Wilhelm hums quietly in acknowledgement, but for a long moment he just traces patterns around Jesper's knuckles, the back of his hand, the knob of his wrist.

Does he feel guilty? He doesn't know. Whatever he feels, it doesn't have a name, or even a consistent shape. It's an emptiness that the rest of him forms around, like he's been excavated. It's a heaviness that he carries on his chest. There's nothing to be afraid of at the inn, but the imprint of fear lingers anyway, like smoke hanging in the air after the candle's been blown out.

Sliding down in the bed, he shifts so that his head rests on Jesper's chest and his arms curl around his middle. He doesn't care that squishing his arm between Jesper and the pillows aggravates his wounds. He just wants to be completely surrounded by him. Let all those shadows shrink, the emptiness close, the heaviness lift.

"Thank you for coming for me, Jesper," he mumbles into his shirt. Then, as he pokes his stomach, a teasing lilt sneaks into his voice. "My handsome, brave hero."

They'd joked about it once, hadn't they? Turns out, it wasn't a joke at all.