Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A Sunday evening in May; warm, gossamer-light. Viktor is draped gracefully across Jayce’s sofa, basking in a patch of sun like an oversized cat, ice-cold vodka martini in hand. He can hear the sizzle of a pan and Jayce’s footsteps as he moves about the kitchen, busy preparing sausage sandwiches. His stomach gurgles at the smell of melting butter. Life is, for all intents and purposes, good.

His phone buzzes, Silco’s caller ID flashing up on the screen. He answers with a lazy swipe of his finger. “Hi Papa.”

“Hello starling,” Silco greets him warmly. Judging from the ambience, he’s phoning from the Last Drop. “How are you?”

Every Sunday, Viktor and Silco have their weekly phone call. They began when he first went off to university - once Silco had gotten over the fact that Viktor had chosen to study in Piltover. That had been an argument and a half. A lot of shouting. A lot of tense, quiet dinners. Viktor hates arguments, hates being the reason for the lines on his fathers’ faces, the greys in their hair, the shadows under their eyes. No matter what precautions he takes, it seems to be unavoidable.

“It’s our job to worry about you,” Vander always says to him, and Viktor has gotten better at believing him over the years, a far cry from the scrawny, anxious seven-year-old who tried to pay rent to his adoptive fathers. But he doesn’t think he will ever shake the guilt entirely.

The phone calls started as a peace offering, and throughout his university days, they became a balm to homesickness, an outlet for him to rant about stupid Pilties and their stupid prejudices, a chance to ramble on excitedly about his classes and labs and the projects he was working on. They were also a means of assuring Silco that yes, he was taking his meds, and yes he was getting enough sleep and yes, he was eating food (when he remembered; besides, there was nowhere to get good, authentic Zaunish cuisine in Piltover - Janna, he missed Vander’s cooking). And in return, Silco would relay all the neighbourhood gossip that he had missed, updates on the political situation in Zaun (as if Viktor didn’t have access to the Internet) and news of the family. Sometimes Vander or his siblings would join, but on the whole, it was their time.

Since he graduated, five years ago now, they have continued the tradition without interruption, and they have been a constant throughout everything. Securing his first job at the University as Heimerdinger’s assistant. Meeting Jayce, whose career was almost destroyed when his unauthorised research into a new form of clean energy - Hextech, as he called it - went wrong. Their breakthrough with the crystals and how they were suddenly thrust into the limelight as Piltover’s most exciting young innovators. Being given their own lab and staff and money and ordered, in no uncertain terms, to change the world. They remind him that although he has risen to great heights, at the end of the day, he is still Viktor of the Lanes, born of blisters and bedrock, baptised by blood and whisky, son of the Hound and the Eye.

“I am - eh, how does Mylo say it? Vibing,” he says. “Jayce is making us dinner.”

“Have you been working today?”

“Yes. Now that we have stabilised the crystals, we are keen to move on to developing devices for their practical application as soon as possible, starting with air and water filters. Jayce has some truly fascinating ideas for the designs.” Viktor smirks. “He has a Pinterest board.”

“Ha!” Silco lets out a bark of laughter. “The government is quaking in their boots. I read the latest paper you published, by the way.”

A detailed account of their painstaking cultivation of the crystals, studying their structure, how their regenerative properties actually work on an atomic level. “What did you think?”

“Fascinating. Quite fascinating.”

“You didn’t understand a word of it, did you?”

“I was a miner. You think I don’t know my rocks and minerals?” Silco sounds sniffy, but then his voice softens. “I know that you are taking great strides to make the world a better place. That’s the important thing.”  

“It was Jayce’s idea.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, Vitya. You were the one who realised how to tap into their energy stores when he couldn’t.”

“Eh, it was a joint effort.” He can feel a smile spreading across his face at the memory of that utterly mad rollercoaster of a night. Reading through Jayce’s confiscated research, his mind on fire with possibility, with potential, with progress, what it could mean for the future of Zaun. His heart stopping when he found him on that ledge, the flood of relief when he got him to step away. Talking for hours, already so perfectly in sync, slotting together like puzzle pieces. Breaking into the laboratories with Viktor’s staff pass. And then…

The Man of Progress himself (a moniker from a tabloid that unfortunately seems to have stuck) sticks his head around the door. A few strands have come loose from his perfectly-styled hair, like ink spilled across his forehead. Beautiful imperfections, like the gap between his front teeth and the stubble on his jaw. “Huh? Did you say my name?”

“I am just talking to my father.”

“Ohh yeah, it’s Sunday isn’t it? Hi Viktor’s dad!” And Jayce grins and waves, as if Silco can see him. Ridiculous man. The only thing more ridiculous is how much Viktor wants to kiss him. “Do you want onion in your sandwich?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Oh obviously. Anything else?”

“Pickles, hot sauce and honey.”

Jayce shakes his head in bemusement. “You are a strange, strange man.”

“It is a traditional Zaunish combination,” Viktor says, raising an eyebrow (it isn’t). “Are you insulting my culture, Jayce?”

“What? No of course I’m -”

“Papa,” he whines. “Papa, I am being oppressed.”

“You’re just pulling my -”

“I will alert my lawyers,” is Silco’s reply.

“Fine, fine!” Jayce throws his hands up as he returns to the kitchen.

“And marshmallows!” Viktor calls as an afterthought, just to mess with him further. He cackles at Jayce’s squawk of “What the fuck, V?”

From down the line, he can hear heavy footsteps and a suspiciously wet, smacking sound.

“Not in public!” Silco hisses. “Janna’s sake - say hello to your son, you menace.”

“Sorry. Hello Vik!” Vander doesn’t sound sorry at all. 

Viktor seizes the opportunity to pounce. “Have you been to the doctor about your shoulder yet?”

A sheepish cough. “Well -”

“Ha! I knew it! After all the shit you give me for not looking after myself!”

“It’s not that bad!”

“It is,” Silco says.

“I can manage.”

“You will manage, until you can’t anymore, and then I’m going to be stuck looking after you, you big baby.”

“I use Deep Heat!”

“Go - to - a - doctor.” Viktor enunciates every word for dramatic effect.

Vander grumbles something about being ganged up on. Silco laughs.

“How is Powder?” Viktor asks. “Is her new dosage helping?” They’d spoken last week about how they were trying to get her medication adjusted, because she was complaining about feeling tired and numb all the time. She’d messaged him a few times, rather upset about it, and the worry has been flickering away in the back of his mind all week.

“It is,” Silco confirms. “It was a little tricky the first few days, but she says she’s feeling much better now. She’s started drawing on the walls again, which is a good sign.”

Viktor breathes a sigh of relief, wishing he could give his little sister a hug.

“Mylo’s set a new record for ‘number of detentions in one week’,” Vander says. “I don’t know how he does it. I keep getting emails complaining about his behaviour.”

“It’s because he’s twelve,” Silco says. “He’s exercising power. He’s testing boundaries. Like all teenage boys, he’s kind of an asshole.”

“Doesn’t mean we should just let him off the hook though.”  

“I know. We’ll talk to him about it.”

“You know, Vik was never an asshole at that age.”

Viktor chuckles. “What can I say? I am simply perfect.”

Silco fills him in on the latest goings-on, Vander dropping in and out of the conversation while he serves customers. Claggor and Ekko tried to build a toaster alarm clock, which failed spectacularly (and explosively). The Last Drop is going to host a quiz night to raise funds for the homeless shelter in their district. A woman he has only ever heard referred to as ‘fucking Amanda’ has been sabotaging Silco’s attempts to become chair of the PTA, which he takes just as seriously as he did the Zaun Revolutionary Movement. Viktor listens and hums and sips his martini until Jayce comes in, bearing two plates and his own drink.

“I have to go and eat,” he informs him. “Give everyone my love.”

“I shall. Take care starling.”

“You too.” He hangs up and shifts so that Jayce can join him on the sofa.

“It’s kind of weird that I’ve never met your family,” Jayce says, handing him his plate. “I mean, we’ve known each other for what, four years now? And you know Ma and Cait and everyone.”

“It comes with living four and a half hours away from home in an entirely different country with whom your mother nation has an extremely messy sociopolitical history, I suppose.”

“I’d like to,” Jayce continues, his eyes bright and earnest. “Meet them, I mean. I know how important they are to you.”

“Mm. One day, perhaps.” Rationally, Viktor knows that there are a multitude of reasons why this would not be practical. His heart, however, is fluttering at the idea that Jayce wants to get to know his family. Not that it means anything, of course.

It is odd that the two most important people in his life, Silco and Jayce, have never met. But perhaps that is simply par for the course with growing up, flying the nest and building your own life.

“This looks good. Thank you,” he says as he picks up his sandwich. He bites down, and is struck with the realisation that Jayce, the absolute madman, has actually added the marshmallows.

Teeth still sunk into the bread, he turns to Jayce, who looks unbearably smug. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say your move.

Viktor maintains steady eye contact as he chews and swallows, careful to keep his expression neutral.

“Delicious,” he says. “Just like mama used to make.”

There is a pause, and then they burst out laughing. Every time he thinks they have finally settled, one of them will look at the other and set them off again. They laugh until Viktor is red in the face, ribs aching and tears streaming down his cheeks.

---

There are a lot of things he doesn’t tell Silco during their phone calls. 

He doesn’t tell him when his leg is bad, downplaying it as much as he can. He doesn’t tell him about the cutting remarks, the subtle gestures and glances, the downright ignorant and offensive assumptions he is subject to, day after day, in Piltover. He doesn’t tell him that it’s become increasingly difficult to summon up the energy to change his sheets and make himself dinner. He doesn’t tell him about the creeping dread that keeps him up late at night, that he’s not doing enough, that Hextech is not progressing as quickly as it should, bogged down by rules and regulations and safety measures. The fear that when the time comes, they will take it away from him, and Zaun will once more be left behind.

(He knows Jayce would never allow it. It still worries him.)

He doesn’t tell him these things, because there is nothing Silco can do about them, and they would just be putting him under unnecessary stress. Like Viktor himself, his father is a control freak.

Besides, he is a grown man. He recycles. He does laundry. He pays taxes. It would be a bit pathetic if he were to go running to papa at every minor inconvenience. He has Jayce, who knows the details of their research far more intimately, who will never pass up the chance to shit-talk the board or debate theoretical physics, the only person Viktor has ever met who can actually keep up with him. True, he can be just as fussy about his health, but over the years Viktor’s cane has formed a steady relationship with Jayce’s shins, and that seems to keep him in order.

That’s another thing he hasn’t told Silco about. The inescapable, all-consuming fact that Viktor has been hopelessly in love with his lab partner for the past four years.

He had tried so hard not to fall for him. A co-worker, a Piltie to boot, a man so handsome he could surely have his pick of any number of suitors. But how could not, when he has seen how Jayce’s whole face lights up, when he talks about his passions? How his hands move about almost of their own accord, as if his determination to help people is so great that he cannot contain himself? How could he not, when he snaps at anyone who dares to imply that Viktor is anything less than his partner and his equal in Hextech? When he’s seen him cry at the ending of WALL-E ? He knows how he takes his coffee (a dash of milk, no sugar), how he signs every page of his notes, how he brings flowers to his mother whenever he visits her. He plays guitar semi-decently and adores magic tricks and is a great cook, but a terrible baker.

And Jayce is the one person who can beat Viktor at Mario Kart. Who’s seen him on his worst pain days and hasn’t been scared away. Who he never runs out of things to talk about with. Who knows his deepest, darkest fear (it’s failure).

It was easy, in the end. Inevitable.

He is under no illusions that his feelings are requited, of course. Viktor is not what one might call ‘conventionally attractive’, nor does he have the sunny personality to make up for it. He’d learned very quickly that Jayce’s affinity for physical contact was not exclusive to him, that he was a fool to let his heart sing at the touch of a hand on his back, a head on his shoulder, a leg pressed against his when they sat close together. No, he is just that friendly and open with everyone, so eager to please, quick to offer help, ready to find friends in all places, master of the art of trust, which Viktor has never quite wrapped his head around. It’s why he lets Jayce do most of the talking when they have to give (dreaded, odious) presentations.

They are friends. They have spent the last four years toiling by each other’s side, working day and night towards their dream, just the two of them, Jayce-and-Viktor, a singular entity, a beautiful concept, a well-oiled machine. To bring romantic inclinations into the mix would simply complicate the partnership they have forged. Viktor will not throw it all away for the sake of his own selfish pining.

No. It’s better this way. Viktor is fine. He is always in some level of pain. He has learned to live with the comfortable ache of this devotion, wearing it like a second skin. He subsists off stolen glances, a smile, a laugh, a brush of a hand, and it is enough.

---

The first time he fails to take Silco’s regular Sunday call is a genuine accident. A mishap in the lab involving an unfortunately placed mug of coffee results in him, Jayce and Sky working through the night to salvage their precious blueprints, the day before their presentation. Viktor, unfortunately, has to attend. It is important in all fairness, one of several they are giving to various companies and investors, to beg for further funding for Hextech; the University can only give them so much.

When he sees the missed call, he fires off a rapid voice note explaining his situation, the phone jammed between his jaw and shoulder as he wields pencils and protractors with lethal efficiency. Much, much later, he sees the reply. Remember to breathe, Vitya. He reads it in Silco’s trademarked, dryly amused tone. The follow-up: And no worries, we may speak next week. Best of luck with the presentation. 

It would have gone much better if they had not been interrupted every five minutes with questions and concerns that are addressed later in the presentation, which the investors would know if they just shut the fuck up. Jayce handles it quite gracefully, even as notes of frustration creep into his voice. Viktor almost cracks his jaw from gritting his teeth when someone asks why they are so fixated on air filters; is it because they are sensitive to harsh smells? No you ignorant shitface, it’s because the people of Zaun have died from over-exposure to pollution for centuries. How can they not know?

Viktor doesn’t say this, of course. He doesn’t get angry. He cannot afford it. It is not productive. These people are unsavoury, pampered, blind, and want to use Hextech for their own gain, but they have what Jayce and Viktor need. This is how the game is played in Piltover. This is the price he must pay to help Zaun.

---

Mel Medarda is one of the only investors they have met who seems genuinely interested in the applications of Hextech. She has actually asked to come and visit their lab. On a Sunday, no less. Clearly she is just as much of a workaholic as Viktor, albeit better hidden behind an immaculate skirt and blazer, manicured nails and convincing small talk.

She is also, unfortunately, very beautiful.

And naturally, Jayce is smitten with her. He guides her around the lab and she asks all the right questions and nods at all the right moments. Viktor can hear them laughing together from where he sits, hunched over his desk, tinkering with a model.

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Jayce is not his to keep. He is free to show interest in anyone he chooses. And as much as he would like to, he cannot really hate Mel. She is perfectly pleasant and charming, and clearly extremely intelligent. She has done nothing wrong. But she has a politician's smile; smooth and calculated.

“Well, gentlemen, this all looks extremely promising,” she says. “It is your decision of course, but I assure you, the Medarda Corporation would be delighted to take you on as partners.”

And it must be unintentional, it’s an entirely reasonable term to use when proposing a business venture, but frozen in his seat, Viktor can’t help but feel as if she used that word specifically to twist the knife in his heart. Because that is what Jayce always calls him. Partner. In science. In crime. In every way but one.

“We’ll certainly be eager to discuss it,” Jayce beams. Viktor can almost see the hearts in his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Medarda.”

“Likewise, Mr Talis.”

They shake hands, lingering longer than necessary. To Viktor’s surprise, she offers the same courtesy to him, stumbling a little with his lack of surname, but making a heroic recovery with “Mr Viktor.”

“Can you believe it V?” Jayce descends on him once she has gone, his voice and manner fervent. “Someone who actually understands what Hextech can do! Someone who cares! I thought we’d be stuck with - I don’t know, fucking Salo.”

“Indeed,” Viktor’s lip curls at the thought. “Let us not - err, count our chickens, though, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Medarda seems promising -”

“She actually knew what I meant when I was talking about isomorphism. We had a whole conversation about it! It was amazing - she must have a background in science or something.”

“She has degrees in Chemistry and Political Sciences from the University of Noxus Prime.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you not know that, Jayce? Did you not research her at all before inviting her here?”

“I did!” Jayce protests. “I was just - you know, focused more on what she’s doing now, with the Medarda Corporation. Figured it was more relevant.”

“Well. As I said, she seems promising. But we should not rush into anything.”

Jayce sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We need the money, V. Soon. Can you honestly tell me that any of our other prospects are better?”

Viktor cannot. He moves away to check an equation he already knows on the whiteboard so that he doesn’t have to look at Jayce’s ecstatic face when he concedes.

Jealousy buzzes in his ears, claws at his chest, and makes it impossible to concentrate. He snipes at the lab technicians, bangs about his equipment, scribbles his notes with far more force than necessary, driving his pen right through the paper. By the end of the day, he hates himself, and is fairly sure everyone else hates him.

He misses Silco’s call again. He doesn’t want to inflict himself on him. 

---

The backing of the Medarda Corporation comes with the caveat that before the air and water filters, they must prioritise developing Hextech-powered transmission towers. It’s only natural. Their business is centered around communication technologies, although Mel says that they are gradually expanding into clean energy, hence the interest in Hextech.

Jayce tries to convince him that it isn’t so bad. That transmission towers are an important part of everyday life, that surely Zaun could do with the improvements to their infrastructure. Besides, they can still work on the filters at the same time. 

Viktor doesn’t have the heart to correct his naivete. To remind him that there are limited resources to go around, and of course the project commissioned by their financiers will take precedent. That he very much doubts that any technology sold by the Medarda Corporation will end up in Zaun. There’s nothing he can do besides pick up the pieces of this deal and make the best of it that he can. 

It is an absorbing project at least, leaving little time for him to think about anything too dangerous. It comes with a shiny new lab with better equipment and much more space (Viktor dearly misses the old, pockmarked walls, the questionable stains on the floor, the taps that didn’t function half the time, their desks squashed into a corner together). It has a more heavy focus on their shared passion, engineering, which they did not have much chance to indulge in during their initial research and refining of the crystals. But it still feels like a waste of time. His gut twists with shame, and he keeps dodging Silco’s calls, because he knows that he will be disappointed in him. 

He can bear it, he tells himself. It will only be a few months, if they’re efficient about it, and then they can get on with what really matters. And he has Jayce by his side.

Except the project keeps getting delayed for one reason or another, as if the summer heat is wearing on it just as much them. And Jayce is… 

It feels like he’s starting to slip away.

Viktor understands that they cannot just hole themselves up in the lab forever (much as he tries). They need funding, they need connections, they need other people to help them achieve their dream. He understands why Jayce needs to attend networking events, especially now that Hextech is picking up steam, and it makes perfect sense that he would be accompanied by Mel. She is their investor after all.

(They look good together in the photos, dressed in matching white and gold. Viktor tries not to think about this too much.)

But there’s so many of them. So many meetings Jayce has to go to now, so many people to impress, so many talks to give that he’s hardly in the lab at all these days. Viktor feels like he is missing a limb or a vital organ without him there. He also has to take on the bulk of his workload and delegate as best he can (Sky should be made a saint for putting up with him).

It’s fine. He’s not getting as much sleep as he ought and his spine is creaking more than it used to and he’s vaguely aware that he’s losing weight, but it’s for the greater good. He already worked odd hours and plenty of overtime. He and Jayce are both doing what they have to. For Hextech. For the future.

---

Midway through August, he and Jayce go into the Medarda Corporation's headquarters for a demonstration. Viktor wonders if this is what it will take for them to be able to spend more than an hour together in the same room. He cannot remember the last time they just hung out together. Went to a film. Ate dinner. Played a video game. When they talked about something other than work.

The demonstration, as it turns out, is more of an ambush. Waiting for them are not only members of the company, but several of Mel’s ‘business associates’ who regularly collaborate with the Medarda Corporation. They are here, apparently, to open doors to further opportunities. Viktor sees them for what they truly are: vultures, circling.

Jayce’s hands are shaking, sweat beading on his brow, though he does well to hide it. He admitted to him once that he can talk the talk and bask in the spotlight, but there’s always a vicious, anxious little voice in the back of his head insisting that at any minute, it will all come crashing down. 

Viktor places a comforting hand on his arm. “Calm yourself. You will be splendid.” I’m here. I’ll look out for you.

He is rewarded with a smile that could rival the sun for brightness. “Thanks, V.”

Despite Mel’s best attempts, the demonstration is derailed by ideas and suggestions from the vultures. Some are not unreasonable, like Hextech powered cars and trains that would leave less of an environmental footprint. Others are ridiculous, like using their crystals as a component in rejuvenating beauty products. None of them, to Viktor’s mind, are worthier causes than helping Zaun. He wants to intervene, but Jayce keeps shooting him pleading looks, let me do the talking, so Viktor shuts up. He’s not up on all the corporate jargon anyway. He barely understands what half of them are saying. 

Then someone mentions Hextech and weapons in the same sentence and Viktor’s thread of reason snaps, because all he can think of is burning skies and rubble and Silco dead, Vander dead, Vi and Mylo and Claggor and Powder dead -

“Absolutely not!” he hisses. “That is not why we invented Hextech!”

Everyone turns to look at him. Some with disdain, most apparently surprised that he actually speaks. A wave of nausea crashes over him but he forces it down.

“I thought Hextech was supposed to help us,” one of the vultures says. “Isn’t defending ourselves a worthy cause?”

“Defending ourselves from what?” Viktor asks through gritted teeth.

“I fear we have gotten off track -” Mel begins, but Viktor cuts her off with a bitter laugh.

“Ridiculous. You cannot be considering this.”

He turns to Jayce, seeking support, approval. They have always been a united front. He finds hesitance.

It shocks Viktor to his core.

Without a word, he gets to his feet and stalks out of the room. It’s slow going because of his leg, and probably doesn’t have the impact he wants it to, but he cannot stay in there a moment longer.

Halfway to the lift, Jayce catches up to him.

“Viktor! Viktor, wait!”

“Weapons, Jayce?” he spits. “Weapons? ”

“Of course not!” Jayce hurries out. “No, absolutely not, of course I don’t want to build weapons -”

“You didn’t seem that sure a minute ago.”

“No, no I was just - I was shocked - I didn’t know what to say.”

“You always know what to say. I thought that was why you went to all those parties and left me to do the actual work. Unless the premiere of Cabaret provided invaluable insight into our durability issues?”

It looks like that stung.

“They’re not serious,” Jayce says. “They don’t mean it, not really.”

Viktor laughs again. “I am not a child, Jayce.”

“Building weapons wouldn’t be profitable -”

“Oh is that the material quandary at play? Forgive me, I thought it might perhaps be an issue of human decency -”

“For them! I meant for them, not for us! I just bricked up, okay? I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”

“This conversation is over.”

He tries to move away. Jayce won’t let him.

“Look, no one wants war. It was - it was a stupid thing to say. It’s not going to happen.”

“Are you being intentionally ignorant?”

“Viktor, no one is building weapons, so please, let’s just go back in there and try and salvage -”

“You weren’t there!” Viktor cries. “You weren’t there during the revolution! I was! I fought! I saw children made orphans! I watched people I love die! So don’t you dare try and pretend you know more about war than I do, Jayce Talis, and don’t ever speak of it in terms of profit. Ever.”

Jayce doesn’t try to stop him leaving this time. Viktor shakes all the way out of the building, all the way back to his flat, stubbornly refusing to flag down a taxi. More than anything he wants to call Silco, who will understand his rage, his pain, the anguish of betrayal.

But he can’t bring himself to, not when he’s been avoiding his calls for over a month now, when it’s his own fault they’re in this mess, for not fighting his corner more. He hasn’t even texted to ask how the family are doing. He has the group chat on mute because something about receiving those notifications rubs him the wrong way.

He throws his phone across the room instead, buries his face in a pillow and screams until his throat is hoarse and his voice gives out.

---

Jayce, smartly, gives him space to cool down before apologising. Otherwise Viktor might actually have killed him.

(He wouldn’t. He knows he wouldn’t. Does that make him a coward or a better man?)

“I’m sorry, Viktor.” It’s an early morning in the lab; no one else is around yet. Jayce stands before Viktor’s desk, head bowed, hands folded, thoroughly contrite. “I know I fucked up. I don’t have any excuses. I - I don’t know what I was thinking. It was wrong. The things I said - I’m ashamed. I’m sorry.”

He does look suitably wretched, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, hair askew. Viktor knows in his heart that he has already forgiven him.

“What can I do?” Jayce asks. “How can I make it up to you?”

Leave the Medarda Corporation behind. Leave everything behind. It should just be us, the two of us, in our lab, chasing our dream.

Instead, Viktor says, “Tell Miss Medarda that we will not, under any circumstances, ever produce any weapons with Hextech. Nor will we be entertaining the idea of cars or beauty serums or any of the other ridiculous suggestions from her associates.”

“I think she already assumed that.” Jayce scratches the back of his neck. “And none of them were super keen to play ball after… yeah.”

Viktor winces, thinking of the trouble he must have caused. “I am sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry! I mean - we wouldn’t have wanted to work with any of them anyway, right?”

“Perhaps not now, but in the future…”

“In the future, we’ll be so successful, we won’t need them.” Spoken like a true Piltie, always so sure that everything will turn out well for them, because it usually does. “I was kind of glad to be honest. Some of them - they were just creepy, honestly.”

“Well. What’s done is done,” he says with a shrug, and fuck, he’s tired. His leg still feels like lead. He is paying the price for his dramatic storm-out.

“And I’m sorry I haven’t been here,” Jayce says. “I’ve left you to deal with everything and I haven’t even thanked you.”

“You have been busy -”

“No Viktor, I’ve been an asshole. Let me apologise to you.”

“... fine.”

“I’ll stop going to so many meetings,” he continues, determined. “I’m gonna come back and do my job. Here, let me finish that, you look dead on your feet. Why don’t you take the day off -” 

“No!” Viktor says quickly. He doesn’t intend for it to come out so sharp. Not with anger, but with fear. Don’t send me away, away from you, from my work, as if I’m useless, don’t send me back to my flat with only my thoughts for company.

“Fuck. Sorry. Being an asshole again,” Jayce sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that, V. Obviously it’s your choice. I just - I just meant because you’ve already been working so hard, you deserve a break. But whatever you want.”

All Viktor wants is his partner back in the lab with him. He tries for a smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I am fine. I… eh, I should apologise as well. I fear I took a lot of anger out on you that you did not necessarily deserve.”

“I deserved it. You’re all good.” Jayce’s expression changes. “I didn’t know you were involved in the revolution.”

Oh Jayce. My family practically was the revolution. In the Lanes, anyway.

“I was.”

“But you must have been a child.” He says it as if it is something unfathomable. “Like - fourteen? Fifteen? When it ended?”

“Yes. As you can imagine, it is not something I am fond of talking about.”

“No, of course not, it’s just -” Jayce frowns, as if worried he will say the wrong thing. “I’m sorry. That that happened to you.”

“Do not be. You are not to blame. You were a child too, remember?”

They were all of them too young, really. Can you ever be old enough to die?

---

Autumn wears summer down. The days get shorter and shorter. Viktor arrives at work in the dark and leaves in the dark. He is starting to forget what sunlight looks like.

Jayce is there much more often now, especially since they have entered the construction phase. Things are easier between them, and yet still not as they were before. Some insurmountable obstacle has arisen, keeping them at a distance. Viktor isn’t quite sure what it is, but it cuts deep, a knife to the gut.

To distract himself, he buries himself in work. He won’t feel so crushingly alone with schematics and equations and reports for company. 

His leg hurts. His back hurts. Everything hurts, all the time. He pops pills as if they are boiled sweets. Drinks water, usually only when prompted. Eats sometimes. Breathes. Blinks. Tries to hold his body together. Sometimes he catches himself staring off into the distance, a wall or a window, unaware of how much time he has lost.

He doesn’t call Silco. He cannot. He won’t let himself. The monster that sits in his chest, nestled beneath his ribcage, jealously guarding his heart, made of darkness and broken promises, whispers to him you’ll just get hurt in the end, both of you. You don’t need to speak to him. They don’t need you. What are you thinking, selfish child? Keep to yourself. Don’t cause trouble.

Viktor contemplates jumping off a roof. Only idly. In passing. But he does.

---

What is Viktor actually doing with his life?

It’s something he’s found himself questioning a lot recently. During long, lonely hours in the lab. At night, when he’s lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. In the supermarket, when he actually remembers to go and buy food.

He had such dreams. He was going to change the world. He was going to give air and water to the people of Zaun, find a way to stop waste and pollution. With Hextech, he thought he had found a means of achieving this, but four years later and they have precious little to show for it. All he has is a degree, a piece of paper informing the reader that he spent three years of his life learning all there is to know about Environmental Engineering.

He has not helped people. He has not left a mark. He works long hours to achieve a goal that he has lost sight of. He is still renting and doesn’t have a credit card. Should he be trying to get on the property ladder? Should he be meeting new people, seeking romance, starting a family of his own? He has met his soulmate, but his feelings are unreciprocated, and even their friendship, which he holds just as dear, is starting to ebb.

What is left of him? He has no hobbies. He used to read and play games and tinker with gadgets, but now those activities seem to hold no appeal, and his life is consumed by work, work, work. He is a Zaunite, but he left his home behind. He has a family who he never sees, who he is too cowardly to speak to. 

What does he have to offer the world? Viktor doesn’t know any more, and it scares him.

And he keeps thinking about that day. Years ago. The day Zaun won its independence, for a terrible price.

It could have been worse. It could have been far worse. It’s what he tries to tell himself. It was only words. But it felt like a great deal more at the time.

So many people were lost. Felicia and Connol, his aunt and uncle in all but blood, had died, leaving Vi and Powder orphans. And it had been a breaking point for Vander and Silco, who already did not see eye to eye on the revolution, their conflicting ideologies a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. It was an argument that nearly shook the foundations of Zaun. It almost came to blows.

Viktor is the reason it did not.

He had never been more terrified in his life, stepping between them in that moment, both feral and bruised and broken and bleeding, two wild animals filled with the writhing, seething, sharp-toothed need to hurt . He had seen Vander lurching forward, face contorted in a snarl, his arm rising. 

Viktor had yelled for them to stop. It was as if the two of them had broken out of a trance, having not realised he was there. To this day, he doesn’t know if Vander was going to hit Silco or if he was simply making a heated gesture. Perhaps that is worse. The not-knowing.

He dreams of it, for the first time in years. He watches Vander and Silco kill each other and wakes in a cold sweat, tangled in sheets.

The undeniable truth is that they only stayed together and worked things out because Viktor ordered it. Because Vi and Powder - and later, Mylo and Claggor, two more orphans of the fight - needed a home. Because he was fourteen, and although he did his best to comfort his siblings, he had no idea what he was doing and he needed them to sort their shit out.

In the end, it made them stronger. It took a lot of time, a lot of work, a lot of conversations Viktor was not privy to. Obviously, his fathers have made their peace now. But for a while, he wasn’t sure that they would or could. To this day, Viktor still catches himself watching tensions and disagreements, be it in his family home or in a lab or a social setting, and mapping them in his head, taking steps to de-escalate, always wary of the worst-case scenario. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t like being around lots of people.

Perhaps he will spend his entire life standing between two opposing forces, trying to act as the tether between them, holding the fragile threads of peace in his hand. Silco and Vander. Piltover and Zaun. Dreams and reality.

---

There are flowers on Viktor’s desk. Sweet peas, in delicate purple. He doesn’t actually notice them until Sky points them out to him. His vision is blurry, eyes dry from staring at the screen too long. When was the last time he slept? How long have they been there? Did someone put them there without him noticing?

Sky is looking at him expectantly. Did she ask him a question?

“Pardon?” he says.

“I said, you must have a secret admirer.”

“Oh.” He stares at the flowers. They stare back at him. He is so empty inside he cannot conjure even faint admiration for them. He blinks, then turns back to his laptop. More tedious emails. More blueprints. More enquiries. More forms to fill out.

Jayce is being suspiciously nice to him. He makes him coffee every morning with the tooth-rotting amount of milk and sugar that Viktor prefers, an old habit that he fell out of as he was becoming sucked into Mel’s world. He takes his lunch breaks with him. Walks him home. Compliments his work. Rubs his shoulders when they’re stiff. Viktor is almost waiting for the other shoe to drop. What’s the catch here? Vaguely, he remembers that he used to do things like that for Jayce as well. When did he stop?

He also keeps making suggestions for times they could hang out together, like they used to. Ironically, it is now Viktor who is shying away, making excuses. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He just… can’t. He has too much work to do. The monster won’t let him. Talking drains him now, far more than it used to; he has to force the words out of his mouth. There’s no point because he’s just going to end up alone anyway. 

He is tired. It is such a little word, such an insufficient one to describe how he really feels. But it would take too long to say that he is drowning on dry land, watching his body drag itself through the day, a husk of his former self. The kind of tiredness that doesn’t go away with a good night’s sleep, that comes from somewhere far deeper, etched into his bones, stealing breath from his lungs. Time has started to blur into one great mass. He’s not even sure what day of the week it is. It doesn’t really matter, because whatever it is, he’s going into the lab regardless. 

He tries not to let anyone know this of course, does his best to keep up a facade of fine-ness. He can’t have anyone questioning his integrity, his performance, his right to be here. So when Jayce comes in and asks him if he likes the flowers, Viktor plays along, as if he knows exactly what’s going on here.

“Mm. Quite lovely,” he says. “They match the bags under my eyes. Very thoughtful.”

Jayce snorts. He looks terribly pleased; Viktor can’t imagine why. Maybe he’s just been with Mel. 

The day passes by much like any other. He goes through the motions of soldering and scribbling, running over protocols with Sky. At some point it must come to an end because the sun is beginning to wilt and Jayce is ushering him out of the building, insisting that he go and eat something. Viktor doesn’t have it in him to protest.

The food is fine. It’s a noodle dish of some kind with sticky sauce, unceremoniously shoved into cardboard boxes, which turns to bland mush in Viktor’s mouth. He misses Zaunish food and its eye-watering spice levels, to the point where it feels like there’s a hole in his chest as he eats. They are sitting on a bench in a park, watching the sky paint itself red. They used to come here a lot, in the early days, but Viktor can’t remember the last time he visited. He tries not to think about it, to focus on chewing, on the warmth of Jayce’s side, pressed against his.

“Are you okay, Viktor?”

He starts at the question, but tries to play it off. “Of course.”

“You don’t… look okay.”

Viktor almost misses how oblivious Jayce was for the past few months. “Just a little tired. There has been much for us to do.”

“I -” Jayce hesitates. “It just feels like you’ve been avoiding me lately. And I wasn’t sure if it was something I did, or if you were…” He looks so sad, and Viktor hates himself for being the cause of such strife.

“It was not my intention to avoid you,” he lies. “As I said, there has been much for us to do, and my focus has been elsewhere. But I am sorry if I have been neglectful.”

“No, no it’s fine, it’s just - I miss you, y’know?”

Viktor looks at him flatly. “Jayce, we see each other every day. We work together. We are partners.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not…” Jayce lets out a slightly impatient huff. “Don’t act obtuse. I know you’re smarter than that.”

Viktor very occasionally wishes that he wasn’t. “Our priority at the moment must be finishing the tower by the agreed deadline. After that, there will be more time for… diversions.”

“Are you sure -”

“Why do you persist in asking me the same questions when you know you will get the same answers?”

“Because I’m worried about you!” Jayce bursts out. “Because I want to take care of you, okay? Is that really so hard to believe?” 

No one wants to take care of Viktor. It’s rotten work.

“Well it’s true. You’re important to me.”

Jayce is looking at him very intently. Viktor doesn’t quite know what to say to that. “I… thank you?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Viktor.” Jayce turns to face him properly. “You are the most important person in my life. And I just - I want to be with you all the time, and make you laugh, and see you smile and study that beautiful brain of yours - and I guess what I’m trying to say - what I’ve been trying to say for weeks - really I should have said it a long time ago - I -” He takes a deep breath, cups Viktor’s face in his huge, rough hands. “I love you.”

The air is knocked out of his lungs. He looks into Jayce’s eyes, golden and wide and hopeful. The silence between them is potent.

“... could you elaborate on that statement?” Viktor croaks.

Jayce huffs again, incredulous. “How much clearer can I possibly be?”

“Jayce. Explain.” He grips the handle of his cane so tightly that his knuckles are white. 

“I’ve been in love with you for - much longer than I realised, actually, because you were so important to me and I didn’t want to fuck up what we had, didn’t want to lose you, so I would shove the feelings down and try to convince myself that this was just how friends thought about each other. Which in hindsight is absolutely insane because friends do not fantasise about kissing their friends’ moles -”

“Jayce.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Look, you’re - my person. You’re it for me. There’s no one like you.”

And suddenly Viktor is thrown back to another night, over a year ago now. They’d had a major breakthrough with the crystals, finally solving an underlying issue that had plagued them for weeks, and Jayce had insisted they drink copious amounts of alcohol to celebrate and ‘take the edge off’.

Vktor had made token protests, but hadn’t really needed all that much persuading to go along with it. Drunk Jayce is, quite frankly, so adorable that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He gets red and giggly, cries over objects that are too small, stops to tell complete strangers, starry-eyed, that they are wonderful and will achieve great things. Once, he went back to his flat and designed an entire aeroplane, which he had no memory of the next day. Another time, he got adopted by a hen party, happily accompanied them in ear-bleeding renditions of Dolly Parton and offered them all out-of-pocket, yet extremely respectful compliments such as “You look like you know how to correctly solder a circuit board.”

The material point being, they had gone out and gotten very heavily intoxicated. Or rather, Jayce had. Viktor has God-tier alcohol tolerance and Piltovan liquor is for babies. And at the end of the night, he was gently nudging Jayce in the direction of his flat so that he could get him to lie down and drink water. It was a little like wrangling a very affectionate puppy.

“Come on,” he had coaxed him. “Just a little further. You are doing very well.”

All of a sudden, Jayce had thrown himself at him, hugging him close. Viktor’s brain had short-circuited.

“You’re so nice to me,” Jayce had mumbled.

His knees were weak, his cheeks aflame. “Mm, yes. I feel the need to point out that you are significantly heavier than me and I am not the most stable of leaning posts.”

“Always so nice,” Jayce had sighed, happily oblivious. “Your hair smells really good.”

“Thank you. I wash it with axle grease when I remember. Ancient Zaunish secret. You may have that one for free.”

Jayce laughs. “You’re funny.” Then, “You saved me.”

“... I do not follow.”

“You saved me V,” Jayce has said more insistently. “I wouldn’t be here today without you. None of this would be happening.”

They never talk about Jayce’s attempt, and Viktor isn’t about to start now. He plays dumb. “You mean the excessive drinking, or…?”

“Hextech. The money. Us. Therapy, sorting my shit out. My whole life. ‘S all because of you.”

“Jayce, you were the one who was doing the research in the first -”

“You stopped me throwing it all away. I owe you so much. I owe you everything.”

“You don’t,” Viktor had tried. “There is no debt, Jayce. Anyone else would have -”

“Not anyone else. You, Viktor. No one like you.” And Jayce had smiled dopily. “You’re my reason. To keep going.”

Viktor had frozen up. He’s drunk, he had tried to tell himself. He does not know what he is saying. He doesn’t mean it. But the door was opened and he couldn’t close it again. Had Jayce become his friend because he had saved his life? Was his inclusion in Hextech purely out of obligation? A sense of hero-worship, or repayment? Jayce’s research had been everything to him, so much so that he had tried to kill himself when it was taken away. He is, by nature, intense. Obsessive. Had Viktor started to fulfill the function that Hextech once had?

It had sounded far too preposterous, too big-headed, and he had forced himself to stamp the doubts down. But now, as he stares at Jayce, it all comes rushing back to the surface, and Viktor has no idea what to do.

What is wrong with him? The man he loves just confessed to him. Any normal person would be beside themselves with joy. But even in his wildest dreams, Viktor has never actually considered what he would do if his feelings were reciprocated. He had been resigned to forever harbouring this secret. Now, everything is cracked open, bleeding, and the weight of the adoration in Jayce’s gaze is, inexplicably, terrifying.

Does he kiss him? Do they fuck? Do they walk off into the sunset? Do they live happily ever after? Or will they crumble beneath the weight of codependency? If Viktor is unable to successfully fulfill the role of reason to keep going, the thing standing between Jayce and another attempt, what will happen then?

He can’t do this to Jayce. He can’t risk it. 

Perhaps he should say all of this. Perhaps he should tell him he loves him like breathing. Perhaps he should say ‘let’s talk about this’.

Viktor does not. Instead, he flees.

---

Jayce got me those flowers, he realises absently, hours and hours later. He doesn’t remember getting home. Only has a vague recollection of collapsing onto his bed, lungs revolting against his exertions. He hasn’t stirred an inch since, even though his leg is cramping and his mouth is dust-dry.

Viktor fucked up. He knows he’s fucked up. He abandoned Jayce right after he confessed his love to him, after he said he’s loved him for years, and didn't even have the decency to say anything. He’s broken his heart. Lost his chance. He hurt Jayce. That is an unforgivable offence.

Perhaps he is just too broken to be capable of love.

He hasn’t turned any lights on, so now he sits and stares into the darkness, eyes straining. It twists and swims with static. There is nothing there. Absolutely nothing. That's what he is. He is all alone and he will always be alone and when he is gone, no one will remember him.

Viktor feels very small and very scared and all he wants is for someone to hold him. 

Jayce, is his first thought, his first longing. No. Not now. Jayce must hate him, want nothing more to do with him, and it is all Viktor’s fault and his heart feels as if it is being physically wrent in two. He can’t ask that of him.

He mentally scrolls through the very short list of Piltover-based contacts in his phone. He can’t call Sky. Certainly not Heimerdinger, or Ximena Talis.

No, he realises, all he really wants right now is Silco. His papa. His home.

With too much effort, he picks up his phone, squinting at the brightness of the screen. It’s 1:30am. He cannot call him, cannot disturb his rest, not when he’s been avoiding him for so long. Unforgivable. Viktor can endure. He has endured worse.

So even though he wants to, more than anything, he drops the phone, presses his face into the pillow, wills himself to sleep. Every sound, every rustle of the wind, every hoot of a bird, bores into his skull. The darkness itself seems too bright. The blanket is suffocating him; he throws it off.

He draws his good knee up to his chest, hunched over, a tightly coiled spring. A rusted, broken one that cannot bounce back. He wants to disappear, and maybe, if he makes himself as small and still and quiet as possible, it will happen.

The minutes tick by. His leg is still seized with cramps. One by one, his muscles lock up. There is pressure building and building in his head, his chest oddly tight. When did he start having trouble breathing? When did his hands start shaking? When had he started holding his stomach so taut that any attempt to relax had his insides screaming? He is shivering and boiling at the same time, armpits tacky with sweat. 

Deliriously, he thinks he can smell bleach and eucalyptus oil. The smell of sickness. He is eight years old again, in the hospital with pneumonia, Silco rubbing his back as he hacks up what feels like half his insides. He is an old, wizened man, kept alive by machines, all alone in a big, blank room. No one comes, even when he calls. He has been forgotten. His equipment, his notebooks, they have all been taken away. He has no name. Sounds echo endlessly, building and building, folding in on themselves, and there is no rest, only ceaseless survival . The world no longer exists.

He looks down. Realises he has been scratching at himself with his nails, scoring bloody lines on his arm. His stomach drops. No. No, no, no, no, this is a bad path, one he’s seen before and it never ends well.

Before he can stop himself, he picks up the phone. Every ring seems to last for eternity. Please, he thinks, be there, pick up, don’t be dead, don’t be gone…

“Viktor?” 

His heart jumps. Silco’s voice is muffled, sleep-thick, but oh so achingly familiar. He had not realised until now just how much he missed it.

“You do realise it is two o’clock in the morning?”

He tries to speak but no words come out. The guilt, perhaps, has stolen them.

“Has something happened?”

“Papa,” he finally whispers. “Papa. Papa.” And then all of a sudden he is bawling his eyes out, horrible, heaving gasps and sobs torn from his throat, wracking his thin frame, and distantly he is embarrassed, but he cannot seem to make himself stop.

---

Viktor hasn’t taken his calls in almost four months now.

He is busy. Silco is fully aware of this. His genius is in high demand, as he always knew it would be. He is an adult, with his own life away from home, with a job doing what he has always wanted, with cutting-edge resources at the tips of his fingers (Silco had had to find out second-hand through a newspaper that the Medarda Corporation had started sponsoring Hextech; he can’t help but be wary). It makes sense that Viktor would start to pull away, become more distant. He has relationships of his own to sustain, better things to do with his time.

He understands. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean that there isn’t a nagging in the back of his mind, insisting that something is wrong, no matter how many times Vander tries to assure him. (Viktor used to let him know when he was too busy, he used to at least text him if not call, and now he never hears from him at all -)

You would have thought Silco himself would be too preoccupied to worry. He’s got a husband to boss around, a pub to co-run, four chaotic gremlins who enjoy making innocent, unsuspecting objects explode to raise. The rebuilding efforts in Zaun are still ongoing, over ten years after they gained their independence, requiring much of his attention. 

But Viktor is his baby. The phrasing makes him gag slightly, but it’s the undeniable truth. His love for his eldest son is a howling, storming, all-consuming thing that has sustained him through the worst times of his life. His sweet, brilliant starling, devoted to his studies, never happier than when he was fixing some gadget or other at Benzo’s or when Vander let him examine the Last Drop’s plumbing. He never once complained throughout all his childhood illnesses, the problems with his leg, the appointments, the surgeries. How many sleepless nights had Silco held him as he coughed his little heart out, sticky with fever, so small and fragile and breakable in his arms?

When he came into their lives, the nation of Zaun was no longer a dream, but a necessity. Viktor needed a better life, cleaner air, enough food to eat, opportunities to prove himself. Silco would do anything to ensure he had that. And later, he was light, warmth, a reason not to fall apart.

So he cannot help but worry. Viktor isn’t fragile, and he and his cane (a very effective weapon as well as a mobility aid) will tell you that loud and clear. But a part of him will always be that sickly, starving child who needed all the love, care and protection he and Vander could offer.

And when he gets the call at two o’clock in the morning, that worry becomes pure, primal fear.

“Shit.” He scrambles to get out of bed, groping for his clothes. “Ssh, ssh, it’s okay Vitya, it’s okay, you’re okay. Shit. Fuck.”

“Sil?” Vander is stirring, hair falling over his face. It’s getting long enough to braid; Vi says he looks like a Viking. “Wha’ time issit?”

“It’s Viktor.” He is yanking on underwear, socks, trousers as fast as he can, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Is he in the hospital? Is he trapped somewhere? Has someone hurt him? If they have, they had better start counting their last precious days on this earth.

“What?” Vander bolts upright, wide awake. “Is he okay? Is he hurt? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps. Fear makes him short-tempered. He tries and fails to calm himself. “Viktor? Viktor, are you injured?”

“I cannot -”

Viktor cuts himself off with a howling sob. Silco can feel the pain, physically, in his chest.

“Where are you?” he demands. “Are you at your flat?”

Viktor makes an affirmative sound.

“Alright.” He’s trying to think, to plan, but his mind is in too much of a frenzy. “Alright, hold on starling. I’m coming.”

He hurries downstairs, hardly aware of his own actions as he toes on shoes, grabs the car keys. Viktor keeps making the most devastating little noises that cut right through to his heart and he periodically shushes him, murmuring it’s alright, it’s alright, don’t cry Vitya, please.

Vander appears as he’s opening the front door.

“I’m going to Piltover,” Silco says, as if it wasn’t obvious. He is breathing too hard. He looks at Vander, wild-eyed, as if to say try and stop me.

“I know,” Vander says evenly, his face grim. “Don’t forget this.” He holds out Silco’s overnight bag, always kept packed with essentials in case of emergencies: toiletries, water, a change of clothes. His passport too, which he’ll need to cross the border between Piltover and Zaun. Ah. Yes. That would be useful wouldn’t it?

“... thank you,” he murmurs, the storm in his mind dying down temporarily as he takes it from him. A shaky breath escapes his lips. Vander must notice, because strong arms fold around him in a comforting embrace. For a moment, Silco lets himself be weak as he buries his face in Vander’s chest, inhales the smell of malt and sweat and aftershave.

“Don’t worry about us,” Vander tells him, lips brushing against his forehead. “We’ll be fine. Go look after Vik.”

Silco steels himself and pulls back. They share a nod, a kiss for the road. And then he’s in the car, driving through the Lanes like his life depends on it, following the breadcrumb trail of streetlights sizzling in the darkness. Half of them still don’t work properly.

“Vitya?” he asks urgently, switching his phone to speaker. “Are you still there?”

A few seconds that feel like an eternity. Then a trembling “ Yes .”

“Good. Stay on the line with me. Listen to my voice, focus on that. Talk if you can.” Unlike Powder, who, when she cannot articulate herself, spills forth in a torrent of raw emotion, when Viktor is overwhelmed, he clams up completely. “Or tap. Just make some sort of noise so I know you’re with me.”

“Okay.”

The drive to Piltover takes much too long. Viktor has long since fallen silent by the time he reaches the border, but the line is still open and Silco can still hear him breathing. He hopes that he is only asleep, having exhausted himself with his crying. Dreads to think of what the alternative might be. He still doesn’t know exactly what has transpired, Viktor being in no fit state to explain it to him.

He almost comes to blows with the police at the border, who scrutinise his photograph and ask too many questions about where he is going at half past five in the morning. He is only able to restrain himself by repeating in his head over and over you can’t help Viktor if you get arrested, you can’t help Viktor if you get arrested, you can’t help Viktor if you get arrested.

In the end, one of them, perhaps a parent herself, seems to be swayed by his pleas that his son is sick, and his red, swollen eyes (he has been silently weeping, gripping the steering wheel so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t left marks). They let him through. Silco wants to scream. Instead, he thanks them and charitably doesn’t break the wrist of the officer who hands his passport back.

It takes another endless hour to reach the city where Viktor lives, and fifteen frantic minutes of trying to park the car and locate the front of his building complex. There is a fancy revolving door, a chrysalis of polished glass and steel. The other occupants of the building shrink away from him, as if he is not good enough to be in there with them. 

Eventually, he finds Viktor’s flat (2B, on the ground floor), knocking and pressing the doorbell in turn. The call is still ongoing. He can hear the sounds echoed back at him.

“Viktor?” he says. “I’m here. It’s me. Are you able to answer the door?”

A crackle, a wheeze, and then a croak of “... coming.”

The call ends. Well. If he can come to the door then he can’t be too grievously injured, right? Famous last words, Silco thinks. His heart races as he shifts from side to side, rolling his neck to relieve the stiffness from hours of non-stop driving. 

There is a clicking sound. The door opens. And Silco’s heart shatters.

Viktor stands there, white and shivering, leaning heavily on his cane. There are stark, violet shadows under his eyes, his face gaunt, his brow creased. His hair is matted and clearly hasn’t been washed in weeks; neither has the rest of him, judging from the smell. He doesn’t look as if he’s been eating. Or sleeping. He barely looks alive, staring at him with hollow eyes, as if he isn’t quite sure what’s going on.

With a sickening jolt, Silco realises that there is blood on his arms. Viktor’s hands are stained red. Perhaps from trying to staunch the cuts (apply pressure, keep the wound elevated, clean it, just like Silco and Vander taught him). Or perhaps from inflicting them. Maybe both.

“Papa.”

Viktor pitches forward. Silco catches him. He can feel every bone in his body as he holds him, the skin stretched thinly over their sharp edges. Viktor clings to him, shaking like a leaf.

“Papa,” he whispers again.

“I’ve got you.” Silco winds his arms around him even tighter, taking as much of his weight as he can. He never wants to let him go again. “I’m here, Vitya. Everything’s going to be alright.”