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It’s like an itch. The need to apologize, to warn people off. He knows, knows he shouldn’t, and yet--
It’s Jesper, and he’s the one who offered to do this. To come live with him, to help him read and manage his father’s business, to put up with him. It was never once painted as easy work, and Jesper never treated it like it would be. Not seriously, anyway.
In fact, he’d said quite the opposite more than once: “As long as I’m able to kiss your stupid face every so often, I think I’ll survive, Merchling.”
So far, he’s managed well. Granted, it’s barely been half of an evening with this little arrangement, and he hasn’t even settled all of his belongings into permanent places yet.
He’s been practically bouncing off the walls with excitement ever since they’d left to go pick up his few belongings from The Slat, and he’d been vibrating as he’d added his own books to the newly-emptied bookcase in the old guest room that they’d chosen to occupy for the time being.
Wylan lied on the bed as Jesper placed his own books on the shelf, watching in adoration as he talked about any and everything with such enthusiasm.
Then, only once he had set well over half of the books on the shelf, the conversation lulled. He stopped moving completely, staring at the shelf in contemplation for a moment before taking an entire stack of books between his hands, setting it vertically on the floor.
“You were almost done!” Wylan laughed, watching with wide eyes as Jesper did the same with the rest of the books.
“I messed up!” Jesper laughed. “I was going to sort them so they’d look nice for you, but I got distracted and did it by the titles. I’m starting over.”
And Wylan… had not thought of that. Had not thought anyone would ever do something like that for him, and certainly hadn’t expected Jesper to; not with everything he was already doing for him, just by being there.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said softly. He was almost embarrassed, really, to accept something like that. Not because he didn’t want it, because he did, and he was overwhelmingly grateful that the boy in front of him would take the time to do it.
He just didn’t know how much he deserved it.
Jesper shrugged, looking back at him from where he’d sat on the ground, already replacing books on the shelves. “And you don’t have to listen to my rambling. We’re even.”
Listening to you isn’t a chore, he wanted to argue. There was a voice in the back of his head, though: His mother, back when he was a little boy. “If you argue, people will think that you aren’t grateful. You don’t want to make them feel bad for helping you.”
As he was getting older, he realized how right she’d been about everything.
He kept quiet for a moment longer, waiting to see if Jesper would speak first. Hoping Jesper would speak first, because he was sure that whatever left his own mouth was going to sound awkward and forced and not at all genuine.
When he didn’t, he closed his eyes tight, and spoke. “What was it like? That bullfight you were talking about earlier?”
Jesper laughed, loud and abrupt, as if he hadn’t been expecting any words to be spoken at all, let alone those ones. “Well, watching them is kind of like watching a gun fight…”
It didn’t feel like they sat there long enough for him to possibly have finished putting together the rest of the shelf, but too quickly, he was done sorting and still talking.
It did end up looking pretty, like an artful rendition of ocean waves made entirely out of straight lines. He’d never been able to look at books like something beautiful before; not since he was a little boy having picture books read to him at night time. Nobody had treated them like something he was meant to enjoy since then. Since there was potential for him to be able to enjoy them.
Nobody had made an effort to make him feel comfortable in the place he was meant to live, either, though.
Jesper was making changes to the space they were sharing tonight, each one for the better.
(Even despite them not having discussed whether they were going to be sharing a room or not. Wylan had wanted to ask him before now, had been hoping that they could. He knew he wouldn’t have, though. Not while he was still like this.)
Now, it’s well past dinnertime, and they’re leaving the bathroom to go to bed.
Jesper is right by his side, like he has been all day, and even when they aren’t bumping into each other as they walk, he can practically feel the warmth of having him right there next to him. The heat of his lips, the comfort of his touch, the way having his arms around him felt the same as sitting by a burning fireplace during winter in the Barrel.
It was relieving. Secure.
And certainly, someone harboring the ability to make someplace so cold feel so warm didn’t deserve this from him.
They’re moving quietly, content with each other’s quiet company. Or, Jesper seems to be content with Wylan’s company, and Wylan is driving himself mad over whether his feelings were what they seemed.
Jesper, at some point half between the bathroom and their newly-proclaimed bedroom, reaches down to take Wylan’s hand. It’s like sparks, like the heat of a far away explosion, like the warmth of a contained reaction. It’s comforting, and in his control as much as it is in Jesper’s.
And yet, it’s so strange. He never saw his parents holding hands as a boy, especially in the house. He certainly never saw any of the few couples within The Dregs holding hands in The Slat -- no matter the nature of the other things he’d seen them do.
It’s a foreign thing to him, reserved for other Mercher’s and doting tourists on the street. And yet, he does not want to be without that touch for another moment.
He doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t.
Nobody, not even himself, could fully explain why he does it.
Outside of the door to their bedroom, he stops, turning to face Jesper. In another world, this would be how they’d look while standing out on a doorstep, walking the other home after an evening out.
In this world, it’s not nearly as simple as that, and they’re both in their pajamas.
It’s strange, because he’s so sure he’s aware of how this conversation will likely go. He’ll say what he’s going to, and it will be made known to him how his hesitation, insecurity, is absurd. Absurd, and with this boy, ridiculous; nobody who would sort a shelf for the eyes of someone who couldn’t read the books upon it would have the cruelty within him to be harsh about something like this.
It’s out of cowardice that he’ll bring it up, anyway. Out of fear that he’s wrong, and the response to something going wrong later would have a much more severe consequence than if he didn’t give a forewarning. It’s selfish, and cowardly, and to save himself from more pain.
And things done out of cowardice certainly shouldn’t be so terrifying for him to do, especially when he’s had so much practice.
He pulls in a deep, full breath, and he looks Jesper in the eyes with a brief, and what he knows to be a less-than-confident, smile.
“You don’t have to stay in there with me. We have other rooms, too; you saw them,” he says, in his best impression of someone who’s confident in the reaction he’ll be getting.
His hand is still holding Jesper’s, but the other boy’s eyes have left his. Now, he’s staring down at their joint hands, determination and sadness in his gaze, a silent refusal to look up at him. His eyebrows are brought together, his jaw tight, with disappointment swimming in his eyes.
It’s a harsh turn from earlier -- a sad one -- from his contagious joy while he’d been setting up his books. He isn’t quite sure what part of what he’d said had done this to him.
It almost looks like he’s feeling betrayal.
When he does look up, it’s with an expression he’s never seen before.
“Well, you didn’t have to act like you wanted me to if you didn’t,” he mumbles, eyes flickering between his and anywhere but.
And he hadn’t considered this outcome, not even for a moment. If he had, he would’ve never said anything at all, because this was all to keep Jesper from hurting, from suffering more because of him. Not to cause it, never to cause it, not to make him think--
He shakes his head, taking half a step closer and fumbling for his other hand. He hopes that the small action says everything he knows he will not be able to say aloud. You’re wanted, and I don’t know how to be, and I’m sorry.
“I did,” he assures. “I do want that. I just didn’t want you to-...” To hurt me. To be bothered enough by me to treat me like my father did. “I have nightmares, still, because of my father. It used to wake people at The Slat. I just didn’t want to bother you, if that happened.”
Jesper’s expression morphs into one of confusion, and he’s scanning Wylan’s face like he’s just admitted to something wholly baffling, heartbreaking.
“I have nightmares, too,” he mumbles, shrugging, but rubbing his finger over Wylan’s knuckles. He’s quiet for a moment, face incredibly focused as he looked back down at their hands, staring in careful contemplation.“You were crying loud enough to wake people through the walls?
Shit, he thinks. It’s not too far off from what he was trying to say, no. It’s exactly what he was warning him again. But hearing it from another person, hearing the reality spoken so bluntly, makes it sound… well, pathetic.
You’re not any better than your father thought.
“The walls were thin,” he whispers meekly, pulling his shoulders up to his ears in a shrug. It’s practically a question more than it is a statement.
Jesper pulls a face, looking up at him. “They weren’t that thin,” he rebutes.
His arms reach out at a speed that’s almost slow for him, and he pulls him forward by the shoulders. Wylan stumbles right into his chest, raising his own arms to rest against his lower back.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Jesper whispers, tone firm, but at the same time sad. “Thinking I’d just leave you alone when you’re having nightmares. Why would I do that?”
He doesn’t think, doesn’t consider the implication of his words from the point of view of someone outside of his own, illogically rationalizing mind. He lets loose exactly what he’s thinking, and it’s only afterward that he realizes that he shouldn’t have.
“You didn’t sign up for this.”
Jesper pulls back slowly, grabs him gently by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t mean to offend, but I don’t think you have any idea of what I signed up for.”
“Not for getting woken up in the middle of the night,” he retorts, reaching up and rubbing over his face with his hands. He’s not crying, and he’s not really even close to it. He’s just frustrated, and he cannot fathom how someone who hardly knows him yet is so firmly committed to caring for him.
“I lived in The Slat for two years. I assure you, I will get more sleep here than I ever did there, no matter how many times you wake me up.”
They stand quietly for another moment, staring each other in the eyes, engaging in a silent battle. He doesn’t know how to admit his failings, doesn’t know how to admit how he’s still scared. He’s saying these things now, and yet, the story may well be different when he’s woken at three o’clock in the morning.
“I am here because I want to be, and because you were kind enough to welcome me. I signed up for you, Wylan. Not just to read to you, not just to get to stay in your massive house. For you,” he assures, pure and true conviction in his voice. “Nightmares, lack of aim, and horribly low confidence and all.”
Why, he thinks. It’s a choice he cannot fathom someone making -- not with options, not by choice. In fact, he’s almost certain that Jesper will have been the first one to make it.
“Because. You’re ridiculously kind when you want to be, and you’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. And you’re stunning.”
He doesn’t know if he’d asked the question out loud, but he’s blushing regardless, and he’s feeling so incredibly loved before, he’s almost sure he’s never been this cared for before. He knows that’s not true, because he’s had his mother, and she loved him first.
But after her, it’s been Jesper, and only him.
He doesn’t know if it’s too soon to say that, though, as it’s only been a few days.
So, instead, he steps forward, wraps one arm around him while opening the bedroom door. “You’re pretty great, Jes,” he mumbles.
“I know,” he says, all confidence.
Wylan’s fairly sure he’s just better at faking that confidence than he is, that he really isn’t all that much better. But, that’s alright. They’re both a bit of a work in progress, then.