Work Text:
Viktor does not often celebrate his birthday. As a young child, he recalls a faded memory of his mother once baking a cake, the messy icing painting the kitchen counter. He does not recall much of her face, but he still remembers the sweetness of the batter as he licked it off the spoon, the twinkling glisten of the snow that glazed the ground outside. That was their last Christmas together, and the last year he would have ever known what day was specifically his birthday.
Later, when Singed asked in a rare moment of kindness, Viktor simply chose a cold-winter date at random. Singed was never much for sentimental acts such as gift-giving, holiday-celebrating. As a child under his care, Viktor’s birthday would be treated just like any other day — save for the way Singed would let him linger a little longer around him in the cave, allowing him to pet Rio, would offer to have Viktor help out more, would always have some sweet dessert prepared after dinner. Even if it came without the candles, the singing, it was still Signed’s way of showing he knew, that he cared, that he honored the day in his own way.
And when he arrived in Piltover, the day mattered not at all anymore. No one got close enough to ever inquire about it, and he never felt the need to treat himself to anything alone. Even Heimerdinger never asked, always too caught up in his own world, in the deeds Viktor could get done for him instead. It was always just another day. He hardly even celebrated Christmas, so soon after his self-chosen birthday, though he appreciated the traditions much more, did not mind indulging in them. The busy streets decorated with lights, cheerful children ice skating in the townsquare’s rink, hot chocolate warming his hand on his way home. In a way he liked having his birthday all to himself, lost in the otherwise merry festivities, a trinket of his past that belonged only to him — not to the academy, not to Piltover. Something that kept him bound to the life he once had.
It is Jayce who takes the truth from him eventually. A late night in the lab, meandering conversations about this and that. And then a dawning realization, Jayce looking at him with wide eyes, shocked, I don’t even know when your birthday is. And the utter disappointment when Viktor had to tell him it was almost a month ago by the time Jayce had asked, a hesitant, I am truly not even sure of the actual date, but I suppose it was around then. Another flash of shock in the man’s eyes, the slow frown forming on his lips, as if that is even a possibility. Jayce, really, it’s fine. Yes, yes, we can do something next year if it matters so much to you.
But the next year arrives, and Jayce is silent about it. Viktor assumes the man has forgotten over the whirlwind of a year it had been — galas, presentations to the council, failed Hextech blueprints, Jayce’s name becoming a recognizable force amongst the upper echelons of society, the HexGates proving all too useful for the city. He wouldn’t blame Jayce at all. It’s just another day of their otherwise hectic life, a day he does not even know if it is his true birthday, a day really unlike any other. Viktor should never expect anything extravagant. Viktor should never expect anything at all.
And yet —
It is stupid, of course. Childish, vain, self-conceited. But he had expected Jayce to stay true to his word. Even just a simple warm greeting, a fleeting hug — if he was lucky, perhaps a steaming cup of sweetmilk waiting for him on his desk in the lab. But Jayce rushes into the lab a near hour after Viktor with a huff, a frustration to his movements that is common only when he has come from a less-than-pleasing meeting with the Kirammans or the council. As he whips his scarf off, nose red from the cold, his first words to Viktor are no greeting, no sweet-toothed congratulations. “They’re asking me to go to another gala. Tonight.”
And despite the disappointment, Viktor cannot hide the teasing smile that curls on his lips. “Didn’t Mrs. Kiramman promise you a break until the new year?”
“Supposedly,” he says, a hand rubbing down his face. He looks tired, as if he spent all his last energy on trying to weasel out of it. “I don’t know, she says it’s a big deal. End of the year celebrations. It’ll look good if I’m there…” A pause. “She also invited you.”
Viktor tries not to show his own frustration, turning to continue adjusting the screw in their upcoming project. “Cassandra remembers my name?” It is half a joke, better than the cruel things he rather say about her that festers on his tongue.
“Very funny. Okay, so I asked her if you can come.” And that gets Viktor to turn back towards him, annoyance evident in his face. Jayce holds up a hand, silently asking him to just listen. “Please, Vik. You know I never ask but… it’s right before the holidays.” When Viktor does not immediately budge, he tries, “I don’t want to go alone this time. We can even try to sneak away early.”
“Fine,” Viktor says with a theatrical sigh — as if he was ever going to truly deny him of this answer all along.
There are worse things than spending his birthday at some fancy gala with Jayce Talis after all.
— — —
Really, Viktor thinks Jayce has had this planned for far longer than he will let on. It is the only real answer as to why the man already has a suit prepared for Viktor: a nicer piece than anything Viktor has ever owned, a maroon button-down shirt with a gold tie, House Talis cufflinks, a pair of black loafers that fit suspiciously well. While Jayce primps and preens in front of his own mirror, Viktor struggles to even correctly tie his own tie, fingers disobedient from nervousness.
The first time he attended a gala alongside Jayce, he made it about an hour into the ordeal. It had not even been half-bad — until a man with more money than commonsense slid his way next to Viktor, eyes settling on his brace, a cruel sneer. They’re just letting anyone into these nowadays, hm? When Jayce had found him hidden away in the lab later that night, Viktor had blamed it on some sickness going around. Anything but admit the truth of why his eyes were glossy and red, why his cheeks were flushed scarlet from embarrassment, anger, from a fit of tears. Since then, he had adamantly refused to partake in the schmoozing expected of them. It is not worth it, and they all rather pretend it is solely Jayce’s project anyways.
Viktor startles when Jayce places a hand on his shoulder, looking at his reflection in the mirror. There is a look in his eyes that on someone else, it may read as pity. On Jayce, it just looks like concern. “Need help tying the tie?”
Viktor turns sheepishly, letting Jayce’s fingers work magic on the fabric. “I am perfectly fine tying it myself, you know.”
Jayce doesn’t say anything but gives him a small hum, one that sounds more like, If you say so. When Jayce finishes, his hands do not fall back to his side. Rather, they lay themselves on Viktor’s shoulder, warm and enveloping. Viktor takes a sharp breath.
Sometimes Jayce stands so close to him, just like this, that Viktor cannot help but let that familiar feeling of hope flicker and blaze inside him, that perhaps, just maybe —
“We should go,” Jayce says, extinguishing it once more. “Cassandra hates when I’m late.” And as he says her name, his hands slowly fall away from Viktor, his back turning from him.
“She hates a lot of things.”
And though it’s not a joke this time, Jayce still laughs.
— — —
The gala is held in a beautiful, large room. The type of ornate architecture that always wows Viktor, engraved stone florals creeping upwards towards the ceiling, Christmas lights strung on every column, a harpist and pianist playing harmonious hymnal tunes from the stage over the chatter of Piltover’s finest. Every woman is adorned in the season’s latest trends, pearl necklaces, diamonds that could feed a family for months. The men wear the women like accessories at their sides, House motifs decking their handkerchiefs, their cufflinks, their gold and chunky rings. Fancy hors d’oeuvres are served on silver platters by servers with more in common with Viktor than he has with anyone else in this room. Men and women come up and shake Jayce’s hand with vigor and entirely ignore Viktor’s mere existence. Jayce hands him flute after flute of champagne, a rare hand on the small of his back, an occasional side eye that asks, Still okay?
And with enough sips of the champagne, he does feel just fine. The liquor makes his stomach feel fizzy, makes his lips settle into a content smile. He never drinks alcohol, not enough to get used to the slight sting of it down his throat. He normally hates the way it makes his tongue loose, the way it makes his cheeks flush. Right now, he likes the warm flush it leaves in his chest, likes the way Jayce grins every time he takes another glass from the roaming servers. Enjoying yourself? It makes it all feel a bit less suffocating — the amount of opulence in the room, Jayce’s incessant checking-in.
And in the rare moments they have a few spare seconds to themselves, it allows Viktor to tug on Jayce’s sleeve, making the man bend down, Viktor whispering bitter gossip in his ear. Her dress is unflattering. Did you notice that men kept mispronouncing your last name? This champagne is not even very good. It is a bit self-indulgent, likes the way Jayce crowds into his space, likes the way Jayce gives him a little smile at every unnecessary comment. And is that not why Jayce wanted him here? To make it all the more bearable, to have someone human at his side?
But it does not last forever. Cassandra walks her way to them, casting a look of judgement the entire way. She barely even nods her head at Viktor in acknowledgement, focusing entirely on Jayce. “They’re asking for you to say a few words.”
Jayce is barely able to conceal the irritation in his voice, a quiet reply, “I don’t have anything prepared.”
“They’ll listen to anything the Man of Progress says.” She takes a sip of her champagne, the slightest shrug of her shoulders. “I tried to tell them no. You know how they can be.”
The drunk part of Viktor’s brain wants to say that Cassandra is one of those very same people, that Jayce said no and that’s that. But Jayce — probably a much sober man than he is, a much braver man too — just sighs. “Fine. I’ll come up with something.”
Cassandra’s lips quirk into a smile, the most human emotion Viktor has ever seen on her. “They are easily pleased, as I am sure you are aware of by now.”
And as Jayce follows behind her, leaving home alone and stranded and stomach a little twisted-sick from too much sugary champagne, Jayce turns and gives him a wide-eyed playful look, Save me, before disappearing from his line of sight entirely.
Until the curtains peel back on the stage, Jayce a domineering presence even half-hidden behind a podium. The room beneath him falls silent without even an introduction before it bursts into wild applause at even the mere sight of him.
Viktor should find it pathetic. Viktor should find it performative, ridiculous, ass-kissing type of behavior. But the issue is —
Viktor’s own heart races at the sight, the feelings of pride and love stirring within him as he watches Jayce. And as he begins his ill-prepared speech, no one would be none the wiser at how he had no time to craft it. He speaks with a confident cadence. He speaks of the successful year Piltover has had, never directly mentioning it, but every implication points to the fact that it is his doing, it is due to the HexGates. He promises that the following year will be even more prosperous, that HexTech will soon have much to offer the world even beyond what they have done so far. He thanks every citizen, thanks the Kirammans, Heimerdinger, to every investor, to everyone who ever believed in our mission —
“And I want to thank my partner, Viktor, for everything he has done to make HexTech a reality.”
The words shock Viktor, a blink, two. Some of the nearby audience look at him from the corner of their eyes — though many simply do not, as many do not even know what Viktor looks like at all. Only Jayce’s face is on all the posters, only his name on the blueprints after all, the beloved Man Of Progress. Still, the call-out is appreciated, making Viktor shuffle his feet a bit from shyness. The words settle amongst the crowd for a moment, Jayce’s eyes on him even from such a long distance, before he turns back towards the rest of the audience, seeing them off with further congratulations, thanks, and another roaring round of applause erupting as confetti falls from the ceiling like snowfall. Outside, fireworks bloom and burst, fogging up the night sky.
It takes Jayce a few minutes to make his way back to Viktor — a winding road of every new potential investor stopping to congratulate him, to introduce themself, to shake his hand, to preen under his attention. Sometimes, when Viktor is willing to admit it to himself, he feels a prick of jealousy over it. Not the fact that Jayce is the crowned creator of their science, but the fact that Jayce’s attention is split in so many directions nowadays. He oftentimes misses those first months, the serene days passed by in the lab together, before the council had their hands in every decision they made, before the HexGates made them a household name.
Still, Jayce makes his way back to him. A look of relief as he finally presses his arm against Viktor, a half-hidden eye roll that makes Viktor bite back a laugh. “Could have been worse, I guess. Want to go take a break on the balcony?”
Viktor grins. He wants nothing more.
— — —
The balcony overlooks Piltover’s skyline, the countless skyscrapers, every tree decorated in warm winter lights, the slightest glimpse of the ice rink in the town square. If they’re quiet enough, Viktor can hear the echo-giggles of children from afar, of mothers fretting over their cold and red noses. The winter chill makes him shiver slightly, but the goosebumps and clattering teeth is worth it for the peace away from the gala, away from the gossip, away from the condescending smiles.
And when he looks over at Jayce, leaning on the balcony rail, the wind mussing up his hair, it reminds him a great deal of their first night together. A night they speak rarely of — at least the beginning of it: Jayce on that ledge, Viktor’s thudding heartbeat at the sight. How the wind made him look so beautiful under the soft moonlight, how Viktor told him he believes in him, how Jayce looked at him half in disbelief and half in shock.
He knew Jayce Talis was a force to be reckoned with from the day he saw him snap under the council’s scrutiny. A force to have faith in, his pretty words of magic and science something to trust rather than hide away. A Man Of Progress blimp flies in the sky in the far distance, proving him right even here and now.
“I don’t hate the galas as much as you do,” Jayce says quietly, eyes not leaving the city lights. “But they are much easier with you here.”
“Well, at least it seems to be winding down.” He peers through the glass door as men and women begin to make their exits, their long-winded goodbyes, the muffled chatter of happy holidays, so good to see you. Servers trail after them, helping them find their coats from the closet, picking up their abandoned wineglasses, staying silent from a distance.
When he turns back around, Jayce is watching him with an unreadable expression. There is a small rush of hope that floods through him, a breathless belief that maybe this is the moment where Jayce will smile, will whisper, And happy birthday, Viktor. Jayce opens his mouth, looks on the cusp of saying something, anything, anything, just remember.
Instead, Jayce asks him, “Do you want to dance?”
The question stuns him for a moment. The grip on his cane tightens slightly. “Here?”
“If you rather go back inside –”
“No, no,” Viktor interrupts quickly. He can already imagine the snickers from an imaginary crowd watching him nearly trip over his own two feet, privy to a moment he rather have all to himself anyways. “I must warn you though, I don’t know if I have ever danced in my entire life.”
Jayce huffs a laugh, walks his way over to Viktor. He holds one of Viktor’s hands as he slowly takes his cane from him, settling it against the balcony rail. “It’s nothing special, really. Just hold onto me.”
And as Jayce’s fingers brush down his waist, Viktor stills entirely — albeit for his death-careening heartbeat, the sweat on his palms, the swift intake of breath. Jayce does these small types of touches often enough where it should not be so much of a shock to his system every time. He can count a dozen times his fingers had lingered on Viktor tonight alone. And yet it never ceases to confuse him still. Jayce pulls him in by the waist, a slow swaying back and forth to the dying hum of the tipsy pianist still playing, a whispered tune through the glass doors. Lights above them flicker a dazzling display. The confetti of the earlier celebrations crunch underneath their shoes, dragged outside by the soles of their leather shoes. Viktor lets himself be moved this way and that way, lets Jayce guide the small movements. Viktor remembers him saying he never dances at these things, not for lack of women trying to persuade him otherwise either.
But here he is now, dancing with Viktor as snow begins to dust the ground, away from prying gazes to gossip over it. He thinks maybe he is simply seeing what he wants to see when he catches Jayce’s eyes, that fond look reflected down at him. Jayce asks, “How are you celebrating the holidays?”
A slight flush colors Viktor’s cheeks. He tries to blame it on the wine, on the dancing, on the cold, on a litany of excuses he tries to reach for — anything but the way Jayce’s fingers feel on the small of his back, anything but the way the words ghost against his cheeks with how close they are now. “I was going to sneak back into the lab honestly, work on everything for a few days without interruption.” He even has the kindness to pretend to feel guilty for it. “After you left, that is.”
Behind the door, if they were to listen closely enough, they might hear Cassandra asking where Jayce ran off to. They might hear the servers whisper-complain about the stragglers who have yet to leave. They might hear Heimerdinger singing their praises to anyone who will humor him.
But Viktor pays no attention to any of that at all. There exists nothing in the world but in the way Jayce holds onto him, the way snow settles on the crown of his head, the way the man feels so warm even in the fierce cold.
Jayce smiles down at Viktor, a little tipsy, a little menacing. “You’re going to spend the holidays with me. Not in the lab. Besides,” and Viktor swears Jayce’s grip tightens, perhaps delusional and drunk on false hope. “Mom always makes too many cookies. I’ll need your help to get through them all.”
And of course, Viktor agrees. Lets himself hold onto this moment, to that flickering flame of hope, a gift to himself.
— — —
Jayce’s apartment is surprisingly more decorated than Viktor would have predicted. Truthfully, he never really considered Jayce much of a holiday person outside of any promises he makes to Ximena. But there sits in the living room a well-lit Christmas tree, a small pile of presents topped with ribbon bows underneath. Soft, twinkling lights are strewn about the rooms. Jayce tells him to make himself at home, I’ll be right back, I have to grab something. Viktor allows himself a moment of nosiness: seeing the ornaments on the tree, handmade golden-metal ones that Jayce surely must have forged himself, handcrafted schoolchild’s designs that must be from his youth. In the middle, as if the highlight of the tree, a Man of Progress ornament they were selling last Christmas in the town square that Viktor had teasingly bought for him.
“Hey, Viktor? Can you come into the kitchen real quick?”
And it is the flicker of a candle as he does so that surprises Viktor the most — brings about that flash of a memory, the silhouette of his mother, her lullaby-voice serenading him. But when his eyes settle, it is not his mother he sees, of course. It is Jayce, a cheesy grin on his face, illuminated by that very same candle. And in his hands, he carries a cake. In the dim lighting, Viktor can barely read the sloppy icing that decorates it — Happy Birthday Viktor! in a deep red frosting. Viktor’s heart skips a beat, unable to stop the gasp that escapes from his lips.
Of course Jayce did not forget. How could he have ever truly doubted him? A brutal flush darkens his cheeks, must make them as dark as that icing. He’s thankful the lights are so dim, that only the flames outline their faces. Jayce hums to the happy birthday tune, clearly embarrassed to be the only one singing, but Viktor can hardly hear over the ringing of his ears, not until Jayce finishes and says, “Happy birthday, Viktor. Go on. Make a wish.”
And so Viktor does. Closes his eyes, blows out the candle. When he opens them again, their eyes meet. His wish is very simple: I want to be by his side forever. It’s a selfish thing. He could ask for the success of Hextech. The betterment of the Undercity. For good health, for some miracle cure.
Jayce sets the cake down, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a gift for you too. Sorry, it’s not wrapped. I…” There is a small pause, and even in the dark, Viktor can see the slight apprehension on his features. “I didn’t want to risk anything happening to it.”
Viktor takes the paper from him, feeling the thickness of it. Slowly he unfolds it. And there in ink-printed cursive: the name of his mother, the name of his father. The hospital he was born at, the dilapidated building that would later barely be able to provide any help at all for his illness. But his gaze settles on the bottom, right where it says the time and date he was born. His fingers shake a little.
Jayce’s voice interrupts his stirring thoughts. “Your birthday is actually tomorrow. Well,” a brief glance at the clock, its arms well past midnight by now, “Technically today.”
And so it is. December 23rd, so close to the date he had chosen himself, as if some part of his soul knew the truth. When he looks back up at Jayce, there is a slight glossy-glisten to him — caused by the tears swelling in his own eyes. But through the tears, he can still see the affection in which Jayce looks down at him with. “I know you said before that you did not mind not knowing when it was, but I thought it’d be nice to know for sure.”
There are a million thoughts swirling inside Viktor’s head. A part of him that wants to ask Jayce how, that he wants to hear all the details about how he was able to track down information not even Viktor himself has been able to receive himself. Another part of him that achingly misses his mother, that wishes she were here with them to confirm, maybe laugh and share what that day was like for her. And then — perhaps most overwhelmingly — the feeling he has that he made the right wish mere minutes ago. That out of anything else in this lifetime right now, this is what he wants most: Jayce pulling him into a hug, the embrace warm, enveloping, the birth certificate wrinkling the slightest bit as it presses between the two of them. “I’m so glad I met you, Vik.”
And so Viktor closes his eyes once more, leaning into Jayce’s touch. Hardly an hour into it, and it must be the best birthday he has had in decades.
— — —
The cake is dry, crumbly, I’m not a very good baker, but the icing is tooth-achingly sweet like Viktor prefers. Jayce overexaggerates his perilous journey to sort through Undercity medical records, tells Viktor about throwing around his Man of Progress title to get access to the files — then a shrug, a less dramatic tone — and admits he thinks it was mostly that the nurse thought he was handsome. Viktor knows whatever liquor he consumed at the gala must be out of his system by now, but the whole time, he still feels that same underlying buzz in his fingers, that fuzzy feeling in his stomach he is so often cursed with in Jayce’s presence. Their knees bump underneath the table every so often, moments of sleepy silence engulfing the room until Viktor yawns, and Jayce gives him an almost fatherly look. Time for bed?
“I can take the couch,” Jayce tells him as he hands Viktor a pair of pajama pants that will certainly be too loose, a spare cotton shirt that will hang off Viktor’s frame pathetically. If they had been slightly less tipsy, they may have considered stopping by Viktor’s apartment and throwing together a sleep-away bag. Though Viktor does not entirely mind — the thought of wearing Jayce’s clothes giving him that swooping-stomach feeling again.
“No, you should sleep in bed, Jayce. It is your home after all.” Viktor is not even sure if he will be able to sleep anytime soon. The excitement of the evening, the rush of feelings has his mind reeling. Though his body aches for rest, he thinks he may stay up for another couple hours. Watch the twinkling lights of Jayce’s Christmas tree, think about how simple it could all be, some fantastical world where they live together here all the time. Where every night is like tonight.
“It’s your birthday,” is Jayce’s rebuttal for which Viktor has no real argument against. A moment of silence, and then, as if another gift from the man himself, “We could share the bed. It’s big enough.”
And Viktor, despite his better judgement, says, “Sure.”
Blame it on the alcohol. Or the Christmas cheer. Or simply that it’s his birthday, and if he wants to sleep in the same bed as his crush, he should be allowed this rare indulgence.
— — —
The bed is nowhere as big as Jayce had promised it’d be. Perhaps when it is just the man alone, probably big enough for Viktor to spread himself out entirely if he were alone. But as it is, even turned away from him, he can sense Jayce’s warmth from the small space between the two of them. He thinks Jayce is already asleep though, always quick to fall asleep during their midday lab naps, lulled to sleep in a way that often escapes Viktor.
But when Viktor shifts and turns to see, Jayce is simply watching him. He seems almost as shocked as Viktor himself to have been caught, a slight widening of his eyes before composing himself.
“I’m glad you came to the gala tonight.” Viktor probably will not admit it, but it was not as bad as he expected it to be. Pompous people, decadent decor that costs far too much, luxurious hors d'oeuvres that tasted like nothing. But it was nice to see the way Jayce held himself amongst everyone, the way that — even through all the attention he received — he still found his way back to Viktor’s side every time. He thinks of saying something nice at least, but Jayce continues before he can. “And you looked pretty tonight.”
Viktor turns fully on his side now to face Jayce. How ridiculously small the bed feels like this, the slight space existing between them is hardly enough. He could reach his hand out only a few inches and touch Jayce’s chest. “I did not.” The disagreement leaves his lips before he can even really think over whether or not he does agree. He supposes he never thinks of himself as someone pretty, but he knows that the Talis-red complements his skintone, that the gold tie matched beautifully with Jayce’s own suit. That Jayce had had the jacket tailored perfectly to fit him.
“You did.” And Jayce says it like it is not up for debate, like it is the most honest thing he has ever said. “It was hard to keep my eyes off of you.”
Viktor has no real response to that. His breath stops for a second, eyes turning towards the ceiling rather than looking at Jayce’s sincere expression for another moment. “Thank you.” It feels underwhelming the moment he mutters the words, but what else is he to say? I always feel that way about you. I love you. Say more, tell me more about what you liked.
They lay in silence for what may just be another moment, may have been another eternity, before Jayce inhales sharply. Viktor turns back to him. “I have another gift for you.” And even in the dim lighting, only the shadows of light from the Christmas tree still on in the living room giving any life to their small space, he can see the nervous expression on Jayce’s face. “But you have to close your eyes.”
Viktor furrows his eyebrows, but he does as he is told. “Jayce —”
“And you can’t talk.”
Viktor bites back a smile, anything to hide his own confusion, that hope once again soaring up deep inside his stomach. “You’re quite bossy on my birthday.”
But Jayce’s voice is bordering on desperate when he simply says, “Viktor.”
So Viktor shuts his mouth and keeps his eyes closed.
The kiss is, foremost, a shocking thing. Something pulled straight from his daydreams, from his pillowtime fantasies. A mere brush of Jayce’s lips against his, a flinch from Viktor at its unexpectedness. But it does not last long as a surprise, as a chaste gift. One moment, it is simply Jayce leaning in and pressing their lips together, and the next it is Jayce’s hands knotting themselves in Viktor’s hair, leaning over him to deepen the kiss further.
A part of Viktor wonders if he did drink too much, if this is some liquor-fueled dream as he lays passed out somewhere. But the way Jayce feels above him feels so real, the callused thumb that brushes against his cheek, the slight groan that leaves the back of Jayce’s throat. He feels almost like he is drowning in it entirely, dizzy and faint, arching his back to try to press themselves even closer together. Jayce slips his knee in between Viktor’s thigh, and the sound Viktor makes should embarrass him, but he hardly has any rational thoughts at all in the moment.
Jayce pushes himself away, and Viktor gasps at the space between them, the abruptness of it. Jayce looks as if in pain, an intense look to him that Viktor has hardly seen before. “Sorry. I don’t want to… push —”
“No,” Viktor interrupts. His voice sounds desperate. He thinks maybe they should talk about this. Thirty minutes ago, he would have thought it an impossible thing for Jayce to ever kiss him. Now, Viktor can feel how wet he is, can feel a hard press of Jayce’s own cock against his hip. There are a million questions on the tip of his tongue. How long? How much have you drank tonight? But —
He thinks of that birth certificate, nestled in his coat pocket now. How Jayce had remembered, had lured him into thinking he forgot, had baked a cake just for him, looks now down at Viktor with such fondness. It’s his birthday. It’s two days before Christmas.
So he lets himself be selfish, says, “I want to. I want you.”
And Jayce’s blinding grin beaming down at him is worth it, the feeling of Jayce’s fingers dancing across his skin, inside him, the sweet way Jayce takes care of him. It is perhaps the best gift he has ever received.
— — —
They don’t exactly talk about it in the morning. Viktor thinks perhaps they should. But then he wakes up with a slight headache, with Jayce setting a cup of hot chocolate down on the nightstand for him — with whipped cream, with marshmallows dotting the top. Jayce asks him to come to Ximena’s with him for the rest of the holidays, says they can make a snow angel if it snows more, can eat all her cookies. He watches Viktor sip from his mug, a quiet, Of course I’ll come.
Viktor had worried Jayce would wake up and regret the whole affair. Blame it on alcohol, on the Christmas cheer suffocating the air. That it would be a one-and-done thing, that it’d be some mistake that rusted between them. But there is no sign of regret written on Jayce’s features. Instead, there is only affection, only fondness — if Viktor were a little braver, a little more confident, he may even label it love.