Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We finish this together.”

His words are a promise refusing to be broken. This moment is the final overlap of his and Viktor’s shared journey; the final overlap of their fates, where they would face doom with serenity, accepting that they were cursed by the stars from the beginning.

And he’s willing to die if it meant holding Viktor for a mere few seconds.

Jayce wouldn't leave his partner to face the horror of what they’d done. This is his fault as much as Viktor’s, after all. He isn’t one for disregarding promises, nor one to abandon the man he loves most.

This is his apology. For being unable to save Viktor - from his illness, from the world, from himself. He’d failed his best friend too many times. This is the least he could do, is it not?

A burst of blinding, ice-blue energy. A bittersweet sense of their time coming to an end. A final shared glance. Jayce swears he can see universes of unspoken words in those amber eyes of Viktor’s. And he knows everything that’s being said. He returns the gaze in heartfelt reciprocation, all of it and infinitely more.

Jayce pulls the other in and presses their foreheads together, as if by instinct. Seconds feel like centuries, memories in the form of pure magic circling them as they embrace. Their proximity is fulfilling: the feeling of Viktor’s shaky hand on Jayce’s arm in an attempt to soothe him; the feeling of Viktor’s silky brown hair as he twirls a lock around his finger. Jayce feels he’s lived a complete life instead of three decades.

In less time than either of them can think, their senses are flooded with piercing white, scorching pain crawling through every pore on their skin. Their screams of affliction are muffled by the shrill ringing in their ears - It’s sharp, freezing, burning with sentient aggression. A couple seconds of this- 

And it stops. Replaced by a sensation of falling from a great height, with such speed that Jayce is unsure whether he’s choking on air or bile. Quicker than it had begun, he hits the ground with an obnoxious thump and shooting pain spreads across his back and his lungs. Through his teeth, he yells out in pain, his lungs stinging as his breath hitches; his ears continue to ring like he’d been standing next to a clock tower, his knuckles ache as he fails to mobilise his fingers. His right wrist aches emptily, a colourless gemstone embedded in the midst of ghostly white vines of purified corruption - a reminder of the reason this all happened. He felt there was a dagger piercing his temples. Or maybe a taut metal claw crushing his skull. Whatever it was, he despises it; he despises the copper on his teeth, the metallic taste of internal wounds.

The pain in his lungs subsides just enough to allow him to sit up with a groan. He clutches his head with a hand that still trembles, his blurred with salt tears and large splotches of coloured static. Through his dull vision, he can make out the shine of his metal leg brace, and his hand clutching at the concrete below him.

He’s alive. And it doesn’t make any sense. 

Firstly, he thought he’d be dead after that inhumane level of pain.

Secondly, wasn’t he supposed to disintegrate into stardust with Viktor?

He was supposed to die. With Viktor… wait. Holy shit. Viktor might be alive.

His heart jumps with such intensity he nearly faints - he makes a swift attempt to stand but collapses immediately, the sudden adrenaline rush making him even more dizzy. With a gloved hand he rubs at his eyes, wiping the tears hindering his vision, lifting his head. The stars infiltrating his clarity had faded. He could finally see. He looks up, forward - a cliff. Relying on his trembling left arm to carry his body weight, he turns his body with a wince.

And then he sees him.

His heart rate picks up drastically.

“Viktor!” he yells, despite his sore throat and tight lungs. 

His partner was sitting up, his knees curled into his chest, his body facing to the east of Jayce. He had regressed into the version of himself before he evolved, before he’d fused with the Hexcore - though his hair was notably shoulder-length, and Jayce is immediately reminded of the commune. He forces down the memory. 

Even from a few hundred metres away or so, he can tell that Viktor looks disorientated. Scared, maybe. He still has that blue blanket draped around him, his hands clutching it like it was the only object that really mattered to him.

And It really was Viktor again. His Viktor.

“Viktor!” he yells again, his voice breaking. Viktor looks in his direction this time, his eyes widening, his body stiff for a second. Jayce attempts to stand again, succeeds, shooting pain in his bad leg causing him to wince but he really couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His expression turns into a mixture of relief, shock and a bit of insanity as he stumbles towards his partner, whose own face was lighting up with something warm and familiar.

Viktor gradually stands up, notably with much more ease than Jayce. His eyes are bright, he looks relieved and is now smiling with his teeth. Jayce feels like he’s going to pass out. Viktor is currently smiling with his teeth. When was the last time he’d done that? Jayce’s brain short-circuits and all he can do is limp faster towards his partner who looks happier than he’s been in years.

Viktor yells out to his partner, his voice as sweet and unique and real as Jayce remembered it always was.

“Jayce!"

His mind was racing with ecstatic internal thoughts. They were both alive. They could start fresh, and maybe flee to some calmer, more rural part of Runaterra. Well, yes, his lifelong dream of pursuing magic had perished - but he has a new dream now, and he was sixty metres away from him. Viktor’s eyes are fixated on Jayce, that familiar spark had returned to his bright irises and Janna, this was unbelievable; there were so many opportunities that had just opened up, so many chances to learn, grow, thrive with his partner, whom he knew he would never let go of ever again, and-

A gunshot.

He flinches.

The sound echoes. He doesn’t take his hands off his ears until it fades.

Viktor’s smile- it had turned into something disgustingly unexpressive.

Jayce’s heart drops. His airways tighten and he can’t breathe. Someone yells from behind him; he hardly hears it and starts running towards his partner whose body had fallen to the ground. His body aches sharply, borderline unbearably - but damn if he cared. 

“VIKTOR!” He yells his partner’s name again - but this time, his voice was half-scream half-sob, raspy and so intense he feels it reverberate through his skull.

He falls to his knees and can barely feel his skin rip as he skids on the concrete. With two trembling hands he swiftly grabs Viktor and turns his body around to face him. And within seconds his knees are drenched in blood.

“Vik- Viktor, please...”

Through his pure confusion and horror at the sudden bullet, tears fall shamelessly as he shakes his partner’s body with hands trembling like a scared child’s. Viktor’s mouth was hanging slightly open, his eyes now a dull shade of golden, the spark reduced to dust. Jayce’s mind races to the council incident - where Viktor was lying lifelessly in the midst of debris, no pulse - and he tastes metallic bile travel up his throat.

He doesn’t check for a pulse this time, and instead grabs Viktor's navy blanket to staunch the wound on his chest. The fabric becomes soaked with fresh, pungent blood in a heartbeat; Jayce stares down in sheer horror. His breathing is shallow and rapid, his voice practically a sob.

“You’re- Vik, you’re fine, it’s gonna be fine, o-okay? Vik-”

His breath hitches and he can’t rip his eyes away from the sight. No, Viktor isn’t dead. He just needs to stop the bleeding - and who the hell would shoot Vik? But it’s going to be okay because he’s alive. They can still do everything he’d hoped for, they can still live a proper, calm life together because Viktor is alive.

He feels a pair of strong hands on his shoulders from behind. The grip is tight, and he flinches at the sudden contact, eyes and hands still glued to Viktor like a vice. He can sense a few figures surrounding him - enforcers, masked, holding firearms. That air of unfair authority was easily recognisable. With an automaton voice, the enforcer speaks from behind him.

“Mr Talis, it’s been requested for you to be escorted off-”

“Viktor, come on, please-”

“We must ask you to abide by-”

“Vik, please, stay with me-” Jayce’s arms wrap around his partner’s body as lowers his head with a small sob. He presses his lips to Viktor’s forehead, and pleads again in a broken whisper. He studies his partner’s eyes for any sign of colour, a flicker, anything.

“Mr Talis. It’s unsafe to-

“Stop- fucking TALKING TO ME!”

Jayce’s yell borders on feral, his voice cracking, and he turns and elbows the enforcer with sudden aggression - at which another enforcer aids to pull his arms away from his deceased partner.

“Stop, get the FUCK off-”

He interrupts himself with a sob as he desperately tries to fight off the two enforcers. They hold his arms back and he fights and fights- and now they were taking Viktor away- no, please-

“No, he’s my partner - please don’t, please, PLEASE-”

His voice turns into a visceral scream; the sound rips from his throat, accompanied by tears that shed like blood, sobs that wrack his body like harsh electrical impulses. He hears enforcers utter futile words from behind him, and his ears are ringing too loudly to even hear, if not pay attention to. His eyes are fixated on the enforcer slowly carrying Viktor away; although his vision is obscured by tears, hot flashes of double vision and bright static. Another guttural wail crawls its way out of his throat, grazing his spine, molten scorching his lungs.

“You don’t UNDERSTAND- he’s alive, he’s not dead, stop- stop it-”

He doesn’t stop screaming painfully until Viktor’s body is out of sight. His attempts to fight restraint turn feeble, and he lowers his head and cries like he’s never done before.

And when did his nose start bleeding? His senses are full of rot and metal - hot blood on his tongue, scratchy colours in his vision, and familiar whispers that echo like a twisted mantra.

And the tears just keep falling. The dread and shock of it all is serpent-like, a writhing loop of ‘this is a horrid nightmare and I’ll wake up in the lab with Vik’, to ‘just fucking shoot me too’.

And this can't be real. But it is. It’s so real, that he’s bent over double on a battlefield, sobs wracking his body harshly, visceral screams ruining his vocal cords, tears and blood running down his face.

He hears Viktor’s voice, but he’s afraid to look up in fear of what he wouldn’t see.

You failed to save me. You always do.

Half an hour passes before his body goes limp with exhaustion. Gaze fixated on the ground, his body trembling with the aftermath of the biggest breakdown of his life. His vision blurs and his breathing practically stops.

The enforcers behind him were still restraining him, as ordered to. They were completely stationary and silent, as if they’d witnessed something traumatic themselves.

He swallows the vomit threatening to surface. He’s awfully quiet now, with the occasional snivel or hitched breath. Tear streaks and dried blood stain his face. His eyes screw shut when he hears the voice of an enforcer restraining him, their tone meek compared to thirty minutes ago.

“We’re sorry. We must ask you to be escorted off the premises.”

Jayce tries to scoff, but it just sounds painful. 

Ten seconds of brutal silence.

“Mr Talis, our superiors-”

“You’re not fucking sorry.”

He speaks through gritted teeth; his voice cracks with unshed tears, his tone is one of pure disgust. 

He’s still for a few more seconds before he abruptly stands up, stumbling backwards as he yanks his arms away from the enforcer’s hold. The two enforcers in identical armour step towards him, seemingly cautious but almost robotic in their simultaneous actions. He glares at them both.

“Which- one of you- did it?”

His voice is low and trembles with something uglier than sorrow. 

No answer. 

He raises his voice, bordering on manic.

“Which one of you motherfuckers pulled the trigger?!”

He pushes the closest enforcer back with his palms, and they hardly shift. He tastes blood caught in his throat, feels thorns puncture his veins, hears anything but silence.

He recognises his surroundings. Barren. They were the only humans in sight. His vision falters as one of the enforcers reply.

“We aren’t permitted to disclose the perpetrator. That’s confidential information.”

Jayce scoffs, his eyes wide with revulsion and disbelief.

“Confid- where the hell did they take Viktor?!” He snaps, practically a bark.

“...That’s also, um- confidential. We’re sorry we cannot accommoda-”

He interrupts them by shoving past the two enforcers with a loud exhale. As he walks, his mind muddled, he begins to fully acknowledge his surroundings. The sky above him is clear, just like it was before the war. He glances at a lifeless pile of Viktor’s mannequins - he takes in the ghostly, bone-white, and the brassy gold crawling over the bodies like a disease - he immediately falters again, his vision flickering with dull, intricate patterns and he clutches his head with a sharp inhale. He stumbles and bites down on his lip, hard enough to break skin, to stop himself from crying out in pain. He feigns recovery.

As he continues walking haphazardly, he attempts to take no notice of the blood splatters and occasional deceased bodies. But his heart thrums in his temples, his teeth keep grating in response to unrelenting flashes in his vision and a painfully familiar voice in his ear. He can sense the two enforcers close behind him, ever so kindly escorting him to wherever the hell he was walking to.

He’s uncertain of why nobody, except enforcers, were around. Maybe he’d just sobbed over Viktor for too long. And could they stop staring at him?! They won’t stop. They're mocking him.

He’s uncertain if the crying child he hears is real, or just in his head.

He’s uncertain of who he is for a moment. The world spins as if he was intoxicated. Why is he here? He falls to his knees now, gagging beside a humanoid mannequin. So much for a weak stomach.

Viktor, he couldn’t think of anything else.

Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.

Something ugly whispers beside him, uttering the name.

Nothing he felt or endured held any meaning anymore. Nothing except for his partner.

He can’t stand up. He feels he’s been possessed, simply watching his body act while his conscience is behind a cracked screen with broken volume. 

When he looks up, he sees his partner standing in front of him.

Eyes wide and bloodshot, body covered with rune-shaped wounds, hair tousled. Silent. Staring.

His breath hitches at the uncanny sight. Viktor’s skin looks warped, his eyebags sunken and his bony fingers twitching like the undead.

You did this to me.

Jayce closes his eyes and lowers his head with a small sob. As if rehearsed, the wraith controlling him whispers with a strained voice:

“I know, Viktor, I’m- sorry, we were… in this… together-”

He feels a hand on his shoulder and his head turns swiftly to look behind him. Is it Viktor?

He can’t tell. He can’t see. 

So he ignores them. He forces his body up and stumbles to the side, trying to act like he had a sense of who he was and where he was. He walks forward, abandoning caution, his senses overloaded with ghastly corruption, dull amber eyes and arguments from the past. The hand on his shoulder remains and he absolutely despises it.

Deep breaths feel shallow and he’s going to die.

What’s his name again?

V- Viktor, no- shit, what’s his name?

His heartbeat and breathing pick up rapidly as his legs drag him forward, his whole body aching with autonomy that’d been ripped from him by things living in the confines of his mind. Trapped, counterfeit, yet so real that he’d walk straight off a cliff if they ordered him to.

He’s still upright, somehow, as he stumbles forward.

What the fuck is his name?

He knows it starts with a V- or an X, or maybe a J.

But nothing feels real right now and the only coherent thought he has is ‘Viktor’.

Jayce doesn’t recall much. Though, he distinctly remembers his sigh of pure relief when he finally remembered his name. Hardly anything before that, however - only how he’d aggressively refused when a random enforcer offered to walk him home. And now, with a tainted memory, he had ended up in his house.

When he’d entered, some sick voice deemed it the first time he’d been here without Viktor in his life. He’d suppressed the scream threatening to surface by hitting the heel of his hand against his temple. Instinctively, repetitively. Until his mind quieted just enough.

He’d ripped off his damaged leg brace and armour immediately, and felt minimally better. Maybe he was coming down with a fever. He’d knelt in front of the toilet bowl for another half hour - sobbing once again, throwing up bilious liquid and something horrifyingly red, even when he swore his stomach was empty. His body only stopped when exhaustion caused his lungs and intestines to sting.

Straight after, he’d washed his mouth, and forced down a couple glasses of water - not a great move, he felt nauseous immediately after and threw up for the 3rd time in the span of an hour. In the kitchen sink this time. He felt disgusted afterwards.

His throat still burns as if permanently scarred.

He twists the handle of the shower with a shaky hand and he’s met with ice-cold water. With a tired sigh, he closes his eyes, more than content at being cleansed of the blood and grime he’d accumulated during the war.

Try to focus on the present. That’s what his mother had told him when his father passed, all those years ago.

So he tries. He listens to the water fall like heavy rain, feels it roll off his skin like gentle streams. He takes a few deep breaths. For the first time in what felt like years, his mind was somewhat quiet.

He wishes it was silent. If his mind was silent forever, he might’ve been okay with living.

None of his clothes fit him anymore. No surprise, since he’d been heavily malnourished for a grueling few months. He picks out the first thing in his wardrobe - a worn out red button-up, and khaki trousers that now needed a belt. He decides he’s going to visit his mother, to state his survival. And then he’ll visit Caitlyn. He prays with his entire being that she’s still alive - but dwelling on the thought would just be an invitation for anxiety to swallow him whole, like a stone in dark water.

But first… he collapses onto his bed.

Whatever you do, don’t think about Viktor.

He grimaces at his stupid thought process.

…But how did everything happen so fast?

Okay… he was planning to die with Viktor. It was perfect, the absolute perfect way to die. And then they survived, somehow- wait, how the hell did they even survive? Focus. Right, so then- he was ecstatic that they both received a second chance to live, to do it right this time. Who wouldn’t be happy? But then Vik got shot. By a fucking enforcer, of course! So then he- well. It was a dull blur of events in his memory. As if the past few hours were a brutal anomaly in itself, existing for the sole purpose to teach him a twisted, torturous lesson about everything he wasn’t allowed to have.

And he’s tearing up again. He rolls onto his stomach and hides his face in his pillow.

At least he’s able to cry quietly now; he screws his eyes shut, in case he sees anything he knows isn’t actually real but always scares the life out of him.

A few minutes of silent ruminating, and he feels another sudden urge to scream. But his bones ache with loss, his head throbs with a migraine and his throat burns too intensely to even whisper. So instead, he forces the cold flames of rage and regret to extinguish in his chest, dead before he can act on them. He takes a long, deep breath and relaxes his tense muscles. His dizzy conscience finally allows him to rest.

Look behind you.

For the first time ever, he’s too exhausted to listen.

In the midst of nightmares, he dreams of childish magic, amber eyes and late night conversations in the dim light of the lab.

His much-needed slumber was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. His mind is still foggy as he rubs his wary eyes and yawns. With a tired grumble, he slides out of bed, his steps uneven without his brace.

His mind is a mess - he’s too caught up in the wave of dread and despair that just threatened to shatter his ribcage, so he doesn’t have time to worry about who might be knocking.

But when he opens the door, his eyes light up.

Caitlyn.

Her left eye is taped securely with cotton, a hint of dried blood still visible. But it was Cait. And he could see the relief flooding into her expression in real time.

A grateful smile forms on lips, and he lets out a breathy chuckle of relief.

“Cait!”

She immediately pulls him into a tight hug. He reciprocates, his smile growing. And his voice is destroyed - he cringes internally at his obnoxious vocal fry.

He hears her mutter, “I’m so glad you’re alive.” She sounds so genuine.

As always, he’s the last to pull away.

His expression turns to worry.

“What happened to your eye, Sprout?”

He’s concerned as he holds her face in between his hands like she’s still a child. She’s about to answer, but her gaze shifts up, squinting.

“Why do you have crystals embedded into your forehead?”

She lowers his hands with her own, blatantly ignoring his question. Instead, she curiously inspects the rune-shaped, lifeless gemstones ingrained into his skin - his heart jumps as he realises that Viktor’s fingerprints left a permanent mark. He’s unsure whether he should be happy or devastated.

Cait lifts her hand and flicks a gemstone, causing him to flinch at the odd sensation.

“Huh. Intriguing.” She speaks to herself, aqua eye narrowed on his forehead. She raises an eyebrow with an imperceptible smirk . “And I don't remember you getting a white streak in your hair. Pre-battle motivation?”

Well. She might’ve lost an eye - but she was still Cait all right.

And a streak in his hair? Jayce’s eyebrows furrow. Gemstone fingerprints, and now this? Did the Machine Herald want to make him a fashion statement or something?

He breaks out of his short-lived daze.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to you? Your eye? Shouldn’t you be resting?” He splutters almost desperately, motioning to her patched-up eye.

Her eyebrows finally unclench and she meets his eyes. She shakes her head and hesitates before speaking, as if he was extracting shards of glass from her open gash.

“...I fought with Ambessa.” 

Her tone is nearly deadpan, as if the name by itself gets her guard back up. Jayce’s eyes widen at the mention of the woman, and the thought of his little sister fighting with that bloodthirsty war criminal. Cait sighs heavily and continues, voice quieter.

“Mel saved my life. She and I managed to defeat her mother, eventually. And- even so, this…” She motions vaguely to her eye, “...was the least I could sacrifice. For the victory.”

Jayce listens intently. A part of him becomes forever grateful to Mel. And Cait sounds like she’s hiding something, maybe something she’s done - but he doesn’t pry.

Instead, he nods slowly, his expression undeniably relieved and a bit shocked. His tone softens.

“Gosh- Ambessa?  Cait… that must have been terrifying.”

He fights the urge to hug her again, shoving his hands in his pockets. He continues with a small smile and an attempt at a tease, but his tone remains genuine.

“I don’t give you enough credit for your gallantry.”

She returns with a smirk, tutting to play along - but he can see the impact the war had on her. In the dull glint of her eye, her slightly delayed reactions, the paleness of her skin.

He also now notices how she was awkwardly shifting her body weight onto her right leg. Another injury, he assumes. An injury she’s concealing so he doesn’t worry too much.

She’s looking at the doorframe beside him now. Her tone is reluctant, turning into something close to vulnerable. “Mel… is leaving soon. For Noxus. I’m assuming you’d like to meet her, to say goodbye.”

His heart drops theatrically.

His dopamine levels today probably resembled an electrocardiogram.

It was well known that Mel would leave Piltover to reign Noxus eventually - but the fact doesn’t hurt any less. They’d known each other for 8 years.

You’ve known me for much longer than that, you know.

“Yeah- I’ll get around to it.” His low volume matches hers.

She nods again. A few seconds of silence pass. Wow, they’ve been standing at his door for a while. He should really invite her inside-

“You look like a mess.”

Cait changes the subject. Her tone is unfiltered, as always- but still contains a hint of concern. He tries to laugh but it just sounds dismal. 

She continues with a more compassionate tone. Her sapphire eye glints with honesty, and something like pity.

“I… heard about Viktor. And I’m truly sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

Bullshit. You do deserve this.

He swallows thickly. Familiar emotions return. They sting, suppressed; they feel like rot and heartache more than anything else.

He deserves this.

When he replies, his voice is tender with the ache of an infected wound.

“Thanks, Sprout.”

Chapter Text

Cait’s been his best friend since he was twenty-one. She was his only friend, actually, until he met Vik when he was twenty-four. Pathetic? Totally. But they’d built an unbreakable sibling-like bond, over the years that the Kirammans were his patrons.

As expected, Cait’s mother was strict about where she went as a child. She’d send Jayce to supervise whenever she wanted to explore the vast woods near their house, and he was expected to ‘keep a close eye on her’ as she wandered. He must admit that he enjoyed the frequent exposure to nature - but he enjoyed Cait’s company tenfold. It was an oddly rewarding routine: acting like he was twelve years old with Cait for a few hours, coming back and being scolded by Cassandra when her daughter came home with scraped elbows from climbing trees, nettle rashes from playing ‘tag’, or a pinkie fracture from falling off a (very awesome) monolith that one time.

With Cait, he could be silly and fun and childish. Completely free of judgement.

Something that would be forever ingrained into his memory was an average day where they’d gone exploring, and they’d stumbled upon Dragonfly Lake. 

Yes, Dragonfly Lake -  It wasn't the most creative name. But Cait had called it that in the spur of the moment, and they’d stuck to it ever since.

As the name suggested, it was a small lake in the middle of the woods, where an abnormal amount of dragonflies were situated. When they found it, Cait had been the most excited he’d ever seen her - and vice versa.

He can’t put it into words. The awe seeping into his skin like honey, glazing his irises with nothing but beauty and flecks of gentle gold. The sound of Cait’s childish squeals of glee as she sprinted around, pointing at a cool moth (she said it was a Pyrrharctia Isabella, he still remembers) and counting each one of the abundance of dragonflies. He felt the breeze on his skin like whispers of reassurance, watched the water ripple like something sentient and predictable, heard birds chirp quietly like calming white noise.

They often also referred to it as their ‘super-secret-magical hangout sanctuary’. Because it was safe. Hidden away from the rest of the world. And it was magical; the area was so beautiful that they decided this used to be home to fairies, before they moved away and gave ownership of the land to dragonflies.

Here, he wasn’t anyone he tried so desperately to be. Even if it was for a little while, the place quietened the underlying urge to prove himself worthy. He was at terms with that. 

Here, in this comforting sanctuary, he didn’t have to be anyone but Jayce.

They hadn’t come to Dragonfly Lake for years - four and a half, to be exact. Cait grew up. And he was too busy. Yet, he still distinctly remembers the directions to it from his house; he still distinctly remembers the conversations they had on the mossy log in front of the lake. Cait would be talking about how fun her shooting classes were, and a second later they’d be discussing the abhorrent way that Pilties talked about Zaunites, and how they wished they could do something about it. Little did they know back then.

He valued their talks. Their conversations were escapism for him. Escapism from all the dead-ends in his research - the horrid, stressful ones that flicked the switch from resilience to despondency. Escapism from the searing depressive episodes that sliced through his ribs, tearing his heart valve by valve, vein by vein. Escapism from bitter grief, the memory of being called a ‘misfit’ for the entirety of his academic life, the period of sour arguments with his mother. 

Yet, the thing he appreciated most about Cait is that she actually took him seriously. He wasn’t just some idiotic idealist in her mind. She believed in him, more than anyone else ever had.

She’d visit his room/workshop when she was bored. Which was very often. She’d listen to his rambly, long-shot theories and was fascinated, always asking him follow-up questions when she didn’t grasp his concepts. He’d teach her names and properties of different gemstones, explain to her the purpose of different tools, nod along politely when she showed him her incredibly creative sketches of guns (inspired by his hammer blueprints) that were impossible to create in real life. It was sweet. He misses those days dearly - the days when he was nearing the end of his academy years, eyes set on his independent study of magic, growing closer and closer to his patrons’ strange and eccentric daughter as time passed.

She was a bright kid. She still is.

A lot of the time, he wishes he and Cait were related by blood. Of course she’s his little sister - she’d referred to him as her big brother a few months after they met and he just rolled with it. But sometimes, he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like if they grew up together.

He’s never said it out loud. For years, she’d made his life worth living.

The fifteen minute walk from his house to the lake felt longer than it was, due to both of their injuries. Jayce’s dull ache in his leg, exacerbated by a couple loose screws in his brace - and Cait’s stab wound in her abdomen, that she’d reluctantly told him about after he kept interrogating her about her limp.

Their magical hangout spot had remained exactly the same. Untouched, unaffected by the war or arcane corruption. It was a small meadow in the midst of a forest - trees of oak and spruce surrounding it like colossal guardians, overgrown weeds and wildflowers painting the ground with the promise of natural growth rather than man-made. In front of them was the freshwater lake itself; dragonflies rested on water lilies and yarrow, and a few were hovering around some meadow sage like mystical, omniscient beings. The sun had always hit the scene perfectly. Soft light reflects off gentle lake water, and washes everything in an irreplicable golden warmth.

Jayce had to stop himself from tearing up when they’d arrived. He’d practically heard the laughter of their younger selves, felt the bittersweet nostalgia rush through his veins like an IV push; it was rapid, a breath of pure oxygen in the midst of hydrogen sulfide. They’d taken their normal seats on the fallen tree in front of the lake - with Jayce on the left and Caitlyn on the right - and were surrounded by ever-growing viridian moss. Golden hour was when the sight was the most beautiful. He couldn’t wait.

They’ve been sitting in comfortable silence for a solid ten minutes, relishing the familiar environment, until Caitlyn speaks up.

“I know you’re upset about Viktor.”

Jayce jumps, despite her soft tone, and nearly drops the daisy chain he’s making.

Acknowledging her words, he turns slightly to face her. He feels that raw ache return to his heart and throat, along with muted frustration at the reminder of what happened.

Jayce is silent. Cait’s gaze is gentle, but definitive. She doesn’t hesitate to continue.

“...But what he did can’t be justified.”

Her words are plain. He should accept them.

Instead, his eyebrows furrow and he turns away. A switch in his brain flicks.

“Well, he didn't deserve to die.” He scowls, and starts to subconsciously pick the petals off his latest daisy, one by one. He continues with a bitter scoff. “Can’t believe he got shot by a damn enforcer - a horribly underwhelming death for such a brilliant man.”

Cait huffs. He can feel her stare pierce into his skin, leaving icy burn scars of ire unexpressed.

“Yes - but he initiated a war, in which thousands were killed-”

“Indirectly.” Jayce interrupts, voice slightly raised. “He thought he was doing the right thing. He wanted to help. He wanted to cure humanity of our faults-”

“He wanted to rid humanity of emotions. Corrupt intentions start out good, Jayce. Same old story.”

Her tone hints at finality, as if his arguments were futile in affecting her opinion. He glares at her, hands shaking now, refusing to back down.

“He was manipulated - brainwashed, even! Manipulation elicits corruption. His intentions were always pure, just tainted by Hexcore- I told you about this, Cait!”

His voice breaks with irritation. A dull desperation thrums in his heart; he wishes for her to believe him. 

Cait’s tone remains aggravatingly calm.

“Victims of manipulation cannot be fully exonerated from their criminal actions. What you’re saying is partially true - when you revived him, he was still a sentient being who was able to make decisions for himself. And the decisions that you’re deeming ‘pure’ were apocalyptic in their destruction.”

Stern arguments roll off her tongue with ease, her tone deadpan and controlled, her words like hydrofluoric acid to his wrists.

He stares at her in disbelief. Eyes wide, eyebrows furrowed, mouth parted in almost a scoff.

She stares back, austere. When did she become so cold? He can’t see how this could be out of love. But maybe he’s clouded by emotions. 

She continues, words unrelenting.

“The fact that he was manipulated is upsetting, but it certainly does not excuse him from his murderous actions. In the eyes of the public, he was a corrupt villain who needed to be castigated.”

His insides burn. Like magma travelling down the length of his windpipe, lit splints tearing his fragile capillaries apart. Anger substitutes for the empty ache until it seeps into every crevice of his body.

Jayce despises yelling at his loved ones, starting unnecessary quarrels - he finds it painful. Yet somehow, his impulsivity never fails to prevail. He’s shouting at full volume before he can stop himself.

“This is your argument?! That- that he DESERVED to die?! Viktor was my PARTNER, Cait! He was a good person, you know that! Screw the eyes of the public, how can you, as someone who knew Vik, just- disregard him as another ‘corrupt villain’?!”

He spits out the words, the taste acrid on his tongue. His hands tremble as he gestures wildly.

The daisy chain he was making for his sister is discarded by his feet.

Regret didn’t come so easily when his heart’s racing like oxygenated flames, when his lungs are scorched with betrayal.

Cait’s eyebrows furrow and he can tell she’s mad now. Before she can open her mouth to argue, he cuts her off, his raised voice breaking with sheer ire and frustration.

“If you’re saying that shit about Viktor, say it about me too! I was the one who fucking pursued HexTech, I- I was the one who fused Vik with the Hexcore to save him! This chain of events started with me-” He exhales sharply, his expression manic. “Come on, Cait, don’t you understand?!”

His eyes shine with tears, more desperation than anger at this point.

“...Understand what?”

Her tone is raised, yet still cautious, as if she were tiptoeing around a caged wild animal - unpredictable, able to lash out at any given moment. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He gives her a disbelieving chuckle, avoiding her gaze as he stares intensely at the grass next to her boots.

“This is more my fault than his. I should’ve- I should’ve killed myself at twenty-four. I would’ve saved thousands.”

He spits the words out. And without warning, his senses betray him again. Yellow-purple static claws at the corner of his vision and he hisses, his vision invaded by kaleidoscopes of amber - the concept is pleasant, but the reality is so torturous he’d rather bash his head in with a metal pipe. With his nails digging into the flesh of his forearm, he bites back a scared sound and tries to conceal his quickened breathing.

He can sense Cait’s outrage at his words, senses her movements stiffening and hears her sharp, pained scoff.

A tone of pure hurt replaces her stern facade.

“How can you just say that, Jayce?!”

The sudden shift of her tone and volume, and the small crack in her voice pierces his chest with guilt - and now his mind is torturing him with her expression when she’d found out about his attempt. She was hardly sixteen at the time.

He wipes his eyes with a swift motion and a small sniff, his eyebrows still furrowed. 

Win this argument for me.

He isn’t going to lose. He couldn’t. No, not when this is about Viktor.

His voice is smaller now, no louder than a bitter growl, like the wild animal curled in on itself.

“Because it’s true.”

Scared to face her expression, his stare remains fixated on the blades of grass and wildflowers at their feet, his eyes trailing a small beetle as it treks. He wants to be that beetle. Or even that blade of grass. He wants peace, without his brain attacking him whenever his fragile composure cracks.

Cait sounds like she’s on the brink of something. Tears, anger - he couldn’t tell.

“It’s not- fucking true!” Her tone is concern masked under fury.

He flinches as she swears; he isn’t used to it at all. A teary stare greets him as he finally cranes his neck back to her. She looks worried, pissed off, and desperate all in one as she continues.

“You can’t say things like that! Do you even know how devastated I’d be? Why would you blame yourself for events you can’t anticipate!? How insane do you have to be, to-”

“Insane?” A brittle laugh. He runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m the insane one, for owning up to my blunders!?”

“What blunders!?” She yells, hands clawing at the twill of her trousers, like she was trying to refrain from gouging out the doubt in his mind.

He stares at her, trying his best to cover up his guilt for making her upset by returning his voice to a yell.

“Have you not been listening to ANYTHING I’m saying!? Why are you acting like Viktor’s the devil and I’m some sort of saint, when all I’ve done my entire life is FUCK EVERYTHING UP!?”

On those last words, his voice cracks horribly with a sob-yell. His arms ache with his wild gestures, eyes wide, Cait’s expression obscure through familiar flashes and the blur of his tears.

He can’t stop his tears spilling over, no matter how furiously he wipes them away.

Clarity seemingly returns to him.

And suddenly - behind her. There’s a creature.

Human-esque, rotting green, maroon accents of corruption.

His attention is drawn towards the gruesome crack of its stone limbs, how its neck clicks clockwise like an automaton, how void-blue was eating at the corners of his vision. The creature curls its fingers towards Cait’s shoulder, getting closer and closer-

It’s not real.

But then- why does it feel so goddamn real?

Cait’s arguments turn muffled, as his senses now focus on the humanoid being - twisted limbs, dried blood, rotting fingertips. Whispers overlap incoherently, but he can make out Viktor’s voice through the chaos. In the corner of his vision, Cait stops mid-sentence and her expression turns concerned when his breathing picks up; he can barely hear her say his name before-

He surges forward and shoves Caitlyn to the side, his hand grabbing at the creature’s throat. It claws at his wrist, before his vision flashes with searing patterns that feel like needles to his brain and he’s forced to retreat. He lets out a pained sound and curls in on himself, bent forward on the log, head in his trembling hands. Through the gaps in his fingers he sees the lake - the scene is distorted, desaturated - a storm brews overhead, and wispy, stone mannequins crawl towards him, their movements irregular like faulty machines.

He’s terrified. Frozen.

A hand on his shoulder. He flinches with a sharp gasp and forces it off, standing up and stumbling backwards. His breathing comes in painful bursts; he swallows down the metallic taste in his mouth, but his throat is still stained with fear.

Their special sanctuary is ruined. Rotting mannequins infiltrate the area, turning the scene from earthy gold to uncanny shades of blood and copper. He hates it. Their safe space is gone, it looks like the ravine. He hates it.

He can’t tell who the person in front of him is - they sound concerned, cautious, maybe a bit confused. It can’t be Caitlyn because she hates him now, after what he said - why did he say that?!

Viktor calls his name from somewhere, voice clear in the midst of echoing commands; he’s relieved for the reminder that he’s called Jayce. He looks behind him but the vibrant flashes just don’t cease so he grips his hair tightly as if that’ll stop the ache.

He’s close to just letting go and breaking down completely, like he did about six hours ago.

He’s sick of this. Sick of being chosen as one of God’s toughest soldiers when all he ever wanted was to change the world, to help people. Not like this. Right now, he’d be helping more people if he flatlined.

“Jayce, look at me.”

He won’t. It’s a trap.

Hands on his shoulders now. He’s scared so he doesn’t look up.

“Jayce. Look at me.”

Is it Cait? Is it really her?

No, it can’t be. She hates him. She hates him, right? She wouldn’t be here right now.

But now it sounds exactly like her. Tone composed, but still definitive. Through shattered breathing and shaking hands, he lifts his head. It looks exactly like her. His mind’s still in fight-or-flight mode, but the familiar face and the tight grip on his shoulders works wonders to slowly ease him out of it.

“You’re safe.”

The words cut through the restless fog like a dagger. He wants to believe them.

His eyes screw shut for a few long seconds before he opens them up. And now his frantic eyes are met with a worried look from Cait. It’s really her. She’s okay.

Gradually, patterns fade, colours turn normal and whispers transition into a consistent ringing. His breathing is still heavy, but less erratic now. The mannequins are gone. It doesn’t extinguish the experience. He knows that whenever they’d come to Dragonfly Lake again, the memory of this episode would seep into his mind like unsolicited chemicals.

Cait’s hands remain on his shoulders, grounding him. After a moment of silence, she speaks again, gaze concerned and voice softer.

“...Are you alright?”

With those words, he comes back to his senses. He remembers how to form sentences. Though, his body aches deeply with the sudden drop of adrenaline, and his heart is still racing with empty fear.

He’s still for a few seconds before he gives her a weak nod and averts his gaze, shuffling past her to sit back down on the fallen tree.

He doesn’t look up from the overgrown grass below him. While he’s collecting his thoughts, he senses Cait take a seat to the right of him again.

They’re silent for a while - Jayce levels his breathing and Cait processes what had just happened.

He feels a wave of shame for the episode. Guilt, even - it seeps through the cracks of anger he feels for her arguments. He shouldn’t have brought up his own issues to defend Viktor. And definitely not something like that.

But then finally, he speaks, his quiet, crackly voice a stark contrast from the previous yelling.

“Cait, I’m sorry- for saying that, earlier. Don’t hate me. Please.”

Cait turns to him abruptly, but he’s still staring at the ground and fiddling with a loose screw in his leg brace. She sighs with the weight of something. And she’s about to lift her hand to place on his shoulder again, but she refrains.

“Of course I don’t hate you." A pause. "I’m… worried.” She speaks with that gentle-but-firm tone again.

He’s silent.

Cait’s restless fidgets are subtle but certainly visible, and she stares at him with such intense concern that he wonders if she’s trying to MRI his brain for abnormalities.

He can tell that she has a million questions she’s forcing herself not to blurt out, e.g: what the hell just happened? What were you hallucinating? Why didn’t you tell me you were crazy? Were you always crazy, or is this a new thing? Should I book you a doctor? A psych ward? Perhaps a-

“Let’s just drop the argument.” Cait speaks again, voice quiet. She stops silently assessing his every move and looks out to the lake, which reflects golden light now the sun’s setting.

Jayce takes a reluctant deep breath and nods, staring at a trampled dandelion.

The air between them has changed. It’s uncomfortable. His hands are still shaking, leg is bouncing. Nervous. Something he’d never really felt with Cait.

He’s still horribly angry about what she said about Viktor. And he wants so desperately to ask her if she knows who shot him. It burns. But it fizzles with exhaustion, with fear of another public episode if he thinks about this for too long.

Right now he just feels horrible for ruining the moment; this was supposed to be an escape, and he’d worried Cait by letting his stupid goddamn mind to torture him again. And, get this - he’s going insane because of things that aren’t real! Wow. Pat on the back. Great job, Talis!

He wishes he could dissect his brain, excise the figurative mess that’s turning him into more of a maniac than before he got stuck in that corrupted universe. And if he dies during the procedure - well, win-win.

He’s zoned out for a good few minutes before he snaps out of his ruminations. He lifts his head. The lake doesn’t look as pretty as a half hour ago, even though it was golden hour. Sure, dragonflies looked mystical in the setting sun, light reflecting on water looked like magic trapped under the surface of ripples - but those are all things he would’ve said earlier, and he can’t appreciate anything right now.

He looks over to Cait, who’s also deep in thought. A sinking feeling in the pit of his heart is constant. It turns unbearable when a cloud blocks the sunlight, and strips a slither of joy from the scene.

He’s too fidgety but also terribly drained, bouncing his leg and grating his teeth for the sake of doing something. 

When he was nervous, he would draw patterns on the rune in his bracelet. But now, that rune was embedded into the flesh of his wrist, completely void of magic that he once deemed ‘beautiful’. It’s painful to lose the one consistent comfort in his life. To lose the hope he’d clung onto for decades, just for it to stab him in the back - it’s ironic, saying that, as the arcane had infected the chainsaw wound on his back pretty severely. He can usually ignore the sting.

Everything just hurts, mentally and physically. He wants to amputate his left leg.

He stops picking at a half-scabbed cut on his hand and taps Cait on the shoulder.

“Cait.”

He has no idea what he wants to say. He just needs a distraction - he can’t get dragged into the chasm that is his diseased brain. Not for the fourth time today, counting. He dreads the idea. She waits for him to speak.

“...Uh- I- haven’t visited my mother yet. I probably should.”

He manages to get sensible words out. And gosh, he really does need to visit his mother - it’s been around 6 hours since the war’s been resolved and she still has no idea whether her son is dead or alive.

Cait gives him an odd look. A mixture of confusion and shock, and her tone matches.

“You haven’t met with her yet? I assumed she’d be the first person you’d visit.”

Jayce looks away, ashamed, as if Cait was the one who should be upset.

He untenses his shoulders with a sigh and fakes a chuckle.

“God… I’m a horrible son, aren’t I?” He cringes at yet another voice crack. “I definitely need to see her. But- thank you. For coming back here with me. I’ll take my leave.”

He manages to give her a small smile, which she returns. She nudges him.

“Thanks for suggesting it.”

He hesitates to stand up. She looks back at the lake. Dragonflies are more tame now, resting on water lilies rather than zooming over the place like caffeinated lunatics. She sighs softly, tone turning to nostalgia.

“Even after half a decade… this place is exactly how I recalled it. Hasn’t changed since your twenty-sixth birthday.”

His smile grows. Cait slowly stands up from the fallen tree, holding out her palm for him.

He takes her hand and hoists himself up, knee buckling beneath him. He catches himself with a sharp inhale, shakily steadying himself. That concerned expression is back on her face, and she’s about to speak-

“But we have. Changed, I mean.” He says, weakly feigning a calm attitude, trying to suppress his dread for another twenty minutes of walking with his busted leg.

Cait pauses, and then scoffs quietly.

“...Stating the obvious, are we?”

There’s indifference in her tease, how she brushes it off. He gets it. They’re practically completely different people to who they were a mere twelve months ago.

He hates to remember how oblivious, how passionate she was. How oblivious and passionate he was. How much they were willing to do for things to be right, to prove the impossible - to prove that things can get better.

He gets why she hates to remember it, too. They were so determined. Vibrant, and now tainted.

It’s unpleasant to dwell on.