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It’s lost somewhere, buried in the mess of papers scattered between them, hiding behind sketched figures and numbers and the theories that he spins in seconds. Lost somewhere in the chalk dusting Viktor’s fingertips, somewhere in the increasingly sparse negative spaces of the blackboard, somewhere down deep between Jayce’s lungs and beneath his heart that still beats too hard. His heart that remembers dropping into his feet, staring down at the ruins spread over the street below, and his heart that remembers leaping into his throat at the voice behind him.
Lost, and they won’t speak of it, won’t pick at peeling corners and beg to bare it, bathe it in the warmth of the soft oranges and yellows that light the room. In lieu, they will both allow it to slink back into shadow and curl itself in the forgotten darkness because it’s too new.
Because Jayce can’t look it in the eye and he knows that Viktor knows.
He punctuates another string of notes with a harsh stab to the board and Jayce doesn’t flinch, because his eyes haven’t left Viktor’s back since he turned and it’s not so much the words as it is his hands. One holds the chalk between unsteady fingers and the other is white-knuckled on his cane, elbow locked as he tries to keep his weight off his leg, and Jayce supposes there’s something to be said about both of them there. Help he won’t offer, and sympathy Viktor won’t show.
Instead, he leaves a chair empty of their work, not two steps away, and Viktor leaves himself between Jayce and the ledge.
“It’s not perfect.”
“Far from it,” Viktor agrees. “Not so different from a pipe dream.”
The warmth hasn’t faded from his fingertips, warmth that bled straight through his shirt and into Jayce’s palm as he grasped at Viktor’s shoulder. He actually lets himself laugh and it’s almost too giddy, like his brain has finally finished processing that he should be dead. Rubbing one hand over his mouth, the other arm still crossed over his chest, Jayce studies Viktor’s terrible handwriting and decides he likes it far better than anything he’d ever seen in the Academy.
He lets go of the chalk before Jayce has so much as thought to say that he wants it. Their fingers brush and it nearly makes him lose whatever focus he’d managed to scrape up and he takes a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on the board as he draws a heavy line to connect two of the notes.
Viktor makes a thoughtful noise, nothing more than an indistinct hum, but it’s more than enough to make Jayce’s chest fill with pride.
That is a mystery for another day.
“You think they would be permanently bound? The machine and the source?”
“There’s no way of knowing until we try,” he starts, and draws another line. “But I can’t see a way of accomplishing this without a permanent bind.”
Viktor doesn’t smile, per se. It’s more of a smirk and it leaves him reeling a little.
Holding out his open hand, he takes the chalk back from Jayce and begins underlining as he says, “This is no time for being realistic. We are talking about magic.”