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Ximena receives them in the small, comfortable drawing room of the Talis house, afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows and onto the red settees, the worn rug. She is, Viktor knows, partial to spending her afternoons and evenings here, and Jayce’s late father had designed their home such that she would have daylight for as long as possible. This afternoon, she’s embroidering; she sits in a plush armchair and pulls a bundle of fabric held snug by a wooden hoop into her lap, gesturing for them to join her.
She had been glad to see them, as she always was when they called on her; Jayce had been fussed over, to his dismay and Viktor’s general amusement, and she had brushed a quick, featherlight kiss on each of Viktor’s cheeks, clasping his hands in hers. She was not, however, a stupid woman, and she clearly suspected… something. She was used enough to having to chase Jayce across all of creation just to get him to stop by for dinner once in a while, and Viktor was, admittedly, equally guilty of evading his own social obligations. Both of them calling on her unannounced on an innocuous Thursday afternoon was - well, out of character, to say the least.
They’re not helped by the fact that Jayce wears his nerves like an ill-fitting coat, shifting on the balls of his feet and rolling his shoulders as though he can’t get comfortable in his own skin. Viktor can hardly blame him; he’s desperately anxious himself, had been up half of the night worrying, but he knows he’s more taciturn by nature, and more practiced in keeping his composure besides.
It feels so juvenile, he reflects, as he settles into the loveseat beneath one of the great windows, Jayce eventually dropping restlessly into the space beside him. Viktor fears any number of things that may come as a result of this conversation. He fears for his privacy, for his dignity, for his status, such that it is. He fears an end to the quiet, liminal joy he has been granted these last few weeks with Jayce, this fragile happiness that has taken up residence in the space between them. He fears for the comfort, the future, the health, of a child who does not yet entirely exist. But at the core of it all, there is a very young voice somewhere deep in his chest, whispering.
What if she doesn’t like me?
Ximena allows the silence to carry long enough that Jayce begins to vibrate like a Hexstone on the verge of destabilization, his knee bouncing insistently, and his fingers grasping for the loose threads on the arm of the chair beside him. For a period, it seems as though neither of them are going to speak, and Viktor wonders if it will be up to him to broach the subject. Then, in what he can only attribute to an act of maternal telepathy, Ximena gives Jayce a very particular look, and Jayce straightens immediately, takes a deep breath.
“Mama,” he says, high and unsteady, “We’ve got something to tell you.”
She doesn’t respond, but she inclines her head, one eyebrow raised, a silent prompt to continue.
Viktor can feel Jayce wound tight at his side, and tentatively, he shifts in his seat, allowing his knee to nudge against Jayce’s, stopping its jittery rhythm. Jayce glances briefly down at their legs, then up at Viktor, before he turns back to his mother, taking another steadying breath.
“Viktor and I are involved. Romantically.” The words come out in a rush, as though Jayce is forcing them from his chest.
Ximena, for her part, takes this calmly; truthfully, Viktor had expected as much, though he hadn’t been able to dismiss the worries of a more explosive reaction. Her anger, her disgust, her tears, had stalked his nightmares. But she simply nods, smiles softly, her eyes creasing at the corners. “I had suspected as much,” she informs them. “I’ve never seen you quite so taken with someone before, my love.”
Jayce huffs a quick, embarrassed laugh, ducking his head and scrubbing his hand down his face. “Mama, please.”
Her smile deepens, amusement and warmth carved into the lines of her face. “He was all you spoke about for a month after meeting him,” she retorts lightly. Before Jayce can try to defend himself, she turns to Viktor. “I approve entirely. You are a good match, I think.”
Jayce releases a slow, shuddering sigh, his frame slumping in clear relief. Viktor feels a pang of it as well, a slight loosening of the knot in his chest. It would be so easy to leave it there - to allow her approval, her happiness, to remain unspoiled.
Very few things in Viktor’s life have ever been easy.
“There is - something else,” he forces himself to say. He feels Jayce’s hand curl around his, seeking, and blindly, Viktor tangles their fingers together, allowing himself the small comfort.
Apparently recognizing Viktor’s enduring nerves, Ximena frowns softly, the steady movement of her needle slowing. “Yes? What is it?”
Viktor chews at the already-raw skin of his cheek, bracing himself. He had rehearsed this briefly, considered the best way to word things, the most diplomatic, the least shocking, but it didn’t make the disclosure itself any easier. “This is - private information. Personal. I trust you understand I would not burden you with it if you were not impacted by it.”
Ximena nods slowly, her brows furrowing in increasing confusion.
Eyes fixed somewhere just to the left of her head, Viktor forces himself to continue. “When I was young, my mother initially believed me to be a daughter. This was incorrect, and steps were taken to rectify this. I have lived as a man for most of my life.”
Ximena takes a long moment to digest this, her hands stilling entirely, rolling the needle thoughtfully between the tip of a finger and a thumb. Eventually, she simply nods. “These things are known to happen. Jayce has a cousin who is much the same.”
Jayce straightens, head cocked. “I do? Who?”
Viktor is admittedly curious himself; Jayce had, quite early in their academic partnership when Viktor’s medical needs had necessitated his initial disclosure, confessed to a complete lack of experience with the matter.
“Mariella,” Ximena tells him, and Viktor watches Jayce’s face contort in attempted recollection. “The daughter of your father’s youngest sister - you would have met her only once when you were very young, you may not remember. Your aunt - she once had a son. The boy was sickly, and so they took him south for a winter to escape the cold. When they returned, they had a daughter, and nothing else was spoken of it.”
“Huh,” Jayce says, sounding vaguely stunned. “I… did not know that.”
Amused despite himself, Viktor nudges Jayce with his elbow, commenting mildly, “I imagine that was rather the point.”
“Quite so,” Ximena agrees dryly. Quickly though, she returns her attention to Viktor, quiet and expectant.
Viktor takes a breath, throat tight. “Then you understand how my particular circumstances would allow for me to - to carry.” He realizes that without his meaning to, his free hand has shifted to rest at his stomach, his palm splayed across his abdomen. There’s nothing there to hold, not yet - perhaps a slight swell, indistinguishable from the normal ebb and flow of Viktor’s weight, which tends to fluctuate along with his somewhat erratic appetite. Nevertheless, the touch is… grounding, he supposes.
Slowly, carefully, Ximena sets her needlework aside, and clasps her hands in her lap. Viktor can’t read the expression on her face. Shock, perhaps, and something else intangible. So gently it makes Viktor’s throat ache, Ximena asks, “You are expecting?”
He doesn’t trust his voice; he simply nods.
“And this is what you want? What you both want?” She looks between them, searching, and Viktor abruptly recognizes the careful neutrality of her composure. She is, he thinks, holding her own emotions tight, delaying her reaction. She does not yet know if they have told her this because they consider it a problem, and are asking her assistance in solving it.
“It is,” Jayce answers, immediate and firm. He is steel at Viktor’s side; his absolute certainty, his bullheaded determination, had always been a little addictive to Viktor. Jayce, once decided on a course, moves through the world like an axe, and simply expects anything in his way to part before him, or fall beneath him.
Perhaps it’s that, perhaps it’s the fingers still wrapped around his, that emboldens Viktor to say, “It was not… we had not intended for this to happen. Perhaps, ideally, we would have been able to better prepare. But given the chance - I would not change things. I do want this child.”
Ximena’s breath hitches, and it takes Viktor a long, horrible moment to realize that she’s begun to cry. Jayce jolts, dropping Viktor’s hand and half-rising in his seat, starting towards her on instinct. In a small voice, he asks, “Mom?”
She waves dismissively at him, gives them both a shaky, damp smile. “Happy, I am happy, I swear it,” she assures them, swiping fingers underneath her eyes.
Jayce settles slowly back into his seat, frowning dubiously. “You’re not - you’re not mad?”
She laughs wetly, shakes her head. “Oh, my loves. No, I am not angry. I wish you both every joy.”
Now, finally, the knot of dread and fear in Viktor’s chest begins to come undone. Feeling faintly dizzy, he closes his eyes, allows his head to fall until his temple meets Jayce’s shoulder. He could quite easily blame the burning behind his eyes, the tightness of his throat, on his condition, which has rendered him inexplicably volatile and prone to tears for an infuriating number of weeks. He knows, equally, that he would be lying to himself.
Viktor has long-suspected that the Arcane forces behind the universe have an odd sense of humour, so he’s not altogether surprised when they’re interrupted by a maid, who shows a breathless runner from the Academy into the room to inform them that their presence is required at the lab, immediately.
Viktor, ever the opportunist, takes his moment. “Go on,” he urges Jayce quietly. “They surely cannot need both of us, and they will likely not keep you long. I will remain here and keep your mother company, and when you are finished, you will return so we can both stay for a proper dinner.”
Ximena nods her approval at this plan, which seems to dispel the last of Jayce’s reluctance; he stands, brushes an absent kiss to Viktor’s temple and another to Ximena’s cheek as he passes her, before rushing from the room with a promise to be back before sunset.
In the wake of him, left alone again, Ximena leans forward in her seat, eyes searching. “How are you, love? Truly?”
“Well,” Viktor answers, immediate and mostly honest. “Afraid,” he appends, perhaps slightly moreso.
She smiles sympathetically. “Of course.” Gathering her skirts, she stands, crossing to join him and sitting in Jayce’s vacated seat. Settling beside him, she reaches for his hand, clasps it gently in both of hers. The metal of her prosthetic fingers is skin-warm and smooth against his palm, where her palms and thumbs are lined with age.
Looking down at their hands, not meeting his eyes, she says, “You are certain of this? You are young, Viktor. You will have time.”
He does not have the heart to tell her that he thinks she’s wrong; he is fairly certain, in fact, that this may be the only chance he has for this, with what time he has left. He instead squeezes her hand gently, manages a smile. “I am certain,” he assures her. “I recognize that the circumstances are not ideal. And that this will be… complicated, politically. But truly, I am glad of this. More glad than I had expected. I had not known how badly I wanted this until it happened.”
She squeezes back, shooting him a dry, knowing smile. “He’s been helpless, hasn’t he?”
“He has been incredibly attentive,” Viktor answers, instinct demanding he comes to Jayce’s defence. “He is wonderful.” But with some reluctance, he forces himself to admit, “He does not seem to fully grasp the complexity of the situation, however.”
Ximena huffs a soft laugh. “Ah. It’s my fault, of course.” Leaning in confidentially, she tells him, “After his father passed, things were difficult. I suppose I was so focused on raising Jayce that I neglected to raise a Talis.”
“You did well with him,” Viktor argues. “I would consider it a mark in his favour, that he was so insulated from the worst of Piltover’s politics. It has certainly made him far more bearable than any other nobleman I’ve dealt with.”
Ximena gives him a quiet, preening smile, clearly aware of the flattery but pleased by it nonetheless. “Even so,” she demurs. “He is clueless of his obligations as a scion. Does he intend to give the child his name?”
Viktor shrugs, one-shouldered. “He insists he will.”
“Mm,” she hums, frowning thoughtfully. “You support this?”
It’s a complicated question. In the public eye, the existence of a child is going to raise questions. Logically, any legitimate child of Jayce’s cannot also be a child of Viktor’s. And any legitimate child of Viktor’s cannot bear the Talis name.
“I do,” he says quietly. “The child has a better chance as a Talis. I have made my peace with the matter.”
One of her hands leaves his, drops instead to his knee, squeezing just above the bands of his brace. “Of course,” she replies, gentle and utterly, agonizingly understanding. “The family solicitor has an office in the city; I will arrange for you to be connected with him. We will ensure things are taken care of.”
He swallows around a knot in his throat, nodding. “Thank you, Mrs. Talis,” he manages eventually. “You are exceedingly kind.”
She tuts softly. “Did I not tell you once to consider yourself family in this house?”
He nods, and she jostles his hand gently. “I meant it then, and I mean it doubly so now. You are not a guest with us, do you understand? We will ensure you are taken care of as well, Viktor.”
He knows so little of her, he realizes. Of her family, her childhood, her marriage to Jayce’s father. In truth, she probably knows as little of him. He offers what little he can think of to give her:
“My mother called me Vitka, when I was young. You are welcome to it, if you wish.”
He finds, abruptly, his face cupped in her hands, and he ducks slightly to allow the touch, her thumb stroking fondly across his cheek. “You may call me as you like,” she tells him firmly, “but I will have Ximena from you, at the least. Mrs. Talis makes me feel ancient.”
He nods, leaning into her touch. The consideration warms him, makes him feel oddly fragile; he doesn’t know if he has it in him to call her mother, but the tacit permission is staggering.
She releases him after a point, and the severity drains from her face, replaced by a shine in her eyes that is so immediately, so blatantly Jayce that it is briefly jarring. Tilting her head, she smiles. “I know it is unlucky, to consider names so early,” she begins. Viktor hums in agreement; the superstition had been similarly prevalent in the Undercity. “But tell me, Vitka - have you thought about it, yet?”
It’s a dirty trick, and from her smile, she knows it. With his ears burning, he shrugs. “We’ve considered.” At her expectant little gesture, he says, “We’d thought, eh, Tiberius, for a boy. After his father.”
Ximena tuts. “Tiberius Talis. Always sounded such a silly name, to me.” Her smile betrays her though, something quietly and intensely pleased at the thought that tells Viktor she approves. “And for a girl?” She prompts. “I forbid you to use my name, while I’m alive at least.”
Viktor snorts. “Just as well. I had been thinking of Katerina, after my own mother. I remember people called her Katya. I… I suppose I always thought it was a beautiful name.”
“Katya,” Ximena repeats gently. “Very beautiful indeed.”