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"It's okay," someone whispers, close to his ear.
"It's okay," and they keep repeating it, like a mantra, like a prayer.
It's not okay, though.
It's not okay, and Jesper knows that it never will be again.
"I've brought you something different to try, this time."
He's resigned to his fate, shackled and bound in this tiny little cell with nothing, nothing. It takes all his energy to lift his head and peer at the figure before him, the smirk on Elseen's face the most disgusting thing he's ever seen in his life. He knows Jesper won't fight, doesn't have any fight left in him.
It's been weeks. It's been weeks, and he spent himself out on the first few days, hope clanging like a church bell around his head and driving him mad until, eventually, as the graveyard goes, it went quiet.
It stayed quiet, too.
Elseen grabs his face, cupping his jaw almost gently. He wills himself not to spit in his eye on impulse, not to be sick on anything but, because he knows the punishment will be worse tomorrow if he does and he can't bear any more pain.
Slowly, Jesper's mouth is pried open, and crimson liquid is tipped onto his tongue from a glass vial that reminds him all too well of the ones Wylan stores his chemicals in.
He coughs, once, twice as it goes down. It burns, worse than the others they've given him. Almost immediately, the world blurs, and his mind is no longer his own.
It hasn't been for weeks.
It does feel different this time, though.
"Now. Let's see what magic it does for us, hm?"
Us. By us, he means him. He always means him, him and his stupid fucking friends and stupid fucking plan.
Elseen enjoys this, Jesper knows. It's not just about the talking anymore, although that is what he orders of him.
"Talk."
And, like magic, Jesper does.
He doesn't know how long he's been asleep, when he first wakes.
He thinks it's all a dream.
"It's okay," someone whispers, their voice travelling as it cracks over the syllables and draws nearer.
Jesper knows, from that exact moment, he's being lied to. He doesn't come to full awareness just yet, and he won't for some time, but he can't, not even for a moment, forget what happened to him and he'll carry it wherever he goes, whatever state he's in.
He's spent his whole life floating on lies.
He wonders if the time has finally come for the waves to drag him under.
"I hear the best shot in the Barrel is also the best at spilling secrets."
He'd carried that first title for the better part of two years, and he knows he's done the second for much longer.
Now, he knows what they need.
"What do you want?" he asks, instead.
Elseen and the man beside him are raking their eyes up and down his body, bruised and bloodied and completely battered beyond belief, his broken wrists and snapped fingers hung limply from the ceiling, the rest of him sagging pitifully.
Elseen steps forward, tells him.
He holds out, for as long as he can.
But in the end, all it takes is one shot to start proving them right.
He wakes again, and tries to open his eyes. He finds that they're still too heavy, and a soft groan escapes him in their place.
He hears someone puttering around him, and he wants them to know he's awake.
"Jesper?"
It's Wylan.
They were on their backs on the bed, heads turned to stare at each other, fingers entwined. Jesper had that soft look on him that was reserved for Wylan's eyes and Wylan's eyes alone, the look of gentle youth that only the Zemeni skies could truly remember.
Wylan's own were drooping heavily, exhausted from the day's high spirits and the joy of spending it running through the house, spending uncertain amounts of time doing Ghezen knows what variation of things in all the different rooms they stumbled into.
Saints alive, Jesper felt lucky.
Wylan made a soft noise, a very sleepy noise, and it was the most adorable thing Jesper had ever heard. Slowly, he moved on to his side, and Wylan's eyes fell shut upon the gentle comb of his hands through his hair, the pressed kiss at his temple, the hand on his jaw.
Jesper shushed him, so full of love and happiness, and Wylan moved to nestle into his chest.
"It's okay," he whispered.
If only he knew.
More time passes. Weeks turn into months, and eventually he stops counting.
He thinks of Wylan, thinks of Kaz and Inej, hell even his old Da and Ma buried six feet under just like he may as well be - and he doesn't know why, but he can't help himself, and he can't bear it at the same time. All of these people in his life who he'd only just successfully proven his worth to. All the people whose trust and love and affection he'd gained.
He had so much to lose.
It doesn't matter. It's a story he's read aloud too often, and the ending never changes.
"Jesper, darling?"
He feels a hand in his, a gentle palm running the course of his arm, touching his hair before landing on his heart.
He groans again.
His guilt threatens to swallow him like the sawdust living in his salivary glands, preventing them from working. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, and he won't get it.
"It's okay," Wylan whispers.
It's useless. He fades away.
His mind takes him somewhere comfortable, and he's far too weary not to give in. They have stripped him bare, and no combination of brown and yellow and green can cover him back up again.
Not fully, at least.
There's crying. Whatever he's lying on is shaking, presumably with the weight of someone trying to hold him and themselves together at the same time.
Still, they're frantic.
"It's okay. It's okay, it's all okay."
It's all he can hear.
It's all he wants to believe, and all he can't.
He's not alone on that front.
He can't decide if that makes him feel better, or worse.