Chapter Text
VIKTOR
It had been fourteen months, one week, and three days since Viktor last went home. Not that he was counting. Not that he had missed it every time a Piltie shot him a dirty look or he had to dance a societal dance just to order a sandwich at whatever nice restaurant Jayce insisted they go to. It felt good to breathe in the thick, crunchy air, to walk the streets of his childhood.
The errand was a simple one. They needed an alloy that would stand up to corrosion better than the steel Salo’s contacts were supplying. Viktor had never thought much of it and found it a bit of a relief to need something a Councilor couldn’t get them. Jayce had been strangely anxious about it, afraid the councilor would be upset with them. Viktor could not give a single fuck what he thought of them, but let Jayce fret until he grew tiresome.
“I will just go find us something,” Viktor finally said as they watched a construction crew remove yet another corroded panel deep in the core of the still incomplete Hexgates.
“Where?” Jayce asked, voice muffled because his head was in his hands.
“The Undercity. I know someone,” Viktor shrugged.
Jayce peeked at him with one wide, hazel eye. Viktor bit back a sigh. He was fond of Jayce. He was probably a little bit in love with Jayce, if he were being honest with himself. Probably a lot in love if he were being more honest, but this was one of his worst qualities. He had grown up a Piltie. They acted as if Undercity was some sort of hellish place where you would get knifed for walking on the wrong side of the street. While this was not strictly incorrect, it was not strictly correct either.
“Jayce,” Viktor warned. He didn’t want to fight. He never wanted to fight with Jayce, that whole probably-in-love-with-him thing.
“Sorry. I know, but I just…sorry. You know someone?” Jayce asked, taking his head from his hands to give Viktor a sheepish smile.
“Yes. I spent sixteen years of my life haggling for spare parts in the Undercity. I know most of the aboveboard, so to speak, metal dealers down there.”
“You weren’t haggling for parts when you were a baby,” Jayce said, a lame attempt at a joke.
Viktor rolled his eyes. Jayce was technically right. He visited his first scrap metal dealer at the tender age of four and came to the Academy at sixteen, so it was actually twelve years. He knew better than to tell Jayce. He gave Viktor a sad puppy look whenever he revealed something tragic (by Piltie standards) about his childhood.
“My point still stands,” Viktor said.
“Fine, but Salo–”
“Do not worry about Salo. His fancy friends can sell us their steel for the…exterior plating. Or something. We will not need his money for this. Things are cheaper in the Undercity.”
“Yeah, okay, fine. When should we go?” Jayce asked.
“We are not going. I am going. They will take one look at you and know an easy mark,” Viktor said firmly, eyeing Jayce’s…everything.
“I’m not an easy mark.”
“A ten year old robbed you in the technical sense because you cannot haggle,” Viktor said bluntly.
“Yeah and if he hadn’t, I might not have met you,” Jayce said, bumping his shoulder against Viktor’s.
Viktor blushed. He wished Jayce wouldn’t say things like that. It made it harder to maintain their friendly whatever it was they had going on for nearly two years now.
“Be that as it may, I will be going alone. I will arrange a deal and a delivery. It shouldn’t be so hard. Most of my contacts would be happy for papers to let them come above,” Viktor replied.
“Ok. But, um, you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Will I be okay traversing the streets of my birth as I did for thirteen years of my life? Yes, Jayce. I will.”
“Thirteen?”
“My mother did not let me go out on my own till I was three. Coddling by Undercity standards.”
Jayce gave him that puppy look. Viktor ignored him and began to make notes about what they might need. He refused to apologize or explain his long-dead, much loved mother.
The morning he left, Jayce was a little quieter than usual. When Viktor said goodbye, he stood awkwardly, looking like he wanted to hug him. Viktor held his breath, waiting to see what might happen. Jayce went for a friendly shoulder pat instead.
“Have fun,” he said instead of what Viktor knew he wanted to say.
“I will,” Viktor said, smiling. He appreciated Jayce’s restraint. “Shall I bring you a souvenir?”
Jayce laughed. “Sure. Surprise me.”
His words were warm in Viktor’s chest. He’d come back with something small to make Jayce laugh. Maybe he’d keep it on his desk, where he already had a few small knickknacks: a photo of his parents, of him and Caitlyn, the framed newspaper clipping of their Distinguished Innovator’s Competition win, a few sentimental pieces of their first experiment.
As Viktor wound his way down through the Promenade to the Lanes, he kept an eye out for an appropriate souvenir. Suddenly, his little joke seemed more important than the alloy. It was ridiculous. He needed to get a hold of himself. Jayce was his business partner and friend. That was all and that was fine. He just had to accept it.
Halfway through the Lanes, Viktor stopped. Two children, siblings by the looks of it, were seated behind a table of homemade jewelry and trinkets. The elder, a girl, looked to be around eleven. The younger, a boy, looked to be about seven. Both perked up when Viktor came to inspect their wares.
“We made everything. Used the finest materials,” the girl said proudly.
Viktor doubted that, but he nodded with a vague smile. It was junk, childish, with some sparks of creativity. One of them might make a decent artisan one day, but not yet. He was about to leave when something caught his eye. There was a pin made out of a Talis Tools logo that looked as if it had been roughly taken off a hammer. The stylized “T” was attached to a pewter circle with braided wire woven through it. At least one strand was real copper. Viktor picked it up with a smile.
“Excellent choice,” the girl said. “Six washer, sir.”
“Six? What do you take me for,” Viktor scoffed. “This is barely worth two.”
It was barely worth one, but he would overpay. The boy was too skinny and the girl’s hands were red with the cold.
“Two! Robbery! Eight at least,” the boy chimed in to his sister’s annoyance.
“That’s not how this works,” she hissed at him before turning back to Viktor. “But we can’t do two. Five?”
“Three,” Viktor replied.
“Four. And we’ll tell you how to get to the good brothel,” the girl said.
“Our mom works there,” the boy said proudly and Viktor’s heart twisted.
It was not uncommon and it was not a bad life, he knew that firsthand, but it was still hard. His mother had worked odd hours and he had missed her. He never knew who his father was. He thought of Jayce’s puppy look and hoped he wasn’t making the same face. With a practiced gesture, he dug four bronze coins out of his wallet without taking it out of his pocket. It was a bad idea to let on to how much money you had even if your purse was light, a common Piltie mistake.
“Four, then. But I am not here for that. Tell me where you got the copper wire and it’s a deal,” Viktor said.
“Found it in the Fish Lane Heap,” the girl said, already reaching for the coins. “But it’s all gone. They only get the good stuff in on Fridays.”
“Thank you,” Viktor said, pocketing the brooch.
“Sure,” the girl said.
“Bye!” the boy said.
As Viktor continued, the children’s excitement at having finally sold something echoed behind him. The girl was the artist. He hoped she would do well, maybe even make it to the Academy. There was a decent arts program, though not as well funded as the sciences.
“I thought Pilties only came down here for the brothels,” the boy said to his sister before Viktor turned the corner and Viktor had half a mind to turn back and correct him.
“He wasn’t a Piltie. He knew how to haggle and he had that accent,” his sister said and Viktor relaxed.
Maybe he needed to come back home more often.
Viktor stood in the doorway of his favorite restaurant. It was one of the only places that made food from his mother’s homeland. It was also one of the only places that remembered him. Marek, the owner, had been fond of his mother. He’d let Viktor read his books by the warm stove and, when times were tight, gave him food in exchange for simple repair jobs Viktor now understood were to keep him from realizing it was a handout. Viktor thought Marek was a relative until he was six or seven. Now, he was sure he had been in love with his mother. Sometimes, Viktor wondered what his life might have been if she had felt the same way. Not that different, perhaps, but at least he'd have a living parent.
The restaurant smelt the same. The people even looked the same, words flying in a mix of Zaunish dialects. Marek was still there. When he saw Viktor, his eyes grew to the size of saucers and he let out a shout of joy. Half the people turned to look and Viktor felt himself blushing as Marek hurried to greet him.
“Is that Anna’s boy? Little Viki?” he exclaimed in Viktor’s first tongue, clasping his hand warmly.
“It is. Hello, Marek,” Viktor replied.
No one was looking anymore, a relief. The words felt like water on his tongue, natural and needed. It had been a long time since he’d spoken his mother’s language.
“Sit! I will bring you that stew you like and something strong to drink. It is colder than a witch’s tit outside.”
Viktor smiled his thanks and took a seat near the big, painted stove. It was the first truly cold day of the year. Another reason he was glad Jayce had not come. He didn’t like the cold. Viktor learned that their first winter together. Now he made copious amounts of strong, hot tea when he knew a cold snap was coming. It helped Jayce to have something warm to hold in his hands.
“Now. Tell me of this Hextech? Anna always said you were a brilliant boy, all the saints rest her soul,” Marek said a moment later, sitting across from Viktor and thumping a big bottle of the strong, clear liquor he made in his basement and two dingy shotglasses on the table in front of them.
“It’s going. I have a partner–” Marek wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “A, eh, business partner. We get along, work well together. He is Piltie, though. I’m down here looking for a good, strong metal alloy. I told him not to come. He stands out and can’t haggle.”
Marek let out a booming laugh and poured them both a drink.
“To this Piltie then,” he said and knocked it back.
Viktor did the same. It burned his throat like fire. Truth be told, he was not fond of Marek’s basement liquor, but it was rude to refuse. His mother had taught him Undercity manners well enough, even if he still didn’t know which fork to use whenever he got invited to one of Heimerdinger’s high society dinner parties pretending to be an egalitarian salon.
“You look half-Piltie yourself,” Marek said, gesturing at Viktor’s coat.
Viktor pulled it tighter around his shoulder, a bit self-conscious. It was plain, but well made. A gift from Jayce during the first winter they’d spent together. He had hoped it wouldn’t stand out. There was a small burn on the elbow from where he’d left it too close to a soldering iron.
“Is Tomas still around? I would go to him first,” Viktor asked, changing the subject.
“No. Grey Lung got him two months ago and little Maria didn’t want to take over the business,” Marek said, making the sign against the evil eye.
“Ah. Any of the others still around?”
“Constantine and Darina took over for their father two years ago. They run a pretty good business. Kristina is still up and running. Either of them will do well by you. They remember the little rag picker,” Marek said, reaching to pinch Viktor’s cheek like he was still seven.
Viktor batted his hand away playfully and smiled. There was no use correcting him that Constantine and Darina had found him below their notice when they were children, and Kristina had some complicated feud with his mother he never understood except that it meant he could not go to her scrap shop. He wondered if it still held, now that she had been gone for eight years.
“Thank you, Marek. I’ll see what I can find after lunch,” Viktor said.
“Of course! Have another drink first. You must be frozen walking all the way from Piltover.”
Viktor took another drink. One more and he would be allowed to refuse, even as his throat burned and his eyes stung with tears. It had been a long time since he had had Undercity liquor. He felt like a lightweight. He wondered how Jayce would take to it and smiled, imagining the face he’d make, too polite to let on immediately, he’d cough and gasp. He would barely make it one glass before getting tipsy. Maybe one day Viktor would bring him here.
Marek brought him the fish stew he liked and sat with him, going over gossip from the old neighborhood. Viktor nodded along, letting the stew warm him. He had missed the taste. Nothing in Piltover was so warming and it was all too bland, too delicate. Undercity food fought back. He missed it.
Before he left, Marek toasted his good health. Viktor had to admit that the alcohol in his stomach did something against the cold, even if he was beginning to feel a little light headed. He would have to come back soon. Maybe he really would bring Jayce. Let Marek see his Piltie partner and tease Viktor about how handsome he was in his mother tongue. His ears went red at the thought.
Maybe it was the drink or being lost in his own thoughts or too long spent in Piltover lowering his defenses. Whatever it was, Viktor did not hear the men coming until it was too late. One yanked his cane away while the other grabbed him around the back in a choke hold, lifting him off the ground.
Viktor gasped and struggled, but he had never been much of a fighter, especially without his cane. He had always been small and slender, too delicate for his own good.
“All right, what do we have here?” the one holding his cane sneered, twirling it in his hand. He had blond hair, watery eyes, and looked a little bit younger than Viktor.
“Please, I–” Viktor started in a strangled voice.
“Shut-up!” the Blond said.
Viktor shut up without pointing out that he had been asked a question. He’d been mugged before. His pockets were light, he wasn’t an idiot, but the cane was nice. Jayce had made him a new one after his old one broke. He should have traded it out for his simpler, back-up one before he left, but he was attached to it. The cane was a piece of him from Jayce.
“Fucking Piltie thinks he can come into our streets, does he?” the Blond continued.
“I’m not–”
The Choker squeezed his neck harder, cutting off Viktor’s voice.
“You don’t talk unless I want you to,” the Blond said, jabbing Viktor with his own cane in the stomach, hard enough to bruise. “Now. You got a choice. Give us all you got, we let you go. Hold back, we don’t. Got it?”
Viktor nodded. He spread his arms, a gesture of embarrassing defeat and a way to let the thieves get into his pockets without much trouble. He didn’t have much. It would be over soon. If they took his cane, it would be hard to get back to Piltover, but he was resourceful. He’d used a metal pipe for two weeks when he was fourteen and outgrew his old cane before his mother finished making his new one. It would be fine.
The Choker held him while the Blond rummaged through his pockets. It was humiliating, violating. His large hands dug roughly through every nook and cranny of Viktor’s coat and then his waistcoat and pants pockets. He shut his eyes and wished for it to end, letting himself go away from his body, just a little bit. He thought of Jayce. He was glad he wasn’t here while at the same time, wishing he would somehow know and come running to save him. Jayce would never hurt a fly but he was built like a bouncer at an Undercity nightclub. His mere presence would have given Viktor some safety. He should have let him come after all.
They found his wallet easily enough and ignored Jayce’s pin with a sneer. With each moment that passed, they seemed more and more angry that he didn’t have anything else. That was dangerous. Viktor had a feeling he would not be getting his cane back. If they let him go, he would consider it a heavy price, but preferable to being beaten, kidnapped, or killed.
“Fucker’s a lightweight,” the Blond said. “Get his coat.”
The Choker let go of Viktor’s neck. He took in a blessed gasp of air before he was shoved roughly and his coat was ripped from his back. He stumbled forward, letting out a small hiss of pain as his leg twinged, straining to hold his weight.
“You want your cane back?” the Blond taunted, twirling his cane again.
Viktor shot him a glare. Obviously he wanted his cane back. He knew better than to speak. Or he thought he did until he was jabbed in the stomach with his own cane. Again.
“Hey! I asked you a question. Or do you Piltie’s think you’re so high above–”
“Yes. I want my fucking cane back,” Viktor spat.
“What did you say?”
Viktor bit back another retort. The Blond’s voice had turned dangerous. He shouldn’t have sworn. He should have just muttered yes like a weak little Piltie. Viktor met his eye and tried to stand at his full height. He was not intimidating, but he could try.
“I don’t think this guy’s a Piltie,” the Choker said, finally speaking in a raspy voice. “Fissure accent.”
“You said he came down from Piltover.”
“Yeah, but–”
During their little exchange, Viktor tried to edge away, but the Blond grabbed Viktor’s arm and forced him to the ground. Viktor let out a grunt of pain as he caught the impact of the fall with his good leg.
“Where are you going? We aren’t done with you,” the Blond hissed.
“I’m not a Piltie. He’s right. Fissure. I am just visiting my–”
“Oh, he’s not a Piltie, but he lives up there?” the Blond asked the Choker in a mocking voice. “Worst kind of traitor. Thinks he’s too good for us, huh?”
The Blond wrenched his arm behind his back. Viktor was shaking now, both from the cold and from what was coming.
“I do not,” he said softly. “I am one of you. Let me go, please. Keep the coat, the cane, my wallet, but–”
“You are not one of us,” Choker hissed and hit him across the face.
Viktor was silent, stunned, as the Blond laughed. He knew what came next. Violence was part of life in the Undercity just as much as Marek’s warmth. Two sides of a coin Viktor was trying to save. There was blood on his face and tears in his eyes. He didn’t look up. He knew better.
“Let’s give him something to remember us by, let him know exactly what we think of Piltie-loving traitors,” the Blond said, grabbing a fist full of Viktor’s hair and pulling his head back.
The Choker hit him again and again until Viktor spat blood and what could have been a tooth. His face was a mess of pain. When the Blond let his hair go, ripping out a chunk, he fell forward onto his hands, wincing as they hit hard, cold cement. For a moment, the thought that would be it. He would crawl someplace, maybe back to Marek’s, and get help. Jayce would be worried, but he would tell him it was nothing. Come up with some lie to make it all go away.
Then the Blond hit him in the back with his cane. It was luck that he was wearing his backbrace that day, a new addition to his various devices that kept his body from collapsing. It still hurt enough to make him scream. Both men laughed at that and the Choker kicked him in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. The Blond hit him in the back again, but he didn’t have enough air to scream, so he let out a small, pathetic whine as pain laced through his broken body.
“Fucking pathetic,” the Blond said and kicked him in the face.
Viktor lost track after that. He was kicked, hit, and beaten with his own cane. At one point, he fell onto his side, was kicked in the ribs, and heard something snap with a sharp shot of pain. He managed to roll into a ball, pulling his weaker leg to his chest, hoping to protect it. One of them still kicked his bad shin, sending a constellation of pain through his entire system.
He could feel himself blacking out, even as he struggled to stay conscious. They would get bored soon and he would drag himself off the street to someplace warm. He would survive, he was Fissure Folk and Fissure Folk always knew how to find a hole to hide in, how to lick their wounds, how to survive. But maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t that anymore. He wasn’t a Piltie either. He was a man who belonged to neither city being beaten to death on the street like a dog. As he finally let himself go, he thought of his mother and he thought of Jayce. He was sorry to leave one, but perhaps he would see the other soon.
JAYCE
He couldn’t breathe. The enforcer came at the end of the day, just as he’d been starting to worry about Viktor. He’d resisted calling someone as the hours dragged on. Viktor was a grown man. He grew up in the Undercity and he knew what he was doing. Then there was a knock on the lab door, an anxious Heimerdinger, and an enforcer telling Jayce something that included the words “Viktor” and “mugged” and “seriously injured”.
It had been a blur even since.
A doctor went over it with Jayce. Someone in the Undercity had called it in, nevermind who. They found him on the cold (why was it always the cold) ground in a puddle of his own blood, cane gone, coat gone. He had two broken ribs and a bruised lung. He had lost a tooth and had what the doctor said was a moderate concussion. There was bruising all over his body, two black eyes, a broken nose they had already reset, and a split lip. His back brace had saved his spine. They wouldn’t know about his bad leg until he woke. It wasn’t broken, but it was bruised. Jayce knew it hurt. He knew it probably hurt with the cold before Viktor left and was beaten within an inch of his life. He was shaking when the doctor finished explaining that he probably didn’t need surgery, but they needed to keep him under observation.
“Can I see him?” Jayce asked in a shaking voice.
“Mr. Talis, your partner is in pretty bad shape,” the doctor said. “He was badly beaten and he looks like it. It may be upsetting.”
“I don’t care.”
The doctor sighed and gave his shoulder a kind squeeze. He wished his mother was there. He needed to tell her. She cared for Viktor too and maybe she could bring him some of her good soup, the kind with rice and little pieces of chicken she always made for Jayce when he was sick. Jayce was shaking. He needed to see Viktor.
Jayce had a secret that was going to kill him one day. He loved VIktor, was in love with Viktor, and had been since they met exactly one year and seven months ago. It was a long time to be in love and not say anything. The words threatened to come out every time Viktor brought him coffee or had a breakthrough or yawned in that cute way that made his nose all scrunchy. They had not. Jayce held them in as tight as he could. When he saw Viktor in the hospital bed, they almost all came out.
He looked bad. His face was swollen and his nose was in a cast. Someone had cleaned the blood off of him. Jayce wildly wished it had been him. Viktor’s usually neat hair was messy so Jayce ran his fingers through it, smoothing it, to do something for him. It was somehow softer than he thought it would be.
“Is…when will he…” Jayce started, clearing his throat to keep from crying. “When will he wake up?”
“He should return to consciousness tonight. We’ve given him some pretty heavy painkillers, so it’s hard to say,” the doctor said.
“Can I wait here until he does?”
“Of course, Mr. Talis. Is there anyone else we should call?”
Jayce shook his head. He’d tell his mother later, when he knew if Viktor wanted anyone to see him like this. The doctor nodded again, sympathetically.
“Do you have any more questions?” the doctor asked.
“How did you know to call me?” Jayce asked.
“You’re his emergency contact. I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Jayce’s heart beat like it might break his chest. He didn’t know Viktor had put him down as his emergency contact. He’d never mentioned it. Slowly, like Viktor might wake and push him away, Jayce took his hand. It was cold. Jayce held it as tight as he could. He’d never let Viktor be cold again.