Chapter Text
Why did you ever give me this?
Why?
In all timelines, in all possibilities...only you, can show me this—
I won't fail.
I swear it.
⭒
Jayce lands on his knees.
Pain sears through his body, his left thigh shrieking protest at the force of impact. His bones grind together unnaturally, releasing a white-hot flare of agony that burns along his veins—churns his stomach, seizes his mind.
He vomits.
He groans.
He begs for mercy from himself. Is unsurprised at the lack thereof. Both his mind and body were shattered in the depths of that chasm haunted by death—and so this current pain is a familiar facsimile; he'd been given no reprieve in his breaking, and so it goes that he would be given none in his awakening, despite the revelations in his soul.
Jayce's heart races in his chest, threatening to pump right out of his skin, and he grips the hammer at his side—squeezes the steel with his fist to ground himself, for he knows what's coming next. It's a frenzy of colors and shapes flickering through his vision; memories, and not all of them his own.
They spin his mind, they uproot his balance, and for the duration of the attack, Jayce is held prisoner by a rainbow of sights through which reality is impossible to discern.
When he's able to open his eyes, Jayce releases a sob, for he's landed somewhere he thought he'd never see again; his lab, their lab. It's cast in a purple light, but when Jayce blinks, purple swirls into pink into blue and then blood red. Black spots dot his vision, and a pulse comes back to life just behind his temple.
"Jayce?"
The voice is familiar, but he can't be sure it's real, as it's overlaid with others; cries for help, screams from an attack. The throb of pain beats harder against his mind, threatening to blanket his conscious in a starless night. Jayce jerks against it, but the pull is too strong to resist when the world swims in diplopia, and so he closes his eyelids.
A whirl of color awaits him. It's a cruel kaleidoscope of realities cursed with the clank of machinery, automatons that flicker from pristine white, detailed with gold, to a mottled black, detailed with horrors.
"No," he breathes—begs—as he grips his head, shaking it for mercy, "no, no, no."
Someone says his name again, the voice is closer—concerned.
But is it real?
In the end, he can't be certain. Is too far gone to dissect truth from lie, too fragile to push back against the weight that presses against his thoughts, to muffle the voice begging him to end the suffering, to end the pain—the one that reminds him he can't. That he must live so that others don't die. That he must live so that he can return. That he must live so that the world he comes from does not end up like the one he'd been thrust into.
Yet the electric current in his mind continues humming, threatening to break him further into pieces. And so when the darkness promises temporary salvation from the hurricane whipping through his fractured psyche, Jayce is too weak to deny it.
He lets go.
The darkness enfolds him.
⭒
He dreams of Viktor.
He dreams of the chasm.
He dreams of distant stars and faceless heads, of machines that watch and taunt him. He knows that he's dreaming, because of him. In life, he'd never known the face beneath the hood. In sleep, he does, despite not seeing it.
He holds the memories of the worlds Viktor showed him tightly, knows he does not have forever, and so begs his mind to awaken, but fails—fails miserably, because he's in pain, and Viktor is watching without helping.
It's little comfort, knowing that the Viktor who has trapped him in the darkness is not the same one he's always known. The machines still watch, their faces remain void of eyesight as they mock his efforts to flee, and when Jayce screams for mercy, the lack of it only burns hotter in his chest.
In his dream, he knows only two truths; that Viktor has abandoned him.
That he loves his partner, regardless.
He revisits the equation on the wall, seeking a way to recreate that which thrust him through dimensions. An automaton falls into the chasm, body shattering upon the rocks like a warning against his leave. He picks the machine apart, and now he wonders who it was in life—if it was someone who chose to walk with the Machine Herald, or if it was an innocent conscripted into sacrifice when another version of Jayce failed his mission.
He's alone.
He's a cannibal.
He's picking apart the pieces of someone his heart destroyed so that he might find the will to save himself. To save the man who wrought this world destruction.
But the pit is not his lab, and no matter how many times he works and reworks equations upon the wall, no matter how many automatons fall, no matter how many cogs he finds hidden in the corrupted machine corpses, he cannot find a way to save himself. The most he can do is create a brace to stabilize that which is broken and burning and screaming at him that he's dying as he lives off of vermin and stale water that tastes of death and regret.
In his dream, a man with a gloved hand drags the back of it down his cheek. Holds water to his lips, begs him in a thick accent to wake up.
In his dream, he sees a white cloak, the same face hidden beneath it, but aged.
The corpses continue falling, and Jayce cannot seem to awaken. He can't decide which is worse, either; that with each machine that smashes to pieces beside him, he yearns for the touch of the man who caused this—or that he knows, now, that another version of Viktor is watching.
Visiting.
Doing nothing to save him.
Nothing at all.
⭒
"Jayce—"
"No," Jayce moans, pressing his heels into his eyes, "stop it."
"I'm not certain I'm doing anything…worth stopping."
Jayce blinks awake. Fear strikes him like lightning. He thrusts his hand forward, wrapping his fingers around the throat of the automaton leaning over him. He flips their positions, ignoring the shriek in his thigh, the ache at the twist of his leg.
Wraps two hands around a machine throat.
"You're an abomination," he hisses into its face.
A voice, unbidden in mind; The machine? Or he who controls it?
Jayce does not answer.
The machine below him chokes. Its lungs rattle—it has no lungs.
Jayce stills.
The head has a face—and it's familiar; pale skin, bruised eyes.
The world flickers before his own gaze. The distortion is likely a cruel trick. Penance, perhaps, that his mind was fractured by that which he and the soon-to-be false Herald beneath his grip nearly wrought upon the universe.
Long, slim fingers wrap his own grip. One hand is gloved. The other is warm, gentle, and made of flesh.
Jayce releases Viktor's neck, scrambling backwards in horror at having nearly choked out his partner. Or, rather, this version of him. Pain laces through his body again, his thigh screaming agony where the bone remains fractured. He seizes it with both hands, doubling over to catch his breath.
"I'm sorry," he pants, wishing he could look Viktor in the eye, but finding that task impossible. He holds his own leg, willing the burning ache to ebb, as guilt flickers through him and he repeats the apology ad nauseam.
After six months lost in the darkness, he's unnerved by how quickly he shot to choking the one person whose face had kept him moving, kept him alive, during the hours in which death seemed kinder than the impossible task of finding a way home.
A gentle hand rests upon his shoulder.
"It's okay, Jayce," Viktor murmurs, "you were frightened. I'm more thankful that you've awoken than concerned about anything else."
Is he lying? Is he speaking truth? Is this really Viktor?
Jayce snaps his head up. Round, golden eyes meet his own, and he relaxes for the first time in memory, exhaling deeply. "Viktor," he breathes, not a question, not a statement, but a declaration. "Viktor."
The man in question looks concerned, but he seems to take his name as permission, and reaches forward to help. Mismatched hands are upon Jayce's body, turning his palm over to see the gemstone embedded in his wrist—a movement followed by a slight frown upon Viktor's lips as he traces the webbing of colorful scars around it—and then he's helping Jayce to adjust the shoddy leg brace. For a moment, all feels right; two engineers with bonded instincts working in wordless tandem to right what has been thrown off.
When they've finished, are both sitting up on the couch, a gloved hand slips near enough to hold. Jayce takes it, yanking off the glove—
Viktor makes an indignant sound, trying to stop him—but he's too slow. Pink floods his cheeks as Jayce cradles the purple machine hand in his own. He tangles their fingers together, unwilling and unable to let go, and traces the planes of color where there was once only pale human flesh.
It's truly a marvel; a prosthetic carved by magic that he and his partner created. It's cooler in temperature than the rest of Viktor's body, feels more durable—yet it's soft. Something engineered by magic that technology has yet to find an equal to.
Another memory hits him—this one void of the chasm, but still thick with desperation. He remembers the long days and long nights spent in this very lab, sleeping on this very pull-out couch, studying Viktor's notes, learning how these very prosthetics came to be—learning everything he could about the limbs that Viktor had never intended for him to see.
A pang of sorrow punches through Jayce when he recalls that part. The part of his memory that reminds him about how Viktor had concealed this advancement entirely. At how Jayce only discovered the limb replacements when he lifted his partner's dying body into his arms, and raced to the Hexcore for help.
Viktor shifts beside him. "I did not…believe you would understand."
Jayce snaps his gaze upwards. He's spoken aloud without realizing it. "Viktor— of course—" he squeezes the hand in his own, willing his rasping, husky voice to obey, despite the prolonged disuse "—I would do anything to help you."
Even allow the world to be flayed in color, it seems.
Viktor allows this with a curious hum, but remains silent, otherwise. Jayce is no fool. His partner is brilliant—he'll have come up with his own theories upon seeing Jayce arrive out of thin air in their lab. It makes sense that he is being quite careful with what he is saying, what he is doing.
In fact, it's a bit surprising that Viktor was able to move him into their office at all, but he did. Jayce recognizes the space easily. It's humble, considering their earnings as co-founders of Hextech, though a significant upgrade from their very first lab. The room they're in has a pull-out couch, a shared desk for admin work, a small kitchenette with a few appliances and a space for eating, and a bathroom that contains both a chemical shower and, a luxury they were only allowed once the Hexgates were finished, a regular shower as well.
Yet he's entirely unsure of how this version of Viktor moved him up onto the couch. He may have prosthetics beyond what anyone else managed to create in Runeterra, but he remains thin, with bruises beneath his eyes. He's not in his Academy outfit. He's wearing a plain white undershirt, soft pants, and socks, as though he was preparing to sleep when Jayce woke up (though where, Jayce has no idea.) He has no brace on his leg, but his back brace is still on, if Jayce's touch memory serves correct from when he—
"I'm so sorry," Jayce repeats, "I shouldn't have—" he lifts his hand, trying to paw at Viktor's body—but Viktor catches it.
"I'm alright," he insists, and perhaps he's not lying. He had, after all, moved with an ease beneath Jayce's aggressive touch—an ease that is very likely also at the behest of the corrupted magic that formed his hand, the leg beneath his sleep pants. "You haven't harmed me."
Jayce considers what he's been sent to do, and swallows. Perhaps he hasn't harmed Viktor, hopefully won't have to, but he'd been prepared to—been sent to do exactly that. Yet as he sweeps his gaze over Viktor's form, he's relieved at the fact that he seems to have caught Viktor before the ultimate transformation. Before Jayce's biggest mistake.
"Are you finished with your inspection?"
Despite himself, Jayce softens. They are of the same mind, he and Viktor. "No," he admits. "Is your leg also...?"
Viktor stiffens again. He remains still for a long moment, and then slowly reaches for the hem of his shirt. He exposes his hip, purple. He tugs up his pant leg, exposing his ankle. Also purple.
Jayce is quick with the calculation—
Sky must be dead. The version of himself in this timeline now has blood on his hands—if it's not happening right this moment. Yet Viktor's presence here—the lack of panic in his gaze—indicates that the council meeting has yet to take place. Which means Jayce has arrived into this timeline before he thrust Viktor upon the table in their lab, begging for a miracle and triggering a catastrophe.
It means there's time.
Time to save Viktor without killing him.
"Have I met with Silco?"
Viktor shifts beside him. His machine hand is cool, but it seems to move just as his real one does as it allows Jayce to tangle their fingers tighter. "Have you met with Silco?"
Jayce clears his throat. "To negotiate a peace."
"No...no, I do not think so." He pushes his eyebrows together.
"Have you—" Jayce pauses "—have you taken Sky's ashes away, yet?"
Viktor makes a soft, wounded sound. He tries to pull his hand away, but Jayce doesn't let go. "I...no, I have not." Viktor stops trying to pull his hand away, and releases a deep sigh. "I had planned to take them tomorrow."
Jayce exhales relief. "Good, that means there's time."
Viktor furrows his brow again, his golden eyes filled with concern. "Time for what?" He cocks his head, his face melts into porcelain. There's a metallic whirring, a flash of colors, and Jayce panics as his eyes threaten to betray him with false visions of memories that do and do not belong to him.
He slams his eyelids shut against the machine leering into his imagination, threatening to overtake the Viktor before him, and holds the hand in his own tighter.
It grounds him better than the hammer did, even if only slightly. A desperation rises in his chest. He can't lose his mind, now. Not when there's still time. Not when he could still save Viktor.
"No," he begs, fear gripping his throat, "no—Viktor, Viktor—"
A cool palm rests upon his jaw. "I am here, Jayce."
It's machine, but it's warmer than the corpses were, and so it grounds him. Returns his sanity. Settles Jayce enough that he's able to inhale deeply, to force oxygen through his lungs. Only once he's managed to return his breathing, and his heart rate, to a state of normalcy does he allow himself to look once more.
Viktor is whole.
Jayce relaxes.
He finds Viktor's other hand—holds both, a hand of flesh, a hand of machinery. He clings to them with a desperation he had never allowed his partner to see before the wild rune sucked him in and spit him out, because he's seen Viktor's mind. He knows, now. He knows he need not hide his emotions the way he once did. Not these ones, at least.
Then, with their fingers tangled, their bodies pressed in a line—as close as physically possible without Jayce burrowing down beneath Viktor's flesh and into his blood—he attempts to form words.
Viktor finds them, first. "You are not from this reality." It's not a question. "Not from this present, at the very least."
"No," Jayce agrees, "I'm not."
"A future?"
"One of them." He thinks this is the timeline he came from, but there's always a chance that it's not.
"Eh." Viktor looks as though he might tilt his head again, but stops himself. "Not a pleasant one, I take it?"
"Is this one pleasant?"
"It was." Viktor's smile is grim. "For a time." He falls silent, then. Looks as though he is digesting this new information, his eyes flickering to the brace on Jayce's leg, and then to their hands, still tangled together. Pink touches his cheeks and he lifts them. "And in your reality, we are…together?"
"Partners."
"Romantically?"
"I love you."
Viktor blinks.
Jayce feels something lighten in his heart, and he clings to that, shoving away the flicker of humiliation that is bubbling beneath it at having revealed something that makes him feel so vulnerable. "I know— I know that isn't relevant, and it's not why I'm here," he says, tamping down on the hysteria that threatens to rise, next, as he considers the reason he is here, "but I needed—need—you to know. I love you. And the version of me in this world, he loves you, too."
"I see." Viktor looks thoughtful, but remains still.
Jayce's chest constricts when he realizes, "You don't believe me."
A soft smile curls Viktor's lips up in the corner. It's not grim, like the previous smile, but rather, holds a sorrow that makes Jayce's heart drop in his chest. "No, no. I do…believe you." He squeezes Jayce's fingers. "But you are not my Jayce, are you?" He makes an eh sound, a thoughtful noise. "You cannot speak for him."
Jayce leans closer. "I can." He untangles his fingers from one of Viktor's hands and curls his palm around Viktor's jaw. "I love you in every universe."
Viktor chuckles softly. "I do not believe that you traveled through space and time to tell me this."
Yet despite his words, Viktor does not protest when Jayce slides his palm from jaw to neck, cupping the back of his partner's head. He makes a startled sound, but not one of displeasure, when Jayce braces him—when Jayce leans in, and steals a kiss, gently brushing their lips together.
He doesn't pull away, either.
Beneath the connection, Jayce's heart flutters. Hope warms his body, and his mind finds a state of far greater clarity than he's experienced in quite some time. It crystalizes a few things; that they must contain the Hexcore, that they must stabilize it as it is, and find a way to neutralize the blood that Viktor has dripped into it before destroying it to prevent it from striking Viktor in the destruction.
They must warn the city of the attack before the council meeting.
Caitlyn must be taken into protection—her girlfriend, found.
Silco, met with and warned.
There are more concerns, but those are the most pressing.
Yet Jayce is a man that has spent six months in isolation. He truly believes that one of the only reasons he survived that isolation was because of Viktor's voice in the back of his mind, whispering encouragement.
He's also fresh off of having learned that his partner…that his partner feels as he does. That Viktor cares for him as well. That Viktor loves him—and as the man is not pushing Jayce away, something else slips to the very top of Jayce's priority list: this.
He parts lips, attempting to deepen the kiss as the desire burning in his chest ignites into something hotter. Viktor allows it for a brief moment, resting his hand on Jayce's forearm, allowing Jayce's tongue entrance into his mouth.
Viktor shivers, Jayce moans.
Arousal hums in Jayce's belly, nearly a decade of yearning finally granted a touch of satiation, but Viktor breaks the kiss before it can thrum hotter. He leans his forehead against Jayce's, and they both pant into the space between. "Now you have made life more difficult for…my Jayce."
The broad-shoulder scientist nudges Viktor with his nose. "He's a fool."
"Eh." Viktor chuckles, and straightens up. "I do not deny this…but I think perhaps you should tell me what you've come to say." He drops his gaze to Jayce's thigh—touching the rough brace forged in the chasm gently, almost reverently, and then to Jayce's wrist, where the gemstone is embedded, wrapped by mottled scars. "You have been through a great deal, and we are not certain how long you will remain here."
"This is important as well," he insists, "the way I feel for you, Viktor, it's not—"
"Jayce," Viktor cuts in, "I am not your Viktor."
It hurts, though Jayce knows it's truth.
"Come, let's call for food. I'll make us something warm to drink while we wait for it."
Jayce wants to protest, but there's a humming in the back of his mind that threatens to take over his thoughts. It's not stronger than his hunger for Viktor, but it's more obstinate, more dangerous if triggered. And so he allows Viktor to gently lead him into the kitchen area of their office, to fill a kettle with water and set a sauce pan on the stove.
The thin scientist calls for food while Jayce sits at the small, functional table labeled 'FOOD, ONLY', and then returns to the stove. Pours Dunpour cream into the pan, mixing it with powder that smells like anise, the combination creating a cloying scent that reminds the man of their home, here in the lab.
It fills Jayce's chest with warmth, with nostalgia from the evenings they spent together staying up late in this very space, pouring over electromagnetic coils and mechatronical theories. He relaxes, laying his palm over his thigh, gently massaging the sorest place.
And then the kettle shrieks, and Jayce's mind does as well.
Nausea washes over him, and he's back in the chasm—no, he's racing through the army of machines. They're reaching for him, grabbing at his clothes. Their fingers are long, slimy, and cold—they claw at his face, at his jaw. They pull at his hammer. They whisper horrors and threats. They chase him through rain soaked in color.
He trips.
He falls.
The world spins, his vision blurs, and he pleads for mercy from his own fractured mind as his leg is shattered once more—as agony wreaks terror upon him. He shakes his head, begging for it to end, yet he continues falling, deeper, deeper, deeper into the chasm.
⭒
The chasm is void of air.
Jayce gasps for it desperately as he continues falling. He claws at his throat, but struggles to breathe. His lungs burn, and he wonders if perhaps he's drowning. But he's allowed a hiccup of air, and fails to swallow water, so it's not an ocean, and it's not the chasm.
There's a burst of light, and it's revealed; a night sky.
Viktor appears, his face hidden in the darkness, but his presence undeniable. His cloak is touched in a horrific rainbow, the pattern of death from the world Jayce thought he escaped. He wraps his long, slim fingers around Jayce's neck—one purple, one flesh. And then, after months of silently watching, he chokes the broad man.
Jayce's heart stutters.
"Wake up." The voice is mechanical, deeper than the Viktor that Jayce knows. It beats through Jayce's mind, a drummer announcing war through a frantic, pulsating rhythm. The fingers forming his noose tighten. "Wake up," this faceless Viktor demands.
The stars flare brighter before Jayce's eyes. The fire in his lungs roars into a blazing heat. Distantly, he's aware of pain in his wrist. Immediately, he's curious if this is how he dies; lost in his own mind, this Viktor beside him.
One of the stars bursts into a flare, raining down on his skin in the darkness. A thousand more follow. Each one is extinguished in a flash of light, each one burrows deep beneath his flesh. The starlight hisses inside of his gut, twisting into a soft, molten pleasure.
Jayce moans, realizing that each little spark is far more titillating than it should be. He's greedy, aware of his cock swelling in this in-between world—aware of the embers burning beneath his skin, the heat washing over him like a blinding sort of hedonism. He raises his hands to cover the much smaller ones wrapping his throat, but he can't decide if he wants to beg for their removal, or indulge himself in more of the wickedly divine touch.
"Jayce."
With one word, Viktor's hood falls away. It shocks Jayce into stillness, for the Viktor above him is not of the doomed world. It's a version of his own partner; pale face, golden gaze. His grip tightens, and his lips move in a plea, but Jayce cannot understand what he's saying, not anymore.
He opens his mouth to ask, Why, but what comes out is a low, guttural moan. His lungs are not the only thing burning, for the starlight has seared through his system, and the pleasure is stirring it hotter. His cock is aching, his belly is tight, and when Viktor leans down again, Jayce knows it's futile to resist what he demands.
"Wake up," Viktor whispers again, squeezing tighter.
Jayce's brain pushes into a frenzied panic, seeking oxygen above all else. The darkness recedes. Viktor's hood melts away, their office coming back into view.
Viktor blinks, and relaxes his hold. In doing so, he slides down—the apex of his thighs forming an arc over Jayce's length, rubbing against it, making it jerk with greedy desire for more.
Jayce's head spins—not from colors and time lost and memories of someone else, but from arousal. He sucks in a breath, and more stars burst before his eyes; a dizzying haze of titillation sharpening tenfold in sensation now that he's returned to reality.
Euphoria sweeps through Jayce's body, mind, and soul, and he tries to bite back the moan—but he can't. His entire body jerks, he presses on Viktor's fingers, and begs for just one moment more with a string of incomprehensible pleading.
Viktor's brow dips, but then it's back; that sensation of losing air. His lungs shriek for mercy, but it's in the denial of mercy that pleasure is found. Viktor keeps his fingers against Jayce's throat, constricting the flow of oxygen as he watches with round eyes, and Jayce's body is a cog being wound tighter in a machine with each breath denied—until it finally snaps, his orgasm springing free.
The release is sharp, bright, and savage. It rips through him like a hurricane, the most glorious sort of deliverance that Jayce Talis has ever felt. It ripples across his body, limb-by-limb, shaking all thoughts from mind. His hips buck up of their own accord, his cock seeking a return to that moment of friction with more fervor than his lungs do air.
Viktor parts his lips, and then with the softest of sounds, releases Jayce's throat, only to press his hips down, sliding his cunt along the tortured man's cock. The sound Jayce makes in response is humiliating, undignified—but he's lost the ability to care. He reaches for the back of Viktor's head, tangling his fingers in the man's hair. He tugs, drinking in the whimper that falls from Viktor's lips like it's the oxygen his body sought just moments ago.
When Viktor's forehead meets his, Jayce rolls his hips faster, more frantically. He chases the dregs of release like he's an animal in rut, thrusting up into Viktor's clothed sex to seek out every last bit of pleasure, soaking his pants like a teenager as he rides out the high of something he hasn't felt in months.
His partner allows it. He does more than allow it. He gently, tentatively, grinds down, increasing the delicious sensation of the aftershocks washing over Jayce—filling the man with the sort of warmth he never thought he'd find again, back when he was locked in the pit. And Jayce, gods, Jayce has dreamed of moments like this—and so he reaches between them, drags his fingers down Viktor's belly.
Finds the hem of his pants, and begs, "Please?"
Viktor's breath catches between them, and he says something Jayce cannot comprehend in his state, but the subtle nod is unmistakable. Jayce moves, and Viktor allows it—allows the rugged man to press his long, thick fingers into Viktor's pants, into the cotton drawers beneath. To drag his touch through a thatch of hair he yearns to taste, to find the swell of Viktor's cock.
Both of them shudder, but then Jayce reaches lower—collects slick from his partner's cunt, teases it around the head of Viktor's cock as the man gasps with surprise. And Jayce, well, Jayce has never done this with Viktor, but gods, it'd be a lie to say he hasn't dreamed of it. He strokes his partner off with a feral emotion gripping his heart, holding Viktor's dick with reverence as he slides his touch up and down, working it quicker each time, wishing it was his tongue, but reveling in the fact that it's happening at all, that Viktor is hard for him—
Viktor's laughter is strained. "I am," he agrees.
Jayce hadn't realized he'd said it out loud, but he's not ashamed. Not ashamed of his awe, of how beautiful he finds his partner—how badly he wants to make Viktor feel as good he does.
"I do," Viktor whispers, a strangled sort of admission, "Jayce, I do feel good, fuck." He turns his head, and drops his mouth to Jayce's neck—sinks his teeth into flesh, choking on a moan, bucking with the force of his own release when it comes; powerful, beautiful, and strong.
"Dreamed of this," Jayce whispers, "dreamed of this for so long, of you in my hand, in my lap, in my heart." He nearly chokes on the last few words, particularly when Viktor jerks at his hair sharply—crying out "Jayce" into the hollow of the man's throat.
And as Viktor tumbles through an orgasm, Jayce has this moment of pristine clarity; he may be broken, his mind shattered, the future a question before them…but it was worth it—the pain, the solitude, the horrific, gut-wrenching torture that he lived through at the bottom of the chasm…it was all worth it for this; Viktor draped over his body, sucking a mark into his neck as release vibrates through his lithe body.
Jayce holds Viktor tighter, reveling in the warbled moans. He wants so badly to slip his fingers lower again, to feel what it is to be wrapped in Viktor's heat—but when he tries, Viktor's palm is on his wrist, and he's squeezing it tight. Preventing Jayce from more, collaring an animal with a primitive thirst.
The fingers of Jayce's other hand are tangled in Viktor's hair, and he uses the hold to pull his partner's face back to center—to steal another hungry kiss before the inevitable shame sets in. Jayce licks deep into the warm, wet mouth of the man he loves, clinging to the taste and the ecstasy—and when they part, he lifts the few digits he'd used to stroke his partner off, and sets them on his tongue.
Licks the salty musk from his fingers, wishing it was more, but still content with what he's been given, as Viktor watches; cheeks pink, eyes round, lips spit-slicked and swollen.
Once they've both finished vibrating from one realm into another, he releases Viktor, and lets his head fall back onto the floor with a thump, welcoming the flash of pain as an old friend, once more. Closing his eyes to breathe.
Shame bites at his belly for having set upon Viktor as he just did, but he's at a loss for words. Silence falls between them, and Viktor pushes to sitting—but does not move away. And so after a few moments, Jayce opens his eyes and blinks up at his partner. A thousand expressions flicker across Viktor's face as he gazes at Jayce.
"I'm sorry," Jayce says.
"Are you?" Viktor asks carefully.
Jayce lifts a hand to his forehead, rubbing it. He considers lying, and then decides, fuck it. "No," he admits, laughing without much humor. I feel completely fucked up, but I also don't really care, because you're here. In my lap. Sitting on my cock. Grounding me into reality. He can't say those things, of course, though he's not entirely sure he doesn't, but he follows it all up with, "I don't know."
"I am." Cool, mechanical fingers touch Jayce's throat. "I should have known better than to allow the kettle to sound," Viktor says quietly, "and when you seemed as though you weren't waking…"
"You decided to finish me off?" Jayce captures Viktor's hand, but simultaneously reaches for the thin inventor's hip with the other one, squeezing it.
"Of course not. I had thought, perhaps, that the adrenaline from the threat of asphyxiation might be a stronger threat than your imagination, and break whatever hold your visions had over your mind," Viktor explains.
"Brilliant." Jayce resists the urge to slip his thumb up beneath the oversized shirt on Viktor's torso, to rub the bare flesh beneath. He's been given enough, he can't continue to be greedy. "It worked," he reasons, "there's nothing to be sorry about."
Viktor blinks. "Right."
"I'm sorry for, um," Jayce gestures between them, at the wetness spreading in his pants, in Viktor's clothes, too. "I should have asked, first." He rubs his palm up and down Viktor's hip, and then, upon seeing how big Viktor's pupils are, follows it with, "Or maybe—"
Jayce reaches for his partner, but the inventor bats his hand away, releasing an undignified squawk.
"Sensitive," he mutters, his cheeks burning red, "and don't be sorry. I was…it was…well, we're together in your world, are we not? Perhaps we were both selfish, but…"
Jayce's face hurts from his grin, because he realizes it, now. At least, he's fairly certain of it. "Viktor," he says gently, "this is my world."
Viktor stares at him.
He parts his lips.
He says nothing at first. Then, "Forgive me for not quite believing that. You are hardly even speaking to me right now."
Jayce slides a palm up Viktor's back—gently brushing along the brace they designed together in this very lab—and braces his partner as he sits up, forcing Viktor to slide down his softening cock. Jayce shudders at the sensation, and Viktor bites his lip, but fails to hide the moan entirely, to the delight of the rugged man beneath him.
Once they're re-positioned against the wall, Jayce leaning against it, Viktor still sitting in his lap with disbelief painted across his face, Jayce cups his partner's jaw.
"You were right, earlier," he says, the words coming easier to him now than they did before, "I didn't travel through universes to tell you that I love you, alone. It's a long story, but I'm here to warn you, and hopefully avoid destruction." He reaches between them, laying his palm over Viktor's mechanical leg, and drags it down the length. "In a few days' time, I'm going to make the biggest mistake of my life, and I'm here to stop that from happening. To stop you from paying for my mistake."
Viktor's expression hardens, slightly. "How do you know this?"
Jayce glances between them, at the wet marks. His own seed is cooling in his groin, and he'd…well, he'd kill for a shower. "Maybe we could clean up, and then I could explain?"
Viktor chews on his lower lip for a moment, and then nods, wearily. "That might be for the best," he decides.
And so they do.
Humiliatingly, Jayce nearly breaks down in tears beneath the first stream of hot water he's felt in what seems like an eternity. He sits down on the floor of the shower, resting there beneath the heat and the water pressure for so long, that Viktor eventually comes knocking to make sure he isn't having another breakdown.
"Just feels nice," Jayce mutters as he dries off, using the wall for balance, keeping his back to Viktor.
He can feel his partner's gaze on his body, on his thigh. On the angry scar that covers almost the entirety of one calf.
"I don't know how it healed," he admits quietly, "and yes, it still hurts to put pressure on my leg."
Viktor releases a quiet sound of sorrow. "I am sorry, Jayce," he says, "I don't know what happened, but if I'd have been there—"
You were there, Jayce thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he wraps the towel around his waist, and then turns to face Viktor. "Help me with my brace?"
It's a good distraction, and by the time they've returned to the kitchenette area of their office, Viktor is already discussing ideas for improving the brace, as though Jayce's continued presence in this timeline is a guarantee, not a question.
Food arrived while Jayce was in the shower, and he nearly crumples at the sight—the smell. It's a second orgasmic experience for the man who has lived for six months on vermin, and halfway through the meal, Jayce steals another kiss from his partner, if nothing else, because the inventor ordered one of everything that Jayce loves.
When they're done, Viktor drags two plush chairs out in front of an empty blackboard, and they get to work. Jayce explains as much as he can remember, and with Viktor's help, they form a plan. His mind only slips a few times, and each moment wherein the threat arises, Viktor is there. He kisses Jayce, he wraps his skillful fingers around Jayce's throat. He anchors Jayce in reality, pulls him back to present, and allows the broad-shouldered inventor to explain the whole story—including what he's been sent to do, what they must do to prevent the end of humanity.
By the time they've finished, it's well beyond midnight, and Viktor's concern is written in the dark bruising beneath his eyes. Viktor's foot is in Jayce's lap, the latter having snagged it for a gentle massage—giving in to yet another action he's spent years holding himself back from taking.
He has one finger pressed into the arch of it, is enjoying how Viktor pretends to remain unaffected by the touch, despite his pink cheeks, as they review the plan on the blackboard. Something sharp pulses behind his eye, his mind threatening a fourth migraine, and Jayce rubs his forehead.
Viktor stops talking about anomalies, and frowns. "You should sleep soon." He attempts to pull his foot free.
Jayce holds it, frowning as he continues kneading the arch with his thumb, but even he can't deny that the words on the blackboard are starting to swim—though from exhaustion, nothing more. "I suppose you're right," he admits, "we made progress." At least, doesn't feel as though the world might explode at first light, which is an improvement to how he'd felt when he began his explanation of all that went wrong the first time around. "It's good to be back here with you, V."
Viktor looks at him. "It's always good to spend time with you, Jayce."
Jayce ducks his head. "Thanks," he says quietly, dragging his thumb up the arch of Viktor's foot, holding pressure against the flesh as he sweeps it over the ball, releasing pressure in the muscles beneath. "We should be ready tomorrow," he says after a few quiet moments of this.
"Yes, yes...there is only one problem," Viktor muses, "we will have to talk reason into the version of you that does not think the undercity is worth saving." It's hard to miss the sour taste in his tone. "I don't even know where you are at the moment."
Jayce's heart lurches in his chest. "Viktor, I never thought that." He shakes his head. "I was so wrong about so much. I should have never ordered the blockade in the first place. I should have listened to you from the beginning, but there's time, now. We can fix things, now, before they break."
Viktor turns towards Jayce, watching him for a long moment with an indecipherable look. "I will need to send for him, either way." He shrugs, pulling his foot free with finality. "You may rest on the couch in the meantime." He gestures towards where it's been pulled out into a bed. "The sheets are clean, I put them on while you were in the shower, earlier."
"You're not going to join me?"
Viktor falters. "Eh." He looks away. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?" Jayce stands, gritting his teeth against the twinge of pain that shoots up his leg.
Viktor doesn't look at him. "Because if this plan of yours doesn't work, I will be left here with the version of you that doesn't love me—" Viktor turns, holding up a hand against Jayce's sputtering "—that doesn't know how to express his emotions, whatever they might be." He sets the hand on Jayce's chest.
Jayce covers it. "Send for him," he murmurs, "and then come to bed. We both need rest." He lifts his hand, tracing the purple beneath Viktor's eye. "He loves you, too. I promise you, V." Jayce ducks his head, stealing a kiss. "I will always love you."