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They arrive in Demerath beneath a sky like glass, the sun refracted sharp and cold across the bone-white spires. It is a city of angles- orderly, clinical, obsessed with polish. Every street is straight. Every building symmetrical. Even the snow that dusts the avenues seems to have settled in measured increments, not a flake out of place.
Jayce steps off the transport first, coat open despite the wind, his breath visible in the air. He takes the attention in stride, nodding cordially to the Demerathi officials waiting on the marble steps, shaking hands with the head of diplomatic security like it’s second nature.
Viktor follows more slowly, descending the ramp with his cane in hand and his gait measured- not from pride, but caution. His lungs are already rebelling against the cold, tight with the memory of Piltover’s wet season. The air here bites. Everything is sterile, polished, hard.
He adjusts his cravat with one gloved hand, the other gripping the cane tighter than he means to. He wears formal silver today, as expected. The coat fits too well, narrow across the chest, drawn tight at the waist. It had felt like armour when he put it on in the tailor's that morning. Now it clings like a question: What are you doing here?
They’re met with the usual ceremonial niceties- Jayce speaks for them both, as always. Viktor stands half a pace behind and to the left, eyes lowered just enough to read as deferential. He knows what role he plays here: the assistant, the engineer, the genius in Jayce’s shadow. The man who’s allowed to exist in these spaces only because someone more palatable has made room.
He is used to it. That doesn’t make it easier.
Demerath’s central Ministry is a hollow cathedral of progress- frosted glass arches, reinforced steel ribs, immaculate floors that echo every step. The Council meeting is scheduled in the primary auditorium: high-backed seats in ascending tiers, a raised central platform for presenters, and above it all, the city’s emblem- a six-pointed gear bisected by a vertical blade.
They take their seats near the front, Piltover’s delegation arranged like chess pieces: Jayce at the head, Viktor beside him. No official name tag, of course. He isn’t a Councillor. He doesn’t need a placard to be dissected by Demerathi eyes.
Already he feels it: the surveillance. Not just cameras or the subtle whirr of biometric sensors hidden in the walls- though those are there too- but the more human kind. Glances, measured and flicking. Appraisal. Disdain. Curiosity masked as diplomacy. Their gaze slides off Jayce like water, but catches on Viktor’s edges- on his cane, his gauntness, the sharp line of his jaw.
He forces his shoulders back. Crosses one leg neatly over the other. Focuses on the numbers scrolling across the side screen: Hexgate fluctuations, inconsistent energy signatures, the same design anomalies he’s seen a dozen times in the Piltovan lab. Their design. His design, in part.
He should care. He should be taking notes. Instead, he feels… off. Uneasy.
His lower abdomen aches with a dull, twisting pressure. Not the usual pull of fatigue, nor the ache of overwork. Deeper. Rhythmic. There’s a heaviness in his pelvis he hasn’t felt in-
No.
Not now. Not here.
He shifts in his seat. Subtly. His trousers pull tight when he does. The fabric drags unpleasantly over his skin, and the pain sharpens. He clenches his jaw, breathing slowly through his nose.
It’s been months. His body’s always been irregular- too thin, too tired, too often pushed past the point of balance. There’ve been times he’s gone a year without. But sometimes- when he sleeps more, eats better, when the work eases just enough- he stabilises. He hates that. Hates the reminder that biology is still something he must bargain with, still something that can betray him.
He squeezes his thighs together, unobtrusively. There’s a dampness between them that wasn’t there ten minutes ago.
Jayce is speaking now, mid-conversation with Demerath’s Director of Technological Affairs- a woman with eyes like polished slate and no time for charm. His voice carries: confident, articulate, enough warmth to disarm but not too much to invite scorn. He’s explaining phase resonance and portal tethering- drawing diagrams with his hands in the air.
Viktor can’t focus on the words. He can’t uncurl the pressure building behind his ribs. His hands are folded too tightly in his lap. His knuckles ache.
A low ripple of laughter spreads across the delegation at something Jayce says. Viktor doesn’t catch it. He’s busy shifting again, more urgently now, trying to discreetly press his thighs tighter.
And then-
A pinprick sensation. A warmth.
He freezes.
A single drop. He knows the feeling, horrible in its precision. Not much- just a spot- but it’s there, seeping into the lining of his underclothes, wicked through layers meant to deny, to conceal, to control.
He stares ahead, vision blurring at the edges. His breath catches. No. No no no. Not here. Not like this.
He can’t move. He doesn’t dare move. The seat beneath him is pale, industrial grey. If he stands and there’s any mark-
Jayce glances over mid-sentence. Viktor doesn’t look back. He can’t. His spine is a rod. His hands tremble slightly in his lap.
Jayce’s voice falters, just for a beat.
The Director raises an eyebrow.
And still, the surveillance continues- silent, patient, omnipresent. Watching. Calculating.
Viktor stares straight ahead, heart hammering, breath shallow, feeling like a specimen in a box of glass.
Jayce sees it.
Only a flicker of crimson between silver-clad thighs, a minute bloom of colour where there should be none. Barely visible in the gap between Viktor’s tightly crossed legs. Easily missed- unless you know what to look for. Unless you’ve been paying attention.
Jayce has always paid attention.
He finishes his sentence with a flourish, gesturing toward the schematic projection overhead, a smile already forming. “But I’m sure you’re all more than familiar with the principle of anchor harmonics. It’s not dissimilar to the tuning of your own district beacons- although on a… slightly larger scale.” There’s a ripple of polite amusement, a nod from the Director, and Jayce uses the momentum to pivot.
“If you’ll excuse me for one moment,” he says, already moving. “My colleague’s looking a touch pale.”
It’s not untrue.
Viktor hasn’t moved in minutes. He’s holding himself with a precision that borders on rigidity, fingers white around the head of his cane. His expression is blank, and that tells Jayce more than any scowl or hissed objection might have. He knows Viktor’s silences. Knows what kind of pain forces him still.
Jayce crouches slightly as he leans in, voice pitched for Viktor’s ears alone.
“You’re bleeding.”
Viktor’s eyes flick toward him, sharp with something too brittle to be anger. His jaw is clenched so tightly it creaks.
“Don’t- ” he whispers. “Don’t make this worse.”
Jayce doesn’t flinch. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
“There’s no need- ”
“There is.”
Jayce straightens, turns with effortless poise back to the delegates, and smiles with just enough apology to grease the wheels.
“My colleague’s unwell from travel. You know how these longer expeditions are- thin air, colder climate. I’m sure you’ll understand if we step out. It’s nothing urgent, just… fatigue.” His voice is honeyed and firm, the kind of tone that invites no resistance without ever seeming impolite.
A murmur of assent ripples across the nearby row. The Director, expression unchanging, nods.
One of the aides- young, hair like polished copper- steps forward briskly. “There’s transport waiting in the courtyard. Just give the driver the name of your guesthouse and they’ll take you directly.”
“Perfect,” Jayce says, already sliding a hand under Viktor’s elbow.
Viktor stiffens.
“I can stand on my own,” he mutters.
“I know,” Jayce replies. “But humour me.”
He doesn’t give Viktor the chance to argue. Doesn’t make a scene of it, just moves with smooth, unhurried confidence. He picks up the notes from Viktor’s lap, tucks them neatly under one arm, and lets his other hand rest on Viktor’s back- not pushing, not directing, just there.
Viktor rises slowly, cane striking the floor with a soft click. He keeps his head high, his movements measured, but Jayce can feel the tension in every line of him- the fury barely held in check, the shame like a live wire.
They walk the length of the chamber in silence. Jayce doesn’t look at anyone else, and no one dares call after them. The door slides open with a hiss and closes behind them with the finality of a vault sealing shut.
The corridor is quiet, padded in velvet-grey and edged with the same brutalist elegance as everything else in Demerath. Viktor speaks the moment they’re alone, voice low and clipped.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Jayce doesn’t stop walking. “You can be furious with me later.”
“I am furious with you now.”
“Good. Let’s get you somewhere safe first.”
Viktor stops moving. Jayce pauses beside him.
“This is not an emergency,” Viktor hisses. “I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve held out longer. I could have sat through the rest.”
Jayce turns to face him properly. His voice is soft, but it carries.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
Viktor glares. “What choice do I have?”
“I just gave you one.”
The silence between them stretches, taut and humming.
Jayce softens, finally. “Let me do this for you.”
Viktor’s mouth twists- frustration, helplessness, the kind of anguish that doesn’t come with tears but with teeth. But he nods. Just once.
Outside, the wind cuts sharper. The transport waiting in the courtyard is low and black, the kind designed for silent arrivals and discreet departures. Jayce opens the door without fanfare. The driver- a lean woman with a hood over her head- says nothing. Just watches them in the mirror with passive interest.
“Guesthouse address?” she asks.
Jayce gives it, and the door shuts behind them with a hush.
The silence inside the vehicle is almost too much. Viktor shifts once, adjusting the fall of his coat so it’s no longer pressing against his lower abdomen. The pain has bloomed now, hot and steady. He breathes through it. Focuses on the cold glass of the window and the city blurring past.
Jayce doesn’t speak. He’s seated beside him, angled just slightly in Viktor’s direction, but making no move to touch, nor pity.
It infuriates Viktor, how much that helps.
After a long minute, Jayce speaks.
“I wasn’t going to leave you there.”
Viktor doesn’t answer.
“I know how you hate being looked at. I just… I couldn’t let them see you like that. Like they were already trying to.”
Viktor snorts. “Don’t act like it was about them.”
Jayce finally looks at him. His gaze is steady. “It wasn’t.”
Viktor closes his eyes. The tension in his thighs is unbearable now. He shifts again, less cautiously, more out of desperation. The blood must be worse. He can feel it. Slick and warm and spreading.
“I haven’t…” he begins, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “It hasn’t happened in months.”
Jayce says nothing. Just lets the words hang.
Viktor opens his eyes again. “I thought… I thought I was past it.”
Jayce’s voice is gentle. “It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
Viktor laughs, bitter. “It means everything is wrong.”
He doesn’t mean to speak that aloud. But the words come anyway.
Jayce doesn’t flinch. “It’s your body. It doesn’t owe anyone a timeline.”
Viktor stares out the window again. “You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”
Jayce doesn’t reply right away. Then: “You’re not a mess, Viktor.”
“Tell that to my trousers.”
Jayce exhales- quiet, but not annoyed. Just steadying himself. And watching.
Viktor doesn’t realise he’s started picking at his cuticles until the skin breaks under his thumbnail. The sting is sharp, a quiet punishment. He presses his fingers into the wool of his trousers to hide the trembling, but they keep twitching. His breathing's gone thin again, caught somewhere between pain and fury and humiliation.
Jayce notices.
He always notices.
Without speaking, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out something small- folded cloth, soft and worn. A handkerchief, but not the elegant kind meant for show. This one’s rumpled, ink-stained at the corners. Familiar.
Viktor blinks.
Jayce presses it lightly into his palm. “You can destroy it if you want. I won’t mind.”
Viktor glances down. There's a stitched gear motif in one corner- clumsy, crooked, done by hand.
Jayce shrugs, looking suddenly boyish. “Caitlyn gave it to me years ago. Said I’d always be too proud to cry in public.”
Viktor huffs a sound that might be a laugh. His fingers curl around the cloth. It’s soft. Anchor-like. Real.
“I’m not going to cry,” he murmurs.
Jayce’s voice is warm. “Didn’t say you would.”
They lapse into silence again. The city continues to pass in orderly lines, a thousand watching eyes behind shuttered windows. But inside the transport, with the battered handkerchief clutched in his fist, Viktor breathes a little easier.
The guesthouse is quiet in a way that cities never are.
Set just beyond the central canal, it backs onto a narrow garden where frost-blanched ferns droop under the weight of late-winter air. A remnant of old Demerath- before the spires and chrome and ornamental surveillance- built in warmer tones: honeyed stone, wide pine floors, windows sunk deep into the walls.
Jayce doesn’t speak as they enter. He closes the door behind them with a care that is not hesitation but gentleness, like sealing something sacred off from the rest of the world.
Then- only then- he breathes.
He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the peg beside the hearth. It’s still damp at the edges from the snowfall earlier, shoulders stiff with the posture of a man used to being watched. As the heavy fabric falls away, something changes. Less Councillor Talis, more just… Jayce. Rumpled cuffs, wind-flushed cheeks, the soft line between his brows that only ever appears when he’s worried.
Viktor remains near the door, body half-turned as if not entirely committed to being inside. He’s holding the handkerchief still- creases new in the cloth, damp from his palm. His knees are close together, posture folded, like he’s trying to disappear into himself.
Jayce gestures gently toward the main room. “Come sit down, at least.”
Viktor doesn’t move.
“Please.”
That lands.
He nods- barely- and limps toward the hearth, movements stiff and uneven. Jayce follows close behind, ready to catch him if the pain spikes.
Viktor doesn’t fall, but he does sink into the low settee like a man disassembling.
Jayce crouches in front of him for a moment, hand hovering near his knee. “You alright to stay upright for a bit?”
Viktor nods again, not looking at him. “Sitting’s better than standing.”
“Good. I’ll get the fire started.”
The hearth is small but efficient, runes inscribed in soft blue beneath the grate. Jayce fetches his flint, crouches down, and the flames catch instantly, crackling to life.
Heat begins to bloom in the room.
Jayce disappears for a moment and returns with a heavy-knit blanket, which he offers without fuss. Viktor doesn’t argue. Just unfolds it with slow fingers and pulls it over his lap.
Jayce straightens with a wince- his knees aren’t what they were- and rolls up his sleeves. “You’ll need something in you,” he says. “I’ll see what we’ve got.”
The kitchenette is small, set back into an alcove, lined with burnished metal and magically cooled cabinets. He busies himself with the inspection- his way of not hovering, of letting Viktor exist without scrutiny.
“Alright,” Jayce calls after a moment, head in the cabinet. “We’ve got dried sunfruit, some kind of instant broth I don’t trust, something in a tin that claims to be ‘spiced meat stew’.. doesn't say what meat, and- ah!- preserved dumplings. They’re steamed, too. You like that.”
He peeks over his shoulder. Viktor hasn’t moved from the couch, blanket pulled higher now, almost to his chin. His face is paler than before, the sharp angles of cheek and jaw more pronounced.
“I’m not… hungry,” he says quietly. “Stomach’s not… it’s not settled.”
Jayce softens. “Alright. We don’t have to do food right away.”
He closes the cabinet, but not with disappointment- just consideration. Then, after a pause:
“Tea?”
Viktor nods.
Jayce makes it himself. The kettle fits easy on the coals, but he still watches it like it might misbehave. He chooses the ginger-blossom blend- they’d once had it in Zaun, on a visit that had left both of them rain-drenched and exhausted and entirely content. It’s sharp enough to cut through nausea, and sweet enough to be comfort.
By the time he pours it into two thick ceramic mugs, Viktor has shifted to sit cross-legged on the couch, one arm wrapped tight around his middle, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Jayce crosses the room and presses a mug into his hand without comment. Viktor accepts it carefully. The heat soaks into his knuckles, grounding.
Jayce settles onto the hearthrug nearby, stretching one leg out, the other folded. They sit like that for a long while. Just the fire and the steam curling in their hands.
Eventually, Jayce stands again. “You want company or silence while I try and pretend I can cook?”
Viktor’s mouth twitches, just barely. “I’ll supervise.”
“Mercilessly?”
“Of course.”
He stands slowly and crosses the room, blanket still around his shoulders. Jayce intercepts him halfway and lifts him- one arm around the back, one beneath the thighs- before he can protest. Viktor swears softly.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.
“You’re bleeding,” Jayce says. “Sit on the counter.”
Viktor ends up perched on the stone slab, knees pulled slightly in. Jayce slides a stool beneath his feet so they don’t dangle, then puts the tea back in his hands.
“There,” he says. “Your royal observation post.”
“Don’t burn anything.”
“No promises.”
Jayce makes the broth after all, doctoring it with grated root, anise salt, and a crushed pepper charm they find in a drawer. The dumplings get warmed too, if only to give the place a smell that isn’t medical or tense. He makes a show of it- flourishes, spoon twirls, poor impressions of Master Chef Koslov from the northern district. Viktor doesn’t laugh, not quite, but he huffs again.
There’s colour in his face now. Not much. But enough.
Jayce hands him a spoonful of broth to taste. Viktor takes it with exaggerated gravity, sips, considers. “Tolerable.”
“I’m touched.”
“I mean that in the highest possible sense. Usually you make things taste like despair.”
“I only did that once.”
“It was porridge. How did you fail porridge?”
Jayce mock-scowls and turns back to the pot. “I save lives, not oats.”
He plates the food anyway, adds a garnish he pretends to know the name of. Viktor doesn’t eat much- a few cautious mouthfuls, then pushes it away with a murmured apology. Jayce doesn’t push.
Instead, he takes the bowl, sets it aside, and hands Viktor another mug of the ginger tea.
“Drink what you can. Fire’ll keep going until dawn.”
Viktor nods, curling back into the blanket. He looks exhausted, and not just from the pain. He looks human, in the way Jayce rarely gets to see.
Not the inventor. Not the sharp mind behind the equations. Not the quiet force at his side in Council chambers. Just Viktor, blanket-wrapped, cheeks flushed from firelight, body slowly remembering it is allowed to rest.
Jayce watches him for a moment longer than he should. Then he rises, collects the dishes, and begins to wash them by hand. Viktor doesn’t offer to help this time. And Jayce is glad.
Some things, he can still do quietly, simply, for him.
The guesthouse has an adjoining bath chamber, tucked behind a folding screen etched with stylised leaves and mechanical spirals- old iconography from when progress was still deemed to be the at the root of all things technological.
Jayce finds it by accident while unpacking a few essentials from Viktor’s satchel. The moment the door swings open, he knows. Steam-glazed tiles, a deep, copper-sided tub with a soft back and enough room to recline.
He glances at Viktor, who hasn’t moved from the hearth. Still blanketed, still bent around the ache in his abdomen. Watching the fire like it might speak sense to him.
Jayce turns back toward the bath and says, casually, “I’ll get this started.”
The tub fills quickly, the water temperature easy to regulate once it reaches comfort. The scent of the soap-stones stored in the alcove- cedar and resin, with a note of something sweeter underneath- rises as the water heats.
Jayce lays out a thick towel and pulls one of his robes from the wardrobe- navy, worn soft, faintly sun-bleached along the collar. Viktor had worn it once during an overnight session in the lab, and complained about its “grotesque shoulder cut” before curling up and falling asleep in it anyway.
He brings the robe and towel into the main room, lays them near the fire to warm. Then he crouches beside Viktor and murmurs, “Bath’s ready, if you want it.”
Viktor doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are unfocused, unfixed. There’s a deep flush across his cheekbones now- not fevered, just heat locked under the blanket, blood that has nowhere else to go.
Jayce doesn’t push. “No one’s rushing you. But I think you’d feel better after.”
At last, Viktor nods. “I’ll need help undressing,” he says, voice thin. “But not… not all of it. I can manage the rest.”
Jayce nods, not flinching. “Of course.”
He helps with the buttons, careful not to press where the fabric clings to dried blood at the hem. Viktor’s shirt is soaked low on his back, sticking to the waistband of his trousers. The fabric between his legs is darker still.
Jayce doesn’t hesitate. He strips the shirt, peels the stiff waistband gently down. Folds the garments without pause, tucks them into a satchel without a word.
Viktor leans on his cane until they reach the bathroom threshold, then lets Jayce steady him into the steam.
He closes the door behind him with a soft click, and Jayce stays seated outside, back to the wall.
The bath is quiet. Water sloshes faintly, and the scent of cedar drifts into the next room. Jayce stays where he is.
Inside, Viktor lowers himself slowly into the tub. The heat creeps up his skin inch by inch, flushing his chest, his arms, his sharp knees. The ache in his lower back pulses with each breath. But the water holds him gently.
He sits there a long time. Doesn’t scrub. Doesn’t fidget. Just breathes.
When Jayce finally knocks, soft and patient, Viktor’s voice comes faintly from the other side.
“It’s open.”
Jayce steps in.
He keeps his eyes above the rim of the tub until Viktor gestures lazily- permission enough. Even so, Jayce doesn’t stare. The line of Viktor’s spine, bent a little more than usual. His ribs, gaunt and shadowed. The soft swell of his lower abdomen, taut with cramps.
His thighs are pale under the water, the inner skin irritated where the fabric rubbed too long. Blood diffuses faintly in the bath, curling like ink in the heat.
Jayce crosses to the shelf and picks up a bottle of oil- warming, with marjoram and mint- and holds it up. “May I?”
Viktor nods once. Doesn't speak.
Jayce kneels behind him and rubs a little between his palms to heat it, then reaches down to work it into Viktor’s lower back with slow, circular strokes. He presses gently- one hand bracing the bony shelf of Viktor’s hip, the other kneading just beside the spine.
Viktor lets out a breath that catches, then steadies.
“You’re tense,” Jayce murmurs.
“No,” Viktor says quietly. “I’m a failing machine.”
Jayce’s hands pause. “Don’t say that.”
Viktor’s mouth twitches. “But it’s true. I am- rusting. Leaking. Functioning in suboptimal conditions.”
Jayce exhales through his nose. “You’re human, Viktor.”
“Exactly.”
He doesn't sound bitter, just resigned. Like it’s a punchline he's heard too many times.
Jayce doesn’t argue. Just moves to the shelf again, picks up the brush he brought earlier, and waits. Viktor nods.
He washes Viktor’s hair in silence. Gentle. Steady. Works his fingers through the knots behind one ear. Rinses with cupped water.
Then he fetches the packet of pain powder from Viktor’s satchel- designed for localised pain and spinal tremor- mixes it into a glass of water, and leaves it within reach.
“You should take it once you’re dry,” Jayce says.
Viktor looks at the glass. “Thank you.” He doesn't say more. Doesn’t need to.
When he emerges from the bathroom- damp hair clinging to his neck, wrapped in Jayce’s robe- he looks better, though not by much. The colour is still wrong under his eyes. His shoulders are still hunched with residual pain. But he’s here. Upright. Present.
Jayce watches him shuffle back toward the hearth.
Then, just as Jayce moves to rise-
“Jayce.”
He stops. Looks up.
Viktor hesitates. His hand clenches loosely at the robe’s hem. His eyes flick toward the floorboards, the rug, the space just before the fire.
“Can you,” he says, quiet, “bring the mattress here?”
Jayce blinks. “To the hearth?”
A nod.
“I just- ” Viktor swallows. “I don’t want to go to the room. I want to stay where it’s warm.”
Jayce doesn’t answer straight away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t joke. Then says, “of course.”
Jayce returns with the mattress balanced on one shoulder and a spare blanket folded beneath his arm. The guesthouse isn’t large, but the doors are wide and the furniture modular- designed for travelling councillors with experimental luggage and unpredictable limbs. Still, he maneuvers it through carefully, laying the mattress down in front of the hearth without scraping the floor or knocking over any of the room’s diplomatic charm.
It lands with a muted thump, soft enough not to startle.
Viktor stands by the fire, one hand knuckling his brow, the other clutched awkwardly at the robe’s tie. The light of the flames makes a pale silhouette of his legs beneath the fabric. He shifts his weight slowly, gingerly- stiff from still cramping.
Jayce finishes spreading the blanket and turns to look at him.
But Viktor doesn’t move.
He’s staring at the mattress, jaw slightly tight. The robe hangs loose on his frame, collar gaping a little over his collarbones. His eyes flick down to the plush fabric stretched across the bed, then to Jayce’s hands.
Then away.
“I don’t have…” he starts, then pauses. His fingers fidget with the edge of the robe, twisting it around itself until the hem warps.
Jayce tilts his head, waiting.
Viktor exhales, barely audible. “I don’t have anything,” he murmurs. “To wear overnight. For this. I didn’t think to bring any of the- pads. I thought the hormones would keep things at bay, but- ” he gestures vaguely toward his abdomen, helpless, shame rising up his throat.
He swallows it down.
“I’m going to bleed into your robe.”
His voice is flat, even. Like he’s trying not to make it mean anything. But it does. Every word is thick with it.
Jayce crouches by the hearth, face tilted into the glow. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Instead, he reaches for the pile of folded laundry he brought in earlier and plucks out a towel- dark maroon, thick, cotton-wool plush.
“Then use this,” he says. “Put it under you. Between you and the robe.”
Viktor blinks at him. The towel in Jayce’s hands. He takes it. His fingers brush Jayce’s for a moment- dry, trembling, cold.
Then he nods and turns away. Slowly lowers himself onto the mattress, adjusting the towel beneath him. It takes longer than it should. His hip protests. His abdomen pulls tight with pressure. But he does it. Settles carefully onto the edge first, then reclines. Legs tucked loosely beneath him, the dark towel folded once beneath him, cushioning the space between him and Jayce’s robe.
Only once he’s adjusted the blanket around his shoulders does he let his head sink back.
Jayce watches him. Just a second. Maybe two.
Then he moves.
He doesn’t join him on the mattress. Doesn’t encroach. He retrieves a broad throw cushion from the settee and places it just off to the side- within arm’s reach, but not in the way. He sinks down onto it with a sigh that sounds more like grounding than fatigue.
And then he leans back. One shoulder pressed to the base of the settee, knees loose, hands resting on the rug. He doesn't say anything. Just stokes the fire.
The flames crackle softly- wood-glow and ash-sweet air.
Viktor lies still.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of the hearth. The room holds its breath around them, not tense, but settled. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for anything in return. Not even conversation.
Jayce reaches for the fire poker, nudges a log into place.
Viktor watches the embers break apart like small stars. His fingers curl into the blanket over his chest.
The pain has dulled, just slightly. The bath helped. The medicine too. But more than that- it’s the silence. The shelter of it. No eyes on him. No seat at the back of a council table, pretending he’s not bleeding into tailored trousers. No eyes narrowing at the stutter in his voice or the shift in his posture or the sweat beading at his hairline from a sudden twist of cramping muscle.
Here, there’s just the sound of Jayce breathing. Just the warm wood of the guesthouse and the soft pressure of the towel beneath him.
“You can sleep,” Jayce says quietly, still facing the fire. “You don’t have to wait on me.”
Viktor doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he can. His throat’s too tight. Not with pain. Just- something quieter. Something more private than he knows how to name.
So instead, he shifts slightly- one hand emerging from the blanket. Not reaching for Jayce, not exactly. Just- resting. Near.
A silent I know you’re there. A silent thank you for not asking anything of me when I have nothing left to give.
Jayce glances over. Smiles once, faintly, and turns back to the fire. He feeds it another log.
And Viktor, beneath the heavy comfort of borrowed cloth, lets his eyes fall shut.
The mattress dips a little with his shifting. The heat from the fire reaches his knees. But still.
Viktor does not sleep.
His eyes close, yes. His limbs soften, loose beneath the blanket. The tension leaves his jaw by degrees. But he does not sleep. He drifts. He listens.
The fire has mellowed now into a low, steady glow. Outside the guesthouse windows, wind rattles softly at the panes, stirring nothing inside. The city that isn’t home breathes behind thick stone and layered curtains, its geometric elegance locked safely outside.
Within, only breath and page.
Jayce’s, specifically.
He’s taken to his notes- those endless, scrawled pages he keeps in battered leather journals, half drawings and half equations, always a little chaotic, always in motion. Viktor hears the flick of a page turning. The press of pencil against paper. A breath caught in consideration, then released.
The noises soothe him more than silence might.
Viktor has never known true quiet to be safe. Stillness, yes. Stealth. But quiet- the kind that draws attention when it breaks- has always been a trap.
But this…
This is something else. Breathing, alive. Quiet as kindness. The warmth of the hearth rolls steadily against his side. The blanket is soft enough, and Jayce’s robe hangs loose around his ribs. But his body remains raw inside. The cramps dull and pull and catch in turns. Aches settle into hip and thigh. His spine throbs where it’s curved too long in a single posture.
And underneath it all, something hums. Something old. Something cellular.
He knows this part. He knows what it means. The hollow ache that flares between organs and then migrates outward- not just physical, but needful. The way his body feels stretched out and empty and tight all at once. How his skin tingles at the thought of a hand, not roughly, not out of urgency, but-
Gentled.
The way you’d comfort something frightened. The way you’d touch something yours.
He swallows.
His mouth feels dry. His tongue heavy behind his teeth.
Still, he turns his head. Slowly. Lets his eyes open, lashes catching in the dim glow.
Jayce is there. Sitting in the same spot- on the throw cushion, leaning against the settee, book in his lap and one hand bracing the page. His brow is furrowed in faint focus, hair a little tousled from the weight of the day.
Viktor watches him.
Then says, slowly, softly, “Jayce.”
Jayce looks up immediately. Sets the pencil aside, careful not to startle him.
“Mm?”
Viktor doesn’t speak at first. His gaze drops to the firelight, to his own hand curled against his stomach.
Then, in a voice that’s not quite as steady as he wants it to be: “Would you…” He pauses. “Would you rub my stomach?”
He says it gently, but it feels heavy. Like a confession. A thing rarely voiced. Jayce doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile either. Just listens.
Viktor keeps his eyes low. “When I was small,” he adds, very softly, “I used to get bad stomach aches. From worry. From- ” He cuts himself off, not quite willing to say other children. Not quite able.
But Jayce understands anyway.
“My mother would do that,” Viktor finishes, more quietly. “Rub my stomach. Just… until it passed.”
Jayce breathes in. A careful, even breath. Then sets the book aside fully.
“Come here,” he says.
Viktor blinks. Looks up.
Jayce shifts forward on the cushion, then gestures. “A little further up,” he murmurs. “That way you can rest your head.”
Viktor hesitates. Not because he doubts him. But because he’s raw. Inside and out. Tender in places the world isn’t kind to. This city certainly wouldn’t be.
But this isn’t the city. This is a room with a fire. And Jayce’s voice is soft. So Viktor moves.
Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself up on his elbows and adjusts the blanket. Scoots up the mattress a few inches at a time until he’s nearer to Jayce, closer to the curve of the settee. Jayce helps only once- steadying the blanket so it doesn’t tangle. Then lets
him settle.
Viktor’s head comes to rest gently in his lap.
Jayce exhales once, low and firm. His hand finds Viktor’s shoulder first. Then his ribs, just above the swell of the blanket. His palm is warm.
“Tell me where,” he says quietly.
Viktor shifts the blanket, folds it down just enough to expose the soft curve of his stomach beneath the robe. His skin is pale, tight with tension, marked faintly from the towel beneath him. A slight tremble moves through it as the next cramp flutters.
“There,” he murmurs. “Just- flat hand. Gentle pressure.”
Jayce nods and does just that.
His hand spreads across Viktor’s lower belly, fingers splayed, heel of the palm over the centre. He moves in slow, deliberate circles.
Warmth blooms.
The tension doesn’t vanish. But it quiets.
Viktor’s eyes flutter shut again. This time not to feign rest, but to exist inside the moment.
“You’re not made of glass, you know,” Jayce says softly after a minute.
Viktor huffs a sound. Halfway to a laugh. “Tell that to my bones.”
Jayce chuckles, a soft, low thing. His hand continues to move, steady and sure.
“I mean it,” he says after a moment. “You act like asking for care is a fracture.”
“It is,” Viktor says, voice muffled in the blanket.
Jayce’s hand stills.
Viktor opens his eyes again, stares into the firelight. “Not with you. But with everyone else. It is.”
Jayce’s hand shifts. Not away. Just up, brushing gently over the tight muscle near Viktor’s side, then back down.
“Not here,” Jayce says. “Not with me.”
Viktor doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
His hand curls against the blanket. His body softens beneath the weight of that touch. The pain isn’t gone, but it’s contained.
Jayce resumes the circles.
“I’ll keep up until you sleep,” he says, more a promise than a suggestion.
“I won’t,” Viktor murmurs. “Sleep.”
“You will.”
Viktor tilts his head just slightly, enough to brush his brow against Jayce’s thigh. He doesn’t speak again. Nor does Jayce. The words have been spent for now.
And the fire burns down, slowly, the room a capsule of warmth and pulse and quiet motion.
Viktor lies still, the ache in his stomach coaxed dull by the press of Jayce’s hand, and at long last, not sleep, but rest takes him. Real rest.
The kind that allows a body to breathe.