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hexb0nes · 2 days ago

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BEHIND THE LINEN CURTAIN - A VIKTOR X READER ANGST FIC

word count: 6.3k

warnings: hospitalization, trauma, family issues, terminal illness, death, drugs, suicide (sorry, it’s hella angst)

misc. tags: gender neutral reader, occasional use of (y/n), jayce gets bullied a bit, the author actually cried a bit when they finished this fic

summary: viktor receives his prognosis after a fainting spell and finds himself a loss when amother voice speaks up from behind the room divider.

author’s note: this is my first ever full length arcane x reader fic and i’m kinda rusty with my writing, so please lemme know your thoughts on this fic! thanks and enjoy!

A few months, maximum. The Piltovian doctor’s words were straight to the point, I’m sorry, son. We can try our best with aggressive treatment or begin with palliative care. The choice is up to you.

“And there’s no cure?” questioned Jayce, voice heavy with anticipatory grief. Viktor adjusted the cannula under his nose, “Begin aggressive treatment that may or may not work, or begin with palliative care. Either choice has a high percentage of failure.”

“Then which choice will you make?” his friend’s expression morphed into one of pained curiosity. Viktor clasped his hands together and adverted his gaze from Jayce, “I haven’t made a decision yet,” the monitor tracking his vitals let out a chirp, “I’ll be discharged tomorrow. I’ll meet you back at the lab.”

“The lab? Viktor, you should be home- I will meet you back at the lab tomorrow,” he interrupted Jayce, his Zaunite accent punctuating his words. Jayce opened his mouth to retort, but shut it closed when Viktor shot him a look of disapproval. The councilor rose from the visitor’s chair, “I’ll pick you up after your discharge, so we can go to the lab together,” a small smile graced Viktor’s lips at the compromise, “Very well then.”

Jayce pulled Viktor into a side hug and gave the opposing shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “Get some rest, partner.”

“I’ll try my best,” answered Viktor. He watched in silence, as his friend exited the hospital room, and a labored breath escaped his lips the moment the door shut with a soft click! that followed.

“You’re picking death, aren’t you?”

Viktor’s eyes blinked, surprised at the new voice, “Hello?” he called out.

“Behind here.”

Viktor’s eyes darted to the linen curtain and hopped out of his bed, using his IV pole as a makeshift mobility aid and approaching the curtain. With a quick flick, he pushed the curtain aside, revealing something peculiar on the other side.

There you were, propped up in a matching hospital bed with an IV in your hand and oxygen cannula attached to your nose. Your skin was tinted with malaise, the whites of your eyes slightly bloodshot. You wore a similar hospital gown to Viktor, white stripes and oversized with some splatters of brown around the neck and chest area. Dried blood? Viktor wondered.

“You’re picking death, aren’t you?” your voice had a slight rasp to it. Viktor pressed his lips together, “What makes you say so?”

“Well,” you hummed, as you swung their legs over the creaky hospital bed. A pair of worn-out blue socks adored your feet, standard issue ‘grippy’ socks, “Look at your options as of now. You can try to beat death through whatever deranged experimental treatment they’ve concocted. It’ll likely fail,” you gestured vaguely at the Zaunite, “Given that your illness stems from the fumes and toxic waste dumped on the Undercity. There’s no funding or interest in funding research for the treatment of delayed illness from the Grey.”

“How do you…” Viktor stifled back a scoff of surprise, his words trailing off. You laid back down, your limbs and self sprawled about the creamy bed, “Then your other option is palliative care. However, the cost of it outweighs the amount of coin to your name, yes?”

“What makes you think- I saw you get rolled in here,” the pale man puckered his thin lips into a straight line at the interruption. You sat back up and leaned closer to Viktor, “Your clothes. They appeared pretty loved,” the Zaunite ‘tsk’ed at your phrasing, “You barely had any personal belongings, other than that crutch of yours,” you pointed to Viktor’s crutch, the aid propped up beside his bed, “I reckon that you would have to pawn off the crutch to cover your palliative care, it’s pretty sophisticated… or you could get that pretty friend of yours to cover it.”

Viktor froze in place, his blood icy at your words. Why are you speaking to me like this? His hand twitched and the IV pole shook a bit. Who are you to dictate the circumstances of my present and future? You peered up at Viktor, your eyes glowing eerily under the shoddy fluorescent lights, “I don’t mean to offend, just wanted to give some insight on your situation.”

“I don’t need insight,” he huffed, returning to his bed. He plopped down and winced in pain, leaning down slowly to check in his leg. In lieu of his normal braces, delicate wraps decorated his injured limb. He bent his leg carefully, eyebrows raised at the sight of the flexibility. Yet, the pain didn’t go away.

“When I was in your position, I would’ve appreciated some honesty,” you answered. Viktor fell quiet, mulling over their words. The occasional beep from the vitals monitors filled the uncomfortable silence.

“What happened to you then?” Morbid curiosity got the best of Viktor.

“Not even gonna ask for my name?” you chuckled, words laced with bitterness, “You sound just like them.”

“Like who?” inquired Viktor.

“The doctors, the specialists, the nurses,” you, his fellow comrade in suffering, huffed, “All diagnosis this and prognosis that, take this medicine, try this therapy. You’d think after being here for three years, they would know by now who I am.”

Viktor frowned. If anyone could understand the lack of respect from others, the fight to be heard and to be known, it would be Viktor, “Then who are you?”

You smiled, “(Y/N), (Y/N) Albertine.”

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

Viktor’s discharge from the hospital was swift, stable enough to return to the safety of his loft. As he packed up any loose belongings in a hospital-provided bag, he turned his attention to you, asleep peacefully in your bed.

“(Y/N) Albertine? As in House Albertine?” Viktor quietly gawked at the reveal of his roommate’s identity.

You let out a light giggle, your bright face a nice contrast to the sterile environment they were trapped in, “Yes. Does that surprise you?”

“House Albertine had made no mention of a child by your name,” answered Viktor.

“I’m more so a bastard,” you explained, fiddling with their oxygen cannula mindlessly, “Came from the Undercity like you, mother was a sex worker from the Entresol Level and my father was the head of House Albertine,” you took a deep breath, “But I bet you’re not yet interested in my life story, huh?”

“Try me,” replied Viktor, taking a seat beside your on your bed. Under normal circumstances, Viktor would never get so cozy with a stranger such as yourself. Yet, the scientist in his brain craved knowledge, even if that knowledge was only specific to you, “What might your life story be?”

Your eyes stare into Viktor’s, admiring the honey amber hue of his, “You’re an interesting one, Viktor. Maybe another time, though.”

“How do you know my name?” The Zaunite raised a thick eyebrow in response.

“You’re one of the Hextexh inventors,” you tossed him a magazine from your bedside, some generic lifestyle magazine, “Open to page 21.”

Viktor flipped through the pages until he found the requested page. The smiling face of Jayce greeted him, accompanied by a few paragraphs. He skimmed through the words, mentions of recent inventions and progress sprinkled about.

His eyes then fell on the second photo towards the bottom, one of him and Jayce outside the Academy. Captioned below, the words ‘Jayce’s esteemed partner and fellow Hextech inventor Viktor is a man of mystery, described as passionate and heavily invested in the progress of Hextech. Jayce reports that his partner hopes to expand Hextech into the Undercity to support the needs of its citizens, a bold statement.’

“No one in Piltover really gives a damn about the Undercity,” you grasped the spine of the magazine, “Unless they’re from it,” you plucked it away from Viktor’s hands, “You’re quite the underdog, Viktor. Rising from the bottom to the top, literally and metaphorically.”

Viktor averted his gaze. You discarded the magazine on the chair by the window, “It’s a breath of fresh air to see other folks from the Undercity do so. Just wish I could’ve been one of them.”

“In a sense, you are, eh?” proposed Viktor. (Y/N) snorted in response, “Physically, yes. Metaphorically, no way. Besides—”

There was a knock on the door, “Mx. Albertine, it’s time for your treatment!” you grimaced at the airy, happy voice and hopped up from their bed, “See you later, Viktor. Hopefully, you can get out of this hellhole soon,” with your IV pole in hand, you made a beeline for the door, opening it and disappearing.

Viktor rested a hand against the bed rail, soft snores emitting from the occupant. He loosened his grip on the rail, I shouldn’t do this. Viktor released his hand and approached the small side table. A pad of paper and a pen laid onto, bearing the symbol of House Talis.

Something Jayce forgot. Viktor picked up the paper and pen. A bold idea entered his mind and with a swift flick, he scribbled down a few words on the paper and ripped it off, placing it down on your side table. With one last glance at the sleeping person, the Zaunite exited the hospital room.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

A series of cracks, whirls, and echos filled the laboratory with lively energy. Jayce hammered a few miscellaneous components together, hoping to produce something of interest. At his desk, Viktor tinkered on the Hex Claw, adjusting its various settings. At the door, their assistant Sky Young poked her head in, “Excuse me, Mr. Talis!” her eyes darted towards a pre-occupied Viktor, “Excuse me, Viktor…” her voice wavered. Jayce paused his hammering and turned his attention to the assistant, “Everything alright, Miss. Young?”

“Yes, yes!” she reassured, “You two, uhm,” she adjusted her grip on her clipboard, “You two have a visitor.”

“Oh, is it Mel-” Jayce cut himself short, “Is it Councilor Medara?”

“No,” answered Sky.

“Oh,” the inventor cleared his throat, “Is it anyone we know of?”

“They- They say that they were invited by Viktor,” Viktor perked up at the mention of his name, setting his soldering tools down, “By me?” he asked.

“I mean, you’re the one who left me the note,” a familiar voice chimed in. You poked your head from behind Sky, waving the note Viktor left days ago in your hands. Viktor picked up his crutch from the side of his workstation and walked up to the pair, firm ‘thumps’ with each contact the mobility aid made against the linoleum floor, “You came,” he answered, masking his disbelief with a well-timed cough.

“You invited me,” you retorted, “I came as soon as I was discharged.”

“Viktor?” Jayce now joined the huddle, “Who’s this?” Sky stepped back and mumbled something about paperwork, walking off and disappearing around the corridor. You tilted your chin up at Jayce—everyone had to look up at Jayce—and dipped into a mocking bow, “Oh, my. It seems that I’m in the presence of the Man of Progress himself! What an honor!”

Viktor snorted, a genuine pig-like snort of amusement. Jayce’s eyes widened in surprise, ping-ponging his attention between his lab partner and the mysterious guest. He cleared his throat, curious gaze fixated on the person closest to the lab’s entrance, “I take it that you’re not a fan of me.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” you squeezed past Jayce and into the lab, despite his protests, “You’re all I read about in the magazines,” you grabbed an abandoned chair and spun it around aimlessly, “I swear that all they provide as entertainment at that damn hellhole.”

“It’s nice to see that you’ve been discharged, Mx. Albertine,” the shorter man finally spoke up. Your eyes locked on Viktor and you shook your head disapprovingly, “What’s with the formalities, Viktor? We’re on a first name basis, aren’t we?”

“Albertine?” the gears in the taller man’s head turned and turned until they clicked together with a realization, “As in House Albertine?”

“That’s the one,” your tone suddenly shifted, less playful and more robotic, “I managed to dodge the chauffeur and butler to get here,” you traced your fingers against the aged leather of the spinning stool, “Technically, I shouldn’t be here, Father doesn’t like it when I’m out and about unsupervised, but!” You plopped down on the stool and flashed the inventors a cheeky grin, “Does it look like I give a rat’s ass about what they think?”

“Not at all,” answered Viktor, grasping the end of another chair and taking a seat, “I assume you’re here to resume our discussion, yes?” Jayce peered over at his partner, “Discussion?”

“Yes, dear Golden Boy, our discussion,” a soft coo escaped your lips, “On the nuances of life, death, and the universe.”

Jayce’s shoulders drooped like a wilted flower, the shine in his eyes familiar to that of a kicked puppy. Your expression betrayed your guilt and quickly retracted your previous statement, “Er, sorry. Don’t mind my irritability, it’s the chemo.”

“Chemo?” gawked Jayce, face full of concern. You wheeled yourself over to Viktor and leaned against his side, “You didn’t tell him?”

Viktor pushed himself away from the sudden invasion of personal space, “It wasn’t my place to say so.”

You flashed the Zaunite another smile; not a cocky or teasing smile, but rather one of genuine gratitude. Viktor’s cheeks grew flushed at the sight and he spun his own chair around, wheeling back over to his work station. Tinkering with his materials, the inventor kept an open ear to Jayce’s and yours ongoing conversation.

“I got cancer,” you explained, fidgeting with the buttons on your shirt, “Lung cancer, stage three. It’s shitty, but the doctors say that my odds are pretty good, thanks to the strict treatment routine.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Jayce, rubbing the nape of his neck. Your waved his apology off with a flick of your needle-pricked hand, “Don’t. Seriously, don’t,” you laughed, a fake one that Viktor could recognize but not Jayce, “Everyone does that. It gets annoying after the-” you began to count your fingers, “-I don’t know, twenty-seventh time?”

“That’s fair,” answered Jayce. He strolled up to Viktor’s workstation and whispered into his partner’s ear, “Why don’t you give your-” he paused “-our guest, your full attention, V?”

“I can multitask,” the Zaunite reached for his soldering kit, only to have his hand intercepted by Jayce, “Why don’t you give your full attention to our guest, Viktor?” The force in his lab partner’s voice was indicative enough. Viktor grabbed his crutch once more, “Mx. Albertine,” he approached his acquaintance, leaning on his crutch for support, “Care to join me on a walk?”

“Sure!” you answered, hopping off the stool, “I could use some fresh air,” you picked up your bag and threw it over your shoulder, “Nice to meet you in person, Mr. Man of Progress.”

“Please just call me Jayce,” his words were less of a friendly offer and more of a plea. You snapped finger guns at the inventor, “Sure thing, Jayce-y Jayce!”

“That’s not-” his words were cut off by squeaky sneakers against the floor, as you made a sudden retreat from the lab, “C’mon, Viktor!” you shouted, your voice growing softer with the growing distance, “I’ll race yah!”

Jayce ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “They have a lot of energy, huh?”

“It appears so,” chimed Viktor in agreement. He grabbed his satchel off the lab’s bag rack and proceeded to the door, “I’ll be back in an hour or two. If not, presume that I was crushed to death by the weight of Mx. Albertine’s infectious positivity,” he left the lab without another one. With a soft laugh, Jayce returned to his workstation and picked up a wrench, smiling to himself.

It’s nice to see that Viktor still has his humor intact.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

The botanical gardens outside the Academy District were in full bloom for spring, an assortment of dazzling pinks and purples standing out among the greenery. You and Viktor find a secluded spot away from the other attendees, a little stone bench. First to sit, you patted the spot next to you and Viktor took it, grateful to rest his aching muscles. Last week, I was able to do this walk without taking a break this earlier. Viktor squeezed the lower rung of his crutch a tight squeeze, Gods be damned for this forsaken vessel of flesh and bone.

“Tired, too?” Viktor perked up at the sound of your voice. You were panting a bit—not as much as Viktor was trying to hide—and a thin layer of sweat on your forehead glistened under the sunlight, “I sure am,” you pulled something out of your bag, an embroidered handkerchief with your initials and the outline of a fox, the symbol of House Albertine. You wiped away your sweat and held out the handkerchief to Viktor, “Need this?”

“No, no thank you,” he grimaced at the thought of exchanging bodily fluids with such a new face in his life. You shrugged your shoulders and pocketed the handkerchief. A few birds fled over your heads, a flock of yellow finches, and you reached your hand to them. One of the finches landed on your hand and gave you a chirp or two before flying off to rejoin its group.

“I take it you like birds?” asked Viktor. He was never a fan of small talk, but since the other option was silence, he chose the latter. You nodded, “I guess you can say so,” you stretched your arms out, skin peeking out of your lilac button down. His gaze fell on a circular scar closest to your lower rib cage, but made no comment of it. You finished your stretch and hummed softly, “I have a fondness for nature. We take it for granted.”

Viktor rested his chin under the top rung of his crutch, “I’m inclined to agree with you,” a few more birds flew by, their wings flapping against the spring breeze. You held out your hand again, but no birds landed this time, a frown forming on your lips. Viktor held back a chuckle, “What a shame.”

“What a shame,” you repeated back with a heavy sigh, “You wanna know what a true shame is, though?” Viktor adjusted his grip on his crutch, “What might that be, Mx. Albertine?”

“Enough with the Albertine talk,” you hissed, annoyance flashing across your face. Viktor gave a sharp nod, “Very well. (Y/N), it is.”

Your expression softened, “That’s better,” you cracked your knuckles mindlessly, as you continued to speak, “As I was saying, a true shame is this,” you pointed up at the tree lines, various birds perched upon the branches, “That you and I weren’t born birds.”

Viktor eyed the birds and then you, “Care to elaborate as to why?” the gears in his mind clicked and grinded against one another, another wrinkle added to his ever thought-consuming brain.

“If we were birds, we could fly away from here,” you pushed yourself off the bench, only to throw yourself on the ground and lay in the freshly cut grass behind the two of you. Viktor swung his lanky legs over the bench to face you, as you went into detail about the wonders and privileges that would entail being a bird instead of a man. Your voice highlighted your passion, your assertiveness, and your imagination; for a moment, Viktor could picture himself being a bird with you. Perhaps a raven or a crow.

“Don’t you wish you could just,” you reached into your bag and rummaged about, “Fly far, far away from here?” In your hand, there was an ornate tin. You sat back up from the grass and rested your back against the stone bench. Flicking the tin open, you pulled out something thin and small from it, a cigarette. You placed it between your lips, but there was no lighter in sight.

“I doubt your doctor recommends that you smoke, eh?” The scientist gestured at the cigarette. You pulled out from your lips, a bit of saliva connecting you to the cigarette, “That’s the thing, Viktor. I never light them”

“How come?” he questioned, examining the cigarette tin. Three—no, four—other cigarettes laid inside, fresh and untouched.

“Because that’s the one thing I have control over with this fucking disease.”

Your words rang through the inventor’s ears like a mallet hitting a gong. They reverberated through his head, as he took in your answer fully. Because that’s the one thing I have control over with this fucking disease.

Viktor moved himself from the bench onto the ground next to you, “May I?” he asked, pointing a long, bony finger at the cigarette tin.

“Be my guest,” you held up the tin towards Viktor. Slowly, his hand reached into the tin and picked up a cigarette, thin and small like him. You placed your own cigarette back between your lips and Viktor joined in, his tongue making contact with the tipping paper. There, the two of you sat together, the world around you filled with merry birds and people passing by.

Maybe, one day, in another lifetime, we both can be birds.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

Over the months, you became a frequent visitor to Jayce and Viktor’s lab, much to the annoyance of Jayce and the indifference of Viktor. Occasionally, you would bring the two of them trinkets or snacks, Jayce preferring the snacks and Viktor preferring the trinkets. A few of them lined the wall of Viktor’s workstation, one of which being a silver Noxian watch. You joked when you gifted him it, Since both of us have plenty of time, a small inside joke you two shared.

It was around lunchtime when Sky appeared at the door, but something was off. Behind her glasses, her eyes reflected urgency and concern, “Mr. Talis, Viktor!” she squeaked in a panic.

“What’s wrong, Miss. Young?” confusion laced Jayce’s question. Instead of responding, Sky’s eyes darted over to Viktor and with a shaky voice, she announced the worst possible news.

“Mx. Albertine’s in the hospital, they’ve taken a turn for the worse.”

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

Never in Viktor’s life had he left the lab with such quickness. The cursed, inaccessible streets of Piltover didn’t dare interfere with his mission, the quiet man more than willing to knock down a pedestrian or two to get to you as soon as he could. Of course, Jayce followed behind and his status as the Hextech inventor surely didn’t help their goal of getting to the hospital on time. Nonetheless, the pair succeeded, as Viktor and Jayce speed-walked up to the receptionist’s desk.

“We’re here for a (Y/N) Albertine,” Viktor was straight to the point, not wanting to waste a millisecond. The receptionist, an older woman with pure boredom on her face, flipped through her clipboard lazily, “Are you family? If not, you can’t go up there.”

Anger—no, rage—boiled in Viktor’s blood, his hold on his crutch tightening to the point where Jayce feared it would snap in two. Yet, not wanting to make a scene, the taller of the pair intercepted the interaction and flashed the receptionist one of his famous Golden Boy smiles, “We’re sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re looking for Mx. Albertine on the basis of Council business. Is there any way you can make an exception?”

The receptionist tilted her head up at Jayce and Viktor swore that he saw her jaw drop to the floor, “Co- Councilor Talis, but of course! They’re in Room 19 on the third floor.”

“Thank you-” Viktor ran off before Jayce could properly thank the receptionist. The nearest elevator dinged open with medical staff and patients alike leaving it, Viktor used his wiry frame to his advantage and squeezed inside. Jayce wasn’t so lucky, as the elevators began to close upon his arrival, “I’ll meet you up there!” He shouted, the elevator doors shutting with a firm click.

Viktor jabbed a finger against the ‘3’ button and paced about the elevator, as it rose from the first floor, then to the second, and then—

The elevator dinged and opened its doors to the third floor. Viktor nearly jumped out of the elevator and rushed down the hall with the rooms labeled ‘10-19’. His legs and back screamed with each step he took, pleading with Viktor to stop and rest. Yet, there was no stopping now, not with your life on the line.

The gold lettering of ‘Room 19’ greeted Viktor when he made it to the end of the impossibly long hallway. The door was slightly ajar and the Zaunite could make out three people standing near a hospital bed. They spoke in hushed voices, but with a keen ear, Viktor managed to hear some words. He made out the words and statements of Mother and Father, (Y/N) will recover, and I’m scared. Not wanting to eavesdrop any longer, Viktor knocked on the door, “Is Mx. Albertine-” he paused, remembering your dislike towards your family name, “Is (Y/N) here?”

“Viktor?” a weak voice called out to him. At the mention of his name, Viktor entered the hospital room, much to the protest of one of the visitors inside, a young but refine man bearing the orange and brown hues of House Albertine “Excuse me, you can’t just waltz in- Eduard, it’s fine,” you interrupted, “This is the friend I told you about,” the way you spoke wasn’t right; there was no cheer or no infectious laughter in tangent with the usual rasp, only strain and hoarseness, “Can I have a moment alone with Viktor?”

The man, Eduard, gave Viktor an once-over, the typical first action a Piltovian of high society would take when they met him, “Very well,” he conceded, “Come, Daphne, Emmeline. Let’s see what the café downstairs has.”

“Very well,” the woman in the room, albeit younger than both Viktor and Eduard, answered. Upon her lap, a small girl, no older than six or seven years old, sat playing with a stuffed fox, its dirty fabric a sign of how loved it was. The woman wrapped her arms around the girl’s torso and lifted her up, placing her carefully on the ground, “Let’s get going, Emmy.”

“But I wanna stay with (Y/N)!” the girl with the stuffed fox—Emmy, or Emmeline—protested, “I don’t wanna go to some dumb café!”

“But, Emmeline,” hummed Eduard, squatting down to the little girl’s level, “There might be apple turnovers.”

Emmeline’s eyes grew to the size of dinner saucers at the mention of apple turnovers, “What?! Okay, okay, let’s go!” she grabbed the hand of the woman beside her, most likely the owner of the final name, Daphne, “(Y/N), (Y/N)! Whatcha want from the café?”

“Emmy, remember your language- A chocolate croissant,” you informed Emmy, waving Eduard’s critique with a small smile, “Make sure you find me a chocolate croissant, okay, little fox? Despite the difficulty, you spoke with such sweetness towards Emmy. She gave you a firm salute, determination sparkling in her eyes, “On it!” she exclaimed, “Let’s go, let’s go!” Emmy dragged Daphne out of the hospital room and out the hallway.

Eduard, however, lingered behind. While he remained dignified as he could, Viktor noticed the tears that pricked behind the corner of Eduard’s eyes, “I promise we’ll be quick,” he leaned forward and placed his forehead against yours, a gesture of love and affection in Zaun, “I promise.”

“I’ll see you soon, I promise,” you reassured the older man. With one final nod, Eduard pulled away from you and made his way to the door. Instead of ignoring Viktor, Eduard placed a hand on his shoulder, an action that sent a shudder down Viktor’s makeshift and wired together spine, whispered to the inventor, “Keep them safe,” and left the hospital room without another word.

You waited until the door was closed behind you to drop that small smile of yours, an air of heavy sickness washing over your face. Viktor approached you and, with his free hand, pulled the lone visitor’s chair up to the side of your bed, “Hello,” his voice wavered with his greeting, “How are you feeling?”

“Like horse shit,” you fired a straight answer, no playfulness or giggles. Viktor analyzed your form, noting the wires that connected you to the various monitors and machines. There was an emptiness to your eyes, dim and dull like nothing he had ever seen before. You were dying before his very eyes.

“What did the doctors say?” he inquired.

“My odds are a coin toss,” you shifted your weight on the bed, the wires moving in tangent with your body. Viktor frowned, a deep frown amplified by his sharp features, “Percentage wise?”

You stared down at your hands and traced your thumb against your IV.

“Percentage wise?” repeated Viktor.

You didn’t answer, painfully silent.

“(Y/N),” in a bold move, Viktor snatched your hand and intertwined it with his own, cold and nimble, “Give me the percentage.”

“Twenty five,” you confessed

“Twenty five percent for what?” Viktor prodded you for more information.

“That I live.”

A tense silence filled the room. Just like before, Viktor remembered the night the two of you met. You’re picking death, aren’t you? Those were the first words you ever said to him.

“I signed a DNR.”

“What?” his hold on your hands tightened, “What do you mean you signed a DNR?”

“It’s time for me to go, Vik,” your voice, the nickname, filled Viktor’s chest with a strange warmth and softness, “No more chemo, no more hospital stays, no more confinement. I’m making my choice.”

“There has to be a way,” he croaked, his voice cracking enough to expose his fear and concern. You shook your head, “I’m making my choice,” you placed your unoccupied hand against Viktor’s cheek. To his surprise, Viktor pressed his cheek into your comforting hand, closing his eyes while you brushed your thumb against his own sickly skin.

“I have one request,” Viktor opened his eyes at the sound of your rasp, “What might that be?” he asked.

“I wanna go back to the gardens.”

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

It was another sunny day at the botanical gardens, just like the first Viktor and you visited them. Fresh zinnia and marigolds lined the pathway towards the water fountain, swaying to the beat of the summer breeze. Just like before.

The two of you found the bench you always used, ventures to the gardens were monthly as per your request to get Viktor some ‘damn sunshine’, as you put it. No longer were you the energetic ray of positivity like before, but a weary soul on death’s door. The protests from the doctors and nurses about your sudden discharge left Viktor in a frenzy. Was this truly the right decision? Viktor pondered, placing his crutch beside him, Wouldn’t it be safer to return to the hospital?

“Thank you for taking me, Viktor.” Ah, yes, it was the right decision.

“Of course,” he answered, shifting his position on the bench, “I’m a man of my word.”

“Go to know,” you mustered a smile, tired eyes focused on Viktor’s face, “Can I ask you something important?”

“Yes, of course,” the Zaunite inventor responded.

“Can I kiss you?”

Taken aback by your request, Viktor’s cheeks turned a warm shade of pink before deepening into a light scarlet shade, “Excuse me?”

“Kiss me,” you asserted. You pulled yourself closer to Viktor, your face so very close to his, “Wouldn’t you honor my dying request? Pretty please?” Viktor’s heart skipped a beat, then another; he feared that he might collapse on the spot. Viktor, one of the two founders of Hextech, Viktor, the man who rose from the bottom slumps of Zaun to the high towers of Piltover, rendered a blushing mess by your simple words.

How can I refuse? You had a claw around his heart, tender and ready to crush it into a pulp; the visits to the lab brought him subtle joy that only grew as time went on, your thoughtfulness and confident nature drew him in like a Venus flytrap.

“Okay,” the inventor touched his forehead against yours, “I shall give you two,” his touch against your forehead was still, prolonged. He never wanted to let go, “One for Zaun,” Viktor pulled back from your face, “And one for Piltover,” he closed the space between you two with a kiss, slightly awkward and showcasing his inexperience, but a sweet and loving kiss, nonetheless.

Your hands found their way into his hair, grasping at his chocolate locks for support. Viktor’s hands snaked around your waist and he held as tight as he could. He couldn’t let go, he never wanted to let go. Your bodies, connected together like matching puzzle pieces, were one; a part of Viktor’s heart was home to you and you alone.

“Thank you,” you whispered once the kiss finished, “I enjoyed that a lot.

“As did I,” answered Viktor.

Your hands migrated down to his hands, clasping them with yours. Your eyes fluttered with exhaustion, “I’m glad that I met you, Vik.”

A smile formed on the inventor’s lips, a smile that he only reserved for scientific breakthroughs and other victories or joys. You were a breakthrough, you were a joy. You smiled back at him, the same smile you had when you two first met, “I love you.”

“I-” his throat tightened at the proclamation. His face turned a deeper shade of red and his stomach constricted with a rush of emotions. Fear? Worry? Joy? Surprise? All the emotions associated around love, Viktor supposed. With shaky hands, not common for the inventor’s typical steadiness, he whispered back to you, “I love you, too.”

“Good,” you chuckled. Just like before, “I’ll see you again soon, right?”

“I’ll visit you every chance I get,” replied Viktor, squeezing your hands gently. A promise, a vow. Yet, you only giggled, “Oh, my sweet Viktor,” you squeezed his hands back, “I only have a few moments.”

“What?” his eyes widened. In the pocket of your jacket–the one provided by Jayce after Viktor informed him of you two’s escape–you pulled out a small pill bottle. The label, in its tiny print, read the following: Pentobarbital.

“No,” he could barely speak, “No, no, no. Where did you get that pill bottle?”

“An unlicensed pharmacy on the Entresol Level,” you answered. Viktor snatched the bottle from your hands and opened it up. Empty. “I took them after we left the hospital,” you added.

“Why?” croaked Viktor, gripping the pill bottle, “Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to go out my own way,” you stood up from the bench, “Not in somewhere sterile and proper. I want to die among the wonders of nature,” your words touched Viktor’s soul. To die at one’s hand, some considered it a sin, but Viktor knew, he knew this was the right choice for you, “Follow me,” you pulled him out of his thoughts with a simple task.

Despite his sadness, despite his fear, despite the tears threatening to flow down his hollow cheeks, Viktor did as you commanded. He followed you towards a large oak, a few feet away from the main area of the garden and surrounded by sunflowers. You propped your body against the lower half of the tree and Viktor joined you, situating himself into an as-comfortable-as-possible spot.

You laid your head against his bony shoulder, the rest of your body pressed against his side, “My mother would take me here when she had enough money to buy some new things up top. It was my favorite part of my childhood, my favorite memories of her.”

Viktor listened intently, as you reminisced about your life. The nights you spent in your humble home with your mother, Connie, were filled with delight. Your mother fought tooth and nail to ensure a good life for you, a better life than selling one’s body to lustful and predatory men. She was shot dead by a client from Piltover when she demanded compensation for his night with her.

An older Yordle woman by the name of Babette took you under her wing, cared for you, until the enforcers hired by your stepmother found you and ripped you away from the familiar warmth of the brothel to the icy landscape and mind games orchestrated by the highest of Piltovian Houses. You were nothing more of a bastard to your birth father and stepmother, but you found family and strength in your half-siblings.

You were expected to fail, nothing more than a mistake made by the great Godfrey Albertine. Yet, you proved them wrong with each trial, trap, and obstacle in your way. You had been studying at the Academy before your diagnosis, Viktor’s mind jumped back to the times he saw your name on the exam score announcements. You were strong, you were capable, you were passionate, and you were kind. To Viktor, you emitted the closest thing to perfection.

“I feel it taking effect,” you muttered. Viktor tried to hold back tears, but failed, as hot watery blobs rolled down his cheeks. You snuggled up closer to your fellow Zaunite, your body temperature growing cooler and cooler, “I’m glad you listened to me.”

Viktor wrapped an arm around your side and held you tight, “It would be hypocritical of me not to. We are but two sides of the same coin, aren’t we?”

You let out a boisterous laugh, expending whatever leftover energy you had for the day, “We are.”

Some birds flew by and perched upon the trees in front of you. A finch and raven stood side by side, an odd combination of birds. You reached your hand out to the birds. Just like the first time, “I can’t wait to be a bird, Vik.”

“I hope you can be one in your next life, ptáček, I truly hope so,” mumbled Viktor in your ear.

Slowly, you lowered your hand and closed your eyes, a peaceful smile on your lips. Viktor stared at your face, your body, for any sign of movement. He placed his ear against your chest, looking for your heartbeat. It thumped and thumped until… nothing.

You were gone.

Viktor let out a heavy sob and cradled your body in his arms, stroking your hair very so tenderly. The raven and the finch watched the exchange, the finch chirping at the raven as if they were conversing. The pair of birds then flew off into the distance, soaring through the air, as free as could be.

“Be free, ptáček, be free.”

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