Chapter Text
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VIKTOR
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The sheets were tangled around my ankles, I must have kicked them off as I slept; my back brace cold against the inside of my arms. Sliding off the bed, I looked for clothes, and found an oversized bathrobe in the closet. It smelled like Jayce.
Padding to the door, and opening it to be head-butted by a leggy greyhound. Anchoring with my crutch, I scritched behind her ears. “Eraser, good girl. Good girl,” I said in the babies-and-dogs voice.
I had boxers under the bathrobe, but I felt exposed. Not as much by the nakedness, getting used to nakedness came with trips to the doctor, but the room. The window was framed asymmetrically, Art Nouveau swoops and vines. The bed was more masculine, utilitarian, but all of it felt lived in. Cozy. A fire smoked in a hearth, needing prodding. But the view, the fire, the tight weave of the bathrobe: casual luxury. Someone who had stopped counting expenses.
Holding a tray, Jayce turned into the room. “Breakfast in bed,” he raised his eyebrows. Then shimmied towards the coverlet.
“Are you dancing?”
“Natural rhythm,” he said. Holding up the tray after he sat. “Get in.” Frowning, I manoeuvred beside him, scooting against the headboard. Settling the tray on my lap, he grabbed a pancake.
“I see you’ve given me the Man of Progress mug,” I said.
Jayce ate the pancake with his fingers like it was a sandwich. Syrup dripped down his wrist. “What if you forget what I look like?”
I stared at him eating. “Uh, uh, uh,” I wiped syrup from his forearm before it got on the sheet.
“I got you utensils,” he pointed.
Eraser had put her long head on the end of the bed, and her eyes followed the pancake each time Jayce lifted it.
I began to cut the stack into smaller pieces. The knife screeched against the plate. “Sorry, sorry.” Jayce leaned his head against my shoulder. The knife was dull, I kept tearing the batter to disguise I wasn’t eating. “Are we in your mother’s house?” I asked at last.
“She’s downstairs,” he said with a yawn. “Cait’s here exactly on time, very punctual, Kiramman. We’re technically late. Heimerdinger was talking to her about a jazz scale?” He smiled. “I don’t know. Vi and her sister are coming later. Mel RSVP’ed yes.” Jayce started picking pancake detritus off my plate, licking his fingers. “She gets lonely on the holidays. I’m glad we invited her.” He sighed, kissed the side of my head. His lips were sticky. “Maybe your parents will come next year.”
Out the window the city was strewn with pennants. I could see a vendor with colourful balloons designed to look like tiny dirigibles. Hesitating, “Progress day?”
“Mmm, what are you giving up?” he asked. “I’ve decided,” his shoulders angled towards me. “Here me out.”
“I’m not interrupting.”
“I’m getting rid of our old coffee pot. Next year, I’m making an espresso machine. A button in our apartment so it brews in the lab by the time we get there.”
Sacrifice an old invention, and next year you’re fated to design a better one. Progress Day. “What am I giving up?” I echoed.
He cupped my chin with his fingertips, turning my face towards him. “You have some syrup, right here.” Tapping my cheek.
“Because your fingers are sticky.” I felt his fingers with mine, tracing.
Bending closer, Jayce kissed the side of my jaw. His lips were hot, pressing, pressure. Pulling back, “I think I got it.”
My head had thudded back against the headboard. I could feel my pulse in my face. “Does your mother know we’re here?”
“She knows we’re late,” he laughed.
“She’s alright with this?”
Jayce’s lip scrunched, “She loves you. What are you talking about?”
“And our work?” I asked. “We’re still working in the lab? The Hextech?”
Jayce shook his head, confused. “Yes, except when we don’t.” Lowering his chin, “We could call in sick tomorrow.”
“Hasn’t our work suffered?” my voice cracked.
The greyhound whined.
Jayce threw her a wedge of pancake, and she scrabbled across the room. “Maybe.”
I felt sick. “But we’re happy?” I asked.
Jayce didn’t have to answer. He looked at me. Hair sticking up on the back of his head. Crumbs in his beard. It wasn’t any different. The same expression when we solved midnight equations and he said he loved my mind; smiling at me sleepily through early-morning conferences; sitting by my bedside when I was sick, hand resting lightly on my wrist. Not quite holding me. Except now, leg warm against my thigh, bicep pressing into mine, joint-custody of a dog, we were together. I couldn’t misinterpret it.
My eyes burned. I blinked. “And our friends are downstairs.”
He nodded, massaging the knot above my shoulder blade.
I went over the guest list. There was someone missing. “What about Sky?” I asked.
And the ceiling disappeared.