Chapter Text
It’s a long walk from the village to the shack, and Jayce’s leg isn’t pleased about it.
The hot shock of pain that jolts up his shin with every step is punishment enough, but the tingling numbness that rushes in afterwards is what really turns Jayce’s hike home into an ordeal. It’s already difficult to keep his steps even, he doesn’t need his whole leg losing sensation and sending him stumbling into a ditch.
But it’s fine. This is normal. The autumn clouds roll over the sky, the walk down the valley is long, and Jayce’s leg hurts.
He’s used to it.
He just has to make it home, make it back to Viktor, and then Jayce can rest. Well, he does need to sort through the meager supplies he bought today and scrounge together dinner and fix the lock on the outhouse, but then he can rest.
Jayce’s leg throbs. It wants him to stop moving, but he’s not home yet.
It would be so much simpler if he and Viktor could live close to the village.
There’s an empty house on a rise overlooking the town’s northern square, nestled on a wide ledge where the settlement bumps against the mountain. If circumstances were different, maybe Jayce and Viktor could barter their way into living there.
Circumstances being what they are, Jayce and Viktor are stuck with a shack.
Not that Jayce isn’t grateful to have a shack. It’s leagues better than roughing it, especially since the weather’s turning, and knowing there’s a place where Viktor can hide is a balm for Jayce’s anxieties. It stops his heart from beating out of his chest whenever he overhears village gossip about a mysterious figure in the woods.
The rumours stay rumours, but the threat of discovery is eternal.
But that’s fine too. That’s normal. There’s nothing Jayce can do except keep his head down and stay focused on whatever jobs he can get. Mostly it’s repair work, for tools, for machines, for buildings, anything that gets him money to pay for enough food to last another night.
Though today, he did earn enough for a gift.
It’s something Jayce has been thinking about for weeks, and the fee for repairing the baker’s oven was enough to grant him this one indulgence. From the top of his bag the edges of it peek out: a long bolt of navy wool, pre-cut by the general store’s proprietor. Jayce took his time feeling each fabric on display before settling on this one.
Nothing but the best for Viktor.
Because that’s what this cloth is for. It’s going to be a cloak. The battered scraps of the old lab blanket-turned-cape-turned-scarf aren’t doing much to protect Viktor from the elements, but Jayce’s intended gift will provide more than protection.
Maybe, from a distance, it will help Viktor pass for human.
But that’s a project for home. Right now, Jayce just has to ignore his leg and keep walking.
So, with nothing but the rolling clouds for company, Jayce walks.
Of course, Jayce pays for his long hike the moment he steps into the shack.
It’s not a big building. Just one room with a fireplace, a table, a chair, and a bedroll. Jayce manages to stay on his feet as he puts the new supplies away and hides the navy fabric under his pillow, but he makes the mistake of standing still after setting a fire, and the exhaustion catches up with him.
The exhaustion, and the pain.
Jayce’s leg is a long, molten line of suffering, radiating up past his thigh and gnawing on the base of his spine. The screaming of his flesh obliterates any ambitions of making Viktor something to eat and sends Jayce tripping towards the bedroll on the floor.
With his hips aching like this, sitting won’t help. The best he can do is lie on his back and squeeze his eyes tight until he blinks away his tears.
So that’s what he does. His body doesn’t give him any other choice.
Jayce lays there, bored and miserable, for far too long. The only indication of time passing is the fading light from the shack’s only window. Evening falls, uncaring that Jayce has accomplished nothing of what he intended to do, and the sickening guilt of his inaction is just starting to tip into nausea when there’s a rap at the door.
“Might I enter?” Comes an echoing voice from outside.
It doesn’t banish the shame, but it gives Jayce the strength necessary to heave himself into a seated position.
“Of course,” Jayce says.
The door creaks open, and Viktor crosses the threshold.
He dips his head as he enters, crouching and staying stooped once he’s inside. His massive frame would scrape the ceiling if he stood fully upright. In the firelight, the gold embedded in his body almost seems to glow, the indigo metal carries a dull gleam, and the shadows caress every sharp point and ornamental swirl of his body.
From under his scarf, the hexclaw peeks over his shoulder before ducking back down. Absolutely adorable.
Viktor heads for the table and begins unpacking his own bag, sorting something Jayce can’t quite see from the bedroll.
“How’re you doing?” Jayce asks.
“Tolerably well,” Viktor says. His mask is as still as it’s always been. “I found more of the edible tubers around the pines, and cranberries have started to appear near the base of the valley.”
“That’s good,” Jayce says.
Viktor hums in acknowledgement, a mechanical thrum that settles in Jayce’s bones.
It might be a soothing sound, but it’s not exactly a reply that invites further talking. Jayce clears his throat. “I brought some potatoes and carrots home today.”
“Then I will make vegetable stew,” Viktor says, and turns his back on Jayce.
Viktor remains silent as he uses their limited cutlery to prepare the meal. No further remarks, no questions about Jayce’s day, no more information on how he’s feeling. Now, there’s just Viktor commandeering the cooking pot, and there’s not much left for Jayce to do.
Tidying doesn’t appeal, mostly because it involves standing up again. It’s too late in the evening to take a nap, and even if Viktor were in a more talkative mood, Jayce’s wrung-out brain can’t find the strands necessary to start a new conversation. He could start sewing the cloak, but Jayce’s fingers are still tingling from the cold and even if his hands were up to the task, it’d be rude to make a gift in front of the person it’s intended for.
That leaves only one option.
Jayce leans back against the wall and stares at Viktor.
It’s an old habit. Back in the lab, before Jayce knew that the ache in his chest was love, he lost hours observing Viktor from the corner of his eye. There was so much to look at, to catalogue, to note. There was the messy swoop of Viktor’s bangs, the crooked slant of his teeth, the two moles on his neck that peeked above his collar if Jayce was lucky. There were a thousand myriad details that came together to form Jayce’s favourite person, and all of them were equally adored.
So now, in this shack, it’s easy for Jayce to draw on years of experience and let his eyes feast.
Jayce stares at gleaming strips of metal that run up Viktor’s leg, at the ornamentation covering his chest, at the small flecks of gold that cover his fingers in asymmetrical filigree. Viktor’s hair, darker than the shadows around him, bobs up at the ends despite the length. The hexclaw, mostly concealed under the scarf, fidgets slightly as Viktor stirs the cooking pot.
There’s so much to learn. Jayce could look forever and still find something new to admire.
Which leads to the latest of his observations.
Jayce shuffles to the edge of his bedroll, close enough that Viktor’s face is visible in profile.
The flickering light makes the features of his face waver, softening the spikes at the top and sharpening the molded expression at the sides. The firelight doesn’t reflect off his metal skin, but it does glint when it catches what Jayce is looking for.
There, along the seam of Viktor’s split face, is a thin line of moisture.
It rests at the junction point between the metal mask and the frozen expression, a smooth arc of liquid that sparkles before the fire. It’s not evenly distributed and a bead of it falls, trailing over a permanently shut eye before disappearing under Viktor’s jaw.
Now, Jayce might be nothing more than a handyman, but he was once a scientist. He knows better than to leap to conclusions without a firm base of evidence. So, from what Jayce has observed, the facts are thus:
– The moisture is found at the places where Viktor’s old face meets the edges of his new one and, on rare occasions, in a line directly down the centre of his mask.
– The moisture only appears when Viktor is waiting for a particularly aromatic meal.
– Despite Viktor needing to eat, he never does so in Jayce’s presence.
This small list is perhaps not the most rigorous data set to draw from, but the hypothesis they support is a compelling one.
Namely, that there’s a damn good chance that the liquid on Viktor’s face is saliva. If that is true, it follows that somewhere, hidden beneath his unmoving mask, Viktor might have a mouth.
And he hasn’t once spoken of it to Jayce.
That’s where the delight of observation ends. If this was the lab, Jayce would be sharing all these details with Viktor. They’d be tossing theories back and forth about how Viktor’s new body consumes nutrients, or the composition of his saliva, or the mechanics of his hidden jaw.
But they don’t talk like that anymore.
Now, when Viktor speaks to him, it’s about the essentials of survival. It’s to relay an inventory of foraged items from the woods. It’s to request specific necessities from the village shop. It’s to inquire what parts of their shack need shoring up.
And that’s if he speaks at all.
There’s a distance to Viktor, even when he’s sharing a room with Jayce. He steps back when Jayce steps close, he stays scrupulously out of arm’s length, and the few times Jayce has caught Viktor reaching for him out of the corner of his eye, Viktor retracts his hand before it connects.
It’s maddening. Agonising. Isolating. There was a time when shared touch was as natural to them as breathing, maybe even more so when Viktor’s old lungs started to fail. A hand brushed over a shoulder in greeting, a poke to the ribs to tease, a stroke up and down a back to soothe, all gestures so familiar as to be unconscious.
And now Jayce is bereft of even a passing brush of fingers. The absence leaves him lying on his side in the middle of the night, hugging his own body and wishing that the arms around him were made of metal.
And then Jayce wakes up the next morning. He exchanges a few words with Viktor. He spends the whole day on his own as the starving, ravenous desire to hold Viktor close burns just below his skin like a fever, tormenting him just as much as his wretched leg.
And when Jayce comes home, exhausted from labour and heartache, by the time his path intersects with Viktor’s, Jayce cannot summon the energy to speak.
Besides, what would Jayce say?
There are no pretty words for this emotion, this wretched hole in his ribcage that wants and wants and wants. It’s a selfish pit, ever hungry, ever aching, unsatisfied and incomplete without Viktor’s words or Viktor’s touch.
Their embrace in the arcane seems so long ago, that beautiful moment when their souls were one and their hearts were united in a brilliant, encompassing swell.
And then they woke up.
Perhaps Viktor woke up in more than a literal sense. Perhaps when he held Jayce’s soul in his hands, what he saw was enough to demand this distance. Viktors imperfections have always been something Jayce loves and admires. Jayce’s imperfections are what drove the wedge between them and almost started the apocalypse. The scales are not equal between them.
So what is Jayce to do? With no more instructions from any version of Viktor, the conditions of Jayce’s atonement are unknown. Jayce goes to the village. He repairs what he can. He spends what he earns to bring home enough to keep them both alive for another day.
He looks at Viktor, and he wants.
“Jayce,” Viktor says. “Dinner is ready.”
Jayce startles. Viktor is kind enough not to comment as he hands him a bowl of stew.
“Thanks,” Jayce says. “Sorry I’m being so quiet tonight.”
Viktor hums, the sound layering over itself. “There’s no need to apologise. You have had a long day, yes? I should let you rest.”
And just like every evening, Viktor takes his portion and heads for the door. At the threshold he turns back, his glowing eyes so much brighter than the fire.
“Sleep well, Jayce,” Viktor says, and shuts the door behind him.
It all happens too quick for Jayce to object. The interval between Viktor being here and then gone passed between blinks, and Jayce should have been ready. It happens every night, every single night, and he’s never, never prepared for the moment Viktor steps out the door.
Viktor’s not gone forever. He comes back every morning. The chasm in Jayce’s chest, the pressure behind his eyes, the shaking of his hands, these are only temporary, fleeting feelings, not cursed to last forever.
So really, it’s fine. It has to be fine, because Jayce can’t get up to chase Viktor, not when he’s used up all the strength in his stupid leg walking back from the village.
So Jayce breathes out. He eats his stew. He rests.
There’s nothing else he can do, really.
A rap at the door jolts Jayce awake.
He groans into the bedroll, ignoring the faint light illuminating the shack in favour of mashing his face again the sackcloth pillow. His leg hurts. It always hurts, but this clenching fire that rages at the slightest movement, this isn’t mere pain. It’s agony, teeth-grinding, fist-clenching agony, demanding an excruciating attention with every pulse of his heart.
Fuck, how is he supposed to work like this?
Another tap at the door. “Jayce?”
Jayce shoves himself upright. “I’m awake.”
“May I come in?”
Why does Viktor ask that every single time? “Of course.”
The door opens, and the chill air sweeps in as Viktor enters. He shuts it quickly and kneels at the foot of Jayce’s bedroll.
“I didn’t wish to disturb you,” Viktor says. “I apologise.”
“Don’t bother,” Jayce grunts.
Viktor’s long, metal fingers twist in his lap. “If you insist. I merely wanted to inquire if you’ll be heading into town today.”
Is he? Neither of them can afford a day off, not with two mouths to feed, but Jayce’s leg is screaming at him and he’s not even out of bed. It’ll be a miracle if he can make it to the village, let alone do any work, and if he doesn’t then there’s no new food, nothing but what they have right now, and with the weather turning it’s getting harder to forage and–
“Jayce,” Viktor says, “If you do not want to go, then you don’t need to.”
Jayce sighs. He rubs his hands over his face and keeps them there as he says, “It’s not that simple.”
“It isn’t,” Viktor says, “But if it is our supplies that concern you, then I will bring the bag you usually take to town with me into the forest. I will prioritise foraging for food, and with twice the capacity we will be secure for the next few days.”
How very like Viktor, to swoop in with a solution that covers the practical nature of the problem and soothes the anxiety shredding Jayce’s brain.
And here’s Jayce lying on the bedroll because of a leg cramp, doing nothing to help.
“You shouldn’t have to do all the work,” Jayce mumbles.
“Neither should you,” Viktor says. “Rest, Jayce. It will serve you better than collapsing from exhaustion.”
Viktor rises, an elegant unfolding of purple limbs that makes the filigree on his torso glint in the meager sunlight. Even in this cramped shack where he cannot reach his full height, he remains the most gorgeous thing Jayce has ever laid his eyes on.
“Alright,” Jayce says. “Good luck out there.”
The golden lights of Viktor’s eyes flash. “It is not a matter of luck. It is a matter of observation, and thus your well-wishes are unnecessary.”
That’s what Viktor used to say before he exploded another prototype in the lab, which means the gleam in his eyes must be amusement. The delight of recognising a new expression on Viktor’s face is short lived, though, traded in for the twist of Jayce’s stomach as Viktor shuts the door behind him.
Alone again. He had Viktor for less than five minutes.
Jayce flops back on the bedroll. He shouldn’t be this selfish. There are so many reasons why they spend their days separate, for the sake of survival, to keep them both alive, to keep them from starving.
There’s no reason at all for them to spend their nights alone.
Not unless it’s what Viktor prefers.
Jayce drags a hand over his face. One previously unconsidered facet of being stuck in the shack all day is that he has nothing to keep his mind from boiling itself alive. He needs to keep moving, and if his legs can’t provide that then he needs to find another outlet.
Actually, he does have a project, one that might entice Viktor to stay and speak for more than a few moments. Jayce doesn’t even have to get out of bed, because he’s lying right on top of it.
Jayce forces himself upright and pulls the navy fabric from under his pillow. It rests in his lap, warm and soft, and he allows himself a small grin.
Even if his gift doesn’t convince Viktor to stay inside tonight, at least he’ll have something of Jayce with him when he goes.
The first sensation is a familiar one. Pain. Pain. Pain. Boring and rote, present before any thought or feeling as Jayce is dragged from unconsciousness towards waking. The ache in his leg is impossible to miss, but as long as he keeps his eyes closed he can almost fool his brain into ignoring it.
It doesn’t really work. It does, however, keep him still as the door creaks open and the sound of rain fills the room. Another creak, and then there’s the groan of a floorboard, the dull impact of something hitting wood, a rustle of fabric followed by a clattering noise.
Jayce slides his eyes open.
Viktor stands above him as he unpacks the bags at their table. Murky evening shadows loom at the corners of the room, but Viktor is untouched, his metal skin almost soft in the light of a lantern. His elegant movements are smooth, confident, sure, even in this most mundane of tasks.
Beautiful, always so beautiful.
The hexclaw pokes over Viktor’s shoulder, spiralling and bobbing as Viktor organises. It’s the most it’s moved in Jayce’s presence. Perhaps, out in the woods where Viktor’s alone, the hexclaw moves as it does now, reaching out to poke at the items on the table and swiveling around Viktor’s head.
The hexclaw turns to Jayce. Though it has no eyes, it almost seems to be looking at him. It pinches its digits quickly, making a clicking noise.
Viktor stops moving. He glances down, flinches, and immediately drops to his knees, hunching his shoulders as the hexclaw ducks behind his back.
“Jayce,” he says, “I was unaware you were awake. My apologies.”
“Wuh?” Jayce manages.
“Perhaps not so awake yet.” Viktor tilts his head. “How are you feeling?”
Jayce groans.
“Not well, then,” Viktor says.
“No,” Jayce mumbles.
“Have you been sleeping since I left?”
“No, I…” Jayce forces himself into a sit. His leg shrieks at the motion. “I was working on… on…”
Jayce feels around for the cloak. It can’t be far, he was in the middle of sewing on buttons when he passed out.
There it is, at the side of his bedroll. All the pieces are connected, and though the hemming’s a bit sloppy it’s proof he hasn’t wasted a whole day. When Jayce goes to pick it up, his fingers won’t pinch at first. The tips tingle when he flexes them, and his knuckles ache as he grips the fabric.
“I made it for you,” Jayce says. His arms are so heavy, but he holds the cloak out as best he can. “It’s getting cold, and I know you don’t feel it, but you kept the blanket so I thought…”
Jayce’s shoulder bumps into the table. When did he start listing?
Viktor’s hands thread together as Jayce rights himself.
“I made it for you,” Jayce repeats. That’s the important part, anyway. “It’s a gift.”
Viktor shifts, the metal of his limbs clinking together. “That is very kind, Jayce, but perhaps you should be focusing on yourself? As you said, I don’t feel the cold, but, eh… you are not looking in the best of health.”
It’s not quite a rejection. There’s no reason for the sudden wetness in Jayce’s eyes or the lump in his throat. Viktor’s just concerned, and if he’s worried about Jayce’s welfare, then at least that’s something Jayce can give him information about.
“It’s my leg,” Jayce says. “It hurts, so I’m tired.”
The words slur a little coming out, but it’s the sort of succinct summary Viktor’s always appreciated in lab reports.
“…If it has been paining you all day,” Viktor says, “Might I examine it?”
Jayce nods, the room spinning a little, and starts to remove his pants. With the way his clothes fit, it’s easier to slip them off than roll up them up. It takes some undignified squirming and a stabbing pinch in his hips, but Jayce manages to wrestle his pants off without losing his underclothes.
Jayce huffs, finally past that unfortunate hurdle, looks at his stupid leg and–
The flesh below his kneecap is pockmarked with holes.
Circles as small as fingernails and as large as cogs bore into his skin, big enough to form shallow tunnels that cover almost the entirety of his shin. None of them bleed. None of them are rotting. His bloodless flesh is almost white where it encircles the holes, a pale, smooth surface that reaches beyond the rim of the wounds, down to his ankle and up over his knee.
Porcelain, overtaking skin.
There are no flowers growing out of the wreckage. No moss creeping over his leg. The resemblance to his own corpse resting atop the hexgates is unmistakable nonetheless.
“Jayce!” Viktor’s voice rings out right by his ear. “You need to breathe!”
Jayce’s mind lurches back into his body. It’s not a happy reunion. His lungs burn, his skin is clammy with sweat, his eyes are filling with tears, and every muscle is clenched, braced, screaming in pain as his tension turns to trembling.
And Viktor kneels before him, his bright eyes fixed on Jayce.
“This is a matter of grave importance,” Viktor says, “I need you to listen closely.”
Jayce takes a deep inhale, holds it until he can let it go without hyperventilating, and breathes out.
He nods.
Viktor nods in return. “Please, do not be alarmed, but I believe I can assess the damage. The arcane, it, eh, sings?”
Not exactly reassuring, but Jayce nods again.
Viktor shifts closer to the bedroll. “This is the same infestation that has lived with you since you returned from the future.” He lowers his hand, hovering it over Jayce’s knee without making contact. “I remember the shape of your skeleton from when I touched your soul. Without the arcane holding the shards of your bone together, you wouldn’t be able to walk.”
Jayce stares. Viktor’s face is wavering, the room growing darker at the edges, as he continues to speak.
“I suspect the reason it has turned malignant now, unlike the patches on your wrist and back, is because of the strain you’ve placed on your leg. It’s overcompensating to keep your limb functional.”
Viktor continues talking. Jayce really should be paying attention, but it’s difficult when his heart is beating so loudly it drowns out the world.
Viktor’s next words, though, cut through the haze.
“It is spreading. I do not think we can halt it.”
And it’s too much.
Jayce sobs.
He can’t help it. The misery of it is too much to contain. Tears fall down his face and his chest heaves and everything he’s done has been pointless, useless, worthless, because he’s going to leave Viktor alone with nothing but a porcelain doll for eternity when he promised he’d save Viktor from that wretched fate. He’s failed, he’s failed, and he didn’t even realise it.
Between wails, Jayce takes heaving gasps, forcing his eyes wide despite the tears so he can keep Viktor in sight. It’s impossible to read his mask or his frozen face, but he’s still here, he’s not gone, and he can’t be left alone, not for eternity, not like the mage.
So Jayce won’t go without a fight. He promised, he promised.
“Cut it off,” Jayce weeps.
“What?”
“Take it off, get it away from me, I don’t want it anymore,” Jayce chokes, on the pain, on his own spit, on the bile rising in his throat, “It hurts, it’ll kill me, so cut it off.”
“Oh Jayce, Jayce…” Viktor’s hand extends, reaching, before drawing back, retreating as Viktor starts to stand, as Viktor starts to leave–
Jayce lunges for him. His nails catch in the grooves of Viktor’s metal skin.
“Don’t go,” Jayce forces out between gasps, “Don’t leave, please.”
Viktor’s cool hand covers Jayce’s own, holding him still. His glowing eyes look down at him, steady and unwavering.
“I will not desert you, Jayce,” he says. “But if I am to do as you ask, I will need to gag you to prevent you from biting off your own tongue.”
Viktor’s chilled fingers are a balm as they brush over Jayce’s fevered skin. They curl over Jayce’s wrist, lowering his arm as Viktor rises.
Jayce blinks and time smears.
Viktor is standing at the far end of the shack, then he’s kneeling beside Jayce, pulling the lantern closer, reaching out and touching, touching Jayce more than he’s touched him since they survived the arcane as he presses a cold hand to Jayce’s chest, pushes Jayce flat against the ground, draws Jayce’s hands up to clutch the table leg, coaxes Jayce’s mouth open with a gentle caress to his jaw.
Jayce blinks again, and the world shatters into too many sensations to understand.
A wooden spoon, handle placed between his teeth.
A metal hand, unmovable, holding down Jayce’s upper thigh.
The hum of the hexclaw, the pinhole blaze at its centre awakening.
And Viktor’s voice, above everything else. Familiar even with the distortion, beloved as it’s always been.
“I am sorry, Jayce.”
Why? Why is he apologising when it’s Jayce who’s forcing him to do this?
Jayce doesn’t have time to ask.
There is a blinding light, a scorching heat, a surging, searing fire that lurches up from Jayce’s leg, consuming all feeling, devouring all sensation, a maelstrom of agony that obliterates any part of him it touches and leaves nothingness in its wake.
There is no fighting it. There is no enduring it. There is only pain and the emptiness that follows.
The void takes Jayce into its maw and swallows him whole.