steps down onto the street. The driver is kind enough to pretend not to notice the brief tremor. The cold is biting even through the fabric of his coat, but he welcomes it; it shocks his nerves into clarity. The primary act of the drug is escalating now, into something bright and buoyant.
He squares his shoulders. The steps up to City Hall are fewer than he remembered, but perhaps this is his mind playing tricks.
Slightly ahead, Jayce’s stride is impatient but not unkind. He waits at the top for Viktor to catch up, hands clenched at his sides as though he doesn’t trust them near Viktor’s body. Good. Viktor doesn’t trust himself near Jayce’s either. They nod to the usher, who announces them into the Hall of Progress (Piltover’s preferred site for public celebration and private humiliation) without fanfare. Together, they step into the light.
The invitation, hand-scrawled on a ludicrously thick piece of parchment, had called it an “Evening of Enlightenment,” but Viktor had his doubts. Judging by the polished marble entryway and the glinting chandeliers above, he suspected the enlightenment in question had more to do with the brightness of the lighting and less to do with intellectual illumination.
Unfortunately, Jayce still looks dazzling under it.
"Should I have worn a tie?" Jayce whispers anxiously as they step into the wide gallery, forgetting the past four hours and returning to them for a moment. "Is this a tie event?"
Between the drug and the fight, Viktor hadn’t really noticed the deep emerald suit back at the lab; but now, in this expensive light, it leaps out at him, not quite black and not quite green. And though he’d bet half his research budget that it had been tailored that very week, Jayce wore it like it had always been his. A gold pin in the shape of the Hextech seal gleams from his lapel, and he has the audacity to be both flushed with anticipation and uncharacteristically nervous.
"I do not believe the Enlightenment will be canceled over your exposed collar," Viktor replies mildly, though he can’t quite help the way his eyes linger. Jayce looks great. Unfairly so.
At the head of the entry stairs, people turn. Heads angle. Whispers spread like fire.
"Is that them?" "The Gate initiative?" "That’s the team?"
Jayce’s name is on every tongue, and Viktor feels it like static electricity in the air. The sweet, familiar word brushes past his ear and sticks to his clothes. There is a pulse to this room, like it wants to devour his partner whole. He straightens his spine, much easier than usual. Forces healthy air deep into his chest. Smile, but not too much. Stare, but only when it makes them feel seen.
Jayce has already found the first cluster of patrons to charm. His grin is immediate, practiced yet genuine. Safe. Viktor lingers half a step behind, nodding where appropriate as introductions roll through the room like waves. He lets Jayce do most of the talking. He always has, in settings like this.
But everything preceding tonight makes the space between them now feel less like strategy and more like estrangement.
Viktor can feel the lines of it stretching taut.
He finds an inoffensive drink (tonic and lime, no gin) and stands near one of the tall, latticed windows that overlook the rest of the ballroom. For awhile, he watches Jayce work: hands expressive, posture open, voice carrying easily even over the hum of the quartet near the stairs.
It should be impressive. (It is.)
But it also feels like watching someone from behind glass. Someone who is not his, not really.
There’s a strange tightness in Viktor’s chest that hasn’t quite let up since they exited the carriage. Not pain, not yet. But a warning; a crackle at the edge of sensation, like a wire starting to fray. He shifts slightly, willing it to pass.
"You look like someone who's not enjoying himself nearly enough," an easy voice says behind him.
Viktor turns, startled but careful not to show it. The man is smiling; a little crooked, but not unkind. He’s tall, which isn’t uncommon topside, but it’s the warmth in his eyes that’s disarming. Brown, not gold. Flame-colored, curling hair. He’s Jayce’s age, perhaps a year or two younger, but his good looks are deceptively boyish and uncompromising. Slightly more fine-drawn than his partner’s.
His name tag, haphazardly pinned to his jacket, reads: Wyatt Van Andrichem, Heuristics Division.
"Wyatt," Viktor echoes, enjoying the taste of the name in his mouth.
"Wy is fine," the man offers, lifting his own glass slightly in greeting. "You’re Viktor, of course. Half the room’s pretending not to stare at you."
Viktor offers a faint smile. "Yes, I am terribly disruptive. The cane adds mystique."
"It does, actually," Wyatt laughs, as though that hadn’t been meant as a diversion. "But mostly it’s because you look like you know more than the rest of us combined. Which is probably true."
Flattery makes Viktor bristle instinctively, but there’s no edge to Wyatt’s voice, just easy, open admiration. It makes it harder to deflect. So he doesn’t. Not entirely.
"I do know a good deal," Viktor says, lips quirking. "But only in very specific subjects."
"Lucky me," Wyatt replies seriously. "I find specificity very attractive."
Viktor blinks. Lets the moment breathe between them.
This is dangerous, he thinks. Not in the drugged sense, not yet; but in the emotional one. The kind of danger you let creep in because it distracts from what hurts.
He lifts his drink in a mock toast. "Then you must find this–" he sweeps a long arm out towards the room “—riveting."
Wyatt grins, drinks, and leans slightly closer.
Viktor should leave. Or rejoin Jayce. Or stand somewhere less conspicuous. But something about the warmth Wyatt—Wy—exudes is… anesthetizing. His compliments feel deliberate, not performative. And Jayce—. Jayce had barely looked at him all evening. No, worse. He’d looked at him like a colleague. Like a problem to manage.
This is petty; he knows this. But tonight, he is tired of being noble.
He lets himself laugh at Wyatt's next gentle tease. Lets his fingers linger on the side of his glass, just a touch more relaxed than they should be. Lets his posture ease, subtly opening to the conversation.
Across the room, a flash of undiluted gold on glossy black hair: Mel, tilting her head back to laugh at something Jayce has said. Her hand rests lightly on his forearm.
Viktor’s eyes narrow slightly. Not in suspicion, but surprise.
Because for a moment, just one slivered second, it feels like betrayal. Quiet and bitter.
He thinks of her recent softness. The way she'd lingered at his workbench offering unsolicited praise. Her curiosity about his outfit. The private comments about how much Jayce lit up when Viktor entered the room. Her willingness to help him with the cufflink clasp. The way she had looked at him with just enough secrecy to make him think—wrongly, it turns out—that she had been laying careful groundwork.
For what? Unclear. Something real, perhaps.
His jaw ticks. Then relaxes again, deliberately. He looks back at Wyatt. Smiles wider.
When Wyatt offers to fetch them another round, Viktor hesitates only briefly before agreeing.
"No alcohol," he murmurs. "I’m—on something."
Wyatt tilts his head, curiosity piqued but not judgmental. "Medical?"
Viktor nods. "Experimental." He doesn’t elaborate.
But the word tugs a memory to the surface. One he hadn’t mentioned. Not to Jayce. Not to anyone.
Viktor
Four Hours Earlier
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"Just so we’re clear," Mella said, holding up the small glass vial between two fingers, "I’m not vouching for this. You wanted low-shimmer tolerance, low volatility, fast absorption. This is the closest thing we’ve got. But it hasn’t been studied. Not in real conditions."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Hm. You have said this already. Besides. Is this not a condition?"
She didn’t smile. "The side effects are unknown. Could hit you too soft, or too strong. May last an hour, may last all night. Some users say it flattens them after the high ends. Others get vertigo. A couple reported hallucinations, but that was mixed with drinking. Don’t do that. Don’t mix anything."
"Understood."
She gave him a look. "No, I mean it. If you start to feel off—too light, too out of body—get somewhere safe. Somewhere bright. Stay where people can see you. Don’t vanish."
That had caught him.
Don’t vanish.
He had thought, then, that he would quite like to vanish.
Not in the melodramatic sense. Not in the way people feared. But in the quiet, absolute way a shadow slips from the wall when the sun moves on. To be unremarked upon. To unhook himself from the scrutiny, the accolades, the mounting responsibility that came with their newfound fortune; one that had arrived so suddenly it still left him dizzy.
Because the cruel truth was this: Viktor’s pain had worsened in lockstep with their success. Every step forward in the public eye seemed to cost him another degree of mobility, another hour of sleep, and the imbalance gnawed at him. While Jayce became brighter, broader, and more beloved, Viktor felt himself pulled steadily inward—a gravity well of ache and endurance.
And Mella—
He had thought, stupidly, for a very brief instance, that she got it.
But no. Best not to dwell.
He had nodded once, gravely. Then he’d taken the vial. Jayce will understand.