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It all starts with a phone call. On a Sunday evening. While he’s rearranging his shelf, a project he’s been putting off forever. In fact, he’s just in the middle of organising his music folders by year when the buzzing of his phone interrupts his music, Taylor Swift’s folklore replaced by the automated voice of text-to-speech.
‘ALYS CALLING’ ‘ALYS CALLING’ ‘ALYS CALLING’
“Alys?” he mutters to himself, a small coil of dread curling in his stomach as he lifts the phone. He presses his tongue to his teeth, nails scratching against his phonecase. Despite his father’s… everything, Alys was always sweet enough, comforting him after they argued and sharing biscuits with him. And she can make her own, independent decisions (he thinks). So it’s entirely possible that after a year of being estranged from his father, she just wants to check in on him. Simple as that.
It’s that stupid, optimistic naivete that makes him slide the ‘answer’ button and choke out “hello” into the receiver, his mouth feeling like sandpaper.
“Oh, Wylan!” she chirps on the other line. It’s so bright and so bursting with cheer that Wylan has to actually hold the phone a few inches from his ear. Alys remains a lot to get used to, he sees, and he doesn’t know if he’s glad of that. “Oh it’s so lovely to hear from you again.”
“Nice to hear from you too,” he replies, crossing two fingers behind his back. Never in his life has he regretted something so quickly. “To what do I owe this? Is everything okay?”
“Oh everything’s great. Wonderful, really. Oh Wylan, I have just the loveliest news!”
Wylan freezes. His heart turns cold in his chest, the thump-thump-thump pounding in every part of his body. The room begins to tilt and while he swears its just in his imagination, he grips the bedsheets and wills himself into the present.
Somehow, he croaks out “yeah?”, and is met with Alys practically singing her news.
“I’m pregnant!”
And then he’s gone. Alys keeps talking, yapping away like her little terrier always did, about the baby and how “they’ve been trying for so long” and “we think it’ll be a boy” and “we like Jan for a boy”.
“That’s great, Alys. I’m so happy for you,” he hears himself say. It’s an automated response, because his brain is still stuck on “pregnany”.
“Thank you so much,” she gasps. “I wasn’t sure really, but your father insisted I tell you. Jan just knew you’d be delighted to have a little brother. Perhaps you and your friends could-”
He doesn’t let her finish. Her voice comes to a sharp halt, replaced by the steady hum of the dial tone until his phone falls from his hand. So his father told her to call him. This was his father’s idea.
A laugh bubbles in his throat but then it sticks there, because he isn’t like Jesper and Nina, who can find the humour in anything. Nor is he like Kaz, who would already be concocting ways to get even. He doesn’t pray like Inej or Matthias, because he has nothing to pray to.
No, he’s just Wylan. Wylan isn’t the one who laughs or schemes or prays. Wylan is the one who drowns, and drown he does.
He doesn’t leave his room. At some point, he went from sitting up to laying down. His face is turned towards the ceiling but he can’t really see anything. All he can see is his childhood, moving at the speed of light until he hit eight, then everything slows into excruciating detail. He watches as the colours drain from the memories, the warmth of his mother’s skirts replaced with the chill of his father’s eyes, the coldness of his bedroom floor. Each time he breathes in, a new insult comes to mind, pulled from the recesses of his boyhood.
“Idiot”
“Useless”
“Soft-minded child”
“Incompetent”
“Disgrace”
The failed attempts pile up in his mind, the endless revolving door of new tutors. Their smiles when they first met, the disbelief in their eyes that would grow every week, then finally, their apologetic shaking of heads at his father when it just didn’t work. All that money, all that time that his father wasted on a child that couldn’t be fixed.
Ghezen. No wonder he wanted another heir. He would want another heir too.
After the sky turns dark, Jesper appears in his doorway, fingers rapping lightly against the wood. Wylan has since turned onto his side, his face half-pressed into the pillow. He left the main light on, and its making his brain feel like it’ll burst out of his eyes, but he can’t find the energy to get up and turn it off either.
“Hey,” Jesper says softly. The mattress sinks beneath his weight. “Haven’t seen you in a few hours. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he sighs, his voice deflated. “Tired.” And then, “I don’t feel good.” He can’t see Jesper’s face, but he doesn’t have to. Jesper has that way of filling up every room in a way Wylan could never managed.
There’s a hand on his back then, rubbing gentle circles into his shirt. He bites his tongue. He wants to scream.
“Well, I have a sweetness craving- want to come on an ice cream run with me?”
“No thanks.” He pulls his knees against his chest and curls inwards. “I just want to sleep.” He wants to do something more than sleep, but he doesn’t voice it; because it would make Jesper worry and because that simple sentence took far too much out of him. Jesper’s hand tenses against his spine, his partner’s worry evident in his touch. If not for his face pressed into his pillow, Wylan might start screaming. Because the lights are too bright and he wants to die and now because he’s upset Jesper, lovely, bright, beautiful Jesper.
“You want the lamp on?” Wylan sighs. He murmurs an agreement and the weight is lifted from the bed. The sharpness of the main light is changed for small, contained glow of his beside lamp, and the pain in his head receeds. Jesper runs a hand through his hair and Wylan finds something soft pressed into his hands. It’s his dinosaur plushie, he realises. The weighted one that Inej got him. “For when you need it”, she’s said.
He should say thank you, but his throat feels clogged with dust and his chest too heavy to move. So he just lies there, a grunt passing for a response, and doesn’t react when Jesper kisses his head and then he leaves, without thanks or praise or promise to pay him back.
His father’s voice passes through his head “ungrateful” and he can’t disagree.
Waking up an uneven process. One minute he’s ten years old again, walking on tiptoe around his house so that his father doesn’t hear, and the next he’s jerking awake, cry caught in his throat, flailing until he can catch hold of reality again. Somewhere in the blurry haze of his mind, through the remains of his father’s voice, he hears Jesper, his therapist, Inej, walking him through what he should know.
Five things you can see, he thinks, my hand, my window, the curtain, the moon, my pillow.
Four things you can touch. The mattress. The duvet. The dinosaur. The bedpost.
Three things you can hear . Cars outside. The fridge running. Nina on the phone downstairs.
Two things you can smell. He takes a deep breath through his nose. Coffee. My laundry detergent.
One thing you can taste.
He goes through it again and again, listing things off like a madman until his childhood home disappears from his periphery and he’s alone, in his room, in his house, that he shares with his friends and his partners and not his father. Where he’s been for, according to the clock… the past sixteen hours.
Ghezen.
He breathes in again and pulls himself up. He fell asleep wearing yesterday’s clothes. They feel less like clothes and more like barbed wire wrapped around his body. He discards them and pulls on a hoodie he finds at the foot of his bed, his feet clad in knitted socks. The hoodie falls past his waist and nearly to his knees. Matthias’, he realises with a start. One of the many he’s stolen and never given back.
He laces his fingers behind his beck and looks up at the ceiling. He did wake up last night. At some point, when the house was quiet and it was still pitch-black outside, he dragged himself down to the kitchen and forced himself to eat leftover pizza. As if the solution to fixing everything broken about him was just to fucking eat. It’s what Nina always says works, “if you feel like shit, go eat something”.
Well, he did, and then his fears and his faults followed him upstairs and made themselves comfortable in his bed. Minutes and then hours passed with his father’s voice in his head, the memories he’s tried so hard to forget playing on the wall like a movie projector. He drifted in and out of dreams of creeping down those endless corridors, of his father’s footsteps shuffling around his room while he hides in the closet, sitting like a stone among jackets and scarves. Then, at some point, he woke up, and it wasn’t the past that haunted him but the present. All he could think was every way in which he’s not enough. Every time the Crows have had to go out of their way to make something easier for him and nobody else. Drawing symbols on the chore chart or the labels. Sending voice notes instead of texts. Turning the lights down. Checking how crowded an event will before going in case he can’t handle it. Buying his fucking safe foods because sometimes he can’t eat anything else.
“It’s fine,” Kaz had said when Wylan had apologised once. “You need it.”
But he shouldn’t need it. He runs his hands through his hair and fights the urge to slam it into the wall. He should have grown up, he shouldn’t need them to do all this just so he can make it through the day.
The food had angered his father more than most. When Wylan couldn’t explain why the dinners the cook spent hours making made him shudder. Even now, with a diagnosis and all the technical language there is, he still can’t.
“Ridiculous,” Jan snarled. “Fifteen fucking years old and picking at your food like a toddler.” He downed his wine and slammed the glass down on the table. Wylan flinched. The stem cracked. “How many more years must I waste waiting for you to grow into a man?”
In the end, it seemed Wylan couldn’t. Perhaps his new child will.
When the strength finally creeps into his bones, he reaches for his phone. One text from Kaz. Shaking, Wylan presses the speaker button and lets the automated voice fill him in.
“Jesper said you were ill last night. Take today off. Pim can cover you if we need demo today.”
He throws his phone at the wall.
He can’t read the fucking text, but he can read between the lines.
“We don’t need you. You’ve been replaced.”
He wants to stop existing.
When he finds relief, or something close to it, it’s in the toilet bowl. Two fingers shoved down his throat, he forces last night’s pizza to come back up. It was a mechanism he discovered as a child, when the taste of whatever had been for dinner kept lingering in his mouth. But then as he got older, it did something else. It gave him some semblance of control, made him feel like he was getting rid of everything inside. He made a clean slate, and he could try again.
It’s been a while since he’s done it. But it seems he can actually learn things.
He gags again and vomits into the bowl. For a few seconds, he actually feels it, the relief of knowing that all the crap weighting him down might be out of his body. He gags again and leans further, heavy coughs wrecking through his body.
“Wylan?” He freezes. Matthias’ unmistakeable voice calls from the other side of the door. He’s here. He’s here and knocking softly on the wood. “Wylan, everything okay in there?”
“I’m fine,” he replies. He tries to hold it back, but then he’s gagging again, coughing heavily into the toilet. Eyes screwed closed, he clutches the porcelain with his free hand and prays that this once, Matthias is cruel, or doesn’t think. He’s not done.
“Wylan, you don’t sound okay,” he replies. The door handle rattles. Thankfully, he at least had the wits to lock the door. “Wylan, let me in.” Despite the Fjerdan’s efforts, there’s a small note of panic in his voice and Wylan cringes. Of course. They know, because he made the mistake of telling them. Poor fragile Wylan can’t even be in the bathroom by himself.
The handle rattles, a hasty knock.
“Wylan, just let me in.”
“No!” His is ripped from inside him like a tree from its roots during a storm. Tears prick at his eyes, his vision blurs. “Go away Matthias!”
“Wylan-”
“Just leave me alone!” This time, he can’t stop himself, everything rises inside him and he can’t freaking breathe. Shame clogs his airways, his arteries, his organs, and it has to go somewhere. He shoves his fingers down his throat and lets it all come tumbling out, all the while he trembles with guilt and shame and just the fucking weakness that’s always characterised him.
During all of that, Matthias got the door open.
Wylan doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s squatting down beside him. He can even picture the concern flickering in his blue eyes, the way his mouth falls open for just a second before he picks himself back up.
Hands land on his shoulders, far gentler than anything he felt before he came here. He pulls Wylan away from the toilet, brushes his hair away from is face, and dabs at the sweat on his face. Wylan bursts into tears. Pathetic, ragged sobs shake his whole body, made even worse by his efforts to push himself out of Matthias’ arms. He needs to prove that he doesn’t need it; that he’s fine, that he’s strong, that Matthias doesn’t need to waste his time or energy making sure that Wylan is okay.
But Matthias is stronger than him, not just emotionally but physically, and he pulls Wylan into an embrace as if he’s just a little kid. Matthias is the kind of son his father would have wanted. Matthias should’ve been the Van Eck heir.
With nothing else to do, he just sobs in Matthias’ arms, his pushes growing weaker every minute. Eventually he just falls limp and that’s when his breathing starts to even out, when he gets control over himself and the reality comes into focus. That Matthias walked in on him purging. How that must have looked to him. Matthias, who had picked him up and spun him around when he reached six months clean. He can still hear his laughter, feel the pride that had glimmered in his blue eyes.
Shame floods him once again, and this time it carves away at his insides and it just keeps coming.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t,” he says firmly, a press of his lips against his hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I didn’t-I shouldn’t have-”
“It’s okay,” Matthias says again. “We’ll work it out.” He nuzzles into Wylan’s hair. It’s a mess. He hasn’t brushed it since yesterday morning. “It’s not your fault.”
But it is. It is because he can’t control himself, because he can’t read, because something went wrong with him long ago and no-one can ever fix it.
He doesn’t want to do it. He wants to be strong and not to need them to help him. But he buries his face in Matthias’ shoulder and grasbs his arms with shaking hands. He smells like porridge and tea. It calms his heart, just a little.
For a while, they sit like that, Wylan mumbling apologies and Matthias assuring him that it’s okay. There’s a little wet patch on Matthias’ shoulder, but he doesn’t mention it. His worry feels like palpable thing, punctuated by the slight hitch in his chest when he breathes.
“Wylan…” he begins carefully. “Did… did something happen? Something to trigger this.”
There’s an answer, and the answer makes him cringe. Because when he says it, it sounds so simple. Compared to the avalanche he made of it all, it’s so small that it doesn’t matter.
“My stepmother’s pregnant,” he mumbles. He doesn’t miss how Matthias’ hand tenses as it runs through his hair. He thinks he hears a curse under his breath, but he can’t be sure. Matthias never curses.
“Wylan, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. He curls his hands into fists. “She’s allowed to get pregnant.” Tears burn on his cheeks. “She’s allowed to be a mother.”
Matthias hums in agreement.
“Maybe,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” Wylan curls in against Matthias’ body, the same way he used to do on his mother’s lap and shit-he’s still so childish. Will Alys’ baby still be desperate to cuddle her, at the old age of eighteen?
He doesn’t intend to vocalise it, but the thought slips out through his mouth before he can even realise.
“It’ll be a better heir than me.” Matthias freezes.
“What?” He feels Matthias move, and then he’s being jostled as Matthias is bringing him to his knees and looking right at him, his hands secure around his arms. Like if he lets go Wylan will hit the floor. He might, given the state he’s in. “Wylan…”
“It will be though!” he insists. “It’ll be… it’ll be someone who can actually run a business. An actual heir, not an idiot who couldn’t even sign his name.” He presses his hand to his mouth. It’s a terrible, ugly truth, and there it is, out in the open. It’s horrific. And if the look on Matthias’ faceis anything to go by, he thinks so too. Slowly, one hand comes up and cups Wylan’s face, his thumb brushing away the tears on his cheek.
“Hey. Hey, listen,” he tells him firmly. “If your father is the judge on whether someone is a good heir, than being a good heir is worthless. Alys’ baby will be whatever Alys’ baby will be. But you, Wylan are the most intelligent person I have ever come across. And if your father couldn’t see that, then he is the fool. And I will pray that he gains a modicum of common sense and I will pray for your little sibling too.” He strokes Wylan’s cheek. “But you were never the problem, Wylan. It was always, always him.”
Wylan nods, because he feels he has to. The words float to him and some stick, but he feels as if most of them just fall away. He hears them, understands them, but he can’t take them on board. Even so, they ease something for him. They take the wire that’s been wrapped around it chest and loosen it.
He rests his hands on Matthias’ chest and drops his head.
“He replaced me,” he mumbles. “He just got a new kid. With his new wife. I… we weren’t good enough.”
“Do you want to be good enough? If he is the standard, is being good enough worth it?” Wylan goes to reply, but Matthias cuts him off before he can. “And remember, this is the man who had his wife institutionalised and whose new bride was born a year before me.” And despite everything, Wylan snorts. It feels good, and strange, and like he doesn’t have a right to it.
He wants to say no. He should say no, but he can’t make the words form. So he settles for shaking his head. It doesn’t feel like enough, but Matthias smiles as if it is.
They sit there for a few minutes, silence lapping at them like the canal against the bank. Slowly, Wylan’s breathing calms, his heart slows. The fog recedes, and he can think. For the first time since last night, his father’s mansion is nowhere to be seen.
“Thank you,” he says. “For-for doing this. You didn’t have to-”
“Hey,” he says. “Yes, I did. And you know you don’t have to thank us for this.” He brushes his fingers along Wylan’s cheek. “You’re one of us. We look out for each other, yeah?”
“Yeah.” One of us. He holds onto that, the words tight in his fist. One of them.
Wylan doesn’t protest when Matthias kisses his forehead, then his cheek, then pulls him into another hug. He sees the toilet in his periphery and shudders.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into his shoulder. “I’m sorry that-”
“No.” Matthias cuts him off and rubs circles into his back. “No apologies. This wasn’t your fault. You never need to apologise when this happens.” It doesn’t feel entirely true, but he doesn’t protest it. Instead, he leans into Matthias’ embrace and runs his hand over the fabric of his sweater. There’s something soothing in it, the softness of the wool, the little ridges and bumps.
“I don’t think I…” His voice trails off, leaving his sentence unfinished. He doesn’t know how to end it. Matthias doesn’t seem to mind though. He nods in that knowing way of his, and he links their fingers together.
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” he says. And Wylan doesn’t smile, not exactly. But he gets close.
It’s evening when the door opens, and the setting sun half-hidden behind dense clouds. Wylan dozed off not too long ago, his head in Matthias’ lap and a blanket draped over him. Given how tired he’s looked all day, Matthias doesn’t plan to wake him any time soon.
Inej appears in the doorway as he looks up, silent on the balls of her feet. She spares Matthias a smile before her eyes land on Wylan, jaw clenching as she takes in Wylan’s face. If Wylan had known how worried they’d been last night… well, he’d probably feel worse. But maybe he’d know how loved he is too.
“How’s he been today?” she whispers.
Matthias pauses. It might be at least a week before he stops replaying that moment he entered the bathroom, seeing Wylan with his fingers jammed down his throat. It’ll take even longer for him to stop worrying every time Wylan is out of his sight. They talked about it, as much as Wylan would allow. There’ll be a call to his therapist. He’s already thinking about cutting contact with Alys. It’ll be a hard few months for him. He’ll let the other Crows in, because it doesn’t feel right that they don’t know.
But that’s not his story to tell, it’s Wylan’s, when and where and how he feels comfortable. All he can do is be here.
“He’ll be okay,” he says. He runs his fingers through Wylan’s hair and exhales. “He’ll be okay.”