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Jayce learns Viktor's mind through his hands.
When he's excited or happy, they're dancing through the air like butterflies, unable to lite on anything for more then a moment or two, constantly flitting and flapping. He taps out rhythms if you put on music, keeping pace with the beat as he works, and sometimes those beautiful long fingered hands move too fast for Jayce's eye to follow, the younger man making a game of trying to keep up, heel and palm and tap tap tap. Sometimes, sometimes , if he's in a very good place, he will hum or sing softly. If you can get him to lose himself in the music, it will be less softly, and his voice fills the room, not technically impressive but on key and rich and rasping and so soulful.
When he's angry or sad, his hands are cutting, sharp edges, all hard and jagged motions slicing through the air like a knife. There are no dancing butterflies; just quick, hard gestures that still somehow lack any force; he simply doesn't have the strength for it. It adds insult to injury and they will ball up on themselves, open and close, open and close, impotent frustration, energy with no place to go that fizzles out nearly as soon as it comes.
If his hands are ever still, he is so deep in depression or thought or both that even his hands have forgotten to move. If that is ever the case Jayce knows that he needs to go to him and give them a different reason to be still, to bind those beautiful, expressive hands behind his back until they are straining at the rope, fluttering with a desperate desire to touch.
But it's the worst when Viktor's hands are balled in on each other, gripping one another as if trying to hold his own hand to comfort himself. White-knuckled grasp on his own hands, fingers straining at each other, skin rubbed red with irritation and hands trembling minutely. Days like this mean he's hurting, he's desperately lost in his own head, or he's so tangled up in thoughts he can't unravel them and pick one out. Those days, Jayce wanders to his side, and covers the hands with his own. They're so much bulkier, and he thinks of Viktor like steel in the forge; he first melts and softens Viktor so that he can be worked and molded, pulling him into his chest and whispering listen to me, Pet. Only me .
He watches Viktor's hands, watches them relax and reach for him, watches them curl gently, a softer, rounder curve. He whispers Yes, Sir , and Jayce smiles at the words, then starts the process of working and strengthening Viktor, hands powerfully kneading flesh and petting old wounds, stroking his hair and you're beautiful, you're not a burden, you're mine. You're mine. You're Mine . He murmurs gentle reassurances that slowly evolves into orders; sometimes they are active or sexual, and sometimes he simply demands Viktor sit in the softest, most comfortable chair he can find and read out loud to him while he works or does paperwork or just rests, eyes closed, letting his lover's voice wash over him like a warm bath.
He doesn't stop until Viktor's hands are butterflies again.