Chapter Text
I like being with you all night with closed eyes/ What luck-here you are coming/ along the stars!
[…]Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.
— ‘O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love’, by Anne Carson
Viktor slept a whole day and night when at last the seasons changed. Winter had sat heavy upon him, slipping cold fingers into the soft of his knee and the dip of his hip, taunting him ceaselessly until he grew too irritable for much other than going to the lab and then going home.
Perhaps it was the medicine, or otherwise the sluggishness of the season and the shifting turn of the earth, but when he woke to muted slats of sunlight striping his poor excuse for a nest-bed, something in his chest, once coiled tight and stubborn, cautiously began to unfurl.
He didn’t dare disturb it, jinx it or poke the animal curled in the hollow beside his heart, and so he arose softly, took up his cane softly, and shuffled to the kitchen for a coffee. Along the way he passed evidence of all his irritations; books stacked haphazardly and out of order with his usual system, notes pinned to the wall both as reminders for work and personal needs.
Crossing into his living room had him bump his hip on a table piled high with textbooks, syllabi, half graded papers and, oddly enough, a newssheet flipped to the crossword that he must have attempted at one point and swiftly abandoned.
He takes it up now, along with the accompanying pencil, and brews a strong pot while thumbing through the sheets. Upon reaching the front, he remembers why he had picked this particular one. Jayce’s face stares up at him from black and white print, a side story funded by the Kirammans on the high hopes they had for their once disgraced beneficiary.
It had printed days after their excursion to Heimerdinger’s lab and, against his better judgement, Viktor couldn’t resist tucking a copy into his messenger bag on his way to the Academy that morning.
From his kitchen window he can see the flat of the courtyard, carefully seeded with prickly grass in just the right shade of green and a willow’s drooping leaves partially obscuring an artificial little pond. The light is pale and watery, less drab but not yet full of pollen and newness. Above the line of the apartment’s roof, thin, long clouds amble along against the sky.
Without meaning to, he thinks of boyhood. An age ago now, before the revolts and the Lanes, when home was a clapboard room built into the side of a fissure wall and the only things they kept were a pallet wide enough for he and his mother to sleep on, a table with two mismatched chairs, a coal stove and an altar beneath the single window.
Strewn with a handful of coins, a single blue candle, and an idol of Blessed Janna, carved from river rock and costing a whole month of her wages. Nightly she would kneel there, pulling a chair beside her so that he could join without straining his leg, and together they would sing the old, pleading hymns.
Even now the words sit heavy behind his tongue as he pours his coffee, doses it with sweetmilk and more sugar than that praying little boy could ever have dreamed of.
He is older now than his mother ever was. The Grey that had twisted him in her womb eventually came to collect, and in the midst of riot and revolt, Viktor realized his choices were thin. Take the path some other omegas did when left just as he was, somewhere on his back and money left on the table night after night, or make his mother’s prayers mean something.
He nudges Blessed Janna to the side, just enough to push open the kitchen window. The air flows in sharp and cold as glass. He breathes.
The wind picks up that morning, buffeting his coat and whipping his scarf about his head. The knot he’s tied his hair into has already come half loose, brown-grey strands falling in his face and tickling his ears. One hand he keeps in his pocket but the other, gripped tight to his cane, pinches with the chill.
More than once he’d heard the jokes, the gentle nudges and mentions of retiring somewhere more agreeable, but he hadn’t crawled up from the dirt to take this city just to abandon it all for the sake of a more agreeable climate. So he walks on, already calculating how best to time his lectures to get to the lab as quickly as possible.
It’s while he’s lost in these ruminations that a voice calls, bright and breathless, “Viktor!”
He freezes in place, already knowing just by the fall of his feet but still surprised when Jayce sidles up alongside him. He has on his own coat but no gloves or scarf, and in each hand he holds a steaming cup of something hot and fragrant.
“Jayce,” he says by way of greeting.
“Hey! Thought you’d be at the lab by now, I was–”
He looks down at his hands then, holding up both cups with a sheepish, self evident smile.
“I got coffee! For you. For both of us, but I mean I got yours with that milk you like, and the cinnamon?” He stops, looking down at both cups, eyebrows drawn. “It was cinnamon, right? I’m pretty sure you mentioned–”
Against his wishes, a thin smile crosses Viktor’s face. He could mention he’s already had coffee for the morning, but there’s a long day ahead of them and, that aside, the feeling in his chest unfurls just the slightest bit more at the thought of Jayce considering him so.
“You worry anymore and that head of yours will fly right off, hmm? Cinnamon is fine,” he says drily, switching hands with his cane so he can wrap his freezing fingers around the cup. It stings for a moment, hot and cold lancing through his hand, and then the warmth settles and he breathes a sigh of relief.
They begin their walk again, sipping their drinks and idly observing the city in motion. Schoolchildren huddle together in their cliques on their way to class, and storefronts are all lit up in response to the dreary morning. Clouds creep up sluggishly from the south, stalking them like a fat cat with a mouse.
“Did you make any progress on that idea for a feedback loop?” says Jayce, leaning in a bit for Viktor to better hear him over the wind in the trees and the hum of a hundred other conversations. A scent wafts off of him, one Viktor mistakes first for the coffee, but then realizes it’s Jayce himself.
Forge smoke and fragrant pepper. Spiced like the kind of warm, domestic kitchen Viktor has never known. It’s genial and unthreatening, but so undeniably alpha that Viktor has to shake his head clear.
“Eh, a little, though I will admit I took an early night.”
Jayce’s brows draw together and he cocks his head. Another little gesture that, on any other alpha, would make Viktor roll his eyes so hard they’d fall out of his head.
“Something happen?”
He ponders for a moment on how to answer. The ache in his leg had progressed up into his hips and lower back. Stranger still, to his abdominal muscles, just below his bellybutton. There was only so much he could do before irately calling it a night and nesting up with several hot water bottles.
He thinks better of telling this to Jayce, though, because if these last few months of knowing the boy have taught him anything, it’s that he’ll insist Viktor take yet another day off that neither of them can afford.
So, he half-heartedly waves his coffee and shrugs. “Old leg, old bones, much of the same.”
Jayce snorts, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “You gotta stop saying that, V, you’re not that old.”
Viktor’s face falls flat. “Jayce, I’m forty seven.”
Smiling that thousand watt Talis smile, the insolent little pup says, “A real good forty seven.”
This time he’s sure his eyes are going to roll out of his head, but more than that, a heat rises from his neck all the way up to the tips of his ears. He makes a noise somewhere between a chuff and a scoff, knocking his cane into one of Jayce’s ankles before walking on, ignoring his put upon yelp.
Among the other things Viktor has learned during these months of partnership, it’s that Jayce is shamelessly affectionate. Not quite a flirt though, much to the chagrin of the veritable ocean of eligible young betas and omegas that flock him at whatever investment gathering event they may find themselves at. He’s polite enough then, but his true colors always seem to show best in the lab.
Hands on Viktor’s shoulders, playful nudges and gentle reminders to eat, even if that means manually replacing whatever tool he’s handing with a sandwich, soup, or whatever else he brings extra of that day.
Were he a younger omega, it might have worked. With the doting, the smiles, the food, he might have tripped and fallen right onto Jayce Talis’ knot. It’s been long enough now, though, and he had learned long ago that the best parts of oneself were best kept safely under lock and key.
To bare the heart whole was to take responsibility for all that befell it, for good or for ill. And in all the years since he had helped himself to Piltover, he had found no one worth even half so much trouble.
Jayce catches up to him in three long strides, still snickering. His windswept hair is haloed by the encroaching clouds, giving him the appearance of something empyrean. Viktor reproaches the feeling in his gut because it cannot, at his grown age, be butterflies.
“You still didn’t answer my question!”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, the feedback loop. From what I was able to work out, the established frequency we use for the crystals could, in theory, be–”
“Cranked,” Jayce interjects with a little laugh. Viktor shoves him, failing to hide his smile.
“Yes, yes, a little higher. The tests would have to be closely monitored though, we cannot afford to go even a mote–”
He’s cut off, quite suddenly, by a fat raindrop right between the eyes. “Oh, for the love of–”
It’s not so far to shelter, but he’s in no state to make a run for it. Other, smarter people are pulling out their umbrellas or sheltering under eaves. He has a lecture this morning that he can’t afford to miss, and so braces himself to pick up the pace.
“Oh, Vik, wait a minute, let me just–”
One minute he’s being pelted by raindrops, and the other, he finds himself covered in a shroud smelling of warmth and pepper and safety. Jayce, the daft man, has swept off his coat and placed it over Viktor’s head, completely cloaking him in his scent.
“You show up looking like a wet rat and your students will never let you forget it,” he says by way of explanation. Casually, as though he hasn’t just lit every single one of Viktor’s seven trillion nerves on hellfire.
All he can do is blink stupidly, gripping his coffee cup as though it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
“Your clothes…” he protests.
Jayce jerks his head in the direction of the Academy, rain already plastering dark hair to his forehead. “I keep a change of them in the lab. Come on.”
Viktor, for the first time in a very, very long time, finds himself without much to say. So, he pulls Jayce’s coat a little further over his head and keeps on walking.
He ends his lecture early that day, and leaves before anyone can think to ask questions. There’s an incessant itch in his neck that’s plagued him since he handed Jayce’s coat back. Instinctually he reaches up to scratch, only to find the glands there swollen and tender to the touch.
He ploughs through the Academy halls like a man on a mission, eyes forward and focusing solely on the mantra of ‘get to the lab, set initial tests, go home’, because there’s an explanation for these particular puzzle pieces and it’s not one he favors in any capacity. He nearly abandons the idea of the lab altogether on account of the thought of being within ten feet of Jayce inspiring certain…sensations.
“Honestly,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head as though that alone can make all this go away. There’s never been a singular moment of his life that he’s let biological functions get in the way of his work. He could never afford to, and there’s no way he’s starting now.
It won’t even be that bad, in all probability. Even in his youth, his heats had been weak and irregular. Given his age, at most he would probably just take another day off, soak in the bath, eat sweets until he was sick with it, bring himself off once or twice and then be done with the whole affair.
Theories are, he knows as a scientist, made to be tested. His patience, less so. So when he gets to the lab, heat pulsing behind his ears and a low-grade cramp in his stomach, he isn’t thrilled to find Jayce and Professor Heimerdinger engaged in animated conversation.
Jayce notices him first, an odd look passing over his face as his eyes dart from Viktor’s face, to his neck, and lower. The moment is broken quickly by Heimerdinger, clapping his hands together sharply enough to make Viktor suppress a flinch.
“Ah, Viktor, my boy, just the man I wanted to see!”
Free me, he thinks dully, setting down his things. “Of course, Professor. What do you need?”
“Jayce was telling me of your plans to attempt to use the crystals for a self-powering feedback loop!”
“Well,” Jayce tries to interject, “it’s still only a theory–”
“Which is precisely what I’ve come to talk about! The plans you presented to the council, these “Hexgates” as you’ve called them, would require intensely careful maintenance of such a thing!”
Viktor rubs at his temples, hooking his stool with his cane to bring it close enough to sit. “Which we mean to test to the fullest of our abilities, Professor. We are more than aware of everything riding on this, I assure you!”
Heimerdinger dodders about their lab, looking at this and that in a way that boils a divine kind of ire in Viktor’s gut. This is his space, this is their space, he shouldn’t be made to feel like this in his own damned space–!
“I know, my boy, I know!” Heimerdinger assures. “Which brings me to my next point; your teaching duties.”
At this, both he and Jayce freeze. A wash of cold trickles down the back of Viktor’s neck, and he fights to keep his scent from going too sour.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that this is a massive undertaking! If your professorial duties clash too heavily–”
“They do not,” Viktor quickly cuts him off. “I am, if you’ll recall, only an adjunct.”
The ‘still’ hangs heavy in the air between them. Nearly twenty years and no tenure was one of Viktor’s biggest sore spots, and he feared what he might say if he opened his mouth again.
Jayce takes the opportunity to divert Heimerdinger’s attention, blessedly easing Viktor out of the conversation before he says something he knows he’ll regret. He sets down his messenger bag, laying out papers and finding among them the newssheet from that morning. The crossword stares up at him. He aches, his neck itches, his head is hot, for Blessed Janna’s sake.
“...and anyway, professor, I’m sure you’ll find we’ll have everything just in order. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”
Heimerdinger finally, blessedly, makes his way to the door. “Of course, of course, I have every faith in you both. Do forgive me, Viktor, I was only concerned.”
He forces his mouth into a thin smile. “It’s no problem, sir. We’ll meet again soon, yes?”
“Indeed! Good luck, boys!” he says, and finally leaves.
Silence pours into the lab behind him like a gallon jog emptied into a shot glass. Viktor grinds his back teeth together, knowing already that even if his neck is covered, evidence of his irritation still bleeds weakly from his naked wrists.
Jayce stands stock still, schoolboy perfect, and Viktor knows that look. He knows that genius’ brain is running a thousand social calculations a minute, devising a gamut by which best it will be to bring Viktor’s mood back to baseline.
It pleases him, and he hates that it does. Jayce approaches, slowly at first, and then he’s across the lab in two strides, one of those big hands on Viktor’s shoulder in a heartbeat. It’s so close to his neck, he imagines for only a moment that it would slide closer, just a little closer, cup him under the ear and run rough finger pads over his patch.
Those fingers sliding it off, flicking it away, and going back to fondle the prize underneath.
A dull heat lights just below his belly button, and Viktor shakes his head. He turns back to the workbench, shoving his papers back into the bag in some desperate (and only marginally effective) attempt at appearing normal and unaffected. The day’s made it clear what it wants to do to him, and he’ll be damned if he even gives it the chance.
“Vik…” Jayce begins.
“Nevermind it, did you make any progress with the frequency chain?”
Jayce blinks, but nonetheless says, “Yeah, I have it mapped out if you want to—”
“We’ll run it first thing in the morning,” he says, refusing to meet Jayce’s eyes. A cramp lances through his hips and midsection. He discreetly clamps his thighs together with an inward yell of disbelief. The gods have jokes, it would seem, and Viktor is their favorite jester.
Jayce’s brows knit, and in his way, he steps even close to Viktor. Filling his head with pepper and heat and everything else he needs to go home and shove some fingers in his cunt about.
His eyes search Viktor, from his face to his neck, to his hands clenched around the strap of his medicine bag.
“V, are you sure? If you’re not feeling well, I could close up for the day. Ask Sky to get everything prepped for the test and then walk you home?” He chooses then to pull out his trump card, smiling the worst of his smiles—the earnest one— and humming, “I still have some chocolate. And half a thing of piloncillo.”
It’s not fair how well Jayce knows how to temps him. Not fair how much of a temptation he is just by existing. He grinds the backs of his teeth together, shaking his head and huffing a breath out of his nose.
“Thank you, Jayce, but no. I’ll be just fine, come tomorrow. I will see you then.”
A part of pre-heat he’d forgotten about was just how hell it was on his senses. How aware he is of everything. Of the warmth between his legs. The ache on the inside part, an itch he hates to feel but loves to scratch.
The news sheet is the last thing he has to shove into his bag. It’s still turned the crossword puzzle, all vertical and horizontal squares full with his jagged script. Six blank squares stare up at him: wanting for a synonym of “appetite, devotion, fascination”.
I should just invest in the jingling hat, he thinks, balling desire up in his fist and shoving it into the bag.