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Jesper laughs when Wylan tells him what his name means.
It had been a lazy afternoon, the sun uncharacteristically present and high in the sky for Ketterdam. They lounged in the garden of the Van Eck Mansion, Jesper propped up against a tree, Wylan’s head in his lap, soft red curls splayed out on Jesper’s lap. He runs his fingers languidly through them, careful not to get his rings caught on any tangles, so as not to accidentally jolt Wylan and tug on his hair. He knows Wylan probably wouldn’t mind it, and that he probably wouldn’t mind it either, but it’s still early days, and the garden is hardly the place to start something where they might traumatise an innocent member of their staff.
Wylan hums, contented by the gentle movements. His eyes are shut, lips turned upward in a small smile. He looks reverent, perfect, relaxed, and the sun illuminates him gorgeously, like something wonderful. Jesper smiles. They are at peace. The silence is comfortable, the air sweet between them, and Jesper's getting better at them.
Yet still, curiosity gets the better of him, and anything Wylan wants to smile about, Jesper wants to know about.
“What are you smiling about?” Jesper prompts. There’s a smile in his voice, too, and the hand wandering through his curls moves to the side of his face, tracing small patterns.
“My name,” Wylan replies. Jesper hums in response, slightly shocked at the young merch’s response.
“What about your name?” He pries further.
“Oh.” Wylan considers this, eyebrows knitted together briefly, like he's trying to piece together his own thoughts, “It just feels like all of this, everything that’s brought us here, I mean, feels like my name is just some self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“What, that you might end up the demolitions expert of the Bastard of the Barrel?” Jesper smirks.
“No,” Wylan scoffs humourously, bringing his hand up to slap the one drawing patterns on his face. Jesper recoils in false shock, humoured all the same. So, so in love. “Just, like…”
“Still considering changing that last name to Wylan Van Sunshine?” Jesper teases, eyebrows wriggling. Wylan scoffs, obviously unamused.
Wylan trails off, falling back into thought, and Jesper struggles not to chase after him as he retreats into his own thoughts. Jesper jokes to keep the mood light, to keep things fun, but something nags in the back of his mind that this means a bit more than he had thought. He doesn’t push, not yet. He errs on the side of caution with Wylan, the same persistent thought that tells him that he’s stumbled onto something special here. Something special with a bright pink blush and wonderfully short red curls, and Jesper isn’t quite ready to let go of him yet, saints forbid by offending him anymore with his mouth. He waits.
It’s something he had learnt quickly in his time with Wylan, loving Wylan. He’s a bit like a blossom who hasn’t quite come to terms with blooming just yet. Beautiful and hidden. Years of abuse with his father had made that a certainty, and yet Jesper was desperate to know him. There have been moments where Wylan flowers, even just briefly. He thinks Wylan knows that he can trust him, but he doesn’t rush. He knows, because there is time now. Jesper knows they have time now.
It’s also why he keeps I love you safe on his tongue. It’s sweet there, and he’s absolutely hooked on the taste of it, worried that letting go of it right now might turn it sour.
There’s another long moment before Wylan speaks again. The sound of it startles Jesper slightly, but as with everything to do with the man below him, he latches onto every word.
“My mother,” he begins, eyes still shut. His fists are clenched slightly on the grass, like this is taking true effort. Jesper hums, taking his hand away from Wylan’s face and brushing it against his knuckles, letting Wylan know that he is there, listening and patient. They unclench, just slightly, as Wylan allows Jesper’s fingertips to interlock with his own. He exhales. “She’d always said she wanted better for me, that she wanted me to make my own path, step out of the shadow of my father, despite his every attempt to keep me there. Make me read, punish me for not being able to.”
Jesper tsks, a newfound rage at Jan Van Eck pulsing through him. He knows bits and pieces about his experience with his father growing up; each piece of information stokes his anger toward him. He scoffs, smug at the reminder that he’ll spend the rest of his days in Hellgate for his crimes, and that should Wylan so much as raise a pinky to indicate it, he would shoot him dead.
“Your father’s the biggest skiv known to man. And that is calling it generously,” Jesper’s voice is laced with venom, seething.
“Yeah, but she was right, wasn’t she?” Wylan reasons, “He tried to have me killed and yet here I am, a demo man for the most dangerous barrel boss Ketterdam’s ever seen, all while sitting on his multi-million kruge estate.” Jesper thinks he senses a little bit of pride in Wylan’s voice, and pride rises in his chest like a sprout to the sun.
Jesper knows that Wylan is intending to do some good with it, that he wants to change trade in Ketterdam forever, help and spoil his friends, perhaps even forge some real change for the youth of Ketterdam. To fill halls and rooms full of music and laughter. Wylan is a good man; Jesper will trace the truth of it into his skin, into his mind. He doesn’t push, though, doesn’t mock and make jokes, he basks in it. He wonders if Wylan’s realised how far he’s come from the scared novice they had picked up as insurance all that time ago.
“You are nothing like your father, you are better than him, stronger and kinder and braver than he is capable of understanding,” Jesper insists fiercely, trying to push as much of his love for the man below him into each word.
Wylan smiles up at him in response. Jesper thinks that he thinks, I know. He hopes for it, at the very least. Quiet settles between them once more, the sharpshooter and the musician each let their thoughts occupy the space, Jesper’s fingers continue to map out Wylan’s head with a pattern returning to his hair, and down the side of his face. Jesper doesn’t know what thoughts flicker across Wylan’s mind, but new swells of pride for Wylan rise in Jesper’s chest, for his sharp kindness in the face of everything that he’s been through. Briefly, he wonders whether his parents chose to bless him as well.
“What does your name mean?” Jesper whispers.
Wylan smirks, “Wayward. It translates as craft and cunning as well.” Jesper laughs emphatically and brightly.
“Well, it would appear Marya knew what she was talking about, eh? My brilliant merchling. My cunning merchling,” Jesper replies endearingly. Jesper’s swirl pointedly on Wylan’s face, tracing love, memorising.
Jesper is filled with pride over again when Wylan’s cheeks and ears are tinged pink, a blush high on his face.
“They call it nominative determinism, that the name will end up being favourable,” Jesper feels something flicker in him at the way Wylan’s proper kerch accent curls round the syllables, sitting perfectly on his tongue. Sharp around the consonants, like picking daisies from a field. “Some people think that people use it as a guide for what they're meant to do, but I don’t know, I think my Ma always thought it was an indicator of fate.”
“Well, let’s thank the saints for that; otherwise, you may not have ended up in my lap,” Jesper means it, every word of it. Something special. If this is what straying from the path gets him, Jesper will take every wrong turn he can take just to end up in Wylan’s arms.
“Do you wanna know what your name means, Jes?” Wylan whispers.
Jesper contemplates for a moment. His heart aches for his mother, who, with no doubt, could have bestowed on Jesper a name to drive him, anchor him back home. Fate spins like sugar on his tongue, but it’s bittersweet. He’d never considered his name a gift, and action with intention and the potential energy to determine a life. He aches to be closer to her again, knowing especially the weight that names have in Novyi Zem, remembering the young woman who carries his mother’s name now.
“Okay, darling,” he decides, nodding slightly. He struggles to keep his voice even, he keeps his response to a minimum of words, and tries to tamp down the small flourish of unease in his chest. Wylan hums in response, taking Jesper’s hand off his face and into his palm. Wylan presses soft lips to the palm of it, lingering and chaste and sweet. Then, the attention shift to Jesper’s fingers and silver and gold rings of all shapes and sizes and homes to many jewels that receive the same treatment.
“Jesper means treasurer, bringer or keeper of treasure,” Wylan tells him. He speaks it like it’s a secret, only for the both of them to share. "It's got some origins in Novyi Zem, I think."
All at once, Jesper’s shocked, and yet not quite. It holds all the promises and all the potential that his mother and father have felt, hoped for him. Jesper is silent for a long moment, thinking of his mother, remembering the time they shared, every cherished moment his brain can recall. His name has always felt just right on him, but the meaning of it sinks slowly and comfortably like a stone in water.
“Well, it suits when I have you in my arms, treasure,” Jesper dotes.
There would be a time to unweave Jesper’s past, his deep, buried past before he came to Ketterdam, but it's not now. Jesper’s not even sure he’s ready to relive all of it yet. It’s safer for him now as a memory, kept in his own broken brain. Curiosity strikes Wylan, and Jesper knows it because he recognises it in his eyes, because he’s curious about everything, but he doesn’t push. They both know they’ve had choice taken away for too long, so they never force.
Wylan’s blush returns, slightly more furious than it had been before. Jesper turns his head down to look at Wylan, smiling, and love flares up in him when he is met by sharp blue eyes, staring back at him with something that Jesper can only hope is fondness, love, maybe. He knows they will talk, because they have time now.
Keeper of treasure. Jesper damn well hopes so.