Work Text:
~ * ~
It’s after one of their countless little arguments that Viktor stumbles upon the list entirely by accident. Not snooping, he insists to himself, not really. Jayce is the one who leaves things out like breadcrumbs for a pigeon, and Viktor, unfortunately, is the pigeon. It’s on the coffee table, buried under half a dozen recipe printouts and a crumpled bit of wrapping paper. Viktor had only moved the mess aside to make room for his tea.
Viktor should not read it.
He picks it up.
Jayce’s Christmas Bucket List.
Viktor glances at it once, then twice, and then, because he has no self-control when it comes to Jayce, he reads the whole damn thing.
- Decorate a tree with Viktor.
- Go ice skating (with Viktor).
- Bake Mum’s chocolate chip cookie recipe (with Viktor).
- Have sex by the Christmas tree (with Viktor, obviously).
- Watch every terrible holiday romcom (with Viktor, but he’ll hate it).
- Make Viktor laugh until he cries (at least once).
- Kiss Viktor in the snow.
Viktor freezes. Blinks. Blinks again.
What.
~ * ~
Their flat is not Christmassy. It’s not anything, really. The windows are plain. The shelves are plain. Even the sad little rug in the living room looks like it gave up halfway through trying to be interesting. The only thing remotely eye-catching is the defiant stain on the kitchen counter—a stain so bold it practically waves hello every time Viktor walks by. It might be coffee. It might be ink. It might be blood. Viktor hasn’t decided yet, and honestly, he’s afraid to investigate.
He sits at his cluttered desk—because of course, the desk is also plain, despite its heroic attempt to balance mountains of papers, a half-empty cup of tea, and what might be an old sandwich wrapper.
In his defence, they’ve only lived in the flat for a month. One month. Barely enough time to figure out which light switch controls which bulb, let alone make the place cosy. They have forever to make it feel like home. Forever to soften the edges, to turn the blank walls into something that doesn’t scream “temporary housing” or “witness protection program.”
If it were up to him, though, there would already be a proper desk lamp instead of the horror-show overhead lighting. A throw blanket that didn’t feel like sandpaper. Maybe a plant that wasn’t actively plotting its own demise in the corner.
But Viktor knows Jayce, and Jayce is all big ideas and no follow-through. Jayce is the guy who buys fairy lights and forgets batteries. The guy who insists on getting the “good” candles but can’t be bothered to light them.
Besides, neither of them have the luxury of time. Time is for people with trust funds and personal chefs and drivers, not for two overworked lunatics sharing a flat that looks like it came free with a carton of eggs. They’re both busy, all the time. Viktor more than Jayce, obviously, because Viktor doesn’t know how to stop. Stopping is for cowards and people who aren’t trying to rewrite the laws of physics or whatever Viktor claims he’s doing when Jayce asks why there’s a pile of broken mechanical parts in the sink. Stopping is for people who want to live past forty without a stress ulcer.
Jayce, on the other hand, has just enough self-preservation instincts to occasionally put his feet up and watch cooking shows he’ll never replicate. Viktor has caught him mid-episode more than once, sitting on the sofa with his socks dangling off his feet, muttering. “I could totally make that,” while a Michelin-star chef casually flambés something in a copper pan.
Meanwhile, Viktor wakes up thinking about work and goes to bed thinking about more work, things with numbers and diagrams and the kind of brain power that leaves him staring at a blank wall at 3 a.m., wondering where his life went wrong.
But of course, Viktor’s inability to stop isn’t just about work. No, stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means spiralling into the kind of existential dread that only a man with permanently hunched shoulders and a caffeine dependency can understand. So he keeps moving, keeps fixing, keeps building, until the world around him blurs into a manageable hum of noise.
Viktor sighs.
One leg is awkwardly tucked beneath him, his foot already starting to tingle as he stares at the list, then at the ceiling and its zig zag cracks. Out of context, he wonders what Jayce is doing right now, probably something stupidly charming with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly pretty laugh that makes everyone else join in, even if they don’t know what’s funny.
The doorbell rings.
Viktor freezes. His first thought is burglars. His second thought is, “What kind of burglar rings the doorbell?” His third thought is Jayce, but that one doesn’t make sense, because Jayce never rings; he barges in like he owns the place.
Actually, Jayce does own their place.
He hobbles to the door and opens it to find not a burglar or Jayce but a woman holding a clipboard and wearing a bright yellow hat.
“Delivery for Viktor,” she says cheerfully, handing him a small box.
“I didn’t order anything,” Viktor says, squinting at the package like it might explode.
“It’s from someone named Jayce,” she says, winking like they’re in on some kind of secret.
Viktor feels his face flush. He mumbles a thank you, shuts the door, sets the box on the kitchen counter like it might bite him.
It’s wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. Practical. Very Jayce. Viktor stares at it for a full minute before tearing the paper off. Inside is a tin of biscuits. The posh kind, with chocolate edges and a card that says, Sorry for being a dick yesterday. But let’s be honest, you were kind of a dick too. Love you.
Viktor doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t cry either. He just sits down at the table, opens the tin, and takes a biscuit, even though he knows it will hurt his teeth.
Jayce calls an hour later. “Did you get it?” he asks without saying hello.
“Yes.” Another bite of the biscuit. “It’s disgusting.”
Jayce laughs, and Viktor can hear the relief in it. “You’re welcome.”
They don’t say much after that. Jayce tells him about some disaster at work involving an intern and a malfunctioning coffee machine. Viktor listens, makes noncommittal noises at the right moments. It’s all very ordinary, but Viktor clings to it, because sometimes the ordinary is the best thing to hold on to.
Before they hang up, Jayce says, “I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”
“Tonight,” Viktor repeats.
He knows what he has to do.
Somehow, this plain flat, this month of December, this Christmas bucket list, has become his problem.
~ * ~
The tree lot is on the corner of the main road, squeezed between a bakery and a shop selling overpriced candles. It smells like pine and damp, and the man running it has a face like a walnut.
“Need a tree?” the man asks, eyeing Viktor’s leg brace and cane like he might either be trouble. Or a homeless man. Or both.
“Yes,” Viktor says. “A good one. Not too big. Not too ugly.”
The man grunts, leading him to a section of “medium” trees that all look like they’ve been in a fight and lost. Viktor pokes at one. The needles are sharp and angry, but it smells right. “This one,” he says, because he’s cold and tired and just wants it to be over.
The man ties the tree up with a piece of string, then looks at Viktor like he’s waiting for something. “You got a car?”
“No,” Viktor says.
The man stares at him. Viktor stares back.
“Fine,” the man grumbles. “Extra tenner for delivery.”
“Fine,” Viktor agrees, though it’s not fine at all. His bank account will hate him later, but future Viktor can deal with that. Present Viktor has a tree. For Jayce. To decorate. Together.
~ * ~
Jayce comes home that night a bit later than expected, soaked to the bone and looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. “God hates me,” he declares, shaking his coat off and dripping water all over the floor.
“You and I both know you’re his favourite child,” Viktor says from the dining table, nursing his cup of tea.
A damp kiss presses against Viktor's head.
“Got any tea for me?”
“No,” Viktor lies, just to be difficult.
Jayce sits and watches as Viktor pours him some Earl Grey.
“By the way,” Viktor says casually. “I bought a tree.”
Jayce freezes, the mug halfway to his lips. “You? A tree? Did hell freeze over?”
“Funny. It’s in the living room.”
Jayce abandons the tea and goes to inspect. When he sees it, his face does something complicated—surprise, confusion, and something softer that Viktor can’t quite place. “It’s… nice,” he says eventually.
“It’s lopsided,” Viktor admits.
Jayce tilts his head, snorts. “It looks like you.”
“I also bought lights. And ornaments.” Viktor gestures vaguely to the plastic bags sitting on the floor. “They were on sale. Probably because we’re a week from Christmas.”
Jayce sighs, but it’s that soft, indulgent kind of sigh—the one Viktor always pretends not to notice. “Vik, why did you do this?”
“Why not?” Viktor shrugs. “We’ve never decorated a Christmas tree. I thought it would be... nice. don’t you think?”
Jayce stares at him, and Viktor can already tell he’s fighting back a smile. “Nice,” he repeats. His voice is full of that infuriating, affectionate tone that makes Viktor want to both roll his eyes and melt into the floor. “Viktor, this tree looks like it’s been through a war.”
“It has character. Not everything has to be perfect, Jayce. Maybe you should lower your standards.”
Jayce laughs, the sound loud and golden. Viktor feels a small, traitorous twinge of pride.
That has to count for something.
Together, they tackle the tree—or rather, the tree tackles them. The lights fight back at every turn, the ornaments drop and roll under the sofa, and the tree itself leans further to the left every time Jayce tries to straighten it. By the time they’re finished, the room looks less like a winter wonderland and more like a glitter bomb exploded.
Jayce steps back, hands on his hips. He smiles proudly. “It’s perfect.”
“It looks like it’s about to file for early retirement.”
Jayce snorts and throws an arm around Viktor’s shoulders. “Once we turn the lights on, it’ll be magic.”
It’s not magic, not really. But when the tiny firefly lights blink and scatter, catching in Jayce’s eyes—all bright and messy and completely theirs—it’s enough. Enough for Viktor to admit, just for a second, that it’s not so bad. Maybe even nice.
Jayce flops onto the couch, tugging Viktor down beside him. “Reminds me of the tree Mum and I used to decorate when I was little,” he says quietly.
Viktor doesn’t reply, but his hand finds Jayce’s, and when Jayce falls asleep, his head leaning on Viktor’s shoulder, Viktor doesn’t move. He just sits there, watching the lopsided tree glow softly in the dark, the little lights blinking like a heartbeat.
~ * ~
Viktor wakes up to the sound of Jayce snoring. It’s loud, irregular, and entirely unnecessary, like Jayce himself. The flat is dark except for the light sneaking in through the cracks and the soft glow of the Christmas tree. The star has toppled over completely now, lying sideways like it gave up on trying to stay upright.
Jayce stirs, his head shifting from Viktor’s shoulder to his lap, his breath warm against Viktor’s thigh. Viktor freezes, torn between shoving him off and letting him stay.
He pokes him in the ribs. “Jayce.”
Jayce’s eyes barely flutter open. “Hmm?”
“You are crushing my leg.”
Jayce smiles sleepily and doesn’t move. “Comfy, though.”
Viktor glares down at him. “Get up, you oversized cat.”
Jayce chuckles but finally shifts, stretching his long limbs as he sits upright. His hair is a mess, his shirt rumpled, and his eyes are infuriatingly pretty when they’re sleepy. “Morning, sunshine.”
“It’s noon,” Viktor points out, standing slowly to ease the pins and needles in his leg.
“Same thing.” Jayce yawns.
After lunch—or whatever you’d call reheated leftovers and a half-hearted attempt at toast—they sit by the tree. The lights twinkle unevenly in broad daylight, some bright and some flickering like they can’t decide if they want to commit to existing. Jayce is fiddling with something in his lap, his head bent, his fingers too busy to be trusted.
Viktor’s mind wanders, unbidden, back to the dumb list. Specifically to number 4. Have sex by the Christmas tree. His lips twitch. He doesn’t look away this time. He’s not some blushing schoolboy fumbling over his first crush. He’s Viktor, and Viktor doesn’t play coy unless he wants to.
And sometimes, he does. Because it’s fun. Sue him.
He lets the moment linger, leans back into the cushions like he’s bored, one leg crossed over the other. He taps his fingers against his knee. One, two, one two. He watches Jayce with the kind of slow, deliberate gaze that says, I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too, but I’m going to make you squirm first.
It takes Jayce a few more seconds to finally glance up. His hands still. “What?”
“Nothing.” Viktor drags his tongue slowly over his teeth. “Just... wondering if you’re planning to spend all day fiddling with that, or if you’re going to do something useful.”
Jayce blinks, caught between confusion and the slow realisation that Viktor is playing a game. “Useful? Like what?”
“Like,” Viktor says, and leans forward now, “putting your hands to better use. But if you’re too busy, I can handle things myself.”
Jayce’s breath hitches. His chest rises like he’s trying to swallow something too big for his lungs. Viktor watches it happen—the quick bob of Jayce’s Adam’s apple, so pronounced, so fucking there.
His gaze locks onto it. He doesn’t just want to see it; he wants to feel it, press his lips to it, maybe his teeth, too, just enough to leave a mark. Goddamn, he wishes he were that apple—aching to be swallowed, caught in the heat of Jayce’s throat.
“Count me the fuck in,” Jayce says like gravel rolling under a tire. He crawls forward, closes the distance between them, his eyes locked on Viktor’s like a predator that’s already claimed its prey.
He settles there, right in Viktor’s space, too close and too sure of himself, his hands bracing on Viktor’s knees. Slowly—deliberately—he drags them up, spreading Viktor’s thighs. His palms press into the muscle, kneading just enough to make Viktor suck in a breath through his teeth.
Jayce’s fingers climb higher, teasing their way to Viktor’s torso, brushing over fabric and skin, slow, sinful, daring Viktor to stop him.
Why would Viktor stop him?
Jayce’s lips are warm— too warm, impossibly soft, like they’ve been crafted for this exact moment. And his tongue? Fuck. Jayce’s tongue is a goddamn weapon. It leaves no room for doubt that he knows exactly what he’s doing and how Viktor’s body responds to it.
Viktor lets himself sink into it for a second—just a second—all the while his mind, ever the traitor, drags him back to their first kiss. Years ago. A drunken, sloppy mistake that was supposed to stay buried in the archives of bad decisions. They had both agreed to forget it ever happened. Or at least, Jayce did.
Viktor? He faked that promise like a pro. The image of Jayce’s drunk, laughing, reckless self is burned into the useful part of his brain—the part he uses for problem-solving, for invention, for remembering how Jayce’s lips tasted faintly of whiskey and the words, "I think I’m gonna kiss you now," had slurred their way into Viktor’s bloodstream like poison.
Or maybe it was more like an antidote.
Because Viktor remembers. He remembers every damn detail. The way Jayce had pressed him against the wall with all the elegance of a baby giraffe, the heat radiating off him like he was a fucking furnace, the way their teeth had clacked together once before finding a rhythm that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
And now? Now Jayce kisses like he owns the entire damn universe, like he’s perfected the art of it just to ruin Viktor’s life. His lips press harder, his tongue sweeping over Viktor’s in a way that makes his knees weaker than they are and his head spin and his cock ache with an ache so sweet it feels like a sin waiting to be confessed.
He could pretend to fight it, but why the fuck would he? Jayce kisses like he’s the answer to a question Viktor didn’t even know he was asking. And right now, Viktor’s not interested in being polite about it.
Fast-forward five minutes, and Jayce is sprawled on the floor, naked, flushed, looking like he’s won the lottery. And Viktor? Viktor is kissing every inch of him with the same precision he applies to formulas—calculated, exact, impossibly thorough—because somehow, inexplicably, this is his life now.
It’s not just about being a top; it’s about control. Viktor likes control. It keeps things neat, predictable. And, let’s face it, when your boyfriend is built like a Greek god who’s somehow also a golden retriever in human form, you need a little leverage. Especially when that boyfriend is, quite frankly, inhumanly large.
He begins slow. Jayce likes slow. Jayce likes falling and floating at the same time. Jayce likes being pulled under by a tide that whispers sweet lies before it drowns him. Gentle, teasing.
He drags his tongue over the edge of Jayce’s jaw, a brush of lips against his throat, a touch so soft it feels like a threat.
“Vik—” Jayce breaths are shipwrecks. His hands are gripping Viktor’s shoulders like he’s holding on for dear life.
“Hmm?” Viktor presses into Jayce’s thighs. His mouth sucks sensitive skin.
Jayce bucks, whimpers.
“This is what you like, don’t you? Being under me like this? Completely at my mercy?”
And then he sharpens. His hands grip harder, no longer sculpting but destroying, remaking. A bite here, the scrape of nails there, deadly little flourishes that make Jayce gasp like he’s been stabbed and beg like he wants it again. Viktor shifts from gentle waves to a riptide, drags Jayce down faster than he can breathe, leaves him high and wanting.
This is how Jayce likes it—slow enough to seduce, harsh enough to haunt. A kiss like a blade, hands like a noose, a rhythm that pulls him apart piece by piece, only to put him back together in ways he didn’t know he could feel.
Viktor takes Jayce’s trembling hands and guides them downward, presses them against the hard, unrelenting heat beneath fabric. The contact is electric—violent in its simplicity.
"Do you feel what you do to me?" His thumb brushes over Jayce’s knuckles, linger just long enough to make him shiver, before dragging those same hands down, over his own hardness, then lower, pulling them to where Jayce is already swollen and aching.
"Here, do you feel what you are?" And Jayce, lost and trembling, is a fuse burning down, an inferno waiting to be consumed whole.
Jayce bucks up against him, and Viktor rewards him with the lightest touch. A ghost of fingers over the waistband of his boxers. Jayce whimpers, hips stuttering, his lips parting like he's about to beg already.
Viktor's free hand grips his wrist and presses it to the floor, grounds him in the push and pull of what Viktor allows and what he doesn't.
"Look at you, you can’t contain yourself, can you?"
Jayce's eyes flutter open, dark glass, and he gives Viktor what he wants, what he always gives.
"It’s you," he gasps, shakes, trembles. "This is all you."
Viktor’s teeth catch on the edge of Jayce's jaw before he drags his lips lower, sucking another bruise into the hollow of his throat. Jayce writhes, his body caught between the need for more and the frustration of not being given enough.
"Such a mess," Viktor’s hand finally curls around Jayce's cock through the thin fabric. He presses down, slow, watches as Jayce's back arches, his mouth falling open with a ragged moan. "You fall apart so easily. So desperate."
Jayce's hips buck again, and Viktor tightens his grip, the friction just enough to make Jayce gasp, his fingers flexing against Viktor's arm.
Viktor pulls the waistband down, just enough to free him, the fabric clinging for a moment before giving way. His hand closes around him now, skin to skin, warm and slick. He strokes once, slow, testing. Jayce swallows back a choked cry.
And Viktor doesn’t need to look. He knows. He feels it—the slickness gathering at the head of his cock, pre-come smeared like a mark of surrender, proof of how far gone he is. He knows, too, when Jayce’s fingers somehow find him, uninvited, wrapping around him like a thief claiming stolen treasure.
Each touch is an exposed wire shooting straight to Viktor’s core and setting him alight.
Viktor’s breath catches, rises, falls.
His briefs are cast aside and with that same reckless hunger Viktor carved into him, Jayce moves—wild, hungry, chasing. Then he’s drowning Viktor’s skin in little morsels of saccharine heat until they wrap around Viktor’s cock in a single, consuming motion that leaves no space for air, no room for thought—just fire.
Jayce’s tongue is devastating, dragging along the underside, swirling at the tip. His hands grip Viktor’s hips, holding him steady, but it’s Viktor who’s at his mercy now, Viktor who gasps sharply, his hand faltering for the first time.
“Jayce, fuck—” Viktor’s voice is cracking glass. His fingers thread into Jayce’s hair, pulling tight.
Jayce’s mouth works over him, slow, then fast, the rhythm erratic but devastating. His pre-cum mixes with the saliva frothing at the corners of Jayce’s lips, glistening, obscene. Jayce’s eyes roll back, wet and glassy, tears threatening to spill as his cheeks hollow with each movement.
It doesn’t take long. Too fast, embarrassingly fast, but that’s the raw truth of it. There’s no grace in holding back, no need for pretense.
White static blooms in Viktor’s mind, a warm, suffocating fog that drowns out everything else. The tightness coils in his stomach, sharp and consuming, building with each flicker of Jayce’s tongue until—suddenly—it crests, a tidal wave crashing through him.
His body jerks, breath catching, as he spills into Jayce’s mouth, sticky and hot, the sensation rippling through him in wave after relentless wave. His head spins, his chest heaves, and the pleasure is sharp, molten, carving through his veins like fire. A low cry escapes him, unbidden, raw and unfiltered.
And Viktor feels—
He feels—
He’s not sure.
Like he’s been unraveled, stripped bare, and rebuilt in the space between Jayce’s hands and mouth. Fresh out of some nightmare but now sinking so hard into the sweetness of this, the wrongness of it that feels so impossibly right, Viktor’s mouth tasting like the edge of a teaspoon dipped in heroin.
In the aftermath, his body convulses, ripples of purple swirling lazy beneath his skin, ears buzzing and choking on air.
Jayce pulls back slowly, his lips wet, his eyes dark and blown wide as he looks up at Viktor, his chest heaving.
Viktor’s kissing him before Jayce has any chance to recuperate. He’s sinking him back down onto the floor, and he’s hushing him even though Jayce isn’t saying anything.
"Viktor—" Jayce’s voice is shattered, a prayer, a curse, something clawing its way back to life all at once. His hips buck upward, desperate, meeting every motion of Viktor’s hands as they traverse the sands of his body, mapping it like a thing to be conquered. And then Viktor’s mouth finds its mark.
Viktor’s lips close around the base while his tongue drags over the tip, spreading the slick heat of need. Jayce jerks beneath him, his body trembling, a choked sound ripping free from his throat like it’s been dragged from the deepest, darkest parts of him.
Just like him, Viktor doesn't stop. He sets a rhythm. He drags it out, keeps Jayce on the edge of himself, every stroke meant to drive him higher, to make him louder, needier, until there's nothing left but the blood of his name on Jayce's swollen flesh.
Viktor pulls back, lets Jayce’s cock slip from his mouth, the sudden loss enough to make Jayce gasp.
“You’re being good today,” Viktor rasps, his own cock still aching, throbbing, oversensitive as he watches Jayce unravel beneath him. His eyes flicker with something cruel, something playful. “Maybe I’ll stop.” He pauses just enough to make Jayce’s breath hitch. “Should I stop here? Hmm?”
“No—no, Vik, please—” Jayce shakes his head, frantic, before it tips back, exposing the column of his throat.
Viktor doesn’t wait. He lets Jayce’s cock spring back against his lips, takes him in again, slow, deliberate, before slipping free and dragging his mouth lower. He sucks on the delicate skin of Jayce’s balls, just hard enough to leave the ghost of him behind. Jayce moans, his hips jerking involuntarily, a desperate motion that Viktor feels more than sees before he takes him back in, deep, swallowing him whole. His cock twitches on Viktor’s tongue, desperate, insistent.
And then Viktor pulls away again.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Jayce cries out.
“Ditto. Should I continue?”
“Please—”
The please is too fucking pretty, rasping out of Jayce’s lungs like a confession. Viktor accepts it. Savours it. He knows Jayce is close, feels it in the tension coiling through his muscles, in the way his breaths stutter like flickering fireflies, bright and fleeting.
So he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. His movements are merciless, dragging Jayce higher, pushing him to the edge and beyond.
Jayce comes hard, spilling hot and sticky into Viktor’s mouth, the heat searing against the roof of it. Viktor pulls back, spits, his gaze locked on Jayce, watching the way he trembles, the way he gasps like he’s drowning and surges forward.
He crashes into Viktor with a kiss that’s all teeth and breath and something wild, something feral, something utterly undone.
~ * ~
Later, when the post-nut clarity slams into him like a freight train, Jayce smacks his forehead with enough force to echo.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” He pulls back just slightly from where he’s sprawled over Viktor’s chest. His lips are still swollen, slick, flushed. With a dramatic sigh, he flops onto his back, all the flair of a fainting Victorian debutante.
“What now?”
“I just realised…you—you read my Christmas bucket list, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You did, you so fucking did, Viktor.”
Viktor doesn’t confirm or deny. He just smacks Jayce’s arse with a loud, satisfying crack . Jayce yelps so dramatically it could’ve been a crime scene.
“Shower.” Viktor looks every bit like a man who hasn’t just ruined his boyfriend on the living room floor. “I bought us tickets to ice skate.”
Jayce groans, still sprawled out and useless on the rug. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”
~ * ~
Viktor’s idea of ice skating does not look like this. His idea of ice skating, which he proposed earlier today with what he considered an Oscar-worthy act of selflessness, involved sitting on the sidelines, bundled in scarves—not so much to fend off the cold, but to hide the kiss-bruises blooming on his neck—sipping tea from a thermos, and watching Jayce glide around like some majestic idiot reindeer on a frozen pond.
Jayce, naturally, has other ideas.
“You go,” Viktor says, waving Jayce off dismissively. It’s very much giving the vibes of a parent indulging a hyperactive toddler. “Show off your skills or whatever. I’ll watch.”
Jayce’s eyes go puppy-wide. “You’re just going to sit here? The whole time?”
“Yes. That was the plan.”
“Well, I don’t want to skate alone. That’s boring. And for the record, my bucket list specifically says ‘ice skate with Viktor,’ not ‘have Viktor sit on the sidelines judging me.”
Viktor freezes for half a second before recovering. He adjusts his scarf, folds his arms.
“Jayce. I have brittle bones and a fondness for staying alive. This—” he gestures broadly at the gleaming sheet of ice in front of them, where a child is currently wiping out in spectacular fashion—“is where your enthusiasm and my sense of self-preservation part ways. Do you want me dead? Because that’s what will happen. I will break both legs and die cold and miserable on the ice.”
Jayce snorts, then smiles, that infuriatingly sunny smile that means he’s already won. “If you won’t skate properly,” he says, “I’ll make it easier for you.”
Before Viktor can protest, Jayce is grabbing a nearby plastic chair—one of those rickety rink-provided ones meant for children or complete amateurs—and plonking it down in front of him. Viktor narrows his eyes.
“Sit,” Jayce says, crouching in front of him like he’s either about to propose or tie his shoelaces for P.E. class.
“No.”
“Sit.”
Against his better judgment—against every molecule of self-preservation he has—Viktor sits. His cane rests across his lap like a line he dares Jayce to cross. It doesn’t work. Jayce crouches again, reaching for Viktor’s brace.
“What are you doing?” Viktor’s frozen as Jayce unbuckles the brace, sliding it off carefully and setting it aside next to the cane. “Jayce—”
“Relax,” Jayce says. He pulls out a pair of rented skates from somewhere like he’s a magician and Viktor is his unwilling rabbit, and starts tying them onto Viktor’s feet.
“Were you not paying attention to a single word I just said?”
“I did. You’re going to sit while I push you.”
Viktor blinks. “You want to cart me around like I’m ninety years old?”
“No,” Jayce says, already pulling Viktor and the chair toward the ice. “Like you’re royalty. Like a king or queen or whatever you prefer.”
And just like that, Viktor finds himself perched on the plastic chair, wearing skates he had no intention of using, while Jayce pushes him onto the rink.
The ice smells like wet socks and caramelised popcorn, and Mariah Carey is still belting about wanting youuuu for Christmas.
A pack of kids zooms past, giggling and wobbling dangerously close to the chair. Viktor grips the edges of the chair like it’s the last stable thing in his life.
Jayce steers them out of harm’s way, flashing them a thumbs-up. “You guys are doing great!” he says, radiating coach energy.
Viktor wants to crawl into a hole.
“I hate this.”
“No, you don’t,” Jayce says. He leans down to kiss Viktor’s forehead mid-glide. “You’re having fun already. I can tell.”
“I am having the opposite of fun.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re too proud to admit you like it.”
Viktor’s scowl deepens, but the traitorous smile lurking inside him is dangerously close to breaking through. “I am not too proud. I simply have no desire to go flying into the boards like a sack of potatoes.”
“That won’t happen ‘cause I’ve got you.” Jayce’s cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, his breath misting in little clouds as he laughs. Viktor hates that he notices these things.
“Faster?” he asks, leaning forward so his voice carries over Viktor’s shoulder.
“Absolutely not.”
“Got it—faster.”
“Jayce—!”
Jayce ignores him, picks up speed, and Viktor lets out a yelp as the rink blurs around them. It’s ridiculous, absurd, and exactly what Viktor didn’t want.
But he can’t deny that the wind feels nice against his cheeks, that Jayce’s laughter is infectious, and that this moment, however silly, feels… magical?
By the time they slow down, coming to a clumsy stop near the edge of the rink, Viktor is panting, his cheeks flushed from both the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. Jayce crouches in front of him, that stupid smile still plastered on his face.
“See?” he says. “You didn’t die.”
Viktor stares at him for a long moment, then finally cracks. He laughs, wheezes, loud and uncontrollable, until his shoulders shake and his sides ache. He doesn’t know why a tear slips down from the corner of his eye. Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s Jayce. Maybe both.
“That was on my bucket list too,” he says. “Making you laugh until you cry. Killing two stones with one bird or however that saying goes.”
And he winks, so shamelessly pleased with himself.
Viktor completely loses it again.
~ * ~
It starts with a phone call. Viktor holds his phone between his ear and shoulder as he scribbles down notes on the back of a receipt. Jayce’s mum is delightfully chatty—too chatty, in fact. She keeps pausing mid-recipe to tell stories about Jayce as a child.
“Oh, he used to love helping me bake,” she says with a fond laugh. “Always got flour everywhere. One time, I turned my back for two seconds, and he was eating raw dough like a feral raccoon. He got sick, of course.”
Viktor hums, his pen scratching against the paper. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He still eats things he shouldn’t.”
Jayce’s mum’s laugh is the kind of laugh that makes you want to smile even if you’re in a bad mood, which Viktor very much is.
“Thanks for the recipe,” he says, cutting the conversation short before she can tell him about the time Jayce tried to bake cookies in a microwave. “We’ll let you know how it goes.”
He hangs up and stares at the notes in his hand. It’s a simple recipe, really. Straightforward. Easy enough for two adults to handle without incident.
Except today is not an easy day.
~ * ~
The front door slams. Hard.
Viktor startles, the lead in his pencil snapping. Jayce storms in, his tie already half-loosened, his face a thundercloud of frustration. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, tossing his bag onto the floor. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
“Don’t leave your bag there. It’s in the way.”
Jayce doesn’t respond, just heads to the fridge, pulling out a beer.
Viktor’s day—week—hasn’t been much better either. His own work has been stubborn and uncooperative, and he’s carrying a headache so sharp it feels like it’s trying to carve its way out of his skull.
“Did you get the laundry?” Viktor lifts Jayce’s bag and sets it on the couch.
Jayce freezes mid-sip. “Laundry? Seriously? That’s what you’re asking me right now?”
“Yes, Jayce, the laundry. The one thing I asked you to do this week.”
Jayce slams the beer onto the coffee table. “No, Viktor, I did not pick up the laundry like you asked me to. I forgot. I’m tired. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I’m saying it again now. I forgot, okay? I’ll get it tomorrow. Is that really what you want to start with? Not a ‘hello,’ not a ‘how was your day,’ just straight to ‘did you pick up the laundry,’ like I’m a child being scolded?”
Viktor exhales sharply. His lips press into a thin line before he forces out a stiff, almost robotic, “Fine. Hello, Jayce. How was your day?”
“Terrible. Thanks for asking.”
“Great. Mine too. The—”
“Everyone at work is annoyingly useless. I give them clear instructions— clear, Viktor—and they still manage to screw everything up. Deadlines don’t mean anything to these people. I’ve been fixing the same stupid mistake for nine days. Nine! And then they have the audacity to tell me I’m being ‘too harsh.’ Too harsh? Are you kidding me?”
“That sounds frustrating. But maybe—”
“Frustrating? It’s a nightmare!” Jayce interrupts, voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like to clean up after people who can’t do their jobs? To constantly pick up the slack for everyone else while they sit around pretending everything’s fine?”
“Yes, I do. I live with you.”
It lands. It lands hard. Viktor meant it as a joke—or partly, at least. A harmless jab to deflect the heat. But deep down, he knows there’s truth woven into it, a sliver of honesty poking through the surface like a thorn.
Jayce freezes, his mouth open like he’s gearing up for another tirade, but the words catch somewhere between his throat and his pride. He stares at Viktor, wide-eyed and wounded, and Viktor feels it—the shift in the air, the crack in the armour they’ve both been holding up all week.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Viktor says, lowering himself onto the edge of the couch with a sigh. His fingers find the little keychain dangling off Jayce’s bag—a cheap, wobbly thing shaped like a shooting star—and he fiddles with it absently. “That maybe if you spent more time meeting your own deadlines instead of complaining about everyone else’s mistakes, you wouldn’t be so stressed all the time.”
Jayce stares at him like Viktor just slapped him. “Wow. Thanks for the support, Vik. Really appreciate that.”
“I am supporting you. And I didn’t—I didn’t mean what I said like that. It was supposed to be a joke.”
“Really? A joke?”
“I was just trying to say that if you don’t like how things are, maybe you should take a closer look at your own habits before blaming everyone else.”
“Oh, so now this is my fault? You don’t even know what it’s like, Viktor. You don’t work with people. You sit at your desk all day, tinkering with things, not having to deal with anyone but yourself.”
“Eh, that’s not fair. Just because my work doesn’t involve constant meetings or babysitting incompetent colleagues doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
Jayce throws his hands up. “I didn’t say it was easy, but at least you don’t have to deal with the endless parade of stupidity I put up with.”
“And I suppose that excuses you stomping in here and taking it out on me?” Viktor doesn’t mean for his voice to sound sharp but it does now. “I understand you’re stressed, Jayce, but yelling at me is not going to fix anything.”
“Yelling?” Jayce scoffs. “I’m not yelling.”
“You sound like you’re yelling.”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t start picking at everything I say—”
“Picking at you?” Viktor interrupts, incredulous. “I was trying to help. You are the one who turned this into a fight.”
“Oh, I turned this into a fight?” Jayce’s laugh is bitter.
“Yes, you walked in here ready to explode!” Viktor snaps. “And now you’re blaming me because I dared to point out that you’re not perfect?”
“I—I never said I was perfect! You’re twisting my words.”
“And you’re twisting mine!”
Viktor’s chest is tight. He knows they’re teetering on the edge of something neither of them wants to fall into. But it’s too late now. The words keep coming. “I made a joke. A bad one, clearly. And instead of letting it go, you’ve decided to turn it into a bloody referendum on our entire relationship.”
After a pause, Jayce’s arms uncross slowly, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’ve been trying to keep it together too, and it feels like... like I’m failing at everything.”
“Jayce, you’re not—you’re—” Viktor doesn’t know what to say to whatever this is. He’s never been good with words, not the important ones at least. “I mean, I under—”
“Oh, don’t even start. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own world lately I’m surprised you even noticed I had a bad day or week.”
“What? Of course I noticed,” Viktor says. “I noticed because I’m the one who always has to notice. You come home and unload all your stress onto me like I’m a bloody therapist.”
“Maybe because you’re the only one I can talk to!” Jayce’s voice cracks. “But clearly, that’s too much for you.”
Viktor’s jaw tightens, his fists clenched at his sides. “I am not your emotional punching bag, Jayce.”
“And I’m not your errand boy!”
Viktor stares at Jayce, his chest heaving, his mind racing. This isn’t what he planned. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. The cookies. The stupid cookies. He looks at the recipe on the counter, and something inside him snaps.
“You know what?” Viktor pushes himself up so fast that pain shoots through his leg. He winces. “Forget it. Just—forget it. If you want to keep yelling, feel free to do it at the wall. I’m going to bed.”
“Fine. Go on, then. What’s stopping you? An invitation?”
Viktor pauses, glances back at Jayce, “Thanks for showing so much interest in how my day went. Really appreciate that.”
~ * ~
Viktor checks the clock. 1:02 a.m.
His body feels weighed down, leaden. His head is still throbbing. The argument from earlier creeps back in, scratches at his thoughts. He groans, presses his palms hard against his eyes.
His knees creak as he swings his legs off the bed. The faint light from the hallway spills under the door, and he pads out quietly, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor.
Jayce is on the couch, sprawled out in the most uncomfortable position possible, one arm hanging off the edge and his face smushed into a pillow like it owes him money. His tie is gone, his shirt untucked, and his shoes kicked into opposite corners of the room. There are three empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and the TV is paused on some mindless sitcom, the screen casting a faint blue glow over everything.
Viktor hesitates for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He doesn’t know why he cares—Jayce deserves to be uncomfortable after the things he said. He deserves to wake up with a crick in his neck and regret lodged in his chest like a stone.
But like always, Viktor sees him, really sees him. The way Jayce’s brows are furrowed, even in sleep, like his dreams are still trying to pick a fight. The way his lips are slightly parted, soft and slack, as if he’s mid-argument even now.
And Viktor sighs. Because of course he cares.
How could he not?
Jayce is ridiculous, larger than life and twice as impossible, but he’s also kind in a way that sneaks up on you. Viktor cares because Jayce is the type of person who cries during The Great British Bake Off eliminations and then pretends it’s just allergies. He’s the guy who always orders the wrong thing at Starbucks because he panics under pressure, but he drinks it anyway because he doesn’t want to waste it.
Jayce sings badly in the shower, like he’s auditioning for The Voice but forgot all the lyrics, and somehow, Viktor likes it. The guy who knows the entire choreography to “Single Ladies” but only does it when he’s drunk enough to think Viktor won’t remember. The guy who leaves sticky notes on the fridge that say ridiculous things like “Don’t forget to drink water, babe. Hydration = sexiness and “ Don’t forget to be awesome today!” And occasionally doodles tiny smiley faces in the margins of Viktor’s notebooks, which Viktor pretends to hate but secretly keeps.
Jayce also insists on picking up the “family-sized” pack of everything—crisps, biscuits, ice cream—because “we might need it,” even though there’s barely enough room in the kitchen cabinets for their essentials.
He loves how Jayce always gives loose change to the busker outside the grocery store, even if the only song they know is Wonderwall. He loves the way Jayce insists on doing a little victory dance whenever he beats him at Mario Kart, even though Jayce is actually terrible at Mario Kart and only wins when Viktor lets him.
And there’s the way Jayce touches him—not just physically but in all the quiet, careful ways that matter. Like how he pulls Viktor’s chair closer at the dinner table without being asked, or how he instinctively shifts his umbrella when it’s raining so Viktor doesn’t get wet. The way Jayce always makes sure Viktor’s tea is brewed just right, the way he lets Viktor have the last slice of pizza even though he pretends to argue about it.
The way he laughs, big and loud, with his whole chest, like he doesn’t care who hears.
The way he looks at Viktor—like he’s the only thing that matters, even when everything else is falling apart.
And Viktor, who doesn’t believe in fixing what’s broken, somehow believes in Jayce. Believes in the way he loves, big and messy and without hesitation. Believes in the way he tries, even when he stumbles. Believes in the way he makes Viktor feel—seen, whole, like maybe the cracks in him aren’t something to hide but something that makes him human.
Viktor loves Jayce, even when he’s infuriating. Especially when he’s infuriating beyond belief.
But he’s also everything Viktor never thought he’d get to have.
Jayce is so much. Too much, maybe. And yet, somehow, Viktor wants all of it. He cares because Jayce is messy and stubborn and entirely too good for a world that doesn’t always know how to handle people like him.
So Viktor picks up the blanket, drapes it over Jayce carefully, tucks it around his broad shoulders like he’s trying to shield him from the world, even in sleep. And when he steps back, Viktor doesn’t sigh this time. He just watches. Watches and thinks that, for all Jayce’s faults, for all their fights and flaws, Viktor wouldn’t trade him for anything.
Not even if someone offered him the world’s most elegantly designed particle accelerator or a decade of breakthroughs in quantum mechanics. Not even for a lifetime of perfectly labelled lab notebooks or a clean apartment or perfectly folded laundry.
Jayce stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, his hand twitching once before settling again.
“Idiot,” Viktor mutters under his breath.
He turns back toward the bedroom, but just as he reaches the door, he hears it.
“Vik?”
The voice is groggy, barely above a whisper, but it freezes Viktor in his tracks. He doesn’t turn around immediately, his hand hovering over the door frame.
“Viktor. Wait.”
Viktor exhales, long and slow, before finally turning. Jayce is standing in the hallway, the blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. His hair is sticking up in all directions, his eyes bleary and red, and he looks like he’s been dragged backwards through a hurricane.
“It’s one in the morning,” Viktor says.
“I know. And... I’m sorry.”
Viktor crosses his arms, leans against the doorframe for leverage. “For what, exactly?”
“For being a dick,” Jayce says without hesitation. “For snapping at you. For blaming you when I was angry at myself. For... all of it. For being selfish and not taking in consideration that you also had a bad day.”
Viktor doesn’t respond right away. He studies Jayce carefully, the way his shoulders are slumped, his hands fidgeting nervously with the edges of the blanket. It’s not like Jayce to be this small, this quiet, and that alone makes Viktor’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“You’ve always been too good to me,” Jayce says softly. “You called my mum, didn’t you? To get her chocolate chip cookie recipe. You were trying to keep going with my Christmas bucket list.”
“I did. And I was.”
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out in a rush, like if he doesn’t say them now, he never will. “I’m—god, I’m such an asshole. I shouldn’t have said half the things I said. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t,” Viktor says quietly.
Jayce nods, his shoulders slumping further. “I know. I know. I just—I’ve been so stressed, and I feel like I’m failing at everything, and then I come home, and you’re... you’re so good, Viktor. You’re so good, and it makes me feel worse, because you deserve better than me when I’m like this.”
Viktor blinks, the words hitting him somewhere deeper than he expects. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, his brow furrowing as he processes.
“Jayce, what? No, I’m not perfect,” Viktor says finally. “You have this idea of me, like I’m untouchable, like I never make mistakes. But I do, Jayce. I do all the time. You’re just too stubborn to notice.”
Jayce steps closer, his bare feet padding softly against the floor. “You don’t have to forgive me tonight,” he says, his voice almost a whisper now. “But I needed you to know I’m sorry. For everything. For not taking into consideration that you may also be having a bad week.”
“I’m sorry too,” Viktor says quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you either.”
Jayce’s lips twitch into the faintest smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but is genuine all the same. “I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “You can be... blunt. Really blunt sometimes. But that’s part of you. And I love that about you. I love your honesty.”
Viktor shrugs. His gaze drops briefly to the floor. “I know it’s not always easy to love.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” Jayce’s smile grows just a little. “So? Do you forgive me?”
Viktor sighs, dragging the moment out just long enough to make Jayce squirm. Then, finally, he meets Jayce’s eyes.
He knows that couples are going to fight—it’s inevitable. Nobody is perfect, least of all when stress, anxiety, and the endless mess of life get in the way. People clash, they get tired, tempers fray, words slip out sharper than intended. It’s not about avoiding the arguments; it’s about what comes after—how you untangle the knots, how you choose to stay even when it’s hard, how you remind each other that love isn’t about perfection, but persistence.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Apology accepted.”
Jayce lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours. “Thank you.”
“Come to bed. You look ridiculous, standing there with that blanket draped over you like some tragic ghost.”
Jayce looks down at the blanket, tugging it tighter around himself for effect. “I’m a tragic ghost who’s cold. It’s freezing tonight, isn’t it? Colder than usual.”
Viktor glances at him, already halfway to the bedroom, and lets out a little huff. “It is colder,” he agrees reluctantly. Pulling out his phone, he swipes at the screen with his thumb.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the weather.” A pause. Then, Viktor’s brow furrows, and his lips twitch into something resembling surprise. “It’s snowing.”
Jayce’s head snaps up. “What?”
Viktor holds up his phone like evidence, tilting it toward Jayce. “It’s snowing. Outside. Right now.”
Jayce’s face lights up in an instant, his tired eyes suddenly alive with excitement. “Snow on Christmas Eve? That’s like... textbook holiday magic.
Viktor stares at the phone for another moment, then at Jayce.
“What?” Jayce mumbles, already cocooned under a mountain of blankets.
Viktor pushes himself out of bed too quickly, the sharp ache in his leg making him wince.
“Oh shit—are you okay?” Jayce sits up.
But Viktor ignores Jayce and grabs his wrist in one smooth motion.
“What—?” Jayce stammers, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Vik, where are you dragging me?”
“Terrace,” Viktor says briskly, already pulling him toward the door. He flips the lock and slides it open, letting in a burst of cold air that makes Jayce shiver. The snow is falling in soft, lazy flakes, dusting the terrace railing and the rooftops beyond.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Jayce mutters, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders as Viktor steps out barefoot, his pyjama bottoms brushing the snow-dusted concrete. “It’s freezing.”
Viktor turns. His lips quirk into a small, knowing smile. “You wanted snow, didn’t you?”
Jayce blinks. “I didn’t say—”
“You did. Your bucket list. Number... what was it? Six? Kiss Viktor in the snow?”
Jayce’s mouth falls open slightly. “Oh shit.”
Viktor arches a brow. “Do you think I dragged you out here for my own health?”
Jayce chuckles, a soft, lazy sound, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe Viktor is real. “I love you,” he says.
“Hmm,” Viktor hums, licking his lips, tilting his head just so. “Are you going to kiss me or do I need to give you instructions?”
Jayce doesn’t wait. Doesn’t need to. He leans down, his hand cupping Viktor’s face like it’s something delicate, something worth holding onto. His other hand brushes back Viktor’s overgrown fringe, his thumb smoothing along Viktor’s temple in a way that makes Viktor’s breath hitch before he can stop it.
“Your hair’s getting long.” Jayce’s lips are so close they brush Viktor’s as he speaks.
“Do you not like it?”
“I like it,” Jayce says, and his smile carries all the weight in the world. “I like you.”
And then kisses him.
It tastes like chapstick and exhaustion and the winter wind that follows them everywhere this week. It tastes like all the things they haven’t said but have felt anyway. Viktor lets his eyes close, lets the moment settle between them, lets Jayce pull him closer like they’re the only two people in a world made of sugar and cold and something bright.
When the kiss breaks, Jayce’s thumb brushes over Viktor’s cheek, lingers just a moment longer than necessary. Viktor doesn’t open his eyes right away. He just breathes in the space between them, the warmth they’ve carved out together.
“You make me feel like I’ve got something to come back to,” Jayce whispers.
Viktor finally opens his eyes, meeting Jayce’s, and there’s something there he doesn’t have the words for. He doesn’t try to look for them. Instead, he leans forward and presses his forehead to Jayce’s, lets the silence say everything.
“Jayce,” he says.
Jayce smiles, all wide and earnest and beautiful.
And Viktor feels—
(not lit up, not sparks and fire, not something uncontrollable)
(like steady ground, like solid, like the universe is folding into place)
—like he’s home.
~ * ~
Back inside, once they’re in bed wrapped in blankets so tight they could be mistaken for a pair of human burritos, Viktor starts to wriggle. First a shift, then a squirm, until the blanket cocoon starts to unravel. He feels warm.
“Jayce,” he says.
“Mmm?” Jayce’s half-asleep reply comes from somewhere deep in his pile of fluff.
“Help.”
Jayce bolts upright like someone hit the panic button. “Are you okay?”
Viktor shakes his head, looking appropriately tragic. He doesn’t elaborate. He just stares as Jayce fumbles for the lamp, the sudden glow painting his face in soft, blurry light. Viktor’s chest tightens—mostly because Jayce looks so annoyingly good like this, like something out of a poorly lit indie romance film.
Finally, Viktor peels himself out of the blankets. He sits up, looks Jayce straight in the eye.
“I have a boner. Are you going to make it go away, or do I need to handle this alone? On Christmas Eve?”
Jayce blinks, his mouth twitching before it stretches into a smile so profound it’s practically divine. Viktor barely registers the sharp nip Jayce gives his lower lip before Jayce is on him, laughing against his skin.
“I fucking love you, Viktor.”