lines on ao3 || pg-13 || 1ch/2k w|| m/m
Julian had a strange set of letters under his heart all his life. Mom said that this is the name of the person whom the universe picked up for him. But a boy couldn’t understand in any way what kind of parents could give the child such a name that he couldn't read. Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. The older the Viscount de Lettenhove become, the more often the name under his heart changed. Gwynbleidd was added first when Julian was fifteen and after Vatt'ghern, when the age exceeded twenty-five. And if Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde the guy could understand, then Julian learned the Hen Llinge only by the age of twenty-two. The first thing he asked his teacher was about the meaning of Vatt'ghern. It turned out to be a Witcher.
He tried to find this strangely named guy, to appear in his eyes and say: “hey, I'm your true one! now we'll be happy. honestly, whatever your name!”. But the years went by but in Julian's life this strange name was present only in the form of a set of letters, forever burned on his skin.
At twenty-six, his family will be stripped of his title, and after graduation he’ll have to wander and play the lute in taverns for a couple of bites. It is then that he’ll receive his new name, and everyone will forever forget that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove ever existed. Now there’s only a restless guy in a yellow suit with a lute at the ready and an eternal impossible smile, who calls himself Jaskier. Buttercup. The same bright and beautiful. But not in the least poisonous.
But Geralt will receive his true one only in the fourteenth year of his life, being already almost completely converted into a Witcher. On the first such day, the fifteenth of May, he will look for a long time in an old mirror in one of the rooms of old Kaer Morhen and with a scowl look under his left breast “Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove”. He’ll get angry and scratch his chest with short nails, burn with a red-hot coal and scrape off with a knife blade in an attempt to remove this impossibly stupid name from his body. Because he is a fucking Witcher. He doesn't need any-fucking-one. Especially in a little brat, fourteen years younger than him. He's not going to become a mommy and raise a child.
After a couple of years, Geralt will put up with this impossibly stupid name, and after another five he will teach himself not to look at him at all. And on his forty-first birthday, he will sit in the far corner and endure the company of an annoying bard who decided that a man needs company.
But Geralt won’t tell him how much the bard makes him angry, and Jaskier won’t tell Witcher that this is not a chance meeting. The minstrel had been tracking him for three and a half years, hoping to find that sad and maddeningly big word on the tip of his tongue when he meets Geralt.
As well as not say his name. Will only start a ballad about romanticizing soulmates' love, but he will receive in response an equally emotional ballad that all this is nonsense and Geralt doesn’t need a damn thing. And Jaskier will be silent for another day, trying to live with the knowledge that his man doesn't need him.
And a day and a half later, when he and the witcher will arrive at a mission in Lettenhove, one of his ex-friends recognizes the endlessly cheerful Julian Pankratz in Jaskier. And Jaskier will slowly die under the heavy gaze of Geralt.
“Why did he call you that?” Geralt will ask, lying with his back to Jaskier and growling softly. Too bestial.
Jaskier will be silent for a long time, and then quietly and somehow too calm for the familiar Jaskier will give out:
“This is my name, Geralt.”
On this day, Geralt will hit Jaskier for the first time. For a long time later, he'll be angry with himself, with stupid unnecessary emotions and will eat away his brain from the inside. But on this day, he will overturn Jaskier on his back, put his hands behind his head, punch in the jaw to shut up the tirade "Geralt, this is my best hiking suit!" and through the torn cloth he will read his long forgotten, such a wrong name.
Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde
“You knew from the start.”
“I didn't!” Jaskier exclaims, touching the bleeding wound on his lower lip with the tip of his tongue and somehow being too much delighted with the metallic taste. “Okay, yes. Yes, I knew! But what was I supposed to say? Hey, Geralt, I'm your soulmate, let's have fuck and enjoy this life?”
That night, Geralt will spend the night not in the room they rented, leaving Jaskier alone. But the guy will still be happy. Because Geralt finally touched him, almost tenderly, and also looked eye to eye longer than ever before. These were the happiest seven minutes of his life in a million and a half minutes since the day they met. And he’ll look for the biggest and saddest word.
And in the Brokilon Forest, drunk with dryad wine, Geralt will be the same Geralt that Jaskier imagined, being not familiar with the witcher. Gentle, sweet and, most importantly, his own Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier will melt under the touch of eternally cold fingers, the burning warmth of the lips. Will tremble at the words "my babyboy", spoken with all the tenderness that, in principle, someone like Geralt is capable of. For the whole night, the witcher will become the one who loves and protects the stupid gullible bard, squeezes in his arms; will make Jaskier remember about the search for that most important and biggest word in the guy's life.
At night, Jaskier will wriggle under someone else's body, and in the morning alone he will wake up to hear “it was stupid. momentary impulse. means nothing, Jaskier”. And he will try to get through this day without carving words about wrongness and lies on his body.
“At night you said something different,” Jaskier looks out from under his forehead, with his impossibly large eyes, which are filled with moisture against their will. “That you like me. That this is right and you won't leave anymore. These were your words.”
“It was the influence of wine. If someone else were in your place, I’d say the same thing.”
“You are my soulmate, Geralt.”
“I'm your nobody. I don’t need any-fucking-one, and there’s no exception.”
Jaskier will look for a long time, hard and, which is not at all typical for him, will be silent. Geralt's eyes reflect the apology and self-loathing for the previous night, and Jaskier’s eyes are a cry for help. But a guy will only be confusedly huddled against the wall, slightly waving his trembling hands with emotion and chaotically run his eyes around the room, in search of salvation. And then Jaskier will leave, and Geralt will not hear about the loathsome talkative bard for another three and a half months.
The Witcher will be happy and will continue to travel further in blissful silence only with Roach. He’ll be pleased with the fact that Jaskier's name is not distorted on his chest. So, everything is fine.
Just before the hunt for Djinn, Geralt will again see Jaskier's big dark eyes and his impossibly sunny smile, and will feel a strange feeling of joy and relief in his chest. He won't tell anyone how much he missed this little brat. Nobody. Even himself. It's just Jaskier. Disgustingly loud and cheerful Jaskier. And they don’t belong to each other at all.
He will prove it to himself on the shore of the lake, when with trembling thin fingers the bard will grab the Witcher’s dark cotton shirt, spit blood and wheeze “Geralt. Please. It hurts me,” and then only his name, his name, and again his name. Jaskier will grab his hands on a strong neck, whine, whimper, repeat the name of the Witcher and try to pronounce this stupid and sad big word, and Geralt will feel whole nothing.
Jaskier was and will remain an annoying bard. Had he died now, Geralt would hardly have remembered him for a long time. Jaskier will remain in history only as the author of stupid ballads that stick to the memory.
But the witcher rakes it up and takes it first to the elf, and then to the witch. Because any normal person would do that. And Geralt always wanted to be human.
“Everything will be fine with him,” Yennefer's voice is heard in the doorway.
“I understand. I told him so much. But he's my soulmate,” Geralt stumbles, and then corrects himself, not daring to look the sorceress in the eyes, “friend. He can't die so stupid”.
“He will get better,” a warm narrow palm rests on the shoulder, which is covered with the bard's blood. And Geralt feels a pleasant warmth inside. And also longing. From the fact that this woman is destined for another.
And Jaskier will really get better. It will take less than a couple of hours before he opens his eyes, feels the restored neck, and then rushes to the door, frightened by the naked witch.
Fast, dexterous and obscenely purposeful, she will almost bring the boy to a swoon, forcing him to almost slide down the stairs, tangled in cotton feet, and fall out into the street right into the hands of a Witcher walking towards him.
“She wants to be Djinn's vessel!” shouts Jaskier, grabbing a wide hand with his palm, which looks extremely ridiculous, and pulls him away from the building. It is necessary to get out, because this stupid Witcher with a heightened sense of justice and a stupid desire to be like Robin Hood will climb inside to save this no less stupid woman.
“She wants to become more powerful; but she’ll die. She needs to be stopped.”
“Well, let's pray for her on our way out of town.” Jaskier will continue to drag the man forward until he easily pulls his hand out of the grip. “Are you perhaps short of a marble?” Jaskier almost screeches, losing control over the sound of rocks falling. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Don’t tell me that this is finally the moment you’ve decided to actually care about someone other than yourself?” he runs up to the man and grabs him by the collar, trying to shake him. But, in fact, from the outside it looked like a fight between a puppy and a mammoth. Jaskier is hardly less than the witcher. He is strong and tall, but Geralt is much stronger. “Leave the very sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!”
“She saved your life, Jaskier.” a wide palm rests on the back of Jaskier's head, and the man leaves a kiss on the bard's forehead, dirty with dust and blood, and then goes inside. “I can let her die.”
He will leave and leave Jaskier in the yard with a riot of butterflies in his stomach. Because Geralt, his Geralt, had just made such a gentle movement, almost bluntly said that he was ready to sacrifice himself for the sake of a stranger who saved the bard's life.
Jaskier will be happy for seventeen and a half minutes, until his chest burns with a knife blade and his beloved and beautiful Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde Gwynbleidd Vatt'ghern, displayed in graphic type, is crossed out with an ugly thin line.
Jaskier will slide onto a dusty piece of stone that has fallen off the wall of the estate, and will fix a blank gaze on the ground. Because it can't be. Stupid Geralt so many times went into battle with the vilest creatures, some vile Djinn cannot defeat him. He just can't. It's not his style.
But the minutes will pass, silence will continue to reign in the house, and the ugly disgusting line that crossed out the Witcher’s name will still remain in place.
“They’re alive,” the quiet, awkward voice of the elf standing in front of the broken window near the seated Jaskier will be heard.
The bard will blindly look at the guy and wave his disheveled head negatively.
“Bollocks. Take a look. His name. It is-” Jaskier will not be able to pronounce this bad, this turned out to be so disgusting word “-crossed out.”
“I swear, bard. They are alive and, judging by their activity, completely intact.”
Jaskier will approach the window on stiff legs. The first thing that catches his eye is Geralt's wide, bare back. Alive, almost unharmed and completely dear Geralt. The second thing that will catch your eye is the no less naked body of that madwoman with sorcerer abilities. And finally, barely flashing before Jaskier's eyes, his own name. Strikethrough Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove; strikethrough from j to e. Strikethrough just like the name of the witcher on Jaskier's chest. And also, if he is not completely crazy with the thought that he will have to learn to live without the White Wolf, under his name on someone else's chest he will see the disgusting, utterly vile, Janka Yennefer Vengerbergska.
And Jaskier will hide like a small child, whine, finally finding this biggest and insanely sad word. Fidelity.
But that will be later. And now Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove is still looking for this strange guy with an equally strange name. And he's almost happy.
