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Never before had you seen eyes like his- golden; orange, like the sun had left a piece of itself in his iris.
Brown wasn’t quite the right word to describe them, but it was the word that he used and you’d never be able to convince him otherwise.
He would often use words you didn’t understand. Whenever you begged him to translate he would turn his head away with a dramatic sigh. He would say that English was simply too callous to ever truly capture what he was saying and the corner of his mouth would twitch into a smirk as you pouted. You would plead and he would chuckle, never letting up.
Sometimes, in tender moments when you asked him, he would press your forehead to his and tell you that some of his feelings had no equivalent in english. He had to express them in his mother tongue, or his heart would break from not telling you at all. Then he’d kiss your cheeks and call you a word you didn’t know the meaning of.
You didn’t fully believe him, of course. Sometimes you felt like he just wanted to keep a secret from you- to be able to speak his mind to your face without consequence or any understanding from you. That was fine, you could allow him that. It was a kindness you could afford.
Now, you wished you had fought harder to understand him. Maybe you would have been able to prevent the catastrophe he brought upon Zaun and Piltover, maybe you would have been able to see the signs and quash it early. Maybe if he wasn’t so damn stubborn you could have loved him to death before he could bring war to your doorstep.
Maybe, or maybe not.
You would never know and time would march on without waiting for you to catch up. Grief was a strange thing, months passed in a blink and some days seemed to stretch on and on, each minute seeming to drag you once more through every stage of mourning.
Enough time had passed by when one day you had finally found the strength to clean out the drawer designated to him in your apartment, months after his death to the Arcane. Miraculously, throughout the violence your apartment remained untouched. Perhaps he retained enough of himself to grant you that mercy. Although, as you sorted through his drawer and found a folded note addressed to you in his familiar scribe, your chest squeezed painfully with grief and you wondered if mercy was the right word.
You abandoned your previous task of cleaning out the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, your jaw clenching painfully as you tried not to let the last few months of his life taint your memory of him.
The Viktor that history would remember was not your Viktor.
The mantra served little comfort and you opened the note with trembling fingers, unsure of what you would find within. When you caught a glimpse at the contents you had to turn your face away and bite down on your knuckles, taking deep breaths to calm the hot tears welling in your eyes.
Inside was a list of every affectionate Czech term he ever called you, along with a small description beside each one explaining what it meant in plain, callous english.
You had to take a minute to compose yourself before you felt strong enough to read. Your eyes flicked down the list, each word bringing back memories by the handful.
Drahá , Dear/Dearie or ‘Dear to me’
He would always call you this in the mornings. His accent would be tinted with affection as he rolled onto his side to face you in the early morning. He always woke up before you, choosing to stay in the warmth beside you until you stirred. At least a few moments, enough for you to wake and smile at him before he got dressed and left for the lab. If you were lucky he would stay in bed beside you for an hour longer, just laying together.
Sometimes the morning sun would hit his eyes in a way that would bounce bronze and gold hues inside his iris, lighting up his pale skin and dancing in the brown waves of his hair. You loved when they did that.
“Your eyes are golden, Viktor.”
“They are brown. Nothing special, Drahá.”
Nothing special. How he could stand to call himself that, you had no clue. Viktor was a catalyst. He was the most special person you had ever known. You had never met someone like him before and would never meet someone like him again in your life- which perhaps was a blessing.
“Your eyes, however. I do not have words to describe.”
Through morning breath and sleep blurred eyes, you managed a closed lipped smile.
“A rare thing it is to see you speechless, Viktor.”
He fixed you with that gorgeous gaze, his lips pulled lazily into a semblance of a smile. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck and you moved obediently as he pulled you to him, pressing your forehead against his and resting his hand on the nape of your neck, fingers tenderly curling in strands of your hair.
“I cannot speak it in a way you will understand. Zbožňuji tě.”
Zbožňuji tě, I adore you.
His words echoed in your ears as you read the translation, seeing memories through new eyes as the note explained away all the little mysteries he left hanging in the space between you.
In his absence, his love still haunted you.
His eyes were in every golden sunbeam that shone through your curtains in the morning, the phantom touch of his hands lingering on the soft curve of your hips as you lay on your side, turned towards the wall and away from the empty half of the mattress where he used to lie. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you swore you heard the clink of his cane leaning to rest against the nightstand, imagining the subtle shift in the mattress as he lowered himself carefully in bed beside you.
You ran your fingertip over the loops of his handwriting, murmuring those familiar foreign words to yourself, trying to imitate the way he used to say them. It felt so odd seeing them written down instead of spoken tenderly against your skin and it felt even stranger trying to say them.
Viktor was correct as usual. The words were too rough, too callous on your tongue, you were unable to make them sound the same way they did when he was murmuring those sweet endearments into your ear.
Even with the meanings written in front of you, you felt like you would never be able to truly be able to understand what he was trying to convey in those tender moments.
You missed every little piece of him.
You craved him.
Your eyes travelled down the list, a flush rising to your cheeks while you remembered each quote and the times they were said, the ignorance in the way you would pout and beg him to tell you what he was saying.
It made more sense now.
You would give anything to be able to relive those memories with your new understanding of what it meant.
Mám tě rád , I am fond of you.
Přitahuješ mě, I am attracted to you.
Your breath hitched as you read on, clumsily reading each phrase off aloud, trying to remember the times Viktor had said it to you. You froze for a second as you recognised the next one.
Chci tě, I want you.
It felt odd to see it written when you had only ever heard it between soft moans and ragged breath. Each time you were too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours to pester him about what it meant and besides, you could guess his intention pretty easily.
The next phrase made you suck in a sharp breath as you relived the memory of the last time he had said it to you.
“Bavíš se?” Are you having fun?
Said with a cocked brow and a tilted head while he carded his fingers through your hair, holding it tenderly away from your face while you hollowed your cheeks around his cock. Your eyebrows furrowed at the tease in his voice and you whined around his length, making his eyes roll back and his head fall against the headboard with a dull thud.
A shaky breath spilled from his lips and he smoothed your hair away from your face, rubbing his thumb lovingly along the crease between your brows.
“Very good, my love.”
You remembered this day vividly, it was one of his bad pain days where his brace rubbed against his skin and caused him blisters but he could not afford to take it off and lose mobility and support.
You just wanted to make him feel good. If you were just a distraction, then so be it.
He propped himself up against the headboard, holding his hand up while he waited for his spine to settle against the support. You propped a pillow behind his lower back and brushed your lips against his cheek, drawing a smile from his tired face.
Small victories.
Even while he deteriorated, you created moments of peace and passion for the two of you. You would have done it until he slipped easily into the afterlife, if he had let you. You would have loved him till death, if he had stopped fighting it.
You tore your eyes away from that phrase, trying to rip away from the bitterness you felt reminiscing about the last few months Viktor was truly yours. What was the next phrase?
“Nemůžu z tebe spustit oči,” I can’t take my eyes off you.
Oh.
Oh.
This one was whispered reverently against the plush flesh of your inner thigh. You were sat on the edge of his desk, legs spread and blouse unbuttoned to expose yourself to him. His teeth had ripped through the crotch of your sheer tights impatiently when you first hopped onto his desktop and now he rested his cheek against your leg, one hand slipped under your blouse to rub sweet circles into your ribs while his other hand pumped two fingers languidly into you, curling with each thrust to rub against that sweet spot on your inner walls.
Your eyes were half lidded, chest heaving with uneven breaths as you tried to maintain eye contact with him, wanting to burn the way he was looking at you into your retinas forever. The way the dim light bounced off his cheekbones and danced in the amber of his eyes was something holy. You had already fallen to small death on his fingers twice and each time he slowed your heartbeat and brought you back with his honeyed eyes, holding you fast to him with quiet murmurs of your name.
He took his time touching you, dragging his fingers through the sweet warmth of your cunt with a purposeful slowness. Each moan he dragged from your lips was rewarded with a sweet kiss to your skin, sometimes paired with a gentle drag of his teeth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh.
“Jsi krásná, my love.” He praised.
Jsi krásná, You’re beautiful.
It was times like these that you’d let out a desperate whine, begging him to tell you in a language you understood. He would tut and shake his head, quieting you with a harsh curl of his fingers into your g-spot, a lazy smirk on his lips.
“No, I do not think so. You will know one day, Miláčku.”
Your eyes searched the page for that word, your brow furrowing as you remembered all the times he said it.
He would call you that when you irritated him. The word would be hissed through tense lips while he pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. It would be said in arguments when you refused to give in, or on late nights when he begged you for just another hour in the lab.
“Miláčku. Just a little while longer and I will go to bed.”
You had a sneaking suspicion that it was an insult or something akin to ‘brat’ or ‘childish’. If not said exasperatedly then it was said with an overly sweet croon, a mocking tone you didn’t quite know how to respond to.
In the days before the pain travelled from his leg to his back he would hiss it into your ear, petting your hair while he thrust into you, one knee propped up onto the bed to provide leverage and alleviate the pressure on his bad leg.
“What is the matter? Too much for you, Miláčku? Hm?”
Viktor was a thorough lover. He took the time to learn your body and how you liked to be touched. You always fell apart at least twice on his fingers or his tongue before he guided your hips to his, if he did at all. He was very much content just to please you with nothing in return, despite your protests that it was unfair if he didn’t get to chase his own high.
This mindset became your downfall many a night, when he would delight in building you up and pushing you off the precipice time and time again until you were trembling, sensitive to his slightest move and breath.
Then he would sink slowly into you, his golden eyes fixed to your face as he watched you twist in pleasure, a satisfied smile on his lips while he eased each inch into you.
Before his condition worsened, he would tug you into whatever position he pleased, shuffling his bad knee into a soft spot in the mattress and finding a firm grip on your hips before rocking deep into you, angling your pelvis so with each entry he was pulling you flush against him. His favourite was to have you on your back, one leg draped around his hips while the other was slung over his shoulder, letting him press kisses to the inside of your thigh.
His thumb would press firmly against your clit and your hips would jerk upwards, making him chuckle and tut gently.
“Miláčku, be good for me.”
Your eyes raked the page until you found what you were looking for.
Miláčku, My darling.
He was calling you his darling.
You couldn’t help it, hot tears burned trails down your cheeks and you had to put the page down, terrified you’d rip it between your shaking hands. Then the last trace of Viktor’s softness would be gone.
Was it cruel of him to leave it there for you to find? How long had that note laid there in his drawer, waiting for you to unfold it?
When did he write it?
Was it in the early days of your relationship, when his cane had yet to become a crutch and the two of you had just moved into the apartment?
Was it one of your anniversaries? Perhaps it was a sweet gift he had forgotten to lay out on the nightstand for you, or maybe he had thought against it at the last second and opted instead to keep the mystery between you- leave you wondering about what he whispered into your ears in tender moments.
Was it when he left your apartment for good, having to spend nights in the Academy infirmary to monitor his condition?
Was it after the big fight you had? The one where you screamed and raged at him for spending his last months hunched over a desk bent over work like nothing had changed, like he wasn’t a dying man with a hundred more things to do and see before his body gave out on him.
You bit into your knuckles, muffling the animalistic sob that threatened to crawl from your throat, digging its claws into your esophagus, begging to spill over. How fucking dare he.
Wasn’t it enough that you had to feel his ghost beside you in bed? Was it not enough that you had to live on, waking up every day in your ground level apartment, drinking coffee alone at a table made for two, stepping through the extra wide door frames that attracted you to the apartment in the first place, with the belief that you and Viktor would grow old and bent together, that you would wheel him from the bedroom to the bathroom and the living room and watch birds on the porch outside, hands spotted with age and wrinkled with time.
Was he not satisfied by the cruel grief inflicted on you every time you had to sift past his stupid coffee mugs in the cupboard in order to get to yours, did he really have to add this to your shoulders when the entire city already saw him as a monster, not worth grieving?
Was it not cruel enough to make you love him and watch him destroy himself?
Tears spilled over your waterline despite your best efforts to quell them and you slammed your fist into the bed, the covers wrinkling under your force. Unsatisfied with the impact, you swing your fist into the wall behind the bed frame instead, crying out in pain and frustration when your knuckles hit the hard brick.
It wasn’t fair.
You crumpled to the floor, sobs wracking your body fully now. You picked up the paper, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand to read on. There was a strange pressure, now. You felt like you had to get to the end of the note, or else you would feel incomplete in your grief. You needed to know.
His desperate crawl for knowledge made sense to you now, you could feel the pull deep in the pit where your stomach should have been. Your previous mission was abandoned, instead you were curled pitifully on the floor, red knuckled and teary eyed while you relived memories of a dead man speaking sweet nothings into your ears.
No-one should have to mourn their lover thrice.