Chapter Text
Explosions of color startle Viktor’s drowsy figure leaning on the balcony; he makes a small sound and opens his eyes, ending the peace that had been forming in his dreams. The nearly lost cigaret in his hand is once again firmly gripped, and the kaleidoscopic figures behind his eyelids vanish completely from his vision. New Year’s arrived, and with it came deafening lights that adorn the sky and make the dogs cry.
Viktor looks sixteen floors down, takes a drag from his cigaret, and holds it in his damaged lungs longer than recommended. He watches families and friends pass by with a cold, almost surgical detachment, shouting and embracing one another. “Happy New Year!” they say to one another; “Thank you, same to you,” “Thanks, it's going to be a good year," and so on.
His throat feels like a sour well that slowly collects the residue of the rain. Envy for what he has never had before, even without having experienced it by chance, slows the speed of his mind and locks him in the present as punishment for even considering it. It makes sense; he’s not from here. He’s infiltrated among silks and toxin-free oxygen—omitting the long drags of tobacco he occasionally enjoys—; he shouldn’t be able to see the fireworks or the ceiling, but rather the pipes and ducts of an industrial, polluting architecture, buried deep underground and in the most forgotten corners of the rich’s minds. It makes sense; his alveoli roar in a practiced, forced, and unnecessary detox for a city where you don’t have to fight for air. It has no one to rub naive promises about how successful next year will be in their faces with silly grins. There is no basis for it; there is no failure rate; percentiles and probabilities are not taken into account; there is no theory or hypothesis; there is nothing but faith, and faith is something that left his body long before it could be restored.
In this way, Viktor takes one last long drag from the cigaret in his hand and then presses it into his ashtray, leaving it to rest there—along with the pile—until the end of time; he leaves the balcony and calls it a nite.
His steps are heavy as he walks to the bed. Staggering, in the case of his right leg. His reflection passes by, hunched and stubborn in the face of the cane and the dusty crutches beneath his bed. The mirror in the room doesn’t show the man who arrived in Piltover with a dream, but rather the tired, vacant facade he’s sunk into over the years, filled with resentment toward nothingness and its limits. Fragile in its expanse, he collapses onto the bed and waits for the chemicals in his brain—indoleamine, thirteen carbon atoms, sixteen hydrogen atoms, and so on—to take effect on him and his consciousness, mentally reviewing and listing them like a dictation. Let it shut down already, like a machine with a screw out of place.
***
"Happy New Year."
Jayce smiles even before he sees her. Then he turns around—because of course he can’t resist it—and takes her into his arms, careful not to knock the champagne flutes she’s holding. Mel snuggles against his chest, sighing with joy and elegance as she inhales the familiar, warm scent of the taller man.
“Happy New Year to you too,” Jayce says, disentangling his face from her hair to smile at her. Mel doesn’t show her teeth, but the corners of her lips stay lifted and she offers him a drink.
When they finally stop hugging—and once they’ve toasted the start of the new year—Jayce heads to the nearest window and watches the fireworks light up the nite sky. Red, blue, yellow—all kinds of colors and shapes amaze him in an almost childlike way. He laughs involuntarily, softly and quietly. “It looks spectacular from here.
Mel appears beside him and crosses her arms over her chest, shielding herself from the night’s cold. “Really? Do you like it?” she asks, unable to keep the sweetness out of her voice.
“Quite a bit.” he says, “Look, you can see where they’re setting them off from,” adds, tilting his head outward and directing his gaze even farther away than before. There’s something dreamy in his gaze that unsettles Mel and piques her interest. “You say you’re very lonely here, right? That you’d like to find someone to share this apartment with… these views with.”
Mel laughs a little at the audacity behind those words. Jayce raises his eyebrows playfully.
“We’ve already talked about this, Jayce, and your apartment isn’t bad enough to want to flee it as if it were a cage,” she responds lightly. Then, she takes a deep breath and sighs for the second time in less than five minutes, reminding the taller one:“Independence, remember? From one to another.”
Jayce doesn’t flinch. And if he does, it’s imperceptible to Mel’s eyes, which scrutinize and reveal everything.
…So she continues: “It’s the key to a lasting relationship. You give me my space, and I’ll give you –something catches Jayce’s attention here, and he suddenly turns to look at her with that innocent depth that makes Mel’s hair stand on end– “That’s the only way it’ll work. Even in a relationship, there are secrets you keep to yourself. That way you stay true to who you are.”
Jayce is taken aback by that —his brow furrows slightly, his smile falters— though he doesn’t show it as well as he’d like. Instead, he turns his attention back to the fireworks, even though only the lingering smoke is visible. “I wonder who taught you that,” he says softly, with apparent nonchalance, as if it were a thought spoken aloud; words that slowly erase the brunette’s chaste smile, despite how easily it had slipped onto her face and taken hold just moments before. Her lips seal shut for a few seconds. She looks out the window and fixes her greenish eyes on the same thing Jayce is looking at. They both feign interest in the fireworks debris and the ephemeral nature of their visual effects in order to ignore the increasingly heavy silence that has fallen between them.
If he’s honest with himself, Jayce recognizes that his relationship with Mel is, on his part, governed by the intrigue she inspires in him —something that, by this point, he clearly mistook for a deeper attraction, perhaps naively, considering that Mel, with her beauty, her tactful way of speaking, and the few years she has on him, has her life all mapped out, while his remains on hold. He admits,with shame, that the ineptitude with which he approaches certain topics stems from the indifference with which she treats others. The number of things they agree on is half the number of things they disagree on, so they interrupt their own conversations with kisses or implausible remarks that won’t lead them to the inevitable incompatibility of their primary and tertiary ideas, for example: Jayce believes in the power of science; Mel in that of money. Jayce puts progress above all else—and apologizes in advance— while Mel prioritizes the art of ambiguity—though with exceptions that also diverge from what Jayce considers right. Ethical, Jesus–. Jayce believes in extraterrestrial life, and Mel does too, sort of. At least they agree on that. Realizing it, Jayce glances at her furtively.
Mel, for her part, understands that perhaps she was too quick to assume and take for granted characteristics and promises that Jayce never had or made, in that order —here, she avoids Jayce’s gaze–. He gets lost in his thoughts when she needs him in the present; and when it comes to talking about the future, Jayce is the most elusive and ingenious at making her wander off and get lost in her own thoughts. It’s easier for him to create a new world than to conform to the rules of this one. And as if he were trying to contradict himself, he has an uncanny tendency to let things settle —his life, and the lives of others— with a kind of ease and impulsiveness that borders on admirable, bending to others with natural grace and earning their affection in the process. That constant need to please, coupled with the urge to flee, causes a grating dissonance within her that is only soothed in moments like these: when the pause is so long that they both reach out and intertwine their hands, convincing each other that things are as they are, and that as they are, they are worth it.
That night, Mel lets him stay over. They wake up entangled in a mess of arms and legs, laugh, and don’t wait for breakfast to say goodbye.
***
The end-of-year holidays pass, as always, fleetingly and unnoticed. Two weeks end sooner than expected, and with them, Jayce’s new project.
"Oh, wow..."
“That’s new."
His chest swells with pride as he hears the gasps of surprise and admiration from the fairgoers. Quickly, his attention returns to the judges—aka the professors—walking slowly from booth to booth. Each student—tall, short, thin, broad, all indisputably wealthy—holds their breath as soon as Heimerdinger’s or Cassandra Kiramman’s eyes fall on them. Jayce is certain he’ll act exactly the same once they notice his innovative creation: an old-fashioned video player with an elongated arm protruding from the box itself, changing the content playing thru the tiny lens with inhuman dexterity. It introduces new disks, USB drives, and even online content. People stay to watch the projection—students’ family members and visitors looking for geniuses to invest in.
Jayce craned his neck, searching among the crowd that had gathered around his booth for a familiar face. Mel should be around here. She’s an investor, after all. Caitlyn’s mother is here; wouldn’t it make sense for her to be here too? Thus, a couple more names surface and quickly fade from his mind as he notices the crowd splitting into two groups on either side of the store, clearing a path for the jurors.
Heimerdinger goes first, short and chubby. He takes small, hurried steps until he spots Jayce, then walks to the machine. At first glance alone, the scientist is certain that it is an authentic creation of his student’s own making. The letter T, the trademark of the well-known family blacksmithing business, stands out in red on one side of the copper video player. It’s heavy, handcrafted and carved from a metal base, which, tho it may compromise its practicality, exudes status and prestige. As the scientist approaches and traces the corners of the artifact, he chuckles softly at the memory of his student days. Cassandra Kiramman, walking behind him, observes the projections with her chin held high and then gives Jayce a small, approving smile, acknowledging his effort and, more importantly, his surname. Isn’t ‘Talis’ that smithy you go to in order to benefit from the finest products born of the art of forging and the handling of red-hot steel?
“You’re on the right track, kid,” the eldest of them remarks. The people, expectant, look back and forth between Heimerdinger and Jayce, awaiting the verdict. The professor sighs and gazes at the projections with nostalgic eyes, recalling his youthful days. “You have a great future ahead of you,” he says.
Jayce, who had been holding his breath, finally let out a deep sigh, interrupted by his own words: “Thank you, Professor,” he says, his heart pounding in his chest, “it’s a great honor to hear that from you.”
“How strange. Jayce Talis, astonishing us all with his blacksmithing skills,” Cassandra adds sarcastically yet gently, clasping her hands in front of her abdomen and nodding respectfully.
Jayce lowers his head with an awkward smile, torn between liking the sound of the encrypted compliment and dislike it for the way some of his classmates clench their jaw at the flattery. “Thank you. It’s also an honor…"
“Incredible machinery,” Heimerdinger interrupts with a babble. When everyone turns to look at him, they find him with the artifact carefully opened, examining its meticulous system. “Efficient. It doesn’t require too much energy."
Some curses can be heard outside the booth. Students who had already given up click their tongues and head back to their tents. Although the judges haven’t said it yet, approval hangs thick in the air. Jayce has nailed it again, to no one’s surprise.
After a bit of small talk, accompanied by Jayce’s shy yet proud smiles, the audience receives the answer they’d all been waiting for, and Jayce earns an award that will soon be hung alongside the others, next to his kitchen cupboard. He’ll look at it on his study nights, hoping to feel the same spark of adrenaline that kept him awake during his early years of study, when everything was new and he could afford a little fun amid it all. It’s been a long time since anything felt truly exciting.
That same afternoon, as the sun was about to set and every college student was bustling about, Jayce decided to call his mother to tell her what had happened. He moves in circles in the hallway where the wi-fi is the most reliable, pressing his phone against his ear. The doorbell rings once, twice, three times, and still no one answers. Puzzled, he glances at the number he’s dialed—saved as Mom, with a red heart next to it—and sends a message: "I won at the fair. Call me when you can:)".
Ximena, wherever she is, whistles along to a song and ignores the buzzing of her cell phone, oblivious to her son’s worry. Jayce, meanwhile, is about to bite his nails and call again when the sound of a door opening snaps him out of his thoughts. He lifts his gaze and instinctively turns his body toward the sound.
“Oh,” he says as he realizes who it was. Professor Heimerdinger walks blindly with stacks of papers in his arms. Jayce quickly catches up to him, slipping his phone into his pocket and raising his hands to grab half the pile before it falls. "Watch out."
“Ah, Jayce. Always on time,” Heimerdinger exclaims in an animated tone. He tilts his head back, stopping in his tracks to give Jayce his full attention for a few seconds. “It’s so good to see you again. I was just planning to call you at my office tomorrow morning."
“To… to your office?” Jayce asks curiously and slightly worried, arranging the papers in his hands.
"Yes. There’s something important I want to talk to you about."
Jayce feels his shoulders tense at that. He readjusts the papers in his arms for the third time, and by the time he looks up again, Heimerdinger is two steps ahead and walking. He follows him at a nervous pace, waiting for him to explain his words.
And so he does.
“Today you were a true example of what we look for this university's students,” he begins with an eloquent tone. "You demonstrated that you were at the level, and even beyond it," he gives Jayce a glance with a sincere smile, "Congratulations."
"...Thank you, professor. But I don’t understand…"
"You are an outstanding student. One of a kind. You remind me of how I was when I was young: dreamy, a bit clumsy… but above all, honest. With a lot of determination. I know you dream big; that your mind runs wild instead of being confined to reality,” – Jayce feels his cheeks flush as he recalls how desperate he is for some source of inspiration, unlike the young dreamer Heimerdinger describes. He also recognizes his delusional personality, his rebellious mind, and his fixation on the impossible—"it's admirable. Just what Piltover needs."
There’s a pause as Heimerdinger stops in front of his office and, instead of fumbling for his keys in his pocket as he usually would, places his hand on the doorknob and waits for a few seconds. His gaze gets los and he adds in a lower, cautious yet affectionate voice: “Although I fear your desire to fit in will backfire on you, boy. That the pride might awake in you and corrupt your principles,” He looks at Jayce and maintains his affectionate expression as she adds, as if it made any sense: "That's why I've planned something that might help you."
And he opens the door.
The curtains are open, letting in the sunset light that floods the room entirely. The bookshelves are tinged with orange, and the glass panes reflect the sunset as something unique and dazzling. A figure stands in the middle of it all, swinging an open book over the teacher’s desk. And as soon as the door opens, he raises his gaze with that millimeter-perfect precision that unsettles the young student.
“Actually, it’s an issue that got out of hand,” Heimerdinger continues, setting aside the papers and hurrying to catch up with the silhouetted figure, while admitting his lack of control with a small smile. “But it might work out.”
Jayce sets the papers on a shelf without taking his eyes off the stranger, intrigued by the man and his mysterious identity. The other man returns his gaze, his expression hardening at the other’s obvious curiosity. With impeccable posture, he asserts his presence in the office, even though—judging by the way he quickly withdrew his hand from the book upon seeing them enter and something in the air—it seems to be his first time there.
Jayce walks toward them and stops in front, face to face with a man who looks at him with barely perceptible competitiveness and a great scrutiny that, from the outside, intimidates Jayce to the point of making him shift in his place awkwardly.
“Let me introduce you,” says Heimerdinger, “to Viktor. Your new roommate."