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It's like I was haunted, not what I wanted
I'm hearing sounds, nails in my coffin
This is exhausting, leave me for dead
Look what it's costing
And the lights go out
Grit my teeth, shut my mouth
When the night come around
I become a ghost now
– Ghost Town by Layto, Neoni
Jaskier lays on the bed beside him, comfortable, surrounded by more pillows and blankets than he could possibly need. The chamomile scent he so favours wafts strong in the air, and his fingers twitch rhythmically against the bed sheets, eyes moving rapidly under his lids.
Geralt watches, and tries not to breathe in too deeply lest he be assaulted by the acrid, bitter scent of Jaskier’s fear and his own misery.
Instead, he focuses on the small knife in his hand. New, gleaming, sharp edged. The leather handle is plain, the grip good. He turns it over and over, dim candle light gleaming off of the polished blade.
A log cackles in the fireplace, Jaskier jerks and whimpers in his sleep, and Geralt doesn’t even twitch. The hollow ache in his chest grows stronger, a gaping chasm widening further.
He sits and turns the blade.
Over and over.
He takes in a deep breath, and the sheer emotions Jaskier is emanating hit him like a punch. He holds the breath in, slowly pushes it out, and then breathes in again.
He can still smell it, the fear, the misery, the sheer agitation and horror. It’s just as unbearable now as it was when he first smelled it. But he keeps breathing, trying to memorise that faint chamomile, sunshine smell that is just Jaskier, despite being near overpowered by the sour scent of fear.
He breathes it in, and memorises it. Commits it to memory in a way he never dared before.
Because today, today Geralt’s going to kill him. .
“I can’t wake him up,” Yennefer whispers, her voice hoarse, face lined with exhaustion, hair dishevelled. She looks frayed around the edges, has been for a few weeks now. Months. The rigid, regal posture she maintains is gone, replaced by the tired slump of her shoulders.
Geralt stares at her, refusing to believe what she’s saying. He would feel bad about asking Yennefer for so much, he would, except it’s Jaskier and they can’t just give up—
“I’ve tried, Geralt. I’ve been trying for so long. Do you think I don’t want him to wake up? Do you think I’m cruel enough to just– just let him suffer like that?”
She sounds almost as miserable as he feels. Almost. He swallows, and there’s an echoing ringing in his years. He swallows again, opens his mouth and chokes out, “Are you– are you sure?”
Her mouth pinches, pale face contorting in a pained expression, “Do you think I would be telling you this if I wasn’t sure?”
Geralt opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he’s cut off by an anguished cry from the bedroom Jaskier’s in. Geralt whirls around towards the door, lurching forward as if to help, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.
He looks back at Yennefer, her grim expression, the pinched, thin line of her mouth and the tightness around his eyes. Her hand is trembling.
He’s trembling too.
When Geralt walks down the mountain alone, he thinks, this is it.
A part of him is still hoping that he might find Jaskier at the end, maybe renegating Roach with the whole sordid tale. He expects Jaskier to be sitting at the fire and strumming on his lute, shooting him a grin and a question about rhymes and words, which Geralt would ignore. He expects Jaskier to pout and scream at him and talk about how offended he was at what Geralt said.
But mostly, he thinks, this is the end of the line. This is the final straw. This is one step too far. This is how it ends.
He’s been jibing at Jaskier since they met, the words eventually taking on less of a bite, and then none. He’s never even admitted they were friends, but he hopes he showed it through his action. He must have, or else Jaskier wouldn’t have stuck with him, right?
Jaskier isn't there when he reaches the end of the mountain. Roach whinnies loudly when she sees him, tossing her head. She looks agitated. Geralt moves over to her, quickly running a soothing hand along her neck, making shushing noises.
She calms, but Geralt still feels off. He doesn’t have any apples to feed Roach. He knows Jaskier carries a few on him always. He wonders if Jaskier gave her one before leaving. He must have, he would never pass up a chance to spoil Roach, no matter what Geralt did.
It’s not too late to go and apologise. Tell him he didn’t mean it. Tell him he is sorry and was only lashing out. That Jaskier didn’t deserve any of the vitriol he’d spewed at him. He knows Jaskier will forgive him. The bard’s way too kind, too forgiving, too good. If he thinks Geralt’s apology is sincere, he would forgive him.
Hell, Jaskier would forgive him for stabbing him in cold blood if he thought Geralt felt guilty enough.
He can catch up with Jasier if he tries, he knows he could. Jaskier is a human, he’s a witcher. Geralt also happens to have a horse.
Geralt is also a coward.
“It’s forbidden magic,” Yennefer whispers, face pale.
Geralt gives her a flat look, because, really ? When have sorcerers been the rule following types?
Yennefer scoffs, “It is. And for the most part, mages do stay away from it. It’s too precarious, too volatile, and runs the risk of burning through the wielder, much like fire magic.”
“Haven’t you wielded both? Together. In Sodden.”
“Yes, and I nearly lost my chaos in the aftermath.”
Geralt nods, and goes back to sharpening his sword. It’s already as sharp as possible, but he needs to be sure. To be hundred percent sure that the sword is sharp enough to cut through the mage’s neck, slice it clean off his shoulders.
“He’ll be strong.”
“So you’ve said,” he says calmly, feeling anything but. He hasn’t seen Jaskier yet, but from what Yennefer is describing, he’s suffering.
Geralt’s blood is boiling, and his fingers twitch. Jaskier is suffering and he can’t do anything about it. He’s sitting here sharpening his sword like a fool. A mage is using Jaskier as his own personal fuel source and Geralt can’t do shit about it.
It had taken Yennefer’s magic to restrain him from recklessly rushing in and getting himself killed. He’s barely holding himself back right now. A mage, taking advantage of Jaskier’s open, easy heart. Jaskier who never shies away from emotions, feels freely, deeply, truly. And he’s using those emotions to power himself.
A deep, enchanted sleep, Yennefer said. Enchanted nightmares, to feed off of his fear. Fear was the easiest emotion to manipulate, although not the strongest. But the strongest ones were harder to fabricate or harness, or even induce.
He grips his sword until his knuckles ache, grits his teeth until his jaw creaks.
Yennefer stands behind him, arms on his shoulders, gentle and anchoring.
“I can’t find Jaskier,” Geralt says, throat tight in the face of Yennefer.
Her irritated expression falls into a more incredulous one, before morphing into thinly veiled concern. “What do you mean you can’t find him? ”
A few months after the dragon hunt, Geralt had finally managed to get his head out of his arse and apologise. Yennefer had been easy to find as ever, the thread of destiny binding them together. She’d taken his apology with better grace than he’d expected, listening to him instead of just blasting his head off when she saw him.
The months in between had definitely given them both the time to cool down and look at the situation more objectively. She’d heard him out, and then they’d both sat together and gotten halfway drunk. Yennefer’s conjured wine spectacularly strong.
Their relationship isn't quite smooth, but it isn’t quite the uphill hike anymore. Djinns are fickle creatures, and none of them quite know how the wish might actually be functioning. They decide to let it go, a little. They choose easier over harder, especially when the only difference it makes is how they live their lives.
The djinn is gone, and destiny sure loves suffering. Why give her that pleasure when they can just choose each other instead? Even if it rings a little false, they’d never know. They can pretend, and slowly, the pretending turns into something real. Or falls back into something real that already was.
It’s okay, they tell each other, lying fully clothed next to each other on a bed that definitely doesn’t belong to Yennefer. It’s alright to find happiness and comfort where you can.
And so, after a few months of travelling with Yennefer, he confesses to her. What he’d said to Jaskier, what Jaskier means to him, and how much he regrets it. She’d listened, and, contrary to what he’d expected, hadn’t made a single snide remark about him.
She’d listened and asked him what he was waiting for.
It had been like a slap to the face, that question. What had he been waiting for?
But now, another few months have passed since he parted with Yennefer with the intention to apologise to Jaskier and he… can’t find him anywhere. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the continent. Geralt had gone to Oxenfurt, but they hadn’t seen Jaskier since before the dragon hunt. He’d gone to every place Jaskier frequented and favoured, even attended one of the spring festivals Jaskier had dragged Geralt to for a few years, and gone every year himself.
There’s no trace of him.
His uneasiness has been growing steadily, until it’s a gnawing pit in his stomach. He doesn’t bother hiding the desperation in his voice, “I can’t. I looked everywhere I thought possible. He’s not been seen anywhere he usually frequents. Yen, I can’t–”
“Hey,” Yennefer says, taking a step closer to him and keeping her hand on his shoulder, calming him down a little, “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll find him. Do you have anything of his?”
His shoulders slump in relief at the way she immediately takes charge, and he’s still– worried, of course he is. But Yennefer looks confident, and sure of herself, and he nods. He travelled with Jaskier for two decades, of course he has something of his.
The mage is powerful, of course he is. What did Geralt expect? For this to be easy?
Geralt has his rage, but the mage has Jaskier’s fear.
He’s clever too, this mage. A man, with the appearance of someone in their forties, salt pepper hair and a sturdy build. He doesn’t even look malicious, and if Geralt didn’t know, if he didn’t have his medallion, he’d probably mistake the man for a commoner, a farm hand maybe, someone who does work that keeps him fit.
Geralt lets out a grunt as a portal opens beneath him, before spitting him back out from ten feet above. He falls and rolls to keep his bones from breaking, and nearly throws up.
The mage laughs, “Witcher, your rage… it’s spectacular.” He sounds equal parts awed and gleeful.
Geralt throws out an Aard, and the man creates a shimmering shield which vibrates under the force of Geralt’s Sign. He doesn’t stumble, while Geralt takes several steps closer to the man, still holding the Sign.
He has a manic glint in his eyes, and he brings both his arms up before slashing them down.
The shield shatters, there’s a burst of light and the man vanishes.
Geralt grunts, and the air shifts behind him. He whirls around just in time to throw up a Quen when the man raises his own hands. Geralt stumbles back with the force of it, and swings his sword around in a wide arc, dropping the shield right before it can connect with his sword.
The mage brings up his arms to protect himself, and Geralt's sword cuts a wide slash across them, immediately soaking the man’s sleeves in blood, gushing out like a river. The man swears and stumbles back several steps, throwing a divulge of rocks and pebbles Geralt’s way.
Geralt covers his head to stop severe damage, and takes the rest of the hits to his armour, still moving towards the mage, who’s conjured up a short sword for himself. The rocks stop, and he brings up his sword to parry a swing by Geralt.
There’s a loud crack and Geralt feels the wrist of the hand he’s holding his sword in snap. The sword clatters down to the floor.
The mage laughs, swinging at Geralt forcing him to go on the defence, dodging and ducking blows as he tries to trip him, “I’m a fucking mage. I’m not going to let a Witcher be the end of me.”
Geralt can see his movements slowing, getting more clumsy, the blood loss finally catching up to him. With a roll to evade the mage’s strike, Geralt picks up his sword again, this time in the uninjured hand. He swipes it under the man, slashing viciously at his ankles. The man goes down with a cry, the sword slipping from his hands.
Geralt straightens to his feet, and plunges his sword into the mage’s throat.
“It’s a self feeding loop,” Yennefer says, her face haggard, lips dry and cracked, hair limp around her face. Geralt knows he doesn’t look any better. They’ve been working non stop, to try and wake Jaskier up.
The mage is dead, that should have been the end of it, but instead it led to the opposite. Creating a loop where Jaskier’s fear fuels the same spell that’s keeping him unconscious and afraid. And Yennefer can’t break it. She’s the most powerful mage he knows and she can’t break it.
Jaskier whimpers on the bed beside him, and Geralt quickly shushes him, voice soft as he cards a hand through Jaskier’s sweat slicked hair. His medallion hums gently against his chest.
“There has to be a way,” Geralt murmurs, almost to himself. He can’t let himself believe there isn’t. There’s always a way. There has to be.
“There isn’t,” Yennefer says, an ugly, bitter laugh escaping her, startling Geralt, “You wanna try true love’s kiss? Maybe that’ll wake him up. Thank you for your fucking faith in me Geralt, but I can’t wake him up!” Her laugh trails off into a sob by the end of it.
Geralt is taken aback. He hadn’t expected Yennefer to care so much. He hadn’t expected her to be so distraught over this. And now, he just stares. From Jaskier’s restless, shaking form, to Yennefer’s sobbing.
Unable to do anything about either.
“I love you,” Geralt says, quietly. He’s kneeling beside Jaskier’s head, the hand which isn’t holding the knife rests on his head.
Jaskier almost looks peaceful. Almost.
He’s not.
Geralt has steeled himself to what he’s supposed to do. Knows it's the lesser evil. And isn’t it ironic, he thinks, unable to muster up even the slightest of amusements. He’d made a choice, and would never know if it was the right one. And yet again, he’s making a choice, and dooming himself to wondering forever if it was the right one.
He’s letting Jaskier suffer for his uncertainty. Every minute Jaskier is trapped in the spell, is another minute he’s suffering, afraid, tormented. His fear potent enough to keep the spell going, to keep Jaskier alive without food or water or other bodily needs.
Only chaos and terror.
The knife will be a salvation. He wouldn’t even suffer, it would be quick. Not clean, but quick. Geralt can’t bring himself to make it clean. He wants to feel it, to know what he’s doing. It’s a particularly perverse method of self flagellation, Yennefer had told him.
He hadn’t contradicted her.
He remembered what he’d said to Yennfer when they’d first met. How he’d yelled at Jaskier, and hadn’t wanted those to be the last thing Jaskier remembers about him. It had been so long since he’d thought about that. What the djinn had done to Jaskier.
Whenever he thought about the djinn, the only thing that came up was his connection to Yennefer, not what brought it about.
He thinks about the vitriol he’d thrown at Jaskier, and wonders if Jaskier believed it.
He hoped not. God, he hoped not.
Tears prickle in his eyes, and he lets them fall. What’s the point, anyway? What’s the point of hiding vulnerability anymore? He loves the man on the bed in front of him, and he’s going to kill him today.
He’s going to kill Jaskier today, and Jaskier might die thinking Geralt hates him.
What’s the point of being stoic after that?
He grips the knife tighter in his hands, trying not to think about what he’d do with it after it’s done, and pushes away hair from his forehead. Long now, after so many months of non maintenance. Jaskier would have been horrified, he thinks.
He leans forward and presses his cold lips to Jaskier’s feverish skin, ignores the hum of the medallion as he carefully does not think about this being their first and last kiss ever.
After a few long moments, Geralt pulls away. There are a few tears that have dropped onto Jaskier’s face from him, mindling with the tear tracks already on there. He lifts up a thumb to wipe on of them away.
A pair of brilliant blue eyes blink open.
“You kissed him.” Yennefer says, deadpan.
“And…” Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s sleeping form, peacefully sleeping form, “And wiped away his tears?”
“You’ve done that hundreds of times, Geralt. The kissing was new!”
“I suppose so, yeah.” He can’t take his eyes off Jaskier, who is sleeping. Not cursed, not unconscious, not having a nightmare. His medallion is completely still. There are no lines on Jaskier’s face, smoothed out and tranquil. Chest rising and falling in slow beats.
Geralt remembers the wide eyed panic in his eyes when he’d woken, flailing about and unable to tell what was real or not. Geralt had yelled for Yennefer loud enough that Jaskier had flinched, immediately flooding Geralt with guilt which was then overwhelmed with sheer confusion, hope and concern.
Yennefer had come rushing in, eyes wild and worried, before widening even further when she saw Jaskier.
Those had been some of the most fraught few minutes of his life.
And now, Jaskier sleeps. Resting.
Geralt knows Jaskier still hadn’t quite believed that it was real, that Geralt was real and not going to turn into a monster and hurt him, or that the room wouldn’t warp and crush him, or that the bed won’t fall out from under him and drop him into an endless chasm.
Jaskier’s scared babbling had put a damper on Geralt’s joy, but right now, Geralt rested easy in the knowledge that he wasn’t having any nightmares. That he wasn’t dreaming at all.
Geralt can’t let go of him, Jaskier’s head rests in his lap and his legs are starting to go numb, but Geralt doesn’t care.
“I thought true love’s kiss was a myth,” Yennefer says softly, looking down at Jaskier with wonder in her eyes.
“What?”
“That’s what it was. True love’s kiss. I thought it was a myth. The last record of a true love’s kiss breaking a spell is from several hundred years ago. Several hundred years ago, Geralt. And there are only four. Some think it wasn’t actually true love’s kiss, but rather something that got lost in translation or time.”
Geralt blinks at her, a little dumbfounded. He’d woken Jaskier up with a kiss, with true love. He couldn’t quite believe it. He still thought that maybe Yennefer was taking the piss at him. But the quiet awe in her eyes told him otherwise.
“You have to understand, Geralt, that true love isn’t as simple as you might think. It’s nothing like the fairytales. True love is demanding, it’s wrapped up in so many conditions and clauses that it renders it nearly impossible to achieve. It’s powerful magic.”
“Conditions?” he doesn’t know what she’s talking about anymore. If he’d been lost before, it’s nothing compared to now. Conditions, clauses, demanding. He’d been thinking of none of it, only stewing in misery and self hatred.
Yennefer frowns, “Ah, don’t misunderstand me. True love itself is unconditional. The conditions are on what is actually considered true love, true enough to break a curse.”
“I only kissed him,” Geralt says, “On the forehead.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s about unconditional love and trust.” Her voice grows softer, yet firmer, almost like she’s reciting something off her heart, “Which goes both ways. The entirety of trust that comes from baring the ugliest parts of yourself to someone, and not bracing against their reaction. Because you know they will accept you as you are, just as you accept them, no conditions and no take backs. That's trust. That’s love.”
Jaskier wakes up. Which is… strange.
He wakes up but doesn’t open his eyes, just breathing. Trying to feel out his surroundings. He doesn’t quite believe he’s actually awake, not yet. He’s waiting for the sounds of screams, or the feel of whatever’s underneath giving away. Or for molten lava to fall on him. Or for his childhood nanny to start yelling at him before turning into a kikimore who proceeds to split Jaskier open and eat his liver.
Nothing of the sort happens.
Instead, all he can feel is the soft, comfortable mattress under him, his head pillowed. The scene of chamomile, lilac and gooseberries hangs heavy in the air. As well as days old sweat. Someone’s snoring near him.
He swallows thickly, and slowly, very cautiously, opens his eyes, still expecting to see something like his nursery in Lettenhove, or maybe the ceiling of the Oxenfurt University auditorium, about to be ripped into by a pack of hungry djinns.
The ceiling is unfamiliar, which isn’t unusual. But the other feelings stay, the bed and the smells and the snoring. He shifts, and realises that his head is on someone’s lap. He goes completely still.
He looks up, and sees familiar strands of moonwhite hair, lank and filthy, hanging over him. Geralt’s head is thrown back, leaning against the wall, mouth slightly open as he snores. The dark circles are prominent under his eyes, and he looks thin. Paler than usual.
One of Geralt’s hands is resting on Jaskier’s hair, the other on his stomach.
Jaskier lifts his hand up to brush a tear from Geralt’s face, long since dried up, when a soft voice speaks up, almost startling him into sitting upright.
“You’re up.”
He frantically turns his head, eyes landing on Yennefer, who’s sitting beside the bed, a book in her lap. She sets it aside and stands up, before swaying and sitting back down.
They both blink at each other.
“I– what?” he winces at the sound of his own voice, hoarse and croaky.
Yennefer stands again, this time more slowly and steadily, before pouring out a glass of water. She sets it down on the table and helps extract him carefully from Geralt’s hold. It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that he doesn’t wake up.
He flinches a little when she reaches out again, to arrange him against the headboard because apparently he can’t even sit up without support. She has to hold the glass to his lips as he drinks, and he flushes. But she doesn’t even smirk at his weakness.
“What do you remember?” she asks once he’s drained the glass.
Jaskier frowns, his eyes darting from Yennefer to Geralt, then down to his hands. He twists them in his lap and thinks about fires and forests and flaming swords and creepy mountains. Of falling off mountains and dragons who swallow you whole.
“I…” he’s waiting for this to turn into something else too, to warp until Yennefer isn’t Yennefer anymore, until the bed beneath him becomes a pit of vipers, or Geralt isn’t sleeping peacefully, but dead, throat slit open.
He startles when she takes his hands in hers, and speaks, intently, “I know it must be confusing for you, but this is real, okay? I know it might not mean much coming from me, but it’s real.”
“Don’t read my mind,” he says, almost automatically.
“I’m not. What do you remember?” she repeats.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly, tired and confused and a little afraid, “What happened?” he looks pointedly at Geralt as he says this. The last time he’d seen him so haggard was when he’d been fishing for a djinn in Rinde.
“Do you remember the mage? I think his name was Tamas, looked in his forties, salt pepper hair–”
“That was real?” Jaskier cuts in, eyes wide.
Yenenfer’s lips thinned in displeasure, and she nodded. “He’s dead now. Geralt killed him. He’d cursed you, was feeding off of your emotions.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened, “So… so the… the monsters, they were? And this is– are you sure?”
The pity in her eyes is nauseating, unease creeping over him. He’s still not fully sure of what is real and what isn’t. His eyes go over to the open window. The sun is bright, casting a glow over everything. If Jaskier had to guess, he'd say it’s around noon, perhaps.
“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says quietly, “I am. I can only imagine how off kilter you must be feeling.”
Jaskier squeezes Yennefer’s hands, relishing in the warmth of them. It’s delightful, he realises after a moment, to be so in control of his own body. Things aren’t moving too fast or two slow, and while he’s still confused, things still make sense.
He slowly taps his fingers against the back of Yennefer’s hand, counting out the beats. One of the exercises he’s learned at Oxenfurt. He doesn’t lose track, and is able to keep up. Yennefer sits patiently as he goes through the motions, intent on making it through.
The disorientation accompanying his last however many days, weeks, months isn’t present. He can keep track and his head doesn’t hurt with the effort. All through it all, nothing unexpected– or expected, really– happens. The walls stay the same, Geralt snorts a little, and Yennefer breathes. It’s peaceful. His hands obey him, the speed with which the world moves is normal.
He’s still not sure how many of his memories are real, but he thinks this moment might be real.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, fingers tracing Geralt’s palm. Geralt sits there, remarkably patient, and lets Jaskier do what he wants. Geralt grunts back in acknowledgment. Jaskier hesitates, and then continues, “Did you tell me you wanted me gone after the dragon hunt?”
Geralt tenses up, and Jaskier immediately wants to swallow back his words. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer anymore.
“Yes,” Geralt clears his throat, turning to look Jaskier in the eyes, “Yes, that was real. But I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry and unfairly took it out on you. I shouldn’t have said it, and I know how much it must have hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Jaskier blinks at him, taken aback. His throat works for a few moments, and then he squeezes Geralt’s hand, tight enough that his knuckles ache. “So… uh, the dragon hunt happened too, I take it?”
Geralt nods.
“And Borch fell?” Another nod. “And I… didn’t?”
“You didn’t.”
Geralt is still tense, braced for something. Jaskier frowns, resuming tracing circles on his palm, and he relaxes just a fraction. He says, quietly, “It’s okay,” he gives Geralt a small smile, the most he can muster up right now, all reserves spent from months under a curse, “I know you didn’t mean it. It’s alright. I love you too.”
Geralt stares at him, and there they are, the tears that Jaskier had never before seen on the Witcher, “I know.”
“I thought I’d have to kill you,” Geralt whispers. Jaskier is wedged between Yennefer and Geralt, both of whom have taken to sleeping with him in case the nightmares return and he can’t wake up. They’re a comforting presence, familiar and safe.
Yennefer’s hand, resting on his waist, tightents a little.
Jaskier raises a hand to Geralt’s cheek, stroking it softly, swiping away a strand of hair. Clean, brushed hair. The dark circles have receded. The haunted look hasn’t.
“You were doing what you thought was best,” he soothes, “And for the record, I’d rather have died than be stuck like that for the rest of my life.”
“If I hadn’t–” Geralt pauses, his throat working before he continues, “If I hadn’t kissed you, then you’d be–”
“You can’t dwell on what ifs,” Jaskier cuts him off softly. He leans forward and presses his lips against Geralt’s, a soft, chaste thing, and feels Yennefer bury her face in his neck.
He’d never thought he could have had this, not even in his wildest dreams. And he’s had some.
Can anybody hear me?
Scream into the empty
Somebody come and get me
Come and get me
He can feel it creeping back in, the dark shapes and formless sounds. He can feel it crawling over his skin, writhing and itching beneath the flesh, and his blood tingling like it’s been turned to a hundred thousand wasps.
It’s slow, and that almost makes it worse. He lets out a quiet, broken whimper.
“Shh,” a quiet, soothing voice whispers, and he feels warm, calloused, familiar hands enveloping him, not constricting despite their firm grip. There’s a cooler, softer hand on his brow, and the wasps recede.
“Shh, we’ve got you.”