wildiwaslivid

Chapter 24: The Fourteenth Part 1

Jayce and Sky have a work-related chat. Jayce has a flashback to his childhood.

When he was a young boy, back when his paternal grandmother was alive, Jayce had on one memorable occasion accidentally liberated a chocolate biscuit from the tin (he’s still got it – the tin that is, not the biscuit – a lidded round container, bumped and bashed, with a Christmas scene showing a deer, a squirrel, three badgers, and a confused-looking cow wearing a party hat, standing around a highly decorated spruce tree. It now secretly lives in his magazine-worthy kitchen as an archaic piece of his childhood, a treasured item that Jayce wouldn’t get rid of if someone were to offer him a million cogs. If he keeps a packet of chocolate hobnobs in there, then that's between him and his tinny nostalgia) that lived on the high shelf in Grandma’s kitchen. It was a very high shelf, and far too elevated for a small child, but armed with a busy mind, three pull-out drawers that doubled as steps, and a fierce determination, Jayce had taken on the challenge, and won.

His grandmother, a tall woman with bright green eyes, and long, black-warring-with-grey hair, had had a sixth sense for infractions against sweet treats and confectionery, and had summoned Small Jayce to the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Two of the six chairs were slightly pulled out, and Grandma indicated he should take the red seat, whilst she sat on the yellow.

For a whole minute (probably. Jayce has never been good at waiting) nothing happened, but then she’d moved the giant tea cosy that had spent its life innocently insulating the cooling teapot, to reveal the tin.

Small Jayce’s eyes had widened at the sight, and he’d licked his lips to find that not even a phantom crumb of the delicious contraband still remained.

“Jayce.”

That was all. One word, and just his first name. If she had said his full name, then Jayce might have passed out there and then.

As it was, the prosecution's evidence consisted of the summons to the kitchen table, the biscuit tin, and his own singular name. Small Jayce never stood a chance.

He tried, really he did. Jayce tried to sit still, to be nonchalant (before even being old enough to know what the word meant), and to thoroughly show that he knew nothing of any biscuit-related crime. His body, however, didn’t get the memo, and failed to read the room. It – he – squirmed and wriggled, and the light of discovery danced in Grandma’s eyes.

“Mr Shifty strikes again!”

A Jayvik oneshot, 7,700 words, Rated M

Colourful posters - all modern fonts, bright colours, and depicting a smiling alpha and omega couple - have gone up around campus, declaring that a Mating Run is due to take place this Saturday.

Viktor has noticed these cheeky little adverts, and perhaps wonders what Jayce might say or do were he to take part.

Jayce reacts in a completely reasonable manner, and no arguing or growling whatsoever takes place during their grownup discussion in which they consider the logistics involved.

It's fortunate then, that Mel chooses that exact moment to pop in, and is the sole voice of reason, with absolutely no ulterior motive up her elegant sleeve.

“So, I was thinking…”

Jayce looks up as Viktor – completely, exceedingly, and very nonchalantly – twiddles his HB pencil. There is something so over the top about that seemingly innocuous gesture, that Jayce’s hackles are instantly raised, and primed for incoming danger. He just about reins himself in from looking around for threats, but it’s a close-run thing.

Choosing to operate under stealth conditions until he has located the hazard, Jayce affects an air of laid-back casualness by interlocking his fingers behind his head. “The last time you had a thought, I had no eyebrows for a fortnight.” He can still feel the horror of the phantom stubble as it grew back in, and he lives in fear of Cait posting the incriminating photos online. Even five months later, Jayce swears he can still smell the stench of burning hair if he concentrates on his forehead too long.

Viktor purses his lips, and carries on with his irritating pointy pencil twiddling. “I already apologised for that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Viktor flicks his golden gaze over to Jayce. “Alright, well I thought about apologising then.”

Jayce raises his precious eyebrows, wondering (as he sometimes does) if he shouldn't cover them with duct tape for increased protection. “We’ve just established how dangerous it is for you to think.”

Viktor pouts sweetly, but notably does not turn his possible apology into an actual sorry.

Jayce indulges in a little ‘alpha-spreading’ by stretching out his limbs, and idly thinks about going on a coffee run while he waits for Viktor to expand upon his original idea. He waits, and he waits, and he waits, until the frustration of not-knowing makes him break the silence.

“So, what were you thinking?”

“Hmm?” His partner’s gaze refocuses back on Jayce, his eyes sharpening as he returns from wherever his mind has taken him.

Jayce tries not to be miffed that Viktor had seemingly forgotten that he – prime alpha that he is – was in the room.“I believe you were trying to attract my attention with a sneakily relaxed hook.”

Viktor appears scandalised. “How very dare you!”

Jayce can’t help but smirk about his partner’s theatrics. For someone who professes to not like attention, he can be highly dramatic, at least as far as his behaviour around Jayce is concerned. He’s probably come up with a new way to organise G-waves, or re-laid a revolutionary circuit board, or even (and this would make Jayce very happy) Viktor might finally make good on his offer to cook for him in his apartment. 

Viktor taps his pencil against his lips several times, before verbally pulling the rug out from beneath Jayce’s feet. “I am thinking of going on the mating run.”

Jayce’s ears are apparently defective, they must be, because it sounds like Viktor has just said,

“...the mating run, the one that’s on the posters around campus. I thought…I might give it a try.”

a sky full of stars

Chapter 22: Busy Day Part 2

A visit is paid to a patient in an out-of-the-way clinic.

“I know you’re not one to stand on ceremony, Viktor, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll make myself at home.”

Silco pulls the lightweight armchair from the corner over to Viktor’s bedside, making sure to avoid any obnoxiously positioned IV lines and tubing. Finding the room adequately warm, he takes his coat off, and then drapes it over the seat back before sitting himself down. It’s just as he suspected – the chair is too hard for a fleshly backside, and is obviously designed by someone who has a vendetta against visitors.

His all-seeing eye sweeps the modestly-sized room, taking in its fixtures and fittings, as well as its new cultural enrichment. It has the air of a well-to-do hotel suite about it, or it does if you are from Zaun. No doubt the greedy Pilties would clutch their pearls in horror at having to slum it in such conditions, and find their convalescence put back by a magnitude of weeks as a result.

The good condition furnishings consist of a medical bed, complete with button pad for tilting and elevating; a grey locker situated next to it; the chair Silco is currently using, and a combined wardrobe and chest-of-drawers. The walls are painted neutrally, which just makes Jinx’s new addition stand out to great effect.

The main event is of course Viktor himself. His slender arm is bare – as long as you fail to count the cannula that sprouts out of his hand – the skin lightly smattered in a dusting of freckles and moles. Silco’s own slim fingers are an inch or so from Viktor’s own, and he finds himself giving in to the desire to touch. The younger man’s usually busy hands have been silenced by the anaesthetic that drips into his body, and as a result they are cooler than Silco’s, although he seems to recall that the man before him has always run cold. He has offered to warm Viktor up repeatedly, but the response has always been a polite ‘no thank you’. It’s just as well Silco is a patient man, and is happy to play the long game to secure a win.

“Sevika says hello.” Silco’s voice is loud in the quiet room, and easily dominates the perpetual beeping from the heart monitor, and the quietly gentle sshh of the oxygen tank. “Actually, and somewhat unsurprisingly, that isn’t what she said.” He leans back in the chair of doom, his fingers slipping away from Viktor’s, and crosses his ankles. Might as well try to make himself comfortable.