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The roof of the Van Eck mansion felt too clean for Wylan's liking. Everything about this place had been designed to stifle, to choke the life out of anything that wasn't golden and shiny, and now he was back, sitting on top of it like he belonged. It still made his skin crawl, even after all the dust had settled from the disaster his father had left behind.
Home. The word felt foreign to Wylan, even now. He'd grown up in a house that could swallow most of Ketterdam whole, with walls lined in gold and rooms stuffed with more luxury than anyone could need in a lifetime. But it had never been a home. Not really. It was too cold, too rigid, built on expectations he could never meet, no matter how hard he tried. Every corner of the mansion was designed to remind him of his failures—his father's disgust, the way he'd looked at Wylan like something broken that could never be fixed.
He was supposed to belong here. He was supposed to feel safe, to feel proud of the wealth and legacy attached to the Van Eck name. But all Wylan ever felt was small. Out of place. Every inch of this house, from the polished floors to the towering chandeliers, had suffocated him. It had never been a home.
But the Slat? That crumbling, filthy building in the Barrel, with its broken windows and crooked staircases? That had felt more like home than anything he'd ever know. Wylan had expected to hate it, had thought he'd feel even more out of place among the thieves and liars that roamed those halls. And at first, he had. He was awkward, too clean, too fragile for a world that didn't care whether he survived it or not.
But somehow, the Slat had become his. The grime, the chaos—it hadn't suffocated him. It had given him space to breathe, to be himself in a way he never could be in the mansion. He had found something there that was missing in the cold marble halls of his childhood.
The Slat didn't ask him to be perfect. It didn't care that he couldn't read or that he didn't know how to navigate the sharp politics of Ketterdam's elite. It let him be messy. It let him fail. And most importantly, it gave him people— real people—who saw him for more than just his name. People like Jesper, who didn't give a shit that Wylan had grown up rich or that his father was... well, who he was.
And now, sitting on top of the place he'd once thought of as a prison sentence, Wylan realized just how wrong he'd been. Home wasn't about wealth or legacy or perfection. It was about the people you let in, the people who made space for you even when you didn't think you deserved it.
The night air was sharp against his skin, and the bottle of brandy in his hand was half-empty. Beside him, Jepser lounged like the roof was the top of a bar stool, arm slung lazily around Wylan's shoulder. The way Jesper's fingers idly stroked the collar of his jacket sent little sparks through Wylan's chest, ones that he pretended didn't burn so damn much. He wasn't used to this, even now after everything—being touched like it meant something, like he meant something.
"This was a good idea," Jesper said, tilting the bottle back for another sip. His words were a little slower than normal, slurred around the edges. Wylan liked it when Jesper was loose like this, when he didn't have to be sharp and ready for whatever came next. They all needed a break. Saints knew they'd earned it.
Wylan smiled, his head buzzing with alcohol, and leaned into Jesper a little more. His chest was warm from the brandy, and for once, the memories of this house didn't seem as loud in his head. "Yeah, I guess." He shrugged, gaze flicking out to the Ketterdam skyline. "Better than downstairs, at least."
Jesper snorted, his breath warm on the side of Wylan's face. "Yeah, can't imagine sitting in one of those stiff-ass parlors with all that fancy furniture. You'd probably break something."
Wylan laughed, a little too hard, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "You're one to talk. You'd probably shoot a hole through the walls just to see if you could."
Jesper grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges in that way that always made Wylan's stomach flip. He tilted his head back to take another drink, but when he set the bottle down, his smile had faded a little. "Hey," he said, voice soft. "Can I ask you something?"
Wylan's chest tightened. It was never good when someone started a question like that. "Sure?"
Jesper's fingers twitched against his shoulder, like he was trying to decide if he wanted to pull Wylan closer or keep him at a distance. "At the Crow Club earlier...Kaz was talking to you about something. About tracking down two guys? It was too crowded for me to catch much else."
Wylan blinked, his mind fuzzy. "Two guys?"
"Yeah. Sounded serious. I just... I don't know. What's going on with that?" Jesper's tone was light, but there was a thread of concern underneath it, like he was trying not to push too hard.
Wylan's heart stumbled in his chest, and he glanced down at the roof tiles, tracing the cracks with his fingers. He hadn't been ready to talk about this, not with anyone. Kaz acting of his own accord was its own thing. But Jesper had heard. Of course he had. Ketterdam was full of ghosts, and they all had a habit of turning up when you least wanted them.
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind whistling through the streets below. Jesper didn't press, just waited, his fingers still absently moving against Wylan's jacket.
Wylan took a shaky breath, letting the brandy dull the edges of the memory. He'd never told anyone outright, he still wasn't entirely sure how Kaz had found out, though it was unsurprising that he had his ways. Wylan wasn't even sure if he could say anything, if the words would even come out right. But Jesper was waiting, and maybe he deserved to know. Maybe Wylan owed him that much.
"I... I haven't been honest," Wylan started, his voice barely more than a whisper. He swallowed, the taste of alcohol bitter on his tongue. "About my father. About everything he did."
Jesper shifted beside him, turning to face him fully now, but he didn't say anything. He just waited, his expression open, patient. It made it worse somehow, like if Jesper had snapped at him, Wylan could've avoided this conversation altogether. But no, of course not, his boyfriend was just there—steady as ever—and it almost made Wylan feel sick.
"I mean, you already know he wasn't exactly a great father," Wylan went on, his fingers picking at the edge of his coat. The fabric was worn there, where the seam met his sleeve. It wasn't like the pristine, tailored clothes he used to wear when he lived in this house, when he was Jan Van Eck's unwanted heir. "You know some of it. He didn't exactly hide his disgust."
Jesper made a noise low in his throat, though he didn't interrupt.
"But... it was more than that," Wylan said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "He called me to his office once. I was so... confused. He told me he was sending me to a music school. In Belendt."
Jesper frowned, tilting his head slightly, "I thought you said you never went to a formal music school."
"I didn't." Wylan's voice was sharp, and he grimaced. He glanced away, his heart pounding in his chest as memories resurfaced. "That's the thing. I never made it there because it wasn't real. The whole thing was a setup."
He could feel Jesper's eyes on him, but he didn't dare look up. He just kept talking, letting the words fall out because if he stopped, if he let them linger in his throat, he'd never get them out again.
"I didn't know at the time. I thought..." Wylan's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. His hands trembled as he continued, "I thought maybe he was finally coming around. Maybe he realized he was wrong, that I wasn't just some useless failure." He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Ghezen, I was stupid."
"You weren't stupid," Jesper said, his voice careful, but Wylan could hear the anger in it, the edge that said he was holding something back.
"I was. I wanted to believe him so badly. I thought... maybe this is it, maybe he's finally going to see me, you know? Like, maybe he'd realized he was wrong about me. He'd said things would be different, that I'd get a fresh start." His laugh this time was hollow, bitter. "Turns out he didn't mean a fresh start at all."
Jesper's brow furrowed, confusion mixing with concern. "What do you mean?"
Wylan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to look up at his boyfriend. His throat felt tight, but he pushed the words through the barrier anyways, slow and steady. "He didn't send me to a music school, Jes. He sent me to be killed."
For a second, Jesper didn't say anything, and Wylan could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to make sense of what he'd just heard.
"Wait," Jesper finally said, his voice low, uncertain. "He sent you... to be killed?"
Wylan nodded, the movement stiff, mechanical. "Yeah. He hired two of his men. They were supposed to take me out of Ketterdam, make it look like I'd just gone away to school. I don't know what he told them, I didn't really care at that point."
Jesper's jaw clenched, and Wylan could see the muscles tensing there, like he was barely holding back the rage that simmered just beneath the surface. "What the fuck, Wylan."
Wylan shook his head, looking down at his hands again. He'd never gotten used to how small they looked in moments like this. Fragile. "I didn't understand it at first. When he told me about the school, I was so hopeful." His voice wavered, words slurring, though he couldn't tell if it was from the brandy or just the conversation. "But it wasn't real. They tried to kill me on the browboat, strangle me."
Jesper inhaled sharply. His arm tightened around Wylan's shoulders, but he didn't speak. Wylan was grateful for that, honestly, because if Jesper asked him to explain too much right now, he might break.
"I jumped," he continued, the memory coming in jagged flashes now, like it was happening all over again. "I didn't know what else to do. I jumped into the canal and swam until I couldn't feel anything anymore. I don't know how I made it out. I don't even remember how I got to the Barrel, just that I woke up on the street, half-drowned and half-dead."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Wylan could hear Jesper's breathing, feel the tension rolling off him in waves, but he didn't dare look.
"Saints," Jesper finally whispered. "Why didn't you tell me this?"
Wylan's chest constricted, the familiar guilt curling in his gut. "I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want it to be real." He paused, his hands trembling as he traced invisible patterns on the roof tiles. "I thought if I didn't say anything, it'd go away. But it didn't. It never does."
Jesper didn't respond immediately. He just pulled Wylan in closer, so close Wylan could feel the warmth of his body through the layers of their clothes. For a second, the world was still, and Wylan could pretend that everything was fine.
But it wasn't. It never had been.
"When Kaz found me, when he sent you to that tannery," Wylan said, his voice softer now, more subdued. "I'd already started going by Hendriks. I didn't want anyone to know who I was. What kid wants to go around with the same surname as the man who'd tried to have them killed? And then he started sending me letters. He'd found me anyways, and I wasn't safe again. Not that I ever opened them."
Jesper frowned. "Because of your..?"
"Yeah," Wylan said, cutting him off. He didn't need to say it. Jesper knew. His stupid brain couldn't read the words, but he'd known well enough what they meant. "I knew they were from him, though. That was the point, right? To remind me I wasn't safe. He could still reach me."
Jesper cursed under his breath, and Wylan felt the weight of his anger, heavy and dangerous. "I swear, Wy, if I ever see that bastard again—"
"You won't," Wylan interrupted, his voice harder now. "He's locked up. We all saw that."
Jesper fell uncharacteristically silent, but his arm stayed firm around Wylan's shoulders, grounding him, keeping him tethered to something that wasn't pain, wasn't fear. Wylan leaned into it, feeling the warmth, the solidness of Jesper’s body next to his, like he could just fall into it and disappear for a while. It was better this way—easier. Easier to say the things he needed to say while the world was a little fuzzy, while his brain was slow and thick from the alcohol. Maybe if he were sober, his tongue would’ve tied itself in knots, and he would’ve choked on every word.
“It's easier like this,” Wylan muttered, his voice slurred and quiet. “I don’t think I could’ve told you… if we weren’t, you know…” He waved his free hand vaguely, feeling the slight buzz of the brandy still in his veins.
Jesper stayed quiet, too quiet, and Wylan could feel the heat radiating off him. He was pissed, that much was obvious, but it wasn’t directed at Wylan. Still, that old fear crept in, curling around Wylan’s chest. What if Jesper was angry at him ? What if he thought Wylan was weak, or pathetic, for not standing up to his father, for letting things get as bad as they did?
Wylan’s fingers twitched, digging into the rough fabric of his coat. His heart raced, and he spoke before his mind could catch up. “You can… you can say it,” he said, his words soft, almost swallowed by the night air. “Whatever you want to say, it’s fine.” His voice cracked, and the words blurred together, like he couldn’t quite keep control of them. “I can take it.”
For a second, Jesper didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then his arm tightened around Wylan’s shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp, rough, like he was spitting the words out through gritted teeth. “Saints, Wylan, I would’ve shot him. Put a bullet between his eyes before they dragged him to Hellgate. I would’ve—” He broke off, his breath ragged as he ran a hand through his hair. “How could he do that to you? How could anyone look at you and think you deserve—deserve that?”
Wylan winced, his stomach knotting. Jesper’s words hit harder than he expected, even though they weren’t aimed at him. He could feel the anger in them, the way Jesper’s whole body seemed to vibrate with it. But underneath that anger was something else, something that made Wylan’s throat tighten.
“You’re one of the only damn sources of sunshine in this city, Wy. And he wanted to snuff that out? Like it meant nothing?” Jesper’s voice cracked, and he let out a low, bitter laugh. “If I’d known, I swear to you—”
But Wylan wasn’t hearing him anymore, not really. His chest had tightened, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts. The emotions he’d been holding back, shoving down for so long, started to bubble up, and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face. Fuck. He didn’t want to cry. Not now, not in front of Jesper.
Jesper stopped talking immediately, his hand coming up to cup the side of Wylan’s face. “Hey, hey—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Wylan shook his head, choking out a laugh that was more like a sob. “It’s not you,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s just… I’m not used to this.”
Jesper’s brow furrowed, and he tilted Wylan’s chin up, his thumb brushing away the tears. “Used to what?”
“This,” Wylan whispered, his words coming out shaky. “Someone… caring. Being angry for me. I’m still not used to it.”
Jesper’s expression softened, and he smiled, but it wasn’t his usual cocky grin—it was smaller, gentler. “Well, you better get used to it then,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in Wylan cracked open, and before he could stop himself, he let Jesper pull him into his lap. He buried his face in Jesper’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of gunpowder. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.
Jesper’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close, like he was something precious, something worth protecting. Wylan let himself relax into the embrace, his body going limp against Jesper’s chest. It felt good to let go, even just for a little while. To not have to be strong, to not have to carry everything on his own.
For a while, they just stayed like that, Jesper’s hand running soothingly through Wylan’s hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling Wylan into a sense of calm. The night was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city below them.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Jesper spoke again, his voice softer now, more careful. “Did Kaz… hunt them down?” he asked, his breath warm against Wylan’s ear. “The men who tried to—”
Wylan couldn’t help it—he let out a wobbly laugh, lifting his head just enough to look at Jesper. “It’s Kaz,” he said, his voice still thick from crying. “What do you think?”
Jesper huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Stupid question.”
Wylan smiled weakly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “They’re not coming back, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good,” Jesper said firmly, his arm tightening around Wylan’s waist. “Because if they did, I’d make sure they regretted ever laying a hand on you.”
Wylan’s heart stuttered in his chest, and for once, the fear didn’t follow. The old ache, the sharp sting of loneliness that had always been there, even when he didn’t realize it, seemed to fade a little. Maybe he wasn’t used to this—having someone care, someone fight for him—but he could get used to it.
And with Jesper holding him like this, he thought maybe he wanted to.
