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One would think after twenty years of pining and loving a man, if that love would be the cause of Jaskier’s demise, said demise would’ve been done with long ago. It was, naturally, once things had calmed that said demise arrived on his doorstep. The first time it happened, Jaskier had hardly noticed. When Geralt’s strong hands lingered on his arm, preventing him from tripping, Jaskier felt a lump in his throat. His heart fluttered. (Its usual traitorous response to Geralt’s attention.) His throat tightened. He coughed, feeling himself hack something up into his mouth, but swallowed it back down assuming it to be some kind of phlegm.
How wrong he was, swallowing back that first petal, choking however briefly on his affections.
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