#trying to find the science only to be met with viktor talis written over and over with hearts

[sushiisiu]

Rewatch got me thinking of how she wouldve seen all the yap in there

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 3

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in last chapter)

Notes: Yup, this started from a silly lil 1K prompt, don't ask me what happened, I wouldn't be able to say either. This chapter is pretty heavy on feelings, self-reflection and angst, but I think y'all will find it enjoyable ❤️. There's one more chapter left (the SMUT yeehawww), but I've written chapter 3 in a way where you could technically stop reading the story here if you didn't want to read the smut, and it would still be a satisfying conclusion. I know most of you are in it for the smut too, so don't worry my beloveds, it will come 😛💕

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 4/End)

The humanities faculty room always smells horrible.

It's hard to tell where the pungent scent even comes from; it feels like it's in the air, in all the furniture, in the walls themselves. There's no window to even attempt to vent it out either; it’s in the oldest wing of the university, built at least sixty years prior to the construction of every other unit. Most teachers avoid it like the plague, preferring to work in any other available space on campus, so it's almost always empty.

But it isn't today.

“Melllll,” you moan, shoving your face into the leather couch’s pillows. The smell is somehow worse, imbued into the fabric. If you had to describe it, you would just call it old. Like rancid coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter for too long, or ancient damp books abandoned in an attic. Old. “Why do I always mess up everything I do?”

Mel looks up from the paper she's grading with a sigh, adjusting the small reading glasses on her nose.

“You don't mess up everything you do,” she argues softly. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you say what you think without feeling ashamed. That's not something for everyone, but it's not a flaw, either.”

You can only groan into the odorous leather as an answer.

Viktor had been your very first friend at work, but he had been a lot more. Without him, you would have never met Jayce, and without Jayce, you would have never met Mel. And you would have no one to cry your woes to on a Friday evening, a whole two weeks after the most disastrous phone call of your life.

“And I believe Viktor is equally at fault here. He knows better than to play hide and seek with you forever,” Mel hums pensively, crossing her legs. Her olive eyes narrow, her nose scrunching up slightly in thought.

“He's stalling, trying to figure a way out without confronting his feelings or yours. He's smart enough to know there isn't one, but he's stubborn,” she points out, tapping her manicured nails on the wooden table. Tic, tic. Like **the sound of seconds passing on the clock, never-ending and all-consuming.

At first, both Jayce Talis, mechanical engineering PhD and researcher, and Mel Medarda, political science PhD with five peer-reviewed books published under her name, had been two extremely imposing people to interact with. You already felt unworthy enough talking to Viktor, but after learning of the kind of people he usually hung out with, you felt like an absolute loser. Jayce and Mel are both unreasonably attractive and accomplished, and when Viktor joins them, there's no denying he belongs to their world, and not yours.

In those moments, the differences between the two of you seem much more glaring: the university professor with a collection of awards and a PhD in biomechanical engineering, who is dedicating his life to creating life-altering prosthetic limbs and transmitting his knowledge to a whole new generation of scientists… and you.

The guidance councillor who can't shut up.

It’s not that you're ashamed of your job; you love what you do. You love being able to help people figure themselves out, and orient them toward what will make them happiest.

But when you stand in the same space as Viktor, it's hard to see anything other than how much greater of a person he is than you will ever be. He's like a star in the sky, shining brighter and brighter every day, and you get the privilege of watching him through the lens of a telescope. That should already be enough for you to be satisfied.

But it isn’t, not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. And you want to do so much more than look at him. You want to touch him. You want to kiss him. You want to be someone worthy of shining alongside him; but you never believed that would ever happen.

And for so long, it felt so much easier to just date people whose very existence didn't make you feel like you would never be enough to reach their ankle. People who just wanted something casual and meaningless, some sex, maybe the semblance of a romance. And that's how you ended up with a string of disastrous relationships with men you barely even liked.

You contort your body uncomfortably on the couch to face Mel; it squeaks awkwardly under you, like it's threatening to break.

“Did you know? Did everyone but me know?”

She rests her head on her hand, the hint of a smile on her lips, seemingly slightly amused by the question:

“Depends on who you mean by everyone. No one outside his circle of close friends, for sure. He's not the type to scream about his love life over the phone,” she adds with a teasing glim in her eyes. “No offence.”

You groan, shoving your face back into the roughed-up leather. God, it still smells.

“But Jayce did know,” she confirms, and you hear her straighten her chair to return to work. The comforting sound of her fountain pen starts up again, but you know she's still giving her conversation with your full attention. Mel is like that, able to carry on a hundred tasks at once without breaking a sweat; you wish you had an ounce of her composure.

“Viktor told him after he got drunk last year at the faculty cookout. I believe his exact words were…”

She pauses to do a dramatic imitation of Viktor's voice and tone, “‘Jayce, she is wearing that dress just to put me into an early grave’.”

Not only is it pretty accurate, but God, you know exactly what dress.

The skimpy little sunflower dress that you knew showed way too much chest for a work-related event. You had worn it in the hopes of eliciting any sort of reaction from Viktor; but he had barely spoken to you that afternoon, constantly vanishing every time you entered a room. You assumed you made him uncomfortable with something you said, like you always ended up doing with everyone else.

So you had left the party on the arm of some nameless T.A. from the law department, hoping it would help you forget Viktor, just for a while.

It hadn't.

“And I knew,” Mel continues smoothly in her regular voice, “because I know what it's like to want someone to notice you so badly. To want someone to love you back.”

You detect something very personal in the way she pronounces the word ‘love’, almost like it's painful to even say.

Mel rarely talks about herself, preferring to listen to the stories of everyone around her. Everything about her gives an air of mature confidence and independence, and if she ever has any issues in her personal life, she never shares them with you, or anyone that you know of.

She's not cold by any means, and she helps everyone with genuine care, that, you are absolutely certain of. But you can feel there's a side of her she desperately wants to keep to herself. She's only ever mentioned her mother once, in a drunken haze, muttering something under her breath about never being enough for her.

You wonder if that's the person who’s love she’s longing for.

When she speaks again, there is something akin to nostalgia lingering in her voice:

“You get that special look in your eyes. You both looked at each other just like that, but neither of you ever noticed.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Fucking ironic. You can never seem to stop talking, but now, the words you want to tell her just won't come.

Mel doesn't seem to mind, though, and the sound of pen scrapping paper picks up again. You force yourself out of your leather cavern, sitting up on the couch to look at her directly.

“…Why didn't you say anything?” you ultimately settle with, but it rings much more fragile and hurt than you wanted it to.

She gives a small shrug without looking away from her documents:

“Not my place to. Viktor needed to confront his feelings head-on, and you needed to realize you were never not enough or too much for him,” she states matter-of-factly, “It's that simple.”

Everything always seems so easy when it comes from Mel's lips. But in your mind, thoughts are jumbled, emotions are running wild, and everything you thought you knew about the last four years is falling apart.

Maybe, that time on New Year’s Eve when he told you there was no other place he'd rather be, he hadn't meant at the party. He had meant with you.

Maybe, when he had taken your hand, it wasn't just because you were excitedly counting down the last seconds until midnight. It was because he wanted to touch you just as much as you wanted to touch him.

Maybe, at the end of that night and in those early morning hours, when he had said you would make someone really happy one day…he was asking if it could be him.

“Maybe,” you **exhale bitterly, enunciating the world like a curse, “it would actually be simple if he just answered my texts, or my calls. Or anything I do to try and reach him.”

Yeah, you're to blame for being so blind for so long. For noticing the smallest things about everyone else, but missing all the signs when it came to him.

But so is he for refusing to talk about it now that you finally see it.

“At this point, I’m seriously starting to consider lock-picking their apartment,” you grumble, more in tiredness than anger; you can't even manage to stay mad at him for longer than a minute. “He’s the one who showed me how to do that, did I ever tell you that?”

She lets out a soft laugh at that; but when she glances over to you, there's a hint of something new in her eyes.

“I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you put your training to use, but there might be another way to see him. I think he's had more than enough time playing hide and seek.”

You know that glint in her forest-green stare; she knows something you don't, and she’s chosen to reveal it to you. You almost jump off the couch with your eyes wide, so quickly you almost lose your balance:

“Mel, what do I do?”

She snorts as she motions for you to sit back down with a calming wave of her hand, amusement clear on her face.

“Calm down. I wouldn't tell anyone about this normally,” she begins, lowering her voice in secrecy, as if you’re not the only two in the room, “and I want to make it very clear you did not receive this information from me.”

You nod eagerly in agreement, hanging on to her every word.

“Go to their apartment,” she declares with certainty. “If you keep going after their door and to the end of the corridor, there's a big potted plant on the window sill. An orchid.”

You frown in confusion.

You've only been to Viktor and Jayce's apartment a few times in the couple of years you've known them. Usually for relaxed group hangouts, or an occasional game night. You remember very little about it other than the all-consuming childish excitement of being in Viktor’s home, and the absolutely not innocent thought of his bedroom being barely a few feet away.

Why don't you ever remember the important things?

You try to muster every memory you have of the apartment complex itself instead; they live on the third floor, and their door is the second one on the right after the elevator. The hallway is a straight, narrow line, and you've noticed how dark it always is every time you’ve visited.

Dark, yes, that's right, because aside from a cheap light fixture, there’s only one window that lets any light into the hallway, at the very end of the corridor. One window, that is almost entirely blocked by the world's most decrepit potted plant.

“The… really ugly one?” you ask with uncertainty.

Mel snaps her fingers in confirmation, a hint of perfect pearly white teeth shining between her lips.

“I think you may find something of interest under it. Jayce told me about it for whenever I want to…” she hesitates on her next word, uncharacteristically a little bashful, “visit.”

Oh, you fucking knew it.

“I totally-” you start triumphantly.

“Yes, I know, you knew it for months,” she interrupts, waving her hand in dismissal. Her lower lip sticks out slightly, almost like she's pouting. You've never seen her this embarrassed. “It's incredible how you notice everything about everyone else, but when it's about you, you suddenly forget how to use your own eyes.”

Touché.

You've sensed it for at least a year now, the unspoken electricity between the two of them. How her arm sometimes lingers just a second too long on his shoulder, how his hands seem to always accidentally brush her waist. For as subtle as they were being, there was no mistaking the fire when they looked at each other.

Did Viktor ever look at you like that, too?

Why hadn't you ever noticed?

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “The orchid. Why is the orchid…”

You pause when the realization hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do… do they have a set of keys under the orchid?” you ask slowly.

“I didn't say that,” Mel says, bringing her two hands up in self-defence; but the smile lingering on her lips tells another story. “And if you say I did, I will deny it and throw you under the bus with every inch of my power as the advisor for the debate club. Are we clear?”

You could kiss her.

You settle with a tight hug, holding her with as much force as you can muster. The scent of her perfume, bitter and floral, masks the decrepit smell of the room for just a moment. Is there any problem Mel can’t solve?

“Mel, you're the best,” you grin against her ear.

“So I'm told,” she hums. She gently detaches herself from the hug, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Now go. I don't like seeing you mop around my teacher's lounge, and I can't stand when Viktor performs his little disappearing act instead of talking things out.”

She picks her pen back up, giving you one last genuine look of support, voice soft, sincere: “You two are really meant for each other. Give him hell.”

—

Viktor is much less attentive than people give him credit for.

That’s not to say he’s oblivious or careless. In fact, when it comes to his work, he could instantly notice a tenth of a millimeter discrepancy from a mile away. He could hear the slightest abnormal murmur in the heart of any machine, and pinpoint its exact origin within seconds. Throw a blindfold on top, and he'd still know exactly where to place each and every single component of his prosthetic models.

But when it comes to the world outside his lab, his attention to detail just plummets.

If a bomb went off right outside his apartment, he probably wouldn't even look up from his notes. Jayce usually has to call his name thrice to pull him out of the trance-like state he gets into when he's sketching up a new idea, and that's only because he's used to Jayce's voice; for someone else, he might not hear it at all.

Even walking home from campus, he pays no attention to his surroundings, lost in his thoughts of valves, hydraulic cylinders, and flexion plates. He mechanically follows the same path he's walked thousands of times, a habit so ingrained in him it allows him to fully disconnect and think of nothing but work.

He's glad he has such a strong grip on his own mind, because if he didn't, he would let his practical ideations slowly morph into thoughts of nothing but you. You, who he hasn't seen in two weeks, because he likes to pretend change can't happen if he simply refuses to acknowledge it. It's much better to focus on what he actually has control over, to lose himself entirely in the things that make sense to him. To forget the world burning around him.

And that's exactly why he doesn't realize you’re in his apartment, sitting on his couch about ten feet away from him, until you make a pointed cough to signal your presence.

“Ah,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

He wishes he'd be surprised, but then again, he knew you would find your way to him eventually. He could keep trying to bury himself in work and avoid you with every inch of his power, you would not stop until you got answers to your questions. You’re just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he fell for you.

So, there's nothing he can do, but let out a defeated sigh.

“I would ask how you got in here,” he starts flatly, taking off his coat robotically to place it on the hanger, “but I have a feeling it doesn't really matter.”

You don't react to his distant, tired tone, your expressive face unusually devoid of emotion when you speak.

“I didn't use your lockpicking lessons, if you're wondering.”

He can't help but snort at that:

“Disappointing.”

You both stay silent as he slowly takes off his boots and removes his wool scarf. The atmosphere isn't exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. Like a cheap, stiff version of the warm intimacy you usually share.

You've always been so easy to read, and anything that didn't show on your face always came from your lips. He always knows how you feel: he's observed every single expression on your face, from the slightest pout to the biggest grin, and committed it to memory with the dedication he only ever puts into his projects.

From the day you literally crashed in his life four years ago, utterly drunk and analyzing him with astonishing accuracy, he's felt the need to analyze you, too. To decipher every part of you, understand each component, each reaction. He craved the idea of knowing you like a cartographer knows the maps of the world, like an astronomer knows the place of every star. To understand you as you had understood him, with a single glance.

Right now, he has no idea what you're thinking.

In typical fashion, you're the one who ultimately breaks the ice first:

“You could kick me out,” you declare, staring him down almost challengingly. “I'll leave if you really want me to.”

There's clear apprehension and hurt in your voice, a bitterness you're trying your best to hide, but failing. He despises being the one to make you feel that way. He's become no better than any of your exes.

“We both know I won't do that,” he exhales. He's still standing in the entryway, just a few steps away from the threshold of the living room. There's no hiding anymore, no backing out. You're here, and he has to face you. Even if it breaks him.

“In the kitchen, second drawer on the left,” he says, making his way inside resignedly. “There's a rather large bread knife inside it. It hasn't been sharpened in a while, but it should do.”

Your passive expression falls for a second and you stare at him in confusion.

“Do for what?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Killing me to spare us both the embarrassment of this conversation,” he answers unenthusiastically.

You're the one who snorts, this time. If he could forget why you're here, he could almost pretend this is just a regular talk between close friends. Almost.

You get off the couch without hurry, stretching your limbs lazily; he wonders if you've been waiting for him for a while. You're still in your usual work clothes, but your hair is dishevelled, and your makeup is a bit smudged. Had these been different circumstances, this would be the kind of look he would imagine you in when he's alone in bed, but that's exactly the kind of treacherous impulse that's led him to this situation in the first place.

There's a strange shimmer in your eyes when you look at him again:

“You got any booze in that kitchen ?”

He’s starting to realize no matter how many years you give him, he’ll probably never be able to completely figure out what's going on in that brain of yours.

“You want to drink. Right now,” he states in disbelief.

You shrug:

“Seems like you listened to me when I was drunk last time. Maybe that'll get your attention again.”

There's an undeniable bitterness under the light sarcasm. It's deserved, frankly. And maybe a drink would make what's inevitably coming less difficult.

“First cabinet to the right. You can take the clear unlabeled bottle,” he offers.

You hum in approval, making your way to the kitchen without looking back at him. He makes his way to the couch, sitting at the opposite end of where you had been.

You come back with the bottle in one hand, and two mismatched shot glasses in the other. One is his, a souvenir from an academic conference in Marseilles; the silver lettering simply states ‘Ainsi va la vie’, ‘such is life’. He has to wonder if you chose it on purpose, to taunt him.

Although, the other one is Jayce's, and it's shaped like the torso of a woman with huge breasts in a bikini top with the colours of his old college. So it's equally as likely you just grabbed the first ones you found.

He always overthinks when he's anxious.

You put the three items down on the rectangular table in front of him, before sinking into the couch next to him. Your bodies aren't touching, shoulders an adequate distance from each other, but the proximity is still unnerving. The smell of your perfume, usually so comforting, makes him feel slightly ill.

You pour the alcohol into the shot glasses unhurriedly, progressively filling them both to the brim.

“Did you know Mel and Jayce are together?” you ask, not looking up from your task.

“Unfortunately so,” he mutters sourly.

You pause at that, perplexed.

“No, that is not what I meant, I am very happy for them,” he clarifies quickly. “But their decision to keep it a secret has been rather… precarious for me.”

You slide a glass towards him and give him a smile; the first one of the day, the first one in two weeks.

“You walked in on them fucking, didn't you?”

He groans, and you laugh. God, he missed that sound.

“I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,” he complains, wrapping his hand around the shot glass. He notices with gratitude it's the plain one and not its heavily endowed sibling. “Being able to run had never seemed more appealing.”

You grab your own glass, the smile on your lips genuine, but fragile. The words still left unsaid hang above you both, and he's forced to remember this is but a moment of respite before everything falls apart.

“Maybe a drink will help you forget,” you joke, holding up the glass in his direction.

How he wishes it would.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply answers, bringing his glass to yours until they hit with a light clink. “Cheers.”

Your gaze holds his captive as you speak, like you're reaching into the depths of his very being.

“Na zdravià.”

You throw your head back and down the shot before he has time to voice his surprise, so he does the same, not wanting to break the unspoken rules of the toast; his ancestors would roll in their graves.

The liquid burns his throat almost instantly, the familiar warmth of alcohol settling into his body. It’s strong, powerful, but there’s a recognizable hint of plum and almonds that's comforting to him.

He can’t help a discreet, fond smile as your face scrunches from the sharp taste.

“I-I don't think I've ever had that before,” you cough out, your eyes slightly watery. It's endearing that no matter how much you drink, you never seem to build a tolerance to the sting of strong spirits.

“Slivovice. Plum brandy. The homemade ones are noticeably sharper than what they sell in stores here. Although… perhaps not as legal.”

You let out an amused cough, wiping away any tears before they get the chance to fall, smudging your mascara even more. But you're still smiling at him, decided, bold, never letting yourself be defeated by anything. It's like he's falling for you all over again in that single moment, outside of time and space.

Even in his darkest moments, when all else crumbles, you remain the unwavering light he can always find in the sky.

“I am a little surprised you remembered how to say that,” he admits softly.

What he had meant as a compliment seems to come off as a reproach in your eyes, and the smile falls, ending the magic of the instant.

“It may not always look like it, but I listen to you, Viktor,” you mumble, hurt. “I'm not an idiot, either.”

“I did not mean to imply-” he protests, but the words die in his throat. He opens his mouth by reflex, before closing it again; the sentence lingers incomplete in the air.

“…Why did you hang up?”

Here it is.

“Ah, so we're jumping into the questioning already. Alright,” he sighs. He chooses to stare at the bottom of his empty glass to avoid seeing your reaction. It's pitiful, but it'll spare him some of the pain and embarrassment. “I did not want to listen to what you would say, this once. I was scared if I heard your answer, it would all be real. Unchangeable.”

Change. Viktor had never been scared of the concept before. Change means something new, passing from one state to another, an evolution. It means progress. Nothing could ever be as gratifying, as glorious, as making the changes you want to see in the world.

But he didn't want you to change. He wanted you to stay just as you are, always excitedly talkative and brilliantly observant. Always shinning. A star brighter than any other, that could never fade no matter how the world treated her.

Revealing his feelings for you would have put that in harm’s way. You might think he had never truly been interested in your conversations, in all those ideas and words you feel so self-conscious about, and lose the trust you had in him as a friend.

He couldn't take that risk.

“So… you avoided me for two weeks ?” you scoff in disbelief.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh:

“I would have attempted longer if you did not break into my apartment.”

The poor attempt at a joke doesn't seem to land very well with either of you. The atmosphere feels still and heavy, the strange tension palpable.

“Ok,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the back of the couch. “You can ask me a question now.”

He glances at you in surprise:

“A question? Why?”

“So it's equal. I ask you one, you ask me one,” you explain simply, like it's the most basic rule of conversation in the world. “I haven't been attentive to what you were trying to tell me, for a long time. I need to change that.”

He hesitates for a second. There's a lot he wants to ask you. Had things been different, would you ever have considered him as someone you could fall for? If he could change the timing, the place, the words, would anything have made it so you could have loved him?

“You read people so easily,” he almost whispers. “I always assumed you knew how felt for you, but were too nice to tell me off. That you did not want to break what we had.”

It’s time. It's time for change. There is no other choice than to move forward. He continues:

“I am… sorry that I fell in love with you.”

Ah…

The weight seems slightly lighter on his chest. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but there's a certain peace that comes with finally having said it.

The expression on your face is yet again one he doesn't recognize.

“I'm not. I’m not sorry, Viktor,” you breathe out, hardly any louder than his respiration.

Your hand touches his, just barely, and he flinches, pulling away. But you refuse to back off. You reach for him again, your fingers timidly touching his own.

“Maybe I did know, in a way,” you reflect, a single digit moving across his knuckles, the ghost of a caress, “but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I didn't want to lose the only person I’ve ever felt wanted to listen to me. So… I stopped listening to my instincts, I guess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“I talk all the goddamn time and I don't even listen to myself.”

He turns his hand around, letting your index trace the lines of his palm instead.

“A fortune teller who can't read her own cards,” he teases gently. “Ironic.”

You scoff with a smile; your fingers intertwine, tentative.

“You're one to talk, asshole,” you huff playfully, “the big smart professor who can't figure out when someone is in love with him.”

His heart stops beating in his chest.

“Ah. You... you lo-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence, scared of pronouncing the word. He takes a shaky breath before he attempts again: “You feel the same way I…?”

He leaves the question open. He's still hesitant to make it real. Of saying the words that'll shift things. Because damn it, yes, Viktor is scared of change when it comes to you.

“I’m in love with you, Viktor,” you smile, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Did the part where I broke into your apartment just to talk to you not give that away?”

What a strange feeling. He's dreamed of hearing those words from your mouth for so long, never believing they would, and yet it feels so right. As if you had told him a thousand times before this moment.

Maybe you had, in your own way.

He squeezes your hand, the sensation of your skin against his making it all feel impossibly real.

“I suppose we're both idiots,” he sighs gently, eyes locking into yours. “The blind oracle, and the clueless teacher. What a dynamic duo we make.”

Your forehead meets his, your nose just barely tickling his.

“I'd say we make a good duo. You and me,” you grin. You're so close he can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. He smiles.

“I'd say so as well.”

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