Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wylan misses the winter.

The California sun shines glaringly overhead, the weather app on his phone displaying 75 degrees—in November. 

The New Yorker in him shudders.

He sighs, looking out over the ocean. His Santa Monica home is nothing short of incredible—all high ceilings and wide, open windows, indoor-outdoor living spaces spilling out onto the various patios and balconies that encircle the three-story building—but around this time of year he unfailingly begins to yearn for brownstones lined with garlands. For winds whipping down Fifth Avenue. For thick scarves and hot chocolate and a nose reddened not by sunburn but a proper, bone-deep chill .

Sun in his eyes and salt in his hair do not a yuletide make.

Tearing his eyes from the roiling ocean waves, he glances back down toward his phone, tapping the Gmail icon. 

One email sits unread in his inbox. Earlier, he only managed to get as far as the subject line before exiting the app in a rush of blind panic. This time he resolves to get further. Inhaling a briny gulp of air, he taps open the email.

In his earbud, Siri’s prim little voice begins to read.

Subject: Reunion Show?

Hey gang,

Long time no see! Hope you lot are doing well, even though you’ve stopped making me money hand over fist. *Sigh* If you’re ever open to getting the band back together long-term, you know who to call…

Anyway, it’s been brought to my attention that there’s some demand for a Crows reunion show in New York this holiday season. I know it’s a bit last minute, but it has the potential to be very lucrative. As per Inej’s contract, at least 10% will need to go off to Save the Children (not that I’m complaining, Miss Ghafa!) but even so, if the tickets and merch sell the way we are anticipating, each of you could be minting a pretty penny.

Let me know if you have interest in participating or are willing to allow a touring artist to fill your spot. (Kaz and Inej excluded from the latter, of course!)

Your long-suffering former manager who would like to return to making gobs of cash together,

Anika

Siri cuts off. Wylan chews his bottom lip, considering. Money isn’t exactly a problem for him—the mansion at his back is evidence enough for that—but even so, the idea niggles at him. Call it homesickness. Or madness. Either way, his mind lights up with visions of fairy lights on evergreens, of skaters twirling around on the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. Of fallen yellow leaves dusted with an early-winter frost and steam curling from the subway grates.

You could always just visit…

Wylan dismisses the idea offhand. Although his father still resides in the luxury Upper East Side apartment in which Wylan grew up, he very much doubts Jan Van Eck would welcome a surprise visit from his firstborn. The pair of them came to a tacit agreement when Wylan set out for California—stick to opposite coasts, and all will be well.

No, going to New York without a concrete reason would be folly.

Perhaps he should avoid it altogether. Stay in California. Allow a touring musician to take up his spot behind the keyboard. The fans won’t notice his absence, not with Kaz and Inej front and center.

He’ll need to think about it.

Wylan’s about to remove his earbuds when another ping comes through. Siri reads— Gmail alert. Re: Subject: Reunion Show? Sender: Jesper Fahey.

His stomach falls to his shoes. As he taps open the notification, his eyes slide shut of their own accord.

Two clipped words sound off in his earbuds. I’m in.

Wylan’s heart follows his stomach, swooping dangerously toward the ground. The ocean breeze picks up his hair, and suddenly he feels as though he is standing on the precipice of some great height. The words echo in his head, Siri’s voice growing lower, smoother. I’m in. I’m in.

Wylan swallows, opening his eyes. The slim gold band around his left ring finger reflects the California sun, throwing light back at him like an accusation.

Another email. Sender: Nina Zenik. Anika, doll, so good to hear from you! Matthias and I would love to partake. Can you work on booking that fabulous craft services team we had during the Dancing with the Stars tour last year? I’ll get you in touch with the DWTS staff to get a name. Thanks!!

Almost before Siri can finish reading, another ping comes. Sender: Kaz Brekker. Greenroom demands already, Zenik? Fame has changed you. P.S. No one cares that your hulking boyfriend won Dancing with the Stars. Anyone as big as Matthias could have done those lifts.

Three more emails roll in—

Sender: Inej Ghafa. Don’t pretend you weren’t glued to the TV during Matthias’ cha-cha, Kaz.

Sender: Anika de Haan. Does this mean you’re in, Kaz and Inej? No disrespect to the other talented musicians on this thread, but there really is no “Crows” without you two. Venue’s asking me to get your answers ASAP.

Sender: Nina Zenik: My hulking fiancé won Dancing with the Stars, thank you very much.

There’s an image attached to the last email, and Wylan clicks it open. Nina’s smiling face fills his screen, her left hand held up to show off a massive diamond ring. Matthias is slightly behind her, his face only half in frame. He’s grinning broadly, his cheeks tinted pink. 

Wylan’s heart swells. He hits the reply icon, dictating a short message of congratulations and sending it off. His email is quickly buried—

Sender: Jesper Fahey. I’m sorry, WHAT?

Sender: Inej Ghafa. Calling you right now.

Sender: Jesper Fahey. Dial me in.

Sender: Kaz Brekker. You managed to hold off on posting about this on Instagram? Color me surprised, Zenik.

Sender: Matthias Helvar. We are waiting on the videographer to send us an edit for the socials.

Sender: Kaz Brekker. There it is.

Sender: Anika de Haan. Congratulations, Nina and Matthias! Let me know when you’re ready to talk wedding sponsors. Anyway, I really need to get an answer to the venue soon, so if we could just focus the conversation on the reunion show for a moment that would be wonderful…

Sender: Jesper Fahey. Inej are you already on the line with them? Merge me in.

Sender: Inej Ghafa. Merging. Kaz, Wylan, you want in?

Sender: Kaz Brekker. I’ll wait to get the story from the videographer’s edit.

Sender: Anika de Haan. Did I mention the show would be extremely lucrative?

Sender: Inej Ghafa. You did. Wylan?

Wylan taps his nails against the balcony railing, squinting in the sun. Happy as he is for Nina and Matthias, he hasn’t really spoken with either of them in years. A text message here, an Instagram comment there, but nothing more. He sees the small ways in which the others have stayed close. Kaz and Inej’s frequent-yet-opaque references to one another on their stories, spawning thousands of fan-accounts dedicated to deciphering the ‘Kanej’ easter eggs. Nina’s supportive posts about Inej’s work abroad, always accompanied by links at which to donate. A photo—one that Wylan is ashamed to admit he revisits often—on Nina’s grid of Matthias and Jesper at an Upper West Side bar, arms around one another and drinks held aloft. Their grins are messy. Eyes soft. Wylan practically has it memorized.

“Sorry,” he dictates into his phone. “Busy right now. But congratulations again, Nina and Matthias! So happy for you both, sincerely.”

He sends the message with a sinking feeling in his gut. Before he can think better of it, he taps reply again.

“And I’m in. For the show, I mean. I’ll be there.”

He hits send before he loses his nerve.

———

That evening, Timothy arrives home in a good mood.

Wylan’s waiting by the door, obediently stripping his fiancé of a coat he certainly doesn’t need in this weather as Timothy toes off his shoes. Timothy chatters—one of the man’s many charms is that he can always be counted upon to fill a silence—and Wylan, distracted, only remembers to tune in midway through a sentence.

“—would be a massive win, Wy. The board is thrilled with me already. Of course, the work’s not done until the papers are signed. Still, to bag an investor this big would be huge for me. Our Series B fundraising has been a bit rocky, as you know, so the C-Suite is counting on this cash flow to come through. Lots of pressure, but nothing I haven’t managed before, right?”

“Right,” agrees Wylan vaguely. He follows Timothy as he cuts a path through their grand foyer, making his way toward the kitchen. Their chef is already hard at work, a savory aroma filling the space.

Timothy opens the wine fridge. “No champagne until the deal’s closed, I think, but today’s progress calls for celebration. Cabernet?”

“Sounds great.”

Timothy pours the wine, talking all the while about the fundraising woes at his latest startup. This is the fifth such company at which Wylan’s fiancé has worked, and Wylan has yet to hear of a fundraising series going smoothly . Still, the deals go through, and the equity Timothy’s awarded for getting them past the finish line have paid for… Well. Just about everything. Wylan’s garnered some acclaim as a composer, but a musician’s salary doesn’t quite cover their lavish Santa Monica lifestyle.

Timothy’s financial jargon goes right over his head, and still, he tries his best to listen. The first glass of wine disappears quickly, so Wylan sips his second, reaching for Timothy’s hand across the table. As Timothy continues speaking about capital and crowdfunding and convertible notes, it’s a struggle for Wylan to keep his mind from wandering back to the commitment he made this afternoon.

Subject: Reunion Show?

Anika had eventually gotten her much-awaited confirmations from Kaz and Inej, allowing her to move forward with the booking. She replied: This is going to be a special show, you guys. I know it. Rehearsals will begin in a week. My assistant will be in touch to discuss travel and accommodations. So excited!!

Timothy fiddles a bit with Wylan’s ring as he speaks, his expression going thoughtful as he glances down at the slim gold band. There is no matching ring on his finger. He was supposed to have gotten one at the wedding, but…

Well. But .

Wylan realizes, rather suddenly, that he could have bought Timothy a ring to soften the blow of postponing their nuptials. It simply never occurred to him to do so until now.

Would the gesture still be appreciated nearly a year later? Or would it be a harsh reminder of what almost was?

He files the idea away for consideration at a later date. Now, he has something more important to discuss.

Rehearsals will begin in a week.

Wylan prompted Siri to repeat Anika’s email over and over, just to be sure. A week. A week . Of course the band can’t just pick back up after five years apart to play for a crowd of thousands, but he hadn’t realized that they would need to start quite so soon.

Stupid. Foolish. Ridiculous. The words pulse behind his eyes, a keen pressure sinking into place within his skull.

“Something wrong?” asks Timothy as the chef brings over their first course. His expression is markedly neutral, but a wary spark shines in his eye.

Wylan sips his wine to buy some time. His pulse is thudding nonsensically, nerves he hasn’t felt since moving west thrumming in his veins. It’s not that he expects Timothy to say no, per se, but…

“I’ve been asked to play a show back east.”

Timothy raises his brows. “Oh yeah? When?”

Wylan winces. “That’s the problem. It’s a bit soon. I can tell them no if you’d like, but they’re asking me to fly out for rehearsals next week. It’s a holiday thing, sort of, so the timing is tight…”

He trails off, reading Timothy’s expression. Wylan’s fiancé veers toward the perennially optimistic—his sunny personality a match for their Californian setting—but Wylan’s all too aware of the hardships he’s caused his past year. Since postponing the wedding, he’s made an effort to be the perfect partner. He never asks for more than the smallest of favors. He remains quiet and clean. More than once, he’s startled their staff simply by walking into a room.

He feels all too often as though he is in a suspended state, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The confused furrow between Timothy’s brows clears. “That sounds wonderful! I hope they’re paying extra for the rush.”

“It promises to be lucrative,” confirms Wylan.

Timothy nods. “What sort of show is it then? And where?”

Again, Wylan hesitates. “It’s a Crows reunion thing? In New York?” He hates the way his sentences veer up at the end as though he’s asking a question.

But his hesitancy is confirmed when Timothy’s expression shutters.

 “I can say no if you’d like,” Wylan repeats. “They would understand. I would understand”

Timothy bounces back quickly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t ask that of you, Wylan. The Crows are—were—a big part of your life. If you want to go, I’ll support you.”

A rush of gratitude floods Wylan. He smiles, uncertain why he was so—

“Maybe we can also visit your father while we’re there.”

Wylan’s rush of gratitude comes to a screeching halt. He blinks. “You’re coming?”

Timothy smiles crookedly, his eyes narrowing. “Do you not want me to?”

“No! No of course not, I would love to have you there. I just thought with the fundraising…”

Timothy rolls his eyes. “Welcome to the modern world, Wylan. I can work remote.” He wipes his mouth, pulling his phone from his pocket. “You said next week, right?”

“Rehearsals start next week, yes. The show’s not until mid-December.”

“I’ll adjust my schedule. I’d like to get your father’s opinion on the investment anyway.”

Wylan grinds his teeth to keep from saying anything nasty. Despite all the drama of Wylan’s youth, Timothy respects his father and vice versa. It’s easier for Wylan to keep it that way. Lord knows that Jesper and his father never got on. “Sure thing. Let me know if you need help with the travel. The Crows manager is booking me, but I’m sure I can ask her to get you a plane ticket as well.”

“My assistant’s got it. She’s a saint. But thank you, darling.”

With a quick peck to Wylan’s forehead, Timothy exits the kitchen, already on the phone with his assistant.

————

Wylan steps off the red-eye groggy and undercaffeinated, but with an undeniable energy coursing through his veins. At his feet unrolls the newly renovated LaGuardia airport, shinier and better-built than he can ever remember it being throughout his childhood.

To his left, Timothy cracks his neck. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than I would have, thanks to you.” Timothy’s assistant had, of course, booked him first class. The same could not be said for Anika. Wylan’s ticket was barely above economy, in some not-quite-business-class area he assumes is considered appropriate for former rock stars.

A few words with the gate agent and a flash of Timothy’s Amex had made the problem go away. They spent the flight side-by-side in lie-flats, sharing tiny bottles of gin and dozing beneath the soothing blue lights.

Timothy smiles. “Don’t mention it.”

They pick up their bags and navigate to the cab line with little issue. Wylan smiles at the sight of the bright yellow cabs awaiting them.

“Fucking freezing,” mutters Timothy, sinking deeper into his Canada Goose.

Wylan is inclined to disagree. The cold is refreshing, clearing the sleep from his head more effectively than a cup of weak airport coffee ever could. He doesn’t comment though, silently following his fiancé through the line.

When they’re in a cab, Timothy says, “Eighty-fifth and Park.”

In the mirror, Wylan can see the cab driver’s eyebrows go up. “Nice address,” he mutters.

Timothy beams.

Back in California, the decision to stay with Wylan’s father had caused a bit of an argument between them.

“Anika is booking a hotel,” Wylan insisted when Timothy brought up the idea. “Somewhere nice in Midtown. I think we should stay there.”

Timothy frowned. “And sleep two doors down from your ex boyfriend and his flavor of the month? No thank you.”

“Come on,” said Wylan, pointedly ignoring the flavor of the month comment. “It’ll be fine. I can request that Anika book us a room as far from”—he stopped himself from saying Jesper —“from the others as she can.” Timothy’s frown didn’t budge, so Wylan stepped closer, looking up at his fiancé through his lashes. “Maybe it’ll be romantic? A warm little hotel room, just the two of us…”

Timothy’s eyes narrowed, and Wylan knew immediately that he had made a mistake. Laid it on too thick. He could see Timothy’s gears turning and scrambled for something else to say, words to walk it back, a way to stop—

“Is this about the dyslexia thing again?”

Wylan grimaced. Took a step back. “No.”

“Wy. I know you better than that.”

Blowing out a long breath through his lips, Wylan said, “Fine. What if it is?”

Timothy looked toward the ceiling in a move so close to rolling his eyes it made Wylan’s blood preemptively boil. “For the last time, Wylan, your dad doesn’t hate you because you’re dyslexic . That’s ridiculous. He just wishes you would—”

“Don’t.”

“—try a little harder is all.”

Wylan’s throat tightened, a humiliating heat prickling behind his eyes. “I have tried.”

“When you were younger, yeah. Before all the…” he waved a hand. “Crows stuff. And then I know you tried again when you first got out here, but when’s the last time you brought Charlie around?”

Charlie was a Los Angeles based tutor discreetly hired by the rich and famous to amend unseemly educational gaps. Wylan had once thought it sweet that Timothy cared enough to research and hire the man. And at first it had seemed as though they were making progress—Charlie suggested a new methodology around having Wylan identify the shapes of words rather than try to parse out each letter individually—but as the weeks wore on and the tutor made no meaningful progress, the subject grew sore.

“Charlie didn’t work.”

“Maybe you didn’t want Charlie to work.”

Wylan’s eyes widened. Just as quickly as the words came out, Timothy seemed to realize what he had said. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, I dunno, I can see your father’s side is all. He doesn’t really understand the talents you do have. To him, music is a frivolous pursuit.”

“Frivolous,” deadpanned Wylan. He’d won a Billboard Award with the Crows.

“I’m not saying I agree with the man, Wy. Obviously. I cried when I heard the overture you composed for the Serial movies. Your agent never stops calling. The Crows have sold over a million records. You’re immensely talented. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone but him.”

Timothy sighed. “I’m sorry, Wylan. I really am. I shouldn’t have brought all this up. Still, it's no reason not to visit your father around the holidays. He, Alys, and the baby are the only family you have left. I would hate to see you distance yourself from them over something so…”

“Stupid?” Wylan supplied.

Timothy leveled him with a glance. “Avoidable.”

In the end, Wylan relented.

The cab driver comes to a stop on the corner of Eighty-fifth and Park, looking up at the dignified gray buildings. It’s clear he’s curious to see which of the gated courtyards Wylan and Timothy will enter, taking his time unloading their bags and glancing toward the loitering doormen. Wylan almost wants to tell him yes, it’s the nicest one just to stop his roving eyes.

Timothy tips generously, sliding a crisp bill into the driver’s hand. “Happy holidays, my friend.”

“You as well, sir!”

With that, Timothy and Wylan are alone, standing on the block where Wylan grew up.

It’s not their first time visiting, but it is their first time visiting in the winter. Wylan wants to take Timothy’s hand and drag him away from the high-rise, instead taking his fiancé on a cozy carriage ride through Central Park or to see the line wrapped around the block for Milano Market—even in the cold. He wants to stop in and have a cocktail at the Penrose or a beer at Ryan’s Daughter. He wants to listen to a few sets at Brandy’s, the piano bar he used to frequent when he was up and coming, and sip whiskey to warm his chest as he awaits his turn to play.

What he does not want to do is approach his father’s uniformed doormen, hand off his bags, and ride the elevator up to the top floor. 

But of course, that’s what they do. Wylan’s anxiety ratchets up with each floor they pass by, an uncomfortable tightness wrapping fingers around his lungs. Timothy, contrarily, appears unfazed. He smiles gently and holds Wylan’s hand, a shallow comfort.

By the time they reach the penthouse, Wylan’s pulse is thudding in his ears. 

The doors slide open, depositing Wylan and Timothy straight into the sprawling, old-money apartment. They’re greeted by marble floors and crown moulding, a table in the entryway prominently displaying a vase that Wylan once knocked over in a burst of childish energy. If he turns it around, he could probably still find the cracks.

A female voice rings out. “Wylan, honey? Is that you?”

Alys is only one year older than Wylan, but she insists on calling him honey anyway. He’ll never admit how much he likes it.

As he steps over the threshold, memories wash over him. Of riding his scooter up and down these halls and baking cookies in the kitchen. Of sitting at his mother’s knee to learn about art and music and overhearing his father tell off yet another tutor for incompetence . Of celebrating birthdays and holidays and new years right here , surrounded by laughter and mirth, feeling, for just a moment, as though he was at the world’s warm center.

Until he wasn’t.

Syrupy melancholy mixes with the rabbit-heart panic in his blood to form an odd, potent cocktail.

“Yeah,” he manages to call back to Alys. “It’s me.”

———

Dinner’s first course hasn’t even been brought out yet when Jan brings up Wylan and Timothy’s botched wedding.

Sipping neatly from a rocks glass, Jan says, “If I were you, Tim”—Jan Van Eck is the only person in the world who Timothy allows to call him Tim —“I would be getting a little tired of waiting. You two were supposed to be wed last year.”

Jan’s tone hardly screams jest , but Timothy chuckles anyway. It’s disarming, Timothy’s soft laugh, and for a brief, blinding moment, Wylan loves him for it.

He places a hand atop Wylan’s. “Luckily I have something worth waiting for.”

Jan’s smile is pinched. “Tell that to the deposits I’d already paid the vendors.”

“I’ve told you we would be happy to pay you back,” says Wylan.

Jan waves a hand. “The money is no bother. Now that your silly band is broken up, it’s prudent that you hold on to the sums you managed to make with them.” 

Wylan doesn’t bother to tell his father that he is still employed—regularly, albeit much less visibly—as a musician. He simply looks down at his empty plate.

“No,” Jan continues, “what really is a shame is the way you let your stepmother down.” Across the table, Alys looks up, a furrow between her blonde brows. “She was crushed when you called off the wedding.”

Wylan thinks that at this moment, Alys looks more confused than crushed , but he doesn’t say so. “I didn’t call anything off. We’ll still have the wedding someday.” He doesn’t dare look over at Timothy. “It just felt too…”

Jan scoffs. “Too well-planned? Too expensive? It was set to be the society event of the season, Wylan.”

Something in Wylan’s chest snaps. “Maybe I don’t want to be the society event of the season , father. I asked for something small and intimate. What you two came back with was a circus.”

“Don’t insult your stepmother like that.”

Wylan rubs his temples. “Sorry, Alys.”

Timothy shifts in his seat. “You have to admit, Jan, the thing was shaping up to be a bit overwhelming.”

Overwhelming is an understatement. Ever since the discovery of Wylan’s … defect , Jan had taken little interest in his son’s life. But Wylan’s father took to wedding planning with an energy Wylan had only ever seen him apply to work. Mere weeks after Wylan gave Timothy that shaky yes on the Santa Monica Pier, Jan and Alys put together plans for a three-hundred person affair in the Rainbow Room. Performers were lined up—none of whom Wylan had ever played with—and caterers called. The flower budget alone was approaching six figures, and Alys had a personal shopping appointment at Vera Wang for her mother-of-the-groom dress.

“Well,” says Jan. “Maybe someday we’ll see the two of you wed. Until then, fortunately, Alys has Plumje’s fifth birthday party to keep her occupied.”

“Plumje’s five already?” asks Timothy, his voice slick with false cheer. It’s clear he’s eager to change subjects. “Where does the time go?” 

Alys preens. “Our baby is five! And her birthday will be a marvelous affair. Jan’s arranged for everything to be absolutely perfect.”

Jan smiles indulgently. “I barely lifted a finger, darling. It was all you.”

The furrow reappears between Alys’ brows. “But you—”

“It’s a shame the two of you can’t make it,” interrupts Jan. “I assume you’ll want to be back in California by then.”

“When’s the party?” asks Timothy.

“The fifteenth,” answers Alys. “Oh, you must come. Plumje misses her brothers dearly. It would make her so happy to see you both there.”

“I’m sure Plumje won’t mind either way so long as there’s cake,” jokes Wylan.

But Alys’ eyes are already filled with tears. “Plumje would be honored to have you both at her fifth birthday party. Simply honored .”

Timothy and Wylan exchange a glance. “We’re flattered, Alys, but I have to focus on my gig—”

“Oh! ” cries Alys. “ Honored . That gives me an idea. You two could be her guests of honor .” She claps her hands together twice. “How brilliant!”

Timothy cuts in. “I don’t think that’s—”

“I’ll need to get you both fitted with suits to match Plumje’s little pink babydoll dress. The theme is Barbie, since she so loves her Barbie dolls, but not like, the movie Barbie? That wouldn’t exactly be appropriate for a five year old, I don’t think. Just the doll. And pink! Pink as far as the eye can see. I suppose it might clash a bit with your hair, Wylan, but just because you’re the guest of honor doesn’t mean you can dress out of theme.” She waggles her finger, smiling indulgently.

Wylan tries one last time. “That’s kind, Alys, but our flights back are already book—”

But Alys isn’t listening. “There will be dancing too, of course. How quickly can you boys learn a foxtrot?”

Timothy suppresses a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “This party is set to be pretty extravagant, huh?”

“Only the best for our Plumje, right Jannie?”

Jan’s smile is plastic. “Of course.”

Timothy turns toward Wylan, shrugging. “What do you say, Wy? Your concert’s on the twelfth. My work is flexible. I’m sure we can stay a few extra days to celebrate your sister.”

“Half-sister,” Wylan corrects automatically. He feels as though his mind is lagging, snagged on a word a few sentences back. 

Extravagant . Plumje’s party was set to be as extravagant as the wedding he called off.

Across the table, he catches his father’s eye.

Cold spreads across his chest, suspicion building like a snowstorm within him. Wylan didn’t lie when he said he delayed the wedding because of its extravagance. It was overwhelming, and a waste of money, and not at all what he had asked for.

But it wasn’t the only reason.

Jan’s cool blue eyes regard him icily, as though daring him to speak.

Wylan stands, tossing his unused napkin atop his plate. “I need some air. Please, go ahead and start without me.”

Timothy startles. “Wy—”

Wylan darts from the room before his fiancé can finish saying his name.

———

Outside, the cold is bracing. Wylan’s forgotten a jacket, so he crosses his arms over his chest, ducking his head against the wind. He walks directionlessly, his head abuzz.

Extravagant. Extravagant. Wylan’s wedding—Wylan’s whole life —can be defined in that one word. Never did he think to question the ceaseless extravagance with which he had always been surrounded until he met the Crows.

But once his eyes were opened, there was no going back.

He walks west, looking up when he reaches the Met. It’s lit up from below, butter-yellow lights throwing dramatic shadows on the limestone facade. It’s gorgeous at night, so stately and grand that Wylan can’t help but feel small. He crosses to walk in front of the typically-crowded stairs, now host to only a few lounging couples. Cigarette smoke curls from one of the pairs, another fighting over the last bite of an unseasonable ice cream cone. Wylan’s about to look away when a movement catches his eye.

The smokers are staring at him. One of them is a woman with box-dye black hair and thick eyeliner. And the other is—

Wylan stops in his tracks.

The other is Jesper.

Even from a distance, he looks good. Still dramatically angular, the sharp lines of his cheekbones offset by the softness of his mouth, but filled out a bit in the shoulders and jawline and hollows of his cheeks. The omnipresent half-moons below his eyes have cleared, any trace of sallow grayness gone from his skin. His hair is close-cropped, like always, but neater now. Wylan supposes he must have gotten a proper barber, rather than asking Inej for a buzzcut every couple of weeks. 

He’s still him . Still sporting far too many shiny rings and a bright, floral jacket that has no business being out in the New York City winter. Still wearing a permanently amused expression, his eyes bright as coins as he stares slack-jawed at Wylan.

It’s a long moment before either of them moves.

And then, slowly, a smile dawns across Jesper’s features. It transforms him. Straight-faced he’s attractive, but smiling, he’s almost too beautiful to look at. Like a piece that belongs in the building behind him rather than a flesh-and-blood man lounging on the stairs, raising his hand to wave at—

“Wylan!”

The voice comes from behind. Wylan spins on his heel to see Timothy rushing toward him.

“Are you mad? What are you doing out here without a coat?” Timothy wears his overpriced Canada Goose jacket, and yet still, he shuffles from foot to foot for warmth as he comes to stand before Wylan. “I know you’re upset, but I’ve made your father promise not to bring up the wedding again.”

Wylan feels eyes on his back. He wants to look over his shoulder, but fears the gesture will bring Timothy’s attention to Jesper. “It’s not that.”

“Come on, Wy. I know you better than that. Just come home. Dinner’s getting cold.”

Timothy extends his arm, and obediently—almost automatically—Wylan steps into his embrace. His mind still somewhere back on those stairs, he lets his fiancé lead him home.

———

That night, Wylan waits until Timothy is asleep before creeping into the hall bathroom. He keeps the lights off, gingerly locking the door behind him and sinking to a seat on the tiled floor. Sitting still for a long moment, he simply listens. The building’s central heating whooshes gently, faint horns and sirens sounding far below. 

Inside the apartment, all is silent.

When he’s certain that no one else is awake, he pulls out his phone. Shoving an earbud into one ear, he brings the base of his phone to his lips, whispering, “Hey Siri.”

The digital assistant pings to life with two tiny beeps. 

Wylan swallows, pausing to listen again before murmuring, “Google Jesper Fahey.”

It’s a ritual between him and Siri, one Wylan’s not keen to ever share with his fiancé. He knows he could simply set up Google alerts—for himself, for Jesper, for all of the other Crows—under the guise of following his former bandmates’ careers, but there is something to this particular routine of sneaking out of bed and padding into the nearest closet or restroom that feels more appropriate.

Siri obeys, confirming “Googling Jesper Fahey,” in his ear.

He thumbs over to the News section of Google, which he knows to be fourth from the left. Clicking the first article at random, he listens to Siri read off an announcement for the Crows reunion show. Jesper’s name is sandwiched between Nina’s and Wylan’s, after the arguably more famous Kaz, Inej, and, thanks to his dancing prowess, Matthias.

He exits the link, clicking to the next.

“Love on Tour?” reads Siri. “British singer Joan Knight’s rumored affair with former Crows drummer Jesper Fahey heats up as they take their award-winning tour to the Americas.”

There’s a photo beneath the wiggly mess of letters that Wylan assumes is the headline. Jesper and Joan , apparently, sitting close together at a dimly-lit club. Wylan recognizes the box-dye and thick eyeliner.

He bites his lip, wondering what it means that Joan is here in New York.

The feeling that settles heavy in the base of his belly isn’t exactly jealousy. Nor is it heartbreak. He’d gotten over seeing Jesper with women—always women, his romantic connections with men either not longstanding enough to be publicized or summarily ignored by the press—a long time ago. Instead, it’s a gooey sort of bitterness that coats his insides, an addictive little sting of pain prickling along his skin.

He clicks through a few more articles about Jesper’s work on Joan Knight’s world tour, dating all the way back to the press release. Before that, Jesper was with Sarah Kingsley and the Slayers. Before that, Faith Porter. It seems as though the man hasn’t sat still in years, acting as a touring artist for band after band after band without breaking. It’s impressive, but Wylan feels grateful that composing is stationary work.

As Wylan clicks back into the past, the headlines grow harsher. Articles report Jesper’s infamously wild nights out in Soho, his suspected drug problem, his gambling debts. Every once-secret pain that had eventually, inevitably, turned into tabloid fodder.

Wylan wishes he had done something about it.

But by the time the news reports caught his attention, he was already in California nursing his own wounds. He remembers chewing his lip until it split as he watched reporters speculate on an Entertainment Tonight segment. Was Jesper Fahey in over his head with bad actors from New York City gangs? Had he been kicked out of another casino in Atlantic City? How, after all his incredible success, could the midwestern charmer let something like this happen to him?

Wylan’s then-boyfriend Timothy kissed the top of his head, muttering, “Looks like you dodged a bullet there, darling.”

Some nights, tucked alone with his phone into the very back corner of their closet, eyes tracing the swooping, endlessly interesting contours of Jesper’s face, Wylan wasn’t sure he agreed.

Time slips past as Wylan clicks back, and back, and back. Until the speculated fling driving the press into a frenzy isn’t the one with Joan Knight , but rather, with him.

Bandmates or Boyfriends? The Crows’ Jesper Fahey and Wylan Hendriks share a cozy night out.

The article is accompanied with a photo of Wylan and Jesper emerging from a West Village restaurant. Jesper’s arm is slung easily around Wylan’s shoulders. Wylan’s nose and cheeks are stained pink. There’s a scarf around Wylan’s neck that no one knows Jesper knitted for him, and a key in Jesper’s pocket for an apartment that Wylan bought with the intention to share.

It’s one of the last photos of them together, of them happy, before everything fell apart.

Heat roiling beneath his skin, Wylan exits the tab and pockets his phone.

———

Chapter Text

Their first rehearsal is the next morning.

Wylan curses himself for not coming to the city sooner. His jet lag is monstrous, exhaustion dulling his every thought as he forces himself from bed to get ready for the day. Headphones in, he practices scales on his keyboard until he feels sufficiently warm, gratefully accepting a hearty breakfast and massive mug of coffee from the cook before dressing in comfortable clothing and shoes. He knows better than to try and look stylish for a long day of rehearsal, and yet he still changes his shirt thrice until he finds the one that best matches his eyes. 

He wonders what Jesper will be wearing.

While packing his bag, he accepts a kiss from a groggy Timothy. “Good luck today. You’ll smash it. You’re probably the only one of them who has kept playing so much.”

“Thank you.” Wylan doesn’t know how to say that the piano is the least of his worries. The image of Jesper on the Met stairs with Joan is burned on the back of his eyelids, there every time he blinks. 

He tries to ignore it as he dozes in the back of a cab heading south to the rehearsal space in Flatiron. But there’s no denying the reality of the man, walking towards the studio as Wylan exits his cab.

Jesper slows his stride. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a moment, silence stretches. Wylan’s pulse stutters, a flush climbing up his neck. He looks down, hoping to hide it, but Jesper steps closer, laughing. “Come here, you nudge.” He opens his arms wide and, relief flooding, Wylan steps into his embrace.

The hug is loose, platonic, and over entirely too soon. “How’ve you been?” asks Jesper, opening the door for Wylan to step through. They’re greeted by the familiar, warm interior of Euphoria Studios, a rehearsal space the Crows have used since the band’s inception. There’s a narrow hallway before the check-in desk, down which Wylan and Jesper walk side-by-side.

“Can’t complain. And you?”

“Good, good.” Jesper seems distracted—well, more so than usual. He taps his fingers on his thighs, keeping a ferocious rhythm. “Christ, this place brings back memories.”

Wylan is inclined to agree. As they arrive at reception, he thinks that the employee behind the counter is perhaps the only thing that has changed about the old studio. Signed headshots still stare down at them from the walls—the Crows’ now one among them—and heavy, olive green curtains still separate the reception area from the studios. Wylan can remember many an early morning trudging through this very hallway, Nina already begging Kaz to schedule an early break so they can go pick up bagels and coffee.

A silver bell announces the door’s opening just before a gust of winter wind hits them.

“You’re really not going to let me go in first?”

“Nina, darling, would you truly presume to cut in front of a cripple?”

“You let Inej in ahead of you!”

“You assume I let Inej do anything.”

“Let the demjin through the door first, dear, or else we’ll all be standing in the cold another hour.”

“Fine. But I demand an early break so we can get some waffles. There’s a new place near Penn that I’ve heard is a delight .”

“Typical, Zenik. Asking for a break before we’ve even started.”

“I’ll go get waffles with you Nina.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite, Inej. After Matthias, of course.”

“Of course.”

When the rest of the band turns the corner of the narrow hallway, Inej’s eyes go wide. “Wylan! Jesper!”

She runs the last few steps toward them, grinning as she grips Wylan’s bicep and accepts a bear hug from Jesper. Nina quickly joins the fray —Don’t you dare leave me out of this!— and Matthias wraps his arms around the whole bunch of them. 

Off to the side, Kaz makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Yes, yes, it’s good to see you all. Now can we get to work before Zenik forces us on break to hunt down some carbs?”

The employee directs them to pile into studio three, where a stout, grizzled man is already awaiting them.

“Rotty!” cries Nina.

Their old audio engineer grins. “Well look at this. I can hardly believe my eyes. Never thought I’d see you lot here again.”

“Believe it,” says Nina, dramatically flipping her wavy hair over one shoulder. “We are so back.”

“What brought you kids out of retirement?”

For the answer to that question, everyone in the room looks to Kaz. He shrugs, his smile sharp as knives. “Piles and piles of cash, of course. What other reason is there?”

Rotty laughs, but Wylan narrows his eyes. Anika might be the band’s manager, but they all know it's Kaz pulling the strings from the shadows. Wylan hasn’t forgotten how the six of them came to start a band in the first place. Distracted by the prospect of getting back together, Wylan failed to consider the reason . In five years, this is the first reunion opportunity that Kaz allowed Anika to send them. That can’t be by coincidence. But why?

Across the room, he notices Nina stiffen as well.

“Where’s Specht?” asks Inej, changing the subject.

“Lazing around at home, most likely,” says Rotty. “He hasn’t done a morning session in years.”

“I can respect that,” says Jesper, stifling a yawn.

“If you are tired,” says Matthias, “just think about how the Californian must feel.”

All eyes fall on Wylan. He coughs, a little startled by being referred to as a Californian . “I’m alright. Best way to fight jetlag is to force a new schedule, right?”

“I wish the rest of you would complain so little,” intones Kaz, pulling a knee brace from his bag.

Rotty chuckles. As he helps the band with amps and audio levels, the Crows take the time to catch up a little. Wylan is reminded how much he has missed out on by moving to the opposite coast. Jesper and Nina recount a night out together last year, and Matthias asks Inej about her work in South America as though he already knows what she had accomplished there. In turn, Inej asks Nina and Matthias about their appearance on the TODAY show—when they finally posted the videographer’s engagement video, it prompted a producer to reach out—and Kaz makes a vague reference to Jesper’s touring schedule. 

“If the tabloids are to be believed, it seems as though you and Miss Knight have gotten quite close,” teases Nina.

Jesper lays a hand over his chest, his face a picture of mock horror. “Nina, darling, tell me you haven’t succumbed to the level of believing everything you read in the tabloids.”

“Please,” says Nina. “After they reported my fifth pregnancy when I’d really just been photographed after a hearty lunch, I started taking it all with a grain of salt. Think of my asking you now as going directly to the source.”

Jesper laughs, a sound so musical that Wylan begins to think how he might replicate it on the piano. Key of D major? C?

“We’re not dating, if that’s what you want to know.”

Wylan directs all of his focus toward not showing the happy little zip of energy that courses through him at the statement. You’re engaged, he scolds himself.

“How very vague,” Nina muses in response.

“What about you, Wylan?” asks Inej. “Any news? Are you still composing?”

Wylan swallows. He should have prepared for this. Of course the Crows would be interested in his life, too. But what is there to tell? “Still composing, yes,” he says. “Mostly for television, but I did a series of films last year.”

“And your wedding?”

The question comes from Jesper. He’s staring at Wylan with a blank intensity, fingertips drumming on his thigh. A flare of heat shoots through Wylan’s chest. He tilts his chin forward, holding Jesper’s silver stare.

“Postponed, for now. The planning got a bit out of hand.”

“We can relate,” groans Matthias. “Already Nina wants to hire a team of wedding planners.”

Nina rolls her eyes. “There are three of them, Matthias. That’s hardly a team. More like a pick-up game.”

Wylan laughs. “Just don’t get my father involved if you want to maintain an ounce of your sanity.”

Across the room, Kaz looks up from the instrument he’s been tuning. He holds Wylan’s gaze a moment too long, and the slow whine of alarm bells begin to ring in Wylan’s head.

What does he know?

Before he can consider it, Kaz pushes to his feet. “Enough chatter. Let’s get started.”

Rotty runs them through a quick mic check before slinking off to the side of the room to listen.

Kaz and Inej loiter by the mics. There’s a comfort between them that Wylan hasn’t seen before. Certainly not here in this studio. He wonders—and then hates himself for wondering—if the lack of tension between them will impact their hypnotic stage presence. Behind them, Nina slings a guitar over her shoulder, Matthias picking up the bass. Wylan takes his place at the piano, rifling through a few chords as Jesper picks up a loose drumbeat. From their places in stage formation, they discuss which song to start with, landing on one of their early hits.

Then, there’s nothing left to do but play.

With a smile like a thunderclap, Kaz turns toward them. “Ready?”

Around the room, everyone nods.

Jesper hits his drumsticks together to set the beat. One, two, three, four…

And then the studio explodes into sound.

The first song is uptempo, and loud . It races through Wylan’s blood like battery acid. They play it twice before moving on to the next, and the next, and the next after that. Kaz sets at a brutal pace for the rehearsal, barely pausing to discuss notes before suggesting another song. The others complain during their scant water breaks, but Wylan doesn’t mind it. At the piano, he knows what to do. The notes come as easy as breathing. They’re the songs that made him famous—the songs that made him friends. Brick by Brick, Crooked Kingdom, The Dregs, I Would Come for You . The Crows’ greatest hits, brought back to life beneath Wylan’s fingertips. He loses himself in it, stopping only when Kaz calls out to run a section again or Nina forces them to break.

“This feels good,” says Inej during one such break, eyes bright. “We sound…”

“Fucking fantastic,” Jesper supplies, smashing a cymbal for emphasis.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” grumbles Kaz.

Still, there's an energy coursing around the room, fizzy and bubbling. Nina grins as she hits a solo, Matthias watching her play with heat in his eyes. Wylan’s proven wrong about Kaz and Inej—the newfound comfort between them increases their combined charisma, the rasp of his voice melding better than ever with the low smoothness of hers. Matthias keeps each song grounded, laying down a thrumming, propulsive bass, and Jesper’s years of practice on tour have clearly paid off—he’s as reliable as a metronome, with an artist’s flair.

It’s not perfect—but it's damn close.

Unfortunately, Wylan has been in enough rehearsals to know that it won’t last forever.

When they reach Shadow Business , their most harmonically complex song, Wylan hears something off. Kaz hears it too, stopping the song in the middle and demanding they start again from the top. Throughout Shadow Business, each member of the band sings at one point or another. It’s an impressive effect, the instruments and voices sketching out dark, haunting chords in E minor before resolving to B major. For Wylan, the song’s always conjured the image of a gangster dressed in black, gun pressed to his chest as he smooth-talks his way to victory.

They start over. Again, the harmonies don’t mesh, and again, Kaz stops them.

On the next try, Wylan listens closely, picking out the bum note.

It’s the third. Who sings the third?

His eyes dart to each of his bandmates in turn, focusing in on them to better hear their voices.

Jesper . His brow is furrowed, tendons on his neck straining as he leans forward over the drumset to sing into his mic. He’s wincing as though he knows he’s flat. Wylan hammers the third in his own chord on the piano, hoping to draw him back to the right note, but he can’t manage it before Kaz stops them again.

“Jesper,” he barks. “You’re off.”

Jesper hides a grimace behind a smile. “It’s been five years, boss.”

“Yeah, and you’re playing like it. Let’s start again.”

The room’s energy dissolves into a held-breath focus, everyone waiting to see if they can get through the song without further issue. They pick back up at the beginning, Inej nearly whispering the first of her silky-smooth lyrics. Wylan’s voice joins hers, an octave between them, empty and eerie until Jesper and Nina fill in the chord. Jesper hits his first notes fine, but then, as they go on—

He fumbles, sliding off-pitch.

“Jesper!” barks Kaz.

“It’s not his fault,” says Nina. “We’re all exhausted. Wylan’s been at it since four in the morning his time. We’ll never get through this damned song if we keep repeating the same eight bars over and over again. We need a proper break.”

“Always so concerned with your breaks, Zenik. Do you want to play at all or should we simply go take a food tour of New York City’s best waffles?”

“You know, I wouldn’t be opposed to such a thing…”

“Let’s get back on track,” says Matthias gently, warily eyeing Kaz’s thunderous expression. 

Inej nods her agreement. “Who wants to take a break?”

Everyone except Wylan and Kaz raises a hand.

“Fine,” sighs Kaz. “Take your break. In thirty minutes we’re running Shadow again in full. I better not hear you fuck it up again, Jesper.”

Something hard and cold locks into place behind Jesper’s expression. “Understood.”

Nina loops her arm around Inej’s. “Let’s get waffles.” As they shuffle from the room, Wylan hears Nina stage-whisper, “What’s got his underpants in a twist?”

They’re outside the studio before he can hear the answer.

Quietly, Rotty gets up from his corner and follows them. “I’ll be back,” he says vaguely, phone already at his ear. As he’s leaving, Wylan hears him say, “Did I just wake you, you big lump?”

Jesper stands. “I need a cigarette,” he mutters, following the girls out the door.

Matthias and Kaz exchange glances. “Do you need some coffee?” Matthias asks astutely.

“By the bucketful. You coming?”

Wylan looks up, belatedly realizing Kaz is speaking to him. “No, thanks. I had plenty this morning.”

“Suit yourself.” With that, Kaz and Matthias exit, and Wylan is alone. He stares down at his piano, a flush crawling across his face as he loosely hits the Shadow chords. Should he have left with everyone else? Should he go out now himself? Use the time to get some fresh air or call Timothy?

Neither of the options appeal to him, so he stays at the piano, playing. The Shadow chords melt into something softer, more uncertain. His eyes slide shut. He tiptoes his way through the key, arpeggiating up and down and up again as the harmonies linger on his left hand. On a whim he threads Jesper’s bum note throughout, the flat sticking out among the lush blanket of notes. It sounds … interesting. Novel. Out of place and yet jazzy, stylish—a flashy oddity that elevates the piece. It sounds like—

“Come on now. You don’t have to show us all up even on break, do you?”

Wylan startles, eyes flying open. Jesper’s standing in the doorway. His long arms are loosely crossed, a gentle half-smile on his face.

They’re alone.

Wylan swallows. “That was a quick cigarette,” he observes.

“I remembered halfway through that I’m trying to quit.” 

Wylan frowns, impressed. He never knew Jesper to be much of a quitter. “Good for you.”

“Thanks.” There’s a sardonic edge to Jesper’s voice, so Wylan doesn’t push it. He returns his focus to the keys, playing a few soft chords as Jesper moves across the room to sit behind his drumkit. When Jesper picks up a drumstick with which to fiddle, Wylan’s focus slips toward him. He can’t help it. He’s forgotten how mesmerizing it is to watch Jesper twirl a drumstick between his deft fingers.

His own hands slow to a stop, the music ending on an unresolved chord.

“What were you…” Jesper trails off, gesturing to the piano with his drumstick. “Were you just making that up?”

Wylan scratches the back of his head. “Sort of. I started out playing Shadow and then I just … explored.”

“Explored,” repeats Jesper, amused. He sits forward in his stool, arms on his knees. There’s something in his expression that makes Wylan think of a crackling fireplace, a mug of tea, a balmy ray of sunshine cutting through the winter winds. Warmth. It’s surprising, to say the least. Their last few interactions had been anything but warm. “If this is what your exploration sounds like, I’d love to hear your finished work.”

If Wylan didn’t know better, he might think Jesper’s flirting. But he does know better, and Jesper’s flirting has never been quite so subtle. What he’s mistaking for warmth is probably what Jesper would call civility. 

“You probably have heard some of it, actually.”

Jesper raises a brow. “Prolific, are we?”

“Hardly. But I did write the music for the Serial movies a few years back, and they got kind of big, so—” He cuts himself off when he notices that Jesper’s eyes are already huge. “I take it you’ve seen them?”

“Seen them? Wy, I heard them. Your score—it was brilliant.”

Wy. Timothy calls him Wy too now, but Jesper was the first to do it. It sounds different in his voice.

Wylan flushes. “Thank you.”

Jesper leans back, his expression one of wide-eyed enthusiasm. He talks with his hands, moving the drumsticks to his lap. “I’m serious. I went to see the second one with a few other musicians on tour and we all walked out talking about the piece that plays at the end. Y’know, when the killer finally gets his sentencing?”

Wylan remembers it. He’s particularly fond of that one, although he’s not proud to admit that his big creative breakthrough on it came when he thought about how it might feel to see his father sentenced to life for some big crime. He plunks out a few notes from the melody of the song. 

“That’s it! So brilliant,” Jesper repeats.

“Well, I’m not touring with every mega-star on the planet, but I certainly make do.”

Jesper grins, spreading his palms. It takes effort for Wylan not to look at his hands. “Not everyone can be me, sad but true. I’d argue you’re the more accomplished of us, though. Didn’t the score of Serial get nominated for an Oscar?”

“Golden Globe. And please, Page Six still reports on your every move, whereas I’ve faded into such obscurity that no one even knows my name.”

Amusement flickers in Jesper’s silver eyes. “How do you know Page Six still reports about me?”

Heat floods Wylan’s face. His mind zips back to those bathroom-or-closet sessions with Siri, whispering Jesper’s name into his phone about a hundred different times over the years. “I, ah—”

He’s saved when Nina and Inej sweep back into the room, their arms laden with treats. “We were afraid Kaz was never going to let us leave again, so we stocked up.”

“You angels,” breathes Jesper, jumping on the pile Nina deposits next to the amps. “How were the waffles?”

Nina’s expression goes soft and distant. “Everything I dreamed and more.”

“I tried to bring some back for you,” says Inej, looking pointedly at Nina. 

“Tattletale!” cries Nina. “What betrayal. And from my best friend.”

Jesper flings a candy bar into the air as though it’s a drumstick, catching it one handed. “Unfortunately for you, Inej is my best friend, too.”

“Don’t let Kaz hear you say that,” teases Inej.

“Oh, darling, he already knows you’re his better half.”

Inej grins as she tears into a packet of fruit snacks.

Rotty returns next with reports that Specht is indeed awake and coming to join them soon. “Told him you lot sounded better than ever. That’s what finally got him out of bed.”

Jesper lays a palm over his chest, mock-sincere. “We’ll do our best to live up to his lofty expectations.”

When Kaz and Matthias reenter the room, both sufficiently caffeinated, everyone takes their places again. The group takes a moment to warm back up, fiddling around with their instruments. On an impulse, Wylan leans over toward Jesper.

“Switch with me.”

Jesper looks up. “What?”

“Switch harmonies with me. In Shadow. I sing the octave, so it’s easier to find. You just need to come in on the first verse, not the chorus.”

A furrow appears between Jesper’s brows. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Alright.” He sounds genuinely appreciative, and warmth spreads through Wylan’s center. “Thanks, merchling.”

Wylan groans. “Don’t make me take it back. I’d almost forgotten about that nickname.”

Jesper’s grin dazzles.

“Alright,” says Kaz into the mic, his low voice echoing. “Ready?”

Wylan nods. At his side, Jesper hits his drumsticks together. One, two, three, four…

———

As Jesper predicted, he wasn’t the only one to mess up one of their old tunes. Matthias plays the bass of Brick for half of Dregs before he realizes he’s playing the wrong song. Nina’s finger slips during a solo, plucked string reverberating oddly and setting her off course for the rest of the bridge. Inej forgets a lyric or two, Jesper rides a beat too hard.

Only Wylan and Kaz keep up with one another, remastering their old discography in lockstep, song by song.

“It’s not fair,” complains Nina as they pack up for the day. “You two wrote all the songs.”

“Inej helped,” says Wylan.

“Only on the lyrics,” counters Inej.

“The lyrics are important! They’re what everyone loves most.”

Jesper steps between them. “I, for one, would argue that the drumbeat is what our fans love most. Or perhaps the drummer’s handsome face and impeccable style.”

“Ironically enough,” interjects Kaz, “your face and sense of style are why we put you in the back.”

“Rude.”

The group continues bickering amicably as they pack their instruments and clean up the snack wrappers littered around the space. Rotty and Specht bid them goodbye in the lobby, and when they leave the studio it’s the strange, grayish twilight of New York City nighttime—bright as day near the streetlamps and storefronts, but pitch black overhead, without a star in sight.

“Anyone fancy a drink?” asks Jesper. “To celebrate our first day back?”

Wylan thinks, once again, about his unasked question. Why are we back?  

He glances over at Kaz, but decides he’s too tired to ask it. 

“I need a few hours without seeing any of your faces,” says Kaz to Jesper.

Inej politely declines the invitation, Matthias says he’s tired, and Nina tells Jesper she wants nothing more right now than takeout and her hotel bed. Jesper looks to Wylan, expectant, and Wylan’s stomach swoops toward his shoes. He shouldn’t accept—working with his ex is one thing, going for a drink alone with him is entirely another. Timothy’s understanding on the matter can only stretch so far. And yet still, Wylan’s tempted. Talking to Jesper earlier had been … nice. Not as awkward or tense as he might have imagined. Maybe, if they did go for a drink together, they could begin to chart a new path. Avoid the torrid, whirlwind romance and become something a little more like friends.

He would like that more than he can say.

A yes sits heavy on his tongue when they’re interrupted.

“Wylan!”

It’s Timothy, pulling up next to them in a yellow cab. Wylan’s pulse surges, a tattletale flush spilling over his skin. Calm down, he thinks. You haven’t been caught doing anything wrong. He turns his back to the Crows and walks over to the cab, a little too quickly, placing his hand on the car door. “What are you doing here?”

“I was on my way back from work and snagged an early dinner reservation. You weren’t answering your phone, so I called your manager to see where you’d be. I’m glad I caught you, the reservation is in twenty minutes. Get in!”

“Oh, um…” he trails off, looking back at Jesper. The drummer’s expression has fallen a little, his eyes carefully blank but full lips downturned. A pang lancing through him, Wylan quickly diverts his gaze.

Wylan turns to Timothy. “One minute.” He walks back to the group. “Sorry for the interruption. That’s my fiancé.”

“I knew it!” says Nina, waving at Timothy. “He’s cute as a button, Wylan. Nice work.”

Wylan smiles. Gathering the courage to look at Jesper, he says, “Rain check?”

“Yeah,” says Jesper, shoving his hands in his pockets. He shifts side to side, like Timothy is so wont to do here in the New York winter, but Wylan knows Jesper’s fidgeting has nothing to do with the cold. “Of course.”

“Okay. Goodnight, everybody.”

“Night, Wylan!” 

Wylan gets in the car, accepting a kiss from Timothy as he slides into the plasticky cab seat. As they slide away from the curb, he chances one more look back.

Jesper’s still watching as the car peels away.

———

Dinner is at some swanky steakhouse in Midtown on the ground floor of a famous hotel. Wylan feels underdressed, but Timothy brushes it off. “I’ll tip a little extra. The staff won’t mind.”

Still, Wylan smiles apologetically to the hostess as she brings them to their table. A few patrons stare, likely wondering if he’s wearing joggers and sneakers to a place like this because he’s famous, rich, or stupid.

A little bit of all three, he thinks wryly.

When they sit, Timothy orders a martini. Wylan gets a glass of wine. They catch up about Timothy’s day—he’s had some meetings with potential investors downtown, a networking thing at lunch, and then visited his company’s east coast office in the afternoon, meeting with a few execs about next year’s budget.

“But more importantly,” says Timothy as their meals are delivered, “I want to hear about your day. How was it?”

“Good,” says Wylan. “Really good, actually. We played well.”

“All of you?”

“Well, there were a few mistakes here and there, but generally yes.”

Timothy spears a carrot with his fork. “I’m surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, Helvar and his girlfriend have been doing the influencer-slash-D-list celebrity thing for a little while now. Brekker has his businesses, Inej her non-profits. You’re really the only one that’s kept going with music.”

Wylan chews thoughtfully. “I don’t know about that. Everyone still plays at least a little. And Jesper tours with some pretty big names these days.”

Timothy makes a face. “Yeah, well. I guess what I mean is that you’re the only one that’s kept it up with any sort of discipline.”

Wylan tilts his head. “Discipline?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sure Jesper does well enough for himself, considering. But it’s really just…” Timothy trails off, tapping his fingers against the side of the table in a swift little drumbeat. “It can’t be that complex, can it?”

A flare of annoyance heats Wylan’s chest. “Percussion is more complex than you think, actually. If the drummer’s off, the whole band is off.”

Timothy frowns. “Maybe. If so, I wonder why all these big name stars keep hiring Jesper instead of someone more reliable.”

Early in their relationship, Wylan made the mistake of venting to Timothy about his ex. Ever since, his fiancé has never been able to pass up the opportunity to dig the knife in a little deeper. Whenever the topic of Jesper came up—which wasn’t often, but still—Wylan could be certain that Timothy would bring up his ex-boyfriend's unreliability, his erraticness, his resistance to change.

All the reasons their relationship ended. Reminders of how much better he has it now.

It’s petty, but Wylan hardly has a leg to stand on when it comes to pettiness. He remembers when Kaz hired a new sound engineer to help them with the Ice Court gig. Kuwei was clearly smitten with Jesper, and it only took a few weeks before Wylan’s snark began to get the best of him.

How about I push you in the East River and we see if you know how to swim?

“The way that man parties,” continues Timothy, “I’m surprised he’s ever hired to do a job that requires him to be in good shape the next day.”

Wylan wants him to drop it. “I guess,” is all he says.

“I’m just saying, from what you’ve told me about him I don’t think he would last long in any sort of job with real responsibilities.” Wylan bites his tongue to keep from reminding Timothy that for years, he and Jesper had virtually the same job. “Unless…”

Wylan quirks a brow. “Unless?”

“Well. Was he really that good in bed?”

“Timothy.” Wylan’s voice is hard.

“Come on, lighten up a little.” Timothy sips his martini and Wylan wonders whether it's the first one he’s had today. “You told me yourself that the guy’s a mess. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was brought along on all these tours not for his talent but his…” Timothy waggles his brows. “Companionship.” 

Companionship. One word, and Wylan’s accosted with memories of when he was the one enjoying Jesper Fahey’s companionship. Of sleepy nights after grueling rehearsals, bodies curled together in a too-small bed. Of a wandering hand ghosting over his waist, his hipbone, his thigh, never quite able to lay still. Of a soft kiss pressed to the back of his neck, the hot breath of a whispered question tickling his ear.

Of the answer, never far from his lips. Yes.

“Stop it.” The words come out harsher than Wylan intends. Timothy’s brows fly toward his hairline as humiliation floods Wylan’s stomach. “Sorry. I’m tired. It was a long day. The last thing I want to do is talk about…” Wylan swallows before he can say the word Jesper. “This,” he finishes lamely.

Timothy’s expression softens. “I understand.”

Wylan is surprised at the immediate change in tone. “You do?”

“Yeah, I know you, Wy. You can be a bit of a bleeding heart type when you want to be. It can’t be easy working with him all day long, knowing that you’ve grown into this successful, steady man while he’s”—Timothy shrugs—“toured around, or whatever. You feel guilty. I can see it all over you. But you can’t let him prey on your softheartedness. That’s how he got you last time, remember?”

Wylan nods vaguely, although he doesn’t remember Jesper ever preying on his softheartedness. What Wylan remembers from those early days together is Jesper’s teasing grin, his easygoing nature, his strong, deft hands fiddling with a drumstick. He remembers Jesper noticing his stare, acknowledging it with a wink and a whisper. You want to see what these hands can do when we’re alone, merchling?

The waiter comes by, tearing Wylan from his reverie. Timothy orders them another round—without asking, but Wylan’s grateful for the prospect of another glass of wine—and leans toward Wylan. “I’m sorry, darling. I won’t bring him up again. Why don’t you tell me more about rehearsal. Was Kaz a total dictator?”

Wylan huffs a laugh. “You have no idea.” 

The rest of the dinner slides by with little issue, the second glass of wine and the hearty food doing its work to relax Wylan. After, Timothy wants to get a cab uptown, but Wylan suggests walking over to Bryant Park.

“There’s a little market there this time of year with all sorts of gifts and snacks. Plus an ice skating rink in the middle, and a massive tree. It’s not nearly as big as the one at Rockefeller Center, but it’s pretty nonetheless.”

Timothy indulges him. Wylan slips his mittened hand into his fiancé’s, feeling grateful that Timothy had come along to New York after all. If he hadn’t, Wylan would be alone in his hotel room tonight, or…

Well. Wylan would be getting drinks with Jesper, he supposes.

He allows the thought to slip away before it can consume him.

They enter the park near the New York Public Library. Usually a calm spot of green in the middle of Midtown, Bryant Park has been transformed for the holiday season. A labyrinth of zig-zagging stalls surrounds a wide, white patch of ice upon which skaters twirl. The air is thick with the scent of chocolate and fried dough, fairy lights twinkling from where they’re strung up between stores.

Timothy wrinkles his nose. “This is so cheesy, Wy.”

Wylan grins. “The holidays are cheesy. Don’t be a grinch.”

Timothy relents, looping an arm through Wylan’s as they explore a little. They’re in line to purchase hot ciders when his phone rings. 

Timothy picks it up.  “Hey, Brock! Yeah. Yeah. He didn’t. Did you try to—you did? Okay. Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Wylan grimaces as Timothy puts down the phone. “Work?” 

“Yeah, sorry. I need to get back to the office ASAP. Do you mind terribly if I head down there now? I can grab you a cab.”

“It’s alright,” says Wylan. “I want to stay here a few minutes longer. I’ll find my own way home.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Wylan’s never minded that Timothy works a lot. He likes that his fiancé is so industrious, and frankly, he doesn’t mind the alone time.

“You’re the best. Thanks for always being so easy.” Timothy kisses the top of his head and takes off toward Fifth Avenue, his arm already outstretched to hail a cab.

Wylan’s left standing near the cider stand, Timothy’s last word ringing in his head. Easy? He’s not certain anyone’s ever called him that before. His father had certainly never thought of him as easy. The Crows might have other words to describe him—passionate, cerebral, stubborn. But easy is a new one.

He’s not sure he likes it.

He shakes off the vague sense of disquiet and continues walking a slow loop around the park, steaming cider in hand. Trying Charlie-the-tutor’s method, he attempts to make out the shapes of words along the sides of the stalls. As far as he can tell, he identifies only cider correctly. C-words always were his strong suit. Mostly, he earns frustration for the effort. 

He’s almost back to the library when he spots a familiar silhouette leaning up against the low wall of the ice skating rink. The lean figure drums his fingertips against the bannister, nodding along to the uptempo song that’s playing over the sound system.

Wylan’s body is quicker than his mind, feet taking him to the man’s side before he can think twice about it.

“Jesper.”

Jesper jumps a little, whipping his head toward Wylan. “Christ, merchling! You scared me. You been taking lessons from Inej?”

Wylan laughs. “Definitely not. You must have been absorbed staring at…” He follows Jesper’s line of vision out over the ice, spotting a skater with box-dyed hair and thick eyeliner. The realization crashes over him, humiliation flooding in. His face heats. “Oh. Sorry, you’re here with someone. I should have realized, I can—”

“You’re fine,” interrupts Jesper. “The whole band’s here.” He gestures to another skater, next to Joan Knight, who fumbles over the ice like a newborn foal. Joan grasps the arm of a third man, laughing breathlessly.

Nearby, someone surreptitiously snaps a photo. Wylan wonders if the picture will make it to Page Six.

Jesper turns to him. “I told them I didn’t fancy breaking my neck ahead of the Crows gig. If the fall doesn’t kill me, Kaz will.” He looks around a little. “Is your fiancé…”

“He left. Had to get back to work.”

Jesper makes a low sound at the back of his throat. His fingertips keep up their drumbeat, knocking precise little patterns against the metal. Wylan listens a moment, recognizing the beat.

“Is that Shadow?” he asks, gesturing to Jesper’s moving hands.

Jesper pauses, then smiles, a little sheepishly. “Yeah. After you left I ducked back into the studio to practice for a while. I don’t exactly love practicing alone, but sometimes it helps. Less distracting. I’m still a little shaky, although switching vocal parts helped. Thanks again for that, by the way.”

“You’re welcome.” Wylan remembers Timothy’s words at dinner. I wonder why all these big name stars keep hiring Jesper instead of someone more reliable. But here is the evidence of Jesper’s reliability—or at the very least evidence of his eagerness to please. They’d already put in so many hours, and even so, Jesper went back. Kept working. Would he have done that five years ago, Wylan wonders, or is this a newfound trait?

A memory from one of their last fights as boyfriends shoots through Wylan’s mind like a comet. You’re so talented, Jes, but talent can only take you so far. Why run from the amazing things you can do?

Ironic, now. In the end, it was Wylan who ran all the way across the country to nurse his broken heart.

“Anyway,” he says, “I don’t want to interrupt your evening. I was just walking past and thought I would say hello. I’ll—”

“Where were you headed?” asks Jesper.

Wylan looks around. Shrugs. He should say home. “Probably just around the park again. I’m window shopping.”

“I’ll join you.” When Wylan looks over Jesper’s shoulder at his bandmates, still laughing together on the ice, he waves a hand, adding, “They won’t miss me. They’re a little…”

One of the men falls flat on his face, and Joan roars with laughter. There’s a looseness to her body that Wylan recognizes. “Completely plastered?” he guesses.

“I was going to say tipsy, but that works too.”

And then they’re walking together. Shoulder to shoulder, Wylan is reminded of the physicality of Jesper Fahey. His long-limbed grace, his loping steps, his ceaseless, fidgeting movements. How much taller Jesper is than him. Than Timothy, even.

Don’t do that, he scolds himself. Don’t compare.

He tries his best not to, but as Jesper points out all of the silly trinkets in the windows with increasing glee, he thinks that it’s hard to imagine him ever calling this place cheesy. His mood is infectious, and Wylan allows it to catch. Their talk remains strictly surface level—bemoaning Kaz’s authoritarianism in the studio; discussing if they should indulge in one of those overpriced hot chocolates with a ring of marshmallow fluff around the rim; debating the merits of getting a piercing from a jeweler on the north side of the marketplace—but friendly, any distance or restraint quickly melting away.

“Y’know,” says Jesper as he licks marshmallow fluff from his fingers, “I always thought you would look good with a piercing.”

“Me?” asks Wylan incredulously. Jesper has gold hoops currently shimmering in his earlobes, but Wylan has never considered himself the type.

“Yeah. Shiny things suit you.”

Wylan narrows his eyes. “I feel a merchling joke coming on here.”

“Hah. No, in this case I am referring to you being a pretty boy rather than a rich boy.”

Pretty. Wylan holds his paper cup a little tighter, a surge of lightness sweeping through him. 

Jesper notices his reaction, mistaking it for discomfort. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Perhaps it’s the sugar rush, or the cheerful surroundings, or that laissez faire attitude that seems to settle in his chest every time the end of a year comes around, but tonight, Wylan finds he doesn’t mind being called pretty by the last man on earth for whom it’s appropriate. He can’t remember the last time Timothy’s called him pretty. “This has been nice. I know this place is kinda touristy, but I’ve always liked it. I would have been sad to leave early. I’m glad I ran into you.”

Jesper brightens. “Did you come here a lot growing up?”

“Yeah. My father used to take meetings with one of the banks in the area. Mom and I would meet him after work to skate and see the lights. I always got the sense he only came along to indulge her—indulge us, in the spirit of the holidays—but even so…” Wylan shrugs. “It was nice.”

Jesper knows Wylan’s history with his father. For a moment Wylan thinks Jesper might bring it up, might ask him how it’s been seeing Jan again. But then he looks away, saying, “After my Ma passed, my Da couldn’t really get into the holidays. We had, like, one string of lights on the entire farm. I used to make homemade wreaths myself and hang them around the horses’ necks.” Wylan laughs gently, picturing a small, gangly Jesper deftly weaving together branches of garland. “It was my Ma’s favorite time of year,” Jesper adds quietly.

“Mine too.”

They share a moment of comfortable silence, a vigil held by two motherless sons.

When Jesper speaks again, his words come out in a tumbling rush. “You know, Wy, I’m glad I ran into you, too. I don’t exactly know what Kaz is getting at with this reunion business, but even before I got the email, I was thinking about reaching out.”

Something tightens in Wylan’s chest, wistful and yearning and entirely too painful for the overt cheer of their setting. “Yeah?” he manages. “Why’s that?”

Jesper fiddles with the zipper of his coat. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

They’re interrupted by a screech. “Jesper Fahey! Where have you been, love?”

It’s Joan Knight, wobbling out of the ice rink with her skates still on. A frustrated employee calls out to take them off before she exits, but she pays him no mind, lurching unsteadily toward Wylan and Jesper.

As it turns out, completely plastered is an understatement.

Joan talks as she sways in their direction, holding the barrier wall for support. “My love, I thought you’d left. Me and the boys were absolutely bereft, and not just because you’d driven us here.”

She pushes off from the wall like a toddler taking her first steps. From the ice, the employee shouts, but she ignores him again, extending her hands toward Jesper.

He catches her as she lurches forward, her skates sinking into the grass. His hands settle at her waist as she looks up at him, grinning, and for a moment they look like a still from a holiday advertisement. One that’s selling something cool and sexy, like a musky perfume or a slinky cocktail dress.

Nearby, a mop-headed teen whips out his phone to take a picture. 

“Delete that,” snaps Wylan as Jesper rights Joan. 

“You alright there?” asks Jesper. His hand remains at Joan’s waist, holding her up as she sways in place.

“Yes, love, thank you.” Joan pats Jesper’s shoulder fondly. She pulls an overexaggerated frown, saying, “I thought you’d left us!”

“I ran into a friend,” Jesper explains, gesturing toward Wylan.

Joan takes her time looking Wylan up and down. This close, Wylan can see that she’s a delicate, doe-eyed sort of beauty, her dyed hair and heavy makeup a clear effort to make her look older than she is. 

Jesper doesn’t necessarily have a type, but if he did, she’d be it. Short and slender, messy hair, a smattering of freckles that adds character to her heart-shaped face.

When her eyes meet Wylan’s, she purrs, “Cute friend.”

“Wrong team,” Jesper informs her.

She shrugs. “Worth a shot.” She extends her hand to Wylan, and Wylan notices she’s wearing nearly as many rings as Jesper. Her throat is a mess of overlapping silver necklaces. “I’m Joan Knight.”

Wylan decides to give his stage name as he takes her hand to shake. “Wylan Hendriks.”

Recognition lights up Joan’s face. “Wylan Hendriks!” she crows. Affecting a valley-girl accent, she says, “The Californian composer.”

Wylan glances at Jesper, then back at Joan. He feels overexposed. “That’s me.”

Joan looks up at Jesper, mouthing, Oh, my God. Jesper admonishes her with a stern look, and Wylan wishes desperately that he knew what it meant.

“Alright,” says Jesper, pulling Joan a little closer in an effort to get her to stand upright, “I think we should get you out of here.”

Joan pouts. “But I’ve only just met Wylan!”

“I was leaving, actually,” says Wylan. There’s an odd, angry heat building beneath his skin, and he suddenly feels the need to get as far away from Bryant Park as possible.

Jesper starts. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, boo!” Joan interrupts. “I was so looking forward to getting to know you, Wylan Hendriks.”

Wylan doesn’t like the way Joan Knight keeps saying his name. He feels distinctly unfun next to her, the stuffy composer standing in the light of a bona-fide rock star. “Sorry.” His tone is clipped, his stance too wide, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. He shoves his hands into his pockets, turning to Jesper. “See you at rehearsal tomorrow.”

Jesper’s hand shoots out. “Wylan, wait—”

But Joan’s still on her skates, and Jesper can’t reach for him without dropping her. Wylan slips past and walks away, head down and pace fast, allowing the cold to numb him.

———

Chapter Text

The next day at rehearsal, Wylan does all he can to avoid Jesper. He arrives early, keeping his head down under the guise of warming up as the band filters into studio three. He feels, more than sees, Jesper arrive, his eyes probing as he sits behind his drumkit.

Wylan doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up.

They start the day with Shadow Business, so that, in Kaz’s words, none of you sops can blame your fuckups on exhaustion. Wylan holds his breath through the first verse and chorus, listening intently to the harmonies and rhythm. Kaz appears to do the same, throwing a look of approval over his shoulder at Jesper when the drummer gets it right. 

In response, Jesper beams, hitting the bass drum a little harder.

From there they move on to one of the band’s only ballads, I Would Come For You. It's an escalating thing, starting slow, quiet as the murmur of the wind through the willows. But by the time they reach the bridge —knives drawn, pistols blazing, because that’s what we do— the music swells and bubbles over, a cacophony of yearning sound. In a stroke of mid-song inspiration, Wylan adds a little trill before the resolution, a jazzy flat adding one final moment of tension before the final, crashing chord. He earns a wide-eyed nod from an enthusiastic Inej, Matthias looking up from his bass to flash a smile.

“Play the song as written,” Kaz admonishes when they talk through notes. 

“That’s not fair,” says Jesper. “Wylan’s addition was brilliant.”

Wylan glances in his direction and for the first time all day they make eye contact. Electricity zips up Wylan’s spine.

He quickly looks away.

Kaz’s eyes bounce between them, his expression inscrutable. “Play the song as written for now,” he amends. Next week we can improvise.”

Jesper opens his mouth to argue again, but Wylan cuts him off. “Got it.”

They work I Would Come For You section by section until it’s time for lunch. Over sandwiches from a nearby bodega, Nina asks, “So what did everyone get up to last night?”

Involuntarily, Wylan looks toward Jesper. They exchange a glance before Wylan diverts his eyes.

“I went to the holiday market at Bryant Park,” offers Jesper. “A few folks from Joan Knight’s band are in town before the second leg of the tour, so I met up with them.”

Across the table, Nina and Matthias share a look. Jesper’s brow furrows. Wylan sits completely still. 

“What,” asks Jesper tonelessly. 

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re hiding something, Zenik. You might have a decent poker face, but your boyfriend’s is useless.” To Matthias, he adds, “Seriously, my friend, never play the tables. Online only, with a face like that.”

“That should not be a problem, as I do not gamble,” says Matthias sagely, unwrapping his second sandwich.

“My fiancé’s poker face is useless,” corrects Nina, flashing her considerable ring. When Jesper doesn’t drop his probing glare, she says, “Fine. We sort of already know what you did last night.”

Jesper’s bemused. “You have me followed or something?”

“Or something,” Nina hedges.

Matthias sighs. “Just tell him.” He looks at Jesper, blue eyes clear. “You’re trending.”

Jesper’s brows fly toward his hairline. Kaz scoffs a quiet, of course. Inej stays silent, her dark eyes assessing.

“Trending? For what?”

Matthias pulls out his phone and taps open the Instagram app, navigating to some celebrity gossip account. Turning the phone around, he shows Jesper a picture.

Wylan doesn’t need to see it to know what it is. His own voice slips through his head, hard and brittle. Delete that.

It seems the teen disobeyed. When the screen tilts his way, Wylan sees the image again: Joan’s brilliant grin, Jesper’s wide eyes. His broad hands are splayed at her waist, her hips tipping forward so that her arched spine makes a perfect, backwards C. The tree in the background twinkles, the crowded market stalls only adding to the intimacy of the image.

The captured candid is even more lovely than Wylan remembers it.

“So,” says Nina, “I know you said not dating, but…”

She lets the sentence hang, and Wylan’s mind is happy to fill in the blanks. But Jesper and Joan look like a still from one of those over the top holiday rom-coms. But they make a stunning pair. But looking at this image, you would never be able to tell that Wylan was there at all.

Inej cuts in. “Let him be, Nina. Jesper doesn’t have to tell us anything.”

“But we’re his friends!”

Kaz looks up, eyes darkening. “Are we? You two haven’t seen one another since your big night out last year. You cancelled plans with Inej three times since then over scheduling conflicts—”

“Kaz,” interrupts Inej.

“That wasn’t—” Nina starts.

“—and we all had to find out about your engagement via a work email. You and Matthias have been building followers, I’ve been building businesses, and Inej … well, Inej has been breaking that which has been badly built. Jesper’s fucked off to the farthest corners of the world and Wylan’s in…” He sneers. “Los Angeles. So can we stop pretending we’ve all remained such good friends and do what we came here to do in the first place?”

Nina’s nostrils flare. “Which is what, Kaz? Why are we here? Why are we back together?”

Before Kaz can give an answer, one of the phones scattered at the center of the table begins to ring. Wylan recognizes Timothy’s contact photo, his heart leaping into his throat as he grabs for his phone.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should take this. I’ll be right back.”

He darts out of studio three, the conversation continuing as he walks down the hall.

“Don’t think for a second that this has gotten you out of answering me, Brekker.”

“Oh, but Nina, don’t you think our best friend Wylan should be back to hear the answer? I would hate for him to feel left out.”

“Shove it up your ass, Kaz.”

The cold is biting as Wylan slips from the studio. Overhead, gray clouds hang oppressively low. He picks up the phone just before it goes to voicemail, pacing up and down the sidewalk as he speaks. “Timothy. What’s going on?”

“Hey, Wy! I thought you were screening me.” Timothy’s voice is teasing.

“Just busy. What do you need?”

“So urgent,” chides Timothy with a gentle chuckle. “I was calling to see if you wanted to have lunch with me and your dad. We’re meeting not too far from your studio.”

Wylan stops his pacing. “You’re having lunch with my father?”

“Yeah, I reached out with a question about one of our investors and he suggested we discuss over lunch at The Grill.” 

The Grill is thirty blocks uptown, hardly close. “I can’t. I don’t have much time before we need to start rehearsal again.”

Timothy scoffs. “Come on. If I can make the time with my crazy schedule, you can certainly ask Kaz for an hour off.”

Wylan’s brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to—you know what, no. I don’t have time. I really can’t come, Timothy. Plus, I already ate with the band.” He doesn’t say, and I wish you wouldn’t meet up with my father behind my back.

“Wylan. It’s important that we make time for your family while we’re here.”

The door opens behind him, and Wylan turns to find Jesper slipping outside the studio. Wylan pulls the phone away from his ear, mouthing, What?

Jesper shakes his head, expression unreadable. He makes a circular gesture with one finger that Wylan interprets to mean go on.

Timothy’s voice is tinny on the other end of the line. “Wylan. Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning his back to Jesper. “Why?”

“Why is it important to have lunch with your dad?”

Impatience rises at the back of Wylan’s throat. “Yes.”

“He’s family, Wy! What if he randomly decides one day to cut you off? What then?”

“It wouldn’t matter,” answers Wylan immediately. “I’ve never touched my inheritance.”

“That’s not—” Timothy cuts himself off. A sharp silence hovers. “Look, Wy. He’s the only family you have. I would hate to see you lose him.”

I would say good riddance, Wylan thinks. “That’s not what?” he asks.

“I’m pulling up to the restaurant now. Can we talk when you get home? I’ll tell your dad you say hello.”

“Don’t do that,” Wylan snaps. “That’s not what, Timothy?”

“Speak soon, Wy.”

Three beeps and the line goes dead. Wylan stares at his black screen, pulse hammering in his throat. 

He doesn’t have the time to be upset. Nor the space, not with Jesper lingering by the studio door.

He wheels on his bandmate, an angry flush rising. “What, Jesper?”

Jesper’s eyes go round, his palms flying up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear anything personal.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay…” says Jesper, drawing out the word. The drummer is normally the antsier of the two of them, but right now it’s Wylan who feels as though he is about to burst out of his skin. He shifts from foot to foot, looking up toward the sky. The cloud cover obscures the tops of the buildings. 

That’s not what?

“I came out here to make sure you were okay,” says Jesper. “With, well, you know … all of that.”

Wylan’s mind spins, seeking meaning. He realizes quickly —humiliatingly— that Jesper means to ask if he is okay after seeing the photo. His throat goes tight, heat prickling behind his eyes. Jesper came out here to see if Wylan was okay because Wylan’s his pathetic ex-boyfriend who, in Jesper’s eyes, can’t handle seeing him with someone new.

He laughs tonelessly, a hand rising to his forehead.

His memory of last night shifts. Wylan, abandoned by his fiancé, approached Jesper first. Bought them hot chocolates to share. Told him that he thought their time together had been nice, that running into him was great.  

And then left the moment he saw Jesper touching someone else.

His stomach churns. “I’m quite alright, Jesper. I really, truly do not care about seeing you out on a date.”

Jesper exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed. “We’re not dating.”

“So you said.”

Jesper’s expression hardens. He glances down at Wylan’s phone. “That your fiancé? Wedding planning sure seems tense.”

Bile rises in Wylan’s throat. “The wedding’s postponed.”

“So you said.”

Wylan recognizes Jesper’s maneuver. He’s deflecting, just like he’s always done when something’s unpleasant. Jesper has always been more of a good times guy, there when you want to celebrate but gone the moment something gets hard.

That’s not fair, a voice in Wylan’s head argues. You’re the one who ran.

But he’s not interested in reason. He juts out his chin. “Define not dating,” he challenges.

“Define postponed.”

Wylan presses his lips together, heat building beneath his skin. Of course, there’s a safe version of the answer that he could give—a version he and Timothy have perfected over the course of the last year and a half. They’re too busy. Planning is too overwhelming. They realized that having a big wedding is unnecessary. They already live together. Love each other. They’re both quite happy being fiancés a little while longer. Maybe they’ll elope.

It’s near enough to the truth.

But, even now, Wylan can’t lie to Jesper.

The other answer pounds against the floorboards of Wylan’s head like a tell-tale heart. A memory he’s shoved down. Tried and failed to forget.

It was two years ago now, during one of Timothy and Wylan’s then-frequent visits to the city to meet with his father’s wedding vendors. Exhausted after a day of cake samples and floral arrangements, Wylan retired early, crashing into bed just after dinner. But it was only afternoon to his body, and eventually jetlag woke him back up. Timothy had not yet come to bed, but a quick poke of Wylan’s head into the hall told him his fiancé was in the living room, on the phone with an investor.

On the other side of the hall, another voice caught his attention.

“...my son need not know that…”

Jan, from inside his office. His father had been kinder to him since Timothy, but even so, Wylan doubted very much that whatever Jan was talking about was some sort of pleasant surprise.

He crept closer to the door.

Jan’s voice came through again, clearer this time. “Everything is under my control. The florists, the bakers, the photographers. Our security. Our surveillance. I’ve even had the Rainbow Room staff replaced with my people for the event. No one comes in or out without my approval.” 

Wylan frowned. His father was talking about his wedding, then. It wasn’t uncommon for Jan to brag about the scale of the event to his colleagues, but not in such odd detail. What did he mean by surveillance?

There was a brief silence, and then—

“Yes, of course. The musicians are bringing equipment in fake-bottomed cases. Plenty of room for the cargo to curl up below.”

Wylan’s brows drew together, an alarm starting its slow whine in the back of his head. Curl up? Jan paused, allowing the speaker on the other end of the line to respond. But before he could say anything further, Wylan heard footsteps behind him.

“Oh, hey Wy! You’re up. You’ll never believe what Matthewson said to me. He—”

On the other side of the office door, Wylan heard the rustle of clothing as Jan stood. He spun on his heel and tore away from the door, sprinting down the hall. Timothy cut himself off as Wylan bolted past his bedroom’s open door, slamming into his fiancé in his effort to escape.

A quiet oof escaped him, but mercifully, Timothy put his arms around Wylan as though in quiet greeting. Wylan’s heart pounded hard enough for both of them to feel it.

Behind them, Jan’s office door opened. “Everything alright out here?”

“Just saying goodnight,” said Timothy, resting his cheek against Wylan’s head. Wylan didn’t look up, tucking his head into the warm crook of Timothy’s neck, but he could feel his father’s eyes probing.

Eventually, Jan retreated into his office. Wylan pulled back, mouthing, Thank you.

Timothy smirked. “Little eavesdropper,” he murmured, ruffling Wylan’s hair. “No wonder you gave your father so much trouble growing up.”

To that, Wylan had no response. He crept woodenly back to bed, a feeling of unease growing in his belly. What security had his father hired for the wedding? Why were the musicians bringing cases with fake bottoms? What sort of cargo would need to be curled up?

The next morning, Wylan made a proposal over breakfast. “Father, I think I’d like to swap out some of the musicians we have chosen for the wedding.”

Jan’s brow crinkled. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m in the industry, but I don’t know anyone that you’ve picked. I’d rather hire friends.”

“You want the Crows to play our wedding?” asked Timothy incredulously. 

“No,” said Wylan quickly. “Other friends.”

Jan shook his head, his mouth a tight line. For a moment, Wylan was certain he would say you don’t have any other friends. Instead, he said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Wylan. The selections have already been made. It’s too late.”

“But—”

“I said it’s too late.” Jan’s tone rang with finality. Timothy gave Wylan a wide-eyed look that Wylan interpreted to mean ooooh, you’re in trouble.

He ignored his fiancé, instead staring at his father. As Jan looked back down toward his breakfast plate, Wylan saw it. The slightest flash of something in his father’s blue eyes. A stiffness in his expression, a set of taut lines bracketing his mouth.

It reminded him of the way Jan had once looked at him as he locked him in his room without dinner. I hate to do this son, but it’s for your own good…

Wylan had no evidence. No proof beyond a few muffled words heard through an office wall. There was no chance that Wylan would be able to get into his father’s files to learn more, and even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to read them alone.

No, there was nothing but a sinking suspicion in his stomach. Nothing but the idea that his father planned to do something vaguely bad at Wylan’s wedding.

It was nothing, yet it was enough.

Wylan cancelled the wedding later that month.

Outside the studio, Jesper barks a harsh laugh. For a moment he seems to fight an impulse, rolling back his shoulders and squeezing his hands into fists at his sides. But then, like a shaken champagne bottle, he pops. “You know, I almost feel bad for the poor sop. He, you string along, whereas I, you run from completely. Which is worse, you think? Spending five years with a man who's never gonna marry you, or one with a man who will swap coasts just to get away?”

Heat flares in Wylan’s ribcage. “Oh, so swapping coasts is an issue but touring all over the damn world is okay?” He steps closer, voice lowering. His head is full of static, blood rushing in his ears. It’s more alive than he’s felt in ages. “Tell me, Jesper, did all the travel and the parties and the women finally help you escape the endless, insufferable pressure you always complained I put you under? Or did it just give you the illusion of peace because you never gave yourself a moment to breathe, much less think?” Wylan’s had a long time, endless nights awash in the glow of his phone with Siri murmuring in his ear, to think about this. Every theory as to why Jesper would do this—would launch into a career of ceaseless movement, gleefully documented by bloodthirsty reporters—comes spilling from his chest. “Was all the attention finally enough for you? Did the hordes of screaming fans fix that hole in your chest that I was never quite enough to fill? I was ready, Jesper. I was ready for the apartment, the career switch, the settled fucking life. It’s you who freaked out. You who pushed me away.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Jesper bellows, hands flying out to his sides. “I know I pushed you away, but when I came to my senses…” He shakes his head. “You were already gone. I wanted to—I would have—” Jesper cuts himself off. Almost to himself, he says, “I just couldn’t believe you had actually left.”

Something painfully vulnerable cracks open in Wylan’s chest, its gooey insides spilling over his heart, his lungs, his stomach. He tilts his head back, looking up at the gray sky. Timothy’s voice floats through his head like smog. You can’t let him prey on your softheartedness. 

Wylan takes one breath. Then two.

He schools his voice into detachment. “This is pointless. What matters now is that no, I don’t give a damn about seeing a photo of you with someone else. No, I don’t care what you think about my relationship. And no, I don’t want your criticisms about my moving away. Are we clear?”

Jesper swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes are fever-bright. “Crystal.”

“Good. I’m going back inside.”

He brushes past Jesper, slipping into the warmth of Euphoria Studios. When he reaches studio three, Rotty is back from his lunch break, bending over an amp with focus. He looks up at Wylan, and then quickly away, as though something in Wylan’s expression had made him think better of offering a greeting. His bandmates eye him warily as he storms through the room, tossing his phone facedown on the table and taking up his position by the piano. A moment later Jesper follows, his expression grim as he throws himself down on his stool.

“Well, that didn’t last long,” intones Kaz. 

“Fuck off,” Jesper replies.

“So long as you two can play together, I will.” Kaz looks from Jesper to Wylan. Wylan nods. “Alright then. Let’s try Brick by Brick.”

Wordlessly Wylan puts his hands in position, hovering over the first chord. He can feel Jesper staring, so he doesn’t move a muscle. Not even an inch, hardly allowing himself to breathe. Jesper’s drumsticks strike together, the wooden sound sharp on Wylan’s ears.

One, two, three, four…

Driving the argument from his mind, he plays.

———

Wylan gets through the rest of the week with little incident. He falls into a routine: Show up to rehearsal. Ignore Jesper. Play through until lunch. Ignore Jesper. Listen to Kaz’s notes, without glancing Jesper’s way, and make small improvements throughout the afternoon until the band calls it quits. Take a train uptown, without thinking of Jesper, and return to the relative comforts of his childhood home, where his fiancé inevitably awaits brimming with stories about another challenging day at the startup.

Wylan decides not to bring up their tiff over the phone. Still, his question haunts him. That’s not what?

Wylan ignores the hovering thought, taking Timothy to see the sights over the weekend. Some of them, he likes. The Rockefeller Tree. Lincoln Center after dark. The frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. Others, he tolerates for Wylan’s sake. The Rockettes. Dyker Heights. The tree lighting on Park Avenue.

For the latter, they need only go outside. Wylan and Timothy stand huddled on the sidewalk, a loosely formed crowd beginning to gather around them. There’s no specific time for the lighting, but the sun is already down, so it can’t be long now. Timothy grows a bit antsy as they wait, but Wylan stands still, eyes trained on the fir trees installed up and down Park Avenue. 

When he was young, Wylan’s mother took him out to see the tree lighting every year. According to Marya, it marked the true start of the holiday season.

Timothy blows out a slow breath, checking his watch. “Look, Wy—”

But Wylan sees a flicker of movement, the glow of warm white lights. “Shh. It’s happening.”

One by one, the lights on each of the one hundred and four evergreens click gently on. The murmuring crowd goes hush. Outside a nearby church, a choir begins to sing. 

Silent night, holy night…

Deep in his bones, Wylan feels peace.

It lasts all of five minutes. Timothy leans closer, looping his arm through Wylan’s. “So. How much longer are we just gonna stand here?”

Wylan blinks, dazed. He’d gotten lost in the moment, head swimming through syrupy-thick nostalgia. “We don’t have to stay. We can go back in.”

“Thank God. I’m about to freeze to death.”

Timothy drops his arm, darting back into the warmth of his father’s lobby.

After another long moment spent staring at the lights, Wylan follows.

———

“Alright,” says Kaz when they return together on Monday morning. They’re gathered around the low, cramped table in studio three, Wylan sitting criss-cross atop his chair so Kaz has room to stretch out his leg between them. “We’ve got the basics back. It’s time now to talk improvements. Wylan, you can go ahead and add that change to the end of I Would Come For You, but try to nail down the timing. It only works if you have a breath or two to hold the flat. Nina, your solo in Brick is sounding a little wooden, let’s think of ways to loosen it up. And Inej, we should discuss those lyric changes you suggested in more detail.”

“Lyric changes?” asks Jesper.

Inej nods. “I thought of a few lyrical modifications that might reflect what’s changed with us over the last few years. How different we all are. How far we’ve come. They’re like … little easter eggs, really.”

“For the fans,” adds Kaz.

“Sure,” intones Nina. “For the fans. Not at all because the two of you want to cryptically reveal your thriving relationship to the world through song.”

Inej knocks her shoulder against her friend’s, grinning.

They argue about the setlist. Argue about the sound engineering. Argue about what they’ll wear. Eventually Kaz reminds them they have two more weeks to discuss costuming— not nearly enough time, interjects Jesper, affronted—and they get up from their seats to play.

Wylan’s doing well at abiding by his routine—play the piano, ignore Jesper—until they reach The Dregs. There’s a tricky bit of percussion in the middle of the song—not exactly a drum solo, but a very near thing—that Jesper’s always loved. He made it a habit, each time the band performed the song, to milk it for all it’s worth. The finish came with flair, Jesper tossing his drumstick in the air and winking at Wylan as he caught it.

Wylan used to look forward to that moment. At every show. Night after night.

When they run Dregs this time, Wylan sinks into the song from the very start, his muscle memory jogged by the long week of rehearsals. Chords roll smoothly from his fingertips, a little smile playing on his face as Nina slays a soaring riff and Inej sings a smooth response. By the time Jesper slams the final cymbal of his little mid-song progression, Wylan’s lost in the propulsive rhythm of the song.

And then, breaking the rules he had carefully set for himself, Wylan looks over at him.

Jesper’s grin is wide and wild, eyes shining as he oh-so-casually throws his drumstick into the air. He watches it for a moment, tracking its arc before his eyes dart over to meet Wylan’s.

For a long, slow second, time stops. Wylan’s holding his chord, foot on the pedal, as Nina and Matthias and Kaz and Inej continue to play and sing. It’s only the two of them here in this moment, holding one another’s eyes as a tidal wave of sound crests overhead. 

Wylan feels breathless, lightheaded, hot. Conflicted, unsettled, jittery.

He simply feels.

Quick as a heartbeat, Jesper winks.

Wylan’s heart flies into his throat.

The drumstick settles back into his hand and the world catches up to them. Jesper looks away, and Wylan, mortified, stumbles through his next chord progression. He ignores Kaz’s glare, catching up to the group before the band leader can put a stop to the song and demand they start again.

When they finish, Nina teases, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Wylan. We’re all bound to make a mistake at one point or another. I’m just happy to see that you’re still human beneath all those gobs of talent.”

“I haven’t made any mistakes,” Kaz points out.

“Well that’s very obviously because you are not human, my dear.”

As Kaz and Nina bicker, Matthias and Inej share a long-suffering look. Jesper fiddles with his drumsticks, their rotations spinning in Wylan’s periphery. Wylan can tell that he’s staring.

A flush boiling red-hot beneath his skin, Wylan tries very hard to look at nothing at all.

———

On Friday, Nina comes to rehearsal with a proposition.

“Since you are so keen to declare that we are all no longer friends,” she says with a glare in Kaz’s direction, “I think we should rectify the situation with drinks tonight. All of us. Together.”

In silence after she finishes speaking, all eyes slide toward Wylan and Jesper.

Jesper makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. Sidestepping the implied question, he asks, “What’d you have in mind, Zenik?”

Nina grins. “Rolf’s.”

Relief washes over Wylan. Their plans are over before they’ve begun. “Not possible. They’re completely booked up this time of year.” The tiny German restaurant in Gramercy spends most of the year in relative anonymity within the New York food scene, but for a few weeks in December it enjoys the status of the toughest reservation in town. 

“Why?” asks Inej. “What’s so special about Rolf’s?”

“Every year they do this huge holiday display,” explains Wylan. “Every inch of the place is covered in lights and baubles. Ornaments hang nearly on top of your head, even when you sit. It’s a lot of fun, but impossible to get into anytime between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.”

“Impossible for some,” says Nina haughtily, “but not for us.”

“And why’s that?” asks Kaz impatiently.

“Because the manager at Rolf’s just so happens to be a massive fan of Dancing with the Stars, and I had the foresight to make our reservation under Matthias’ name.”

Slowly, the group’s gazes shift toward Matthias. The big man shrugs. “What is the point of fame if I cannot use it for this?”

Wylan laughs. Nina meets his eyes hopefully, a question written across her face.

Wylan looks down, willing a flush not to rise. He’s capable of spending a civil evening with his ex. Even as the harsh words of the ex in question still ring in his head. I just couldn’t believe you had actually left. 

Wylan pushes the sour thought away. When he looks up, he smiles. “Rolf’s it is.”

———

They have a later reservation, so Wylan goes home to change. The apartment is dark, only a lone cleaner in the kitchen, wiping down the stovetop.

“Hi, Lara,” greets Wylan. “Any idea where Timothy is? Or my father?”

Lara only shrugs, hardly looking up from her work. “Only the baby is here, with her night nurse.” Wylan’s brow furrows. Timothy has typically been spending his evenings in the apartment, on the phone with west-coast investors. And his father…

Well, Jan isn’t exactly one to keep a regular schedule, but throughout this visit he’s been reliably around. Advising Timothy on his financial strategy. Planning Plumje’s party with Alys. It’s never exactly pleasant for Wylan to spend so much time in the company of his domineering parent, but with the buffers of their partners here in the apartment with them, it’s been bearable.

He wonders where, exactly, everyone is tonight.

He dictates a quick text to Timothy to inquire, and to inform his fiancé of his plans with the Crows.

“Don’t wait up,” he says into his phone. “I’m not sure when I will be home.”

The phone stays dark and quiet on his nightstand as he gets ready for his night out. Wylan has long decided that his hair is hopeless, but he tries flopping it to one side, then another, before shaking it out and letting it fall where it will. He changes twice—opting to go with the dressier of his two outfits, knowing that even though Rolf’s is relatively casual, Nina and Matthias will be dressed to impress—and dabs cologne on his pulse points. His nerves begin to jangle as he brushes his teeth, working up to a full on shake as he slips back into his coat and awaits the elevator.

There are plenty of cabs, but he opts to take the Q to Union Square. The walk on the other side—uptown, from 14th to 22nd—clears his head.

When he arrives there’s a small crowd outside the restaurant, some gawking at the decorations, others fighting with the host in an attempt to snag a table. When Wylan makes his way to the front to say Helvar, the host’s eyes go round. “Right this way!”

A few voices rise in complaint, but they’re quickly drowned out by the lilting chords of a popular carol.

The room he’s brought into is cramped but bright, stuffed with glimmering decorations. It’s even more overwhelming than Wylan remembers—every inch of the space plastered with ornaments and lights in dizzying patterns. Bejeweled displays hang down from the ceiling like stalactites, forcing even Wylan, a man of admittedly below-average height, to duck as he follows the host to a table in the back. 

When he arrives, Nina stands. Predictably, she’s dressed up. Her red cocktail dress matches her boldly painted lips, Matthias’ velvet sportcoat in a complementary shade of berry. To his right sits Inej in an oversized cardigan and silky black skirt.

“Where’s Kaz?” Wylan asks her as he accepts a hug from Nina, slipping into one of the empty seats.

“We left separately. I went over to Nina’s so she could do my hair, and I think he and Jesper were just finishing up a drink at the hotel bar before heading downtown.”

“Ah,” says Wylan, trying not to tense at the mention of Jesper. Be civil, he tells himself. It’s only one night.

But memories of sitting at countless hotel bars with Jesper himself rise swiftly, battling for dominance with the memory of standing out on the sidewalk beneath that overbearing gray sky. Which is worse, you think? Spending five years with a man who's never gonna marry you, or one with a man who will swap coasts just to get away?

As though summoned, Jesper ducks beneath one of the festive stalactites to enter the back of the restaurant, scanning the room until he finds their group.

When he does, he raises a hand. He’s irritatingly handsome in a plum t-shirt and emerald jacket, gold glimmering from his fingers and earlobes and throat. Wylan is struck, again, by how much healthier he looks than he did when they were together. How vibrant. How alive.

Behind him is Kaz, predictably wearing black and clutching his crow-headed cane. He slips into the seat next to Inej, leaving Jesper to sit by Wylan.

“Hey,” Jesper greets.

Wylan smiles, only a little forced. “Hey.”

The manager comes over personally to greet their group, shaking a little as she asks Matthias for a selfie. “Anything you need, please let me know. Anything at all. You can call me—call for me—anytime.”

“Thank you, Miyah,” says Matthias easily, placing an unsubtle hand on Nina’s thigh.

“I have something you can help me with, Miyah,” says Nina, leaning over her fiancé. “We would like to get this evening started out right. Can we please order six of your…” she scans the menu. “Santa Shots?”

“Five shots,” amends Inej.

“Four shots,” adds Matthias.

Nina eyes Jesper, Wylan, and Kaz. When none of them object to the drink order, Nina smiles sweetly at Miyah. “Four shots.”

“Coming right up.”

The Santa Shot is bright red, entirely too sweet, and goes down easy. Wylan has three of them. He orders a glass of wine after, sitting back in his seat. The alcohol warms him, the liquor and his cheerful setting working together to loosen a knot in his chest that’s been there since…

Christ. For a long, long time.

He listens to Matthias recount his struggles learning a Viennese waltz, and laughs at Nina’s impression of his partner during rehearsals. Wylan inquires about Inej’s work abroad, mouth dropping open as she describes meeting with the head of the Venezuelan government.

She shrugs. “I already knew a little Spanish, so…”

Jesper leans forward, pointing a finger. “You do not get to act like that’s casual, Inej. You’re amazing.”

Inej lifts a brow. “I know.”

Jesper tells them about his Da’s new girlfriend back in his tiny midwestern hometown, imitating his father’s nervous preparations for their first date. Kaz asks some surprisingly astute questions about the farm, earning raised brows around the table with his knowledge of harvesting schedules. Nina gives an update about some of her friends from her Russian Literature class.

“Zoya and Nikolai plan to get married in the spring. By all reports, he’s throwing her a party fit for a Queen.”

The conversation rolls on and on and on, easier than Wylan ever imagined it would be. They order another round, and then another after that. They share German snacks. They laugh until they cry, breathless and buoyant and beaming.

Two hours in, they even get Kaz to admit that he’s been posting his Instagram stories slightly askew on purpose to drive his fan accounts mad. Wylan howls with laughter as Jesper reads aloud the increasingly unhinged captions of Instagram user @kanejstan4ever. 

“Don’t you see?” reads Jesper. “Kaz posted 6 Instagram stories in a row at exactly a 66 degree angle. 6 and 66. Sound familiar? That’s right. 6 and 66 are the approximate latitude and longitude of Bolivar, Venezuela! Where Inej is. Right. Now. It’s a secret message, and it’s all for her. #romanceisnotdead #hopelessromantic #hopelessCROWmantic #kanej.”

As the group breaks down in laughter, Wylan eyes Kaz, wondering if he did indeed plant a message for Inej’s benefit. Based on the quick look the pair of them share, he suspects the answer’s yes.

Manager Miyah checks back on the table, an air of impatience about her as she inquires if they’d like another round. Wylan realizes, with a bit of a start, that the restaurant must want the table back. He glances around at his bandmates, not quite ready yet to leave them, and finds similar expressions on their faces.

“There’s another bar nearby,” he offers. “Pete’s Tavern. It’s similarly festive, but similarly challenging to get into around this time of year.”

“I know the manager over there,” says Miyah. “Let me make some calls.”

Matthias beams. “That would be wonderful, Miyah, thank you.”

The manager’s cheeks redden as she steps away to make the call.

“Flirt,” accuses Nina.

“We would like to go to this place, would we not?”

Miraculously, Pete’s has availability, and they step from one bejeweled bar to another. When they’re settled around a high-top, a fresh round of drinks in hand, the conversation grows reminiscent.

“Remember when the Dressner’s party venue lost power and Inej had to climb up the elevator shaft?”

“Remember when Nina took that pill and thought she could hear the dead?”

“Remember when Kaz got us past the bouncers at Brooklyn Steel by convincing the manager that his apartment was on fire?”

“Remember how we started the band?”

That last one comes from Jesper, his eyes sly and lively as he glances from person to person. 

Inej smiles, wistful. “The band that was never meant to be.”

“The best accident of our lives,” agrees Jesper.

The accident in question happened about seven years ago now, down on the Lower East Side. Wylan was new to the neighborhood, living in a tiny apartment with two unclean roommates, working an internship at a chemical manufacturing company that he’d taken to get away from his father. 

At the time, he thought he’d never see the man again. He’d been well and truly cut off. Dead to me, as Jan spat one bitter evening shortly before Wylan’s departure. 

That was fine by Wylan. Even though the Lower East Side was cramped and stressful and loud. Even though he struggled to make ends meet, the internship’s pittance barely enough to cover rent and food. Even though he’d left all of his earthly belongings behind in his rush to get away. It was all worth it to finally escape his father’s long shadow.

But when the internship ended and Wylan approached the manager to inquire about a full-time position, the man only laughed. “Go back to school, kid.”

Wylan didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d never gone to school in the first place. He only thanked the man for the opportunity, leaving behind a resume in case he changed his mind.

He left that last day at the internship wondering what would become of him, alone with no friends, no family, and no income in the heart of New York City.

But then, as he was walking out of the office, he was approached by a stranger. Addled with worry, Wylan had only one thought: That man has the most perfect pair of lips I’ve ever seen in my life.

The man with the soft lips offered a solution for his problem.

After that, Wylan’s days were filled not with the drudgery of the chemical plant, but a pulse-pounding sort of adrenaline that filled him in equal parts with excitement and dread.

Because the stranger—because Jesper— had come to recruit him into a gang.

It was small-scale stuff, relatively speaking. Cons and thieving, a few easy heists. Or, at least, Kaz’s crew made them seem easy. Inej was inhumanly light-footed, Nina a multi-lingual charmer. Matthias had the muscle to back up any threat, and Jesper moved quicker than an alleycat with a mouse in its sights. At the helm of it all was smooth-talking Kaz Brekker, always five steps ahead of any enemy.

Wylan had no idea what he was doing amongst them. But the pay was better than the chemical factory, and soon he found himself taking a perverse sort of pride in his criminal work. He made flash bombs and acidic compounds and clever little gadgets for his gang—his friends— and all the while, the Crows rose in prominence. Their benefactors grew richer, their jobs bigger and bigger, until they were finally tasked with something even Kaz couldn’t crack.

“The Ice Court is a concert venue in Queens,” he said one late evening with his gang surrounding him, pointing to a layer-cake shaped blueprint at the center of the table. “They’re hosting a celebration for some Nordic holiday next month, and our client suspects there will be a prominent drug manufacturer in attendance. The client would like us to … make an introduction, so to speak. So we need to find a way in, and fast.”

Inej and Jesper, Kaz’s longest co-conspiritors, threw out ideas first. Counterfeit invitations. Security guard uniforms. Kidnapped ushers.

It was Wylan who said, “What if we get into the venue as entertainment?” For once, the rowdy crew grew silent. He swallowed. Continued, “We could form a band. I play the piano. I’ve seen Nina with a guitar. Bass isn’t terribly complicated to learn, I can teach one of you the basics, and I’m sure one or two of us can carry a tune. Jesper, I know you’ve never played formally, but…” He trailed off, pointedly staring at where Jesper’s hands were tapping against the edge of the table. “I think you might be a drummer.”

A thoughtful silence descended. Kaz’s gaze swam to the middle distance.

“Scheming face,” murmured Inej.

When Kaz surfaced, he was smiling. “A band. I like it.”

As it turned out, the band worked. Not only because the Crows crew was more talented than Wyan had realized, but also because an up-and-coming group like theirs got access to bigger and bigger venues. More important people. Richer rooms. Theirs became a double life—they were the Crows, the band, and the Crows, the gang, all at the same time, using their growing fame to fuel their cons.

For a few years, it worked almost too well. But, like all good things, it had to come to an end.

After their third album together, the group realized that they no longer had a shared ambition. The cons had run dry, far overshadowed by the music, and each faction of the group wanted something different next. Nina and Matthias wanted to make their way as entertainers. Kaz and Inej wanted to drive change from the shadows. And Wylan and Jesper…

Well. For a few weeks there, what Wylan and Jesper wanted was to settle down together in a cozy West Village apartment. 

Until they didn’t.

At Pete’s, Nina lifts her glass. “To the band that almost never was.”

Around the table, they repeat the sentiment, clinking their cups.

Wylan sips his drink, allowing the bitter memories to float away. He enjoys another two glasses of wine and the looseness they bring to his limbs. He sits with his legs a little wider, his smile coming a little quicker. His eyes grow soft and wandering.

Again and again and again and again, his gaze finds Jesper.

It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, sneaking peeks as the conversation undulates around them. But he can’t help it. Never could. From the moment he first laid eyes on the man in the office of that chemical manufacturing plant, he was entranced. Jesper was eye-catching, after all. Still is. Tall and handsome with angular cheekbones and quicksilver eyes and the softest damn lips he’s ever—

He’s staring. And Jesper, quite obviously, has noticed. 

Very, very slowly, those pillow-soft lips break into a smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes Wylan think of bedsheets and broad hands and stolen sighs at midnight. Jesper’s voice is deep and teasing as he asks, “Another round, Wy?”

Wylan nods, too mortified to speak, but not above handing over his glass. More wine would do him good right about now.

As Jesper walks away, Inej appears at Wylan’s side. “How are you feeling, Wylan?”

Wylan jumps a little, drawing a sly smile from her, but he quickly recovers. Across the table, Kaz, Nina, and Matthias are locked in an argument about the proper management and cleaning of string instruments.

Wylan clears his throat. “I’m okay. How are you?”

“Really happy,” says Inej earnestly. “I’m glad we’re back together. Even if it’s just for a little while.” Wylan nods his agreement. Inej draws her legs up on her chair. Her eyes narrow, but her voice seeps undeniable warmth. “Now, tell me. How is California, really?”

Her tone holds no judgement. Wylan gets the sense he can say anything he wants. Anything at all. “It’s…” he struggles for the words. “It’s massively different. I mean—Los Angeles is a city, just like New York, but it doesn’t often feel that way, if that makes sense? The neighborhoods are so separate, and to get between them you need to sit in a car for what feels like hours. There’s a lot to do, lots of culture and food and entertainment. And the weather is amazing, obviously. There’s a lot of natural beauty out there. But sometimes I think it’s … too quiet.” He pauses, thinking. “Sometimes I feel like I am too quiet there.”

He might not have said it to anyone else, but telling Inej feels safe.

She tilts her head. “Are you happy there?”

Such a simple question, and yet Wylan finds himself unable to answer. In California he is … at peace. His life moves slowly, his days as predictable as the ebb and flow of the tides. He does yoga. Writes music. Goes for long walks on the beach and feels the sun dappling freckles onto his skin. He listens to Timothy talk about his day. He celebrates Timothy’s wins. He attends work dinners on Timothy’s arm, inevitably bored by the time hors d'oeuvres are served, and watches Timothy’s favorite movies when they decide to stay in. He eats Timothy’s preferred meals, memorizes the recurring characters that appear in all of his petty gossip. He slides into the background as certainly as scenery, window dressing in the life of a man much more important than he.

Inej’s voice breaks him from his reverie. “Wylan. I don’t mean to pry, but…” she breaks off, chewing on her lip. Reaching over and placing her small, cool hand atop his, she says, “I know what it is to disappear.”

Something small and delicate inside Wylan’s chest cracks open. He takes a shaky breath, opening his mouth to say—well, he doesn’t know exactly what, but to say something that conveys how he feels—when a burst of moment to his left grabs his attention.

It’s Jesper, at the bar. There’s another man next to him, a finance bro with a bank-branded vest. They’re glaring at one another, in each other’s space. As Wylan watches, he sees Jesper’s lips move. His words look an awful lot like, “What did you just call me?”

He’s on his feet before he can think twice, snaking through the crowd. He reaches Jesper at the same time a friend of the finance bro reaches him, pulling at the man’s arm to draw him away from the conflict. 

Wylan similarly grasps Jesper’s bicep. “Jes, are you—” Wylan swallows his words as he glances toward the assailant, meeting the eyes of the finance bro’s friend. 

Shock ratchets through him. He takes a step back.

“Timothy. What are you doing here?”

Timothy blinks, releasing his friend’s arm with a shove. “Go back to the table, Brock.” Turning to Wylan, he grins, pulling him in for a one-armed hug. “Wy! I called you but you didn’t pick up.” Releasing Wylan, he looks up at Jesper, unruffled. “Sorry about that, man. My coworker’s an asshole.”

Jesper looks away, running his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah. Thanks, man.” He looks at Wylan. “I’m going back to the table.”

“Okay.” As Jesper leaves, Timothy cuffs Wylan’s elbow, drawing him closer. They settle against the bar. “What’s going on?” asks Wylan. “Why are you here?”

“I came here with a few coworkers. We’re celebrating. Want a drink?”

“Oh, Jesper actually…” Wylan trails off, looking back toward the table. Jesper has left Wylan’s glass of wine at his seat, joining Kaz’s side of the table to debate with Nina and Matthias. As Wylan looks on, Jesper smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ll get you a new one,” offers Timothy. He leans over the bar. “Glass of champagne, please?”

Wylan’s been drinking red. He doesn’t argue, though, accepting a champagne flute as it’s shoved into his hand. “So, what are you celebrating?” he asks Timothy, pointedly not looking back over at his bandmates. “Did the investor come through?”

“Better,” says Timothy, his smile impish. He makes Wylan wait as he gets a flute of his own before revealing, “I got a job offer.”

Wylan’s mouth drops open. “A job offer? I didn’t even know you were looking. Congratulations.” He means it. “Where is it?”

“That’s the best part. It’s here.”

Wylan pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth. “In New York?”

“Yeah!” Wylan blinks, too shocked to speak. “I thought you’d be excited,” complains Timothy. “We’re coming home!”

Wylan’s brow furrows. He feels as though his mind is stuck in molasses, struggling to catch up to the conversation. “New York’s not your home.”

Timothy rolls his eyes. “It will be, Wy. And more importantly, it's yours.” He steps closer, slipping an arm around Wylan’s waist. “And I want to be closer to you.”

Wylan forces a smile. New York… it’s what he wants, isn’t it? Hadn’t he just complained to Inej that California is too quiet, too peaceful, too serene? But there’s something off about the thought of New York with Timothy. Wylan’s Californian fiancé doesn’t quite fit into the landscape of soaring skyscrapers and gray concrete. 

“That’s … nice,” he manages. 

Timothy’s brows draw together. But before he can respond, they’re interrupted by a shriek. 

“My boys!” 

Wylan’s eyes go wide, shock careening through his system as he watches Alys, of all people, pick her way through the crowd. His stepmother is red-faced and grinning, a bottle of champagne held aloft in her hand. Behind her, with a hand placed uncomfortably on the button of his suit jacket, follows Wylan’s father.

Wylan’s vision tunnels. The sight of Jan Van Eck in a bar like this is laughably incongruous. He blinks hard against the image, hardly able to accept what he’s seeing.

From across the room he can feel the eyes of his bandmates fall on him one by one.

Alys reaches them, pulling Timothy and Wylan in for a hug beneath each of her outstretched arms. The champagne bottle knocks against the back of Wylan’s head, hard and cold.

“Now I know you boys don’t want the stuffy old adults around for too long, but when Jan told me the news I insisted we take up Timmy on his invitation to come down here and celebrate! I hope the bar won’t mind that we’ve brought our own champagne, but we certainly can’t be marking such a momentous occasion with any of their stuff, can we now?” She wrinkles her nose. “I mean, this is truly exciting news. Our Timmy, joining the family business! I simply cannot believe it! How thrilled are you, Wylan?”

Wylan’s ears are ringing. He looks from Timothy to his father and back again. Very quietly, he asks, “Family business?”

“Alys,” says Timothy, a little tightly. “I hadn’t gotten around to telling Wylan yet.”

In seconds, there are tears hovering in Alys’ eyes. “Oh, no. I didn’t ruin the surprise, did I? Oh no, no, no! Timmy, I am so very sorry. Let me make it up to you, please.” With that, she runs to the bar, gesturing wildly with her bottle of champagne to an unamused bartender.

Jan steps closer, filling the space she left behind. Wylan can still feel his friends staring. He stands very, very still.

“What’s going on here?” he asks.

Timothy speaks first. “It all started at lunch the other day. Remember, I invited you?” Wylan mutely nods. “Well, your father and I got to talking, and it turns out that he’s looking for someone with my background to join the team. He asked if I knew anyone, which I do, but … things at the startup have been so stressful lately. I could really use a change. A bigger company, bigger challenge. I suggested myself, and your dad took me up on the offer! I start at Van Eck Industries next month.” 

Wylan’s fiancé glows with pride, but Wylan can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. A hollow emptiness ringing inside him, he turns toward his father.

“Tim here will be a fantastic addition to the team,” is all Jan says. 

Wylan presses his lips together. “Neither of you thought to ask me about this?”

“What’s there to ask about, Wy? It’s a no brainer. I get a better job, more opportunities. You get to come home. Plus,” he lowers his voice, leaning in, “it’s a boatload more money than I was making before.”

Wylan doesn’t give a shit about the money. His eyes bounce back and forth between his father and his fiancé, uncertain with whom he’s more upset. 

“I need some air.”

“Wy—” 

He darts past his fiancé, shoving through the crowd to get outside. The cold air is welcome, bracing, clear. Wylan sucks in a breath of it, debating the merits of sprinting to the subway and getting on any train—any one at all—that would take him away from here.

But Timothy’s not far behind. 

He shoves through the door, his expression thunderous. “Wylan. You’re being ridiculous.”

Wylan wheels on Timothy, heat rising in his skull. “Ridiculous? The man used to tell me I was useless and worthless and stupid, every single day of my life. He didn’t—” Wylan’s voice cracks, throat raw. “He didn’t let me attend my own mother’s funeral.”

“And so what? I’m supposed to say no to hundreds of thousands of dollars because you have unresolved daddy issues?”

Daddy issues. Wylan wants to laugh. He can’t. Every breath he takes feels sharp, a cold knife stabbing down his throat. “He’s not a good man, Timothy. He—he does bad things.”

Timothy rolls his eyes. “Every rich, successful man alive is accused of doing bad things. Open your eyes, Wylan. Would your father have been able to provide you with such a comfortable life if he was truly such a villain?”

“The life he provided me was hardly comfortable. You know that. I’ve told you that.”

Timothy scoffs. “The life spent living in luxury on the Upper East Side? Ask any rando on the street and I think they’d disagree. Plus, if your dad hadn’t invested in my startups we wouldn’t have half the life we have out in Califo—”

Timothy cuts himself off. In the silence, Wylan can hear his own heartbeat.

“My father has invested in your startups?” he asks, voice quiet.

Timothy shrugs, uncomfortable. “It’s not a big deal, Wy. He just believes in me. My companies. It doesn’t really matter.” He steps closer, gripping Wylan’s biceps. “What matters is that I have the opportunity to make my own fortunes now. To stand on my own two feet instead of relying on the whims of careless billionaires. Don’t you want that for me?”

Wylan stands frozen in Timothy’s grip, the revelation lapping over him again and again like ocean waves. Belatedly, he remembers their phone call. 

I’ve never touched my inheritance.

That’s not—

He knows now what Timothy was going to say. That’s not true. Because for the last five years they’d spent together, Wylan had, unknowingly, been drawing from his father’s piggybank.

He groans, closing his eyes. 

Whenever his father berated him, Wylan was often bothered not by the insults, but by the logic of his arguments. How do you expect to be a functioning member of my company—of society—without being able to read? Why can’t my son do what any child off the street can do without thinking?

The feeling returns for him now. Timothy’s logic is sound. His irritation makes sense. Why should Wylan’s issues with his father get in the way of his fiancé’s career? Doesn’t Timothy deserve to take any opportunity available to him? Hadn’t Wylan just been thinking that the last few weeks in his family’s apartment have been surprisingly bearable?

Still, he tries again. “You don’t understand,” he argues, voice breaking. With the liquor in his system it all feels so very urgent—he has to make Timothy rethink taking the job. Has to make him see what a bad idea it is for them to move here, closer to Wylan’s father, forever under his thumb. Lowering his voice, he whispers, “There’s a reason I cancelled our wedding.”

“Jesus,” mutters Timothy, the word a hot puff of steam in the biting winter air. He drops his grip on Wylan’s biceps. “I know why you cancelled the wedding, Wylan.”

Wylan freezes. “You do?”

“Obviously. You cancelled the wedding because you’re still in love with your shithead ex.”

The words are almost too shocking to parse.

“What?” Wylan’s head spins. The topic change leaves him scrambling. “No, Timothy, I—”

“You know, I thought this trip would be good for you. An opportunity to see what a mess that guy is, up close and personal, so you can get some closure on the whole thing. I’ve been more than understanding, Wylan. I remember how heartbroken and pathetic you were when I first found you. How your eyes got all round and sad when the big, bad newscasters dared to report about his exploits. How you would zone out for hours, or cry in the shower when you thought I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t understand why you had any love left to give after all he put you through, but I found it … I dunno. Sweet, I guess. I liked being the one to pick up the pieces. And as time wore on, you got over it. We were happy. But when you cancelled the wedding, I was curious what was going through your head, and so…”

He trails off, running a hand through his hair. Every cell in Wylan’s body vibrates, a voice at the very back of his skull screaming, so? SO?!

“So I checked your phone. Saw your browser history.”

The voice in Wylan’s head goes suddenly, resoundingly silent.

Timothy ticks off the search terms on his fingers. “Jesper Fahey. Jesper Fahey drummer. Jesper Fahey dating. Jesper Fahey touring. Jesper Fahey, Jesper Fahey, Jesper-fucking-Fahey. Over, and over, and over again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” cries Wylan.

Timothy’s eyes go wide. “Oh, that’s rich.”

Wylan swallows. Looks down. Humiliation is a pulsing, crawling thing, digging beneath his skin and skittering around inside his ribcage. “I’m sorry, Timothy. Really. It’s just … an old habit. I worry about him.”

“Clearly.”

Remembering his original argument, Wylan swallows. Steels himself. “But it’s not why I cancelled the wedding.”

Timothy closes his eyes. “Please, for the love of God, do not tell me it had something to do with your father.”

“Timothy, he was going to—”

“No. No, Wylan. I don’t want to hear it. That man has given you everything in life and you’ve been nothing but ungrateful. If you don’t want to take what he’s offering, that’s fine. But please do not stand in my way while I do.”

With that, he’s gone. Timothy turns on a heel and storms back into the bar, leaving Wylan alone on the street.

Wylan’s pulse pounds in his head, tears gathering in his eyes. Without much thought or direction, he turns away from the bar and takes off into the frigid night.

He doesn’t make it very far. Only two blocks later, he hears footsteps, their cadence familiar. He stops in his tracks, sighing. “Tim—”

But when he turns, it’s not Timothy. It’s Jesper.

He stops in place, his hand outstretched toward Wylan. There is a piece of Wylan—fueled by wine and adrenaline and a soft warmth that’s been growing within him all week—that wants to take that hand in his grasp and never let it go again. That wants to make all the same bad decisions they’ve made once before, damn the consequences. That wants to pull Jesper in and kiss him until he’s forgotten about his father and his fiancé and all the understandable, logical decisions they’ve made together.

Wylan breathes through the impulse, allowing that foolish piece of him to slowly fade away.

It takes him a moment to realize that Jesper’s not alone. Behind him stand the Crows, concern carved into every inch of their faces.

His friends’ faces.

“It’s fine,” says Wylan even as his chest constricts. Even as his chin wobbles and the first of his tears tracks warmth down his cheek. “I’m fine.”

Jesper looks as though he is about to speak, but Kaz interrupts him. “Let’s go to the studio.”

It’s shocking enough to stop Wylan’s tears. “The studio?”

“We have something to discuss.”

———

Wylan, in his muddled state, assumes that Kaz has been given a key. Or that he’s texted Rotty to meet them. But when they arrive at Euphoria he simply drops to a knee without ceremony, familiar picks sliding from his sleeves as he goes about his work.

It’s only a moment before the lock clicks. The six of them tumble inside. They have the run of the place—at nearly two in the morning, it’s utterly empty—but out of habit, they go to studio three.

When they’re settled around the table, Wylan asks, “What’s this all about?” He still feels raw, his nerves sparking like frayed wire.

Kaz sits back, languid, and allows his eyes to slide over toward Nina. “Ask me again.”

“Ask what?” she says, brows furrowing.

When he doesn’t answer, her expression slowly clears. Curiosity sparks in her green eyes. She leans forward. “Kaz. Why did you get the band back together?”

“Glad you asked, Nina darling.” From a bag below the table —Did you have that stashed here for this very moment, you big drama queen?— Kaz extracts two newspapers, already open to a section toward the back. Based on the familiar logo and number of pages folded over, Wylan guesses it’s the New York Times society section.

“Van Eck Heir Cancels Nupitals,” reads Kaz aloud, tossing the paper atop the table for the others to see. Wylan doesn’t look down at the page, where he knows a familiar photo of himself and Timothy is displayed, but rather stares at Kaz. Kaz stares back.

A creeping realization dawns within his chest. 

“You know.”

“Of course I know.”

Jesper looks from the paper to Wylan. “He knows what?”

Ridiculously, Wylan almost smiles. His conversation with Timothy made him feel crazy. As though he was overreacting to his father’s dubious conduct. And yet here is Kaz Brekker, the smartest man he knows, all but confirming his suspicions.

Wylan blinks quickly, exhaling a surprised puff. “Kaz knows why I cancelled my wedding.”

While Jesper, Nina, and Matthias stare at him with various levels of confusion, Inej’s expression remains level. He ignores them all, focusing on Kaz.

“I do,” Kaz confirms. “And I also know…” He pulls out another paper, tossing it in the center of the table. “What your father plans to do next.”

Habitually, Wylan tries to make out the shapes of the words. But before he can get far Jesper leans over the paper, reading aloud. “Van Eck Family Plans Elaborate Birthday for Five-Year-Old Plumje.”

Below the headline is a smiling photo of his father, Alys, and the baby. Jan’s perfect family.

Wylan remembers Timothy’s commentary at dinner on their first night in town. This party is set to be pretty extravagant, huh? 

The memory is followed quickly by another. Our security. Our surveillance. I’ve even had the Rainbow Room staff replaced with my people for the event. No one comes in or out without my approval.

Plenty of room for the cargo to curl up below.

Slowly, Wylan meets Inej’s eyes. They’re dark as coal, hard as diamonds.

“The reunion show is a front,” he realizes aloud. “An excuse to get us here.” He blinks rapidly, the pieces of Kaz and Inej’s plan falling into place. “But there’s no mark there. The true mark…”

“Is dear old dad,” Kaz finishes, rapping the head of his cane against Jan’s photo for emphasis. He meets Wylan’s eyes, steady. “Your father’s been up to no good, Wylan. And we’re going to stop him.”

———

Chapter Text

They spend the next few hours plotting, after which Matthias calls a car to the hotel. 

“Should I get an XL?” he asks. “Wylan, we can program a stop for you as well.”

The thought of going to his father’s apartment makes Wylan’s stomach churn. “No, thanks. I’ll find my own way home.”

“We need an XL anyway,” Inej points out. “There are five of us going to the hotel.”

“Go ahead and order a regular,” says Jesper. “I’ll hang back with Wylan.” He looks his way. “If that's alright? It’s late, someone should probably see you home safe.”

Wylan chews his bottom lip. “Yeah, alright.”

They leave Euphoria with little fanfare, Kaz locking up behind them as the sky begins to gray. Wylan wants to check the time, but he’s not wearing a watch and purposefully avoiding his phone. He doesn’t know what would be worse: if Timothy has called, or if he hasn’t.

Matthias’ car comes and goes, Nina waving from the window as it slides away from the curb.

For a long moment Jesper is silent, standing at Wylan’s side as they watch their friends drive away. Then he sucks in a breath, and for one horrible moment Wylan is certain he’s going to say something pitying.

Instead, he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Care to grab a bite?”

Relief floods Wylan. “Sure.”

It has to be four or five in the morning, but they find a twenty-four hour diner a few blocks south, sliding into the plasticky seats of a corner booth. The diner is empty but for one waitress, an orange-vested construction worker, and two women in last night’s makeup, giggling over a shared plate of fries. There’s a staticky cloud of exhaustion and adrenaline over Wylan’s head, giving the whole place a dreamlike vibe.

Wylan gratefully accepts a cup of coffee from the waitress, ordering a two-egg breakfast. Jesper gets a waffle.

Wylan can’t help his smile. “Nina’s gotten to you, huh?”

“She’s opened my eyes, merchling. I’m a waffle convert now.” Wylan wrinkles his nose. Jesper quirks a brow.  “What’s wrong with that?”

“I just don’t get the draw.”

“The draw is that their superior shape maximizes the syrup-to-pastry ratio, of course.”

Wylan snorts. “Of course. But what about butter, though? That’s much easier to spread atop a pancake.”

Jesper shakes his head, slowly. “I see Big Pancake’s corrupted you. What a shame. You were such a bright young lad, too.”

Wylan laughs. “If anyone’s corrupted, it's the man whose preferences can be sold for sugar.”

“What can I say? I like sweetness.”

“I remember.”

Wylan realizes, too late, what he’s implied. He flushes, looking down.

Jesper drums his fingertips along the edge of the table, bobbing his head to the beat. For a moment, it’s the only sound between them. Then, quietly, he says, “I remember a lot, too.” 

Wylan looks up. 

“It comes kind of randomly,” Jesper continues, still tapping. The drumbeat is hypnotic. Soothing. “One day I’ll be folding laundry, or something, and then I’ll suddenly be thinking about the way you always manage to look so neat despite folding clothing like a complete and utter miscreant.”

Wylan barks a laugh, surprised. “I’ll have you know that I've been working on that. I suspect it’s a bad habit from a lifetime of nannies cleaning up after me.”

Jesper does a finger-gun, pausing his drumbeat. “That’ll do it.”

They’re silent for a moment, steam gently curling from their cups of coffee. Wylan’s mind drifts back over the evening, tracing the contours of his memory to find where, exactly, it all went wrong.

He locates the problem in the moment he ran into Timothy at the bar. From then on he’d lost track of things, the night spinning out of control with each new development learned. His father had offered his fiancé a job at Van Eck Industries. Timothy had taken it. And when Wylan proved stubborn on the matter, Timothy turned on his heel and walked back into the bar to celebrate with Jan and Alys instead.

Even the memory stings.

The evening revealed that Wylan was not mistaken in his suspicions of his father. But what of his fiancé? Did Timothy have a right to take the job? Was he right to say that Wylan was ungrateful? Was he right to point out that Wylan’s daddy issues had no business preventing him from accepting a new—and lucrative—opportunity?

Was he right to accuse Wylan of still being in love with his ex?

The ex in question watches quietly as Wylan tips forward with a groan, placing his head down on the table.

Jesper laughs gently. “Penny for your thoughts, merchling?”

Without really meaning to, Wylan voices the question that’s been plaguing him. “What am I going to do?”

In the short term, he knows the answer. Kaz’s plan requires that Wylan play nice with his father and fiancé for a little while longer. But after they catch Jan red-handed…

Would Timothy understand, then, why Wylan’s always kept his father at an arm’s length? Would he too turn his back on the mighty Jan Van Eck? Would it matter?

What am I going to do? It’s an unfair question to ask Jesper, of all people, but he takes it in stride. “I can’t tell you that, Wylan. You know yourself best. You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”

From the table, Wylan grumbles, “When did you become so evolved?”

“Hit rock bottom enough times and you eventually learn where the ladders are.”

Wylan lifts his head, his heart constricting. He sees anew Jesper’s healthier pallor, his filled-out shoulders, the calm, grounded energy he emits, despite the ever-present fidgeting. It’s clear: somewhere along the way, Wylan’s shithead ex had grown up.

All while Wylan, on the other hand, had hidden away, melting into the contours of another man’s life.

You know yourself best. You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.

It’s odd—over the years, he’s heard Timothy express somewhat of a similar sentiment. I know you, Wylan. You can be a bit of a bleeding heart type when you want to be. I know you. You can be softhearted. Overwhelmed. Dramatic. I know you better than that, Wylan. Is this about the dyslexia thing again? I knew you’d bring that up. I know you, I know you, I know you.

How refreshing, now, to be told he knows himself.

He sits back and places a hand on his chest, a fingertip drumming against his collarbone in a familiar, soothing beat. Jesper waits—not exactly patiently, his fidgeting pronounced after a night of no sleep, but quietly—as Wylan thinks it through. As Wylan remembers all the times Timothy had begged just a little while longer when Wylan said he was tired after a dinner party with his coworkers. All the times Timothy dropped Charlie-the-tutor’s name like a bomb in the middle of an argument. All the times Timothy defended his father without saying exactly why, without revealing the sums discreetly being handed between them, all while telling Wylan that he knows him.

“I can’t marry him,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Jesper’s mouth twitches, his eyes alight. “Can’t say that wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.”

Wylan shakes his head, fighting a smile of his own. He reminds himself of the very real, very beautiful rock star hovering at the periphery of Jesper’s life. “What do you think Joan Knight would have to say about that?”

The waitress swings by with their orders, placing hot plates of food between them. Wylan’s grateful for the distraction, cheeks aflame at the boldness of his question.

Jesper douses his waffle with syrup before gesturing with his fork. “You, Wylan Van Eck, are hung up on that girl. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that you like her.”

Wylan rolls his eyes. “Be serious.”

Through a mouthful, Jesper says, “We are seriously not dating. I don’t know how else to convince you of that, merchling. Jump across the table and kiss you?”

Wylan tries, very forcibly, not to picture that . But he can’t help the sharp zip of electricity that shoots up his spine at the idea. 

He sits up a little straighter, spearing a potato with his fork. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m telling the truth. Don’t make me prove it to you.”

In another lifetime, Wylan might have. He might have dared Jesper to make good on his promise to jump across the table. He might have claimed each sugary-sweet kiss as a prize. Instead, he says, “Need I bring back the Bryant Park picture?”

Jesper smirks. “I knew that bothered you.”

Wylan narrows his eyes. He might not be so bold anymore as to dare Jesper to kiss him, but he certainly isn’t dropping this. “You say you’re not dating, but when you’re together the two of you look like something out of the Hallmark Channel. Forgive me for pointing it out.”

“Hallmark,” scoffs Jesper. He chews thoughtfully for a moment before putting down his fork, his expression sombering. He fiddles with the metal napkin holder, tilting it to one side and then another. His feet tap against the linoleum floors, his mouth twitching as he thinks but does not speak.

“Out with it, Jesper.”

Jesper’s eyes meet his. “I forgot how pushy you can be.”

Wylan simply stares. For better or worse, he has no patience left to give.

Finally Jesper sighs. He drops his hands into his lap. Sitting disconcertingly still, he says, “Joan’s an addict, Wylan.”

Wylan blinks. His brow furrows. He’s sick of surprises tonight. “What?”

Jesper looks down, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His fingertips find the edge of the table again, his hands picking up a faster beat than before. When he sighs it’s heavy, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. 

And then he starts to speak. 

“A few years ago I was in pretty deep with these guys. Loan sharks, nasty ones. I knew it, too, before I first got involved with them, but it was right after we—” He pauses. “Right after the band broke up. I was … not myself then.” He smiles, ruefully. “Or maybe I was a little too much myself.”

Wylan remembers the headlines. Something sharp twists within him. He opens his mouth to object, or comfort, but Jesper continues.

“So I borrowed a few sums. Then a few more. By the time I got my head out of my ass, I was in for … a lot. Too much, even with my Crows money. To get out from under the debt I took any touring job I could get my hands on, living on coffee, booze, and peanut butter sandwiches so I could pay the sharks my per diem. Some of the tours were fun. I got to see places I never thought I’d go and play these insane venues. Truly crazy, Wy. I know we never got over to Asia with the Crows, but there’s this one place in Tokyo with huge flashing lights that never turn off, where they have robots that—you know what, never mind. That doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you later, though. Remind me.”

Despite everything, Wylan finds himself smiling slightly. He’s missed Jesper’s particular cadence of speech—the starts and stops, the tangents that branch out like streams from a river. It’s an artistic sort of syncopation, like in his drumming, a rhythm to which Wylan could listen all day.

“Some tours were fun,” Jesper repeats, “and others were total shit. The Slayers tour felt like it went on for years. And yet still, no matter how many jobs I took or photos I sold to Page Six, I couldn’t get the loan down. The damned interest…” He scratches the back of his head, his eyes flitting everywhere but towards Wylan. “I should have known it would just keep growing and growing. I fell in and out of these phases—sometimes working like a dog and saving every penny to pay my debts, other times telling myself it didn’t matter, I would never dig my way out of it, and blowing all my savings on a night at the tables. It went on like that for—for a long time. Longer than I’d like to admit.”

Jesper’s gaze meets Wylan’s for a moment—a heartbeat—before skittering away.

“So eventually the sharks found out about my other set of skills. My background before the band. Between tours, they started asking me to do jobs for them in exchange for sums off my debt. Little things at first—spy on someone here, threaten them there. But Joan…” He blows out a long breath, his lively face looking, for a moment, unimaginably weary. “Apparently, just before she blew up, Joan had borrowed bucketfuls of cash to score drugs. But then when her album took off, I guess she thought her newfound fame would protect her. Help her dodge the sharks. She flat out refused to make her payments. So the sharks asked me to get a job on her tour to get closer and… Rough her up a little, I guess. Scare her badly enough into making her payments again. If I could do it, my debt would be cleared.”

It’s hard to imagine Jesper roughing up tiny, delicate Joan Knight. Wylan’s seen Jesper frighten a few people—their marks and anyone who stood in the way of them—but Joan Knight smiled brightly when she saw him. Joan Knight called him my love. Joan Knight looked at him with so much trust in her eyes.

“I couldn’t do it,” said Jesper as though reading Wylan’s mind. His tapping moves from the edge of the table to the rim of his coffee cup, fingernails plinking against the ceramic. “I got the gig easily enough—maybe the sharks pulled some strings—but when it came to finishing the job, I was hopeless. Joan was—” Jesper cuts himself off, searching for the words. He lets out a toneless sort of laugh as he finds them. “Joan was me, I guess. I saw myself in her. The mood swings, the petulance. The crazed, unpredictable behavior. Watching her made me realize just how bad I had been. I found myself wanting to shake her, tell her—what was it that you once said to me? That I was running from all the amazing things I could do?”

Wylan hesitates. “Well. I didn’t mean to say—”

“No. You were right. That’s exactly what I realized, touring with Joan. It’s like—I could finally see it from the outside. From your perspective. Here we both were, with gobs of talent and every opportunity in the world, throwing it all away because it felt like too much pressure. It was idiotic. And yet the two of us couldn’t help ourselves. We kept throwing dirt on the problem, pretending it didn’t exist until the next bender. And the next. And the next.”

“What stopped it?”

Jesper’s smile is rueful. “I don’t know if it has stopped for her. Not yet. She tries her best—she honestly is a good person, I think you’d like her—but…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. You saw her.”

Wylan remembers meeting Joan at Bryant Park. The slur of her words. The glaze over her eyes. He nods, understanding. “What about you, though? You seem…” Wylan searches for a word. Healthy. Lovely. Bright. Strong. He settles on, “Good.”

There’s a spark in Jesper’s eye, as though he can see right through the innocuous word Wylan’s chosen. “Something spurred me into getting help.” He waves a hand, shifting in his seat. “Therapy, medication. The whole nine. That’s actually why I was going to reach out to you, before Anika wrote us about the reunion. To tell you.”

There’s something heartwrenchingly lovely about the idea that Jesper would think to call him to say that he was doing better. “That’s great,” says Wylan. He means it. “Really. But what about the sharks? Are they upset that you’re not … roughing up Joan?”

Jesper shrugs. “They just care about getting what they think they’re owed. If I can’t work down my debt, I have to pay it. And, well, the Crows reunion show certainly helps. With that, plus the way merch and ticket sales are looking for the American leg of Joan’s tour… I don’t want to jinx it, but I should be clear of them after a few more shows.”

There’s an unmistakable note of pride in Jesper’s voice. It warms Wylan from within. “I’m really happy for you.”

Jesper preens. “You know what? Lame as it sounds, so am I.”

Wylan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “So what next? Once you finish the tour and pay off your debts. Then what?”

Jesper picks up his fork again, sitting back in his seat with a new lightness about him. He dunks a piece of already-soggy waffle into a puddle of syrup on his plate. Silver eyes twinkling, he says, “Why don’t you ask me that question again once your engagement’s officially over?”

Wylan tilts his head, amusement rising in his chest. Jesper smiles mischievously as he pops a bite of breakfast into his mouth, lifting his brows as he savors the sweetness. 

Wylan bites down on his lip, fighting a grin. “Maybe I will.”

“I hope you do.”

Silence falls between them as Wylan tucks into his breakfast, a new comfort settling over his limbs. He still has no idea what’s going to come of all this—of Timothy’s job and his father’s party and Kaz Brekker’s madcap plan. But he’s hopeful. Hopeful that what is waiting for him on the other side of the chaos is something worth fighting for.

Outside, the sun begins to rise.

———

The last week of rehearsals before the show is a mad dash to the finish. As per the Crows’ plan, Wylan makes nice with his father and fiancé, returning to the apartment on Saturday morning with an air of bashful acquiescence. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Timothy as his fiancé benevolently folds him into his arms.

“I know you are. And I’m sorry, too. I should have waited to tell you in a different setting. Your stuff with your dad is … complicated, I know, and you tend to be dramatic when you’ve been drinking. But this will be so good for my career, Wy. Just you wait. I know you. You’ll be happy here.”

I know you, I know you, I know you, Wylan thinks. How had he not noticed this before? He closes his eyes, remembering what Jesper said instead.

You know yourself best.

Timothy kisses the top of his head as Wylan lets another man’s words steel him.

With Timothy’s forgiveness bestowed, Wylan’s life goes back to a relative equilibrium. Their rehearsals move from the studio to the stage, the reality of their upcoming concert coming into sharp relief as they look out over the empty seats. The venue is mid-sized, decently intimate, and Wylan’s not sure he’s ever been more nervous—or excited—to play.

Anika joins them on Monday morning, already talking publicity.

“I understand that you all have had to focus on the music for the last few weeks, but really, to see no social media content has been disappointing. Especially from you, Nina and Matthias. The Crows, back together after five years? Your fans need to see this!”

So as they muddle through the long, boring processes of light programming and costume fitting and, very occasionally, actually playing, the cameras come out. Kaz brings his polaroid—another talent he discovered along the path to stardom was a knack for photography—and snaps candids, posting them to his story at odd, potentially meaningful angles. The fans latch on to one of Matthias and Nina lounging backstage in bathrobes and another where Wylan and Jesper look bemused as they stand together onstage, staring down at Kaz in the front row. Demand for a #kanejpolaroid reaches a fever pitch before Nina swipes the camera from Kaz’s hand, promising in a quick video on her story that she’ll get the fans what they want. After a day of increasingly silly shots, she finally catches them off-guard. Inej is grinning at a joke Kaz has told, and Kaz is grinning at Inej.

She posts it. The fandom implodes.

Anika emails them a graph showing a spike in ticket sales with an accompanying message. Nice work.

And it’s not only photos that they share. Nina captures a video of Wylan teaching Matthias a minuet in their downtime, his laughter as Matthias twirls him around the stage echoing from each of their phones in turn as they repost it. Jesper captures a snippet of Wylan at sound check, his voice from behind the camera saying, “Our resident composer’s just making this up on the spot, the big show off.” Hearing the commentary, Wylan lifts his head to the camera, smiling as he finishes his improvisation with a flourish. 

On Wednesday, two days before the concert, Timothy insists that Wylan join him at a rooftop bar for a holiday happy hour. Rehearsal wraps early, so he makes his way downtown, meeting his fiancé in the tastefully decorated lobby of a fancy hotel. Wylan looks at the sparse silver decor and frowns, thinking of the explosion of cheer inside Rolf’s. Upstairs, he orders a hot tea with honey, unable to drink alcohol this close to the gig. Timothy makes a face but does not comment.

“So, how’s rehearsal going? It certainly looks like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“It’s been great. The Instagram stuff was our manager’s idea. It’s really been helping sales.”

“I can see why. To the fans, it looks like you’re on the world’s most amazing triple date.”

Wylan sips his tea to wash the sour taste from his mouth. “It’s just for show.”

“Sure, yeah. I know that.”

Sensing an argument coming, Wylan changes the subject. “How’s your week going? Is everyone at the startup miserable about you leaving?”

Timothy perks up then, although the conversation remains a little stilted. Wylan half-listens, his mind wandering back to chord progressions and costuming and sound engineering more than is exactly polite. He’s grown more and more certain of his decision as the days have worn on. Once Plumje’s party is over, he’s going to end his engagement.

The idea makes him feel lighter, his once-narrow future opening up before him. Maybe he’ll take a touring job or two. Maybe he’ll move back to New York and rent for a while. Maybe he’ll call Jesper.

He realizes, with all the slow inevitability of the creeping dawn, that maybe settling down had never been right for him. He thinks back to the homes he’s tried to make. The nervous anxiety of the West Village apartment. The empty peace of the Santa Monica mansion. Neither had ever really fit. Hadn’t felt good. Looking back on their breakup, he always assumed that it was only Jesper who freaked out. Jesper who pulled back and back and back until they broke, Wylan ricocheting all the way across the country in the aftermath. But hadn’t he been just as on edge throughout those odd, fateful months, forcing himself to play house in that expensive downtown apartment? Hadn’t he been trying desperately to live up to an invisible expectation of what a grown up should be?

In the diner, Jesper acted more grown up than Wylan had ever felt. Laying bare his truth. His spirals and addictions. His secret shames. 

What would it sound like, Wylan wonders, if he did the same?

When I was young my father disowned me, so I tried to make it on my own. Did make it, actually, with the help of some friends. But as soon as the frenetic movement of our career as a band drew to a close, I fell obediently back into the mold of my father’s expectations. I bought an apartment, because that’s what he would have expected me to do, and worked on becoming a settled man, because that’s what he would have found impressive. I didn’t consider touring. Or performing. I wrote, because it was the more dignified of the professions available to me. I bought flashy things I don’t care about. I stopped going to parties. I even called my father again, under the guise of burying the hatchet. I didn’t know how to stop trying to make him love me. 

And then, when the man I wanted to settle down with proved unable to do it, I panicked. Tossed it all away. Squished myself down, and down, and down, until all that was left was a slip of a person, so easily taken advantage of by an ambitious opportunist. Used for access to a fortune I never wanted, brushed to the side whenever I brought up my concerns. Stuffed into a life that never quite felt like my own. And I did nothing to stop it.

When Wylan really thinks about it, the thing he’s most proud of himself for doing over the last five years is finding the nerve to cancel that damn wedding.

As they wrap up their drinks on the rooftop, Timothy takes out his phone and snaps a photo of Wylan, Manhattan glittering in the background. 

Timothy doesn’t often take pictures. “What’s that for?” asks Wylan.

“My Instagram story.” Timothy looks down as he fiddles with the settings.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Try telling your fans that,” Timothy scoffs. “Have you read the—what am I saying, of course you haven’t read the comments, but you should listen. They’re a little … speculative. I’d like to put an end to that if I can.” He presses post and looks up. “Speaking of, maybe we should look into bringing Charlie back around once we’re home. Try more of that shapes of words stuff. New year, new you, right?”

Wylan grinds his teeth. “Right.”

Later that night, he slips into the bathroom with his phone, tapping open the Instagram app. Under Anika’s close management, the official Crows account has reposted most of their content to the grid. Wylan opens the video of himself that Jesper took, and Jesper’s voice threads through his earbuds. Our resident composer’s just making this up on the spot, the big show off…

“Siri, read the comments.”

Wylan tips his head back against the door, eyes sliding shut as his earbuds fill with Siri’s lilting speech.

@kanejstan4ever commented: Oh, Jesper is down BAD.

@wyl4nh3ndr1cks replied: Wouldn’t you be? Wylan’s gorgeous AND talented.

@iwudcrawl2U replied: Don’t forget rich. But isn’t he married to some Silicon Valley guy now?

@newyorkninaa replied: No, the wedding was cancelled. And we all know that Joan Knight tabloid stuff is rubbish. So they’re both single and, if this video is any evidence, most certainly mingling!!!

@jesperfaheyshusband commented: Are they back together? Someone tell me they’re back together. I will happily give this username to Wylan if he wants it.

@dreggsyandiknowit commented: This video made me gay.

@hearteyes4helvar replied: Same, but with the video of Matthias and Wylan dancing instead.

@crowsofsix commented: Just kiss already.

@brickbybrickbybrick commented: First the kanej polaroid, now this? We are getting fed, folks.

@officialcrowsfanaccount commented: Who's excited to go to the show this weekend? DM me if you want to meet up, I’ll be there early!

Smiling to himself, Wylan closes the app.

———

After hours, the Crows plan the heist. Kaz lays the blueprint of the Rainbow Room between them, a glittering jewel of a ballroom all the way up on the 65th floor of 30 Rock. Jesper and Inej study the layout with keen eyes, identifying the entrances and exits. Nina makes some calls, layering on various accents as needed, to learn about the day’s schedule.

“I—I—I know I’m only an assistant, miss, but Mister Van Eck will be frightfully angry with me if I don’t get this right, and really I need this job. My Ma’s not doing so well and—well, that’s not important. It’s just … I would so appreciate it if y’all could—oh? You can confirm the caterers arrive at 10am? Oh, thank you, miss, thank you so very much. Happy holidays to you and yours.” 

Kaz and Matthias come and go, attending meetings with Kaz’s more belowground contacts to acquire the supplies they’ll need for smokebomb-making and padlock-picking and, God forbid, self defence against Jan’s personal security. 

Kaz makes Wylan repeat, again and again, the scant words he heard through the walls of his father’s office.

“It was the musicians who he said had fake-bottomed cases?”

Wylan exhales. “Yes, Kaz. For the hundredth time, it was the musicians.”

“No other vendors were mentioned? The caterers, the photographers, the florist?”

“I know that you already know the answer.”

“Indulge me.”

“The security, the surveillance, and the service staff. He mentioned all three.”

Kaz only nods, leaving Wylan alone—for the time being. He’ll be back in another few hours to grill him again. In the meantime he goes for Inej, asking her to tell and re-tell the story of how she figured out that Wylan’s father was involved in the trafficking ring her team had been trying to track down.

She answers good-naturedly, much more used to handling Kaz’s demands for repetition than the rest of them. “I was on my way home from Venezuela when I got the call…”

Wylan heard the story for the first time that night in the studio when the truth came out, but he listens again now. Inej was on her way home from Venezuela when a woman from her team at Save the Children called her cell. The woman, Fleur, had gotten wind of a messy situation developing in New York City. Her contacts within the city’s underbelly told her of a human trafficking drop gone wrong, a cancelled plan that had left the traffickers scrambling. Fly here as soon as you can, Fleur had said. We have the opportunity to save a lot of lives today.

So Inej did. She came to New York to investigate the case, Kaz flying in from Amsterdam—where he was doing God knows what—to meet her. Together they tracked down one branch of the traffickers, freeing a few of their charges, but were thrown from the trail when an influx of capital allowed the remaining criminals to escape. Piecing together the stories of the victims, timelines, and what remained of the paper trail, Kaz and Inej came to realize that the cash that had allowed the men to escape could be trailed back—through layers of shell companies and intermediaries—to Van Eck Industries. And the cancelled drop? Well, the odds were high that it was none other than Wylan’s wedding.

Plans for the reunion concert started that week.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wylan asked when she finished the story that first time in the studio.

Inej’s expression remained blank, although a furrow appeared between her brows. “We still had some evidence to gather, so we could be sure. Plus, you were still with your fiancé. We couldn’t be certain…”

“If I was involved?”

Inej blinked. “No. No, Wylan. If you were safe.”

A tightness gripped his throat then, effectively cutting off his speech.

When Inej is done re-telling the story, Wylan blinks. It’s still hard to believe that he was right about his father. Harder still to stomach exactly how right he was. After rehearsal and planning, he goes home each day with a pit in his stomach, knowing that all the glitz and wealth surrounding him in his father’s luxe apartment was bought on the backs of those trembling victims Inej described.

The knowledge makes him work all the harder.

Slowly, their plan comes together. By Thursday they’re ready to go. There’s only one problem. 

“We’re not going to be able to get into Plumje’s party,” insists Wylan. “It was one thing to sneak into the Ice Court as an unknown group. But the Crows performing this party is the last thing my father wants. He’ll be on the lookout for us.”

“Leave that to me,” assures Kaz distractedly, his eyes on some paperwork Inej placed in front of him an hour ago. “Just be ready to execute when the time comes.”

So Wylan prepares, as best he can. He helps Kaz tally sums from stolen ledgers, wincing every time his father’s books don’t quite balance. He accompanies Inej to a climbing gym in Brooklyn, spotting her as she practices a tricky combination that mirrors the one she’ll need to make to reach the vents at Rockefeller Center. He tells Timothy he’s helping Rotty with sound and heads to an abandoned warehouse in Queens that Jesper’s found for him, putting together smoke bombs with the supplies Kaz fetched.

Jesper accompanies him, and they spend a companionable few hours together as Wylan assembles the bombs. The practice comes back almost as easily as performing.

“Don’t touch that,” he snaps as Jesper’s ungloved hands hover over his stash of potassium nitrate. 

Jesper backs off immediately, but still asks, “Or what?”

Wylan counts his fuses as he speaks. “Respiratory irritation, skin irritation, redness and pain in the eyes if transferred, gastrointestinal issues if swallowed, issues around the blood’s ability to carry oxygen potentially leading to methemoglobinemia, and kidney problems including anemia.” He glances up. “Need I go on?”

Jesper shakes his head, incomprehensibly grinning. 

The hairs at the back of Wylan’s neck prickle. “What?”

“Nothing. I just forgot how intimidatingly smart you are.”

Smart. The simple compliment warms Wylan from within, skin buzzing as though he’s touched the chemicals himself. He ducks his head and continues his work, trying and failing to fight a smile.

Later, they sit together on the lofted second floor, practicing lobbing the smoke bombs at a hastily drawn target on the ground. Jesper’s aim is far better, but Wylan’s been steadily improving with each bomb he throws. They watch together in silence as another test bomb unfurls in a cloud of inky shadow.

“I told Joan to replace me after the New York shows.”

Wylan looks up. “Really? What about the debt? The sharks?”

Jesper shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “A certain manager’s social media strategy is assisting with that. Our merch sales are through the roof.”

“That’s only because the fans think we’re all dating,” Wylan points out. “Have you seen those polycule comments?”

“Oh yeah. We’re the patron saints of polyamory, supposedly. I, for one, don’t mind so long as they keep buying all those t-shirts in bulk. Nina’s having a field day with it, much to Kaz’s irritation. I think he’s one heavily implied comment away from hacking her account and shutting it down.”

Wylan laughs. There is a moment of companionable silence, and then—

“Do you think she’ll be alright? Joan?”

“Yeah,” Jesper answers. His voice is a little rough. “She and I…” He shakes his head, shifts his weight. “We’re too similar, I think. Being in one another’s orbit, right now at least, probably isn’t all that good for us. I’m glad we met—she helped me understand some things about myself, as you know, and I like to think I’ve helped her too—but it’s all just a little too much. She’s seeing a therapist at my practice, though. And she has the guys in the band. They know the deal, and they care about her. They’ll keep her on the straight and narrow as best they can. I’ll always be rooting for her, and we’ll keep in touch, I’m sure, but for now…” He swallows thickly. “Probably best to go our separate ways.”

Wylan nods. He doesn’t know exactly where the words come from, but as he stares into the slowly moving cloud of nitrate and dye, he says, “Sometimes that’s for the best, I think. Sometimes…” He tilts his head, lost in thought. “Sometimes two people need a bit of space to figure their own stuff out, so that when they come back together again, they’re really ready for it.” Meeting Jesper’s eyes, he flushes. “Whatever it is.”

Jesper runs his tongue over his teeth, gaze skittering away as he considers. His voice is low and vulnerable when he says, “You think?”

“I’ve lived it,” Wylan says earnestly. 

Jesper’s smile could light a thousand rooms. Wylan’s struck with the urge to lean forward and close the gap between them, if only for a chance to taste it.

Four more days, he tells himself, leaning back on his hands. Four more days.

———

The day of the reunion show sneaks up on them. Plumje’s party has been the date around which the group has become attuned, so the day of the reunion feels almost like a dress rehearsal. It takes Wylan all morning—through his hearty breakfast and coffee and warm-up on his old electronic keyboard—to realize it’s a very real, very nervewracking thing. 

Still, it doesn’t truly hit him for another few hours. He shows up to the venue before everyone else, walking a slow circle around the stage before settling behind the keys. Looking out over the rows of empty seats—soon to be filled by fans who haven’t seen or heard from him in five long years—he expects his nerves to hit, but he can’t quite conjure them. The only feeling he can muster is a loose, jangling sort of excitement. The impulse to grin, jump up and down, dance the minuet in long, loping steps across the stage. To rifle through chords and melodies and flourishes at impressive speeds and feel the crowd’s energy grow with each passing trick. To show off something he’s good at —great at—without remorse or repercussion.

I forgot how smart you are.

Jumping and dancing feel silly, so Wylan plays instead, pouring all that rushing exhilaration into the keys. He returns to that Shadow modulation he’d been working on—the one with the jazzy flat note. It pours from him, more uptempo now than it had been when he last worked it, and suddenly, he can imagine the rest of the song. A soaring, floaty guitar. Two low voices, intertwined. A feel-it-in-your-throat thrumming bass, and a drumbeat like gunfire —rat-a-tat-tat.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he taps open the notes app and dictates his ideas to Siri. It’s not another song yet—still too similar to Shadow to be anything but a companion piece—but it's something. The first something he’s written for himself in a long, long time.

The rest of the group filters in, and from there the day passes in a whirlwind of movement. Wylan checks sound and gets dressed and patiently allows a nervous young makeup artist to pat powder across his cheekbones, quietly dissuading her from attempting to do Kaz next, lest she run crying from the building. He splits a bag of potato chips with Matthias and takes a photo with Inej and helps Jesper tape the callouses on his palms. He listens as the venue begins to fill—chatter becoming din becoming noise— and warms his voice with hummed vocal exercises. 

Soon, it’s time to go on. Kaz gives a few final notes—making sure Jesper doesn’t get ahead of himself on the beat of Dregs, asking Nina to mind the wires as she crosses the stage for the Brick solo—and then turns the floor over to Inej. 

The Crows have never been a band with a long set of pre-show rituals. They have only one. 

“No mourners,” says Inej.

“No funerals.” 

The familiar words are a holdover from their more dangerous days, but they comfort Wylan all the same.

Jesper whoops, slipping free of the loosely gathered group and taking off down the hall. He turns back toward them as he pushes open the stage doors with his hips, his face so unabashedly exuberant that Wylan feels his own chest begin to fill with fizzing bubbles.

It’s time to meet the cheering crowd.

Backstage, they line up in entrance order. Jesper first, then Wylan, Matthias, Nina, Kaz, and Inej. The lights dim, and the crowd roars its approval.

Wylan’s always loved this moment. The giddy anticipation of the audience. The held-breath tension of the band and crew backstage. The feeling of standing on a precipice, knowing, after weeks and weeks of rehearsals, that you won’t fall.

You’ll fly.

When the lights click back on, brilliant and overwhelming, there’s nothing left to do but take the stage.

Jesper goes first. He bounds to center stage, raising both arms to acknowledge the crowd. They respond in kind, the noise blanketing Wylan like a ray of summer sunshine. As Jesper showboats, he leans forward, peering around the curtain for his first peek at their audience. Joan Knight stands in the front row, slapping a hand against the barrier as she chants Jesper’s name in support. Her eyes are brighter than they were at Bryant Park. Clearer. There’s nothing loose and clumsy about the way she holds herself tonight. Wylan hardly knows the woman, and yet still, he balloons with pride.

Satisfied with his welcome, Jesper sits at his drumkit and picks up a rolling beat, encouraging the applause to continue.

That’s Wylan’s cue. He steps beneath the stage lights, and the only word for the moment is surreal. Enveloped with warmth and light and sound, he raises a hand to the crowd and is nearly bowled over by the response. His name echoes from the balcony, bubbling through the floor and washing over him like an ocean wave. Looking out over the crowd, he spots three huddled figures in the VIP section—Jan, Alys, and Timothy, only the latter of whom is truly cheering. At the front, Joan Knight bangs the barrier harder and screams, “WYLAAAAAAAN!”

Blushing, he makes a beeline for the piano.

Wylan begins to play, matching the progression of his loose chords to the drumbeat Jesper’s provided. Once he’s vamped a little, Matthias and Nina follow him onstage, one right after the other. Matthias dips Nina dramatically—his dance training clearly paying off—and when they kiss, it feels as though the whole room could light on fire. Nina tips her head back, cackling, and across the venue, phone lights flash as fans attempt to capture the moment. Separating, Nina and Matthias strap on their instruments and join Wylan and Jesper’s burgeoning song.

The excitement reaches a fever pitch. The floor beneath Wylan’s feet vibrates as the fans stomp and cheer, breathlessly awaiting the moment the band is complete.

After allowing the tension to climb a bit longer, Kaz and Inej make their entrance. They don’t do much—sly, pleased smiles are all they offer their leagues of fans—but as they take their places, the crowd grows increasingly frenzied.

And just like that, the Crows are back together.

Wylan slams the keys harder as Kaz greets their waiting audience. “Good evening, New York City. We are—we were—Hell, we’ll always be the Crows, and we’d like to play some music tonight. That alright with you?”

The response is deafening.

Kaz turns back to the band with the focused grin of a hungry shark. Into the mic, he intones, “Then let’s do it.”

Jesper raises his drumsticks. For a moment, everything feels still. Wylan’s hands hover over the keys, Nina’s fingers shifting into place on the neck of her guitar. The crowd goes relatively hush once more, waiting to see what the first song will be. And then, right as the tension reaches its peak, Wylan hears the wooden sound of Jesper counting them off.

One, two, three, four!

———

The show goes on and on and on. Each song is better than the last. The crowd’s energy is a spark, and with Jesper’s beat, Wylan’s harmonies, Nina’s charm, Matthias’ solidity, Inej’s heart, and Kaz’s charisma, the venue lights aflame. Wylan tries not to look out into the audience often—it breaks his focus—but he catches a few glimpses of Joan Knight dancing like a lunatic in the front row. He sees Rotty and Specht sitting with their heads bowed together in the booth. Songs slip by in a rush of pulsing rhythm, Wylan managing to get caught off guard when the audience actually knows the words to their songs, belting them back at double the volume. 

Things go exactly as rehearsed —better than rehearsed—until about halfway through the show. 

When the band ducks offstage for a quick break between sets, Kaz pulls Wylan aside. “Vamp for a bit when we go back on.”

Wylan’s brows furrow. “Why?”

But Kaz doesn’t answer. He follows the others into the dressing room before Wylan can say another word.

When they go back onstage, Wylan does as he’s told. Shadow is the next song, so he lets his fingertips find the familiar shape of the modulation he’s been working on, vamping while Kaz steps up to the mic.

“How’s everyone feeling tonight?” Kaz’s grin is lighter fluid, setting the crowd ablaze. His energy is up—way up—from when the show started. Sweat gleams on his forehead, a single strand of hair falling loose from its gelled hold. The fan accounts are going to have a field day with the way he looks right now—glowing and golden, like a man born to be onstage rather than a boy forced to make his way in the city’s dangerous underbelly.

“This holiday season,” he continues, the sardonic edge to his voice barely detectable, “we chose to get our little musical family back together.” The crowd roars, and despite the sarcasm, Wylan feels the compliment in his bones. Family. “Because that’s what’s important, right? Family. Friends. Spending time with those who know us best. Who see us for all we are, and all we are not, and decide, inexplicably, to stay.”

The audience is quiet now. Mesmerized. To his right, Wylan sees Jesper shoot him a look. You know what’s going on here?

Still vamping, he shakes his head.

Kaz talks on about family and community and holiday spirit , and, without prompting, Wylan’s eyes find his father in the crowd. Jan’s watching the speech with a distracted frown. As his son looks on, he checks his watch. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

“... and that’s why we’ve come back to New York this holiday season. Not just to play this show for all of you lovely people”—he has to pause then as the crowd responds, Nina layering on a quick slide to encourage the cheering—“but also to play a very special show for a very special little girl. Our own Wylan Hendrik’s baby sister!”

The spotlight swings toward Wylan, who does his best not to look surprised. But he can’t help the flood of color that drenches his face, his cheeks red as cherries as he manages a smile for the crowd.

What is Kaz doing?

Whatever it is, it pleases their fans. A long awww emits from the audience, applause ripping through the air. But not everyone is celebrating. Squinting through the glare of the stage lights, Wylan watches father’s face go white. His stomach drops to his shoes. 

“You see, Plumje is a delightful soon-to-be five-year-old. She’s top of her class at her Montessori with a real flair for the dramatic arts…”

Wylan can hardly hear the rest of Kaz’s speech over the rushing in his ears. He watches his family react in the VIP section—Jan furious, Alys befuddled, and Timothy suspicious. But by the time Kaz wraps up, at least one of them has changed their mind. 

Alys is cheering with the rest of them, pink-faced and exuberant. 

Kaz’s plan comes into sharp relief. With his glowing speech, he’s closed the one remaining loophole in their plan. We’re not going to be able to get into Plumje’s party. It’s the last thing my father wants. He’ll be on the lookout for us.

Watching Alys wipe tears from her cheeks, Wylan realizes that Kaz never intended to gain entry through his father. Nor did he plan to sneak in. The public flattery of his stepmother—and her daughter—was always going to be their gilded invitation. 

It’s a little risky—and a little brilliant. There’s no way that Jan will be able to talk his wife out of having the Crows at the party now. Not when Kaz has made a spectacle of the thing, his plush voice layering on compliments so thick you could drown in them. Not when Alys’ society friends will be calling her about the news by morning. Not when it’s probably already on Twitter, #kanej fans praising Kaz Brekker’s soft heart.

Kaz looks back at the group, signaling with a jerk of his chin to start Shadow in earnest. When they do, Wylan loses himself in the music, pledging to worry about his father and Alys and all the rest later.

For better or worse, the Crows are going to Plumje’s party.

———

Chapter Text

That night, Wylan gets home late. He stayed after the show to celebrate with friends and family, greeting Inej’s parents and Nina’s Russian friends, chatting with Specht and Rotty about the show’s superior lighting and sound. He even spent some time getting to know Joan Knight—charming, high-energy, and stone-cold sober.

When she left, Jesper turned to him. “So…”

Wylan sighed. “You were right. I like her a lot.”

“I knew it! I told you, she’s just like me.”

To that, Wylan offered no answer but a poorly-repressed smile.

His own family was nowhere to be found—not even Timothy had deigned to come to the after party. Wylan tried to find it within himself to care, but came up short. Driving thoughts of his soon-to-be ex fiancé from his head, he leaned toward Jesper, eyeing Nikolai Lantsov from across the bar.

“Think we can get enough drinks in him to make him tell us how much his wedding costs?”

Jesper barked a laugh, throwing a casual arm over Wylan’s shoulders. “Well, merchling, I certainly think we can try.”

The party passed by in a blur after that. Wylan returns to his father’s apartment well after midnight, head a little fuzzy from champagne and adrenaline.

The apartment is dark. He pads through the kitchen and living room. Before he reaches his bedroom, he spots light spilling from beneath the third door to the left.

His father’s office.

A low, muffled voice leaks through the cracked door. The irregular pauses tell Wylan that his father is on the phone.

A sense of deja vú creeps through him.

Wylan holds his breath as he approaches the door, his footfalls light as he can make them. 

Jan pauses mid sentence. “I’ll call you back.” Then, sternly, “Wylan.”

There’s a terrible familiarity about the swift, icy dread that sweeps through him. Wylan walks to the door like a prisoner meeting his execution.

When he reaches the doorframe, he pauses. Blinks. 

His father is not alone. Behind him stands Timothy, his expression hard and weary. There’s a business card in Jan’s hand, his phone in the other. On the desk sits a stack of papers. The writing on them is a wiggly mess, of course, but by the boxes and blanks scattered throughout, Wylan can tell the top page is a form.

“Father,” he greets cautiously, entering the room. “Timothy. I thought you would have been in bed by now.”

It’s not clear to whom Wylan’s directed the statement, but his father answers. “Too much work, now, thanks to your band’s little stunt.”

Wylan runs his tongue over his teeth. So they’re going to dive right in, then. 

Play dumb, an instinct within him whispers. He tilts his head. “Stunt?”

Jan’s eyes narrow. “I’ve known for quite some time that you’re not as stupid as you seem, Wylan. But you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are. You’re meddling in things you do not understand.”

Heat flares in Wylan’s ribcage, but he tamps it down. He cannot say too much. Timothy is watching. He swallows. “I understand enough.”

Jan clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Clearly not, if you think it's appropriate to have your repellent bandmates publicly invite themselves to your baby sister’s party."

"Half-sister," Wylan corrects.

Jan acts as though he hasn't heard. "What is it that they are after, I wonder? Free liquor? Fine foods? Exposure to New York City’s social elite?” He scoffs. “We’ll have to tell our guests to be careful with their wallets around that Kaz Brekker character. He did a stint in juvie, did he not? Something about a failed robbery?”

Wylan doesn’t allow himself to rise to the bait. “Tell Alys to uninvite us then.”

Jan’s expression sours. “Your stepmother is overly receptive to flattery.”

Wylan shrugs. “I suppose I will see you on Sunday, then.”

He manages to back away two steps before Timothy speaks. “Wylan, you can’t—”

Jan interrupts. “And it’s not only Brekker who has a criminal history. I’ve looked into it. Inej Ghafa: a slap on the wrist for breaking and entering. Matthias Helvar: aggravated assault. Nina Zenik’s the one who posted his bail, so she can’t have been far from his crime, and Jesper Fahey…” Jan trails off, eyes hungrily gobbling up the shift in Wylan’s expression. “Well. It’s obvious that one’s headed for an early grave. But what will take him first, I wonder? The excessive partying, or the loan sharks coming to collect on his debts?”

“That’s not—”

“And to think, your poor fiancé here was completely unaware of your band’s criminal history. I had to fill him in. He certainly would not have allowed you to return for this farce of a show if he had known the types of characters with whom you would be spending your time. Perhaps he would have hesitated to take up with you in the first place. And what then? Where would you be? Penniless on the streets of Los Angeles?”

Wylan glances at Timothy. “He can’t allow me—”

“I have long given up on trying to reason with you, Wylan. You’ve been hell-bent on finding trouble no matter how much I try to help. But I will not allow you to bring these sorts of delinquents to our precious Plumje’s party.”

Precious. Something deep within Wylan cracks, then shatters. He steps forward. “And what of the criminals you’ve invited to the party, father? Have you told Timothy about them? Have you told Alys?”

Jan sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Don’t you remember turning my wedding into a drop site for a gang of human traffickers? Don’t you remember how, when I cancelled, everything went awry?” Wylan tilts his head, breathing like he’s just run a mile. “Come on. You’re not that old. You must remember how you bailed the traffickers out with cash from Van Eck industries’ accounts? Or perhaps you got confused. After all, there were so very many shell corporations involved, weren’t there?”

Jan’s face floods with color. For a moment, Wylan thinks he’s going to snap.

But then, he turns toward Timothy. “It’s worse than we thought.”

Wylan’s anger cools in the span of an instant. His gaze bounces between his father and fiancé. “What?”

Timothy eyes Wylan, the smallest spark of sympathy in his eyes. “I don’t know if this—”

“You’re unwell, son,” Jan interrupts. “You always have been. Paranoid. Delusional. Running with criminals and making up stories. Timothy tells me that you did well hiding it in California, but the moment you got involved with that silly band again… It’s safe to say that your mental state has quickly deteriorated. I don’t know how we didn’t see it sooner, but it’s well past time we did something about it.”

A cold, hard stone drops in the very center of Wylan’s stomach, as though he’s swallowed a block of ice. “I haven’t—I’m not—” he stutters.

Jan folds his hands atop the stack of papers on his desk. “Fortunately, we’ve prepared for this possibility. There’s a mental facility in Connecticut ready to take you. A few weeks there will do you good, we think. We’re arranging for a pickup first thing in the morning.”

Before Plumje’s party. In only a few hours now.

“Timothy,” Wylan pleads. “This is ridiculous. I’m not insane. It’s like I told you: my father is a bad person. He always has been. Open your eyes!”

“A bad person,” scoffs Jan. “That’s rich, given the rap sheets of the people with whom you associate.”

Timothy stays silent.

Wylan plants his feet, staring down his father. “You can’t make me go.”

“Well. That’s the first time you’ve been right about something all evening,” Jan laughs. “Given you are an adult with legal residence in California, I cannot force you to do anything. But as your husband, Timothy here can step in and file for a conservatorship over your assets as you focus on your healing.”

Wylan’s gaze shoots back to Timothy. Conservatorship? “He’s not my husband.”

“That’s odd,” says Jan, glancing down at the stack of papers on his desk. “Because I have the marriage certificate right here. Signed and everything. It’s proof that you and your dear fiancé went down to the courthouse together before the show. A charming story, really. A beautiful elopement for two boys who preferred small and simple to that stuffy, large affair that was planned last year. Fitting, given that’s exactly what you’ve been telling everyone.” He picks up the top sheet of paper, holding it out toward Wylan. His lip curls. “Why don’t you go ahead and read it, son?”

Wylan doesn’t move. Blood rushes his face, hot enough to sting.

“Wylan,” attempts Timothy. “Darling. You should listen to your father. Ever since we got here, you’ve been acting … off. Jan’s right that you need time away from your bandmates. To heal. To go back to being the man I fell in love with back in California. This is for your own good.”

Wylan wheels on him, snarling. “My own good, or your own pocket?”

Jan stands, crossing around the desk with his palms raised. “This anger is unseemly, Wylan. Tim here agrees with me not because he stands to gain control of your sizable inheritance, but because it's what’s right. What’s best for you. We ca—”

“Don’t you dare say you care about me.”

Jan’s lip curls. “We cannot afford to have such a nuisance on our hands. Not with the money we stand to make with Timothy at the helm of Van Eck Industries' Business Development team.”

Impossibly —infuriatingly— Timothy preens.

Wylan’s shaking all over, shock and anger and fear churning within him. “You can’t do this,” he repeats. “I’ll go to the press. Hell, I’ll go to social media.” He fishes his phone from his pocket, holding it aloft. “I’ll go on Instagram right now and post about how you—”

His father steps forward.

SMACK!

The slap explodes at his cheekbone, pain reverberating across his face as his feet slip out from under him. He falls to the floor with a resounding thud, his phone clattering somewhere out of reach. As he lays there, cheek to the gleamingly polished hardwood, the business card his father was holding when he first entered the room flutters to the floor, landing soft as a butterfly atop a flower.

His face throbs. His heart throbs. A thousand memories flood in, battling for his attention.

From somewhere high above, Jan mutters, “I wish you wouldn’t make me do this to you.”

The words are all too familiar.

Wylan’s too far gone to answer. He simply lies there, mustering the strength to raise his head.

By the time he does, it’s too late. His father’s grabbed his phone from the floor, gesturing one-handedly to Timothy. Wylan’s fiancé obediently follows orders, slipping from the room as his betrothed lays moaning on the ground.

Before Jan walks out, he turns back once more. “Don’t say I didn’t try to help you."

When he leaves, a momentary bout of relief floods Wylan, cool and refreshing as a winter’s wind. 

Until the door’s heavy lock falls into place.

———

Wylan pounds at the door. Yells until his throat feels raw. 

No one comes.

———

Hours pass. Wylan finds some sleep curled in the plush seat of his father’s office chair, but mostly he just stares out the window at the night sky. Central park spills out below him, dark and open, an empty, hungry maw between the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers. Above them, there are no stars—only black sky. Then gray, then purple, then blue. Eventually, sunlight touches the very tops of the buildings, gold spilling across Jan’s magnificent view.

Wylan watches the sunrise with a heavy, hollow feeling in his chest.

There’s a facility in Connecticut ready to take you. We’re arranging for a pickup first thing in the morning.

How soon after this sunrise will the facility employees come? Will any of them listen when he tries to convince them that he’s innocent? That he’s sane?

He wracks his brain for a plan—Kaz would have a plan—but finds nothing. He can’t pick locks. He can’t shoot a gun. He can’t creep unseen through the shadows. He doesn’t even have any chemicals with which to make a bomb or an acid. He’s not bold like Kaz or Nina or Jesper. Not balanced like Matthias or Inej. He’s just Wylan, helpless and alone.

He distracts himself by rifling through his father’s desk. A useless effort, given he can’t read a word scattered across any of these pages, but he likes that it gives him something to do with his hands. He picks up the business card from the floor, examining it long enough to be certain that the word printed across the top is one of Charlie-the-tutor’s favored c-words, but he can’t quite make out which one. He can tell there’s an -ing at the end—another shape he’d gotten good at identifying—but that doesn’t really help narrow things down. Catching? Caulking? Cauterizing? He wishes he had his phone here so Siri could read it to him using photo-to-text. He wishes he had Jesper here, so he could simply read it to him.

Jesper. Is his bandmate wondering about him? Today is the Crows’ day off, the one day between the reunion show and Plumje’s party when the band’s only plan is to get some rest. Wylan, in particular, is supposed to be spending it with his father and fiancé, pretending that everything is fine. What reason would Jesper have to reach out?

Wylan turns away from the papers on his father’s desk, giving up on reading the card. He sits back in the desk chair, leaning his head against the back of it and staring at the ceiling.

Timothy here can step in and file for a conservatorship over your assets as you focus on your healing.

Conservatorship is a word Wylan’s only heard in gaudy tabloid headlines about Britney Spears, and even so, the thought of it sends a chill racing down his spine. As his conservator, Timothy would be in charge of his money. In charge of his whereabouts. In charge of what he eats, who he sees, how he spends his time. When he can go to the doctor. When he can see his friends.

How is that any different to the way things were in California?

Wylan flinches away from the thought.

The clock on his father’s shelf ticks loudly, as though each second were a thing worth announcing. Wylan spins in his seat. Between thoughts of Connecticut and conservatorships, memories of last night’s show creep in. The way it felt to be beneath those stage lights. How, when he poured his energy into the music, the crowd gave it all right back. From the moment he stepped on stage until Kaz began his speech, nothing could touch him. It was as though Wylan was flying. Soaring. He can’t believe he ever forgot the feeling.

Maybe, if he gets out of going to Connecticut, he might try performing again.

That’s a big if. Currently, it’s difficult to see a way out of this room that doesn’t involve going to the facility in Connecticut.

It’s hard not to be sour. The mighty Kaz Brekker seems to have underestimated how little regard Jan Van Eck holds for his son. What was Kaz thinking, standing up on that stage in front of everyone and declaring—

“No, you go first.”

Wylan’s train of thought is interrupted by a girlish giggle. He spins toward the door.

Alys.

“Oh, you’re too kind, Mister Brekker. My Plumje is hardly a genius. She’s merely an above-average student, although her drama teacher does say that with the correct vocal training she could end up as the next Shirley Temple.”

A pause, then another giggle. “I know! That’s what I said. Who wants to be dusty old Shirley Temple? My daughter will be the first Plumje Van Eck, thank you very much.”

Wylan rushes toward the door, pounding it two-handedly. “Alys! Alys!”

On the other side of the door, Alys shushes him. “Wylan, I am on the phone! Have some manners, please.”

Wylan rubs a hand down his face. He resists the temptation to continue banging on the door. “Alys, please listen to me. I need you to—”

“Shh, Wylan! Now, what was that Mister Brekker?” A pause. “You need me to open the door for Wylan? Well, okay then.”

When the door swings open, Wylan nearly tumbles into the hall. Alys steps back. “Goodness! What’s gotten into you?”

He ignores the question. “Where’s my father? Timothy?”

“They’re at work. But they told me that a man is coming to see you this morning from Connecticut?”

Wylan shakes his head. “No, they got it wrong. I am going to meet the man from Connecticut, and I’m terribly late.” He looks toward the phone. “Can you ask Ka —Mister Brekker where I should go? He knows where the man from Connecticut will be.”

Alys holds up one delicate finger as she repeats Wylan’s question. She listens to Kaz answer, and with a prim nod says, “There’s a black car outside. The driver—”

Wylan doesn’t stick around to hear the end of her sentence. He darts down the hall, calling over his shoulder. “Thanks, Alys! See you at the party!”

As he bolts from the apartment, he hears Alys respond to something Kaz has said. “I know, right? Some people really don’t know their manners.”

———

Downstairs, there are four black cars parked outside his father’s building.

Wylan swears under his breath. He’s walking toward the farthest car—hoping that Kaz has sent someone recognizable like Rotty or Specht or Anika to drive him away—when he notices movement to his right.

A white van pulls up to the curb. Wylan can’t read the script font on the side, but the first word, he’s nearly certain, starts with a C. Connecticut?

The first black car is empty. Wylan creeps toward the second, watching through his periphery as a man steps out of the van. He’s wearing a monogrammed polo and khakis, his expression grim. Wylan looks away, for just a moment, to check the interior of the second black car. Empty.

When he looks back, the man is staring at him. He goes completely still, locking eyes with the uniformed stranger. For a moment, Wylan thinks he might recognize the man. Something about the heaviness of his jaw, the lines bracketing his mouth. A name hovers on the tip of his tongue, but it vanishes when the man’s gaze darts over his features.

Wylan opens his mouth as though to speak, but nothing comes out. He backs away a step, and then another. The man’s heavy jaw sets. With a sigh, he heads in Wylan’s direction.

“Mister Van—”

His sentence is cleaved in two by the screech of tires on asphalt. A black SUV pulls up to the curb, its back door flinging open. It’s hard to see inside the dark interior, but the car appears to be full of people, and the driver—

The driver is Jesper.

From within the car comes a cry. “Wylan!”

Wylan needs no further prompting. As the man from the facility reaches toward him, he dives for the car’s open door. Two strong arms pull him into the backseat, and Jesper floors it.

They hook a right on Park Avenue and disappear into uptown traffic.

———

Inside the car, Inej releases Wylan’s arms. She scoots to the far side of the bench, giving him some space. Wylan blinks against the sudden darkness. He’s in the backseat of a Suburban, across from a wide-eyed Inej. Jesper’s driving, with Kaz beside him. Incongruously, Nina and Matthias—the biggest in their crew—are folded into the SUV’s third row. Nina leans forward to pat his shoulder comfortingly as Wylan sits back in his seat, panting. 

“What the hell—”

From the front seat, Kaz raises a hand to silence him. “That’s wonderful, Alys. Tell her we’re excited, too. Now, put the rest of it out of your mind today. We’ll handle everything. Just focus on raising the next generation of musical talent, okay? Okay. So great to catch up. We should do this more often. I promise. Okay. Okay. Goodbye.” 

He hangs up, turning back to Wylan with raised brows. “You were saying?”

Wylan can’t help the dazed smile that splits his features. Giddy laughter bubbles within him. “You’re a madman.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“My father will be after us. You know that, right?”

“We’ve given your father some urgent business to attend to at Van Eck Industries. He’ll be distracted long enough for us to…” Kaz’s voice fades away as his gaze slips to the right.

In the rearview mirror, Jesper’s eyes flick up. “We’ve got company.”

Wylan twists in his seat to see the white van from outside his father’s apartment doggedly following their car. The driver’s expression is grimly set. Silence settles amongst the Crows as old instincts lock slowly into place.

“I’d buckle up,” warns Jesper, his voice a shade too dark to be casual. Then, without further warning, he swerves into an open lane and slams on the gas.

Wylan scrambles for his seatbelt, the car’s jerky movements threatening to send him crashing into the windows. As Jesper threads them around New York City traffic, Wylan fumbles until he feels the seatbelt finally click into place.

When it does, he risks a glance behind them. 

The van is catching up.

Jesper’s eyes flick back and forth between the rearview and the road, his hands braced against the wheel as he cuts off a shiny new Tesla. The Tesla’s driver lays on the horn, but they’re already two blocks ahead, buildings and sidewalk rushing past, deftly avoiding—

“RED LIGHT!” Nina screams.

“Hold on!” Jesper warns as he slams the brakes, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the car in front of them. Wylan’s torso jerks forward, the seatbelt cutting into his collarbone.

“Good eye, Nina,” says Kaz with a dark look at Jesper.

Jesper shoots a look right back. “I thought Van Eck was supposed to be too distracted to order the van to follow?”

“He is. Van Eck must have already told the driver to collect Wylan at all costs.”

At all costs. Thick tension settles in the silent car. Wylan ducks his head to peer into the rearview mirror, spotting the van idling a few cars back. The driver is looking out his window, gesturing to someone in the next lane.

Inej, twisted in her seat, announces, “There’s two of them. The van driver is talking to someone in a blue Toyota.”

Wylan shifts again, leaning sideways until the car Inej has described is visible in the mirror. The new driver is profiled, facing the van, but Wylan recognizes him. Recognizes both of them, now, the first man’s familiar features slotting into place now that Wylan’s seen his partner.

Miggson and Prior.

“They work for my father,” he says aloud. “I recognize them. They’re bodyguards.”

For as long as Wylan can remember, Miggson and Prior have accompanied his father on international business trips. Back when Wylan was allowed to go as well, the three of them often passed the time playing cards in the hotel room until Jan could join them for dinner.

But what is Miggson doing now, driving a pickup van for a mental health facility? What is Prior doing here at all?

With a sinking feeling, Wylan thinks he knows the answers.

Quietly, he asks, “What does the side of that van say?”

Matthias presses himself back in his seat as Inej leans forward, contorting her limbs so she can see the side of Miggson’s car. 

“Construction Supplies,” she answers. “Why?”

Wylan closes his eyes. Heat rises to his face. “There’s no facility in Connecticut,” he murmurs.

And why would there be? Sending Wylan away to a real mental health institute would only cause rumors, headlines. Much cleaner and quieter for Jan to have his son dealt with in-house.

Smart, really. It isn’t like Wylan would have caught on. He couldn’t read the van or the driver’s monogrammed polo. The papers on his father’s desk might as well have been blank.

Shame—hot and bitter—rises like bile in his throat.

Kaz shakes his head. “Alys said—”

“My father lied to Alys,” Wylan interrupts. “Just as he lied to me. There’s no facility in Connecticut, I swear it.”

“Then where do these men plan to take you?” asks Matthias.

Wylan has no answer. The silence simmers.

When the light turns green, Jesper peels away.

———

They manage to make it ten more blocks before their pursuers catch up to them.

“Around this green car,” Kaz instructs. “Go now.”

Jesper follows orders in silence, grimly determined. Still looking over her shoulder, Inej calls out updates on their assailants. They’re gaining, they’re turning, they’re stuck.  

But soon, she only has one thing to call out.

“They’re here. Right behind us.”

She doesn’t need to say what will happen once they hit a red light.

Wylan wraps his hands around his seatbelt, white-knuckling it as though it will keep him from being ripped from the vehicle.

Up ahead, the lights turn yellow.

“Kaz,” says Jesper evenly. “There’s a gun in the glove compartment. Once the light turns red, I can—”

“Blue Toyota’s falling back,” interrupts Inej. “You have an opening to your right.”

Jesper doesn’t need to be told twice. He grips the wheel and turns, sending the car careening across lanes and onto 126th street. After a blaring blast of confused honking, the van follows, but they’ve managed to shake the Toyota.

“One on one,” says Matthias.

Jesper smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I like those odds.” 

As a light ahead turns yellow he floors it, tearing through the intersection of 126th and Lex. The van just barely makes it through behind them, riding their back bumper as they sail through 3rd, then 2nd. Wylan peers down each of the avenues as they pass, uncertainty settling low in his belly. The blue Toyota hasn’t yet reappeared, but he knows his father’s men well enough to be certain Prior hasn’t given up the chase.

But where did he go?

At 1st Avenue they manage to shake Miggson’s van. Jesper barrels across the intersection on the very tail end of a yellow, and as the light turns red Miggson shouts his frustration, punching the horn.

Giddy relief tears through the car. Jesper whoops, his eyes meeting Wylan’s in the rearview. Wylan tries to return his smile, but his thoughts are stuck on that blue Toyota. Prior was nearly neck-and-neck with them. The light was turning red. There was nothing in his way. Why did he fall back?

Jesper’s still looking at him through the mirror as the answer becomes apparent.

“JES!” warns Wylan, but he’s a second too late.

The blue Toyota pulls up in front of them on York Avenue, and with an ear-splitting CRASH the two vehicles collide.

———

The next few moments come in flashes.

Twin airbags punch out in front of Jesper and Kaz. Metal whines. Glass shatters. Wylan tries to make a sound—a grunt or groan or shout, he can’t tell—but it’s swallowed when the seatbelt cuts across his windpipe.

A blink, and he’s thrown back. His head hits leather. The engine smokes. The car lights flicker.

High-pitched ringing whines in Wylan’s ears as his head falls forward again. He tries to pick it up, but is rewarded with a shock of pain across his neck and shoulders, sticky dizziness spreading across his scalp.

Spiderweb cracks dissect the windshield. The hood is smashed. Matthias groans.

Footsteps crunch in broken glass.

Another blink—a breath—and the door’s yanked open. Efficient hands find Wylan’s seatbelt. He fights them, his nails digging into flesh, his feet kicking out, a shout working its way from his bruised throat. But an acute ache is starting to spread from the back of his neck to the base of his skull. He feels nauseous. Weak. 

“Jes—” he manages, but Jesper’s unconscious, his head resting against the airbag as though it’s a pillow.

From the back of the car, Nina sucks in a breath, realizing at the same time Inej does what’s happening to Wylan. Inej dives across the seat, reaching for him, but Wylan’s assailant frees him from his seatbelt just in time, dragging him roughly from the vehicle before Inej’s strong hand can close around his wrist.

The barrel of a gun presses against his ribcage. Inej sees it, freezing in place with her body hovering halfway out the car door.

As Wylan’s pulled away, Kaz looks up. He twitches toward the glove compartment, but catches himself before he can do anything foolish.

Wylan can practically read his thoughts. Too many witnesses. No clear shot.

Bracing himself against the pain, he nods.

Kaz nods back. It’s a promise. We will come for you.

It’s the last thing Wylan sees before he’s shoved into the dark interior of a windowless van. He closes his eyes, letting the dizzy nausea take him under as Prior—somehow still standing after the mess of a crash—ducks into the passenger seat.

Miggson puts the car in drive and flees the scene.

———

Wylan wakes to the clang of metal on metal.

He feels as though he’s been out for hours, but his headache is fresh enough that he suspects it’s only been minutes. Attempting to gather his wits, he sits up, feeling around the inside of the van. True to what’s advertised, he appears to be surrounded by what might reasonably be called construction supplies— a ladder, a toolbox, a shovel.

He wonders what it means that the shovel’s head is coated with freshly turned dirt.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Outside, the sound continues, Wylan’s headache throbbing in time with its uneven rhythm.

“How much longer until the next one?” asks Prior from the front of the van, seemingly unaware that Wylan’s awake.

“Few minutes, maybe.”

A few minutes? Enough time to escape, if Wylan’s clever about it. He sits up straighter, heartbeat pounding in his throat. He takes stock of his surroundings once more. Ladder, toolbox, shovel. Some type of rope, maybe, in the far corner, and a—

Click.

Wylan goes cold. He turns toward the front of the car to find that Miggson’s drawn his gun.

“Good morning, Mister Van Eck.”

He straightens. Winces. “Miggson. Prior. Can I ask what you’re—”

“Ferry’s here,” Prior interrupts, looking out through the windshield.

“You’ll have to hold your questions for now, Van Eck. What I need you to do is listen very carefully to what I say next.”

Miggson instructs Wylan to come quietly with them to the ferry station. He is not to make any sudden moves. Not to call for help. “If you do, my finger might slip. Do you understand me?”

“You’ll shoot me in broad daylight?”

“I might. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

Wylan doesn’t answer. He follows Miggson and Prior from the car, blinking against the onslaught of light. Winter wind whips off the river, stinging his face. The incessant clanging noise is the ferry dock, shifting together as waves crash into the retaining wall below.

Squinting, he tries to take stock of his surroundings. They’re at the 90th street ferry station, just north of Carl Shurz Park. On the nearby highway cars whizz past, the drone of their engines loud and vicious. Next to the gangway, a digital sign informs riders that the approaching ferry is on the orange route.

He collects these details, holds on to them, as though they will save him.

Prior grasps Wylan’s arm as they step onto the ferry. It’s nearly empty, only a few bored employees and a sleeping tourist aboard. Odd, for a Saturday, but they’re at the very start of the line. Miggson finds them seats toward the back. Wylan slides robotically into a seat between his captors, his mind spinning.

Find a way out. Find a way out. Escape, escape, escape.

But as much as he tries, no grand idea comes to him.

A bored conductor comes through to check their tickets, making small talk with Prior about the chilly weather. Wylan wants to say something—anything—to tip the man off, but Miggson’s threat hovers fresh in his memory. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?

Wylan’s mind spins. The conductor walks away. The ferry departs the station.

A few tense minutes pass before Prior stands, motioning toward a nearby door to the outer deck. “I think I’d like some fresh air. Care to join me, Mister Van Eck?”

It doesn’t sound like a question. Wylan’s breath comes quicker as he stands, his hands numb, his legs moving of their own volition. Think, Wylan. Don’t be an idiot. Find a way out.  

Outside, the winter wind hits him like a slap. In his rush to leave the apartment he’d forgotten a coat, and, for the first time, he truly feels it. Goosebumps prickle beneath his shirt.

Miggson follows them outside, gripping Wylan’s arm as Prior circles the deck. 

“We’re alone,” he confirms.

Miggson nods, turning to Wylan.

“L-Look,” says Wylan, hating the way his voice shakes. “I don’t know what my father told you, but I—”

“Shh,” says Miggson, his voice almost gentle. “This will be easier if you don’t fight it.”

Wylan’s heartbeat ratchets up, a jackrabbit panic taking hold. “You can’t shoot me,” he babbles. “There are people. They’ll hear.”

“I know,” says Miggson, guiding Wylan toward the rail. “I know.”

Wylan sucks in a breath as the man’s hands close around his throat.

For a second, he’s still, his mind struggling to catch up to reality. Miggson’s thumbs press against his windpipe, cutting off airflow with the efficiency of a seasoned pro. Prior stands with his back to them, hands in his pockets. Standing lookout to assure that no one will see Wylan die.

Wylan die. 

Wylan’s dying.

The thought finally bubbles up to the top of his scrambled brain, sending sparks shooting down his body. He flails in Miggson’s grip, nails scraping against the backs of broad palms. His feet slide against the sea-slick ferry floor, seeking purchase, finding none. Black spots explode in his vision, body twitching mightily as his lungs try—try—try—

Breathe, he thinks. Breathe, you idiot. Why can’t you do what any child on the street can do without thinking?

The black spots undulate and grow, threatening to take over his vision. The twitching in his chest begins to slow. As the fight slips from his limbs, he slides down against the rail. Miggson grimaces. His grip falters, just barely.

It’s enough. In a final burst of blazing white energy, Wylan yanks in a breath and kicks Miggson away, tipping back over the ferry railing.

His throat is too ragged to scream as he falls.

———

Chapter Text

A long time ago, in the aquamarine pools of Hamptons mansions, Wylan’s father taught him to swim.

He wasn’t exactly built for it—slim and small-shouldered, too short to be competitive—but he enjoyed it. The peaceful calm of the world underwater. The wiggly little refractions of light. The way his father reacted when he popped out of the pool on the other side.

“Wylan’s been swimming since before he could walk,” his father bragged to visiting businessmen. “He’s well ahead of his age group.”

Benign words, really, but beneath them, he glowed.

Now, soaked and shaking, Wylan tries to remember those long-gone lessons. Strong arms. Swift kicks. Strong arms. Swift—

A current crashes into him, ice-cold river water filling his mouth. He spits it out and bobs in place, straightening so he can see his destination. For a stomach-dropping second he can’t, the current’s waves blocking his view, but then—

There.

Mercifully, Miggson tried to kill him right as the ferry was passing Roosevelt Island. It’s only a few yards away now. Any farther and Wylan would be taken by hypothermia before he could reach the shore. 

There’s no guarantee he won’t be once he gets there.

Exhaling sharply, he refocuses. Strong arms. Swift kicks.

Slowly, the river bottom shallows. The shore approaches. Wylan’s hand hits stone and he nearly cries out in relief, using the final reserves of his strength to pull himself from the icy waters.

He lays back on the rocky shoreline, face tipped up toward a weak ray of sunlight.

For a few minutes, all he can do is breathe. Each inhalation is a dizzying joy, the sharp, cool taste of winter on his tongue obscenely welcome. In the distance, he can still hear the clang of the 90th street ferry station—or maybe it’s in his imagination. Still, he allows the repetitive sound to lull him, synching his gulped breaths to its rhythm. 

But after a while, his shaking grows hard to ignore. His teeth chatter, his knees knocking together. He’s warmer than he was in the water, but…

His clothes. He has to get out of his wet clothes. When he tries to sit up his head spins, black spots returning to the edges of his vision.

Breathing hard, he lays back down. 

He flutters in and out of consciousness, exhaustion and chills and what is very likely whiplash sending pain shooting across his body every time he moves. He tries again to sit up, barely able to prop up on his elbows before he slips back down.

Foolish boy, comes a voice a shade too cold to be his own. Not even capable of this.

No. Wylan hasn’t come this far just to die cold and shaking on the edge of the East River. There’s so much left for him to do. He has to stop his father from using his half-sister’s party to further his selfish causes. He has to warn his friends about Miggson and Prior. He has to finish writing that song. He has to tell Jesper—what? That he is bold and bright and endlessly alive, that he is flawed but honest, more honest than Wylan has ever been capable. That he is the subject of his daydreaming, the name that he whispers into his phone at night. That Wylan never stopped loving him, not when things were hard, not even when he left.

His train of thought grows softer. His breathing slows.

“Wylan! Wylan!”

Wylan doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until they fly open. He sucks in a breath, hands flying out toward a backlit figure kneeling above him. His vision swims, then focuses.

“J-J-Jesper.”

“That’s right,” says Jesper, his voice edged with stress. “I’m here. Stay with me.”

Warm hands slip beneath Wylan’s sopping wet shirt, peeling it from his body. He can barely control his limbs enough to help Jesper strip him, only able to watch as his bandmate tears the brightly patterned crewneck from his body and shoves it over Wylan’s head. It’s warm, too, and smells like him—allspice and smoke.

Shirtless, Jesper leans over, working now on removing Wylan’s pants. Even here, even now, Wylan can’t help but notice the way the lean muscles of his shoulders shift beneath his skin. “Talk to me, merchling,” he grinds out.

Wylan says the first thing that occurs to him. “Y-y-you’ve b-been w-working out.”

Jesper barks a laugh, desperation mingling with joy. “Christ, Wy. Good to see your dip in the river hasn’t cured you of your dirty mind.”

Wylan would flush if his blood wasn’t so focused on his essential organs. “Y-you’re t-the one und-dressing me.”

“That’s my merchling. An answer for everything.”

My merchling. If words could warm, Wylan would be healed.

“H-h-how did you find me?”

Before Jesper can answer, another figure scrambles over the rocky shore. Inej, with an armful of soft clothing. She holds it out to Jesper. “Nina bought these at the university gift shop.”

Wylan’s forgotten that there’s a university on Roosevelt Island. He tries to think of the name of it—if only to feed his mind a distraction from the pain—but comes up short.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. Jesper strips Wylan of his pants and underwear before shimmying Cornell Tech branded sweatpants up Wylan’s legs. He should be embarrassed to be seen this way—naked and cold and so pale it brings a new meaning to ghostly— but Jesper and Inej are all business, murmuring to one another about keeping Wylan warm and dry as they swap out his shoes and socks. The new clothes are heavenly, and as Jesper shoves a hat on his head, Wylan leans back against him, drowsily soaking up his warmth.

Jesper shifts so that Wylan’s leaning back against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and Wylan thinks, I know.

He stays close, supporting Wylan’s weight as Inej gently puts gloves on his hands. Not long thereafter they’re joined by Nina and Matthias, the former of whom kneels to check Wylan’s pulse. “You’re lucky you didn’t spend more time in that water. At this temperature you would have frozen solid in another fifteen minutes.”

Jesper winces. “We don’t need the visual, Nina.”

They’ve managed to find hand and footwarmers somewhere on the island, Matthias methodically opening the packages and shaking the pouches to activate them. Nina instructs him to lay them across Wylan’s lap and chest, rather than his extremities. They burn as they radiate heat through Wylan’s clothing. He sucks a breath through his teeth and bears the warmth.

Kaz picks his way over the rocky shoreline, an odd, shaken sort of look on his face. When he says, “It’s good to see you alive,” Wylan almost thinks he means it.

“T-t-thanks,” he manages, his teeth still chattering. He closes his eyes again, leaning back into Jesper. He wants to say something more—thank his friends, or ask again how they found him here—but they’re interrupted when a lone figure runs up along the shore.

“Wylan!”

Wylan opens his eyes, shock ratcheting through him as he sees the newcomer.

It’s Timothy. He’s pale and wide-eyed, his expression dismayed. He beelines for Wylan, desperately clambering over uneven rocks. It should be a comfort—it’s Timothy, only Timothy, the man who spent the last five years sharing his bed—but after their last meeting, terror jolts through him, instinct sending him reeling back against Jesper’s supportive grip.

Kaz straightens and Nina stands, but Matthias is the first to meet him.

Wylan winces as Matthias’ hand closes around Timothy’s throat. “What are you doing here, traitor?” Matthias growls.

Timothy struggles for breath. “I—I—”

“Let the man speak,” urges Kaz. Matthias loosens his grip, but backs away only a step.

“Wylan,” Timothy gasps, falling forward. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” says Nina. “You sent your fiancé to his death and you’re sorry?”

Timothy sputters. “I couldn’t—I didn’t—I would have never—” He runs a hand through his hair, collecting himself. Then, he turns his attention to Wylan. “Wy, you have to understand. Your father approached me weeks ago with concerns about you. He said that after your mother died, you began to have these … delusions, is what he called them. Obsessions. Paranoia. He told me that’s why you couldn’t go to her funeral, because you were too unwell to handle it.”

Wylan blinks, shock ratcheting through him. Delusions?

“It made a lot of sense,” Timothy continues. “He’s always been so great to us, but I knew that your relationship with him was tough. Finding out that you were struggling in that way was the missing piece of the puzzle. Your father told me that things hit a low point when you were with the Crows. That you seemed fine, one day, and then frantic the next. He told me that California was meant to be a fresh start. And I believed it because… well, we both know the state you were in when I met you. Was it really that far of a leap?”

Timothy’s eyes bore into him, pleading, but Wylan can’t find it within himself to answer the question.

Weeks ago. Jan approached Timothy weeks ago. All that time Wylan thought living in the apartment with his father had been bearable. Good, even.

What a goddamn fool.

Timothy goes on, “As our visit continued, I started to notice that you were distant. Off. In California you’ve always been so relaxed, and here you were… I dunno, Wy. You were everything your father said you were. Obsessive. Paranoid. Manic. One minute running me around the city to see all the sights, and the next so angry with my decision to work at VEI. And then after the show, when you came to us with that odd story…” He shakes his head. “Jan’s the smartest man I know, and your parent, for Christ’s sake, and I’m only—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I didn’t exactly approve of how he left things in your office”—Wylan winces at the remembered pain of his father’s decisive slap—“but I thought it was for your own good, Wylan. I promise.”

Wylan’s still shaking too hard—with cold and adrenaline both—to reply.

Inej steps in. “What made you realize Van Eck was lying?”

Timothy looks down, voice wobbling. “He told me. He just told me, like it was nothing. He said you’d run away from the facility employees and that he sent his men to deal with you. He reassured me that once you got on that ferry, I wouldn’t have to worry about you getting in my way ever again. It was so … casual. I tried asking where they were taking you but Jan wouldn’t tell me. That’s when I called your bandmates. Told them what your father planned. Where to find you. And as soon as I could, I ran.”

“As I recall, we told you to stay away,” says Jesper darkly. “Or were you lodged too far up Van Eck’s ass to hear it?”

Timothy’s eyes flick to Jesper, his remorseful facade cracking ever so slightly. His lip curls. “Don’t you have a gambling hall to close down somewhere?”

Years ago, a line like that would have riled Jesper enough to throw a punch. Now, he only scoffs. “Not even my luckiest streak could keep me from being here to watch you grovel.”

Timothy opens his mouth to retort, but Wylan interrupts. “F-focus,” he scolds.

“Sorry,” Jesper murmurs.

Timothy tears his eyes from Jesper, staring instead at Wylan. “What did your father mean by getting in my way? You don’t get in my way.”

As best he can with his shaking, Wylan raises a brow. “D-don’t I? F-from his perspective, y-you’d gotten all you n-needed from me. M-m-money. A j-job.”

“Yeah, but… I love you, Wylan. You know that.”

The worst part, Wylan thinks, is that Timothy believes it.

Slowly, he smiles. Then laughs, the sound ragged. His throat is still bruised, still full of river water. Laughing hurts, and yet he can’t help the hysteria that bubbles within him, the dark rush of understanding that fills him with savage humor.

All around him, the group stares.

“T-that’s the part m-my father will n-never understand,” Wylan explains when the giggles die down. “B-because you’re l-like him. And he c-can’t imagine l-loving me himself.”

Timothy’s face falls. “That’s—I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I didn’t realize that—”

“He’s a b-bad man? That he d-does bad t-things?”

Timothy looks up, and Wylan holds his stare. The memory of their fight hangs heavy between them. It’s like I told you: my father is a bad person. He always has been.

“I should have listened,” says Timothy. “From the start, I should have listened to you.”

“I k-know.”

There’s a beat of uneasy silence, the Crows and Timothy warily eyeing one another. Seeming to come to a decision, Timothy kneels, getting closer to Wylan. Behind him, Jesper makes a low sound of warning in the back of his throat.

“Let’s go back to California,” says Timothy, reaching for Wylan’s gloved hand and holding it in both of his own. “Forget your dad, forget the job. Have the wedding for real this time, and leave all this unpleasantness behind.”

The offer is sincere. For a moment, Wylan lets himself imagine it. 75 and sunny on the Santa Monica beach, salt air in his lungs and a mansion at his back. An easy, solitary career at his piano. A husband who loves him, in his own way.

What he wanted, once.

He pulls his shaking hand from Timothy’s. It’s hard to steel himself when he’s shaking to his bones, but he tries. “F-for years, I t-told you. T-told you he was c-c-cruel to me. That he was b-bad. You d-didn’t listen. You—”

“I know, Wylan, and I promise—”

“Y-you’re not even listening now! You’re just w-waiting for your t-turn to s-speak. D-do you even h-hear yourself sometimes?”

Timothy presses his lips together. Wylan begins to feel warmth in his fingers, his toes.

“T-this is why my father f-felt comfortable telling you what he’d done. Y-You’ve been s-so concerned with your c-career and your m-money that you haven’t p-paid attention to a word I’ve said, about him or otherwise. You always s-say you know me, but that’s not t-true, is it? You’ve n-n- never known me. Not really.”

Timothy’s chest heaves. He blinks fast, as though fighting tears. “Wy—”

“I’m g-glad you walked away from my father, Timothy. Really. But it’s t-too late. You should have l-listenened when it m-mattered.”

His words ring between them, shaky but final. Timothy blinks hard, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

“I know I messed up. And I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Even—” He pauses, breathes. “Even if you don’t want me anymore.”

Timothy looks at Wylan as though expecting him to argue the point. He doesn’t. The silence is a fragile thing, quivering and thin.

From behind Timothy, Kaz perks up. “Anything?”

The fragile moment breaks. Timothy looks over his shoulder, brows furrowing. “Yes?”

There’s no emotion on the bandleader’s face as he says, “I might be able to provide you a way to start. Walk with me.”

Kaz turns away from the rocky shoreline, leaning heavily on his cane as he walks toward the island’s interior.

Timothy looks toward Wylan, incredulous. Wylan nods. “G-go. Do what he says. T-then we’ll be even.”

Hanging his head, Timothy turns around. At Wylan’s back, Jesper exhales.

But Wylan’s forgotten one last thing.

“T-Timothy?”

A thin sheen of hope coats Timothy’s features as he turns around. Wylan hardens his heart against it. The love that Timothy offers might be real enough to him, but for Wylan it is a poisoned thing, conditional, small. With shaking hands he removes his gloves. Then he slides the gold band from his left ring finger.

When he holds his engagement ring out to Timothy, the silence that stretches between them is no longer fragile but depthless. Cold. Something hard locks into place behind Timothy’s features as he steps back toward Wylan and unfurls a palm. Wylan drops the ring into it.

“I hope it wasn’t all bad,” Timothy says, staring at the ring.

Wylan softens, only slightly. The tremors are finally gone from his voice when he says, “It wasn’t.”

Perhaps it’s too generous. Timothy nods like it’s enough.

The Crows all watch as Kaz walks Wylan’s ex-fiancé away.

———

The car ride upstate is silent. Jesper lets Inej drive, sliding into the backseat with Wylan instead. At first he keeps a respectful distance, but when Wylan’s head lolls to the side, eyes heavy with sleep, Jesper scoots closer so he can rest on his shoulder.

“Come in quick,” says Rotty when they arrive. “You’ll catch your death out there.”

Wylan stifles a sleepy giggle.

Specht and Rotty’s house is old and cluttered, evidence of a cozy shared life in every mismatched mug and towering stack of vinyls. They’re in the Hudson Valley, near enough to the city to commute but far enough that Wylan feels safe, for now. He’s sore in places he didn’t know existed, his head full of cotton, his eyes drooping low.

They’re led on a small tour, Specht looking up from where he’s working in the kitchen. “Dinner’s in fifteen for anyone who wants it.”

The food smells great, but Wylan can’t imagine wanting anything more than a bed.

“There’s a guest room on the main floor here,” says Rotty when he asks, “and two upstairs.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” offers Jesper quickly, doing the math. “I’m not tired yet.”

Indeed, he looks anything but—jittery, out of focus, keyed up. He hovers near Wylan as they walk through the house, tapping nervous little patterns into any nearby surface he can find. When Wylan takes Rotty up on the offer to find rest in the main floor’s guest room, he half expects Jesper to follow. Wylan wants to say something to reassure him, but can’t find the words. He slips away from the group, managing a quick, painful shower before sliding back into his Cornell Tech sweats.

He barely remembers crashing into the bed.

The sleep he finds is uneasy. He dreams of thrashing waters and unresolved chords, of smashing cymbals and shivering words. Timothy opens his mouth to apologize, but when he speaks it’s Jan’s voice that spills from his throat, disparaging and cruel. Inej and Jesper tear off Wylan’s clothes, leaving him naked and shivering on a patch of rocky shore. Kaz calls Alys, laughing indulgently at his foolishness.

Can you believe he ever thought he would make it out alive?

And then he’s back in the river, cold to his bones, fighting the rough current. And then he’s telling himself strong arms, swift kicks, but no matter how he tries he cannot move his limbs.

And then he’s sinking—down, down, down.

Wylan wakes with a gasp, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets. He’s still in the university sweatsuit, sweltering in thick socks and gloves. He tears them off, and then his shirt, breathing hard. It’s only when the shirt is on the floor that he remembers it’s Jesper’s.

The room is dark, the house silent. An alarm clock on the nightstand reads 1:04 a.m. Wylan lays back on the pillows, catching his breath and allowing the lazily rotating fan above his bed to cool him. He doesn’t remember when he went to bed. How long has he been asleep?

He won’t find his answer just laying there, so he decides to get up for a glass of water.

When he opens the door he finds Jesper awake. He’s sprawled on the couch, one leg propped up and jiggling. His hand is behind his head, earbuds in, his face awash in the blue glow of his phone.

When he sees Wylan, he sits up. “Hey!” he says quietly.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then they speak at once.

“Do you want to—”

“I was just going to—”

They both stop short. Jesper laughs, a little uncomfortably. “Go on.”

“No, you first.”

Jesper jerks his chin toward the empty space beside him. “I was going to ask if you wanted to sit down.”

Wylan bites his lip. He’s thirsty, but… “Yeah, I do.” He sits gingerly next to Jesper, watching as his eyes flit up and down Wylan’s body. He put the sweatpants back on to go to the kitchen, but is still shirtless. His chest warms beneath Jesper’s gaze.

“Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m okay, Jes. Sore, but okay. Getting some sleep was good for me.”

Jesper tilts his head. “What woke you up?”

Wylan doesn’t want to talk about his nightmares, so he shrugs. Gesturing toward Jesper’s phone, he asks, “What were you watching?”

Jesper opens his mouth, then closes it. He blinks a few times. Taps his thighs. Finally, he admits, “It’s a little embarrassing.”

Wylan frowns, curious. “Why?”

Rather than tell him, Jesper opens his phone, angling the screen toward Wylan. He’s on the YouTube app, watching a movie clip. The thumbnail shows a man in a courtroom, head hanging low, the eyes of the jury cast in his direction. It’s—

“Oh,” he says aloud.

It’s a clip from the Serial movies. The ones to which he composed the score.

Seen them? Wy, I’ve heard them. Your score was brilliant.

Jesper shrugs, the slightest movement of his shoulders toward his ears. “Like I said. It’s a good song.”

Wylan smiles. He holds out a palm, and for a moment, confusion flutters over Jesper’s expression. Wylan waits, rewarded with a smile when Jesper realizes what he’s asking for.

He drops an earbud into Wylan’s waiting hand. Putting it in his ear Wylan sits back, Jesper doing the same. When they’re settled shoulder to shoulder, Jesper presses play.

Wylan’s left ear fills with sound. He remembers it fondly—the shivering strings, the hollow, scooped-out chords of the piano. A single, silver flute, sustaining a clear note.

“It’s, like, exactly how anxiety would sound,” Jesper murmurs.

Wylan smiles. The man on the screen screws his eyes shut.

And then, the verdict.

The song crashes in on itself, inevitable, like waves against the shore. Shivering strings give way to descending arpeggiations, the piano chords filling out and growing. The flute falls away as horns rise to take its place, at once both triumphant and melancholic. 

“Brilliant,” Jesper breathes.

Wylan stamps on the impulse to say it’s nothing. It’s not nothing. It’s great. Instead, he tells Jesper something he’s never told anyone before. “You know, I wrote this song thinking about my father.” 

Jesper’s expression darkens. “Really?”

“Yeah. I feel like on some level, I always knew that our story would end somewhere like this. Either with him getting an order to have me locked up somewhere or…”

“Or with us taking him down.”

The words are almost too sweet to picture. Wylan keeps his eyes on the screen as he speaks. “It’s funny. I wrote this song before the wedding debacle. Before I really knew anything, just because I suspected…” He trails off. “I feel like an idiot sometimes that I didn’t see it sooner. There were signs, but I just kept thinking things would get better somehow. Kept holding out for a version of my father that doesn’t exist. Or, rather, a version that only exists for men like Timothy.” Wylan flicks his eyes toward Jesper just as he wrinkles his nose. It’s unbearably cute. Wylan keeps looking. “Writing this piece was a way for me to work through all that, I guess. Because in the movie, we’re supposed to root for the killer’s innocence. His sentencing is … bittersweet. That’s how I imagine it will feel when this is all over.”

Jesper turns toward him, meeting his gaze, and Wylan’s suddenly aware of how close they’re sitting. The blue light of the phone washes over them both, highlighting Jesper’s cheekbones, the shine of his silver eyes. “You’re not an idiot for having hope, Wylan.”

The simple words detonate within him. He closes his eyes, letting their reverberations shake him.

Suddenly, he’s done talking about his father, the movie, the song. Done talking about anything but—

“Jesper?” he asks, keeping his eyes shut.

“Yeah?”

He holds his breath for the span of a heartbeat. “Kiss me?”

Jesper makes a low, tortured sound at the back of his throat. Wylan waits, but the kiss never comes. Uncertainly, he opens his eyes.

“I want to,” says Jesper quickly. His eyes dart to Wylan’s mouth. “I really want to. But you broke up with your fiancé today, Wy. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to—”

On a mischievous whim, Wylan shifts, swinging one leg across Jesper’s lap. Startled, Jesper puts the phone on the arm of the couch, face down. They’re thrust into relative darkness, but Wylan’s music still plays in their headphones. As he settles, eyes adjusting, he cups a hand around the back of Jesper’s skull. The other hand he brings up to his cheekbone, running his thumb along the jut of it. 

Jesper looks up at him like he’s golden.

“I know it’s been a while,” teases Wylan, “but did I just hear Jesper Fahey talk to me about good ideas?”

Wylan half expects Jesper to tell him to get off his lap. He doesn’t. 

“I’ve been making all sorts of good choices lately,” Jesper volleys back instead. Broad hands land on Wylan’s hips, grounding him. “For example, today I helped a man stave off hypothermia.”

“Impressive. He must be very important to you.”

Thumbs graze the bottom of Wylan’s ribcage. “He is.” 

Wylan smiles.

In the silence that follows, Jesper hesitates. Bites his lip. His thumbs trace back and forth over the curve of Wylan’s waist, slow, hypnotic. “What are you doing, Wylan?”

For the first time in a long time, exactly what I want to do.

“I’m not sure,” he says truthfully. Slipping back into a friendship with Jesper was almost too easy. Slipping back into this feels as natural as breathing, an inevitable next step. “Is it okay?”

“Christ, yes.”

There’s a sharp desperation in Jesper’s tone that sends heat spiralling through him. Wylan sits back, giving himself some space. There are five years of unsaid words hanging between them, but suddenly, he doesn’t want any of them. Instead, he focuses on today. “You took the shirt off your back for me.”

Jesper scoffs lightly. “In my defense, the one you were wearing was hideous.”

“Be serious,” Wylan scolds.

Jesper swallows, eyes flitting over Wylan’s features. There was a time when this would be his breaking point. When Jesper would make another joke, or kiss Wylan senseless if only to get him to stop talking about something too real.

He meets his eyes. “I would do it again. A thousand times over.”

Wylan braces his hands against Jesper’s shoulders. He wants to be happy, hearing this. But—“You wouldn’t have,” he accuses. “Five years ago.” There’s no anger in his voice, only an academic frostiness. 

Jesper flinches, but doesn’t argue. He holds Wylan’s gaze. “I was too caught up in my own issues then. Running away, as you so eloquently put it, from all the amazing things in my life, you included. You especially. What’s that rule on airplanes? You need to secure your own oxygen mask before helping others? That’s what it was like then—I was trying to put on your mask without one of my own. It made me clumsy. Wrong. Things are different now.”

Wylan considers this. Things are different now, for both of them. The last few weeks have proven, over and over again, that Jesper has changed for the better. 

Now, it’s Wylan’s turn. His final months in New York were chaos, his long stint in California a sort of dreadful calm. What might it be like to find a middle ground between the two? What sort of man would he become if he could manage it?

“Things are different now,” he agrees. Jesper’s smile is megawatt, brilliant even in the darkness.

Wylan’s more than aware of the absurdity in having this conversation while he’s seated firmly on Jesper’s lap. Still, he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. By any of it. He feels lighter than he has in years, hopeful for a future that, mere hours ago, might not have existed. 

There’s just one last thing he wants to know. “At the diner,” he says slowly, “you mentioned that something prompted you to clean up your act. Get help. What was it?”

Jesper laughs softly, looking down. “Promise not to read too much into it?” Wylan nods. Silence stretches, for just a moment, but it's enough time that the air between them heats, anticipation crawling up and down his spine. Jesper licks his lips. Brushes his thumbs across the dip of Wylan’s waist, raising goosebumps in his wake. “Whenever I was feeling low on tour, I had this bad habit of”—Jesper cringes a little, so cute it sends sparkles shivering up Wylan’s spine—“Googling you, I guess? It’s not as creepy as it sounds, I swear. I just wanted to see you every now and again. See what you were up to, if everything was alright. The day I decided to get clean was when I saw a newspaper article. A headline. Van Eck Heir Cancels Nupitals.”

Wylan would laugh if he wasn’t so shocked. All those late nights, tucking himself away in bathrooms or closets…

Siri. Google Jesper Fahey.

He doesn’t know who initiates it. He doesn’t know if he pulls or if Jesper pushes, only that they come together in the middle, desperate, clinging to one another like they’re worried the other might disappear.

When their lips meet, stars burst behind Wylan’s eyelids. The only thought he can muster is a simple, resounding, oh. Oh, how wonderful, to be reminded what a kiss should feel like. Oh, how good to give into his desires, free of the guilt that so often follows. Oh. Oh.

At first the kiss is bruising, messy, satisfying. Wylan leans into it full throttle, his hands cradling the back of Jesper’s skull, his hips moving of their own accord to put friction right where it's needed. But then Jesper pulls back, collecting himself. When he comes back he’s slipped from passionate to gentle, treating Wylan like he’s something precious.

Against Jesper’s mouth, he murmurs, “You won’t break me.” Wylan might have almost died, but he feels more solid than before.

“I know.” 

At Wylan’s low noise of complaint, Jesper laughs. With a light hand he smooths a curl away from Wylan’s face. “Maybe I want to draw it out. Enjoy it.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” Wylan grumbles.

Beneath him, Jesper stills. He wears an expression that can only be described as hopeful. “How much time, do you think?”

Wylan swallows. He tilts his head forward so that their foreheads touch. So that his vision is filled with smooth skin and silver eyes and all the little scars and crinkles that make Jesper Jesper. “As long as you’ll have me,” he answers. “I don’t think—” He cuts himself off, a silver jangle of nerves erupting in his belly. But Jesper’s there beneath him, holding him, steadier than he’s ever been. Wylan can jump and Jesper will catch him. “I don’t think I ever stopped wanting you,” he admits. “I don’t think I know how. So if you’re willing, if you can bear it, I would stay forever this time.”

“Christ, yes. Yes, Wy. Yes, please.” Jesper’s frantic, too excited to speak clearly, but no less solid for it. It’s a version of him Wylan never even thought to hope could exist—still Jesper, in every way that matters, but grounded. Stable. “I never stopped wanting you, either. Not for a second.”

With that, they’re kissing again, a slick slide of desperate emotion, uncontainable joy. Wylan sinks into it, allowing himself to think of nothing else but the broad palms sliding from his waist to his spine, the mouth that moves from his lips to his jaw to a soft, sensitive place at the side of his throat. There’s much more to talk about—so many mistakes to avoid and decisions to make and new pieces of themselves to discover—but right now, there’s only one choice that matters. Wylan makes it, over and over and over again. You, you, you.

Through the growing haze in his head, Wylan remembers again the homes he’s tried to make. The Upper East Side penthouse. The California mansion. The West Village apartment. This is none of those. It isn’t even a cozy home in the Hudson Valley or a Flatiron rehearsal space. This, right here, is the moment you realize that home might not be a place, but a person. 

When they come up for air, Wylan gasps. “Do you want to come to my bedroom?” Then, seeing Jesper’s hesitant expression, he adds, “Do not pull any of that noble bullshit. I’m alive. I’m fine. I want this. I want you.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Without warning, he heaves Wylan up in his arms, carrying him the few steps between the couch and guest bedroom. Wylan stifles a fit of giggles against Jesper’s shirt, realizing belatedly that it’s the Cornell Tech sweatshirt that he’d taken rather than divest Wylan of the shirt he’d given him.

Even the bland university merchandise looks good on Jesper, but Wylan would rather see it on his floor.

They crash together onto the bed, and from there, the rest of the night grows hazy.

———

The next morning, Wylan’s eyes flutter open beneath a slice of white sunlight. He groans, turning away from it, only to find that he’s not alone in his bed.

The night comes back to him in a rush. Finding Jesper outside on the couch. Watching the clip from Serial. Talking, and then decidedly not talking anymore.

Heat rushes to his face with the memory.

Beside him, Jesper stretches, blinking his eyes open. He, too, grimaces against the sun, but when he sees Wylan, his expression warms. “Sleep well, love?”

Love. Wylan blushes up to his ears, lowering his eyes to hide it.

“None of that,” says Jesper, hooking a finger beneath his chin. “I want to see you.”

“Why?” counters Wylan. “It’s only my stupid face.”

“Maybe I like your stupid face.”

Wylan rolls his eyes, but his face grows ever hotter. It’s like Jesper’s determined to make him red. Jesper’s grin sparkles as he pulls Wylan closer. “Can’t we just spend all day in bed?”

“That would be inadvisable,” says Wylan, squished against Jesper’s chest. “For one, Kaz would kill us for missing Plumje’s party.”

Mentioning the party sobers them both. “But maybe tomorrow?” says Wylan hopefully. “I could use a place to crash, and I know you have that hotel room…”

Jesper chuckles. “Ever the opportunist.” He presses a kiss to Wylan’s forehead and rolls out of bed, pulling on his pants and the Cornell Tech sweatshirt.

“You can wear this,” he offers, holding up Jesper’s shirt.

Jesper shakes his head. “I like it on you.”

Wylan inhales as he pulls it over his head. There’s the faint stench of riverwater, but beneath it’s all Jesper.

They’re still chatting amicably when they exit the guest room to find the rest of the Crows—not to mention Rotty and Specht—sitting on the couch, staring at their door.

Wylan stops short. Jesper stumbles, bumping into him from behind.

“Uh—hi,” Jesper offers warily.

The band says nothing. Wylan’s wide eyes jump from bandmate to bandmate, reading expressions that range from judgemental to ecstatic. His cheeks flame.

Finally, Nina sighs. “The two of you really couldn’t wait one more night?”

Wylan glances over his shoulder at Jesper, certain that his face is reaching a new, previously unheard of shade of magenta. “Um…”

He’s saved by Kaz. “Pay up, Zenik.”

Nina looks toward the ceiling, groaning, before fishing cash from her purse. She hands it over to Kaz with a mock-accusatory glance toward Wylan and Jesper. “You know how much I hate it when he’s right.”

Wylan’s brows fly up when Rotty, Specht, and even Matthias step forward to hand Kaz a few bills of their own. 

“You bet on us?” asks Jesper, incredulous.

“The demjin offered good odds.”

“You must know that’s not what I’m upset about.”

Matthias only shrugs.

“Thank you,” Kaz intones, counting his cash. To Wylan and Jesper, he says, “And thank you.”

“Horny miscreants,” grumbles Nina.

“You should know better than to bet against Kaz,” says Inej sagely. “Would breakfast make it better?”

“Infinitely.”

The girls shuffle toward the kitchen, quickly followed by Matthias, Specht, and Rotty. Only Kaz remains behind on the couch, tucking his winnings into an inner pocket of his coat before pushing to stand.

“You ready for today?” he asks Wylan, his tone businesslike.

Wylan nods. “I am.”

For once, he really feels it.

Kaz nods. Then his expression flicks to Jesper. “Before you ask, I’m not giving you a cut.”

“But it was our—”

“Nope.”

Wylan jumps in. “What if we—”

“No.”

They continue to bicker as they make their way to the kitchen, where the air is heavy with the smell of sugar and salt.

———

Wylan’s bandmates drop him off at the hotel before the party. The rest of them have errands to run, but Jesper drops Wylan off at his hotel room so he can get ready. Kaz stays in the hall to call Alys, who has indeed gotten a custom suit made, with summons to meet him there.

After letting him in, Jesper lingers, one hand on the doorframe. His expression is intense. “Stay safe, Wy.”

“You too.”

It should be goodbye, but Jesper hesitates, eyes searching. He reaches for Wylan’s collar, fiddling distractedly with what was once his own shirt. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

He’s about to turn and go when Wylan surges up to his tiptoes and kisses him. It’s a different kiss than the ones they shared last night—simpler, sweeter. Held a beat too long to be a peck; short enough that even as he breaks it off, he’s already left wanting more.

Jesper’s grin is dazed. “What was that for?”

Answers fly through Wylan’s head. Good luck. Goodbye. Because I wanted to. Because I love you.

The last one strikes him like lightning, his heartbeat stuttering. It’s far, far too soon in whatever new flirtation they’ve struck up to say anything so serious, and yet the sentiment rings with familiar, aching rightness.

“For good luck,” he says, choosing to stick with his first impulse.

Jesper ducks his head, pressing another quick kiss against his lips. Wylan’s not the only one, it seems, who can’t get enough. “Backatcha, merchling,” he murmurs.

From the hallway, Kaz pointedly clears his throat. “Three hours until the party,” he reminds them.

“Go on,” says Wylan, grinning. “I’ll see you there.”

Jesper nods, reassured. “I’ll see you there.”

Wylan’s alone for a few minutes thereafter before Alys knocks primly on the door. She shuffles into Jesper’s disorganized hotel room, frowning at the discarded clothing and numerous cups that litter the space. A garment bag held aloft in one manicured hand, Alys air-kisses his cheeks, careful not to touch anything. Wylan’s not sure how to feel about her being here—Kaz seems convinced that Wylan’s stepmother is no threat, but she’s never exactly been Wylan’s ally, either. Regardless, she’s here, hanging the garment bag on a hook by the door.

“I figured that an exact match to Plumje’s shade of pink would be unflattering for you—not to mention it would steal focus from the baby of the hour—but I think the designer and I came to a solution that should work marvelously.”

“Thanks, Alys,” says Wylan nervously. “And Kaz told you—”

“That your presence today will be a surprise for Jannie? Of course, hun.”

“And you know—”

“Not to tell him where you’re staying? Yes, Wylan. Mister Brekker told me everything. I’m so glad he was able to convince the man from Connecticut to wait another few days. I told Jannie it was a shame to send you away on business the day before the party, but he doesn’t listen. Not like Mister Brekker. Oh, he’s been such a doll, I would never let him down. You don’t have to worry a lick about me. I know all about surprises. After all, we’ve been keeping this party secret from Plumje for months!”

Wylan blinks. “Plumje doesn’t know about the party? What did you tell her we’re doing today?”

Alys only smiles coquettishly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She unzips the garment bag with a flourish. “Now go on, try it on!”

Wylan brings the suit obediently into the bathroom with him. When he emerges wearing it, Alys’ eyes widen. “It’s perfect.”

Stepping in front of the room’s full-length mirror, Wylan is inclined to agree. The suit’s a muted scarlet, dark enough that it complements, rather than clashes with, his copper-colored hair. He turns his shoulders and hips side to side, marveling at the fit. “Alys. This is amazing. I can’t believe it.”

Alys sniffs. “And why wouldn’t you believe it? I’m extraordinarily stylish.” When Wylan eyes her staid tweed dress, she scoffs. “Well, I can’t exactly dress young and hip at these sorts of things. It makes poor Jannie look dreadfully old.”

Wylan snorts. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

There’s a pause, and in the mirror, Wylan can see Alys bite her lip. “Wylan honey? Can I ask you something?

“Yeah?”

“Why haven’t you come back to the apartment?”

He turns to face her. A thousand lies rush through his head, each more outlandish than the last, but eventually he says, “My father and I had a fight.”

Alys’ expression falls. “I was afraid of that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still.” She pauses, eyes flitting down toward the carpet. “You know, sometimes I think Jannie doesn’t see Plumje for all she is, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he never seems to take much of an interest in her, other than to ask after her studies. And when he does, it’s always how’s her math? How’s her reading?” Wylan flinches, but Alys doesn’t notice, her eyes still downcast. “But when I tell him that she’s top of her class in the dramatic arts—nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. And it makes me…” Her gaze flicks up toward him. “Well, it makes me understand you a whole lot better. Because you’re an artist, like her. And Jannie doesn’t care.”

Wylan swallows, his throat suddenly thick. He doesn’t want to tell her that not caring is perhaps the best Plumje can hope for from his father. That not caring is safer. “I’m sure he cares.”

“No,” she says firmly. “He doesn’t.”

There’s not much Wylan can say to that, so he stays silent.

“But,” starts Alys, cheer beginning to warm her voice again, “she will always have her big brother to look up to. For that I am —we are—grateful.”

Wylan is touched. He smiles at Alys, genuine. “Thank you.”

Alys returns his smile. Coyly, she says, “Aren’t you gonna say it?”

“Say what?”

Alys tilts her head to the side, saying in a singsong drone, “Half-brother. You correct us every time.”

Wylan blinks. “Do I?”

“You do.”

“Well, I won’t anymore.” He likes the idea of no longer having a half-sister but a sister. Someone who can relate to him. Someone who might, someday, need him.

“Good.” Brushing a hand over his lapel, she says, “You and Timmy are going to look just darling in these suits. I cannot wait.”

Wylan cringes at the thought of seeing Timothy, but forces a smile. “I can’t wait, either. It’s going to be a good day.”

Despite everything, he means it.

———

Timothy waits at the base of 30 Rock, wearing his own suit within what Alys seemingly deems to be the Plumje pink color family. Nervous as he is to see his now ex-fiancé, Wylan is cheered by the fact that the garment is a slightly less-than-flattering shade of salmon.

When he exits his Uber, Timothy’s eyes widen. “Wow. You look…” He blinks a few times. “Really great, Wy.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Their ride up to the 65th floor is uncomfortably silent. It’s only when the elevator dings that Timothy turns to face him. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Wylan doesn’t look at him, lest he lose his nerve. He stares directly ahead at the gilded elevator doors and says, “Yes.”

The doors slide open, cutting off any reply Timothy might have made. He holds out his arm and Wylan takes it, a little stiffly. Together, they step into the Rainbow Room—a venue once meant to host their wedding reception. Shaking off any awkwardness, Timothy dons a small smile. Wylan forces lightness into his limbs. If not for the missing ring on Wylan’s finger, nothing would appear amiss between them.

Kaz asked, that morning, if Wylan wanted to put the ring back on for this part of the plan. Timothy had said that he would bring it, in case. Emphatically, Wylan shook his head. “I’ll wear the suit. I’ll go to the party with him. But I am not putting on that ring.”

Kaz nodded like he understood.

Now, Wylan wonders if it was a mistake. A chink in their gilded armor that his father might notice and exploit. His heart beats in his throat, nerves fizzing in his belly like shaken soda. It is critical that they get this next bit right.

They arrive a few minutes after the hour, so the room is already full of celebrants. Pink drapery hangs from the ceilings, white flowers creating a photo-worthy arch at the edge of the dance floor. The musicians play a soft collection of old standards—songs that the giggling children sprinting through the place are about forty years too young to know—and there’s a table in the back piled high with presents. At the center of it all sits a smiling Plumje, nearly buried in her frilly tulle dress.

Wylan’s father is not too far away from her, standing dutifully beside a glowing Alys. As Wylan and Timothy enter the room, he looks up.

Wylan locks eyes with his father.

Jan’s eyes widen, then narrow. His skin flushes scarlet. He sets his jaw, but before he can take a step in their direction, Wylan tugs on Timothy’s elbow, leading him instead toward a surreptitious pair of men huddling together by the dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows.

As he approaches, the men startle. They go white, wide-eyed, as though seeing a ghost.

Which, of course, they are.

“Miggson,” says Wylan warmly. “Prior. So great to see you both. Have you met Timothy?”

———

Chapter Text

That morning, over breakfast, Kaz instructed Wylan to approach his would-be killers first.

“You’ll need to show us who your fathers thugs are so we can neutralize them,” he said. “As soon as you enter, we’ll have eyes on you. Head straight for them and give us the signal.”

“But you’ve already seen them,” Wylan argued. “In the car.”

“Not clearly enough. There’s no room for error. Plus,” he added with a grin, “unnerving them a little wouldn’t hurt.”

Now, in the Rainbow Room, Wylan gives the signal. He tips his weight onto one leg, slipping his right hand into his back pocket. With his thumb, he taps three times on the outside of the fabric.

He does it twice, for good measure. He can only hope his friends have seen it.

“So,” says Timothy, addressing a startled Miggson and Prior, “have you two been in town long or did you travel in for the party?”

Miggson eyes Wylan sidelong. “Just got in,” he says gruffly.

Timothy turns toward Prior. “And you? Or are you two…” he trails off, pointing between them. Prior flushes.

As Timothy and Prior carry on a stilted conversation, Wylan glances over his shoulder, catching his father’s eye. Whipping his head forward, he curses himself, color flooding his face. His father’s stare bores into his back.

Not yet.

Wylan shifts his weight, signaling again. There’s only so much time he can idle here before—

As if on cue, a petite server interrupts them. “Anything to drink?”

Wylan and Timothy say no, but Miggson and Prior gratefully accept whatever it is she’s offering. Unnerved indeed.

“Well,” says Wylan pleasantly, “we’d better go mingle. Family obligation, and all. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

Miggson and Prior give vague goodbyes, blissfully unaware that the drinks they’re slugging contain a potent sleep aid.

Wylan’s mouth tips up at the corner as he leads Timothy away.

They find themselves in another conversation almost immediately. Wylan doesn’t even have to seek it out—an enthusiastic Van Eck Industries executive approaches Timothy, offering a quick congratulations before diving into an overview of the quarter’s key initiatives. Timothy keeps up—his competency has never been in question—and together they manage to waste nearly half an hour.

Perfect.

“You’ll want to bide your time,” Kaz told him. “Don’t rush into a confrontation with your father if you can help it.”

As the exec peppers Timothy with questions about revenue drivers, Wylan watches his father from his periphery. He’s growing jittery, glancing at Wylan nearly as often as Wylan glances at him. When their eyelines collide, Wylan feels an electric jolt not unlike sticking his finger into an electrical socket. 

They won’t be able to hold him off forever.

“How much time do you need?” Wylan asked Kaz at breakfast.

“Forty minutes minimum. An hour if you can manage it.”

He scans the room. Uniformed servers slip through a crowd of Upper East Side elites—the Goldmans and Warrens and Yorks of the world, tepidly enjoying another pleasant day of extravagance. Alys has managed to gather quite the crowd for a five-year-old’s birthday party, the fullness of the room a testament to either her social skills or Jan’s intimidation tactics. Or, most likely, both. 

Not seeing the person he’s looking for, Wylan tunes back into his conversation.

Some minutes later, the VEI exec shakes their hands. “Thrilled to have you on board, Tim. And it was great to meet you too…” 

“Wylan.”

“Wylan! Of course.”

As he walks away, Timothy scoffs. “Not like you’re the CEO’s son or anything…”

“I’m used to it. The old guard knows me, but anyone hired within the last decade would be hard pressed to learn their boss even has a son.” He tilts his head, considering. “Although if my father had gotten his way yesterday, I suspect everyone here would have known my name.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but Timothy stiffens. Wylan bites back on the impulse to apologize. It’s well past time that he stopped softening the truth for Timothy’s sake.

Speaking of time…

Wylan glances at the clock. “Okay,” he tells Timothy. “Showtime.”

Timothy swallows. Nods. “Alright.”

They close ranks, pretending to argue a little so no one else will interrupt them. The words come all too easily. 

“If you had listened to me…”

“I obviously didn’t mean it that way…”

As they speak—mostly unrelated nonsense, carefully devoid of any topics that might be considered too real— they move subtly across the room until they’re smack in the center of Jan’s eyeline, finally alone.

He notices. Quickly. 

It doesn’t take long for Wylan’s father to dislodge from Alys and Plumje, offering tight smiles and clipped excuses to a few of the well-wishers in his immediate circle before heading in Wylan and Timothy’s direction. As his strides lengthen, his expression grows thunderous.

When he’s within earshot, Jan hisses, “What do you think you are doing here?” 

“Father,” Wylan greets mildly. “Wonderful party.”

“Answer me, boy.”

Wylan blinks. “What do you mean? I was invited, was I not?”

Jan’s face reddens. He glances toward Timothy. “I don’t suppose you have an explanation for this? Our investors were less than thrilled after your unexpected departure yesterday.”

Timothy’s brows go up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jan. I wasn’t invited to any sort of meeting yesterday. I’m sure that if I was, it would be on my calendar.”

Wylan suspects the type of investors to whom Jan’s referring would very much prefer that their meetings remain off the books. Jan narrows his eyes, all but confirming.

How nice, thinks Wylan, to watch Timothy gaslight someone else for a change.

As Wylan’s father stares down his ex-fiance, a server slips past, brushing Jan’s side.

“My apologies,” rasps the server.

Jan doesn’t even look his way. He stares at Timothy, then Wylan, his lips twisting into a grimace. “It’s no matter. Miggson and Prior will simply escort you—” He glances toward the windows, cutting himself off with the gaping expression of a freshly-caught fish.

Wylan turns around, following his father’s eyeline. The sleep aid appears to have done its work. Miggson and Prior are both leaning hard against the windows, wearing glazed-over expressions. As he looks on, a burly bouncer steps between the two men, supporting their considerable weight on each side. His long hair falling forward, hiding his face, the bouncer reassures the nearby party guests in a low voice. “Too much to drink. We see it all the time.”

As the man hauls Miggson and Prior from the room, his blue eyes dart toward Wylan. For a heartstopping moment, Wylan’s certain that his father will have noticed. But when he turns around, Jan’s eyes are on him.

“What did you do to my men?”

Wylan considers telling the truth, just to watch his father’s reaction. Fortunately, Timothy cuts in before he can.

“I did see them spending some time at the bar.” He gestures toward a curly-haired bartender serving drinks with a smile at the far side of the dance floor. “Maybe they were overserved.”

Jan’s eyes jump from Timothy to Wylan, the color on his cheeks surpassing maroon and heading toward puce. Wylan’s pulse throbs in his throat. He wonders if his father is bold enough to attack him right here, in front of all these people. But before Jan can say anything else, a summons comes from across the room.

“Jannie!” calls Alys. “Come watch Plumje open presents!”

The moment breaks. Jan looks over his shoulder. “Coming, darling!” To Wylan and Timothy, he intones, “I will deal with the two of you after the party. Do not make a scene.”

Wylan exhales. Buoyed by the sweet sensation of getting away with it, he tilts his head. “When have I ever made a scene, father?”

Jan grimaces. “You’ll be unsurprised to know that the staff has been instructed to deny your bandmates entry should they try and show up today. Alys will be told that a last-minute conflict has arisen. So whatever it is you’re thinking of trying here will not succeed. Do not test me.” To Timothy, he says, “Consider this your final day at Van Eck Industries.”

Timothy winces, but doesn’t argue. When Jan turns on his heel and walks away, Wylan says, “I’m sorry.” No matter how ill-gained, he knows the job meant something to Timothy.

“Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I left that meeting.” Timothy glances toward the dance floor. Behind it is a mirrored wall, a set of elegant, curving stairs on either side leading to a lofted platform for photographers. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

Once again, they playact a conversation, this one much gentler.

“Have you seen the new exhibit…”

“It’s been far too long since we…”

“You know, I’ve been thinking that…”

Keeping their eyes on one another, they manage to make it across the room without any meddling family members or VEI executives interrupting. Timothy makes a show of convincing Wylan to walk up the stairs for a better view, and then, without much effort at all, they’re on the platform, looking down at the party from above. 

Wylan takes the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Timothy, stepping an arm’s length away from his former fiancé as he leans against the railing, looking down.

No one pays them much mind. Just as Kaz predicted.

“Once you’re on the platform,” said Kaz that morning, “you should be able to see everything. Every one.”

Wylan gazes out over the guests, the children, the presents. The picturesque backdrops and dramatic views. The staff members that thread through the chaos on practiced feet, silently serving the preening upper class. 

All things considered, it really is a lovely party. Alys looks proud.

“So what are we looking for?” asks Timothy.

“You aren’t looking for anything.” The Crows agreed that it was best to keep Timothy in the dark as much as possible. “Just keep your eyes on my father.”

Timothy leans forward, forearms braced on the metal railing. “Boring,” he mutters.

Wylan bites his tongue, resisting the urge to remind Timothy that he’d nearly died yesterday. The reminder wouldn’t do much good, anyway. Timothy’s always been too impatient—too self-absorbed—for tasks like these. Even Jesper, with all his boundless energy, can survive a stakeout. But this type of surveillance requires watching. Listening. Interest in others. Skills that Timothy clearly lacks.

Wylan is imagining Timothy sitting through a Kaz Brekker lecture on the necessary criminal skill of waiting when his ex-fiancé backs away from the platform’s edge, turning an imploring gaze on Wylan. “I really am sorry, you know. For all of it. I didn’t want to go along with your father’s plan, but he was so … convincing.”

Wylan keeps his eyes on the crowd, splitting his attention between his father and the staff. Didn’t they already talk about this yesterday? “I understand.”

“I never would have actually agreed to the whole conservator idea. I thought your dad was using that as a bargaining chip so that you would accept our help. Like if you thought your inheritance was at risk, you might actually agree to see someone.”

Annoyance flares in Wylan’s chest. As he speaks, his eyes remain downcast, roving, seeking out a familiar silhouette. “For the last time, I don’t care about my inheritance. And you weren’t trying to get me to see someone. You were sending me away. Even if you didn’t know my father’s plan was to kill me”—at his side, Timothy winces—“you should have at least tried to talk to me before shipping me off to a mental hospital.”

“Your father said you couldn’t be reasoned with.”

“At what point will you accept that you cannot believe everything my father says?” Wylan snaps.

Timothy goes quiet. Wylan refuses to look at him. Instead, he watches Alys cheer as Plumje opens another gift. It’s a toy microphone from Alys’ music teacher. As she looks up at Bajan, eyes welling with tears, she places a hand over her heart.

He examines the faces of the crowd surrounding his baby sister. There’s the same bouncer from before, a few paces behind his father, and a handful of familiar-looking VEI execs. A great-aunt on his father’s side, too ancient to recall her own name, much less Plumje’s. A photographer. A well-known socialite and her celebrity mother.

Where is—

“The thing is,” continues Timothy, “it wasn’t just what your father said that concerned me. You really have been different since we got here, Wy. Can’t you see that?”

Wylan swallows. “I know.” He means it. He has been different here. Looser. Freer. Not always happier, but always … more. Here in New York, with the Crows, his highs are higher. His lows lower. His emotions cover a wider range than they did in the strange, hovering peace of Santa Monica. He thinks perhaps he should try to find the words to explain to Timothy that the man he knew in California doesn’t really exist. But he can already imagine the answer.

That’s ridiculous, Wylan. I know the real you.

So he doesn’t say anything at all, eyes still searching the undulating crowd. He’s already offered Timothy his understanding. His forgiveness. God knows the man doesn’t deserve an explanation, too.

Timothy, it seems, disagrees. He presses, “Is this about your ex?”

Wylan finally breaks, tearing his eyes from the party and turning toward his ex-fiancé. “You spent years taking money from my father without telling me. You believed him over me every chance you got. You stood by and watched as he tried to have me committed, hit me, and left me locked in that apartment. And now you’re asking if I am breaking up with you because of Jesper?”

“I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to assume—”

“Why are you doing this, Timothy? We’ve already talked. You’ve already asked me to come back, and I’ve already said no. Does it really matter why I—” A realization dawns, incredulity flooding him. “Oh my God. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re not used to being told no, are you? You can’t handle it.”

Timothy flushes, a rare enough sight that a piece of Wylan marvels to see it. But then, as quickly as it came, the blush cools. He sets his jaw, gaze dipping down toward Wylan’s throat. “You have a hickey, Wylan.”

Humiliation swoops low in his stomach, but it isn’t enough to overpower the rush of anger heating his blood. “You have no right—”

In his periphery, he spots movement. The petite server—the one who gave Miggson and Prior the sleep aid—is rushing across the dance floor, a furrow between her dark brows. As she slips through a surreptitious door on the left side of the room, Wylan scans the crowd, hands braced against the railing. He sees his great-aunt. The photographer. The socialite, her mother.

His father is nowhere to be found.

Wylan lets out a frustrated groan. Wheeling toward Timothy, he asks, “Did you distract me on purpose?”

The surprise ricocheting across Timothy’s features is answer enough. Just careless, then.

“Stay here,” he tells Timothy, voice ringing with command, “and actually watch this time. Call me if my father reappears.”

Face white, Timothy nods. Wylan bolts down the stairs to follow Inej into the kitchens.

———

Over breakfast at Specht and Rotty’s house, Kaz explained the full extent of his plan.

Wylan’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t you already announce to thousands of people that we would be attending the party as a band? Why sneak in as servers when Alys is expecting us?”

“First of all,” said Kaz, glancing up from his cup of black coffee, “you are going as a party guest. The rest of us are sneaking in as servers. And second,” he grinned, “when have we ever done what’s expected of us?”

———

On the other side of the door, the kitchen is gleamingly bright. It’s a long, rectangular room, lined with ovens and stovetops. A silver table splits the room at its center, and white-hatted chefs stand at even intervals along it, chopping and mincing and slicing. Meat sizzles on the stovetop, servers and sous chefs flying from station to station.

Inej weaves deftly through the chaos, Wylan only a little clumsier at her heels. When they’ve reached a pocket of space at the back of the room, he turns to her.

“Inej. What’s going on? Is everything going according to plan?”

The little furrow between her brows deepens. “Not quite. Kaz got your father’s phone and keys. He, Nina, and Matthias were able to make some calls and search the back rooms. But all of the departments you mentioned checked out. The security, the surveillance, and the service staff. None of them have the hostages.”

“What about the musicians?” asks Wylan, thinking of the string quartet playing old standards on the stage. “They’re the ones my father originally planned to involve.”

Inej shakes her head. “Nothing. Nina had to go back to the bar. Matthias and Kaz are checking one last closet they noticed in the blueprints, but…”

Wylan swallows, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. “My father might have moved the drop.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. And now he’s—”

“Gone.” Wylan leans back against the wall, tipping his head back. “I should have been watching. I was distracted by Timothy and—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just do better next time.” Inej’s voice is firm, but not unkind. Wylan can imagine with startling clarity how she runs her team so efficiently. “Is there anything else you can remember that might help?” she asks. “Another place your father could be running to, or some detail of party planning that he was strangely locked in on?”

Wylan shakes his head. “I don’t think he would have cared so much about my crashing the party if he didn’t still intend to do the drop here. And since he clearly thought I was dead, he would have had no reason to move it until today.”

“Did he have any accomplices?”

“Besides my fiancé?” Wylan mutters. “Not that I know of.”

Inej gives him a sympathetic look. They fall into a brief silence, punctuated by the brisk chatter of the kitchen staff. Wylan watches a chef chop fresh herbs into increasingly tiny pieces, using the side of his blade to scrape the green specs into a waiting bowl. The kitchen is overcrowded, but he shouldn’t be surprised that the catering company his father hired has over twenty—

Wylan’s train of thought screeches to a halt.

Catering.

Catering.

The word on the business card his father held as he summoned Wylan into his office. The scrap of paper that fluttered to the floor as Wylan lay moaning on the ground. The one he stared at as the sun gently rose, unable to make out anything but C and -ing.  

The night of the show, his father was on the phone with a catering company. But why?

“Inej,” he says slowly. “I think I just remembered something.” She looks up, expectant, but he remembers himself at the last second. They’re in a crowded room full of knife-weilding chefs, not all of whom are friendly. “You know what, I’ll tell you back in the ballroom. Right now we need to—”

From Wylan’s right, a noise scrapes through the air. Metal on metal, a discordant whine.

His head snaps toward the sound. There’s a chef at the end of the table who doesn’t quite fit in with the others. The vegetables before him are haphazardly sliced, his eyes not focused on his task but shifty, wandering. There’s a serpentine tattoo peeking out from the collar of his white coat and five-o-clock shadow stumbling his jaw. His knife was poised not above the cutting board but against the edge of the countertop below. Scraping.

As Wylan looks on, the man raises his chin. Violence glimmers in his stare.

Slowly, he sneers. “Missing someone, Mister Van Eck?”

Wylan freezes, mind whirring. In the ballroom, he had been looking for someone. Examining the faces of the servers as they whipped past. He’d spotted Inej and Kaz, Nina and Matthias. But Timothy interrupted the search before he could find the last person—the most important person.

  Jesper.

———

Wylan eyes the blade in the faux-chef’s hand. “What did you do to him?”

The chef only smiles. Slowly, he adjusts his grip on his knife.

Wylan steps forward, pressing. “What did you—”

“Move!” Inej shoves him away from the wall just in time to miss the chef’s knife as it flies. The blade whizzes past, missing him—barely. As it clatters to the floor, the kitchen explodes into chaos. Most of the staff shout their surprise as six more of the chefs tear white hats from their heads, jumping into action.

Wylan and Inej make a run for it—darting back the way they came—but they’re cut off by two knife-weilding assailants, standing between them and the door back into the ballroom.

All of the sudden, Wylan can picture his father’s late-night phone call. How he might have laughed, saying, I know it’s extravagant, but my wife wants a very particular dish to be served at the party, from a very particular restaurant. I hope you don’t mind that we’ve hired a few extra pairs of hands from their kitchen to add to your staff. They come highly recommended, of course, and will largely keep to themselves. Not too much of a lift for you, right?

Of course, the men were never meant to be discovered. The other four faux-chefs creep around the far edge of the table, cutting off the back way out of the kitchen. The man who Wylan originally noticed stands at his place, watching.

A day ago, Jan had given Miggson and Prior the order to kill him. Would he be so bold as to repeat it to these men?

Wylan has no intention of finding out.

He and Inej lunge for the table, snatching up knives left behind by fleeing caterers. Inej’s hand closes around the handle of a meat cleaver, and a single toss has it embedded in one of the attacker’s shoulders. Across the kitchen, someone screams.

The attacker falls to his knees. “You bitch!”

Inej scoops up another knife, easily disarming a second chef with a well-placed stab. Wylan’s seen the move enough times to know she’s put the man down without hitting anything vital. As he falls, she fists a hand into the hair of the man on his knees, yanking his head back to expose his throat. 

Her voice is dark. “Speak to me like that again.”

The man whimpers.

She draws back as though she intends to slit his throat, but puts him down with a hit to the back of his head instead.

Wylan wants to feel relief, but there are still men behind them.

Spinning in place, Inej tosses another blade. But these attackers are faster, more wary. Two of them sprint along the far side of the table, quickly taking the place of those who have fallen to block Wylan and Inej’s way out via the ballroom. The others stay guarding the back door, ducking as Inej’s blades soar. 

Inej and Wylan scoot together, backing away from the assailants until they’re pressed against the wall. Wylan grips his knife, but it feels useless in his unskilled hand. Inej tries tossing another—then a third—but nothing hits. The men creep closer, boxing them in.

“Wy!” prompts Inej, and Wylan remembers that while he might not be skilled with a knife, he has other abilities.

Slowly, he raises a hand to his pocket.

“On three,” he murmurs to Inej, gesturing with his chin to the long, chrome table in the center of the space. She tears her eyes away from the assailants long enough to nod.

“One, two…

“Three!”

Wylan yanks a smoke bomb from the inner pocket of his jacket, screwing his eyes shut against the onslaught of chemicals as he slams it into the ground.

BAM!

The smoke unfurls quickly, darkness devouring the space. A chorus of shouting erupts from their attackers, but Wylan doesn’t stick around to appreciate his handiwork. Taking Inej by the hand he feels for the edge of the table in the dark. When his fingers collide with chrome, he scrambles atop it and runs its length, rather than swerving through the smoke. He and Inej leap from the far end, hitting the ground with a skid and barreling toward the back door. 

In a puff of black smoke, they burst into a nondescript hallway. 

Where they are not alone.

———

At the very end of the hall, the faux-chef Wylan first noticed stands with his back against a heavy door. He’s been divested of his chef hat, but his eyes still gleam with violence. As Wylan and Inej stare at him, panting, he winks, pushing through the door and into a stairwell.

Wylan doesn’t think. He’s off like a shot, following. It’s Inej who tugs on his sleeve, forcefully slowing him to a stop.

“Don’t you think it’s a trap?” she asks. “He clearly wants you to follow.”

Wylan shakes his head, nausea rising. “Doesn’t matter. He has Jesper.”

Inej chews her lip, looking away. “Wylan, there were catering trucks downstairs. I think…”

She doesn’t need to say anything more. “Go. Get the hostages, call the police. I’ll get Jesper away from my father.”

Inej’s eyes are hesitant, but her expression stiffens into one of well-practiced command. “Be safe.”

“You too.”

Wylan races down the hall, pushing through the heavy door and into an echoey, concrete stairwell. Heavy footsteps pound from somewhere below him, descending quickly. As he follows, he catches only glimpses of his assailant.

“Where is he?” he calls, his own voice harsh as it echoes back. “Where is he?”

The faux-chef doesn’t answer. Instead, he leads Wylan down, down, down.

Dizziness begins to creep in as Wylan descends ten levels, twenty. He’s still gripping the knife, holding it away from his body and praying that his feet don’t fail him.

Finally he hears another door open, a blast of wintry wind swirling into the stairwell as the attacker finds his way onto an outdoor platform.

Wylan follows, bursting through the door in a final push of wretched energy.

Upstairs on the 65th floor, the roof deck is wide. It’s lined with nine-foot glass panels, keeping the Rainbow Room’s luxe guests safe from the whipping winds and deathly drop. 

Here, there are no such protections. The deck Wylan finds himself on is little more than an outcropping of concrete, a sliver of space against the side of the building. There’s a utilitarian-looking mess of wires and machinery on the far side of the space, and a heavy-duty LED pointed up toward the top of the building.

Only a knee-height wall protects them from falling.

The faux-chef stands in the center of the space with his legs spread, grinning as the winter winds whip around them. Behind him is Wylan’s father, holding a squirming Jesper.

At the sight of Wylan, Jesper’s eyes go wide. “Wy, don’t—”

He’s cut off when Jan shoves something against his spine.

Not something, Wylan realizes. A gun.

Everything inside him goes cold.

Jan tuts. His voice carries above the wind. “Not an ounce of self-preservation. I can’t say I’m surprised. I gave you a second chance, son. You and that traitorous fiancé of yours. Are you truly too stupid to take it?”

Wylan ignores the verbal prodding. “Let him go.”

“Have you learned nothing, Wylan? When will you realize that it’s well past time to stop fighting me at every turn? When will you take advantage of the opportunities I offer?”

“Let. Him. Go.”

Jan sneers. “Alright, let’s do it your way.” He looks at Jesper, considering. “I might let him go. If you behave yourself.” His cold eyes dart to Wylan’s hand. “Drop the knife.”

Begrudgingly, Wylan obeys, prying his cold fingers from the knife’s handle. Before it can clatter to the ground, the faux-chef steps forward and smoothly collects it, offering Wylan a triumphant smile.

“You really thought you could sneak your repulsive little friend into this party without my notice?” asks Jan.

“He’s not—” Wylan cuts himself off, turning the words over in his head. Friend. Not friends.

“He’s not repulsive,” Wylan continues, filling the airspace so as not to raise suspicion. “And he’s not just a friend.”

Jan’s lip curls, but Wylan’s too distracted to be upset by it. Friend. Friend. Kaz’s plan rested upon the assumption that Jan wouldn’t bother to look into the eyes of his service staff. It was a point they had argued at breakfast—Wylan wasn’t delusional enough to think his father actually cared about the laborers at the event, but he worried that for this particular event, under this particular set of circumstances, Jan might spare a discerning glance. 

Against all odds, he was wrong. His father doesn’t know the others are here.

If Inej has already made it downstairs, if she’s found the hostages, called the police…

Then Wylan needs only to bide his time.

He meets his father’s eyes. “Why?”

Jan looks at Jesper. Shrugs. “Call it taking out the trash.”

Wylan shakes his head. “Not why this. Why the trafficking? Why use personal events like my wedding and Plumje’s party as covers for something so vile? Don’t you have enough money?”

“If you had ever listened to me, you would know there’s no such thing as too much money.”

“There are other ways to make it,” Wylan insists.

“The people that I help relocate are not unwitting victims, as you’re so keen to assume. They’ve agreed to the purchase of their services. They’ve signed papers. Come willingly. It was once not so uncommon. A family as great as ours would have once had dozens of indentured servants in their employ. Within a free market, citizens should be able to sell whatever they wish—even themselves.”

“So you’re taking advantage of desperate people,” Wylan surmises.

“I’m taking advantage of an opportunity. You’ve always been too weak to know the difference.”

Jesper tries to speak. “He’s a better—”

Jan jabs him with the barrel of the gun again. “I would keep quiet if I were you, boy.” In the silence that follows, Wylan hears a low, heavy click. 

Jesper opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares at Wylan, his gray eyes cloudy with concern.

As quickly as it came, Wylan’s hope begins to ebb away. He has no idea if Inej made it back out of the hallway, much less if she found and rescued the hostages. The authorities might not be coming. Even if they did, his friends don’t know where he and Jesper are.

A rescue party isn’t coming.

The only way to get Jesper off this wind-whipped strip of rooftop, Wylan realizes, is to think like his father.

In his mind’s eye, he pictures a courtroom. He hears the shivering strings, the hollow chords, the sustained, silver flute. I always knew that our story would end somewhere like this, Wylan told Jesper. 

A tiny outcropping against the side of one of New York City’s most iconic buildings is a far cry from the staid courtroom he once imagined, but the outcome is the same. Mutually assured destruction. And Jan Van Eck’s always been too big to fail.

He inhales deeply, the cold air steeling him. “What do I need to do to convince you to let Jesper go?”

Jan raises a brow. If he’s surprised by the change in topic, he doesn’t say. “What makes you think I can be convinced?”

“The principles of the free market, as you would say. Everything has a price. Name yours.” 

For a moment, his father almost looks proud. It nearly kills Wylan to see it. He breathes in more of the wintry air, pushing himself past feeling, to a place that’s cold and numb. “What’s the price, father?”

Jan’s blue eyes scan Wylan up and down, assessing. Wylan holds himself perfectly still. He accepts the fate he knows is to come, even as every cell in his body protests it.

Eventually, inevitably, Jan says, “I want an even trade. A body for a body. I’ll let him go,” Jan shoves Jesper a little with the gun, “if you take his place.”

“Done.”

“No!” Jesper struggles against Jan. But Jan pays him no mind, his eyes on Wylan.

Upstairs, Inej asked, Don’t you think it’s a trap? It is—always was.

To Jan, Jesper is inconsequential. A means to an end. Another lowlife, so similar to those he’s stashed inside the back of the caterers vans. It’s Wylan who was supposed to be more. Wylan whose inabilities have caused him such strain. Wylan who, if martyred by a sudden, shocking incident, would do more for the Van Eck family dead than alive.

“It’s okay,” says Wylan to Jesper. He means it. He got an extra day. He got to be with Jesper. Be among friends, one last time. It’s enough.

It has to be enough.

Jesper fights against Jan’s grip. “Wylan, I—”

Whatever Jesper’s about to say is cut off by a whipping wind. Because then, carried on the back of the breeze, comes a sound sweeter than any symphony.

Sirens.

Hope, that fickle friend, creeps back in.

Jan meets Wylan’s eye. Despite all his better instincts, Wylan smiles.

Then, too swiftly to track, three things happen in rapid succession.

First, Jesper takes advantage of Jan’s distraction to stomp on his foot, slipping his grasp.

Second, as Jan is knocked off balance, eyes wide and wild, he points his gun not at a fleeing Jesper but at Wylan, aiming for his son’s head.

And finally—finally—

BOOM!

Wylan’s father fires the gun.

———

“Oof!”

Wylan’s head explodes with pain as he hits the concrete floor of the roof deck. It takes a second for him to recalibrate. To realize that he’s not dead at his father’s hand but very much alive, head throbbing, heart racing. Jesper is on top of him, panting.

The last few moments come back in a rush—as Wylan’s father squeezed the trigger, Jesper changed directions, tearing towards him. He tackled Wylan to the ground just in time for the whizzing bullet to miss.

Because of it, he’s alive. Alive.

The faux-chef wasn’t so lucky. The bullet must have ricocheted off the side of the building, embedding itself in the man’s chest. A bright red splatter stands out against his white chef’s coat, a pool of blood seeping out from beneath him. His lifeless eyes stare up at the brilliant winter sky.

Jan stands next to the body, still clutching the gun.

He seems to realize at the same time Wylan does that it’s now two to one.

Jesper leaps into action first. He jumps up from atop Wylan, diving for the chef’s discarded knife.

Jan’s laugh is low and breathless. “Insolent creature. Do you really think you can throw that faster than I can shoot this?” He cocks his gun, eyes bright with madness.

Wylan struggles to his feet, a scream stuck behind the lump in his throat. His father is beyond anger, beyond rationality. He’ll kill them both and walk away whistling.

It’s a good thing, then, that Wylan’s not helpless. As Jesper glances toward him, Wylan raises a hand to his pocket.

He might not be Kaz Brekker or Inej Ghafa or Nina Zenik or Matthias Helvar. He might not be Jesper Fahey, but he is someone who has earned Jesper Fahey’s heart. Twice.

“No,” says Jesper, answering Jan’s question truthfully. “But what I can do is distract you long enough for your son to do this.”

Without another word Wylan throws a second smoke bomb against the ground. The wind takes the swirling dye, spreading it swiftly.

Jan’s frustrated shout echoes in the small space like the roar of a monster. Wylan pays it no mind, sprinting through the manufactured gloom in the approximate direction of the door.

“Over here!” cries Jesper. Through the smoke, Wylan sees an outstretched hand. He grasps it, allowing himself to be pulled through to safety.

Wylan and Jesper slam the door behind them, leaning against it. On the other side, Jan continues shouting.

“Can you hold this?” asks Wylan. Jesper nods.

Wylan sprints up a few stairs, flinging open the first door he sees. It leads to another nondescript hall, only this time, miraculously, with a janitor’s cart parked against the wall. Wylan snatches up a mop, bringing it back down to Jesper. They use the mop handle to block the doors just in time to stop Jan from bursting into the stairwell.

It won’t hold long, but it’ll hold.

From below, the sirens grow louder. From outside, his father shouts. The sounds clash together, discordant, arrhythmic. 

Wylan’s certain he’s never heard finer music.

———

Jan is dragged out through the lobby.

By then, half his party guests are loitering down there, driven out of the ballroom by the chaos in the kitchens. They watch wide eyed as Jan Van Eck—once the greatest of them—is taken away in handcuffs. 

He yells nonsensically. “It’s my son’s fault! Him and his useless band, they’re criminals, all of them!”

“The only criminal I see here is you,” spits one of the officers.

From their place leaning against the lobby wall, Jesper knocks his shoulder against Wylan’s. “I seem to be developing a sudden fondness for cops.”

Wylan smirks. “Who would have thought we’d see the day?”

On the other side of the room, the socialite films everything on her iPhone. “Just wait until the gossip accounts get a hold of this,” she says, too loudly.

Sensing the opportunity to make a quick buck, a few more of Jan’s guests whip out their devices.

Wylan doesn’t. He simply watches as his father is shoved into the back of a police car, a distinct sense of relief spreading across his scalp when the car drives away.

There will be a trial. Reporters, chaos, mess. His courtroom theory won’t be so far off after all. 

Wylan turns toward Jesper. “Thank you for saving my life,” he says. “Again.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” counters Jesper. “Again.”

Wylan knows to what he is referring. The trigger that sent Jesper on a new, healthier path. That sent them both hurtling toward one another long before Anika sent that fateful email. Van Eck Heir Cancels Nupitals. 

He fights the smile that tugs at his lips, but is unable to stop the rising flush. Jesper grins in return.

Without another word they thread their fingers together, holding hands as they stroll toward the elevators.

———

Upstairs, only a few people linger. Alys. Bajan. Timothy. Plumje, in her frilly pink dress, being watched by the great aunt who does not know her name. An overserved VEI exec, muttering into his glass. Cleaners hustle in and out of the kitchens, working to clear surfaces of Wylan’s black soot. 

The Crows stand together in the center of the room, talking to the cops. Somewhat begrudgingly, if Kaz’s expression is any indication. When Wylan joins them, he’s pulled aside by one of the officers. 

Jesper follows. The cop glances up from his notepad. “I need to speak with Mister Van Eck alone.”

“My boyfriend nearly died today,” counters Jesper, “so if you don’t mind I’d like to stay.”

Boyfriend. The timing is highly inappropriate, but Wylan flushes at the word.

The cop sighs. “Mister Van Eck,” he says pointedly, “we are looking to figure out whether your father was working alone or with any accomplices. Your associates told us that you might have some insights. Do you know of anyone else who might have been involved?”

Wylan chews on the inside of his cheek. He understands the opportunity his associates have given him.

Across the room, his eyes find Timothy.

His ex-fiancé is standing on the other side of the ballroom, alone. His salmon suit is rumpled, his eyes unimaginably weary. 

Timothy.

Timothy, who stood by Wylan’s father, threatening a conservatorship. Timothy, who made Wylan laugh after a long day. Timothy who snooped through his phone and who took money from Jan without his knowledge. Timothy who dismissed him again and again and again, until he began to dismiss himself.

Timothy who, when the stakes were at their most desperate, made the right choice.

“No,” says Wylan finally, meeting the cop’s eye. “I don’t know of anyone.”

The cop hands Wylan his card. “Let me know if you think of anything.”

Wylan nods. From across the room, Timothy glances at him, and then the cop. He meets Wylan’s eye. Mouths, Thank you. 

Wylan looks away.

Jesper slides an arm around his shoulders, grounding and warm and only a little possessive. “So, merchling. What do you want to do now?”

Wylan’s gaze slides over the ballroom once meant to host his wedding. The crystal chandeliers, the absurdly tall windows. The finely made tables, covered with soft linens and unused china. The crying baby in the center of it all, her mother too frazzled to soothe her.

The abandoned stage. The glossy black piano.

“I have an idea.”

———

It feels uncouth to celebrate. But as the cops and cleaners filter out of the ballroom, that’s exactly what they do. 

It begins when Wylan steps up on the stage. “Um, hi,” he says awkwardly to the thin crowd. “I know that this”—he gestures vaguely—“has been a lot. But it’s Plumje’s birthday, and, well, I made my baby sister a promise that I’d like to keep.”

With that, he sits at the piano. The chords of the Shadow Business modulation come easily, growing and changing as he plays them. The song it becomes is exquisitely bittersweet, melting from a minor chord to a major, brightening as it goes.

He plays with his eyes closed, lost in the moment. But before long, there’s rustling beside him. Footsteps across the stage. 

And then, in the span of a breath, his song develops a drumbeat. It’s a little faster than Wylan might have written, but immediately, he knows that it's right. The drumbeat kicks him into gear, propulsive, and he works hard to keep up. Soon, they’re supported by the thrum of a low, solid bassline, the subversive harmonies of two bickering guitars. A smooth voice hums what might someday become a melody.

For a few long minutes, all the Crows do is explore. Improvise. Jam. When they find their way to a finish line, Wylan opens his eyes and looks out over the crowd.

Alys and Bajan stand close together, watching. Alys’ hand rests on the shoulder of his great aunt. Timothy’s still there, but he keeps a respectful distance from the family, sitting with the drunk VEI exec a few tables away. In front of them all stands Plumje, her arms outstretched toward the stage. She claps her hands together, her bright, easy laughter filling the room. 

Wylan mirrors her smile. Carried by a whim, he hops off the stage, walking toward his sister. Her laughter intensifies as he scoops her up, bringing her to his piano bench.

“Do you want to learn to play, Plumje?”

“Play!” yells Plumje, clapping. “I wanna play!”

“You heard the birthday girl,” says Wylan to his friends.

Kaz grins. “I Would Come For You?” he suggests.

“Perfect.”

For a moment, even squirming Plumje goes quiet. All eyes find Jesper. He stares back at Wylan, every line of his expression a promise of something new. Something better.

With a grin, he counts them off.

“One, two, three, four!”

———

———

———

It’s spring in New York. A calmer time, a hopeful time. Nestled between the tourist-clogged rush of happy-joyful-merry at the holidays and the Hamptons-exodus, subway-sauna, sticky-sweaty-sweet of the summertime.

Euphoria Studios is quiet. Its owner has left.

“Don’t work too hard,” said Rotty as he slipped the key into Wylan’s palm.

“I won’t.” He means it. Writing music has never really felt like work to him. It carries with it not the pulse-pounding rush of performance, but an easy, calming flow state that makes the hours melt away.

Once, Wylan thought writing alone would be enough to sustain him. He knows now that it’s the balance he craves—the peace of writing and the rush of performing, a two-sided coin that he’s happy to keep spinning. He’s got a gig later this week at an Upper East Side piano bar, before which he plans to visit Alys and Plumje. Until then, he’ll while away the hours at Euphoria, working on his latest song.

Now, in studio three, the final note of that song still rings.

Lifting his foot from the pedal, Wylan raises his eyes.

“Brilliant,” says Jesper.

Wylan rolls his eyes. “You say that every time.”

“You’re brilliant every time.”

“Be a musician for a minute. I need constructive feedback.”

“Says the man who wrote the song currently tearing through the Global Top Twenty?”

Wylan flushes. The Shadow Business modulation finally came together after that day in the Rainbow Room, his friends’ tweaks bringing the necessary changes for the song to stand on its own. They recorded it later that week, releasing it as a single to thank their fans for a successful reunion.

Something Better is on track to become their biggest hit.

Anika, of course, wants them to capitalize on the momentum. Get back together for real, put out an album, do another tour. But as before, the Crows’ priorities have all shifted. Nina and Matthias’ wedding day creeps closer; Inej’s nonprofit unravels new leads; Kaz’s businesses dominate markets worldwide. In the end they ignore Anika’s pleas, returning to their separate lives, only this time, with promises to visit one another.

Promises they all intend to keep.

The first of those visits is today, actually, here in New York. Wylan glances at the clock. They need to get going soon.

Jesper seems to realize the same. He slides onto the piano bench beside Wylan, fiddling with a drumstick in one hand. “Okay. Boyfriend hat off”—he makes an elaborate gesture, imitating removing a hat—“and musician hat on.” Another ridiculous gesture, making Wylan snort. Jesper grows serious, thinking. “What if you slowed down the bridge?”

Wylan considers this. The song he’s writing—nameless for now, although an idea sits at the tip of his tongue—is meant to reflect the relief Wylan felt when his father’s trial finally drew to an end on the first warm day of spring.

“Won’t it lose some energy?” asks Wylan.

“Keep the vocal part quick,” Jesper suggests, tapping his drumstick against the edge of the piano, “but stretch out the chords. They’re too good to rush through.”

Wylan hums. “Don’t stop,” he says, gesturing with his chin to Jesper’s drumstick.

“Not the first time today I’ve heard that.” Jesper grins, but keeps the beat.

Fighting a smile, Wylan returns his hands to the keys, playing the chords of the bridge, slower now.

It works.

It really works.

“Brilliant,” Jesper repeats when he’s done. “Now can we please get out of this room? I’m going to go crazy in here, and Kaz is waiting for us.”

“I don’t know which of those prospects is more frightening,” says Wylan as he stands, reaching for a coat he likely no longer needs.

“Definitely Kaz. He’s been on edge all week.”

Wylan wrinkles his nose. “Does he really think Inej is going to say no?”

“Who knows? With those two, nothing would surprise me. They could tell me they’ve actually been married six months and I’d believe it.”

Wylan laughs. “I would hope not. I think Nina would murder Kaz for robbing her the opportunity to be Inej’s Maid of Honor.”

“As future Best Man, I can relate to the impulse.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wylan scolds. “Proposal first.”

“Proposal first,” Jesper agrees. As they walk down Euphoria’s long entryway, he hesitates. Wylan stops, looking up.

“Do you…” Jesper trails off. Swallows. “Do you think you’d ever want to be engaged again?”

The question catches Wylan off guard, his thoughts racing unbidden back to his last experience as a fiancé. Just this morning, he received the final package of his things from California, a note from Timothy resting atop his sweaters and jeans.

“A goddamn note?” Jesper mumbled. “From the man who used to claim how well he knew you?”

“Just read it,” Wylan scolded.

Jesper took a deep breath. “This should be the last of it. Let me know if you need anything else from the house. And thanks, again, Wy. I hope you’re happy, truly. If you ever find yourself in California, look me up. I owe you (and Jesper) at least a couple of drinks. Best, T.”

“See?” said Wylan, cocking a brow.

“Still don’t like him,” Jesper retorted, “but I’m glad he did the right thing.”

“Me too.”

Now, in the studio, Wylan purses his lips. He looks around, eyes skating over the familiar olive green curtains and crowded wall of signed photographs. The Crows’ photo has been updated—rather than the stuffy, posed portrait they’d taken to promote their first tour, Rotty had them sign a candid from the reunion rehearsals. In it, Kaz and Inej are sharing a mic, the scant air between them sizzling. Nina is hitting a solo, Matthias staring in her direction. Wylan and Jesper are toward the back of the stage, both focused on their instruments, both grinning ear to ear.

That very same sort of elated grin crawls across Wylan’s features now.

“I would like to be engaged again,” he confirms, glancing up at Jesper. “To the right person, of course.”

Jesper smiles, brighter than stage lights. “Of course.”

There’s a mischievous sort of energy bouncing between them as they lock up. Jesper steps to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a cab. 

As Wylan slips into the plasticky seat beside his right person, he decides on the title of his next song.

New Beginnings.

The cab pulls away from the curb. New York City slips past his open window, a warm breeze filtering in. As they whiz uptown to meet their friends, the sun emerges from behind silver-lined clouds.

———