Work Text:
This is a room filled with dusty boxes. Its silence is profound.
Not the quiet of a late night or the stillness of an empty corridor, but a silence so loud it almost echoes. The room, once alive with the whirring of machines and the crackle of invention, now stands dormant. Dust hangs suspended in the air, caught in thin beams of light slicing through a cracked window. The scent of metal and decay lingers—like the room itself has been holding its breath for years.
The space is cluttered but untouched. Open drawers spill brittle papers, their edges yellowed and curling. A chalkboard dominates the far wall, marked with diagrams and half-erased equations that cling stubbornly to its surface. Once-bright instruments sit abandoned, their sharp lines dulled by a soft film of neglect.
Among the clutter, a small object glints faintly beneath a layer of forgotten papers. It is a hexagonal device, its edges smooth and worn, the faint polish of countless touches now dulled by years of neglect.
No larger than a pocket watch, its intricate carvings speak of precision, innovation, and purpose. At its center, a faint blue light pulses, barely visible, its rhythm steady and unyielding. The glow is subtle, but it persists, as though defying the stillness of the room around it.
The casing is unmistakably Piltoverian—sleek and precise—but the energy within, even in dormancy, carries a different essence. Something rougher. Rawer. Something Zaunite.
Beside the device lies a scrap of paper, edges frayed and curling. The schematic sketched upon it is incomplete, the lines hurried but deliberate. Notes crowd the margins, written in two distinct hands.
"Current output insufficient. Adjust focus array?"
"Possible—alternatives noted in margin."
One handwriting is sharp and exact, each letter shaped with surgical precision, like an engraver chiseling into metal. The other flows loosely, confidently, with a controlled chaos that speaks to instinct and intuition.
The notes converge, overlapping and colliding in places, as though written mid-argument or in the throes of a shared revelation. They are fragments of thought, moments of frustration, and flashes of brilliance, their voices indistinguishable at times. Together, they create something neither could have achieved alone.
The device pulses again, its faint blue light casting fleeting shadows that shift across the schematic. The glow seems alive, insistent, as though it remembers the hands that built it. As though it waits for them still.
The clatter of metal on metal shattered the fragile quiet of the lab. Jayce’s pen froze mid-stroke, a droplet of ink bleeding into the page as his head snapped up. Across the room, Viktor sat hunched over his workbench, elbows pressed to its edge, his head buried in his hands. The rigid line of his shoulders and the stillness of his form sent a flicker of worry skittering through Jayce.
“V?” Jayce called softly, his voice carrying the careful edge of someone trying not to step on broken glass.
There was no immediate response. The silence that followed was heavy, stretching thin before Viktor’s voice broke it—sharp and muffled behind his hands. “It’s not working.”
Jayce pushed his chair back with a scrape, his steps quick but measured as he crossed the room. The faint scent of oil and burned metal grew stronger near Viktor’s bench, a tangible reminder of their repeated failures. When he reached him, Jayce lowered himself slightly, placing a steady hand on Viktor’s shoulder. The fabric of Viktor’s shirt was warm, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.
“Hey,” Jayce said gently, his hand squeezing just enough to reassure. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Viktor lifted his head slowly, his movements heavy with exhaustion. His sharp features were drawn tight, shadows darkening the hollows beneath his eyes. He gestured toward the device sitting in pieces on the table before him—a mess of wires, polished metal, and frustration incarnate. The central component, the very heart of their project, lay inert in its casing. Its silence mocked them.
“The output is insufficient,” Viktor said flatly, his tone clinical, though it couldn’t fully mask the thread of frustration beneath. “We cannot stabilize the energy flow with the current array. It is impossible.”
Jayce stepped closer, his brows furrowing as he scanned the schematic sprawled beside the device. Viktor’s notes, written in his sharp, precise handwriting, sprawled across the page. Next to them, Jayce’s own additions—messy, chaotic, and enthusiastic—looked almost absurd in their simplicity.
“Maybe the focus array isn’t the problem,” Jayce offered after a moment, his finger tapping the page. “What if it’s the containment field? Maybe it’s leaking just enough energy to destabilize the core.”
Viktor shook his head, his fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to dismantle the entire device in one frustrated motion. “We reinforced the containment field three iterations ago,” he replied, his voice tight. “It should hold.”
Jayce straightened, his hand drifting to the back of his neck in a familiar gesture of uncertainty. “Well, something’s throwing it off. Maybe we’re overcomplicating it?”
Viktor’s head snapped toward him, his brow arching sharply. “Overcomplicating? That is your specialty.”
Despite the tension in the room, Jayce chuckled softly. “Rude,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched into a small grin. “But fair. Still, what if it’s not the array or the containment field? What if it’s...I don’t know, something we haven’t even considered yet?”
Viktor exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound halfway between exasperation and resignation. He reached for the inert device, lifting it with a careful touch that betrayed his lingering belief in its potential. Turning it over in his hands, his eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze scanning every groove, every imperfection.
“I am not missing anything,” Viktor murmured, though his voice had lost some of its earlier sharpness. He trailed off, the sentence unfinished as his fingers paused over a small circuit embedded in the casing.
Jayce stepped closer, leaning over Viktor’s shoulder. “What? You’ve got something, don’t you?”
Viktor’s lips pressed into a thin line as he set the device back on the table with deliberate precision. “If we reroute the secondary energy flow through a shared channel,” he said, gesturing to a specific section of the schematic, “we could stabilize the output without relying on the array.”
Jayce’s expression shifted, his furrowed brow giving way to a spark of excitement. “That...could actually work,” he said, his tone lifting with renewed energy.
Viktor allowed himself a small, humorless smile. “Yes. And it would have worked an hour ago if someone had not insisted on recalibrating the containment field for the fourth time.”
Jayce raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Guilty as charged. Let’s fix it.”
They settled into a rhythm, the tension in the room easing as they worked side by side. The hum of their tools filled the silence, their movements synchronized in a way that only came from years of collaboration. Viktor’s sharp precision balanced Jayce’s creative energy, their ideas weaving together into something tangible.
Time blurred as they worked, the hours slipping past unnoticed.
When the device finally emitted its first faint, stable hum, Viktor leaned back in his chair, exhaustion etched into his features but tempered by a quiet triumph. Jayce’s laughter broke the moment, warm and unrestrained. He clapped Viktor’s shoulder, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“I told you we’d figure it out,” Jayce said, his grin wide and filled with pride.
Viktor’s gaze drifted to the now-active device, its soft glow reflecting faintly in his tired eyes. A faint smile curved his lips, the smallest but truest acknowledgment of their shared victory. “Yes,” he said quietly, his voice softer now. “Eventually.”
Across the room, there is a broken cane.
It leans against the wall, its polished wood splintered at the base, the metal handle dulled by scuffs and scratches. Time has softened its once-sharp edges, but its imperfections stand as quiet witnesses to years of use. An odd thing to keep—a broken cane. Strange, how it remains here, untouched, its purpose long since fulfilled.
The wood is dark, nearly black, its surface worn smooth in places where fingers once gripped it too tightly. The break is jagged, abrupt, disrupting the flow of its otherwise elegant craftsmanship. Its polished finish is marred by hairline cracks that splinter outward like veins, reminders of a single moment when it could no longer bear the weight it carried.
The cane does not belong here, not among the sleek tools and polished devices of Piltover’s most brilliant minds. Its design is older, more practical than refined, and yet, its presence feels deliberate. This was not discarded. This was not abandoned.
This was kept.
The jagged break disrupts its balance, the fracture transforming it from a tool to an artifact. Yet there is something about the way it rests—unmoving, untouched—that speaks to its significance. The faint polish of wear suggests hands that once relied on it, hands that refused to let it go even after it was no longer useful.
Perhaps because it wasn’t just a cane.
“Viktor,” Jayce’s voice rang out, sing-song and undeniably smug, cutting through the quiet hum of the lab. “I have a surprise for you.”
From his place at the workbench, Viktor visibly tensed, his shoulders rising slightly as though bracing for the inevitable. Without turning, he sighed heavily, the sound tinged with equal parts exasperation and reluctant affection. “Oh, good,” he replied dryly. “What of mine do you intend to break this time?”
Jayce laughed, bright and unrepentant, his joy uncontainable. “Come on, this is a good surprise.”
Viktor finally swiveled his chair around, his expression skeptical as his sharp eyes zeroed in on Jayce. The man stepped into view, a long object wrapped in cloth cradled carefully in his arms. The grin on Jayce’s face was impossibly wide, almost blinding, and Viktor’s brows furrowed further in response.
“What is that?” Viktor asked, gesturing toward the bundle with a precise flick of his hand.
Jayce approached the workbench, setting the wrapped object down with exaggerated care. “Just trust me,” he said, his grin softening slightly at the edges. He tugged at the cloth with a flourish, letting it fall away to reveal a cane—or rather a crutch, but something far more elegant than the word implied.
It was sleek, polished, and unmistakably Piltoverian in design. The shaft was crafted from a pale, light wood, its surface smooth and unmarred, but it was the edges that caught Viktor’s attention. They gleamed with crimson inlay, spiraling subtly along its length—a striking touch, the unmistakable red of House Talis. The handle was reinforced with metal, its curve ergonomic, almost inviting the hand to rest there.
Viktor’s eyes widened slightly. His fingers twitched, but he hesitated, his gaze flicking between Jayce and the crutch. “You made this?” he asked quietly, the edge of his voice softening.
“Finished it this morning,” Jayce replied, his own voice quieter now, the bravado giving way to something warmer. “Figured your old one deserved an upgrade after it…uh, gave its life stabilizing the Hex core.”
Viktor’s gaze dropped to the crutch. Slowly, hesitantly, his hand lifted, brushing over the smooth wood. The surface was cool under his fingers, impossibly well-crafted. He traced the spiraling crimson inlay with a touch so light it barely seemed to connect. Every detail spoke of care—of time taken to perfect its balance, its sturdiness, its form. It was functional, yes, but it was also beautiful.
“You...did not have to do this,” Viktor murmured. His voice, though quiet, carried a weight that made Jayce’s chest tighten.
“I wanted to,” Jayce replied, his tone gentler now. “You’re my partner. I made a mess, and I needed to fix it. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?”
Viktor’s lips twitched faintly, though his expression remained skeptical. He tilted his head just enough to look up at Jayce, one brow arched in the way that always made Jayce feel simultaneously sheepish and charmed. “And how often, exactly, do you intend to replace things you break?”
Jayce shrugged, his grin returning full force. “As many times as it takes.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, but it was a soft, comfortable quiet. Viktor’s fingers curled slightly around the crutch, testing its weight. Though light in his grip, it felt heavy in a different way. The craftsmanship, the detail—it wasn’t just a tool. It was a promise. A gesture that carried far more than its physical weight.
The crimson detail gleamed under the light, stark against the polished wood. The metal handle felt cool but reassuring beneath his palm. It wasn’t the cane that had broken, splintering under the pressure of their pursuit of progress. This was something new, something better—something that held a piece of Jayce in every line and curve.
Jayce took a step closer, his hand brushing briefly against Viktor’s. “You’ve been needing something sturdier anyway,” he said softly, his tone almost shy. “I thought...well, this could help.”
Viktor’s breath caught, but only for a moment. He gave the barest shake of his head, his lips curving into a small, reluctant smile. “It will suffice,” he said, his voice dry, though the warmth behind it betrayed him.
Jayce chuckled, clapping him lightly on the back before stepping away. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
As the quiet settled again, Viktor let his fingers linger over the cane’s smooth surface. It was not the one that had broken in the pursuit of progress, but in its stead, it carried something more.
On a nearby workbench sits a single box, its lid slightly ajar. Inside, the corner of a leather-bound journal peeks out. To reach for it feels invasive, like prying into something meant to remain undisturbed.
But isn’t that the reason for being here? To unearth all that had been left behind? To pick up the threads where they had been cut? This lab is not an inheritance. It is a burden. To go innovate. To uncover. To rebuild.
Dust is brushed from the box, and the journal is eased out. The leather cracks under careful fingertips, worn from years of use. Page after page of precise handwriting, hurried yet meticulous, fills the journal.
And at the top of the first page, two names are scrawled.
“Here!”
The journal sailed through the air in an ungraceful arc, the freshly oiled leather catching the light before smacking into Viktor’s arm with a dull thud. It slid across the cluttered desk, scattering blueprints as it landed with a flourish.
Viktor looked up from his work, his eyes narrowing. “What?”
Jayce stood a few feet away, grinning broadly, his hazel eyes alight with mischief. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a child on his nameday. “Sign it!” he declared, striding over and plopping himself just behind Viktor. He leaned in, his chin brushing against Viktor’s shoulder, as though proximity alone would make his request seem more reasonable.
Viktor’s expression didn’t falter. He fixed Jayce with a withering stare, the kind that could make a lesser man recoil. “This is your journal,” he said, each word delivered with pointed precision.
“It is,” Jayce replied, his voice as bright and unbothered as ever.
“The one you’ve already signed on every single page.”
“Correct.”
Viktor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as his tone dipped further into irritation. “Then why are you handing it to me? I am not signing it. My hand will cramp.”
Jayce groaned dramatically, falling back and spinning in Viktor’s spare stool like a marionette cut from its strings. “Viktor!” he whined, dragging the name out as he clutched at his chest, the picture of exaggerated despair.
Viktor sighed sharply, resting his temple against his hand. “What?” Viktor’s patience, while legendary, was already wearing thin.
“Look at me.”
“I don’t want to look at you,” Viktor replied, his voice sharp but tinged with quiet fondness. He knew exactly what awaited him if he turned.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“Get back to work, Jayce.”
“This is important!”
“Jayce.”
“Viktor.”
The deadpan sigh that escaped Viktor was heavy with resignation. Slowly, reluctantly, he spun his chair around. Just as predicted—because Viktor prided himself on being right—Jayce’s face was lit with that infamous puppy-dog look. Wide eyes. Slight pout. A picture-perfect plea crafted to disarm him.
Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he muttered, reaching for a pencil. “I’ll sign the first page only. No more.”
“That’s fine! I’ll wear you down eventually,” Jayce quipped, already victorious.
Viktor reached for the journal and opened it carefully, flipping to the first page with slow precision. The paper was crisp under his fingers, the faint smell of fresh ink wafting upward. “Where do you want it?”
“Anywhere!” Jayce chirped, his bravado impossible to miss. “Just not stupidly small. People need to see it.”
Rolling his eyes, Viktor quickly scribbled his name beneath Jayce’s over-the-top flourish. It was neat, understated, and perfectly Viktor. He tossed the journal back, relieved to be done with the nonsense. “There. Happy now?”
“Yup!” Jayce caught it effortlessly, flipping it open as if to admire the handiwork. His expression soured almost instantly. “Hey, wait. That’s just your first name.”
Viktor raised an eyebrow. “And? What about it?”
“You need to write your full name, V.” Jayce lobbed the journal back, and this time Viktor caught it mid-air with a precision that suggested he’d been expecting the move. He pushed off the desk, gliding across the floor on his chair to where Jayce stood across the room, gently handing him the book back before returning to his workspace.
“Exactly how many Viktors have you worked with in the past, Jayce?”
Jayce paused, his face scrunching up in thought. “...Just you.”
Viktor clicked his tongue in irritation and turned back to his work, adjusting his magnifying glasses over his eyes.
“It’s the principle, V!” Jayce insisted, his tone veering dangerously close to pleading again. “What if people think it’s some random Viktor? Or worse—a fake Viktor?”
“If that is the most pressing concern for them, then I envy their simple lives.” Viktor deadpanned, his focus returning to the schematics in front of him.
The comment earned a glare, but Jayce wasn’t ready to give up. “Viktor,” he insisted, his tone edging dangerously close to pleading, “it’s important. Just write your last name too, and we’ll call it done.”
At that, Viktor set down his pencil and turned his chair slightly, looking at Jayce as though he were a particularly dense student. “I do not have a last name, Jayce.”
Jayce frowned. “What? Why?”
“Many Zaunites do not. Last names are for families, for bloodlines. For people with things to pass down.” Viktor shrugged lightly, but there was a faint edge in his tone, as though the explanation cost him more than he let on. “So, Viktor is my full name. Are you indulged now?”
Jayce didn’t respond right away. His face softened, his playful grin fading into something quieter, more serious. He studied Viktor for a moment before speaking again. “Then take mine,” he said softly.
Viktor froze, his hand hovering over the desk.
Jayce leaned forward, his tone warm but firm. “I mean it. You’re my partner, in every way that matters. House Talis is mine, and you deserve to be part of it.”
Viktor turned fully to face him, pulling off his glasses. “You understand what that implies,” he said, his voice calm but pointed.
Jayce flushed, his grin returning but softer now, sheepish. “I do.”
Viktor held his gaze for a moment longer, then exhaled deeply, reaching for the journal. “Give me that.”
Jayce practically threw it at him. Viktor opened the book again, carefully erasing his name from beneath Jayce’s. With deliberate precision, he reached for an inkwell pen, dipping the tip and hovering it over the page. Slowly, he wrote “Viktor &” just above Jayce’s signature.
When he handed the journal back, Jayce’s grin stretched ear to ear. He flipped it open, his eyes lighting up as they scanned the page.
This Journal Belongs to:
Viktor & Jayce Talis
Jayce leaned in and kissed Viktor’s temple softly, the journal still in his hands. “Perfect.”
A faint indentation marks the place where Viktor’s name had once been written beneath Jayce’s. The subtle grooves in the paper echo a choice left behind—deliberate and unspoken—and leave one question unanswered: Why?
Why move from below to above? From nameless to not? From secondary to primary?
The journal now lies closed on the desk, its leather cover worn and cracked, its fragile binding barely holding together. The edges of the pages are yellowed, curling at the corners, carrying the weight of hands that turned them over time and time again. On the surface, it is an object—nothing more than bound paper and ink. Yet, here, it feels heavier than it should, as though it contains more than words.
Memories linger in the walls, in the dust that hangs suspended in beams of pale light. There is no sound save for the faint creak of wood, the low hum of time pressing forward. This is a room filled with dusty boxes—now abandoned, but not unloved.
Among the scattered remnants of their lives, another object rests forgotten—wedged precariously at the edge of the desk, where dust has settled thick and undisturbed. It is a mug, unremarkable in its design, save for the faded lettering scrawled across its surface.
Property of Viktor Talis, Do Not Touch.
The words, once bold and defiant, have faded with time, the black ink worn to a faint gray. A closer inspection reveals faint scorch marks along its bottom, a reminder of countless late nights when it sat too long on an overworked heating plate.
It is the kind of object no one would think twice about—a mundane relic of everyday life—but here, in this room, it feels impossibly significant.
The handle bears the faint imprints of fingers that once gripped it too tightly, the surface polished to a subtle sheen. There’s a faint chip along the rim, a perfect crescent where the ceramic gave way, the edges smoothed by years of absentminded use.
The mug was not Viktor’s, though the name claimed it.
It belonged to both of them.
"Stop stealing my mug, Jayce," Viktor’s voice cut through the hum of the lab, sharp and clipped, though the corners of his mouth twitched as he tried to hold back a smirk. His eyes, narrowed in mock irritation, flicked to where Jayce sat perched on a stool, the offending mug cradled in his hands like a prize.
Jayce didn’t flinch under the accusation. Instead, he raised the mug in a lazy toast, steam curling up between them. His grin was broad and shameless, his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “Technically,” he said, dragging the word out, “I am borrowing it. It’s not stealing if it’ll eventually be returned to your care.”
Viktor sighed heavily, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in a well-practiced gesture of exasperation. “Oh? And when have you done that?”
“A few times.” Jayce leaned back precariously on the stool, balancing on two legs as he took a slow, deliberate sip. His lips curled around the rim of the mug, and when he swallowed, he let out a contented sigh that was far louder than necessary. “But honestly, V, you can’t just slap a label on something and expect me to follow it.”
Viktor turned in his chair, his golden eyes narrowing. “And yet, you expect me to follow your containment procedures?” he asked, his tone cutting but laced with affection.
Jayce had the audacity to wink at him. “Containment saves lives. Stealing your mug just saves me a trip to the cupboard.”
“You are insufferable,” Viktor muttered, though the irritation in his voice lacked conviction. His gaze lingered on Jayce a moment too long before he turned back to his work, his fingers deftly adjusting the intricate wiring of a small device on his desk.
For a moment, the lab fell into its usual rhythm. The scratching of Viktor’s pencil on paper and the faint whir of a cooling machine filled the space between them. But Jayce, as always, couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Why don’t we just share it?” he asked suddenly, his voice softening.
Viktor didn’t look up. “Because it is mine.”
“Is it?” Jayce leaned forward, setting the mug down with an audible clink on the desk. He rested his elbows on the table, his grin shifting into something softer. “You never actually use it. I’ve seen you. You just let it sit there while you hover over your tea like it’s a state secret.”
Viktor’s pencil paused mid-stroke. He turned his head slowly, his gaze meeting Jayce’s. One brow arched with practiced precision, and his lips parted slightly as though about to deliver a cutting remark. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh. “Perhaps because every time I reach for it, you have already taken it.”
Jayce chuckled, the sound warm and rich. He reached out, letting his fingers brush against Viktor’s forearm—a touch so casual it seemed second nature. “Well, maybe that’s because it’s the best mug in the lab. Perfect size, keeps the coffee hot, has your name on it. What’s not to love?”
“It also has the words Do Not Touch , which you persistently ignore,” Viktor said, though his voice had softened.
Jayce tilted his head, his grin breaking into a wide smile. “Maybe that’s because you’re the one who made it irresistible.” He leaned in closer, his face now inches from Viktor’s. “And I’m not just talking about the mug.”
Viktor huffed, shaking his head, though the faint flush that crept up his neck betrayed him. He tried to turn back to his work, but Jayce caught his chin with gentle fingers, tilting his face up. “Don’t pout, V,” Jayce said, his voice dipping into a softer, teasing tone. “You know you love me.”
Viktor’s golden eyes flicked up to meet Jayce’s, and his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “You are very fortunate that I do,” he murmured.
Jayce’s grin only widened as he leaned in and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to Viktor’s lips. When he pulled back, Viktor gave a long-suffering sigh, but his gaze lingered on Jayce’s, warm and unguarded.
“Fine,” Viktor said, at last, his tone tinged with reluctant amusement. “Keep the mug. But do not complain when it is filled with sweetmilk tomorrow.”
Jayce laughed, leaning in to kiss Viktor’s temple before pulling back to reclaim his seat. “Deal,” he said, lifting the mug again like it was a trophy.
Viktor shook his head, his eyes narrowing as though already planning how he might reclaim his stolen property. But the faint smile that lingered on his lips betrayed him.
It wasn’t the last time Viktor would attempt to reclaim the mug, nor the last time Jayce would find an excuse to steal it back.
In front of the desk, across the back of a chair, slouched and forgotten in the heavy stillness of the room, hangs a sweater. Its fabric is thick and worn, the once-rich navy color now faded to a muted blue-gray. Along the cuffs, the threads have unraveled into soft, fraying edges, and the hem is stretched, misshapen by years of wear. It is oversized, the kind of sweater that drapes more than it fits, the kind that swallows its wearer in a cocoon of warmth.
It does not match the pristine, sharp-edged tools scattered across the lab. It feels out of place amidst the precise machinery and meticulously labeled drawers, a relic of something more personal—a life lived between the calculations and the calibrations.
The scent of the sweater, faint and lingering, is sweet. Not the sterile tang of oil and metal that fills the room, but softer. A memory of cedar and sweetmilk, clinging stubbornly to the fabric like a ghost of the person who wore it.
The elbows are patched—carefully and neatly, though the stitches are uneven, as if the work was done in haste or by hands more accustomed to crafting tools than mending fabric. A small tear near the collar has been left unsewn, as though it carried too much history to be fixed. Along the inside, a tag sits frayed and faded, its lettering nearly illegible.
But the story of the sweater does not lie in its imperfections. It lies in the way the fabric folds over the chair, its wear speaking to the life it has lived. It was not merely owned; it was used, its weight carried on tired shoulders, its warmth sought during endless nights spent working in this very room.
Cozy, and oversized, it bears the quiet marks of being borrowed—no, given —and never returned. The faint stretch of the fabric hints at a slimmer frame, the cuffs rolled one too many times to fit narrower wrists.
It is not just a sweater—it is a gesture, a presence, a love too big to be contained by its oversized frame.
The lab was quiet, save for the soft scratch of pencil on paper and the faint hum of machinery. Viktor sat hunched over his desk, his thin frame almost swallowed by the stool he perched on. His fingers, long and dexterous, sketched out precise equations along the edges of a schematic, the lines sharp and unyielding like his focus.
Jayce glanced over from his workbench, his gaze lingering longer than it needed to. It wasn’t unusual for him to steal a moment to watch Viktor when the other man wasn’t paying attention. Viktor had a way of losing himself in his work, his golden eyes narrowing in concentration, his lips pressing into a faint line that betrayed his frustration. He was brilliant, of course, but also infuriatingly stubborn—a trait Jayce loved more than he cared to admit.
Viktor shifted suddenly, straightening just enough to let out a quiet huff. “It is quite chilly in here,” he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for Jayce to catch.
Jayce froze mid-reach, his hand hovering above a collection of tools. His heart jumped, and his mind flashed back to a different kind of cold—a memory of wind howling through a blizzard, of snow stinging his cheeks, of his mother’s hand growing limp in his grip as she collapsed in the drifts. He shook the thought away quickly, but the unease lingered, prickling at the edges of his mind.
Before he even realized what he was doing, Jayce was shrugging off his sweater, the fabric still warm from his body. “Here,” he said, already moving toward Viktor, the sweater bunched awkwardly in his hands.
Viktor glanced up, his brow furrowing in confusion as Jayce all but thrust the sweater at him. “What are you doing?”
“You said you were cold,” Jayce replied, his voice a little too quick, a little too eager.
Viktor blinked, his sharp gaze flicking between Jayce’s earnest expression and the oversized sweater. “I said it was chilly. I am perfectly capable of working while cold.”
Jayce ignored the protest, holding the sweater out more insistently. “Just take it,” he said, his tone softening. “It’s warm, and I don’t want you uncomfortable.”
Viktor tilted his head, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You are aware that your sweater is far too large for me, yes?”
“Yeah, but that’s what makes it good.” Jayce grinned, his hazel eyes brightening as the tension in his chest eased. “It’s like a portable blanket. Plus, it smells like me. Bonus, right?”
Viktor rolled his eyes, though there was no malice in the gesture. With a sigh that was more amused than exasperated, he took the sweater and tugged it over his head. The fabric engulfed him almost immediately, the hem brushing against the tops of his thighs. The sleeves, predictably, hung far past his hands, flopping comically as he held them up.
Jayce’s grin widened, his chest swelling with a warmth that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “Looks good on you,” he teased, stepping closer.
Viktor gave him a dry look, lifting one oversized sleeve with a pointed arch of his brow. “Yes, very practical. Shall I attempt to solder circuits with no use of my hands?”
“Let me fix that.”
Jayce reached for Viktor’s hands, his touch firm but gentle as he gathered the fabric of the sleeves and rolled them up carefully. His fingers brushed against Viktor’s wrists, lingering just long enough to draw a faint flush to Viktor’s cheeks.
“There,” Jayce said once he’d finished, his voice quieter now. He looked down at Viktor, his hands still loosely holding his wrists. “All set.”
Viktor’s gaze softened, the sharpness in his expression giving way to something warmer. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at Jayce like he was trying to figure him out all over again.
Jayce leaned in before he could stop himself, pressing a kiss to Viktor’s lips. It was soft, brief, but it carried the weight of something unspoken—an affection too big to put into words.
When he pulled back, Viktor’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “You are very overbearing,” he murmured, though there was no bite in the words.
Jayce laughed, stepping back toward his workbench. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”
Viktor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he adjusted the sweater, his hands brushing against the rolled cuffs. “Perhaps,” he said at last, his voice light but filled with unmistakable fondness.
And for the rest of the evening, Viktor wore the sweater, his sharp movements muted by the oversized fabric. Jayce stole glances at him whenever he could, his chest tightening with quiet satisfaction.
Because Viktor was warm. And that was all that mattered.
Beneath the desk, unseen and long forgotten, lie a pair of golden rings.
The metal is worn, and the once-bright shine faded to a muted glow. Along their edges are faint scratches, small dents, and the soft polish of time—marks left by hands that held them often, by fingers that turned them absentmindedly, by lives that wore them through moments of joy, frustration, and quiet resolve.
The rings rest there, unnoticed in the shadows, their presence unassuming but persistent.
The countryside stretched endlessly before them, a patchwork of soft greens and golds quilted under a sky that seemed impossibly wide. The world was quieter here, the noise of Piltover’s bustling streets left far behind. The distant rustle of leaves and the faint chirping of unseen birds wove together, creating a serenity neither of them had realized they needed until now.
Viktor leaned heavily into his crutch as they walked, his steps slower but steady. The gravel path beneath their feet crunched softly with each measured step, while the sunlight dappled the ground through the sparse canopy of trees. Beside him, Jayce walked with an easy stride, his broad shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. He had insisted on carrying the small box himself, though Viktor had rolled his eyes at the dramatics.
They came to a stop near a gentle rise overlooking a quiet, rippling stream. The light caught the water’s surface, scattering diamonds across its depths. Jayce glanced at Viktor, his expression softer now, his usual exuberance tempered by something deeper, something unspoken.
“This okay?” Jayce asked, his voice low, hesitant.
Viktor’s lips curved faintly, the corners lifting in what could almost be called a smile. “It is more than okay,” he replied, his accent curling warmly around the words.
Jayce exhaled a small laugh, almost a release of tension, as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the small wooden box. It creaked faintly as he opened it, revealing two simple golden rings. They weren’t extravagant—nothing about them suggested wealth or power. They were plain, unassuming, but unmistakably intentional in their craftsmanship. A faint engraving ran along the interior of each band, though only the two of them would ever know what it said.
Jayce turned the box toward Viktor, his free hand nervously rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know you already have my name,” he said, his grin sheepish but warm. “But I thought…maybe this would make it feel more official. Or permanent.”
Viktor glanced down at the rings, his gaze lingering. The sunlight caught their edges, making the gold glow faintly, like they carried their own warmth. His hand moved almost instinctively to touch one, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the band with a featherlight care.
“You are certain about this?” Viktor asked, his voice soft but firm. His golden eyes flicked upward to meet Jayce’s. “Zaunites do not often marry in such ways.”
Jayce nodded, his expression earnest, the teasing edge he so often wore absent. “I’ve never been more certain about anything,” he said. “I want us to share everything—our work, our lives, our future. Whatever comes next.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath around them, the stream murmuring softly in the background. Then Viktor reached for the ring, lifting it from its place in the box. The metal was cool against his skin, its weight subtle but undeniable.
“Very well,” Viktor said, his tone carrying the quiet gravity of a promise. He held the ring out to Jayce. “But only if you understand that this is not temporary. I will kill you if you try to divorce me.”
Jayce smiled, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in Viktor’s words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, taking the ring carefully. His hand brushed Viktor’s as he slipped it onto his finger, the gesture reverent.
When it was Viktor’s turn, he hesitated for only a moment before taking Jayce’s hand in his. His grip was firm but steady as he slid the ring into place, his touch lingering against Jayce’s knuckles. For a man of logic, of precision, there was something impossibly tender in the way he handled this moment.
The rings sat snugly on their fingers, gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. They didn’t speak immediately. There was no need. Jayce reached out and wrapped an arm around Viktor’s shoulders, drawing him close, careful not to upset his balance. Viktor allowed himself to lean into him, their bodies fitting together as though the space between them had never truly existed.
Above them, the clouds shifted, casting shadows across the hills. But in that moment, the two of them stood bathed in sunlight, the weight of the world far away. Here, there were no titles, no inventions, no demands. Only the quiet truth of what they had promised to each other.
The rings will not be found.
A careless movement will disturb them. A misplaced step, a bump against the desk, and the rings will roll into view—glinting briefly in the light before vanishing again. They will tumble through a narrow vent, their path twisting and turning through the labyrinth of Piltover’s underbelly. They will fall through pipes slick with condensation, rattle against metal, and finally settle in a trash heap far below.
In the Undercity, a child scavenging through refuse will discover them. Small fingers will brush away the dirt, tracing the curves of the faded metal. The child will see beauty in their simplicity but nothing beyond their worth.
They will be sold for thirteen silver.
The rings will leave Piltover, forgotten and adrift, their story untold.
And when history speaks of Viktor and Jayce Talis, it will immortalize them as visionaries, innovators who carved their names into the annals of progress. Their work will be dissected, their inventions praised, their collaboration enshrined as a partnership of unparalleled genius.
But history will falter, as it so often does, in recognizing what truly mattered. The weight of a glance. The meaning of a touch. The bond that transcended words.
Viktor & Jayce Talis will remain the remnants of a room filled with dusty boxes.