Jake drapes himself over his lap with the kind of sleepy, loose-limbed relaxation Chris recognizes as more than exhaustion. "Tired?" he asks, stroking his hair, and Jake's head lolls in an approximation of a nod.
"Mm, took my meds already."
"Thought so." He smiles - only a little sadness peeking through - when Jake nuzzles into him like a cat.
It's the curse of being in command, he thinks, learning to recognize young men like Jake. The kind that throw their lives into the fight, that burn bright and fast, magnesium-flare boys, falling stars that last for far too short a time. Whether it's the fight that gets them in the end, the attempts to cope with the pressure of it all, or their own hand, there's far too many of them. He's known too many already, and he's not even an old man himself yet. He tries to help where he can, but there's only so much he can do, and it tears at his heart. There are already too many names of dead boys he holds close at night, on top of the ones he's lost to other parts of this fight.
Jake's hand tightens as much as it can in his shirt, and he leaves a lazy little kiss on Chris' shoulder, trying even now to pull him from his thoughts. "Come to bed?" he murmurs.
Chris can't say no to that; he lifts Jake off his lap, carrying him to the bedroom to hold him close as Jake drifts off in his arms. He listens to the sound of his breathing in the silence of the bedroom, soft and warm against his neck.
He won't lose Jake. Whatever it takes, he won't let that flame burn out.