Work Text:
After four days at Piltover Gen hospital, Jayce has drawn three fundamental conclusions :
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Hospital food―that is to say off colour, bland and consistently gelatinous food that comes on a faded tray at specific times of the day―must have healing properties, otherwise its existence is entirely unjustifiable.
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Hospitals have a distinct smell, and it clings to him like tar. He won't ever be able to wash it off, he knows it. It is everywhere, in the sheets, in the paper cups he drinks out off, in his lungs. And he can taste it.
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The pediatric ward is inescapably dull.
They did try to hide the dullness behind vibrant colours splashed from floor to ceiling, a wild rainbow of blues, greens, reds and yellows greeting his retinas every time Jayce opens his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that it may well be the most boring place on Runeterra.
The pediatric ward is mostly for babies, Jayce figured on his second day. That explained the rudimentary toys that littered the playroom floor and the mostly picture books on the shelves. The playroom has a television, but it is hogged by a bunch of four-year-olds who start crying whenever Jayce tries to switch to anything mildly more interesting than cartoons. The siren-like wailing alerted one of the nurses once. Jayce was (gently) told off, and doesn't care to be again.
There are board games on other shelves, all of them requiring more than one player. He did spend a good chunk of his third afternoon trying to beat himself at chess. While he enjoyed the mental stimulation and distraction it provided, he would not describe it as fun. There was a lonely feeling in his chest as he lowered his white king, both loser and victor.
He sleeps most of the time, anyway. The nurses say it's good for his lungs, that it helps with the recovery. Maybe that's why mamá hasn't woken up yet. Maybe she knows she needs to sleep for her body to heal.
Mamá is in the grown-up ward. Jayce isn't allowed to go visit her by himself. The doors of the pediatric ward don't open from the inside; he's tried. There is a code to open the digital lock pad, and the adults just won't let him see what it is. A nice nurse took him to see her on his second day, when he felt better. Mamá was asleep. A doctor told him he had been very brave, that without him his mamá probably wouldn't have made it down the mountain. Jayce didn't mean to cry, after all he had just been called brave, but he couldn't help it. He didn't feel brave, back on the mountain. He just felt scared.
His mamá wore an inhaler mask, just like the one Jayce has to wear a few times a day to help his lungs, only bigger. There was a bandage on her hand. Jayce wondered if they still hurt from the cold. His own frostbites were subsiding nicely, though they still stung when he tried to touch them or flex his toes. Mamá had given him her gloves when the blizzard hit, so her fingers had been left exposed. It felt logical that hers would take a little longer. Not too long, Jayce hopes.
So he waits. For Mamá to wake up. For his lungs to heal. For something interesting to do in the meantime.
It is late afternoon when he waddles into the playroom, still muzzy with sleep, trying not to trip on his IV stand. He was hoping to catch a nature documentary on the television, but the horde of four-year-olds is still glued to the screen. Mamá says it's bad for your eyes to look at a screen for too long. Maybe their mamás don't know that. Surely the nurses should.
Jayce peruses the bookshelves, though his options haven't changed in the last four days. Maybe there is a box of building blocks somewhere that could keep him busy. He always did like building stuff. He starts rummaging through the board games shelf, pushing boxes aside. Maybe they're not keeping them here. He should ask the nurses. He'll make sure to ask politely. Mamá always says that people are happier to help you when you ask politely.
He turns around, readying his best puppy eyes (as his yaya likes to call it, whenever he makes that face; it is incredibly effective to get extra dessert) when he sees it. There, abandoned on a small, toddler-sized drawing table is a book he's not seen on the shelves before. Jayce comes closer, intrigued, the wheels of his IV stand squeaking next to him. The cover features an old-school submarine and a man in an intricate metal diving-suit. Big, menacing tentacles wrap around the picture, ready to squeeze and swallow it down to nothing.
Jayce picks it up.
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, he reads. On the back, the summary promises a tale of adventure, of science and discoveries that beats anything else the pediatric ward's library has to offer. Jayce flips through the pages avidly. There are barely any pictures, except for occasional illustrations at the start of the different chapters. It confirms what he was already suspecting: not for babies.
It's about the most exciting thing that has happened to him in the past four days. Finally, something to do except wait for Mamá to wake up.
The chairs match the table in size, but Jayce sits anyway. It's a tight fit, and his knees basically brush his chin, but he barely notices. The second he opens the book on the first page, enthusiasm and wonder wrap around him like a bubble, making him deaf to the world around him.
He dives in head first. Chapters read quickly, keeping the pages turning. This is a grown-up book, Jayce deduces, because he can't quite understand some of the words, though he can still follow most of what's going on. There is a dictionary at home, a massive brick of a thing, where he usually checks out the meaning of words he does not understand. He doesn't like not understanding things. He adds a dictionary to the list of things he needs to ask the nurses for. Politely.
There is no telling how much time has passed when he finally emerges from the pages. All he knows is that the sun has set and the overhead lights have been lit. And there's a boy standing in front of him, staring at him with the most peculiar and mesmerizing shade of amber he's ever seen.
Jayce is pretty sure the boy said something, hence why he looked up, but he didn't catch any of it.
"What?"
"That's my book."
Jayce's brow creases in confusion. The boy is wearing a hospital gown, he notices absently, though there's no IV stand in sight. He's leaning on a crutch instead.
"What?"
The boy points at the book, then at himself. Jayce blinks.
"Oh."
Then, all at once, something in his brain clicks. His stomach drops and his eyes widen. He springs to his feet, nearly knocking over his IV stand.
"Oh! I'm sorry!" he exclaims, horrified. He would hate for someone to steal his books while he wasn't looking. "I didn't steal it, I swear! It was on the table, I thought―Here!"
He holds out the book, his arm stretched towards the boy, who watches him with wide eyes. A moment goes by. Slowly, the boy's face softens.
"It's okay," he says, gently pushing the book back towards Jayce. "You can keep it, but you have to promise to give it back. And to treat it kindly."
There is a melody to his words Jayce doesn't know, but that sounds very pretty in his mouth. He's been told he has an accent too before, when he was little, but he doesn't quite hear it. Does the boy hear it when he speaks?
He presses the book against his chest, his arms crossed over it.
"I promise."
Still, he is loath to take such a good book from its owner, especially after his first-hand experience of utter boredom within the walls of the pediatric ward. Maybe they could share? He could ask the nurse to give it back when he naps, or eats. It could go back and forth, so they can both enjoy it when the other the busy with something else. It feels like a fair arrangement.
"Are you sure? Won't you miss it?"
"I have others," the boy shrugs. "And I've already finished it anyway."
Jayce can't help but frown, his head slightly tilted to the side.
"You brought books with you?"
"There's nothing to read here. It's all for―"
"Babies!"
They look at each other, the word hanging between them. There is a mole just above the boy's upper lip that moves up a few inches as a smile grows on his face. Jayce, in turn, is beaming. Finally, a kindred spirit, connoisseur!
"I'm Jayce," Jayce volunteers, holding out his hand like adults do. "I'm 7 and a half."
The boy looks at his hand, caught off guard at first, before shaking it gently, leaning heavier on his crutch as he does.
"I'm Viktor. I'm 8."
"Are you sick too? I have pneumonia, but the doctors say I'm not contagious anymore."
Viktor shakes his head.
"I have scoliosis."
"What's that?"
He truly needs to ask for that dictionary.
"My spine is," Viktor makes a wiggly shape with his hand. "So they'll put screws in it to make it straight."
Jayce gapes at him. That may well be the coolest and most painful thing he's ever heard of.
"Wow. Are they going to operate on your leg, too? Did you break it?"
"No. It's always been like that. Doctors can't fix it."
"Oh. Sorry."
Viktor shrugs again. Jayce gets the feeling he likes doing that.
"It's okay."
Jayce bites the inside of his cheek. Mamá keeps telling him to think before he speaks. Perhaps that would help him avoid asking rude questions. Viktor doesn't seem to mind his curiosity, though. However he leans on his crutch a whole lot, Jayce notices.
"Do you want to sit down?"
Viktor nods. The toddler-sized chairs left a lasting ache on Jayce's back and behind, so he's not eager to use them again. There are a few beanbags available around the playroom, though. He pulls two of them closer, before sitting on one of them, gingerly placing the book on his lap. Viktor follows suit, lowering himself down very carefully.
"Where do you go to school?" Jayce asks eagerly, grateful to have someone to talk to after four days of only nurses and doctors. They told him he can speak to his mamá when he visits her, but that's dumb. She's sleeping, she can't hear him.
"Zaun. But it's boring."
"I've never been to Zaun," Jayce muses. He's heard of it in passing. He knows Piltover and Zaun are distinct, but also very close together, and not much else. "Is it nice there?"
"Eh, depends."
"On what?"
"On a lot of things. But yes, it is nice for me, with Papa and Táta."
"Your tía lives with you?"
Viktor blinks at him before breaking into a quiet smile.
"No. Táta is my other dad."
"You have two dads?"
Viktor nods. Jayce, who went from one papá to zero a year prior, can't help a tinge of envy.
"Lucky."
He absently taps the floor with his heels, an uncomfortable, tight feeling brewing inside his chest.
"My mamá is in the grown-up ward," he says, burying himself deeper into the beanbag, a lump in his throat. "She hasn't woken up yet."
On the opposite seat, Viktor looks at him with a compassionate expression, his lips pinched to the side, almost thoughtful.
"Can you go visit her?"
"Yeah. But it doesn't do anything when I talk to her."
"Does she have pneumonia too?"
Jayce nods imperceptibly.
"We went high up on the mountains," he says, hugging his knees to his chest. "Have you ever been?"
Viktor shakes his head.
"Well, don't. It's windy and cold, and when you get high enough there's snow and blizzards. I hate it. It gets so cold you stop feeling your feet and your face and your fingers and―
A hiccup rolls out of him, wet and burning. His vision blurs. He thinks back to the thick bandages around mamá's hand. She gave him her gloves to ward off the cold. He had lost his trying to flag down a plane that was passing overhead. Stupid, stupid, stupid! A sob shakes him unexpectedly, and he breaks down crying.
"I―I―I th―think they're g―going to chop o―off mamá's f―fingers," he heaves, pressing his palms against his eyes until it hurts. "It's my f―fault!"
He feels a few pats on his arm that are meant to be comforting. They are awkward and timid, but they're there and Jayce still relishes their warmth.
"Maybe they won't have to," Viktor tells him gently. "You know, lots of people have prosthetics in Zaun. Some of them look really cool. Even if your mom loses her fingers, I bet she can get really great, functional ones."
Intrigued, Jayce wipes his eyes and cheeks messily, his chest still full of hiccups.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I've seen all sorts. Some even have neon lights inside and secret compartments and all!"
Mamá wouldn't like that, but he still smiles weakly at the thought. God, his head hurts from crying. It's like it's made of lead, all of a sudden.
"I still don't like that it's my fault," he sniffles.
"You didn't summon the blizzard."
"No, but I was the one who wanted to go up to the glaciers. There is snow that never melts up there, even in the summer. I read about it in a book. I wanted... I wanted to see. And then..."
His shoulders slump even lower. Viktor gives him a few, more assured, pats.
"I don't think that makes it your fault. Accidents happen. My papa says there's a lot of―" Viktor looks over his shoulder, as though checking for eavesdroppers. He lowers his voice anyway, though there are no nurses in sight and the toddlers hogging the TV have left a long time ago. "There's a lot of shit shovelling in life, but that's where flowers grow."
The bad word sounds so illicit and so beautiful in his mouth it temporarily snaps Jayce out of his sorrow. The corners of his mouth twitch into the ghost of a smile.
"Better shit than snow."
A snorting sound escapes Viktor, and before they know it, they're laughing together. Not a belly laugh, but nice, comforting laughter. The pressure in Jayce's chest eases somewhat and he sighs, almost in relief. He can't remember the last time he laughed. It must have been to something Mamá said before they left for the mountains. He hates that he doesn't remember.
"There you are, you two," a voice startles them. As he looks up, Jayce recognizes Nurse Julie. She is looking at them with her arms crossed, but she doesn't look mad. She never looks mad, even when Jayce gets impatient with his inhalation sessions. "Time to turn in for the night, boys."
It did get pretty dark outside, but with the shorter winter days, it could have been anywhere from 5PM to midnight, as far as Jayce is concerned.
They both get up, Viktor pushing against his crutch to get to his feet. Maybe I should have offered my hand, Jayce thinks belatedly.
"I trust you know the way to your room, Viktor," she smiles. Viktor nods before turning to Jayce.
"Goodnight, Jayce," he waves softly.
"Goodnight Viktor! Thank you for the book!"
Jayce's waving doesn't stop until Viktor has turned the corner, disappearing into another corridor. Jayce can still make out the sound of his crutch tapping against the floor when Nurse Julie presses a hand against his back to lead his back to his own room.
"You need to eat before taking your medication," Nurse Julie tells him. He doesn't like the medication, it makes him all drowsy and mushy. But dinner does sound nice, even if there isn't much to look forward to when it comes to hospital food. "I see you've met Viktor."
"You know him?"
She hums in confirmation.
"He's our little regular."
Regular? How many surgeries does it take to straighten one spine? The prospect of being subjected to more than one is immediately horrific.
"You looked like you were getting along like a house on fire," she continues. "That's good."
Jayce furrows his brows.
"A house on fire is good?"
"Yes. You know, it's the same as being like two peas in a pod."
Jayce's frown deepens. The common tongue is full of strange sayings that don't always make sense. What do burned houses and peas have to do with anything? Nurse Julie must see she has lost him, because she eventually clarifies:
"It means it looks like you two have become fast friends."
"Oh."
Friends. Another sensation sparks in Jayce's chest, but unlike earlier it is fuzzy and warm, and leaves a smile on his face. Yes. Yes, he likes that. Very much. Are they friends, though? It feels a little presumptuous to say so without Viktor's confirmation, first.
There is a saying in the common tongue he's heard before. Misery loves company. Perhaps it was invented for situations just like this. Would Viktor like his company? He hopes so. It seemed like he did, just then, even if Jayce started to panic and cried like an idiot. Maybe they could talk about books. Or dinosaurs. Or space. He wonders what Viktor's favorite gemstone is. He should have asked.
His thoughts accompany him back to his room, where a tray of unexciting food waits for him on his bed. Nurse Julie instructs him to eat, saying she will be back to administer his medication once he's finished his dinner. He places Viktor's book on the bedside table, away from the ever present cup of water. It would not do to knock it over by accident in the middle of the night, and ruin the pages. He did promise to treat it kindly, after all. He assumes also meant keeping it dry.
Long after that, once the lights have been turned off and his eyes blink increasingly slower, Jayce thinks back to the boy and his almost glowing gaze. His thoughts stretch like gum, becoming muddled with each passing minute. Amber eyes. No, tiger's eyes. Held against the light. So pretty.
His last thought as he falls asleep almost shakes him awake:
Shoot! I forgot to ask about the dictionary!