Chapter Text
The first time Viktor coughs, Jayce doesn’t look up.
It’s early. Pale winter light filters through the apartment windows, catching on glassware and the edges of stacked research papers that have long since migrated from the lab to their dining table. The kettle hums softly in the kitchen. Outside, traffic murmurs like distant surf.
Jayce is reading through a medical journal article on regenerative tissue scaffolding, brow furrowed, pen tapping absently against the margin in a pattern of 3.
Viktor coughs again.
It’s not violent. Not dramatic. Just a dry interruption, the kind that could be blamed on dust or cold air.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You’re up early,” Jayce says automatically, still scanning a paragraph.
There’s a pause before Viktor answers.
“So are you.”
Jayce hums. “Couldn’t sleep.”
That’s not unusual. He hasn’t slept properly in three years.
He finally looks up.
Viktor is standing near the sink, one hand braced against the counter. His posture is casual in theory, but Jayce knows better. He knows the way Viktor leans when he’s conserving energy. He knows the slight tension in his shoulders.
“You okay?” Jayce asks.
Viktor turns, already composed. “Peachy.”
The word is smooth. Practiced.
Jayce studies him anyway. Viktor looks pale, but he always looks pale in winter. His hair is tied back loosely, a few strands escaping near his temple. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, a faint hint for where tears had glazed.
Residual instability, Jayce thinks immediately.
There are always residual instabilities.
Viktor moves toward the cabinet for mugs. His steps are careful, deliberate. Not weak. Just measured.
Jayce stands without thinking and closes the distance between them.
“Sit,” he says, gentle but firm.
Viktor arches an eyebrow. “I am capable of retrieving a cup.”
“I know.”
Jayce reaches past him for the mugs anyway.
Their arms brush.
It’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything.
But Viktor stills for half a second.
Jayce pretends not to notice.
He pours the tea. Hands one over. Watches to make sure Viktor’s grip is steady.
Always watching.
Viktor takes a sip.
Then he coughs again.
This time he turns away.
It’s sharper. It catches in his chest.
Jayce’s stomach tightens instantly.
“How long?” he asks.
Viktor waves him off. “It’s dry air.”
“Viktor.”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
His words land heavier this time.
Jayce hates that word.
Nothing was what the doctors said three years ago when they couldn’t find a pulse.
Nothing was what the machines said when Viktor’s brain activity flatlined.
Nothing was when he broke every rib in Viktor’s body to find a single breath.
Nothing is never nothing.
Jayce sets his own mug down. “You’re due for scans anyway.”
“I had scans.”
“Two months ago.”
“And?”
“And that was two months ago.”
Viktor’s expression softens, just slightly. “Jayce.”
There’s something in his voice — affection threaded with exhaustion.
“You can’t keep reacting like this every time I clear my throat.”
Jayce’s jaw tightens.
He knows that.
He knows he hovers.
He knows he tracks Viktor’s breathing patterns in his sleep.
He knows he still wakes up sometimes expecting cold skin and silence.
“I’m not overreacting,” Jayce says, quieter now.
Viktor holds his gaze for a long moment.
Something unreadable flickers there.
“Of course you aren’t,” Viktor says gently.
And that’s worse.
…….
Later, when Viktor leaves for work, Jayce lingers by the door longer than necessary.
“Text me when you get there,” he says.
“I always do.”
“And if you feel worse—”
“I will inform you.”
Jayce reaches out before he can stop himself, adjusting the collar of Viktor’s coat. His fingers brush Viktor’s neck.
A pulse.
Warm.
Alive.
Viktor goes very still again.
Jayce withdraws his hand like he’s touched something fragile.
“See you tonight,” he says.
Viktor studies him with that same unreadable look.
“Yes,” he says softly. “Tonight.” As the pain in his throat and overwhelming guilt started to colonise his mind. What if he wasn't here tonight? Would he be happier?
……….
The second time it happens, Jayce isn’t there.
Viktor is alone in his office.
The building is quiet — most of the staff have gone home. The hum of fluorescent lights fills the silence.
He stares at his computer screen, vision slightly blurred.
There’s a tightness in his chest that doesn’t feel mechanical. Doesn’t feel like failing organs or scar tissue.
It feels… caught.
He presses a hand against his sternum.
Breathes in.
The tightness sharpens.
He coughs.
It starts small.
Then it isn’t.
He doubles forward, one hand gripping the edge of his desk as the cough tears upward again.
There’s a strange sensation in his throat — not liquid, not quite solid.
Wrong.
He stumbles toward the small sink in the corner of the lab.
Coughs again.
Something soft brushes his lips.
He freezes.
Very slowly, Viktor lowers his hand from his mouth.
There, against his palm, rests a single pale petal.
Delicate and heart-shaped. Veined faintly pink.
For a long moment, he just stares at it.
Then he laughs.
It’s quiet. Disbelieving.
“No,” he murmurs.
He coughs again.
Another petal falls into the sink.
He grips the porcelain harder.
“No,” he repeats.
He knows what this is.
Of course he does.
He’s read the case studies. Rare psychosomatic floral growths triggered by prolonged emotional suppression. Tissue converting under stress. Vascular integration with plant matter. The body choosing metaphor over survival. A supernatural disease made for sappy love stories turned rare and real.
Hanahaki.
Viktor closes his eyes.
For a brief, irrational second, he thinks:
Not this. Anything but this.
Because this isn’t random.
It isn’t cellular instability from resurrection.
It isn’t immune rejection.
It isn’t failure of Jayce’s desperate miracle.
It’s him.
It’s love.
Unreturned.
He stares down at the petals in the sink.
They look harmless.
Soft.
Beautiful, even.
He thinks of Jayce adjusting his collar that morning.
Of the way Jayce watches him like something that might disappear.
Of the way Jayce never says it.
Never names it.
Responsibility, yes.
Devotion, certainly.
Obsession, undeniably.
But not love.
Never love.
Viktor turns on the tap.
Watches the petals wash away.
But deep down, Viktor knew.
It is over for him.
The pink marks left on the sink, staining him on touch. Almost irreversible.
Almost
……….
That night, Jayce knows something is wrong immediately.
Viktor is late.
Not by much.
Twenty minutes.
But Viktor is precise. Predictable. Especially after everything. Three minutes to him is an eternity.
Jayce has already checked his phone twice when the door finally opens.
Viktor steps inside.
He looks composed.
Too composed.
“You’re late,” Jayce says.
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“Traffic.”
Jayce watches him remove his coat.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
“Are you alright?” Jayce asks.
Viktor nods.
Then he coughs.
It’s sharper than before.
Fingers already stained slightly with a rosy pink.
He turns away quickly.
Too quickly.
Jayce moves on instinct.
He catches Viktor’s wrist before he can fully pivot.
“Let me see.”
“There is nothing to see.”
“Viktor.”
The name is firmer now.
Viktor’s shoulders tense.
For a second, Jayce thinks he’s going to pull away.
Instead, Viktor slowly turns back.
His expression is calm.
Carefully calm.
Jayce searches his face.
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“A little.”
Jayce’s pulse spikes. “Since when?”
“It’s insignificant. It’s just from the surgery, don't bother with me.”
Jayce steps closer.
“Nothing about you is insignificant.”
The words come out harsher than intended.
Viktor’s breath catches — not from coughing this time.
From something else.
Jayce doesn’t notice.
“Sit down,” Jayce says again, guiding him toward the couch.
Viktor allows it.
That, more than anything, frightens him.
Jayce kneels in front of him, hands hovering but not touching.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
Viktor looks at him.
Really looks at him.
At the worry etched into his face. At the fear he tries and fails to hide.
At the devotion that stops just short of something else.
“You cannot fix this,” Viktor says quietly.
Jayce goes still.
“I can fix anything,” he says automatically.
Viktor almost smiles.
That’s what scares him most.
He coughs again.
This time he isn’t fast enough.
Something pale drifts down between them.
It lands against Jayce’s dark sweater.
Jayce stares at it.
A single petal.
Soft.
Blush-pink.
Perfect.
The room goes silent.
Jayce looks up slowly.
“What,” he says carefully, “is that?”
Viktor closes his eyes.
There it is.
The beginning.
When he opens them again, there’s something fragile in his expression. Not physical fragility.
Emotional.
“It appears,” Viktor says softly, “that I have developed a complication.”
Jayce picks up the petal with trembling fingers.
His mind is already racing. Infection. Mutation. Spore contamination. Some side effect of the procedure—
But somewhere, deeper, colder—
He knows this shape.
He knows this diagnosis.
“No,” he whispers.
Viktor watches him understand.
And for the first time since the terrorist struck three years ago, since rubble and silence and impossible choices—
Jayce looks truly afraid.
The petal trembles in his hand.
“Tell me,” he says, voice breaking slightly, “that this isn’t what I think it is.”
Viktor doesn’t answer immediately.
He just looks at him.
And that silence is answer enough.