Chapter Text
Jayce froze in front of the mirror. The tie lay flat — perfect knot, tight like a noose.
Crisp, ironed collar. Everything in its place. Familiar. Routine.
And yet his fingers suddenly started trembling. Subtle, but real.
His breath hitched, like someone had just sucked the oxygen out of the air.
Pulse spiked. Throat went dry.
Fuck. Not now.
That old, familiar panic started spinning up, merciless and sharp.
A heavy, muffled ringing filled his ears.
His heart thrashed against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Now — like we practiced.
Five things you can see.
Mirror.
Silver tie clip.
Burgundy ring box on the vanity.
Chrome door handle.
Bouquet on the stand — lilies. White. Almost sterile.
Four sounds you can hear.
Murmur of voices in the hallway.
Distant laughter from the terrace.
Creak of the floorboards.
Low hum of a draft.
Three things you can feel.
A bead of sweat between his shoulder blades.
Smooth fabric of his trousers under his fingertips.
Dryness on his lips.
Two scents.
Fresh linens.
Faint sweetness of lilies.
One taste.
Mint gum tucked in his cheek. Slight sting.
His breathing steadied — barely, but enough.
The panic didn’t leave; it only receded, leaving behind an empty, trembling readiness to flare up again.
He adjusted his tie once more, eyes fixed on his reflection.
“It’s fine,” he whispered on the exhale. “It’s fine.”
. . .
The green lawn, perfectly trimmed and velvet underfoot, basked in the soft golden light slowly fading beyond the horizon. Everything looked flawless: neat white chairs lined up in perfect rows, ribbons tied around the arch, the muted laughter of guests barely rising above the background music.
The whole space drowned in pale lavender chrysanthemums.
Jayce stood a little off to the side, swirling lukewarm champagne in his glass. Minimal movement to avoid standing there like a statue — all that was left was to put on the familiar smile and play the role of guardian of serenity. Today was far too important for him to have any right to ruin it with his own clumsy grief. And he knew how to keep a straight face.
But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that his very presence here was a stain on a perfectly ironed tablecloth. Out of place. Out of time.
Being among friends and familiar faces felt unbearably difficult right now, because all he wanted was one thing — to hold a funeral for himself, right there, exactly where he stood, nailed to the spot. But no, today all the flowers belonged elsewhere, not to his dreary headstone and shattered self. The mourning would have to wait.
“Talıs, you didn’t forget the rings, did you? We’re starting in five.”
The sudden poke in his shoulder made him jerk so hard he nearly spilled his champagne. Jayce barely managed to steady the glass, cool drops sliding down his fingers. For a fleeting second, panic flashed through his head — the ruined suit, the guests’ disapproving stares, the spoiled celebration.
“Jesus, Vi! You scared the shit out of me.”
He ran an unsteady hand through his hair, silently cursing himself for being so jumpy, already imagining his perfectly fixed hairstyle knocked into chaos. Almost absently, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of the small box resting there, the weight of it grounding him back into reality.
“Got them,” he exhaled, relief softening his voice. “How’s Cait?”
“No idea,” Vi snorted, shrugging exaggeratedly and rolling her eyes. “She won’t let me anywhere near her. Some wedding superstition about ‘not seeing the bride until she walks down the aisle.’ As if I haven’t seen everything before.”
Jayce was pretty sure this had nothing to do with superstition.
He knew Cait well enough to picture it perfectly: right now, she was probably lying on the hotel bed in her perfectly pressed suit, music playing in her headphones, while everyone else assumed she was having a meltdown over every last speck of lint.
Her method of meditation since high school: pretend you’re on the brink of hysteria so everyone finally leaves you the hell alone.
“Give her a minute, she’s nervous too.” A soft smile flickered across his clean-shaven face. Cait wasn’t nervous, but the legend had to be maintained. “Need me to help with anything? The caterers don’t seem to be moving much; I can talk to the coordin—”
“Jayce.” Vi patted him on the back. Not her usual bruising smack — this one was almost… soothing. “Do me a favor and unclench your ass. You’ve got one job today: pull the rings out of your pocket on cue and get shitfaced with me after.”
“That’s two jobs.”
“Un. Clench.” Another firm slap landed on his forearm. “You paid enough for this wedding. The staff can handle it.”
Jayce nodded, took a sip of his now-flat champagne, and glanced around the lawn again. There weren’t many guests — the girls had clearly kept it to close friends and a handful of coworkers.
Jayce had secretly hoped Cait would make up with her parents before the wedding, but the closer the date came, the less likely it seemed. He’d even considered reaching out to Cassandra himself once or twice, but that would’ve been too much, even for him — diving headfirst into a years-long family feud was above his pay grade.
At least the venue really was stunning: you didn’t often find a wedding space like this anymore, with a centuries-old tree spreading its branches right at the heart of the ceremony. No wonder the rental cost bordered on “highway robbery” and had to be booked nearly a year in advance.
Luckily, Mel had enough connections to make it happen — an incredible wedding gift, and considering the price tag, an absurdly generous one.
Jayce couldn’t help but think he’d want his own wedding somewhere like this someday.Not that he cared much about the color of the flowers, the dress code, or the shade of the napkins — not really. What mattered to him, more than anything, was the moment he’d exchange rings.
And as he looked around at the scene, he could almost see it: his mom sitting in the front row, tears streaming freely as he stood at the altar, trading vows with the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Vi and Cait snapping a million photos just to give him an album on his first anniversary.
He’d been close to that reality — closer than he’d ever been. And now he didn’t even know how to tell his mother that he and Mel had broken up.
Not like before, when all the accusations had been yelled mid-fight and their loudest arguments usually ended in sex instead of solutions. This time, they’d just… talked. Quietly. Calmly. Without smashing plates, they’d come to the same conclusion: there was nothing left to glue back together.
Four years of their relationship had become a cooling corpse on an operating table. We did everything we could. Time of death recorded. Take a tissue on your way out.
The suitcases and half-packed boxes of Jayce’s things had been the clearest proof yet of how serious they were this time — they’d never gotten that far before.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the slim figure standing among the guests.
Mel, as always, was stunning — flawless, poised, untouchable. She embodied everything Jayce had been chasing since his university days — status, recognition, influence.
Only, where Mel had been born into it, he’d had to keep remaking himself, over and over, just to keep up.
The result was a personality shredded into scraps and stitched back together from other people’s expectations, hollow ambitions, and the constant fear of getting four out of five stars on the app called “Jayce Talis: People Pleaser Deluxe.”
Jayce is twenty-two.
He wanders Piltover’s central stream with friends, eyeing the cars where men in suits sit behind tinted windows — suits worth more than he could earn in a couple of years.
He tells himself he’ll tear himself apart if he has to, claw his way to the top, change the world someday — all it takes is trying hard enough.
All those outrageously expensive things and that shiny status will be nothing more than proof of his success.
Jayce is thirty-two.
He did tear himself apart.
But somewhere along the way, he seems to have traded in his skin, his dreams, and that whole “change the world” thing for scrap — keeping only a decent bank account balance.
Practically a living will.
They’d agreed not to tell anyone about the breakup. At the very least, out of politeness — crying over the sudden death of your own love at a ceremony dedicated to someone else’s was… a little inappropriate.So they’d arrived together but drifted apart almost immediately, orbiting each other carefully, just close enough not to invite questions.
Before leaving, Vi shot him a look — somewhere between confused and concerned.
“You okay? You look like shit.” She squinted at him like the answer might be hiding somewhere deep in his pupils. “Since when do ridiculously successful startup bros have reasons to stress, huh? You’ve got bags under your eyes, Jayce. Damn near full suitcases.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” Jayce forced a stiff nod, trying to look at least vaguely functional. “Gonna grab a smoke and I’ll be good as new. I’ve got time, right?”
“You’ve got time. They’ll call everyone to gather a couple minutes before it starts, so you won’t miss it.”
He nodded again, tossed back the last of his completely flat champagne, and set the glass down on the nearest table. It tasted exactly the way he felt — sour, empty, with a faint aftertaste of nausea.
The improvised smoking spot was tucked away at the far end of the venue. Technically, smoking was forbidden, but somehow he and Mel had managed to charm the owner — a woman in her sixties who, judging by the lingering smell on her clothes, probably only let go of her own cigarette when she was asleep.
They’d been granted permission as a one-time exception.
Later, they found out why: she’d apparently assumed they were the ones getting married and thought they made a lovely couple. Neither of them bothered correcting her — why ruin someone’s romantic misconceptions if they work in your favor?
The spot itself was small, hidden behind tall lilac hedges — a quiet little alcove with old but pretty benches made of dark wood and, delightfully, ashtray-bins thoughtfully provided by the same generous owner.
Jayce stepped inside — and immediately grimaced.
Of course. Exactly who I was missing.
He was met by a pair of large, almost feline amber eyes glinting through the thinning smoke of a heavy cigarette. For a moment, Jayce was tempted to turn around and leave before it was too late, but then his gaze caught on the half-burnt stub in the other man’s pale hand.
Judging by that, this encounter wouldn’t last long.
He just had to pray today’s companion in the race to lung cancer wouldn’t decide to open his mouth too much.
Without a word, Talis sat down on the bench next to him, almost ignoring the presence of the other man, and pulled a slim cigarette case from the inside pocket of his dark blazer.
It clicked open with a satisfying snap, and Jayce slipped a cigarette between his lips. His hand went back into the same pocket, reaching for his lighter — and of course, of course there was nothing there except the heavy little box with the rings.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Looked like he’d have to speak first — and hope a light was the only thing he’d get out of it.
He glanced up at Viktor, who was finishing his last drag and looked about ready to leave. But when he caught Jayce’s gaze, he turned lazily toward him.
“Forgot my lighter,” Jayce said. No “hi,” no “how are you,” just throwing his lack of foresight out there and silently hoping it would be enough.
“Of course.”
The other man took one last slow drag before flicking the butt neatly into the ashtray. Then, picking up the cane propped against the bench, he rose — unhurriedly, deliberately.
Jayce started to stand, too, more out of politeness than necessity, so Viktor wouldn’t have to move more than he had to. But before he could even get halfway up, the lighter snapped to life right in front of his face.
He inhaled deeply, the first curl of smoke sliding smoothly over his tongue and tickling the roof of his mouth.
“Thanks,” Jayce breathed out, closing his eyes briefly and leaning back against the bench. He allowed himself a fleeting second of silence, almost relaxation. “Guess I should take this as a sign it’s time to quit. Been trying for three years — no luck.”
Viktor let out a quiet, derisive huff.
“People usually say that when they’re just looking for excuses not to change anything.”
Jayce instantly regretted saying more than necessary. Or, really, saying anything at all. He nodded faintly, forcing something like a half-smile onto his face.
Didn’t matter that it landed like a slap.
“Guess you’re right. Though, on the other hand — how valid are lectures from a fellow smoker?”
Not that he had any right to argue. Just another lazy idiot who couldn’t kick a bad habit — thanks for the reminder. He took another drag. Deeper than he needed to.
“No lectures about smoking,” came the dry reply.
Then what the hell about?
“I smoke because I enjoy it,” Viktor went on. “The taste. The smell. And I find it strange hearing apologies from people who run for a cigarette every chance they get, while constantly excusing themselves to people who couldn’t care less about their lungs.”
Jayce frowned faintly.
“What’s your point?”
Viktor shrugged. Thin lips curved just slightly — whether into a faint smirk or an expression of tired, condescending indifference, it was impossible to tell. As if the entire conversation was nothing more than background noise to him, unworthy of emotion.
“Not everyone cares about being socially acceptable, Jayce.”
And there it was. Again.
Jayce clenched his jaw, holding back the sharp retort sitting on his tongue.
Just let him leave already.
He only had to tolerate this asshole today — and only for the girls’ sake.
Viktor seemed amused by that struggle; the smirk lingered faintly in the very corner of his spoiled lips while the rest of his face stayed almost blank. Like throwing casual rudeness at near-strangers was as routine for him as brushing his teeth in the morning.
“Good to know,” was all Jayce managed before taking another drag, trying to drown the taste of Viktor’s bile in the bitterness of smoke. “Thanks for… whatever that was.”
Viktor raised an eyebrow, and the slight shift in his expression pleased Jayce more than he wanted to admit — like Viktor was slightly disappointed. Wanted to get a rise out of him and didn’t.
He’d count that as a win.
The steady tap of Viktor’s cane against the cobblestones faded with his retreating steps, and Jayce finally exhaled. Loudly. Almost with relief, as though pushing the irritation out of his lungs along with the smoke.
“…What the fuck is your problem, asshole,” he muttered under his breath.
Their strange little acquaintance had started about a month ago, when Caitlyn decided it was time to run a rehearsal for the upcoming wedding. Calling it dramatic would’ve been generous — the whole thing was more of an excuse to introduce everyone involved.
Get a sense of timing, show people where to stand to avoid awkward pauses. Give instructions to the staff, too. The venue had kindly given them a couple of hours.
The wedding promised to be unusual even by the standards of having two brides. First of all, both had rejected the usual traditional roles — Caitlyn hadn’t invited her parents at all.
According to Vi, she’d kept the invitations sitting on her coffee table for two months before finally tossing them in the trash, along with yet another message from her mother.
Something about responsibility, family duty, disappointment, and helpful advice to “find yourself a husband.”
Since Caitlyn had decided she would be the one walking down the aisle, someone close had to walk her there. Well… close enough, given her father wouldn’t be at the ceremony.
They’d chosen Vander.
At first, he thought it was a joke. Then he got misty-eyed and pulled both girls into a hug so tight Jayce thought he might crush them. Vander was Vi’s stepfather but treated Caitlyn with such warmth it always felt like she’d been his daughter, too. He hadn’t been able to make the rehearsal, though — the bar wouldn’t run itself, and there was no one else to cover for him.
But Viktor had been there.
Vi’s friend, apparently. He’d arrived later than everyone else but had sent a heads-up well in advance.
When Jayce first saw him, one thought shot through his mind: we’ve met before. He even made a mental note to ask later — just in case.
And then Jayce froze, caught staring at the stranger.
He was beautiful. Not conventionally so (a term Mel had once explained to him, using Jayce himself as an example), but more like one of those runway models from high-fashion houses.
Lean, composed of sharp lines and angles. The kind of person who’d be snatched up instantly if he cared the slightest bit about being noticed. There was something… otherworldly about him.
Like he’d been pieced together from parts of different puzzles that somehow fit perfectly: thin lips, sable-dark brows almost always drawn together at the bridge, high cheekbones.
And his eyes.
Absolutely feline — sharp, attentive, catching everything around him, set in a pale, unreadable face.
Jayce only noticed the cane and the slight unevenness in his walk much later. And with it came a twinge of awkwardness — especially after his earlier thoughts about runways.
And yeah, he’d been staring. Blatantly. He realized it only when Vi snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Hello, Earth to Talis,” Vi snorted, jerking her chin toward Viktor, who had apparently been standing there for god knows how long, holding out a thin hand in greeting.
Jayce hurriedly extended his own.
“Jayce Talis. Nice to meet you…”
Viktor shook his hand and nodded. He didn’t bother smiling.
“Viktor. Don’t get too excited,” he said with a faint smirk. “You could say we’re already acquainted through Vi and Cait. They’ve mentioned you more than once.”
Oh. That accent.
Jayce froze for half a second, then forced a stiff smile — probably wider than it should have been. Behind him came a quiet, barely stifled laugh, and he rolled his eyes.
Second mental note: find out exactly what the girls had been saying about him — and in exactly how awkward a light they’d managed to put him.
“Well, uh…”
He didn’t have time to string together enough syllables to make it sound like an actual coherent sentence before that cool, slim hand had already slipped from his grip.
Weird introduction — but Jayce was used to that kind of thing; work had long since trained him to deal with eccentrics of every possible kind.
While Caitlyn enthusiastically ran the show, talking about timing, location changes, and music inserts, Jayce caught himself thinking something that felt strangely out of place for the situation: why hadn’t he and Viktor met earlier?
If he was close enough to Vi to be standing beside her at the altar on the most important day of her life, it was strange they’d never crossed paths before. Second mental note confirmed.
The next hour went by in a mix of active discussion about the ceremony, rehearsing placements, and spontaneous conversations.
Mostly conversations, if Jayce was honest.
The girls eagerly shared their honeymoon plans, complained about bureaucracy, and told stories from the precinct — mostly about which otherworldly visitor had caused a scene this week by setting off fireballs in the lobby.
Vi, as always, didn’t hold back her laughter, and every booming burst of it echoed through the room, making even the most stone-faced attendees crack a smile.
“By the way, why isn’t Powder at the rehearsal?” Jayce asked, leaning slightly toward Cait and lowering his voice.
She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
“She said she couldn’t stand up there at the altar. ‘Too long, too boring, and I’ll definitely cry.’” Cait gave a soft huff of laughter. “She’d rather sit in the front row and ruin Ekko’s vest instead.”
Jayce chuckled, and then, almost automatically, glanced toward Viktor.
He was standing a little off to the side, leaning lightly against the windowsill, and didn’t seem to be taking much part in the conversation.
A faint, polite smile rested on his face — the kind of expression that suggested he knew exactly when and where he was supposed to smile, but didn’t actually share the general amusement.
And even though his eyes seemed to skim lazily across the room, Jayce couldn’t shake the impression that Viktor was somewhere very far away — either deep within himself or completely outside everything happening here.
Too calm. Too composed. Too… apart. Third mental note.
Jayce had always thought of himself as something like a connecting thread — the invisible tie holding people together. Group projects, surprise parties, rehearsals like this one — they worked because of people like him. Not because he was brilliant at organizing things, but because he tried.
To make sure everyone was comfortable. To make sure no one felt left out. To make sure everyone had a chair, water, enough attention, and that no one went home thinking, I shouldn’t have bothered coming.
Which was why, when he glanced toward Viktor again — still standing off to the side, still with that faint, polite half-smile, still separate — Jayce immediately started forming a plan.
He had to try to interact with him somehow.
Just on a human level.
Find neutral ground.
Loop him into the process, make him feel like part of the overall chaos.
He even moved a little closer — casually, as if there were a reason for it. And just as the second part of the rehearsal started, Caitlyn called them over and asked them to take their places. Jayce turned toward Viktor, meaning to clarify who stood where — and that’s when it began:
“You do know where you’re supposed to stand, right?”
“Yes, Cait showed me,” Jayce answered, slightly thrown by his tone.
“She showed you before or after she said you’ve got terrible spatial awareness?”
Jayce blinked.
It took him a moment to realize it had been a joke — Viktor’s delivery was so flat it was impossible to tell.
“…Wait, are you… joking?” Jayce raised an eyebrow.
“Does it sound like a compliment?”
Viktor stood there with the exact same expression, as though the whole conversation wasn’t even worth acknowledging, like he’d been dragged here against his will. Jayce felt something tighten inside him — caught somewhere between “try again, maybe that’s just how he talks” and “you know what, fuck this guy.”
Mental note number three burst into blue flames, crumbling into ash at his feet. Jayce exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away, fixing his eyes on an empty spot across the room like it had suddenly become very interesting.
“Just trying to be helpful,” he said finally. “Not everyone’s comfortable standing off in a corner pretending this isn’t their rehearsal.”
“Corners are safer,” Viktor replied evenly. “Less chance someone steps on your foot. Or your ego.”
“Oh, my bad for barging into your comfort zone,” Jayce said lightly — or tried to. The effort showed.
This time, Viktor’s smirk widened just slightly — brief, soundless, like he’d gotten exactly the reaction he’d wanted.
Perfect.
Jayce clenched his jaw but nodded anyway, as if everything was going perfectly according to plan, and turned back toward Cait, pretending to be entirely focused on her instructions.
Mental note three-and-a-half: if someone seems like an asshole, odds are they are one.
The rest of the rehearsal, Jayce tried his best to disengage. He’d already been shown clearly enough that his nerves didn’t matter here — politeness didn’t count, effort wasn’t noticed. But inside, it still boiled.
He wasn’t used to this. People usually liked his way of connecting, his tendency to make everyone comfortable. His charm, his thoughtfulness, his knack for setting the mood — it always worked.
But not here.
Here, there was a stranger who’d apparently decided that basic courtesy just didn’t apply to him.
When everyone had finally convinced themselves they understood their roles and the order of things, the rehearsal came to an end. The group slowly drifted out beyond the edge of the banquet area while the staff clustered around Caitlyn, taking her final notes.
Viktor gave the girls a short nod — brisk, businesslike, without unnecessary words — and disappeared around the nearest corner, the steady tap of his cane syncing with his retreating steps. He didn’t even glance at Jayce. No hint of a goodbye. No offered hand.
Jayce pulled a cigarette from the pack and let the first drag take his nervous edge with it. Vi appeared beside him almost instantly, glanced around conspiratorially, and silently held out her hand. Jayce passed her the pack without a word.
“I thought you quit. Cait’s gonna bite your head off.”
The lighter snapped cheerfully to life right in front of her face.
“We agreed I quit after the wedding,” Vi said, exhaling smoke. “But she still looks at me like we’ve been married twenty years already and I’m cheating on her weekly.”
Both of them laughed quietly.
“That’s marriage for you: you get the woman of your dreams, and the bonus gift is a lifetime of having your metaphorical balls twisted off,” Vi said, stretching before rolling one shoulder out with a hand. “Don’t regret a damn thing though. So when are you and Mel planning to lock yourselves up in metaphorical chains?”
And there it was. The kind of question that had become inevitable. He and Mel had been together long enough that everyone around them had started to watch, to ask — first as a joke, then more and more seriously.
Jayce, of course, tried to dodge the topic. He’d even half-jokingly begged Jimena not to bring it up — though, really, there’d been more hint than humor in his tone. Didn’t work. The questions didn’t get less frequent, they just came with more knowing smiles and sympathetic pats on the shoulder.
What he’d never tell anyone was that for the last six months, a ring box had been sitting heavy in his nightstand drawer. An expensive ring. Very expensive. Too late to return it now — the deadline had long passed. But the doubts he hadn’t managed to untangle back then? Those weren’t going anywhere. They’d grown. Gathered weight. Now, they lay beside him every night, pulsing somewhere between his ribcage and his throat.
Vi squinted at him for a moment, studying his profile. The cigarette between her fingers was almost down to the filter, but she didn’t put it out — just looked at him. Like she wanted to ask something else, but thought better of it.
“All right, Talis, I’ll leave it,” Vi said finally, stubbing the cigarette out against the edge of the ashtray and giving his shoulder a solid slap. “You’ve got that squeezed-lemon face whenever something’s wrong.”
“By the way, Vi… why didn’t I know about Viktor before?”
Vi snorted and shoved her hands into the pockets of her wide-cut jeans.
“Try showing up to something other than your glamorous events with Mel and actually making time for your old friends when they invite you to a bar once in a while.”
Touché.
The past couple of years, Jayce had been buried up to his neck in the startup — and on top of that, the endless dance for potential investors under Mel’s sharp, always-appraising gaze. Weekends meant brushing his teeth longer than usual and pretending to sleep. But Vi was, damn it, right. And he knew it. None of them had ever truly held it against him — they all understood he was building a career — but the joke still landed exactly where it hurt.
“Yeah, I… sorry. I know I should see you guys more often, and—”
“Oh my god, stop, Jayce,” Vi laughed, watching him drown in the sudden flood of guilt. “Save the excuses for Cait, not me. Viktor’s from Zaun — we literally grew up a few streets apart. Lost touch for a while, met up again at The Drop, and now here we are. He’s busy too, but he tries to make time when he can. Couple weeks ago we got together to celebrate him moving back to Piltover.”
Jayce nodded, sliding another cigarette from the pack.
“Where’d he go?”
“For work. I think it was another country — he spent, like, six months at some university out west, can’t remember exactly. Oh! He’s a scientist too, so you’ll have plenty to talk about. Just don’t ask me his field; I don’t keep track of you nerds and your stuff.”
Talk? Yeah, no chance, Jayce thought, lighting up.
Vi held out her hand again — not for a fresh cigarette, though. Caitlyn was about to come out, and she wouldn’t have time to finish one anyway. Jayce generously handed over his. Vi took a couple of deep drags before passing the “gift” back.
“Is he always like that?” Jayce waved his broad hand vaguely in the air, somewhere between “melancholy” and “offensively condescending.” “He’s got the entire suffering of Zaun written across his face, and apparently I’m the class enemy. I’ve known him for, like, two minutes.”
Vi exhaled loudly, half-snorting in something like a laugh.
“Maybe he actually likes you and he’s just pulling your pigtails,” she said, waggling her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
Jayce grimaced.
“He’s a good guy,” she added, softer now. “Complicated. Stubborn as hell sometimes — but that’s, like, a professional hazard for you people. And… he’s got his reasons for hating these kinds of events.”
“Oh, but bars are fine?” Jayce snorted, taking a drag.
“People don’t get married in bars, Talis,” Vi said flatly. “They drown their problems in booze.”
Jayce was pulled from his thoughts by the soft voice coming through the speakers, announcing the start of the ceremony.
The second cigarette in his hand had long since burned to ash and crumbled at his feet. He tossed the filter into the bin, straightened his jacket, and headed toward the altar.
The main part of the event went according to plan. The guests sat in their places, some already pulling out tissues and napkins. Jayce stood at his spot, ready at any second to pull out the rings. To his left was Vi, dressed in a white suit with a chrysanthemum pinned to her lapel. Behind her, with an expression of calm and a light, almost weightless smile, stood Viktor. He was looking toward the end of the aisle — where Cait would soon appear.
And then everything happened so quickly Jayce mentally thanked the photographer — at least they’d capture the details he’d want later to refresh his memory. Vander leading Cait to the altar. The white suit, matching Vi’s, but with a train cascading down her back. The neat bun. The quiet flutter of nerves in every step. Somewhere in the front rows, Powder had already started crying loudly, and Ekko was rubbing her forearm apologetically.
Jayce’s gaze caught on Mel for the briefest moment, and he tried to smile at her — though he had no idea if she was even looking his way. She was carefully dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes with the edge of a white silk handkerchief, careful not to ruin her expensive makeup.
The exchange of rings came with a slight stumble that drew laughter from the guests. The vows were tender, honest — “You’re not getting rid of me now, cupcake.” The mutual “I do.” Jayce didn’t even realize at first that he was barely holding back tears himself, watching one of the people dearest to him step into a new stage of life. Vi and Cait had long since felt like a married couple anyway.
He quickly wiped the dampness from the corners of his eyes — and his gaze, by accident, fell past Vi’s shoulder. She was leaning in to catch Cait, to seal their marriage with their first kiss.
Jayce glanced at Viktor without meaning to. The man was smiling — brightly, almost dazzlingly, his gaze turned toward the girls, filled with a fragile, piercing tenderness. And in that moment, as if time slowed just slightly, amber eyes met his.
Jayce realized he was staring at Viktor for too long and yet only for a heartbeat, and suddenly he felt heat crawling treacherously up his face. Not that anyone would notice — the air around them erupted with applause, laughter, camera flashes. And still, he’d been caught.
God, let this not end up in the photos.
He tore his gaze away instantly, forcing his attention back on Cait, who was already turning toward him for her hug.
“Come here, crybaby,” she laughed breathlessly as Jayce stepped forward.
He hugged her the only way he knew how — tight, sincere. Then, without letting go, he reached for Vi and pulled her into the embrace too. Both girls were laughing, smelling of flowers and something layered and complicated — happiness itself, maybe. His chest tightened with tenderness.
“You’re both incredible,” he whispered. “Just… goddamn incredible. You did it, sprout.”
“Of course we did,” Cait replied, still smiling through tears. “With what we paid, we’d better have.”
The hug broke when Powder crashed into them, sobbing loudly — her mascara trailing down her cheeks for the third time that day. Jayce stepped aside, giving space to the other guests. He needed to make his way to Mel anyway — the decorations had to stay in place until the curtain finally fell.
“Beautiful ceremony,” she said, her voice that same thing it always was — something soft and rounded, the kind you could drown in or shatter against. It sounded like there was no bitterness in it at all.
As if she truly wasn’t sorry it wasn’t the two of them standing under the arch. Though who knew. Mel was always good at keeping her tone even.
“They went through a lot to get here,” Jayce answered, his voice instinctively steady. “You know — everyday homophobia, gossip, the whole bureaucratic-firing circus. All just to be able to live and work together without asking permission.”
“Good to know not everyone’s roads lead nowhere.” Mel’s shoulder lifted in a light, elegant shrug.
A pause. Perfectly timed, perfectly sharp, so her words echoed in his head like an epitaph.
“Sorry,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Didn’t mean to be harsh. It’s hard for me too, Jayce. Guess it’s just a defense mechanism.”
Of course she didn’t. Just dropped it casually, there between the live music and the goat cheese canapés. Like slipping you a funeral card: “Wishing you a bright journey. P.S. shame about your detour.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Love the car crash metaphor. Adds charm.”
Mel’s lips curved into a faint smile, and Jayce’s mirrored it. Everything stayed within bounds. She was elegance, he was irony. Both of them quietly wrecked, but flawless on the surface. Each with their own private grief: hers made of silk, his scribbled in crumpled notes about what exactly to take from her apartment so he wouldn’t have to come back.
“You look good,” she added, as if remembering they still had a part to play, and every performance needed its lines.
“Still remember how to use an iron and sarcasm. Perfect combo.”
Another pair of polite smiles. Another sip to fill the silence. Another glance off to the side to avoid looking at each other too long. All around them — flowers, candles, soft music, smiling guests. And the smell of someone else’s happiness, so sweet it almost made him sick.
No ring. No returns. No drafts. Just the final version, printed clean on the first page.
By the time the sun finally said goodbye to the horizon, the wedding had kicked off its heels and unbuttoned its collars. Ties had migrated to wrists, cuffs were rolled up, and dancing had become the only acceptable form of moving between tables. The guests had spread out across the venue, the music was louder, the light warmer, and everything around them seemed to exhale.
Cait’s glass held far from her first champagne by now, Vi had unapologetically switched to something stronger, and the evening had stopped pretending it was a formal affair. It wasn’t about decor anymore, or solemnity — it was about relaxed conversation and smudged mascara.
Jayce sat with the girls at a table off in the back — the one they’d marked during rehearsal as “for extreme exhaustion and escape from everyone else.” Cait, laughing brightly, eventually gave in, slipped away from their little group, and went off to fulfill her wifely duties: chatting with out-of-town guests and delivering perfect, charming thank-yous for the gifts.
Left alone together, Jayce and Vi finished their drinks, and Vi leaned back against the table with her eyes closed.
“So how’d it go? And don’t give me any of that ‘magical’ and ‘you both looked gorgeous’ crap. I’m not hearing that for the tenth time.”
“Well, you looked like a rock star, Cait was the grand prize, the food was edible, and I barely whined at all. Solid performance.”
Vi gave a satisfied little hum, and Jayce used the lull to glance across the venue. He’d done it a dozen times already, but this time he didn’t even pretend to be interested in the sunset or the string lights. His eyes were searching for a familiar figure.
Viktor stood slightly apart from the rest, leaning on his cane like a punctuation mark between himself and everyone else. He was talking to an older woman he clearly knew well, if the warmth in her expression was anything to go by. Occasionally he responded to a pair of younger guests who clapped him on the shoulder — polite, brief. Not a single gesture wasted, every movement deliberate down to the millimeter. He was here, but only physically. Like a tick mark on a guest list.
Jayce caught himself staring again — and immediately looked away, like a kid caught with his phone under the desk. The napkin in front of him suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.
. . .
He’d lost track of which glass he was on — somewhere between the fifth and the seventh, not counting the champagne at the entrance and whatever Vi had poured him while they’d been sitting together. At some point, the taste stopped mattering; all that was left was the heaviness crawling upward from inside and the tightness in his chest that, with every glance at Viktor, turned into a sharp, almost physical ache under his ribs. Jayce hated it when anger built up. He never knew what to do with it — couldn’t scatter it into jokes, couldn’t apologize in advance. He just knew something was going to break soon.
Viktor was sitting at a table, barely engaging with a couple of guests who hadn’t yet migrated to the dance floor or other groups. And the longer Jayce watched him, the tighter everything coiled inside him, like a knot pulled taut. He wanted to walk up and shake him: what the hell are you even doing here if you hate it this much? Who asked you, who dragged you by the ear? Why sit here like it’s a funeral instead of your friend’s wedding — the friend you supposedly came here for?
And then he was moving. No plan, no purpose. Just walking, because the anger in him wasn’t just pricking anymore — it was buzzing, crawling under his skin, and if he didn’t let it out now, it would start leaking through his smile, his eyes, his voice — through the polished tone he’d been forcing all damn evening.
Jayce dropped into the conveniently empty chair beside him. No apology, no smile, not even a proper look — just a glance past him and words spoken lower than usual, with the kind of tone that usually came right before an explosion:
“If you hate it here that much, honestly, no one’s keeping you. You can leave. No drama, no hard feelings. Just… please, stop acting like being here is some kind of favor.”
Viktor turned his face toward him calmly, without irritation, without even trying to argue — and looked straight at him, with the faintest trace of amusement in the corners of his eyes. He set his glass down on the table, tilted his head slightly, and spoke so softly that the sting of it landed late, like an echo:
“Seriously? With that twenty-eight-tooth fake smile of yours, you might not have the moral high ground to lecture anyone about pretending.”
Click.
That was exactly how it sounded in Jayce’s head.
Like the safety being pulled off.
He clenched his jaw, stood, and grabbed Viktor’s arm just below the elbow — not roughly, but firmly, leaving no room for argument. The look on his face was that of someone a second away from smashing a glass over someone’s head unless he got out of there right now. He leaned in, close enough to make it look like he was whispering, and with a stone-carved expression, he steered him away from the table, away from the guests, away from the music and the fairy-light garlands swaying gently in the breeze.
“Let’s go. Now.” Through his teeth, like forcing words past nails. “Before I say something that ruins the entire evening.”
They walked into the bathroom, which barely resembled a place intended for anything as mundane as bodily functions. It was more like a diva’s dressing room: muted lighting, golden sconces on the walls, spotless matte-glass sinks, fresh flowers in vases — probably swapped out every fifteen minutes. Everything matched the rental price of the venue: a kind of pretend luxury teetering right on the edge of bad taste. Vi would’ve said it felt like a set from a TV show about rich idiots. And she wouldn’t have been wrong.
Jayce shut the door harder than he’d meant to and flicked the lock into place.
Viktor turned toward him, unbothered, as if none of this were happening, but didn’t even have time to straighten fully before Jayce stepped forward and stopped close enough to make his point unmistakable: personal space was over. He didn’t touch him, didn’t so much as brush his sleeve — just loomed, like a bad idea standing on two legs.
The wall behind Viktor suddenly felt a lot closer than before.
“You have something to say to me?” Viktor’s voice was almost lazy, his accent a touch heavier thanks to the champagne. “You could have done it back there.”
Viktor was noticeably shorter, his build nowhere near enough to match Jayce’s, but somehow, with that unshakable confidence in his gaze, he managed to look him straight in the eye — and for a split second, Jayce felt like a schoolboy. Clumsy, stupid, and caught red-handed.
“Yeah. I wanted to say you’re an asshole, Viktor.” Jayce shot it out without hesitation, sharp and direct, not even blinking. He huffed, and as if deciding to double down, he stepped in closer, obliterating what little remained of the invisible boundary between them. “You were invited to stand at the altar on an important day, welcomed into this circle, and you can’t even bother to play along. No respect. Not for the people, not for the moment. I don’t know what your problem is, but from where I’m standing, it looks bad. You keep sneering, snapping, making digs — and somehow, every single one of them’s aimed at me. What, I looked like the easiest target to you?”
Viktor didn’t move. He only let the back of his head knock lightly against the wall, as if testing its sound, and his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. Crooked, tired — but no less cutting.
“Oh. So that’s what this is about.” His voice was annoyingly calm, but underneath it scraped something sharp. “Does my face irritate you… or is it that someone dared not to fall for your stage persona? Honesty, Jayce — it’s not always pretty. And it’s rarely convenient.”
Shut up.
The pause hung thick in the air. Jayce suddenly felt hot. Or maybe cold — he couldn’t tell which. Viktor went on:
“Might be good for you to figure out what exactly’s bothering you before you start dragging people to walls for a little show.” He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening closely, but believing him? Not so much. “Because right now you just look like a hypocrite. It’s not my detachment that’s pissing you off, Jayce — it’s that I’m not smiling back, not nodding along, not stroking your ego the way you’re used to. You’re just upset not everyone likes you. What a tragedy.”
Shut. Up.
Jayce stared straight into those infuriatingly calm, painfully attentive eyes — the kind that didn’t just look, they searched. Crawled under your skin, sifted through you, pressed on everything that hurt. He tried not to hear Viktor’s lips forming another string of words, light and effortless, as though he didn’t even notice how much venom they carried.
He’s right. He’s fucking right.
Jayce had already lost the second he got up from the table. The moment he decided he could just walk over and settle this. Even the handful of short conversations had been enough to make one thing painfully clear: there would always be another “but have you considered…”, another sardonic smirk, another look sharp enough to peel skin raw.
“Shut up, Viktor.” It came out hoarse, low, weighted, the last vowel scraping out of his throat. He didn’t even know if what burned hotter inside him was the anger or the exhaustion.
But Viktor didn’t stop.
“Since we’re being honest, do you want to know why?” His tongue brushed lazily over his lower lip, like a blade smeared with poison. The only question left was whether he’d press it into the wound or straight through the throat.
I want you to shut up.
Of course he wouldn’t. Of course he had an explanation. Precise, flawless, cutting like a scalpel. And of course it would be right — so right Jayce would want to punch a hole in the wall, or sink straight through the floor just to escape standing here like this, stripped bare down to the bone under those fucking eyes.
“I’ve read all your papers, Jayce.” Viktor’s voice was quiet, almost coaxing, but it felt like a knife slowly twisting between his ribs. “I know your dissertation topic. I know who supervised it. I’ve watched your conference talks. Four years ago. Back then, I thought we’d meet one day. Maybe even work together. There was something… alive in you.” He paused, sharp and deliberate. “But I guess the spotlight proved blinding, didn’t it?”
Stop.
“Fancy car. Sterile socials. ‘Man of Progress’ in the banner, the captions, everywhere.” Each word landed like spit. “I despise you, Jayce. I despise people like you. Polished. Convenient. Bought and sold. Chasing approval and handshakes, betraying yourselves for praise from people who don’t give a damn about your citation count — or about how many neurons you’ve fried chasing another round of overpriced champagne.”
“Stop.”
“Why? I thought that’s why you dragged me in here — to figure out what’s wrong. Or are you just so used to people patting your head and telling you how wonderful you are?” Viktor leaned in, as though there was still space between them, though Jayce could already feel his breath on his skin. Hot. Slow. Intentional.
It was as if he hadn’t been the one who invaded, but the hunted thing — trapped, cornered, pulled straight into the line of fire.
Shut your mouth.
“You’re a shadow of the man you could’ve been, Jayce Talis.”
Jayce snapped. The rage was everywhere — in his throat, his fist, his fingers fisting the fabric at Viktor’s collar. He yanked him forward, shoving him back against the wall, nearly slamming him into it. Viktor jerked, but didn’t flinch. His gaze held steady, pupils blown wide, defiant. No fear, only anger, mockery — and that unbearable tension that made Jayce’s head spin.
“You—” his voice shook, teeth clenched, a storm of curses crowding his tongue he barely managed to hold back. “You seriously don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
Viktor’s face — so close now. Jayce’s grip tightened on his chest, dragging him forward, leaning in without the faintest idea of what to do next. The anger bubbling up inside him fizzed like champagne, rising fast under his skin, and all he wanted was to scream at him, to tear into him with words—
—but instead, he crashed into his mouth.
It wasn’t a kiss; it was a bite. He caught Viktor’s lips hard, pressing in with such force it knocked the breath out of both of them. Viktor gasped into him, ragged, like someone had driven a punch under his ribs. His hands landed on Jayce’s chest — not to push him away, but to stay upright. Fingers fisted tight in the fabric of his jacket.
Jayce moved against him like he wanted to tear the kiss apart from the inside — ignite it until it burned. His grip slid down from Viktor’s collar, lower, closing over the narrow curve of his waist. He dragged him closer, pulling him flush: thigh to thigh, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Through layers of fabric, heat, pulse, motion bled together. Viktor drew in a sharp, uneven breath — then surged forward, biting at Jayce’s lip like he wanted to leave a mark.
Jayce didn’t remember how exactly Viktor ended up on his knees — whether he’d pulled him there himself or Viktor had simply decided he was done talking. Everything inside him knotted up when deft fingers loosened his belt, unbuttoned his fly, and the cool air brushed over the head of his cock. He was already hard, painfully so, flushed and slick with anticipation, bared too suddenly. Viktor only glanced up — a short, lazy look, like he was asking, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to shut up?
And then he took him into his mouth.
No warning. Just wrapped his lips around him and sank down, slow and deliberate, confident, and Jayce nearly lost his balance at the first hot slide of it. The wet heat, the glide of Viktor’s tongue tracing the vein beneath, flicking up to tease the head, had Jayce’s head tipping back as his fingers clamped down on the edge of the sink. He was trembling. His voice was somewhere deep in his chest, trapped, useless — all he could manage was ragged breathing as his eyes locked on Viktor, watching the way he moved, unhurried, focused, like he was doing this for himself.
Viktor set the pace — steady, relentless — drawing him deeper with each breath, the stretch of heat closing around him until the head of his cock brushed the back of Viktor’s throat. Jayce almost groaned out loud — it was tight, wet, enveloping, overwhelming. There was nothing tender in it, nothing romantic. It was hungry, rough, Viktor’s tongue pressing insistently against the sensitive underside, the wet sounds low and obscene, sliding out from the depth of his narrow throat. His cock would disappear between Viktor’s lips only to return with a wet, deliberate pop, like he was doing it on purpose — savoring him, drawing it out like candy melting on his tongue.
“Fuck…” Jayce hissed through clenched teeth, biting down on his lower lip. “Viktor—”
Viktor’s hands settled firmly on his thighs, unyielding, locking him in place, guiding him deeper with every drag, forcing him to move at his rhythm. Jayce was already close — everything blurred into one long, unbroken pulse: the glide, the heat, Viktor’s harsh, uneven breaths, the wet slick across his lips, and the brutal, aching need to come. He glanced down and couldn’t look away: Viktor’s flushed cheeks, his tousled chestnut hair sticking to damp skin, and those amber eyes fixed on him, unblinking.
“I’m close… fuck, I’m—” Jayce managed to whisper, and Viktor only swallowed deeper, his throat tightening around him in answer.
He was barely aware of where they were anymore. The only thing real was the feeling of Viktor’s sweat-damp hair under his fingertips, clinging to his palm, and the stuttering rhythm of Viktor’s breath. And when Viktor sank down again, dragging him in with a wet inhale, nearly to the base, Jayce broke.
It tore out of him — sharp, shuddering, his hand locking at the back of Viktor’s head, holding him down harder, rougher, fucking into his throat without grace, without thought, chasing that snap of release like he needed to drown him in it.
He thrust deeper, faster, his spine arching, his thighs tightening around Viktor’s head, nothing elegant left — only instinct, only raw, ragged want.
The orgasm hit like a live current, ripping through him from his spine to the tips of his fingers. Jayce’s grip tightened painfully in Viktor’s hair as his body jerked forward, spilling hard down Viktor’s throat, sharp, greedy, until there was nothing left but the ringing in his ears and the hollowed-out rush of release.
Viktor didn’t pull back — not at first, not even after. He swallowed deliberately, steadying himself against the reflex, once, then again, slow, measured. Only after several long seconds did he ease away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at Jayce from below — eyes glazed, unfocused, almost translucent.
Jayce was still holding his hair.
A beat passed before he let go, his fingers loosening slowly, stepping back like a man surfacing with lungs full of lead. He released Viktor, released the wall, released what little control he’d been hanging on to. Viktor didn’t rush; he rose with deliberate care, almost like he was collecting something invisible from the floor — some quiet dignity untouched by what they’d just done.
He reached for his cane, smoothed out his shirt, slow and unhurried, savoring the way Jayce’s hunger still showed in the creases of the fabric. Not the faintest sign of shame. Not even a shadow of awkwardness. As if nothing had happened. As if Jayce hadn’t just fucked his mouth to the edge of blackout, holding him by the hair while the rest of the world narrowed to a single point.
Jayce just stood there, forehead pressed to the cool tiled wall, like an idiot in confession. His mind was empty — well, almost — and the numbness had the same flavor as botching a pitch to investors: the slides were there, the suit perfect, the words rehearsed, but somewhere along the way everything had slid straight into freefall.
Viktor, of course, walked up to the mirror, wiped at the corner of his mouth like he was dusting off powder, not spit and sarcasm. Only then did Jayce open his mouth. He wanted to ask something like what now, or worse, say I’m sorry — but didn’t get the chance.
“No, Jayce. You’re worse than I thought.” His voice was even, almost polite, the words a sentence handed down. “Don’t leave right away. Wait a couple minutes.”
Click — the door swung open, letting in the muffled hum of voices, a soft “congratulations!” from somewhere outside, then shut quietly behind his slender frame.
Jayce stayed. Standing in the empty room that smelled of sugared diffusers, overheated emotions, and something he’d try his best never to recall again. He braced both palms on the sink, leaned over it, breath still uneven, before finally lifting his gaze to his reflection.
And for a moment, he didn’t recognize the man staring back.
It sounded like the wedding cake was being cut outside.