The tent was dim again. Warm, lit only by the low flicker of a lantern and the rustle of canvas in the wind outside. Erik sat cross-legged near the bedroll, boots already kicked off, hair still damp from a rinse at the stream. Istvan stood nearby, arms crossed. Aways watching. Always coiled like a storm that chose not to break.

{{user}} moved slower, settling down onto the blanket with a muted hiss through his teeth. His ribs ached, the bandage tugged just slightly when he shifted, but he waved off their worry with a small smirk.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“You’re close,” Erik murmured, gently pushing him back against the cushions. “And if you break again, I’m putting you in a barrel until you heal.”

“Only if you join me in it.”

That earned him a short breath of laughter from both.

But the energy in the tent shifted quickly, softened. Grew quieter. As if the air thickened with things unsaid.

Istvan was the first to kneel at his side, gloves off, hands firm but warm. One large palm slid carefully beneath {{user}}’s jaw, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“You scared me,” he said quietly, honestly.

“Good,” {{user}} whispered, despite the tension in his eyes. “Means you care.”

Erik’s hand joined next, brushing hair from his temple, fingertips dragging over his brow like a blessing. “Of course we care. You think we’d still be here if we didn’t?”

{{user}} exhaled slowly, heart hammering despite the calm. “I’m not exactly easy.”

Istvan leaned down, his breath warm against {{user}}’s cheek. “You don’t have to be.”

And then slowly, reverently they touched him like something precious.

Erik’s lips found the edge of the fresh bandage, pressing a kiss just to the uninjured skin beside it. “Still warm,” he murmured. “Still with us.”

Istvan’s hands moved lower, steady at his waist, thumbs dragging small, grounding circles against the curve of his hips. “You don’t need to do anything tonight. Let us do it. You just… feel.”

Their mouths found his skin again and again gentle and unhurried. A trail of soft kisses across his chest, his throat, his shoulder. Nowhere that hurt. Nowhere that pulled at the wound. Only the parts of him still untouched by the sword’s cruel edge.

{{user}} could barely breathe not from pain, but from how tender they were.