Chapter Text
The invitation arrived early on a Tuesday morning, a gaudy gold envelope addressed to "Viktor and Jayce Talis", unceremoniously stuffed between junk mail and grant rejections by one of the mail room clerks.
Jayce found it first. He laughed until tears ran from his eyes. Viktor, however, was thoroughly mortified.
"V, you gotta admit, it's kinda funny."
"Jayce... No. No. Give me that, let me see…"
Shaking his head, Viktor snatched the gaudy gold envelope from Jayce’s hand. He hastily opened it, breaking the seal, and pulled out a flashy green card embossed with gold lettering.
He angled himself toward the window for better light.
Jayce followed close behind (bless his complete disregard for personal space), stepping up a little too close with the excuse of reading over his shoulder. The hand on the small of Viktor’s back wasn’t necessary, and it made him nervous. He hoped Viktor couldn’t feel the slight trembling of his fingertips. As with every other time he made contact with Viktor, he tried to pass it off as casual.
“What does it say?” He craned his neck over Viktor’s shoulder trying to get a better look.
“Jayce. Personal space, please.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.”
Jayce, pretending to be just a tiny bit ashamed, took half a step back and placed both his hands behind his back while still looking over Viktor’s shoulder, still a bit too close.
Zofia, Viktor’s not-quite-cousin but closest thing to family, was getting married in a few weeks. She’d never met Jayce. Viktor had certainly never mentioned him. And yet, there it was: Jayce’s name on the envelope, name and last name, not as a plus-one, but in big, bold lettering—implying something far more official.
It wasn’t just that she invited Jayce specifically. It was the way she wrote it. Like they were married or something. A unit. A couple.
Viktor sighed, rubbing his hand over his face in exasperation, his mind rehearsing the talk he’d have to have with the Old Lady Mafia back home—about privacy, confidentiality, and basic respect.
Pacing anxiously through the room, he couldn’t help catastrophizing the situation.
Who the hell was feeding them this information? Was he being tailed? Did he piss someone off again?
No. Never mind. Leave that one alone…
Jayce was laughing again. Loudly. “V, honey, you need to calm down”
Viktor stopped dead in his tracks, interrupting the loop he was wearing in the cheap linoleum of their lab.
HONEY??!!!
“Ah, shit. You heard all of that.” He mumbled, almost to himself.
To be fair, it wasn't the first time Viktor’s inner monologue unconsciously escaped through his mouth. And it wouldn't be the last. And Jayce… Well, he always found it amusing.
“Have I ever—” Jayce wheezed, catching his breath, “—have I ever told you how sexy your accent gets when you're ang—”
Thwack!
Viktor smacked him on the arm with the envelope as he walked past.
“Jayce, if you continue that sentence...”
“Okaay, Vik-toRrr.”
Jayce performed a piss-poor imitation of Viktor’s accent, dragging it out like he was auditioning for a parody sketch. And damn it, it was adorable.
“Shut up and get back to work,” Viktor muttered, his tone lacking any real bite. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He turned away before Jayce could see it. He knew he technically lost that one.
If it were up to him, he would concede every victory to Jayce. He would let him have all the wins. If only Jayce wasn’t so unwilling to compromise sometimes…
Someone had to humble him, keep his feet on the ground. And the only person crazy enough to even attempt this was Viktor.
“Seriously though, V…”
Jayce caught up to him, hand on his elbow, just as he was sitting down at his desk.
“Old ladies are always going to gossip. They literally have nothing else to do!”
He pulls up a chair and sits next to Viktor, leaning in close and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind his ear.
No matter how many years have passed, he never gets used to Jayce's casual touches. He secretly hopes he never does, the rush of dopamine like a drug he couldn't get enough of.
“Let’s go. Free food. Free booze. Call it reparations, if you will. For the distress they have caused, no?”
“You do realize,” Viktor said with a smirk, “you just admitted you want to steal from the poor, yes?”
“Oh—okay. My bad. I’ll let you get back to your…”
Jayce glanced down at the surface of Viktor's work station, a cluttered mess of papers covering the entire surface of the desk. He was finally giving Viktor an out.
“Paperwork” Viktor deadpanned, mindlessly stacking the papers on top of each other into a neat pile.
“Riiight, paperwork. I’ll let you get back to your paperwork…”
Ah, shit. Here it comes... Viktor braced himself.
“Mr.—”
“Don’t say it—”
“…Viktor…”
“Jayce, I’m warning you—”
“…Talis.”
Jayce had the audacity to wink before rolling away on his office chair, just out of reach from the estimated area of attack that Viktor’s cane could have, gleeful expression on his face like a child who just got away with murder.
Viktor wanted to pummel him to the ground and kiss that shit-eating grin right off his infuriatingly beautiful face.
In all their years of knowing each other, Viktor had never actually hit Jayce with his cane. Or anyone, for that matter. He considered it inelegant. A cheap stereotype. He wasn't going to start now, even if he fantasized about it in both innocent and not-so-innocent ways.
Jayce settled on his desk, put on his glasses, grabbed his notepad and his favorite pen, and began to furiously scribble ideas for their next big invention.
Just another Monday.
♡*~*~*~*♡
Long before there was ever a “Viktor and Jayce Talis,” there was simply Viktor. And there was Jayce.
But ever since their first meeting nearly a decade ago, most people couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
They met at the lowest point in Jayce’s life.
He’d just lost everything: his job, his apartment, his so-called friends. His mother tried to hide her disappointment, tried to mask it as concern and support, but he saw it in her eyes. Everyone thought he was spiraling, a minor inconvenience away from turning into just another homeless man walking the streets rambling to himself about incomprehensible concepts.
As he stood on the very edge of the physical manifestation of his self-destruction, about to jump from the wreckage of his mistakes and leave it all behind for good, he heard the front door open, and soft steps creeping up behind him. He didn’t look. He wasn’t about to change his mind.
He wasn’t prepared for Viktor, though. Leisurely strolling through the apartment, his uneven steps punctuated by the soft thud of the rubber at the end of his cane, all dry wit and calculated curiosity. He approached the gaping hole in the wall holding Jayce’s scribbled research notes close to his chest, golden eyes shimmering cat-like in the dark.
Tell me more. I believe in you.
Jayce called it fate.
Viktor said it was just dumb luck.
But they both knew the truth: if Viktor had shown up thirty seconds later, he would’ve found a bloody mess on the curb.
That night, Viktor not only returned Jayce’s notes to him, he planted a seed of something more, something very similar to hope. He crumpled the suicide note and stuffed it into his pocket, where it would be forgotten and disintegrate in the washing machine next laundry day.
Jayce often spoke about that incident like it wasn’t a big deal. He downplayed it, deflected with jokes. And yes, they could laugh about it now. Much to the horror of anyone hearing the story for the first time, but that was always part of the fun. It just so happened to be his favorite party trick, the Grand Finale of stuffy galas and rich-people bullshit fundraisers.
"This total stranger sneaks up on me in the middle of the night," Jayce would say after a few drinks, gesturing widely with his bulky arms, champagne swirling dangerously close to the edge of his glass, “just as I’m about to jump—and has the fucking audacity to ask if he’s interrupting something?” He punctuated with air quotes sometimes, the liquid in his glass giving up on respecting the laws of physics and sloshing over his shirt (and only his shirt, if he was lucky).
Flushed cheeks. Loosened tie. Looser tongue. Beautiful and broken. Everyone knows that there’s only one thing these upper-crust people love more than a beautiful man: A beautiful, broken man. The performance of a lifetime, every time.
Over the years, Viktor had learned to tell the precise moment his intervention would be required. When the jokes stopped being funny and the room got too quiet, Viktor would initiate damage control. He'd carefully steer Jayce back from the edge, sometimes with a touch, sometimes just a look.
After hours of small talk with university donors and investment vultures, Jayce would start to mentally shut down. He tried to explain the real-world applications of their work: clean water, breathable air, a better future for underserved communities. but all that these greedy sycophants wanted was the chance to bask in his warmth, and a shiny new way to make money.
Philanthropy was not a concept they were familiar with (or wanted to be), and Jayce was nothing more than a poster boy to them, his friendly, open face a deadly weapon of mass consumption to be used at their will.
These people want to sell their technology, commercialize it, privatize it. They want to make money, so they can make more money, to make even more money, like a dog who vomits its food then eats it before repeating the cycle over and over. It’s equally disgusting, the whole theater of it all.
The snake of rampant capitalism has been consuming Jayce’s hope of a better future bite by painful bite.
And right when Jayce was about to snap, Viktor would slip in with the well-practiced ticket out of Corporate Hell, His voice soft and polite as can be, a delicate spider thread of a lifeline that Jayce desperately clings to.
“Excuse us—it’s getting late. My partner and I will be leaving now. Thank you so much for the evening,” etcetera, etcetera, smile, nod, wave, step away and don’t look back.
Viktor guided him out, hand on his elbow. Rubbed his back lazily while they waited for a cab. Helped him remove his tie and unbutton his cuffs once they were inside, his golden eyes glowing under the passing city lights.
And Jayce would finally breathe again.
Lately, Jayce had found it was very easy to convince Viktor to stop at his place first.
And even easier to convince him to stay the night—"because it’s closer to work."
It’s not. They both know it’s not.
Working so closely with one another for almost a decade has shucked them open like two happy little clams, no secrets between them.
Sometimes, Jayce would lose the argument and change tactics, making himself small and pitiful so that Viktor would let him spend the night at his place instead. What Viktor was really allowing was the illusion of the win, because he would never dare deny Jayce anything, as Jayce would never deny him anything in turn.
Regardless of which of their homes they spent the night at, Jayce gave Viktor the bed. Always.
He took the couch.
Both of them have almost brought up sharing the bed instead.
Both of them have abstained, afraid of where that might lead.
Viktor noticed the shift in their dynamic but leaned into it, letting it play out. He didn’t move to put a stop to it. Jayce, the one always holding everyone else together—trusted Viktor with the most fragile parts of himself. It was a privilege as a friend, and a guilty pleasure for someone in love.
Now, there was bedhead and morning coffee for two as they rushed to work in the mornings.
There were spare clothes at each other’s apartments.
A toothbrush. A favorite mug. Seasonings in the pantry. Medications in the bathroom cabinet.
A corn-on-the-cob-shaped side table Jayce picked off the street “because it’s funny”, leaving it at Viktor’s apartment just to spite him. Viktor absolutely hated that thing, but let it keep its spot of honor by Jayce’s side of the couch.
And everything on it—Jayce’s books, his jeweled wristband, his reading glasses, his ridiculous three-drink lineup (“one for energy, one for hydration, one for fun!”)—was a living, breathing shrine to a life quietly intertwined, lines faint and crossing unto themselves.
♡*~*~*~*♡
They know that people talk about them, but people have always speculated about their relationship, so they have learned to ignore it. They're best friends, business partners, and they're both currently single. So yeah, they do spend a lot of time together.
They have other friends! They both swear. They really do. They just don’t have time for a social life right now. Or in the past ten years. Time is an illusion. It’s neither here nor there.
Has their whole dynamic scared away potential romantic interests for either of them?
Possibly. Most likely.
But this, they don't talk about. They have masterfully avoided the painful retellings of countless failed dates, most of them stating their reason as “ you just don’t seem that into it”, “ all you think about is work”, and the classic “I feel like you have unresolved feelings for your so-called partner. I want no part of this mess”.
Whenever a particular name starts to fall out of regular rotation, they just let it be.
They are best friends. Brothers, even! They repeat it like a mantra, individually, at the same time. Like a signal between the command centers in their thick skulls beeping erratically trying to find a place to be laid to rest.
(It doesn’t exist!)
But they don't ever bring up romantic partners unless they're very serious, which has happened exactly one time with Jayce, lasting a few years, and a few half-times with Viktor (meaning he cares enough about those guys to mention them to Jayce, but they never reach the point of introductions.) It’s not a boundary that they have explicitly set. It just feels weird, somehow.
Naturally after years and years of Viktor's family back home only ever hearing about Jayce when they ask him about his life-- "it's always work, and Jayce. Work, and Jayce!" Zofia's mother, Zara, the lady who raised him, complains on the phone. “Do you ever do anything else? What happened to that nice boy you were seeing? You're going to die alone and then you won't go to heaven…”
(or whatever, He mostly dissociates half-way through the sermon)
He once had a therapist tell him that the worst kind of relationship you can have is a codependent one.
Then he told him that he and Jayce were codependent. Viktor dumped his therapist, because what kind of anti-ethical nonsense was that?
And yet, it still runs over and over in his brain. Are we codependent? Should we have some space?
That same night they laid sprawled out on Jayce's couch, Viktor wearing one of Jayce’s hoodies. The tv glowed with some long-abandoned documentary about the Airship disaster that happened 50 years ago as they smoked some of Viktor's medical weed. With his head on Jayce's lap, he told Jayce about it.
"Codependent" he exaggeratedly air quoted, scoffing out some unintelligible curse words under his breath.
“His FACE is codependent!” He yelled as he lifted up his head, finger pointing accusingly at some point in the wall behind Jayce, then slammed his head back down onto Jayce's thigh.
“Ughhhhh!! Fuck, I hate therapists.”
Jayce choked back a laugh at the histrionics, which made him violently start coughing until tears ran from his eyes, Viktor visibly softened with concern before Jayce waved it off and silently offered Viktor the joint.
Viktor nodded yes, and reached out to take it from Jayce's hand.
But instead of passing him the joint, Jayce brought it down to Viktor's lips, holding it for him.
Viktor closed his eyes and inhaled, perhaps not entirely accidentally bringing his lips too close to Jayce's fingers, feeling the roughness of his thumb against his bottom lip for the smallest fraction of an instant. He exhaled, opening his eyes just at the very end, catching Jayce looking down at his mouth, on the tail-end of a deep inhale of his own.
Hey, what if you got real close and he inhaled the smoke from your lips instead? His brain unhelpfully supplies. You could close the distance…
No. Not tonight.
He softly trailed his index finger from Jayce's cheekbone down to his chin, thanked him, leaned back and closed his eyes again. Jayce turned to the side table to put out the remainder of the soggy joint in the ashtray. He ran his ash-tinged fingers through Viktor's hair until they both fell asleep.