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It was fine. It would be fine. Jaskier was used to it.
Really.
For more than thirty years, every relationship in his life had followed the same pattern. At first, it’d start fine. More than, even. People liked him easily. He was charming, eager and entertaining. And, perhaps most importantly, he liked people back just as easily as they did him.
But then, time would pass. Years, months, weeks, days or hours – it varied for everybody – and their perception of him would change. From charming he became annoying. From eager, needy. And entertainment turned into boredom in their eyes.
Every. Single. Time.
His parents, his siblings. The friends, neighbors and domestics he played with as a child. The countless acquaintances he was introduced to at every reception and event around Lettenhove. Then, the friends he had made at the Academy. His peers, his roommate, his teachers. Valdo. His lovers, were they of the hour or of the month. Stella, the innkeeper’s wife. Ivar the blacksmith. His countess. And now, his best friend. Geralt.
It was fine. Jaskier was used to it.
To the witcher’s credit – and Jaskier was thankful, and grateful and fuck, maybe he should’ve told him that, instead of leaving without a word, but maybe Geralt wouldn’t have wanted that, had wanted him gone, actually, the sooner the better – he had stayed the longest.
Endured the most, though it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Even if Geralt hadn’t been a witcher, and thus created to withstand the hardest trials, he was strong like that, selfless like that too. Even if he didn’t like to have it acknowledged.
Not that Jaskier considered himself more fearsome than anything that was part of Geralt’s daily life, no no, he amended with a wet chuckle at himself. There was no one around to hear it, anyway. So no, not more fearsome. More tiring, though, this yes.
It was fine. He was used to it.
It just… hurt.
It’d been a long time since it’d hurt like that. If he closed his eyes and concentrated on the throbbing pain in his chest, the constricting grip of his ribcage, it almost felt as if he were eighteen again. Young and naive and utterly confident the world was just waiting for him to step in it and make his way. Getting his first reality check, punching him in the gut.
He’d gotten back to his feet, then. He’d do the same this time too.
He’d forget. Time changed his loved ones’ perception of him, but it helped him forget as well. Helped him gather back his shattered heart and piece it back together, sometimes just a bit hardened, but more often than not just as soft and eager and desperate as it’d always been. Because even if, in the end, it hurt, Jaskier preferred it that way.
He wanted to keep on loving everyone he met, even if just for a few minutes. It might be short, or small, but it was never inconsequential. For, before time would transform love into irritation and a desire for closeness into one for distance, people were glad for him. Their eyes shone at being seen, their face flushed at being touched and their shoulders relaxed at being swept over.
And this, these memories Jaskier carried, of so many different faces, each lightened up, each beautiful and far from their personal troubles for a moment, made everything worth it. They gave a sense to his life. They were his destiny. He brought joy to the world, and no one could take that away from him.
Even when they sent him away.
It was the way Geralt’s lips would twitch up at something he’d said, at the end of a hard day. Or the way their knees would bump under the table as they’d stuff their faces with a warm meal. Or how he’d lean into every touch, tension seeping out of him when Jaskier would wash his hair, massage his back or snuggle closer in bed. The way Geralt would pretend to lose track of time and of the world around him as they’d come down from their high, panting and disheveled, just so he could stay in Jaskier’s arms without having to ask or point it out.
Twenty years of memories that he’d carry on, within him. Truly, he had enough to last until the rest of his days.
For tonight, the first one, the hardest one, he picked a tender moment amongst many. When Geralt had been moving against him, stripped bare and words choking on his tongue, words never said but certainly felt. Already, the memory warmed him slightly, chasing the chill that hadn’t left him, even though he was walking down the mountain.
It was fine, all fine. It’d keep on hurting for a while, he told himself as he gathered wood and stones to light a fire. Surely longer than with the others, but, one day, it’d lessen. Heartbreaks, moreover, were fertile grounds for songs.
Not much for songs that’d be liked in inns, villages and taverns, but perhaps he could use that opportunity to go to Calanthe’s court and see the – grown now – lion cub. Or take a more permanent position at the Academy. Or find Essi, or Priscilla, and spend some time with them. As long as Jaskier didn’t stay too long, his two greatest friends didn’t mind him.
His gut twisted with longing at the thought of going back to his friends, although, in the bottom of his heart, Jaskier knew it wasn’t Priscilla or Essi the feeling was directed to. Not really.
But Geralt had been more than clear and-
The trail of his thought stopped abruptly as he glanced up, absentmindedly, to the path. Geralt was here. At a turn, his feet coming to a stop, too far for Jaskier to read his expression, but looking like he was surprised to see him there.
Unease swarmed in his stomach, and Jaskier swallowed with difficulty. He felt too raw, now, to pretend like everything was fine for Geralt’s sake. Not one day had passed. Not even one. He hadn’t had the time to cry about it – it was silly, he readily admitted, to still be crying over something that usual for him, but he couldn’t stop himself. Besides, he’d found that crying helped push the incidents, as he called them, to the back of his mind, somewhere he would leave alone.
“Geralt,” he breathed out, just as surprised, but proud of how his voice hadn’t cracked, hadn’t shook, hadn’t betrayed him.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he had finally, truly, gotten used to being cast aside, and his heart wasn’t making him pay for hoping anymore. He didn’t know if he was glad for it, or not.
His gut twisted with the impression that it wasn’t a good feeling to get accustomed to.
Anyway, he didn’t tremble, or shake, or flinch when Geralt padded to him, still carrying their bag. His stance and steps were tentative, yet still held that undercurrent of determination Jaskier found so amazing to witness. “Jaskier,” Geralt said, grunted, frowning in disapproval at the way Jaskier had put the stones together for the fireplace, but laying down the bag and kneeling, rearranging the stones to his preference.
“What- what are you doing?” Jaskier asked, after staring at him, gobsmacked, for a minute.
“The stones should be closer, and you should’ve picked them bigger. These are pebbles. A gust of wind, and the fire is snuffed out. Stones are here to shield it, not to be arranged prettily.”
I know, Jaskier wanted to say. This was how Geralt thought fireplaces should be built and, with how the witcher could be stubborn with his habits – like any old man was – Jaskier had quickly learned to pick his battles.
When he built camp with Geralt, Jaskier always made sure to do it the way the witcher would do himself, the way he’d taught Jaskier how to, years ago. It was only when he travelled on his own that he built fireplaces to his liking, well aware Geralt would consider it a waste of time.
He hadn’t, for this specific fireplace, because he’d thought he’d be alone. Was Geralt staying? It looked like it.
Jaskier blinked at him for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Geralt was before him, close enough to touch if the circumstances were different. Like any other day.
How… peculiar.
But understandable. There was only one way down, after all, and a dangerous one. It made sense to do the path together, just for a couple days more, until circumstances would allow Geralt to finally take a different turn, one away from Jaskier.
Nodding to himself, Jaskier worked silently in setting up their small camp, as Geralt did, just as silently. They ate dried meat and a few roots Jaskier had picked during the day, sat on opposite sides of the burning fire.
In the end, unexpectedly, it was Geralt who spoke unprompted. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Jaskier froze. “I should’ve never talked to you like I did this morning. I was angry and you’re right, it wasn’t fair to you at all. So. I do apologize to you. Please accept it.”
Apologize? For a second, Jaskier could come up with nothing, his mind blank.
Then, Geralt’s words crashed back on him, striking and whipping. Tears built up in his eyes. Oh. “Oh.” He gasped and gaped, his head starting to spin. Geralt was apologizing, looking adorably put-off, and Jaskier’s heart could do nothing else but swell as he fell a bit more in love.
Stupid, and highly counterproductive, but he couldn’t help himself.
It wasn’t as if the feeling wasn’t already so deeply rooted within him that Jaskier felt that to ignore it would mean letting go of half of himself, anyway.
It was kind of Geralt to do that. To track Jaskier and apologize for how he’d sent him away. It had been unnecessarily harsh indeed, although Jaskier had an inkling that it had been more the result of the stress Geralt was under, with his child surprise and the dragon story and Borch and the entire world, added to Yennefer leaving him so abruptly and definitely, than a sudden change to Geralt’s unending patience when it came to him.
“It’s alright,” he promised. “I don’t- I didn’t blame you. Of course I forgive you. Thank you,” he added, softer, as Geralt’s frown smoothed out and disappeared.
“Good.”
Jaskier wouldn’t go as far as to agree, but he was glad Geralt had come to find him. The loss of patience in the way he’d addressed Jaskier had obviously bothered him, and Jaskier was happy he’d managed to ease the witcher’s self-blame.
Like a last souvenir, before the final farewell.
Final farewell… His shoulders shook with a sob at that. Thankfully, the thought had dawned on him as he’d gone a bit apart to hide a bit and his body reaction to the grief gnawing at his heart would remain unseen by Geralt.
To have someone stay because of pity would be the worst position Jaskier could find himself in. Sure, with each passing day and each unwanted departure, a part of him became more and more convinced that this was what was waiting for him. That the only way he wouldn’t end his life alone – something that scared him more than he could say – was to find someone kindhearted and spurned, someone like Geralt, and beg them to let him stay.
Not an easy feat.
He stayed away the time for his hands to stop trembling and every breath to stop bringing cold in his lungs instead of air. Only when he took a hold of himself did he came back to the light and the warmth of the fire and Geralt’s gaze.
“Cold?”
“I just ate.” Geralt nodded at that, well-aware Jaskier always tended to be a little cold after eating. “I’ll go lay down a bit, it’ll warm me up.”
His movements faltered and he stared a moment at their bedrolls, only noticing them now. Geralt had put them close, like usual, and it made Jaskier’s stomach tighten with a mix of confusion and nervousness. Still, he said nothing and laid down on his, the one closest to the fire.
Back turned to Geralt, facing the fire. It wouldn’t help with falling asleep, but he didn’t feel strong enough to gaze at his friend while said friend didn’t want him anymore.
The muscles in his neck tensed when he felt Geralt laying down behind him, moving so his chest rested against Jaskier’s back, warm and incomprehensible. Jaskier screwed his eyes shut to keep another wave of tears at bay.
His heart jumped in his chest when he felt the cold tip of Geralt’s nose brush along his neck. “Alright?”
Finding his voice failing him, Jaskier just nodded, glad Geralt couldn’t see him nor how lost he probably looked at the moment. Nothing made sense. What Geralt was doing didn’t make any sense and Jaskier didn’t understand a thing that went in his- the witcher’s head.
Jaskier didn’t understand.
But then, Geralt’s hand moved to slip under his shirt and Jaskier got it.
An ugly, bitter feeling clogged up his throat and for one second, he was split apart. One side screamed at him to recoil, to push Geralt away and shield whatever piece of his heart could be salvaged and whatever dignity he could save – not much – while the other yearned to take whatever Geralt wanted to give him, to have him melt under his touch, while he still could. One last time.
Oh Melitele, one last time.
Coming from a place within himself Jaskier couldn’t pinpoint even if his life depended on it, he hissed instead, “Don’t.”
Geralt’s hand stilled, but didn’t move away. “Sure. Goodnight, then, bard.”
But this was still too much. The hand was still there, warm on his skin. The reminder of an offer Jaskier was weak for. “Please. Geralt. You’re being cruel,” he croaked, struggling to keep a tight lid on his disarrayed emotions. It wasn’t working, and Jaskier felt like the situation was escaping his control like flowing water rushing through his fingers.
Immediately, he felt Geralt tense behind him. “Cr- what? Are you hurt?” Geralt pushed down on his shoulder, turning him on his back. Even with his eyes still closed, Jaskier could feel the witcher’s intent gaze on him, trying to spot something that would’ve previously escaped his notice. “Jaskier? Did you hurt yourself today?”
Since Geralt’s hand had been resting on his belly, it was there that Geralt tried to take a look at first, forcing Jaskier to open his eyes and move Geralt’s hands away from his skin and the hem of his shirt. “No.”
“Then what’s- You’re crying.” He wasn’t, although his mouth wobbled and his eyes burned with the urge to. “What’s wrong? How am I being cruel?”
“How?” he repeated, the question gritted between clenched teeth as to not shout it or dissolve with the sobs shaking his belly and going up and up and up. Jaskier surged to sit up. “I don’t get what you’re doing. You’re being kind, and thank you for that, for apologizing, you didn’t have to. But I- I can’t sleep with you tonight and never see you again after tomorrow,” he declared, more for his than Geralt’s sake. “Please don’t ask me to. That’s unnecessary cruel. I get it.”
The last two sentences ended up lost, because Jaskier barely spoke them louder than a murmur, and because Geralt’s flinch echoed as loud as a slap. “Never- But you said it was alright, you said you’ve forgiven me,” he stammered, his frown deepening and deepening and deepening.
As did Jaskier’s horror at the sight. That this sight, and not the lovely, sweet sight of Geralt’s face being smoothed out by Jaskier’s words, would be the last one he’d get. “No, it is. Alright. It’s fine, it’s all fine.” His hands flew around uselessly, as always looking for something to do, somewhere to anchor themselves. As they did for the past decades, they ended on Geralt’s shoulders. “I do forgive you.”
“Then what are you talking about? Never seeing you again after tomorrow?”
The puzzlement and gruffness that accompanied it caught Jaskier off guard. “I suppose you’re right, yes, we never know what the future might entail and maybe, one day, we’ll cross path again.” Jaskier refused to let the bubble of hope nestle near his heart.
“Jaskier. Why are you talking about leaving?”
What did he mean, why? “Because you asked me to.”
“I said I was sorry. You said you forgave me.”
That wasn’t what happened. “You apologized for shouting at me, not for what you said.”
“I did. I do. I didn’t mean it. I apologize for everything.”
Jaskier shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”
Another flinch, and Geralt’s scowl deepened further. But his hand sneaked Jaskier’s and held it tight. “Alright. I understand. If you want to leave for a while then of course you can-”
Jaskier huffed. “I don’t want to leave! You’re the one who wants me to leave. You’re the one who sends me away. And now, what? You want me to stay?”
“I do.”
“It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t happen that way!” he shouted, the truth echoing thanks to the mountain, hammering it down. As if it were needed. As if Jaskier needed the reminder. “No one wants me to stay, not for long. And you… you’ve already withstood my presence the longest- I mean, there were the breaks during winters, every year, sure, but still. It was always… to be expected, that you would want it to stop, at some point.”
“Withstood your presence?” Geralt repeated, a growl truly, leaving a long space between the words.
“Yes. You know, it’s funny because I’ve always thought the reason why you hadn’t snapped yet was because you didn’t really like me from the get-go. That I sort of grew on you over the years. That the pattern wouldn’t exist with you because, from the start, it was different. Reversed.”
Staring straight at him, Geralt’s hands moved to cup his cheeks and tilt his face slightly up. He leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut when Jaskier did the same, wanting another kiss. It was a meaningful one, way too close to the ones Jaskier would give Geralt when he’d try to convey without words how much he meant to him. Without saying the three words that, instead of gaining an answer from the witcher, would send him away.
A kiss that brought a meaning, and thus more questions than probably expected, what with Jaskier struggling to wrap his mind around the turn the evening took.
“I want it to be different. Whatever pattern you’re talking about here, Jaskier, I don’t want to be part of it.”
Geralt punctuated that declaration with another kiss. Another truth hammered down, though in a much more delightful manner. One Jaskier’s heart welcomed all too readily, wrapping around it and keeping it snug and safe and cherished.
His eyes, when he opened them back as they leaned slightly away, held a dazed look that sparked something in Geralt’s.
“I want you to stay, Jaskier.”
“But why?” The spark in Geralt’s eyes snuffed out. As soon as he heard himself speak the words, Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a small grimace. “Sorry. Sorry. That just slipped out. You don’t have to answer that.” Jaskier was babbling. The face Geralt made when he was bothered by something deepened, and so Jaskier babbled, still feeling unsettled by Geralt’s – his friend’s? – reaction. “It’s fine. I trust you,” he wanted to trust him, wanted it so badly it was getting him choked up, “if you want me to stay,” yes, yes, yes, “I’ll stay. You don’t have to-”
“Because you make my life better. Because I miss you when you’re not here. Because I care, whether you’re near me or not, whether you want to or not, and whether you’re happy about it or not. I want you to be happy, always.”
It took Geralt tracing his mouth with a finger to realize he was smiling. It took feeling his head start to spin to realize his breath had been stolen from him.
As for whether he wanted to stay too, it took nothing at all. He’d known that all his life, from the very first day they’d met.
“You can trust me,” Geralt added.
“I do, I do. It’s not that I don’t, it’s only that I’m not used to it. To people wanting me to stay. It’s usually the opposite.”
He was very much aware of the sweet irony of the situation. And, judged by the flash of recognition in Geralt’s eyes, so was he.
For a moment, they stayed silent, gazing at each other, and sharing a common memory of a similar conversation that had happened, years ago.
“Then,” Geralt said quietly, one eyebrow slowly rising, repeating the words Jaskier had asserted to him, the first time the witcher had warned him of the repulsion society held for mutants. “I guess I’ll have to be the exception. You’d better get used to it, because I’m staying.”
Warmth spread in Jaskier’s chest. His mouth curled into a grin. Back then, Geralt hadn’t said anything. Merely grunted and looked away and arranged the stones tighter around the hearth, to shield it better. Back then, they had only travelled together for a week or two, and Jaskier had won Geralt’s belief over slowly. Day after day.
Now, though, the situation was a bit different. Even though a part of him wobbled forward, unsettled or, better yet, tentative, Jaskier believed Geralt instantly. Trusted him even more. It was the way he was, the way he’d always been, yes, but also coupled with the fact that Geralt’s promise had already proved to be right.
Squeezing the bulking frame closer to him, Jaskier nodded. “I’ll get used to it.” And it was a promise, too, not unlike the first one he’d made to Geralt, all those years ago, and the countless ones that had followed.