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Viktor’s size is inconsistent in the Arcane. It fluctuates, shifting with the ebb and flow of his own self-perception. In bad times he’s smaller than he had been as a human, shrinking in on himself as his eyes turn haunted and hollow. Other times he’s towering, self-assured and confident, looming as tall as Piltover’s skyscrapers and grinning so brightly Jayce almost worries he’ll go blind.
Simply put, Viktor’s small when he feels small, and big when he feels big.
And right now, he’s gargantuan. To say Jayce is dwarfed by him is an understatement—Jayce feels microscopic. It doesn’t help that Viktor’s in his Herald form right now, that elegant, alien version of him that’s become less and less an estrangement from himself over the eons, and more and more just another appearance he inhabits. Specifically, one he inhabits when he’s feeling particularly powerful, or unbreakable, or confident.
“You could join me, you know,” Viktor says—though it isn’t saying, not really. They’ve transcended the need for physical speech ages ago, and Viktor’s words less spoken and more a reverberation across the endless expanse of space and time and matter they inhabit. He holds Jayce in the palm of his hand, watching him through the lamp-bright slits in the Herald’s mask. “There’s no need to pretend we could not be on equal footing.”
”We are on equal footing, though,” Jayce replies, stretching contentedly in the continent of Viktor’s palm. “Besides, I like it when it’s like this. Reminds me of old times.”
”By old times, you are referring to my threatening to turn all of Runeterra into lifeless, soulless husks,” Viktor clarifies drily. The memory is shared between them, an exhale and exchange—Jayce awakening in the Arcane, Viktor looming over him in a whorl of color and shadow and purifying light.
“It was scary,” Jayce admits. “I thought that I’d failed, and everyone would die, and you’d be lost forever. But hey—look. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. And besides, it was kind of—“
He’s interrupted by Viktor’s thumb beginning to swipe a long, slow line down the length of his body. The dark of his form blends with the riot of color and light that is Jayce Talis, and Jayce feels himself blend into his partner just as Viktor blends into him. It feels like transcendence—if the commune were still around, Jayce wonders if they would turn this into a sacrament. The touch of the Herald, not just physical but spiritual, conceptual.
But no. The Herald had been a figure built of self-loathing and suffering. This is Viktor, and this moment is nothing but love for the both of them.
“You are ridiculous, Jayce Talis,” Viktor says, voice lilting up at the end of his sentence with ill-hidden amusement. “The world was going to end. By my hand.”
“And you were hot,” Jayce scoffs, humming contentedly as Viktor’s thumb brushes over him again. It feels good in a way that far transcends fleshly, physical pleasure. “I mean, come on. You mean to tell me that if you saw me like that, all—divine and omnipotent—you wouldn’t be a little into it?”
”I don’t know,” Viktor replies. He tilts his head, borealis hair swirling around his face as an impression of a smile ripples through space time. “You will have to show me sometime, hm?”
”Sure thing. Yeah.” Jayce sighs, arching into the next touch with a soft, contented moan. “After this.”
Viktor’s laugh is deep, and fond, and reverent, and eternal.
“Yes. After.”