Work Text:
The key is warm.
It had been the first thing Wylan thought. The key is warm. Literally; it had radiated soft warmth in the palm of his hand like a heat conductor left in the sun. His second thought had been an awed and somewhat startled, oh.
The part of him fascinated with the Fabrikation process had wanted to ask a million questions. Had the warmth been because the metal had liquified in his hand, or something else? How had Jesper known what grooves to replicate for it to match the locking mechanism in the door? Did each part have to be shaped individually, or had he focused more on the key as a whole? He hadn't asked any of them, even though he’s starting to think maybe he could have, maybe, because Jesper has so far taken Wylan’s habit of getting caught up in the why’s and how’s and the science of things with a fondness that Wylan doesn't understand. Jesper welcomes it, even, letting him ramble about different facts or formulae with nothing but soft amusement or even genuine interest. But this topic is decidedly sensitive, and Wylan hadn’t been sure if his pushing on it would be welcome.
Besides, they’d quickly become a bit too busy for talking anyway.
Another, larger part of Wylan had been asking a different kind of why. Because this, too, he doesn’t understand. Living together is a kind of commitment Wylan hadn't even thought to entertain. Why me? he’d thought, Why now? And over and over again, Are you sure? Are you sure it’s me you want?
But of course, he hadn’t voiced those either.
The key is still warm, even now, but now it’s warm from Wylan’s own body heat where he’s kept hold of it in his trouser pocket, even days later. He’d found himself rubbing it between his fingers absently every few minutes as if surprised to find it’s still there. Feeling at the edges and divots of the rough metal and memorising the shape of it, taking it out and just staring. Smiling, probably dopily, he thinks, if the look on Nina’s face when she catches him doing just that is any indication.
“Someone looks happy,” she comments, smirking where she leans back against the kitchen counter.
“Um.” Wylan can feel the blush climbing up his cheeks, and her smirk widens into a knowing smile. He turns his face away to hide it in his shoulder.
“Something to do with Funny Guns, I presume?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Wylan says delicately.
“You’re lying,” Nina sing-songs. She tilts her head like she’s amused that he’d tried.
Your heart beats faster every time you look at him, he remembers her telling him once, eyes sharp and curious, during that first week after they’d all joined together to take down Pekka Rollins, and Wylan had found no defence against her then either.
You can’t hide from a Heartrender, Wylan supposes. But instead of telling her she’d been correct in her assumptions, he asks, “Funny guns?”
Nina waves a hand breezily through the air. “You know—Funny Guns, Angry Hat, Dark Blade, I’ve got one for everyone.”
“What’s mine?” Wylan asks, apprehensive.
Nina grins, delighted. “Light Show.”
She laughs, not unkindly, as Wylan turns even redder. He supposes it could be worse, and he feels strangely pleased to be included. “Oh.”
Something in her face softens, her expression turning genuine. “I don’t mean to tease, honestly. It’s really, very sweet, the two of you. You look at him like I look at waffles, or cake. Oh , I wonder if this place has any decent biscuits.” She turns away to rummage through the drawers and cabinets.
Wylan huffs a laugh. “I—Thanks? That’s… hm.” He looks down and sees that the key is still nestled tightly in his hand, and that he’d been running his thumb softly over its length this entire time without realising. He repockets it, but doesn’t let go.
It feels sweet with him, he could say, but doesn’t. It feels like everything sweet and good and right all at once, and I’m terrified of ruining it.
“Are you staying too, then?” he asks instead. “With Kaz and the Dregs?”
“Have to, if I want a chance at my—well—my own ‘piece of cake’, so to speak. And I’ve never given up on a dessert when I want one.” Nina says, not pausing as she continues to raid the pantry. “Speaking of which… Aha! Chocolate biscuits! Angry Hat does have a sweet tooth hidden away in that shark's mouth of his.” She turns back triumphantly, holding up the purloined biscuits like a trophy.
“You don’t know that,” Wylan argues. “We haven’t been here that long. They could belong to one of the Dregs. The one with the bowler hat, or maybe the eyepatch?”
“True,” Nina sighs. She sits down across from him, ripping open the packaging and biting happily into a biscuit. “I suppose the one with the green hair does look like the type,” she says between bites, and holds out the biscuits to him. “Want one?”
He eyes them warily and decides if Nina is willing to risk the potential ire of whichever Dreg they belong to—because he really doesn’t think their Kaz’s—then he might as well.
“Alright,” he says, taking one of the proffered biscuits. “Thanks.”
Nina watches him bite into it and says, “I never said it was free, did I? I have a price.”
Wylan looks questioningly at her, swallows. “I didn’t agree to that, though.”
Nina rolls her eyes. “You Kerch go mad for a bargain, don’t you? The deal is the deal, and all that. So”—she gestures between the two of them with her own biscuit—“I gave you a biscuit, so spill. What’s up?”
He bites into the biscuit again, considering. “I’d have to enter into that contract willingly for it to be binding, you know. So it’s technically void.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Wylan takes his time eating the rest of the biscuit, knowing he’s stalling and being completely transparent about it. “It’s nothing, really. Everything is… everything is great.” He stops, and is unsure why.
“But…?” Nina prompts. When Wylan doesn’t continue, she holds out another biscuit, wagging it slightly in front of him. He takes it.
“But… I don’t know. I am happy, I guess, and… everything is great. So…” Wylan trails off, suddenly frustrated at his own inability to explain. He breaks the biscuit in half. “Sorry, I’m not trying to—sorry.”
“It’s fine. I asked you anyway. Eat the biscuit, don’t worry so much.”
“I think that’s the whole problem, actually.” And it is, isn’t it? Because Wylan cannot accept things as they are, good or bad. Wylan will worry, he will fret. Because all he ever asks is why? All he ever asks is how? And that’s more of a burden to bear than he thinks he gives it credit for most of the time.
Nina nudges the broken biscuit towards him, gently urging.
“How do you just…” Wylan searches for words. He looks away and back, down. He pushes the two broken biscuit halves apart from each other on the table, drawing a line between them. Rests his hand in the interstice. “You said it’s like you and cake, right? So—so how do you just… eat it, and enjoy it, and not worry about going too fast and making yourself sick, or eating the whole thing and then not having any left once it’s gone?”
“There’s always more cake, Wylan,” Nina says softly. “You can always get more.”
“But what if there isn’t?” Wylan says, getting a bit heated but unable to stop it. “What if it’s like, you aren’t used to having sweets, right? What if you get so used to not eating them that you forget what they taste like, and then one day someone comes along and gives you a big cake, and you eat all of it, and then there isn’t any left? What if you don’t get to have any more cake after that, ever again?”
“Wylan…”
“Shouldn’t you try to save it, then? Shouldn’t you do everything in your power to make it last longer?”
Nina puts her hand over his where it lies limply on the table. She doesn't make any effort to slow Wylan’s wildly beating heart, only squeezing comfortingly until he can force himself to meet her eyes. She smiles, and Wylan is mortified to find there’s heat behind his eyes, and he’s sure she can tell. He’s mortified in general because he’s said far too much without saying absolutely anything, and he’s sure she can tell that too.
“It’s my experience,” she says kindly, carefully, “that—cake—doesn’t really work like that. If you worry so much about running out, it’ll just go bad, and you can’t eat stale cake, or—well I have, but I wouldn't recommend it, anyway—Wylan, you’ll miss out on so many things, not letting yourself enjoy them. And, really, it’s people who bake cakes, who love cakes. And they bake all different kinds, so you can always go back and get more, and they might even be better than the first. And I imagine that—Saints, alright, look”—she breathes sharply and squeezes Wylan’s hand again—“if this person really loves baking cakes, I imagine they’d feel pretty awful, then, if they gave one to someone who didn’t eat it.”
Nina looks at him, and Wylan cannot help but look back. He doesn't know what to say, cannot even attempt to form a proper response, because what could he say to that? He feels like his insides have been taken out laid in front of him for viewing, only to be scooped up and unceremoniously dumped back in. Like maybe he’s better off for it too, for having seen them from the outside.
“I…” he tries, attempting and still struggling to wrestle his thoughts into order. “Nina—”
“That’s alright,” she says calmly, and pats his hand. Then her eyes narrow, growing purposefully serious. “That’s what I think anyway. About cake, you understand?”
Wylan is beginning to think he does.
Before he can reply, the door swings open.
Jesper comes in, stopping when he sees Wylan and Nina at the table, her hand over his between the bits of broken biscuit. “Uh… What’s happening in here?”
Wylan blanches.
“Wylan and I are talking about cake,” Nina says easily, letting go of Wylan’s hand and winking at him when he turns to her in surprise.
“Hm, over biscuits?”
“Can’t have too much, I always say,” Nina counters, and Wylan’s mouth nearly falls open. “I was just saying we should all go get some. There’s a great place a few blocks down that makes the best whipped frosting.”
Jesper rolls his eyes as he comes fully into the room. “You and your sweet tooth, Zenik. I swear.” He sits at the table and rests his arm across the back of Wylan’s chair, with the other he reaches over and takes Wylan’s hand off the table. He’s wearing the shirt Wylan had on that morning, the soft fabric of it buttoned low on his collar and his tie still undone around his neck where there’s a visible mark left by Wylan. Ordinarily Wylan would be distracted by all of it, all of Jesper, always, because he scarcely finds himself thinking about anything else, but right then—
“That should be yours,” Wylan says suddenly, remembering. He turns back to Nina. “Sweet Tooth.”
“My—Oh.” Nina looks confused for a moment and then she brightens, snickering. “Oh, Funny Guns, Angry Hat, Dark Blade, Light Show, and Sweet Tooth. Oh, I like it.”
“Uh,” Jesper gives them both equally dubious looks and raises his eyebrows, “I’m lost, I think. Care to explain?”
“Inside joke,” Nina dismisses, standing and dusting crumbs off her skirts. To Wylan, she says, “Has a nice ring to it, though. Fits, don’t you think?”
In his one hand Wylan grasps at the key still in his pocket, rubbing at it once again and marvelling as he goes over each irregular bump and curve. In his other, Wylan holds tightly to Jesper’s where their fingers are linked together, feeling the indent of each of Jesper’s rings where they slot next to his.
Jesper’s hand is warm.
“Yes,” he says, nodding at Nina, at Jesper. Smiling, probably dopily, he thinks, if the look on Nina's face is any indication. “Yes, it fits perfectly.”