Chapter Text
Wylan wanted to scream. The Merchant Council has hired us for a job.
Kaz was giving him that look again. That look that made Wylan’s heart jump into his throat and his anxiety spike. He knows. He knows. He knows. Because there was no way he didn’t know, not after the way Wylan defended Alby that night in Black Veil. Alby Rollins can’t help who his father is. He had been steadfast in protecting the boy from Dirty Hands because no one had ever protected Wylan from his demons, not after his mother died.
Now the Bastard of the Barrel held Wylan’s carefully constructed life in his hands like a deck of cards. Shuffling and observing, waiting for the perfect moment to end this game they were playing, a game Wylan didn’t know he was participating in. He stood there waiting for the words to come out of Kaz’s mouth, for him to reveal him as the liar he was, but they never came. Instead he moved onto the plan and Wylan’s next breath came easier.
He looked at Jesper then, standing beside him, hands on his pearl-handled revolvers. Wylan wanted to tell him, but the words never came. The key around his neck felt heavy, a brand against his chest. The Geldstraat mansion was never home to him. His workshop in Rozenstraat had been his safe haven, until the letters started arriving, and suddenly he felt like he was ten years old again and his tutor was slapping his wrists with a ruler because he couldn’t make sense of the children’s book in front of him. Then Jesper waltzed into his life, wild and loud like a gunshot, and fabrikated a home for Wylan in a small room atop the slat.
He’d thought, a bit naively, that his father wouldn’t take that from him, too. What a fool he was.
—
A few days later found Wylan in one of the storage rooms at the Slat, Matthias Helvar tied to a chair and glaring at Kaz like he could kill the man with his eyes if he tried hard enough. Inej had come back to Ketterdam after Jesper sent word for her, apparently not willing to wait for Kaz to swallow his pride and realize they couldn’t do this without her.
They were supposed to be making plans to infiltrate the Ice Court, but Wylan couldn’t focus. His mind had been reeling since they entered the room, since Nina awoke Matthias, since they started talking about this saints’ damned job Wylan was sure his father was financing. Because really, how many men in Ketterdam could part with thirty million kruge so easily.
He’d taken to drawing on a scrap of paper, if only for something to do with his hands, to force his mind to focus on something other than the feeling of impending doom hanging over him. Jesper made for a fantastic distraction as Wylan cross hatched and shaded his features, doing his best to listen to the conversation going on around him.
“What if Bo-Yul Bayur is dead?”
“Van Eck insists he isn't.”
Wylan had to make a conscious effort not to react to Kaz’s words. It was one thing to suspect his father was involved, and another one entirely to get confirmation. This felt like drowning all over again. His hearing had gone muffled, like someone had dunked his head under the canal waters.
“Wylan isn’t just good with the flint and fuss,” Kaz said, “he’s our insurance.”
He could feel Jesper’s eyes on him— he always knew when the other man had his eyes on him—but he didn’t look, couldn’t look at him as Kaz continued talking.
“Meet Wylan Van Eck. Jan Van Eck’s son and our guarantee at thirty million kruge.”
This is it , he thought as he looked up at Jesper, this is how I lose him. Distantly he was aware of Nina scoffing at him in disbelief, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Jesper wasn’t looking at him anymore, and there was a bruised look in his eyes like it pained him to be close to Wylan right now. His chest tightened, the pain in his heart expanding, pushing all the air from his lungs until he couldn't breathe.
Jesper was hurt and it was Wylan’s fault.
—
After Kaz dismissed them Jesper went to Club Cummulus. He had gambled most of the money from their last job away over the course of the last few hours. He had hoped that the spin of Makker’s Wheel would make his mind go blessedly quiet like it always had before, but it kept swirling with thoughts of Wylan. Wylan, who had lied. Wylan, who was a mercher's son. Wylan, who hadn’t trusted Jesper enough, even after Jesper had bared his soul and promised not to hide anymore.
Wylan. Wylan. Wylan.
When it was clear his head wouldn’t go quiet he left, what was the point of the sweet sound of the gambling dens when they couldn’t drown out the memories of Wylan’s laugh; couldn’t make the memory of him go away; couldn’t give Jesper a second of respite from the feelings that clawed at his heart with a sharpness that could rival Inej’s blades. He could really use one of her Suli proverbs now, or maybe just one of her hugs. She was always steady, never faltering when he dug himself into holes he more than likely couldn’t get out of.
Jesper thought he’d found something similar with Wylan, after she left. When Jesper left the docks, teary-eyed and missing a part of himself she’d taken to the high seas, Wylan held him through it. The pain had lessened some since the day they left Ravka, and earlier when she stepped off the ship he embraced her so tightly he thought he might break her, her sweet laugh echoing in his ears. Now he walked through the Barrel on his way back to the Slat, his feet dragging against wet stone.
When the thugs jumped him his mind filled with other thoughts. His Da, the farm he grew up in, the cherry blossom his Ma was buried under. He couldn’t lose that too. He told them that he had to leave the city, that he would come into big money soon. He shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t thinking. His mind was swirling with thoughts of Wylan and his Da and the farm and he always did run his mouth at the worst times. He let them beat him up.
They left him bruised and bloody, but alive, and he welcomed the ache in his cheekbones, behind his eyes. It made him feel something other than the numbness that had taken over him.
When he got to the Slat his room was dark, empty, Wylan’s shirt—Jesper’s shirt— thrown haphazardly on the ground, a half empty bottle of moonshine they had shared the night before on his nightstand.
Meet Wylan Van Eck.
Jesper grabbed the bottle and took a swig, savored the burn of the alcohol in his throat. He laid down on his bed, the memory of Wylan’s warm doe eyes burning behind his closed eyelids.
He took another swig.
He fidgeted with a coin he found beside the bottle, feeling the way its molecules interacted, how they could be manipulated to look like something else. He closed his fingers over it and when he opened his palm again there was a key. I will move in with you . He’d said it with such excitement, eyes sparkling under the gaslight.
A man like that didn’t come from the Barrel, everything about Wylan didn’t belong in the Barrel. The earnest way he kissed Jesper, like he was someone worthy of reverence and not some barrel rat who killed and stole and gambled with his life every day. The soft way his hands skirted over piano keys, coaxing beautiful melodies from it like he could read the score in the air. The way the sun caught in his hair like a halo, as if it knew Wylan was a saint, too good for this world.
A broken sound slipped past Jesper’s lips, a strange combination between a laugh and a sob. He should’ve known his luck would run out. It always did. This time he gambled his heart, and lost.
His next drink of moonshine was salty with tears.
He brought the key up to his lips. “I wish you were here,” he muttered into the empty darkness of his room. This was as much grief as he would let himself feel for Wylan Hendriks.
—
Kaz had it out for him, Jesper was sure. He’d sent him out to buy supplies for the journey, winter clothes and bullets, with a stack of kruge and orders to stay out of the gambling parlors. He wanted to ignore it, wanted to walk into the dens and lose himself in the sound of Makkers Wheel until his money ran out, but Kaz had sent him out with Wylan. Make sure he stays out of trouble.
Wylan had frowned, his brows drawing together, lips pouting out a little. Jesper had wanted to kiss him, but then the sharp sting of betrayal returned. He was angry, whether at Wylan or himself, he wasn’t sure.
They walked in tense, uncomfortable, silence for a while. Wylan kept looking at him like he wanted to say something, but stayed quiet. Jesper didn’t know if he wanted the man to speak or not.
Did he want an explanation? An excuse? A reason to scream at Wylan? A reason to forgive him? Could he forgive Wylan?
He didn’t know.
Before he knew it he was back at the Slat, in his room— his empty room— and the numb feeling crept back in. With nothing to do, his mind had all the time in the world to wonder.
Wylan had been an enigma. How did a boy that barely had money to scrape meals together know how to read music, to play piano, and flute? How did he know how to make bombs and what chemicals did what, yet managed to keep all his fingers? Jesper had his answer now.
He’d rather it stayed a mystery.
Wylan came from a life everyone in the Barrel dreamed of. Ketterdam’s never really been that welcoming to me. It sounded stupid in hindsight. What about a cozy manor in the Gelden district wasn’t welcoming. Never having to lift a finger to do anything. Getting to study music and chemistry. Never wondering where your next meal will come from. Never having to take beatings or sell your body. Never having to worry about traitors and backstabbers.
Wylan had left all that behind, and for what. A job at that gruesome tannery, where the air was thick and unbreathable. A dark and damp warehouse in Rozenstraat with volatile chemicals five feet away.
Knowing who Wylan Van Eck was had answered his questions about Wylan Hendriks, but now Jesper was realizing how little he actually knew about a man that knew so much about him.
He let the anger bloom in his chest, chasing away the confusion and heartbreak. It was familiar. He usually associated anger with Kaz keeping secrets from him.
—
Wylan’s ears were ringing, the sharp smell of something burning stinging his nose. He’d dropped when the first shots started, covering his head and shrinking into himself. Realistically, he knew that staying on the ground would get him killed, that someone could shoot him, but his mind was panicked. The bangs sounded distorted through his muffled hearing, like slamming doors, and he was taken back to his teenage years. When his father had given up on him learning to read and only put him through new tutors to torment him.
He remembered his father’s anger, the way he would kick Wylan until he could barely walk. He’d learned quickly to cover his head, to protect his ribs, to stay quiet because if he whimpered his father would get angrier.
He felt someone grab him by the neck of his shirt, and when he opened his eyes he was met with Jesper. His eyes were gleaming, adrenaline charged and excited. It hurt how familiar he was with that expression. How he would never be the cause of it again.
Another loud bang sounded.
Jesper shot the man that had targeted them and took the gun from his body. He shoved it at Wylan.
“Can you shoot?” It was the first time he’d heard Jesper’s voice in days.
“Skeet.”
“Good enough,” he said, grabbing Wylan by the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him along. “The real ship is at berth twenty-two.” They ran together, and Wylan could almost pretend everything was ok. That there wasn’t a giant chasm between them larger than the True Sea.
When they reached the ship Rotty and Specht were there, shooting down anyone that approached the schooner. Wylan looked out at the docks and saw how hopelessly outnumbered they were. It seemed half the Barrel had come after them.
Wylan dug in his pack and brought out a flash bomb, yelled at Jesper to close his eyes. “You can’t kiss me from down there, merchling.”
The name hurt, like a bullet to his heart. He had no time to ponder on the feeling though, his friends needed him. He set the bomb off. It exploded in blinding white light and Jesper’s laugh was a perfect melody to Wylan’s ears.
When the others got on the ship he saw Kaz, Inej hanging limply in his arms, blood seeping into Kaz’s shirt. Matthias had dragged one of their attackers onto the deck of the Ferolind. Now that they were in the open sea, that their lives weren’t on the line, Wylan noticed a slight sting on his arm. He looked down to see a bullet had grazed his bicep. He ignored it. Because Inej had been stabbed, and Jesper was helping Matthias drag the man that tried to take Inej— Jesper's sister— from them on deck.
When Kaz came into Wylan’s line of sight he shivered, the look of raw anger in his eyes was horrific. It felt like a threat, a promise to rain hellfire upon the man that hurt one of his crows.
Seeing Kaz rip the eye out of the man’s skull was too much. Wylan felt bile rise in his throat and ran to the side of the ship, retching. He breathed deep, taking in lungfuls of salty air. When Kaz threw the man overboard Wylan said nothing, just stared as Kaz retreated below deck to check on his Wraith.