Work Text:
When Jayce begged his way into Viktor’s lab—“just once, I swear, I just need some sketches”—he didn’t really think about how he’d draw. He knew what—or rather who. The rest would take care of itself.
With Viktor, it always did.
“Don’t get in the way, don’t comment, don’t distract. It’s better not to think and not to move, either” Viktor grumbled as he unlocked the lab door and tossed Jayce a lab coat. Jayce blinked at it, puzzled. Viktor frowned back. “Rules. Put it on.”
Jayce settled into the corner, pulled out his sketchbook and pencil, and stared at Viktor, waiting for inspiration.
It always worked.
“The fuck?” a voice exploded near the door. “Which one of you skinny twats took my—oh. Uh. Hello.”
A broad-shouldered short guy came in. It seemed that Jayce’s spare liner had just dropped into his lab coat pocket.
“Jayce, meet Rino. My classmate,” Viktor said with a vague wave. “Take mine.”
“You serious? I won’t fit.”
“Take two.”
Jayce and Rino exchanged a nod, and Viktor put on his… goggles.
Jayce’s hand moved on its own.
Viktor was soldering something with careful precision, answering strange questions with even stranger words—most of which Jayce didn’t understand, except for the prepositions and swearing. The goggles kept sliding from forehead to nose and back again. Jayce’s pencil couldn’t keep up, flying between five sketches at once.
“Log number four-sixteen,” Viktor muttered into his recorder, rattled off the date and a dozen terrifying terms, then nodded at Rino. “Go.”
Rino pushed a lever down.
The machine whirred, shuddered, lights blinked in a frenzy. Then came a hiss—buzz—bang!
The lights flashed—then went dark.
A tiny ribbon of smoke curled from the center of the table.
Viktor sighed.
“That was a glorious fuck-up,” he noted into the recorder.
Jayce wrote it down in a corner of the page.
Viktor’s phrases echoed in Jayce’s head, while layouts for future postcards flashed before his eyes.
"The glorious fuck-up."
Hair all messy, goggles halfway up his head, smudges of soot on his face. Hazel eyes looking down, lips tucked in confused frustration.
"Where’s my pencil?"
Focused profile, brow furrowed, goggles pushed up again, lips tight in a frown. One more second and someone’s gonna get smacked with a cane. The pencil, by the way, is behind Vik’s ear.
"Thinking is not your thing. Stick to drawing."
Eyebrow raised, skeptical look straight at the viewer, crooked little smirk. Shirt collar open—one or two buttons undone.
"You have already petted me today!"
Vik is dodging a hand, startled wide eyes. Goggles sticking up like cat ears.
"Stop drowning me in all that romantic bullshit."
Eyes rolled, lips pressed like he’s tasting something sour. “Romantic” is in soft handwritten font, the other words are big and blocky.
"Physicists’ Fuel."
Serious look, brows drawn together. Baby food pouch clamped between his teeth.
“What is this?” Jayce asked.
“Physicists’ fuel,” Viktor muttered, cracking the cap. “Stores well, no chewing, hands stay free.”
“And why haven’t I seen this before?”
“Sales haven’t been this good.”
"I just wanted to rot in the lab."
He’s said it just now in a worn-out voice. Messy hair, head on folded arms. He’s lying on the desk, staring into the Universe. And the Universe winks back.
Lost in sketching, Jayce didn’t notice the lab had gone quiet. The physicists were taking a break.
“Who the hell is that beefcake?” — Jayce caught the whisper but kept calmly shading a collar.
“Jayce. My artist.”
“Damn. I thought he was just another skinny twink like you, but that’s a whole wall of man.”
“Excuse me, in what universe am I a twink?” Viktor hissed, smacking his cane on the floor. Rino clearly didn’t dare to answer.
“May I?” Viktor came over, leaning on Jayce’s shoulder. Jayce handed the page to show what he’d been doodling for the last two hours—mostly goggles and weird little quotes. Viktor chuckled a few times. Then he smacked his own forehead.
“Here’s another one for you: ‘Got Laid, Got Screwed.’”
Jayce took the sketch back. He barely found the spot for that quote.
Three days later, right in the middle of postcard work, Fiora called.
“A major publisher just reached out. If you’ve got anything new to show, it’s time to boast. The bare shoulders are hot, sure, but they’re gonna get old.”
“Got some in progress,” Jayce smirked, and sent her a couple of finished ones—“Physicists’ Fuel” and “...romantic bullshit” — “Sent them over to you. If you like the vibe, maybe we can sell the whole set.”
There was rustling on the other end, then silence. Then a loud snort.
“What do you mean if I like them? These are bloody awesome! How many have you got?”
“Almost eight. Wrapping up the last one.”
“Perfect. Finish by tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Then come over at noon. We’ll go together.”
That evening, Viktor laughed so hard at the collection he had to wipe his tears. He even suggested a new one—pointing at Jayce’s favorite painting.
“You forgot this one. ‘Scoliotic Shrimp.’”
“No. That’ll be a whole different set,” Jayce said. He was planning to take animal illustration next semester, anyway.
The meeting went great. The publisher loved the set, thanked them for clean mockups and proper prepress, and quickly got down to discussing pricing and revenue splits. Fiora fought for every clause in the contract—secured author rights, a solid sales cut, and a fat prepayment (she took her fee from that, and Jayce was more than fine with it). On top of that, the publisher promised to prioritize Jayce’s future ideas, even the weird ones.
“Isn’t this a bit much for a bunch of postcards?” Jayce whispered during the break.
Fiora waved it off: “Not at all. Just don’t let them lowball us.”
“Vik, the contract’s insane! Let’s celebrate?” Jayce texted, already on the bus.
“Where?”
“How about a proper restaurant?”
“So they could throw me out? For having a Zaunite mug?”
Heavy sigh.
“I just sold your ‘Zaunite mug’ to a publisher for a small fortune. Get out of the lab.”
“Still wearing my lab coat. Are you taking me like this?”
“No. We’ll change your clothes first.”
Viktor didn’t text back, but half an hour later he was waiting at the bus stop when Jayce got to the Academy.
“Look at you, all dominant and shit,” he muttered, elbowing Jayce as he flopped into the seat. — “So where exactly are you planning to ‘change my clothes’?”
“In the store. If you don’t mind.”
“If I minded, I’d still be in the lab,” Viktor sighed. “Anyway, I’ve decided it wouldn’t hurt to have some decent stuff. I’m not obliged to wear it, right?”
Jayce wanted to argue, badly. But he just nodded. The fact they were going shopping at all was already a win.
…
Jayce parked Viktor in a comfy chair and began methodically looking through the men’s section. He returned with an armful, handed it off to his muse, and shoved him into the fitting room. Then he waited.
“No,” Viktor declared flatly, stepping right back out in a full outfit. When Jayce raised begging eyes, he added, — “I’m scared to breathe at this.”
“Vik, can it be a gift from me?”
“Get me a soldering iron instead.”
“How about this: you agreeing to buy new clothes is a gift to me?”
Viktor blinked. Brows furrowed. Eyes drifted sideways in thought.
“Ah!” He finally got it. “Fuck’s sake, Jayce, can’t you speak like a normal human being?”
“And what would that sound like?”
Viktor narrowed his eyes.
“‘Shut the fuck up and quit whining.’”
“Exactly. Say that to yourself.”
Viktor rolled his eyes and vanished behind the curtain. The shirt fit perfectly. The rest was… questionable.
He burst out two more times, yanking the curtain open dramatically and declaring he couldn’t wear anything that cost more than a month’s rent. Each time, he looked so… Jayce nearly blacked out, legs wobbly, hands twitching.
At the third time, Jayce stood up slowly, walked over, and whispered in his ear:
“Vik, if you step out like that one more time, all top-model, I’m going to fuck you right here.”
“Oh wow,” Viktor’s breath hitched. — “That’s a new level. I thought I’d never hear you swear. Do we have time before dinner?”
“No tables today—I booked us in for tomorrow. Meant to tell you. Dinner’s at home tonight. It’s on me.”
They spent the entire prepayment at the store and barely made it home. But Jayce’s hands were already under Vik’s shirt in the elevator.
…
At the restaurant, Viktor didn’t just turn Jayce’s head—he turned every head. Dressed in a sharp new two-piece suit, he looked downright regal. The cane added twice the elegance.
Thankfully, only Jayce heard the stream of swearing that came later as Viktor peeled the outfit off back at home. Ruined the whole aristocratic vibe.
The next morning after the restaurant, Caitlyn sent an invite to a new group on the social network. “Jayce Talis — Young Artist, Bright Future of Piltover.”
Jayce called her.
“Cait, what the hell are you doing?”
“You need a fanbase. You do. Who’s gonna buy your pretty little paintings otherwise?”
“There’s no one but students in there. They’re broke, Cait.”
“They’ll grow up. Eventually. You’ll thank me. Actually, do it now. I could’ve just dropped your profile link, but no—I’m doing this for you. I’m talking to your insane fangirls myself.”
“Wait—fangirls? I have those?” Jayce couldn’t help but laugh. Thankfully, Caitlyn laughed too.
“You will! Viktor’s got them already. You’ll catch up.”
“I’ll thank you then. Or curse.”
There were about seventy people in the group. Most of the art department, a few of Viktor’s classmates, and a dozen names that had no connection to the Academy at all. Maybe some curious folks after the exhibit. Still. It was nice.
The Viktor-in-goggles postcard set hit the shelves fast. And the very next day, Mel sent a photo.
Grinning up from the bookmark in her planner—Viktor, with “Thinking is not your thing…”
“Is he always that mean to you?” she wrote, with a giggling emoji.
“Any time I say ‘I’ve been thinking.’”
“Poor thing!”
“He’s usually right though.”
“By the way, Mum bought the whole set.”
Well, Jayce would’ve preferred not to know that.
The fan group started growing scarily fast. Forty to fifty new people every day—and after a week, Jayce gave up trying to keep count.
At five hundred, Caitlyn sent a triumphant “SEE?!” with a screenshot.
At a thousand, she forwarded the most ridiculous messages she’d gotten as admin. There were requests for Viktor’s number, for his address. Flat-out offensive questions like, “Do you know which of them is on top?”
Members were trading photos, bragging about their exhibition loot, and sharing tips on where to find the rarest prints—the uncensored ones.
Those with swearings had been printed in smaller batches, and the bookstores got flooded with demands.
Some people started collecting full sets. Through Caitlyn, Jayce helped them figure out which ones were missing and where to find them.
He stayed off the group himself—after the stuff Caitlyn sent him, he was scared to even look.
Thank the skies for that fake account. If it was under his real name, things would’ve gotten… entertaining.
Somehow, buried in all the postcard chaos, they made it to September. Classes started again.
Jayce finally enrolled in animal sketching and started practicing for the next set. Sometimes, he’d pass a draft to Caitlyn to post in the group—something not shown at the exhibit.
He was just putting the final touches on an old sketch, to post it before bed, when he heard coughing.
Viktor, who’d already been through three serious spine surgeries and a milder one on his knee, had been dodging another for months.
Wasn’t entirely his fault: the doctors weren’t even sure it was necessary. They loaded him up with meds and “expressed hope” that it would ease up.
Sometimes it did—weeks would pass without that deep, scary sound.
But it never truly went away.
And if this had been the usual kind of cough, Jayce wouldn’t have flinched. But this one tore through the air—wet, raw, scratching at Viktor’s throat.
He dropped to one knee.
Jayce hasn't even noticed how fast he crossed the room.
“Vik? Hey—breathe, breathe…”
They always kept pills close, but there was no getting anything in him like this. He’d just spit it out.
Jayce looked down.
Red marks were blooming across his handkerchief.
That had never happened before.
Jayce barely remembered calling the ambulance. Barely remembered the frantic packing for the hospital, carrying Viktor in his arms down the stairs because the elevator would’ve taken too long.
He barely remembered begging the medics to let him ride along, gripping Viktor’s hand the whole way, whispering please, hold on, just hold on.
But he would always remember the drop of blood slipping from pale lips.
Confused “Jayce?”
Trembling fingers crushing his own.
Amber eyes, wide with terror.
The way Viktor’s body arched from the seizure.
The oxygen mask streaked red from the inside.
A couple of hours later, Jayce was in the hospital room, clutching Viktor’s hand.
Viktor smiled faintly, already trying to shoo him away: “I’ll be fine by morning. Don’t freak out so much.”
Jayce just shook his head. “Rest. Don’t talk.”
When Viktor finally drifted off, Jayce walked out on wobbly legs and sank to the floor just outside the door.
Someone handed him a clipboard. Asked him to fill something out.
He stared at it blankly.
That morning, a new sketch appeared in the fan group.
On a hospital form, across the lines—Viktor’s head.
A crooked little smile, a mess of hair on the pillow, eyes barely open, oxygen cannula tucked into his nose.
Next to it, in neat handwriting, the answer Viktor had given when Jayce whispered, “Everything was going so well, love—how did this happen?”:
“Life punched me in the face.”