Work Text:
"You are brooding again."
The voice has Jayce looking up from his whiskey glass, startled. He didn't hear the front door open.
There, Viktor stands at the threshold. A white vest hugs his slim frame, pristine against the black shirt beneath, and anchored by a red tie. His metallic hands catch the soft glow of the streetlights, glimmering as he grips the head of his cane. There's a stack of books under his free arm; a late night visit to the library, Jayce presumes.
"I'm not . . . brooding," Jayce sighs. The whiskey burns harsh and bitter; he grimaces as he takes another sip. "Just thinking."
Viktor nudges the door shut. "Dangerous territory for you."
Sassy as ever. Jayce rolls his eyes, but a faint smile is on lips. "You're hilarious."
"So I have been told." Viktor gestures toward Jayce's drink. "Now are we celebrating something, or are you spiraling?"
Spiraling, Jayce wants to say. Definitely spiraling.
The Hexcore was gone.
Jayce and Viktor didn't speak much the day it was destroyed. There were no words to capture the gravity of their choice—no way to reconcile the sacrifices they had made for science with the lives they had almost lost to it.
So they left the lab behind.
Four months passed. The city moved on, as it always did. Piltover continued to tick and hum with its clockwork rhythm.
Now their days are quieter.
The apartment they share isn't grand—certainly not befitting the "Golden Boy of Piltover" or its fallen visionary—but it's theirs. Sunlight streams through the tall windows each day, bathing the mismatched furniture and cluttered bookshelves in gold. The smell of coffee is a far cry from the sharp tang of ozone that had once defined their mornings.
Jayce spends his time repairing things. Little inventions for their neighbors, the occasional odd job that keeps his hands busy and his mind from drifting too far. Viktor takes solace in books, his thin fingers trailing over the spines of volumes piled high on every available surface. He reads to forget how his body has changed; to ignore the fact that he was metal from the chest down.
But the old Viktor was there. Jayce saw it.
The quiet determination, the calculating gaze, the faint, sardonic twist of his lips. And those eyes . . .
They had returned to their natural state. Amber, as they had always been. His hair was the same too; a tousled mess of dark brown, no longer streaked with silver.
It made Jayce wonder how he himself had changed. How Viktor saw him.
Admittedly, Jayce didn't change much. He had the same eyes, same face. He'd kept the beard and styled his overgrown hair. It was combed back into something neater, more deliberate now. Viktor remarked that it suited him in this new life.
New life.
They were no longer inventors. No longer men chasing immortality. They were something simpler now.
Survivors. Friends.
Perhaps something more.
They haven't talked about that, though. About their . . . affection for one another. Viktor never said a word, and Jayce . . . well, he wasn't sure if he feared rejection or the reality of Viktor being in love with him. Either way, it gnawed: a quiet ache.
Jayce shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, not spiraling."
An uneasy silence falls into the space between them. Jayce’s eyes drop to the butterscotch swirl of whiskey in his glass, then shift to the flickering lamp beside him. A part of him wonders when to change the bulb.
"Are you thinking about what happened?" Viktor asks.
Jayce's jaw clenches. He doesn't want to give Viktor the satisfaction of being right—he can't—yet it rings in the space between them like the sharp echo of truth. There's no denying it.
And so he nods, awkwardly, swirling the whiskey in its glass.
"Yeah. Just . . . replaying everything in my head. What we did. What we almost did."
"Ah, yes." Viktor settles himself into the sofa beside Jayce, setting his cane to the side. "The great 'what if' game. Always a crowd-pleaser."
Jayce ignores the jab. "Do you ever think about it? How close we came to losing everything?"
"Close?" Viktor's voice is sharp; his accent hangs heavy among every word."We did lose everything. Or at least everything that mattered. Our work, the lab . . ."
"Everything that mattered?" Jayce echoes. He raises a brow. "Are you being serious?"
"It is the truth," Viktor insists. He plucks the whiskey out of Jayce's hand, placing the glass on the coffee table and turning to face him. The full force of his stare has Jayce's skin prickling. Every inch of him feels exposed. "Why did you persist?"
"I already told you—"
"No, you did not."
"Hextech was our invention," Jayce snaps. "It wouldn't be right for only you to take the fall for it."
Viktor frowns. "You could have walked away. You should have."
"You're my partner."
"That is not an answer, Jayce."
Irritation strikes him like a bullet. He shifts to fully face Viktor, his voice rising.
"Yes, it is. You're the reason I didn't walk away. Not the Hexcore, not the lab, not even the city. You. You're the one who pushed me to be better. You're the one who made me believe we could change the world. And even after everything I couldn't just . . . stop caring. I couldn't let you go. Don't you get that?"
Jayce wants to slap some sense into himself. He knows he should stop talking, that every word is pushing him further into dangerous territory—but no. No, this time he’s going to say everything that’s been gnawing at him. He runs a hand through his overgrown hair; sharp frustration slowly gives way to something softer.
"You think I didn't hate what happened?" he murmurs. "What you became? I hated it, Viktor. But I never hated you. Not once."
For a long time, neither of them say a word. Jayce's gaze remains fixed on his lap, deliberately avoiding Viktor's piercing eyes. The stillness stretches, unbearable and thick, until finally, the weight presses too heavily. Against his better judgment, he steals a glance at the man next to him.
It's a lightning strike, how fast Viktor's gaze immediately finds Jayce's eyes.
Viktor holds on for a long moment. Watching. Waiting. And when he finally speaks, his voice is steady, but there's an edge to it—something fragile masked by sharpness.
"You are an idiot, Jayce Talis. A brilliant, infuriating idiot."
"W . . . What?"
Viktor snorts, shaking his head derisively. "I was a lost cause. I still may be. And yet, here you are, throwing everything you have at someone who has done nothing but drag you down."
Jayce opens his mouth to protest, but Viktor raises a hand, silencing him. "But then you go and say something like that. Like I am still worth it. Like I am still . . . " Viktor gestures vaguely toward himself; his metallic fingers catch the light, and he lets out a humorless laugh. " . . . the man I used to be."
Viktor pauses. His gaze briefly falls to the floor, and there's a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression.
"I do not know how to deserve that, Jayce. Or you."
The words have Jayce's heart pounding. He flounders, caught between the pressing need to speak, to bridge the distance, and the suffocating fear of saying the wrong thing. What can he say? What can he do? How can he comfort someone when he himself is adrift, uncertain even in the simplest of gestures?
Jayce inhales. Closes his eyes, says a prayer, opens them again, and speaks from the heart.
"You deserve the world, Viktor."
The words strike Viktor with the precision of an arrow, and Jayce sees it. Sees the moment the impact lands. The man blinks—once, twice—before the silence settles. It stretches just long enough for Jayce to feel like he's being smothered.
And then Viktor's lips stir into a faint smile.
Soft and elusive, laced with something wry and impossibly beautiful.
"I cannot say I agree," Viktor says gently, "But if you insist on being this stubborn, who am I to argue?"
Jayce can't help it—he lets out a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh. Viktor leans back slightly, his golden-brown eyes gleaming with something that feels like both a challenge and an invitation, and Jayce knows, in that moment, he'll gladly fight for this stubborn, brilliant man a thousand times over.
"No need to tease, V."
"Stop wallowing. It is unbecoming."
Jayce grins, despite himself. "You're bossy tonight."
"Eh," Viktor shrugs. "Someone has to keep you in line."
"I think I liked you better when you were shy."
"I was never shy. You were just too distracted to notice."
They share a quiet laugh. The moment feels a little lighter now; Jayce feels like he can actually breathe. He almost reaches for his whiskey again.
But then he realizes how close they are.
Their shoulders are nearly touching. Jayce can pinpoint every one of Viktor's movements, the rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of his bad leg. He feels flammable, and the thought of his hand grazing Viktor's thigh feels like a match to tinder.
It doesn't matter. Six simple words from Viktor undo him entirely.
"Are you afraid of me, Jayce?"
The warmth sours.
Pain. That's what Jayce feels in his core, deep and unrelenting. He is startled by the sharpness of it.
Because how could he ever be afraid of Viktor? His partner, the only man who believed in him? The thought alone feels so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that he could almost laugh if it didn't hurt so much.
Fear did not take Jayce. It did not consume him, nor did it shackle him as it did so many others. Jayce was not bothered by the gold of Viktor's eyes, the metal underneath his vest, the indigo of his hands. No, Viktor remains—unshaken, something strange and beautiful—and Jayce knows, with sudden clarity, that it was never fear that could hold him.
"No, Viktor. Never."
Not here.
Not of you.
Viktor did not flinch. "Do you hate me?"
"I—"
"Do you?"
"I don't want to talk about this, Viktor."
Viktor shifts, so close that Jayce can count each mole on his face now. Their knees knock together—and then Viktor's hand, light and impossibly bold—rests on Jayce's thigh.
Jayce's breath catches. His eyes snap down and then back up.
"I do not want to talk about it either," Viktor says, unsettlingly honest. "But I cannot help myself. It is not something I can ignore anymore."
"Well, I can."
An exasperated sigh. "Jayce."
"Viktor."
The exchange is ridiculous. Juvenile even, and yet it carries a weight that leaves Jayce's heart pounding in his chest. It feels too familiar, too close, like stepping over a line he's spent years convincing himself doesn't exist.
But Viktor's looking at him so tenderly. He swallows, as if gathering his thoughts . . . or perhaps losing them. The man looks vulnerable in a way that makes Jayce's heart skip, and for a moment, Jayce wonders if he's not the only one feeling desperate tonight.
Jayce rids himself of the thought. "Nevermind," he says. "I'm tired, it's late, I should go to—"
It's a sentence left unfinished.
Viktor kisses him forcefully—lips, tongue, teeth. Everything. Jayce doesn't pull back, doesn't even flinch. He doesn't need to explain why. His heart has always been out in the fucking open.
That's why Jayce grabs Viktor by the tie and pulls him close.
That's why Jayce kisses him back, hard.
There is no hesitation now, no room for doubt; only the fierce push and pull of desire, the quick, almost frantic meeting of lips. The force of it doesn't even seem to startle Viktor. If anything, the man melts into it: a surrender. He kisses Jayce with a nip.
Jayce recoils in surprise, his hair a mess. Viktor's tie slips from his fingers like water. "I—" he stammers. A rush of heat floods his face, spreading down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. "Sorry. I, uh . . . I wasn't expecting . . . "
Viktor doesn't move from where he's pressed into the sofa cushions. He stares at the awe in Jayce's face.
And then, dryly:
"Very graceful, Jayce."
A tease. A simple tease, just the familiar edge of Viktor's quiet humor.
And Jayce feels lit on fire. His expression darkens; the breath hitches in his throat. Something raw takes over him. In a split second, he launches himself on top of Viktor—tall and flushed and handsomely bedraggled.
"You really gotta make everything a fight, don't you?" Jayce croaks.
Viktor smirks. "Perhaps."
Jayce doesn't even have the chance to respond, because Viktor surges up to kiss him again. He groans into it, unsure of what to do with his hands, but then his fingers find the buttons on Viktor's vest. Instinct takes over.
In under a minute, Jayce is tossing the vest from Viktor's shoulders. It flies through the air before landing with a distant thud. Neither of them bother to look. His hands instantly find Viktor's slim waist, tugging him forward by the hips. Viktor's hands reach out, his metal fingers curling around the back of Jayce's neck as he kisses him deeply.
No one has ever kissed Jayce like this before. Not even Mel. Her kisses were always fierce, but soft. Gentle, like she was afraid to hurt him.
But this? This is a collision. Chaotic, reckless, with no pretense, no softness. It's messy, all teeth and tongue, untamed and hungry.
Maybe that's why Jayce likes it so much.
He's sick of being treated like something fragile. He's been done with Mel's tired sighs, the quiet disappointment in her eyes, the endless parade of patrol officers at his door. Jayce doesn't want gentle. Doesn't need it. He's been carrying everything for so long. This—this mess—is the release he didn't know he needed.
So Jayce drags his thumb across Viktor's lower lip, keens at the shaky breath that falls from his partner's mouth.
"Jayce."
"What?"
Their gazes lock.
And then Viktor flips Jayce over, switching their positions.
"Oompf!" Jayce wheezes, but Viktor doesn't give him time to recover. He swings his good leg over Jayce's, slotting a knee between the man's thighs. "What are you—"
"What am I doing?" Viktor supplies, amused. "Surely you did not expect me to give in so easily."
"No." Jayce's voice comes out a little breathless, a touch shy. "I never said that."
"Mmm. The look on your face says otherwise."
"I just wasn't expecting it."
Viktor hummed. "Next time," he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, "I will give you a heads-up."
Before Jayce can answer, Viktor rolls against him; the rough grind has his eyes fluttering closed and Jayce inhaling sharply.
"Okay," Jayce pants, unable to stay silent. "Yeah, I get it, okay—"
Viktor grinds down again. Jayce groans, his body shivering. He nips at the underside of Viktor's jaw until the man tilts his head to expose his throat. A primal urge takes over him; one that makes Jayce feel possessive. Makes him feel like he's in control, and Gods, he needs that. He needs control more than anything.
"I've thought about this," Jayce huffs. "For so fucking long." He slides a hand down Viktor's chest; beneath the shirt, there's the chill of metal. He tries to pull it over Viktor's head, but his fingers fumble. "Shit. Hold on—"
"Jayce," Viktor says, voice pitched low. "Bedroom."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
With a jolt, Jayce scrambles off the sofa—but then his foot catches the corner of the coffee table, and a sharp yelp escapes him as he stubs his toe. He stumbles, cursing under his breath. "Ow! Damn it!"
A silent chuckle bubbles in Viktor's chest. He rolls his eyes, the amusement clear on his face as he slowly uses his cane to rise from the couch. "For someone who claims to be a genius, you are rather clumsy," he teases. Jayce loathes the way his tone is rich with playful sarcasm.
"Go on, laugh it up," Jayce grumbles. He tries to walk it off, though he still limps. "I'll remember this the next time you need my help."
"Do not worry. The clumsiness is endearing."
"Careful, Viktor. Flattery might be the one thing that gets you into trouble."
"Oh, I am counting on it."