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There’s an air of melancholy around Jayce today—a quiet sadness that permeates the atmosphere of their little home.
He hadn’t acted particularly out of the ordinary. But there was a certain hush in his tone when he greeted Viktor in the morning, a strain to a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, a weight heavy on his shoulders as he quietly ate his breakfast.
Viktor doesn’t have to ask: he knows Jayce misses his mother. Recurrent nightmares are common among them now, and last night, Jayce had been calling out for his mother. Small whimpers of Mama Mama Mama escaped his mouth in the most wretched tone, a sound that grew vines around Viktor’s heart and squeezed painfully. Moreover, his gaze kept snagging on the vase of dahlias—her favorite flowers—he kept in their cottage as a remembrance of her, and a faraway look would shine in his eyes.
After the Arcane had swallowed them whole, it spat them out into a frozen wasteland. Three long weeks passed before they stumbled upon a small town—a place that had never even heard of Piltover. The people were kind, offering food, clothes, and shelter until the two of them could stand on their own again. Eventually, they earned enough to buy a little cottage. It was exactly what they’d needed: peace, quiet, and no ties to Piltover.
Consumed by guilt, Viktor had begged Jayce to go back to his home, to his family, to the life he’d lost. But Jayce had been staunch in his refusal and had even gotten mad at Viktor’s unrelenting persistence.
“I love you,” he’d said flatly. “I chose to stay with you. I wanted to stay with you and die by your side. And now that we’ve been given a second chance, I want to spend that with you, too. I won’t stand around watching you drown in guilt over something that was more my fault than yours. And I’m not letting us be separated again. Ever.”
Since then, it has been a slow process of healing and self-acceptance. Still, that quiet sadness in Jayce never fails to stab at Viktor’s heart.
Jayce had left earlier than usual this morning, heading to the forge he worked at even though it was the weekend. Viktor hadn’t asked why—he knew Jayce needed the distraction.
And since Viktor had no lessons to teach and no carpentry orders waiting, he made up his mind:
If Jayce couldn’t go home, then Viktor would bring home to Jayce.
When they used to work together in Piltover, Jayce’s mother would constantly invite Viktor over for dinner, insisting he looked too thin for someone so brilliant. She always made Jayce’s favorite—a spiced potato bake, rich and golden, its edges crisped just right and perfectly garnished with thyme. Jayce would light up the moment he saw it, always going back for thirds, and Ximena would laugh and pack the extras away for him in neat little containers.
Viktor would insist on helping in the kitchen and would linger a bit too long by the stove, noting every pinch of spice, every measured pour, trying to commit the rhythm of it to memory. She’d understood what he was doing immediately—of course she did—and simply smiled, and walked him through the recipe.
He never had the opportunity to make it for Jayce, but he knows now is the perfect time. He jots down every ingredient he can remember, then heads out into town, taking his time to pick the best of each ingredient. Between the two of them, cooking has always been more of Jayce’s strength, but Viktor wants this to be as special as he can make it.
It’s afternoon when Viktor returns. He rolls up his sleeves and begins preparing the potatoes—peeling them and slicing them into even rounds—before preparing the spice mix and sauce to go along with it.
As he works, he thinks of the warm evenings spent at the Talis household, Ximena’s hands dusted with flour as she efficiently moved around the kitchen, telling Viktor stories of Jayce’s childhood, smacking Jayce with a spatula when he giddily stepped too close to the oven, and shooting Viktor a fondly exasperated look that said, Hopeless, isn’t he?
He assembles the layers with care before sliding the dish into the oven. As the potatoes bake, he works on the rest: slicing warm bread—fresh from the bakery—-and generously brushing it with garlic butter, chopping vegetables for a quick, refreshing salad with a drizzle of lime juice that glistens on the surface like sunlight on glass, and, because he can’t help himself, reaches for the small basket of sun-soaked peaches sitting by the window—Jayce’s favorite—-and drizzles honey on the meticulously cut slices.
With the food prepared, Viktor begins to set the table. Earlier that morning, he’d picked a bouquet of fresh dahlias from their garden, pairing them with marigolds in shades of copper, gold, and bronze—a flower that, as Jayce once told him, symbolizes remembrance. He arranges them carefully in a vase at the center of the table, their colors catching the last of the afternoon light, glowing like embers. Their scent stirs something within his chest, and he wistfully recalls the cozy evenings spent with the pair, the way they’d sit at the dinner table and Ximena would ask him questions about himself—out of genuine curiosity and not just surface-level politeness. She’d accepted him in the same warm, easy way Jayce had, and it would take Viktor every ounce of self-control to blink back tears every time she’d pull him into a hug and dote over him—a mother’s affection he’d long forgotten.
Outside, the wind has started to pick up, brushing against the windows. By the time Jayce comes back home, the last of the sunlight has begun to fade from the horizon, spilling soft dark gold across the floor. He looks tired—his hair mussed and his hands faintly stained with soot. He doesn’t notice anything unusual at first as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket.
“Viktor, I’m home—” he calls out, but the words falter halfway as the scent and the scene before him register. His amber eyes widen, scanning the table and flowers.
“Viktor?” he says softly after a pause, voice trembling slightly. “What…what’s all this?”
Viktor shifts on his feet, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “I made us dinner,” he says, a little shyly. “Come, before it gets cold.”
In a daze, Jayce washes his hands and sits down. When his gaze lands on the dish at the center of the table, his eyes glimmer with sudden tears.
“Is that—-”
Viktor nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Spiced potato bake. Your favorite.”
Jayce lets out a choked laugh. “You remembered?”
“How could I forget?” Viktor replies, taking his seat across from him.
When Jayce finally takes his first bite, he closes his eyes, and Viktor swears he’s never seen him look so peaceful.
“It’s perfect,” Jayce whispers, voice raw with feeling. “God, Viktor, it’s perfect.”
Viktor reaches across the table and grabs Jayce’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he teases lightly.
Jayce shakes his head with a look of wonder. “The spices…it tastes just like home, V.”
Viktor softens and smiles at him. “That was the idea.”
Jayce studies him for a moment and then brings up their joint hands and brushes a kiss on Viktor’s knuckles. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” Viktor responds simply, and then gives him a more pointed look. “You don’t have to refrain from talking about your mother and your life back in Piltover for my sake, you know.”
Jayce looks away, his jaw tightening for a second. “I just… I don’t want you to think I regret anything,” he says quietly. “Or that I’d rather be there than here.”
“I don’t,” Viktor says, almost too quickly. “But I know you miss her. It’s all right to miss her.”
His voice grows more hushed. “I…I miss her, too. She was always kind to me.”
Jayce smiles then, so soft. “She loved you, V. Every time you’d return home after dinner, she would say to me, ‘He’s got a gentle heart, Jayce. Take care of him.’” He looks up and meets Viktor’s gaze steadily. “I think she always knew.”
Viktor’s heart constricts. “Knew what?”
“That I was always going to choose you. In all timelines, in all possibilities, you’re always going to be the one for me.”
Viktor’s breath hitches, and his grip tightens around Jayce’s hand. “Then,” Viktor whispers, his voice almost breaking, “I will spend every lifetime making sure you never regret it.”
Jayce lets out a small laugh and gently strokes his hand with his thumb. “You couldn’t make me regret it even if you tried really hard.”
The rest of their dinner is spent in comfortable silence. Jayce chews and savors each bite like it’s the last time he’s eating it. Once they’re done, they clear up the table together.
As Viktor dries their plates, Jayce wraps him in a hug from behind and places a small kiss on his neck.
“Thank you, Viktor. For doing this for me.”
Viktor leans back into him. “Of course, Jayce.”
By the time they’re done, Jayce’s shoulders are slumped and his eyes are glassy with exhaustion—not just from labor, but emotionally, too.
“Come,” Viktor urges gently, taking his hand. Jayce doesn’t resist as Viktor leads him toward the bathroom. The sound of running water soon fills the small space, steam rising and curling in the dim light.
Jayce stands still as Viktor helps him undress, movements careful and deliberate, and guides him into the shower. The warm water runs steady over Jayce’s skin, soaking into his hair, running down his back in slow rivulets, and he exhales, shoulders slumping as the tension begins to melt away. Viktor undresses and joins him, too, fingers carding gently through the wet strands of his hair.
He massages shampoo into his hair, touch firm but soothing as he traces slow, circular motions that draw quiet sighs from Jayce. Jayce tilts his head forward as Viktor rinses away the lather, eyes fluttering shut and utterly pliant beneath Viktor’s hands.
Next, Viktor reaches for a washcloth, lathers soap onto it, and wipes at the soot on Jayce’s neck, chest, and forearms. Every motion is slow, reverent, and unhurried, and with each gentle scrub, the tension bleeds from Jayce’s posture, eliciting small sighs of pleasure.
“You don’t have to,” Jayce mumbles after a while, voice soft, breaking through the hush.
Viktor glances up, his hand stilling against Jayce’s chest. “I know,” he says quietly. “But I want to.”
He resumes his task, wiping the last traces of soot from Jayce’s skin and then running his thumb gently across his cheekbone. “You’re so good to me, my love,” Viktor says softly. “Let me take care of you for once.”
Jayce swallows hard, his throat bobbing. Viktor can see every detail: the flush on his bronze skin, the shimmer of water in his hair, the way his eyes have turned to liquid honey through the fog.
Unable to help himself, Viktor leans forward and presses a kiss onto his forehead. “Beautiful boy,” he whispers reverently, which makes Jayce chuckle.
When they’re done in the shower, they step out to change into comfortable clothes. They wind up on the couch afterward, the fire in the hearth bathing them in a warm glow.
Jayce sits forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the embers. His hands are clasped together so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.
Viktor watches him for a long moment before saying, “You’ve gone quiet.”
Jayce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just thinking.”
“About home?”
Jayce doesn’t answer. He just nods once, sharply, and then presses a hand over his mouth like he can hold it all in. But it comes anyway: a small, choked sob.
“Sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m fine. I just—”
Viktor doesn’t let him finish. He shifts closer until their shoulders touch. “Jayce,” he admonishes gently.“You don’t have to apologize.”
Jayce shakes his head, blinking fast. “I shouldn’t—You’ve been through worse, and here I am crying about—”
“About love?” Viktor interrupts gently. “Missing someone isn’t a weakness.”
Softly, he takes Jayce’s face in his hands—thumbs brushing away the dampness that clings to his lashes. “And just because your struggles were different from mine, doesn’t mean your pain is any less valid. You are allowed to ache. But you are not alone in it, love.”
Jayce leans forward until his forehead rests against Viktor’s shoulder. “I miss Mama. I miss Cait,” he whispers.
“I know,” Viktor murmurs. His arms wrap around him, pulling him close, and Jayce finally lets go—pouring his heart out and into Viktor’s shoulder, quiet, broken sounds escaping him. Viktor holds him through it, fingers tracing slow, steady circles against his spine.
When Jayce finally pulls back, eyes red and puffy, Viktor brushes a hand through his hair and asks, “Do you feel a bit better now, letting it all out?”
Jayce nods and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I do, yeah. Thank you, sweetheart.”
Viktor places a kiss atop Jayce’s head and gets up to retrieve the slices of peach he’d cut earlier from the cooler. When he hands the plate to Jayce, he looks up at him with big, shining eyes.
“I didn’t know it was possible for me to love you any more than I already do.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Viktor teases as he sits down next to Jayce, humor slipping into his voice. “You only love me when I’m feeding you.”
Jayce pops a slice of peach into his mouth, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You cracked the code,” he teases back, groaning in mockery. “Whatever is gonna happen now?”
Viktor taps his cheek, pretending to think. “I suppose I’ll have to spend the rest of my life feeding you. Tragic, really.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Jayce replies, eyes bright. “With the magic you worked on those potatoes, there is no way I’m setting foot in the kitchen ever again.”
Viktor lets out a long-suffering sigh, resting his head on Jayce’s shoulder. “As long as it’s you, I suppose I can live with the burden.”
Jayce smiles, turning his head slightly to press a kiss into Viktor’s hair. “You make it sound so awful.”
“It’s not.” Viktor’s voice becomes velvet-soft. ”It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”