Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Viktor’s father passed, he expected the will to mention the heirlooms from his late grandparents—his grandmother’s wedding band, his grandfather’s mint coin collection, maybe even the golden music box his father gave his mother on their fifth anniversary. All of these were appropriate personal items—sentimental, but not flashy and Viktor was not a materialistic man. 

Three months before the end, as his father lay in hospice, frail and cold and a ghost of the vibrant man he once was, Viktor had held his mottled hand and told him to donate whatever remained to the local children’s hospital. He had no use for property in a country he hadn’t lived in beyond a brief stint in international school, and managing an estate overseas would be a logistical nightmare he had no emotional bandwidth for. Even if his father did happen to forget and wrote his first and last name as the sole beneficiary to all his possessions, Viktor would sort it out one way or another with the lawyers. 

But instead, what his father left him—the only thing—was his most prized possession: a Rally Red 1967 Chevrolet Corvette L71 Coupe. A classic American muscle car, bought brand new in its production year for a little over $4,000, to his mother’s horror. Viktor hadn’t been born yet—he came along later, in 1984—but his father used to say she gave him hell for it.

She had reprimanded him more fiercely for buying a two-seater than she ever had during Viktor’s entire childhood. They were trying for a baby, and he came home with polished chrome and a 427 engine. Of course, his mother, the passionate one who he gets most of his personality from, had threatened to return it herself and his father, the stubborn one where Viktor gets all his arrogance from, had refused. Luckily for their family, she didn’t stay mad forever and especially lucky for his father, Viktor didn’t arrive until her late thirties, by which time the car had already become just another member of the household.

When his father’s health declined, age finally having caught up to him and memory beginning to fray, he made the decision to move back to Czechia. Ultimately closer to his wife’s grave for when the time appropriately came. It had been Viktor who first suggested, rationalizing that hospice care would be better there in their family’s second home, near extended family and the familiar streets of his father’s youth. 

It was only when his family home in the state over was sold and he could no longer drive six hours out of the city to go see his father who now resided overseas that he realized how final that decision would be. An eight hour flight and an eight hour time-difference while he was working a full-time job limited their only contact to phone calls, and even those grew shorter and more difficult as his father’s memory waned. Their conversations deteriorated away starting with Viktor’s mother—who his father still believed was alive, to Viktor’s job, then his education, despite having received his doctorate’s years ago. Eventually, while his father still had a perfectly sane mind, capable of remembering his wife, Viktor, his entire seventy-six year lifespan with a little effort and some careful prodding, the only thing he willingly spoke of was the car. Always the car.

When his father left the country, rather than selling it—like a reasonable man does when they must part with their humanly possessions as they ready to leave from this world—he kept it stored away for eight years. Reminded Viktor religiously to start the engine at least once a month.

Miláček, his father called it—his darling. His pride and joy. And honestly, in his younger years, Viktor sometimes wondered if his father loved the car more than him and his mother. His father always denied the accusation of course, swore that nothing meant more than family.

But now, seeing it parked in his driveway—towed in earlier that afternoon, insurance and ownership papers already transferred into his name—Viktor thinks, ah, well, that was probably a lie. The Corvette hadn’t been driven in two decades, but his father refused to let the damn thing go. His last letter came in a plain envelope with one final request: Please take care of her, son.

And Viktor, the guilt-ridden and dutiful son that he is, didn’t tell the lawyers to send it to the scrapyard. Instead, he signed where they told him to. Now, he’s the proud owner of a car that was outdated a generation ago, and potentially a rusted frame from years of springtime drives on salted roads.

Parts of the red paint have been chipped, minor scuffs overall though. The windshield, however, has hairline crack in it from a rogue pebble likely kicked up during his father’s reckless joyrides some  thirty or forty years ago down empty dirt roads, chasing the thrill of youth. Its black vinyl seats are aged and cracked. Despite being well-loved, they too, like his father, have degenerated over time. There are boot scuffs crusted into the floor mats, bits of dried leaves and road grit settled into the corners. Its interior is steeped with cigarette smoke, every inch of the small space saturated with carbon, and the sensation of something distinctly human. His father. Even after all these years, the car still remembers its owner.

Closing the door with a slam, Viktor pretends that it’s to rip himself away from the scent, to spare his lungs from the second-hand smoke especially since he had quit his own pleasures cold-turkey after his father first fell ill. In truth though, it’s to keep it trapped inside for a little while longer. One day, he knows—with a bitter aftertaste clinging to the back of his tongue where his circumvallate papillae sit—it’ll fade.

Tapping the window, he notes from numbers behind the steering wheel as he leans against the closed door: the mileage isn’t awful, just a little over fifty nine thousand.  

If Viktor didn’t already have a perfectly respectable car—a hybrid SUV with heated seats, a trunk that could hold groceries, and carried no emotional baggage—maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t resent the Corvette so much. But as much as he despises the sight of the egotistical muscle car—honestly, what kind of name is that—it’s still his father’s. Still smells like him. Still feels like him.

While Viktor can claim that he isn’t a sentimental man, who is left alive in his family to shame him for wanting to hold on just a little longer? Certainly not the guy from Vander’s Autobody Repair, who couldn’t care less about his unresolved father issues as long as his credit card doesn’t bounce. 

So on Saturday, his typical day off, he drives his father’s car. Becomes the first person to do so in twenty years. He half-expects it to stall or pillow with smoke at a red light and is mildly surprised when it doesn’t.

The moment he pulls into the lot, a broad-shouldered man—at least a head taller than Viktor, with grease-stained hands big enough to palm his entire face—tosses a rag over his shoulder and whistles. “Well, ain’t she a beauty. Viktor, right?” The man gestures to his chest, voice gruff and husky as it rolls around in the air. “Vander. We spoke earlier this week.” 

Vander wipes his hands on a tan apron that’s obviously takes the brunt of napkin duty, covered in old oil smears and dark blotches. Planting his hands on his knees, he leans in to peer through the driver window, assessing the interior once over. “Don’t see these anymore unless they’re part a car show. C’mon let’s get it inside.” 

Both hands waving like a marshaller guiding a plane, Vander starts walking backward toward the open bay. Viktor follows, easing the car forward into the garage. It’s littered with tools, some hanging from the walls, others scattered on the ground and everything else haphazardly stuffed into rolling cabinets. Manuals are stacked on a steel work table, and any inch of space that isn’t occupied is coated in a fine, grimy film of dust and grease.

Viktor parks between two vertical posts and steps out, the cement floor greeting his polished leather shoes with a muted scuff and the heel of his cane with a much sharper click. He shouldn’t be here long. Just a drop-off for his—his father’s—car. After all, he has a personal life outside his father’s last dying wish; regardless of what the man’s will and testament says to try to tether Viktor to the past, he today is dressed for the rest of life, spick and span from head to toe. 

A tailored wine-red dress shirt fits to his frame perfectly, a dark vest buttoned snug over it matching his gunmetal grey ankle-length slacks. His left knee is braced beneath the fabric of his pants, the reinforced support wrapping around the joint and taking the brunt of his weight. No tie today, but the collar’s sharp, enough to impress even the snobbiest of individuals reared up by nepotism, and sufficient to effortlessly glide through the offices he needs to get to later without a visitor’s pass. His hair—longer than it probably should be, requiring a cut sometime in the future—falls just past his chin. Soft wisps curl around his ears and he runs a hand through the struggling strands to push them back further, more out of habit than vanity.

As the associate chair for Undergraduate’s mechanical and mechatronics engineering, he has a meeting at noon with one of firms under cooperation with the university for the summer term. One that he expects to go smoothly, considering he knows one the president of the company personally. Mel is always a pleasure to speak with, although he hasn’t seen her for some time with her being overseas for the last few months. If they get through the agenda quickly—which they likely will—maybe lunch is in the cards and Mel always picks the best places. 

Adjusting the edge of his cuff, Viktor offers Vander a polite smile as the man drags a stool across the floor with a screech of metal on concrete.

“Alright, let’s take a look here. Talis! Get in here!” Vander cups his hands around his mouth and calls out, his voice echoing through the cluttered garage, a foghorn in a shipyard. A moment later, a door creaks open at the back of the shop, and a man steps through—dark curls messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks slightly flushed, possibly from the sweltering heat today. 

Viktor blinks. Once. Twice. 

Talis—if that was the name—appears like someone had pulled him straight from the pages of a Calvin Klein campaign and then rolled him across the garage floor for effect. Perhaps he could be a demi-god descended from mythos: sun-warmed skin, broad shoulders and a chiselled jaw, sharp golden eyes that land on Viktor with enough intensity to would make him drop his key fob if he wasn’t holding onto it so tightly already. The man no doubt escaped from Elysium and decided to become a mechanic for the thrill of living a civilian life.

A fitted black t-shirt clings a little too well to Talis’ chest, cutting over his exposed biceps and showcasing forearms dusted with streaks of grease. A pair of sandy canvas overalls hang from his shoulders, the straps loose where they’re clipped. Why, if he wasn’t so young, at least ten years his junior, Viktor would most appropriately categorize the man as his type. But then again. 

When the man’s gaze flicks to the Corvette and lips part, it reveals a gap between his front teeth that somehow makes him look even more compelling, more dangerous, not less in either regard.

“This yours?” Talis asks, voice cracked and rough, a purr waking up from sleep that Viktor basks in for a moment. A gloved hand gestures to the car, rather unnecessarily, since there’s no one else in the garage to confuse him with and only person among the three of them is dressed like a Bond villain dropped into the middle of a pit crew.

Under normal circumstances, Viktor would’ve rolled his eyes or scoffed at the redundancy. This is the same breed of questions that he meets with dry impatience after students email him on the fourth week of classes at 11:00 p.m claiming they can’t find the rubric on a website they’ve used for two years. But oddly enough, for reasons Viktor can’t entirely explain—maybe the voice, maybe the teeth, maybe the arms—he humours the young man. 

“My late father’s, actually,” Viktor replies, one hand perched underneath his chin, his index finger tapping at his mole beside his lips. 

“Damn.” Peeling his gloves off, Talis throws them to the ground. He circles the car slowly, eyes tracking across the panels, fingers twitching like he wants to touch the paint but knows better.

As he does, Vander opens the driver’s door and fiddles his hand under the dashboard before yanking the lever for the hood release. With a mechanical click, the hood pops. Talis doesn’t hesitate, already reaching under the front lip and lifting it with a veneration usually reserved for relics or religious objects.

Eyebrows rising, they crinkle his forehead and Talis’ jaw drops to split open a gaping smile that shows off the tooth gap. “Tri-Power carburetor. You’ve got the original Rochester 2Gs, and—yeah, that’s the aluminum intake. Look at that JE stamp on the block—that’s a factory L71, for sure. Solid lifters. 435 horses at redline. Jesus.”

He leans down further, like he's whispering to the engine, petting his bare fingers across the naked innards. “Aluminum heads too. They only started putting those in the later production run. This baby was born to scream.”

Both hands rake through Talis’ dark hair, pushing poorly gelled curls back, only for them to drape back down again. Golden eyes wide and sparkling, nearly manic with excitement like Viktor did when he was twenty seven, defending his doctorate with marvel, with passion, with stars in his eyes. But that had been over a decade ago, and he has risen to the peak of his career since then. Some polish and elbow grease wouldn’t change the fact that some things will never shine. “There’s barely any wear on the exhaust manifold. Did your dad keep her out of the rain? The frame might be clean. If she hasn’t rotted out from the bottom, this might be the best-preserved L71 I’ve seen that wasn’t locked in a museum.” 

He glances back at Viktor, still half-bent, looking far too smug for someone with engine grime smeared across his cheek. Throat bobbing, he exhales breathlessly, “You know there were less than four thousand of these ever made? Probably closer to three in circulation now, if that.”

Viktor, for all his intelligence and technical background, processes exactly one word of that: carburetor and finds his brain filing the rest of it under fervent, but excessive noise. He understands the mechanics—of course he does. He could write a dissertation on internal combustion systems, and during his undergraduate, had most definitely written a paper of two on them, and graded a dozen more last semester. But Talis’ enthusiasm is less about engineering and more like a prayer to a distant god. 

To Viktor, a car is a car. A means of transportation. A way to get from point A to point B—ideally without polluting the atmosphere or needing more than two oil changes a year. This one in particular, is a nuisance: a second insurance bill to pay for, another cycle of upkeep and maintenance, and regardless of how well-cared for it is, it’s a memory that he didn’t ask to be haunted by. Now, like it hasn’t taken enough from him, it has the audacity to be admired by a man with shoulders like scaffolding and a voice like a dropped transmission. 

Still, as Talis talks, his voice honey-thick and vibrating with reverence, Viktor doesn’t interrupt. Merely, watches the spectacle unfold. 

Viktor fixes his cuff again, repositioning the two silver links, mostly out of habit, but partially to redirect his attention from Talis' forearms, which look indecently good braced against the edge of the hood. He wonders, in a fleeting thought, if they’d still look that good holding something as mundane as a dipstick. He’s rather certain they would.

Beside him, arms crossed and smirking, Vander chuckles. “Boy’s obsessed with old girls like this one. She’ll be in good hands with him.” He nods toward Talis. “Alright Jayce, give the man his rundown.”

Jayce—not Talis, Viktor mentally corrects—finally straightens, shuts the hood with a satisfying thunk. He wipes his palms on his overalls, the motion dragging the fabric snug across his thighs; he doesn’t appear to notice—or does, and doesn’t care. Sheepish and debonaire grin plastered, gap-toothed and devastating, one hand rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. Just... this is a big deal. A really big deal.”

Viktor hums with a tilt of his head and a purse of his lips, unimpressed. “So I’ve gathered.”

Jayce’s grin doesn’t falter. “We can look into replacing the vinyl seats with leather if you’d like, a real classy white to match the interior proper. I know you were worried about the underbody, but there’s not a lick of surface rust on her. I’ll know for sure later once I get her on the lift, but your dad definitely took good care of her. Probably washed her every drive to keep her intact like this.” 

Lips pressed together in a thin line, Viktor keeps his mouth sealed, but something flickers behind his eyes. He sees it then, in vivid technicolour: his father out in the driveway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cigarette dangling from his lips, garden hose in hand as he sprayed down the undercarriage even when the pavement threatened to ice over. He’d always park her inside right after—said it was better to freeze in the cold a bit to wash off the salt than let it eat her alive. The memory fizzles. Blisters at the edges.

Jayce keeps going, casually gesturing with oil-slicked fingers. “With some time—say, a month—I could have her looking like she just rolled off the lot. If that’s what you want.”

To be honest, it isn’t. 

His cleaner, more adult self that runs meetings by the minute and organizes his life in neatly labelled digital folders on his desktop, still wants to sell it. Pass it off to an avid car enthusiast who would take better care of it than him; someone who would parade it at car shows, buff the chrome weekly, devote their life to her body like it’s the second coming of Christ. Similar to how Jayce does now. 

But part of him—the soft, stubborn part that recalls how his mother wrote her name in cursive on the inside of photo albums that she had left him when she passed a little over twenty years ago—wants to see the car gleam again just like it did in grainy, sun-bleached photos. Where his mother with red lipstick and oval sunglasses laughing beside the hood. His father’s hand wrapped around her waist, amber eyes sharp despite his smile. And Viktor, no older than eight sat on the roof of the car, legs dangling over the windshield with no idea how short time really is.

“Mm,” Chewing the inside of his cheek, his eyes scan the car, but see something much older, more distant than just that Rally Red. “I would like the paint redone as well. Baby blue, if possible. My father always wanted her in blue.” 

The shade of his mother’s eyes—not perfectly, not precisely—but close enough for memory to fill in the rest. Time had dulled the actual intensity of them, shrouded the colour, and blurred the details like everything else he’d lost of her. But he does remember looking up at her as a child, comparing her eyes to the bluebirds that nested in the hollow tree in their yard. The ones that returned each spring, the ones she always pointed out when he was small enough to sit on her hip.

Jayce lights up, the words practically glowing on his tongue. “Marina Blue,” his voice dips, almost reverent; ready to kneel before the car as his new holy saint at any moment. “Paint code 976. The color for a ’67.” 

Fishing a battered flip notebook off the workbench, Jayce pulls a pen from his pocket—the back end chewed to hell, clearly a nervous habit. Without thinking, he sinks his teeth back into it again while flipping to a fresh page. “She’ll definitely be a looker in that colour,” he mumbles around the plastic before spitting it back out and scribbling something down. “If I don’t find anything scary under the dash, I think I could keep it under twenty. But she deserves the full treatment.”

Instinctively, Viktor winces, a subtle twist tightening at the corner of his mouth. Twenty thousand. He can definitely afford it; years of overwork and his recent administrative promotion hadn’t just earned him a better parking space, but a salary large enough to ignore the price tags on most non-essential expenses. Not to mention, he hadn’t even touched the money he set aside to pay for his father’s funeral expenses since the man, true to form, had paid for it ahead of time like a proper Czech traditionalist, planning for his own absence the way other men planned for winter. So yes, the money’s there. But still, dropping twenty grand on anything, especially resurrecting an old car no less—not even buying a new one—is excessive. 

Jayce seems to catch the hesitation, and his expression softens just a skosh. “I’ll try keep it closer to eighteen. Promise.”

That earns him a brief look. Viktor doesn’t thank him, but it’s a small, almost imperceptible concession. A silence that doesn’t shut him out and could’ve been scoffed at instead. 

Vander, half-paying attention, glances toward an analogue clock bolted to the wall. “You sticking around for the overview or just dropping off?”

Viktor’s confident the hands are off by a full hour, unadjusted for daylight’s savings no doubt. “Just dropping off,” he replies. “I’ve got a meeting across town.”

Giving Viktor an exaggerated over-over, head to toe, Jayce lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Really dressed for it, huh? Thought you might be here to judge a car show or shoot a GQ spread.”

A single finger slides down his vest, pulling out the minor crease in the fabric. “No, nothing like that.” Viktor spares a dry smirk, well-aware that when he dresses beyond the part of fearsome professor, it earns him compliments from fairly attractive men. “Merely a man who knows how to use an iron.”

“Fair enough.” Jayce laughs, genuine and delighted. It reverberates through the man’s chest, warm and obnoxiously attractive. Paired with his smile, he could get away with anything should he ever want to. “I’ll be gentle with her,” he winks, patting the car roof. Frivolous, flirty and Viktor nearly laughs at the attempt. “I’ll call once I’ve finished all the diagnostics. Few days sound all right?”

“That’s fine,” Viktor nods, already turning away, retrieving his phone from his pocket as he leaves the key fob on the table, but something—a shiver that runs through his spine—makes him glance back over his shoulder.

Jayce is still watching him. And not even subtly. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Viktor hesitates before nodding. “Thank you.” It would be rude to leave without it and he expects Jayce to finally turn away then, maybe offer a flashy smile again, satisfied for winning in this war where a proud man like Viktor expresses gratitude.

Instead, Jayce’s mouth curves, slow and unmistakably smug. “You’re welcome, Professor.”

Viktor’s thumb stutters over the call button, seconds away from ringing up a taxi. It registers, fast, sharp, quick, he knows distinctly that he didn’t introduce himself with anything more than a first name and last name on the forms; no title, no credentials, no University business card. Brow furrowed, he presses his phone to his ear, and keeps walking, cane tapping beside him. Spine stiff and straight, shoulders pulled back to perfect posture, he does not turn back even as he feels Jayce’s eyes on him the whole way out.

✦✦✦

Three days later, Viktor’s phone buzzes during the lull following his ME 380 seminar—a merciful pocket of silence carved out between grading chaos and administrative ping-pong. The screen flashes an unknown number, and while the university’s brick-and-concrete skeleton drags his signal down to a single bar, it holds steady just long enough for him to swipe to answer.

“Professor Viktor,” the voice on the other end purrs, warm and smooth like oil left out in the sun. “This is Jayce.” And in case Viktor had forgotten, the voice quickly tacks on: “From Vander’s.”

Viktor exhales through his nose, quietly. It’s not lost on him how Jayce says his name, the deliberate lilt, the smile curled in the vowels—the title still especially. And, of course, it hasn’t escaped him that this isn’t coming from the garage’s main number. “Yes, I remember.”

He can hear Jayce grinning across the line, the electromagnetic waves splaying out the man’s voice out bare: familiar and a little too pleased that Viktor, of all men, recalls him. “Got the diagnostics done. Thought I’d walk you through it.”

“You could have texted,” Viktor says as he clicks through an email, attaching a file to thread with a colleague. “Or had Vander call.”

“I could’ve,” Jayce agrees. “But I figured you might have questions. And some things are easier to explain in person.”

Viktor doubts it. How complicated would a rundown of brake conditions, tire pressure, wiring, and the like even be? Shop talk would not require him being there physically. And the idea of Jayce hand-delivering status updates to every person bringing in their aging hatchback because he’s so sentimental with old beauties is ludicrous. “Somehow,” just testing the waters of teasing, seducing out whatever truth he can snap his jaws around, “I suspect you don’t say this to every client.”

Jayce laughs, boyish and unrepentant. It rings in Viktor’s skull and lodges itself in an inconvenient place, right next to those forearms that plagued his thoughts when he first went to sleep a few days ago. “Guilty. But your girl’s a classic. She deserves more than a bullet-point list.” There’s a pause, then—perhaps for the sake of it, or maybe Jayce is worried that it’s not enough to bait him to drive over to the autobody—he adds, “I also pulled some swatches for the leather that I wanted to go over with you.”

Viktor stares down at the corner of his desk. A manila folder full of first-year reports sits open, half-marked; He regrets turning down a TA again this semester; the last one had been a disaster, but right now even a barely-competent assistant sounds appealing. His fingers drum along the base of his laptop, metronomic in structure as he ticks through a mental brief pro’s and con’s list. The negatives are disparagingly empty. 

“What time?”

“Now works, if you’re free. Won’t take long.”

A cancelled faculty meeting left the rest of Viktor’s afternoon blissfully empty… Realistically, he knows that he doesn’t need to go in, that with modern technology, Jayce could make do with sending him a photo of the swatches in natural lighting. But Viktor’s already reaching for his cane. “I’ll be there in forty.”

When Viktor pulls into the parking lot—this time in his actual car, his perfectly dignified and unromantic hybrid—Jayce is already in the open bay. He’s leaning against a workbench, thermos in one hand, rag in the other, posture relaxed and loose like he lives here—which, Viktor supposes, he might as well. The moment Viktor steps out, Jayce straightens, and Viktor doesn’t miss the way Jayce’s eyes flick over him—not inappropriately, but with open curiosity. Terribly attentive.

Today he’s wearing navy coveralls, zipped halfway down to reveal a white tank that clings indecently well to his chest and ribcage. He’s got a five o’clock shadow going and his curls are still damp, sticking to his forehead like he rinsed off quick but didn’t bother drying properly.

Viktor in comparison, is wearing a hauntingly similar outfit to last time, not a conscious choice, although his wine-red shirt’s been replaced with an eggshell linen, unbuttoned at his throat—slightly more relaxed, but still just as curated. While he had a deep crimson tie earlier today, he chose to abandon it in the backseat of his SUV for the sake of toning himself down, just a skosh. 

“You came,” Jayce says, smiling around the lip of his thermos like he didn’t just win a bet with himself.

“I am a man of my word,” Viktor plants his cane against the ground, adjusting his stance; today was a particularly bad day for his leg, the only reason he shouldn’t have come, but everyday was a bad day for his leg, and one flare-up isn’t sufficient to deter him. “So. What requires such hands-on explanation?” It’s teasing, and he purposely wants to see how far he can push before Jayce prickles in return and sputters into a flustering mess. If he does at all, that is. 

Of course, however, Jayce is a man of business first and he steps aside, waving Viktor toward the bench where a printout of the diagnostics sits beneath a socket wrench.

“Compression’s consistent. Wiring’s a little messy—rats chewed through some insulation near the fuse box, but that’s easy to patch. Brakes are technically functional, but I wouldn’t trust ‘em in a panic stop. Calipers are stiff. I’d recommend a full replacement.” 

There’s a running stereotype about mechanics: exaggerated quotes, fictitious issues, part-swapping scams, and that casual grift of charging the clueless more than they should ever pay. But Jayce speaks like he can’t imagine doing that to someone, to do anything even remotely as depraved as lying. Warm, open, and terribly earnest, golden eyes flickering so bright that it reveals all of his innocence. Either the man’s an Oscar-worthy actor—which he certainly looks the part—or he doesn’t have a single ill-intentioned cell in his body. It makes it difficult to not believe him. Granted, Viktor would be able to spot mechanical fraud before most people could even spell it—not a difficult feat when he’s spent most of his career catching undergraduate plagiarism. 

Still, Viktor’s tone remains even, checking through the numbers in the table a second time. “And the frame?”

The Corvette is already elevated on the lift behind them, and Jayce gestures for Viktor to step follow him underneath. The man grabs a flashlight, and casts a beam along the length of the chassis, highlighting the the silver of the metal.

“See here?” Jayce says, crouching a little and angling the light. “No pitting. No oxidation around the mounts. No flaking around the control arms. It’s… kinda insane, honestly.”

Viktor tracks the light with his eyes, one arm casually hugging the other, taking pressure off his knee as he shifts to favor his good side. “So she’s structurally sound.”

“Solid as hell. Better than the national car show even.”

Exhaling through his nose, Viktor’s sarcasm comes out as dry as always. “Good. I would hate to learn my father’s sentimentality was structurally unsound. Posthumous collapse would be… a bit much.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Though not out of character.” His father was forever a theatrical man; however Viktor’s establishment of this concept would be from his father running through the halls, playing the villain of a script that Viktor had produced when he was eight. 

Jayce huffs a soft laugh. “She’s got more to her than you give her credit for.”

“Oh?” Viktor turns his head, the corner of his mouth lifting enough for him to register. “And what do you take of me?” 

He shifts, cane angled back behind him as he leans just a fraction closer. It’s mildly entertaining to watch how Jayce’s vision darts, flicking from Viktor’s lips to his eyes and back again. His jaw tenses, bracing for impact, or perhaps like he’s trying not to smile, or worse, something dumb. 

Jayce’s throat bobs, working around a swallow as he whispers, breath skimming over Viktor’s cheek, “I think you’re hard to read… But not hard to look at.” Dumb it is, it seems. The words land somewhere between reckless and adoration, like he’s testing the wire between them, fingers just grazing the voltage and seeing if he’ll get zapped. 

Viktor’s mouth twitches, coaxing out a smirk, the one he wears when he’s well-aware of his own appearance and enjoys to prod proud men, “Flattery, Jayce?”

“Observation.” Perhaps, Jayce is more capable of lying than Viktor had penned him for, especially considering how intently he stares at Viktor's throat, following the hollow curve down to his collarbone, just visible beneath the open linen. Less the eyes of an observer, and something more supplicant instead. Not a gaze dedicated for analysis, but rather, worship. Two knees away from bending over and bowing his head before an altar. More reverence in a single look than he’s given to that red car. 

With one brow raised, Viktor reaches out and flicks the underside of Jayce’s chin, just enough to tilt it his head up, just enough to make a point. His thumb caresses the stubble there. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’ll drool on the linen.” Slowly, he slips his hand away, taking pleasure in how Jayce’s head bows ever so slightly, chasing the contact. “Now, was there anything else?”

Startled, Jayce steps back so fast he nearly trips over his two feet. Blinking, once, twice, thrice, he coughs into the fist, as though that could spare him from the blush slinking around his neck and up to the tips of his ears. Horribly telling. How cute. 

“Yeah,” Jayce croaks, voice cracking like he’s sixteen and not a grown man in his late twenties or possibly early thirties. “Seat samples. C’mere.”

He leads Viktor over to the workbench where a few swatches of leather are spread: eggshell, cream, warm white. Each one is labeled in tight, looping handwriting that looks surprisingly neat for someone who scribbles on greasy notepads all day.

“Personally, I’d go with this one.” Jayce taps the warm white with the pad of his thumb, his voice back in safer territory. “It’ll pop against the Marina Blue, but won’t glare in the sun.”

Viktor runs his index and middle finger over the same swatch, knuckles purposely grazing Jayce’s skin—cool, rough, and fairly dry. “That one’s fine.”

Jayce nods, a little too quickly, clearing his throat again. “Noted.”

A comfortable, yet electric silence settles between them, but rather than invite Jayce out for coffee or a drink at the local bar as Viktor does for other attractive men who show mutual interest in him, the car— unsatisfyingly and with moderate displeasure—comes first. 

“Do you think it’s possible… to keep the smell?” The words escape from the confines of his throat, an unbidden thing, once buried away with his father, six feet under; he wishes now, fleetingly, that he could have gone to the funeral. While grieving for one’s father for nearly a decade does allow for the pill to be swallowed easier, losing them, even when he was expecting it, does not make it any better. It does not alleviate the trickling burn as it goes down the throat, nor does it strip the pain of it prickling in the chasm of one’s chest where the heart should be. 

It’s a difficult thing to balance: this suffering. One that he can’t quite manage to figure out despite his efforts and having two perfectly good hands that can hold anything tangible. But what can Viktor do when he cannot forgive his own flesh and blood, his father who unravelled before his eyes? What is he meant to do when he sees red, when his bony hands curl into fists, when he wants to tear out strands of his hair knowing that the man’s last thoughts before he left Viktor behind were of a car?  

The answer is simple: Viktor could let go. Of course he could, that’s the rational thing. It’s what all people must do when their tempers get the best of them, when reality isn’t as perfect as it seems, but as hard he tries to wrench himself free from this, he finds himself, again, failing to do so, clutching at the pant leg of his father long after he’s been gone.  

Jayce tilts his head. “The smoke?”

Viktor doesn’t look at him.

Silence eats away at them both, but while Viktor is accustomed to it, willing to embrace its agony tenfold so long as he doesn’t have to speak, Jayce is unable to handle its hostility and speaks with utter sincerity, “I can try,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I’ll keep the original liners. Won’t scrub too deep.”

A single nod is all Viktor manages to give. 

Lucky for him, Jayce is the one who offers more: a soft, close lipped smile that doesn’t show the space between his front teeth. “Don’t worry. I’m good with ghosts.” 

Yes, well, that makes one of them at least. 

Then, carefully, with his head lolled to the side like he's trying to get a better view of Viktor’s expression, “… You don’t talk about your dad much.” 

How quaint: analyzed by a mechanic he was trying to seduce. 

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” Viktor replies, clipped and frigid, fussing with his keys and interchanging between pressing the lock and unlock buttons. 

“Well, no.” Is all Jayce says, tongue pushing against the cheek of his mouth, before popping his lips together. “But I can tell he loved this car. Left it in better shape than most people leave their houses.”

Lips pressed into a line, Viktor decidedly unlocks the SUV. Its headlights flicker behind him alongside a honk to punctuate his words. “Yes. He loved the car.”

“You didn’t?”

A mechanic who he’s had two conversations with should know better than to prod in the lives of their customers. But Viktor does not snarl back or threaten that he’ll write a bad review about a meddlesome repairman that doesn’t know the meaning of personal space. 

Rather, he smooths his thumb over the wooden handle on his cane. His father’s creation; a man of his hands, just like Viktor. Ever since Viktor had become an adult and stopped growing in height, he had used the same stick, waking up to that lovely mahogany every morning at his nightstand. 

“Hey,” a hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes once, firm and reassuring in the hold. “It’s okay not to love it yet. Just wait till you see her when I’m done. Might even surprise you.” There’s no flirt in that lull off his tongue, just a promise. 

And Viktor—who has spent most of his life surrounded by people who focus too deeply on networking and proliferating their connections in their field—recognizes bona fide sincerity when he hears it.

Already turning, Viktor clicks the key fob a third time, completely unnecessary, but he needs to do something with his hands. “Don’t make her too perfect,” he mumbles as the heel of his cane clicks against the cement. “I don’t want to start getting attached.”

Once again, Viktor feels how Jayce’s eyes trail after him, although not with the same heat as before. “Too late.”

✦✦✦

Over the course of a month, the restoration unfolds piece by piece. Jayce sends updates regularly: photos of the Corvette mid-sanding, stripped to her bones; one of the first coats of Marina Blue lacquer, gleaming the shop’s industrial lights; short clips of the engine idling in its familiar low growl, the Tri-Power carburetors synced and singing.

Viktor responds with minimal commentary, if at all.

Acceptable.

Proceed.

Looks fine.

Jayce never comments on the coldness. Just sends the next update, reliably, like he knows Viktor is reading them—even if he doesn’t say so.

Nearly five weeks in, Viktor takes a taxi across town. Soft with the late afternoon light, the sky burns gold, sun skimming low enough to stretch the shop’s shadow long across the asphalt while a breeze rattles the metal signage.

Out in the lot, an old red truck with a dark crimson streak across the panels sits right next to a slightly younger silver Tacoma. Same ones as usual. 

But right in the center of the dark concrete, waiting for him as the showpiece, there she is.

His father’s car. His car now.

Jayce is waiting beside her, leaning against the front fender like he is sculpted to match it. No overalls or its other variations. Just a white cotton t-shirt, taut against his chest and tucked into faded jeans. His hair is swept back messily, a pair of sunglasses resting in the curls like he forgot where he put them. His stubble has grown into a neatly trimmed beard, one that makes him look a little older, a little less puppy-faced, but doesn't diminish his attractiveness in the slightest. For once, there’s not a lick of grease on him—only a flush of colour that rises to his cheeks when Viktor steps out of the taxi. 

“You cleaned up,” Viktor says, taking his time to approach both the car and Jayce, slow and cautious like one would approach a cornered cat.

Jayce grins, wide, easy, and perfectly toothy. “Well, if the girl’s going to be looking her best, thought I should be too. And it’s not like I’m the only one. You might just look better than the lady herself.”

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but Viktor had decidedly worn a crisp, high-collared poet’s shirt, sleeves scrunched up to his elbows despite the wrinkles it’ll undoubtedly leave. He had a meeting earlier this morning with Mel once again and after such, she had dragged him through more than one clothing store at their local mall, demanding he leave dressed like a toy doll. High-waisted and obsidian black trousers, tuck in the tail of his shirt, sharply cut pant-legs tapering down to a clean cuff just above polished dress shoes. Chestnut hair, like usual, falls around his ears, refusing to stay in their proper place, a natural side-effect of his curls. 

He promises that he doesn’t look this fashion forward on a regular basis, although, if it earned more looks from men like Jayce, he supposes he can take the extra minutes for his morning routine. 

The 1967 L71 Coupe however, is not as easy to outdo as Jayce offhandedly says it is. As categorically handsome Viktor may be, the car on the other hand, could not be fitted into a traditional beauty standard box. 

Marina Blue, vivid and surreal, just as his father wanted. It sparkles like something out of a dream more than memory. And yet, it is memory. In the crevices of those same memories, he sees his mother’s eyes open revealing deep and vibrant irises: the same hue as the bluebirds that nested near his childhood window, the rich sky his mother would sing about, the ocean they’d drive to during the summer—but none of these descriptions ever fit quite right. If his mother’s eyes were ever any color at all, it must have been this. Something soft, luminous. A shade that shouldn’t exist naturally in their world, but somehow does.

Viktor circles the car slowly, cane clicking against the pavement. Her body gleams in the long, graceful arcs. Rocker panels sparkle along the sides, and the unmistakable dual side exhausts glint as if they are silver veins to her metal flesh. Even the windshield—newly replaced—shines like diamonds in a jewelry case. And yet, somehow, as polished as she is, none of it feels unnatural. Nothing sterile. Nothing erased.

She doesn’t look new. She looks remembered.

For the first time, Viktor acknowledges the car in all her glory. A hand brushes against the metal hood with the gentleness of someone attending a graveside, fingers pressed across a eulogy, ready to present to a procession. Quiet and devout, the admission leaves his throat, but by no means is Viktor trying to hide it: “She’s beautiful.”

Not just in a nostalgic way. Not just because she’s tied to grief. Objectively, she’s a masterpiece. The kind of car that doesn’t just belong to the past, but drags it forward on whitewall tires and a 4-speed Muncie gearbox. 

When Viktor opens the door, it hits him immediately. That cigarette smoke is exactly the same as he entrusted Jayce with it. Familiar, faint, filtered through age, but unmistakable: his father’s ghost, exhaling.

Jayce speaks before Viktor can turn his head. “I kept the smell like you asked,” his voice comes docile, gentle, with the knowledge that he’s encroaching on a memory that isn’t his. “Didn’t scrub the vents. Left the lining. Even cracked a Lucky Strike while I worked—just the one though.” A chuckle skims from the young man’s throat and Viktor can hear how Jayce rifles his hands through his hair behind him; the brief picture of mussed strands cascading over the man’s forehead clings to the back of his mind. “Hope that’s close enough. Wasn’t really sure what kind of cigarettes your dad smoked.”

Viktor hums in the place of an answer, noncommittal and unattached, despite being anything but. “You’re either incredibly devoted or incredibly foolish.” He nearly breaks into a laugh at the thought. One wrong move with a cigarette embers and Jayce could have left irreparable damage to the interior; not that Viktor cared much about it before now. 

Although, Jayce must be either very lucky or they had known one another in a previous life, because Lucky Strike was the exact cigarette his father used—Viktor as well, before he quit that is. 

With a crooked grin, flashing those lovely teeth again, imperfectly perfect, Jayce shrugs. “Both, maybe.”

As Viktor continues to survey the interior, noting how there’s not an speck of dirt or debris anymore, Jayce takes the emptiness as an opportunity to clap his hands together, stealing Viktor’s attention back. “Oh, almost forgot.” Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a folded paper. “Found this under the driver’s seat. Think it’s yours.”

It’s a photo, an old one. Sun-faded and curled at the corners. Confined to its white border is his mother laughing, head thrown back, mouth wide, curls loose at her temples. She’s in a white sundress, lipstick smudged, and moments away from pressing a kiss to his father’s cheek. His father—arms around her and smiling in a way Viktor hasn’t seen him do in so very many years—has a hand resting against the bump of her belly. 

And there, on the back of the photo, scrawled in his father’s hand, blue ink fades:

“Moje láska Marika a náš malý Viktorek.”

My love Marika and our little Viktor.

Marika. Marina. Like the paint. It nearly snatches a disbelieving laugh from the limits of Viktor’s chest; he hadn’t even realized it until now. Thumb running along the crease, worn soft with time, his face crinkles, corners of his eyes upturned, the dimples of his cheeks sinking as he smiles. 

In some way, with the return of a memory that isn’t quite his, but found its way to him regardless, he understands now. Why his father clung to the car so dearly. It was never about horsepower, nor the gleam of shiny chrome. 

Here, inside the metal body that has no soul, but somehow feels as though it does, Viktor sees it, hears it. Lives through moment after moment in brilliant technicolour, birthing black and white memories to life. 

His mother clutching her round stomach, breathless in the passenger seat while her husband barrelled through red lights towards the hospital. A day later, her arms cradled her bundle of joy, their little bird swathed in baby blue. 

Small hands that would never be able to hold the world, because he's too young to understand what the world exactly is, clumsily scrubbed suds over red paint beside his father, sun tapering into a warm summer haze. His mother sprayed them with the garden hose as they work, soaking their shirts and his father retaliated with a wet rag. Tangled in a heap of arms, his mother pressing kisses to his temple then to his father's cheek, gravity dragged them down and all three of them collapsed into freshly mown grass, laughter spilling into the evening. 

After that, it's his father driving Viktor home post his high school graduation. He stared at the street lights flickering on, spilling gold into the car over the flowers draped across his lap. Back then, his mother stayed home—too tired that day to leave the bed that she was burdened to—but Viktor swallowed her soft, clear voice as she kissed both his cheeks and told him that she couldn’t be prouder. Crossing her heart along the crucifix around her neck, she swore to him then, blue eyes glimmering with a promise that for all her fifty-nine years of living, she loved him oh so dearly—an affection so grand, so encompassing that she knew she would long before her little bird was ever born. And with a press of her lips to his forehead, she told him in a whisper, thumb grazing under his eye: "No matter where you go, ptáček, I'll always be with you."

Then, when she passed, his father—much like Viktor, neither of them being nostalgic men—willingly put her things away in the attic and buried her body in its final resting place halfway across the sea. As his father grew quieter without her warmth, her presence, Viktor—who busied himself his degrees, rarely ever visiting home—let it happen. But the old man, even as his days dwindled down, even if his son never realized it until it was too late, clutched onto the last thing he had with both of his trembling hands.

The car.

And Viktor, his mother's bird, his parents' pride and joy, his father's son, promises that he understands. Acknowledges with full awareness of all the years behind his back to look at Mila for all that she is. A time capsule. A keepsake grander than any locket. The last place the three of them had existed. Together.

When he finally lifts his gaze, Jayce is watching him, hands shoved awkwardly in his back pockets like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to give space or hold onto it.

Instead of speaking, Viktor slips the photo into the driver’s sun visor clipped to the roof and slides into the driver’s seat with both hands resting on the wheel. For a moment, just a moment, he thinks he can discern the subtle outline of his father in this same position—much younger, golden eyes glinting to the open road. His mother beside him, both of them listening to the radio as they spoke about the future. 

Bringing the window down, Viktor ducks his head out, one arm resting on the car door with a question riding on his lips, “Do you have anywhere to be?”

Immediately, Jayce straightens, fidgeting with interlocked hands. “Uh, no. Not really. Just got off work actually.”

“Then get in.”

Jayce blinks. Once. Twice. Jaw going slack. “You’re offering me a ride?”

“I’m offering you a test drive,” Viktor corrects, but the smirk reaching over his lips suggests otherwise. “Try not to wet yourself.”

With a grin so wide Viktor thinks the man’s face might split in half, Jayce is already jogging around the front and sliding into the passenger seat before Viktor’s even adjusted the rear view mirror. 

And when the engine turns over, the rumble is low and even—steady and familiar, like a heartbeat coming home.

They pull out of the lot slowly, respectfully. The manner that one does when they’re driving their father’s precious timepiece. Mouth sealed, Viktor lets the car move. Allows the tires to warm up on asphalt, the low thrum of the L71’s 435 horses restrained, purring beneath the hood like a predator at rest, acknowledging him as her new master. 

Jayce is buzzing in the passenger seat, practically vibrating with excitement but trying—bless him—to keep his mouth shut. His fingers hover at the edge of the seat, like he’s not sure whether to grip it or himself, in case he doesn’t have the right to touch something so holy. Eventually, the leather creaks under his shifting weight, his nails digging tightly. 

“You’re going to leave marks if you keep that up,” Viktor breaks the silence first, not looking away from the road.

Jayce barks a laugh, head falling back as he finally releases his death hold around the newly installed upholstery. “If I do, I’ll replace them, free of charge.”

Humming, Viktor casts his gaze briefly to the right of his shoulder—gold meeting gold, smile greeting smile—before looking back to the windshield, foot steady on the pedals. 

They drive on.

Down past the old rail yards. Through the narrow stretch of warehouse district where the roads dip and groan with every passing truck. The Marina Blue glints in motion, catching sun between buildings, and every so often, mustering up the courage to do so, Jayce sneaks a glance. First at the dash, then to Viktor’s hands on the gearshift, then back at the road like he wasn’t just cataloguing how Viktor’s thumb brushes the stick absentmindedly in small circles. 

Granting Jayce the privilege to watch him in peace, Viktor pretends not to notice. 

At one red light, Jayce speaks, unable to hold it in after nearly ten minutes of silence. “You know,” fingers drum against the leather beltline of the door, just beneath the window, “this is probably the best car I’ve ever worked on.”

Viktor raises a brow, eyes forwards as he waits for the light. “Oh? And is that flattery or observation, this time?”

“Observation.” Jayce grins sideways, just for Viktor to be able to take a peek at it from the edge of his periphery. “But also flattery. You look good in her, Professor.”

A shallow huff skims from his nose and Viktor doesn’t reply. Not with words, anyway. Instead, he presses the clutch, shifts from neutral into first then to second, hand swallowing around the the top of the stick. His thumb skims the edge slowly, drawing lazy figure-eights on the polished knob.

Jayce’s breath stutters beside him, a sharp inhale like someone just punched him in the chest. 

In return, Viktor’s smirk broadens as he moves into third gear. 

For a while, that’s all there is: the sound of the road, the steady rhythm of the big-block engine, and the wind carving its way around the cabin once Viktor opens his window. 

Eventually, after realizing that Jayce will only pussy-foot around talking considering how occupied the young man is with fiddling at the hangnail at the corner of his thumb in attempt to hide the dusty rose that stains his cheeks, Viktor speaks up once again. “There’s been something bothering me.” With one hand on the wheel, he uses the other one to gesture loosely, the way he often does when he teaches. “How did you know I was a professor?”

Jayce shuffles in his seat, suddenly awfully sheepish. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“Mm. I don’t laugh very often, Jayce.”

“You smirk. Same difference.”

Viktor lifts a brow, but doesn’t wrench the truth right out of man. Rather, he waits and perhaps that’s worse, because Jayce caves instantly, of course.

“I was a first year in Mechanical Engineering at the university here. Probably just over a decade ago,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You taught my class. Engineering Mechanics. ME 100. I dropped out before summer co-op.”

Viktor hums, neither judgmental nor surprised. “You and half the roster.” The yearly culling ceremony wiped most of the first years out; it was merely a part of life. Pity though, if it ripped a young man with potential from a career in academia. 

However, apparently, it’s not a sore subject, considering the way that Jayce’s grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Yeah, well. School wasn’t for me. Switched over to trade school. Got my ASE cert, then went straight into bodywork. Been doing this for, think… five years now?”

Sighing, Jayce leans back into his seat, the sun dragging down across the sky, blinding in its brilliance as its sunbeams slither through the glass. He flicks the shades still atop his head down onto the bridge of his nose. “My dad was a mechanic too,” Jayce mumbles, his grin slipping off his lips, suddenly falling into the wistfulness of nostalgia. “In a different city. I didn’t really know him though. He passed when I was real little.” A pause lingers there between them as he chews his lip, “I guess I’ve been chasing pieces of him ever since.”

How funny. Not in a hilarity—that would be cruel and while Viktor is sarcastic and witty, sometimes a tad jaded due to his years, he isn’t inhuman. Rather, it’s the fact: “That makes two of us, I suppose.” Two men haunted by ghosts coming together by their relationship with cars. It’s less out of sympathy and more from respect, that Viktor nods, “I’m sure that he would have been proud.”

Visibly startled, Jayce snaps his head to him, eyes burning into Viktor as if he had given him a piece of the world and perhaps, again, that makes two of them.

“You take good care of things,” Viktor adds, wrapping his free hand around the stick, as they go back down to two. “It’s not nothing.”

Jayce doesn’t reply, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to smile, like Viktor, who should be so predictable with his ironed dress shirts, astonishes him again and again. Rather than acknowledge this however, he freely traces Viktor’s outline, hiding his gaze behind the protection of his sunglasses as he leaves a trail starting from deep cheekbones, then the throat, down to the arm wrapped around the gear shift. “You’re too good of a driver for someone who drives an automatic.”

“My father taught me manual when I was sixteen. We used this car in all of my lessons.” 

“Well, that explains a lot. You handle her like you’ve been behind her wheel your whole life.” Bringing his dark lenses down just a tad, he rests a hand atop Viktor’s arm, just daring to be there. “He must’ve been a good teacher.”

Viktor neither prickles nor brushes the presence away. But he does chuckle at the memory of his father resurfacing to the forefront of his brain. Him and his father bickering over the wheel during Viktor’s worst teenage years. Early proof in his life that not all good men of their trades could teach. “Terrible, actually.” 

Jayce seems to stare into empty space, or maybe just into the mole just below Viktor’s eye, before asking the question that both of them are wondering. “… Do you miss him?”

The answer—while it had been complicated for some time with red paint, winding dirt roads, and aging photo albums where resentment and sorrow once lived—is still the same as always. “Yes.”

Jayce nods, fingers curling against Viktor’s arm, perhaps to give it a reassuring hug, the best he can provide with Viktor driving. “You know, I feel like I get why your dad kept the car.” He offers as if there is something else that Viktor needs to know about his father that he realized too late; the knowledge doesn’t taste as acrid as it once did, now running down his throat like a rich amber honey instead. “She’s one of those things that makes you feel like time can’t touch you.”

That’s certainly another appropriate way to phrase it. “And what exactly do you keep, Jayce?” Teasing, coaxing, Viktor rolls the name with a purr, the corner of his mouth twitching.  

“Me?” His brows raise, like he’s actually surprised to be asked such a question, like there is someone else between the two of them that Viktor would rather invite to open themselves. Although, it barely makes him hesitate as his fingers snake down Viktor’s exposed forearm down where Viktor’s hand rests atop the gear shift. “I keep a wrench in my back pocket and a bad habit of flirting with emotionally unavailable men.” 

“Eh,” Viktor drawls, long and slow, thumbing the pinky that slips between his hands, catching a glimpse of that strong, calloused palm that encompasses his, “Perhaps they’re more available than you propose.” 

Temptation is the devil and Viktor licks his lips absentmindedly, running his tongue over his Cupid’s bone, once, twice, just enough to draw Jayce’s attention before Viktor, the homme fatale that he is, pulls away, two hands returning to the wheel. 

They’re past city limits now, the landscape opening like a wound, all open stretch and amber fields. The asphalt rolls out before them in long, hungry miles. Mila growls underneath them, insisting on the relief she so desperately craves after years of never being handled. 

So Viktor gives her what she wants.

“What are you—” Jayce starts, but Viktor is already flooring it.

From third to fourth, the girl roars under his touch—a deep, feral growl that echoes across the fields like thunder on steel. 

Thirty.

Forty.

Sixty.

Eighty.

Wind floods in through the windows, tousling both their hair, whipping their faces. It’s the kind of sound that would have terrified him at sixteen, but now it’s something else entirely—freedom, maybe. Flight. 

He imagines his father on this same open stretch of road, windows rolled all the way down, radio too loud, laughter in his throat as his mother whoops beside him, just as much of a thrill seeker years ago.

In the present day, Jayce throws his head back, cheering with his entire chest. one hand bracing against the dash, the other flying out to steady himself against the console as they curve with the road.

Viktor could swear he hears, “Holy shit, I’m gonna marry you,” scream over the rev of the engine, but it’s probably the wind.

By the time he eases off the speed, the horizon is orange-pink, cracked open, bringing forth the quiet return of dusk as time always does. The city bridge looms ahead—an old iron structure that glows golden under floodlights, its silhouette bending over the water like a sleeping giant. An overlook is just past the bend: a half-moon gravel lot, carved out from the bluff, a secret meant for lovers and ghosts.

Viktor pulls in, tires crunching on gravel and cuts the engine. Slowly cooling, the engine ticks and the laughter that had carried them up the scenic route dies to the sounds of birds bedding down for the night. 

Jayce shifts beside him, glancing once toward Viktor, then away. Uncertain again. Like moving too quickly might send everything spinning off its axis.

Despite being completely aware of the invisible weight sitting between them, Viktor doesn’t say anything. Instead, he opens the door and steps out, leaving his cane behind; his leg protests, a wince crawling through his spine and spearing his expression, but it dampens as he walks, flattening into nothing more than a gargled hush once he finally leans against the hood. A second later, Jayce follows, rounding the front to similarly prop himself atop the metal. 

Below them, the river stretches wide and black, the city glowing like a starry sky of molten gold. The wind sweeps at their clothes and hair—casual, but constant—reminding them that yes, the world is still moving even when time feels like it isn’t. Silence, as the laws of convection dictates, sinks, introducing a chill to the early summer, and the two of them sit in its presence like they’re enjoying the moment, the beauty of it, admiring the overpass like tourists would. 

It’s only when Viktor speaks, subdued and his accent peeking through, throat rumbling with something akin to an afterthought, that reality whispers that they aren’t quite tourists: “My parents used to come here.”

Jayce cocks his head to the side. “To talk?”

“To fuck.”

Immediately, Jayce stills, eyes blown wide in disbelief, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trap, or if he’s just been handed the bluntest, most Viktor thing possible. 

Gaze locked on the river, Viktor traces where the lights bend on the surface, the gold trembling across the water to the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a train hums against the tracks, stifled, but steady. 

Jayce however, seems everything but steady, and a muffled chuckle is hauled from the catacombs of his chest, like he’s not sure he should be trying to find humour in this. “That so?”

“They were practical people.”

Another chortle comes out, less strained and a little more open, a warmth that births from the vocal folds of Jayce’s larynx and blankets over Viktor’s shoulders like a gift. Then—hesitating, but not retreating—with one palm splayed out on the frame of the car, he leans in, breath hot and condensing against Viktor’s cheek in the night. “Can I kiss you?”

Turning his head, Viktor blinks, once, twice, three times for the extra effect. It doesn’t startle him in the slightest; really, he had seen this coming, had expected it since the man got into his car. But regardless of how young he may appear, with two moles dotting his face and sharp cheekbones that only began to hollow in his late thirties, he isn’t a reckless freshman looking for a quick fuck. Rather, Viktor is tactical, practical on top of it, has the experience to toy with men and have them crumble to their knees. So, just to watch Jayce squirm, he lets the question hang, lets it coil into the air like smoke, and settle in the cracks between them. 

Ever so anxious, Jayce fiddles with the loop of his jeans, marigold eyes wrapping around Viktor’s throat, awfully obvious and earnest in the dark. A nearby lamppost flickers on, painting them two of them in yellow. Worry trims behind Jayce’s lips, wobbling, ready to take it back in fear he’s misread the moment and stepped too close.

It would be dreadfully cruel to have Jayce wait any longer. With a small smile, two fingers wrap around the base of Jayce’s chin, thumb running against the curve of that jaw. Mild amusement blooms as Jayce’s lips part in reflex. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes.

Jayce leans in, one hand finding Viktor’s waist, tentative fingers curling into fabric, afraid of being too bold. It’s tender. Reverent. But… unskilled. Lips barely brushing, Viktor feels how cautious Jayce is—how he holds back, how he tries to keep it neat, kissing like it’s the first time he’s kissed anyone. It’s juvenile, sweet in the way nervous things are. 

When Jayce’s breath stutters against Viktor’s mouth, already struggling to keep the pace, he pulls back a fraction and wades through the honey-glazed eyes, like he’s waiting for direction. Or permission.

Viktor gives both. 

One hand sliding to Jayce’s hip, he pulls him in, closing the last inch between them. Their bodies press together—subtle but unmistakable. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of Jayce’s neck, fingers threading through those dark curls he had wanted to take in his hands for the past month. Tilting both their heads back, teeth skim the bottom of Jayce’s lip, sharp and quick. 

And the sound Jayce makes in return—a high-pitched groan drowned out by Viktor swallowing his mouth whole—lights up his whole spine, signalling him to venture further. Lips parting, slipping past the edge of Jayce’s teeth, Viktor claims the uncharted space slowly, thoroughly, rightfully his. He explores the shape of Jayce—slides his tongue along the roof of that mouth, traces the gap between front teeth, tasting every inch. 

God, Jayce tastes good. Divine. Like the personification of heat. Like summer-sweat, coffee, and golden honey. Like something Viktor shouldn’t be allowed to have, especially flushed against his father’s dearest treasure, but then again, it’s just as much Viktor’s as it is his father’s now. 

Two hands brace at Viktor’s hips and Jayce falls forwards without hesitation now, kissing back with more want than skill. But Viktor doesn’t mind, drinking in the satisfaction of how Jayce yields all control, allowing Viktor to lead.

Their bodies crowd together—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—and Viktor slides his leg between Jayce’s, fitting it snug until Jayce’s knees tremble and that breath hitches into his. The soft noise that moans over Viktor’s tongue is damn near devastating, sending a molten shiver down each vertebrae.

In return, Viktor coos into that mouth, grinding his thigh up to coax out another sound just like the last and Jayce rocks down into it, helpless.

That’s better.

And then they part. Viktor gasps for air, chest heaving, lips sleek and shining. A thin thread of saliva stretches between their mouths, catching the dim light.

Eyes fluttering open, dazed and pupils blown wide, Jayce chases after him instinctively, red swollen mouth parting like he’s forgotten how to breathe without contact. His breath pants, ghosting over Viktor’s jaw as he tries so depravedly to return the force of their lips together, saliva dripping from one corner.

Predictable. Sweet.

Thumb pressed to Jayce’s lower lip, Viktor catches him mid-motion, keeping him wanting as they both watch the web of spit stretch further. Then, without breaking eye contact, amber trapped in amber, Viktor pries his fingers into Jayce’s open mouth, skin meeting the wet expanse, as his tongue flicks out to catch the rest of the strand, slow and shameless, a smirk dressing on his lips.

“Was that good?” Viktor murmurs, voice smooth as velvet dragged across flesh. Two fingers—his index and thumb—work their way over Jayce’s tongue.

Jayce nods. Eager. Unthinking. His eyes glassed over in reverence, like a man who hadn’t just been kissed, but changed.

“You’ll tell me if anything is too much. I can be a rather, eh… rough lover.”

Immediately and so keen to prove how capable he is, Jayce nods. Twice. 

“Words, Jayce.”

“Yesh,” he mumbles around Viktor’s hand. “I’ll thell you.”

That’s enough.

Pleased with the answer, Viktor hums into a smile and brushes against Jayce’s mouth, then peters kisses to the man’s jaw. Down the ridge of his throat. Maps out a path carved with soft lips and hot breath. All while his fingers navigate the mouth he left behind, keeping it occupied so that his other hand can slide beneath Jayce’s shirt and drag nails across the stomach, skimming across the muscles there. 

Instantly, Jayce gasps, hips jolting, a choked sound warbling against Viktor’s fingers. Blunt and unforgiving, teeth sink into the supple skin at the crook of the neck, just below the ear, staining Jayce with a brand, a proclamation; one that Viktor’s tongue follows with a slow lap to soothe the sting.

A full body shudder praises Viktor and Jayce melts in his hands, head tilting back and offering more of himself. Viktor uses that momentum to drive them forward until Jayce’s back meets the hood of the car with a muted thump. The creak of metal under their combined weight is a reminder of where they are, what they’re doing, the sin they’re about to commit. But Viktor doesn’t care.

Slipping his fingers from Jayce’s wet mouth, he skids them down the man’s body until they find the bulge straining against those jeans and palms Jayce’s erection through the denim. 

Jayce jerks once again into Viktor’s touch, chasing friction, chasing heat, all of which Viktor is willing to graciously provide him so long as the man waits properly. 

Keeping the pressure steady, Viktor cups around Jayce with a firm squeeze and allows the man rut against his hand, marvelling in the spectacle of a former demi-god crumble on the spot. “God, you’re already so hard,” Viktor growls, sticky breath a hot caress to the throat. “You’re dreadfully easy.”

Wrecked with a curse, Jayce hisses behind clenched teeth and his erection pushes into the palm harder, chasing anything Viktor will give him. 

Viktor drinks it all in: Jayce’s fingers splayed across the hood, nails squealing faintly on metal, jaw slack and open, the bob of his throat, hips stuttering, desperate for more, more, more. Soon enough, Jayce finds a rhythm, properly grinding against Viktor’s open palm, helplessly rutting against the pressure like an animal in heat with his breath stuttering out in soft little pants. 

Fucking beautiful.

Cloying heat thickens between them, pouring directly into Viktor’s abdomen as Jayce paws at his collar, dragging him back in for another scrambled kiss, “Fuck, Viktor—” 

In praise, in honour, Viktor distinguishes Jayce with another nip at his throat, canines scraping into flesh as he sucks a dark welt there.. Marring that lovely skin with yet another blooming claim. Oh, what a feast for the eyes.

And Jayce whines, a raw, high sound—half-formed, completely involuntary, squirming beneath his fingers. 

“Quiet,” Viktor hushes with a nip to the earlobe. “Unless you want someone to hear you.”

While he doubts that anyone would come to this vista point—his parents had chosen this location for a reason and with it being so early in the season, there isn’t much to see regardless—Jayce, like the obedient man he is, bites his lip and strangles down a moan which Viktor compensates for with a grind of their hips together. 

He mouths into Jayce’s ear, voice drenched in sin while asking for worship: “If I told you to get on your knees right here, would you?”

Jayce’s chest stills, breath trapped in his lungs, then the word cracks out of him, fragile and certain all at once, “Yeah.” He pleads, ready to kneel at the altar so long as Viktor is his deity, “Fuck—yes. I would.” 

Possessive and hungry, Viktor smiles and presses one last kiss to Jayce’s throat, just over the pulse hammering there faster than Viktor can manage to take it apart. “Thought so.”

Taking a step back, he lets Jayce sag against the car and follow after him—like Viktor is gravity, and falling is just what happens next.

Knees hit gravel with a rough scrape. Palms settle against Viktor’s thighs. Eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-wet and trembling, already waiting for instruction. There’s awe in it. Hunger. A want that has nothing to do with the ache in his cock and everything to do with the man standing in front of him.

He rakes one hand through Jayce’s dark curls and uses the other to open his slacks fully, exposing his flushed cock that twitches to the cold air, already slick at the tip with pre-cum. 

Lips parted, Jayce is already leaning forward, always so ferociously fervent. But Viktor stops him, holds his hair back. Just for a second. 

“Look at me.” Thumb stroking beneath Jayce’s eye, their gazes meet as Viktor continues to gently card through his soft hair. “Don’t rush. Take your time.” 

Jayce opens his mouth—maybe to answer, maybe just to beg to get to the point of being fucked a little faster—but Viktor uses the hand in his hair to guide him lower, closer until Jayce’s breath licks over the tip. 

The first drag of Viktor’s cock across his tongue makes them both groan. Jayce closes his lips around the head, sucks instinctively—wet and slow—and a sharp breath inhales from Viktor’s nose, keeping his composure as to not fuck Jayce’s throat then and there. 

Viktor watches his worshiper, memorizes every sacrilegious piece of him that will plague the mind for weeks: how Jayce’s lips seal around him, how his jaw flexes as he tries to take more, how his eyes flutter closed just for a second, like the sensation of sucking Viktor’s cock and looking into his sharp eyes short-circuits everything else. He’s trying, Viktor can feel the effort from those hollowing cheeks, every time he pulls back to breathe, only to press in again. 

And isn’t that worth a reward?

“Ah—Good, Jayce.” Fingers twist through Jayce’s locks, he purrs, keeping his touch tender before jerking his hips into that gorgeous mouth. “You’re doing such a good job, you beautiful thing.” 

Jayce whimpers around him, and fuck, the vibration of it sends a jolt up Viktor’s spine, only for Jayce to build into an eager rhythm. Desperate to prove himself further, that tongue drags along the underside of his shaft, working him in slick, molten strokes, until Viktor feels another tight press at the back of the man’s throat. 

“Breathe through your nose, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs. “Take it.”

Oh, and Jayce takes it so wonderfully, gagging once—soft, wet—but doesn’t stop. His throat works around the intrusion, jaw opening wider, drool already starting to smear across the corners of his mouth. The sound of it is obscene, slick and needy. And fuck, the sight of him like this—he wants nothing more than to keep it for himself, to fuck Jayce so hard that he’ll never be able to find another lover again. 

Using his other hand to cup the back of his head, Viktor’s thumb strokes lightly behind his ear, a litany of praises sitting at the end of his tongue, only to taunt a little further—there will be time for the former later. “Do you always work this hard when you want to impress someone?”

Jayce moans a yes, or maybe please for more, it’s hard to tell. 

In return, Viktor tightens his hand in Jayce’s hair and rocks forward—breaking into sharp, wet thrusts that make the man choke around the girth, eyes watering. When he looks up—eyes dark, mouth full, brow furrowed—Viktor groans, nearly keeling to the sensation, feeling the tension in his cock at the verge of unravelling. 

Wrenching Jayce’s head back, it releases a whimpering hiss from the man’s swollen lips and Viktor has half the mind to thrust back into that open mouth again. But patience. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Cock glossy with spit, Viktor’s own cheeks flushed pink from the heat, sweat clings to his spine as he holds Jayce back—the man gasping like he’s just surfaced from drowning. “Knees torn up. Spit down your chin. Mouth open.”

Once again, Jayce nods furiously, zealous in the gesture and wanton like a beast in heat. 

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Jayce croaks, voice hoarse from its abuse. 

A crude smile drapes itself with the adoration and Viktor crows at the lovely sight of his own unmaking. “Would you prefer me to come in that mouth of yours or do you want to be bent over the hood again and fucked properly?”

Jayce’s mouth opens, then closes. He doesn’t know what to say. Drool from his lips splits down his chin onto the ground. 

“Speak,” Viktor orders, grabbing his jaw, thumb pressing hard to his spit-slick lower lip.

“I—fuck—the hood.” Jayce manages, breaking his words with a rasp. “Fuck me over the hood.”

“Then get up.” Viktor steps back taking pleasure in watching Jayce stagger to his feet—chin wet, cock still rock-hard underneath his jeans. 

Viktor runs a hand down Jayce’s shirt, over the stomach, and pauses just above the waistband of his jeans. He hums, noncommittal, feigning the thought, as if he’ll actually stop here if he receives any other answer, he asks, “Do you have any lube?”

Jayce breathes in like he’s about to say no. “Uh—” 

Viktor already expects it. He’s prepared to work with spit—has before; he’ll make do.

But then, breathless, Jayce says, “Check the glovebox.”

Viktor’s gaze slides to Jayce’s face, flushed and sheepish, like he’s been caught halfway between hope and planning. Guilty of his own crimes. “You didn’t even know I was going to offer you a drive, never mind ask you for a fuck.” 

“I didn’t think this would actually happen,” Looking away, clearly flustered now, Jayce mumbles as he bites the inner flap of his cheek. “I just—just wanted to prepare for any contingencies.”

“So you brought lube.” Viktor sneers, not with hate, but with a taunt, sliding his hand from Jayce’s hip to his ass, digging in his fingers to pull him closer. “On the off chance I’d invite you out, bring you to a secluded place, and pin you against the hood of my dead father’s Corvette?”

“Yeah.”

There’s something raw in that, something almost stupidly brave, but one that surges heat straight to his cock with a twitch. “You’re lucky I like hopeful men.”

Viktor pulls away and opens the passenger door, popping open the glovebox. Unsurprisingly, there it is. Travel-sized. Brand new. Tucked beside a stray pack of gum, an old map, and an opened pack of Lucky Strike. Of course.

Viktor plucks it out with a quiet snort, shuts the door, and straightens. “Get on the hood,” he says. No bite or bark to it.

Jayce doesn’t hesitate. He climbs up with a shuffle of denim and rubber soles, palms spread against the metal as he shifts his weight, and legs dangling off the side. For as clothed as he is, Jayce looks terribly naked propped on Viktor’s car. It suits him, the lapis paint stark against his tan skin. 

Viktor steps between his legs again and reaches for the button of his jeans.

He pops it, one-handed, then the zipper, a slow and deliberate drag of teeth coming apart.

Jayce lifts his hips obligingly, and Viktor tugs the jeans down, leaving the denim tangled and hanging from the ankle. Viktor doesn’t bother with the shoes, already occupying himself with those damp boxers that outline Jayce’s cock, hard and leaking; he drags a finger up the length of it through the fabric, just once and Jayce jerks under the touch, back arching off the hood.

Privately, Viktor smiles and with that, he hooks the waistband of Jayce’s underwear—peeling the last barrier down, exposing him to the night air, to Viktor’s eyes, to everything. “Spread your legs further.”

Jayce’s legs part to make room, widening around him without hesitation, without thought. One knee draws up, shoe dragging along the chrome. The other stays hooked loosely around Viktor’s hip, jeans still tangled around both ankles like a cuff, like a reminder of how fast this is unravelling.

He murmurs, pecking Jayce’s lips. “Now, aren’t you a sight? Stunning.” 

Embarrassed or desperate perhaps, Jayce croons at the praise and Viktor kisses him again just to shut him up. Hand wrapping around the base of the shaft, knuckles draw across the skin, to which Jayce damn nearly chokes on air for. 

“Fuck—” he breathes, shivering under Viktor’s touch, gripping his shoulders tightly. “Please—”

“You’re the one who came prepared.” Lips ghost over Jayce’s cheek. “Don’t beg like you didn’t want this.”

Jayce groans, low and broken, hips canting into his fist.

Viktor could take him apart right now—no prep, no patience—but he doesn’t. He uncaps the lube instead, coats his fingers and slicks them generously, warming the cold up briefly. Lets Jayce see the bottle, bear witness to the care Viktor is about to put into unravelling the man. Then his hand disappears beneath the cradle of Jayce’s thighs.

“Take a deep breath in for me.” The first press of his finger against the tight ring of muscle between those legs is gentle—just enough to make Jayce stiffen and suck in a deep breath.

God, Jayce is tight. 

When Viktor adds a second finger, Jayce bites down on a moan, body rocking slightly forward against the hood. Then, to truly send Jayce’s mind reeling, he sinks his index and middle fingers down, straight to the last knuckles. 

Jayce’s eyes flutter. His hands scrabble for something—metal, fabric, skin, anything to hold on to. 

With the curl of his fingers, Viktor works Jayce open thoroughly, one hand firm on Jayce’s hip the entire time. Not fast. Not rough. He knows how much pressure it takes to make a man shake, how to crook just right to make his hips jump, his mouth part in a silent gasp.

And Jayce is already arching into it. Chest rising, legs twitching around Viktor’s hips, mouth still slick with spit and parted around shallow moans.

“That’s it, Jayce. You’re doing so well.” Viktor leans in, weight shifting forward, and his cock brushes Jayce’s thigh—leaving a smear of wet against his skin. “Should have had you sprawled like this so much sooner.”

“Is it too late to say that I wanted you since you stepped in the shop?” 

At that, Viktor curls his two fingers and Jayce whines, high in the back of his throat, thighs twitching as he tries to take more. Begs for it without words. So earnest isn’t he, and Viktor can only praise Jayce more, scraping trimmed nails against his inner walls.

“Ah —” Loud and unguarded, the sound rips out of Jayce like it has nowhere else to go other than Viktor’s ears. His spine lifts off the metal, neck straining, mouth lolling open. “Viktor— ”

He continues to roll his digits in and out, brushing against the man’s prostate and watches this fallen star unfurl atop the hood of his car. Drinks him in. Watches the flush bloom down his throat. Watches his cock pulse against his stomach, leaking against his white shirt. Watches his body around Viktor’s fingers, hot and desperate for more.

It’s obscene. Beautiful. Viktor can only envision how gorgeous Jayce will look full with his cock, squirming for pleasure, moaning out his name like that, but imagination isn’t enough. 

Finally, finally, he pulls his hand back and Jayce whimpers without its presence as he wipes the slick down the length of his own cock. Bracing one hand against Jayce’s ribs, the other in the meat of his thigh, he plants one last kiss to Jayce’s mouth, whispering tenderly into those pliant lips in spite of his primal hunger. “Tell me if anything hurts.” 

One hand fisting the fabric of Viktor’s sleeve, the other sliding along the hood to ground himself on steel, Jayce nods wildly; Viktor doesn’t bother asking for further confirmation. 

The head of his cock nudges against the tight, slicked entrance of Jayce’s ass. Sinking against the resistance, he bites back the guttural moan that summons over his tongue. Fuck, even after all that, Jayce is still so tight. 

Inch by inch, slow enough to allow Jayce to properly adjust to the fullness, Viktor’s cock burrows deeper and once it hits the base of the shaft, Jayce gasps, loud and wrecked, like he’s been hit in the chest. Hands clench. Eyes squeeze shut. He squirms around the newfound fullness and Viktor’s palm digs into Jayce’s leg, commanding his attention back.

“Eyes on me.”

With a hiss behind gritted teeth, Jayce obliges, gold eyes wide open, lips parting for Viktor’s pleasure to take in along with everything else. The stretch, the give.  

The first thrust afterwards is slow, all control. The second is deeper, hitting the back of Jayce’s inner walls. The third punches a moan out of the man that Viktor will remember for years.

Viktor sets the pace unhurried—dragging every inch out of it, giving Jayce time to feel, to commit him to memory so that he’ll remember how Viktor ruined him whenever he closes his eyes. 

Outside, the world is silent. Soft wind in the grass. Distant sound of the city below. Inside this moment, though—just heat, sweat, and sound. Jayce gasping. Viktor gritting his teeth. Their skin slapping together in rhythm as Viktor drives into him, over and over, relentless and perfect.

Eyes glazed, lips trembling, Jayce pants, his knees knocking into Viktor’s sides, trying to manage a better hold and drag Viktor in deeper like he’s not already flush against his ass. “Don’t stop. Please, please, don’t stop.”

Viktor hugs their bodies together, the hand at Jayce’s him tensing, and pulls him in tighter with another slam of his hips. “You think I’d stop now?” he replies with a kiss to the base of Jayce’s throat. “After all that effort?” 

This will undoubtedly destroy his leg and back for days, but he can manage to suffer the future punishment for his sins, so long as he drags this man into the abyss with him. 

Jayce shouts in response, high and wracked with instability, voice shivering apart. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Viktor—”

Oh, the way he sings the name, like a prayer, like a hymn, like he is an angel and Viktor is his holy god. 

Viktor curls over him, bunching Jayce’s shirt up as he works a hand placed at the chest underneath fabric and pressed against skin; the pads of his fingers gliding over sweat-licked muscle. Shoving the shirt all the way up to his torso, Viktor watches how Jayce’s stomach pulses, chest heaving, skin glistening to the pale gold light of the nearby lamp.

Jayce, Viktor thinks, most definitely was sculpted by a god, and should he be the divinity that made such a man, it’s only his right to take apart as well. Hips grinding slow and steady with every tight push, he listens to Jayce fall apart, head tipped back.

Hands find solace in his locks, nails scraping into Viktor’s scalp as sweat collects at their temples, each thrust rocking the Corvette beneath their weight.

Viktor shifts slightly, adjusting the angle and the next thrust punches a sound out of Jayce that’s more a sob than anything else.

“There?” 

Jayce nods frantically, words catching in his throat.

“What did I say about using your words?” It’s not cold; perhaps it could even be described as kind as he gently nips at Jayce’s neck, urging for a proper response. 

“There. Right there,” he strangles out with a stammer. “God, god, please Viktor. Don’t stop—”

Viktor doesn’t. Sharp and precise, he fucks Jayce with urgency, with purpose, hips snapping to satisfying his dear lover. The sound of skin against skin is slick, loud, filthy, buried beneath grunts and sobbing moans. 

Jayce is dripping, cock hard and untouched, thighs trembling around Viktor’s waist as every slam wrings more out of him. His grip at Jayce’s hip leaves bruises, marking flesh with fingerprints as he drags him closer, melting into the shudder that starts from Jayce and strums around his shaft inside.

The car creaks again beneath them.

Jayce’s mouth falls open like he wants to speak, but all that spills out is a high, fractured gasp as Viktor rolls his hips again. He’s close—Viktor can feel it in the way his body clamps down, trembling and slick—but he doesn’t let him come. Not yet.

With one clean motion, he pulls his cock out, and Jayce jerks under him, hissing at the sudden loss, sharp and disoriented.

Viktor doesn’t give him time to beg. “Turn over.”

Jayce shivers at the cold tone alone, but obeys without hesitation. Clumsily, he rolls on the hood, shirt still wrinkled under his arms, jeans twisted low around his thighs. Chest flush to the hood, hands braced wide over steel, boots crunching into gravel as he spreads his legs without needing to be told.

Dear god, what a gorgeous man. Bent over and ruined, leaking, shaking—Jayce looks like a prayer begging to be answered. Ass high, back arched, the marks of Viktor’s grip already blooming dark on his hips.

Four fingers trail down the curve of his spine, and Viktor dips down, licking the sweat beading at Jayce’s ear, voice low and dark. “Let’s see how loud you are like this.”

He pushes back into him, slow, deep, unforgiving. Jayce gasps, his body locking around the return of the intrusion, back arching hard enough to bow. Viktor watches it all: the ripple of his deltoids, the raw give of his body as he sinks in deep.

He slams into Jayce with punishing force, again and again, hips snapping loud against skin. The car rocks under them. Jayce sobs with every thrust, clawing at the hood, and Viktor feels him clench again, desperate and aching for release. 

One hand grips Jayce’s hip once again, securing himself around skin. The other snakes up his back, reaching around to feed two fingers to Jayce’s mouth.

“Suck.”

Desperate for approval, Jayce moans around them like he’s starving for it, tongue slick and eager, lips wrapping tight as spit dribbles down his chin. Viktor fucks him harder, brutal now, relentless—every thrust designed to split him wide and make him feel it.

“You take everything I give you,” Viktor growls into the sweat-drenched skin of his neck. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Jayce jolts with a whole body shudder at the praise. Drool slipping from his jaw, he rocks back into each thrust, then forward into the hood of the car, chasing friction wherever he can get it.

Breath clinging against the back of Jayce’s neck, Viktor tastes that salt-laden skin with his lips. “You were made for this.” Nails curl into skin, “Made to be fucked like this. By me.”

Jayce chokes on a cry, muffled and crushed against metal, and Viktor’s cock pulses at the sound.

Pulling his fingers free from Jayce’s mouth, slick and shining, he grabs Jayce by the jaw, forcing his head just enough to see his face. Flushed. Open. Ruined. 

“Let me hear it,” he orders. “Tell me what you want.”

Jayce’s voice emerges hoarse, a barely there thing, too ragged and soaked in need for it to be a proper plea, “I’m close. Can I come?” Panting, his lungs struggle to match pace, “I want to feel you inside me. Please Viktor… Professor—”

While Viktor never thought he’d get off on the sound of his own title, but hearing it like that? Spilled from Jayce’s mouth, suffocating in lust and reverence? It pulls something deep and dirty in him; has him changing his mind of having a professor kink. 

“Touch yourself.”

Jayce obeys instantly—hand diving down, already slick, already trembling—and Viktor feels the jolt of sensation ripple through him the moment Jayce grips his own cock.

Viktor’s rhythm doesn’t falter. If anything, he fucks him harder, each thrust punching the syllables from Jayce’s lungs. “I want you to come like this. Stuffed full, bent over, taking everything I give you.”

Jayce whines as he pumps himself with shaky, desperate movements. The wet slap of hips collide loud in the night air, the sharp scent of sweat, skin, and sex curling around them like smoke. “Oh my god. Fuck, fuck, fuck—I’m—”

“Go on,” Viktor snaps. “Come for me. Be a good boy and come.”

Jayce breaks. His whole body jerks. Spine arched, mouth open in a silent scream that cracks into a moan so raw Viktor feels it in his gut. His cock spills hot over his knuckles, onto the hood, and Viktor doesn’t stop. He fucks him through the climax—through every twitch, every helpless cry, riding that edge of overstimulation.

Jayce trembles, legs giving out, gargling with wanton moans, “Oh, Viktor,Viktor —”

That’s what does it. “Fuck, Jayce, zlato. So wonderful. Just for me.” The heat at his core coils tight, it snaps, and he slams into Jayce one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside with a guttural groan. His grip bruises Jayce’s hips further, locking him in place as he pulses deep in the slick heat of him.

They stay like that for a moment—panting, trembling—Viktor’s body heavy over Jayce’s, cock buried, sweat dripping from his brow. 

Then he pulls out with a wet sound, and Jayce lets out a wrecked whimper. Come leaks from between his thighs in slow, obscene drops, trailing down to the gravel.

Jayce starts to slide and his hands scrape against the hood, reaching for something solid, but there's nothing left in him, riding the aftershock. Luckily, Viktor catches him before he crumples completely. One arm circles Jayce’s chest, the other anchors at his waist, holding him up, keeping him against the warm metal of the car. The Corvette takes the brunt of the weight, not so much as a single creak out of her as they lean on their sides, face to face, hips aligning.

“Easy,” Viktor mumbles, lips pressed to Jayce’s temple, “Breathe.”

Jayce does—shaky and uneven, but he manages it all the same. His head drops back against Viktor’s shoulder, sweat slicking the side of his throat.

“You did so well for me.” He breathes against that hot skin. “Good boy.”

Jayce shivers.

“Felt you squeeze every time I praised you,” Viktor adds, teeth grazing the shell of his ear now. “You like being praised, don’t you?”

Breathless, Jayce’s laughs, somehow managing a half-broken grin against his shoulder. “Only when it’s you.”

Viktor huffs. His palm flattens against Jayce’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart still kicking like a piston behind bone. Slowly, Viktor leans further into the line of him, holding Jayce there in the space that exists after being fucked into a wreck—somewhere safe, like an open flower field close to the mountain.

“I should make you clean the hood again.”

Jayce groans into his sleeve, not quite conscious still. “Later.”

Viktor nuzzles his throat once more, then pulls back to help Jayce stand, adjusting the hem of the t-shirt, and guiding Jayce’s jeans back up. Smoothing the wrinkles out like it matters. Like any his lingering touches is about neatness.

Jayce gracelessly teeters; his limbs aren’t cooperating with him yet, one boot tripping on the gravel, and Viktor steadies him again with both hands. 

“Are you alright? I didn’t fuck you too hard, did I?” Viktor mutters close to his jaw, a momentary pang of guilt with it. 

Slowly, Jayce nods. “Yeah. 'M okay. Just… still remembering how to stand.”

Viktor presses a kiss to the curve of his neck. “Take your time.”

He lingers there a second longer, arms wrapped around Jayce like he might hold him together by force alone before finally letting him go.

Jayce leans back against the hood, breathing finally settling, hands braced behind him for balance. He tilts his head, watching Viktor with something slow and soft in his amber eyes.

Viktor doesn’t look at him. His gaze shifts sideways, toward the open passenger door. 

For a moment, he just stares, jaw tight. He hasn’t touched a cigarette in years—not since his father started fading out, not since the scent of tobacco became something that made his throat close instead of a guilty comfort—but now, after everything, sweat, skin and heat still clinging to his hands, something stirs.

He crosses to the door and reaches in. Lucky Strike branded cardboard crumples a little under his grip as he slides one out and slots it between his lips. The old car lighter pops from the console with a click, its coil glowing orange; the paper catches fast. 

The first drag hits immediately, acrid and sharp, catching at the back of his throat like a memory fizzling too quick for him to hold onto. It’s taste isn’t right. It’s nothing like his father, the smoke that percolated into his clothes and varnished his hands in the scent. Instead, it burns across his tongue, running across it like sleek white hospital tiles and sleepless nights. Like the long stretch of a phone call that only goes to voicemail, asking him to leave a message. Nothing like how he remembers it being. But maybe, it’s always been like that—bitter and a little rancid, rubbing his skin the wrong way—and it’s Viktor that’s different now.

Still, he takes another slow pull, holding it between his fingers like something familiar, but no longer comforting. Turning on his heel, he walks to the edge of the overlook and rests his elbows against the fence that surveys nothing in particular: open dark, trees, the whisper of wind through leaves.

Behind him, Jayce shifts, boots hitting gravel as he hauls off the carriage. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” Viktor says. “Not anymore.” Yet, he takes a deep inhale, feels it trickle down to his lungs—a well-recognized, and now foreign feeling against the walls of his throat—puffs a coil and watches it be eaten by the air. 

Without asking, Jayce wraps both arms around Viktor’s waist from behind. His body presses close, chin resting between atop Viktor’s shoulder. It’s rather intimate, but Viktor doesn’t mind in the slightest, tilting his head into Jayce’s.

Lifting the cigarette from his mouth, Viktor offers it to Jayce’s lips in silence. Jayce doesn’t hesitate. His mouth closes around Viktor’s fingers and he inhales.

Instant regret.

He coughs so hard he nearly doubles over, wheezing into Viktor’s back like he’s just taken a shot of brake fluid. “Jesus. Fuck—” He rasps. “What the hell is that? Burnt rubber?”

A real, sudden bark of laughter shakes Viktor’s ribs, catching him by surprise as his eyes grow wide, glinting gold to the pale lamplight. It rolls out entirely unguarded and chased by something terribly fond.

Jayce groans, wiping his watering eyes into Viktor’s sleeve. “God. How the hell did you ever smoke that shit?”

“Mm. I don’t know either,” Viktor murmurs and grows quiet, taking another slow drag and watching the embers smolder at the end of paper. 

They stand in that quiet for a while.

Eventually, Jayce runs a hand along his abdomen and asks with familiar gentleness, the same one he’s always offered in this short time they’ve known each other. “You okay?”

Viktor doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he allows the smoke to curl out through his nose, the ember on the tip pulsing orange in the dark. Then, with full clarity, the truth he’s always known, he flicks the cigarette once and its ashes drift away in a whisper: “Yes.”

Jayce nods like that’s enough.

Pressing the cigarette to his lips one more time, Viktor takes a single drag. Doesn’t enjoy it. Wonders, for a moment, if he ever did, or if he’d always been chasing after fragments. Then, without ceremony, without waiting for the dirt to be buried over the grave, he drops the cigarette to the ground and stamps it out under the toe of his boot.

Silence follows as the wind strips the smell of cigarettes away with her. Carrying her up to the rain, down to the river where she travels out to the sea, where the water takes a different shape. Even though it’ll always be the same; the same vivid blue. 

“So…” Jayce starts, still sweaty, but smiling through it. “Think I’d be able to drive her next time?”

Viktor exhales, the bitterness of smoke leaving his tongue, gone forever. While he misses it, feeling how his heart cinches at the strings, it’s not so hard to part with as he waves goodbye. “Don’t push your luck.” 

“Then at least pinned to the hood again.”

Viktor hums, planting another kiss to Jayce's temple, staining the skin with a smattering of kisses that will outlast their lifetimes. He smiles into the warmth, into the presence, into the permanence of an unspoken promise. “Perhaps.”

And Jayce grins—wide and warm and ruinously happy—like that’s the best answer he could’ve hoped for.

✦✦✦

Quiet morning greets Viktor. City noise stays distant—muffled by dew against the glass, held back by the sun peeling back the haze. Beneath him, the car engine’s already running, a smooth and low purr that hums vibrates beneath his shoes, steady as a breath. 

Inside, the car is warm. Familiar. Smelling like freshly polished leather, old smoke and something else now: citrus, vanilla, and ebony wood. Him. Them.

In the rearview mirror, he takes these few minutes to himself, adjusting his white collar one last time, despite having fixed it inside after it had been fussed with when he was dragged back to bed. He checks the buttons at his cuffs once, then straights the crisp point of it against his neck.

Perfect.

Then, without a word, the passenger door creaks open.

Jayce slides in like he’s always belonged there, grin already tugging at his mouth, just because it can, just because he’s with Viktor. His curls are dried after their morning roundabout with aviators fumbling in the mess of it and he's sporting a blue denim jacket overtop a white shirt that he probably didn’t check for stains. Luckily, it seems like this one has been spared from grease. The man smells faintly of Viktor’s aftershave—stolen off the bathroom counter without asking—and that orange body wash Viktor once mentioned liking. 

Before he even closes the door, he leans in and pecks Viktor on the cheek.

“Got something for you.”

One brow raised, Viktor glances sideways as Jayce pulls a small, flat square from his back pocket. A photograph.

Matte finish, because gloss would’ve been too much.

In it, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the car, pressed in close. Jayce’s arm is slung around Viktor’s waist—easy, proprietary—and his aviators are shoved back into the wild mess of his hair. They're both caught mid-laugh, all teeth and unapologetic joy. Jayce had just made some awful joke about scaring Viktor’s first-years out of engineering and into mechanic work. It’s overexposed. A little crooked. Tender and terribly nostalgic in ways simple words cannot easily describe. And Viktor doesn’t mind any of it.

Jayce watches him for a beat, then clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Check the back.”

Scrawled there in Jayce’s unmistakable handwriting—lovely and clean loops that refuse to stay on a straight line—is a single sentence:

“Víťa a drahoušek Miláček.”

Viktor and the darling Mila.

The Czech is… wrong. Not insultingly so, but clearly translated without help. Víťa is missing the hook. Miláček slouches halfway through like the pen slipped. And drahoušek—a clumsy, cutesy choice—lands so far outside the tone Viktor would’ve picked that it almost becomes sweet by accident. His father would’ve grimaced.

But Jayce is watching him now, clearly nervous under the surface as he fidgets with his thumbs like he often does as a tick. Waiting to see if Viktor will laugh, or sigh, or correct him.

Viktor does none of those things. Instead, he slides the photo carefully into place into the sun visor above his head, right beside another—his mother and father smiling in front of the same beloved Mila, long ago.

“Did you translate that yourself?” Viktor asks as he fixes the photo’s position, giving the two papers just the right amount of space to breathe. 

Sheepish, Jayce runs his fingers through his locks, messing up his well made hair so early in the day. “Tried. Google autocorrected  Miláček to something horrifying at first, so I’m hoping it doesn’t say anything offensive.”

“It’s close enough.” Smiling, Viktor cups the man’s cheek and reaches over the console to plant a kiss to Jayce’s temple. “You did a good job, zlato.”

Jayce beams in return, cooing at the praise as Viktor shifts them smoothly into reverse. They roll back onto the street, the morning still stretching open ahead of them. Squinting against the sunlight, Jayce flips his glasses down. “So. What’s the plan for today?”

Hands steady at the wheel, Viktor keeps his eyes on the road. He shifts into second without rush, the car warm and responsive beneath him. “I thought we’d just drive a bit before seeing your mother for lunch.”

Jayce leans back in the seat, humming in approval. “Yeah,” voice soft and tender in all the right ways, he brings the window down, letting the day breathe into the car, “that sounds perfect.”

Engine carrying them forward, wind slips through the open window, sunlight catching on the edge of Jayce’s toothy smile. And above them, tucked neatly in the visor, the weight of the past rides with them.

Right now, they have nowhere to be except living in a memory, in Marina Blue.