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coloursflyaway · 4 years

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Let’s Repeat Our Chorus Triumphantly [1/4]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.800

Tags: Angst and fluff, fix-it of sorts, past character death, falling in love (and everything that goes along with it)

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

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“Where to now, then?”, Jaskier asks, excitement so very obvious in his voice, as if someone had caught the sun’s light in a bottle and offered it to the bard to drink. He’s a fool for following Geralt in the first place, even more of one for not having left already. Even a bard, even someone as hopelessly cheerful, as untainted by the world as Jaskier is, should know that the Path is dangerous, that Geralt is. And yet, he’s still here, not dissuaded by the insults Geralt throws at him, by the silence, the long marches and the sparse food. If Geralt allowed it to be, it could be intriguing.

He hums in response, not wanting to say more, because where Jaskier goes is none of his concern, but the bard pouts next to him, brandishing his lute like a weapon, and for once, Geralt gives in. “Lindenvale”, he tells Jaskier and watches his face light up once more, bright with imagined possibility. “There’s a contract for a couple of drowners. Doesn’t pay much, but enough for a night in an inn.” “Drowners, huh? Ghastly blue things, bulging eyes, those ones?” “Hm.” “Hardly the monsters great ballads are sung about”, Jaskier comments, not quite complains, but strums his lute anyway, looking at Geralt for second almost wistfully before he turns his eyes back to the road ahead. “But don’t worry, my dear Witcher, I will do my very best to change that.”

He hears the melody drifting through a window, soft like a summer’s breeze, as familiar as his own heartbeat and immeasurably more loved. Weeks have passed since he last heard it; they do not sing his songs as frequently anymore, too much time has passed. So much time. And yet, here in Lindenvale, the tune drifts through the streets, and Geralt stops, because there is nothing else he could do. There’s a griffin’s head tied to Roach’s saddle, ready to be swapped for coin, but he hoists his old, aching limbs off his mare and leads her closer, ever closer, to the source of the music. It’s sweet and longing and Geralt has felt old so often, but never as much as he does whenever he hears those tunes; at the same time, he never feels more alive.

Lindenvale has grown since they passed through it together, has gained an inn and three taverns, more merchants and a silk trader that Geralt cannot set foot in fear of blues and purples and deep, deep reds. And yet, he finds his way easily, every note making his heart sing, his heart ache, even before a voice joins the lute. When it does, it’s a young woman singing, and secretly, Geralt is glad for it; it would never be a competition, and yet it’s easier to try and not compare the singer’s voice to the one he knows by heart when it’s higher, clearer, possesses not the smoothness of velvet and honeyed wine, but instead the clarity of birdsong.

“O’er glistening roofs, you float” the woman sings, and Geralt turns a corner to find himself in front of another inn, one that even he didn’t know existed. “Through lily-strewn rivers, you dive…” Her emphasis is wrong, her fingers a little to clumsy for her instrument, but it matters not, Geralt still feels the words vibrate through his bones, his flesh, his heart. Hears them sung by another, pensive and bathed in sunlight, a lifetime before. Sees pink lips curl around a quill, which stains them grey, dark lashes pensively fan across cornflower eyes, brown hair that shimmers silver around the temples, as if a spider had caught him in his web.

“Yet one day, I will know your truths…”, the woman sings and Geralt pushes the door to the inn open, finds it cosy and warm and utterly forgettable. The singer doesn’t seem to notice her new audience, and he is glad for it, takes in her chestnut hair and tan skin, the green dress she’s wearing and aches so fiercely that he almost expects his tattered knees to buckle. “…if only I am still alive…”

Because that’s it. That’s the one wound he carries that even his mutations are unable to heal, even if they have carried him through everything else, the one blow that ruined him and yet wasn’t merciful enough to let him die. Because it’s been sixty-four years since Jaskier died, quietly and gently and in Geralt’s arms.

“I am certain you have heard it before”, Jaskier tells him, mere months after they have met, his eyes so blue that Geralt cannot look away, even though he desperately wants to. “But you’re a bit of an arsehole.” There is no venom in his voice, if anything, he looks amused, but Geralt still bristles internally, unsure why the opinion of a bard would matter anything at all, but somehow, it does. “Hm.” Jaskier cocks his head, then chuckles, a bright, joyful sound that seems to echo somewhere between Geralt’s ribs, the vast, empty space of his chest. “Oh no, you don’t have to worry”, Jaskier tells Geralt, just as if he already knew how to read him. “I like that about you.” And he smiles, and somehow, even that matters.

The last notes fade, sweet and familiar and taking another piece of Geralt’s heart with them; he lets them, gladly. After all, it’s not like he needs it any longer. In front of him, a tankard of ale is waiting, ordered more out of politeness, out of habit than want, because Geralt has stopped to try and drink his pain away more than forty years ago. Still, he takes a gulp, then another, before he gets up and walks over to the young singer, who is fiddling with the strings of her lute, brows drawn together in displeasure. She looks up at him anyway, and her eyes are blue. Not the right shade, although even Geralt isn’t sure which one it would be anymore, but they are blue nonetheless, and for a moment, Geralt considers turning back, because he doesn’t know if he can speak.

“Yes?”, she prompts when he doesn’t, raises an eyebrow inquisitively. She’s pretty without being stunning, but there’s a light in her blue, blue eyes that makes it easy to forget about it. “Do you need something?” He does, but nothing she can give him; nonetheless, Geralt does his best to smile a little, because he knows that is what Jaskier would have done. “Yes”, he tells her, and knows that the rest of the pain is still etched into his words, won’t go away for hours. “I wanted to ask – do you know more of his songs? Any of them, it doesn’t matter which. It’s just, it has been too long since I last heard them.”

Although it’s been decades since Jaskier passed, Geralt cannot force his name from his lips, fears it would slice them to shreds, but the singer seems to understand what he means anyway. She looks confused, but nods slowly, eyes narrowing. “…I do. There’s that one about the Witcher, I know that fairly well. I can play it, if you want.” Geralt doesn’t tell her that her description hardly narrows it down, Jaskier has written countless songs about Witchers, about him and Lambert and Vesemir and Eskel and far, far later, about Ciri, too, instead he just nods, tries to give her another smile, but fails. There are no tears, because he has already shed more of them than one lifetime could permit, but Geralt can still feel his throat go tight, the roof of his mouth start to hurt, even if his eyes stay dry. He knows what song she means.

“I’d appreciate it”, he says instead, heart so swollen in his chest that it is hard to breathe. “Thank you.”

“Thank you”, Jaskier says softly as they walk towards the castle, Geralt dressed in black silk that crinkles with every step he takes, driving him slowly insane. “I know you didn’t want to come, even if there is food and beer and women. I really appreciate it.” It’s not like the bard to talk like this, sound so honest, so sincere, and despite himself, it makes Geralt turn to look at him. The same thing happened earlier this evening, Jaskier crouching in front of his bathtub, his expression so unguarded that Geralt had wondered if the bard wanted him to read a secret in his eyes, his voice so soft when he muttered, “And yet, here we are.”

He doesn’t look quite the same now, but there is still something in his gaze that Geralt thinks he could decipher, if he only tried hard enough. “Don’t mention it”, he answers, keeping his voice low, monotone and looks away so whatever Jaskier is hiding can stay hidden. “Just make sure I don’t have to leave this mess sober.” Jaskier chuckles and there is an edge to even his voice, but before Geralt can decide if he wants to figure it out after all, the bard puts a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. “Of course, my dear Witcher. Whatever you want.”

She sings and Geralt listens, sees Jaskier walk in front of him, hair tousled in the wind, a nuisance he wasn’t able to get of rid of, yet. Sees Jaskier, leaning against a table and singing along with the crowd, the stench of selkiemore guts on his tongue, the bard’s soft eyes in his mind. Sees Jaskier standing on a table, wobbling dangerously as he tries to conduct the crowd around him as they sing, a tankard of ale in his hand and his smile so bright it put every celestial body to shame, and his body warm in Geralt’s arms later, when he had slipped and the Witcher had caught him mid-air. Sees Jaskier, his hair as silver as Geralt’s, but his smile so much brighter, playing his lute in their favourite tavern in Oxenfurt because the barmaid had asked for it so nicely.

It’s impossible to look at her, so Geralt doesn’t try, instead keeps his eyes on the rough surface of the table, traces the lines in the wood with his gaze while he listens to Jaskier’s words, sung by the wrong person, always the wrong person. “He’s a friend of humanity, so give him the rest-”, she sings, and Geralt sees Jaskier, every version of him so clearly that he can almost trick himself into thinking the bard will be there when he looks up again. “That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed, defeated the villain…”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare to, but cannot help but to wish that his tears had not yet dried up so he could shed them again.

Geralt doesn’t watch Jaskier leave, because even if he is so angry he can feel himself tremble with it, he knows that those would be memories he wouldn’t know how to get rid of again. Everything seems to be crumbling around him and he doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to cope, but he knows how to lash out, how to hurt. And hurt he did, he doesn’t need to watch Jaskier to know that. Maybe it’s better this way, because it would have happened sooner or later, Geralt knows it, because he knows humans and he knows himself. Maybe it’s better if Jaskier leaves before Geralt has figured out what the bard hides behind the blue of his eyes.

Leaving the tavern is more difficult than Geralt would have thought, as if Jaskier’s melodies had ingrained themselves in the walls to make them matter, but there is still a reward to be collected, and even if Geralt wishes it was different, as long as he continues to breathe, he needs the money. The singer’s eyes follow him as he leaves, blue and bright and beautiful.

Time has passed, but it seems it hasn’t changed a thing. Geralt is tired, so tired that he can feel it in his bones, his very soul. And yet, it only takes one look at Jaskier’s face for him to forget how coming here, every step had felt like walking a mile. He looks different and yet the same, blue eyes and brown hair, lips that should be smiling, but are pressed together in a thin line although Jaskier is surrounded by people, by ale, by music. The tavern is everything he should want and yet Jaskier looks broken, battered, and Geralt hates himself for causing this, hates himself for still feeling relief flood through him, just because he’s in the bard’s presence again.

It had been difficult to admit at first, but oh, he has missed Jaskier, and missed him terribly; yet, it might be the hardest thing he has ever done to cross the room. Their surroundings are loud, people talking and drinking, but Geralt doesn’t even make it half the way before Jaskier looks up and directly at him, as if it was him with the mutated senses, not Geralt. For a second he seems to be frozen in time, but then his eyes widen, his lips part with a silent gasp that Geralt can nonetheless hear across the chatter, the clanking of tankards. And Geralt is lost, because there's pain written still on Jaskier's face, inked into the blue of his eyes, and Geralt feels. For years, oh so many of them, he has refused to name it, that tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth that looking at Jaskier brings, but now the feeling names itself, declares itself to be love and Geralt cannot do more than nod mutely, and agree.

"Jaskier", he rasps out and hopes that the bard's human ears won't pick up on what his hear so clearly: the tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth. Everything around them seems to fall away, as easy as raindrops would; how could it dare to matter when Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier in such a long time, when he has missed him so fiercely that he can still feel the remnants of pain gripping his heart, clouding his vision. He had been nervous coming here, but there is no room left for it now, no need, because there is pain on Jaskier’s face, and pain means there is still feeling left. And Jaskier has always been far too good a person to refuse forgiveness.

Geralt’s feet cross the remaining distance without him commanding them to, stop when Jaskier is so close that, if he dared to, Geralt could reach out and touch him. He doesn’t, but not for lack of wanting to. “Jaskier”, he repeats, just because the name feels right on his lips, because it’s been so long since he has uttered it. The bard’s companions are watching them, but it matters little when Geralt is back in the one home he thinks he has found, within Jaskier’s sight. “Forgive me. I meant none of it, not even in my weakest moment. It doesn’t make it right, and I know I do not deserve it, but please, forgive me nonetheless.”

After the way Geralt has treated him, Jaskier would deserve far more, an apology only a poet could craft, but this is all he has to offer, for better or for worse, and after all the time they spent together, Geralt trusts Jaskier to know as much. Trusts him with every fibre of his being, trusts him against every bit of training they tried to ingrain in him, trusts him because it’s Jaskier and he has never done anything but earn it.

A few moments pass, in which Geralt doesn’t allow himself to doubt, because Jaskier’s eye glisten blue and wet in the light of the fireplace, then Jaskier’s head jerks to the side, he wipes his eyes and there’s a sound coming from him that is as close to a sob as Geralt has ever heard, rich with emotion, slick with tears. But when he looks up, there’s a smile on his face, brighter still than the ones Geralt can remember, his cheeks are flushed, and Geralt wants nothing but to hold him, feel how warm his skin is when it presses against the Witcher’s. “Of course, I do”, Jaskier answers softly, and his voice is still half sob, half laugh, his eyes so wild and happy they take Geralt’s breath away. “You know I do. I was just waiting for you to ask me to.”

And he reaches out across the distance between them to take one of Geralt’s hands in his, holding it tightly for just a moment. Geralt’s skin burns for the rest of the night.

Roach is waiting outside for him, just as reliable as her predecessors were, nudges Geralt’s hand as he unties her as if she can feel something is wrong. This version of Roach didn’t know Jaskier, just like the one before didn’t and the thought is enough for Geralt’s overfull, empty heart to clench painfully. “Come on”, he tells her and wraps the reins around his hand; the merchant who hired him doesn’t live far away, so he doesn’t bother to mount the mare, just leads her through dusty, unfamiliar streets until they reach the small house. It’s seen better days, Geralt can still make out cracked white paint under the grime as he leaves Roach outside, taking the trophy with him, the bag he stored it in wet with blood and Roach’s sweat. The sturdy oak door underneath the merchant’s sign seems out of place on such a house, or in Lindenvale in general. Perhaps it agrees, Geralt can hear Jaskier tease as he pushes it open to reveal the small shop and he cannot keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Jaskier would love it, knowing that Geralt can still hear his voice so many decades later, that he talked enough for his words not to only last his, but Geralt’s lifetime.

“Killed your griffin”, he tells the shopkeeper when the older man doesn’t look up immediately, crosses the distance between them quickly; he can see bolts of fabric in the back of the room, white and green and cornflower blue. The faster he can leave again, the better. He drops the soiled bag onto the counter, undoubtedly ruining the papers the merchant was working on, but Geralt is too old, has seen too many people bluster and grumble and rail to care any longer. This merchant doesn’t even seem inclined to do that, only looks down at the trophy with shock painted across his face for a few moments, before raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s. They are brown and scared and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief.

“….yes, yes, of course, thank you, Master Witcher, certainly – “, he stutters out, pale around the nose as if he has never seen blood before. He very well might not have, but as long as he doesn’t faint, Geralt cannot bring himself to care, not when the echo of Jaskier’s ballad is still ringing in his ears. The merchant rummages through a drawer for a few seconds before retrieving a pouch of coins, sufficiently heavy for Geralt not to count them after the man has handed it to him. It should be enough for a few nights in an inn, food and drink and some supplies, and it has been so, so long since Geralt asked for any more.

He grunts in the merchant’s direction, turns to leave, but a timid voice stops him, fragile and with a hint of desperation clinging to words. “What – what am I supposed to do with this?” And Geralt suddenly is so, so tired. Of the same people, the same questions, the same fear and shock and disgust and loathing, the same towns and the same monsters, the same sun rising and setting again, illuminating everything Geralt has already seen and isn’t able to leave behind “I don’t know”, he growls, far more vicious than intended and yet not able to hold himself back. “Sell it, burn it, throw it out for all I care. It’s just meat and bones, nothing more and nothing less than any of us.”

When Geralt wakes, it’s still early, the morning sun only just sending out her first rays of light into a world that seems lighter than usual, even without it. It’s only been a few weeks since Jaskier allowed Geralt back into his life, and up until now, the novelty of it has not yet worn off. It seems to tinge every second of the day, makes steps lighter, words come easier and Geralt’s heart ache in the most pleasant way every time he looks over and finds Jaskier smiling.

They’ve gone west for no reason at all, but although money is tight, it’s the best Geralt has felt in what seems like an eternity. And the lack of funds brings one thing Geralt has never before been able to truly appreciate, it seems. Brings nights camped out in the wilderness in which Jaskier sits close to him to soak up the fire’s warmth, sings soft songs that are not for a crowd, but only for Geralt’s ears, wakes up beside him, dark lashes fluttering open like a butterfly’s tender wings.

If he hadn’t yet accepted the way his feelings have changed, Geralt thinks he would have to do so now, because there is a tenderness gripping his heart when he looks at Jaskier which he hasn’t felt with anyone before, not with Triss, not even with Yennefer, who he thought for so long he loved. But Jaskier is different, bold where Yen was harsh, gentle where she was fierce, sweet where she was forced to be bitter. Sometimes, Geralt still thinks of her, still misses her, but if so, then for her wit and her determination, not her kisses.

The sun is creeping up the sky, turning it pink and golden; it won’t take long until it wakes Jaskier, so Geralt uses the little time he still has to allow himself to watch Jaskier sleep and to finally be happy.

Since it’s only midday, Geralt knows he could go on, find a new contract in a new village, help people, like Jaskier asked him to all those years ago, but he cannot bring himself to leave, not when there is a chance to hear his bard’s music again. So instead, he leads Roach to nearest inn, pats her chestnut fur and listens to her whinny softly. She’s getting older too, her mane losing its shine and her stamina fading, but Geralt still loves her dearly, can’t imagine trading her for a younger mare. Hopes deep down that this time, it’ll be Roach who loses her rider and not the other way around.

The inn is small, but the stables where he leaves Roach are clean enough, a young boy promising to take care of her for a few orens, and there is a room left for him inside. It’s furniture is sparse, a bed, a small table and a water basin, but it’s more than enough for Geralt. He’s used to less, to makeshift camps on the side of the road, to the cold of Kaer Morhen, to the emptiness of their house and bed and garden in Novigrad after Jaskier had passed. So he drops his bags on the table and starts to take off the armour, his muscles crying out their gratitude; it’s been days since he allowed himself rest for more than a few hours and even his mutated body isn’t as spry as it used to be, aching from old wounds and new, aching most of all because Geralt has long since stopped taking care of it.

They stumble into the room, Geralt’s arm slung across Jaskier’s shoulder so he can keep himself steady, the bard’s hands warm as he helps him sit down onto the bed. There’s blood staining his palms, bright red on pale skin, and Geralt wonders for a short, delirious moment if Jaskier would allow him to kiss it away. “I’m not sure if I should scold you or patch you up first”, Jaskier grumbles, even as he starts to pull off Geralt’s armour piece by piece, by now as familiar with the buckles and clasps as the Witcher is himself. But there is panic hidden in his scent, sharp and metallic, and Geralt would do anything to soothe him. “What a silly thing to do, letting that slyzard get so close to you. How did you even make it this long, if something so – so hideous gets close enough to you to do this. Couldn’t you just use your pretty fingers to make your pretty signs and not get sliced apart by that disgusting phallus with wings?”

Geralt can’t help but chuckle, regretting it just a moment later when the motion aggravates the wound on his chest, the one on his ribs. It was a hideous thing, Jaskier was right, with a tail that had whipped the sword right out of his hands, the breath from his lungs. But - “It was coming right at you, Jaskier”, he explains quietly, trying not to wince when Jaskier removes his breastplate, then the tattered shirt he wears underneath. “It would have torn you to shreds, I couldn’t let that happen.” The hands inspecting his chest falter in their rhythm as Jaskier looks up from where he is kneeling in front of Geralt, something tender hidden in the blue of his eyes, something else that Geralt now wants to decipher more than anything else but hasn’t managed yet. Jaskier’s fingers trail idly across his collarbone, far away from the actual wound but still enough to make Geralt shiver.

“I appreciate the sentiment, believe me, my dear Witcher, I do”, he says softly, and his fingers have not yet stopped moving across Geralt’s skin. “But by now you should know that if anything were to happen to you, it would do just the same.”

He calls for a bath to soothe his ever aching muscles, because that is what Jaskier would have done, even if, without someone by his side to work out the kinks in his back, someone to press soft fingers into the tense mess of scars that covers his entire body, the relief will fade quickly. The bath doesn’t take long to come, two boys, carrying a large tub between them, that will still only just fit Geralt’s body. They’re followed by another two girls, pretty things that steal looks at Geralt’s form as they empty jug after jug of water into the bath until it is full, steam filling the small room until the air feels stifling. Fleetingly, Geralt hopes that what they saw was no monster, but a man, yet the thought vanishes and leaves no trace of its existence behind.

Instead of hoping, Geralt undresses and sinks into the bath, which should smell like chamomile and lavender, but instead has no scent at all. Still, the heat is pleasant, chases away some of the tension in his limbs, the strain in his neck and the sheen of sweat and blood that has collected on his skin since he started hunting the griffin. It was an easy enough beast to slay, yet enough to inflict scratches, which smart in the water, even if in the most pleasant of ways. He takes a deep breath, letting the steam feel his lungs until it feels like he is drowning in it, then dunks his head under water until he can believe it.

As much as Geralt teases Jaskier about his oils, his bathing salts, it’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t enjoy them now as the whole room smells of herbs and flowers as he steps into it. The scent must be a remnant of the bath Jaskier had ordered just before Geralt had left to stock up on supplies, on dried meat, alcohest and grease for the bard’s beloved lute. It’s not the one he usually uses, Geralt notices, it’s not as sweet, but carries a hint of tartness, the scent of fool’s parsley and ranogrin. And Jaskier doesn’t look like he usually does either, because Geralt doesn’t find him humming under his breath or plucking away on his lute, doesn’t find him spread out on the bed with a quill in his hand and dark ink stains on his fingertips. Instead, Jaskier is sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall and his skin still flushed from the hot water, the steam that still lingers in the air. He’s not wearing his doublet, his chemise half tucked into his breeches, and he looks beautiful, looks soft, looks like everything Geralt wants to look at for the rest of his days.

But at the same time, he looks more pensive than Geralt is used to, elegant brows drawn together as he studies the hands he has clasped in his lap, quite as if he held in them a mystery he can’t begin to solve. Even to look up at Geralt takes him a few moments, and while that doesn’t hurt, it might sting a little. “Jaskier?”, he asks, setting aside his bag and stepping closer to the bed, the bard’s cornflower eyes finally on him, following his steps. “What’s the matter?”

What Geralt expects is that one of the stable hands had insulted his singing, or a maid had rebuffed advances that he truly had meant, a small reason, easily fixed with ale and a good night’s rest, but instead Jaskier slowly blinks, then fixes his eyes– and by Melitele, how are they so blue, so bright even if Jaskier is distraught? – on Geralt, a new determination seeping into the furrows of his brow, into the curve of his pink mouth. “What are we to each other, Geralt?”, he asks and there is a shiver in his voice that Geralt hears but cannot understand.

He cannot understand the question either and maybe it’s that what causes his chest to constrict painfully, his heart turn to ice within it, because whatever is hidden behind those word, it matters to Jaskier and Geralt doesn’t know the right answer. Doesn’t know what will happen if he gives the wrong one.

Gingerly, he steps forward, feeling like he is crossing a river on the thinnest ice, only stops when he’s so close that he could touch Jaskier, if he only had the courage to do so. “What do you mean? We are… friends. Are we not?” It is the first time he says it out-loud, but surely, Jaskier must know already. After all, Geralt has stopped denying it years ago, has listened to his songs and shared his camp, his food, his life with Jaskier. He has always been better with actions than words, meant I care for you every time he allowed Jaskier to ride on Roach when his feet were aching but the next town too far away, meant Don’t leave me every time he let Jaskier pick their next destination, was trying to say I love you with every look, every touch, every breath. Maybe it wasn’t enough, he thinks, and it strikes fear in his heart unlike any monster could.

“That I know”, Jaskier replies, his eyes softening but the resolve is still there, hidden behind shining eyes; for a moment, Geralt breathes a bit more easily. “But it’s not what I mean.” “What then? You’re not making sense.” “How long have we known each other?”, Jaskier, asks, leaning forward, but doesn’t give Geralt a chance to answer. “Decades. And we travelled many of those years together, so I would never have wanted to disturb our relationship by asking for something you couldn’t give, and yet I cannot help but wonder… it used to be that we travelled together for a few months, then split and met up again when the time for it was right, but think of the last time we parted. It’s been years, I think. You even spent the last winter with me in Oxenfurt instead of Kaer Morhen, although I know you hate the city.”

Jaskier laughs softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and he is right, Geralt hates the city and yet hated the thought of leaving his bard even more. For a moment, he wants to say something, but Jaskier isn’t finished. “You have seen me at my best and at my worst”, he continues, and his voice is soft, contemplative. “When I was successful and when I had failed, when I got injured, rejected, thrown aside, and when I was happy, silly, drunk with love or ale or a crowd’s adoration. And yet, it seems that you haven’t tired of me. You let me dress your wounds, wash your hair, keep you company in your worst moments, in your best.”

He takes a deep breath and something deep inside of Geralt aches with the need to hold him, trembles with fear because he still doesn’t know where Jaskier wants to take him with those sweet words that feel like they could be either a beginning or an end. But he can’t, not yet, maybe not ever. “I hope-”, Jaskier starts once more, looks up at him, and this is it, this is where everything will change, Geralt can feel it, a tension crackling through the air. “I hope you know that I would never expect anything from you that you didn’t want to give. And I hope that, if you don’t reciprocate what I feel for you, that it doesn’t change the friendship we have. But I just – I can’t help but hope, because of the way you sometimes look at me, and touch me, and because you let me say all this without interrupting me once… Geralt, tell me, is there really nothing but friendship between us?”

He stays in the bath until the water has gone cold, then gets out to dress in the same shirt and breeches as before, feels the rough material scratch at his skin as if to ask him to spend the rest of his days submerged in water and memory. The light has changed since Geralt has last looked outside, midday giving way to a sunny afternoon. The bed seems to be calling out to him, a sweet siren song, and he could stay here, sleep until the next morning, but his herb supplies are running low, his whetstones almost ground to dust. And there is another song, ingrained in every of his cells, that draws him back to the tavern, back to the singer’s too-high voice and inept fingers. It’s the one temptation Geralt can’t withstand, even if it’s no longer his siren who weaves the tunes. So, he leaves the room behind and pretends he can smell ranogrin, fool’s parsley and the saccharine scent of love.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #i truly do not know how tagging on here works anymore i am sorry i am ancient

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