This was going to happen eventually, but Viktor, too, hates the circumstance. He hates that Jayce can stand up and take some distance while he's still confined to the bed. He hates that they should be basking in their achievement and celebrating the potential of their future together, but instead, he's already on to the next project, the one that's been in the back of his mind the whole time. There's a part of him that knows he has to let it go, for all of the reasons Jayce is listing, to say nothing of his own wants, but there's also a part of him that compulsively rejects the selfish normalcy he's dared to imagine for himself, and has only recently become possible. He can't quite get there. Not when there's still work to do.
"You don't understand," he whispers, though his voice is more angry than despondent, a hiss through grit teeth. "I can't just give up on my home."
Which is, as they both know, not Piltover. He tries to follow Jayce up, bracing himself on the headboard and easing off the mattress, even though it's certainly much more exertion than he should attempt. The thought of a world where Jayce dies is still unbearable to him. Unacceptable. An outrage that compels him to do something, anything, besides sit uselessly in his bed.
"It doesn't have to be like that. If they can summon from different timelines, and universes, and--and versions of people, why can't we? We're smarter than them. Who is to say we can't find a way to go back exactly like this? With our memories? Create our own timeline, and change things to be the way we want them? Please, Jayce--"
There's another possibility that he hasn't dared to voice--the fear that he might one day be unwillingly ripped away from all this, thrust back where he came from, where Jayce is distracted and wrapped up in politics and loving someone else. Viktor can't possibly choose between their life together and his obligation to the Undercity, and he knows he shouldn't have to. He wants it all. He thinks, with all of the time he now has, that he can grasp it. Let him try.
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"You don't understand," he whispers, though his voice is more angry than despondent, a hiss through grit teeth. "I can't just give up on my home."
Which is, as they both know, not Piltover. He tries to follow Jayce up, bracing himself on the headboard and easing off the mattress, even though it's certainly much more exertion than he should attempt. The thought of a world where Jayce dies is still unbearable to him. Unacceptable. An outrage that compels him to do something, anything, besides sit uselessly in his bed.
"It doesn't have to be like that. If they can summon from different timelines, and universes, and--and versions of people, why can't we? We're smarter than them. Who is to say we can't find a way to go back exactly like this? With our memories? Create our own timeline, and change things to be the way we want them? Please, Jayce--"
There's another possibility that he hasn't dared to voice--the fear that he might one day be unwillingly ripped away from all this, thrust back where he came from, where Jayce is distracted and wrapped up in politics and loving someone else. Viktor can't possibly choose between their life together and his obligation to the Undercity, and he knows he shouldn't have to. He wants it all. He thinks, with all of the time he now has, that he can grasp it. Let him try.