Work Text:
Jayce Talis ran a hand over his beard, fingers catching in the unkempt scruff as he took a step back from his latest creation. His workshop, bathed in golden afternoon light, was a cathedral of dust and stone. Specks of marble floated through the air, caught in the slanting rays streaming from the high windows, giving the space a hazy, dreamlike quality. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tools, sketches, and abandoned projects like figures half-formed, limbs caught in moments of stillness, expressions frozen mid-thought.
But none of them compared to this one.
At the center of the room, standing atop its pedestal, was his most ambitious work yet. A marble figure, painstakingly carved, each stroke of the chisel a prayer of devotion to form and detail. The man stood in repose, his head tilted slightly, lips parted as if caught between speech and silence. His expression was unreadable. Not quite sorrow, not quite serenity. Something… alive.
Jayce’s chest tightened as he circled the sculpture, eyes drinking in every curve and hollow, every fine chisel mark that had been smoothed into near perfection. He had spent months on this—no, longer. It had consumed him, demanded every ounce of patience, every hour of his sleepless nights. His hands bore the proof of his dedication: calloused fingertips, dust embedded deep in the creases of his skin, cuts from slips of the chisel, rougher than they’d ever been.
Because this wasn’t just another commission. This was a passion project.
He had no blueprint for this sculpture, no request from a patron. It had started as a fleeting idea, a restless need to create something beyond what he could explain. And now, standing before it, Jayce felt a strange sort of longing stir inside him. His fingers ghosted over the statue’s lips, parted just enough to suggest breath, as if the figure might exhale at any moment. He pulled back, swallowing hard.
It was ridiculous. It was stone.
And yet, Jayce found himself whispering, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever made.”
His words hung in the air, lost to the quiet hum of his workshop.
Jayce had never named his sculptures before. They were simply figures: marble bodies, frozen in time, existing only to be admired. But this one was different.
Viktor . The name had come to him without thought, slipping past the walls of his mind like a secret he had always known. It felt right. Felt inevitable.
Viktor was stunning. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, waves of stone carved with painstaking precision. Each strand was a challenge, chipping away the excess while keeping the flow natural, giving marble the illusion of softness. Jayce had spent weeks shaping it, smoothing the curls, ensuring the weight fell just right. He had obsessed over every detail—the sharp cut of Viktor’s jawline, the proud arch of his brows, the elegant slope of his nose.
His hands, outstretched as if reaching for something unseen, bore delicate veins Jayce had etched with careful, steady hands. His robes, sculpted in fluid folds, draped over his lean frame in a way that made stone seem weightless. There was movement in the stillness, a whisper of life in cold marble. Every inch of him was perfect.
Jayce often found himself lingering. He would brush dust off Viktor’s cheek, tracing the smooth curve of his jaw, his fingers ghosting over the contours he had spent hours refining. His touch was reverent, hesitant. Why did this piece feel so different? Why did Viktor feel familiar, like his hands had always been meant to carve him?
Jayce spent hours lost in his work, striking a delicate balance between force and finesse. Marble was unforgiving. To carve the bulk of Viktor’s form, he had to be ruthless, each strike of the chisel demanding power, cleaving through stubborn stone with controlled violence. His muscles burned from the effort, sweat gathering at his temples, and dust clinging to his skin.
But for the fine details, he had to be impossibly delicate. The shape of Viktor’s lips, the faint dip in his lower one as if he were on the verge of speaking—it required the lightest touch, a patience that bordered on devotion. The arch of his brows, the minute creases in his knuckles, the near-invisible dip of his collarbone beneath the stone-sculpted fabric. A wrong move, and he could ruin months of effort. It was maddening.
It was exhilarating.
At night, when exhaustion settled into his bones and his hands ached from carving, Jayce would sit beside Viktor with a glass of whiskey in hand. The workshop was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of candlelight and the distant hum of the city beyond his walls. He would stare into Viktor’s stone eyes, searching for something he couldn’t name.
Jayce chuckled under his breath, taking a slow sip of his drink. “What would you say, if you could talk back?”
Silence.
Of course, there was silence.
And yet, sitting in the dim glow of his workshop, Jayce swore Viktor was listening.
_____
The storm raged outside, fierce and untamed, a wild symphony of wind and rain that battered against the windows of Jayce’s workshop. Thunder shook the walls, rumbling like an ancient beast, yet inside, the world was still.
Jayce couldn’t sleep. His thoughts were a tangled mess of exhaustion, frustration, and—perhaps—something more. The hum of his restless mind kept him awake, and as the storm outside grew fiercer, he found himself drawn back to the one place that brought him solace.
His workshop.
The warm glow of flickering candlelight was the only thing cutting through the shadows. Jayce stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes falling on Viktor’s statue—his masterpiece. The storm outside seemed to stand still in comparison to the turbulence churning in Jayce’s chest. His heart ached for something, something he couldn’t quite define. He had always admired Viktor, yes. But tonight, standing there with the storm’s fury at his back, it felt different.
He couldn’t stop himself.
With slow, measured steps, Jayce crossed the room, his boots making no sound against the polished floor. His breath was shallow, his pulse quickening as he approached Viktor’s marble figure.
The chisel marks on Viktor’s face—so painstakingly carved—looked almost softer in the candlelight. His gaze seemed to follow Jayce, though it was still frozen in stone. Jayce’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out, his fingers brushing the smooth, cold surface of Viktor’s cheek, just as he had done so many times before.
But this time...
The moment his skin made contact, a deep crack echoed through the room, a sound so sharp it felt like the very foundation of the earth was splitting beneath him. Jayce froze, his heart pounding in his chest. The storm outside grew even louder, as if the heavens themselves were aware of the shift taking place in the room.
Then, the air itself seemed to change.
The marble beneath Jayce’s touch, once cool and lifeless, suddenly felt warm—alive. Heat radiated from Viktor’s stone face, like the pulse of something buried deep within the cold surface. Jayce’s breath caught in his throat. What was happening?
Before he could even pull his hand back or make sense of what was unfolding, the crack in the marble deepened, spreading across Viktor’s chest, and down his arms. The room felt suffocating now, charged with an electric energy that Jayce couldn’t comprehend.
And then, it happened.
Viktor’s eyes—those deep, golden eyes—fluttered open.
Jayce stumbled back, his mouth going dry as he watched, wide-eyed, unable to tear his gaze away. Viktor’s gaze was piercing, sharp like the thunder outside, yet there was something impossibly human about it. Something soft. Something unmistakably alive.
A tremor passed through Viktor’s body, subtle at first, then stronger, as if the very air around him was shifting. The cracks along his marble skin deepened, and Jayce watched, breath caught in his throat, as fine lines of dust crumbled away from Viktor’s face, his hands, and his arms. Piece by piece, the stone flaked off like brittle leaves caught in the wind, revealing something new beneath.
It started with his fingertips. The rigid, cold stone softened into flesh, the pale hue of marble fading into warm ivory. The transformation spread like ink in water, rippling up his arms, down his chest, and through his legs. Jayce could see tendons stretching, veins threading beneath the surface, breath filling a body that had never known air before.
Viktor inhaled sharply, his newly formed chest rising and falling with a rhythmic, unconscious ease. His face was no longer marble, no longer unyielding. It held an unfamiliar warmth, his golden eyes no longer set in stone but alive with depth, shifting with emotion. His once-rigid robes sagged under the sudden weight of movement, the fabric no longer sculpted from rock but flowing, deep blue like a twilight sky, pooling around him as he shifted.
He raised his hand again, touching his own face with a kind of hesitant wonder. His fingers brushed over his cheek, feeling the heat, the softness, the unmistakable human texture of skin. He let out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief, half in awe, as he tilted his hand to watch the last remnants of marble dust fall from his fingers.
Jayce’s heart pounded in his chest, his hand still hovering just above Viktor’s cheek. He wanted to say something—anything—but his mind was clouded, overwhelmed by the sight in front of him. He had been so meticulous in his work, carving every detail to perfection. But now, Viktor wasn’t a piece of stone anymore. He was... he was real.
"Viktor?" Jayce breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer.
Viktor’s gaze flickered to him, the weight of his stare both bewildered and searching. He tilted his head, as if trying to understand what had just occurred. His mouth opened again, this time forming words, though they came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
"Who... are you?"
Jayce’s breath hitched at the sound of Viktor’s voice—low and ragged, but undeniably real.
"I... I’m Jayce," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He could hardly believe he was speaking, hardly believe the miracle standing before him. "I... I made you. I... sculpted you."
Viktor’s golden eyes flickered with confusion, then recognition. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand dropped to his side. He raised it once more, cautiously this time, and touched his face. His fingertips traced the now-warm skin, moving down to the crack that had spread originally along his chest, as if testing the reality of his own existence.
"I... don’t understand," Viktor murmured, more to himself than Jayce. He furrowed his brow, scanning the room as if it held answers he couldn’t yet reach. His gaze returned to Jayce. "You created me?"
Jayce’s chest tightened at the question, and without thinking, he took a step forward. He reached out, his hand trembling as he brushed a lock of Viktor’s hair away from his face, just like he had done with the statue. Only this time, Viktor’s hair felt like real strands beneath his fingertips.
“Yes,” Jayce whispered, voice barely audible. “I’ve been chiseling you for months. You were... you were a sculpture. But now, you’re—"
"Alive," Viktor finished softly. There was a strange awe in his voice, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. His eyes met Jayce’s, searching, yearning for something. “I don’t know how this is possible, but... I’m... here."
The air felt thick with disbelief and wonder as Jayce circled Viktor, unable to tear his gaze away. His mind was a whirlwind, trying to process what had just unfolded before him. The storm raged on outside, but it felt like nothing compared to the storm inside Jayce’s chest. His hands were trembling, his heart hammering against his ribs as he reached out once again, this time, gently touching Viktor’s arm.
Viktor’s skin—real, warm, and firm beneath Jayce’s fingers—was far different than the cold marble he had so carefully shaped for months. The contrast was dizzying. He couldn’t help himself. He had to touch, to make sure this wasn’t some strange illusion.
Viktor watched him with those golden eyes, a slight smirk curling his lips, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he murmured, his voice rich and accented, smooth with a cadence that sent a shiver down Jayce’s spine. There was a playfulness in his tone, as though Viktor himself found the situation more amusing than terrifying.
Jayce blinked, his mind struggling to process the change. This was no longer a statue. This was Viktor. The figure he had poured his soul into. But now... now he was alive.
"How?" Jayce muttered, still circling him, unable to contain his curiosity. He reached out again, his hand trembling as he traced Viktor’s arm. The muscle beneath it, once solid and unyielding in marble, now responded to Jayce’s touch. It was warm, alive, and real. Viktor stretched, the smooth flex of his limbs, which had been so still, now showing the weight of his body. His movements were fluid and graceful. The marble had transformed into something so much more. Viktor seemed to relish in the freedom, rolling his shoulders and feeling his fingers stretch out, as though testing the new sensation of being alive.
Jayce couldn’t stop himself from inspecting every inch of Viktor’s body, his eyes drinking in the sight of him—his long, silken hair that cascaded down to his shoulders, the sharp definition of his jaw that Jayce had painstakingly carved, the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed. Each detail he had worked into the statue was now gloriously real, and Jayce’s chest tightened as he realized just how perfect Viktor was.
"How... How did this happen?" Jayce finally managed, his voice strained as he stepped closer, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "Are you real? Am I losing my mind?"
Viktor, leaning back slightly with that sly smirk still on his lips, seemed amused by the flurry of questions. He stretched again, his body fully aware now, testing its limits with every movement. The marble was gone, but the power Jayce had breathed into Viktor's form, the energy he'd channeled through the careful, deliberate strikes of his chisel, was now a living thing.
"Perhaps a little of both," Viktor responded, his voice dripping with playful intrigue. He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Real? I don’t know. How could something immobile become alive?"
Jayce could hear the teasing lilt in Viktor’s tone, but it only heightened the storm in his chest. Viktor’s very presence was a magnetic force. He exuded a quiet confidence, a knowing air that made Jayce’s heart race faster.
Jayce took a step forward, almost closing the distance between them, his hands still shaking. "You... you can’t just— be real. I carved you. I created you. I—" He stopped himself, mouth falling open as he tried to catch his breath, staring into Viktor’s eyes, searching for some sign that this wasn’t all a dream. But the warm, golden gaze looking back at him was unmistakably alive. There was no mistaking it.
Viktor’s smirk widened at Jayce’s flustered confusion. He took a step closer, towering over Jayce by a few inches, and reached out, carefully brushing a lock of Jayce’s hair back from his face with a slow, deliberate movement. "I would think... the one who sculpted me would know better than anyone, Jayce." His voice lowered, rich with that same teasing warmth. "Did you think I would remain a statue forever?"
Jayce inhaled sharply, the sound thick in his chest, unsure of what to say. Every fiber of his being was on edge, both exhilarated and terrified by the living being standing before him. “I—I didn’t know...” he stammered, words failing him as he searched Viktor’s face for any sign of what this all meant. But the only thing he found was an enigmatic calm.
Viktor’s smirk softened into something more sincere, his hand still lingering near Jayce’s face, as though he was savoring the delicate moment. “What are you thinking right now, Jayce? Am I truly that hard to believe?”
Jayce took a deep breath, swallowing down the knot in his throat, feeling the tension of the moment wrap around him like an invisible weight. "I... I can’t help but think that this is a dream, Viktor. I’m not sure whether I’m losing my grip on reality, or if you... you’re real."
The golden gaze shifted slightly, and Viktor’s expression became more serious, a quiet understanding passing between them. “I am as real as your hands are, Jayce. Real as your breath, your thoughts, your emotions.” He let the words settle, his hand gently brushing the side of Jayce’s face, as though marking him, grounding him in this strange, impossible moment.
Jayce blinked again, a slow realization dawning on him. He was alive. Viktor was alive.
And in that instant, his mind raced—not with fear, but with an overwhelming sense of awe and wonder. Here stood the thing he had worked so long for, the piece that had taken his soul, his heart, and his mind. Viktor was no longer stone—he was flesh, blood, and—most importantly— life.
Jayce finally dared to touch Viktor’s hand. The warmth that surged through him at the contact was unmistakable, and for the first time, Jayce felt the steady thrum of his own pulse align with the quiet beat that Viktor seemed to carry with him, as though they were both finally alive in a way they’d never known.
“I—" Jayce started, then stopped. He wanted to ask so many things. What does this mean? How is this possible? What do we do now? But instead, the only thing that came out was a whispered, “You’re real.”
Viktor’s eyes softened, a faint smile on his lips. "I am. And now, so are you."
Jayce was consumed, not with the marble or the chisel, but with Viktor. In a way, he still couldn’t believe it. He had been sculpting a person, a being who was now standing before him, alive, and with so much more to discover. The obsession that once fueled his work, long hours spent with his chisel and hammer, now shifted. It was no longer about perfecting the marble; it was about perfecting his understanding of Viktor.
Each day, Jayce found himself drawn to Viktor, sketchbook in hand, scribbling down questions in frenzied, disjointed lines. The pages were filled with hurried notes, capturing every subtle movement, every strange nuance that Viktor exhibited—things Jayce had never anticipated when he first began chiseling the figure.
"Can you eat?" Jayce asked one evening, nearly tripping over his words in his haste. He stood a few paces from Viktor, watching him closely, as if trying to decipher the true nature of this living, breathing creation. Viktor sat on a nearby bench, watching Jayce with a casual, almost amused expression.
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Can I eat?" He repeated the question thoughtfully, as if testing the concept in his own mind. “I suppose I could try, but I’ve yet to feel hunger.”
Jayce's pen scratched against the paper in a frantic rhythm. "You don’t get hungry? How is that possible?"
Viktor chuckled softly, leaning back with a small smile. “Apparently, no one thought to teach me about sustenance. But in all honesty, Jayce, the very idea of eating seems... unnecessary. At least for now.”
Jayce didn’t quite know how to process that answer. His mind continued to buzz with unanswered questions, and his pen continued to race across the page.
"What about sleep?" Jayce pressed, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. "Do you need to sleep? Do you rest? I—"
Viktor raised his hand to stop Jayce’s torrent of questions. “I do not sleep, Jayce. I find no weariness in this form. No fatigue. I’m not like you.” He smiled slightly, as if taking quiet pleasure in Jayce’s awe. “But I would imagine sleep is a pleasant experience for those who need it.”
Jayce blinked, jaw hanging slightly in disbelief. No hunger, no sleep. This was a person who didn’t need the same things that humans did. But that didn’t mean Viktor was any less real. Quite the opposite—it was what made Viktor even more intriguing.
"Can you feel pain?" Jayce asked next, his voice dropping an octave, more serious now. He set his sketchbook aside for a moment, standing still in the half-light of the room. Viktor’s gaze softened, studying Jayce’s face for a moment, as if contemplating the question.
“I... don't believe so. But my experience of sensation is still... new," Viktor said, his voice thoughtful. "I feel things—emotions, warmth, the weight of the world around me—but pain... that’s a concept I haven't yet come to understand. Perhaps it is beyond my current state.”
Jayce chewed on the edge of his pen, considering Viktor’s answer. His thoughts raced. Viktor didn’t need to eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t feel pain. What did that make him?
"You’re—" Jayce stopped himself, almost embarrassed. “Do you have memories from before? From when you were marble?"
Viktor looked at him curiously. "You mean the time before you breathed life into me?” He paused, tilting his head slightly. "No. I have no recollection of any existence other than this one."
Jayce’s heart clenched, but he quickly scribbled the answer down. "No memories," he murmured. "But if you could, would you want them?"
Viktor thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But only if they were worth remembering,” he said with a faint smile, that same mischievous glint in his golden eyes.
The questions didn’t stop there. Jayce became fixated. He couldn’t help himself. The more Viktor revealed, the more Jayce needed to know. He found himself standing closer, unable to tear his gaze away from Viktor’s face, captivated by the life he had sculpted with his own hands.
“Do you dream?” Jayce asked late one evening, his voice soft, almost reverent. He was no longer frantic, but it was clear he was still hanging on Viktor’s every word, hoping for a glimpse into the unknown.
Viktor’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “I don’t think so, Jayce,” he answered, his voice like a low hum. “But if I did, I imagine my dreams would be filled with you. What else would they be but the one who brought me into this world?”
Jayce froze, his pen still in midair. The way Viktor said it, so casually, but with a weight that felt like it was meant for more than just words, caught him off guard. He found himself momentarily speechless, and Viktor, always the enigmatic being, leaned in slightly, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’d caused.
“Oh, come now, Jayce,” Viktor teased, a playful smile on his lips. “You did create me. Surely you had some idea of what would happen when I came to life.”
Jayce’s mind whirled. He hadn’t anticipated this... connection. This intimacy. But there it was, pulsing beneath the surface, unspoken but tangible.
“I—” Jayce cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. “I didn’t... expect this,” he admitted. “But I—” He stopped again, unable to fully put into words what was becoming so clear to him. “I can’t stop asking questions. I just need to know more about you.”
Viktor chuckled, his expression softening as he regarded Jayce with an almost tender curiosity. "And I will answer every question you have, Jayce. So long as you continue to indulge me.” He stepped closer, a slight tilt of his head, his eyes glimmering with something Jayce couldn’t quite place. “But there is one question I’m sure you’ll never answer.”
Jayce blinked, momentarily distracted. “What’s that?”
Viktor’s smile grew sly. “Why are you so obsessed with me ?”
Jayce’s heart skipped a beat, and before he could respond, Viktor, always the playful tease, leaned in closer, brushing his fingertips over Jayce’s wrist. Jayce’s breath caught in his throat, unable to speak, his thoughts scattering in the warmth of Viktor’s touch.
“Well," Viktor continued, "I suppose you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”
_____
The workshop had become their sanctuary, a quiet, intimate world where only the sounds of chisels against stone and the soft whispers of breath filled the air. Jayce, in his element, had begun to show Viktor the ropes of his craft. The towering shelves of tools, the dust that clung to the beams of the ceiling, the marble slabs he had meticulously cut, all seemed to fade away as they focused on each other, the work, the subtle connection between them.
Jayce had always been tactile—hands constantly brushing over surfaces, running over textures, feeling the weight of things, grounding himself in his art. He was the kind of artist who would press his palm against a freshly chiseled face, feeling the life, the potential, and the energy it held. Viktor had noticed this tendency right away.
One afternoon, Viktor watched Jayce as he sculpted a piece from a large block of marble. The way Jayce’s hands worked, the way they moved with such precision, was mesmerizing. He would strike with a powerful blow of the chisel, and then, almost immediately, his grip would soften, his movements becoming tender as he smoothed out the rough edges. Viktor felt a strange flutter in his chest watching the passion and reverence in Jayce’s hands—how they both shaped and were shaped by the marble.
"How do you do that?" Viktor asked quietly, his voice low with wonder. "How do you make something so powerful, yet so delicate?"
Jayce glanced over at him, a soft smile curling on his lips. "It's all in the balance," he said, his voice rich with the satisfaction of explaining something he loved deeply. "Art isn't just about force. It's about knowing when to apply pressure and when to soften your touch." He paused, looking at Viktor as if truly seeing him for the first time. "It's like... loving something with both strength and care."
Viktor’s gaze lingered on Jayce for a moment, and for the first time since he had awakened, he felt like something more than just a creation. Jayce's words, his actions, made him feel like he belonged, like he was part of something far bigger than himself, like he was more than the marble that had once contained him.
As Jayce returned to his work, Viktor moved closer, intrigued by the tools spread out before them. Jayce, noticing Viktor’s curiosity, smiled and handed him a small chisel, guiding his hand to hold it properly. "Here, like this," Jayce said softly, his fingers brushing Viktor’s for a brief moment as he showed him how to grip the tool. Viktor’s heart fluttered at the contact, his own hand trembling slightly in Jayce’s larger, stronger one.
As they continued to work together, Viktor began to mirror Jayce’s movements, careful at first, then growing bolder as Jayce demonstrated how to carve more intricate details. Viktor watched with rapt attention as Jayce’s hands moved with such confidence, so sure of their purpose, and yet filled with the tenderness that Viktor had come to recognize as his creator's true nature.
And then, one evening, as Jayce stepped back to survey his work, Viktor couldn’t help but reach out. His fingers hovered over Jayce’s arm, brushing against his skin in the same way Jayce had once traced the stone—tentative at first, then more deliberate.
Jayce turned, his breath catching as Viktor’s hand traced the curve of his shoulder, slowly moving down the length of his arm. Viktor’s eyes were wide, his expression almost reverent. “You’ve never let me feel the work you’ve made of me,” he said softly, his voice full of awe.
Jayce stood still, his heart thumping in his chest. Viktor’s touch was electric, the feeling of it far more intense than the fleeting brushes of their hands in the past. Viktor was mapping Jayce’s body with the same tenderness and precision that Jayce had once used to carve Viktor’s form.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Viktor’s fingers slid across the muscles in Jayce’s arm, tracing every contour of his bicep, the hollow of his elbow, and the wrist that had sculpted so much. Jayce shivered, his skin prickling under Viktor’s touch, feeling as though his entire existence had been reduced to this single moment—this intimate exploration.
"Your hands," Viktor murmured, “they’re so full of life, Jayce. So full of purpose. It’s no wonder you made me, you understand beauty in a way that I cannot.”
Jayce's breath hitched, and he reached up, his own hands finding Viktor’s chest, brushing over the cool skin, tracing the shape of his collarbone. The marble had come to life, but now it was Viktor, in all his glory, his warmth, and the slow, deliberate way he moved.
“You’re not just a work of art, Viktor,” Jayce whispered, his voice soft, almost reverent. “You’re my creation. You’re... you’re real.”
Viktor smiled gently, his golden eyes alight with something softer than the usual mischief that Jayce had come to know. "And you, Jayce," he murmured, pulling Jayce closer so that their bodies almost touched, "are the only one who could have made me this way. You gave me life."
Jayce’s heart raced as Viktor’s hand slid down his back, his touch pulling Jayce even closer. In that moment, Jayce was no longer thinking of marble or sculpture—he was thinking of the life that Viktor had brought into his world, the love that had blossomed between them in the quiet moments they had shared.
Viktor’s hand moved to the back of Jayce’s neck, his fingers playing with the soft curls of his hair. The touch was both delicate and possessive, like he was exploring Jayce’s form just as Jayce had once explored his stone one. It was a new kind of intimacy, one that felt both ancient and fresh, as if this was something they had both always known was inevitable.
Jayce closed his eyes, leaning into Viktor’s touch, a quiet exhale leaving his lips. "I’m not sure when it happened," Jayce whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “What exactly brought you to life.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on Viktor’s delicate lips. “Neither do I.”
Jayce doesn’t realize he’s falling in love with Viktor until he catches himself staring—again.
It’s late one afternoon, the sun slanting through the workshop windows, casting long shadows over the scattered tools and unfinished projects. Viktor stands before him, laughing, his long hair tumbling over his shoulders in the way it always does when he’s amused. The sound is like music to Jayce’s ears—rich and warm, laced with something mischievous. Viktor is leaning a little too close, teasing Jayce over the messy sketches littering his desk. His fingers brush lightly against Jayce’s hand as he points to one of the drawings, sending a rush of warmth through Jayce's chest.
But it’s Viktor’s smile that really stops him. That smile, the one that always seems to make Jayce’s heart stutter for a second. The curve of his lips, the glint of mischief in his eyes—it’s impossible to look away from. And Jayce realizes, belatedly, that it’s not just admiration he feels as he watches Viktor move, not just a fascination with the man he created, but something more.
Something deeper.
It’s the first time it truly hits him—he's falling for Viktor. The realization sits heavy in his chest, a gentle weight that neither surprises nor frightens him. In fact, it feels natural, like it was meant to happen, like it was always supposed to be this way. But still, Jayce finds himself startled by the clarity of it, the way his heart beats faster every time Viktor is near.
One night, the two of them are alone in the workshop again. The storm outside has left the air thick and heavy, the scent of rain mingling with the dust of the room. Jayce is running his hands over an unfinished sculpture, the rough edges still sharp, the face not quite right yet. He’s absorbed in the texture of the marble, the weight of his thoughts pressing against him. But as he works, he finds his mind wandering again, comparing the unfinished figure before him to Viktor—his real Viktor, standing just a few feet away, warm and alive.
But no matter how carefully he chisels or how perfect the proportions of the stone are nothing compares to Viktor. The marble has none of the warmth, none of the spark that Viktor carries with him. It’s all wrong. Viktor is a masterpiece in his own right—imperfections and all—and Jayce can’t help but marvel at it.
His fingers glide across the smooth surface of the unfinished sculpture before they move to Viktor, who’s watching him with that amused, patient expression. Viktor’s hand rests on the workbench beside him, and Jayce, almost absentmindedly, traces the outline of it. The warmth of Viktor’s skin under his fingertips is a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding stone. Jayce runs his thumb over the smoothness of Viktor's knuckles, and the sensation causes a flutter in his chest. It’s strange, how soft and warm Viktor feels after months of carving his stone likeness, and it’s almost more beautiful than he imagined.
“I thought I made you perfect,” Jayce murmurs, his voice thick with something vulnerable. His fingers trace each line of Viktor’s hand, feeling the texture of his skin, the way it gives slightly beneath the pressure.
Viktor laughs softly, a warm, deep sound that makes Jayce’s pulse quicken in his throat. He tilts his head, looking down at Jayce with those golden eyes. “And now?” Viktor asks, his voice teasing but not unkind.
Jayce’s gaze drifts upward, catching Viktor’s eyes. He doesn’t know why it feels so intense, why it feels like a confession, but he can’t hold back. “Now I think perfection isn’t enough,” he whispers, his heart heavy with truth he’s not sure he’s ready to say aloud.
The words hang between them like a breath they both hold, the tension in the room palpable. Viktor’s expression softens, the teasing edge fading as he takes a step closer, closing the space between them. He reaches up to gently touch Jayce’s jaw, his fingers grazing over the stubble on his face. Jayce shivers under the contact, his body responding in ways he hasn’t been able to control lately. The warmth of Viktor’s hand against his skin is intoxicating.
“You’re more than just your craft, Jayce,” Viktor says softly, his voice low, almost intimate. “And I think you’ve made me more than just stone. You’ve given me something... more.”
Jayce’s breath catches, and for a long moment, neither of them moves. They stand there, close, both of them uncertain of what to do with the feelings swelling between them. Jayce finds himself reaching out again, but this time, it’s not for a chisel or a tool—it’s for Viktor. His hand rests gently on Viktor’s arm, and Viktor smiles softly, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along.
“I never thought,” Jayce begins, his voice shaky as he finally lets himself say the words, “that I’d fall in love with something I created. But with you…” He trails off, unsure of how to express the depth of what he feels.
From then on, the tension between them builds in the quiet moments, the lingering glances, and the accidental touches that neither of them pulls away from. There is an unspoken gravity between them, something fragile yet undeniable, humming beneath every shared breath.
Jayce feels it when Viktor stands too close behind him, watching him carve with a gaze so intent it sends shivers down his spine. He feels it in the way Viktor’s hands sometimes linger when handing him a tool, fingers brushing against his a second too long. He catches himself staring at Viktor more often, drawn to the way he moves, the way his golden eyes flicker with something Jayce can’t name.
And Viktor notices everything. The way Jayce’s hands flex when he’s lost in thought, the little furrow in his brow when he’s focused, the way he bites his lower lip when he’s deep in concentration. The way Jayce touches things, always needing to feel things like marble, wood, and Viktor. Jayce is tactile, affectionate in a way he doesn’t even seem to realize, and Viktor finds himself leaning into it, craving those brief moments of contact.
Then, one evening, Viktor finds Jayce asleep at his worktable, slumped over his latest project. The candle beside him has long since burned low, wax pooling onto the wooden surface. His breathing is soft, even, his calloused fingers still curled around a half-finished sculpture, as if even in sleep he refuses to let go of his work.
Something in Viktor’s chest aches at the sight. Jayce looks exhausted—his strong frame curled in on itself, dark circles smudged beneath his closed eyes. He works himself too hard, pushing beyond exhaustion, as if afraid to stop creating. As if afraid of what will happen if he does.
Viktor watches Jayce as if committing every detail to memory. The gentle curve of his brow, the faint crease between them that only appears when he’s deep in thought. The way his dark lashes fan over his cheeks, trembling slightly with each breath. His nose, strong and straight, leading down to lips that are slightly parted, their fullness softened in sleep. His fingers twitch with the urge to trace every feature, to carve them into his mind the way Jayce once carved marble. But no sculptor’s tool could ever capture the warmth of Jayce’s skin, the rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet vulnerability he carries in his sleep.
Viktor’s gaze lingers at the dusting of freckles along Jayce’s cheekbones, the faint scars that mar his hands, evidence of years of chiseling, carving, and perfecting. He is a man built from labor and passion, from imperfections and calloused hands that bring beauty into the world. And somehow, against all reason, Viktor feels like the most beautiful thing Jayce has ever touched.
A deep warmth unfurls in his chest, spreading like ink in water, and for the first time, he understands. This—what he feels—isn’t admiration. It isn’t gratitude or fascination.
It’s love.
Not for the man who sculpted him, not for the artist who brought him into existence. But for Jayce, the man who furrows his brows when he’s thinking too hard, who forgets to eat when he’s working, who mumbles half-formed thoughts under his breath when he’s focused. The man who, with all his rough edges and boundless heart, has made Viktor feel human.
His breath catches, his fingers curling against his palm as he pulls away, though his eyes refuse to leave Jayce’s face. Viktor doesn’t know how long he stays there, watching, memorizing, wanting. All he knows is that he loves Jayce. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.
He swallows hard and forces himself to stand, retreating into the dim glow of the workshop.
Jayce doesn’t wake.
_____
The rain from the night before had left the streets glistening, and from where Jayce sat at his work table, he could hear the occasional drip of water rolling off the workshop’s tiled roof. The studio smelled of marble dust and oil, but another scent lingered—something faintly warm, almost like skin against stone. It was a scent Jayce had come to associate with Viktor.
Viktor stood by the large arched window, bathed in soft morning light, his hands resting on the wooden sill. His golden eyes were fixed on the world outside, watching as townsfolk began their day. Merchants were setting up stalls, fishermen hauling their nets ashore, children darting through narrow streets, their laughter ringing through the crisp air. His fingers twitched slightly, as if yearning to reach beyond the glass.
Jayce set down his chisel, wiping his dust-covered hands on a cloth before pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t say anything at first, just studied Viktor’s expression, the way his brows furrowed in quiet longing. The workshop had been Viktor’s world since the night he had awoken, and though he never complained, Jayce had begun to wonder if the walls were starting to feel like a cage.
“You want to go out there, don’t you?” Jayce finally asked, his voice soft.
Viktor startled slightly, as if he hadn’t realized Jayce was watching. He hesitated, his fingers curling against the window frame before he exhaled a quiet laugh. “I suppose I do.” His gaze flickered downward. “But I am… not certain if I should.”
Jayce frowned, stepping closer. “Why not?”
Viktor’s lips pressed together in thought. “I am not like them.” He gestured toward the people beyond the glass. “What if they—” He shook his head, his fingers tightening in his coat sleeves. “What if they look at me and see something… wrong?”
Jayce’s chest ached at the quiet vulnerability in Viktor’s voice. He reached out, placing a steady hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “They’ll stare because you’re beautiful,” he said simply, with no hesitation. “But you don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. Just… let me take you. I want you to see the town.”
Viktor tilted his head, considering. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant chatter of the marketplace beyond the window. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Take me.”
Jayce grinned, his hand squeezing Viktor’s shoulder before he turned toward the door. “I will,” he said, grabbing his coat. “And if anyone so much as looks at you funny, I’ll handle it.”
Viktor huffed a quiet chuckle, following him toward the door. “Somehow, I do not doubt that.”
The town still carried the remnants of last night’s rain—puddles pooled in the uneven cobblestone streets, reflecting the shifting sky above. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sea salt, mingling with the distant sweetness of freshly baked pastries wafting from a bakery. As Viktor stepped cautiously out of the workshop and onto the bustling streets, the golden afternoon light spilled over him, catching in the damp sheen of his long coat and the dark strands of his hair, still slightly tousled from where Jayce had tied it back.
He looked otherworldly, like something carved from the very marble Jayce had spent months sculpting. Except now, there was warmth beneath his skin, a life that hadn’t been there before. The faint mist rising from the cooling streets softened his sharp features, but the sunlight revealed every delicate detail: the elegant slant of his cheekbones, the refined bridge of his nose, the faintest curve of his lips, as though he were on the verge of a secret smile. His golden eyes, always so piercing in the dim glow of the workshop, gleamed like molten amber in the shifting light.
The coat Jayce had lent him was a little too big, the sleeves slightly long where they met Viktor’s thin wrists, but he wore it with an air of quiet grace. The wind picked up the hem, making it billow slightly as he moved, as if the town itself had momentarily forgotten that he was no longer made of stone.
People stared. How could they not? Viktor was striking. Too perfect, too finely crafted to be just another face in the crowd. Jayce felt the weight of their gazes as they passed by, but more than that, he felt an overwhelming urge to shield Viktor from it. Instinctively, he stepped closer, his large hand settling against Viktor’s waist, firm and reassuring as he guided him through the crowd.
Viktor tensed at first, his fingers brushing against Jayce’s wrist as if testing the comfort of the touch. Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. Jayce could feel the faintest hum of warmth beneath the fabric of his coat, the proof that Viktor was alive, real, and his presence no longer confined to cold marble and candlelit conversations.
And as Viktor’s eyes flickered with quiet wonder, drawn to the town’s hidden details—the droplets clinging to the petals of a flower stand, the way light shimmered off the puddles, the rich texture of the fabric hanging from a tailor’s stall—Jayce realized he wasn’t watching the town at all.
Viktor, for his part, seems more curious than wary once he settles into the town’s rhythm. He watches everything with quiet fascination, his sharp mind absorbing details that Jayce would have never paid attention to. They pause at the shore, where fishermen haul crates of fish from their boats, their rough hands moving with practiced ease. Viktor watches, eyes narrowed slightly as he studies their work.
“The way they move,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “it’s methodical. Like an art of its own.”
Jayce grins. “You see art in everything, don’t you?”
Viktor glances at him, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “I learned from the best.”
Heat rushes to Jayce’s face, but before he can say anything, Viktor has already turned away, his attention caught by the distant sound of music. They follow the melody to the center of town, where an orchestra plays beneath the open sky. The melody swells and dips like a tide, carrying with it the hush of the town’s fading bustle. Violins sing in high, trembling notes, delicate as wind chimes in a summer breeze, while the cello hums beneath them—a steady, grounding current. Flutes trill like birds perched in the eaves, their notes dancing between the deeper, richer tones of the clarinets. The soft tap of a conductor’s baton against his stand keeps time, but the music itself breathes freely, each note flowing into the next like ripples across a still pond.
Viktor stands motionless, listening. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, it is as though he is no longer bound by the world around him—only drifting, carried by the sound. The violins take up a lilting melody, warm and wistful, and Jayce watches as Viktor’s expression softens, his lips parting just slightly, as if tasting the music on his tongue.
The air is thick with the scent of rain and blooming flowers from the nearby gardens, and the music seems to weave itself into the very fabric of the town—the murmur of distant conversation, the rhythmic creak of wooden carts rolling over cobblestones, the occasional flutter of birds taking flight overhead. Everything moves to the unspoken rhythm, blending into something greater than its individual parts.
Jayce exhales slowly, unable to look away. The way Viktor stands there, perfectly still yet impossibly present, makes Jayce’s chest ache with something he can’t quite name. He’s seen beauty before—he’s spent his life creating it with his own hands—but this, this moment, feels like something beyond art.
The final notes ring out, lingering in the cool afternoon air before dissolving into silence. Viktor opens his eyes, the gold in them gleaming with something quiet, something private.
“That was beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely louder than the fading echo of the last violin chord.
Jayce nods, but he isn’t looking at the musicians. “Yeah,” he says softly, his gaze still locked on Viktor. “It really was.”
They continue walking, Viktor’s curiosity leading them to a small fabric shop tucked between two larger buildings. The interior is lined with rolls of fabric in every texture imaginable—silks that shimmer like water, soft wools, delicate lace. Viktor reaches out, running his fingers over a length of velvet, his expression almost reverent.
“It’s strange,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Jayce. “I once only knew the cold of stone. But this…” He lifts the fabric slightly, feeling the weight of it in his hands. “This is warmth.”
Jayce swallows past the lump in his throat. He wants to say something—anything—but words feel inadequate. Instead, he does what feels right. He steps closer, his hand still resting at Viktor’s waist, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of his coat.
Viktor turns to him, golden eyes catching the dimming light of the afternoon, and for a moment, Jayce forgets to breathe. The music still lingers in the air like a ghost, the final notes fading into the rhythmic sounds of the town, but all Jayce can hear is the steady pounding of his own heart. Surely, Viktor can hear it too. Surely, he must know.
Jayce has spent years carving beauty from stone, bringing life to cold, unyielding marble with nothing but his hands and his will. And yet, standing here, looking at Viktor bathed in the soft glow of the post-storm sun, his hair catching the golden light in silken strands, Jayce wonders if he ever truly understood what beauty was before this.
“You look at me like I’m your greatest creation,” Viktor murmurs, his voice so soft it barely carries over the quiet murmur of the town around them.
Jayce swallows hard. He should look away, should laugh it off, but he can’t. The words catch in his throat like a confession, like something too heavy to hold in his chest any longer.
“You are,” he finally says, the weight of the truth settling between them like the last chisel stroke against marble.
Viktor’s breath hitches, just slightly, and for the first time since Jayce brought him to life, he looks uncertain. Vulnerable. As if he hadn’t expected the answer, as if he had thought Jayce would deny it.
The space between them feels charged, electric. Jayce doesn’t know who moves first—if it’s his hand that lifts, or if it’s Viktor who leans in—but suddenly, they are impossibly close. Close enough that Jayce can see the way Viktor’s lips part, can feel the warmth of his breath against his skin.
Viktor’s fingers twitch at his side, as if caught between hesitation and longing. Jayce wants to reach out, to close that last bit of distance, to trace the lines of Viktor’s face the way he once traced them in marble. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, Viktor tilts his head, studying Jayce with an intensity that makes Jayce feel as though he is the one being sculpted, as if Viktor is mapping every part of him with his gaze alone.
“Then tell me,” Viktor murmurs, his voice barely louder than the hush of the wind. “What does that make you?”
Jayce exhales shakily, a breathless, almost incredulous smile tugging at his lips.
“Yours,” he whispers.
Viktor’s breath ghosts over Jayce’s lips for a single, torturous moment before their mouths finally meet. The kiss is slow. Tentative, almost like Viktor is still discovering what it means to be human, to feel, to want. Jayce shudders as warmth floods through him, nothing like the cold marble Viktor once was. His hands, rough and calloused from years of sculpting, find their place against Viktor’s jaw, thumbs tracing over the smooth planes of his face. He deepens the kiss, drinking in the soft, surprised sound Viktor makes, pulling him closer and closer until there’s no space left between them.
Viktor is warm beneath his hands, solid and real in a way that still feels like a miracle. He presses against Jayce, thin fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding on as if he, too, is afraid this moment might slip away. And Jayce is helpless to do anything but kiss him harder, losing himself in the way Viktor sighs against his lips, in the way his hands hesitantly tangle in Jayce’s unruly hair.
The tension, the longing, all of it shatters like a chisel striking marble. Where once they had danced around their feelings, now there is only this.
Jayce’s fingers map Viktor’s body with reverence, tracing the curve of his spine, the sharp angle of his ribs beneath his coat. Viktor mirrors him, hands drifting over Jayce’s shoulders, down his arms, pressing as if memorizing him and mapping him the way Jayce once mapped the lines of his sculpture.
When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, lips swollen from the force of their longing. Viktor’s eyes flutter open, golden and searching, and Jayce swears he sees something he doesn’t dare name flicker in their depths. Jayce had once believed his greatest art would be what he sculpted with his hands; the figures he brought to life from cold, unyielding stone.
But this—Viktor, warm and alive in his arms, kissing him as if he is something worth holding on to—this is the most beautiful thing he has ever created.
_____
The workshop becomes their world, but it is no longer just a space for creation. It is a home, a sanctuary where love is woven into every brushstroke, every whispered word, every shared breath.
Viktor moves through the space with ease now, no longer hesitant, no longer just an observer. He helps Jayce in the workshop, his long fingers deft with tools, learning the weight of a chisel in his hand, the pressure needed to carve without breaking. He hums under his breath while he works, an unconscious habit that Jayce grows to love.
Jayce sculpts him again—not in marble, but in sketches, in smudged charcoal across pages, in the quiet way his hands roam Viktor’s body, learning it as if memorizing every inch. His touch is reverent, always lingering, always searching. And Viktor lets him, indulging in the way Jayce worships him, in the way he murmurs against his skin like he’s something holy.
Their love is not carved in stone. It is something softer, something fluid—found in the lazy mornings where Jayce presses sleepy kisses to Viktor’s collarbone, in the nights where they sit close by candlelight, Viktor’s fingers carding through Jayce’s unruly curls as he reminds him to eat, to rest, to live beyond his art.
It is in the laughter that fills the workshop when Viktor teases Jayce over a failed sketch, in the way Jayce scoffs but always pulls Viktor close anyway, pressing his lips to Viktor’s forehead in retaliation.
It is in Viktor’s touch, in the way he traces the edges of Jayce’s face with feather-light fingers, mapping his imperfections like they are precious, like they are meant to be cherished.
It is in the way Jayce presses his forehead against Viktor’s at the end of the day, breath mingling, hands tangled in Viktor’s, whispering, You are my greatest masterpiece.
And Viktor, with warmth blooming in his chest, always answers the same.
"And you, my love, are mine."
The phonogram is an old thing, tucked away in the back of a shop Viktor had wandered into during one of their outings. It had taken a bit of coaxing to convince the shopkeeper to let it go, but now, in the quiet glow of their workshop, it sits proudly in the corner, filling the space with the rich, velvety strains of a violin. Viktor hums along softly as he turns one of the disks between his fingers. He glances over at Jayce, who is bent over his workbench, lost in some sketch or another. A small smile tugs at Viktor’s lips as he places the disk onto the phonogram, setting the needle down with practiced care.
Music fills the room, slow and sweeping, wrapping around them like something tangible. Viktor steps toward Jayce, his bare feet silent against the wooden floor. He places a hand on Jayce’s shoulder, and Jayce startles slightly, looking up from his work.
“Dance with me,” Viktor murmurs.
Jayce blinks, his pencil slipping from his fingers. “What?”
Viktor doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he extends his hand, palm up, waiting. The candlelight flickers in his golden eyes, making them look even warmer, softer. Jayce swallows, his heart stuttering as he slowly reaches out, placing his hand in Viktor’s. Viktor’s fingers curl around his own, and just like that, Jayce is being pulled to his feet, into Viktor’s space, into the music.
They sway at first, moving in slow, lazy circles, Jayce’s free hand instinctively settling at Viktor’s waist. The fabric of Viktor’s shirt is soft beneath his fingertips, and he presses a little closer, feeling the warmth of Viktor’s body through the thin layers between them. Viktor leads—of course he does— with the same precision he’s developed in sculpting, in tracing the world with curious hands. His fingers fit perfectly in Jayce’s, guiding him through steps that neither of them need to perfect.
The phonogram crackles slightly, the music swelling, and Jayce finds himself mesmerized. Not by the dance, but by Viktor. The way his hair, loose now, tumbles over his shoulders. The way his lips part slightly when he breathes. The way he tilts his head up, his gaze locked onto Jayce’s with something raw, something unbearably tender.
Jayce’s hands move on their own, tracing Viktor’s outline like he has done a thousand times before, first in marble, then in sketches, and then in memory. His fingertips skim over Viktor’s sharp jaw, the curve of his cheek, the slope of his neck. He follows the lines of Viktor’s body, down his arms, to the hands that once were stone and are now flesh, warm and alive in his grasp.
Viktor watches him, unblinking, patient as Jayce’s hands tremble over his skin. He doesn’t rush him, doesn’t speak. He just lets him feel, lets him realize.
And when it hits Jayce, it steals the breath from his lungs.
He wasn’t sculpting art all along.
He was sculpting love.
His own hands, once so certain and skilled, shake with the weight of it. Of this. Of Viktor, looking at him with infinite patience, with understanding, with affection so deep it threatens to drown him. Jayce exhales, a shaky thing, and presses his forehead to Viktor’s, their breath mingling.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words falling between them like a sculptor’s final stroke. Deliberate. Irrevocable.
Viktor smiles, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips over Jayce’s, barely a kiss, but more than enough. “I know.”