Roman Zolanski

I love Jayvik size difference, because what you mean Jayce's arm is thicker than Viktor's waist?

Viktor rested his chin on the palm of his hand. “Cute.” He whispered beneath the man's yapping, a reddish blush covering his cheeks once he heard him.

Jayce nodded, putting his coffee down so he could speak freely — gesticulating with his hands. “Yeah! Actually, I am. I'm going out with my mom, you'll love her, she does the best…” and Jayce kept rambling.

And when they settled down again, Viktor smiled — genuinely, in a way that made Jayce's legs go cold. “You're funny, Mr. Talis. Are you free after this” he gestured to the whole train. “this ride?”

“As sweet as you?” Jayce added with a sip of his coffee. Viktor squinted at him before opening a cackle that made the other passengers stare at them two. Jayce couldn't help but laugh with him.

“Well, I was planni–”

“Excuse me.” Jayce interrupted him, smiling as he picked two coffee cups from the dinner car and offered one to Viktor, who happily accepted, and added three sugar cubes to it before dismissing the car. “Of course coffee is perfect. I like it very sweet.”

"Hm…” Viktor looked down at his own lap and reflected. He normally would invent something, say he wasn't going to do anything. But he felt something different with that man. His eyes, how he talked, maybe it was Jayce's insistence of Jayce, but Viktor actually wanted to speak.

To sense Viktor's feelings was hard, but Jayce felt like he could run into that tornado. “I’m sure it'll be fun. Do you have plans when we arrive?” At his question the driver rang the bells, and what came next were the passengers entering the train in an out of sync march.

Now it was Jayce's time to stare. He glazed at the muteness of Viktor, which screamed secrets and mysteries, but also fear, the fear of the man in front of him. He held his cane in a tight grip, holding with the elegance of a policeman gripping his baton.

Every Zaunite carried with themselves an air of malnourishment, even the biggest ones. A detail so subtle that it couldn't be perceived by anyone but Piltovians and Zaunites themselves.

That man in front of him was nothing like that, no. He was well-dressed, pearly white clothes, which gave him an aura of an important man, with combed hair and beardless face. The only trait that could give away his origin would be something most people couldn't notice:

“I'm not going to Piltover.” Jayce frowned. “I'm going to Zaun. Visit some friends.” That revelation shocked Jayce, whenever he thought about Undercity people, the common imagery could only be described as: vermin, both as humans and as in infrastructure.

Viktor stared at Jayce once again, but now he was staring also at himself, and also at that chitty-chat that seemed to be his punishment for whatever sin he had committed. He sighed in bitter defeat, raising his eyes to meet Jayce's.

Between them another uncomfortable silence was set. Jayce picked on his watch again, 12:37pm. He couldn't help himself, the agony of curiosity was eating him from the inside out. “And what are you doing on your trip to Piltover?”

Already sensing that Jayce would try to ask more, he didn't turn his head, he kept staring at him.

It's a beautiful name.” The Piltovian responded, smile hiding the fury by not getting his surname. “Last name?” He tried, but the glare sent to him, shut him up. “Got it. Sorry.”

"My name is Jayce, by the way, Jayce Talis.” He tried to hook in another converse, even small talk was good enough for him. “And you are…?”

Viktor returned his eyes at Jayce, this time staring at him before answering. “Viktor.”

He was almost a marble figure for him, dressed in a white suit that met the paleness of his own skin, with black hair and amber eyes that hooked any man that stared at them. It petrified Jayce, not in the sense of stunning him, but that he petrified his thoughts on him.

It was so simple, that man just sat on the seat in front of him, but for some reason it was ripping him apart. He needed something, a name, a family, something; anything to to quench his thirst for knowledge about that man.

Jayce tilted his head, trying to decipher that man. His eyebrows furrowed, forming a monobrow that painted that mix of curiosity and confusion, which bothered him like ants were biting his flesh, onto his face. He couldn't keep himself in the dark.

The man gave a small smile. “Absolutely. You're right.” He completed his answer with an uncomfortable laugh and moved his head to stare at the outside of the window. Jayce pressed his tongue against his cheek — so that man knew about that social rule, but not about the seat one?

“Good afternoon, actually!” Jayce politely corrected. One of those socially implied costumes where you disagree with the converse initiator, but always with a smile on your face to show friendliness. “It's already past 12pm!” He concluded with false severity.

And as soon as the wheels started to run he'd be forgotten by Jayce, nothing more than a weird sound he heard. Well, he was wrong. The man stopped at his seat and sat at the one in front of him. Standing face-to-face with him. He took his hat off accompanied by a “Good morning.”

Looking at the corridor he found out the sound came from a man and his cane. So far, nothing wrong. So he went back to his papers, minding his own business. The man was going to sit down somewhere on that overly priced locomotive.

Turning to the next page he kept on reading the articles, mumbling the words as he did so. But when he was in the middle of a page he started to hear a very low ‘click’ sound that became closer and closer by the second.

The first headline was talking about Noxus and their new trade agreements with Piltover. The next headline though, was talking about a new art exhibition conceived by a new wave painter called Hwei. Jayce made a mental note for himself to look it up later.

He had bought it on the station, but didn't have the time to read it yet, so why not take this opportunity to do so? Reading in moving vehicles always gave him vertigo, and the last thing he thought about when arriving in Piltover would be reading this piece of gossip.

Noticing he still had plenty of time before the train driver sounded the alarm, invoking those people to enter the machine — like an angel who plays the last trumpet and this way brings those poor souls into hell or heaven —, he took a newspaper out of his bag.

In the presence of his mom Jayce could finally let the cloudiness inside him fade away, opening space to the calmness he desired. He smiled at that thought. And he, for the first time since his arrival, relaxed, letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Jayce couldn't — and wouldn't — judge them, as soon as the train arrived at its destination: Piltover, he would jump into the arms of Ximena. Wrapped on her arms he would return to his little self, to his so long abandoned childish innocence.

After deeming it as enough, Jayce opened his eyes and raised his wrist. 12:34pm. There's still a lot of time left, the reason why no one (but him) entered the train yet. They were probably speaking with their family, smiling and dropping tears on the floor.