Chapter Text
Jester POV
“Pierrot… they hurt you again, didn’t they?”
I don’t rush him after the question. I’ve learned better than that. Silence gives him room to breathe, to decide how much of himself he can afford to show. I stay close, though—close enough that he can feel the warmth of me, the steady presence that doesn’t demand anything from him.
When his shoulders tense, just a fraction, I see it. When his fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves like he’s bracing himself, I see that too.
“…Mm,” he murmurs at last, barely audible, eyes dropping away from mine.
That sound alone is enough to make something twist painfully in my chest.
“Hey,” I say softly, shifting so I’m directly in front of him now, looking up to his level. I don’t force his chin down. I don’t make him look at me. Instead, I wait until his gaze flickers back on its own, drawn by habit, by trust. “You’re alright. You’re here.”
My hand comes up again, slower this time, knuckles brushing against his wrist first—an unspoken question. When he doesn’t pull away, I let my fingers close gently around his hand. His skin is cold. Always cold after something like this.
He exhales shakily when I hold him, like he hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been keeping himself wound. His grip on me tightens almost immediately, knuckles pressing into my glove, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens even a little, I’ll vanish.
I won’t.
“I know,” I murmur, thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes across the back of his hand. “It hurts. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
At that, his jaw trembles. Just slightly. His eyes shine, but he stubbornly blinks the moisture away, shoulders curling inward like he’s trying to shield himself from my concern. That hurts more than the sight of blood ever could.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I continue gently, leaning up until our foreheads almost touch.
He lets out a weak, breathy laugh that cracks halfway through. “They… they grabbed my hair again,” he admits, voice small. “I—I tried to get them away, but—”
“I know,” I interrupt softly, not wanting him to relive it any more than he already is. “I can see.”
I guide him to sit properly this time, settling beside him instead of him looming over me. My arm slips around his shoulders, loose but unmistakably there. He hesitates for only a heartbeat before leaning into me, the weight of him tentative at first, then heavier when he realizes I’m not going to push him away.
There it is.
His forehead presses against my head, breath warm through the thin fabric of my hat. His hands clutch at me now—not frantic, not desperate, just needing. I adjust my hold without thinking, one hand smoothing slow paths down his back, the other cradling the back of his head with careful fingers that avoid the sore spots and his horns.
“That’s it,” I murmur, voice low and steady. “Let yourself rest for a moment.”
His breathing stutters again, then gradually evens out. Each exhale grows longer, shakier, like he’s letting go of something he’d been carrying alone. I feel the tension drain from him in small increments—the way his shoulders sink, the way his grip loosens just enough to stop hurting.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he whispers into my shoulder, muffled. “You were busy…”
My hand stills for a moment, fingers splaying protectively against his back. “Pierrot,” I say quietly, but firmly, “you are never a bother.”
He shifts slightly at that, lifting his head just enough to look at me. His eyes search my face, as if trying to find the lie. Whatever he sees there makes his expression soften, something fragile and relieved breaking through the pain.
“…You promise?” he asks.
I smile then—not wide, not sharp. Just warm. Real. “Always.”
I resume tending to him after that, cleaning what I can, smoothing his hair back beneath my careful touch. He flinches less now, trusting me to stop when it hurts, trusting me not to disappear halfway through. Every so often, his fingers reach out to brush my sleeve or curl into my coat again, checking that I’m still there.
I let him.
I stay with him as long as he needs—anchoring, soothing, steady—until the worst of the trembling fades and his head settles back against me, heavy and exhausted.
And when he finally sighs, long and tired but calmer than before, I tighten my hold just a little, silently promising that as long as he leans on me, I won’t let him fall.
Pierrot POV
I hear my name before I really register anything else.
“Pierrot… they hurt you again, didn’t they?”
Jester’s voice is soft. Careful. It always is when he speaks to me like this, like he’s afraid a wrong tone might shatter something fragile inside my chest. I don’t answer right away. My throat feels tight, and I’m not sure I trust it not to betray me if I try.
I stand there instead, shoulders pulled in, fingers curled into my sleeves so tightly the fabric creases beneath my grip. I know I’m shaking. I can feel it in my arms, in my knees, in the dull throb along my scalp where it still burns.
He doesn’t rush me.
That’s what finally makes it hurt.
I can feel him close—close enough that his warmth reaches me, close enough that I don’t feel so exposed. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t touch yet, just exists there with me, steady and patient. Like he’s waiting for me to decide how much I can give him.
“…Mm,” I managed at last, the sound barely there. I look away immediately, ashamed of how weak it sounds, how small it makes me feel.
When he shifts, I notice it instantly. He steps in front of me, close enough that I have to look down to see him properly. He’s looking up at me, but there’s no pressure in it. No demand. He doesn’t force my chin down, doesn’t tell me to look at him.
He just waits.
“You’re alright,” he says quietly. “You’re here.”
Something in my chest tightens painfully at that. My gaze drifts back to his on its own, like it always does. Habit. Trust. I don’t even fight it anymore.
His hand comes up slowly, knuckles brushing my wrist first. The contact is so light it barely registers—but it’s enough. Enough to ask. Enough to let me say no if I need to.
I don’t pull away.
When his fingers close around my hand, gentle and warm, I realize how cold I am. The contrast makes me shudder, breath catching as something I didn’t know I was holding onto loosens all at once. My grip tightens around his hand instinctively, fingers pressing into his glove like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I don’t hold on.
He won’t. I know that.
But fear doesn’t always listen to reason.
“I know,” he murmurs, thumb moving in slow strokes across the back of my hand. It’s soothing in a way that sinks deep, bypassing thought entirely. “It hurts. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
That’s when my jaw starts to shake.
I hate that he sees it. Hate that he always notices. My eyes burn, and I blink hard, shoulders curling inward as if I can shield myself from his concern. Somehow, that hurts worse than the pain still pulsing at my scalp.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he continues gently, leaning up until our foreheads nearly touch.
I let out a weak laugh that breaks halfway through, brittle and embarrassed. “They… they grabbed my hair again,” I admit quietly. Saying it out loud makes it feel more real. “I—I tried to get them away, but—”
“I know,” he says softly, cutting me off before the memory can drag me any further under. “I can see.”
His hand guides me down, and I follow without thinking. Sitting feels easier than standing, like my legs are finally allowed to give up. He settles beside me instead of in front of me, and his arm slips around my shoulders—loose, unrestrictive, but unmistakably there.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then I lean into him.
The weight of me shifts, tentative at first, like I’m testing whether I’m allowed. When he doesn’t pull away—when he adjusts instead, making room—I feel something inside me unclench. My forehead lowers, pressing against the top of his head, his hat brushing my chin. His breath is warm where it ghosts across my collarbone.
My hands come up on their own, clutching at him. Not desperate. Not frantic. Just… needing. Needing him to stay.
He cradles the back of my head carefully, fingers avoiding the sore spots, the base of my horns. His other hand moves slowly down my back, steady and grounding.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let yourself rest for a moment.”
My breathing stutters, then slowly evens out. Each exhale feels like I’m setting something down, piece by piece—the tension in my shoulders, the tightness in my chest, the effort of holding myself together. I sag into him, heavier now, no longer trying to carry my own weight.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I whisper into his shoulder. My voice sounds small even to my own ears. “You were busy…”
His hand stills against my back, fingers spreading protectively. “Pierrot,” he says firmly but gently, “you are never a bother.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him. I need to see his face. My eyes search his expression, looking for the lie I’m used to finding in others. I don’t find it. What I see instead makes my chest ache—something warm and solid and safe.
“…You promise?” I ask quietly.
He smiles at me then. Not sharp. Not theatrical. Just real. “Always.”
Something in me finally gives in.
I let him tend to me after that—cleaning the blood, smoothing my hair back, stopping every time I flinch without me having to ask. I trust him to know when to pause, when to continue. I trust him not to disappear halfway through, not to lose patience with how long it takes me to calm down.
Every so often, I reach out just to touch him—his sleeve, his coat—just to make sure he’s still there.
He always is.
By the time the shaking fades, exhaustion settles in heavy and warm. My head rests against him again, my body slack with relief. When I sigh—long and tired but calmer than before—I feel his hold tighten just a little.
And for the first time since it happened, I believe him.
As long as I lean on him, I won’t fall.