Archive of Our Own

June 1412 / Sivan 5172

“Are you holding it?” John called down from the ladder, chancing a look down. Heights were not a fear of his, but he also didn’t seek them out intentionally.

Sam stood at the base, both of his hands securing the ladder. He squinted as he looked up at John, the summer sun almost blinding. “Yes, John,” Sam reassured him, “I am holding it.”

“Alright,” John said to himself and prepared to step onto a higher rung, clutching in his right hand a basket with a metal hook, to hang onto the ladder later. It was made from what looked like good quality wood, but it was a bit too narrow for his tastes, and the tree it was propped against, though not too high, swayed slightly in the wind, and-

“John,” Sam’s patient, too kind tone interrupted John’s thoughts, “if you don’t like heights, I can-“

“No!” John exclaimed, “It’s not because of heights. The ladder just feels the tiniest bit unstable.” John adjusted his footing, and as if on cue, the branch against which the ladder was propped swayed slightly. John let out an undignified yelp, and then accidentally bit the inside of his cheek. The metal taste of blood filled his mouth, and he resisted the urge to spit on the grass. He still had manners, after all.

“I assure you it’s stable. And even if you did fall, nothing would happen,” Sam explained. “I fell from a tree this high when I was a child and went back to climbing moments later.”

It was kind of him, to want to comfort John. Any other time, it would have worked, John latching onto the story and demanding more details. Today, he rested his forehead against the rung he had in front of his face and closed his eyes in exasperation.

“Thank you, Sam, but falling when you are a child and when you are in your middle thirties are two very different things. Besides, how do you know it’s stable? You didn’t climb it before me.”

“I’m not holding it,” Sam answered, nonchalant. Almost sounding bored. But there was a certain quality to his voice, like he was just so so forcing down laughter, which gave away he was enjoying this greatly.

John opened his eyes, his head snapping down, and yes, Sam really wasn’t holding it. He stood a few steps behind, arms folded against his chest, clearly amused.

“This isn’t funny, Sam,” John forced through gritted teeth, and made himself step onto another rung. The ladder still stood in its place, but the higher he got, the more he felt like it rocked back and forth under his weight.

“It is a little funny,” Sam replied. Curse him, honestly. Funny for whom? Certainly not John.

He stepped on another rung, taking him to the treetop, high enough to reach most of the sour cherries. It was a pretty sight, dark red little dots among the light green of the leaves and yellow-white of sunlight filtering through.

He hung the basket on the ladder and looked down over his shoulder at Sam, who was still smirking. “This is good, no?”

“Yes, I think this is good,” Sam nodded. “I’ll see you sometime later. Just pick as much as you can reach and then de-pit them outside. The juices are always everywhere.” He shuddered a little at that, most likely recalling a time when he had made a mess inside. John could certainly imagine Sara wasn’t pleased, since fruit stains were tricky to get rid of.

John smiled at Sam below him. “No de-pitting inside the house, got it. Have a nice day!” he called out after him.

“You as well!” Sam answered with a shout of his. As John watched Sam’s retreating figure, his neck protesting at the harsh angle, he decided he must learn when and what Sam managed to stain with the deep red, sticky liquid.

***

Contrary to his initial fears, the ladder did not fall to the side when a stronger gust of wind came, and John had to begrudgingly concede, even if it was only in his own mind, that Sam was right. As he usually was. The ladder was stable.

The tree was heavy with fruit, and John did not have to reach far for it. It did not take him long to fill the basket, sun warming up his hair and back all the while.

When he was done, he carefully climbed down and fetched two bowls from the kitchen. He sat down on the grass, basked and bowls before him. One larger, for the de-pitted sour cherries, and one smaller for the pits themselves. Sam had instructed him beforehand not to throw them away, since Sara wanted to boil them and sew them inside two squares of fabric, creating a little pillow of sorts.

“It can be warmed up on the stove and put on all kinds of aches,” she said, but they all knew she meant mainly Jehuda’s aching joints.

John rolled his sleeves up and carefully broke each individual cherry above the grass, making sure not to stain his clothes. He threw the pit into one bowl, the cherry into the other. Soon, he had a nice routine going on, which left him ample time to think about other things.

Namely, Sam’s frankly strange behaviour.

He had explained to John that not telling him what he was planning was inconsiderate at best, dangerous at worst. And John understood him, truly, he did, but he was also deeply afraid that if he had told Sam about his plan, Sam would have convinced him not to go through with it. That it was just too risky.

But that would also mean he wouldn’t be sitting here now- palms sticky with sugary tart juices, a little sweaty from the sun, his bitten cheek still stinging.

But the worst of Sam’s ire had already passed, and now, his behaviour was simply… a bit odd. He was nervous one second, deep in thought another. When he thought he was alone, he paced around the room.

At times, he looked at John like he was trying to solve some ancient mystery, a frowning, puzzled expression on his face, but also filled with raw openness John rarely saw on him. That, he usually wore before they fell asleep.

And John had simply no idea what all of it meant.

He had tried asking both Sara and Jehuda whether they had any idea what was going on, and though they had tried to cover for Sam, they must have known something. John had to give it to them, they masked whatever they knew well, but John spent his whole life trying to get to the core of lies and cover-ups.

He could recognize the signs of a person not telling the whole truth, could recognize them very, very well.

As Sara assured him everything was alright, her smile, though lovely, strained the corners of her mouth uncomfortably. Jehuda, too, nodded in agreement a little faster than usual.

Hopefully it wasn’t anything bad. But then again, Sam wouldn’t want to keep him in the dark. John was probably reading too much into whatever it was that was going on.

Sighing, he gathered both bowls, now full, and went inside. He had spilled some wine on the table and it sadly left a stain on the otherwise nice wood. He was fortunate enough to get some advice on how to get rid of it from their neighbour, so with any luck, the stain will be gone before Sam returns. He just had to figure out where the vinegar that would supposedly clean the stain was stored.

He would hate to damage such a nice table, not even two months after coming here. That would not be good at all.

He poured the vinegar onto a rag that was lying around and bent over the table. The stain was there for a week already, and it vexed John to no end. Not only was he the source of it, but it also scratched at his brain uncomfortably, the perfectionist side of him deeply displeased.

He started rubbing at it, gently at first. But that didn’t do anything, so he increased the pressure, wrinkling his nose in concentration. He would get rid of it, even if it was his last deed on this Earth.

After an undetermined amount of time spent scrubbing, he heard the sound of the door opening and Sam’s steps coming through, unmistakable. When he came in, he smiled at John, but, as so often lately, it was tinged with unexplained tightness.

"Oh, good evening, Sam!” John greeted him, trying not to take Sam’s nervous expression to heart. "I think the stain is finally coming off, just a bit more.”

Then, he spotted something rolled up in Sam’s hands. Some kind of parchment, by the looks of it. How peculiar.

Guesses as to what it was bounced around in his head like balls of yarn. A letter? Some sort of contract? A ridiculous ordinance from the pen of Kolín’s council? He tilted his head, trying to work out what it was.

Putting on his sweetest tone, the one reserved for Sam only, he asked “Do you perhaps have something for me, Sam?”

He didn’t pray, but he hoped, he desperately hoped that Sam would finally tell him what was going on. And that it was not anything bad.

This constant second-guessing was getting to be too much.

***

Later, when they both laid together in bed, sweaty and satisfied, John murmured into Sam’s hair, “I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

Sam, on the verge of sleep already, just swatted at John’s chest. “Do not be ridiculous.” His breathing evened out the next moment, and he plunged into the land of dreams. Sweet ones, hopefully, full of hamantashen and laughter.

John extricated himself from Sam’s grip and padded over on bare feet towards the writing table, where the ketubah laid unrolled. Sam had told him what it said- Samuel, son of Martin, and John, son of Adam, the first man, son of no one.

Making sure his hands were clean, he carefully traced the letters with the tip of his finger, memorizing their shape. He would have to get Sam to read it to him in full come morning.

His gaze landed on the intricate pomegranates and roses decorating the edges of the parchment.

“My beloved is mine, and I am his, who grazes among the roses,” Sam quoted at him, from time to time. Another thing John would have to ask about tomorrow. Was that what Sam had in mind when drawing the roses? Knowing him, undoubtedly. But John would still like to hear it.

His eyes watered again without permission, and he quickly wiped them with the back of his hand, before the tears could fall.

John, son of no one, but maybe, finally, belonging with someone.

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August 1412 / Av 5172

“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked, skepticism dripping from his tongue. The way he peered down at John made him feel as if Sam was the former spymaster here, and John an agent who had failed to bring anything of import.

“Yes, Sam,” John repeated for the fiftieth time that morning, getting a bit tired of this, “I am absolutely sure.”

Sheyn was sitting next to Sam on the ground, one big eye also staring John down. Somehow, the cat managed to copy Sam’s expressions with frightening accuracy. The wretched creature always took Sam’s side, and John privately thought she should remember who it was that actually found her and brought her into the house.

He made a promise to himself that he won’t give her extra food tonight, already knowing he was going to break it anyway.

“You don’t have to go,” Sam couldn’t refrain from assuring John one more time, “someone from the tavern could go and-“

“Sam,” John interrupted, “I am not inept. I will go into the forest, pick some mushrooms, and be back before the sky starts turning pink. I promise.”

It was Eli who suggested that since the summer was beginning to draw to a close, it would be a good idea to go and pick some mushrooms. Some of them could be dried, while the rest could be used outright to feed people coming to the tavern.

Chasha seconded the idea enthusiastically, and a sparkle filled her eyes as she relegated them with her plan to fill the blintzes she wanted to make with fried mushrooms.

“Should a man want to impress her on the upcoming Tu B’Av,” Sara remarked not long ago, “he should cook blintzes for her. The stranger the filling, the better chance he would have.”

John volunteered immediately to go into the forest. The others were busy, and besides, he liked spending time among the trees. Liked the moss and old leaves under his feet and the wind above him, giving him an opportunity to clear his head.  He scouted the closest area of the forest in the last few months enough to be confident that there was no real danger, and should some appear, he knew where to hide.

Only once did he encounter a pack of wolves, but nothing came of it, thank the heavens. It appeared the animals were just as unsure what to do about John as he was unsure what to do about them, so they simply stared at each other for a moment before the pack continued on their way. John watched them leave, the two pups among them playing on the way. Then he turned on his heel and went the other way as fast as he could without running. No reason to test fate unnecessarily.

It was then he realised how fortunate he was there were no bears in Bohemia and he could wander around in the forest quite safe from the threats of nature. He really, really didn’t want a repeat of the time he met a bear in northern Hungary. A helpful local later informed him, in that tongue that was not quite Czech, that if it had a cub along, he would probably be dead.

He was so glad he’ll never have to go to Hungary again.

Sam inspected him some more, and John wondered what he was looking for. Based on his facial expressions, it looked like he was debating with himself. Then the tension in his shoulders evaporated, coming to some sort of conclusion.

“Fine,” he conceded, and if John had less dignity, he would do a little victory dance. “But don’t forget, only pick-”

“Only pick the ones with spongy underside, not the stringy,” John repeated the instructions he heard at least five times this morning, “and don’t eat anything if it isn’t cooked.”

He honestly felt a little insulted when Sam told him that, dead serious. John might not know everything there is about cooking and vegetables and what not, but even he knew not to just eat random mushrooms. Especially the red one with white spots. He didn’t feel the need to depart from the world just yet, thank you very much.

Then again, he also didn’t begrudge Sam that he was worried, so he banished whatever indignance he might have felt.

Sam took a breath, preparing to continue, but John beat him to it. “And if I find a boletus¹ I have to check whether the spongy underside isn’t slightly pink, and if it is I have to taste it to make sure it’s not bitter.”

John smiled at Sam innocently, “As you can see, you and Eli have prepared me well for my quest.” Then, feeling magnanimous, he added, “And for that, I am extremely grateful. Once again, you’ve taught me something new, my dear Sam.”

Sam probably wasn’t all that impressed, but he deflated nontheless. “Alright. Just be careful, please.”

John’s expression softened, and he crossed the distance to put his arms around Sam’s neck, pressing their bodies together. Sam’s hands found their usual place at his hips. “Don’t worry, I will. But I think we’ve both undertaken bigger risks than going among some trees for a few hours, no?” he stepped back and tilted his head to the side.

Sheyn, never satisfied when the attention wasn’t on her, started meowing loudly and pawing at the fabric of John’s hose. She blinked at him, so sweet, and John thought she wouldn’t look out of place among the frescos of angels in a church. Then he felt the prickle of claws in his shin and quickly reconsidered. She would be better suited as Satan’s jailer instead.

To prevent needing to have his hose mended, he scooped her up and let her bump her head into his chin, making Sam laugh. He reached over to run his hand over her now much healthier looking fur, his eyes warm and a little unfocused, lost in thought. “Yes, I think Wenceslaus would agree. Strangers to risks we are not. Especially you,” he gave John a meaningful look.

***

Once John managed to wheedle Samuel’s agreement out of him, it was not long before he departed. Samuel took Sheyn from him, gave her a gentle pet, gave John a larger basket they had lying around, and gave him a kiss before opening the door. He watched him walk through the main street of the quarter, Sheyn still securely in his arms.

John held the basket at his side tightly, swinging it a little in time with his steps. Almost as if it were a brandished weapon, ready so he could defend himself against the world and anyone who would try and interrupt his mushroom picking quest.

Before John disappeared into that one narrow alley where a rarely used door in the city walls was, he turned around one last time to give Samuel a small wave. Samuel waved back and sighed fondly. Somehow, John always managed to get what he wanted.

Sheyn, sensing that Samuel’s thoughts were not focused on her, meowed loudly and put one paw on his cheek, again wishing to be the centre of the world.

He scratched her on the head and then opened his arms a little so she could jump on the ground, reluctantly parting with her. But duty called, and he had to go to the tavern to make sure everything was running smoothly.

Throughout the day, he checked the colour of the sky from time to time, to make sure it wasn’t pink yet.

***

John did not return soon. Contrary to his promise, the sky was beginning to ripen; orange and pink and red, and he still wasn’t home. Any other day, he would enjoy such a lovely sunset. Today, it reminded him of a fresh wound.

But John did eventually come back, when the sun was almost set, just on the eve of a new day. His lips and fingertips were turned blue.

***

John smiled at Sam sheepishly as he presented him with the basket, full to the brim with blueberries. “I think we’ll have to make the blintzes sweet, after all.”

Sam took the basket from John and set it down on the table, looking at the veritable mountain of berries. He almost looked impressed by it, and John felt a bit of pride swell in his chest.

“But you will have to be the one that explains it to Chasha, not me,” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts. “She spent the whole day today raving about fried mushrooms.”

“I will take on this task with the utmost care,” John replied, his expression sombre. An important and delicate task, for sure. He stared Sam in the eyes, seriously, before he lost the battle with himself and averted his gaze, not being able to suppress a chuckle.

“I think it’s too dry for mushrooms to grow,” he explained to Sam. “It hadn’t rained properly. I covered as much ground as I could and found only a few toadstools,² but there were so many blueberries everywhere. I think some time after noon I gave up and started picking them instead. Something is better than nothing, no?”

“Of course,” Sam said and reached his hand toward John’s face, swiping his thumb under John’s lower lip, “and I suppose you ate them as you picked them, correct?”

“Yes,” John looked at Sam, confused, “how do you know?”

“Your mouth is a little blue.”

John put his face in his hands and groaned. Only him, truly.

“That’s so embarrassing. I went through the whole street like this.” He rubbed at his forehead, his face now stained red from humiliation as well as blue from the berries. “At least it makes sense now why that group of children laughed at me.”

“Look at it from the bright side,” Sam suggested, and John really wanted to know what bright side there was to being the object of amusement of all the children in the quarter and a good portion of the adults as well. He squinted at Sam, which did make him pause for a second, but in the end, Sam didn’t let himself be deterred. “Blue is your favourite colour, no?”

John started preparing a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Sam chose the most effective route to shutting him up- closing the space between them and kissing the stain off his lips.

Sheyn was thankfully outside. John’s hose wouldn’t most likely survive otherwise.

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September 1412 / Elul 5172

“Sheyn what the… what is your problem?!” John asked her, exasperated for the third time that afternoon. For some unknown reason, she got the idea that the best vantage point was John’s left shoulder, and that the best toy was his hair. He put her on the grass, again, and she immediately started climbing up, again.

Sam next to him bit down on a laugh and John shot him a withering look. They were both cutting rose hips and throwing them into the basket on the ground, making sure not to burst or damage them, as instructed by Sara.

“They make for excellent tea, John,” she informed him when he asked about their purpose. Then, leaning closer to him, she whispered, “It is good for cough and cold, which Shmuli is bound to catch once winter comes. And you know how he gets when he’s sick.” She looked over her shoulder, white and blue veil swishing with the motion. She looked at Sam surreptitiously, making sure he hadn’t heard her, but she needn’t be worried. He was debating something with Jehuda, hands quite animated.

Ah, when those two got going, a thunder could strike next to them and they would be none the wiser.

John extricated Sheyn from his hair and walked back with her, closer to the house before letting her hop to the grass. Maybe she would finally get the point and not climb up.

Sheyn sat down on the grass, but as John took his first step away from her, towards the bush, she let out a loud, irritated meow. The swift patter of her feet was the only warning he got before she, once again, jumped on his shoulder. John resigned himself to his fate and took her into his left arm, holding her to his chest.

All the while, Sam watched, non-sympathetic to John’s predicament. He even might have been enjoying it.

“Should I remind you again what happened last week at the tavern, dear Sam?” he asked him innocently. Sam’s face turned the colour of the rose hip he was holding between his fingers.

Last week, they discovered that a mouse was probably eating some of the flour that was stored there. Sam, being the resourceful man that he was, immediately proposed they bring in Sheyn to deal with it.

Instead of dealing with the rodent, Sheyn dealt with Eli’s dinner. This led to her being cold-bloodedly exiled and receiving a lifetime ban on ever entering the tavern again, thus ending her brief, six-hour stint as a hardworking employee of the tavern.

Sheyn didn’t even have the decency to look sorry when Sam yelled at her. She just blinked slowly and started cleaning her hind leg, pink tongue on black and white fur. John would be lying if he didn’t admit he felt a bit of glee that Sam was on the receiving end of her bullying for once.

Not that Sam was even truly mad at the wretched creature. When John entered their bedroom that evening, he caught Sam already in bed with Sheyn on his lap, purring contently. “It was not even your fault you ate Eli’s food, right, katzeleh?” he comforted her, though John doubted Sheyn needed comforting.

“He should have watched over his plate better. It is in your nature to eat as much as you can. Especially when you had such a rough start.” Sam’s fingers scratched through Sheyn’s fur, and John honestly felt a little jealous. Maybe this is what wives felt when they found out their husbands were visiting the bathhouse.

He plucked Sheyn from Sam and shooed her off the bed. Laying his head down on Sam’s lap, he issued Sheyn a challenging glare. “My turn,” he commanded Sam.

“Who am I to refuse the noble sir?” Sam asked sarcastically, then started to run his fingers through John’s hair, occasionally scratching with his nails over John’s scalp. Just as he knew John liked.

Sheyn, apparently knowing she lost this round, started meowing loudly at the door and didn’t stop until John reluctantly got up and let her out.

He desperately wished she would take the hint now, too, and stopped playing with his hair. Juggling a cat that was constantly swatting close to his face while trying not to get his hand impaled on the thorns of the rose bush was not exactly easy.

Still, it was marginally better than when she was climbing on his shoulders, so he continued to pick the rose hips with Sam in companionable silence, only interrupted by the sound of leaves rubbing against one another and the dull thud of the rose hips thrown into the basket.

Their colour was lovely, John thought, a truly autumn orange-red. Not dark red like blood and not bright orange like flames, but something comfortable in between, not reminiscent of either. He held one against the blue of the sky, getting a good look at the wrinkled skin. An idea popped up in his head.

“Sam,” John turned towards him, “can you eat them like this? Raw, I mean?”

“Yes,” Sam nodded, “but-“

John didn’t wait for him to finish, simply removed the spiky black stuff at the end and popped the whole thing in his mouth. It tasted a little sweet, a little tart, almost like a plum. Then an unpleasant sensation hit his tongue- the seeds inside the rosehip had some sort of hairs on them, and it was truly irritating. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the sensation, which only made his throat itch too. He coughed involuntarily.

Sheyn hopped down on the ground from John’s arm, not wanting to be coughed at.

“But you have to eat around the seeds,” Sam finished his sentence.

John swallowed rapidly, trying to get rid of the itchiness. “Thank you, Sam, I’ll keep it in mind,” he rasped. He sincerely doubted he would try and eat them again after this.

Sam took the almost-full basket and put his other hand on John’s back, patting him. “Come inside. Water will help.”

***

They only got to taste the rose hip tea next evening, since the rosehips had to be steeped in cold water overnight, no matter if they were fresh or dried.

Concerning that, since the rosehips had to be spread apart to dry properly, and they managed to gather quite a lot, most available surfaces were covered with the bright buds. They had to keep a good eye on Sheyn, since she was prone to knocking them off and playing with them. John would probably try and make some sort of replacement toy later.

The tea itself at least tasted good- similar to what it tasted like raw, but less intense and without the itchy hair. So overall, a good improvement.

Though Sara didn’t mention the tea having such an effect, John felt quite tired after drinking his cup. It was probably a combination of running around Sam’s tavern the whole day, the fact that he woke up earlier than usual, and then the pleasant warmth of the tea.

Not wanting to be disrespectful to Sam and Jehuda, who were talking about… some goat? Again? Was there a clan of particularly troublesome goats in the quarter or something?

Just a minute ago they were discussing a passage from the Torah- a poem Moses wrote about God’s covenant with the Israelites. Sara was mending by the fire with Sheyn at her feet, occasionally chiming in, and John was trying to listen but admittedly didn’t understand all that much. How they moved on so quickly to the topic of goats escaped him.

Well, not wanting to be disrespectful by falling asleep at the table, he excused himself, thanked for the tea, wished everyone a good sleep, and went to his and Sam’s bedroom.

***

When he woke from his first sleep, the bells of Saint Bartholomew were just ringing two after midnight. Sam was sitting next to him on the bed, reading something by candlelight, and John had his face pressed into Sam’s hip.

“Did you sleep?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

Sam closed the book and shook his head. “No. I am afraid not everyone is so susceptible to mere rose hip tea. You were nodding off at the table,” he smiled at John.

“Ugh,” John rubbed at his eyes, getting rid of the feeling of sleep, “don’t remind me. I don’t know why it affected me so much.”

He peered at the book Sam was holding, eyeing it curiously. He opened it a little to look inside, and predictably, it was in Hebrew.

He knew some- he still remembered fondly the time when Sam first showed him the letters, in the belly of Kuttenberg. Then, as the years went on, John would pester Sam whenever he visited Kolín to teach him. It was obviously important and cherished to Sam, and John wished to be closer to him, to understand him in all ways possible.

It was difficult; Hebrew was utterly alien to all the other languages he knew- German, Czech, Latin, Italian. In the last few weeks, he tentatively, with humility, started putting Yiddish at the end of that list as well, though he still did make mistakes. 

Though Hebrew could be frustrating at times, John found it undeniably interesting and beautiful as well, as all languages were, after all. And Sam’s praise whenever he got a phrase right, the slight upturn of his lips and crinkling around the eyes, made all the effort worth it.

And if he used to carry with himself a strip of parchment, Samuel written on it in Hebrew, and looked at it whenever he felt particularly lonely, all the way in Brno, then nobody had to know.

He didn’t manage to decode much from looking inside the book, especially since it was a little sideways and he had trouble making out the letters in the near dark. “What are you reading?” He pried from Sam. He didn’t have much to do before his second sleep anyway, so he might as well listen to whatever Sam had to say.

“Hm?” Sam turned to look at him, apparently lost in thought beforehand. “Oh. It is a treatise called Even Boḥan.”

“Even Boḥan? Stone something?” John searched his memory.

Sam reached down and stroked John’s cheek, running his thumb up and down over the slight stubble. “Yes. Touchstone.”

“Is it good?” John asked. Sam could be very opinionated when it came to poetry.

Sam thought about it for a short while, looking into the candle. “It is interesting, certainly. There is a poem called Prayer for Transformation where the author laments being born a man." ³

“Oh, really? As in wanting to be a woman?” Though John had donned a dress a few times for his work, he never really had much doubt he was a man. The dress was just a costume, to slip on and slip off when convenient. But, well, whenever he thought he knew most there was to know about the world, it threw something new at him.

“Really.” Sam answered, a contemplative look on his face. “I could try to translate it for you when I have the time, if it interests you.”

“That would be kind of you.” John smiled at Sam, then yawned. The rose hip tea apparently wasn’t out of his system yet.

He closed his eyes again, snuggling up to Sam. “Could you read it to me now?”

He heard Sam exhale air through his nose, pleased. “I do not think you will understand much.”

“That doesn’t matter,” John yawned again, “I just like listening to you.”

Falling asleep to the sound of Sam’s voice was certainly the most gentle way to be sent off to the calm nothingness.