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The sun is low and golden as Jayce pushes open the door and slowly leans against it to close as softly as the old hinge will allow. He rests a moment there letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, and breathing in the familiar tapestry of kitchen spices, papery books, and the smoke of an experiment they still quite haven’t scrubbed out of the ceiling. Viktor had been napping with Rio curled at his feet when Jayce stepped out to pick up fresh produce and he doesn't want to wake him just yet. He tiptoes as much as his heavier body allows him to, remembering to step over the creakiest floorboard on his way to the kitchen. He slides the egg carton into the fridge and leaves the potatoes on the counter for now, his eyes snagging on the loveliest of sights. It’s a small apartment, either rundown and cozy depending on the humor of the observer. But Jayce loves it, every humble inch of it, because it’s theirs.
The small space does mean he can see the couch from the kitchen, and he can cross a mere few feet to reach his destination. Sunrays filtered through thin thrifted curtains, two knobby crochet blankets tucked under a chin, and the cat now sleeping on a gently rising and lowering chest. Viktor is beautiful like this, awash with a soft glow and his face relaxed with sleep. Of course Jayce is hard pressed to think of any time Viktor isn’t beautiful, soot-smudged, irritated, blushing, and every and all in between. He gives into temptation immediately, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. Viktor makes a gurgling sound, and Jayce has to press his lips tightly closed as he kisses him to keep from laughing. Rio perks her head up, a similar little sound erupting from her throat. If Viktor was awake, he’d call it her start-up sound.
“And now that the princess is awake, does she want dinner?” Jayce scritches his thumb between Rio's ears and she leans into his touch.
“Princess wants that sopa you promised.” Viktor murmurs, eyes now open and glittering up at Jayce.
“Hi, baby.” He can’t help it, the grin making his whole face wide and bright, and he kisses Viktor’s head again with more smile than lips.
“Jayce, please.” There’s a gentle hand cupping his cheek before pushing him away. “There’s soup to be made.”
“You’re so single minded when you’re hungry.” Jayce laughs, then scoops Rio up in his arms. “I’ll open the cat food if you want to start on the potatoes?”
He gets as far as gently plopping Rio onto the floor as he grabs a can from the cabinet when he hears a groan from the couch behind him. Some instinct flares in him, and Jayce leaves the can spinning on the counter and rushes back in.
Viktor is hunched over, panting and sweating like he ran six marathons and not just moved up from his nap. Jayce drops to his knees in front of him, anxiety coursing like an electric shock through his system.
“Viktor, what’s happening, what do you need?”
“Hurts.” He barely manages to push the words past his lips.
“Where?” Jayce looks him over, but sees no clear sign of injury. It seems wholly internal. “Should I call—“
“Hurts!” Viktor grabs at Jayce’s shoulders, nails digging deep with a sudden burst of unknown strength. “You…”
Jayce lets Viktor grip him, it’s a good sign ultimately, he isn’t too weak to move. But it’s shocking the way his hands both tremble and claw at him. His head is still lowered, sweat plastering his bangs over his face.
Jayce reaches up, a gentle hand brushing back his hair. And he almost swallows his tongue with fear.
Viktor is not looking at him even as Jayce moves his hair. He can’t look at him. His eyes are dug from the socket, unnaturally smooth red skin peering back at him. It’s horrific; too clean, too raw; a surgical scoop achieved by some twisted hand. Viktor’s face is scraped and sunken, sharp cheekbones skull-like as his flesh is stretched thin and translucent over them.
“Jayce, what did you do to me?” His voice is wind through the branches of a decayed tree, raspy and rattling.
His hand shakes, but Jayce holds Viktor’s face anyways. “Mi amor, what is happening?”
“Don’t call me that.” Viktor yanks away from his touch, his words salt in a wound. “It’s not true, it can't be true. If you loved me you wouldn’t have hurt me.”
Jayce can feel the sweat rolling cold down his spine and the squeeze on his stomach. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but he forces a swallow down. “Viktor, I–” his lungs seize, like a hiccup stealing all his air, again, again, again. “This doesn’t make sense–” his teeth feel loose in his mouth, his tongue swollen, the paper and smoke and spice of the room a choking cloud enveloping him.
“You’re killing me Jayce.” Viktor coughs and claws at his neck, nails leaving stripes of red. “Everything you do is wrong, you’re a corrupting force. An infection.” He sags against the back of the couch, teeth gleaming whiter against the blood spitting from his mouth. “We would all be better off without you.”
Jayce screams; it erupts unwillingly, gas exploding from a popped balloon. He folds in on himself, fear closing his eyes, shame squeezing them shut. His torn yell echoes in the space around him, drowning out Viktor’s refrain. We would all be better off without you. Without you. Jayce digs red moons into his palms and sees stars in his eyelids from the force of trying to shrink away from this living nightmare he’s found himself in.
Like ice water, the thought crashes into him and he falls backward from the force of gasping awake. His eyes are open. It is still dark. The only stars are summoned from pain. He rolls over on his side and immediately dry heaves. He’s too dehydrated to manage anything wet. It’s a silver lining, somehow. His throat is sandpapered raw, his head pounding, his hands bleeding. A nightmare. He blinks, again, again, again, trying to sort out the blurred cinema of thoughts rushing through his mind. He’s afraid to close his eyes again so he lets it replay like a projection over the grey-dark of his surroundings. Viktor. A shared apartment they never had. A cat plucked from fiction. A kiss. Another kiss. A fabricated dream stitched from hope and heart, then suddenly tossed into burning bright flame. So much good, ripped and ruined, remade into nightmare.
Jayce scrubs at his eyes. It hurts. He can’t touch what hurts the most. He can’t reach it, can’t reach anything this far fallen. He needs to sit up, needs to crawl again to relight his fire, to boil the rainwater, to try and survive. Better off without you. He can’t let himself believe that version of Viktor. A siren song, a lullaby, but Jayce doesn’t think it will carry him anywhere nice.
He pushes aside the half eaten lizard, more char than meat remains, and allows himself one last moment of wallowing pity. He’d much rather be eating homemade soup right now, rather than that tough scaly thing. Jayce thinks of warm potatoes, cat fur, and a crooked familiar smile as he lays back on the cold stone ground and tries to return to a dreamless sleep.