Chapter Text
Wylan van Eck has always been stardom’s favourite son. People say he was granted an easy ride for being exactly that: a son.
Before he was the face of Vogue and the darling of haute couture, he was only really known because of Jan van Eck, the revered designer and little-known dickhead that raised him. Wylan himself wouldn’t exactly describe having cameras shoved in his face from birth as easy, but he knows how vital it was to his career. The world fell in love with him before he even stepped foot on a runway.
He also knows that it means every move he makes, breath he takes, and word he says is at risk of being a national news story— which is precisely why he’s in so much trouble right now.
It would have been fine if it was some guy no one cared about. Better, even, if it was some girl no one cared about, even though God knows that’s never going to happen. If he’d just referenced some random person from his secondary school, deleted the tweet once he realised what had happened, and gone on with his day, everything would be perfect.
But, of course, the universe couldn’t give him that. It had to be his main account. And it had to be Jesper fucking Fahey.
If there’s anyone to rival Wylan’s darling-of-stardom-status, it’s absolutely the Crows. They came seemingly out of nowhere, rising to the number one spot in such a record time that people accused them of being an industry plant, but no one could really complain when they were singing lyrics like that to melodies like that. It definitely helps that the five musicians that make them up are choked in showbiz’s favourite thing of all time; rumours.
Strangely, their frontman isn’t referenced as their two vocalists but rather as their bassist, the illustrious Kaz Brekker. His all-black outfits and quietly intimidating presence demand the immediate attention and constant fantasy of the band’s devoted fans. Next to him in both mystery and intimidation is Matthias Helvar, their drummer who’s known for being three things: quiet, talented, and built like a goddamn tank.
Of course, one can’t put ‘rumours’ and ‘Matthias Helvar’ in the same sentence and not talk about Nina Zenik. The Crows’ ungovernable, unapologetic keyboardist, from debut until this very second, has been followed by whispers of an unpredictable but desperate love affair with a certain Scandinavian drummer. It’s never been properly confirmed, but it’s never been denied, either, and their blurry pap photos certainly do nothing to discredit the rumour.
The Crows' vocals are split between two voices. One is Inej Ghafa, the nation’s sweetheart, who’s adored for her down-to-earth personality but fierce stage persona. Her voice is smooth as silk and just as expensive, if the band’s net worth is anything to go by. There’s only one other person in the world whose voice is good enough to compliment it.
And that person is Jesper Fahey.
Just like Inej, Jesper dual-roles for the Crows as their guitarist-slash-vocalist. For as much as Kaz is known as the frontman, Jesper certainly calls that title into question. His bold stage outfits and street style that wouldn't work on literally anyone else, unwavering confidence, and immense talent have made him one of the most well-known musicians in the industry.
He's also outrageously fit. That’s a fact. It’s a universal fact, actually, something everyone agrees on. It’s not like Wylan’s stated something completely controversial and out of the blue. Everyone’s been thinking it— saying it, even, so why can’t he?
(He knows why. It’s because everyone else saying it has a couple hundred followers and he has a couple million.)
“Fuck,” Wylan groans for the millionth time tonight, slamming his phone down onto his bedside table as hot red embarrassment lights up his cheeks. He’s been so careful about things like this, so, so bloody careful. He’s double checked every single tweet posted on his private, no matter how harmless it might be, so why does something like this have to be the one single time he forgets?
wylan @wylanvaneck 3h
jesper fahey is so fucking hot, oh my god. i would let him do anything he wants to me. please, lord have mercy
wylan @wylanvaneck 2h
that was meant for the private……….
jesper fahey @crowsjeps 2h
@wylanvaneck when and where
not wy 🔒 @wylanvanick 2h
WHAT.
The words loop over and over in Wylan's brain to the point his text-to-speech voice starts to sound like a bully. When and where, he thinks, his heart trying to pound out of his chest. When and where, when and where, when and where. When and where? Is he serious? No, he can't be serious. He's making fun of Wylan, surely. He has to be. Why else would he say that? Sure, Wylan's good-looking, he knows that much- there's a reason Anna Wintour is in his contacts- but he's not Jesper Fahey pretty.
Right?
When and where? Wylan's mind retorts in response. He lets out another noise of frustration, rolling over and screaming "Shut up!" into his pillow like the madman he's starting to feel like. What the fuck does that even mean? Is Wylan meant to respond? Will he get laughed at if he does?
It’s not like he doesn’t want Jesper to be flirting with him. In fact, it’s a dream come true, when he sings like that and looks like that and plays the guitar like that (something Wylan can’t ponder on too long or else he’ll have to private tweet about Jesper’s hands and he can’t handle another account-related crisis today.) It’s just that because he sings like that, and because he looks like that, and because he plays guitar like that, even if he can’t think too hard on the last one, Wylan doesn’t want to run the risk of embarrassing himself before they’ve even met face to face. He’s technically already done it once today— he would rather pretend he hasn’t seen the tweet and lose the possibility of something real than respond to it and discover something fake.
There's also the matter of him kind of being a household name, not to toot his own horn. It's not just harmless flirting for him. Nothing's harmless when you have every major news outlet in pop culture watching you like a hawk. He imagines replying to Jesper's tweet and waking up to discover some ridiculous article name like Wylan Van Laughingstock! or- or Jan Van Eck's Son: Designer or Disaster? It's happened before, it could happen again; 2019's Why, Wylan? Fashion Heir's Latest Catastrophe comes to mind. Honestly, it's a wonder PR hasn't knocked down his front door yet.
Okay. Maybe he's thinking too hard about this. It's just a tweet, at the end of the day. It's fine! It's fine, no one even cares, Wylan tells himself, not even the thousands of likes and replies and quote tweets his fuckup earned him. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine.
Then he remembers the words 'i would let him do anything he wants to me' and nearly screams.
"This is so bad," Wylan mumbles into his pillow, as if the eiderdown will come to life and offer him some sage advice. "So, so bad. Oh, my God. What have I done?"
He's answered with a ringtone.
Wylan bolts up in confusion, wincing when he sees the state of his hair in his bedside mirror. He blinks to adjust to the light and scrambles for his phone, pressing the accept call button and holding it to his ear before he can see the contact. "Hi, this is Wylan?"
"Van Eck," snaps the unmistakable, enraged voice of his PR manager, "you horny little shit, I am going to kill you."
Whoops. "Hi, Zoya," Wylan says grimly, collapsing back into his mattress. He can power through the lecture he's undoubtedly about to receive. He's used to it by now. Zoya Nazyalensky isn't one for false niceties; it's part of the reason he hired her, even if he regrets it a little more every time he does something like this.
The scoff she makes on the other end of the line is so palpable he can almost picture her face. "Don't hi Zoya me right now, Wylan. Do you want me to lose my job? Because I swear to god, I just might if you pull this shit one more time."
There's real, tangible stress under the edge in her voice. Guilt presses down on Wylan's shoulders. What was he saying about nothing he does ever being harmless? "No, no, I-" He tugs his lip between his teeth, staring up at the fresco on his bedroom ceiling. "Sorry. Of course not. I just... have no idea what to do." He worries at his lip absentmindedly, mind racing through all her possible solutions; logging out of his socials, handing them in to his team, deactivating his private, putting out some sort of statement. God, he hates statements.
Oh, maybe they'll make him say he was hacked. Everyone's done it once or twice. The modern media safety net. But does he really want people thinking he was hacked, now that Jesper's responded?
His mind echoes it again. @wylanvaneck. And again. when and where. And again, and again, and again, until he's making faces at the ceiling and resisting the urge to mute himself so Zoya can't judge the inhuman noise he wants to let out. What if he just messaged him? The thought of DMing the Jesper Fahey makes his skin crawl a little bit, like the sky might fall on him or the ground might open up and swallow him whole, but there's still that sliver of a chance his tweet was only half a joke.
Zoya's voice cuts stiffly through his thoughts. "You should have deleted it once you realised."
"It's out there now," Wylan says miserably. "Everyone's seen it."
She snorts. "Yeah, Wylan, I can fucking see that."
The call tips into a strained silence as Wylan tries to process what's going on. He's kind of been a spectator in his own life for the last three hours. He stares blankly at his room, the long curtains, the window seat, the stack of mugs he's been telling himself he'll clean up since last week. The sketches on the wall. The weird jellyfish-shaped lamp on his desk that he bought at a Christmas market in Edinburgh. He has all this stuff he doesn't need, and the one thing he does need but doesn't have is a fuck clue what to do. Maybe he should hire a team of people to write his tweets for him. Or to be his impulse control. God knows he needs it.
Wylan groans through his teeth and rolls onto his feet, pacing towards the window and back again. His legs nearly give out from how long he's spent lying in his embarrassment. "I don't know what to do. Do I just ignore the tweet? I did think about deleting it, but so many people had seen it already and I was waiting to hear something from you," he explains, like a scolded teenager making excuses for his maths homework.
There's a sigh from the other end. "It's fine," Zoya says, in a tone that implies it's very much not fine. "It's not exactly the worst situation you've ever been in. We can figure something out."
"Right," Wylan agrees. Right, of course. It's okay, you're just being overdramatic. There's an easy solution here, just ignore the tweet or leave it at a like and go about with your day, everyone will have forgotten by—
"I think you need to flirt back."