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Jayce Giopara absolutely despises his birthdays.
Since he got his patronage from the Gioparas — since he abandoned his name, his identity, himself — birthdays had been a taxing affair. His patrons would arrange grand parties with expensive cocktails that taste like water and bright candles from Demacia or Ionia or wherever-the-fuck-sounded-more-fancy. Rather than being celebrated, he was walked around like a show dog to be presented to old geezers and wealthy slugs. Happy birthday, they would say, flashing him that ugly smile with full teeth that reminded him of soap. Then, in some variation like different colored masks: What useless gadgets are you going to invent next so we can get more money? Jayce would return that same gums-bleeding grin and reply subtly that they can fuck off. When he’s not so subtle, the Gioparas yank his impalpable collar and offer a dishonest apology. The party lasts all day and all night, until his new suit — typical birthday gift from his patrons — enroots on his skin and breathes down his neck. Then he goes back home to visit his mother for a few hours, pretends his mouth isn’t burning from smiling for the last 12 hours, blows a certain number of candles, and wishes that everyone at the party goes up in flames so he wouldn’t need to see them next year.
Yeah. He really hates his birthday.
As he gets older, nothing seems to get better. On his eighteenth birthday, people automatically became bolder as if the world’s difficulty jumped up a level. There were suddenly new monsters he had to dodge. Slimy monsters that touch his forearm without permission and poison him with their excessive perfumes. Women and men alike; greed isn’t differentiated by gender. They flirt with him and he grins back. They hold his hand and he kisses their knuckles. They ask him when will he marry and he pretends he’s on the market. When he went home that day, he stood below the shower head for a long, long time, trying to scrub out the nasty words like cleaning up bullet wounds.
Then enters Viktor.
He didn’t bother to tell him his birthday for a long time. There was no purpose for it. More important things were at their disposal, like their cramped lab and ever-expanding dreams. Like their roof-tall blueprints of half-finished ideas and gear doodles made at 2 AM whilst high on caffeine. Like how Viktor’s eyes shine in the darkness or the way he taps the desk when he thinks. His partner eventually unearthed the date like digging up a corpse from a backyard — he couldn’t make it to the official testing of a tool, whence he double, triple promised Viktor he would be there, completely forgetting the gala. The man was furious the next day he showed up to the lab, thudding his cane on the ground dangerously. He remembers the way Viktor’s expression twitched when he mentioned his birthday. He remembers shrugging his concern off afterwards.
It wasn’t uncommon for Jayce to receive birthday gifts: a suit, random accessories he’d rather die than wear, laughable amount of flower bouquets, or even questionable chocolates.
But he was still so surprised when there was something wrapped in ribbons sitting on his desk like a bomb. Or a solidified bundle of laughter. Viktor, who hated gifts, hated unnecessary things, hated offered kindness, sat beside it, mouthing happy birthday to him, eyes crinkling in an angle Jayce knew meant amusement. He recalls telling Viktor he was a day early. His partner just shrugged and said that if Jayce was busy the day after, why not give it now.
It was a beard trimmer and shaving cream inside.
So you’d stop showing up to the lab with a bleeding chin because of your safety-hazard-ish old one, Viktor had told him. Jayce snorted; he threw away the chocolate and the flowers, but the trimmer now sits before his mirror.
He remembers the first and only time he skipped the parties. With Viktor. Of course it was with Viktor. He was 27 for a few minutes when he burrowed his face in his hands, formulating a plan to look presentable despite being awake for at least an entire 24 hours. Viktor just snorted beside him. Why go? He had asked him, voice raspy from dehydration, sweetened with temptation. You’re 27. A big boy that doesn’t have to go to a party if he doesn’t want to. Viktor's eyes glimmered like stars in the darkness, and Jayce decided it was a sign sent from whoever was merciful and pitiful enough to spare Jayce. A sign from Viktor himself. Whatever.
So Jayce didn’t go to the Gioparas’ party that reeked of floral greed. They went to visit his mother together, and for the first time in decades, Jayce blew his candles drenched in sunlight. That year, he wished that Viktor, his aureate eyes and brilliant mind, never changes. Afterward, they went to a bar — a small, dirty, lively bar that stank of sweat and alcohol and old wood. They got wasted — Jayce found out that Viktor handled alcohol incredibly well, but Jayce was a stubborn man — and danced with shoes stepping on and over each other, giggling like the world ends tomorrow and they won’t be there to see the news.
Jayce got chewed up and spat out for his absence by the Gioparas the next day, but he was picturing the way Viktor’s mole shifted when he grinned with full teeth throughout the reprimand.
Exits Viktor.
He got even more irritable than before during his birthdays.
People knew to avoid him during his own birthday parties now. The few who didn’t — the blind, the bold, and worst of it all, both — approached him with their cheap, gilded necklaces and dull, boring eyes. Without exception, he bared his teeth at them, throwing insults around like explosives, and they would leave him alone, embarrassed or enraged. The Giopara collar did little to control his foul humor; his patrons would just glare at him for a few seconds, not bothering to untangle the mess that was their apprenta. Somehow, now the gold diggers and dying old men no longer harass him, and most of the time he sulks in a corner as invisible as a vengeful ghost. He still visited his mother after the torture badly disguised as a celebration. But he doesn’t blow any candles now. Doesn’t wish for anything anymore.
It was the only day where the fighting ceased between Jayce and Viktor, back when they used to battle each other every single day, every hour they were awake, like rabid animals. Hell, sometimes, when their body gave out, they would sit on the ground across from each other and exchange verbal blows. But on his birthday, none of it happens. Jayce got to enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet, and the day after that, Viktor would ask him how the party was, and Jayce would hiss out that it was great.
Then time diluted their anger, like adding too much water in coffee.
They no longer see each other daily — monthly was a miracle now. Annual became a stretch. For a few years, Viktor would drop flowers at his door. He knew they were his because of the way they were seconds away from completely wilting, like words written in sand awaiting the waves to wash them away. Still, despite their mocking nature, he kept the bouquet in his house (discarding the others, of course), nursing them until the petals left rotten marks on the vase he put them in. When they inevitably do, he hides the vase in a cabinet and pretends he hates Viktor once more, like a rehearsed role. The Gioparas finally stopped bothering him with their parties. He doesn’t visit his mom anymore, just a call, claiming he’s too busy. Technically not a lie — he works tirelessly in his lab, careless of the date. Then he spends the entire night in that shitty bar that still smells like old wood, slowly getting drunk with a phantom in his memory.
This year’s different.
No wilted flower on his pouch.
There’s a slight panic fizzling like a lit fuse inside his chest. Still, he gathers all the other bouquets, dumping them in a trash can like every other year. He goes back to the kitchen, hesitating when he sees the vase waiting accusingly on the counter. There’s nothing more ugly than a flowerless flower vase, Jayce decides, flicking his index on the glass.
No matter. He’s fine. Not getting a flower bouquet from his nemesis on his birthday is totally acceptable and he is not sad.
He calls his mother instead, cooking up some toast for himself — not even on his birthday does he bother to cook something more than just sorrily edible for himself. She picks up on the third ring, wishing him happy birthday. She’s getting older, Jayce realises, clutching the phone tighter; the rasp in her voice cuts at him like harsh wind. They talk about his work, his meal, his childhood — carefully snapping away the 20-30s of his life like Minesweeper. They hang up with parting words, which are motherly concerns about the cold, health, and every other little thing Jayce doesn’t concern himself with anymore. He nods yes, of course mom, I love you, bye.
He thinks about visiting her and her lemon scented house when a loud boom rang from the front door. He jumps up, racing to open it, only to find—
Viktor, metal armour chipped and blooming electrical flares a second to the next, Hexclaw bent at an alarming angle and one dimmed eye on his mask, was on his doorstep. In his hand was the bouquet of flowers, albeit ruined — more ruined than usual, at least. There was a crevice underneath him, in the concrete stoop, as if a meteorite hit his house. This is the first time Jayce saw Viktor in what felt like a decade. Has it really been this long? He supposes yes, since he can no longer recall the specific shade of gold his partner’s eyes are.
A million question races in his mind. What happened? Are you alright? Are you here to kill me on my birthday?
What stumbled out of his mouth like an unruly horse was “You hand delivers the bouquets?”
Viktor blinks at him, deadpan. At least that’s what Jayce assumed to be happening underneath that mask.
“You have a beard now,” he replies drily, ignoring his question. Jayce snorts and steps aside, letting his nemesis-or-acquaintance-or-old friend-or-whatever-they-are into his house.
“Well, the trimmer you gave me broke,” Jayce hums, not noticing the way Viktor froze at his words. “Mind the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
The birthday man holds out his hand, and Viktor stares at it for a long moment. Jayce snorts again, then gestures to the bouquet, and the guest tosses it at him like he was hauling a weapon at him. The machine watches the man putting the wilt flowers into a vase carefully, system whirring and overworking to decipher the meaning behind such an act.
“Shit,” Jayce mutters when he hurries to the toaster. “Burnt my toast.”
“You shouldn’t eat that,” Viktor whirs. “Burnt food could cause the formation of acrylamide, which could in turn trigger cancer.”
Jayce chomps down at his toast, leveraging Viktor with a challenging look. “Says the one doing whatever is equivalent to robotic bleeding all over my floor.” He picks up his plate, heading to his workshop. “C’mon. No dying on my birthday.”
Viktor reluctantly (?) follows.
They patch him up well enough. His Hexclaw was still disabled, since the scraps in Jayce’s little workshop weren't worth reconstructing with. At least he’s not emitting potential fires around. Viktor notices gutted ideas and gadgets on their last breath around the room, feels the heatwave from the forge in the middle of it, but he doesn’t ask. He lets Jayce’s calloused hand tug at his broken wrist and rescrews the metal exoskeleton on. He doesn’t ask either. They both let their unspoken words wilt in the silence like those flowers. Eventually, they step out of the suffocating forge, leaving the words behind, akin to a lizard shedding its skin.
“I was planning to visit my mom today, but since you’re here…”
Viktor huffs a sigh or a laugh. “Ximena is a very lovely lady.”
“Wow. So you missed my mom more than me? Ouch.”
“Cocky of you to assume I missed you at all.”
“Yeah. And you don’t deliver me flowers every year.”
Laden silence; Viktor pointedly looks away. Jayce laughs, not pressing further. The machine stares at the other, bewildered by his easy reaction.
“You aren’t going to pry?” Viktor asks, voice modifier filtering out the little touch of concern in his tone.
“I’m growing old, V. People change when they age. Ah. I suppose you wouldn’t experience that.”
And for the first time ever, Viktor is hit with the realization that Jayce will die one day. Just like the flowers. Flowers he’s been giving Jayce every year. What does he think about them? Is he scared of death? Is Viktor scared of Jayce dying? With every birthday, Jayce marches steadily towards death, and Viktor is powerless to stop it. Unless… unless—
“Don’t look so sad, V.” Jayce taps at his mask. “We should go to a bar. To celebrate, you know.”
Celebrate another year towards his demise. How did Jayce read the sheet of metal that was his face anyways? “I look like this,” he says instead. “You really think they’ll let me in?”
“We’ll go to a Zaunite one!”
Viktor laughs for real this time, wheezing for air he doesn’t really need anymore. “You? In Zaun? They’ll eat you alive.”
“They won’t recognize me. You almost didn’t.”
That was untrue. Viktor doesn’t think he would ever lose the ability to identify Jayce no matter how he looks. The machine said nothing at the end, letting Jayce rush off to change into the worst clothes he owned — probably still more expensive than any Zaunite wear.
They arrive at a bar at last. Jayce’s disguise was actually pretty decent with his wild facial hair and wilder eyes. Viktor was surprised at how excited Jayce seemed; how could a man in his forty be this energetic? He buzzed around like a bee the entire time, not noticing the glares Viktor sent at some street thugs to keep away their hands.
He immediately orders the first drink he saw on the menu when they sat down. “Should I order you something?” He nudged Viktor’s arm, half joking, half serious. The dim bar light makes his brilliant blue eyes more like a marine navy tonight, calm and undisturbed like a dormant ocean.
“It’s fine,” Viktor huffs, ignoring the way people glare at their way. “One of us needs to be sober to haul you home.”
“What a gentleman. You’re going to walk me home?” The bartender swipes his drink — something bleeding red and filled with ice — in front of him. Jayce takes a big gulp, grimacing after. “Janna, this is sweet. Bet you would like it, though.”
“Consequences of not reading, I suppose.”
“C’mon. For my birthday?”
“I already gave you a gift.”
“Rotten flower? I take back the gentleman comment.” Jayce stirred the toothpick in the drink. “Maybe I should ask the bartender to add in some milk.”
“Giopara…”
“You’ll like it. I swear.”
Viktor grumbles something under his breath, then grabs the offered drink, almost spilling it. Jayce just laughs like he had never laughed before, like all of his joy was zip folded in his throat and he’s opening the files now.
God, and he’s not even drunk yet.
Viktor’s hand fiddles with his mask, lifting it slightly to reveal his mouth. His body is more metal than flesh nowadays, from the inside to the outside; but he kept his tongue. He brings the drink to his lips, and sweetness and something creamy blooms on his tongue like a flowerfield. The aftertaste was something foul, something smoky, like that field died immediately, flowers programmed to live for one night and one night only.
Jayce was right. He does like it. But he hums and says “it’s alright.”
The smug man beside him looks delighted, like he just won the most valuable prize in the universe. His eyes shine with mirth, hand squishing his cheek, perfect teeth hidden behind dry lips. He looked eternal in that moment — a little old, a little crazy, a little drunk, and perfectly stunning. Too loud people crackle behind them and too tasteless music booms ahead.
But Viktor thinks it’s something he can get used to.
“Happy birthday, Jayce,” he finally says, mouth filled with the scent of wilted flowers.