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Wylan has always had a penchant for the beautiful.
He appreciates, more than most, the small beauties of life. The vibrant emerald rustle of a willow’s leaves; the iridescent flap of a Cyan Morpho’s wings; the soft, reserved smile of a lover, so familiar, so gorgeous. He takes time to watch the birds fly, the flowers bloom, the bread rise. He can’t help it; he understands the necessity of the practical, but oh, he loves the beautiful.
There is a certain beauty, Wylan thinks, to dying.
Yes, there is pain. Of course there is. A flare of agony in his chest that pulses out to fill his entire body, from the ends of his toes to the top of his lolling head. But Wylan feels far from it, like he is only being told about the pain, like it isn’t really his. But here is what is his:
Jesper’s hands wrapped around his body, holding him fast against his chest. The glinting Van Eck laurel on his lapel, swinging in time with Wylan’s limp feet as Jesper runs—although Wylan can’t be sure when the running began. And of course, the sky overhead. Blue, endless blue, and so fucking beautiful. It looks like one of his mother’s paintings; cast in the shimmering film of death, it looks heavenly.
Jesper is running, and speaking, and maybe, Wylan thinks, begging, but all Wylan catches is the musical lilt of his voice, the perfect rhythm of his footsteps, the harmony his pants cast over the garbled gasps Wylan’s throat is producing. Wylan’s life has always been discordant, but this is the perfect symphony.
When else has Wylan heard something so perfect? Things have been pretty before, yes, the little tunes he plunked out on the piano, played on his flute, the joyous Kaelish and Zemini songs Jesper liked to sing when he was too far in his cups. The tinkling of Marya’s teaspoon against her porcelain cup; the clacking of Kaz’s cane on tile floors; the sound of rain. The delicious noises Jesper makes when Wylan presses his fingers just right in the dead of night, and the satisfaction that fills him from the bottom up when he hears it. Oh, life has always sounded, looked, been so gorgeous.
But it is nothing compared to death.
Wylan wishes he could tell Jesper all the sparkling colors he sees, the perfect melodies that fill his ears, but he can’t quite figure out how to make his mouth move. And besides, in just a moment Wylan finds himself being laid out on something flat and hard, Jesper’s hands sliding out from under him. He doesn’t mind—the cool surface feels calming on his skin, and he can still see the sky above.
Voices break through the whirling song like lyrics:
“Saints,” someone whispers.
”What happened?” Asks a rock-salt rasp.
And then, the most beautiful voice of all, frantic and wavering with tears. Jesper Fahey, masterpiece that he was, said, “He took one of my bullets on the job. I tried to find the Healer, but she was—fuck, Kaz, what do I do? Kaz, I don’t know what to fucking do—“
A cloud passing overhead looked a bit like a rabbit. Wylan smiled to himself, just a bit. Beautiful.
”Inej, find another Healer,” Kaz’s voice commands, and a shadow disappears. “Jesper, look at me. Look at me. You have to draw out the bullet.”
Bullets. They gleam like stars. Wylan wonders if there’s ever been a difference.
”What?”
”You heard me. Do it.”
”I—I can’t—“
”You can. And you have to. It doesn’t matter how fast a Healer gets here, he’s never going to make it with metal in his lung. You want to keep your husband alive?”
“Y-yes.”
Wylan wants to tell them to let it be. That, compared to this, living is overrated. But he still hasn’t regained control of his lips, and as a breeze blows by sweeter than any smell he’s ever known, he finds he doesn’t quite care to try.
”Then get over yourself and draw out the fucking bullet.”
Another few seconds pass in dazzling color, untold harmonies, and brilliant, brilliant light, before gloves hands press down on his shoulders and Jesper’s face drifts into view over him. Oh, Saints, he’s so beautiful. Has Wylan ever prayed for him? Has he ever prayed to him? In death, everyone becomes divine.
Wylan lifts his hand and touches the place where blood—his blood—has smeared over Jesper’s neck and jaw like rubies. He smiles. “Red suits you,” he finally whispers.
Jesper’s lip trembles. He covers Wylan’s hand with his own, and oh, it’s such a wonderful feeling. Why have they ever spent a moment not hand in hand? Why ever spend a second apart? “Wylan, love,” he says softly, “I’m going to have to do something that hurts. I need you to trust me, alright? I just need a tiny bit of your trust.”
Wylan smiles. “I always trust you.”
That doesn’t bring relief to Jesper’s face. It only makes him wince, brings tears to brighten his shining eyes that he has to sniff away. Wylan wishes he wouldn’t. He wants to see them fall, watch how they catch the effervescent light of day. But he doesn’t want Jesper to be the one in so much pain. Not when there is so much beauty around them. “Don’t cry,” he whispers.
Jesper sniffs. “I won’t. I won’t.”
”We’re running out of time,” Kaz says above him, his face just out of view.
Jesper nods and swallows. It’s like a dance, this way he has of gathering himself. It’s like the most beautiful ballet Wylan had ever seen.
”Please forgive me,” Jesper says. Then he lifts his hands.
Pain blossoms in Wylan’s body like a rose in spring. It is all encompassing, as red as poppies, as loud as a thousand orchestras. Wylan knows he is screaming; it’s a perfect C sharp. And Jesper is apologizing, and Kaz is urging him on, and all Wylan knows is that in this spinning vortex of vibrant, unrelenting, gorgeous agony, he’d never want to hear anything else.
When the crimson tide of pain recedes, the sky is growing dark, and Jesper is saying, “It’s over, it’s over, it’s done.” His hands wrap around Wylan’s shoulders, and Wylan can’t fucking breathe but he doesn’t care. Not in the circle of Jesper’s arms—not when his whole torso is being blanketed in warmth like sinking into a hot bath. He knows, distantly, that it’s the flow of his own blood. He couldn’t give less of a shit, except that he wants to see it—he’s never seen scarlet quite like this.
But he can’t lift his head. Can’t even move. And Jesper seems to know that.
”Wylan, love, can you look at me?” Wylan can’t quite look at anything. It’s all starting to blur into a smear of watercolor, a blend of harmonies. “Kaz, what’s happening? Why isn’t he getting better? Where’s Inej with the Healer?”
”I don’t know.”
”Then fucking find out! Go—go find a medik, or even just some needle and thread. Fucking go, Brekker! Help me!”
”Jesper,” Kaz says grimly, and nothing more.
”No. No, no, don’t you fucking dare say my name like that. Wylan, come on, love, open those eyes.”
Had they fallen closed? Wylan didn’t even notice. He’s so tired, he thinks, and he knows this sleep will be the best of his life. The darkness is welcoming. The silence is the most beautiful song he’s ever heard.
”Jesper,” he breathes. The pain is fading, now, and Jesper’s eyes shine like diamonds.
”It’s okay, love. You’re going to be okay. Goddamnit, Kaz, do something!”
”Jesper,” Wylan says again. He brushes his fingers over Jesper’s, feels the knuckles, the thing ropes of scar tissue. He smiles. “You’re so beautiful.”
That is when Jesper’s tears start to fall. Under the light of the setting sun, the shine like pearls. Gemstones fall from cloud-gray eyes, and the entire world begins to shimmer.
”I’m sorry,” Jesper whispers through sobs. “I’m so sorry, love.”
Wylan shakes his head. The world is more beautiful than it’s ever been. Jesper shouldn’t apologize for this masterpiece.
Jesper’s hands are on his face, and his tears are hitting Wylan’s skin, and all Wylan knows is love. The love Jesper has given him day after day, year after year, since the very first time they laid eyes on one another in that damned tannery. The love of his mother, lost and then found again, unrelenting as the wind. The love of his friends, his family, and all the ways they’ve saved him. The love between the oceans and the sands, the sun and the moon, the wind and the trees. That, Wylan realizes, is the root of all of this beauty. Love. And in these crystallized moments of death, it is everywhere.
”I love you,” Jesper is whispering, over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Wylan would respond, if he could, but he thinks Jesper knows through all the kisses they’ve shared, all the secret smiles, all the nights reserved just for them. He hopes he does. He believes it. After all, that is what this life is made of—not the final phrase, but moments upon moments, building upon one another like layers of paint, like canopies of leaves, until all of existence is a blur of color, of sounds, of everything and everyone Wylan had ever seen. Has ever loved. Has ever known to be beautiful.
The colors are fading. The music is slipping away. But there is still one thing—Jesper’s arms around him. Safe. Strong. Beautiful.
Yes, Wylan thinks, death is certainly beautiful. Almost as beautiful as life.
And then he thinks of nothing at all.