Jazz shut his eyes, grimacing in the dark privacy of his own chambers. He could hear people going around outside, settling down for the night, and he knew he would be alone – and awake – until sunrise.
His stomach burned where the dagger had plunged through it, and his back ached to the point that it was impossible to move. The latest bout on the battlefield had more painful than he would have expected. He'd been... careless. It was his own damn fault.
But that thought didn't help at all as a hard spasm ran through his body, the over-worked muscles unable to handle the sudden thought of rest. He tried to ignore the color that burst behind his eyelids, and only grit his teeth tighter as his shoulders tensed unwillingly. He deserved this. There was so much that could go wrong working as the leader of an underground rebellion like theirs; he was lucky his negligence hadn't come at a higher price.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and a tall silhouette pushed it open before Jazz could even respond. Even from across the room he could see the concern in Frederic's eyes.
The man was dressed in borrowed Andante clothing, the smallest size still far too big for him, and the reds and browns and yellows swished around him as he walked, illuminated by the light of the candle he was holding. Jazz felt a sudden wash of shame. Frederic would never laugh at him, would never tell him how stupid he'd been to risk their lives like that, but he could see the lines of sleepless worry etched into his lover's face. It made his own face burn.
He wanted to apologize, somehow, but he couldn't bring himself to break the silence. Instead he just watched as Frederic set the candle down upon the dresser, trimming the wick carefully before he climbed into bed beside the swordsman.
Frederic slid up against the pillows and gently coaxed Jazz's head back to rest on his breast, his hands massaging along the bunched muscles of the swordsman's chest. There was a long, unbearable moment of silence, and then, "Did I ever tell you about my mother?"
Jazz shook his head no – the tiny motion sent his nerves on fire – and Frederic started to talk in a soft, muted voice as he ran his fingers through the tangled, shoulder-long hair, describing first his mother and father and then all three of his sisters, what they looked like and what they'd been to him and how he missed them and why. He whispered about learning to play the piano, sitting on the bench with his oldest sister as she guided his hands on the keys. He talked about stars and trees, the way the leaves look when they blow in the wind, and Poland and Paris and Vienna and Spain. He talked on and on about dreams that were so true they mixed into reality, sanity fading into madness and back again. All the while his fingers smoothed over Jazz's skin, drawing serenity from muscles that had forgotten how to rest, gentling him down until he had no choice but to sink into the warm, strange comfort that Frederic carried with him.
Jazz laid there and listened quietly, eyes closed. He hadn't imagined he would be able to sleep, but the pain was dull now compared to the rise and fall of the breath and the voice of the man beside him. He shut his eyes and whispered, somewhere inside himself, Let me sleep tonight to the sound of his stories.
The clock outside struck a quarter to twelve, and still Frederic continued, rambling on past midnight until the candle spluttered out and he, himself, was asleep.