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If Viktor could meet the alternate version of himself, the version Jayce met in that other world, he would have some choice words to share with him. They would not be kind ones.
You did this, he thinks, tracing Jayce’s hollowed-out cheekbones and starved frame, watching him struggle to swallow more than a handful of food, no matter how much Viktor piles onto his plate.
You did this, he thinks, watching Jayce’s eyes grow distant as he stares into their hearth, shaking violently despite the warmth, searching for something in the flames that Viktor will never be able to see.
You did this, he thinks, jolting awake with his lover in the middle of the night, then clinging to him with all his might as Jayce sobs and begs don’t go, don’t leave me, please, inconsolable no matter how long Viktor mutters into his hair that he’ll never leave him again.
Anger pounds against his chest every time, a nasty flicker of resentment towards a version of himself he’ll never know. Yes, that Viktor saved him, stopped him, but at what cost? He can’t imagine any version of himself that thinks Jayce is a reasonable sacrifice to his alter.
(You almost killed him yourself, his mind whispers, and the line between the ‘you’s that make him up distorts and blurs. He can’t look too closely, because he knows what he’ll see if he does: an unlovable, selfish creature, capable of only taking and taking and taking.)
Hating that other version of himself is easier. Simpler. By doing so, he can focus on what’s most important: taking care of his beloved. He’ll compartmentalize the rest, as he has always done.
“You’re angry,” Jayce notices once, and maybe Viktor isn’t handling his emotions as carefully as he thinks he is.
“Not with you,” Viktor reassures, rubbing Jayce’s side. It’s been a long morning, and the two of them are still in bed. According to Jayce, there’s a corrupted automaton sitting in the corner of their room, waiting for the moment to strike. Jayce knows it’s not real, but the anxiety it creates is real, so Viktor will wait with him as long as it takes for the hallucination to pass.
Viktor’s thumb catches on the edge of a protruding rib and thinks, you did this.
“But you’re still angry. With yourself?” Jayce’s eyes are clearer now, and Viktor should be glad. Instead, he suddenly feels like he’s the monster in the corner. He pulls his hand away, but Jayce catches it, and then intertwines their fingers. What a pair of sweethearts they make, cowering in their bed at the shadows they created.
“No,” Viktor says quickly. Jayce stares at him expectantly, ready to wait. Viktor has no idea how he’s grown to be so infuriatingly patient. “Yes. In a way.”
“I am… frustrated,” Viktor starts, the under-exaggeration slipping off his tongue, “that you were treated so poorly in that other world.”
Jayce furrows his brows. “I don’t think I was treated poorly. That was just… the kind of world that was. The kind of future I had to see—”
“Yes, we both did, I understand,” Viktor bites out, heat seeping into his voice, staring at the crease in the blanket on top of them instead of at Jayce’s face. “But I— he let you suffer. For so long. He did nothing but watch as you starved, and for what, a haughty lesson for you to endure for both of our sakes? A lesson carved into your skin and not mine, the one who started it all, the one who—”
“Hey, hey,” Jayce gentles, moving closer to him. His eyes are so soft as he watches him rage, and that only spurs the fury in him.
“How are you not angry?” Viktor insists, sitting up, creating a chasm between them. “After everything he did to you, how can you stand to even look at me?”
“I was angry, but I’m not anymore,” Jayce admits, sitting up himself, hand resting on Viktor’s leg. “And, hey. I’d rather you didn’t talk about the love of my life like that.”
Shock vibrates a bitter laugh out of Viktor’s mouth. “He’s not—”
“Every version of me loves every version of you.” And Jayce sounds so unwavering, so certain, and Viktor doesn’t understand.
“Jayce—” Viktor’s voice cracks, but Jayce pulls his fingers to his mouth to kiss them before he can protest further.
“He was alone for so long. I was alone a fraction of the time he was, and it broke me. I don’t know why he did what he did, but I know he had to.”
Jayce’s smile, fragile and precious and stitched from starbeams: “In the end, it doesn’t matter. I trust you. Every version of you.”
Viktor doesn’t know why he’s crying, why it feels like his insides are being torn apart as his gut fights ferociously against this unequivocal and unconditional forgiveness he doesn’t deserve, that no version of him could ever deserve—
Warm arms around his frame, cradling him close, proximity and trust that he hasn’t earned, that he’ll never earn. But he’s a selfish creature, and he clings to the warmth anyway.
“Stop punishing him. Please. I love him so much.” Jayce whispers it into the crook of his neck, and Viktor only sobs harder. “I love you so much.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Viktor admits.
“It’s okay,” Jayce says, running his wide hand down Viktor’s spine. “I’m still figuring out how to do it myself. Not punishing myself, I mean.”
Maybe the two of them were meant to drown in it, this self-hatred that spans across timelines. Maybe they’re the only two who can save each other from it.
Later, wrung out by tears, Viktor manages to look Jayce in the eye again. “Is the creature still in the corner?”
Jayce shakes his head, and smiles, eyes clear. “Let’s start the day.”
If nothing else, Viktor can manage that.