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There are two essential things every Zaunite must know, things that Viktor has felt in his bones since birth.
One: you deserve nothing. Not food, not sleep, not the air in your lungs — these things belong to your betters, whether the goons one step up on the ladder or the chembarons swimming in the river of their wares or the Pilties so mired in luxury they don’t even know what they have.
Two: you will take everything anyway. You will clench your fist around everything you have no right to and snatch it. You will seize a life for yourself not by might or right or wit, but by the sheer scrabbling feral will to dig your teeth in and not let go until your stomach is full.
Viktor did not deserve a position at the Academy — didn’t matter, he seized it anyway. (Did Heimerdinger really think it was by coincidence he found him, that Viktor hadn’t noticed where the cloaked figure took regular walks, did he really believe that he usually took such impressive inventions so far from home, displayed them so ostentatiously?) It had been made quite clear to him that even this was a privilege, in all the unbearable implications of well-meaning Pilties, that to seek more would be staggering folly — didn’t matter, he waited like a viper for the chance to strike for more. He was staggeringly lucky to be an assistant, and he dreamed of leaving his position behind anyway.
And he found his prey on a blackboard, in pages, in the mind of a man far above Viktor’s station.
The chance to realize a dream undeserved — but who else could do it but Viktor? So “deserve” didn’t matter.
“Don’t ask for permission,” he told Jayce. Those from the upper city were always so stuck in rules.
If they were going to get anywhere, he needed to show Jayce how to take, and luckily, he quickly showed himself an eager student.
Zaunites aren’t known for their patience.
Viktor has always borne the sins of ambition and greed. He has never once been satisfied, and never felt like has everything he wants. But futility has also curled within him like a snake: he wants the world and will be dead before he can swallow a fraction of it.
This is what makes Jayce dangerous. He reignites the hunger in Viktor, makes him remember what it’s like to feel thirst scrape his throat, from before he went soft. Jayce stokes the fire that brought Viktor to Piltover and makes him see possibility float before him like a ghost.
This is not a problem, per se. Viktor likes dangerous. He thrives under pressure. Progress has never been safe. So they have a good thing going, in Viktor’s eyes — black-sludge coffee and late nights, chalk dust in hair, so sleep-deprived they laugh like maniacs over resonance calculations, feeding into each other’s hubris, feeling the guillotine of expectations poised over their necks, spurring them to greatness they could never achieve alone.
(You see the problem now, yes? Viktor is never satisfied with just a good thing.)
Jayce is supposed to be at the party for a few more hours, but he stumbles back to the lab, bringing the smell of champagne with him. He exhales, sheds his cloak on the hook. Viktor does not look up from his rune etchings to see this, but by now he knows the routine by ear. He knows the rustle of cloth, can pinpoint Jayce by his footsteps.
Jayce exhales and throws himself onto the stool next to Viktor. Viktor turns to look at him — to glance at him, that was his intention. Jayce’s hair is struggling to free itself from its pomade, and a few stragglers have already succeeded. He looks tired. The concealer under his eyes is starting to degrade with sweat and heat. His eyes turn to Viktor, and there it is, the brightening — pupils dilating, mouth twitching into a smile so small it can’t be intentional, and in this completely mundane moment Viktor feels a twist in his chest so intense at first he thinks it’s the scars of the Grey coming to grip his lungs.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of rubbing elbows with Piltover’s most insufferable,” Viktor says once he’s caught his breath back. “If you make me start socializing in your place, I’ll never forgive you.”
“You really should come to one of these things sometime,” Jayce says. “You’re half of Hextech.”
Jayce is always doing that, always reminding everyone of Viktor’s role in all this. Viktor has never had to fight for credit, so he’s left to throw elbows for loftier things.
“Which is why I’m needed in the lab while you waste time with the upper class,” Viktor hums, forcing himself to look back at his work as his heart hammers. “Did you come back here to drag me over to be paraded around?”
“No,” Jayce sighs, “I came back here because I couldn’t pay attention to any of those people, and suddenly I started getting really pissed off that I was there instead of here, and none of them actually understand what we’re doing beyond what it can add to their bank accounts.”
So he came back here. To Viktor, who understands.
“Let us not forget, they can add quite a lot to our bank accounts,” Viktor says playfully. “Lab equipment must be purchased with money, you know.”
Jayce exhales, running his hands through his hair. Then, the rustle as he takes off his jacket button by button, the sibilant sibling swishes as he rolls up his sleeves. Medarda will give him an earful about wrinkling them later, and Jayce will tell Viktor about it — that is how things go.
And Viktor looks at him again. His bronze skin falls into planes of harsh light and shadow here, where the light is hard and scientific. He leans back, eyes closed beneath long-lash curtains, mouth parted in an exhale of exhaustion that’s almost debauched in its indulgence. And his arms — does he roll his sleeves up on purpose, knowing they’ll reveal muscles toned to perfection by a forge, as if it was his body and not hammers poured into a mold of steel?
“I’ll take you over them any day,” Jayce mourns. “Viktor, I really don’t know what I’m doing with them.”
“And you do with me?”
“At least you tell me things to my face.”
Viktor chuckles at that, lets his eyes run indulgenty over the angles of the face he tells things to. Jayce glances at him again. He does that a lot. Looks at Viktor a lot. Viktor doesn’t usually like to be looked at, but Jayce is the kind of man who pays attention to worthwhile things, so Jayce’s gaze makes his greed stir for more.
When Jayce looks away, and it’s accompanied by a burst of disappointment within Viktor, that’s when he knows.
Ah, he thinks, I want him.
Viktor allows himself a moment to ruminate on this. He tilts his head, lets his hands pause to set down the tools.
He thinks of Jayce at those parties, fawned over and touched by star-struck undergrads and sharp-toothed politicians alike, and tastes something sour. He thinks of Jayce turning his back on them to come back to Viktor, and satisfaction purrs in his chest. Hypothesis confirmed.
Viktor is not quite a Zaunite but not a Piltie either, and carries inheritances from both. Among them is a Zaunite directive: snatch what precious things you can from Piltover, but never too much, never the most precious things that they’ll go after. But Viktor’s been in Piltover long enough to learn something new: the arrogance of privilege, which can be imitated with audacity.
Oh, Jayce is a precious thing to Piltover. Viktor isn’t blind. He knows how much of a favored pawn Jayce is seen as. Not a man, a bargaining chip — a bringer of money. That is how everyone here sees each other.
But Jayce is not a thing, he’s a man. A beautiful, brilliant, reckless man, and Gods, he’s the newest desire added to Viktor’s endless ambition, a name finally placed to something that’s been burning since who knows when.
It is a fact observable to anyone in this city that Jayce, practically chiseled from stone to be the perfect scientist to serve as Hextech’s face, would have no business with a Zaunite cripple. Viktor has never let such things stop him. It’s no fun to pursue what’s already in one’s hands, anyway. He never does what’s easy.
The clock on the wall ticks.
“Was Councilor Medarda there?” Viktor asks.
Officially, the relationship between Medarda and Jayce is that of patron and pet — officially, Jayce and Viktor share the same leash. Viktor, however, is not blind or stupid. He knows there’s more there, and frankly, he can’t blame either of them.
“Might’ve stayed if she was,” Jayce says, and Viktor tuts a little. “She knows how to play defense for me. But she had a…prior engagement, she said.”
Two primary barriers lie in Viktor’s path. The first uncertainty: Jayce’s attraction, and to whom. The second, related uncertainty: Mel Medarda. First step is gathering information.
Under normal circumstances, pursuing the same man as a councilor would be an errand that would make even Viktor balk — he wouldn’t be able to play the ensuing political game. It’s one thing for Piltoverians to share the same consort, quite another to try to split the attentions of a genuine pursuit, and Viktor has no intentions of making Jayce a casual plaything. “Casual” is not in Viktor’s vocabulary. But Medarda, like Viktor, is an outsider. In Zaun, families and romances split beyond the nuclear, while in Noxus, they revolve around the matriarch, and most women have more than one lover.
The obstacle is not Medarda, then, but Jayce. He, after all, is from Piltover. Will he think himself forced to make a choice? Viktor doesn’t want to put him in that position.
The choice could be easy, though, as Viktor doesn’t even know if Jayce is attracted to men. That’s the other problem. He taps his screwdriver against his lips and wonders how Jayce kisses. Probably like he does everything — quick and hard yet unsure, yearning for praise in every motion.
I would bet he likes to be told he’s good, Viktor thinks, and files that away for later.
Viktor has never been to the forge before. He has no reason to — he doesn’t work with metal, and Jayce barely goes there personally anymore. But he uses it to unwind. And Viktor knows when his stress builds up to a head, when he needs to let the steam out or risk blowing a gasket in his beautiful mind.
Perhaps, Viktor wonders idly, he’d like a different sort of stress relief. If Viktor could free the tension from those broad shoulders, if throwing his head back in ecstasy would help Jayce work out some of the cricks in his neck.
He hears the hammering as he approaches, feels the heat wafting from the half-open door. He sheds his vest as he enters.
Jayce is there. Hammering…something, Viktor cares more for delicate crafts than blacksmithing, he doesn’t know the nuances. And Viktor quickly discards any attachment he might have once had for workplace safety, because, heedless of the flying sparks, Jayce is shirtless.
Viktor stands there, leaning on his cane, and takes in the view.
He’s seen Jayce shirtless before, changing after sleeping in the lab or stripping off a chem-spill ruined garment, but not like this, deliberate and flexing and lit with angry orange light that clings to his skin as if trying to lick sweat off it. He swings his hammer with anger, with ferocity, with verve, tendons coiling in his wrists, strength evident from his broad hands all the way down the lines of his arms.
(Hot hands, Viktor knows, from so many careless touches. Hands that could bracket Viktor’s thighs.)
But it’s the eyes, as always, that get Viktor, focused and alive, burning hot enough to rival the crucible.
Brains, body, charm and looks. Whoever hands out natural advantages picks favorites, and Jayce is one of them, while Viktor got scraps. How delicious it would be, then, to have Jayce anyway.
Jayce hasn’t noticed him yet. His brow is furrowed. His teeth are gritted. (What would they feel like on Viktor’s neck?)
He lifts his hammer like it’s nothing. (Could probably do the same to Viktor.)
Finally, he clears his throat. Jayce stops, looks over his shoulder, standing to attention. It’s cute, how quickly he turns to Viktor like a sunflower facing the light.
“Oh, Viktor,” he says, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He walks over to a table, grabs a towel, and starts wiping off the sweat and soot without an ounce of self-consciousness. He probably knows he is way too sexy to be shy about being shirtless around a guy who’s seen him trip over scattered thermoses and nearly put his head through a blackboard.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” he continues.
“Yes, I thought it was high time I see where it all began,” Viktor says, stepping forward and making a show of looking around.
“Like what you see?” Jayce asks, wiping off his face, rolling his shoulders in a way that would be cartoonishly deliberate flirtation from anyone else, but he genuinely looks oblivious as to the effects — it’s not the warmth of the forge that’s bringing heat to Viktor’s cheeks. And other places.
“Oh, absolutely,” Viktor assures him. He bites the inside of his cheek.
He opens his mouth to say something further, but then the door opens a bit further with a creak. Viktor turns on his heel, ready to snap at whatever assistant —
It’s Medarda. Piltover’s golden councilor, down here in the smoke and heat.
“Ah, councilor,” Viktor greets her. “I am afraid we’re off the clock — you’ll have to wait tomorrow for an update.”
“I came to speak with Jayce personally, actually,” Medarda said. “On a more…advisory basis.”
Viktor raises an eyebrow. She could easily speak with Jayce in the lab.
So could Viktor.
His mouth twitches. Perhaps he has more in common with Piltover’s golden girl than he thought. Perhaps Councilor Medarda isn’t as above common pleasures as she claims.
“I’ve been trying to understand politics more, myself,” Viktor says. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to share your insights with me as well.”
She chuckles a bit and steps forward. “I’m afraid my first piece of advice for you would be to make an occasional appearance before the court of public opinion, instead of holing yourself in the lab. I’m sure you’ll find our imported wine preferable to over-sugared coffee.”
“And yet you too missed the last event,” Viktor replies. He cocks his head. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
“So you admit it’s over-sugared,” Jayce says smugly.
Medarda laughs like a politician. It’s not entirely unpleasant. “Jayce mentioned it. He never shuts up about you, you know.”
“And you ought to know that you hardly have me at a disadvantage. He’s quite effusive about the people in his life,” Viktor says. He turns to Jayce and cocks an eyebrow. “I hope you haven’t been telling everyone about me. If they all learn of my handsome face and captivating personality, I’ll never have time to myself.”
Medarda walks behind Viktor. Her steps are careful yet confident. Everything about her is.
“Is that why you never make an appearance?” she asks with a lilt in her voice. “Too afraid of stealing the spotlight and making Jayce feel alone and unwanted?”
“You must understand, Councilor, I care for him too deeply to do such a thing.”
“Are you two done?” Jayce asks. He’s finished toweling off, but he still hasn’t put his shirt back on. Viktor glances back at Medarda. She is not looking at Viktor. “If you just came here to make fun of me, you can go somewhere else.”
Medarda and Viktor have always been at a distance, tied together by the distant irons of patronage and mutual friendship. But in this moment, they share an interest. As in, they are both quite interested in the same thing.
It’s easy to feel camaraderie with those who share one’s tastes.
Information is Viktor’s bread and butter. And, like every living creature who hungers, he’s learned where to find his meals.
Academy gossip is easy to find. The hard part is sorting the wheat from the chaff. It’s inevitable that someone like Jayce Talis will have a thousand rumors circulating them about past paramours. Such hearsay is unreliable.
This is what Viktor uses.
“Well, what other students are saying is hardly reliable,” he sneaks into an argument/spirited debate about the merits of various purity testing techniques. “After all, half of them think you slept with Waylan Dross.”
Actually, that was the most credible rumor — of course Jayce would go for the only other researcher on the resophysics track that could even approach his level of audacious genius, though sadly Dross has since burned out into dubious corporate contracts. But that’s not the point. The point is the response test.
“I-wh-“ Jayce sputters, then collects himself. “Well, I’ll have you know I did sleep with Waylan Dross, so maybe it’s time you get your head out of your ass and acknowledge maybe sometimes the other labs are right about crystal purities!”
Viktor feigns defeat and hides his grin. Ah, Jayce. Such a fiery need to be right, and yet such a reliable inability to lie.
Viktor regularly falls asleep at the lab.
They both do. Even the cots see little use, as they typically just fall asleep at their desks. Viktor used to impose discipline on himself, used to lie down for the sake of his back, but the more his lungs spasm in his chest the less he cares about the long-term integrity of his bones.
One moment he’s deliriously writing, and the next —
He’s in Jayce’s arms, caught halfway to the ground.
“Mmmwah?” Viktor mutters, blinking sleepily, instinctively struggling to stand.
“You slid off the stool,” Jayce breathes. “Didn’t want you to hit the floor too hard.”
His hands are effortlessly strong. His voice is tender as velvet. Viktor sighs and lets himself go limp again.
It’s all well and good to ogle Jayce in the light of the forge. But if he was nothing but a pretty face and toned body, Viktor would leave him to Medarda without a second thought.
It’s this Jayce he wants. The Jayce who lowers him to the ground, who asks if he’s okay in a way that cuts past Zaunite toughness and the chip on his shoulder down to the childish desire to have someone, anyone, care. He leans his head into Jayce’s arm, only half-feigning his exhaustion.
“You need some proper sleep. Horizontal,” Jayce says.
“Hm. Look who’s talking.”
Jayce huffs out a laugh and tucks some of Viktor’s hair behind his ear. He’s a touchy person, and doesn’t seem to notice how it make Viktor shiver.
“I wouldn’t have been hurt too badly if I hit the floor, you know,” Viktor says.
How close attention must Jayce have been paying, to catch him before he hit the ground?
“I don’t want you to be hurt at all,” Jayce says.
Viktor’s mouth twists at that. He’s always hurting. Jayce is hounding a lost cause.
“If only you were this careful with your equipment.”
“Well, I can always get a new screwdriver,” Jayce says. Such a Piltover thing to say, the words of one who’s never clawed tools from scrap heaps. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Here, in the midnight dark, all words seem infused with a mystical weight.
“Now, c’mon,” Jayce says, grabbing Viktor’s cane from where it leans against the desk. “Let’s get you to a bed.”
The thought of standing makes Viktor groan aloud. This is the hour when ache sits deep within him, when sharp pains spring up with every movement.
Jayce doesn’t haul him to his feet, doesn’t rush him. Viktor reaches a hand up to Jayce’s shoulder, intending to haul himself upright in a practiced motion learned from a thousand falls, but pauses there when he catches Jayce’s eyes, wide and worried.
Viktor does not need help. He has never needed help. But Jayce wants so desperately to give it. To be a partner to him.
“Perhaps you could assist me?” he asks.
He’s expecting Jayce to take the place of his cane, to bind them into an awkward shuffle that will work passably for the distance across the room. That’ll let him feel leaned on, with luck.
But instead, as easily as picking up a tome, Jayce scoops Viktor into his arms, one arm beneath his legs, the other at his back. Those hands are just as sure on him as Viktor’s imagined. His imagination and heart both race a mile a minute and have to be wrangled into submission with a few deep breaths.
“I must weigh nothing to you,” Viktor says.
“Perks of the family business,” Jayce replies.
Viktor indulges. He leans his head against Jayce’s solid chest as he’s carried across the lab. He closes his eyes and hears a quick heartbeat.
He cannot lose this. He cannot ever lose this. He feels the Zaunite impulse buck in his chest, the ultimatum to either shove Jayce away before he can get hurt or sink his teeth in and never let go. He turns his face into Jayce and runs his tongue over his canines, delirious with both sleep deprivation and want.
In the mornings before parties, Jayce takes great pains to apply unbearable Piltover cologne, cultivating a nose-wrinkling scent of sandalwood, which nearly makes Viktor sneeze. But this isn’t prepping-to-get-funding Jayce, this is three-days-of-constant-work Jayce. He smells like sweat and metal, like coffee and old pomade, like the sizzling acrid ozone of Hextech.
Not like Piltover, but not like Zaun either. Just like Viktor, like the in-between place he’s carved with his bare and bloodied hands. A place he let Jayce into, a decision he’s never had cause to regret once.
“You smell nice,” Viktor lets himself murmur.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I haven’t showered in days.”
“Everyone here reeks of money, and I hate the smell of blood.”
Jayce lays him down gently on the cot. Not like a glass vase, but like a delicate mechanism. The difference is very important. Viktor doesn’t think he’s imagining Jayce’s hands lingering longer than they have to.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Jayce asks.
“Stay a moment,” Viktor says. Potential hangs heavy in the air as he tilts back his head. He will not strike — too early, he doesn’t know what he needs to know. But he will not waste this night either.
“All right.” The cot creaks beneath Jayce as he sits.
“Thank you.”
A long moment. Then Jayce breaks the silence.
“You haven’t told me much about it,” he says. “Your leg.”
“There isn’t much to tell. Messed up since birth, braced, caned, painful. Yada yada yada, lots of boring little details about bones.”
“I hope I haven’t pushed you too hard.” Jayce’s voice is quiet.
Viktor laughs at the audacity of the comment. “You think me some poor work horse? Ah, so egotistical, Talis, to think you could make me do anything.”
“Suppose that’s true. I can’t stop you, either.” Then, softer, more tender: “No one can. I can only join you.”
“You must think quite highly of me.”
“What, you haven’t picked up on that by now?”
“I am glad to have your trust, Jayce,” Viktor says. “And your friendship.”
“And someone who’ll butter up sponsors?”
Viktor chuckles. “That too. Your handsome face comes in handy.”
“Aww, you think I’m handsome?”
It isn’t time yet. So Viktor rolls his eyes and says “Oh, don’t take that tone with me, everyone does. Mister golden boy.”
He can just see the corner of Jayce’s smile, and he revises his earlier assessment.
He would risk war with a councilor for this.
Viktor hates politics.
There’s a reason he doesn’t go to parties. Let Jayce rub elbows. Viktor’s seen too much of the world to have that sort of patience.
But the language Medarda speaks is, well, language.
Viktor considers talking in double meanings and wearing a veil on his tongue. He discards this quickly. If he plays that game, he’ll lose.
He didn’t get this far just to abandon his audacity now.
So he knocks on Medarda’s door.
“Come in,” she calls, and he obeys. She looks interested at his approach. “Ah, Viktor. Is this concerning Hextech?”
“Somewhat,” he says. “You see, we face a problem. Jayce is facing a certain distraction.”
He looks at her with a tilt of his head and a raised eyebrow. She looks at her assistant.
“You may leave us, Elora,” she says.
The door closes behind Elora, and Mel crosses to the other side of the desk. She does not offer Viktor a chair. The corners of his mouth twitch, trying not to smirk.
He half expects her to waffle and deny. But then she says: “Here to warn me off, then? Surely my occasional forays beyond typical patronage are a welcome rest, not an untoward interference.”
“Oh, I think you seek more than an occasional foray, councilor.”
“And if I did? What position would you be in to stop me?” Her lips curve upward. “I assure you, Viktor, your own position is secure — I’m certain Jayce could not function without you. Just as your laboratory could not function without me.”
“I am well aware. It seems we are both bound by our indispensability.”
She takes her chair from behind the desk and slides it around for Viktor to sit in. He takes it, crossing one leg over the other.
“You’re a difficult man to assess, Viktor,” she says, almost conversationally. She doesn’t act much like a councilor with him.
“I do not mean to obscure. I simply, eh, keep to myself.”
“And to Jayce.”
“We’re a package deal.”
“Indeed. I knew as much when I took that deal. It was you, after all, who…what was it? Went astray while trying to bring him back to your bedroom?”
“You have quite the memory.”
“I’m told you do as well.”
“By Jayce?”
“By Jayce,” she confirms.
A long pause. Viktor breaks the silence.
“Have you made a move yet?” he asks.
She leans back against her desk, still bearing the fullness of her dignity. She isn’t surprised or scandalized by his directness.
“I was waiting for us to have this conversation,” she replies. “The Hextech endeavor comes first — I don’t wish to drive you two apart.”
“Well, now we converse.” He met her eyes. “It is his decision, if he is flexible as a Zaunite or a Noxian might be. Or…not. But I must warn you, Councilor — I have yet to lose in wars for the wants of my heart.”
“You’re quite an audacious man, Viktor.” Her tone is admiring. It is, after all, audacity that brought them together in the first place.
“Eh, it comes with the territory. And it takes one to know one — you’ve dropped the councilor act quite quickly.”
“I wear whatever face is most suitable,” she replies, “and I’ve noticed you don’t care for politicians. Is that a legacy from your roots in the undercity, or a byproduct of your intelligence?”
“It must be the former,” Viktor replies, “as Jayce can keep up with us both in our arenas.”
She chuckles. “Perhaps he can keep up with you.”
It’s not the born arrogance of the Piltover elite that lingers in Mel’s voice, in her bearing. It’s closer to what dwells in Viktor — the outsider chip. That’s the difference between her and the other councilors: she doesn’t take power for granted, she sees its every facet and takes it with intention. Out of all the councilors, she’s the only one who’d last five minutes in the undercity. Hell, give her a month and she’d have the chembarons wrapped around her finger.
“Give him time,” Viktor replies. “I’d be more worried if I were you.”
Her expression turns soft and fond. “I’m not worried about Jayce. Were he to possess my aptitude in politics — or, rather, once that day comes — I’m sure I would still have nothing to fear from him.”
“You speak quite frankly with me. Is this a sign of respect? Why such candor and regard to a Zaunite cripple?”
“I apologize if I haven’t been clear in my respect for you, Viktor,” she says.
“You barely know me. And I know it’s not influence from your colleagues.”
“It’s a matter of logic. As you say, those around me look down on you. I’m well aware how difficult it is for someone of your background to get anywhere in this city.” Her gaze turns to appraising steel. “Which means you must have twice the merit of anyone who’s gotten twice as far.”
Satisfaction burns. This, too, is something he craves: respect, not pity. Recognition not just of pain, but what it took to push through it.
“No one’s gotten twice as far as us.”
“Hence my respect.”
Viktor looks away and rubs the back of his neck. “You must share some of the credit as well.”
“Oh, I do. You needn’t attempt to stroke my ego, Viktor, I’m well aware of my worth.”
“Then I suppose we understand each other.” Viktor stands. “I am glad we’re on the same page, Councilor.”
“Please, call me Mel,” she says. Not out of familiarity, Viktor thinks — because she can hear the underlying ice in Viktor’s voice when he calls anyone by a title.
“Very well, Mel.” He nods at her. “I wish you luck in your endeavors.”
“Likewise.”
He decides to go to the next gala, an academy affair following the quarterly research releases. The place is abuzz with their most recent paper demonstrating the viability of inertial escalation using hextech — the potential is clear, and the types who would usually let academy events fall beneath them are in attendance, sniffing out the economic potential.
So that means Mel’s here to play defense. Jayce doesn’t seem to need it. He’s got the boyish charm turned up to 11, flitting between groups with a disarming laugh and effusive descriptions of the potential of their research, the possibilities it could bring for shipping routes. Viktor would rather focus on chemical scrubbing, on medical applications, but he knows idealism must give way to practicality — they can help no one with hextech if they don’t have research money, and transport seemed the safest application to propose.
At first, Jayce thought the idea of a “hexgate” was too crazy to work. But he came around with a few little words.
Viktor’s red tie marks his connection to House Talis, and he’s in his best-fitting suit. He grabs a raw oyster from a proffered plate. Raw seafood’s risky in Zaun — high levels of heavy metals and runoff. Even cooked, it’ll make people sick over time, but no one cares. Hunger is an immediate worry. Cancer isn’t. He eats the oyster and replaces it with a glass of champagne. Wonders how many months of rent could be bought with a single bottle.
One day, he promises himself, he’ll give back the value of this glass and more.
He’s out of place. He’s just well-known enough by now for everyone to know where he’s from, and he didn’t grow up a socialite. This fact is a delicious seasoning on the appetizers. He laughs to himself a little, thinking of how breathlessly kids used to brag about just crossing the bridge and looking around in a candy shop. This con would be legendary to them.
Jayce keeps glancing back at him. Not with urgency, not demanding help. Just…checking in. Keeping an eye on him. Some part of Jayce’s mind is always thinking about Viktor. Viktor sips his champagne, lets it swirl over his tongue. He’s well aware that, even if Jayce holds no desire for him, a part of him will always belong to Viktor. There’s the risk of causing temporary awkwardness with his advances, but not a schism — they’re entwined too tightly to separate now.
“Fascinating paper,” a voice says beside him. “I was skeptical of hextech research at first, but you two are starting to convince me.”
Viktor looks up at the source of the voice.
He’s rich, that much is clear from the delicate mother-of-pearl jewelry curving in spirals across his ears and arms. Not a scientist, a politician, dressed in avant-garde fabrics.
“We do aim to impress,” Viktor says blithely.
A merchant, he thinks. Probably from one of the shipping houses, judging from the slight nautical theme…he wracks his brain and comes up empty.
“Enjoying the oysters?” the man says. “I do hope so, it’s our treat.”
“They are quite fresh,” Viktor says, “though I confess, I prefer my seafood seared. You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”
“Esvern Alrig,” he says with narrowed eyes. Ah, Viktor has said something rude, but the man’s turn remains perfectly polite. Condescending, even. “I suppose I can forgive you for not knowing of my house. I’m told you’re not from this city.”
“I am, actually,” Viktor says. He smirks. “Dangerous, to espouse Zaunite independence in the heart of the Academy. You’re either bold or stupid. Or perhaps not careful with your words?”
Ah, the political smile is starting to break. “I’ve a mind to say the same of you. I’m starting to see why Talis makes you abstain from these gatherings — clearly, your talents lie in the lab.”
“Jayce is my partner, not my master. I abstain of my own volition.” He grabs another oyster. “If you think him to be the…head of house, so to speak, why seek me out?”
He looks over at Jayce, who’s in animated conversation with the head of the applied sciences department. That’ll probably result in some timesharing agreements with their equipment during nighttime downtime. Everyone knows Jayce is the face of hextech, and Viktor prefers it that way.
He’s not the type of person who can fill that role.
“As you said, Jayce shows his face publicly,” Alrig says, voice lowered. “But he’s less eager to show us the company he keeps.”
“You don’t trust me,” Viktor concludes. “My competence, or my motives?” He tilts his head. “The latter, I think. You’re here to assess me, and you must know you’re in no position to critique my work.” He raises an eyebrow. “Scared of split loyalty? Why, there’s nothing to fear there. Don’t the councilors represent all of Piltover, even its understreets?”
This is why Viktor doesn’t go to parties. He has too much fun.
He’s caught someone else’s eye: Mel, who’s rushing over as fast as she can without seeming like it. She has a sixth sense for trainwrecks, and Alrig’s expression looks like a screeching engine.
“But of course,” Alrig says, practically through gritted teeth. Ah, he has so little composure. Not a good trait for a merchant princeling. “Our councilors are nothing if not dedicated. Do you share their dedication?”
Viktor at least has the composure to refrain from a quip about family money or ask when the last time Alrig pulled an all-nighter was.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Viktor says. “Why, I’m harmless. And don’t be so worried about the trust Jayce places in me — I assure you it’s mutual. If I were you, I’d be more concerned with your business.” He leans in. “I’ll let you in on a secret: our current prototype models favor aerial vessels over aquatic ones.”
Viktor tells himself that this is a tactical political move to make House Alrig eager to gain Jayce’s ear, perhaps spending money to do so.
“I see you’ve met Esvern,” Mel says, having finally reached them, making her trajectory seem perfectly natural.
“Ah, yes,” Viktor says. “We were just discussing how terribly dangerous it is to place so much of Pitlover’s trust in the hands of an outsider.”
Alrig laughs, the picture of good humor. “Ah, he misunderstands, I merely expressed my hope that he was adapting well to the city.”
“Perhaps I’m biased, as I, too, am an outsider,” Mel says with an easy smile, “but rest assured, Viktor has my trust and that of the council. Whether he’s adapting is another question — he’s a terrible influence on Jayce’s palate.” She looks at Viktor. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the lab snacks. Pickled herring?”
“There’s nothing more Piltoverian than influence, is there?” Viktor responds. “That’s what makes us the city of progress, after all — no man is an island. I’m simply doing my part.”
She hums her assent, then turns back to Alrig. “Esvern, you really ought to speak with Jayce before everyone else snaps him up. You might find him more amenable to agreements...or your concerns.”
Alrig takes the opportunity to save face and extricates himself. Viktor looks at Mel with simmering accusation.
“Here to keep me on a leash?”
She chuckles. “You’re out of the loop,” she says. “Alrig’s been fomenting dissent for the past few months, but he doesn’t have the nerve to state anything outright. Hextech’s making waves now, Viktor, and the smart are starting to resent my early patronage. A split in your partnership, and suddenly twice the money’s up for grabs. He wants to break the monopoly.”
That’s news to Viktor, that Piltover’s vultures are trying to break him apart from Jayce. That they circle around him too. He tuts in frustration.
“And you’ve just egged him on.”
“I have,” she says. “A terribly stupid move on my part, to sabotage my own efforts, but he thinks us friends, so he hasn’t caught how out of character it is. Perhaps he thinks himself owed a favor.”
Mel Medarda doesn’t make stupid moves.
“Why do this, then?”
“Because Jayce learns by demonstration,” she says. “I believe you learned that the moment you met him.”
They get closer to Jayce like an orbiting moon, near-hiding behind a column within earshot just in time to hear the fireworks.
“—would be more than happy to help you expand your research cooperations—“
“No thanks. Hextech is our project.”
Alrig says something quiet, inaudible. Discreet.
Jayce’s response is not.
“Excuse me?” he burst out, almost shouting. “I didn’t come here to be insulted!”
“I was not insulting you—“
“Oh, you were. You insult Viktor, you insult me. You walk in here and imply that about half of Hextech and you expect me to, what, let you buy shares in it? I’ll have you know —“ the rustling of paper — “that resistance reduction plan you’re so interested in? Almost all Viktor’s work. The gate prototype? He built that. Hell, the entire idea of using Hextech for transportation was his idea! And you’re going to look me in the eye and tell me you can provide me someone who can do better?”
Viktor peeks around the column. Jayce leans in, looming over Alrig. On Viktor’s behalf. He bites his bottom lip.
“If you could,” Jayce hisses, “you would have invented Hextech. But you didn’t. We did. So how about you show some more respect.”
“Mel,” Viktor murmurs, “you are positively diabolical.”
“Well, I can hardly say such things to Alrig myself, can I?” She idly swirls her wine in her glass.
“Quite a risk to take, this plan.”
“Hardly. Jayce would never turn against you. I am capable of making safe bets, you know.”
Viktor’s cheeks burn, and it’s not from the overhead lights.
With a final burning sneer, Jayce turns away from Alrig. In one fell swoop, he’s conveniently killed the dream of fracturing hextech for all the room’s vultures — and also established that he and Viktor belong to each other. Were this a tawdry paperback, Viktor would drag him into a closet and have him right then and there.
He tears his eyes away to glance at Mel. They seem to be on the same page once again.
Jayce doesn’t treat Viktor like he’s fragile. He treats him like he’s precious. Something to be defended, something worth having.
As Alrig walks away, humiliated, Viktor catches the merchant’s eye, raises his glass, and winks.
“You had quite a bee in your bonnet back there,” Viktor comments as they walk back to the lab in the chill night. “He must have said something quite offensive.”
Jayce winces. “Didn’t realize you overheard that.”
“Ah, don’t be so crestfallen, Jayce. It’s always nice to have a knight in shining armor.”
Jayce sighs. “Sorry. I know you hate being a damsel.”
“Eh, I don’t mind being your damsel. You play your part so well. Such a good boy.”
He keeps his tone light, humorous, but his eyes on Jayce are anything but. Here it is, the final test for step three of his vital information gathering plan.
Jayce all but stumbles over his feet. He recovers quickly, settling back into stride, but he’s gone stiff, his eyes wide like they are in when Mel leans in close with the smell of jasmine. Maybe there’s even a blush blooming beneath his bronze skin, but it’s impossible to tell in the scant glow of the streetlights.
“I aim to please,” Jayce said. Maybe he was aiming to sound flippant, but it comes out low and sultry and drops like a stone in water.
“To please everyone, yes. You are quite the people pleaser. I’m not special in that regard, am I?”
Now Viktor bears the tone of an argument, inviting Jayce into debate.
“I…” Jayce exhales and strays from their path to lean against the railing, looking out over the canal they’ve been walking past. “Shit.”
“Something wrong, Jayce?” Viktor says, glad Jayce has turned away and can’t see the sharklike grin splitting his face.
“Do you even realize what you’re saying sometimes?” Jayce demands.
“I’m a very intentional person, Jayce. But you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Are you playing dumb with me?”
“Such an accusatory tone. I’m not the one who got possessive in front of a who’s who of Piltover’s upper echelons.”
He joins Jayce at the railing, letting the stone support its weight. He doesn’t look out at the canal. Jayce, on the other hand, is very determined to not look anywhere else.
“I’m not — I’m not possessive,” Jayce argues. “The guy was just being a dick. You don’t belong to me, I know that.”
“Do you want me to?”
Jayce turns to face him, face wide and bright in surprise, and Viktor is too weak to resist him a moment longer.
He seizes Jayce’s lips in his own, rests his hand against the sandpaper stubble of his chin, leans on a body as solid as the stone railing. A hand knits in his hair as Jayce’s mouth parts gladly for him, and a whine even escapes Jayce’s throat.
So many discoveries here. Like how he can taste the beeswax Jayce applies to his lips and keeps offering Viktor (your lips are almost bleeding, Viktor, doesn’t that hurt?). How Jayce, ever the considerate one, bends down so Viktor doesn’t have to stand painfully on his toes. How his hands are just as confident as Viktor’s imagined.
And then, another hypothesis validated: Jayce pushes him back, gasping.
He looks debauched and disheveled from just one kiss, lips pink and eyes glistening with want. But still, he holds Viktor by the shoulder at arms length.
“Wait,” he says. “Wait a moment. I…shit, Viktor.”
“Something wrong? Have I misread things?”
“No, no! I want this. I want…you.” He brushes a thumb along the line of Viktor’s cheek.
“But I’m not the only one.”
A thousand emotions cross Jayce’s face, guilt primary among them.
“You’re not a subtle man,” Viktor continues.
Jayce hangs his head. “I care about you so much, Viktor. But I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. If I can’t give someone my entire heart —“
“Then that’s fine,” Viktor says simply. At Jayce’s look of surprise, he chuckles. “Come now, Jayce. I may be impulsive, but I’m not foolhardy. Don’t I always set up properly before an experiment? Mel and I are both far ahead of you on this.”
“Wait, are you two…”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand. We aren’t exactly each other’s type. We just share similar tastes. We’ve already discussed the matter.”
Jayce stares at him in shock. Then he dissolves into laughter.
“You two are going to be the death of me,” he says. “You’ve discussed the matter, of course you have, you absolute menaces.”
He presses their foreheads together with a fond smile and brackets a hand around Viktor’s waist, pulling them close again. Viktor’s very blood sings, surging to the surface as if trying to reach out to Jayce.
Jayce’s lips make their way down Viktor’s face, alighting on his forehead, his eyelid, the crease of his nose before finally kissing him again. Viktor smiles into the kiss, and the monster of want within him purrs in satisfaction, its bloodlust slaked with the promise of more. He’s like a starving orphan again, but he’s just broken into a banquet hall, with more laid out before him than he could possibly eat.
Jayce is completely supporting Viktor’s weight at this point. It’s thrilling, knowing that he’d fall to his knees were Jayce to withdraw his body.
He gorges himself sick on Jayce’s lips. He meets Jayce with all the greed and audacity within him, with all the calcified ambition that Piltover couldn’t thaw. He’s rewarded with an incoherent noise deep in Jayce’s chest.
(He’s probably loud in bed.)
(With delight, Viktor realizes just how viable it would be to test that hypothesis.)
Viktor lets his mouth wander lower, teeth against Jayce’s jugular. Jayce gasps and grabs the railing for support.
“W-wait. Not here.” Viktor pulls back, raising an eyebrow in inquiry, and Jayce elaborates: “Don’t want to share.”
“And you said you weren’t possessive.”
“I may have lied a little about that.”
Viktor takes his hand and presses his lips against a rabbiting pulse in the wrist. “Our lab isn’t far.”
“Oh? Moving a little fast, are we?”
Judging from his smile, Jayce hardly minds. Viktor returns it.
“Zaunites aren’t known for our patience.”