John hates this—hates Jack in pain, hates how hard it is for him to claw his way out, loathes seeing so much of his own suffering in the man he loves. He knew, he knew Jack understood because they were the same, he’d seen it all, but it doesn’t make watching him suffer any less devastating.

John slips his hand free of Jack’s grip to set both hands on his bare shoulders again. He needs to get out of these wet jeans, get them both into dry clothes—ward off the chill of devastation with actual heat and the warmth of each other, wrap his arms around the broken pieces of Jack until they fuse back together again.

First, though, John steers Jack to sit on the commode and manages to kneel between his knees. He just stays there for a moment, looking into his face, his eyes—catching his chin to stop him from looking away if he tries.

John looks into that pain and darkness, those demons whose names he does not yet know, and eventually smiles, soft and sweet and genuine. He cradles Jack’s cheek and leans in to brush a barely their kiss against his mouth.

“I love you.” He breathes into him.

This version of him, this part of him. This broken maelstrom of darkness and pain—John needs to make sure Jack knows that here, even when it’s bad, that John loves him.

Loves all of him.