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In January, the sky above Piltover lowers.
It is not something most citizens notice outright. There is no single moment when the change in the weather announces itself. Instead, the air tightens gradually, drawn inward by the cold. Upper currents from the mountains descend. Pressure gathers where warmth once lingered. The atmosphere compresses upon itself, straining beneath forces too vast to see.
And then, for one night only, the sky fractures.
Friction ignites the firmament, and light tears through darkness in long, incandescent trails. Shooting stars multiply until the cosmos seem restless, alive with motion—each meteor a brief violence of brilliance, each arc a wound that seals itself as quickly as it is made. The storm is short-lived, never lingering past a single turning of the clock, but it leaves an impression that endures long after the last ember fades.
This phenomenon, predictable in its arrival yet impossible to tame, gave rise to one of Piltover’s oldest traditions: First Light Observance Day.
Long before the great city crowned the cliffs with buildings of glass and steel, Piltover was a threshold rather than a destination. A crossing point between waters and worlds. Ships docked here not because they meant to stay, but because the tide demanded pause. Traders lingered while bargains were weighed. Inventors passed through carrying ideas too fragile to survive elsewhere. It was a place shaped by transit, by those who arrived with nothing certain except the knowledge that risk was unavoidable.
On the coldest nights of the year, travelers learned to wait.
They stood upon the cliffs, upon the decks of anchored vessels, upon stone still rough from the chisel, and watched the sky ignite. And over time, belief settled where repetition made room for meaning.
It was said that on this night, the sky remembered.
Not triumphs, nor failures, but the moments in between—the instant a choice was made without assurance of its outcome. Every leap taken without guarantee. Every invention begun without proof it would endure. Every voyage embarked upon with faith standing in for certainty. Piltover, after all, had been built by such moments, layered one upon another until stone and steel rose where there had once been only wind.
The falling stars came to be understood as remnants of these abandoned possibilities.
Sparks shed from unfinished dreams. Shards of futures that had brushed too close to reality before slipping away. Lost ideas, unburdened at last, returning to the world lighter than when they were first conceived. The sky did not hoard them; it released them, scattering their brilliance freely and without judgment.
And so, people began to gather. Not to petition the sky above, but to acknowledge it.
The custom that emerged was careful. To wish upon a First Light star was never to ask for fortune, nor for protection, nor for a life unmarked by hardship. Such requests were thought meaningless to the sky. Instead, a wish was understood as a declaration—a quiet accounting of the thing one was willing to pursue despite the cost.
One did not ask the stars to change their path. One told them which one they intended to walk.
A First Light wish is a statement of intent.
The phrase endures still, preserved in lesson books and recited by children who scarcely grasp its weight. It is spoken as tradition now, rather than belief, its meaning dulled by familiarity. Yet, something of its original gravity lingers, threading uneasily through the celebration. And when one wish to participate in the tradition, old rumor insists the stars still listen thoughtfully. That selfish wishes pass unnoticed, swallowed by the dark between sparks. That cowardly ones falter, fading before they ever fully fall. But if a wish is honest, if it is shaped from longing rather than convenience, from truth rather than fear, then the sky bears witness.
It remembers.
Whether the wish succeeds or fails is of no consequence to the cosmos. Piltover has never been spared collapse, nor spared brilliance, by the sincerity of its people. What matters—what has always mattered—is the act itself.
That for a single night, beneath a sky alight with falling fire, one dares to look upward and admit to wanting something deeply, irreversibly, and without assurance.
With this in mind, Jayce was unwavering in his devotion to the observance. Each year, without exception, he took part.
He had grown up loving this night—perhaps because his mother had loved it first.
It was she who introduced him to the ritual, who insisted upon its quiet importance long before he understood its meaning. As a child, he would wait for the observance with barely contained excitement, counting the days as though it were his birthday. The city would be alive from morning onward: lanterns strung across walkways, music echoing through the streets, vendors calling out warmth and sweetness against the cold. Jayce remembered moving through the crowds at her side, his hand tucked securely into hers, his world wide and bright with anticipation.
But it was the evening he cherished most.
After supper, once the sun had dipped behind Piltover’s buildings and the cold had begun to settle in earnest, his mother would pull the couch close to the wide window of their home. Blankets were layered generously, a small indulgence against the winter chill, and she would prepare thick, spiced chocolate that warmed his hands long before it reached his chest. In soft pajamas, they would sit together in the hush that followed the day’s celebration, watching as the first streaks of light carved themselves across the darkened sky.
It was then she would speak.
She would ask him to think carefully. Not of something fleeting, nor of something easy—but of something that truly mattered. Something that would shape him. Something he would be willing to reach for even if it frightened him. And when the brightest, most beautiful star fell, Jayce would close his eyes and wish with the earnestness only a child could possess, believing that wanting something deeply enough was, in itself, a kind of magic.
As he grew older, the tradition endured.
He kept it, year after year, still alongside his mother for as long as he could. Not because it promised miracles—he understood well enough now that it did not—but because it reminded him of something he refused to relinquish. On that night, he was truly allowed to want things larger than himself. To imagine futures not yet earned. To believe, still, that effort and brilliance, tempered by daring, might be enough to bend the world toward something better.
Jayce knew, as an adult, that the wish was not magic.
It was philosophy.
A quiet act of faith—not in the stars, but in oneself. In the notion that naming a desire, holding it honestly, and pursuing it with intent might one day bend the world just enough to make it real.
And that, he had learned, was reason enough to look up.
“Are you coming back here for dinner?” Ximena asked gently, her voice warm as she lifted the bag Jayce had just set down inside her doorway. “We will be able to watch the First Light stars together.”
Jayce paused.
He handed her the second bag of groceries he had brought along, then leaned down to press a familiar kiss to the crown of her head. They had never missed a First Light observance together. Not once. Not through illness, not through travel, not through the many changes Piltover—and Jayce himself—had weathered over the years.
But this year, something tugged at him. A quiet, insistent pull beneath his ribs.
He wanted to be here tonight. Wanted the window drawn wide, the blankets layered close, the ritual unchanged. And yet, Viktor waited elsewhere, at the Academy, amid drafts and schematics and an idea that refused to be postponed. Their meeting would run late. Hextech, once set in motion, did not pause for sentiment.
He could not miss it.
Not even for this.
“I’m sorry, Ma’,” Jayce said at last, regret softening his voice. “We have an important meeting tonight. It’s going to run late.”
Ximena’s smile did not falter, but Jayce had grown up with her. He knew the delicate ways she held herself, the brief stillness that followed words she wished were different. The sadness was there, faint but unmistakable, like a shadow passing across a familiar room.
“That’s alright, my dear,” she said, carefully light. “I understand.” Then, after a moment, gentler still: “If it ends early, you know you’re always welcome. We’ll keep the window open.”
Jayce smiled, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly, and nodded.
“Noted,” he said. “Let’s hope it does.”
And as he stepped back into the winter air, he wondered—not for the first time—when wanting something new had begun to mean leaving something old behind.
Inside the Academy, warmth greeted him at once. Heat clung to stone and glass alike, softened by the steady movement of people passing through the corridors. Students murmured in low clusters, voices overlapping in half-formed theories and idle chatter. Somewhere nearby, Heimerdinger spoke animatedly with a pair of assistants, his voice bright and unmistakable even at a distance. The building hummed with motion and with the quiet confidence of minds at work.
And then Jayce reached their laboratory.
The moment he crossed the threshold, something in his chest eased. The world narrowed—not in limitation, but in focus. The familiar scent of oil and heated metal lingered in the air. Light glinted off polished surfaces and half-assembled components, each one placed with careful intent. It felt, impossibly, like coming home again.
Viktor did not look up as Jayce entered.
Goggles shielded his eyes, their lenses reflecting the small, precise sparks flaring across the worktable as he worked to merge two delicate components. The tool in his hand hissed softly, releasing pinpricks of light and fire with each measured movement. His posture was intent, absorbed, every line of him drawn toward the task at hand.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Jayce said, setting his bag down beside the long table. “I had to drop something off at my mother’s.”
There was a brief pause.
Viktor powered down the tool and set it aside before lifting his head. He slid the goggles up and away, revealing amber eyes still bright with concentration. When he looked at Jayce, the intensity softened into something quieter. Familiar.
“No trouble,” Viktor said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The meeting isn’t for another hour yet.”
Jayce returned the smile as he took a seat on his stool, already pulling documents from his leather bag. Papers spread across the table in practiced order—notes and many drafts prepared for the Council. Tonight’s meeting would not be a small one. One of their most significant investors was in attendance, eager to hear updates on the projects they had helped bring into being.
Hextech chief among them.
Mel had been insistent. Viktor and Jayce would both attend. Hextech was no longer merely an idea—it was an investment, a promise, and a risk made visible. And as much as Jayce understood the necessity of it, he could not shake the weight of what it meant.
Across the table, Viktor turned back toward his work, adjusting a component with careful, deliberate precision. After a moment, he glanced up again, noting the familiar way Jayce had returned to the meeting’s pre-read, eyes scanning lines he already knew by heart.
“We have reviewed those documents at least ten times,” Viktor remarked mildly. “I believe we are more than prepared.”
Jayce let out a soft huff of a laugh, though his gaze remained fixed on the pages, fingers absently turning them as if repetition alone might settle his thoughts. “I know,” he said. “I’m just…” His voice trailed off, the rest of the sentence left unspoken.
“—Anxious?” Viktor supplied.
Their eyes met briefly across the table.
Then Viktor looked back to his work, as though the matter were already settled. “It is understandable,” he added, quieter now. “You will do well. You always do.”
Jayce did not answer right away.
Instead, he found himself watching Viktor—taking in the familiar angles of his face, the focus softened by reassurance, the way confidence came to him not loudly, but with certainty. He lingered there a second too long before heat crept up his neck, betraying him.
He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze back to the papers. “I—thank you, Viktor,” he said, the words sincere and carefully contained.
For several minutes after that, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not awkward; it was comfortable, well-worn. The soft hum of the equipment filled the space, punctuated by the occasional shift of metal or the quiet rustle of pages as Jayce finished reviewing the documents once more.
At last, Jayce exhaled and set the papers aside. “I hope the meeting will be short.”
Viktor had already pulled his goggles back into place, tool in hand as he resumed work on another delicate assembly. Without looking up, he inclined his head slightly. “As do I. I have little tolerance left for another five-hour Council session this week.”
Jayce let out a small laugh, fond and knowing. Viktor’s distaste for such gatherings was well established. “It’s an important night,” he said, almost to himself. “I was hoping I might still have time to celebrate before it ends.”
Viktor’s hands stilled.
He did not turn, but Jayce felt the shift immediately—the subtle pause, the way Viktor’s attention sharpened even before he spoke. “Celebrate?” Viktor asked.
Jayce blinked, surprised. “You know…today is First Light Observation Day.”
There was another pause. Viktor lowered his tool this time, pushing the goggles up just enough to glance sideways. “I’m sorry?”
Only then did Jayce fully realize it. Of course Viktor would not know. Zaun did not mark the night. And Viktor, brilliant and relentlessly looking forward, was not the sort to take notice of customs that asked for stillness and reflection. Even after years at the Academy, it was entirely possible the observance had passed him by without remark.
“It’s an old Piltover tradition,” Jayce explained, gentler now, as though offering something fragile rather than a fact. “Once a year, there’s a meteor storm, the largest of the season. People gather to watch it together.” He hesitated, then added, a little quieter, “When the stars fall, you’re meant to make a wish. Not to ask for something. Just…to decide what you’re willing to reach for in the year ahead.”
Viktor was silent, his attention no longer on the work, but resting quietly on Jayce.
“A wish?” Viktor repeated, thoughtfully.
Jayce nodded. “It only lasts one night. The meteor storm, I mean.” He sighed, gaze dropping back to the papers in front of him, though the words had long since blurred into meaninglessness.
Viktor did not return to his work.
Instead, he removed the goggles fully and set them aside on the table, the soft clink of glass against metal sounding louder than it should have in the quiet of the lab. His attention remained fixed on Jayce, studying him with the careful focus he usually reserved for unstable equations.
“If the meeting runs long,” Viktor said slowly, “you will miss it.”
Jayce looked up at him then, and faltered.
Viktor’s expression had shifted. Not into concern exactly, nor disapproval, but into something more intent. Grounded. As though he were taking this night—Jayce’s night—and placing it carefully on a scale, weighing it alongside everything else that demanded their time.
Jayce felt the instinctive urge to laugh it off rise in his chest.
After all, it was a simple thing. A gentle observance, softened by time and repetition. Lanterns glowing against winter-dark stone. The scent of warm drinks rising into cold air. Families gathered close at windows and along rooftops, wrapped in blankets and shared warmth, their laughter drifting upward as the sky burned briefly above them. A night built for comfort. It was the sort of tradition carried forward out of affection, not necessity—kept alive by habit, by memory, by the quiet desire to hold onto something familiar in a city that was always changing. It asked nothing of the world, demanded no proof, offered no guarantees. It was tender. Harmless.
And standing beside that softness was Hextech.
The meeting awaiting them promised weight and scrutiny—investors with sharpened expectations, futures balanced on careful phrasing, decisions that would ripple outward beyond the Academy’s walls. Hextech was ambition made visible, consequence given form. It would change lives. It already had.
Measured against that, caring so deeply about a single night of falling stars felt childish. As though sentiment itself were something to be outgrown, set aside in favor of progress and responsibility. He knew better, of course, but knowing did not stop the instinct to diminish it. To fold the night smaller in his mind until it fit neatly beside the work that mattered.
Jayce shifted on his stool, suddenly self-conscious.
“A—anyway,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice that did not quite hold. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes skirting away. “It’s just a celebration. It’s not that important, really. Don’t worry about it, Viktor.”
The words lingered, thin and unconvincing.
Viktor did not accept them.
His gaze remained steady, unwavering, as if he could see straight through the deflection to what Jayce was carefully setting aside. There was a brief tightening at the corner of his mouth—not anger, but something close to irritation, sharpened by conviction.
“In Zaun,” Viktor said quietly, “we do not dismiss our traditions so easily.”
Jayce stilled.
“They are not indulgences,” Viktor continued. “They are how we remember what has already been taken from us, and what we refuse to lose.” He paused, then added, more softly but no less firmly, “If something endures, despite hardship…it is because it matters.”
His eyes held Jayce’s now, unyielding.
“It is important, Jayce.”
The words settled into the space between them, heavy and deliberate. And Jayce found, to his surprise, that his instinct to minimize—to set the night aside—quieted under the weight of Viktor’s certainty.
“Okay,” Jayce said at last.
The word felt small, inadequate, but it was all he had. Viktor’s sudden firmness had left him momentarily off-balance, unsure how to respond to a conviction he had not expected. Jayce had always assumed Viktor was indifferent to such things—celebrations, markers of time softened by sentiment, as he brushed past his own birthday each year, though it was an inconvenience, a distraction from work. Called it an inefficient use of time. A moment that does not require acknowledgment. Or even, an exercise in social obligation.
Jayce had never accepted that.
He celebrated it anyway. Insisted upon it, even. And though Viktor always protested, always sighed slightly, there had been something else there, too. A reluctant warmth. A quiet allowance.
“I thought you didn’t care about celebrations,” Jayce said, attempting lightness. “You’re always annoyed when I insist on celebrating your birthday.”
Viktor scoffed softly, the sound more amused than dismissive. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head. “My birthday is not the same,” he replied. “I have little interest in commemorating the particular moment I was born.” Then, after a pause, more simply: “But I do care about the rest.”
Jayce blinked. “The rest?”
“Yours, for instance,” Viktor said without hesitation.
Jayce laughed, surprised. “What do you mean you don’t care about your own birthday?” he asked. “That makes no sense.”
But even as he spoke, something tightened in his chest.
Because what he wanted to say, what pressed insistently at the back of his throat, was that he cared. That Viktor’s birthday mattered to him. That the day Viktor had entered the world felt worthy of acknowledgment, of care, of something gentler than Viktor ever allowed himself.
He cared far more than a best friend ought to.
So Jayce swallowed the words before they could surface, smiling instead, as though this were nothing more than idle banter. Across the table, Viktor watched him with that same quiet attentiveness—unaware, perhaps, or simply choosing not to look too closely. And Jayce wondered, for the first time, how something so carefully unspoken could still feel so present between them.
“I think we, eh, should—” Viktor began, then fell briefly silent, as though listening to the thought settle into place, “—skip the meeting.”
Jayce turned toward him so sharply it nearly stole his breath. “Viktor,” he said, incredulous, a laugh caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm, “we cannot skip the meeting. Are you out of your mind?”
The suggestion felt unreal the moment it was spoken—too reckless, too unlike Viktor. This was not defiance born of impulse, but something far more unsettling: deliberation. Choice. Hextech stood at the center of that meeting, heavy with expectation. There was no world in which they simply did not show.
Viktor, however, seemed entirely untroubled.
He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug, the movement loose, almost amused. “Possibly,” he conceded, a faint smile curving at his mouth as his head tilted slightly, as if acknowledging an old truth between them. “You know I am not entirely well-balanced.”
Jayce stared at him, stunned.
“But I am serious,” Viktor continued, voice steady, unhurried. “Mel does not need us there. She understands the projections, the language they expect, the risks they are prepared to tolerate.” His gaze remained fixed on Jayce, intent but calm. “Our presence would serve little purpose beyond reassurance. Presentation.” A pause, then, lightly: “Eye candy, perhaps.”
Jayce pushed himself up from his stool, tension surging through him like a tide pulled too far back. “No,” he said at once, pacing away from the table, hand running through his hair. “Absolutely not. She’ll be furious if we’re not there. And what if the investor asks something she can’t answer? What if they want specifics, or clarification, or—” His words tangled over themselves, breath growing shallow. “We can’t just disappear, Viktor. This matters.”
Behind him, Viktor watched—really watched—the restless movement, the way Jayce’s worry manifested physically, coiling him tighter with every step. There was no judgment in his expression, only focus, sharpened now into something resolute.
“She can defer,” Viktor said quietly. “She often does. It is not a failure.” He rose from his seat then, moving closer without haste, each step deliberate. “This is not the catastrophe you imagine.”
He reached out.
Viktor’s hand closed around Jayce’s arm, not forceful, not tentative. Simply there. Warm. Certain.
Jayce stopped as though anchored in place.
The contact sent a sharp awareness through him, immediate and undeniable, like a current drawn suddenly through a wire. His breath stuttered, his thoughts scattering as sensation overtook reason. Viktor’s hand was steady against his sleeve, the heat of his palm seeping through fabric and skin alike, grounding and unyielding all at once.
Jayce looked at him.
Viktor stood close—closer than propriety required, closer than either of them acknowledged in that moment. His grip was firm but gentle, thumb resting just at the inside of Jayce’s arm, unmoving. There was nothing urgent in his touch, nothing demanding. And yet, it held Jayce utterly still.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Jayce’s lips parted, a quiet breath slipping free before he could stop it. His heart thundered against his ribs, each beat loud in his ears, echoing with a feeling he refused to name. He could smell the faint trace of oil clinging to Viktor, could feel the warmth of him, the calm certainty that contrasted so sharply with Jayce’s own restless storm.
“It’s going to be fine, Jayce,” Viktor murmured.
The words were barely sound at all, more vibration than voice.
Jayce drew in a slow breath that trembled despite his effort. He became acutely aware of how close Viktor stood, of how easily he could lean in, of how dangerous the space between them had become—not because of what was happening, but because of what was not.
Viktor’s eyes held his, dark and searching, as though he were looking for something beneath the surface, something, anything that Jayce had not yet learned how to give voice to. His hand remained where it was, an anchor offered without condition.
And in that suspended moment—between duty and desire, between habit and want—Jayce felt the ache of it keenly.
The wanting.
Not for the tradition itself, not for lanterns or falling fire or even the promise carried by the night.
But for Viktor.
Standing there, steady and unyielding, his certainty offered not as command, but as permission.
Jayce nodded once. Then again, as though confirming the decision to himself. “Okay,” he said softly. “But if we are skipping the meeting…we celebrate together, right?” A faint smile curved at his lips, hopeful and unmistakably earnest.
Viktor’s hand fell away from Jayce’s arm.
The absence was immediate. Jayce felt it like a chill, sharp and unwelcome, a hollow where warmth had been only a moment before. He resisted the instinct to reach after it, to reclaim what had steadied him so effortlessly.
For a breath, Viktor did not respond.
He studied Jayce in silence, something thoughtful and restrained moving behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “I thought you would celebrate with your mother,” he said. There was no reproach in it, only surprise. Then, more hesitantly, “Besides…I am not one for wishes.”
Jayce’s smile wavered.
He took a small step closer, closing the space Viktor had left behind, and lifted his hands to rest lightly on Viktor’s shoulders. The contact was gentle, an appeal rather than a claim. “What do you mean you do not wish?” he asked, voice softening. “Please, Viktor. That’s all I’m asking.”
Viktor tensed beneath his touch.
Not pulling away—never that—but growing suddenly still, as though the contact had anchored him in place. Jayce could feel it in the subtle tightening of his shoulders, in the way Viktor’s breath caught just slightly before evening out again. He did not move. He only looked at Jayce.
Time stretched.
Jayce could almost see the calculus unfolding behind Viktor’s eyes, the weighing of effort against discomfort, of sentiment against restraint. The careful consideration Viktor applied to all things now turned inward, assessing a request that could not be solved by logic alone.
“I—” Viktor began, then faltered. “I…”
Jayce tilted his head just slightly, the faintest pout forming before he could stop himself. “Please?” he murmured.
Viktor exhaled, long and slow, as though surrendering to something inevitable. When he looked back up, the tension in his expression had softened, giving way to something warmer. Something fond.
The corner of his mouth curved into a quiet smile.
“Alright, Jayce,” Viktor said.
And in that moment, Jayce felt the night open before them, wide and full of possibility. He could celebrate here, just for a while, with Viktor beneath the quiet shelter of the Academy walls. And afterward, perhaps, he could still return to his mother, carry the night with him and share it there as well. It did not have to be a choice.
For once, he could have both.
The thought sent a lightness through his chest, an unfamiliar thrill that made his heart race with quiet excitement. This observance, this First Light, already felt different. Sharper. Brighter. As though it were being shaped not by tradition alone, but by the presence of the two people he loved most in the world. He could not imagine wishing for anything better.
By the time Jayce returned from speaking with Mel, the sun was already sinking low, the light beyond the Academy windows warming into gold. He carried two heavy bags in his hands, his shoulders relaxed now, relief written plainly across his face.
The lab looked different.
Viktor had tidied it, tools aligned, loose papers gathered and stacked with careful precision. He glanced up as Jayce entered, finishing the last of it before setting a bundle of documents aside.
“What did she say?” Viktor asked, sliding the papers neatly onto the counter.
Jayce set the bags down with a soft thud, smiling. “She protested at first,” he admitted. “But I explained. She understood.”
Viktor nodded, then reached for his cane, moving toward the bags with measured steps. “And what,” he asked, eyebrow lifting faintly, “is all of this?”
In answer, Jayce reached into one of the bags and drew out a thick, well-worn blanket. One side was a deep blue, the other a warm red, the fabric softened by years of use. He held it up with something like reverence. “Preparation,” he said lightly. “For watching the meteor storm.”
Viktor took the blanket when Jayce offered it, his fingers sinking into the plush fabric. He looked down at it for a long moment, as though assessing more than its texture. Jayce noticed the subtle widening of his pupils, the way Viktor’s focus lingered—absorbed not by the object alone, but by what it represented.
“That’s the blanket my mother and I used every year,” Jayce added, softer now. “Ever since I was a child.”
“I see,” Viktor said quietly.
There was a pause. Then, with a faint tilt of his head, he added, “As I have never participated in this observance…you will need to explain the logistics.”
The seriousness with which he said it—earnest and attentive—made Jayce’s chest warm painfully. Viktor did not treat this as a novelty. He treated it as something to be done properly. Thoughtfully.
“Alright,” Jayce said, smiling despite himself. “First, we need the right vantage point.”
He crossed the lab toward the couch tucked away in the secondary workspace. “We’ll bring this closer to the large window over there,” he explained. “That way we can sit comfortably and see the sky clearly.”
Viktor set his cane aside and approached the couch, his steps careful, slightly unsteady. “Noted,” he said, dry but cooperative.
They lifted the couch together, moving slowly, pausing when Viktor needed to adjust his footing or rest. Jayce watched him closely, attentive to every shift in balance, every breath. When they reached the window and set the couch down at last, Jayce immediately retrieved Viktor’s cane and placed it gently back into his hand.
“There,” Jayce said softly. “Perfect.”
Outside, the sky was deepening—blue bleeding slowly into indigo, the last traces of daylight thinning like breath against glass. Piltover’s lights had begun to rise below them, warm and steady, while above, the first stars gathered hesitantly, pricking through the dark as though unsure they would be welcomed.
“We can skip the second step,” Jayce said with a quiet laugh, glancing around the lab. “That’s usually where we put on comfortable clothes. Pajamas, mostly.” He gestured at the orderly chaos of tools and tables. “I don’t think the Academy would approve.”
Viktor’s mouth curved faintly, amusement softening his features. “A shame,” he replied dryly. “You seem the sort to take such matters seriously.”
Jayce smiled at that and turned toward the second bag. “Third step, then. Hot drinks.”
“Hot drinks?” Viktor echoed, following close behind. His cane tapped softly against the floor, a steady rhythm that Jayce had long since learned to find comforting.
“Traditionally,” Jayce explained, unpacking the contents and arranging them carefully on the table, “it’s hot spiced chocolate. Milk, cocoa, cinnamon. Sometimes with nutmeg, if my mother felt particularly inspired.”
He laid everything out with an almost unconscious reverence, the tin of powdered chocolate, small jars of spice, the carton of milk, each placed as though it mattered where it landed. The act itself felt ritualistic, grounding, like setting stones before a ceremony.
Viktor leaned in slightly, studying the arrangement with focused interest. His gaze lingered on the chocolate powder, then shifted to the milk. After a beat, he asked, entirely serious, “Would substituting sweetened milk for standard milk constitute a deviation from the tradition?”
Jayce paused—then laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. He reached into the kitchenette for two cups, porcelain clinking softly in his hands. “Not at all,” he said. “Traditions adapt. That’s how they stay alive.”
He retrieved the carton of sweetened milk Viktor always kept tucked away for long nights and set it deliberately alongside the rest. “This,” Jayce declared with mock solemnity, “will be Viktor’s version.”
Viktor hummed in approval, something like quiet satisfaction settling into his posture. He remained close as Jayce worked, close enough that Jayce could feel the warmth of him at his shoulder, the subtle shift of his breath. The kettle began to heat, a low sound building beneath their conversation. Jayce added the cocoa, the spices, stirring slowly as the scent bloomed into the air—rich, sweet, and so comforting, a sharp contrast to the usual metallic tang of the lab.
The smell softened everything.
Jayce poured the drinks carefully, steam rising in gentle curls. When he handed Viktor a cup, their fingers brushed, briefly. Jayce felt the contact linger long after Viktor had taken the cup, a small, electric echo beneath his skin. Viktor looked down at the cup in his hands, watching the steam drift upward like a quiet promise. He lifted it slightly, testing the warmth, then took a cautious sip. His shoulders eased just a fraction.
“I am beginning to understand the appeal,” Viktor admitted.
Jayce laughed softly at that, the sound warm and unguarded, and nodded as though the words pleased him more than he expected. Cradling his own cup, he reached for the huge blanket and carried it toward the couch with care. Viktor followed without comment, hot drink balanced carefully in one hand, his steps unhurried.
“Step four,” Jayce announced lightly, setting the blanket down, “is to get comfortable and watch the sky.”
He spread the large soft fabric across the couch, smoothing it out with both hands. Viktor watched him with faint, visible confusion, his brow knitting just slightly as Jayce fussed over the placement.
“What are you doing?” Viktor asked, tilting his head.
Jayce looked up at him and smiled—gentle and reassuring, something fond hidden just beneath it. “Sit,” he said simply. “You’ll see.”
After a brief pause, Viktor set his cane carefully aside and lowered himself onto one end of the couch. The blanket was soft beneath him, warmer than he’d expected. Jayce joined him a moment later, close. Close enough that he felt it immediately: the press of their thighs, the shared warmth of their arms brushing, the quiet awareness of another body at rest beside his own.
Viktor’s surprise was subtle, but Jayce caught it, the faint widening of his eyes, the brief stillness before he settled again. It was enough.
“Now,” Jayce murmured, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “you take your side of the blanket and pull it over yourself.” He demonstrated, lifting the remaining fabric and draping it over his shoulder. Viktor hesitated for only a second before mimicking the motion, drawing the blanket up around himself.
And suddenly, they were wrapped together—two figures tucked beneath a shared cocoon of warmth, heads peeking out as the blanket pooled around them. The world seemed to narrow to the space they occupied, quiet and enclosed, the lab fading into something distant and irrelevant.
Jayce stifled a laugh, glancing sideways at Viktor. “See?” he said softly.
Viktor looked down at the blanket, then at Jayce, then toward the darkening window beyond them. His expression shifted, not into amusement, exactly, but into something gentler. Something thoughtful.
“I see,” he said again, but this time the words carried weight.
They settled like that, shoulders brushing, warmth shared, cups steaming slowly between their hands. The blanket gathered their heat and held it close, a small, deliberate shelter against the vastness beyond the glass. Jayce could feel Viktor’s presence in a hundred subtle ways—the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the faint shift of his weight when he adjusted, the steady warmth at his side that felt neither intrusive nor distant, but exactly where it ought to be.
Outside, the sky deepened further, indigo sinking into something richer, darker, almost endless. The stars gathered more boldly now, pinpricks of white and gold blooming one by one against the velvet dark, as if the cosmos was quietly unfolding. Far below, Piltover’s lights shimmered like a scattered reflection, dimmed and humbled beneath the greater glow above. And inside, the silence between them felt easy. Not the brittle hush of things left unsaid, but a silence shaped by comfort and trust. It pressed in gently, full rather than empty, asking nothing of either of them. They watched the sky together, unmoving, as though afraid that speaking might fracture the moment.
Time seemed to slow.
At length, Viktor spoke.
“Thank you, Jayce,” he said, his voice low and sincere, a faint smile resting at the edge of his lips. His gaze remained fixed on the stars, their light mirrored faintly in his eyes. “For sharing your tradition with me.”
Jayce turned toward him.
Viktor was closer than he had realized, or perhaps closer than he had allowed himself to acknowledge. In the softened glow filtering through the window, every detail of him felt suddenly vivid. The shape of the small mole on his cheek. The gentle slope of his nose. The dark fringe of his lashes catching starlight like fine threads of ink. The curve of his mouth, familiar and endlessly arresting, the spot where he worried at his lip when thoughts ran too sharp or too deep. Jayce’s gaze traced downward before he could stop it, the line of Viktor’s jaw, the subtle hollow at his throat where his pulse beat steadily, undeniably alive.
He stopped himself there.
Heat rose beneath his skin, his heart stumbling over itself as though it had forgotten its rhythm. “It’s my pleasure, V,” he said softly, the words shaped with care, with more meaning than he dared give voice to.
For a heartbeat, he forgot the sky entirely. The view beside him—quiet and real—felt impossibly more beautiful than anything falling beyond the glass. But he forced himself to look away, lifting his gaze back to the sky before Viktor could notice the weight of his attention.
“I appreciate that you cared enough to participate,” Jayce added after a moment, his voice steadier now, eyes still fixed upward.
Viktor smiled again, and then turned his head.
Jayce felt the shift immediately. The awareness of Viktor’s gaze settled over him like warmth, like gravity. “Of course,” Viktor said simply. “I care.”
The words were unadorned, offered without emphasis or defense. And yet, Jayce felt the sentence extend beyond itself, felt the things Viktor chose not to say lingering in the air between them. Viktor did not look away at once. His eyes lingered on Jayce, searching, thoughtful, as though he were standing at the edge of a realization he had not yet decided to cross.
Then—
“Oh,” Jayce breathed, sudden delight breaking through the stillness. “Viktor, look—it’s starting!”
The first meteor tore across the sky, brilliant and brief, a streak of fire etching itself into darkness before vanishing. Another followed close behind, then another, until the sky seemed to stir in earnest. Jayce shifted on the couch, excitement rippling through him, his shoulder brushing Viktor’s as he leaned forward just slightly, eyes bright with wonder.
The sky was alive with motion now, falling light scattering across the night like sparks shaken loose from some vast, unseen forge.
And beside him, Viktor watched.
Not only the stars, but the way Jayce’s face caught their glow—the quiet awe written into his expression, as though the sky itself had reached down and chosen him in return.
“It’s mesmerizing,” Viktor said at last. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its edge, as though wonder had smoothed it down. His eyes followed a fading trail of light, lingering where it vanished into darkness.
“It is,” Jayce answered at once, unable to keep the delight from his voice. There was something almost childlike in it, unguarded and bright. “It really is.” He shifted beneath the blanket, the movement small but animated, excitement stirring in him like a spark newly caught. “Alright. Now comes the important part.”
He turned slightly toward Viktor, lowering his voice instinctively, as if the stars themselves were close enough to overhear.
“You have to think of a wish,” Jayce said. “But not just any wish.” He paused, searching for the right shape of the words. “It has to come from the heart. Something you want to reach for, not because it’s easy, or expected, but because it’s honest. Something that lives deep inside you.”
The sky reflected faintly in Viktor’s eyes as he listened.
“It doesn’t have to be big,” Jayce continued, more gently now. “It doesn’t have to change the world. It just has to matter deeply to you.” A beat. “And not in a selfish way.”
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable quiet they had shared before, but something more inward, more intent. Viktor grew very still. Jayce could see it, the way his posture settled, the way his gaze fixed on the sky while his thoughts clearly turned elsewhere. Viktor was thinking, truly thinking, with the careful seriousness he gave to problems that mattered.
After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“And if it is selfish?” Viktor asked quietly. “What happens then?”
Jayce smiled, not teasing, but warm and reassuring. “Nothing,” he said. “That’s the thing. The stars don’t punish you. They just…don’t notice.” He shrugged lightly. “It passes by. Like it was never there.”
Viktor nodded, absorbing the answer. His eyes flicked sideways for the briefest moment, meeting Jayce’s before returning to the sky. Something unreadable passed through his expression.
“When you’ve found your wish,” Jayce went on, his voice softer still, “you wait.” He gestured vaguely upward, fingers tracing an absent arc. “You watch for your star. Not the brightest one. Not the biggest. Just the one that feels right to you, before closing your eyes to wish.”
He glanced at Viktor. “The most beautiful one. Yours.”
Viktor nodded again, a small, thoughtful smile curving at his mouth. “I understand.”
“And there’s one last rule,” Jayce added, unable to hide the enthusiasm in his tone. He leaned just slightly closer, shoulder brushing Viktor’s beneath the blanket. “You don’t say your wish out loud. Not to anyone.”
Viktor’s eyes remained on the sky, but his attention sharpened. “Why?”
Jayce chuckled softly. “Because it isn’t meant for the world,” he said. “It’s a secret. Just between you and the star.”
Viktor huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head as though amused by the simplicity of it. “I see.” Then, after a pause, after watching another streak of light carve itself briefly across the dark, he asked, “And if I close my eyes too soon?”
Jayce’s smile softened into something almost reverent.
“Then the star might think you’re wishing on fear,” he said.
The words settled gently, like snow upon Piltover’s stone, quiet enough to change the shape of everything they touched.
They turned their attention back to the sky, waiting. The meteor storm unfurled at its own unhurried pace, streaks of light carving brief, luminous paths before dissolving into darkness. Viktor sipped his drink in silence, the steam rising and curling between them, fragrant with spice and warmth. At some point, so gradual Jayce might not have noticed had he not been attuned to him in ways he could not name, Viktor leaned closer. His shoulder pressed more fully against Jayce’s, his weight settling with subtle trust, as though Jayce’s body had become a natural place to rest. It was unspoken, unasked for. And Jayce let it happen, heart stuttering at the simple intimacy of it.
“How long does it usually take,” Viktor asked quietly, eyes never leaving the sky, “for a wish to work?”
Jayce smiled to himself and took a slow sip of his spiced chocolate, letting the warmth steady him. “It depends,” he said. “On the wish, I think. There’s no way to know.”
“Alright,” Viktor murmured. A pause followed, long enough to feel deliberate. “I hope it’s quick, then. I would like it to happen soon.”
Jayce laughed softly, unable to help himself, and turned his head just enough to look at him. “Then I hope it does,” he said warmly. “For you.”
Viktor glanced at him then, the corner of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile, and for a moment they simply looked at one another. The world seemed to narrow to that shared glance, to the warmth beneath the blanket, to the failing stars reflected in Viktor’s amber eyes, to the ease of that smile. The moment felt suspended, almost unreal, as though they had stepped briefly outside the flow of time.
It was special, Jayce realized. He could feel it in the steady beat of his heart, in the way the air between them seemed charged with something fragile and rare. This was not just tradition anymore. This was not just watching the sky together. This was a moment that would linger, no matter how gently it passed.
And so Jayce began to think of his own wish.
At first, his thoughts went where they always did, to Hextech. To progress, to breakthroughs, to the promise of making the world better through invention and magic shaped by their hands. He had wished for that before. Year after year, with unwavering certainty. It was the work of his life. The thing that had defined him.
But as he watched the stars fall again, he felt the question surface quietly, insistently.
Was it truly everything he wanted?
No.
There was something else, something he had never dared to frame as a wish, something he had kept carefully folded away, unexamined. Something far more dangerous than ambition.
Jayce turned his gaze to Viktor.
The falling stars reflected in Viktor’s eyes, catching there like sparks trapped in amber. He looked peaceful, thoughtful, and impossibly dear. Not just his partner. Not just his closest friend. But the man Jayce loved, with a depth that frightened him, with a tenderness he had never learned how to contain. The man he wished—so desperately—to be more than friends with. More than collaborators bound by shared work and shared purpose. More than two figures passing each other endlessly in the orbit of something unsaid.
His heart pressed the thought forward again and again, urging him toward a wish he could not allow himself to make.
He could not wish to be loved back.
That desire belonged too firmly in the realm of selfishness. It asked too much. It reached too far into another’s heart. The stars would not grant it. They would pass over it in silence, untouched.
And so Jayce held the wish where it had always lived, unclaimed, while the sky continued to fall open above them, brilliant and indifferent, bearing witness all the same.
Then, it happened without warning.
Viktor’s body stilled suddenly, a subtle tension passing through him like a held breath. Jayce felt it at once. He turned his head just in time to see Viktor’s eyes slip closed, his expression softening into something private. The stars continued to fall beyond the glass, but Viktor had turned away from them, retreating into the quiet chamber of his own thoughts.
Jayce watched him.
He watched the way Viktor’s brow smoothed, the way his shoulders eased beneath the blanket, the faint parting of his lips as though he were shaping something wordless and fragile. This—this was Viktor wishing. Jayce felt a strange, tender reverence settle over him, as though he were witnessing something sacred, something Viktor rarely allowed himself.
When Viktor opened his eyes again, the sky rushed back into them.
Jayce smiled before he could stop himself.
“Congratulations on your first wish,” he said lightly, a teasing warmth threading through his voice.
Viktor smiled in return, genuine. “Thank you, Jayce.” He turned his gaze back to the cosmos, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
But Jayce knew better.
He lifted his gaze back to the sky. And then, after a single breath, there it was. Jayce saw it immediately: his star.
It cut across the sky with breathtaking clarity, trailing light in hues of pale pink and soft blue, as if dawn itself had been briefly set free in the night. It lingered longer than the others, its glow unhurried, unmistakable. It was perfect. Undeniably his.
His breath caught.
This was the moment. He should wish, quickly, before the star faded. He searched himself instinctively for the right words, the right intent. Hextech rose to mind, familiar and practiced. Progress. Purpose. The betterment of the world.
But the thoughts dissolved before they could take shape.
All he saw was Viktor.
Viktor’s face as his eyes had closed. Viktor’s quiet stillness. Viktor beside him now, warm and real and unknowingly at the center of everything Jayce had never allowed himself to want.
His heart beat loud and insistent in his chest, each pulse urging him toward something terrifyingly selfish.
He closed his eyes.
And he wished.
The world drew inward, collapsing gently around the quiet dark behind his lids. Sound softened. Time loosened its hold. Jayce felt the wish settle in his chest like a fragile ember, soft, but burning all the same. Above them, the sky continued its quiet violence, stars tearing themselves free in brilliant arcs, indifferent to the small human hope being held so carefully beneath them.
Then, warmth.
A hand rose to his cheek, firm enough to be real, gentle enough to feel like a promise. Viktor’s hand. Jayce inhaled sharply, surprise blooming too fast for thought, his body responding before his mind could catch up. Fingers curved along his jaw, thumb resting just beneath his cheekbone, guiding him—not forcing—turning his face with unmistakable intent.
“Vik—”
The word dissolved between them.
Viktor’s lips met his.
The kiss was soft, almost reverent, placed with care as though Viktor were afraid of startling him, or perhaps afraid of startling himself. It was warm and slow, a meeting at last rather than a collision. Their breath mingled, uneven at first, then finding a shared rhythm, as though they had always known how to breathe together.
Jayce felt the world tilt.
Viktor tasted of sweetened milk and cocoa, of warmth drawn from shared cups and winter comfort, threaded through with the familiar, grounding scent of oil and metal clinging to his clothes. It was unmistakably him, brilliant and human and so real. Jayce’s heart surged at the intimacy of it, at the realization that this was happening, that it was allowed suddenly.
His hand rose without conscious decision, fingers sliding into the curve of Viktor’s neck, anchoring him there—not to claim, but to stay a bit more. To reassure himself that Viktor would not vanish if he opened his eyes. The kiss deepened, naturally, as though it had been waiting for permission rather than momentum. Jayce parted his lips, and Viktor followed, the press of their mouths growing more certain, more honest.
There was no rush. No desperation. Only the recognition it deserved.
Something long restrained finally unfurled, two lives aligning after years of orbit, drawn together by gravity neither had dared to name. And when they finally broke apart, it was not abrupt. It was slow, reluctant, as though the moment itself resisted ending. Their foreheads hovered close, breath mingling, the space between them humming with everything that had not yet been said.
Jayce opened his eyes.
Viktor was smiling.
Not nervous. Not uncertain. Just Viktor, soft-eyed and wholly present. As though kissing Jayce were not an impulse, but a conclusion to something more.
Jayce’s heart thundered in his chest, loud and grounding, anchoring him to the reality of what had just occurred. Confusion flared, twined tightly with awe. His lips still tingled. His hand still rested at Viktor’s neck, unwilling to move away.
“Well,” Viktor said lightly, a hint of mischief threading through his voice, “it appears you were mistaken, Jayce.”
Jayce blinked, still catching his breath. “I—” He swallowed, laughter and disbelief tangling together. “First of all…what was that?” His voice wavered despite himself. “And second—why?”
Viktor laughed.
Not the sharp, guarded sound Jayce had heard in tense debates, but a real one. Soft. Warm. Unrestrained. The kind of laugh that always made Jayce’s chest ache with affection, the kind that felt like being let into something private.
“Well,” Viktor said at last, the mirth in his voice fading into something quieter, more sincere, “my wish was something utterly selfish.” He glanced briefly toward the window, where the last streaks of light still traced the sky, before turning back to Jayce. “And then it happened almost immediately.”
Jayce watched him closely now, heart thudding with a new, delicate anticipation.
“I think,” Viktor continued, his tone thoughtful, almost amused by the simplicity of it, “that it may be because my star was the most beautiful of them all.” He smiled then, not in passing, but fully, openly. He looked at Jayce as though the meaning were obvious, as though it had been obvious all along.
For a heartbeat, Jayce forgot how to breathe.
Then laughter escaped him—bright and disbelieving, threaded with joy so sudden it startled him. “You acted on your own wish,” he said, shaking his head, the words barely able to contain his smile. “That’s not how this is supposed to work.”
“Are you certain?” Viktor asked, his expression fond and quietly proud.
Jayce laughed again, softer this time, warmth spreading through him like a slow, welcome tide.
And yet, as the thought settled, he knew Viktor was right.
Wishing had never been magic. It was philosophy, intent given shape. A decision made in silence, rendered meaningful only through action. The stars did not change the world. People did, by daring to move toward what they wanted, even when it frightened them.
“Well,” Jayce said, voice gentler now, eyes shining. He met Viktor’s gaze, unguarded. “Mine worked right away too.”
Viktor did not ask what the wish had been.
He did not need to.
Instead, he leaned in, resting his head against Jayce’s shoulder, fitting there with effortless familiarity. The contact was soft, intimate in its simplicity, a quiet claiming that asked for nothing and yet gave everything. Jayce felt the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the profound rightness of having him there.
“I figured,” Viktor murmured.