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.
———