Work Text:
DEAL ME IN
❧
Jesper hears the music first.
A soft, plaintive melody drifts down the stately hallway of the Van Eck mansion, drawing him like metal shavings to a magnet. In the music room, Wylan is seated at the pianoforte. His graceful fingers trace across the keys and his chin is tilted up, eyelids low, with a gentle smile warming his face. The University medik has set his cracked ribs and his broken nose; his soft, freckled skin shows almost no trace of the beating he endured at the Church of Barter. Jesper feels something deep inside of him unknot, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Even though it was all part of the plan, even though Wylan had beamed with pride through the cuts and bruises maring his too-pretty-for-the-Barrel face, Jesper ached to see him like that.
Standing beside the pianoforte, Jesper notices a small white scar on Wylan's cheekbone, the only remnant of where his skin split under Keeg's brass knuckles. I wanted it to be believable. He should have pretended to break sooner, but Wylan was so brave, so much braver than Jesper had ever expected, and so Saints-forsaken stubborn. As they waited on the steps of the mansion for the others to return, Wylan admitted softly that when Keeg snapped the first of his fingers, he hadn't needed to pretend anymore. Jesper knows a part of him, however small, will never forgive Kaz for that.
But he doesn't want to think about Kaz, or what happened at the Church, or what happened afterwards, or any of it. They are safe, for now. Watching the way the late afternoon sun glints off the merchling's red-gold curls, the way his hands dance across the keys and the music shifts and becomes something soft and contented and warm, Jesper thinks he might—for a moment—even dare to be happy.
"We could find a better medik to fix this, you know,” Jesper says, brushing the tip of his finger across the scar. “A Healer, maybe.”
"I think it makes me look dashing,” Wylan says with a small wry smile, “Like a proper Barrel rat.”
"You? A proper Barrel rat?" Jesper laughs. "Are you sure you're not still concussed?"
"I wasn't concussed, Jesper."
"So then you did mean it."
"Mean what?"
"What you said earlier.” Jesper places his hand on Wylan's shoulder and leans in close. "About making a down payment?" Wylan's hands freeze on the ivory keys, and even facing away Jesper knows he is blushing. Jesper keeps the question casual, ironic even. He doesn’t mention the worries that have plagued him over the last week, the fears that Wylan had gotten caught up in the moment, that he had said something he didn't actually mean.
But Wylan nods. He nods.
"Are you sure?" Jesper teases, "I’ll have you know I have very expensive tastes." Wylan's blush creeps around his neck, the delicate skin under Jesper's thumb flushing hot and crimson. Strontium chloride. In the dark, it burns red.
He moves his thumb ever so slightly, caressing the nape of Wylan's neck, hearing the breath catch in the merchling's throat as Wylan turns to look up and—
Saints.
His prairie sky eyes are bright and determined and the look in them makes Jesper feel very, very lucky.
"Then it's a good thing I'm one of the richest men in Ketterdam."
Jesper doesn't need to be told twice. With one smooth movement he draws Wylan up from the bench into his long arms and kisses him. The world dissolves around them, Jesper’s focus narrowing until all he can think about is the way Wylan's soft lips part eagerly, the warmth of his mouth, his happy gasp of surprise when Jesper’s tongue meets his, the heat between their bodies as Wylan presses closer, flush against him.
Wylan's knees buckle but Jesper holds him steady. "That good, am I?" he jokes.
"Don't be cocky," Wylan retorts, somewhat breathless. Maybe more than somewhat.
"I think you like my cockiness," Jesper says, lingering on the last word in a way that makes Wylan blush scarlet all the way to his ears. Jesper tugs Wylan's hips closer to illustrate his point, ducking his head to capture the other boy's soft moan in his mouth.
His hands tangle in Wylan's curls as Wylan's arms twine around his neck. When it becomes clear that Wylan won't be able to continue standing if they keep this up, Jesper guides him back, stumbling, pressing him against the low dresser by the door before hoisting him easily atop it. He teases Wylan's lower lip with his teeth, and Wylan reciprocates with clumsy enthusiasm. Jesper nudges his knees apart, as Wylan's usually deft fingers fumble clumsily at the buttons of Jesper's shirt and—
Clumsily. Oh Saints. Jesper freezes. He pulls away, staring into Wylan's face, freckled cheeks flushed and those wide blue eyes full of— No. Concentrate. "In the hotel, before... was that your first kiss?"
"Ghezen, I'm not that naïve," Wylan says in a huff of embarrassed indignation.
"Right, because of that sweaty romp with your tutor.” Wylan makes a choked noise, looking delightfully scandalized. "I'm kidding! Kidding! I know that was just a rumor."
"Do you?" Wylan counters, and for a moment Jesper is back on the deck of the Ferolind. Why do you think you know everything about me?
"But this is your first... everything else?" Jesper asks, pointedly ignoring the thrill that runs through him at the thought.
Wylan scowls. "If my inexperience is that much of a disappointment, I'm sure someone else—"
"No! Wy, I don’t want someone else, I only want y—" The words are out of his mouth before Jesper can stop them. You. He'd felt that tug of something more and followed it, a hopeful farm boy all over again, and now he’s way out of his depth. "I like your stupid face, alright?" he says, much more casually than he feels. "Besides, I'm sure a genius like yourself is a fast learner."
"I think you'll find I'm a very quick study," Wylan says, hooking his clever fingers through Jesper's gun belt and pulling him close with a small, proud smile that makes Jesper feel as alive as if someone is shooting at him. As if he is standing at the edge of the Zemeni frontier, the wide expanse of pristine prairie spreading out in front of him, waiting...
He leans in, lips brushing Wylan's neck, ghosting over the curve of his ear. "You can fold whenever you want."
"...Hmm?" Wylan asks, understandably distracted as Jesper's perfect lips trail along his jaw.
"Fold. You know, stop playing? Get out of the game. Haven't you ever played Three Man Bramble?"
"I can play Commerce," Wylan says, and his breath is warm on Jesper’s neck.
Jesper scoffs affectionately. Of course. A rich mercher's parlor game, but at least the rules are somewhat similar. With considerable effort, he pulls back, disentangling himself and laying his hands flat on the dresser on either side of Wylan, willing himself to stay still even though he feels like he's spent all day in the fields breathing jurda pollen. He lifts his gaze from those pink parted lips and lets it linger for a moment on the subtle imperfection of Wylan’s nose where it’s healed just a tiny bit crooked. When he meets Wylan's blue eyes, they are clear and steady and grounding.
"If the stakes get too high, I want you to fold, okay?"
"Okay."
Jesper brushes the pad of his thumb over Wylan's lower lip and leans in. "Then ante up, merchling."
Wylan bites his lower lip, thinking for a moment, then buries his hands in the lapels of Jesper's plaid vest. "I'll raise you," he says, and kisses Jesper fiercely.
Jesper laughs as he returns the kiss. (He strongly suspects Wylan is lying about being able to play Commerce). "You'll give away your hand, betting like that," he says when they break apart. "Go in too hot, and the other player will fold."
"You never fold." The certainty in Wylan's voice makes Jesper swallow hard. Wylan's eyes are flickering with the same stubborn courage that Jesper is so fond of, but underneath is something else, a hunger, one that the gambler in him knows all too well. Wild, reckless hope thrums through Jesper’s veins. Has he finally found a game he wants to lose?
It starts with small, cautious bets.
The top three buttons of Wylan's shirt.
Jesper’s garish vest.
Wylan shrugging off his suspenders.
A kiss. Then another, less cautious. For Jesper, each kiss is an apology for the times he’d called Wylan stupid, useless. This action will have no echo. When Wylan moans his name, well, that is a little like forgiveness too.
This time, when Jesper offers up the belt that holds his precious revolvers, Wylan doesn't try to stop him.
Wylan’s hand cups the nape of Jesper’s neck, the other is tangled in the back of his shirt, pulling him close with surprising fervor. Jesper’s hands find the waist of Wylan's blue striped trousers, and—
Jesper pauses, waiting. He doesn't look up. Every nerve in his body sparks bright and alive. His mind is empty save for the soft cream color of Wylan's undershirt, the warmth of the breath on his neck, the hard curve of the trouser button under his thumb. The moment stretches outward. He forgets to breathe. Anticipation consumes him. He is a bullet in the chamber. He is Makker's Wheel mid-spin. When Wylan speaks, his voice is breathless and nervous and eager.
"I'm all in."
This Jesper does not expect. Maybe Kaz was right, maybe Jesper is terrible at reading people. He chuckles in spite of himself, though whether it’s due to Wylan's surprising boldness or his own nerves, he’ll never know.
"What?" Wylan asks.
Jesper looks up. Wylan stares back, that familiar worried divot between his brows, blue eyes uncertain.
"You must be absolutely terrible at cards," Jesper laughs. He knows he shouldn't be teasing, not now, but he has never been good at resisting temptation.
"You're the one who's terrible at cards," says Wylan, crossing his arms and jutting his chin out defiantly.
Jesper cups that beautiful, stubborn face in his hand, with its blue eyes glinting through a haze of desire. "Never go all in on the first hand, merchling."
"Why not? Isn't that what you want?" He is so saints-forsaken earnest.
"Because..." Jesper says, brushing his lips against Wylan's petulant little frown. Because the game might end too soon, and I want to play all night. A flirty, insincere response, delivered with a sly wink. Easy. Safe. Not quite the truth. Is it so terrible to be honest? To tell Wylan— what, exactly? I'm worried I'm moving too fast for you. You deserve someone better than me. You’re too good for me. He knows he holds all the cards, that he could simply lay his winning hand down and—
Stop. He inhales, exhales, just like Wylan had told him. His fingers are still hooked into the waistband of Wylan’s trousers. He runs his thumb nervously around the edge of the button. He hesitates.
In the end, as always, he can’t manage honesty and settles for half-truths and charm. "Because, love, you don't know the game well enough yet. You should play a few hands at the lower stakes tables first, learn the ropes."
And then, because he simply can't resist an opportunity to make the merchling blush, he leans in and adds in a husky whisper, "When you do go all in, I'd love to be the one who rakes in the chips."
Wylan makes a truly indecent noise in response.
"I'd like that," Wylan says after he regains some of his composure. "How about a sensible raise then?” He grins slyly and loops his fingers around Jesper's wrists, anchoring the other boy’s hands at the waistband of his trousers.
“Sensible?” Jesper says skeptically, leaning forward until his mouth is on Wylan’s neck as his hands work to undo the first button.
“Compared to your gambling habits.” Wylan says, though his retort is undermined by the way his breath hitches every time Jesper’s fingers brush against him as he slips the second button free.
“First off, rude.,” Jesper says against the hollow of Wylan's throat. He can feel Wylan’s pulse racing beneath his lips. The third button gives way under his hands. Wylan clutches at the front of his shirt like a lifeline.
“...and second?”
Jesper undoes the last button.
Wylan's head falls back, and Jesper drags a line of kisses along the underside of his jaw. He can't remember what was second.
"Ghezen's hand," Wylan moans.
"I would have thought you'd be more concerned with my hand."
"Jesper!"
Maybe that was a bit too sacrilegious, even for a rebellious merchling like Wylan. But then he laughs, bright and unselfconscious, a laugh that transforms into a cascade of delightful little gasps with a flick of Jesper's wrist, and Jesper wonders why he would ever bother learning to fabrikate when he could make something like that.
"Your turn," Wylan says, eventually, and the perfect tenor of his voice is hoarse with want. An obvious tell, just like the way he arches up into Jesper's more experienced hands. "Are you going to raise or call?"
Well, hell. With a grin, Jesper lowers his head and bets high.
❧
"Jes—" Wylan interrupts, many splendid moments later. Jesper is looking up at him, enchanted by the way his rumpled curls are clinging to the sweat on his forehead, just like on the day they met at the tannery. His lost prince. "I think— I might— fff—?"
Jesper pulls away in an instant, rising to face Wylan properly. The merchling's pupils are blissfully wide and there is a high blush on his freckled cheeks, but that worried little dimple between his brows is back. "Wh— why did you stop?" he asks, a tinge of desperation to his voice.
"You folded, Wy."
"Oh, I— I didn't mean— I meant—" If Jesper thought he'd seen Wylan embarrassed before, it was nothing compared to now. He is almost as blotchy as when he'd admitted to Genya that he couldn't read.
"Meant what?" Jesper prompts, but Wylan just groans and ducks his head towards his hands. Jesper catches his wrists gently, trying very hard not to think about how those hands had felt running through his hair mere minutes earlier, and lowers his own head so his eyes are level with Wylan's.
"It's not something to be embarrassed about," Jesper says, and the words are oddly familiar, words spoken a lifetime away outside a darkened gatehouse in the Ice Court. Wylan is looking everywhere but at Jesper, and the pause before he speaks feels intolerably, achingly long. Jesper tries to focus on Wylan—on the delicate bones of his wrists under Jesper's fingers, on the taste of him that lingers on Jesper's lips—but he still feels that familiar itch, that urge to bolt rather than wait around to find out how he messed things up this time.
And then Wylan leans in and whispers something in Jesper's ear that sends a grin careening across his perfect lips.
"Are you... laughing at me?" Wylan asks, very nearly mortified.
"No! Well, not at you, I mean—" And then Jesper really does laugh, giddy and surprised and full of warmth. "Just happy you're… enjoying yourself so much." He follows the innuendo with a roguish wink (which is wildly unnecessary, but Jesper has never been one for restraint).
Wylan tugs one of his wrists free and gives Jesper's shoulder a playful shove. The thin, cross line of his mouth turns up at the corners as he struggles to keep a straight face.
"Enough betting," Wylan says, with a conviction that makes Jesper flush. "Show me your hand."
Jesper grins. "With pleasure."
He traces his long fingers along Wylan's jaw, down his neck, across his chest, past his narrow waist to the fine bone of his hip, repeating each caress with those perfect lips, before finally, finally, letting Wylan collect his winnings.
❧
Later, as they sit on the sofa watching the sun set over the rooftops of the Geldstraat, Jesper thinks he might teach Wylan to really play Three Man Bramble. With his earnest face and dark clothes, Wylan could easily pass for a rich pigeon. No one would suspect he had natural talent for lying. They could go up and down East Stave, hustling the clubs and their customers out of all that hard-earned cash—
"Sorry if the stakes weren't high enough for you," Wylan says, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on the sunset. He doesn’t say I’m used to being a disappointment, but he doesn’t have to. Jesper recognizes that familiar pain immediately, and to have it reflected back at him from Wylan—brilliant, brave Wylan—is worse than a punch to the gut.
“Nonsense,” he says, and he hopes it comes off as light-hearted rather than dismissive. Talking about feelings isn't exactly a Jesper talent. "Still the luckiest hand of my life."
“Not exactly saying a lot there.”
“Fair point." Jesper gives the other boy a nudge and adds, "But I'm sure I'll make a high roller of you yet."
Wylan makes a show of rolling his eyes but his cheeks flush traitorously, and when he bites his lower lip Jesper can tell that his ingenious mind is imagining what that might entail. Then he looks at Jesper with those perfect blue eyes, glinting in the last rays of the setting sun, and they are filled with such startling fondness that it’s dizzying.
Jesper ruffles Wylan’s hair, trying to focus on the feeling of those silky curls and Wylan’s murmurs of contentment and not on the nagging feeling that he should walk away from the table before his winning streak ends. He doesn’t say that for him, the stakes are high. He’s making a wild, reckless wager: that Wylan will look at him in that same wonderful way, day after day, even when Jesper works a questionable job for Kaz or returns home from East Stave with empty pockets. That Wylan won't lose interest in Jesper eventually, the way Jesper always loses interest in everything except guns and gambling. And maybe he's only bluffing, but he has to believe that being a great shooter, a bad gambler, and a worse Fabrikator will be enough. For me, or for you? He has to.
He doesn't say that these are the highest stakes he's ever played with, and that he is deeply, absurdly, unexpectedly, all in.
"...Do you want to win a hand?" Wylan asks, curling towards Jesper and letting his head rest on Jesper’s shoulder.
"A hand? I'd love it if you dealt me a hand," Jesper teases, lacing his long brown fingers between Wylan's pale ones, thinking about how skilled those soft merchlings' hands are at sketching, or playing the flute, or crafting an explosive, and feeling like he just might expire on the spot. Wylan watches him through pale lashes, head tilted and half smiling, studying Jesper like he is an equation he can't wait to solve.
"Wylan Van Eck, is that... scheming face?"
"Maybe,” Wylan says in a tone that sounds indifferent and is anything but. “I thought I might even let you win this time."
"Let me? I could play you under the table, you pampered little—"
"I wish you would."
Saints. One of these days he will have to stop underestimating Wylan.
"Alright then,” Jesper says, “Deal me in."