Chapter Text
“You know,” Jesper said, grinning conspiratorially over the top of his pint glass, “I didn’t think Muller was even into women.”
Wylan’s brows shot up. “Why’s that?”
“Just a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
Jesper only nodded in reply, taking pleasure in Wylan’s anticipation. He took a long sip of his drink, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Beneath their table, Wylan tapped his heel impatiently against the hardwood floor.
They were in the Crow Club, at one of the tiny tables that Kaz had tucked away into a shadowy corner. It was a Thursday night, loud and rowdy, but nothing compared to what the weekend had in store. Wylan and Jesper had come for a nightcap after spending a pleasant shopping day preparing for Colm’s upcoming visit. They’d enjoyed a few drinks already, and Wylan could feel the looseness spreading in his limbs, a flush climbing up the back of his neck with each sip.
He was nowhere near his limit, nowhere near the spinning, nauseating loss of control he’d felt when he’d last drank here —an evening that had ended with Wylan befriending the club’s dancers, only stopped from getting onstage with them by a gloved hand yanking at the back of his shirt collar— but rather just well-liquored enough to feel giggly and warm, to delight in the sensory pleasure of sitting across from a lover in dim, flattering light. Enough to feel romantic and spontaneous, to let the conversion ebb and flow senselessly without giving it purpose or direction. Enough to let the happiness of their day together spill slowly into the evening, like honey from an overturned jar.
Their night thus far had been one of amicably rambling conversation, never staying still long enough for a rational thought —such as hey, it’s late, we have work tomorrow— to sneak its way through.
Wylan had let himself get caught up in it, admiring how Jesper could weave together talk of new shipping routes and labor shortage issues at Van Eck Industries with new ideas for explosives, flirty jokes (“You know what else I’d love to see explode?”), and a hilarious, if somewhat eerie, impression of Kaz’s latest tirade against the Geldenbank’s updated investment policies.
Eventually, they’d made their way onto one of their favorite topics: the dangerous, delicious territory of catty Merchant Council gossip. Specifically, Councilman Muller’s recent engagement to a hospitality heiress.
“Care to elaborate on this feeling?” Wylan prompted.
“It’s just that…” Jesper let his sentence hang, trailing off dramatically and looking away into the distance with a sigh. Wylan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he dropped his gaze down to the sharp line of Jesper’s collarbone, attention catching on the delicate golden necklace peeking out between the undone top buttons of his shirt.
Wylan forced himself to look back up quickly, but the expression on Jesper’s face told him he’d been caught. A confident grin spread lazily across his features, one brow cocking up toward his hairline. He leaned forward as if to tell a secret, and Wylan responded in kind, until he was close enough to notice how before Jesper spoke, his tongue darted out, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of pink between his lips.
Wylan parted his own, taking a slow, deep breath and wondering if the club had always felt so hot.
Their table was so small that their legs touched beneath it, with one of Jesper’s thighs threaded between his own. The occasional teasing press of Jesper’s leg against the inner seam of his trousers was enough to drive Wylan to utter distraction. He wasn’t quite sure if Jesper meant to touch him or if, more likely, he simply couldn’t keep still. Either way, he had to determinedly ignore the impulse to close his legs, trapping Jesper’s between them.
Jesper’s voice dropped low, his gray eyes dancing with mirth. “In meetings, around the neighborhood… well, he just can’t seem to keep his eyes off of me.”
Wylan let out a low, disbelieving chuckle. The moment melted away, heat momentarily replaced by humor.
Muller wouldn’t be the only one, he thought. Jesper was an absolute spectacle in the Gelden District, the likes of which hadn’t been seen for ages. Maybe ever. Everyone —from jealous housewives to curious gossips to even the most pious of men— had trouble keeping their gazes forward when Jesper walked by.
Wylan was no exception. He pretended to consider the point carefully, letting his own eyes drop back down to the exposed skin between Jesper’s open shirt buttons. Unhelpfully, Jesper preened at the attention, rolling his shoulders back and biting ever so gently down on his full bottom lip. The air around their table seemed to rise in temperature by a few more degrees.
Ghezen.
Wylan brought his own pint glass to his lips, suddenly desperate for something cool. He had to get a hold of himself, of this conversation —or a hold of Jesper, his mind supplied unhelpfully— before the evening ended too early, with Jesper hauled to his feet and dragged back home in a frenzied rush.
Wylan wasn’t sure if the drink worked to cool him off, but at least the alcohol loosened his lips enough to speak.
“I hate to break it to you,” he said teasingly, “but you’re a tall, heavily armed man who insists on wearing Barrel flash to Council meetings. Everyone stares at you.”
Jesper laughed, his smile wide and joyful and alive. Between the lager, the warmth, and Jesper’s high-spirited, flirtatious mood, Wylan knew that he was fighting a losing battle.
“I’m certain you meant to say gorgeous somewhere in there, darling.” Jesper’s eyes were mockingly pleading, his chin dipped slightly so they looked larger and rounder than should be possible.
Wylan took another cooling sip. “Sure I did.”
“I can’t help it if the Council wants to admire the goods, Wy.”
Wylan snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “What in Ghezen’s name are the goods?”
Jesper stretched back in his chair, his leg grazing Wylan’s as he did. His hand swept slowly over his long body as his eyebrows moved up and down in a ridiculous wagging motion. Wylan’s eyes trailed Jesper’s hand down, down, down.
The gesture probably shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.
When he managed to look back up at Jesper’s face, his gray-eyed stare was pointed, mouth twisted up to one side in a triumphant smirk. Wylan realized that he had let his lips part slightly, his jaw going slack as he’d run his eyes over Jesper’s body. He closed his mouth so fast he heard his teeth click.
Like a dam breaking, an all too familiar heat rushed across his face.
“Ah,” he said stiffly, looking down at his drink. “ Those goods.”
In one smooth motion, Jesper picked himself up and leaned all the way forward again, resting his elbows on their tiny table. Wylan looked up in surprise, watching from only inches away as Jesper’s smirk split open into a smile, teeth gleaming in the club’s dim lighting.
“Buy me a few more of these,” he murmured, raising his glass of lager, “and I’ll show you just how good the goods can be.”
Wylan swallowed. Jesper grinned wickedly and leaned back, emptying his glass in one long gulp. Wylan wondered how he’d made it through four long years without his boyfriend’s constant flirting sending him to an early grave.
He was certain it would kill him eventually.
“Fine,” he said, quickly rising from the table. “But try not to let any of the other patrons here do any admiring while I’m up.”
“No promises, darling.”
Before Jesper could embarrass him any further, Wylan turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd, slipping between tables packed with all sorts of revelry.
Gamblers laughed with drinkers, criminals brushed elbows with tourists, and one of Ketterdam’s seedier politicians hovered in the shadows, speaking in hushed voices to an unkempt looking man wearing subtle —but still noticeable— flash. Wylan averted his eyes quickly, making note to have Jesper help him check up on the politician’s campaign finances when they were back in the office.
He squeezed himself between two tables of massive Fjerdan tourists, narrowly avoiding the lager that splashed out of their cups as they swayed and sang a nonsensical drinking song. Near the bar, he spotted what was clearly a paid date, a pale, pretty consort from The White Rose squeezing the bicep of an elderly gentleman with an unfortunate-looking nose as a delicate laugh tinkled from her lips. They sat next to two giggling Zemeni girls who, by the look of it, were plotting to steal the elderly man’s drink the next time he looked away. Together, the parties created an incredible amount of noise, a comforting din that added to the club’s raucous atmosphere. It was almost like a song, the way the excited voices rose and fell, punctuated by the spin of the Makker’s wheel or the ding of the bartender’s bell.
Perched on a staircase above it all, a lone figure dressed in somber black stood surveying the scene. He was motionless but for a nod of the head when Wylan walked by.
All in all, it was a pretty typical Thursday night at the Crow Club.
Wylan secured two more pints of lager. It was their third round of the night –or was it the fourth? He’d forgotten to keep track, and certainly didn’t feel like starting now. He held out some kruge, but the bartender waved him off. No payment needed.
Wylan and Jesper had largely given up on trying to predict when Kaz would make them pay for goods at his various establishments. By his estimation, the two of them had investigated approximately fifteen hypotheses on the matter. They’d quickly ruled out Kaz’s financial standing, his health, and the weather as reasons he might pick up their tab for them. Soon they were moving on to more and more outlandish theories –his proximity to a Dime Lion, the recency of tax season, whether or not he was wearing his hat– before giving up entirely, chalking the inconsistency up to the unknowable depths of Kaz Brekker’s mind.
(The hat thing was Jesper’s idea. A decently successful one too, until a decidedly hat-less Kaz Brekker stopped them on their way out the club’s door with a hand expectantly outstretched.)
Without paying, Wylan stepped away from the bar and let the press of people behind him scoot forward to fill his place. He squished himself past the crowded tables once more, wondering –not for the first time– if the club had maybe become a touch too popular after Kaz’s post-Ice-Court reinvestment.
Wylan made his way back to find Jesper lounging at their table with his long legs poking out from beneath it. He was leaning to the right, making conversation with two women who’d claimed the table beside theirs. As Wylan approached, the woman closest to Jesper laughed, throwing her head back with mirth at something he’d said.
Wylan knew he wasn’t imagining the way the woman deflated when he slid back into his seat and handed Jesper his beer, accepted with a “thanks, love,” and a wink in Wylan’s direction. He almost wanted to apologize to her, utterly sympathetic to how it felt to be yanked into Jesper’s orbit.
As the woman turned back toward her own companion, Wylan decided to pick up where they’d left off.
“So you think this new fiancé is just a front, then? And Muller secretly prefers men?”
“I think he secretly prefers me,” Jesper clarified.
Wylan laughed and shook his head. In the silence that followed, Jesper took a sip, looking thoughtful.
“I dunno,” he continued, his voice more serious. “I’m just not sure I ever saw him as the marrying type, to be honest.”
Wylan’s brow furrowed. “What’s the marrying type?”
The idea was a discordant note in their conversation’s melody. Wasn’t everyone the marrying type? Growing up, he’d always been under the impression that those who didn’t simply… couldn’t. That they were people who never found a good match, or led a lifestyle where marriage simply wasn’t possible. He thought of Inej, traveling the world by sea, or Rotty, working late nights for Kaz. But a member of the Merchant Council, with two feet solidly on Kerch soil? Who was more the marrying type than that?
He pointedly did not think of his father, telling him plainly that no one would marry a defect. He did not think of how he’d once planned for a life alone, a burden on his father’s estate rather than any romantic partner’s. He did not think the words I only tell you this for your own good, Wylan…
Jesper shrugged nonchalantly, unaware of the shift in Wylan’s mood. “He’s just so… loud. Boisterous, talkative. A good bit of fun, all creepy leering aside. I didn’t think someone like him would really want to settle down.”
Wylan blinked. He felt suddenly sober, the murky, golden haze over his brain leeching away to be replaced by a strange, hollow feeling. He put down his glass slowly, his hands starting to go numb at the fingertips.
He shouldn’t say anything about it. Had he still been that Wylan —his father’s Wylan, silent and submissive with cuts along his tongue from biting down until he tasted blood— he probably wouldn’t. He’d smile robotically, steering the conversation back toward safer waters.
As it were, the words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.
“But what about you?”
Jesper raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”
“You’re loud, boisterous, talkative.” Wylan counted off the adjectives on his fingers. His voice grew more and more pinched with each word.
“That’s different,” Jesper said, waving him away with a hand.
“Different how?”
“Wylan,” Jesper whined.
He couldn’t let it go so easily. “Humor me.”
Jesper leaned forward, putting down his drink and taking one of Wylan’s hands into both of his own. “I’m with you , Wy. You’re not some Mercher’s boring trophy wife.”
The words should have placated him. He wasn’t even quite sure what he was so upset about. He wasn’t a trophy wife, no more so than Jesper was a Kerch Merchant. Their relationship was a far cry from traditional, from what most would think of as settled down. He tried to ignore the feeling in his chest, awfully like his heart was sinking, and nodded slowly.
“Although you’re just as pretty,” Jesper added with a wink.
Wylan could only hope that the shape into which he forced his mouth was a smile.
It must have been close enough, because Jesper smiled in return, dropping Wylan’s hand and chattering on about Muller’s upcoming wedding: who would be in attendance, what type of food or drink they might have, whether or not he’d be the best dancer at the after party. Wylan tried to pay attention, tried to get them back to that warm, happy place they’d been before, but his mind was filled with nervous chatter.
That Jesper didn’t want to be married was news to him. It shouldn’t have been, maybe. Before Wylan, the only things tying Jesper down were his debt to Kaz and his uncontrollable urge to find his way back to the tables. The Ice Court money had solved both of those problems, and yet Jesper stayed in Ketterdam with Wylan. For Wylan.
The way they’d quickly fallen into a relationship felt almost like a given. Wylan thought back to the tannery, the way Jesper’s easy countenance and perfect lips had thrown him off his balance. From that moment to this one, had he ever stopped to think about where this thing between them was headed?
No, he hadn’t. He’d just done it, moving Jesper’s things from the Barrel to the Gelden District only a few days after the house officially became his. They settled into a happy routine, working together, living together, sleeping together. None of it had come with any strings attached, nor any promises for the future. Still, Wylan could see now that he’d expected… something. Something different than this, a future that Wylan hadn’t even realized he wanted called into question by a callous comment over drinks at the Crow Club.
A voice sprung to life in his mind. You need to adjust your expectations, Wylan. There’s no other family in Ketterdam —all of Kerch, even— that will stand to take on such a liability.
He pushed the voice away, humiliated by a tightness that rose suddenly in his throat, a prickling feeling behind his eyes. He felt off-kilter, unbalanced and panicky. The drink soured in his stomach, nausea coming for him after all. His hands slipped beneath the table to wring together, anxiety crackling in his chest like a campfire.
After a few long moments, he gathered the courage to look up at Jesper, loose and relaxed in his seat with long fingers curled around his frosty lager. Even as he smiled, his keen gray eyes were concerned, searching Wylan’s face.
“Everything alright, darling?”
Wylan paused. He wanted to nod and smile, gloss over this moment. But the words bounced around painfully in his skull. Not the marriage type. A good bit of fun, so not the marriage type. He knew this was something they should talk about. Probably something they should have already talked about, but they’d been so busy. Bringing his mother home, testifying in his father’s trial, getting Wylan on the Council, running the business, and caring for the mansion hadn’t allowed much time for talk of the future. Not to mention his chemistry work, Jesper’s attempts at fabrikation , Kaz’s late night jobs, and about a million other moments in between.
Perhaps now was the time.
His heart pounded in his chest. The voice in his head cautioned him once more. Adjust your expectations, Wylan.
When he spoke he found that his breaths were shaky, his lungs tight. “Um, it’s just that… well, I suppose I didn’t real—”
But suddenly, Jesper wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was alert, eyes trained on something to the right of Wylan’s head. His hands moved slowly down toward his hips, stopping at a hover above his revolvers. Wylan’s words dried in his throat as his spine straightened, danger prickling at the back of his neck like a cold breeze.
He turned in his seat slowly, acting casual as not to draw attention. He quickly found the object of Jesper’s stare. Kaz was on the move, leaning heavily on his cane as he limped briskly through the club. Wylan thought he might be headed for the front door, but he veered off at the last moment toward a window. Even without looking he could feel Jesper lean forward in his seat, tense and ready to spring into action. Wylan did the same, shifting his weight into his feet and slipping his hand into his satchel, fingers seeking one of the flash bombs he always kept on him, just in case.
As they both watched intently, Kaz swiftly dismantled the lock and opened the window, extending a gloved hand and wearing an expression that, at a distance, might be mistaken for a smile.
It could only be one person.
“INEJ!” Jesper roared, rising from his seat. Wylan dropped the bomb gently back into his satchel and rose as well, his sour mood dissolving in a moment. He was at Jesper’s heels as they snaked their way through the club, curative joy washing over him like a wave.
She emerged though the window with trademark grace, already chiding Kaz.
“—don’t need help, as you very well know.”
Kaz didn’t reply, but the something-like-a-smile didn’t leave his face.
A few bone-crushing hugs later, Inej was seated at their tiny table, her knees bumping up against Wylan’s. He marveled at each accidental touch, not yet fully adjusted to the surprise of her appearance. She’s here, he thought happily each time. She’s safe. She’s home.
Kaz had returned to his perch above the crowd, the pair having quickly come to some unspoken agreement to catch up in private later. Wylan dared a glance over his shoulder, just barely meeting Kaz’s eyes as he pointedly dragged his gaze away from their corner of the room.
Wylan would have laughed, had he not been struggling to stop staring at Jesper in much the same way earlier that evening.
Turning back, he settled in to listen as Inej detailed her latest adventures at sea. In turn, he and Jesper shared news of the Barrel, the Merchant Council, and their late night experiments with explosive chemicals. Inej laughed as Wylan detailed his night with the Crow Club dancers, Jesper dramatically lamenting the performance they never got to see when Kaz kicked him off the stage. Jesper teased her about her latest nickname, The Queen of the True Sea, and they speculated about whether or not Kaz had been the one to come up with it. When Wylan had finished an update on his mother’s painting career, Inej asked about Colm.
“You’re in luck actually,” said Jesper. “Da’s due for a visit tomorrow. We’re picking him up at the docks first thing in the morning.”
“Jes,” Inej scolded. “I was just in Novyi Zem, we could have brought him here.”
“You’re too kind, love, but I don’t think he’d be too keen to ride here in your pirate ship.”
Inej rolled her eyes, but grinned all the same.
The jubilant, bouncing quality to their conversation —their entire evening— returned in full force. The wintry chill left Wylan’s bones, uncertainty disappearing from his voice and tightness leaving his lungs. The air around him grew warm once more, a smile stretching back across his face. Almost as if it had never left.
Almost.
But even as they drank and laughed and told funny stories for hours and hours on end, Jesper’s comment needled away in the back of Wylan’s mind, demanding his attention.
Not the marrying type. He couldn’t get the phrase out of his mind, a scab begging to be picked. Not the marrying type. Too fun, too boisterous, too loud for marriage.
Really, Wylan. What did you expect?
He tried to banish the thought, focusing his attention on Inej. She was howling with laughter at Jesper’s Kaz impression, a sound that unfailingly brought the attention of the man himself. Giggling like children, Jesper and Inej turned their heads away, feigning innocence until Kaz’s flinty eyes moved on.
Wylan forced a smile at the sight. He felt childish, too. Stupid. He’d been with Jesper for years. They were happy together, truly. They didn’t need a big party with flowers and music and cake to prove it. They didn’t need a contract —a silly piece of paper, meaningless signatures— to validate their relationship.
It wasn’t like he’d be able to read it anyway.
Wylan swallowed thickly, pushing thoughts of contracts and cakes and flowers from his mind. Childish, all of it. Hadn’t he accepted a long time ago that he’d never sign his name to a marriage license?
Adjust your expectations, Wylan.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jesper eyeing him. Guilt pierced his chest, an ugly sensation that pulled at his heart. Tonight’s not about you, he thought. Not anymore. He steeled himself with a deep breath and tried once more to focus. Their conversation ambled on pleasantly, hours melting away in the presence of good company.
Still, Wylan could feel Jesper’s too-keen eyes on him all throughout the night.
———