When he turns and folds in on himself, into John, there’s no thought. He’s soaked to the skin, vaguely chilled, but Jack is warm as John’s arms go around him.

Jack is in pain, and John cannot—will not bear it.

Sliding a hand into his hair, John continues to rub his back with the other, holding him fast as he presses his face into Jack’s shoulder in turn.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, shifting to kiss his jaw, his neck, his temple. “It’s okay…it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m here.”

And already familiar with what they mean to him, having seen his gaze drift to them in the mirror, the hand on Jack’s back slides around to touch the tags where they sit against the middle of Jack’s chest. He lays his hand over them, presses them gently into his skin.

“I’m here, fy nghariad.”