Chapter Text
The Progress Day ceremony is a resounding success.
Piltover's elite marvel at the latest Hextech advancements, and Jayce charms the crowd with his bold speech. Yet as the evening transitions to the exclusive after-party, he grows restless. The lavish hall shimmers with golden light, the sounds of clinking glasses and murmured conversation echoing against the high ceilings.
Jayce glances at Viktor, who stands beside him, cane in hand. The man's expression is unreadable—his golden eyes scan the room, as if cataloging flaws in a machine.
"See? Not so bad," Jayce says, leaning closer so Viktor can hear him.
"Not so bad," Viktor repeats snidely. "Just a room full of sycophants congratulating themselves for something we built."
"Wow. Don't hold back, Viktor. Tell me how you really feel."
"I thought I just did." Viktor shifts his weight slightly, the cane clicking softly against the marble floor. "You enjoy this sort of thing. I am only here because you insisted."
"You make that sound like I dragged you here by force."
"You begged," Viktor says flatly, a smirk growing. "You are lucky I did not make you grovel."
Jayce barks a laugh, drawing a few curious glances from nearby partygoers. He doesn't care. Viktor's humor—dry and biting—never fails to make him smile. "Well, since you're here now," he says, "you might as well enjoy it. What'll it take? Food? Dancing? A drink?"
"I have been drinking," Viktor replies.
He raises a brow. "Really? Where's your glass?"
Viktor gestures vaguely to a passing waiter. "Somewhere. I lost track."
Jayce isn't convinced. "Let me grab you something. You're not leaving this party without at least one proper drink."
A sigh. "If it means you will stop pestering me, fine. Surprise me."
Jayce's grin widens.
"You're gonna regret saying that."
Jayce returns with two glasses. He hands one to Viktor, who studies the drink with a skeptical glance.
"Whiskey," Viktor notes, swirling the tawny liquid. "How predictable."
"Predictable?" Jayce feigns offense. "This is a classic. Refined, classy, and just strong enough to make this party bearable."
"Eh," Viktor shrugs. Then he raises his tumbler. "To survival, then."
Jayce clinks their glasses together. "To survival."
The whiskey burns as Jayce takes a sip, a golden fire. Viktor's expression shifts slightly as he tastes his own; there's the faintest crease between his brows, and his gaze grows thoughtful. Jayce is unable to hide his grin. "Well?" he prods. "What's the verdict?"
"It is . . . acceptable."
"Acceptable," Jayce parrots. He shakes his head. "You're impossible to impress."
"Perhaps your taste simply lacks refinement," Viktor counters, eyes glinting with playful challenge.
Their banter tapers off into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes easily between two people who have spent countless hours in each other's company. Around them, the crowd ebbs and flows like a living tide, voices rising and falling in waves. Neither seems to notice. The world outside their small corner of the room feels muted.
Jayce takes another sip of his drink, and his attention drifts; not to the whiskey, but to Viktor.
Can he be blamed though? It's hard not to look, especially at times like this. Viktor's sharp features are softened by the dim light. Shadows sculpt the hollow planes of his cheeks, the faint curve of his smirk. There's an elegance to the way his fingers tap idly against the polished surface of his cane; a quiet, unconscious rhythm.
It all tugs at something deep inside Jayce. He's known Viktor for years now, but lately, everything about him feels different.
Sharper. Brighter.
And infinitely more distracting.
The evening wears on.
Jayce finds himself tugged away from Viktor at some point. A firm handshake here, a polite nod there—each interaction demands a slice of his attention. He finds himself surrounded by curious faces, eager investors, and fellow innovators, each clamoring to hear about his latest breakthroughs. By the time he's free, two hours have vanished into the night.
Shit.
He mentally curses himself for leaving Viktor alone for so long. It's never intentional; he just gets swept up in the momentum. With a sigh, Jayce parts from the crowd and goes looking for his partner.
Luckily, the search isn't hard.
Jayce spots Viktor leaning heavily against a marble column near the edge of the room. A waiter offers him a champagne flute, and Jayce fully expects Viktor to refuse—but instead, he accepts it.
And then takes a rather large gulp.
Alarm bells ring in Jayce's head. He frowns and weaves through the throng. As he gets closer, he notices Viktor's normally sharp gaze is hazy. Distant. His posture is far too slumped. "Viktor?" His hand instinctively reaches out, gentle and searching. "Are you alright?"
A lazy smile spreads across Viktor's face. "Jayce," he drawls, his accent thicker than usual. "You came to . . . to rescue me from . . . from boredom, yes?"
"Uh." Jayce blinks. "I mean, I guess? You're acting a little weird, V."
Viktor leans closer—too close—bumping their shoulders together. "A little weird?" he parrots, raising his chin to meet Jayce's eyes. "How so? Enlighten me, Talis. Your diagnostics are always . . . thorough."
"Drunk," Jayce deadpans. "You're drunk, Viktor."
"Nonsense." Viktor's attempt to wave off the accusation sends champagne sloshing dangerously close to his sleeve. "I am perfectly functional."
"Yeah, right." Jayce plucks the glass from Viktor's hands and places it on a passing waiter's tray. "I'll believe it when I—"
Suddenly, Viktor is slamming a palm onto Jayce's chest.
"Hm. You are very firm."
Four words.
Four words, and Jayce's brain short-circuits. Viktor's never complimented him like this, not in this way—never this flippant, this incoherent. The ballroom around them blurs into meaningless background noise. Jayce feels eyes on them now: curious, amused, speculative.
"Viktor," Jayce says, trying to bat Viktor's hand away. "Cut it out. People are staring."
But Viktor doesn't seem to care. He doesn't move to reclaim his hand, nor does he acknowledge the crowd. "You know, this is a rather nice jacket." His fingers tug at the lapel. "It suits you."
"Viktor!" Jayce whispers again, more red than ever. His hands fly to steady Viktor as he sways. "Okay, that's it. We're leaving."
"But I am finally enjoying myself!" Viktor protests, though the resistance is half-hearted at best. He's pliant as Jayce wraps an arm around his thin waist. The touch sends sparks dancing up Jayce's spine; he curses inwardly, willing himself to focus.
"You're definitely not enjoying yourself tomorrow if you stay like this," Jayce mutters, guiding Viktor toward the exit as gently as possible.
And then—
"Mister Talis!"
A smooth voice cuts through the ambient chatter. Jayce stops to see a well-dressed woman in a sleek emerald gown approaching. Her dark hair is swept elegantly over one shoulder, her lips glittering with the swipe of red gloss. "Leaving so soon?"
Jayce plasters on a polite smile. "Ah, Miss Arathia. Good evening. I was just about to—"
Arathia silences him with a hand. "I couldn't help but notice you and your companion," she says, gesturing lightly toward Viktor—who, to Jayce's horror, is leaning even more heavily against him now.
"Hello," Viktor greets lazily. His eyes focus on her with a squint. "You are . . . very shiny."
Miss Arathia startles and then laughs. "A bit too much of Piltover's finest tonight?"
Jayce lets out a nervous chuckle. "He's had a lot to drink, I guess. Progress Day and all." He clears his throat. "I was just taking him home."
Arathia's gaze lingers on Viktor's hand; it's resting on Jayce's chest again, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. "Really? How thoughtful."
Jayce gently pries Viktor's hand away. "It's just what friends do."
"Friends? You two seem very close."
Jayce feels the blood drain from his face. "We're not—it's not like that," he blurts out, his voice hitching. "We're colleagues. Partners. In Hextech. Not, uh . . . not like that kind of partner."
"I see," Arathia hums, clearly unconvinced. She looks at Viktor, who has now tucked his face into Jayce's shoulder. "Your Hextech partner seems very comfortable with you."
"I am comfortable," Viktor cuts in. "He is quite warm."
Jayce feels his ears heat up to an impossible degree. "Viktor," he hisses under a breath, mortified. "Stop talking."
Arathia's laughter rings out, melodic and genuine. "Oh, I like him," she grins. "You should keep this one."
Jayce splutters, torn between defending himself and digging a hole to hide in.
"It's not—he's just—he's drunk!" he manages finally. He hates the way his voice cracks. Gods, he sounds so dumb. "I'm just making sure he gets home safe."
"Of course," Arathia says, clearly amused by his flustered state. "Well, I won't keep you. But Mister Talis . . ." She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If you ever do decide to call him more than a partner, I think you'd make quite the pair."
Jayce gapes.
Arathia only winks before gliding back into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her.
The moment she's out of earshot, Jayce exhales sharply. He peers down at Viktor, who is clearly oblivious to the turmoil he's just caused.
"What is it?" Viktor blanks.
"Let's just get you home before you embarrass me any more."
The streets of Piltover are quiet at this late hour, the usual hum of Progress Day festivities dwindling as people retire to their homes. Jayce has one arm securely around Viktor's waist, the other awkwardly carrying his cane. Viktor leans heavily against him. His steps are uneven but not entirely unmanageable.
"Jayce," Viktor mumbles as they navigate the cobblestones. His voice is colored with drowsiness, as though he is halfway to sleep. "The ground is spinning."
"It's not spinning, Viktor," Jayce replies patiently. He guides them around a corner. "You're just drunk."
"Mm, disagree." Viktor's head dips to rest against Jayce's shoulder. "The ground . . . has opinions tonight."
"Right. I'll be sure to let the ground know it's being too opinionated."
Each step presses the awareness deeper: the solid, undeniable weight of Viktor leaning against him, the warmth of his breath grazing Jayce's neck in fragmented murmurs. These walks home are not unfamiliar; how often has he guided Viktor from the lab, ensuring the man got a good nights sleep? And yet tonight is different, a thread pulled taut between them.
This is not routine. This is intimate. Jayce blushes at the idea of it.
They reach Viktor's building in record time. Viktor fumbles in his coat pocket, producing a key with triumph—
Only to promptly drop it.
Oh, for Gods sake.
Jayce crouches to pick it up. "I've got it, don't worry. Just try not to fall, okay?"
The lock is a different challenge entirely. Viktor sways unsteadily as Jayce juggles keeping him upright and turning the key. The stubborn mechanism refuses to cooperate. "Why is your door so damn picky?" Jayce grits out, straining his jaw as the lock finally clicks open. Viktor leans more heavily against him; it almost sends them tumbling inside.
"Not picky, Jayce. Just complicated."
Jayce rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind them with his foot. "It's definitely complicated, alright."
Viktor laughs: soft and unguarded and unusual. Jayce nearly startles at the sound. It's beautiful. Melodic. Musical, yes, but more than that; it is a tether, an ache, a breath held too long. Jayce grips the threadbare edges of his focus.
"O-kay," Jayce whistles, easing Viktor down onto the edge of his bed. "Let's get you out of these shoes first."
"Do as you please."
Viktor doesn't resist as Jayce kneels in front of him and begins undoing the worn straps of his shoes. The buckles are stubborn, their age evident in the slight resistance they give, but Jayce doesn't rush. He works them loose with patient precision, setting the shoes neatly to the side.
Next up: the leg brace. Jayce moves slowly; he unbuckles it with care, glaringly cautious. The metal is cold under his fingertips and worn smooth from years of use. As the brace comes free, Viktor's leg jolts.
"You okay?" Jayce startles. "Did I hurt you?"
Viktor's head cocks slightly. The dim lamplight makes his eyes look like they're glowing. "I am fine," he says, his tone subdued but certain. "Just stiff. You are . . . very gentle."
Jayce swallows. He has a bad case of cotton mouth. "Of course I'm careful," he murmurs softly. "This is important. You're important."
Something slips in Viktor's expression. Before Jayce can decipher it, he turns his attention to Viktor's back brace.
"Let me, uh—help with this too," Jayce blurts, unfastening the straps. Viktor's vest and shirt shift slightly as he works. The pale skin of his shoulder blades and the ridges of his spine are unveiled every few seconds. The brace is placed carefully on the nightstand.
Viktor shifts on the mattress. His posture is more relaxed now, though his eyes remained fixed on Jayce with an intensity that makes the man's pulse quicken.
"There," Jayce says. He brushes his hands together to shake off the nervous energy prickling along his skin. "That should feel better."
"Much," Viktor slurs, his gaze dipping for a moment before returning to meet Jayce's. "You are very attentive."
"Of course," Jayce says automatically. His chest tightens at the soft, grateful look Viktor is giving him. "You'd do the same for me."
"Hmm," Viktor muses. "I am not so sure. I am less gentle than you."
Jayce chuckled. "I don't think that's true. You've got a lot more patience than I do."
Viktor didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leans back to prop himself up on his hands. Without the braces, his frame seems thinner, more delicate—but there is strength in the way he holds himself.
"You are very kind to me, Jayce."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because I am . . . " He trails off. "Difficult. Broken, I think."
Jayce's stomach twists. A fierce protectiveness flares up inside him. "Hey," he says, sitting beside Viktor on the bed. His hand moves instinctively, resting lightly on Viktor's arm. "You're not broken. Don't say that."
There's a wry smile on Viktor's mouth. "You say it so easily," he laments. "But I have seen the way others look at me. They do not see a man, only . . . limitations."
Jayce's grip on Viktor's arm tightens. "They're idiots, then. You're brilliant, Viktor. You're—Gods, you're more than most people could ever hope to be."
Something in Viktor's face softens. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lifts a hand and brushes it against Jayce's jaw.
Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.
And for the first time that night, the earth feels utterly still.
Jayce doesn't budge. Can't move. Something keeps him frozen in place. His breath catches as Viktor's fingers trail downward to his chin, those amber eyes dark and searching.
"You are so good to me," Viktor whispers, his accent thickening. Was that . . . lust? "Too good."
Jayce's throat works, but no words come. He just sits there, heat flooding his body, burning under the touch. It's like the world has narrowed to the faint warmth of Viktor's hand.
"Do you know," Viktor murmurs lowly, "how long I have wanted to be this close to you?"
Jayce's eyes widen. "Viktor—"
"I think of you always," Viktor continues, undeterred. His focus is locked on Jayce's lips now. "Every late night in the lab. Every time you speak to me. You make me want . . . so much more, Jayce."
The words hit Jayce like a tidal wave. His chest feels unbearably tight, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Viktor could hear it. There's the instinct to pull Viktor closer, to close the space between them.
And then Viktor's hand slides down, down, down, and—
Reality strikes Jayce like a bolt of Hextech energy.
"Viktor!" he says quickly, his voice cracking as he catches Viktor's wrist. "You're . . . not yourself right now."
"I know what I am saying," Viktor insists. "This is not the drink. This is truth."
Jayce exhales sharply. His grip on Viktor's wrist loosens but does not let go. "I know. I believe you. But you've had a lot tonight, and I don't want you to—" He pauses, the sentence warbling on his tongue. "I don't want you to regret anything in the morning, V."
Viktor's expression crumbles slightly. He sits back, his hand slipping away.
"Do you not hold affection for me?"
"I . . . w-well, yes," Jayce admits immediately. It's the first time he's ever said it out loud. Said it at all. His cheeks flare. "That's not what I mean. I just . . . I don't want to rush this. You're important to me, Viktor. I don't—I really don't want to mess this up."
Viktor studies him for a long moment. Finally, his mouth twists: a small, resigned smile.
"You are too careful for your own good, Jayce Talis."
Jayce lets out a breathy laugh. "Yeah, well. Someone has to be." He reaches out and combs Viktor's hair back from his face. The gesture is so instinctive, so intimate, it surprises even him. The man's eyes flutter closed at the touch, and Jayce feels a familiar warmth bloom behind his sternum. "Get some rest, okay? We'll talk more in the morning."
Viktor's eyes open again, locking onto Jayce's for a beat longer than necessary. Then, with a small hum, he lays down against the mattress. His posture softens, and the weight of the day—and night—seems to pull him under.
Jayce lingers as he watches Viktor settle.
Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow, he will tell Viktor everything.
And maybe, just maybe, they can finally stop dancing around the truth they've both been avoiding for far too long.