As his mind recalls more of how words even work and what John's saying begins to trickle into his mind, a large part of him wants to refuse the comfort of John's words--comfort he doesn't deserve, and John doesn't know that, doesn't know what happened, that it's his fault his brother is broken in ways he fears can't ever be fixed. But even if he could find the words to do that, Jack knows he couldn't even think about removing himself from John's arms or turning away his kisses. His touch doesn't quite drown out the terror of all the things he'd hidden from himself starting to come out of the shadows, but it does help, a lot.

He lets himself stay like that, not trying to speak or even think, just feeling, each brush of lips and stroke of fingertips putting a small piece of himself back into place. His breath catches when John presses the cool metal to his skin, but then--

He blinks, then startles himself with a short, dry noise that almost resembles a laugh.

"Welsh. Seriously?" He tries and fails to swallow down a hitch in his throat that wants to be a sob, but does manage to smile. "Asshole," he says, voice wavering but fond and present.