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The apartment is nothing like the gleaming laboratories of Piltover.
It is small, cluttered, and smells faintly of old wood and tea leaves. A far cry from the polished brass and crystalline brilliance of Hextech, the place feels suspended in a liminal space—half refuge, half purgatory. The floor creaks when they walk, the single window barely lets in enough light to warm the room, and the radiator rattles like it is protesting its own existence.
Yet it is theirs.
Viktor’s tools lie scattered across the coffee table, wedged between crumpled papers and a mug half-filled with cold tea. His projects are modest now—no grand ambitions, no pursuit of impossible dreams.
He tinkers to stay busy, adjusting the mechanisms in his stopwatch or fixing mundane household items that Jayce inevitably breaks. A toaster here. A clock there. Small things. Manageable things.
Jayce’s hammer is gone. So is Viktor’s Hexcore. And in their absence, they live.
Not meaningfully, but with the quiet endurance of men who have survived too much.
Jayce lets himself go, to be honest. His once-pristine hair hangs in shaggy waves around his face, brushing the curve of his jawline, where a beard has taken root. He trims it instead of shaving; it fits him, Jayce thinks.
Viktor, on the other hand, grows sharper in some ways and softer in others. The mechanical enhancements on his body do not glow anymore, and he relies heavily on his cane again. Viktor’s wit, however, loses none of its edge. It is his shield, his way of keeping the world—and Jayce—at arm’s length.
And Jayce lets him. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Their lives are simple now. They buy goods at the street market a block away, cook meals that are often too salty or too bland, and sit in silent evenings. Viktor always reads—dense texts about engineering or philosophy—while Jayce stares at the pages of novels he can’t seem to finish.
But the majority of his focus, more often than not, is on Viktor.
Jayce knows he is staring. Knows it is obvious. Knows Viktor knows it.
He sees it in the way Viktor’s lips press together in a faint smirk, or the way his golden eyes flick up from his book. They always meet Jayce’s gaze before retreating.
It isn’t avoidance. Viktor doesn’t avoid things. He simply acknowledges them without allowing them to take root.
But it is driving Jayce mad.
They haven't spoken of it. This . . . affection between them. Jayce is aware that he loves Viktor. Is aware that Viktor feels the same.
It isn’t grand gestures or confessions that tell Jayce; it's in the way Viktor hands him a cup of tea without asking. The way he mutters sarcastic but thoughtful reminders not to forget his coat. The way he stays up late tinkering on the couch when he knows Jayce is too restless to sleep. It's in the way Viktor lets him grieve without judgment, even as he carries his own silently.
Viktor can see it, too; the softness of Jayce’s eyes, how his barbs lose their venom in quiet moments, how he lingers in their shared space. It’s like he needs Viktor’s presence to anchor him.
That's it. That's the whole story. Jayce loves him.
Which is exactly why he said it: those four words.
‘We finish this together.’
Yet neither of them speak of it.
Maybe it is safer this way. Easier to pretend their affection is just another unspoken pact in their broken partnership. They have survived so much—death, loss, the destruction of everything they built together. To risk this fragile peace with words feels almost selfish.
And so they linger. Two men bound by history and held together by a silence that grows heavier with each passing day.
But damn, does it hurt.
Jayce feels the bruise in his chest. It throbs every time Viktor’s hand brushes his accidentally, or when their gazes lock too long across the room. The pain is unbearable.
Yet he says nothing.
Because if Viktor is good at deflection, Jayce is even better at cowardice.
“You know," Jayce says one morning, "you could let me make you something other than eggs.”
He stands by the stove, poking at the yolks frying in a pan. It's the ass crack of dawn, far too early, and Jayce is exhausted. Looks it too; he caught his reflection in the mirror earlier. His white tank top and gray sweatpants are loose and worn. His feet are bare, and his hair is tousled.
Unkempt in a way that once would have mortified him.
As a councilor, Jayce wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like this—always polished, always in control, his wardrobe tailored to perfection to fit his image. But now? He doesn't care. The simplicity feels freeing. It's a quiet comfort in a world that feels anything but.
“I do not need variety in my diet,” Viktor replies from the living room. “What I need is a proper workbench.”
A lock of hair falls into Jayce's eyes; he blows it away, annoyed. “You’ve got half the table covered in junk already."
Viktor is sitting at the small table by the window. There's a collection of tiny gears and screws spread out before him. His mechanical leg juts out awkwardly, and he taps his tools rhythmically against the table. He doesn’t look up, but Jayce can feel his focus.
"It is not junk, Jayce."
"Whatever you say," Jayce chuckles. The sound doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Give it a few days, and this place will look like the lab.”
Viktor finally glances toward the kitchen. He levels Jayce with an unimpressed stare. “That was not a lab. That was chaos.”
Jayce snorts, pulling the eggs off the heat. “Chaos made us rich.”
“Chaos also nearly killed us.”
Viktor’s tone is light, but the words are heavy. Stifling. He goes back to his tinkering, though his shoulders seem more tense now.
Jayce doesn’t respond to that. It still aches.
Instead, he plates the eggs and brings one dish over, setting it in front of Viktor. He sits across from him, cradling his own plate like a shield. For a while, the only sounds are the faint scrape of Viktor’s tools and the clink of Jayce’s fork.
“How’s Mel?” Viktor asks suddenly, without preamble.
Jayce freezes mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. “I don’t know,” he says after a beat, setting it down carefully. “I haven’t talked to her since . . ."
Since the accident. Since I killed you. Since you tried to kill me.
Since we almost died.
". . . For six months," Jayce finishes.
Viktor’s brow furrows, his hands stilling. “That long? You were close. At least, that is what it looked like.”
“We were. It’s just . . . complicated.”
“That word again. Complicated. It is your favorite excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse,” Jayce snaps, then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the truth. I care about her, but—”
“But you do not know if you love her.” Viktor’s bluntness is sharp. Decisive. It isn't cruel, but it is devoid of hesitation. He never beat around the bush. “You sound like you are trying to convince yourself.”
Jayce rubs the back of his neck. “I'm confused. I don’t know what I feel anymore.”
Viktor considers him for a long moment. “Perhaps,” he says, his tone softer but no less direct, “you should ask yourself why it is her name you question, and not your own.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Viktor leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You are not the man you were six months ago, Jayce. Neither of us is. And yet you cling to the idea that you can go back—to her, to how things were. You cannot.”
Jayce doesn’t reply right away. He pushes a piece of egg around with his fork, frowning. “You make it sound so easy."
“It is not easy,” Viktor admits. “But pretending will only make it harder.”
Jayce finally looks at him.
The sunlight shines on Viktor like a painter's brushstroke. Like an apricot promise. It illuminates the lines of exhaustion carved into his face: grooves worn deep by sleepless nights and a pain neither of them dares to name aloud. The light does not soften him; it sharpens him, casting his cheekbones into relief, turning the angle of his jaw into something almost brutal in its clarity.
And Viktor's stare—it's cutting, severe. Jayce thinks he can see something that mirrors the ache in his own chest.
“What about you?” Jayce asks suddenly, the question slipping out before he can think better of it. “What are you holding on to, Viktor?”
Viktor's face twists cruelly, as if the question has unearthed something he’s not ready to face. He says nothing for a while.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
“I am holding on to survival,” Viktor says, “and what little remains after.”
The words are simple.
So simple, and so unbearably sad.
Viktor doesn’t elaborate. He never does. He simply goes back to his work, though the silence feels heavier now. It has taken on a life of its own. Jayce shifts; he feels a sudden, inexplicable urge to get up, to move, to do something—anything—to escape the weight pressing down on him.
He shifts again, this time brushing a knee against Viktor’s metal leg. Jayce pulls back instinctively, cheeks warming. “Sorry.”
Viktor waves a hand dismissively, though his attention lingers on Jayce for longer than necessary. “You apologize too much.”
Jayce chuckles: a hollow sound. “Bad habit.”
“Quite,” Viktor says simply. His accent thickens slightly on the words, melodic. “Try to get rid of it, would you?”
The room feels awkward after that; unspoken words press their weight into the hollow spaces between breaths.
Jayce stands abruptly, taking his unfinished plate to the sink. “I should probably fix that leaky faucet in the bathroom,” he mutters, unnaturally casual. It's the kind of false lightness that cracks at the edges.
Viktor doesn’t respond right away, watching him with a bemused expression. “You have been saying that for three days.”
“Fourth time’s the charm?” Jayce offers before disappearing into the hall.
Left alone, Viktor picks up his tools again, but his hands don’t move. He stares down at the gears on the table. Blinks. Picks up his mug of tea. Swirls the liquid idly before taking a sip.
To no one in particular, he murmurs, “Confused indeed.”
And in the other room, Jayce leans against the wall, staring at nothing as his throat tightens.
The bathroom mirror is fogged from the lingering heat of a quick shower. Jayce stands in front of it with a towel slung over his bare shoulders.
His beard is uneven.
Some parts are neatly trimmed, others wild where he’s missed a spot. On the counter beside him sits a razor, a jar of shaving cream, and a basin of water. All untouched. He’s been trying to decide for weeks whether to keep the beard.
This morning he finally makes the call.
“I’m shaving it off,” he declares abruptly, his voice carrying to the other room.
Viktor is perched at the small dining table with a schematic in his lap. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look up.
“Tragic,” he replies dryly. “Your untamed shrubbery had finally started to grow on me.”
Jayce wipes condensation from the mirror with his hand. “Yeah, well, it’s been bothering me. And you’re the one who called it a poorly maintained garden in the first place.”
Viktor smirks, but his attention remains on his notes. “Yes, but I meant it endearingly.”
Jayce snorts. “Sure you did.”
He picks up the razor but hesitates. His hand wavers slightly, the blade hovering just above his jawline. Shaving used to be second nature, but he's clumsier these days; the weight of too many sleepless nights still lingering in his bones.
An idea pops in his head. It makes him a little breathless, a little overheated.
But why not?
“Viktor,” Jayce calls out, lowering the razor with a sigh.
“What?"
“Give me a hand?”
That gets Viktor’s attention. He peers up from his work, interested. “You want me to help you shave?”
Jayce's face flushes. "I'm out of practice," he says, turning to lean against the doorframe. "And honestly, I’d rather not butcher my own face.”
Viktor studies him briefly, then allows a resigned sigh.
“Fine. But if you end up looking ridiculous, that is on you.”
Jayce steps aside to let Viktor into the small bathroom, the two of them crowded together in the confined space. Jayce grabs the jar of shaving cream and twists it open with a steady hand.
“Sit,” Viktor orders, gesturing to the edge of the tub.
Jayce obeys, taking a seat on the cool porcelain. Viktor does the same; he plants himself next to Jayce, setting his cane to the side. Their knees brush. Jayce has to remind himself not to combust.
Viktor dips two fingers into the jar of cream. His focus becomes razor-sharp as he begins spreading the foam along Jayce’s jawline. Jayce swallows hard—and fuck, his throat is beyond dry. Viktor’s touch is clinical but impossibly gentle, his fingers skimming over the curve of his chin.
The intimacy of it is almost unbearable.
“You are quiet,” Viktor remarks without looking up. “Unusual for you.”
Jayce clears his throat, trying to shake the tension coiling in his chest. “Trying not to move."
"And why is that?" Viktor grabs the razor.
"I don't want you slipping and cutting me.”
“Please. If anyone is going to slip, it will be you.”
“Fair point.”
Jayce watches Viktor’s expression as he works the blade along his face: the way his brow knits in concentration, the faint curl of his hair falling over his temple. “You’re good at this."
“I have a steady hand," Viktor answers. He dips the razor into the basin of water to clean it. “Years of fine-tuning machinery will do that.”
“Didn’t think you’d be the kind of guy to bother with shaving.”
"Eh." Viktor runs the razor along Jayce’s cheek. “I prefer to keep things orderly. Unlike you.”
“Hey,” Jayce protests lightly. “I’m orderly.”
“Is that what you call it?” Viktor taunts. His honeyed eyes dart upward to meet Jayce’s.
The air between them stirs then. Jayce feels his breath falter.
Viktor is so close.
So close that Jayce can feel the warmth of his breath, can see every detail of his face—the twin beauty marks like delicate punctuation, the elegant cut of his cheekbones, the way his lips press together in concentration.
The silence seals Jayce’s mouth and coils tight around his heart.
I love you, I love you. I love you, and it is mine to carry. Solitary, unanswered.
The longing to close the space between them surges. But Jayce doesn’t. He stays still, gripping the edge of the tub as Viktor continues his work.
“You are fidgeting,” Viktor hums lowly.
“Am I?” Jayce asks, strained.
“Yes.” He pauses. Those eyes meet Jayce’s again, piercing. “Why?”
Jayce swallows hard. Forces himself to look away.
“Just nervous, I guess.”
“It is only shaving, Jayce. Not surgery.”
“Feels like surgery."
Viktor scoffs softly: warm and fleeting. He rinses the razor again, then gently tilts Jayce’s chin upward to work on the underside of his jaw. Jayce’s pulse quickens at the touch.
“I must say,” Viktor remarks after a long silence, his tone colored with wry amusement, “for someone so quick to jump into danger, you are oddly skittish about a razor.”
Jayce grins despite himself. “It’s not the razor that’s making me skittish.”
Viktor’s hand stills for a fraction of a second before resuming its careful strokes. He doesn’t respond immediately, but there’s a spark in his expression—curiosity, perhaps. Interest.
Five minutes pass. Jayce exhales a breath when they're done; he hadn’t even realized he was holding it. Viktor inspects his work, and nods in quiet satisfaction.
“Presentable at last,” Viktor says. “You almost look like your old self."
Jayce rises slowly, knees brushing Viktor’s again as he stands to his full height. His freshly shaven face softens into a crooked, boyish smile. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing, Jayce.”
Jayce steadies Viktor with careful hands, helping the man to his feet and passing him his cane. Their fingers brush for an instant—insignificant, yet enough.
As Viktor turns and leaves the room, Jayce remains rooted in place. A hand raises to touch his freshly shaven jaw; it tingles faintly. Whether it's from the razor or the ghost of Viktor’s touch, he cannot quite tell.
Jayce wonders how much longer he’ll be able to hold himself back.
The evening is quiet. There’s the faint hum of the radiator blending with the muffled sounds of rain against the roof.
Jayce sinks into the couch, flipping through a tattered book he hasn’t touched in weeks. The act of holding it feels grounding though; a tether to simpler moments.
Viktor stands motionless by the window. His gaze is fixed on the glistening streets below, where rain carves silver paths through the dark. Both sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate lattice of purple metal that forms both arms.
Viktor sighs.
Jayce glances up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. His voice is clipped.
Jayce doesn’t buy it. He knows Viktor’s tones too well. He's mapped their nuances over time, and this one doesn’t fool him. Beneath the evenness, there’s a hairline fracture—small, but undeniable.
“It doesn't seem like nothing,” Jayce observes. He tries to keep his voice warm. “You can tell me, V."
Viktor doesn’t move for a moment. His palm rests on the window frame now, mechanical fingers catching the moonlight's silvery glow.
Then he turns.
Those golden eyes are sharp, but there’s something guarded in them now.
“It is this,” Viktor admits finally. He gestures to himself, a hand sweeping vaguely over the sleek metal plating of his torso. “All of this. I . . . often find myself wondering if I am even still me.”
Jayce is caught off guard. “Of course you’re still you,” he assures, rising. “Why would you even think that?”
Viktor’s lips press into a thin line. “Look at me, Jayce. I cannot even hide it. No matter what I wear, no matter how I move, it is always there. A reminder of everything we lost.”
Jayce crosses the room, stopping a few steps away. He doesn’t reach out—not yet—but his voice softens.
“You didn’t lose yourself, Viktor. You’re still here. Still brilliant. Still stubborn as hell.”
A humorless laugh. “You do not wake up every morning feeling like a stranger in your own skin. What is left of it.”
Jayce scowls. Takes another step closer. “I might not get it the way you do, but I see you, Viktor. Every part of you. And none of this,” he points to Viktor’s mechanics, “changes who you are. It’s just . . . it’s just you.”
Viktor peers at him. His expression is unreadable.
“And what do you see, Jayce? When you look at me?”
Jayce pauses, swallowing hard. He measures his words carefully—they seem so important now. They might shatter in his mouth.
Was this the time to confess? To finally lay bare the truth that had simmered within him for so long? The possibility of rejection loomed large, a shadow he wasn’t sure he could face. It would break him.
Fuck.
Jayce takes a breath. Steels himself.
“I see someone who’s survived more than anyone ever should. Someone who’s still fighting, even when he thinks he’s not. Someone brilliant, and brave, and . . .” He pauses, unsure, before pressing on, “. . . someone I care about. A lot.”
The quiet that follows feels endless. Viktor frowns prettily: brows knitted, mouth twisted, eyes unsure.
“You don’t have to hide from me, V,” Jayce adds, “Not this. Not anything. I’m not going anywhere.”
Viktor sighs. His grip tightens briefly on his cane before he looks away. “You are an idiot." There’s no bite to the words.
“I know.” Jayce steps closer. Rests a hand lightly on Viktor's arm—on the cold steel he's learned to love so much.
“And insufferable.”
“I know,” Jayce repeats. The tense line of his mouth softens. Then, more seriously, “I mean it, Viktor. You’re not just parts. You’re so much more than that. You always have been.”
Viktor is silent for a beat. His eyes are fixed on some point in the middle distance.
“I will try to remember that, Jayce."
His hand gives Viktor’s bicep a reassuring squeeze. “Good. Because I’m not going to let you forget it.”
And when Viktor leans just slightly into Jayce’s touch, warmth crawls up Jayce's spine.
It's like the first light of dawn: rising, unbidden, radiating outward. It doesn’t demand or press; it merely is, settling into him with a quiet certainty. And as the heat coils through Jayce—filling the spaces that doubt had hollowed out—he realizes he doesn’t want it to fade.
It feels like a small step forward.
Fragile, but real.
"Do you ever miss it?" Jayce asks.
"Hm?"
The room is dim, lit only by the faint amber glow of a small desk lamp. Jayce leans forward on the couch, both elbows resting on his knees. Viktor shifts next to him; his expression is distant, like he's fixed on something beyond the room.
Jayce shrugs vaguely, his hands spreading in an almost helpless motion.
“Who we used to be. Before all of . . . this.”
Viktor doesn’t respond at first. He tilts his head, as if considering the question.
“I am not certain,” he says slowly. “The people we once were . . . they feel so far away now. Like strangers.” His fingers brush absently against the edge of his cane. “And you? Do you miss them?”
“Yeah. Sometimes," Jayce nods. His voice dips low. “I think about who we were—about how simple it all seemed back then. And I wonder if we’d even recognize ourselves now.”
Viktor looks at him closely; Jayce can feel the intensity of the man's stare. It throws him off kilter, as it always does.
“You think it is wrong to change?" he questions. "To become something . . . other?”
Jayce shakes his head. “No. It’s not wrong. It’s just . . .” He exhales sharply, his shoulders sagging. “I guess I wonder if we’ve lost something. If we’ve lost too much.”
Silence hangs between them: heavy and fragile.
Just when Jayce is about to apologize—for dredging up the past, for constantly replaying what happened—Viktor cuts in.
“There are times,” Viktor begins, “when I feel as though I am looking at the world through a cracked lens. Everything is distorted, fractured. And yet, even through that fracture, there are things I see more clearly now.” He hesitates. Licks his lips. “You, for instance.”
Jayce’s head lifts. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Viktor’s lips press into a thin line, as though weighing how much to say. “When I look at you, Jayce, I see someone who refuses to give up. Someone who carries hope even when the weight of it seems unbearable.” His voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “It is admirable.”
Jayce swallows hard. He leans back, running a hand through his hair. Fucking laughs.
“I don’t think you realize how much you mean to me, Viktor."
Confusion blooms upon Viktor's face. “I—”
“No, let me say this,” Jayce interrupts. The words spill out now: raw and unpolished. “I care about you, Viktor. More than a friend. More than a partner." His hands grip the edge of his knees, desperate. "I care about you in a way that I don’t even know how to put into words. But it’s real, and it’s been driving me crazy not to tell you.”
Viktor stiffens. His eyes widen.
"After everything we’ve lost," Jayce continues, "it feels selfish to even bring it up, but I . . . I can’t keep pretending it’s not there.”
And the world holds it's breath.
Jayce gathers the courage to meet Viktor's gaze directly. He's done shying away. But it's not a sight that frightens him—not in the least.
Viktor's pretty eyes are wide and intent, fixated on him. Searching. Looking for some sign of hesitation or doubt. His lips part slightly with the breath that catches in his throat. “You…” he finally manages, his accent marred with disbelief. “You are serious."
“Yes," Jayce says, breathless. "I am."
The silence that follows is electric, the air between them charged with something profound. Viktor’s expression shifts—surprise giving way to awe, as though he’s seeing something he never dared to imagine.
“I thought…” Viktor stops himself, shaking his head slightly. “I thought you looked at me and saw what I lost. Not this.”
“I see all of you, Viktor.”
The space between them shrinks.
There’s the faintest tremor in Viktor’s jaw. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t deflect—just looks at Jayce with something raw and open.
Then, carefully, he leans forward.
Jayce meets him halfway.
The kiss is soft at first: a delicate brushing of lips that speaks of cautious exploration. Jayce’s hand lifts to cup Viktor’s chin, his thumb tracing the line of skin as he deepens the kiss. Viktor's lips are warm, his breath faintly uneven as he exhales into Jayce's open mouth.
There’s a heat to it; a gentle yet insistent pull that sends shivers down Jayce’s spine. There’s no urgency, no rush—only the quiet intensity of two souls meeting, finding solace and something more in one another.
Time seems to slow. The moment stretches, until Jayce feels like his heart will burst. When at last they finally pull back, Viktor doesn’t go far; their foreheads clunk together.
“You are reckless,” Viktor sighs. "As if every solution is a simple shortcut to victory."
“I'm aware.” Right as Jayce begins to lean in again, Viktor ducks out of the way; Jayce misses his lips.
“Not aware enough,” Viktor says, mock-serious. “But . . . this was better than expected. Acceptable.”
Jayce blinks, stunned. “Acceptable?”
Viktor’s smirk deepens. His palm rises to cup the back of Jayce's neck; cold fingers tap against the skin there. “What? Were you expecting a rousing applause? Perhaps a formal critique of your technique?”
“A little more enthusiasm, maybe. I don’t just kiss anyone.”
“Ah, so I should feel honored, then? The mighty Jayce Talis has bestowed upon me the privilege of his affections.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“And yet,” Viktor says smoothly, his grin melting into something more genuine, “here you are.”
Jayce snorts. “Lucky me.”
“Truly. You should be grateful.“
A chuckle flies from Jayce. His thumb brushes lightly along Viktor’s cheekbone. “Believe me, I am. But for the record—” he leans in so their lips brush, speaking lowly—“you’re the one who likes me back."
Viktor’s smirk returns. Sharper this time.
“Do not let it go to your head, Talis.”
Jayce grins against Viktor's mouth, and kisses him again.