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Viktor is not a solvable puzzle.
This is an opinion which, read kindly, could be taken to mean that Jayce has a certain amount of respect for people as to treat them as more than problems with solutions. Or perhaps that people have inherent depth outside the context of how he interacts with them that he actually cares about, regardless of personal gain.
This is, perhaps, the only case in which this assessment would be true. But methods are hard to unlearn.
Jayce had stopped expecting anything out of Viktor a long time ago. He is no stranger to repetition — it is inherent to his line of work, after all. The trial and error, the brute force search of a solution. Jayce would not be where he is today without learning how to fail.
But there’s this strange thing that happens when you’ve been cracking at something with no progress, no ground gained in all the time you’ve been trying: at a certain point, you stop expecting answers. Purpose and goal become so lost in the repetition that you are surrounded on both ends by a blankness as to why you were trying in the first place and what you’re seeking to find. But stopping isn’t an option, even if you’ve forgotten what you’re doing it all for — the inertia drives you forward. Going through the motions is all you can do. Trial and error become routine.
To the point that, when something does happen that is off-script, it is an unmanageable curveball — and any ground that could be gained by studying the exact circumstances that lead to it is lost to the blank scrabbling for what to do next.
It is a surprise, then, when Viktor says “I love you.”
The details don't matter, not when they're just rehashings of things said and done, anyways. Same as it ever was — until of course, it isn't.
“I love you,” Viktor says, plain and succinct. It is not kind. It is not sweet. “That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Your grand victory; My admittance — my heart.” He says the words like he is reading an error log, eyes dull and blank as he scans precise text. It sounds like rote displeasure. It sounds like doom. It feels like a tragedy.
“Is it everything you’d hoped it would be?”
Jayce hadn’t been hoping for anything, is what he would say if he were faced with a scenario he hadn’t expected and also disliked, which he is. This is a statement he would have made regardless of whether it was true or not.
In this particular case it wasn’t. He had hoped, and it had been nothing like it — not that he’d concede that Viktor was right, which was another factor. The words, however, don’t make it past the sick feeling in his mouth. It’s dry and cold in a peculiar sort of fashion to the point that he wonders if he’s swallowed a shard of ice — wonders if it’s freezing him from the inside out the way a steely sort of anger tenses through him, muted and high like white noise.
“What kind of game are you playing?” Jayce says instead, and it tastes like a storm.
“I’ve never been anything but honest with you, Jayce,” Viktor returns coolly.
Jayce snorts, harsh and derisive. "You and I both know that's complete bullshit."
"I tire of games," he says in that infuriating Nothing of a tone, brushing Jayce aside. "I retain my emotions just as plainly as you. I just don't let them rule me."
This strikes a nerve. "Rule you? My gods Viktor it's called being human, can you fucking try that for once? It’s not some fucking” — he grapples with what he wants to say, fists clenching in place like the words are a struggle to force out past the iciness quickly warming to molten slag in his throat — “It’s not some fucking obstacle you psychopath!"
"Then what, we run off into the sunset hand in hand, no Piltover, no Zaun, no toxic smog that grows thicker and thicker each day?" There — the barest hint of a twitch in Viktor's brow, of a tightening in his jaw. "I can't."
Jayce looks him in the eyes, and burns. "I hate you," Jayce says. Like killing yourself is some moral high ground. Like Jayce is the selfish one here. "I hate you."
Viktor vivisects Jayce with an almost pitying steeliness, cutting right through to his beating heart, raw and visceral in the cavity of his chest. It is cruel, and as bloody as it has ever been.
Then — Viktor kisses him.
It happens in the space between one moment and the next, and too soon Viktor is pulling away, Jayce unconsciously chasing after the brief contact.
“I do love you,” Viktor says in the breath of Jayce’s surprise. “It just doesn’t matter.”
There's a barely-there undertone of something Jayce can't quite place, for lack of focus — or perhaps for a wariness of knowing. The static becomes a ringing in his ears, a piteous knitting of his brows as he tries to figure out what in the fuck to do now.
Jayce looks at Viktor.
And then he turns, and he walks away.