[ Jack's dead weight in his arms, but he doesn't protest. Another thing that makes him feel pathetic, that he's too weak and distraught to even carry himself, just subject to Charles and his whims. That his only desire is to comfort him is only a small consolation, but he leans into it, letting him support his weight, wishing he could take in the musky, leathery scent of him, but his nose is too clogged to let it in.
He buries his face in his neck and just breathes. Slow and steady. ]
[it's a good thing jack told him he doesn't need to say anything, because he's completely run out of things to say. the only thing he can do, or wants to do, is exactly this: he keeps his arms folded tightly around jack, not an embrace of brothers saying goodbye but of two souls gripping each other through a terrible storm. the best he can do is make sure that jack isn't alone with it, even the parts that he could never truly share, because no one else will understand it as well as he does. he has a responsibility to someone important to him.
he turns his head a little, face pressed to jack's hair, so that they're just a little bit more tucked against each other. he knows, from experience, that the pain will pass; with time it will become bearable, though it may never stop hurting completely. jack will carry a scar from the loss of a piece of himself until that piece is returned. but he's strong enough to get through the worst of it... even if it doesn't feel like that right now.
none of this would matter much if said out loud. it isn't the kind of thing that helps when the blood still flows. but if nothing else, he wants jack to know he's here. that's really all he can offer. he can, and does, hold on tight - and will do so, until jack's decided he's had as much as he can stand.]
[ That's what they always say. The pain will pass. It passed after his father died, or at least, became bearable. It passed after the many brothers lost in battles in his many years at sea (their years at sea, since the overwhelming majority of that time belongs to he and Charles both). It passed when Charles left. If only just.
None of that felt the way he does now. He can't properly mourn, he can't take solace in the fact that she'd rather be back there, because he doesn't know the outcome. Gone, with no answers, and as long as he's here, he probably won't get them. ]
[his hold loosens as soon as jack says that, grip shifting so he can more or less lower the other man back down to the bed without simply letting him drop there, especially if there's any kind of risk of him throwing up all over himself.
instead of joining him, however, he stands up, and briefly disappears from the room; there's some distant banging around (which jack may well not even notice, given the state he's in), but in short order charles returns with two practical items: a bucket, and a bottle of water. the bucket he places on the floor by jack's side of the bed, the bottle on jack's nightstand. he's not great at emotional comfort, but he's been in more pathetic states than this and he knows what small actions can help. if jack doesn't need them, or chooses not to use them, that's up to him.
he still doesn't say anything. there's not really anything to say. but once he's done this small service, he tugs his boots off, and climbs into the bed behind jack. one hand slips across his arm, charles glancing briefly at his face. if jack doesn't protest, he'll lie down behind him and draw him in close, tucked against his back, silent. there's nothing else to do for now but this.]
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He buries his face in his neck and just breathes. Slow and steady. ]
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he turns his head a little, face pressed to jack's hair, so that they're just a little bit more tucked against each other. he knows, from experience, that the pain will pass; with time it will become bearable, though it may never stop hurting completely. jack will carry a scar from the loss of a piece of himself until that piece is returned. but he's strong enough to get through the worst of it... even if it doesn't feel like that right now.
none of this would matter much if said out loud. it isn't the kind of thing that helps when the blood still flows. but if nothing else, he wants jack to know he's here. that's really all he can offer. he can, and does, hold on tight - and will do so, until jack's decided he's had as much as he can stand.]
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None of that felt the way he does now. He can't properly mourn, he can't take solace in the fact that she'd rather be back there, because he doesn't know the outcome. Gone, with no answers, and as long as he's here, he probably won't get them. ]
I've got to lay down, or I'll be sick.
[ Charles can join, though. ]
no subject
instead of joining him, however, he stands up, and briefly disappears from the room; there's some distant banging around (which jack may well not even notice, given the state he's in), but in short order charles returns with two practical items: a bucket, and a bottle of water. the bucket he places on the floor by jack's side of the bed, the bottle on jack's nightstand. he's not great at emotional comfort, but he's been in more pathetic states than this and he knows what small actions can help. if jack doesn't need them, or chooses not to use them, that's up to him.
he still doesn't say anything. there's not really anything to say. but once he's done this small service, he tugs his boots off, and climbs into the bed behind jack. one hand slips across his arm, charles glancing briefly at his face. if jack doesn't protest, he'll lie down behind him and draw him in close, tucked against his back, silent. there's nothing else to do for now but this.]