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It is not unusual for Jayce to wake up alone in the middle of the night. Viktor has never been one for tossing and turning for hours on end. He may be stubborn about many things, but not this; if sleep won't come to him, then he won't waste precious time waiting for it. What is sleep, after all, but a biological hindrance keeping him away from the million things he wants to do? Or so he told Jayce once, as he tried to pry him back to bed.
Early in their partnership, he wondered if Viktor even slept at all. He was always the first at the lab and the last to leave, from day one. Jayce had found it validating at first, exhilarating even, to see his own dedication mirrored in someone else. It quickly became apparent that dedication was not the only thing keeping Viktor at the lab, however. Pain, it turns out, is easier to deal with once you pour your entire being into something. Shortly after Jayce had come to that realisation, a couch was installed in the far corner of the lab, on the Council's dime. Neither of them ever said anything about it, but it got worn from use anyway. Sometimes by Jayce more so than Viktor, truth be told.
That was years ago now, but Viktor is still as restless. Some things never change. There is comfort in that, in the knowledge that in the end, after everything, the core of them remains. In spite of it all.
Jayce blinks at the empty spot next to him. He doesn't remember waking up, but now that sleep has left him, he doesn't feel like chasing it. He tosses the covers aside, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.
Viktor is hunched over their workbench, their office painted in shadows from a single dim light. He's muttering things in a language Jayce is still learning. He knows enough to know half of it is cursing.
"Can't sleep?" he scratches his beard, fighting off a yawn.
"Can't get that damn thing to work."
His voice is laced with frustration and his shoulder is tense as Jayce wraps a hand around it. Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the device in Viktor's hands. Parts of it have been removed and lay on the workbench, leaving the mechanism exposed.
"I promised Margot it would be fixed by the end of the week."
Their poor elderly neighbour had once complained about her bad back and her growing inability to water her garden. Viktor had equipped her yard with an automatic watering system within a week. It worked fine until a few days ago. Evidently, Viktor made it a personal matter.
"It's Wednesday," Jayce points out patiently.
"Thursday now."
"That's still plenty of time."
Viktor makes a noncommital noise, poking at the pump with a screwdriver. Jayce knows it's a matter of pride. Viktor likes to exceed expectations, with deadline or otherwise. He himself is no stranger to perfectionism.
"How about a break?"
"I need to get this done."
"And you will. After the break. Fresh eyes and all that."
It takes some more coaxing, but Viktor eventually relents. His shoulders sag as he breaks into a sigh. He reclines back on the stool, leaning against Jayce's chest.
"Coffee?"
"Tea, please," he says, rubbing a hand across his face.
"Sweetmilk?"
Viktor looks up, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips as their eyes meet. He looks exhausted, but that never took anything away from his beauty. If he plays his cards right, Jayce could perhaps manage to convince him to take a nap on the couch this afternoon.
"That would be lovely."
Jayce presses a kiss to his forehead, a quick, soft thing, before heading to the kitchen. His movements are slow as he goes about boiling some water, the veil of sleep hanging loose around him. He has done this so many times he barely has to think about it.
Tea leaves already darken the steaming water when Viktor joins him. He sits on the edge of the kitchen table, observing Jayce. His feet hang just half an inch shy off the floor. It's incredibly endearing, though Jayce knows better than to say it out loud.
He turns his back to look inside the icebox and lets out a groan.
"Sorry V, looks like we're all out of sweetmilk."
"It's alright, Jayce."
He freezes. His name sounds misshapen in Viktor's mouth. Mechanical. Metallic. A sudden rush of dread crawls under his skin. As he looks over his shoulder, his knees almost buckle under him.
Viktor's body is all hard artificial lines and sinews, purple light pulsing through the gaps of what can hardly be called skin. Empty eyes stare Jayce down, but he doesn't meet them. He can't look up. He can't scream. All he truly sees is the empty cavity that is Viktor's chest, ready to swallow him whole.
There is weight in his hands. His fingers instinctively flex around it. His eyes follow, glancing down, and a wave of nausea nearly overcomes him. His hammer is covered in splatters. His hands are covered in blood. He did this. He did this. He did this.
Disgust loosens his grip. The hammer clatters heavily on the floor at his feet. Air struggles to reach his lungs, no matter how much he heaves for it. Blood drips from his shaking hands, the flow of it a cruel, endless cycle.
Viktor's body falls backwards on the table like a puppet severed from its strings. Jayce lurches forward, his legs barely keeping him up. His bloodied hands are slippery against the edge of the table as he tries to hold himself upright.
"V..."
Viktor lies there, empty, the grim approximation of an autopsy. Delirious, Jayce frantically gathers the pieces of him, pressing them to the jagged edges of his open chest. He can fix this. He can make it better. It won't fit, why won't it fit?
"V, please," he sobs, "V, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
His touch is coarse, riddled with tremors. The edges won't stay in place, disappearing in the bottomless void Jayce carved inside Viktor. More horrifying still, his chest seems to cave further under his fingers, brittle, decaying. Jayce breaks into a desperate, howling sound. Viktor is breaking up into pieces. He is breaking him up into piece.
"No! Viktor, please...!"
Jayce likes touch. He's always liked touch. It didn't surprise Viktor in the slightest when, upon sharing a bed for the first time―for there was no other bed in the cottage at the time―Jayce tangled their limbs together in an inextricable, comforting mess.
But this is different. This is not touch. This is not affection. It is despair.
Jayce's hands are clawing at him, digging into his skin.
Viktor snaps awake, disoriented. The return to consciousness is beyond brutal. Jayce grabs, scratches, pulls, his hands erratic, relentless.
"Jayce!"
A muffled sob rises from Jayce's chest, but never makes it past the barrier of his lips.
"Jayce!"
Viktor manages to catch his wrists, straining his arms to keep his hands as far from him as possible. Even asleep, Jayce is far stronger than he is. He won't hold for much longer.
"Jayce! Wake up!"
Jayce flinches, a loud gasp tearing his chest. Wide eyes search the darkness, lost, terrified. The struggle against Viktor's hold weakens, but Viktor doesn't let go yet. The mind is a fickle thing, and the frontier between dreams and reality is a dangerous, traitorous one. He would know. He tries not to think of the many times his own hands have closed around Jayce's throat in a state of unconscious terror. He has always given him so much grace about it. Too much, in his opinion.
His voice is purposely softer as he tries to soothe him back to reality:
"It's alright," he whispers, barely covering the sound of Jayce's frantic breathing. "It's alright. You were dreaming."
Jayce's eyes search his, but can't seem to focus. Whatever he saw sank deep into him and won't let go.
"It's alright, Jayce. You're alright. You're safe."
"Viktor?"
His name comes out rough, strangled. Jayce's eyes shine with recognition and tears as he shatters into a heart-wrenching sob. Viktor can not dream to envelop him, to hide him from the world and from harm, but he can try. His embrace is as wide and tight as he can make it, and the waves of Jayce's crying crash into him like the sea crashes against cliffs and shores.
"It's okay, miláčku. It's over now. It's okay. You're okay."
Jayce holds him back like he's afraid the world will collapse if he doesn't. His temple is damp when Viktor kisses it, whispering reassurances in his ear until the tremors running through him abate. For the first time in his life, Jayce feels small in his arms. His to care for. His to protect, even from himself.
"You're safe," Viktor tells him for what must be the hundredth time.
"It wasn't about me," Jayce rasps weakly, his face buried in his shoulder.
As they untangle loosely, Jayce's gaze falls on a small stretch of Viktor's stomach, where his shirt has ridden up. His skin is still raw, bearing red swollen marks where Jayce's fingers and nails were. Guilt bleeds across his face.
"It's nothing," Viktor assures him quickly, pushing the hem of his shirt down.
"I hurt you..."
"You were asleep."
"Fuck, V..."
"It's alright."
"No, it's not! What if I―"
Viktor gently presses his fingers against his lips, which earns him a hard, scolding look, but gets the intended effect of cutting the argument short.
"Have we not fought about this enough?" he reminds him, his hand going from Jayce's mouth to his cheek, cupping his jaw.
"It is not the same."
"You're right. Me choking you within an inch of your life was much more serious, indeed."
Jayce frowns, none too pleased with Viktor implacable logic.
"Remember what you told me then?"
"That I didn't want to sleep in another bed," he pouts, annoyed he's making Viktor's argument for him. "Without you."
"Well, neither do I."
"Viktor..."
"I'm fine."
Carefully, Viktor takes Jayce's hand and slips it under his shirt, laying it flat on his stomach. Jayce's palm feels warm against his skin, the callouses familiar. He ignores the sting that comes from fingers meeting the various sore marks there.
"This body can withstand a few scratches."
Jayce's hand twitches before it moves, travelling up his torso to his chest. There is something haunted in his eyes as he touches the skin there.
"I hurt you," he says, shameful.
"Jayce―"
"No, in my dream, I meant. I―I tried to save you, but―"
His voice cracks, and whatever he meant to say falls back in his throat. Viktor lays his hand over Jayce's through his shirt, seeking his eyes until they're lost in each other.
"You never wanted to hurt me. I know that."
Jayce shakes his head weakly, tears welling up in his eyes once more.
"But I did."
His fingers trace the scar that runs around his chest, a continuous, barbed circle drawn in a faint line. It glistens in the sun, if the light catches just right.
"As did I," Viktor shifts in the bed, touching his forehead to Jayce's. "Still. No other bed I would want to sleep in. You?"
Jayce sighs, his free hand resting on the angle of Viktor's jaw. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, but there is a fondness to them Viktor still struggles to believe is meant for him, even after years.
"None."