Chapter Text
I. The future that never was
Jayce is giving a speech before the Council; and, although Viktor doesn’t hear what Jayce is saying, seeing his face – a little desperate, yet determined – makes Viktor believe it’s important.
But when the Council starts shouting, Viktor hears it; their voices ring in Viktor’s ears louder than pain that circulates, like a venom, through his whole body; how can five people scream in such volume that would rival thousand bombs, detonated at once?
Their words though – incoherent, Viktor can’t understand what they are arguing about. His gaze wanders between Jayce and each of the Council’s members; there is so much hatred and disdain in all of them – mouths writhed in anger and glassy, unwavering eyes – did Jayce say something that atrocious?
No, he couldn’t – the man himself looks like a hunted animal that has been cornered; knitted eyebrows and quivering lips, like his hopes are being stepped on; Jayce not an epitome of a perfect man, but he surely couldn’t…
He surely couldn’t…
Viktor shakes his head, trying to remember how they ended up in this room in the first place, but fails. There are no traces of memories of him coming to this room.
Is the Hexcore to blame for it?
The prickle of guilt - no, not the Hexcore. It’s Viktor’s fault – any metamorphosis he has undergone and is going to are his fault alone. It’s hard to breathe – as if suddenly something takes all the oxygen away from the room. The noise presses on his head, squeezes his temples; the floor below his feet swirls in a marble hurricane…
And suddenly, it quietens.
Viktor looks up. All the figures freeze with grotesque grimaces on their faces.
He sees what – who – made them stop. Medarda, cold, seemingly unbothered by her colleagues’ tantrum, elegantly raises her hand.
“I support Councillor Talis’ proposal for peace.”
Tension subsides from Jayce’s expression; his lips turn into a relieved smile, as other councils follow Medarda’s example. Whatever Jayce wanted, he obviously achieved it.
And – that is supposed to make Viktor’s heart overflow with happiness (even if he doesn’t know what this meeting is about, the only thing Viktor has ever wanted for Jayce was success), but, instead of joy, something ominous – a feeling one gets when someone is watching them from the dark - nestles inside Viktor’s chest. An anticipation of a storm coming; an inevitability of impending catastrophe.
As Jayce grins at him – victorious in his truth – the glass around them shutters.
And the room illuminates.
II. Viktor
Viktor wakes up with a violent cough; his body feels heavy and stiff but he, with a surprise, doesn’t find himself surrounded by debris. It takes him a second to realize that it was just a dream. He shudders – it seemed so real. It seems even more real now when he is safe and has time to process what he saw. What he felt; those emotions – guilt and regret, and fear. An inevitable death avoided – he has never been so close to it. But it was just a dream – one of those that will haunt him forever, risking to become a self-fulfilling prophecy, but a dream nonetheless.
That moment when he lost Jayce to the glass; only a second passed before both of them dying and Viktor’s waking up – Viktor in the dream will be forever ignorant of that loss, but real Viktor won’t. He prays he forgets about it, for time to erase those pictures from his head as only time can – gradually but completely.
The dizziness from slumber slowly subdues – and, with it, the void between reality and fantasy grows. What was Medarda in his dream talking about? How did Jayce react to her words? Viktor already can’t tell. Now replaces the past. Now as in the luxuries room with tall ceilings, decorated with hideous fretwork; mirrors instead of walls.
Viktor props himself up on his elbows. His tired eyes – although he has only woken up – look back at him from the smooth reflecting surface.
He coughs again, covering his mouth with his hand; Viktor pointedly watches as his body convulses on the bed, as his shoulders shake with every burst – but, when he withdraws his fingers, the skin there is unstained.
It pleasantly confounds Viktor; pity that such an unremarkable result was so hard won.
Sky… Familiar guilt overcomes him, along with the memories of things that did happen. And yet, here he is – so far away from Piltover, where it’s so easy to pretend he doesn’t care about her death nor is he constantly tortured by his mistake.
That won’t do, of course. Viktor put up with Jayce’s proposal only because he wasn’t himself, because he was in the state of affect. Jayce used it – and Viktor isn’t angry at him for that – but now, when Viktor is feeling better, he knows they have to return.
(They – because Piltover needs them both even though it gives all its admiration solely to Jayce.)
He stands up, throwing away the blanket; the picture of his legs – one fragile, human and one corrupted – reflected in the mirror almost makes him sick. Viktor reaches out to the crutch, weighs it for a second in his hand – like the object itself is somehow unfamiliar – and moves, slowly, towards the striped chair he left his clothes on yesterday.
It won’t be easy, Viktor thinks, dressing up. Jayce was so determined to leave, so rushed in the departure itself. Or, perhaps, it will. Perhaps Viktor will find Jayce disappointed with his own cowardness, eager to go back.
Viktor almost forgets about the glove; he finds it in the pocket of his pants right before he leaves the room, at the very last moment. Viktor hopes, hastily putting it on, that Jayce won’t notice the absence of the second one. Viktor considers himself a smart man, but not bringing it here was extremely stupid; unfortunately for Viktor, Jayce’s mind could rival his. It’s only a matter of time until he starts asking questions – but their return to Piltover should distract him from Viktor.
He takes a deep breath – and opens the door.
III. Viktor
Why Jayce had to rent such a spacious apartment is a mystery for Viktor. It takes some – a lot of - time to finally find the man, hunching over the kitchen counter. Is he cooking? It’s hard to tell from the place where Viktor is standing.
Funny – Viktor has always thought that Jayce has no knowledge of mundane daily matters. He wouldn’t know for sure – they have never discussed their routine; Jayce simply looks like he belongs to this kind of men who don’t care about serving their own meals or washing their own clothes – they have mothers for that.
Or wives.
Perhaps Viktor was wrong.
Jayce turns around as Viktor approaches the round table in the center of the room.
“Good morning.” Jayce says.
Viktor nods - unsure how to answer with words - pulling out a chair and slumping on it.
Once, when Viktor was in his early twenties, he was hanging around the bookstore; myriads of texts, yet it was a children’s book that drew his attention. The book was called, “What’s Wrong with These Pictures?”. It contained hundreds of photos on which one thing was out of place – and a child who would open this book was supposed to name it.
This situation right now – it reminds Viktor of that book.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Jayce’s broad, generous smile. The cheerful tone of his voice. The most ordinary question he could come up with.
Those are wrong, because the picture itself depicts the tragedy of two people who ran away from their goal – but only one of them seemingly acknowledges it.
“Slept well?” Jayce asks – it’s another wrong thing.
“I had a dream,” Viktor murmurs, falling into the surrealism of the picture instead of pulling Jayce away from it. He draws his normal leg to his chest and lowers his head.
“A good dream, I hope?”
“A nightmare.” Viktor’s voice is muffled by the rough fabric of his pants. “I saw the future that never was. We both died.”
Jayce turns away before Viktor has a chance to see an expression on his face.
“How?” It’s almost casual. How is the weather? How do you like your meat? How did we die in your dream?
“We were in Piltover. The world around us drowned in the shattered glass.”
“It’s a good thing that we are not in Piltover, then.”
This is going to change soon.
Jayce brings two plates to the table, placing one of them before Viktor.
“I have always thought that you have no idea how to cook,” Viktor says, grasping the fork that is lying on the plate’s edge.
“An omelette barely constitutes as cooking.” Jayce shrugs, taking a seat across Viktor.
Food seems tasteless, but Viktor isn’t picky, so he eats anyway, occasionally giving Jayce fleeting glances. Jayce is definitely more interested in the meal than Viktor is, savouring the fruit of his labour. It’s a good thing, too, that he barely looks at Viktor – gives Viktor a chance to casually hide his ungloved hand under the table.
“Jayce,” Viktor finally starts, absentmindedly playing with food, when Jayce finishes. “We are going back.”
The hand Jayce holds his fork whitens.
“No,” Jayce says to the plate.
As much as Viktor was prepared for this reply, determination with which Jayce is spitting out this word catches Viktor off guard.
“No?”
“We aren’t going anywhere.”
Viktor’s normal hand clenches into the fist. He hates being decided for – allowed it only in the moment of weakness. But now, it angers him, heats up his face.
“Am I not allowed to leave this place, then?”
“Of course you are. I’m not holding you hostage.”
“Then…”
Jayce raises his head – their eyes meet - and Viktor forgets, for a second, what he was trying to say. He is not sure how to interpret Jayce’s look other than deeply hurt – and Viktor doesn’t understand why.
Perhaps, he has chosen the wrong tactic and the cool steel of a scalpel would work better than a rude, straightforward hammer.
“Help me to comprehend it, Jayce,” Viktor says softly. “I thought you were set on improving the situation in Piltover – and yet you fled once it became too dire. What changed?”
“You know what changed.”
“Do I?”
“You are dying, Viktor. If you want to know what changed, this is the answer you are looking for.”
Viktor lowers his eyes, not knowing how to tell Jayce that he is not sure he is dying anymore. Or, at least, that he isn’t dying like he has been those past days. That his illness probably has returned to the state it had been in for a very long time, to the state which Jayce, upon Viktor’s constant insistence, learnt how to ignore.
He fears that moment when Jayce finally puts two and two together. Because then, an explanation will be in order – a painful explanation of difficult matters, and not a single part of it will include theories and formulas. Viktor will have to tell Jayce about how much he changed, how much he sacrificed. Tell him about Sky, too.
The nape of Viktor’s neck begins to sweat. What would Jayce think of him when the truth finally comes out? Viktor used to believe that Jayce would understand, but this was before Viktor killed an innocent woman.
The farther Jayce is from him the more probable it is that he never uncovers this shameful secret.
“Piltover needs you.”
“Don’t you need me more? I can’t help you if there are thousands of other things that require my immediate attention.”
Viktor, objectively, was fine without Jayce’s help – he didn’t need assistance to make all those mistakes. He sure doesn’t need it now – when he decided to stop, decided not to fight anymore, letting his illness take its toll when it sees fit.
Yet, he can’t articulate those thoughts. Can’t let Jayce suspect that there is a reason behind Viktor’s inaction.
“What if you can’t help me at all?”
“I can. And I will. But you have to let me.”
Viktor shivers, accepting his defeat. It’s easier to play along with Jayce’s stubbornness than trying to compete with it. Besides, Jayce will soon understand that nothing can be done and will return on the right track.
He only hopes Piltover won’t collapse until then.
“Are you cold?” Jayce asks; Viktor hates the concern he hears in Jayce’s tone.
“Pardon me?”
“The glove.”
It seems like Viktor underestimated Jayce’s observance.
“No. I’m fine.”
Only now, in this silence, Viktor starts to notice the world outside of their apartment. The sun and its rays that invite themselves into the kitchen space; the birds chirping; people talking. Laughing. Calling each other by names.
Life goes on – yet Viktor feels stuck in this place he doesn’t belong to.
“How are you planning to save me, anyway?”
He chooses this word purposefully. That’s something Viktor both knows and doesn’t like about Jayce – his arrogance that equals only his stubbornness. A saviour complex on the borderline with hubris. The only thing they have ever wanted was to change the world, to help people – but they were so different in their approaches. Viktor preferred crafting in the shadow, while Jayce – Jayce has always simply had to be there, to savour his victories, to shower in admiration. That made him aim higher, often biting more than he could chew – and the same arrogance allows Jayce to think that he is capable of saving everyone around him. No, not only capable – has to.
And caring for a dying man is an epitome of that arrogance.
But that will pass. Viktor gives Jayce two weeks until his hopes will be dashed. Until his ego will be stepped on by a cruel reality.
“I don’t know yet. But we have heard only one doctor – there are others. Other scientists, too. I don’t believe there is nothing we can do.”
There is, Viktor thinks. There is, and you are not going to like it.
IV. Jayce
Jayce looks up from the book he is reading – briefly, just for a second. But even a second is enough for the sight of Viktor to imprint under his eyelids when Jayce blinks.
Viktor, lying on his back on the sofa - too cramped for his long legs – with his head tilted back. Viktor, with his eyes closed. Viktor, with his hand lifelessly hanging – long gloved fingers almost brush the floor. Viktor, with the afternoon’s shadow casted upon his pale, peaceful face.
A picture of respite; but how sleeping is any different from being dead? The same stillness, the same coldness. Jayce wishes he had never seen it; he is so afraid of losing Viktor that even such unfortunate reminiscence of eternal rest makes his pulse quicken.
Letters blur before him. Jayce shakes his head, trying to concentrate. This text may contain the answers he seeks. It’s important. He has to focus.
And yet, Viktor’s vulnerable pose, as much as it hurts Jayce, keeps drawing his attention. There is something unearthly in Viktor’s being like this – and something very human at the same time. Captivating. Bewildering.
He can’t remember the last time he had a chance to simply enjoy the presence – the appearance, too – of another person.
Perhaps, when he was younger – when he and Caitlyn still enjoyed each other’s company – time could fly while he was listening to her talking. Talking about big important things or small and silly – Jayce can’t quite recall now because he wasn’t really listening. Just observing Caitlyn; how young and alive she seemed – and was – how wind gently played with her hair, how adorably she knitted her brows when something annoyed her.
“Have you already found what you were looking for?”
Viktor’s voice startles Jayce. There is some childish exciting fear in him, sticky and sweaty, like he was found in the game of hide and seek. Jayce clears his throat, casually lowering his eyes.
“Yes,” Jayce says – and then gulps. “I mean, no.”
Viktor hums; his lashes flutter before he opens his eyes and turns his head to Jayce.
“What’s that book about?”
“Pardon me?” Jayce heard the question. He just needs a moment to gather his thoughts, to recall what it is he was reading. Text lost its meaning some time ago.
“The book.” Viktor points at the item that lies before Jayce on the table. “What is it about?”
“Oh, that. Herbs. And their influence on human’s body.”
Viktor winces – as if there is a part in Jayce’s words he disagrees with. Or as if he doesn’t like the idea that he could be cured with something so simple.
“Are you a botanist now?”
“Just doing my best.”
Viktor blinks, slowly, lazily. Turns his head to face the ceiling. Taps on the centre of his ribcage with his fingers. Thud. Thud. A bone clashes with a bone. This motion looks like stabbing – but softer. Gentler. Less violent.
“When does someone else’s best become other person’s not enough?” Viktor murmurs.
Jayce feels the corners of his lips twitching upward. Despite how harsh those words may sound, they are a familiar ground. A whisper from the past where Viktor tested Jayce’s theories by restlessly looking for the smallest weak points.
Jayce presumes it was a purely rhetorical question, but he answers anyway, “When they have different goals.”
“Would you read it for me?”
“You mean, the book?”
Viktor’s hand stops, forming a fist on his chest.
“Yes, I mean the book,” he says. “I’ve heard people read those for entertainment.”
“Not those kinds of books. It’s a serious scientific manuscript.”
And, although Jayce only sees Viktor’s face sideways, he can tell Viktor knits his brows.
“Let me be the judge of it.”
Viktor rearranges himself, putting his other – bare - hand under his head. It’s the first time Jayce notices it. Why isn’t Viktor wearing the second glove?
Jayce wants to ask, opens his mouth to say the words, but Viktor cuts him off, “You might want to start before I fall asleep.”
Another time, then. Jayce is sure it’s nothing serious, though; Viktor would have told him if it was the case.
V. Viktor
Viktor didn’t bring many things with him – mostly because he doesn’t have many to begin with.
He sits on the floor and opens an old, brown suitcase. They left in a hurry – it’s only natural that what he sees inside appears to be a tangled mess, but Viktor hums in displeasure anyway.
He starts with clothes; takes every item one by one, carefully folds it and puts it aside in a neat pile. It’s relaxing, in a way – but also a waste of time. Time he is not sure he even has. He could do something different now, something significant.
Or not. Doing something significant and failing is what caused his being here.
The only positive thing about him staying in this apartment in the middle of nowhere is that he can avoid facing consequences of his actions for a while. He is not afraid of a possible punishment, though – only of the person he values the most turning away from him.
Jayce may never discover it – if Viktor is careful enough.
Next, he takes out his notes. He opens one notebook; reads it – and notices the unfamiliar familiar handwriting, raising his brows in surprise.
He thought he had gotten rid of those notebooks they used together with Jayce, when they had just started their work. Jayce would write a hypothesis – and Viktor would argue with it. A game of wits of a sort.
They eventually stopped doing that, although Viktor can’t remember why. Perhaps their baldest fantasies simply became reality. He presses his hand to a still white page – not really knowing why, just feeling like it.
Other texts join the first one on the floor; he doesn’t look through them – quite aware that he finds nothing except protocols of experiments and failed theories.
When his whole life is sorted out, the single wooden box is left on the bottom of the suitcase. The wooden box that contains the… thing. The Hextech nightmare of his.
He regrets taking it, but simply couldn’t leave it behind. Couldn’t bear the thought of someone’s finding it, accidentally or on purpose; of someone’s using it for not the right reason (he is not sure there is a right reason to use it). And, there is also something else – something that prevents Viktor from both destroying it and forgetting about it.
Jayce, though – he has easily forgotten his promise to destroy the Hexcore in the rush of their departure. Viktor has not found the strength yet to bring it up again – couldn’t stand thinking about all the questions Jayce might ask – questions that Viktor isn’t ready to answer.
A tiniest whisper calls to Viktor from the safety of the wooden prison, drawing Viktor’s attention, bewitching him. Begging Viktor to give in, to open the box, to sacrifice once again. Thirsting, craving. Promising.
That’s the future right here; progress. All the wonders that could be achieved – if only Viktor reaches out to it. If only Viktor feeds it with more Shimmer induced blood – or any blood.
Viktor quickly shuts the suitcase, panting heavily.
He is better than that.
Although temptation does sound extremely sweet.
VI. Jayce
The herbal aroma fills the kitchen; it mixes with the smell of the evening’s city that comes inside from the open window.
Leather of Viktor’s glove creaks when he brings the cup to his lips to take a sip. Viktor winces; coughs, covering his mouth with his palm. And, as Viktor puts the cup on the table, Jayce doesn’t see blood on his skin.
It’s strange, but not too strange. If it was the only strange thing in Viktor, Jayce would let it slide. But it is not.
The hand Viktor tries to remove from Jayce’s sight every time they are together – Jayce noticed it. Jayce also noticed how Viktor’s movements, sometimes, become more precise; they are still nowhere near elegant – if Jayce had to guess, he would say it’s Viktor’s natural clumsiness and not a sign of the disease – but they are definitely less stiff.
But there are also moments when Viktor can’t stand without Jayce’s support – and Jayce is terrified of those.
Nevertheless, those oddities – Jayce has no idea what to make of them. He has heard that people who are ill and very close to their ends have a tendency to feel better right before death finally takes them. This statement doesn’t let him sleep peacefully – his nights practically became an endless watch where he lies awake until the very morning, listening carefully to every sound.
But perhaps – just perhaps – it’s something else. A good omen rather than a bad one. Perhaps Viktor succeeded in his research, after all – he just didn’t tell Jayce.
No. Jayce knows Viktor trusts him – he would never hide something so important from Jayce. They trust each other endlessly.
The glove, though. Jayce is sure that if he asked, Viktor would answer. There is no big secret behind it; nothing terrible.
“Viktor.”
Viktor raises his eyes from the cup.
“Yes?”
“How is the tea?”
“Bitter,” Viktor says simply. “To my surprise, I quite like it. Reminds me of…”
“What happened to the second glove?” Jayce interrupts.
“The second glove?” Viktor’s lips form a tight line as he lowers his eyes. “Nothing. I must have lost it somewhere.”
Jayce trusts Viktor but something doesn’t add up. Why does Viktor need gloves in the first place, especially in their apartment when it’s always warm enough?
“Can you take it off?” Jayce points at Viktor’s hand with his finger.
Viktor flinches.
“I would rather not,” he says quietly.
“Why?” Jayce’s lips move, but the sound doesn’t come out from his throat.
Viktor notices it, though, “You don’t want to see it.”
Jayce’s stomach sinks. He is not sure what he fears the most – Viktor’s answer or a complete absence of one.
But it’s Viktor. The man who Jayce knows better than anyone else in the whole world; the man he spent the most time with. There is nothing he could tell or do that Jayce wouldn’t accept, simply because he is not capable of being terrible.
Jayce runs his hand through his hair; he is probably just leaping to a conclusion. Nothing bad has happened. There must be an explanation.
He regrets starting this conversation – he truly does. Because Viktor looks so hurt by it; wrinkles between his brows deepen – he looks even paler than he usually is.
What is it Jayce was trying to achieve, anyway? Did he ask about the glove to satisfy his curiosity and then pushed forward only because he doesn’t know where to stop?
No; in his mind, this doesn’t sound like him at all.
And, because Jayce believes that he is an extremely considerate person, he says, “It’s okay.”
It’s not. It’s not, because Jayce’s whole being is itching to know, itching to rip off the glove from Viktor’s hand. But he has learnt that brute force rarely solves complicated issues, only adds new ones.
Jayce knows that Viktor will tell him, eventually; because he trusts Viktor endlessly – and Viktor trusts him the same amount in return, right?
A tiny whisper inside his head that speaks in voices of all the people who have ever doubted Jayce is repeating, over and over again, that Jayce is wrong.
He disregards it.
VII. Viktor
Viktor closes the door behind himself and leans heavily against it. His hands are shaking, transferring the nervousness to the cane. He slides down the door, unsure that he wouldn’t fall otherwise and draws his knees to his chest; Viktor hugs them with both arms, hiding his face.
And breathes out.
It was so close. Viktor saw Jayce’s hesitation, the fight in him. Viktor’s common sense begs him to run away once more, right now – in the middle of the night, when Jayce wouldn’t notice. But only because Jayce’s compassion won, Viktor won’t do it.
Viktor is grateful. Almost proud of Jayce for demonstrating sensitivity Viktor didn’t even know Jayce had in him. His partner has always been straightforward with his work, but outside of it – Viktor wouldn’t have guessed. This realization hurts; Viktor’s heart swells with sorrow – he doesn’t even know Jayce. He knows only that Jayce is reliable when it comes to their projects. He also knows that Jayce is not completely heartless in personal affairs either, but how far does it stretch is a complete mystery.
He has just had a glimpse of it.
The back of Viktor’s head touches the wooden surface behind him.
He remembers defending Jayce before Singed. Jayce will understand, Viktor said. Viktor believed that, back then. When did it change? Was it Jayce’s sudden outburst on the bridge? And if so, how come that was all it took for Viktor to lose his trust?
Or, perhaps, it’s Viktor’s own fault – he went too far, killed a person in the process; he doesn’t deserve trusting anyone anymore; in Jayce’s case, trusting Viktor after what he has done would mean betraying everything he believes in. Hence, trusting Jayce to understand, in return, seems incredibly foolish now.
A cursed unbreakable circle.
Maybe he should just tell Jayce. To see his reaction. He would know for sure, but there would be no going back from this. Isn’t a quick death better than the whole life spent in suffering?
He knows his thoughts don’t have much sense. Viktor is confused, disarrayed, terrified – too many emotions for one miserable human being. But, behind that, he is extremely tired. He looks at the bed from half-closed eyelids, longingly – and doesn’t find enough energy to stand up; all the energy he has, however, he uses to curl up on the floor. Parquet beneath his side is cold and unwelcoming; he concentrates on this sensation, on every sharp bone that touches the floor and gravitates towards it – focuses on pain rather than on what happened tonight.
And, after some time, the world before his eyes finally fades.