Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Four of the academy’s most gifted students surround Viktor in their joint common room.

Their ties have been loosened or removed, thrown lazily onto the table in the middle of their sofa arrangement. Each holds a near-empty bottle of Piltover’s cheapest beer- though none of them are drinking anymore. Not while Viktor is talking.

Graham, a physics major, leans forward with curiosity flickering between the alcohol flush on his cheeks.

“What are the chicks like?” he asks, but Caitlyn kicks her heel into his shin, and he lets out a yelped “Ow!”

Viktor laughs- easy and warm like the alcohol bubbling in his stomach.

“I’ve never paid much attention to the chicks, as you would say,” he says, bringing his bottle to his lips. Some drips from the corner of his mouth- he’s tipsier than he thought.

“Let’s just say,” he continues with a grin, letting the drip roll over his jaw and to his collar. “Piltie men have nothing on the men of Zaun.”

The group laughs and Graham gives Viktor a playfully hurt look with a hand over his heart.

The night is still early, but the winter sun has long since set. Viktor’s cane rests against the arm of the sofa besides him, and the buzz of the beer is dulling the everlasting pain in his knee- a small blessing really.

“Never in my life would I’ve thought a night in Zaun sounded appealing,” Damien, English literature, says from the floor, where he is sat uncomfortably rigid. He’s slightly slurring his tongue around each word, but he hasn’t tried flirting with Caitlyn yet, so he’s still semi-functional.

Caitlyn lifts her head from her hand and pushes herself to the edge of her seat. “Is it not dangerous? I’ve heard a few stories less glamorous than your own, Viktor.”

A memory passes that makes Viktor chuckle. The smoking area at Snake Eyes, a man yelling something crude, and Viktor wrapping his cane around the side of his head. He can’t quite remember the reason, only that it was justified at the time. Something worth snapping his cane in two for.

“Of course it’s dangerous,” he says. “You’re in the trenches, after all.”

There’s no judgement in Caitlyn’s question, something that Viktor would’ve presumed in his first year. Being a Zaunite in Runeterra’s finest university is something that draws stares and whispers, especially from people of Cait’s class, but these are people who have known him for some time now. The kind of people who asks instead of assuming; listen instead of lecture. They are friends.

Part of him is proud, in a private way, that he isn’t finishing his fourth, and final, year with Piltie pricks.

“Though,” he adds. “you’ll come to find people are friendly with a belly full of alcohol.”

From next to Graham on the floor, Frankie, also a physics major, stands.

His ginger hair is spiked, now that several tipsy hands have worn the gel, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone- showing off more freckles scattered over his pale skin. He sets his bottle on the table then claps his hands together, commanding the attention of his audience.

“That settles it,” Frankie declares, loud and boisterous. “I say Viktor takes us down there and we see Zaun for ourselves.”

The group turns to Viktor.

He splutters a laugh. “You want to go right now?”

Taking a group of Piltie students to the bars of Zaun could end with a hospital visit. Especially with Frankie’s mouth and Caitlyn’s stand-off nature.

But their heads nod in sync, some eager and some, one, not at all.

“Come on, Viky,” Frankie is already moving. He circles around the table, leans to Viktor’s level, and slaps his hands on his shoulders. Viktor scowls at the nickname, but it softens when he catches the green around Frankie’s pupils.

“You can’t talk dirty to us and not expect us to want a taste,” Frankie grins around his words, half-daring, half-teasing. Like he knows this is a terrible idea and that is exactly why he wants it.

Already, Viktor feels himself weakening.

“Fine!” Viktor laughs, shrugging Frankie’s hands away. “But you’ll have to change. We go down there looking like this, and we’ll have no money to get back.”

Frankie hollers a few words in triumph, already spinning towards the stairs leading to the men’s quarters. Graham follows, jogging to keep up with Frankie’s excited pace, and Damien mutters, “This is a bad idea,” but trails behind anyway.

Caitlyn crosses to the opposite stairs for the female quarters, laughing to herself as disbelief and excitement curdle in equal parts. It’s a wonder why she isn’t putting her foot down on the idea. If her parents found out about this, she would have no allowance for a month. Viktor supposes she doesn’t care anymore; she is in her final year after all.

Viktor stays put, the common room suddenly quieter without them, and looks to the dying fire. He runs his thumb along the polished handle of his cane, silver and Piltover made- nothing like the one his mother had made in Zaun. It makes him nauseous, the thought of returning home, but Viktor can’t decide if that’s excitement or fear.

Peer pressure at its finest, he thinks, biting his lip to suppress a smile.

Maybe it’s the beer.

Maybe it is the thought of returning home, a place he hasn’t stepped foot in for years.

But despite it all, Viktor is already reaching for his coat.

~~~

Currently, Viktor is three vodka cranberries in.

Graham sits on his left in one of the Last Drop’s signature-purple booths, and Damien sits on his right- eyes too drunken to notice Caitlyn twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes for the pink-haired bar tender. That is probably for the best. Viktor is too tipsy to handle Damien in one of his moods.

“I think it’s time for a cigarette,” Viktor says, and in true Zaunite fashion, gulps his vodka in one. He stands, stumbling slightly for his cane, then turns to Graham. “You coming?”

Graham raises his eyebrows in a lazy attempt to open his eyes. “M’good,” He slurs, leaning further back into the booth, arms crossed like a child refusing bedtime.

Viktor laughs then pushes his way through the crowd. The music grows muffled as he weaves through sweating bodies and spilled drinks, then silence hits as he forces himself through the heavy front door.

Winter’s air hits him like a slap across the face- sharp, clean and sobering. It follows with the sudden urge to throw up, which he tries to suppress with his knuckle over his mouth.

Maybe those vodkas, doubled up for free by the bartender, have crept up on him. Or maybe the thick cloud of purple shimmer in the bar was cushioning the blow.

He stumbles over the front step, thankful the streets are empty so no one sees him trip over his left foot. Steadying himself against the cold brick wall, he exhales slowly, his breath fogging in swirls from his mouth.

From his breast pocket, he pulls out his cigarettes and plucks one from the corner of the near empty packet. When had he smoked the rest? It was probably Frankie, who “doesn’t smoke”, slipping in a sly hand when Viktor isn’t looking. They’ve all caught Frankie smoking out the window at some point this past year- his dissertation getting the better of him.

By now, he has gotten over rolling his eyes at the golden Piltover pattern on the side of each cigarette. The nicotine is all the same, no matter where it comes from.

He lights the end and breathes in deep. Smoke curls from his lips like a dragon’s sigh and familiar heat burns the back of his throat. It is soothing and dampens the nauseous bubble in his stomach. Viktor chucking up his dinner is not what’s going to end the night- he has his bets on Graham.

On his second drag, the bar door creaks open.

A man steps out, laughing as he shouts something back inside. His voice is hoarse and full of life, like someone use to taking up space in the Last Drop. His hands work quickly, like clockwork, to his pockets- Viktor assumes for the same reason he came out.

The man’s hair is dark, shaggy, and hanging over his face so much it seems to blur into the beard shadowing his jaw. His build is broad and unmistakably Zaunite. The kind of bulk grown from fighting or surviving- often both.

He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, and that’s when Viktor notices the bandages, dirtied and frayed, wrapped between his knuckles and up both forearms.

“Could I have a light, Piltie?”

Viktor blinks. He needs to wake up, because the man is stepping closer.

His cigarette hangs loosely between his fingers, whilst Viktor’s own still burns- forgotten between his lips like a teen caught smoking. He nods more than he means to, the world spinning with the buzz of nicotine and vodka, but somehow he manages to hand over his lighter with a steady hand.

“What gave it away?” Viktor asks, watching as the man leans against the wall besides him.

A crease forms between his brows as he shields the end of his cigarette from the breeze, and a frown stitches itself to his lips that somehow makes him even more attractive.

A chuff of smoke hurdles from the man’s mouth as he chuckles around the filter. “You’re from around here. You know what gave it away.”

Viktor glances down at his polished shoes and a begrudged smile creeps across his lips.

Before leaving their academy accommodation, he’d insisted his friends change into something less Piltovian, but Viktor has been around Pilties for too long. No one in Zaun dares to wear gold-buckled shoes. That’s just asking to be picked clean.

"Ah," Viktor mutters, now self-conscious of his shoes, and tries to scuff the top of his left shoe with the heel of his right. "I guess the accent gave away my Zaun roots."

"Nah," The man replies, finally plucking his cigarette, one that burns purple instead of gold, away from his lips. "Pilties wouldn't dare venture this far out from the tram station."

Finally, the man turns fully to Viktor. His shaggy dark hair shadows the corners of his tanned face, but Viktor catches a glimpse of the man beneath the fur. His eyes are a nice golden colour, because “nice” is the only word Viktor has the courage to think, and there is a scar running through his right eyebrow. It comes to a stop just short of his eyelid. Lucky, Viktor thinks. Any further down and he’d have only have one eye to see with.

A gap between his teeth shows when he smiles, and Viktor finds himself grinning like a drunken fool. Maybe it’s the stranger’s smile, or the scruffy beard Viktor’s always had a soft spot for.

"Have you taken something, pal?"

Viktor snaps back to the whole of the man's face, blinking twice then meeting his eyes fully.

"What's your name?" Viktor asks. His cigarette burns low; the flame heats his knuckles but not yet burning. “I'm Viktor."

The man smiles. "Nice to meet you Viktor, I'm Jayce."

Jayce glances over his shoulder through the window between them. Viktor, captivated by the movement, follows suit- his drunken head turning to watch Caitlyn leaning on the bar with a strand of hair curled around her finger. Damien sits where Viktor had left him with eyes on her too, but Cait’s focus remains on the bartender.

"Your friend hasn't got a chance with Vi," Jayce laughs. It is a sweet laugh that has Viktor smiling again, despite himself.

"I'd say Cait’ll charm her by the end of the night."

"Caitlyn," Jayce says so naturally, as if testing the name. A good guess, Viktor thinks, at a Piltover name. "Vi’s gonna chew her up and spit her out."

"Should I be in there warning her?" Viktor asks, finally flicking his forgotten cigarette under his shoe.

"She's in good hands. I promise."

The bartender, Vi, tosses her cloth over her shoulder and leans into Caitlyn, both drawn in by one another. Damien doesn’t stand a chance. Not just because of the biological disposition, but his pristine Piltover skin looks fragile next to Vi’s inked, muscular arms.

"If you wanna give your friends the true Zaun experience, you should bring them to the Tiger cage," Jayce says.

Viktor faintly remembers the place. It's a little further into the trenches, rougher than the Last Drop, and not somewhere he’s ever been. It’s invitation only, and he’s never been invited. Never had a reason to be invited.

"I'd need some back up taking them down there."

Jayce turns toward him; his cigarette now squished alongside Viktor's on the cobbles. He scratches at the scruff on his jaw, knuckles rough with callouses and his nails bitten nearly to the cuticle. Viktor suddenly feels aware of the dirt lacking under his own pedicured nails.

"I'm performing there in," Jayce says, eyes flicking to the clocktower looming over Zaun. "Shit- an hour."

The realisation seems to light a fire underneath him. He straightens, towering over Viktor by an inch or two, and his laughter from before has been replaced with quiet focus.

“Listen,” Jayce says, reaching to his back pocket and pulling out a coin-like token. “Give this to Sev on the door. Tell her I invited you.”

Viktor holds out his palm, fingers long and bony, for Jayce to drop the token into it. It’s black and stamped with the Tiger Cage’s logo: a one-eyed tiger. He rubs his thumb over it, then tucks it safely into his breast pocket alongside his cigarettes.

“I’ll see you there?”

Another chance to see this beautiful man in front of him? Of course.

“See you there,” Viktor nods.

Jayce lingers for a moment, standing tall with ease, no cane needed to hold him up. Viktor feels his insecurity tug at his bent posture in comparison.

Jayce nods once, then glances through the window, then back to Viktor, before turning and melting into the shadow of the street.

~~~

Damien needed a little convincing, but they got there in the end. All it took was Frankie flinging a heavy arm around his thin shoulders and dragging him towards the Tiger Cage. A little brute force never hurt anyone really.

They stumble down a narrow alley, slick with stale rain and oil, until they reach the door stamped with the one-eyed tiger. Rust has consumed the door completely, and the walls surrounding it sweat with the city’s grime.

Viktor steps forward, knocks twice, then hands the token Jayce had given him to the one-armed woman guarding the door. She eyes him, then flicks her gaze to the gaggle behind him. Five clearly out of place students built like they’ve never missed a meal.

"Any trouble,” she says with a voice of gravel. “and I'm dragging all your asses back to Piltover myself."

No one dares to argue- or respond at all. They shuffle past her with eyes down and arms held in tight, her sharp glare pressing on them as they scurry to the stairs.

Viktor is more than thankful that the cold walk here had sobered them up.

For a small entrance, the inside of Tiger Cage unfolds into tall, red-stained walls and spiralling stairs that wind down deeper than expected. There are wooden framed paintings on the walls, but the lights are too dim for Viktor to make out what they are of. Instead, he focuses on descending the steep stairs without tripping over his cane.

With each step, the air grows hotter, and the bass of distant music starts to rattle the sweating walls around them- drowning out Damien’s grumbles from further up the stairs.

At the bottom, double doors wait for them, shaking on their hinges with each thump of the music they cage in. Frankie, ever so eager, barrels forward and barges his shoulder to open them.

Followed by his friends, Frankie steps into chaos.

The crowd swells into every space like sardines in a tin- body-to-body, sweat-slicked, all sharing the same breath of smoke and shimmer. Pushing through the crowd, being who they are, is like sheep trying to go unnoticed in a pack of wolves. They were sniffed out the second they step in.

A few turn to inspect them, Viktor can feel the burn of their eyes on his skin, trailing from his face to the cane clicking on the ground. One man, bald and thick necked with a cog pierced through his eyebrow, snarls wide enough to show sharpened teeth like a warning.

Viktor doesn’t linger, instead urges his friends to weave through the bodies faster, his cane tapping on the floorboards and sometimes someone’s foot.

Reaching the bar is impossible, so Viktor pushes though in hopes of some space to breath but instead hits a railing, a blessed solid railing. He’ll take what he’s given- there is no complaining in a place like this.

He exhales and hears Frankie elbowing through the crowd besides him. By some miracle, he holds two bottles, one of which presses into Viktor’s sweating palm.

Over the railing is a pit. It's deep, presumably to keep whatever’s in it from jumping the railings, lined with concrete and lit by floodlights above. Looking closer, Viktor sees two copper coated doors on either side.

“It’s not a literal tiger cage, is it?” Damien asks. He’s squeezed in behind them, eyeing the pit like he might fall in.

Graham, standing on his tiptoes to see over Viktor’s shoulder, laughs with his tongue pressed to his teeth. “Is your pretty boy a tiger fighter?”

“God, I hope he is,” Frankie grins, eyes locked on the area like everyone else. He lands his hands on Viktor’s shoulders, warm and grounding.

“Might have to swoop in there myself.” Frankie teases.

Viktor rolls his eyes, but only to hide the warmth blooming in his cheeks. He shrugs Frankie’s hands from his shoulders but doesn’t move away.

"Isn't animal fighting illegal?" Graham asks.

"Very," Caitlyn answers cooly, now at the rail with them. The crowd seems to part for her; probably with discomfort at the way she marks her territory with her scent of expensive perfume.

"He said he was performing," Viktor says. "A stage, maybe."

"Odd place for a stage," Damien grumbles. He’s been ready to leave since they stepped off the tram.

Then the lights go out.

A roar erupts from the crowd, primal and deafening. Graham flinches, planting his feet, and Frankie naively joins the crowd’s scream. Even Caitlyn straightens to attention, her smile thin but intrigued, like she is guarding herself from the excitement something illegal brings her.

The floodlights blink in strobes of red, then white, then red again- pulsing with the beat of a drum coming through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Tiger Cage," A voice purrs over the music, playfully smooth and dangerous. "I hope you’ve placed your bets for the first fight of the season!"

The crowd answers with thunder. A woman across the pit lifts a red card in the air, held tight between two fingers, and shrieks like a banshee.

"Ten on tigers!" Frankie shouts over the noise, flashing Caitlyn his freckled grin.

"You're on!" she shouts back, copying a grin that Viktor thinks looks wrong on her rich skin.

"I want y’all to give a warm welcome to your first fighter- Mantaire!”

The left door slams open.

A weedy man bursts into the pit, arms raised, bandages held high like flags. He lets out a cry, high and grating like nails on a chalkboard, and the crowd boos him in return. He flips his middle fingers and embraces the hate as he struts around the pit.

From the corner of his eye, Viktor sees Frankie slap his money in Caitlyn’s smug palm.

"Okay, okay, settle down y'all," the hostess soothes the crowd, and they comply in the palm of her hand. “You’ve been so patient. So let’s give you what you came for!”

The floodlights go black, only one beam of white light remains pointing to the opposing door. The music slows, the bass isolated as it builds to excite the crowd.

Viktor can barely hear over the pounding in his chest.

"Now," The hostess calls. "Please welcome the one you have all been waiting for!"

Viktor’s heart beats in his throat now. He steps closer, one hand on his cane and the other white-knuckled on the railing.

The door swings open and he steps out.

Jayce.

His hair is wet and hanging over his face, but a snarl peaks through his beard. A white vest clings to a body sculpted by brutality, his shoulders stretching fabric that clings as though its threads threaten to tear.

Fresh bandages wrap his knuckles and forearms, but unlike Mantaire’s, these aren’t for show. They cage in muscle, not just bone.

The crowd howls. Viktor’s mouth goes dry.

Jayce snarls like a beast ready to hunt and raises a hand in greeting. The crowd slam their feet, chanting something Viktor can’t make out. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the heat in Viktor’s chest as he watches a man claim his crowd like he was born to be in that pit.

“Jayce Talis!” the hostess cries.

Like turning a key in a lock, Viktor figures out the chant echoing through the crowd. “Talis! Talis!” they shout. Like a mantra- like an ‘amen’ to God.

Jayce isn’t a fighter here. No- he’s a god in the presence of men.

Viktor is frozen so deep in the image that he reminds himself to breathe. He's caught in limbo, somewhere between awe and something entirely different that he can't quite name.

Jayce is scanning the crowd, and for a moment, Viktor thinks their eyes meet, but maybe they don't. It’s brief, but Viktor's breathing stutters anyways.

He wipes his hand on his vest. When did he get so sweaty? He feels it damp down his back, like he's the one stood in the pit with Jayce. And truthfully, he wouldn't mind it all that much.

He wouldn't mind being circled by an animal like Jayce- having his body picked apart by hungry eyes, like a predator assessing its next meal.

The bell rings.

Mantaire dives forward, arms swinging wildly unfocused, but Jayce ducks to the side. Two jabs to the ribs then the third, all in one swift movement, to Mantaire’s jaw. Blood blooms at the corner of Mantaire's mouth, some spluttering to the ground, some on Jayce’s shirt.

Jayce hits like he came out the womb fighting. Though, a man like this isn’t born; he is made out of clay for one thing and one thing only. His body, broad and sacred, is a machine made to kill.

No flashy showing off, no wasted energy- every hit lands.

Viktor can’t tear his eyes away from the fight.

“Your pretty boy isn’t a tiger fighter,” Graham shouts down Viktor’s ear. “He’s the goddamn tiger!”

Even if Viktor wanted to respond, he couldn’t. Because Mantaire has finally gotten a hit in.

A hit to Jayce’s shoulder that doesn’t even sway him from his tree-like stance. It’s desperate, pure luck, and weak. It pisses Jayce off.

Jayce’s shoulders hunch like the heckles on a cat- like he is done restraining himself. He steps back, rearing his right fist, then Mantaire drops to the floor like a dead weight.

The crowd erupts.

Blood is on the concrete and the bell rings twice. It’s over quicker than it started.

Jayce doesn’t say goodbye or proudly take lap. He turns towards the exit, like he has better places to be, and storms through the door.

Viktor reminds himself to breath for the third time.

He returns to the crowd, blinking away the strain in his eyes, and spots Caitlyn watching him with a knowing grin. Her eyes flicker to the door near the bar, now unblocked, then back to him with a small nod.

Wetting his lips, Viktor turns around. He pushes between Frankie and Graham, unbothered by Damien’s disappearance. All that he cares about now is sneaking his way through the doors marked with a neon “STAFF ONLY” sign.

No one guards the doors, much to Viktor’s relief, so no one bothers when he slips through and descends the steps curling downward. He moves quickly, partly nervous someone might spot him and partly thrilled to find Jayce.

At the last step, he is met with a hallway.

He ignores the doors either side of the hall as he makes his way down, afraid some burly man might step out and drag him away by his ears. Instead, he walks until he hears voices at the end of the hall.

“That Talis fella really did a number on Mantaire,” someone says with a hushed voice, like they’re scared Jayce would hear and come for them with the same fist that knocked Mantaire out cold.

Another voice chimes in. “I’ve never seen him lose in my seven years working here.”

A door slams. Viktor’s chest tightens, but the voices vanish, and he figures the coast is clear; so, he continues down the hall.

From outside, the bell rings again, another fight has started- Viktor can hear the familiar roar of the crowd in the walls as they shake. Has he missed his chance? Goddamn leg.

“You came.”

He stops, ears perked, and turns to where it came from.

To his right, Jayce Talis sits hunched on a bench with red seeping through the bandages on his knuckles. The wraps on his forearms are dirtied and a bucket of ice sits between his feet.

“You invited me,” Viktor says, pushing the words past the rock in his throat.

Jayce smiles, gap-toothed with a barely noticed wince. “I was being polite.”

Trying to hide a smile, Viktor bites his lip. He wants to move, cross into Jayce’s space, but his feet refuse. His eyes linger on the budding bruise along Jayce’s shoulder and the smear of Mantaire’s blood on his shirt.

“You were...” Viktor thinks. Majestic? Too forward. Brutal? Too dangerous. “Loud.”

Jayce laughs with his head down, hair falling to hide it, but Viktor sees his shoulders shake. He’s human, like Viktor, bruised, breathing, breakable. But it’s going to take some convincing after what he’s just witnessed.

“The crowd likes it,” Jayce says, rolling his shoulder back but his jaw tightens and his teeth grit together. Mantaire’s hit must have landed harder than he had let on in the pit.

Viktor steps forward. There is something about Jayce’s pain, raw and agonising, that makes him human. Maybe that is enough for Viktor to be reminded.

“You made that hit look painless,” Viktor says, edging closer.

Jayce nods, eyes closing against the ache. “That’s the gimmick,” he says, voice strained and rougher now- like rolling his shoulder had only made it worse. “As long as it’s not dislocated, I’ll be fine.”

Daring now, Viktor sits with his body turned to Jayce. He sees it- the way Jayce’s heckles rise again, like they had in the pit- like he’s predicting pain. But what else would you expect of someone from Jayce’s lifestyle?

Viktor finds a cloth in the bucket and reaches a hand into the cold water. He drains the water, places a handful of ice in the centre, then folds it into a bundle.

“Here,” he says, soft, almost a whisper.

“You don’t have t-“ Jayce starts, but Viktor presses the cloth gently to his shoulder. The heckles die down with a sigh as his eyes pinch shut. The ice seems to help, Viktor notes, not that he would need to remember.

Viktor chuckles, delicate, as though not to startle Jayce. “Good?”

Jayce’s head falls back, thudding softly against the wall. He nods slightly, his wrapped hands rubbing at his knees to soothe him through the pain.

“I could have done that,” he mutters. There’s sweat on his forehead, some strands of hair stick to his skin, but Viktor doesn’t care.

“I know,” Viktor replies. “But you don’t need to.”

Jayce opens one eye, studying his face, which Viktor tries not to make obvious that he notices. He doesn’t speak, just leans into the relief quietly. Viktor presses a little harder and Jayce flinches then sighs.

It’s strangely peaceful.

Neither of them speak for a while. Viktor just holds the cloth to the bruise until he feels the ice melting against the heat of Jayce’s skin. It feels comfortable despite having met less than an hour before, but something about Jayce feels comfortable in a dangerous way.

“I think it’s strained,” he says eventually. “You must have been tensing too much.”

Jayce lifts his head, like he’d been on the brink of sleep, and looks to his shoulder. “Is that your professional opinion, doc?”

“I’d recommend ice twice a day,” Viktor replies, playing along with a smile. “and lay off the fighting.”

Jayce closes his eyes again. “You’re good at this,” He mutters. “You studying medicine or something?”

Viktor huffs. “Not quite.”

Jayce tilts his head, eyes open and watching him now with quiet interest. “What do you study, then?”

Viktor takes the cloth away, dumping what’s left of the ice into the bucket, then wrings it out. “Biomedical engineering. Minoring in mechanics.”

“Smart and pretty,” Jayce grins. “Just my type.”

Heat crawls up Viktor’s neck and settles on his cheeks. He can’t quite meet Jayce’s eyes now, scared to show that got to him. “Shut up, you bruit,” he says instead, but a sickening smile settles on his lips.

Before Jayce can reply, a small woman clears her throat. Her glasses, taped together in the middle, sit on the bridge of her nose. She pushes them up, embarrassingly flushed at the cheeks from the interaction she has interrupted.

Viktor reaches for his cane but is stopped mid-movement by Jayce grabbing his wrist. A silent command to stay.

“Jayce,” she squeaks- she’s only young, maybe two years younger than Viktor himself. “You’re back on in five. Mantaire’s just pulled through- he wants a rematch.”

Jayce doesn’t answer at first. He looks at Viktor, like he’s weighing something that has already been decided for him. Viktor knows what he wants, and he gets the idea that Jayce wants it too.

Then, finally, he turns to the girl and huffs through his nose. “Tell him he’s not going to survive it.”

There’s a pause. The girl looks nervous, like she’s not sure if she should run or argue.

So, Jayce eases up. Softening, he lets go of Viktor’s wrist. “Tell him I’ll be ready.”

She nods, once, quick, then hurries down the hall with her heels clicking behind her. As she scurries away, Viktor finds himself drawn to the tightness of her shoulders hunched high up her neck.

Viktor watches Jayce stand, hearing his knees pop as he does. “Are a lot of people scared of you?” he asks.

The question makes Jayce stop. He looks down at Viktor, eyebrows drawn together. Not angrily, just stung. Or at least Viktor hopes he is. The last thing he wants is to be on the receiving end of Jayce’s anger.

“Are you?” Jayce replies.

Viktor meets his gaze. “Should I be?”

Jayce doesn’t answer. He turns his head, eyes following the sound of the girl’s heels down the hall until it fades to silence. He looks far away, like he’s already back in the pit planning his next move.

There is no answer, just silence. That’s all Jayce is willing to give.

But Viktor wants more, needs more. Though he doesn’t press him. Who is he to pressure a god like Jayce for an answer to a question that is probably already answered?

Instead, he settles on watching Jayce turn away, walking down the hall into the heat of his next fight. No thundering answer or bittersweet goodbye- just a fighter heading to where he belongs.

And Viktor sits there, bathed in the silence of the hallway, hoping it’ll tell him something if he listens hard enough.

Chapter Text

Every time Viktor blinks, Jayce Talis strikes his face.

Then he wakes up.

And for the second night in a row, Viktor wakes up coddled in Frankie’s arms. Frankie is pressed so close to his back that Viktor can feel his breath tickle the nape of his neck every time he snores. It’s cold, and Viktor happily welcomes the heat of his body until the sweat of warmth becomes uncomfortable. So he begins the struggle of untangling himself from Frankie’s hold.

He looks to the narrow window besides his bedpost. Morning is rising, and frost has coated the glass in a translucent crisp that he can feel in the air too. Glancing to the clock above the door in the far corner of the room, his eyes passing Frankie’s empty bed, the hands tell him he’s truly caught the first breath of morning.

This doesn’t happen often, Frankie in Viktor’s bed, but it’s not unheard of. Second year was the first time Frankie had crawled in; when Viktor had been hit with a brutal dose of the flu and he couldn’t stop shivering. The last time was third year, but they don’t talk about it now.

The bed frame creaks as he sits up and swings his legs over the edge. He reaches for his glasses, rested atop the bedside draws and behind him, Frankie groans whilst rolling onto his front. Viktor finds himself watching the freckles on his back stretch over his shoulder blades. It’s an endearing sight.

By now, Caitlyn will be on the university’s track, already doing laps in preparation for her fitness exam later today. Viktor knows he should take a page out of her book and drag himself to a study room. His own exam isn’t far off. But the library feels distant when his thoughts are filled with Jayce Talis.

Each night is the same dream. He’s in the pit back at Tiger’s Cage being circled like prey by Jayce until he shuts his eyes and he’s struck down. He’s thought about dragging himself back to Zaun, in naive hope that he’d run into Jayce, but something in the pit of his chest stops him from stepping on the tram.

He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose, because his eyes always ache when he sleeps poorly, then stands.

Early morning cold bites his bare arms, sending a shiver down his spine and to his toes. The shaggy carpet beneath his feet does little to shield him from the chill, so he slips into his slippers to brave the further freeze of the wooden floors. He wonders how Frankie persists to sleep in nothing but his boxer-shorts even in the winter months.

The university prides itself on it’s old-age architecture: brick buildings, pointed spires and stone-carved gargoyles. The bedrooms, in Viktor’s opinion, resemble medieval chambers with their exposed stone walls and wooden, sometimes cobble, floors. Everything is rich with house colours, a deep crimson, from the drapes around their beds to the furniture in their common room. Viktor has always found it a little eccentric.

Leaving Frankie to sleep, Viktor limps to the door despite bearing half his weight on his cane. It’s heavy, and he grunts as he pulls it open, though he closes it as gently as he possibly can- not wanting to wake Damien and Graham across the hall.

He follows the carpet, red bordered in gold, past the rooms of students who’ve long since dropped out, to the bathroom at the corridor’s end.

The door is ajar. Graham has once again “forgotten” to put his dirty clothes in the hamper, so they lay in a pile on the cream tiles.

Saturday morning, after their night in Zaun, Viktor had found his clothes scattered down the length of the hall. Meaning Damien likely had the joy of watching Graham drunkenly stumble to bed naked after his shower. But then again, after all these years, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

At the far end of the bathroom, two steps lead up to the bathtub. Surrounding the chunk of elevated floor, several showers line the walls with their red curtains drawn. It’s early, and Viktor is the only one awake, so he locks the door behind him.

He turns on the taps, letting the bath run, and pauses at the sink he shares with Frankie. His roommate’s area of the sink is cluttered with bottles of expensive lotion, a golden face-razor, and at least four different aftershaves. Whereas Viktor’s only has a pot for his toothbrush; he’s always lived light. He's never really been able to afford anything different.

As steam starts to grow from the bath, Viktor meets his reflection in the mirror.

He strips off his shirt, quietly exhaling at the ache in his spine, and drops it to his feet. The mirror shows him his pale torso, littered with moles he’s lost track of over time. He’s never carried much muscle, always just skin and bone, so picturing himself with Jayce’s bulk seems laughably pathetic.

Viktor massages his shoulder, watching his skin briefly pinken under the touch, then trails his fingertips across his chest to prod the little fat around his nipples. Barely enough to even be labelled as breast.

If he poked a finger into the fat of Jayce’s chest, what would it feel like? He imagines it’d be firm without Jayce having to tense. It wouldn’t be fat, who is he kidding; it’d be pure muscle. He tries to tense, but his breasts just flinch under the skin.

When he was a teen, his mother would tease him about it. She’d tut as she picked and pulled at him, unaware it was the product of classic Zaun malnourishment. However, that malnourishment has saved Viktor thousands in surgery bills. Not so much regarding his hormones though.

He glances down at the dip of his hips. He’s no longer frail, not like he was when he first arrived at the university, but bones still sharply stab through skin like table corners. Meek compared to the animal he met two nights ago- all muscle, meat and rounded edges.

Eyes squeezed shut, he shakes his head clear of the thoughts plaguing his mind then grabs a fresh towel from under the sink. He leans his cane against the bath’s edge, sets the towel down and the rest of his clothes fall to the floor besides it.

He sinks into the bath, eyes heavy, bones sore, and sighs. Somewhere between scrubbing away the matt of sleep and letting thoughts of Jayce burn between his thighs, Viktor drifts off again. Letting his mind wander until it dreams and his skin bathe until it prunes.

~~~

The words on the page have melted into a blur and Viktor’s sheet of paper remains blank.

Well, he has written a title on the top line: ‘presentation notes’. But other than that, after a whole hour in the library, he has made no progress whatsoever.

Damien notices. He huffs, loud and annoyed, and slams the cover of his book shut.

Viktor, shocked by the bang of Damien’s book, snaps his head up. He blinks, disorientated, realising he’s the only one startled and everyone is looking at him.

Graham is grinning, as though he’s holding back a laugh, and Frankie is glaring at Damien. But Damien? He has his eyes pinned on Viktor like he’s a butterfly and Damien is arranging his wings in a display for his friends to see.

Viktor clears his throat and sits up straighter. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You don’t need to apologise, Viky,” Frankie cuts in quickly, blocking Damien with his tone. His hand is on Viktor’s shoulder, and he bears a soft understanding smile. “It’s not bothering any of us.”

Damien huffs again, like a rabbit thumping its foot. “Speak for yourself.”

“Leave off, Damien,” Frankie spits. He turns to him, that soft smile replaced by gritted teeth and flared nostrils.

“Do you want me to leave?” Viktor asks, irritated. He knows better than to take the bait, but he hasn’t slept properly in days, and Damien is pushing his luck.

“Well, if you’re not going to speak to us or do any work,” Damien starts. “Then you could-“

“I said leave off, Damien!” Frankie, slapping his hand on the table, snaps.

He’s always been like that. The first to step in front of Viktor the minute the air starts to smell sour.

Damien holds his hands up; his shoulders hunch together and he leans back in his chair. He’s grinning like watching Frankie’s anger-flushed face is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day.

The librarian, a white-furred yordle with tufts clogging his ears, shuffles past their table pushing a book-trolly. He shushes them with a hiss before turning down an aisle.

“I just thought we’d have had a debrief by now,” Damien says, now hushed, with mock innocence dripping from his tongue. “We lost you after the fight.”

Graham turns to Viktor, as though he’s just remembered the whole reason he came to library.

“What was his name again?” he asks.

Viktor looks down and mutters, “Jayce Talis.”

Damien’s grin sharpens, the corners of his lips tugging higher up his smug face. He’s just struck his gold.

“Where’d you get off to then?” Damien asks. “Or should I be asking who you got off?”

Viktor rolls his eyes as he feels the heat rising up his neck. He reaches for a pencil that’s rolled against the side of his notepad, twirls it, trying to focus on anything but the image of Jayce Talis forming in his mind.

“We just talked,” he says flatly.

“Oh yeah?” Damien hums. “Is that all you did?”

“Damien,” Frankie says. Warning him that if he pushes anymore, he’ll lunge over the table.

Again, Damien lifts his hands. “I’m just asking, Franklyn.”

“You’re never just asking,” Frankie bites with a raised tone.

The librarian’s head swivels from across the room, where he is now slotting books onto the ‘science fiction’ shelf. He shushes them for the second time, his tail frustratedly flicking by his feet.

Frankie folds his arms and looks to the window, as though just looking at Damien is raising his blood pressure.

Silence smothers them, and Viktor refuses to look up from the pencil in his hand.

“What was he like?” Graham asks casually, breaking through the silence like it wasn’t even there. “Was he as intimidating as he was when he was fighting?”

Viktor can’t hold back his smile. The memory of Jayce’s smile floods his brain and his heart clings to it, like it’s overjoyed that his brain is letting it keep the image.

“No,” He says. “Not intimidating. More…human really.”

The words come out like a question, because Viktor still hasn’t got the ability to fully form an opinion on his conversation with Jayce Talis. When he thinks back to it, all he can remember is the way Jayce laughed through his pain. With his head against the wall and his Adam’s apple poking through his throat.

Frankie relaxes now Damien has gone quiet, which everyone is probably thankful for- Viktor knows he is.

“Are you going to see him again?” Graham asks.

“I doubt it,” Viktor covers his eyes with a hand and leans forward until he is rested on his elbow. “I think I pissed him off.”

“How’d you manage that without getting hit?” Damien asks.

“Are a lot of people scared of you?”

Now, Viktor folds his arms on the table, buries his head there and groans. The recollection of his own voice makes him inwardly cringe.

“I asked if people were scared of him,” he mumbles. “So, he asked if I’m scared of him.”

Silence, again.

Then, softly, Graham breaks it. Again.

“What did you say to that?”

“Should I be?”

“And you’re sure you didn’t get hit?” Damien asks cautiously.

It bribes a chuckle from Viktor, but he continues hiding his head. “No, he just walked off.”

“Yeah,” Graham says. “We saw him walk into the next round. But we didn’t see him fight, we came to find you instead.”

Viktor feels Frankie’s familiar hand between his shoulder blades, his thumb rubbing back and forth. “Sounds like you hit a nerve with him.”

“You think?” Viktor scoffs sarcastically. He pushes his face deeper into the cover of his arms. “I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

“That makes sense,” Graham shrugs. “He was a beast of man.”

Viktor gives a weak laugh. The image of Jayce’s head thrown back against the wall as he laughed is printed on the back of his eyelids now, and he can’t shake it no matter how tightly he squeezes them shut.

“Why don’t you go back to Zaun?” Frankie asks. “Scout him out.”

“I know Cait has been wanting to go back,” Graham adds. “She wants to see that bartender again.”

“She has her exams coming up,” Damien says, masking his jealousy in concern for her education- but no one believes it. “Anyways, I wouldn’t be scouting out a Talis if I were you.”

The three of them turn to Damien, heads tilted like curious puppies.

“What do you mean by that?” Viktor asks, finally emerging his head from its hiding place.

“You don’t know about the Talis family?” Damian asks, slight disbelief around his tongue.

Each head shakes.

“They used to be a wealthy house in Piltover,” Damien continues. When no one speaks, he huffs a breath through puffed cheeks. “They invented the collapsable pocket wrench? Come on, you know them.”

He stands. “Give me two seconds,” he says before disappearing down an aisle of books.

When he returns, he’s flicking through the pages of a book titled ‘Innovators of Piltover’. He sits down, eyes still flipping from one page to the next, until he lays it flat on the table.

“Here,” he says and turns the book towards Viktor. “House Talis.”

Viktor’s eyebrows scrunch together, and he pulls the book closer. Jayce is on the page, though he has thick sideburns and no beard covering his mouth. Only when he squints does Viktor realise it’s not Jayce on the page- it must be his father.

“What happened to the house?” Viktor asks, “They’re not on the council.”

Damien shakes his head and points to the man on the page. “He died about sixteen years ago and left everything to his wife.”

“How’d you know this?” Graham asks.

“I remember my mother went to the funeral, because she was an assistant for the Kirammans back then,” he says. “Apparently the wife went mad and sold everything.”

“That’s how Jayce ended up in Zaun then,” Viktor says. He closes the book, pushes it to the side and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “No one lives in Zaun because they want to, trust me.”

Damien shrugs. “I thought I recognised the name when we were there the other night. I can ask around if you want.”

Viktor shakes his head. He grabs his bag from the floor and stuffs his notebook, pencils and research book in. “I’ll talk to Cait about going to Zaun with her.”

“Are you sure Viky?” Frankie asks. He’s looking up at Viktor with knotted eyebrows, something he does when he’s concerned. The same look he gave Viktor early Saturday morning when he shook him awake from his first nightmare.

Viktor adamantly nods before leaving for his room.

~~~

Their second night out in Zaun takes place on a Thursday.

They had squished themselves into a tightly packed tram at five o’clock and made their way to the Last Drop- Caitlyn leading the way like she was running out of time. All without Damien; much to everyone’s relief.

Now it’s seven, Vi is closing down the bar, and Caitlyn sits on a stool with Vi’s jacket over her shoulders. Through the window, Viktor watches Caitlyn bashfully smiling like her mission is complete. He doesn’t fail to notice her pressing her nose into the red leather collar every time Vi turns away.

Viktor is sharing a cigarette with Frankie, who’s leaning his head on Viktor’s shoulder and watching Graham make a fool of himself trying to talk to a woman across the street.

“You getting laid tonight, Frankie?” Viktor asks through an exhale of smoke whilst handing the cigarette over.

Frankie huffs a laugh, his voice turned gravel-like from the nicotine. “You offering?”

Laughing, Viktor shrugs his head from his shoulder. “That’s a no then.”

Graham crosses to them with his head down and his metaphorical tail between his legs. Viktor guesses Cait is the only one getting laid tonight.

“No luck?” Frankie asks and Viktor can hear the taunting smile in his voice.

“What do you think, smart-arse?” Graham shoots them a look and the two of them laugh at the sight.

The lady he had been talking to has rejoined her friends further down the street, laughing as her heels hit the cobbles, and Viktor laughs just at the sight.

“The night’s still young, Graham,” He offers just as the door of the Last Drop opens.

Caitlyn walks out with blush covering her cheeks and down her neck. She’s slipping her arms into the jacket, hugging it to her body like she’s been claimed. Damien would be going red at the ears and walking off by now.

“What about you, Cait?” Frankie asks. He’s finished the cigarette now, passively crushing it under his heel.

She turns to them, like she had forgotten they were there. “What about me?” she asks.

Behind her, Vi’s flicking through a large set of keys then locking the door to the bar. Without her jacket, she’s wearing a white shirt that has a black hood sewn into the neckline. Thick lined tattoos crawl from her shoulders to the back of her elbows.

“Are you getting laid tonight?” Frankie smirks at the deeper shade of pink her cheek turn. Almost matching the colour of Vi’s swooped hair.

“Keep your nose out, carrot-top,” Vi says, teasing. She clips the keys to a carabiner on her belt loop then hides them in her front pocket.

Viktor can’t help but laugh, as does Graham, much to Frankie’s embarrassment. But Frankie doesn’t take offence, instead mocks a laugh and steps away from the wall.

“Where are we heading to now?” He asks the group, stuffing his cold hands into his own pockets. He turns to Vi and Graham asks Viktor for a cigarette. “Any recommendations?”

“Gears is good on a Thursday,” Vi answers. She casually slips an arm around Caitlyn’s middle, to which Caitlyn only flusters further. “They have open mic night tonigth.”

Graham perks up, turns to Frankie and beams a grin. “Lead the way,” he says eagerly and Vi does just that.

She walks ahead with Caitlyn under her wing, whilst Graham tries to join their conversation at the side, and Frankie hooks his arm through Viktor’s in attempt to take some weight off of Viktor’s bad leg.

It isn’t a long walk and unlike the Tiger’s Cage, it’s on the corner of some street rather than down a suspicious looking alley. There are a few people outside talking through smokes and through the large windows Viktor see’s the place isn’t that busy.

They slip through the front door; Graham holds it open for Viktor and Frankie as Vi leads Cait towards the bar. On the ceiling, there’s large cogs of all colours creating a kaleidoscopic pattern Viktor finds himself going dizzy looking up at.

Someone’s on the stage singing whilst strumming an acoustic guitar, but Viktor doesn’t recognise the song, so it muffles into background noise. There are two people, a man and woman, sat at the bar talking to the boy serving them.

The woman wears a black dress that clutches to every soft line of her body, slit at each hip- showing off gold lines tattooed into the skin of her legs. Her hair is box-braided, embellished with gold rings, and tied into two buns at the back of her head. She wears a lot of gold for someone sipping wine in Zaun, but Viktor is entranced.

Until he notices the man hunched over a pint of brown ale. His broad back is adorned with a sleeveless leather jacket. It’s black, lined with maroon on the collar, and has two tanned arms the size of Viktor’s head popping through the sleeves. Those arms are so unmistakably Jayce’s

Viktor stops.

Frankie turns, eyebrow raised and confused. “You good, Viky?” He asks.

“It’s Jayce,” Viktor says with something bitter on his tongue that had sprouted from the pit of his stomach.

Upon realising that Viktor and Frankie haven’t joined him at the bar, Graham turns away from his conversation with Caitlyn. The bartender is pouring their drinks whilst Vi is speaking to Jayce, now that she has noticed him sitting two stools away from the group.

“What do you want to drink, Viktor?” Graham calls over.

Jayce turns on his stool. His eyes, direct and darkened by his stern brow, find Viktor quick.

A hopeful part of Viktor thinks the pinch between Jayce’s eyebrows might relax seeing him, but they don’t. Instead, his jaw sets like he’s offended at seeing Viktor stood there. Like Viktor has wandered into his territory and pissed to mark it as his own.

It’s painful to meet his eyes, yet Viktor braves it. He covers his face with a mask that sets his lips into a line and relaxes his wide eyes. He isn’t scared- Jayce is just a man after all.

He’s a man that makes sweat burn at the back of Viktor’s neck when he stands. The collar of his jacket is popped up, like heckles, and the white top he wears beneath is stained. How can one man make looking like he’s from the lanes so ethereal? Jesus- Viktor really has been in Piltover for too long. He’s no better than a Piltie with thoughts like that.

Viktor watches Jayce turn to the woman next to him and lean to kiss her cheek. That bitterness rises in his throat like bile, acidic and scolding his tongue. Though his eyes don’t stray. Even as Jayce walks towards him. Even as Jayce passes the left side of his body, moving so quick that his body blows a gust over Viktor’s own. It smells like smoke, musk and oaky aftershave.

The lady he had left sitting at the bar, a half drank wine in her hand, doesn’t look upset. Nor does she attempt to follow Jayce out the door. She finishes her glass, orders another then keeps quietly to herself until she is done.

Watching Jayce Talis leave sits heavy on Viktor’s shoulders for the rest of the night. They have spoken once, but maybe once is all it took for Jayce to make an enemy out of Viktor.

Once was all it took for Viktor to sleep restlessly.

It should be enough for Viktor to let Jayce Talis free from his mind- or let his mind free from Jayce Talis. But there’s something about him. Something eerily warm that Viktor’s drawn to like a moth to a flame. Attracted to the brightness so much he’s willing to scorch himself flying into it.

Not a want. Not a desire. It’s a primal need.