For a few weeks, there had been nothing.
They had been dead.
Their bodies certainly didn’t exist anymore, not in the conventional sense, at least. The rune hadn’t left a singular fragment of either of them, not even a spare atom hinting that they had ever been on top of the Hexgates. It had all been stripped away: the hammer, the staff, the gear, the blanket.
The only witness to their death had been Ekko.
And, despite the fact they had no bodies, no lasting ties to Earth, no physical evidence of their last moments, Jayce woke up.
Before he is even troubled with the idea of his own consciousness, he is reaching out to the cosmos, hands hunting for astral flesh, for sweet amber eyes, for soft strands of stardust, for his partner and soul tie and reason for his existence and non-existence. His wish is granted easily, the universe offering up the sleeping celestial body the moment he reaches for it. Viktor is there, in Jayce’s arms, peacefully unconscious and looking as beautiful as the day he had met him.
Then, and only then, is Jayce aware of the fact he’s alive.
It’s not in the technical sense. He cannot sense a heartbeat, or breath, or feel the surge of blood through his veins. But. He can smell the stardust in the air. He can feel the whisper of cosmic air brush his skin. He can taste metal in his mouth when he bites down on his cheek. He can see the arcane curling around them, cradling their souls in his grasp. And he can hear, faintly, over and over, the whisper of his name in the far distance.
He doesn’t go to it. Not yet. Not until Viktor’s eyes are fluttering open and filling with shock, and they have a conversation without speaking a singular word.
I’m sorry. Don’t be sorry. I love you. We’re okay. Somehow. Let’s find out.
He drifts towards the breeze of his name with Viktor’s hand in his own, and Jayce knows it will all be okay.
-
Ximena Talis is finally, truly alone.
Yes, she is surrounded by a crowd of people. Surrounded on all ends by the entirety of Piltover and Zaun, the survivors of the battle, white slips of paper clenched between everyone’s fingers and various writing utensils making the rounds, passed with mumbled thanks and not much else. A weight hangs over the gathering.
The guilt of those who fled and did not fight, and now write down the names of their closest friends. The ache of those who could not fight, and now scratch down the names of everyone they knew. The pain, rippling through each and every person, uniting them in their grief, spats and squabbles and class lines blurred through the haze of death as a thief passes a pencil to a nobleman.
Ximena cannot wait another minute. She cannot let the ache consume her any longer. She can not let her son’s name go unwritten for a second longer, and she reaches into her purse, pulling out her purple-tinged lipstick. It smudges on the page, despite her neat penmanship, cursive arcing across the provided slip.
Jayce Talis.
He watches, from right behind her, horror creeping through his senses. He reaches a hand out, settles it on her shoulder, and watches as it passes straight through her, fingertips brushing the slip with his name on it.
“I’m not dead,” he says, and a hand settles on his own shoulder, long, skinny fingers that stretch across broad, celestial muscle, a sad, soft sound coming from his partner.
“I do not think she can hear you, Jayce.”
A pained, aching noise, like that from a wounded animal, as Jayce watches his mother slide the cap on her lipstick. It makes a soft click as the cap spirals into place, magnets drawing it into the correct spot, the Talis house crest painstakingly carved into the metal by Jayce’s own hands.
Jayce draws back. Just an inch. Glances around—he can’t watch. Can’t bear witness to the way his mami’s face twists in grief as she clings onto the slip of paper like it’s the last piece she has of her son. Can’t watch how the water wells up in her eyes, how it mixes with her eyeliner and leaves a soft black streak down her cheek, crossing over her mole. Can’t watch how her knuckles go white, how her prosthetic fingers crumple into her palm with the strength of her grip.
Viktor watches for him. Jayce instead watches thousands of people write name after name. Names he knows. Names he doesn’t. His own name.
And it strikes him, suddenly, harshly, that Viktor’s name will not be written. Slaps him across the face, leaving his skin throbbing, stinging with the pain of it.
So, he watches how his mother mourns for him and begs.
“Mami,” he whispers, and feels like a child again, bundled into warm winter gear by her loving hands and spoon-fed soup when his throat hurt, “please. You knew. You know. He deserves this. It isn’t—it isn’t right.”
The hand on his shoulder clings tight. “Jayce. You are sweet. But… it’s alright. She cannot hear you. It is not your fault.” Soothing. Realistic. Painful.
Her lipstick schtick’s open again, and Jayce feels his nonexistent heart leap. It is by some miracle, force of the arcane, or sheer luck that the tip of it slides against paper again.
ViktorandJayce Talis.
-
Jayce has never been afraid of graveyards.
It was an adjustment when they had moved into Piltover. The fear surrounding grave sites. The superstition, the paranoia, the worries of vengeful spirits. It never got to Jayce. He never held his breath when passing a cemetery, never uttered prayers of protection under his breath, never routed around them.
Still. It’s odd to be staring at a block of stone with your name etched into it.
Jayce Talis. Son, Hero, Councilor, and Innovator. “Magic in the hands of the people.”
The same tacky portrait is etched onto it. The same face that graced blimps, banners, and coffee cups, and always left out the gap in his teeth, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. It certainly doesn’t resemble him now, scarred and battered and bearded. Viktor always laughed at the portrait, made fun of the stupid thing, bought out every store with “Man of Progress” merchandise, and scattered it around the lab for Jayce to find and roll his eyes at.
Viktor isn’t laughing now. He isn’t even looking at Jayce’s grave.
He’s looking at the empty spot next to it, face unreadable, the only emotion held in the curl of his fists. It’s marked out. Reserved. For his mother, for Caitlyn, for anyone worthy enough to hold a spot next to the Man of Progress.
There is no gravestone for Viktor. Across the entirety of Runeterra, there is no spot marked with his name. There are no mourners for him, no funeral processions, no heartfelt speeches doting on his compassion and kindness, his brilliance, his constant strive to better the lives of the people of the Undercity.
His name didn’t even make it onto the Hexgates.
Jayce can feel the emotions roiling off of his shoulders without needing to look at him. They are the only two beings in the universe who can see the other, yet they are both clad in funeral black. Viktor’s name had only touched two pairs of lips: Ximena’s and, surprisingly, Caitlyn’s. Only mentioned in tandem with Jayce.
“I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault, Jayce.”
“I know. But I’m sorry.”
The silence that stretches between them may last an eternity. It could—neither of them knows how long they have like this. Perhaps they will stretch beyond the heat death of the universe. Maybe the silence will last until then.
It’s broken by the soft pat of fabric on fabric, of bony arms wrapping around him in a hug, and the responding pat of Jayce’s arms around Viktor’s body. They embrace, in front of Jayce’s grave, rocking back and forth on feet that do not touch the grass.
“...thank you.”
-
It’s a beautiful day outside.
Truly. The weather could not be more perfect. The flowers could not be more fresh. The clouds could not be any puffier, and the sky could not be any more blue.
And Caitlyn could not be any less beautiful, dressed in a crisp white suit, lace trim dancing along the edges of it, chiffon exploding out from the pleats and giving it the outline of a traditional wedding dress. It is everything she has ever wanted.
The love of her life waiting at the altar. White anemones clustered with baby’s breath in her hands. A flower arch. The promise of good food wafting through the air. Her family. Her friends. A simple ring on her finger.
It is a beautiful, perfect day, and it is still marred with wounds. Open, gaping, ugly spots to the ceremony, scattered everywhere the eye can see if it looks closely enough.
Vi is not walked down the aisle. There are no mothers-in-law to be had. Neither party has a maid of honor. Each has empty chairs in the front row. A Talis handkerchief is tucked into Caitlyn’s bouquet. A stuffed bunny sits on an empty white seat. It is a day of union, of celebration, of love.
It is a day of loss, remembrance, and a low, settling ache through every sip of wine and every happy tear shed.
Jayce sits in his seat like the proud brother he is, despite it being barren to the mortal eye. He wipes his tears through the vows, he raises his hand in a toast to the happy couple, and he dances along to the band. He hooks his arm through Caitlyn’s as she walks down the aisle, and as she does a tacky square dance he had taught her when they were both annoying teenagers.
Viktor stays with him through it. Sits through the ceremony. Sips on a glass of ethereal champagne. Because, somehow, despite the fact that Caitlyn thinks he is dead, she still gave him a plus one. She doesn’t say it’s for Viktor. There is no placard in the empty seat next to Jayce’s. But he knows. She had always teased him about his partner, always nudged his shoulder teasingly when Viktor had come over by the two of them, and always gave him a knowing look when he denied her other knowing looks.
It’s a gesture he appreciates, despite the fact she will never know he appreciates it.
-
The veil between the dead and alive is thinning, and this is part of the reason why Jayce knows he is not truly dead.
He feels as distant as ever as he sits in his mother’s living room and watches as she lays out his favorite things. A warm mug of bitter tea. His first-ever screwdriver. An excessive number of rolls of pan de muerto. A childhood drawing he had done of himself with an oversized hammer that Viktor laughs at from across the couch, nursing a cup of warm sweet milk himself. A smaller version of his worn leather bracelet, the gold inlay empty. And, of course, the classics. Calaveras, cempasúchiles, candles, and photos of him from his childhood to his councillorship.
Nothing, nothing can compare to the wave of relief that washes over him when she sets up a photo of him and Viktor.
He doesn’t know the extent to which they can cross over—particularly with the fact that they are not exactly dead. But the simple fact of Viktor’s picture being on an ofrenda is enough of a relief to him, still. Even if they aren’t dead. Even if they cannot join in the festivities. His memory is honored, even if in joint with Jayce’s.
“My mom had to stop using paint on those,” Jayce says through the silence, gesturing at a calavera with a nod of his head as Ximena settles one next to his portrait. “Sugar skulls.” There’s a low, fond chuckle. “As a kid, I snuck two or three without permission. Threw up for days. She had to whip up a food-dye paint the next year.” His eyes are soft, fond. Jayce looks at his mother the same way he looks at everyone he loves: with his heart beaming through his eyes.
Viktor adores it, even if he is still yet to be convinced he deserves it.
He eyes the scene, a soft, easy understanding on his face, even if there is a curious gleam in his eyes at it all. “You do this every year?”
“Mhm.”
“I see.”
Jayce gives a slight nod, attention turning back to his mother. She’s moving slower than she used to. More delicately, as if every motion aches, but still not lacking her typical grace and care. She sets a paper butterfly on top of his picture frame, and Jayce stands.
Her eyes are still trained on it as he leans behind her and flicks a wing.
The motion is delayed, travelling through planes, and time, and space, but there’s a soft flutter of the paper wings, eventually, and this time he does not look away as his mother’s eyes fill with tears, a sad, soft smile sliding across his face.
-
“You’re an idiot, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Jayce sits next to his grave, knees folded to his chest, arms dangling over his legs as he gives her a weak smile.
Cait does not smile back. She does not look at him. She looks to his right, to the big block of stone there, an unreadable look in her eyes. She sits crisscross in front of it, a few flowers scattered in front of her. The ground in front of his grave is torn up, and dirt is buried under her fingernails, hands dusted in brown.
She picks up a flower, settles it into the dirt, and moves the earth over it. Pats it down. Mumbles to herself.
“Who’s the sprout now?” she jokes with that side, toothy grin of hers, hands working quickly to plant the rest of the flowers in front of him. It’s sweet. It’s unbearably sweet, and deeply, truly Caitlyn of her to do so.
And it hurts.
Despite months of trying, Jayce has never stopped reaching out a hand to settle on a shoulder. A back. A forearm, even. Desperate to touch and show he is still there, and show he still cares, and show he still loves.
It passes through her the same way it always does, and Jayce is hit with the sudden, aching thought that it would be better if he were really, truly dead.
-
He cannot watch any longer when a shiny, gold statue of him goes up in the ruins of the Hexgates.
"Jayce Talis, Inventor of Hextech, Defender of Tomorrow, Man of Progress."
"Handsome,” the voice beside him remarks, and Jayce responds with a scowl at his own pretty, shiny face, gleaming in the afternoon sun, so bright it’s blinding. “But… eh. I prefer the beard, I think.”
Jayce simply sighs, and there’s an arm around him.
He sinks into it.
“It’s not fair.” The words are bitter, aching around the faded edges, and Viktor has the gall to laugh at him, to let him feel the rise and fall of his chest and the shake of his shoulders as he holds him.
“When has it ever been fair?”
That gives Jayce pause.
“I thought we had agreed to cast our silly dreams aside, Jayce.”
They aren’t silly. They were never silly. They were everything. They are everything. They should have been everything.
He doesn’t have to say it aloud for Viktor to hear him, for Viktor to respond with a quiet, acknowledging hum. “Maybe not. But it is out of our hands now. Our only duties are to one another.” A coy grin graces his lips, and Jayce falls in love for the thousandth time.
“Besides—I thought all you wanted was your partner back?”