Chapter Text
Viktor rolls over in the wide bed with its crisp white sheets, and checks his phone. He sends a text to Sky letting her know that they’re not making it in today, gets a thumbs up emoji in response, and burrows back under the covers. His hips hurt too much to easily go back to sleep, but Jayce is enticement enough to curl up in the curve of his warm, sleeping form.
Jayce wakes up with a groan. Viktor had expected the hangover and made him put a granola bar, painkillers, and a glass of water on the bedside table before going to sleep, which Jayce now takes after gentle prodding. He groans again, pulls Viktor closer, and falls back asleep, a quality Viktor wishes he could emulate, but this - the gentle domesticity of this - is nice.
Eventually, Viktor has to get up to stretch or his joints are going to lock up. Jayce is still blissfully and gently snoring and barely notices as Viktor squirms out from under his arms. He’s glad he had the foresight to also put his cane next to the bed rather than leave it in the hall, because everything about getting his aching and stiff body moving is made at least a little easier by having that familiar point of leverage.
Now that he’s upright and breathing a little heavier, he feels the tickle deep in his chest that portends at least a few very uncomfortable days in his future. He makes it to the bathroom before he starts coughing, and while he’s doubled over, he considers whether two trips home in a week is worth this.
But then he remembers Jayce’s mouth on his, his beaming mother, and he concedes that maybe it is.
He turns on the water in the shower as hot as it will go, inhales the steam, and hopes that this time the illness will pass swiftly.
-=-
By the time Jayce is fully awake and mobile, Viktor has showered, made coffee, and tidied the kitchen. He knows he does this every time, as if activity and action will stave off the inevitable. But he runs out of things to do, that he reasonably can do without assistance, and finally sits at the kitchen island to read the news.
Jayce, wrapped in a robe and fresh from his own shower, pauses in his quest for caffeine to press a kiss to Viktor’s cheek, then recoils. “Viktor, you’re burning up!”
“Hm?” Viktor glances up from his paper to find the world is just a touch fuzzy, the fever creeping in around the edges. Ah, well. It never works, but he figures it’s always worth the try. And at least now he can leave with a clear conscience.
“I can take myself home.” He folds the paper neatly, starts to slide off the stool. “Don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”
Jayce pulls himself up, the picture of affront. “I don’t care about that. You’re sick.”
Viktor smiles thinly. “That has been one of my defining features since the beginning. It will pass.”
He tries to push past, but Jayce puts himself between Viktor and the door, looming large and Viktor’s brain is starting to soften a bit. He can’t quite work out how to move around him.
“Do you want to be alone?” Jayce asks, a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. Jayce has large blacksmith’s hands, rough, competent, and warm .
“It’s better if I am-” Viktor starts to say, but Jayce gives his shoulder a gentle push that nearly sends him to the floor. Oh no.
“Do you want to be alone?” Jayce repeats earnestly, catching Viktor’s eyes and by his elbow.
Viktor almost repeats himself. He closes his eyes, inhales Jayce’s scent, and shakes his head. “No,” he hears himself whisper.
“Give me your keys. I’ll go pick some things up for you.”
-=-
Jayce installs Viktor on the sofa with a cup of tea and a blanket. The fever is getting worse and Viktor’s ability to focus on anything more complex than getting the cup from the table to his lips without spilling is diminishing rapidly, and he dozes off and on.
As the afternoon turns dark, the door rattles open, heralding Jayce’s return with a duffel in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. Viktor blinks awake long enough to see Jayce come through the door, coughs, and drifts off again.
The next time he wakes, it's Jayce's soft touch against his shoulder. It’s fully dark outside Jayce’s wide windows with the beautiful view of the city.
His head is full of cotton and he blinks hard in the dim light coming from the kitchen to see what Jayce is doing. His question is interrupted by hard, rough coughing that brings a metallic tang to the back of his throat, which he resolutely ignores.
Once he’s recovered enough, though, he finds that Jayce has brought his chanukiah from his apartment, and the box of cheap candles they bought together last week. All eight candles are in a tidy row, ready to be lit, with just the shamash missing.
Not missing: in Jayce’s hand. “Is this okay?” Jayce asks softly, passing the unlit candle to Viktor.
Viktor takes it with a trembling hand. Shit.
“Here, let me.”
Viktor almost protests. There’s something in the back of his mind about appropriateness, but he can't think of what, and couldn’t form the words even if he wanted to.
But instead of taking the candle away, Jayce puts his hand around Viktor’s, steadying it. He lights the candle, but Viktor guides their movement. Viktor recites the bracha in a rasping voice, unable to find enough range to sing the melody.
But it doesn’t matter, he thinks, as he moves their hands together, lighting each candle in turn.
A great miracle is happening here .