Work Text:
Jaskier hears about Blaviken through, what else, the grapevine.
He’s been at Oxenfurt for a little over two years, studying the Seven Liberal Arts and perfecting his skills on the lute. Two years; that’s all it took for Geralt to get himself into trouble. Jaskier shouldn’t exactly call it that, seeing as how the incident in question was so much more gruesome —and how did poor, kind, gentle Geralt get himself into something so horrific?!—than just the regular trouble that Jaskier so often finds himself in. Though, now that he’s away from Geralt and the protection of his swords, he tries to be a bit more careful with who he lavishes his attentions upon.
Regardless, when he hears the news, Jaskier spends a good three hours pacing a trench in the floor of his favorite professors’ living quarters while the older man marks papers. “I should go find him,” Jaskier says, not for the first time, pausing with his hands on his hips. He nods decisively. “Yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll track him down and put the wrath of the gods in him and never let him leave my sight again! Ha! That’ll keep him out of trouble.”
Corin sighs, sets his papers aside, and folds aging hands in front of him on his desk. “Julian,” he says the name Jaskier has chosen whilst he’s studying—Julian Pankratz, great nephew to one Old Tomas Pankratz—in the exasperated, long-suffering, tone that all of the fae’s nannies growing up used. Although there’s a fondness there that was sorely lacking in the Faerie Realm. “Do you really think that necessary? I’m sure Geralt can look after himself; he is a witcher, after all.”
“And that’s exactly why he needs me!” The younger man argues, throwing his hands in the air. Oxenfurt has really fueled his flare for the dramatic. At least now he has an excuse. “He’s an imbecile on the best of days.”
“Be that as it may,” the old man acquiesces. “How do you suppose you’ll find him? The Continent is vast and you, my boy, are failing geography.”
Failing, Jaskier raises his eyes to the heavens, the story of his life. He’ll have to find a new place to hide his vodka from now on.
Needless to say, he stays in Oxenfurt. For Geralt’s, and all of the Continents’, sake. Lest he get lost and cause more trouble on his Great Witcher Hunt.
***
After Blaviken, Geralt changes. He keeps to himself much more than he did before. He fastens Renfri’s broach to the hilt of his sword and swears with every fiber of his being that he will not—will not —ever try to intervene in the wiles of man again.
Destiny, the sly fox, pricks her ears in the witchers’ direction, listens, and laughs .
***
In the middle of his third year at the Academy of Oxenfurt, Jaskier meets Josef.
He’s in the tavern that most of the students commandeer on the weekends, drinking ale with Priscilla—the one true friend he’s managed to make—and a few of her good friends, when the man walks up to their table. He’s older than a student, possibly in his third decade, with sandy hair and a pair of deep brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles at Jaskier. “Hello,” he says, and Jaskier’s breath stutters in his chest at the deep timbre. It’s almost as deep as Geralt’s. “Could I offer you another drink?”
Jaskier, slightly bewildered and all too aware of the way Priscilla is snickering at him into her own drink, nods. “Uh, yea—yes, yes . That would…be acceptable?”
Pleasure and satisfaction curl across the mans’ face and he offers a hand which Jaskier takes, making sure to kick Priscilla’s chair as he goes. The horrible wretch! How dare she laugh at him!
Over a drink—and another and another—Jaskier learns that the man is called Josef, he’s 34 and still unwed (much to his poor mama’s sorrow), and he’s a carpenter. Which explains the expanse of calluses on his hands when he runs them down Jaskier’s bare back later that evening, pressing in all the right places to make the fae sing so sweetly. If they were in the forest, he could make an entire meadow bloom with the pure euphoria running through his veins. As it stands, however, they are in the cramped quarters he’s been allowed at the academy, rocking together on rough woven linens and supported by a—in Josef’s words—subpar excuse for a bed.
Afterward, the fae curls into Josef’s chest and runs lazy fingers through the slight smattering of hair there. “Apologies for the bed,” he mutters, a wry smile curling his lips. He places a kiss where his shoulder meets his chest. “Perhaps, next time, you can show me what a real carpenter's bed is supposed to be like?”
Josef snorts in amusement and runs those beautifully rough hands over Jaskier’s upper thigh. “I think that can be arranged, songbird.”
Jaskier, soaked in lust and the satisfaction of a good fuck, preens.
One turns into two turns into three turns into a year and a feeling Jaskier knows all too well.
He’s in love. Fuck , he’s in love. Jaskier’s gone and fallen in love with a human; one of the stupidest things that a fae can do. Still, he falls. Josef brings him to his shop a few months into their courtship, showing him the multiple projects he’s working on and the—yes, very finely crafted—bed in his upstairs room. He even takes him to the house next door, where his aging mother, Imelda, lives and who offers to make Jaskier a brand new doublet—“Free of charge, for you, my dear.”—after he admires the lovely fabrics she has laying out on her sewing table. Jaskier will even find himself sitting with her while Josef is working next door, carefully embroidering the pieces she deems suitable for him to work on. Imelda works in quiet, but she doesn’t mind when Jaskier sings under his breath. Sometimes, he even catches her smiling. A smile so like her sons.
For a year, Jaskier laughs, and fucks, and loves. And yet, Geralt of fucking Rivia still lingers in the back of his mind.
***
Four years after stepping foot in Oxenfurt, Jaskier graduates from the academy summa cum laude . In celebration, Josef makes Jaskier a new lute. Something to replace the beaten, secondhand one that he’d bought when he first decided to travel to the city. When he sees the instrument, resting beside his packed rucksack on the neatly made bed of his former rooms at the academy, tears spring to the faes’ eyes. Josef remains silent behind him, but the proud smile on his face says it all.
Jaskier picks up the lute and runs his fingers reverently over the body, polished to a beautiful shine. The soundboard, made from magnificent rosewood, is decorated with a carving of a barn swallow, painted bright blue, and surrounded by carvings of little golden buttercups. It’s the most beautiful thing that Jaskier has ever seen, even amongst the Faerie Courts. “Josef,” he whispers, running careful fingertips over the soft strings and loving the gentle hum they emit. “ Josef , I cannot accept this.”
His lover laughs softly and steps forward, taking Jaskier’s face in his hands. “Yes, songbird, you can,” he replies, placing a kiss upon his brow. His lips remain there for one heartbeat, two. “Play it and think of me.”
Jaskier, on the verge of tears and breaking , sighs and leans into the kiss. “Yes,” he says. “Always.”
He leaves the city, and people, that have become his home on a sunny day in May. The weather contradicts Jaskier’s mood perfectly.
It’s been so long since he’s traveled outside of Oxenfurt, even longer since he traveled alone, that Jaskier finds himself regretting leaving Pegasus behind. He’d forgotten how tiring the endless walking could be, even for a fae. And it’s not as if he can just drop his glamour and fly, either. He manages, though, stopping every few hours and making camp when Dusk stretches her arms over the horizon. Jaskier plans to save as much coin as he can—stopping in taverns and inns to earn more only when he needs.
He’s thankful for the knowledge he picked up when traveling with Geralt. Making snares to catch rabbits and building his fires with rusty, but skilled, moves. And as he lays in his bedroll or rented bed, he thinks of the witcher and hopes he’s faring well.
***
Geralt hears him before he sees him. Jaskier is standing in the corner of the tavern, tuning a lute and talking business with the owner. He doesn’t see Geralt as he walks to the bar and orders himself a tankard of ale from the maid there. He quickly claims a table in the corner, far from the other patrons, and settles in to surreptitiously watch the fae.
It’s been nearly six years since Geralt last saw Jaskier, but the fae has hardly changed a bit. True, he’s obtained finer clothing and an instrument—and he’s not the least bit surprised that Jaskier’s become a bard; the fae always did like the sound of his own voice. But he’s Jaskier and Geralt, though he hides the physical reaction, has never been more glad to see him. Geralt hears the owner and Jaskier come to a payment agreement—free room and meals in exchange for entertainment for the night—and casually sips his ale as he settles in for the show.
It’s…not what he was expecting.
Jaskier’s songs are full of misinformation and vulgarities. Geralt holds his tankard and stares, unseeingly, into its depths as he listens. Listens to how… absent the fae sounds. How empty and lifeless. Is this what the world has done to him in their years apart? Cracked him open like a crustacean and carved out the meat of him? Packed him in a pie pan and thrown him in the oven when he’s still nothing but dough and wasted potential? How…disappointing.
The other patrons seem to think so too. Jaskier’s set comes to an abrupt end when one table pelts him with their half-eaten rolls. Much to the faes’ displeasure. His glamour stays up, though, so at least he’s learned some control.