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Summary
Air rasps into dead lungs. It rattles, thin and uneven, dragging through a throat that has forgotten the rhythm of breath. Viktor's eyes fly open—one hazel, fractured with gold. The other milky, its pupil blown wide. His hand claws at Jayce’s wrist, nails splitting the skin in his desperation to cling to something real.
Jayce's breath hitches. He presses closer, forehead welded to Viktor’s, tears carving hot tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
Alive. Alive. Alive. The word beats in his skull like a war drum. Viktor’s hands—those elegant, skeletal hands, ink-stained and scarred—curl limply in Jayce’s grip. They’re colder than they should be, waxy. But they’re his.Jayce chokes on a sob. He is already weeping, already laughing, already pressing their foreheads together like a man drowning in relief. His fingers tighten around Viktor’s, cradling the familiar bones, the shape of his knuckles, the delicate, long lines of his hands—hands that had once held glassware and ink-stained pages, that had traced the fine circuitry of hextech as though it were scripture. Hands that had held Jayce, too.