Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ciri sorted through the mail, annoyed to find that, once more, her CD had not come. Junk mail, coupons, the newspaper, more junk, an ad for a new local restaurant, and a letter. She groaned, looking at the name of the recipient. Geralt’s name was printed with fancy lettering—done in gold foil this time. She carried it into the living room where her father was sitting on the couch, typing away on his tablet, their lazy cat Roach curled up sleepily on his feet. She tossed the letter on the keyboard.

“Mail call. Your imaginary boyfriend again,” she said. She flopped down next to him to read the restaurant ad, see if they did delivery. She was dying for new Chinese take-out.

“Not imaginary. And not my boyfriend,” Geralt replied. “Besides, at a certain age, it’s juvenile to still use that title.” He turned the envelope over to read. “Hm. Bought a foil pen,” he said.

“You know him and his letters.” She reached toward the coffee table, picking up a fancy pen knife from the kit which had made its home on the center display. “He has a tool for everything these days: wax seals, paper texturing. And here; your fancy ‘Julian letter’ letter opener.”

Geralt accepted it with a sigh. “Don’t call it that,” he grumbled.

“It’s not like he sent it for you to open junk mail with. Hey, look; want to get more information on your car’s extended warranty?”

Geralt picked the envelope from her. “That’s a phone scam. This is a mortgage scam.”

“Potato, tomato,” she said. She stole the envelope back and tossed it with the other junk on the coffee table. “Go on, open it. I want to hear how his trip to Lyria went. He promised to send pictures of the old castle this time.”

“You and your castles.” Geralt chuckled, sliding the point of the knife under the fold of the letter. “Hoping to add them to your collection on the board?”

“Can I? It’s not like you ever do anything nice with them. We should get you a photo album so you stop tossing them in boxes. I’m sure he’d appreciate my display much more.”

“We’ll have to send him a picture of it in the next letter.”

Geralt pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. A pile of polaroids fell out onto his lap in a heap. Roach opened her eyes, peeking up from her spot under the coffee table. She sniffed at a fallen picture with a curious chirrup. Frowning at the mass of photographs, Geralt picked up the envelope again, turning it over to inspect the front.

It had five stamps.

“He would save a lot on postage if he just used a phone,” Ciri said, picking up the stray pictures from the floor. “At least he’s learned to put cardboard in with them so they don’t bend.”

“Why don’t you use your phone? You’d save money on film.”

“Where’s the romance in that? Polaroids are nostalgic. He just sucks at taking them half the time is all; I’m not sure it’s worth the postage. At least with a phone he could practice for free.”

Geralt’s lip quirked up in the hint of a smile. Julian knew he collected stamps. Sometimes, Geralt would cut them from the envelope to add to his collection. Sometimes he kept the envelope whole. Julian liked to send stamps from all the places he travelled as a little souvenir, knowing that Geralt didn’t have much time for travelling these days. Not since Ciri had come into his life. Geralt set the envelope fondly to the side. He began to read the letter while Ciri looked through the pictures.

“The castle gardens are in bloom; he’s pressed some flowers to send in the next letter. Lots of rain there. He has business in the city this week, meeting an old college friend.”

Ciri peeked over his shoulder. “That’s college ‘fiend,’” she corrected.

“Probably Mark then,” Geralt said, forgetting the name. Julian more often referred to the ‘fiend’ with colorful insults and curses. Geralt had only seen the name used perhaps twice in the fifteen years they’d been writing one another.

With a cry of triumph, Ciri held up a picture of the castle. “Finally, a clear shot! He moved the camera in half of these.” She tucked the prized picture in her shirt pocket before rooting through the rest. “Did he write anything else?” she asked.

Geralt skimmed the letter for what might interest Ciri. “A few lines of a poem,” he replied.

She groaned in disgust. “His poetry sucks. He can’t rhyme for shit.”

With a chuckle, Geralt watched Ciri retreat to her room, prize in hand. “Take a picture of your board for him. I’ll send out a letter next week,” he called.

“So within the next month,” she called back.

It was an unfortunately reasonable assumption. It wasn’t such a difficult task, but Geralt had a habit of putting off written correspondence. Even his emails stacked up, and those were less effort than writing out a letter and shoving it in an envelope.

Thankfully, Julian didn’t mind. He was often between here and there and did not return home to check his mail for months at a time. Sending letters was easier for him than receiving them. So, to help balance things out, Geralt did his best to make his letters longer, even if he didn’t have an art for it. Ciri was better at those things, always suggesting little tidbits he could include in the envelope to make it more interesting. Even his longer letters were … embarrassingly short on reflection. Julian’s ‘notes’ were theses by comparison.

Geralt had sent many pictures over the years. When Ciri had been younger, he’d sent some of her stickers pasted on the letter. He wasn’t one for pressing flowers, but he’d shared cut-outs from the newspaper of funny personal ads and comic strips. Julian had sent a blurry picture of them hung on his fridge alongside Ciri’s drawings.

When she wasn’t making fun, Ciri called Julian ‘uncle.’ He was rather like an uncle—of the extended kind you never really meet. They send nice cards for holidays and such, and they feature in interesting stories, but without a face, children tend to shrug and forget about them half the time. True to form, they hadn’t met before.

It was a ridiculous friendship, the way the best of them always begin. They’d been assigned as pen pals in a program during high school when they were younger. Geralt’s class had been forced to do it as part of the curriculum. Julian had volunteered. He’d sent so many letters between the start of the program and graduation—long after the semester-long program had ended—that it had become a habit. Julian sent letters almost weekly. Geralt was closer to monthly. If that.

But the nuisance had become something to rely on, like the turning of the season. Then it had become a little joy, like watching the spring flowers turn to summer rains, then the falling leaves to winter snow. Julian went from being little more than an annoying, persistent over-achiever to becoming an actual friend. A best friend. And over the years, someone irreplaceable.

They’d met once by chance. Geralt had been travelling for work, and Julian had been taking his college graduation trip, exploring the world before joining the workforce. They happened upon each other in a pub in Posada. Julian had been singing, and Geralt recognized the song from one of his letters. It made for an awkward meeting. Until then, Geralt had not known what Julian looked like. He’d never have imagined up anyone quite like him. He’d found it difficult to speak at first.

They’d spent the week together, as much as was possible with their obligations. Five days, really. Four nights. After the first night, they shared a hotel room—Julian had not made it back to his that first night, they spent so long staying up, simply talking. Well, Julian talked. Geralt liked to listen. After that, they’d determined separating would be a waste of their short time.

Julian started sending pictures after that, finding it hilarious that they’d never thought to exchange them before. He’d gone out to buy an instant camera that very week for the purpose. Geralt hadn’t been so sophisticated; he’d gotten a disposable camera from the grocery store, and it had taken him six months to use the whole roll of film. It wasn’t until Ciri had grown old enough to take an interest in photography that they’d gotten a real camera.

Geralt smiled, looking at one of the blurry pictures Julian had sent. He had no skill with a camera whatsoever, but Ciri had begun taking some very nice pictures, and in quite a short span of time. Julian had sent a nice polaroid camera for her thirteenth birthday a few months ago. Now it was all she talked about.

Besides Jaskier.

Not five minutes in her room and already Geralt could hear the music blasting through her door. One day he swore she’d burst an eardrum.

Jaskier was her idol. Her musical obsession. She’d been swept up in the wave of his popularity two years ago, and the wave just kept growing as he released new music. He’d started with a few hit singles on the radio, then put out a full album a year later. Now, she was waiting every day for the mail to arrive with his latest CD.

He was old-fashioned, something fans claimed was part of his appeal, and he did not release music digitally until after the physical releases. Ciri had begged for a record player in anticipation of a vinyl release, but Geralt had decided to make her wait until their next visit to the family home. Vesemir would have one squirreled away in the attic somewhere.

Geralt tucked the letter back in its envelope along with the rejected photos, taking a moment to look through them. He smiled to see that half of them were blurry or over exposed. The only times Julian ever managed to send decent photos were with the help of his friend Priscilla. After collecting so many pictures, Geralt had a pretty good idea of who’d taken which photos just by looking at them. Selfies were Julian’s worst offenders, all thumbs and blurs and poorly cropped faces. He’d once sent a picture that was just the top of his hair. Not even in focus.

In putting away the photos, Geralt found something more. On the back of the letter was a note:

Check the box.

With a chuckle, Geralt set his things to the side. He returned to his tablet, taking up a pair of headphones. He opened the familiar bookmark on his browser. Some years ago, Julian had set up a shared dropbox. Sure enough, there was a new audio file in the folder.

Soft instrumentals played. Fumbling in places. Julian never sent anything polished. He never even listened to his recordings, he confessed once. He sent them before he grew too nervous to delete them. Geralt liked the rough experimentation. It was, in a way … intimate. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine they were sitting right next to one another. It would be nice. He could work while Julian played, just … being separate … together.

The music ended on a shy cough.

Geralt sighed and started the recording over.

The cursor blinked at Geralt against the blank white document. He deleted the sentence again. ‘Ciri thinks you should get a phone,’ he wrote. He was never one for putting headings or greetings in his letters, jumping right in. ‘It’s a good idea. They have maps and email,’ and before he could start a list of the virtues of technology, he deleted the line until he was left with, ‘It’s a good idea.’

Julian’s next letter followed a week later.

‘Just say you miss the melodious sound of my voice.’

‘Hard to miss something I can barely remember,’ Geralt wrote.

That was their dialogue. A continuing conversation at the top of every letter, back and forth. Then, beneath it, all the things that gave a letter its true bulk.

‘I feel like we talk every day. I can hear your voice so clearly in your letters. I’m sure you would remember my voice if you heard it. I could pick yours out of a crowd.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to hear me in a crowd.’

‘You’re right. You speak so gently. I remember that well.’

Geralt remembered that Julian spoke with an accent. When he wrote as much, Julian was offended by the lack of detail. His voice was the subject of much adoration and flattery, he proclaimed; to not even describe the accent was insulting.

‘Posh,’ Geralt returned. ‘Fake posh.’

‘I have half a mind to fly out to Kaedwen and drive up to your door just to scold you so that you can hear exactly how not fake, not posh my voice is. I’m a man of the people! Eloquent, but not posh. You see if I don’t end up on your front mat by the end of the month.’

‘You should.’

Geralt paused, staring at the simple sentence. They hadn’t seen each other in … six years, he counted. Not since Posada. Not since the week he fell in love.

His hands hovered on the keys. He looked at the backspace key, staring at it what felt like hours. He tapped it lightly, not enough to press down, still debating. His fingers flew over the keys before he could lose his nerve. He printed the letter, folded it, stuffed it in a ready envelope, and hurried down to the lobby. He dropped it into the outgoing mail as the blood rushed through his veins. The box stared back at him. There was no changing his mind now.

The reply came, as always, within a week.

Within days.

Posted express.

From pages and pages of textured, scented, colored papers that were folded and crammed until the flap threatened to give out, stuffed with stickers and flowers and photos, littered with trinkets and fancy lettering, sealed with ribbons and wax, addressed with gold foil and scented glitter pens, stamped with enough stamps to fund the post office single-handed in the top right corner—from this habitual standard, Julian deviated. He sent a thin letter. One stamp. One page. One word.

‘When?’

As ever, Geralt found a way to say the least, though his short reply spoke ringing volumes.

‘Now.’

Ciri flopped face-first onto the couch, groaning into the pillow she’d just finished stuffing into a case. In doing so, she messed up the nicely folded sheets stacked under it, startling Roach from her perch on the back of the couch in addition. When she sat up, she tossed them all onto the coffee table and sank to the floor, her arms folded across her chest.

“It’s not fair,” she groused for the tenth time. “Why did he have to come today? Six years and you guys finally find the time to have a visit the week of the concert. Why couldn’t he just come next week? Or better yet, why can’t you two hang out together and drop me off?”

Roach twitched her tail in annoyance, hiding behind Geralt’s legs. Geralt picked up the littered bedding, ignoring the teenage tirade. He tossed the pillow at her and nodded towards the guest room. “The sooner you stop complaining, the sooner you’ll remember how excited you were when he said he’s coming. Now help me make the bed.”

“What’s there to be excited about? It’s not as if he and I will get a chance to talk; you’re probably going to end up talking over my head. I’m not going to get a single word in edgewise while you make eyes at each other. It’s not like Julian wants to talk to me when you’re right here. So I should try later once it’s all out of your system. You don’t even have to drop me off; I can get a ride by myself! Jaskier’s supposed to be presenting a new song for the very first time!”

Reluctantly, she took one end of the fitted sheet and helped Geralt tuck the corners.

“Julian invited us to listen to him play before your concert was announced,” Geralt said, “and you already agreed to come. Remember how excited you were? You were bragging to your friends about going to your first ‘indie gig’ the other day.”

“But Jaskier is playing in town! He’s never come to such a small venue—he always plays in the big coastal cities. He’ll probably never tour here again!”

Geralt sighed. “Julian and I have led busy lives in recent years. He’s been building his career, and you and I have been settling in together. Now, things have finally slowed down enough where we can be in one place for a time. But,” he added, “Julian’s career is picking up again soon and he’ll be travelling a lot more if things go well for him. We may not have another chance to see him for a long time. On the other hand, Jaskier’s been touring more; I’m sure there will be many chances to see him in concert in the future.”

Ciri sat on the foot of the bed, glaring at the coverlet as Geralt turned down the top. “You owe me,” she muttered.

“I know. And maybe we can fly out to see his next show. I have some vacation time.”

Ciri was quiet, but at last the crease between her brows softened. Her shoulders sagged and she nodded. She wasn’t happy, but it was a start.

“You know, Julian said he’d have a present for you,” Geralt said encouragingly.

Ciri perked up at that. Cautiously, she tilted her head back. “What kind of present?” she asked.

Geralt smiled secretively. “It’s a surprise,” he replied.

Once more, Ciri groaned and flopped face-first onto the pillow, messing up the freshly-made bed. But Geralt didn’t mind. At least for now he would be able to treasure a few precious hours of peace and quiet. Very soon, once Julian arrived with Ciri’s gift, Geralt would become close friends with his noise-cancelling headphones.

As the morning wore on, Ciri began to fidget. The reality of the prospect of meeting Julian began to settle in. For the first time, she was about to meet the man she called uncle. She’d known uncles. She had four of them—Eskel, Lambert, Cöen, and Aiden. Plenty of experience. But this was different. This wasn’t one of Geralt’s brothers. This was someone closer. Someone who’d been a long time coming.

Twice she’d asked Geralt if he and Julian were dating. He’d answered in vague terms. She’d then asked if they were keeping things separate for her own sake, waiting until she’d grown comfortable enough to accept someone new into the family. Geralt had denied the suggestion, but Ciri couldn’t help wondering.

It had been difficult, at first: living with Geralt. It had been a hard adjustment. Her parents had died at sea—an old-fashioned statement that felt so detached and ridiculous that she long thought it was an excuse her grandmother had made up. She thought her parents had abandoned her for a long time, or else their deaths were something more vile.

Death had been something abstract back then … until the day the men raided their complex. Political fanatics. Her grandmother hadn’t survived the attack. A neighbor managed to smuggle Ciri out the back through the fire escape, but he’d not made it through the alley. Geralt had come after seeing the live news report, and he’d found her running lost through the city.

Living with him had taken time to get used to. His apartment was smaller than the condo she’d been accustomed to. He was always working. Babysitting was one thing—raising a child was another. There would not come an hour when her grandmother would return to the door, a car waiting downstairs with takeout in the backseat. Ciri had a room in his apartment. All her things were moved. She learned where to find the mailroom and the laundry. Geralt learned how to fill out paperwork for school. He learned how to talk to a young girl. He learned to take fewer hours at work. It took time, but they found family in one another. Now, he was her own true father, just as if he’d always been.

Which was why she felt so comfortable bullying him for being an anti-social shut-in.

“Your longest relationship and you’ve only ever met him once. You could easily be on an episode of ‘Catfish’ one day,” she said. “Watch him turn out to be some kind of serial killer. If I die before getting to see Jaskier in concert, Grandma and I are going to haunt you forever.”

Geralt lowered his book to grin sarcastically at her. “Ciri. I’ve known him since high school. He’s too stupid to be a serial killer.”

“It’s a cover,” she reasoned. “Nobody would ever suspect him. It would be the perfect alibi.”

“If you’re bored enough to be spiraling into conspiracies, you can do a load of laundry.”

She scoffed. “I’m not that bored.” Impatiently, she propped her chin up on the arm of the couch, staring at the door with drooping eyes. “What time is he coming?” she asked.

Geralt checked the clock a third time. “His plane was scheduled to land at eleven. He should be pulling up anytime now.”

She grumbled, pushing her face into the cushion. “This is why he needs a phone.”

Truth be told, Geralt was getting impatient as well. He’d been trying to read the same page over and over and he’d not taken in a single word of it. The thought that Julian would be arriving soon had him wanting to pace the floor, but he held himself back. The last thing he wanted was for Ciri to see him nervous. It would only agitate her further.

He turned the pages back until he found his bookmark. Julian’s familiar face smiled back at him from the photograph. The edges were bent from many years of use, the little red heart drawn in marker had faded, and the film was slightly scratched, but the smile remained as bright as ever. ‘Love, Julian’ was written at the bottom. Innocuous words. He’d always signed his letters the same, from the very first. It meant nothing, but Geralt liked to pretend there might be some truth in them in recent years. He closed his book, hiding the picture away.

Ciri heard the book close and turned around. “Are you done reading?” she asked.

Geralt nodded and stood to put away his book.

“Can I watch TV?” she called after him. “The morning show advertised an interview with Jaskier all week. If I can’t hear it live at the concert, I at least want to hear the news about the new song and see what he has to say.”

“It’s all yours.”

Noise filled the living room as the TV flared to life. Geralt listened to the calming buzz of talk-show chatter filter through his bedroom door as he checked over his room for the hundredth time. He’d put away all the laundry and straightened up his desk. Roach’s toys were all sequestered and she’d been brushed clean. Of all of them, she was the most at ease, curled up on Geralt’s pillow contentedly, without a care in the world for all the fuss and bother, lying on her catnip mouse.

Roach’s ear twitched at the sound of the doorbell.

“I’ve got it!” Ciri called.

Geralt’s heart began to race. He looked himself over in his mirror, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He reached up a hand to pat his hair down when Ciri let out a piercing shriek.

Roach bristled, jumping from the bed to race into the closet.

Geralt turned on his heel and dashed for the door.

The door slammed and Ciri almost collided with Geralt in the living room. She started shouting in an incoherent rush, dancing around Geralt, shaking him by his shoulders.

“Oh my god! He’s—! How did you—! Did you enter a contest? You entered a contest! I can’t believe it! I love you! I love you! I love you!”

Geralt looked to the door. “Ciri—is Julian still—?”

The doorbell rang again, somehow sounding hesitant.

Ciri gasped, hands flying to her face. “Oh my god. I shut the door on him,” she whispered. She buried her face in her hands. “Oh my g-o-o-o-d.”

Geralt looked at her a moment in confusion, but before he could decide between her and the door, Ciri ran past him. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Then, she opened the door slowly, as if something might jump out from behind and surprise her.

Julian stood on the other side, a suitcase at his feet, awkwardly holding an electric blue guitar wrapped up with a bow. He caught Geralt’s eye and waved with a nervous smile.

“I, uh. Guess she likes the guitar,” he said. He stood in the doorway, avoiding eye contact. “Ah, hello? It’s nice to—um … well, not exactly meet you. I mean, I guess you,” he said, pointing to Ciri, “but not you. Again, I guess? Long time, no see! Shit, I had this whole thing pl—oof!”

Julian grunted as Ciri flung her arms around his middle, squeezing him like a cobra. She stared up at him with dazzling eyes.

“My name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” she said. “And this is my dad, Geralt.”

Julian looked at her, then snorted. “Yes, I know who you are, little cub,” he said, giving her an affectionate ruffle. He looked at Geralt, laughter in his eyes. “What a polite and extremely formal greeting! Which is … somehow also overwhelmingly affectionate. She’s been living with you too long, Geralt.”

Geralt reached over to pick up Julian’s suitcase. “Ciri,” he said. “Let Julian get all the way through the door before you start clinging. You’ll make him drop your guitar.”

“Julian? What do you mean Julian?”

“Erm. He means me?” Julian said, trying to point at himself without dropping the guitar. “Julian. I’m Julian. The funny-looking man you’re currently suffocating in your grip.” He looked up at Geralt, expression one of deep confusion. “She’s not in the habit of flinging herself at handsome strangers, I should hope. She has another good five years to go before hitting that age. Come on, girl; you’ve read my letters. You do know me, don’t you? At least, you’re crushing me like you know me.”

Ciri’s grip loosened. She looked up at Julian, truly looking. She looked at the ridiculous patches on his jacket—souvenir patches from the Continent’s natural parks, pride patches, a unicorn, and a dozen different flowers. She had three to match on her backpack. On his suitcase, a luggage tag printed over with yellow buttercups—a birthday gift she had helped Geralt choose last summer. And on the suitcase itself were dozens of stickers she had folded up between the pages of countless letters. And on his wrist, the braided friendship bracelet she’d sent him a month ago.

“… You’re … my uncle? My uncle Julian?”

A sudden burst of applause from the TV momentarily attracted the attention of everyone present. All eyes turned toward the figure on the screen, smiling at the studio audience from his place behind the mic. A colorful bracelet spun on his wrist as he waved. That same hand strummed the opening note of a song on an electric blue guitar as the crowd went wild. The people cheered his name and the man began to sing.

Geralt and Ciri both turned back to look at that same man standing in the room beside them. It slowly sank in as the cheering crowd chanted his name.

Jaskier. Julian was Jaskier.

“You’re the singer,” Geralt said.

“What? Yes—no—yes? I do do that. Singing, I mean. Professionally,” he sputtered. “You already know this. Why—why are you looking at me like that?” Julian asked.

“You’re that singer. On the TV. The famous one.”

Julian—Jaskier clutched the guitar in front of his chest, shifting his weight nervously. “Well, I suppose I’ve made a few appearances on TV, recently, though I’d hardly call that fame. But this is not new information! We’ve talked about this at length, Geralt.”

“The fuck we have.”

Carefully, Jaskier peeled Ciri’s arms off of him, looking at Geralt with growing irritation. “I send you my new music all the time! I’m always complaining about life on the road and the frustration that comes with booking gigs. We could fill a book with all we’ve written about Priss and Essi on tour. I’m sure I’ve droned on and on about my horror of interviews.”

Geralt thought back on the letters with a fresh perspective. “I thought you meant gigs in a dive bar somewhere. And you only ever mentioned being interviewed for a podcast.” He squinted his eyes at Jaskier accusingly. “You never said you were famous.”

Jaskier waved a hand at the screen. “You can’t say this is the first time I’ve popped up on your screen. I mean, look at that! I’m right there! Did you never make the connection? For fuck’s sake, Geralt—you gave me my stage name!”

“You did what?” Ciri cried.

Jaskier set the guitar down, nodding at Ciri as he bent. “I once criticized your father’s lack of letter-writing etiquette in school. He would never open with a greeting. I sent him a whole list of delightful phrases, and for eight whole letters, he wrote ‘What’s up, Buttercup’ at the top of the paper, just to annoy me. And, well, the word for ‘buttercup’ in Kaedwen being ‘Jaskier,’ I kind of adopted the name.”

Ciri screeched. “Oh my god, you named him Jaskier? I need my phone—where’s my phone?”

Jaskier snatched it as soon as it was out of her pocket. “Nope. No tweeting or texting that out. I’m not about to entangle your father in a lot of paparazzi nonsense. People have been asking about the name for quite some time now—if word gets out about that, they’ll be at your door in a minute.”

Geralt stared blankly at Jaskier, watching him shove Ciri’s phone into his jacket pocket like a father confiscating a child’s annoying kazoo, naturally as could be. The idea that his Julian could be someone famous just didn’t connect in his brain. In spite of his loud fashion sense and the guitar, he looked so ordinary. If Ciri hadn’t identified him, Geralt would never had known.

“You’re the singer my daughter worships,” he said, trying to make sense of it.

Jaskier nodded. “Evidently, by the burst eardrum.”

Ciri had grown quiet for a whopping ten seconds, some new idea lighting up her brain. Suddenly, she took Jaskier’s hand, looking up at him with stars in her eyes. “Wait,” she breathed. “Does this mean the ‘gig’ you invited us to is your concert?"

Jaskier looked shyly at her. “Oh. Yes. I, um, brought these for you to come backstage with me.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out two lanyards with backstage passes. He hesitated before handing them to her.

Ciri looked like her legs were ready to give out.

Jaskier looked from her to Geralt. He took a step toward him, then whispered, “Can we talk a moment? Before she passes out on the floor?”

Geralt patted Ciri’s shoulder. “Go check the mail,” he said. “Your CD might be waiting.”

“Who cares about the CD? Jaskier’s literally right here!”

“Ciri. Please.”

She turned to argue further. Before she could, she saw the look of discomfort on Jaskier’s face. The words died on her tongue and she grimaced. “Oh … yeah, I’ll … I’ll go and see,” she said quietly. She stepped around Jaskier’s things, looking back at him as if he might disappear. He offered her an awkward wave and she hurried out the door, looking red.

“I have pictures of her on my fridge, her smile full of missing teeth,” Jaskier said.

Geralt nodded. “She has pictures of you and the band in her locker at school.” He hadn’t seen it, but she’d talked about it.

Jaskier frowned. “Not of me,” he said. “Not of Julian.”

“Do you want to have a seat?”

Geralt guided them toward the couch. In the quiet, Roach creeped out, the disturbance gone. She edged around the couch as Jaskier sat down, watching carefully at this new intruder.

Jaskier looked around the apartment, taking it in for the first time. “It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” he said. He took up one of the throw pillows, hugging it in his lap as he sat cross-legged. “You’ve got lots of pictures on the walls. I wish I’d sent you more of mine; then she might not have been surprised. I might’ve still been … normal to her.”

“Give her a day to adjust. Once you start talking to her, she’ll get used to you. You’ll be her weird uncle Julian again.”

“Weird uncle?” Jaskier asked. He smiled a moment, but he sighed again shortly after. “So you really didn’t know? About me, I mean?”

Geralt shook his head. “Still trying to conceptualize it.”

“I’d be a bit insulted if you were anyone else. At least you’re taking it all in stride.”

“I’m not a thirteen-year-old girl with a celebrity crush.”

 Jaskier winced.

“On Priscilla,” Geralt clarified. “She’s your fan by association.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sighed with relief. “So I’m just her backstage ticket is what you’re saying.”

“She’s also a fan of your singing. Though not of your poetry.”

Jaskier looked affronted. “And just what is wrong with my poetry?”

Geralt grinned. “She says you can’t rhyme for shit.”

“And she says she’s a fan! Does she not know that I wrote all those rhymes in those songs she loves so much? I can rhyme anything!”

Geralt looked at him dubiously. “You once rhymed ‘orange’ with ‘porringer’ in a poem about breakfast. We thought you’d made the word up. We had to break out the dictionary.”

“It works!” Jaskier protested. “Fuck, it’s second grade English all over again! It’s a real word and I won’t hear any arguments about it!”

“Porringer might work, but you can’t shorten it to ‘porringe.’ At least, not the way you tried to use it. It’s not a noun.”

It was a verb. They’d researched extensively.

“I was a literary genius. And I was six. I thought that’s what porridge was called.”

“And this is why you could never be a serial killer.”

Jaskier squinted at Geralt, tilting his head. “A what?”

Geralt cleared his throat. “Never mind. Just something Ciri and I joked about.”

They looked at each other a moment. Then, they chuckled comfortably.

Roach clawed at Jaskier’s jeans, testing the water. She mewled for attention. Not one to be ignored, she headbutted Jaskier’s leg, then jumped up to meow in his face when he proved too slow for her taste.

“Well hell-o my little lady! I’ve been waiting many long years to finally kiss this little nose!”

She pawed his face with distaste before he could try.

“She won’t let you touch her,” Geralt explained, “but she wants you to admire her anyway.”

“And indeed I do! Such glossy fur! Such piercing eyes! And that commanding voice of yours—you could lead an army of lions, the mightiest of them all!”

Roach’s tail twitched. She looked pleased.

The tension was gone. Jaskier relaxed into the couch. He uncrossed his legs, stretching out, and dropped his feet into Geralt’s lap, making himself at home.

“Now this is what I was looking forward to,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, stretching so hard he grunted with the effort before settling himself against the cushions. “I mean to make myself an overly-familiar nuisance to you during my stay. You’ll forget you ever heard the word ‘boundaries’ in your life. I’m sick of letters. I want to throw myself at you, poke and prod you, confirm that you’re a real person in the flesh. And I do appreciate that toned flesh, might I add. Much better than your pictures. Come, give us a hug! You’re built just right for them.”

Geralt scoffed, picking up Roach instead. “You’re very forward,” he said.

“Oh, forgive me if fifteen years of flirtation is too fast for you. I might as well have asked you to fuck me over the arm of the couch.”

Geralt suppressed that mental image before he could have a mind to fixate on it.

“Fifteen years?” he asked.

Jaskier looked at him. “Well … yes. I don’t call just anyone ‘darling’ in my letters, you know. And I’m not one to send romantic poetry to casual friends. And I certainly don’t go around singing on stage for thousands of people a lot of songs … about … um …”

His eyes flickered from Geralt’s face to his shoes. Slowly, he withdrew his feet from Geralt’s lap. He cleared his throat, tucking his feet over the side.

“You really don’t know anything about my music, do you?”

Geralt pet Roach with gentle strokes, looking at the far wall to avoid Jaskier’s eye. “I … like the things you send me. Your instrumentals.”

“But you’ve never heard the words.”

Geralt shook his head.

Jaskier bit his lip. He looked down at his hands, rubbing the pads of his fingers together in thought. “I wonder if you should then,” he murmured.

He’d been flirting. Geralt thought of the many endearments that had littered Jaskier’s letters. How for many years now, he’d signed each letter with ‘Love Julian’ at the end.

Love.

He looked at Jaskier, huddled in the corner of the couch. He looked so small and uncertain.

“You must be frustrated with me,” Geralt said.

Jaskier looked up. “Come again?” he asked.

Geralt set Roach down on the carpet. “You must be frustrated,” he repeated. “Fifteen years of flirting and I’ve hardly given you a hint of an reply.”

Jaskier snorted. “I never would have expected one from you really. You’re a very dense person when you want to be. I often wondered if you’d even noticed—I guess I don’t have to wonder now though. I know.”

“But you don’t know that I love you.”

Jaskier’s head whipped up, eyes wide. “Wha—! You—! Just like that?”

“Since Posada,” Geralt confessed. “But I’d written you off as the one that got away.”

“Fucking hell! You should have tried writing me before writing me off! If you’d have sent me a letter with just that in it, I’d have flown out here before the mailman could have even left my building!”

Geralt chuckled, leaning closer. “You’d have arrived to an unfinished guest room.”

“Forget the guest room. I’d have jumped straight into your—!”

The door clicked and Geralt lurched forward to clap a hand over Jaskier’s mouth.

Ciri stood in the doorway, hands empty. She could hardly bring herself to glance at them as she scurried to her room. Her own door clicked and everything was silent.

The package sat on the coffee table. Geralt had gone to check the mail the evening of Jaskier’s arrival. They’d gone out together to pick up some Chinese delivery to try and coax Ciri out of her room, and Geralt had checked on the way back in. The package was small, addressed to Ciri, the return address from Jaskier’s record company. He’d brought it in, but Ciri had not touched it.

It sat there for three days, ignored.

And for three days, Ciri avoided both himself and Jaskier. After school she headed straight to her room. At dinner, she took her plate without making eye contact and slipped away. She hardly said more than a mumbled, ‘Good morning,’ and, ‘Good night,’ in passing.

Jaskier sat on Geralt’s bed, fiddling with the neglected package. He seemed to find himself a companion to it. “She’s avoiding me,” he said dejectedly.

Geralt looked up from his tablet briefly, halfway through typing a work email at his desk. “She’s embarrassed,” he replied.

That much was clear. She’d overwhelmed Jaskier during their introduction, and now she didn’t know how to react around him. Unfortunately, she took after Geralt in that way, avoiding the conflict altogether for fear of discomfort. She hadn’t even opened her CD, as if afraid doing so would alienate Jaskier further.

“She hasn’t even asked for her phone back,” Jaskier sighed. “What kind of teenager goes three days without her phone? Is it for my benefit? Is she worried that I’ll think she’s tweeting or texting about … well, me and the whole everything?”

“I’m surprised she was able to find her old alarm clock,” Geralt said. “At least she’s getting up for school without it.”

Jaskier groaned, flopping back on the bed. He held up the package to stare at the address label for the hundredth time. “She didn’t even take the guitar. I was looking forward to maybe teaching her to play a little.”

Geralt closed his tablet, turning to look at Jaskier. “It’s been long enough. We can try knocking on her door, if you like.”

Jaskier dropped the box and stared lamely at the wall. “What’s the point? She won’t want to talk to me anyway.”

He sounded so much like Ciri that Geralt couldn’t help smiling. The fact of the matter was, there was no one on earth that Ciri would like to talk to more.

“Come on.”

When Jaskier looked up, there was a hand waiting before his eyes. Geralt smiled gently down at him, taking his hand to pull him from the bed.

“You ought to give her the CD yourself. I think she’d like that,” he said. “She’s had enough time to calm down. She adjusts to new circumstances more readily than you’d expect.”

Jaskier clutched the package, trudging uncertainly at Geralt’s side.

The short walk to Ciri’s door felt like a pilgrimage across the Grand Canyon, a boat ride up the Nile, a trek through the arctic tundra. Jaskier dragged his feet, hanging back nervously. Even so, when Geralt knocked on Ciri’s door, he did not retreat.

“Can we come in?” Geralt called.

There was silence on the other side of the room.

Geralt waited a moment, then tested the knob. When it turned freely, he put a hand back for Jaskier, poking his head through the crack. “Hey,” he called quietly.

Ciri was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. A stack of letters sat beside her, an arc of pictures around her. She was hugging a plush lion to her chest—an old gift from Jaskier when she was very young. In her hand was a shiny booklet. She was staring at it, or just beyond it, looking deep in thought. Her head twitched slightly at the sound of the door, but she did not move.

Geralt crept in, closing the door behind him.

In his gentlest voice, he whispered, “What are you reading, little cub?”

Ciri picked up a letter, passing it to Geralt, alongside the booklet. She leaned against his shoulder, eyeing the two. “Uncle Julian’s letters,” she answered. “And … Jaskier’s lyrics.”

Geralt scanned the letter. It was from shortly after Ciri had come to live with him. Woven throughout were words of comfort and love, bits of Jaskier’s own story. He, too, had known loss from a young age. It was a story that Ciri had been familiar with by that time. They’d written many letters afterward. It had been good for her to have someone to talk to who understood.

The lyrics in the booklet were in dialogue with the event. And … there was something more that surprised Geralt. He read, a warm feeling growing in his chest line by line:

Here’s a letter

to

A girl I might know better

To my daughter—presumption is my name

We’re unrelated but I’m fixated on staking out my claim

I’ve never held your hand or lit the candles on your cake

I’ve missed homework time and holidays, good mornings when you wake

But I still love you all the same

To my daughter that I have never met

To my loveliest, my loneliest, most serious regret

I wish I'd been there through the fall; I wished I’d been there to recall

I wish I'd been there by your side to help you through it all

To dry your weeping eyes before they wet

Dearest daughter,

love

from your potential father

Geralt finished the song, then turned the page on the booklet, reading the next. There were others like it with references to Ciri: two dedicated to her in their entirety by content, ‘Little Lionheart,’ ‘To A Girl I Wish I Knew,’ ‘Series Photographs,’ and some which contained at least a line somewhere.

“I listened to them back then,” Ciri whispered. “There were phrases, certain words he emphasized. ‘Seriously’ or ‘series.’ He would always stretch them out. I used to pretend he was saying my name. Now I know he was.”

Geralt remembered when Ciri had talked about the album. ‘Series Photographs’ had given many fans pause, leaving them to wonder about the name. Most had decided the title was a misprint, missing the ‘of’ when sent to printing. Ciri had expressed a theory of her own, since the phrase was sung in such a way that the ‘of’ was skipped over and implied: that it was meant to be artsy, without any concrete meaning. But now the two of them knew the true secret.

“Ciri’s Photographs,” Geralt said.

Ciri nodded, curling closer. “He got me through it. In those first few months, all I did was hide in my room, listening to the album over and over. He released ‘Little Lionheart’ and ‘Dear Daughter’ just a few weeks after it happened. I cried listening to those songs. They were a comfort to me. And then his letters … I used to keep them under my pillow to read when I woke up with night terrors. He was there for me all the time, in more ways than I knew.”

Geralt set the booklet aside, folding the letter on top. He wrapped an arm around Ciri, hugging her against his side. “Julian loves you very much,” he said.

She nodded, hiding her face in his shirt. “Uh-huh,” she grunted. She sounded close to crying.

As Geralt gave her time, he looked back over the booklet, rereading the words Jaskier had written. It made him ache, seeing just how much Jaskier had loved her. “Your uncle’s been waiting a long time to meet you. He’s waiting outside right now,” Geralt whispered.

Ciri wiped her eyes, peeking at the door. “I know,” she said.

Geralt smiled, petting her hair. “Will you let him in?” he asked.

Ciri hesitated. She pulled away, tucking her knees up to her chest and staring at the floor. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

“What if I’m not what he’s expecting?”

Geralt leaned forward to wrap her in his arms. “You’re exactly what he’s expecting,” he assured her. “He knows you so well already. He’s known you for years. And so have you.”

Ciri lifted her head, wiping her eyes again with her sleeve. “Yeah?” she sniffed.

Geralt nodded. “Besides,” he chuckled, “isn’t he a little different from what you were expecting? And he’s been worrying just the same as you. Even more. He’s scared you won’t like him as he is. As himself. As just Julian.”

Ciri looked to the door. It almost seemed to be listening.

“Mister—” she began, quickly cutting herself off. “… Or … um …” she struggled. She looked at Geralt. “I don’t know what to call him,” she said.

“Call him Julian,” Geralt suggested.

So Ciri did.

Jaskier cracked open the door, looking first with only one shy eye.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Ciri gave him a little wave. “Hi,” she replied.

Jaskier tip toed carefully inside, fretting with the package in his hands. “Um … Geralt told me you had a board of photographs you wanted to show me? I … wanted to see the castles you’ve collected. Priscilla and I took some more during our tour in Cintra. I brought them for you in my bag. If you want them.”

Ciri stood up, nudging Geralt with her foot. She glanced at the letters meaningfully and he scooped them into a stack, helping to collect the pictures before Jaskier could pay them notice. Ciri guided Jaskier to her wall. The stuffed lion fell on its side, smiling up at them.

On the wall hung a sizeable board with ribbons and pins. Spread over the cork was a large map, and pinned to different locations were pictures of castles. Around the frame were cutout drawings and pictures of herself and her friends, dressed up in fancy dress with crowns and helmets and armour, waving swords and royal scepters. A little sticky note doodle of herself leaned out of a tower in one picture, the words in a bubble above her reading ‘Princess Cirilla’ written by a friend’s hand. It was all based on a long-time game of pretend they used to play.

Jaskier smiled, picking up one of the fancy dress pictures. “You know,” he said, “Priss and I dressed up on our last trip, running through the castle in costume for a photoshoot. She was dressed in a pair of puffy pantaloons with enough feathers in her hat to make a peacock blush. I had on a doublet with those big slashed sleeves. Essi had made them for us for the Renaissance Fair this year. She likes to make all our costumes in concert.”

“I love the Ren Fair!” Ciri chirped. “My friend Dara and I go once a year together. He dresses as an elf; he has the ears and everything.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

At once, Ciri produced an album. They sat together on the floor, talking excitedly, all the strain from the last three days gone at once. Geralt sat on Ciri’s bed, watching the two of them with a smile. Jaskier produced Ciri’s phone and she scrolled through her camera roll, showing off snapshots from their most recent trip.

Then, to Ciri’s delight, Jaskier got up to fetch the pictures from his bag, returning with a doublet around his shoulders as he fanned himself with the polaroids. Ciri threw on her blue cloak and crowded the three of them together, snatching up her own camera to take a picture. She didn’t wait for it to develop before captioning the date, and Jaskier borrowed her pen to doodle a flower in the corner. They admired the picture as it faded from the black, and together, they pinned it to her board, over the little star that marked home on the map.

Two days saw Ciri and Jaskier wrestling over the TV remote, fighting over the last bit of cereal in the bag, and racing for the front seat of the car. A chaotic kind of peace had settled over the house. It felt right, having Jaskier with them. The house was full of laughter and excitement. It got to be too much for Roach, who was fond of napping on the couch, for the living room was a hub of activity. Geralt and Ciri were quiet with each other much of the time. Now, Roach had to resort to hiding out in the guest room to find her peace, curled up on the clean, crisp sheets.

Her place on Geralt’s bed had become recently occupied.

Presently, Jaskier and Geralt sat on the couch: Geralt reading a book, Jaskier with his feet tucked underneath Geralt’s thighs, typing away on his pager. He’d had to explain to Ciri just what, exactly, a pager was, and she’d thrown up her hands at the end of it, exasperated. A two-way pager was archaic; he might as well get a cell phone, she complained. But he’d rebutted wisely that nobody could call him on a pager—they had to text him exclusively. In spite of herself, Ciri saw some wisdom in this and fiddled with it awhile curiously. She, too, hated annoying phone calls.

His pager beeped with a new message and Jaskier typed a quick response. “The roadies are getting set up,” he said. “They’ll be calling us to do sound check in a couple hours.”

Geralt tucked the picture in place and closed his book to check the time. “The concert starts at seven. We might not make it in time.”

Jaskier tossed his pager onto the carpet with a laugh. “That’s in three hours!” he said.

Geralt looked at him with a sarcastic grin. He titled his head back and raised his voice. “Ciri? Are you nearly done in there?”

From the bathroom, Ciri shouted her reply. “Stop pestering me! Would you give me a minute? Not all of us have a team of stylists waiting to do our hair and makeup!”

Geralt chuckled, listening to the hairdryer blasting to life. “Is your costume packed?” he asked, turning back to Jaskier.

Jaskier gave him a thumbs-up, patting his suitcase. “Ready to go when she is,” he replied.

When Ciri finally emerged, she had a stripe of temporary hot pink dye in her hair and gold tinsel. She held a pair of torn black jeans up for inspection beside an electric blue skirt. “Which do you think?” she asked, making no mistake in asking Geralt’s opinion as she held the choices before Jaskier. He pointed to the jeans—it’d be too cold for a skirt as the night went on. Ciri disappeared, coming back dressed in the jeans, complete with holographic pink high-top shoes.

She took Jaskier’s patch jacket from the arm of the couch and shot him her biggest, wettest eyes. “Can I borrow your jacket to wear tonight? I don’t have any patches on mine. It’s my first concert—I want to look the part.”

“Tell that to Essi later and she’ll make you a patch stitch by stitch!” Jaskier said, tossing the jacket at her. “Now get your guitar; I want to get a picture of you for the band.”

Ciri ran back to fetch it, posing with her foot up on the coffee table. Jaskier hyped her up, taking several shots with his camera in different poses. They waited patiently for the film to develop, only to sigh in disappointment when they all came out blurry. Once more, Jaskier’s finger blocked half of one shot.

Geralt plucked the camera from Jaskier’s hands. “I’ll take it,” he said. “You grab your guitar and get in there with her.”

Jaskier scrambled into Geralt’s room. The latches clicked and he was back out, quick as lightning, with a golden yellow electric guitar. It was covered in worn-out stickers of flowers. Geralt smiled fondly. Several of them had come from the pages of Ciri’s preschool sticker books: precious gifts, tucked in old and yellowed letters.

He posed with Ciri, both of them scowling and smirking as they pretended to be duelling guitars. It made Jaskier laugh to see Ciri’s made-up chord. They’d only managed to learn two proper chords so far. Ciri was still jamming to such classics as ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and the two and a half chords for ‘Wonder Wall,’ as Ciri wanted to impress Dara with the age-old joke.

Geralt’s pictures weren’t dramatically staged or taken from an interesting angle, but they were clear, homey, and their smiles came out in perfect focus.

Ciri begged Jaskier to take her guitar along. She wanted to get it signed by a certain accompanying guitarist. With a laugh, Jaskier packed it in its bright blue case, promising to return it to her backstage after the concert. Geralt helped carry the guitars down to the car when the hour came at last, and everyone buckled in. In her hands, Ciri held her new CD and a permanent marker.

The band was already backstage, tuning up, doing vocal exercises. Essi was talking with a man holding an electric violin. They were going back and forth about the set list, their voices rising above the noise of the crew at work.

Ciri tugged on Jaskier’s arm with a gasp. “Is that Valdo Marx?”

Jaskier groaned.

“Oh my god, is that what your meeting was about in Lyria? Are you doing a reunion concert?”

Geralt frowned. “Who is this?” he asked.

“He’s from Jaskier’s band in college” Ciri explained, eyes sparkling with excitement. “They had a falling out over artistic differences before graduation and Valdo went solo. You know: the ‘college fiend’ from the letter?”

“Hm.”

Before Ciri could begin to gush, a woman strode up to Jaskier in a panic. “Jask!” she rushed. “I busted my ‘E’ string and Essi and I can’t find the spares. Please tell me we packed them in your case when we left the shop.”

At Jaskier’s elbow, Ciri squeaked.

Jaskier looked down at her with a smile. “My dear Priscilla, I can do you much better than a single string,” he said, holding up Ciri’s guitar case.

Priss sighed and sagged with relief, reaching for the case. “Oh, bless you, Buttercup,” she said. She blinked, recognizing the unmistakable case. “Oh, but wasn’t this the one you …”

It was then she spotted Ciri.

Priscilla’s whole face lit up and she passed the case back to Jaskier, holding her arms out to Ciri. “Oh my goodness, would you look at you!” she cooed. “She’s a little darling, Jaskier! This is her, isn’t it? Your little lionheart?”

Ciri’s eyes shone big and bright as Priss picked her up in a giant hug, twirling her around. “We’ve been dying to meet you for ages! Oh! Oh, Essi! Essi, come and see who Jaskier’s brought!”

Essi and Valdo crowded around Ciri, squished in Priss’ arms. Ciri looked ready to die from happiness, hugged too tightly to even hug back, her face flushed down to the neck.

Jaskier chuckled, leaning against Geralt. “Welcome to the family,” he said, smiling proudly.

Valdo broke off from the others, leaving the girls to fuss over Ciri. He eyed Geralt curiously.

“So,” he said. “Is this your imaginary boyfriend who lives in Kaedwen?”

Jaskier snaked an arm possessively around Geralt’s hip, tugging him closer. “Not so imagery as that,” he huffed. “Never was. You’ve seen the pictures.”

Valdo sized him up, looking more and more put-out with every inch. He grunted and turned away with a dismissive wave. “Bet he doesn’t know shit about music,” he grumbled, shouldering his violin as he trudged off.

“He hated that I sang so many songs about you in college,” Jaskier said by way of explanation.

With that single sentence, Geralt knew far more than the tabloids had ever guessed.

When their attention drifted back to Ciri, Priss had just finished pulling a bright purple peasant shirt down over Ciri’s head. Priss stood in front of Ciri, hands on her hips as she proudly looked over Ciri’s outfit, Essi helping to drape the jacket over her shoulders just so. Priss stood in her corset, having just striped the shirt out from underneath.

“How the hell did she get that shirt off?” Geralt asked, gaping. She’d worn the corset on top.

Jaskier smirked, bumping him with his hip and replied, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Geralt knew already that it would be a fight to get Ciri to ever wash the shirt.

Neither Geralt nor Ciri had ever been to a live concert before. There was something special in sharing the experience together. For Geralt, it would be the first time hearing Jaskier’s songs in whole. Now, he would finally hear the words Jaskier never sent; the words he sang to crowds of thousands, too afraid to sing to the audience of one for which it had been written.

Priss strummed the opening notes to the first song on Ciri’s electric blue guitar, and Ciri screamed in time with the crowd. Jaskier strutted up the stage to take the mic, guitar on his back. He swung it forward with an energetic flourish that made the audience cheer louder. He hopped the last step to the mic, playing his opening riff.

“It’s my song!” Ciri cried, shaking Geralt’s arm. “Series Photographs!” She jumped up and down wildly, holding too much energy to be contained. She mimed the drums as Essi introduced the backbeat, her arms shaking wildly.

Geralt felt the ground shaking under his feet. The music from the speakers seemed to vibrate from the hollow of his chest. His blood began to pump, the adrenaline from the audience catching up to him. His heart beating faster, he held his breath, every last fiber of his being focused to hear Jaskier, for the very first time, sing.

Jaskier let the guitar hang a moment, raising his hands up to pose, framing his eye with three quick flicks of his fingers to the first lyrics:

Snap-snap-snapshot on the polaroid

Instant artifact of honourary humanoid

Click-click camera shutter catches the scene

Film a-flutter, here’s another candid shot developing

Tell me your hist’ry in captioned memo

Your life is a mystery; what can I know?

Where did you come from, where do I go?

I need to see you! To see you! I want to be your real-life cameo

Lay out your life in a photo album

Show me the fascinating girl amalgam

Ev-er-y mem-or-y I couldn’t share

Every one marked with ‘Sorry, how I wish you’d been there’

Show me the make of you now looking back!

I see love looking at

My series photographs

Ciri jumped, waving her hands in the air. With a smile, Geralt took the camera from around his neck and lined her up with the stage. He’d read the lyrics. He’d known the titular line was coming. The moment Jaskier sang the words, he took a snapshot of Ciri. The click of the camera muted beneath the roar or the crowd. The picture rolled out and he tucked it in his pocket safe and sound to develop undisturbed.

The song played out and the band paused for the audience to finish their applause. Jaskier did his job as frontman and thanked them for coming out to see the show. He made the usual announcements, buttering up the locals, talking about how long he’d been wanting to tour in their city, though for once Geralt knew it was entirely genuine. They’d been waiting a long time to be together in one place with the demands of Jaskier’s job. A week ago, he never would have guessed the reason why.

The crowd cheered as Jaskier made a special introduction, welcoming Valdo back for a surprise reunion. Evidently, they were reviving a bit of old material in honor of the special occasion. Jaskier had explained it to Geralt in private already: promotion for Valdo’s new solo tour. It was also half the reason the band was able to secure a stop in Kaedwen. For that, Geralt was thankful; if it brought Jaskier to him, it earned Valdo a few points in his book.

Several more songs played, starting from high energy and scaling down, dipping into something soft and sincere. Geralt held Ciri throughout ‘Little Lionheart,’ the crowd swaying around them in time to the music. After two sentimental songs, the tempo picked up again, the energy building back up to a buzz.

Then Jaskier made an announcement.

Guitar at his back, Jaskier picked up the mic, walking out from behind the stand. He fiddled with the cable as he spoke, addressing the crowd.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming out here tonight. As some of you may know, we’ve been on the road a lot these last few years, first as the opening act for some spectacular musicians: Clan of Cats, White Honey, and who could forget that legendary night with Countess Stael? And now, it’s an honour to be able to come out to you on our own tours and give a platform to other emerging artists.”

Close as they were to the stage, Geralt could swear he saw Valdo scoffing from the sideline.

Jaskier glanced at his fellow bandmates and Priscilla began to play slow instrumentals, backing up his speech with an airy tune. He turned back to the crowd, his eyes briefly catching Geralt’s before he spoke.

“I’ve been wanting to come here for such a long time—I even thought of sticking myself in a box and mailing myself overnight, just so I could see someone very special, even for a day. While on tour, that idea stuck in my head, and in the last three months, it became the song which you are now about to hear.”

A wave of excitement rose up from the crowd as the gentle guitar began to build, the rhythm snapping and popping. Essi played an intro on the drums and Jaskier hurried back to his spot, tugging the mic back into place as he picked up his own guitar. His smile shone in the setting light of the sun, brilliant and blinding. He grabbed the mic, leaning in close. He glanced at Geralt with a wink and pointed out into the audience, looking in a vague direction.

“Somewhere out in the crowd tonight, he’s listening! My oldest, dearest friend! My muse! This one goes out to you!”

Geralt smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the crowd gathering in his cheeks.

Jaskier began to strum along, bringing the end of the intro. He looked at the neck of his guitar, watching his fingers as he played, then very casually leaned in sideways at the mic. “Oh, and little cub?” he said. “Cover your ears, because I’m about to get embarrassing!”

And he began to sing.

Geralt recognized the song, though it was much faster now—cleaner than Jaskier’s shy recordings. Jaskier sang it with his whole chest, rocking to the beat as he played.

From coast to coast the postman’s running with a bag filled to the brim

Not to brag but I’d drag my feet and get there faster if it meant my letter made it to him!

Signed for delivery, I start to shiver he says, “When can we meet up face to face?”

Stamp my shoulder then weigh me, sign me over, mail me off against my letter to race

The music picked up and Jaskier jumped as he strummed the short refrain before the chorus, landing on the punched third syllable of the line as he sang. Someone must have flipped a switch, because the next moment he broke away from the mic stand, singing into a headset as he danced downstage, a surge of cheers echoing through the venue.

Mister Post-man can you post a letter for me?

Fold me up inside an envelope sent over the sea

Mister Postman mark me for express cause I expressively

Obsessively and desperately

Want my lover next to me!

They’d spent a long time backstage after the concert. Ciri had far more pizza than any child should be allowed to consume, chattering the night away at Priscilla’s arm. Essi, true to Jaskier’s word, was already at work embroidering a little scrap of fabric with simple flowers to add to Ciri’s jacket. Valdo was passed out on a worn-out leather chair in the corner, a bottle of cider dangling in his grip. Jaskier sat on the floor, leaning back against Geralt’s knees as he nursed his water bottle.

They all sat together, talking, just relaxing as the night came to a close. At some point, Geralt’s hand had found its way to Jaskier’s hair, and he combed his fingers through it gently until Jaskier’s eyes could no longer find the strength to stay open. By that point, Ciri was in much the same state.

Geralt sighed, looking between the two of them fondly. “I’ll need to take three trips,” he said.

“I’ll help you with the instruments,” Priscilla offered, petting Ciri’s hair affectionately.

Geralt whispered his thanks, moving carefully around Jaskier to heft Ciri into his arms. Jaskier grumbled in disappointment, his head tipping onto the couch. With a chuckle, Geralt started his trek back to the car.

After he loaded Ciri in the backseat, Priss helped him put the guitars in the trunk. Before they closed up, Priss opened the blue case, pointing with a smile. Geralt looked and saw that the band had signed the face of the guitar in silver permanent marker. Priss closed the case again with a quiet, “Shhh,” winking, and Geralt thanked her. Ciri would wake to a wonderful surprise.

When Geralt returned to fetch Jaskier, the man refused to stand.

He held one arm up lamely. “Carry me,” he pleaded.

Geralt shook his head, but relented.

Looking back over his shoulder, Jaskier waved to his friends, not bothering to open his eyes. They’d be off on the road again in the morning, but for one more night, he had Geralt’s bed to look forward to.

Ciri didn’t stir when they arrived home. She didn’t grunt or rouse when Geralt removed her shoes and jacket. He tucked her into bed, her little lion in her arms just as he’d done it when she’d been very small. Just tonight, he thought, she could skip brushing her teeth.

Jaskier had found the strength to wake long enough to walk up the stairs, half dragging the guitars and his dressing bag over the threshold. He dropped them inside the door and collapsed on the carpet, refusing to go any further until Geralt returned. Meantime, Roach had come to greet him, chirruping and butting up against his cheek. While they waited for Geralt, she climbed up and made biscuits on his stomach.

“I’ve been felled by a mighty beast,” Jaskier said at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Do you want a shower?” Geralt asked, retrieving said beast. “Maybe some tea for your throat.”

Jaskier groaned. “Too tired. You’d have to wash me.”

Geralt kicked him playfully in response.

Jaskier yelped with indignation. “I serenaded you for two hours and you’re kicking me! That does it—you’re sleeping on the couch tonight!”

“It’s my bed. You can sleep on the couch.”

“Our bed,” Jaskier protested.

“Until the morning. Then I can finally take up more than a square foot of space.”

Jaskier groaned again, louder and longer and more painfully than before.

Geralt laughed, grabbing Jaskier around the torso and hauling him up. “Come on; let’s get you washed. Won’t have you spoiling my nice clean sheets.”

He set the bathtub to fill with hot, steaming water as he helped Jaskier undress. In truth, Jaskier was too worn out to deal with such a hassle. Thankfully, he’d left the doublet undone. The shoes slid right off, and the rest was only a tug away from freedom. Geralt carried Jaskier back to the tub and turned off the tap, listening as Jaskier sank into the water with a glorious moan of satisfaction.

“God, I love you,” Jaskier sighed. He ducked under, then emerged from the water to lean against the side of the tub, head resting on his arms. “Be a dear; wash my hair.”

Geralt scoffed. “You haven’t washed it yourself once since you’ve been here.”

“I would hate to deprive you of the opportunity.”

Obligingly, Geralt set to work. He indulged Jaskier with a long massage of his scalp, then he washed his neck and shoulders. To tease, he reached into the water and pulled Jaskier’s foot up, sending him slipping backwards under the water, his cries of protest floating up to the surface in a trail of bubbles. He’d gotten a face full of sudsy water for that, but it had been worth it.

When Jaskier had been cleaned and dried and maneuvered into one of Geralt’s soft black shirts, Geralt had his turn with a quick shower. He left the bathroom in a pair of sweatpants and flipped off the light, crawling into bed with Jaskier. Roach had already taken his place in Jaskier’s arms, purring sleepily. Geralt pulled the blanket up, wrapping his arms around them both.

“Quit your job,” Jaskier mumbled.

“Hm?”

“Join my indie band.”

Geralt chuckled. “Ciri can do her homework on the tour bus,” he replied.

“You could be a roadie. We can make out between rehearsal times.”

“Because I know so much about setting up pyrotechnics and musical gear.”

Jaskier snorted, rubbing his forehead against Geralt’s. In the dark, the bed was warm. There were precious hours of quiet ahead of them, one last breakfast together, a small reprieve before the road called him back again. He hummed sleepily, his eyes drooping closed.

“I’ll buy a tablet,” Jaskier decided. “I want to video chat you guys from the road.”

Geralt smiled, rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s arm. Being able to call one another … to hear Jaskier’s voice again … the days would be sweeter. Jaskier couldn’t mail his voice in a letter. He couldn’t seal it with a ribbon and wax. Even so, Geralt would miss the anticipation of the letters. He meant to say as much, but the quiet sound of Jaskier’s breathing stopped him. He looked so peaceful. Perhaps he’d not quite fallen asleep, but he was near enough to it. It would be a shame to disturb him with such things now.

As Geralt lay there, Jaskier in his arms, the morning pulled at him with a looming dread. Their time together was so quickly spent. Even now, he longed to hear Jaskier whispering to him among the sheets. The picture would remain, tucked away in his books, resting at his bedside. The words would still be there in Jaskier’s letters. The music would still be there, intimate instrumentals and self-conscious coughing. But he wished Jaskier might stay. Just a little while longer.

When he was sure Jaskier was asleep, Geralt leaned to fetch his phone from the bedside table. He pulled his headphones out of the drawer and opened his music app. Ciri had sent him the albums that afternoon to review in his spare time. Geralt started from the beginning, music playing quietly as he lay on his side, watching Jaskier’s chest rise and fall peacefully.

Got my penknife poised to fight back the boys that come crawling at my feet

Rip the envelope open, on GOD I’m hoping and I’m praying on repeat

That maybe he’d write just three words but I’m shaking, heartbeat like a bird’s

And I still don’t get how he’s so blind—I’m about to lose my mind!

Set it free! Let it be! Send hope back to me

Cause I cried and I tried wishing desperately

Is there a hint between the lines or am I missing all the signs?

Is there something there that I can’t see?

Cause it’s clear when he’s near that I love him so

Can’t he see that it’s me through the afterglow?

It’s absurd not a word is getting through to him

And I’m dying just to let him know!

So I wrote him back a letter

That said ‘Love me better.’

With a tender smile, Geralt leaned over, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

Then he got up.

And wrote a letter.