Chapter Text
A pity she does not exist
(False)
A shame he's not a fag
(False)
The only girl Jayce ever loved
Was "Viktor" in drag
(True)
Jayce Talis was elbow-deep in blueprints when Viktor's hand brushed his own. Again. It happened too often to be accidental—a fleeting warmth against his knuckles as they reached for the same caliper, a deliberate slide of fingers when passing a soldering iron. Jayce kept his eyes fixed on the schematics spread across their workbench, ink smudged under his thumb. He didn't trust himself to look up. Not when every nerve in his hand burned where Viktor’s skin had touched it.
Viktor’s hands fascinated him. Long-fingered, pale beneath grease stains, they moved with economical grace—tightening bolts, sketching equations, tracing circuit paths. But Jayce had noticed their softness months ago. Impossible softness for a lab rat who handled acid vials and sharpened steel daily. It defied physics. Defied reason. Defied Jayce’s ability to concentrate whenever those hands were near.
He watched now as Viktor adjusted a gear assembly, their thumb pressing gently against brass teeth. Jayce’s own knuckles were scarred, calloused from forge work and reckless tinkering. Viktor’s skin looked like poured cream. He imagined touching it properly—not a brush, but a deliberate slide of palm against palm. Would Viktor pull away? Or press closer? Heat crawled up Jayce’s neck. He shoved the thought down, burying it under calculations about torque ratios.
Jayce forced himself to stare at the torque calculations until the numbers blurred. He traced a finger along a stress vector diagram, pretending absorption. Every rustle of Viktor’s sleeve, every soft click of a tool settling back into its tray, felt amplified. He could practically feel the phantom warmth where Viktor’s knuckles had grazed his own minutes before. Focus, he commanded himself, digging his thumbnail into the blueprint’s edge. Hexgates don’t build themselves.
Viktor leaned closer, ostensibly to examine a joint connection Jayce was sketching. Their shoulder pressed lightly against Jayce’s arm, a point of contact that sent a jolt straight to Jayce’s stomach. He hunched further over the blueprint, pencil digging into the parchment as he redrew a flawed support beam. The scent of ozone and Viktor’s faint, clean soap cut through the workshop’s metallic tang. Jayce didn’t dare glance sideways, didn’t see the way Viktor’s gaze lingered on the tense line of his jaw, the focused furrow between his brows.
The silence stretched, thick with unsaid words. Viktor cleared their throat softly.
"The stress distribution here," they murmured, tapping a slender finger near Jayce’s knuckles. "It assumes uniform density. But the Freljordian ore shipments have impurities." Their voice was low, practical, yet Jayce felt the observation like a physical touch. He swallowed, nodding stiffly, acutely aware of Viktor’s breath stirring the air near his ear.
Viktor withdrew their hand, turning back to their own section of the bench. Their movements were precise as they selected a micro-adjustment screwdriver, the faint click-click of the ratchet mechanism sharp in the quiet. Jayce risked a sideways glance. Viktor’s profile was etched in concentration, brow furrowed slightly as they peered through an eyepiece, calibrating a delicate pressure gauge. Jayce’s own pulse hammered uselessly against his ribs.
The rhythmic scrape of Jayce’s pencil filled the space between them. He redrew the flawed beam, forcing graphite deeper into the parchment. Each stroke felt like dragging iron through wet sand. He traced the stress vectors again, recalculating load distribution for impure ore. Numbers swam before his eyes—meaningless symbols that couldn’t drown out the phantom warmth lingering on his knuckles.
***
Vik’s knuckles brushed Jayce’s again as they both reached for the caliper—a deliberate, feather-light contact they’d rehearsed in their head a dozen times. Too obvious? The worry fluttered beneath their ribs as they pulled back, fingers curling into their palm. Jayce hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t even glanced up. Just hunched deeper over those damned blueprints, jaw tight as a coiled spring. Vik watched the flush creeping up his neck, the way his pencil gouged the paper. Does he know? Does he feel it too? The uncertainty was a live wire in their chest. They traced the brass gear assembly again, needing the cold metal to ground them.
The silence between them thickened, charged like a capacitor nearing overload. Vik’s gaze drifted to Jayce’s hands—broad, scarred, ink-smudged—resting so close to their own slender fingers on the workbench edge. Tell him, they urged themself. Now. While he’s distracted. But the words lodged like shrapnel in their throat.
How do you say it? "Jayce, I’m not the man you think I am"? No. Too blunt. Too… clinical. They pictured his face—confusion, maybe disgust—and the thought stole their breath. Instead, they leaned forward and examined what was enthralling their partner so.
Jayce flinched when Vik’s shoulder brushed his again, a barely perceptible jerk that screamed louder than any alarm klaxon. Vik pretended not to notice, focusing on the blueprint.
"The stress distribution here," they murmured, tapping a diagram near his wrist. "It assumes uniform density. But the Freljordian ore shipments have impurities." Their voice stayed steady, betraying nothing of the tremor in their hands. Coward, they thought bitterly. Always hiding behind equations.
Jayce’s throat worked as he swallowed, nodding stiffly. The warmth radiating from his arm where they’d touched him felt like a brand.
Vik turned away, the familiar ache settling beneath their ribs again. They reached for the pressure gauge mounted on the prototype’s main conduit, fingers trembling slightly. The brass was cool against their skin, a stark contrast to the heat still prickling their own neck. They twisted the micro-adjustment screwdriver, the click-click-click echoing sharply in the workshop’s stillness. Each precise turn was a distraction, a mechanical ritual to steady their nerves.
Coward, the word echoed again, sharper this time. They stole another glance at Jayce’s profile—the strong line of his jaw clenched, the intense focus pinching his brow. He radiated tension, coiled tight like one of their own overwound springs. Vik’s gaze drifted to his hands, scarred and capable, resting inches from theirs on the workbench’s scarred surface. The urge to bridge that gap, to slide their fingers over his knuckles, was a physical ache. But the fear was colder, deeper. He sees Viktor. Always Viktor. Not… me.
They clenched their own hand, nails biting into their palm, grounding themselves in the sting.
The workshop’s familiar hum – the low thrum of the Hexcore stabilizer, the intermittent hiss of steam from a pressure valve – usually soothed Vik. Today, it felt like static buzzing under their skin. They forced their attention onto the delicate pressure gauge assembly before them. Each tiny brass gear needed perfect alignment, each microscopic calibration screw required absolute precision. Focus on the mechanism, they commanded silently, leaning closer to the eyepiece. The intricate teeth of the primary drive wheel filled their vision, a world of cold, logical metal. Not Jayce’s warmth beside me. Not the phantom feel of his knuckles.
Hours blurred into a tense dance of concentration and avoidance. Vik meticulously logged calibration data, their handwriting a controlled scrawl across the notebook page. They adjusted flow rates on the coolant lines feeding the prototype, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. Each task became a shield. Focus on the viscosity readings. Ignore the way Jayce’s sleeve brushes mine when he reaches for the spanner. The rhythmic clatter of tools and the low thrum of the Hexcore stabilizer formed a familiar soundtrack, a desperate attempt to drown out the frantic drumbeat of their own pulse. They traced the intricate etchings on a brass regulator valve, the cool metal a stark counterpoint to the heat simmering beneath their skin. Just mechanics. Pure mechanics.
The lie tasted metallic.
The workshop door hissed open abruptly, cutting through the low thrum of machinery and the frantic drumming in their own ears. Miss Young stood silhouetted against the corridor light, her clipboard tapping impatiently against her hip. "Lunch break, you two," she announced, her voice slicing through the thick silence. "Clock's ticking, and Vik? You skipped breakfast again. Eat." Her gaze lingered pointedly on Vik’s untouched thermos before she vanished, leaving the door ajar. The sudden intrusion felt like a bucket of cold water dumped over Vik’s coiled nerves.
***
Jayce cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet after Sky’s departure. He kept his eyes fixed on the blueprint, tracing a stress vector with a finger that trembled slightly.
"Lunch," he stated, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strained command. "You heard her. Skipping meals wrecks focus. And... this joint calibration needs a fresh perspective." He gestured vaguely at the prototype conduit Viktor had been adjusting, deliberately avoiding their gaze.
"The mess hall’s got those spiced Noxian flatbreads you like. The ones with the crispy edges." He finally risked a sideways glance, his expression carefully neutral, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the workbench edge.
Vikto hesitated, the micro-screwdriver hovering above the brass fitting. Lunch meant leaving the workshop’s protective bubble of equations and grease, stepping into the bright, crowded corridor where Jayce’s presence beside them felt infinitely more exposed.
Jayce saw the flicker of reluctance. He pushed off the workbench, deliberately casual. "C’mon, V," he urged, voice softer now, almost coaxing. "Even Hexgates need fuel. And those flatbreads vanish faster than a Piltover patent." He offered a tentative half-smile, genuine warmth cutting through his earlier tension.
"My treat. For putting up with my torque miscalculations all morning." He nudged Viktor’s elbow gently with his own, a brief, grounding contact.
Back in the workshop with their flatbreads, Jayce chewed mechanically, the spices dull on his tongue. Sky's casual "Vik" echoed in his skull. When had that started? He'd always been Viktor—formal, precise, a name etched onto lab reports and prototype schematics. Vik sounded... softer. Intimate. A nickname whispered between shared tools and midnight breakthroughs he hadn't been part of.
He stole a glance across the workbench. Viktor was meticulously picking sesame seeds off their bread, gaze distant. Did Sky know something he didn't? The thought prickled, sharp and unwelcome.
The nickname echoed—a casual intimacy Jayce hadn't earned. Viktor shared midnight oil and solder fumes with Sky, apparently, while Jayce wrestled blueprints alone. He swallowed a too-big bite, the spice suddenly acrid. Had Viktor asked Sky to call them that? Was it a closeness Jayce had missed, blind to everything but equations and the frustrating, magnetic pull of Viktor's presence beside him?
His fist clenched involuntarily. Warm flatbread pulp oozed between his fingers, sticky and ruined. He stared dumbly at the mess—dough smeared across his palm, spiced lamb clinging to his thumb. Heat flooded his face. He'd been crushing some of lunch, oblivious, lost in stupid jealousy over a fucking nickname.
Jayce wiped his hand roughly on the grease-stained shop rag hanging from his belt. The coarse fabric scraped away the mess but left a gritty residue.
***
Vik kept their gaze fixed on the half-eaten flatbread in their lap, fingers meticulously plucking sesame seeds off the crust. Through their lowered lashes, they tracked Jayce’s fist clenching, the soft bread collapsing under his grip like damp clay. The faint squelch of dough yielding was barely audible, but the violent motion screamed—Jayce’s knuckles whitening, tendons standing rigid beneath his skin. Vik’s own breath hitched, trapped behind ribs suddenly too tight. He’s angry, they thought, the familiar ache beneath their sternum twisting into something sharper.
Jayce snatched the grease rag from his belt, scrubbing his palm with harsh, jerking strokes. The coarse fabric rasped against his skin loud enough to echo in the workshop’s stillness. Vik watched the rag drag across his thumb, saw the faint tremor in his wrist he couldn’t quite hide. They knew that tremor—the one that appeared when Jayce wrestled with frustration too big for blueprints. Their fingers stilled, lifting a crumb to their lips with forced calm. The bread tasted like dust.
Vik cleared their throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "Miss Young reminded me," they began, voice deliberately light, eyes fixed on the intricate gear assembly Jayce had abandoned, "the new Piltover Archives exhibit opens next week. Pre-Shuriman metallurgy." They traced a cold brass cog with their fingertip, avoiding Jayce’s profile.
"Apparently, they’ve reconstructed a working model of a Zerrikanian frictionless bearing. Using only recovered fragments and theoretical treatises." They paused, letting the technical marvel hang in the charged air. "She thinks it'll be revolutionary. Said we should… go see it."
Truly, Sky had insisted it would make a perfect date for them. Again, Vik had insisted there was no "them".
Jayce’s head snapped up, his earlier tension momentarily forgotten. His eyes, clouded with frustration moments before, sharpened instantly—bright with the fierce, hungry curiosity Vik knew so well.