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The timeline for death shifts constantly, Jayce realizes. It is entirely dependent on what kind of day or week Viktor is having, on if he is feeling stronger or weaker, and even then it could mean a variety of things.
The doctors-most of whom have given a timeline of at least five months, at maximum seven-state that a good week, where Viktor is more active and aware, could mean his medications and treatments are working on improving his quality of life. Or, as he's learned, it could mean he is experiencing terminal lucidity, a horrific state in which someone is suddenly seeming more healthy, alive, before death comes swiftly after and ruins everything. But Viktor's good weeks aren't good in the sense he is acting as if he was not actively creeping towards death. No, Viktor's good weeks are ones where he is able to finish a meal, stay awake all day, and do more than just sit and read in the sun.
Viktor's bad days and weeks are ones where he feels so far away, the kind of deep trench that has a bottom that cannot be seen even with the brightest light. Those bad days and weeks are spent on supplemental oxygen, fed through a belly tube, not because Viktor loses an appetite, but because he doesn't have the cognition to chew and swallow. On those days, Jayce will sit in bed, or pull him out to the couch, the porch if it is nice enough, and rock with him, tell him shared stories.
But death has not come for Viktor yet.
Jayce knows it will. He understands that now.
It does not make it any less devastating.
“Viktor? Ma? I’m home!”
Jayce toes off his boots just inside the front door, stepping out of the worn leather and nudging them to the side with practiced care, lining them up near his other pairs. His mother’s flats and heels are already there, neatly arranged the way she likes them, toes aligned, straps tucked in. The entryway smells faintly of citrus cleaner, sharp and clean, and one look at the sheen on the floor tells him it was mopped recently. He doesn’t bother pulling on his house shoes; the last thing he wants to do is scuff the fresh work the maid service has done.
He moves deeper into the living room, footsteps quiet out of habit. It’s empty, which explains the lack of response, but the air is warm and lived-in. The smell of fresh bread and herbs lingers, unmistakable, comforting in a way that makes something loosen in his chest. A basket of laundry sits on the coffee table, clothes folded with care-his shirts stacked together, Viktor’s softer things arranged more gently, as if fabric alone could bruise him if handled wrong.
Jayce passes the couch and pauses at the door to Viktor’s bedroom, which is cracked open just enough to let light spill across the hall. He peers inside. The bed is neatly made, no sign of a napping figure tucked into the covers, and the en-suite bathroom is dark, quiet, unused.
“Vik?” he calls again, softer this time.
His mother’s purse is still hanging from its hook by the door, which tells him she hasn’t gone anywhere. Viktor’s crutches lean against the bedroom wall where they’re always placed, angled just so, within easy reach. Jayce closes the door gently.
“You in here?”
A draft brushes past him, cool and smelling of spring, carrying with it the sound of his mother’s voice from somewhere outside. “Out here, miho.”
Jayce smiles. A day outside is always a good sign.
He follows the trail of cool air through the kitchen, past the counter where a loaf of fresh sourdough rests on a rack, crust cracked just right, the scent richer up close. The kitchen is spotless in that particular way that comes after other people clean it-nothing out of place, everything slightly unfamiliar. He pushes through the back door and steps out onto the patio.
His mother sits in one of the rocking chairs, moving slowly back and forth as she works her crochet, fingers steady despite the faint metallic clink of the prosthetics woven among them. She looks up when he approaches, smiling easily, warmth softening her features. Jayce leans down to kiss both her cheeks, and she returns the gesture, rubbing a hand up and down his back when he perches briefly on the armrest beside her.
Viktor is asleep.
The hammock sways gently a few feet away, angled perfectly to catch the sun without leaving him exposed. No risk of sunburn, but enough warmth to sink into his bones. Viktor’s chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, a thick book resting against him, pages splayed open where sleep overtook him. Jayce doesn’t disturb him.
Without the heavy leg brace and the rigid back support he used to wear, Viktor looks less constrained, his posture softer, more natural. The augmented leg bears his weight now even when coordination fails him, and the newer back support-a flexible, fabric-based one-doesn’t cage his chest the way the old one did. Jayce listens, instinctively, for the sounds he’s learned to fear. There’s no wheeze, no wet rattle. Viktor’s breathing is quiet, unlabored. His lips are pink, his fingers warm, no bluish tint, no dark bruising under his eyes.
“We have had a good day so far,” his mother says before he can ask.
Jayce exhales, the tension easing just a little.
“He ate quite a good breakfast. Drank more than enough water. We came out here when the service arrived this morning.”
“Did he eat lunch?” Jayce asks. “Or is it one of those big-supper days?”
“Half a sandwich, a bowl of fruit, and a bag of crisps,” she replies. “We ordered in, since the service was cleaning most of the house. The only thing they did not clean was the oven-I had bread in there-but it did not need cleaning either way.”
Jayce whistles under his breath. That’s a very good day for Viktor. Two meals, fluids, rest, reading. And it’s only halfway done.
“Well,” Jayce says, straightening. “I thought I’d get out of the forge early. Long weekend and all.”
He steps closer to the hammock, moving quietly so as not to wake Viktor, and peers down at him. The wheelchair sits nearby, positioned just right, brakes locked. Jayce checks them automatically anyway.
“Did you have plans for dinner?” he asks over his shoulder, keeping his voice light. “I already ate my packed lunch, so I can grab something if we needed more or wanted something we didn't have.”
His fingers brush through Viktor’s hair, warm from the sun. Viktor stirs slightly, breathing shifting, but doesn’t wake yet.
“No need. I also ordered a pint of tomato soup,” his mother says, setting her crochet aside and flexing her fingers. “We can heat that. And leftovers.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Jayce leans in, brushing Viktor’s bangs away from his eyes. “Hey,” he says softly. “Time to wake up, Vik.”
Viktor’s face scrunches for a moment before relaxing. His eyes blink open slowly, unfocused at first, then settling on Jayce. His joints pop quietly as he stretches, fingers tangling in the rope of the hammock. His gaze is misty but warm.
“Hello,” Viktor murmurs. “I fell asleep.”
“Yeah,” Jayce replies, smiling.
He hears his mother stand behind him, the soft rustle of fabric as she gathers her things. She’ll disappear upstairs now-put away laundry, read, give them space. She always does.
Jayce appreciates it more than he can say.
“Did you sleep well?” He rests a hand against Viktor’s lower back, feeling the line of his spine through layers of fabric. There’s more padding there now than there used to be, thanks to the supplemental feeds, but the hardware is still there beneath the skin. The screws. The angles. He hates how aware he is of it.
“Yes,” Viktor says, nodding as his legs tremble slightly with the effort of stretching. “I did. Got through half of this novel, I think. How was your work?”
Viktor scoots carefully, swinging his legs over the side. Jayce unlocks the wheelchair and rolls it into place without comment, offering an arm only when Viktor reaches for balance. The transfer is slow but successful.
“Thank you,” Viktor says.
“No problem.”
Jayce steps back, letting Viktor take control of the chair. “Work was fine. A lot of melting today. Not much creating.”
“You should do more creating,” Viktor says over his shoulder as he wheels inside. “Perhaps toys.”
“Viktor,” Jayce says, mock-offended. “How scandalous. In my mother’s home?”
Viktor grins, unbothered, gold eyes bright with mischief-the same look he’d worn all those years ago, standing in forbidden offices, planning impossible things.
Jayce follows him inside, closing the porch door. The laundry basket is gone. His mother has retreated.
“You are a pervert, Jayce Talis,” Viktor says mildly. “You know I meant toys for children.” He parks beside the radio, leaning in to adjust the dials. “You could make ducks that walk when you wind them. Fish that swim in water. Boats that move in pools.”
Jayce drops onto the couch, knees popping after a long day of standing. “Why are all your ideas water-based?”
Jazz fills the room-saxophones, smooth and low. Jayce doesn’t complain. Viktor likes it.
He turns in his wheelchair, still smiling.
Still a good day.
"What can I say?" Viktor says, pushing himself next to Jayce, dropping his hand over Jayce's. Their fingers intertwine. "I love the ocean."
A very good day.
That’s reason enough to keep going.
Jayce has learned that shame can only exist if it is allowed space to take root. It needs permission, attention, reinforcement. Being a caregiver, being someone another person depends on so completely, means Jayce cannot allow that space to exist. Not in his home. Not in Viktor’s body. Not between them.
That understanding did not come easily.
At first, when Viktor’s illness progressed to the point where daily care became harder, it felt manageable. Almost deceptively so. Helping brush Viktor’s hair, slow and careful so the bristles did not catch. Guiding the toothbrush when Viktor’s grip weakened, squeezing the paste himself, holding the cup while Viktor rinsed. Pulling socks over thin ankles, easing feet into shoes. These things felt intimate, yes, but not overwhelming. They were practical. Straightforward. Tasks that could be done quietly, gently, without needing to name what was being lost.
Jayce told himself that this was simply what partners did. That love made these actions natural.
The line shifted when Viktor could no longer trust himself in the shower.
Even with the chair bolted into the tub, even with the rail along the wall, there was too much risk. The heat that soothed his aching joints also made his vision swim. Standing too long meant dizziness. Lifting his head to rinse his hair meant nausea, sometimes black spots at the edges of his sight. One mistake, one misjudgment, and he could fall.
So Jayce stayed.
Those first attempts were unbearable in their awkwardness. Jayce stood beside the tub, fully clothed, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on the tile or the far wall. His face burned as hot as Viktor’s skin beneath the spray. Neither of them spoke. The water filled the silence, loud enough to drown out thoughts but not enough to erase them. Jayce moved stiffly, every motion deliberate, terrified of doing something wrong, terrified of seeing too much, terrified of making Viktor feel small.
Viktor never said a word about it. That somehow made it worse.
Then came the weakness in Viktor’s upper body.
It crept in slowly, subtle enough that it could be ignored at first. His arms tired more quickly. His shoulders trembled when he lifted them too long. Washing his hair became exhausting. He started skipping it. Jayce noticed, pretended not to. He did not want to assume. He did not want to push. He did not want to make Viktor feel like he was failing at something else.
But need has a way of eroding pride.
Jayce will never forget that moment. Viktor, sitting in the chair, water running over his back, lifting the washcloth with shaking fingers. His voice quiet, careful, as if asking too loudly might shatter something fragile. Asking Jayce if he could help wash his back. The cloth slipping slightly as his hand trembled, water dripping from his fingers and splattering uselessly against the tile. His grip so unsteady that the droplets seemed to jump rather than fall.
Jayce still feels the guilt when he thinks about how long Viktor must have debated asking. How much effort it must have taken to speak at all.
From that moment on, Jayce stopped pretending.
He became involved because he had to be. Because love demanded it. Because avoidance was no longer kindness.
Now he rubs the coffee scrub into Viktor’s arms himself, slow circles, careful pressure. He chose it because the scent comforts Viktor, because it softens his skin without being harsh. He works knots free from Viktor’s hair with his fingers, patient, methodical, letting the conditioner soak while he talks. About nothing. About everything. About the day, the weather, stray thoughts that wander in and out.
Most days, they laugh.
They talk about memories, good and bad tangled together. Viktor throwing up in the carriage before their first Distinguished Innovators event, pale and furious and mortified all at once. Jayce tumbling down half a flight of stairs because he dropped half a croissant and tried to catch it before it hit the floor. The late night after one impossibly good day, when Viktor stayed awake, ate two full meals, talked until his skin wrinkled from the water, refusing to get out because he felt normal for once.
Viktor joking that he now understood how Councilor Hoskel looked without his skin stretchers, which sent Jayce into helpless laughter. Laughing so hard he wheezed, clutching the edge of the tub, tears streaking down his face.
Of course Viktor noticed. Of course Viktor made an oxygen joke, dry and perfectly timed, at his own expense.
Jayce laughed anyway.
He always does.
There are good days, there are bad days, there are off days.
Bad days can come in many forms: weakness and fatigue, frustration and devastation, or simply too sick to do anything but lie in bed and sleep.
Some bad days-Viktor is far away.
And Jayce doesn't know where he goes.
Morning comes without ceremony. Jayce is already awake when it does, listening to Viktor’s breathing beside him, counting the spaces between inhales the way he does on bad days. This is one of those days. He knows it before Viktor opens his eyes, knows it in the way Viktor’s body hasn’t shifted once all night, in the faint sound of congestion that wasn’t there yesterday, in the heaviness that settles in Jayce’s chest as soon as he swings his legs out of bed.
He sits on the edge of the mattress for a moment, grounding himself. Bad days require steadiness, not urgency. Panic helps no one.
“Hey,” he says softly, touching Viktor’s shoulder. “It’s morning.”
Viktor doesn’t respond. His eyes flutter, unfocused, then close again. Jayce tries once more, thumb brushing along Viktor’s collarbone, a familiar anchor.
“Vik. It’s me.”
This time Viktor’s eyes open, but there’s no recognition yet. His gaze slides past Jayce’s face, unfixed. His mouth opens as if to speak, then closes. Jayce waits. He has learned how long to wait.
“Hi,” Viktor finally whispers, the word thin and effortful. Jayce isn’t sure if Viktor recognizes him or is being his version of polite on an off day.
“Hi,” Jayce answers back immediately. “You don’t have to do anything yet. We’re just waking up.”
Getting Viktor upright takes time. Jayce adjusts the bed first, raising it inch by inch so Viktor doesn’t get dizzy. He keeps one hand firm at Viktor’s back, the other braced at his chest. Viktor sags forward almost immediately, muscles failing him before his mind can catch up. Jayce compensates without comment, shifting closer, letting Viktor’s weight rest against him.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Viktor nods weakly, eyes already drifting closed again. Jayce keeps talking, low and constant, describing what he’s doing as much for himself as for Viktor.
“Okay. Feet on the floor. Good. I’m right here.”
Standing is not an option today. Jayce doesn’t try. He transfers Viktor straight into the wheelchair, lifting more than guiding, careful of joints and tubing, murmuring reassurances Viktor barely seems to register. Viktor’s head lolls to the side once he’s seated, chin dropping toward his chest. Jayce adjusts it gently, thumb under his jaw.
“Hey,” he says again. “Eyes up, okay? Just for a second.”
Viktor’s eyes open sluggishly. He blinks at Jayce like he’s underwater. “Sorry,” he murmurs, automatically.
Jayce shuts that down immediately. “No. Don’t apologize.”
The bathroom routine is stripped to essentials. No shower. No standing at the sink. Jayce brings the warm water to Viktor instead, a basin on the counter, a soft cloth. He wipes Viktor’s face slowly, carefully, speaking before each touch so Viktor isn’t startled. Viktor barely reacts, only turning his head when Jayce prompts him.
“Open your mouth,” Jayce says gently, holding the toothbrush. Viktor tries. His jaw trembles, then slackens. Jayce adjusts, guiding the motion himself, brushing with practiced efficiency, watching Viktor’s breathing the entire time. When Viktor coughs weakly, Jayce pauses instantly, hand steady on his shoulder until it passes.
Dressing takes the longest. Viktor can’t lift his arms. He can’t hold his balance. Jayce does everything, narrating as he goes, grounding both of them in the sequence of familiar steps. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Each movement deliberate, unhurried.
By the time they’re done, Viktor is pale and glassy-eyed, head tipped back against the wheelchair. Jayce crouches in front of him, checking pupils, checking skin temperature, pressing his thumb gently against Viktor’s wrist to feel the pulse.
“Can you look at me?” Jayce asks.
It takes several seconds, but Viktor does. His eyes find Jayce’s, unfocused but obedient.
“There you are,” Jayce says quietly. “Good job.”
Viktor swallows. “Tired,” he says, the word barely audible.
“I know,” Jayce replies. “You don’t have to do anything else right now.”
He wheels Viktor to the kitchen, already having decided breakfast will be liquid. He helps Viktor sip slowly, one swallow at a time, stopping frequently to let him rest. Viktor’s eyes close between sips, body slumping forward until Jayce steadies him again.
Jayce doesn’t think about how many bad days there have been, or how close together they’re getting. He doesn’t think about timelines. He thinks about the angle of Viktor’s neck, the temperature of the drink, the way Viktor’s fingers curl weakly into his sleeve when Jayce leans close.
Jayce notices the way Viktor’s head keeps tipping forward before Viktor seems to realize it himself. Each time, Jayce corrects it gently, fingers firm at the base of his skull, guiding him back upright. After the third time, he stops pretending it’s something Viktor can manage today.
“Okay,” Jayce murmurs, mostly to himself. “We’re going to add some help.”
He wheels Viktor back toward the bedroom, movements slow and smooth so Viktor doesn’t sway too hard with the turns. Viktor doesn’t protest. He doesn’t comment. His eyes are half-lidded now, tracking light more than objects.
Jayce grabs the neck pillow from the chair by the bed, the one Viktor hates on good days because it makes him feel trapped. Today, Viktor barely reacts when Jayce lifts his head and fits it into place. Jayce adjusts it carefully, fingers checking alignment, making sure it isn’t pressing too hard under the jaw.
“There,” he says quietly. “That better?”
Viktor blinks. There’s a delay before he nods, slow and shallow. “Mm.”
Jayce pulls the blanket from the foot of the bed, the heavier one, and drapes it over Viktor’s legs once he’s transferred him back onto the mattress. He tucks it around calves and knees, leaving Viktor’s feet free so he can monitor circulation. Viktor’s legs are cold this morning. Jayce notices immediately, rubs warmth back into them through the fabric before smoothing the blanket flat.
“Warm,” Viktor says faintly, like he’s surprised by it.
“Yeah,” Jayce answers. “You’re running cool today.”
He doesn’t say more. Viktor doesn’t need explanations right now.
The feeding pump sits on the bedside table, already cleaned from last night. Jayce moves with automatic precision, hands practiced enough that he can do most of this without looking directly at Viktor, though he keeps glancing back anyway. He checks the bag, checks the label, checks the expiration even though he knows it’s fine. Bad days make him meticulous.
“I’m going to set up your feed,” Jayce says, keeping his voice even. “You don’t have to help.”
Viktor’s eyes drift toward him, then slide away again. “Okay,” he murmurs.
Jayce primes the line first, watching the liquid travel through the tubing, tapping out air bubbles with careful flicks of his fingers. Air bubbles in feed tubes are not a big deal the way they are in IVs-they just cause bloating-but Jayce refuses to chance Viktor be uncomfortable. He adjusts the rate on the machine, lower than usual. Viktor’s stomach tolerates less on days like this. Everything does.
When Jayce lifts Viktor’s shirt, Viktor startles slightly, breath hitching. Jayce freezes instantly, hand still.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s just me.”
There’s a pause. Viktor’s brow furrows, confusion crossing his face before recognition slowly settles back in.
“Oh,” Viktor says. “Sorry.”
“No,” Jayce replies immediately. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He waits until Viktor’s breathing evens out again before continuing. He cleans the port carefully, methodical, narrating each step even though Viktor’s eyes have closed again.
“Cleaning first. Just cold for a second.”
Viktor flinches anyway, barely perceptible, fingers twitching against the blanket. Jayce connects the line smoothly, checks the seal twice, then steps back to look at the machine. He presses start and watches the screen until the numbers stabilize, until the quiet mechanical hum becomes steady.
“There we go,” he says. “All set.”
Viktor’s head tips slightly to the side within the pillow. His mouth opens, then closes. Jayce leans in automatically.
“What is it?”
“Tastes… weird,” Viktor says, voice unfocused.
Jayce swallows. “You’re not tasting it, love.” He checks the port again. Clear, no redness. Viktor’s belly is also soft and rounded under his hand, no bloat. Viktor is physically fine. “You’re okay, baby. No taste at all.”
He’s just confused.
“Oh,” Viktor replies. A beat. “Okay.”
Jayce stays close anyway, one hand resting lightly on Viktor’s thigh through the blanket, the other braced on the bed. He watches for signs of discomfort, nausea, agitation. Viktor’s eyes flutter, then close fully, lashes resting against his cheeks.
“Sleep,” Jayce says quietly. “I’m right here.”
Viktor doesn’t answer this time. His fingers curl weakly around the edge of Jayce’s sleeve, grip barely there but intentional enough that Jayce feels it like a weight.He stays there until the machine beeps, the line ready to be flushed, the port ready to be closed.
Maybe after, Jayce will crawl into bed too, wrap himself around Viktor to dream about better days. Maybe after, Viktor will wake and be clearer.
Or maybe that’s just a dream.
Some days it's Jayce who has the bad day.
Some days it's justified through exhaustion and council bullshit (he's resigned three times now) but he never takes it out on Viktor. He'll wait for when the man is asleep or distracted to let it out. But sometimes-
Sometimes he's just an asshole.
"I want to be laid to rest at sea."
Viktor brings it up the way people talk about the errands they're going to do that day. He drops his wish for his body post-death like it's nothing. All while Jayce helps him into socks on too-skinny feet and ankles, one skin-toned, one purple and metal-like.
Jayce doesn't meet his eyeline. He knows Viktor is looking at him, he always does.
"Jayce?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you hear me?"
Jayce pulls up the other sock, on the human leg, and then gently pushes Viktor's foot into a fur-lined boot. "I did," he says, slow. "You want to be buried in the ocean."
"Yes. There is a ceremony-"
"Do we have to talk about this right now?" He snaps, jerking his head up to meet Viktor's eyeline this time. Inside, he feels awful-Viktor looks exhausted already despite sleeping eight hours straight, with dark circles under his eyes and the lack of shine to the gold-but his frustration with everything pushes past. "I mean. It's still barely morning. I woke up three hours ago to go to the forge early so I could spend the whole day here with you-"
"And what," Viktor says, voice dry. "You don't want to think about me dying?"
His jaw clenches. "Don't make me sound like that," he pushes the other boot on. "Like I'm some asshole ignoring you." Standing, now a foot and a half taller than Viktor who is still seated on the bed, Jayce tries to relax his face into something softer. Grabbing the sweatshirt Viktor picked out, rolling the bottom and the sleeves so he can help his partner put it on, he forces his voice sound softer. "I just want to have a good day. Okay?"
He holds out the sweatshirt, expecting Viktor to do what he always does: hold out his arms, let him pull the shirt down, and complain that Jayce messed up his hair.
This time, Viktor looks away, not raising his arms for the sweatshirt. "It does feel like you are ignoring me."
Viktor’s jaw tightens. He turns fully now, gold eyes sharp despite the shadows beneath them.
“Sometimes it feels like you are pretending I am already gone,” he finishes instead. “Or that if we do not say certain words, they will not become real.”
Jayce laughs, but it is short and brittle, not amused in the slightest. “That’s not fair,” he says again, louder this time. “I am here. Every day. I’m the one getting up early, leaving late, juggling the forge and the council and the house and your care. I’m not hiding from reality, Viktor. I’m drowning in it.”
Viktor’s fingers curl against the bedding. “That does not mean I am not allowed to speak.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed,” Jayce snaps. He pushes to his feet again, pacing the small room. The boots on Viktor’s feet thud softly against the the side of the bed as Jayce passes. “I’m saying maybe I get one day. One. Where we don’t have to plan for your death before breakfast.”
The words hang there, ugly and sharp.
Viktor flinches like he’s been struck.
Jayce stops pacing immediately. His chest tightens, regret flooding in too late, but he does not take it back. He can’t. Not when the resentment has already clawed its way up his throat.
“I do everything,” Jayce continues, voice rough. “I do the meds and the feeds and the schedules and the appointments. I help you bathe. I help you dress. I help you stand when your legs don’t cooperate. I hold you when you can’t breathe and I pretend I’m not terrified every single time. Hell, Viktor, I change your briefs when you're too out of it to make it to the bathroom on your own. And I do it because I love you. Because I want to. But I am still a person. I deserve a day with you where we don't do things like make invite lists to a wake or discuss where they're going to put your academy plaque."
Viktor’s expression hardens, pain giving way to something colder. “So this is payment,” he says quietly. “Silence, in exchange for care. You resent me. I am keeping you from your life."
“No,” Jayce says, immediately defensive. “That’s not what I meant.”
“That is exactly what you meant,” Viktor replies. “You are saying I should earn the right to talk about my own body. My own death. Because you are tired.”
Jayce scrubs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the curls. “I am exhausted,” he says. “And you know it. You see it. So why push this now?”
“Because now I can still explain it,” Viktor repeats. His voice wavers despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because if I wait until I am worse, you will decide for me. And you will tell yourself it is mercy.”
Jayce turns away, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “You think I’d disrespect you like that.”
“I think you already are,” Viktor says.
Silence crashes between them, heavy and suffocating. Jayce stares at the wall, at the faint crack near the ceiling he has meant to fix for months and never has. His hands ball into fists.
“I deserve one day,” he says finally. “One day where I don’t have to think about urns and ceremonies and oceans. One day where I get to pretend we’re just… normal.”
Viktor lets out a small, humorless breath. “I do not get that luxury.”
Jayce turns back, eyes bright with something dangerously close to anger. “I know that,” he says. “And that’s exactly why I’m asking. Today, let's just pretend to have a good day. We can go read and eat breakfast, listen to the radio. Just-I can't talk about you dying today. Okay?"
Viktor looks at him for a long moment. Then he reaches for the sweatshirt Jayce had offered earlier and pulls it toward himself instead, struggling to lift his arms without help. The fabric bunches awkwardly, catching at his shoulders.
Jayce moves on instinct the moment the sweatshirt catches.
His hands lift before his brain catches up, stepping forward, already reaching for Viktor’s elbow, for the bunched fabric at his shoulder, for the familiar choreography of helping without asking. It is muscle memory, built over months. Years, now.
“Wait,” Jayce says. “I’ve got you.”
Viktor twists away.
It is not dramatic. Not sharp. Just a small, deliberate turn of his torso that makes Jayce’s fingers brush empty air instead of cloth.
“No,” Viktor says.
The word is quiet. Absolute.
Jayce freezes mid-step, arms half-raised, suddenly aware of how close he is, how looming he must look from Viktor’s seated position. He lets his hands drop, slow.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jayce says quickly. The edge drains from his voice all at once, replaced by something thinner, rawer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I shouldn’t have said any of it like that.”
Viktor does not look at him. He keeps working the sweatshirt down with clumsy, stubborn motions, jaw tight, breath a little uneven. One sleeve slides on. The other gets stuck at the elbow again.
Jayce steps back this time, giving space, even though every part of him wants to close it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was being an asshole. I know I was. I just… it came out wrong.”
Viktor huffs a quiet, humorless sound. “It did not come out wrong,” he says. “It came out honest.”
Jayce winces. He drags a hand down his face, thumb pressing hard into his eye socket. “Okay. Maybe. But honest doesn’t mean fair.”
Viktor finally looks at him then. His eyes are sharp, bright in a way that makes Jayce’s chest ache.
“Fair,” Viktor says, “is not the standard anymore.”
Jayce swallows. “Let me help you with the sleeve. Please.”
Viktor’s fingers pause in the fabric. For a second, Jayce thinks he might give in. That he might sigh and lift his arm and let Jayce fix it, let the moment smooth itself over the way it usually does.
Instead, Viktor lowers his hands to his lap.
“No,” he says again. “You wanted a day.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jayce insists. He steps closer, stopping himself before he reaches out again. “I don’t want you struggling like this. I never want that.”
“And yet,” Viktor replies, calm and cutting, “you stood there and watched.”
The words land like a slap. Jayce opens his mouth, then closes it. There is no argument that does not sound hollow.
“I didn’t mean for it to turn into this,” he says quietly.
“But it did,” Viktor says. He tugs the sweatshirt the rest of the way down with a sharp, frustrated motion, breath hitching as his shoulders protest. He does not ask for help. He does not look at Jayce while he does it.
Jayce watches, helpless, every instinct screaming. He feels the weight of the morning press down on him, the boots half-laced, the untouched plans for the day stretching ahead like a lie.
“I love you,” Jayce says, soft. “You know that.”
“Yes,” Viktor answers. “I do.”
That is all he says. No reassurance. No softening. Just fact. No "I love you too" to tell Jayce his apology is accepted.
Jayce shifts his weight, unsure where to put himself now. “Let me at least help you up,” he tries. “Or get the chair closer. Or something.”
Viktor shakes his head. “I will manage.”
“You don’t have to,” Jayce says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “You never have to do it alone.”
Viktor’s mouth tightens. “You asked me to.”
Jayce flinches again. He takes another step back, hands curling uselessly at his sides. He knows that's not what he meant, but how can he blame Viktor for taking it that way?
“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I hear you.”
Viktor adjusts the hem of the sweatshirt, smoothing it down with careful motions. He sits there, composed, contained, like someone who has already decided how much of himself he is willing to offer today.
Jayce?
Jayce feels like a fucking asshole.
---
The forge is too loud for him right now.
Jayce knows that.
He also knows he made it that way on purpose.
The bellows roar harder than necessary. The coals burn brighter than needed for the simple metal piece sitting half-forgotten on the anvil. Sparks jump in sharp bursts each time his hammer strikes, ringing through the empty workshop with a force that borders on excessive.
He does not care.
The rhythm is the only thing keeping his thoughts from spiraling.
Strike.
Heat.
Turn.
Strike again.
His jaw is clenched so tightly it aches. The muscles in his arms burn from overuse, but he does not slow. Does not pause. Does not allow the silence that would inevitably fill the space if the hammer stopped moving.
Because silence means thinking.
And thinking means remembering Viktor’s face when he flinched.
The hammer comes down harder than intended.
The metal warps slightly.
Jayce exhales sharply through his nose.
“Damn it.”
The word echoes, swallowed by the roar of the forge.
He sets the hammer down, then immediately picks it back up again, pacing instead of striking now, boots scraping against the stone floor. The forge smells like heat and oil and metal and control-things that behave predictably. Things that can be fixed with enough force, enough skill, enough time.
Unlike conversations.
Unlike illness.
Unlike the word funeral sitting like a blade in his chest.
The door opens quietly behind him.
He hears it anyway.
Of course he does.
He does not turn immediately.
“Go away,” he mutters, voice rough. “Shop’s closed.”
The door shuts instead of retreating.
Footsteps follow. Measured. Calm. Familiar.
Mel.
“She told me you came here,” Mel says gently.
Jayce lets out a humorless breath, still facing the forge. “Of course she did.”
“She was worried,” Mel continues, stepping closer but not invading his space. “Not angry. Just worried.”
He scrubs a hand down his face.
“I didn’t hit him,” he says immediately, defensive without meaning to be. “I didn’t yell at him like that. Not really. I just-”
He stops.
Because explaining it out loud makes it sound worse.
Mel waits.
She always waits.
“I snapped,” he says finally. “About funeral planning. In the morning. Before breakfast. While I was putting his boots on.”
The words taste bitter.
“And he was right,” Jayce adds, quieter. “He was completely right. And I still argued anyway.”
Mel steps fully into the warm light of the forge now, her expression soft but steady.
“He is dying,” she says plainly.
Jayce flinches.
“I know that.”
“And he knows it,” she continues. “More intimately than anyone else in the room when those conversations happen.”
Jayce’s shoulders tense.
“I just wanted one day,” he mutters. “One day where we didn’t have to talk about it. One morning where I could pretend we were just-normal.”
Mel folds her hands loosely in front of her.
“And he does not get that luxury,” she says gently.
Silence slams down between them.
Jayce stares into the forge fire, eyes unfocused.
“He looked so tired,” he admits. “Still tried to plan it properly. Make it easier for me. Even then.”
Mel’s voice softens further.
“Planning for death is terrifying,” she says. “But it is still not as terrifying as dying.”
Jayce’s grip tightens around the edge of the worktable.
“He’s young,” he says hoarsely. “He shouldn’t have to think about ceremonies and ashes and burial requests and lists of speakers. He should be arguing with me about equations and complaining about inefficient lab equipment and stealing my tools.”
Mel does not contradict him.
“He is facing something most people never have to confront until much later in life,” she says instead. “And he is doing it while his body fails him, while his autonomy slips, while he watches the people he loves grieve him before he is even gone.”
Jayce’s breath stutters.
“That,” Mel continues quietly, “is heavier than any planning conversation you fear.”
He closes his eyes.
The hammer finally slips from his hand and clatters softly onto the workbench.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I just-”
His voice breaks.
“I don’t want to talk about him dying because the moment we do, it feels more real. Like saying it out loud accelerates it.”
Mel steps closer now, close enough that he can feel her presence without looking.
“It will happen whether you speak of it or not,” she says gently. “And he is trying to make it easier for you, even as he prepares for the hardest part himself.”
Jayce laughs once, brittle and quiet.
“That sounds exactly like him.”
“Yes,” Mel replies softly. “It does.”
He finally turns.
His eyes are red. Exhausted. Guilt-ridden in a way that sits deeper than simple regret.
“I told him I deserved one day,” he says. “As if that was fair.”
Mel studies him carefully.
“You are exhausted,” she says. “You are scared. And you are grieving someone who is still alive. That does not make you heartless. It makes you human.”
He swallows hard.
“I still hurt him.”
“Yes,” she agrees gently. “You did.”
The honesty lands harder than any comfort would have.
Jayce exhales shakily, shoulders slumping for the first time since she entered.
“I need to go back,” he murmurs. “I need to apologize. I need to listen. Even if it feels like I’m swallowing glass the entire time.”
Mel nods once.
“That is what he needs now,” she says. “Not avoidance. Not perfection. Presence.”
Another long silence settles.
Then, quieter, more vulnerable than he has sounded all evening, Jayce asks, “Can you… hold me for a moment?”
The question is almost awkward in its simplicity.
Mel does not hesitate.
She steps forward and wraps her arms around him, firm and grounding rather than delicate. Jayce stiffens at first out of habit, then folds slightly into the embrace, forehead resting briefly against her shoulder as the tension he has been holding in finally cracks.
He does not sob.
But his breathing shakes.
“I’m so tired,” he admits, voice muffled.
“I know,” Mel says softly, one hand resting between his shoulder blades in slow, steady circles. “You have been carrying more than one person should.”
He closes his eyes.
“I’m scared I’m doing everything wrong.”
“You are doing something,” she replies. “And that matters more than doing it perfectly.”
The forge crackles behind them, heat steady, light flickering across the walls.
After a moment, she adds quietly, “When you go back, he will still be sick. He will still be dying. Talking about it will still hurt.”
Jayce nods faintly against her shoulder.
“But,” she continues, voice gentle but firm, “it will never hurt as much as it hurts him to live through it.”
That lands.
Deeply.
He inhales slowly.
Then exhales.
“I’ll listen,” he says. “Even if I hate every word of it.”
Mel pulls back just enough to look at him.
“That is enough.”
She smooths a hand briefly over his sleeve, grounding rather than fussing.
“And Jayce,” she adds softly.
He blinks, tired.
“Yes?”
“Remember to take care of yourself too,” she says. “You cannot be his caregiver if you destroy yourself in the process.”
A weak, humorless smile flickers across his face.
“He’d say the same thing.”
Mel’s expression warms faintly.
“Then perhaps,” she says gently, “you should listen to both of us.”
Jayce exhales, steadier now than when she arrived, though the guilt remains heavy in his chest.
“I will,” he says quietly.
---
The house is dark when Jayce comes back.
Not quiet-dark, not asleep-dark. The kind of dark that waits. The lamps are off, but the kitchen light is on low, turned down to its softest setting. His boots sound too loud on the floor no matter how carefully he moves. He closes the door with exaggerated care, easing it shut until the latch clicks instead of slams.
His Ma is at the table.
She is not crocheting. She is not reading. Her hands are folded around a mug that has long since gone cold, shoulders straight, posture rigid in a way that reminds Jayce uncomfortably of council chambers and verdicts. She looks up the moment he steps into the light.
“Sit,” she says.
Jayce obeys without thinking, pulling out the chair across from her and dropping into it. His shoulders sag all at once, exhaustion finally catching up now that he is no longer running on anger.
She looks at him for a long moment. No softening. No easing into it.
“I am extremely disappointed in you,” she says.
Jayce flinches. “Ma-”
“No,” she cuts in. “You do not get to speak first. You left him. You left him crying in my house and you went back to the forge like a sulking child.”
His jaw tightens. “I needed space.”
“You needed to be kind,” she replies, voice sharp. “You know better. You have always known better.”
He drops his gaze to the table. The wood grain swims slightly.
“He wouldn't talk to me,” Jayce says quietly.
“Because you hurt him,” she says. “And instead of fixing it, you ran.”
The word lands heavy. Accurate.
She exhales, slower now, but no less firm. “Go,” she says, standing. “He is in bed. He pretended to sleep when I checked on him, which means he is awake and miserable.”
Jayce’s throat tightens. “Ma-”
She reaches out, grips his chin tightly and unyielding, forcing him to look at her. “Do not make me regret trusting you with him,” she says, voiced almost hissing in quality. She has never been this angry with him, not ever. Not even when he got arrested. Not when he told her he broke into Dean Heimerdinger's office to mess with magic. He knows he's fucked up massively today. “Go talk to your partner.”
Jayce nods, once. He stands, legs stiff, and heads down the hall.
Viktor’s door is closed. Jayce pauses with his hand on the knob, breathing once, twice, steadying himself. Then he pushes it open.
The room is dim, lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table. Viktor is lying on his side, back to the door, blanket pulled up to his shoulders. He is very still.
But his night mask is still lying on the side table, tubing wrapped in a spiral and unconnected to the machine.
Jayce toes off his boots just inside the door, sets them aside, then crosses the room slowly. He sits on the edge of the bed with care, mindful of the mattress shift.
“Hey,” he says, soft.
No response.
Jayce waits. He eases himself back, slipping under the covers without touching Viktor yet, careful not to crowd him. The space between them feels wider than it should. He hates going into bed dirty, but showering is not on his mind.
“I’m sorry,” Jayce says quietly. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I was wrong.”
Viktor does not turn. His breathing stays slow, measured, too even to be sleep.
Jayce stares at the ceiling, at the faint shadow where the light does not quite reach. “Ma told me to come talk to you,” he adds, attempting a weak smile Viktor cannot see. “She was not subtle about it.”
Still nothing.
Jayce swallows. “You don’t have to forgive me tonight,” he says. “I just needed you to know I’m here.”
The silence stretches. It presses on his ears, his chest.
Then Viktor’s shoulders hitch.
Once. Twice.
Jayce turns immediately, heart lurching. “Vik?”
There is a long pause. Viktor’s voice, when it comes, is small and raw and utterly unlike the careful, composed one he uses when discussing ceremonies and logistics.
“I don’t want to die,” Viktor says. "Jayce, I do not want to die."
The words are soaked through with tears.
Jayce’s chest caves in. He reaches out without thinking this time, hand hovering for half a second before settling carefully at Viktor’s waist, solid, grounding.
“I know,” Jayce whispers. “I know.”
Viktor finally turns his face toward him. His eyes are wet, lashes clumped, breath unsteady. He does not wipe at it. He looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with his body.
“I talk about it because I am scared,” Viktor says. “Not because I am ready. Not because I want it.”
Jayce nods, throat too tight to speak at first. He shifts closer, slow, giving Viktor every chance to pull away. When he does not, Jayce wraps an arm around him, careful of tubing and sore spots, pulling him gently against his chest.
“I’m scared too,” Jayce admits. His voice shakes. “I just handled it badly. I thought if I could control the conversation, I could control how much it hurt.”
Viktor presses his face into Jayce’s shirt, fingers curling weakly in the fabric. “You cannot,” he says.
“I know,” Jayce replies. He tightens his hold just slightly. “But I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”
"You promise me?" Viktor asks, voice scratchy. He can't tell if it is due to the crying or the dying. "Do you?"
Jayce presses his forehead to Viktor's.
"I do."
Jayce starts to catalogue the things he loves about Viktor. He writes them in his journal, whenever the thought crosses his mind.
The way he says his th’s like d’s. His accent, thick but soft, the kind that captivates an audience and can lull them to sleep. Every word Viktor says now is ingrained in Jayce's mind, etched into memory.
His preference for silly dumb jokes over long endless ones. He still giggles at 'crank it' and a silly pun in the newspaper. He loves a play-on-words, like the 'bowl-appetite' brand of soup Jayce buys for them.
A sweet tooth over a savory one, introducing Jayce to the many ways vanilla can be used. Preferring decaffeinated tea and caffeinated coffee, and having no reasoning beyond he thought tea was for calm mornings and nights and coffee was for a need to think.
There are so many things to love about Viktor.
And one day, those things will be the things he loved about Viktor.
He is not ready for that day, not ever.
Jayce once thought his life would be divided into a before and after. Before he discovered how to bring magic to the people and after it became commonplace.
Jayce knows now that he is living in his before, and what will decide his after. He doesn't know when that day is, but he knows what it will be.
"You said you wanted to be buried in the ocean?" Jayce asks one evening. They're getting ready for bed, Viktor having enough strength to write in his journal without his hands shaking, Jayce able to focus long enough to get himself washed up without worrying about Viktor. "There is a ceremony?"
"Yes," Viktor says, not looking up. "The deceased is wrapped in this special cloth-we can make it or buy it, I know of a seller in Zaun's seaside district-and under their back heavy ocean rocks are placed with them. The cloth, when deep enough, is able to harden and over time turn into coral. It is a way of paying respect to Janna. It was done for my mama and tata."
Jayce does not want to think of Viktor's body, deep in the ocean, picked apart by fish and sharks, slowly becoming bone, then nothing. Yet-it makes him feel like a hypocrite. The same would happen if Viktor were buried on land, but without the providing of nutrients to the planet. No living on through caring for the world, instead left to rot in an ornate coffin. Six feet underground or six hundred below, Viktor will still be dead. Jayce can do the very least by giving him the after-death he wants, since his life has not been in his control for a very long time.
"Okay," he turns, climbing into bed. Viktor's journal is already closed and on the bedside table. "We can work on that. No one goes deep-sea diving anymore. If anyone objects, Mel can intimidate them into letting it go."
"Or remind them she owns the ports, so it's her final decision anyways."
"Exactly. Plus, no one goes fishing or out sailing that far anymore. Not like they'd pull you up. Though, if you wanted to fuck with the council one last time, I'm sure the scandal if some poor fisherman reeled you in would cause at least three headaches, maybe four."
The joke is awful, but it makes Viktor smile.
"I hope the fish don't mind the leg or the hand," he wiggles the appendage in question, purple glow flickering across Jayce's face. "Especially if it's very dark down there. I might be disturbing them."
"Maybe it will be a disco. Or a rave. Getting the fish to party, you know?"
That makes Viktor laugh, a wheezing dry sound deep in his chest. Jayce tries to control his expression-he doesn't want to look too concerned-but Viktor's eyes crinkle at him once he's done laughing.
"Dinner and dancing," Viktor whispers, cheekily. "I will be the best they've ever had."
Jayce drops a hand to Viktor's face, smiling this time at the warmth rather than the dark humor of death. "The fish will love you. No other humans could ever compare."
Jayce knows the day is going to be like this before Viktor even opens his eyes.
It is in the stillness. In the way Viktor does not stir when the light shifts through the curtains, does not frown or adjust or reach instinctively to shut off the breathing machine that is an arm’s length of the bed. His breathing is shallow but even, mask still in place, straps lying flat against his temples instead of tugged crooked in half-sleep irritation.
Jayce sits on the edge of the bed and watches for a full minute before touching him.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Viktor blinks awake slowly, lashes fluttering like it takes effort. His eyes track Jayce’s face with a faint delay, then settle, unfocused but warm.
“Oh,” Viktor says. A small smile pulls at his mouth, unguarded. “You are here.”
Jayce’s chest tightens, familiar and unwelcome. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Viktor nods as if this answers something important. He reaches out without looking, hand searching until Jayce catches it. Viktor’s grip is loose, trusting.
“Good,” Viktor says. “I was thinking maybe I lost you.”
Jayce swallows. “You didn’t.”
These are the days that scare him the most.
Not the sharp ones. Not the argumentative ones. Not the days Viktor snaps or refuses or bristles against help. These days, Viktor does not fight anything. His edges are gone. The calculations, the constant self-monitoring, the pride that keeps him upright and combative-all of it is muted.
What remains is something softer. Simpler. A Viktor who smiles easily and accepts whatever is offered with quiet gratitude, who asks questions that circle back on themselves, who wants reassurance the way someone wants warmth.
Jayce reaches up and unclips the breathing mask carefully. Viktor does not protest. He does not even flinch. He just watches Jayce’s hands with interest, like the process itself is soothing.
“How do you feel?” Jayce asks.
Viktor considers this with visible effort. “Tired,” he says. Then, after a pause, “But nice-tired. Like after swimming.”
Jayce nods. “Any pain?”
Viktor shrugs, a little lopsided. “Maybe. But it is not important.”
Jayce presses his lips together. “It is important.”
Viktor hums, unconvinced, but does not argue. He'll give Viktor a good dose anyways-on these days, Viktor struggles to express himself about things that aren't Jayce. Better be safe than sorry.
Jayce helps him sit up slowly, arm firm around his shoulders. Viktor leans into the support immediately, cheek brushing Jayce’s chest. There is no hesitation, no stiffening, no reflexive attempt to prove he can do it himself. He allows the movement to happen to him.
Jayce hates how much that hurts to notice.
“Okay,” Jayce murmurs. “Let’s get you up.”
Viktor nods again, compliant. “Okay.”
They move through the morning slowly. Jayce talks more than usual, narrating small things, filling the quiet because Viktor seems to like hearing his voice. Viktor responds with little sounds-hmms, soft laughs, the occasional comment that does not quite connect to what was said before.
Jayce helps him wash, careful and methodical. Viktor does not look away this time. He watches the water run over his hands like it is fascinating.
“It is warm,” Viktor observes.
“Yeah,” Jayce says. “I made sure it was.”
“You always remember,” Viktor says, pleased.
Jayce’s throat tightens. “That’s my job.”
Viktor tilts his head, studying him. “You like your job.”
Jayce smiles faintly. “I like you.”
Viktor beams at that, unreserved. “Good.”
Getting dressed is easy today. Viktor lifts his arms when Jayce asks. Steps when prompted. Lets Jayce button and adjust and straighten without commentary. When the sweatshirt slides over his head, Viktor laughs softly, like the fabric brushing his face tickles.
Jayce freezes for half a second, memory flashing unbidden-the argument, the refusal, the weight of that small word: no.
Today, Viktor does not say it at all.
Instead, he says, “I want to sit together.”
Jayce guides him to the chair by the window, settling him carefully. Viktor curls slightly inward, shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely in his lap.
Jayce crouches in front of him. “Do you want breakfast first?”
Viktor frowns, thinking. “I think so. But only if you stay.”
“I’ll stay,” Jayce says immediately.
“Promise.”
Jayce nods. “Promise.”
Viktor smiles again, satisfied, and leans forward to rest his forehead briefly against Jayce’s shoulder. The contact is light, affectionate, unthinking.
Jayce closes his eyes for a second.
The neurologist had explained days like this carefully, clinically. Oxygen deprivation does not always look like loss, they’d said. Sometimes it looks like softness. Reduced inhibition. Less executive function. The brain compensating by letting go.
Jayce hates that his love is easier on Viktor’s worst days.
Breakfast takes time. Viktor eats slowly, distracted by everything. The way the spoon clinks against the bowl. The steam curling upward. Jayce’s hand resting near his own.
“This is good,” Viktor says, like it is a revelation.
“It’s oatmeal,” Jayce replies gently.
“Yes,” Viktor agrees. “But good.”
He eats half before forgetting about it entirely, attention drifting toward the window. “The light is moving.” His eyes track the light that filters through the curtains. Viktor smiles, entertained by it, it seems.
“Yeah,” Jayce says. “The sun’s coming up.”
Viktor watches it like he might forget it if he looks away. “It does that every day?”
“Most days,” Jayce says.
“That is polite of it,” Viktor decides.
Jayce huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh.
After breakfast, Viktor grows restless. He fidgets, fingers brushing Jayce’s sleeve, then the table, then his own knee. His brain is active, but not in a concentrated way. On days like this Viktor can't focus, he can't string his needs and wants together to make requests. Jayce has to figure it out himself, hope that he gets it right.
“What do you want to do?” Jayce asks.
Viktor shrugs. “Be with you.”
Jayce nods. “Okay. What does that look like?”
Viktor considers. “Talk. Or not talk. Or you tell me things.”
“Like what.”
“Anything.” Viktor smiles again, a little shy. “I like when you explain things.”
So Jayce talks. About the forge. About a project that went wrong. About Mel’s face when something unexpected happens. He keeps his voice even, grounded, careful not to overwhelm.
Viktor listens with total focus, eyes fixed on Jayce’s face, nodding at odd intervals. Sometimes he asks questions that don’t quite line up. Jayce answers them anyway.
At one point, Viktor reaches out and touches Jayce’s forearm, fingers tracing absentminded patterns. “You are very strong,” he says.
Jayce swallows. “Yeah.”
“You make me feel safe,” Viktor adds, as if this is simply another observation.
Jayce’s chest tightens painfully. “I’m glad.”
Viktor leans closer. “I am sorry I am not very useful today.” He sounds mournful.
Jayce shakes his head immediately. “You don’t have to be useful.”
Viktor frowns. “Everyone has to be something.”
“You’re you,” Jayce says. “That’s enough.”
Viktor relaxes at that, tension draining out of his shoulders. He shifts until he is leaning fully against Jayce’s side, head tucked under Jayce’s chin.
Jayce wraps an arm around him without thinking.
They sit like that for a long time. Viktor drifts in and out, sometimes alert and chatty, sometimes quiet and distant. When his breathing changes, Jayce grabs the portable oxygen and slides the cannula under his nose. Viktor accepts it easily, even helping hold the tubing so it can go over his ears.
“Thank you,” Viktor murmurs, drowsy.
“Always,” Jayce replies.
At midday, Viktor grows clingier. He reaches for Jayce’s hand repeatedly, even when Jayce is only a foot away. If Jayce stands, Viktor’s eyes follow him anxiously.
“Where are you going?” Viktor asks.
“Just grabbing water,” Jayce says.
“Oh,” Viktor replies. Then, softer, “Come back.”
“I will.”
Jayce does. Immediately.
When Viktor needs the bathroom-because he's fidgeting and doesn't know why so Jayce has to tell him-he doesn’t argue. He lets Jayce guide him, steady him, help with every step. He does not apologize. He does not tense. He is not embarrassed when Jayce stays in the room, though turned to the corner for some semblance of privacy, nor does he grow red as he usually does on weak days when Jayce helps him dry and pulls his briefs and pants back up.
“This is easy today,” Viktor says faintly, as Jayce helps him back to bed. "You are very good at helping me."
Jayce nods, unable to speak for a moment. “Yeah.”
Viktor looks at him, eyes clear for a brief, sharp second. “That makes you sad.”
Jayce blinks. “What?”
“You look sad when I am like this,” Viktor says, brow furrowing. “Did I do something wrong?"
Jayce shakes his head quickly. “No. No. You didn’t.”
Viktor studies him with unusual seriousness. “Then why?”
Jayce exhales slowly. “Because I love you like this,” he admits. “And I hate why you’re like this.”
Viktor processes this carefully. After a moment, he nods. “That makes sense.”
He reaches out again, fingers curling around Jayce’s. “You can love it. It does not mean you want it.”
Jayce closes his eyes briefly. “You’re still you.”
Viktor smiles softly. “Yes.”
The afternoon drifts. Viktor naps, wakes, asks Jayce to stay close. Jayce reads aloud at Viktor’s request, stopping often because Viktor interrupts with comments that are only loosely related.
When evening comes, Viktor is tired in a deeper way. His movements slow further. His words slur slightly, but his demeanor remains gentle. He eats a whole bowl of potato soup, Jayce helping halfway though because he gets distracted by a song on the radio. Viktor dips his bread in the bowl to get the remains of the soup and it feels so much like his old self Jayce feels a part of him shatter.
Jayce helps him into bed again, settles the pillows, fits the mask. Viktor watches him the whole time.
“You are very good at this,” Viktor says. He likely doesn't remember saying something similar only hours before.
Jayce swallows. “I shouldn’t have to be.”
Viktor’s fingers brush Jayce’s wrist. “But you are.”
He sighs, content, eyes fluttering closed. “Do not go.”
“I’m not going,” Jayce says.
Viktor nods, satisfied, already drifting.
Jayce sits there, hand resting lightly against Viktor’s side, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady rhythm of a day that is good but not in the way Jayce wants.
Tomorrow might be sharp again. Tomorrow Viktor might fight him. Might say no. Might reclaim his edges and his autonomy and his anger.
But he knows-the after is coming soon.
And by god, he does not want a tomorrow if he can stay in today.
Viktor has good days, bad days, off days, and bad off days.
Usually his good days are varied in their goodness; either he's mentally clear and still physically weak, or mentally clear and physically well. Off days are less of both. Bad days are days filled with pills and pain.
But bad off days? They can be anything. Sometimes Viktor is sweet, soft, but still unlike himself. Other times his memory is faulty, where he can't understand anything-and he's fearful of those who try to help.
Sometimes Jayce hates off days the most.
She settles deeper into the rocking chair, adjusting Viktor’s weight against her chest with practiced ease. He is too warm, skin flushed from crying, breath uneven. His fingers clutch the front of her blouse like the fabric is the only thing anchoring him to the world. Jayce hovers close, one arm tucked behind Viktor’s back to help support him, the other braced on the chair as it rocks.
Viktor’s face is pressed into her shoulder. His voice comes out small, broken by hiccupped breaths. “Mama,” he says again, softer this time, like he is testing the word. “Mama, I was scared.”
His mother answers immediately, without hesitation. Her accent thickens around the word, deliberate. “I know,” she says gently. “I know, corazón. Mama is here now.”
Jayce’s throat tightens painfully at that. He looks away, jaw clenched, because if he looks at Viktor’s face, creased with confusion and eyes glassy and unfocused, he will lose it completely.
Viktor sniffles. “I called,” he murmurs. “I called and you did not come.”
She rocks a little more firmly, one hand rubbing slow circles between Viktor’s shoulder blades. “I am sorry,” she says. “Mama was far. But I am here now.”
He seems to accept that, at least for the moment. His breathing evens out slightly. He shifts, trying to get closer, curling in on himself like he is much smaller than he actually is. Jayce tightens his grip to keep him from slipping.
“My chest hurt,” Viktor continues, words tumbling out unevenly. “I thought I would stop breathing. I did not want to be alone.”
“You are not alone,” his mother says. “You will never be alone.”
Viktor’s head tilts up just enough that his unfocused gaze lands on her face. His brow furrows, studying her features with the slow intensity of someone trying to make sense of something just beyond reach.
“You look different,” he says, uncertainty creeping in.
She does not flinch. She lifts her free hand and cups his cheek, thumb brushing away the wet trail beneath his eye. “Mama got older,” she says simply. “That happens.”
He considers that. His lips tremble. “You weren't,” he says, accusation threading through the confusion. “I waited.”
Jayce’s breath stutters. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. This is not a moment he can step into without breaking it apart.
His mother answers instead. “I know,” she says. “You waited so long. Mama is sorry.” She brushes a hand down the side of his face, caressing softly.
Viktor lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a whine and presses his face back into her shoulder. “Do not leave again,” he begs. “Please.”
“I won’t,” she replies without pause. “I am staying.”
Jayce swallows hard. His hand slides up Viktor’s arm, grounding, steady. Viktor does not pull away. He does not even seem to notice that it is Jayce at all.
Minutes pass like that. The room is dim, lit only by the low lamp on the dresser. The rocking chair creaks softly with each movement. Viktor’s breathing continues to slow, though every so often his body jolts as if a new wave of fear threatens to pull him back under.
“Mama,” he says again, quieter now. “Am I bad?”
His mother frowns, confusion flashing briefly across her face before she smooths it away. “No,” she says firmly. “Why would you think that?”
“Because people are mad,” Viktor answers. “Jayce was mad. I tried to be quiet.”
Jayce flinches like he has been struck. He knows what Viktor is referencing. And despite them making it better, despite Viktor truly accepting his apology-there is a part of him that still remembers.
His mother’s gaze flicks to him for just a moment, sharp and full of meaning, before returning to Viktor. Her voice softens further. “You did nothing wrong,” she tells him. “Sometimes people are angry because they are scared. That is not your fault.”
Viktor’s fingers curl tighter in her shirt. “I do not want to be scary,” he says.
“You are not scary,” she replies. “You are my baby.”
That seems to settle something in him. His shoulders sag, tension bleeding out all at once. He sags fully against her, boneless and heavy. Jayce adjusts again, easing Viktor’s weight so his mother does not have to carry it alone.
Viktor’s voice drifts, slower now. “Can you sing,” he asks. “Like before.”
His mother does not hesitate. She begins quietly, a low, steady melody in Shuriman. The words are simple, repetitive, meant to soothe rather than be understood. Viktor’s breathing syncs to the rhythm almost immediately.
He hums along under his breath, off-key and faint. His eyelids flutter. One hand loosens its grip and slides down to rest against her arm.
“Do you remember when I was little,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “When I was sick all the time.”
“Yes,” she says. “I remember.”
“You stayed with me,” he says. “Even when I screamed.”
“I stayed,” she confirms.
Jayce presses his lips together, shoulders trembling slightly. He keeps his head bowed, eyes fixed on Viktor’s hands, because looking at his mother’s face right now would undo him completely.
Viktor shifts again, restless. “My legs feel wrong,” he complains faintly. “They do not listen.”
She adjusts him, guiding his legs into a more comfortable position with Jayce’s help. “Rest them,” she says. “Mama has you.”
He exhales, long and shaky, then goes still again. The song continues, soft and constant.
After a while, Viktor’s eyes open again, unfocused but searching. “Will I die?” he asks suddenly.
Jayce stiffens.
His mother does not stop rocking. “Not tonight,” she says. “Tonight you sleep.”
Viktor considers that answer carefully. “Promise,” he whispers.
“I promise,” she says.
His eyes close again. His breathing evens out fully this time, deep and slow. His grip slackens, though he does not fully let go.
Jayce finally dares to look up. His eyes are red-rimmed, face drawn tight with exhaustion and guilt. He watches Viktor’s face, the way his brow smooths now that sleep is taking hold.
“He thinks,” Jayce starts, then stops.
“I know,” his mother says quietly, not breaking the rhythm of the song.
Jayce nods, swallowing hard. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Not now,” she cuts in gently. “Later.”
Viktor stirs again, frowning in his sleep. “Mama,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Do not go.”
“I am here,” his mother says immediately.
Jayce shifts closer, carefully lifting Viktor just enough to help ease him back toward the bed without fully waking him. His mother allows it, guiding Viktor down inch by inch, still humming softly. Viktor whines faintly as his back touches the mattress, arms instinctively reaching out again. Jayce freezes, then quickly leans in, letting Viktor grab onto his sleeve instead.
“Mama,” Viktor mumbles, confused.
His mother leans over him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Sleep, my baby,” she says. “Mama is right here.”
His grip tightens briefly, then loosens. His breathing remains steady.
Jayce stays there, half-bent over the bed, not daring to move yet. His mother straightens slowly, her expression tired but steady.
“He will not remember this clearly,” she says under her breath.
Jayce nods, voice hoarse. “I know.”
Viktor shifts again, rolling slightly onto his side, face turned toward the edge of the bed where Jayce stands. His eyes remain closed.
“Mama,” he whispers one last time.
His mother answers without hesitation. “Yes, baby. I am still here.”
Jayce squeezes his eyes shut, one hand still wrapped around Viktor’s sleeve, and stays exactly where he is.
They sit outside because the house has been feeling too tight for them both. Viktor goes outside on good or okay days, can't manage the energy on a bad one, and gets scared on a confused day. But today-today is a good day. Which means Viktor has enough energy to stay awake for a long time, hold conversation, and his hands don't shake as he eats. It's a good day.
Which means the topics at hand get more serious.
The porch boards are cool under Jayce’s bare feet, the late light stretching long and thin across the yard. The hammock creaks softly as it swings, Viktor’s weight light but present against Jayce’s chest, Jayce’s arm looped around him to keep the rhythm steady. Viktor’s head rests against Jayce’s shoulder, his breath even, his body loose in a way that only happens on clearer days-not small, not lost, just tired in a way that makes him honest.
The question doesn’t come all at once.
Viktor watches the trees for a while. The leaves move in uneven waves, catching and dropping the light. He tracks them like he’s solving something quiet in his head.
“What do you think is there?” he asks finally.
Jayce doesn’t pretend not to know what he means.
“Where,” he says anyway, buying time. "In the ocean?"
Viktor shifts, the hammock swaying wider. “After,” he says. “After I am… not here.”
Jayce’s jaw tightens. He keeps the swing going because stopping would feel like admitting something. “I don’t know,” he says, and it comes out flat. “I really don’t.”
Viktor hums, not disappointed. “That is fair,” he says. His Piltovian is careful but steady today. Sometimes he mixes up Zaunite pronunciations, or doesn't realize he's not speaking the common tongue. Today he is clear. “You never pretend.”
Jayce exhales through his nose. “Some people think it’s… I don’t know. Light. Or judgment. Or nothing at all.”
“Nothing sounds boring,” Viktor says. “But neither of us have ever been believers of a higher power. Moreso you than me.”
Viktor is more of the believer between them, has always been, Jayce thinks. Not in the say-a-prayer sort of way, but in the sense that Viktor tends to believe in some sort of mysterious place for death, more as a comfort and less as a way of practice. Jayce never found comfort in that, neither did his parents. Jayce doesn’t say any of that, though. Viktor doesn’t need him to disagree.
Viktor turns his head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are clear. Tired, but clear. “I think it is quiet,” he says. “Not empty. Just… calm.”
Jayce looks out over the yard, the fence line, the place where Viktor used to stand and argue about measurements like it mattered. “Quiet doesn’t sound like you. You've been silent, but never quiet."
Viktor considers that. “It sounds like rest,” he says. “Which I am bad at.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Viktor’s mouth twitches. He shifts again, adjusting his legs carefully, automatically protecting the port at his stomach without thinking about it. “I think there are people,” he continues. “Not crowds. Just the ones who matter.”
“Like who?”
Viktor doesn’t answer right away. The hammock creaks again. “My mama,” he says finally. “I do not remember her face well now. But I think I would recognize it.”
Jayce’s throat tightens. He doesn’t interrupt.
“And my Tata,” Viktor adds. “Sky. Other friends who passed.” Viktor nods, satisfied. “And maybe,” he says carefully, “people are not sick there. Or tired. Or in pain. They are happy.”
Jayce swallows. “What about me?”
Viktor goes very still.
The hammock keeps moving, but Viktor’s body doesn’t follow it for a second, like he’s anchoring himself to the question. Then he relaxes again, slow.
“You would come later,” Viktor says. Not dismissive. Certain. “Much long after. That is how it should be.”
Jayce’s grip tightens around him. “I don’t like that answer.”
“I know.” Viktor’s voice is gentle, practical. “You do not like most answers that you cannot fix.”
Jayce laughs, short and humorless. “You’re not wrong.”
Viktor tilts his head back again, watching the sky now. “I do not think it is goodbye forever,” he says. “I think it is… waiting. Without impatience. Maybe you’ll appear to me like you are now, or perhaps when you are at the much older age you pass. Grey and wrinkled. That would be nice.”
Jayce presses his forehead briefly to Viktor’s hair. It smells like vanilla and salt, the kind of shampoo Mel recommended that wouldn’t irritate him. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is not easy,” Viktor says. “But it is not scary, either. Not like before.”
Jayce doesn’t ask what before means. He knows.
The porch light clicks on behind them as the sun dips lower. The air cools. The hammock slows as Jayce’s foot drags lightly against the boards.
“What if you’re wrong,” Jayce says quietly. “What if there’s nothing? What if we never see each other again?”
Viktor shrugs, small. “Then I will be surprised,” he says. “That has happened before, you know.”
Jayce almost smiles.
“And if I am wrong,” Viktor whispers, “Then it will not matter, because I won’t know, and neither will you. You can dream of me instead, and then that will be it.”
“I can do that,” Jayce says immediately, desperately. “I can dream of you.”
They continue to swing, Viktor's head on his chest, the sounds of the outside filling the air. People are coming home, as motorcar engines purr then shut off, as doors slam, as families out front greet each other. Normal families will have dinner, tell stories of work and events, plan parties and dates. Normal couples will fall into bed together, passionate and soft, frenzied and fevered. Jayce? Jayce will carry Viktor back inside, sit him down for dinner. Viktor will eat half, hopefully a little more, possibly a little less. Jayce will help Viktor to bathe because even though their porch is covered, even the slightest of pollen that stays on him can be disastrous. Jayce will dry him off, put him to bed, make sure his nightly oxygen is set, and fall asleep watching the fall and rise of his chest.
And while he stews in so much grief of so much loss, he hasn't even noticed Viktor beginning to shake, the front of his shirt becoming wet.
Terrified, he sits up, pulling Viktor with him, thinking the worst.
But Viktor is not seizing.
He is sobbing.
"Viktor," Jayce presses his hands to the sides of his partner's face. "Vik, what's wrong?"
"What if I go to a place that is bad?" Viktor cries, barely coherent. "Jayce, she died for me. She died because of me. What if I go to a place that is bad?"
Jayce’s mind goes empty in the way it only ever does when Viktor is afraid.
Not frustrated-afraid. Not tired or sharp or brittle, but raw and shaking, tears soaking through cotton and into Jayce’s skin. Jayce has handled medical emergencies with steadier hands than this, but this is the kind of moment that strips him of every practiced response he has ever learned.
He tightens his grip, thumbs still at Viktor’s jaw, grounding himself in the feel of him. Warm. Breathing. Here.
“Hey,” Jayce says, low and urgent, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touch. “Hey, no. No, listen to me.”
Viktor’s hands clutch fistfuls of Jayce’s shirt, knuckles white. His breath keeps catching, words tumbling over each other. “She died,” he sobs. “She died and I lived. What if that means something. What if I am wrong and it means something bad?"
Jayce swallows hard. His chest hurts with it, the way it always does when Viktor talks like this, like the universe is a ledger and he is convinced he owes it blood.
“There is nothing,” Jayce says firmly, each word deliberate, “nothing that sends you anywhere bad.”
Viktor shakes his head, tears streaking sideways as the hammock sways. “You do not know that.”
“I do,” Jayce says, without hesitation. “I don’t believe in that kind of math. I don’t believe the world works like that.”
Viktor’s eyes are wide, desperate. “What if I am punished?"
Jayce lets out a shaky breath through his nose, forcing himself to slow down, to not say the wrong thing. He slides one hand up to cradle the back of Viktor’s head, pressing him gently back against his chest.
“You are not going to be punished,” Jayce says. “You were hurt. You survived. That is not a crime.”
“She chose me,” Viktor whispers. “She chose me over herself. She died because of me."
Jayce closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them again, his gaze is steady.
“She chose love,” he says. “That is not something the universe punishes.”
Viktor’s sobs hitch again, smaller now but no less painful. “I am scared.”
“I know,” Jayce says. “I know you are.”
He rocks them slowly, feet pushing against the porch boards, the hammock creaking in a familiar rhythm. The outside noises continue around them, oblivious. A laugh from down the street. A door slamming. Someone calling a name. Life continuing, indifferent and relentless.
“You asked me earlier what I think is on the other side,” Jayce continues quietly. “I don’t have an answer because I don’t have one that makes sense on paper. But I know this.” Viktor lifts his head just enough to look at him, eyes red and unfocused. “There is no version of anything,” Jayce says, voice thick but certain, “where you end up somewhere bad. Not after the way you live. Not after what you carry. Not after what you’ve given.”
Viktor’s lips tremble. “I am not good enough.”
Jayce’s jaw tightens. “That is not for you to decide. I decided. Ma decided. Mel decided. We all love you and we all think you're good enough."
Viktor looks confused. “Then who?"
Jayce presses his forehead to Viktor’s hair. “Anyone with eyes.”
He pulls back just enough to look at him fully, hands firm on Viktor’s back and shoulder. “You love people until it hurts. You forgive faster than anyone I know. You worry about everyone else even when you can barely breathe. If there is anything after this, and it has any sense at all, it is not going to look at you and decide you deserve pain.”
Viktor’s breathing stutters. “What if it is quiet. Empty.”
Jayce exhales slowly. “Then it’s rest. And you’ve earned that too.”
Tears keep coming, but the panic begins to ebb, giving way to exhaustion. Viktor slumps forward again, forehead against Jayce’s collarbone, clinging but no longer shaking as violently.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Viktor whispers.
“You won’t be,” Jayce says immediately. “Not now. Not later. Not anywhere.”
Viktor nods faintly, like he wants to believe him but is too tired to argue anymore. Jayce adjusts his grip, tucking Viktor closer, one arm firm around his shoulders, the other resting protectively at his spine.
They keep swinging.
The world keeps making its ordinary sounds around them, dinner smells drifting through open windows, lives unfolding that have nothing to do with this porch, this hammock, this slow, painful love.
Jayce stares out into the dark, grief heavy and familiar in his chest, knowing he cannot fix this, cannot save Viktor from what is coming.
But he can do this.
He can hold him. He can say the words that matter. He can make sure that, whatever Viktor fears, he never faces it alone.
Jayce spends most nights wondering what he will do after.
While Viktor sleeps, he thinks of how he will go back to a lab that Viktor will never step in again. How no one will be there to tease him, to believe the impossible with him.
Jayce wonders if the after is worth it.
The afternoon light softens further, stretching into longer shadows across the porch boards and warming the edges of the blanket draped over Viktor’s legs. The breeze shifts again, gentler this time, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke from somewhere down the lane.
By the time Viktor asks, his voice is barely more than breath.
They are in the living room, late afternoon light slanting in through the windows. Viktor is bundled in layers despite the season, his head resting against Jayce’s chest, eyes half-open. He hasn’t spoken much all day. That alone tells Jayce how much effort this costs.
“Jayce,” Viktor says, after several false starts that never make it past his lips.
Jayce stills immediately. “Yeah?”
“I want to see the sunset,” Viktor says. He swallows. “At the beach.”
Jayce closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not long enough for Viktor to notice. Long enough for understanding to settle fully into his bones.
“Okay,” Jayce says. His voice doesn’t shake. “We can do that.”
Viktor exhales, the sound small but relieved, like he was braced for refusal. “Thank you.”
Packing is automatic. Jayce moves through the house with quiet efficiency, choosing comfort over contingency, familiarity over optimism. Towels first, then blankets-the heavy one Viktor likes and the thinner one for folding under his knees. Pillows, including the neck support Viktor tolerates now without complaint. Water. Meds. The portable oxygen, fully charged. Jayce checks it twice anyway.
He packs light on food. Viktor hasn’t wanted much lately, and Jayce won’t pretend tonight is different.
Ximena is waiting near the door when they’re ready. She doesn’t ask questions. She hasn’t for a while. She just steps forward, arms already open.
“Ven aquí, mi niño,” she says softly.
Jayce helps Viktor stand long enough for the embrace. Ximena holds him carefully, but fully, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other firm between his shoulder blades. Viktor’s arms come up slowly, weak but intentional, wrapping around her waist.
“Thank you,” Viktor murmurs against her shoulder.
She presses a kiss to his hair, then another. “Go see your sunset,” she says. Her voice is steady. Her eyes are not.
Jayce meets her gaze briefly over Viktor’s shoulder. Nothing needs to be said. She steps back, smoothing Viktor’s sleeve once more before letting Jayce guide him toward the car.
The drive is quiet. Viktor watches the world pass by through the window, eyes unfocused but open, tracking light and movement rather than detail. Jayce keeps one hand on the wheel and one on Viktor’s knee, grounding them both. The sky is already starting to shift, pale blue deepening toward gold.
When they arrive, the beach is mostly empty. It’s late enough that the crowds have thinned, early enough that the light hasn’t faded completely. Jayce parks close, unloads with practiced care. He wheels Viktor down onto the sand path, stopping only once to adjust the blanket when Viktor shivers.
They settle near the water but not too close. Jayce builds a small nest without comment: towels layered beneath, pillows arranged to support Viktor’s spine and neck, blanket tucked around his legs. Viktor watches him with quiet attention, eyes clearer now than they were earlier.
“You always do this very well,” Viktor says.
Jayce huffs softly. “Setting up a spot on the sand?”
“No,” Viktor replies. “Taking care of me.”
Jayce doesn’t answer that. He finishes adjusting the oxygen, checks Viktor’s breathing, then sits down so Viktor can lay against him, Jayce holding them both up.
The sun hangs low over the horizon, orange bleeding into pink, the water catching the light and breaking it into fragments. Viktor stares at it like he’s committing it to memory.
“It’s brighter than I remember,” Viktor says.
“Yeah,” Jayce replies. “Good night for it.”
They sit in silence for a while. Jayce counts Viktor’s breaths without meaning to. Viktor’s hand drifts over, resting against Jayce’s thigh. Jayce covers it immediately, thumb brushing over knuckles that feel thinner every time he notices them.
“I’m tired,” Viktor says, eventually.
“I know,” Jayce answers. “You can rest.”
“I don’t want to sleep yet,” Viktor says. His eyes stay on the horizon. “Not until it finishes.”
“It will,” Jayce says. “It takes its time.”
The sun dips lower, colors deepening, the air cooling around them. Jayce pulls the blanket higher without being asked. Viktor leans into him slightly, weight light but real.
“I’m glad we came,” Viktor says, after a long pause.
Jayce nods. “Me too.”
The sun touches the edge of the water, beginning its slow descent. Jayce stays exactly where he is, watching the sky change and Viktor breathe, knowing what this is, knowing what it will become, and refusing-just for now-to move a single inch away. Jayce shifts slightly once the chill settles in for real, adjusting the blanket higher around Viktor’s shoulders and tucking the edge beneath his arm so the wind can’t steal the warmth. Viktor barely reacts, eyes half-lidded now, breathing shallow but steady. The oxygen hums quietly beside them, steady and unobtrusive.
Jayce clears his throat softly. “Hey,” he says. “Want a story?”
Viktor doesn’t open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “You tell bad stories,” he murmurs.
Jayce smiles despite himself. “You’ve never complained before.”
“That is because I am polite,” Viktor says, faint but smug.
Jayce snorts. “Alright. Rude. You’re getting one anyway.”
He starts with small things. Safe things. Stories Viktor already knows, retold badly on purpose. The time Jayce burned his eyebrows off at the forge because he swore he didn’t need goggles. Viktor lets out a weak huff at that, shoulders barely shaking. Jayce keeps going.
He tells him about the first terrible apartment they shared when Jayce's was still rubble, the one with the window that never quite closed and the radiator that screamed like it was dying. How Viktor used to shove towels under the door and insist it built character. Viktor smiles at that, eyes still closed, fingers twitching faintly where Jayce holds his hand.
Jayce talks about Zaun, about the street vendors Viktor loved, the ones who remembered his order even after months away. He exaggerates voices. He gets details wrong on purpose so Viktor can correct him if he has the energy.
“That is not how it happened,” Viktor says quietly at one point.
Jayce grins. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
Viktor’s smile widens, tired but genuine. “You dropped it. You did not place it down carefully.”
Jayce laughs under his breath. “I absolutely did not drop it.”
“You did,” Viktor insists. “Very loudly.”
Jayce shakes his head, pressing his forehead briefly to Viktor’s hair. “Unbelievable slander.”
Viktor laughs then-soft, breathy, cut short by the effort-but it’s real. When the laughter fades, the smile stays, lingering even as his breathing deepens again.
Jayce lowers his voice without consciously deciding to. He tells longer stories now, ones that don’t require responses. Stories about nothing. About the sea myths he half-remembers from old books. About machines that never quite worked right but tried anyway. About places Viktor liked, described slowly, carefully, as if painting them back into existence.
Every so often, Viktor’s fingers squeeze his hand weakly. Sometimes he murmurs a word or two. Sometimes he just smiles, eyes closed, face peaceful in a way Jayce hasn’t seen in weeks.
When Viktor’s laughter becomes impossible, the smiles take over instead. Small, quiet things. A breath through the nose. A twitch at the corner of his mouth when Jayce says something stupid on purpose.
The sky darkens completely while Jayce talks. Stars come out one by one. The waves keep their steady rhythm, indifferent and eternal. Jayce keeps his voice going, low and even, stories blurring together until he isn’t sure which ones he’s already told.
Eventually, Viktor’s grip loosens. His head sinks more heavily into the pillow, body going slack in that unmistakable way. Jayce pauses, listening closely. Viktor’s breathing has slowed, deepened. Sleep, real this time.
Jayce doesn’t stop talking right away. He finishes the thought he was in the middle of, then another, softer one after that, voice dropping to almost nothing. When he finally falls quiet, it’s only because there’s nothing left to add without waking him.
He stays like that, holding Viktor’s hand, watching his chest rise and fall, letting the night settle fully around them. The beach is empty now. The world feels very far away.
Jayce doesn’t move. He doesn’t check the time. He doesn’t think past this moment. He sits there in the dark, stories spent, Viktor asleep against him, and keeps his vigil exactly where he is.
Jayce doesn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment he’s counting Viktor’s breaths out of habit, the weight of Viktor’s hand still curled weakly in his own. The next, his chin jerks slightly as he wakes, muscles stiff from holding the same position too long.
For a split second, nothing is wrong.
The waves are the same. The air is cool. The blanket is still tucked around Viktor’s legs. Jayce’s arm is still wrapped securely around Viktor’s shoulders, holding him close.
Then Jayce feels it.
The stillness is wrong.
He doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t breathe. He just listens, waiting for the familiar rise beneath his arm, the shallow pull of air that’s been his metronome for months. It doesn’t come. He waits longer than is reasonable, longer than is kind to himself, because sometimes Viktor pauses, sometimes his breaths stretch thin enough to scare him before they return.
They do not return.
Jayce’s hand tightens reflexively at Viktor’s shoulder. “Vik,” he whispers, barely louder than the surf.
Nothing.
He shifts just enough to look down, dread blooming cold and immediate in his chest. Viktor’s face is peaceful, mouth slightly open, lashes resting against his cheeks. There is no tension there. No struggle. No sign of pain. Just stillness. He even looks happy.
Jayce presses his palm flat against Viktor’s chest. There is no movement.
“No,” Jayce says quietly. It’s not denial yet. It’s a test, like saying a word aloud might change its meaning. “No, hey. Come on.”
He brings his fingers to Viktor’s neck, searching for a pulse he already knows won’t be there. His hands are steady. Too steady. Training and repetition and long months of vigilance carry him through the motions even now.
There is nothing.
Jayce’s breath stutters once, sharp and involuntary, then locks in his chest. He leans forward, forehead touching Viktor’s temple. Viktor is still warm. That hurts more than anything else.
“I’m here,” Jayce says automatically, voice breaking on the second word. “I’m here.”
He gathers Viktor closer, careful even now, as if Viktor might wake if jostled too roughly. He shifts them both down onto the towels, easing Viktor fully into his arms, adjusting the pillows so his neck is supported the way he likes. Jayce cradles him, one arm under Viktor’s shoulders, the other wrapped firmly around his back, pulling him close until there is no space left between them.
The tide creeps a little closer, foam sighing against the sand several feet away. The air smells like salt and night and something metallic that might just be the taste of grief rising in Jayce’s throat.
He presses his face into Viktor’s hair and breathes him in. Salt. Soap. The faint trace of coffee scrub that never quite faded. Beneath it, Viktor-warm skin and clean cotton and the familiar, indescribable scent that Jayce could pick out in a crowded room.
His hands move without conscious thought, smoothing Viktor’s hair back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades like Viktor is just sleeping too deeply.
“I know,” Jayce whispers, though he isn’t sure what he’s responding to. “I know. You’re okay.”
The words are instinct. The same ones he used when pain spiked. When panic crept in. When breathing faltered.
You’re okay.
He rocks him slightly, barely perceptible, the way he’s done on bad days when Viktor drifted too far. His thumb traces the edge of Viktor’s jaw. He presses a kiss to his forehead. Then another to his temple. His hairline.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Tell your Mama hi for me. Tell her I said thank you.”
The ocean answers with another steady rush against the shore.
Jayce shifts his hand to Viktor’s chest again, as if repetition might conjure motion. Nothing. No flutter. No shallow hitch.
Just stillness.
The kind that settles deep.
His tears come quietly at first-one, then another-slipping down without sound. They fall into Viktor’s hair, onto his cheek. Jayce wipes them away instinctively, like Viktor might mind.
“I said I’d hold you,” he whispers, voice raw now. “I said I would.”
His arms tighten reflexively, careful even in desperation not to squeeze too hard. He supports Viktor’s neck the way he always does. Adjusts the blanket again even though it doesn’t matter anymore, pulling it higher around his shoulders to guard against the cold.
The stars overhead are sharp and indifferent. A gull cries somewhere far down the shoreline. The world has not noticed.
Jayce bends his head, pressing his forehead firmly to Viktor’s. “You were right,” he says hoarsely. “It’s quiet.”
His breathing shudders. He inhales Viktor again like he can store the scent, like he can trap it in his lungs and refuse to let it fade.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Time unravels.
Minutes stretch, elastic and meaningless. The horizon remains dark, but there is the faintest suggestion of gray beginning to bleed into the edge of the sky. Jayce watches it without really seeing it.
He does not call for help. Not yet.
He knows what has happened with a certainty that doesn’t require confirmation. He has lived on the knife’s edge of this moment for months. He knows the signs. He knows the weight of absence.
But this-this-is his.
He presses another kiss to Viktor’s lips, soft and lingering. They are still warm. That warmth feels like a mercy and a cruelty all at once.
“Not bad,” Jayce whispers, broken. “There’s nothing bad waiting for you. I won’t let there be.”
His voice fractures fully then, the composure splintering.
He does not wail. He does not scream into the night.
He breaks inward.
Each breath feels like it’s tearing something loose in his chest. His shoulders shake, but his grip never falters. He holds Viktor like something fragile and sacred, like if he loosens his arms the truth will solidify beyond endurance.
The tide inches closer again. The sky lightens by degrees.
At some point, he shifts them slightly, repositioning so Viktor’s head rests more comfortably in the crook of his arm. He wipes salt from Viktor’s cheek with his thumb, though he isn’t sure if it’s ocean spray or his own tears.
“I’m still here,” he whispers again, as if that is the one promise he can still keep.
His mom will come when the sun has risen long enough for most everyone to be awake. She will know when Jayce doesn't return at eight am or just after.
She will come. Jayce knows that with the same certainty as everything else tonight. She will bring the med team because she knows what must be done next, what Jayce cannot do alone.
There will be paperwork. Gentle voices. Hands that try to pry Viktor from his arms.
But not yet.
For now, Jayce stays on the beach, cradling his partner beneath the paling sky, listening to the waves that no longer have a rhythm to match. He rocks him softly, stubbornly, pressing his lips to Viktor’s hair one last time before the world intrudes.
He holds him exactly the way he promised he would.
The lab is colder than Jayce remembers it.