i like to hurt my favorite characters

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Jaskier was terrified in a way that he never had been before. He was used to a world filled with colour and beauty, and now there was only darkness. Somehow he’d managed to get some more sleep after his initial panic by the fire, and when he’d woken up again he’d desperately hoped it had all been a horrid dream, but there was no such luck. He was still surrounded by darkness. 

Thankfully, Geralt seemed to be actually giving a shit about it. Normally, the witcher would just grumble and grunt, letting Jaskier tend to his wounds if he had any, and they’d settle down for the evening in quiet companionship, or as quiet as Jaskier ever was. 

Their friendship was a peculiar one, and one that no one seemed to understand, but it worked for them. Despite his complaints, Geralt was lonely, and Jaskier knew that he helped ease some of that pain. He was hope for a man that saw very little light in his life, and Jaskier was more than happy to shoulder that burden.

And well, Geralt was his world. 

Geralt was warmth. Geralt was adventure. Geralt was freedom. 

But more than anything, Geralt was love. 

It was an unrequited love, but Jaskier was okay with that. He had a large heart and plenty of love to give so it wasn’t like he had all his eggs in one basket, nor would he ever want to, even if Geralt did love him back. No, Jaskier was not wanting for lovers. It was just that Geralt was his greatest love, the one he always returned to regardless of Geralt’s own feelings. If Jaskier could continue to be Geralt’s best friend then he would be happy. 

Only with the darkness came a sort of tenderness that caught Jaskier off-guard. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice sounded from his right, accompanied by a touch to his shoulder. 

Instinctively, Jaskier turned towards the sound of Geralt’s voice. “Hmm?”

“I made you breakfast,” the witcher said softly. “Here.”

Geralt’s fingers pressed against Jaskier’s hand, gently moving his palm so that he could take the bowl. It was rough against his skin, and there was a heat emanating from the bowl. Jaskier leaned forward and sniffed. Porridge maybe? Jaskier looked up again to where he thought Geralt’s face was. 

“What is it?”

“Oatmeal,” Geralt said, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions. “Sorry I didn’t have any honey or spices.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Jaskier hated porridge. The texture was weird and often made him gag without some sort of added flavour, but it was food and he was hungry. Still, he grimaced as Geralt pressed a spoon into his hand. 

“There’s some stale bread but try this first.”

Jaskier nodded glumly. “Yeah.”

It didn’t go well. Without his sight, the texture seemed to be even worse. It was gloopy and sticky. Jaskier grumbled his way through several mouthfuls before the bowl was pulled from his hands. Shortly after a mug pressed against his fingertips. 

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Jaskier sniffed again. Tea! Unsweetened like the oats, but hopefully it would wash away the unpleasant texture in his mouth. With Geralt’s help, the mug was lifted to his lips and he drank eagerly, not caring that he burned his tongue. 

Once they were done with breakfast, Geralt helped Jaskier into the thicket so he could take care of his business. It was humiliating. He felt helpless. After years of travelling together, Jaskier would like to say he was pretty self-sufficient on the road, bar the killing of monsters and bandits, he could hold his own, but not anymore. The darkness had stolen that from him. All those years fighting for his independence away from his parents and their fortune, and now he was as useful as a newborn babe.

What sort of man couldn’t even shit without help?

“Take me to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier whispered as he was lifted onto Roach. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Not that he knew what he would do at Oxenfurt. It wasn’t like he could work like this. He couldn’t write, he couldn’t mark tests or assignments, and he’d probably not even be able to find his way from his rooms on his own. 

Fuck. 

Gods, he hated this. 

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt’s voice murmured, his hand resting on Jaskier’s knee. “We’ll figure this out.”

“But what if we don’t? What if I’m stuck like this?” whined Jaskier. “I can’t keep travelling with you like this!”

Geralt hummed. “Why not?”

“What?”

“There was a witcher, a cat, when I was younger. He was blind, but he was still one of the most skilled fighters I’ve ever seen. I never managed to defeat him when we sparred,” Geralt told him. His fingers stayed on Jaskier’s leg even as Roach started to walk, never leaving him. Steady and constant. “You’ll learn to adapt and I’ll be here to help you.”

Tears welled in Jaskier’s eyes and he reached out for Geralt with both arms. He didn’t have to wait long before Roach came to a stop, and he was lifted back to the floor, into Geralt’s warm embrace. The scent of leather washed over him as he pressed his nose into Geralt’s chest. 

“Thank you, dear heart,” he mumbled, listening to the slow and steady beat of Geralt’s heart. 

_

The next few days were more of the same, lingering touches in the dark, a brush of fingers as they walked side by side, Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the void. Things did get a little easier. Jaskier got used to relying on his other senses just as Geralt said he would, but he still felt helpless. Playing his lute for the first time had been a mess. He hadn’t realised just how much he relied on quick glances at his fingers whenever he changed chords, and not being able to write anything down was frustrating him. There were so many ideas buzzing around his head, stuck there and forgotten by morning. 

He sighed as he listened to the fire crackling, the warmth tickling his skin. Geralt was sharpening his swords next to him as he described the latest drowner hunt in great detail. It was strange to hear Geralt talk so much and so freely, but he was grateful. If Jaskier concentrated hard enough, he could almost picture the scene. 

But it wasn’t the same as seeing it through his own eyes. 

He sighed again, looking up at the sky. Well… not looking. He wondered whether the stars were out tonight. There was a chill in the air and the day had felt warm, the sun beating down on them from above. That would suggest that there were very little clouds but what did it matter? Jaskier couldn’t see them anyway. 

“Jask?”

The scrape of stone on steel stopped, and there was a touch to his shoulder before he felt Geralt’s fingers press against the back of his hand. 

“Hmm?” he answered. 

The next touch startled him as Geralt cupped his cheek. There was a whisper of warmth as Geralt’s breath tickled against his lips. The scent of onions lingered from their dinner. Jaskier froze, his heart thumping in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time that Geralt had been this close to him. 

Had he ever? 

All the feelings that Jaskier had pushed down over the years came rushing to the surface. It wasn’t fair. He’d done such a good job of accepting Geralt’s friendship without needing more, but there was no denying this weird energy that suddenly existed between them. 

In the darkness, everything seemed so much more. 

The rush of Geralt’s breath only seemed to get closer, and Jaskier could feel his fringe moving against his forehead. It felt like Geralt’s lips were ghosting over his, tingling, lighting up his skin, but then he was gone. Jaskier’s cheek was cold once more, and a few seconds later, he heard the scraping of Geralt’s sword resound around the camp again. 

Jaskier stared blankly, frowning into the black void that surrounded him. For a moment, he’d been so sure that Geralt was going to kiss him, but it must have been his imagination. Wishful thinking. Why would Geralt try and kiss him? They were friends. Friends. There was no weird energy. Right? 

“Right,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, even knowing that Geralt could hear him regardless how loud he spoke. 

But Geralt didn’t acknowledge his word. Probably for the best. With a deep sigh, Jaskier turned back to the glowing heat of the fire. The lash of flames against the air prickled against his skin, tingling as his fringe brushed softly against his forehead. The heat of surrounding air created a draft around them and Jaskier sighed again, louder this time, a huff of breath that exploded from his lips in a pout. He wanted to write, to play, to laugh… and sing. 

Well, he supposed he could still sing. Even if his fingers were clumsy on lute strings. He began to hum, a melody that had sprung up in the darkness that now enveloped his every waking breath. It was melancholic, yearning despite the lack of lyrics. It didn’t take a musical genius to hear the pain in his heart, in the soft crying notes that rumbled in his throat. After a few minutes, he could feel the damp of tears on his cheeks, the low hums breaking into a soft “oh” as he worked through the days of darkness, the yearning that he felt towards his friend, the heartbreak that he felt day in and day out but never truly let himself grieve. 

The brush of Geralt’s thumb on his cheek startled him. The note he’d been singing broke into a garbled mess and he almost fell backwards off the log he was perched on. Almost. Instead, Geralt caught him in his strong, witchery arms. For a moment, Jaskier allowed his pain to flood from his body, focussing on the feeling of being home, kept tight in his witcher’s embrace, before he shook off the daze and steadied himself back in his seat. 

“Ah, thank you Geralt. What would I do without you?”

“Shine brighter than the evening stars,” came the reply, blunt and brilliant and blinding; more blinding than that damned light had ever been. 

So naturally he scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal. “You flatter me. I was a layabout wreck when I met you. At least this way I was able to have a career, to make music that was even remotely worth anything.” 

“You’d be safe,” Geralt whispered, so quietly that Jaskier barely heard him. “At Oxenfurt,” he continued, louder this time. “Or Lettenhove, or even fucking Nilfgaard. You’d be safe.”

Jaskier smiled sadly. There was a grain of truth to the witcher’s words; he couldn’t deny that. “But I wouldn’t be free. I wouldn’t have you.”

Silence. 

Gods Jaskier hated the silence. He always had, except now it was a thousand times worse. At least before he’d been able to pick up on whatever minute facial expressions Geralt was making, or judge his mood from his body language. The silence was deafening. He’d adored the closeness his blindness had given him, the touches, the guiding hands, the quiet ramblings of the witcher as he went about his day, but dear gods, he missed everything it had taken away. 

The sob that bubbled from his lips came unbidden, escaping him like a wraith bursting from her grave. His fingers gripped into the folds of his breeches as he fell forwards, the tears falling freely now. “I wouldn’t have you,” he choked again through broken breaths. 

Geralt’s hand rested on his shoulder, a gentle warning of the embrace that quickly enveloped him. The arms around him were holding him tight, keeping him grounded as, exhausted, he collapsed against Geralt’s chest. Much like his song just moments before, he allowed every moment of pain, uncertainty and unrequited love to flow through his tears. Fucking hell, he’d been doing such a good job of keeping it together before that. Every time he felt himself wavering, he reminded himself of Geralt’s cat witcher friend, or the hundreds of people he’d met over the years with all sorts of disabilities that had functioned in the world. 

But he’d never imagined it would happen to him.

Why should he be allowed to grieve his sight, when so many people, fantastic, brilliant people, had never even seen the colours of the Continent? 

He felt useless; he felt guilty. 

He felt… exhausted. 

By the time his tears dried up, Jaskier had nothing left to give. Sleep was cast over him like an enchantment, and he fell to dreams curled up in Geralt’s arms. 

—- 

When morning arrived, Jaskier’s head hurt like a bitch, but Geralt was still behind him, snoring gently as Jaskier sighed contentedly. They’d shared beds before when coin was running low, or when arsehole innkeepers wouldn’t let the witcher have his own room out of petty prejudices, but they rarely awoke like this. Geralt had always seemed careful to keep his distance, and Jaskier had always assumed that it was because Geralt didn’t want to encourage Jaskier’s obvious infatuation anymore than he already did. Now it seemed it was Jaskier’s turn to be careful. If he woke the witcher then the bliss of their embrace would end and Jaskier may never get the opportunity to be held in Geralt’s arms again. 

If only he wasn’t incredibly thirsty and kind of needed the toilet. 

“Lillith’s sake,” he grumbled as he reluctantly wriggled free. 

Or at least he tried to. 

At the first sign of movement, Geralt’s arms locked in place and he nuzzled the back of Jaskier’s neck, letting out a quiet sigh. Jaskier froze. Maybe the witcher thought he was Yennefer? No. Geralt would recognise Yennefer’s scent anywhere. Melitele only knew that Geralt never fucking shut up about lilac and gooseberries. Unless dream Geralt miraculously couldn’t smell and- 

“Stay, Jask.” The words were nearly inaudible but they still startled Jaskier and he let out a small yelp. 

“Ah, Well. Yes. I would love to except I really need the toilet.” Gods, he was mad. He should just suffer the consequences and continue cuddling. 

No. Jaskier. Don’t be gross.

“Hmm,” came the disgruntled reply as Geralt finally relented to release his hold on Jaskier, but only so long as it took him to also stand up. 

Before Jaskier could get lost around the camp, Geralt’s hand was on his arm, guiding him gently towards the bushes. Yet another humiliating toilet run for Jaskier he supposed, but it was at least becoming the new normal and if Geralt was to be believed then eventually this would start getting easier and he would be trusted to relieve himself in peace - sooner rather than later if he had any luck. Maybe he’d even be allowed to help with the cooking again. He could have something better than flavourless porridge and tea for breakfast. Oh, how he craved a good old fashioned fry up again. They would have to go to a tavern as soon as they reached the next village or town. Still, he dutifully forced the oats down and gratefully sipped his tea, listening carefully as Geralt sat close. The sounds of quiet chewing and the scraping of a wooden spoon against the bottom of his bowl. 

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?” 

“Did you mean it?” Gods, he sounded pitiful even to his own ears.

The scraping stopped and Jaskier felt a hand on his knee. “Mean what, bard?”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, tugging too tightly as his scalp pricked with pain. He let his tongue run across his lips as he considered his thoughts. “I’m not a burden.” 

The hand on his knee squeezed, and a low growl rumbled in Geralt’s throat. “Of course not.”

“Then. Ah. Um. Why would you- Yesterday? You said I’d be safer in Oxenfurt, but before you said I could stay and well-”

He wasn’t able to finish the sentence as he was pulled into a hug and his bowl clattered to the floor. Geralt’s words came soft like a summer’s breeze in his ears. “You would be safer. But that is just as true with or without your sight. If you’d been in Oxenfurt then you’d still be able to see.”

It was more words than Geralt ever said in one go and it left Jaskier a little stunned. The emotion behind each word stole Jaskier’s breath as his heart thundered in his chest. “Oh. Yeah.”

“You have me, Jaskier. You always have.” His voice was closer now, just as it had been the night before, warm and inviting against Jaskier’s skin. It felt like they were sharing breath, each inhale shaking Jaskier’s lungs, his fingers gripping the fabric of his own breeches to stop him from clinging onto his witcher. 

“Do I?” More pitiful questions… when had he ever been this uncertain around his lovers? Perhaps it was a sign that Geralt was and always had been something more. 

Geralt didn’t answer in words. No words were needed when his lips pressed against Jaskier’s, warm, cracked and insistent; nothing like the soft kisses from his lovers in the cities. He tasted like hot tea and smelled… well, unpleasant from their days on the road, but it was Geralt and it was perfect. Jaskier melted against the witcher, grasping onto his shirt and pulling him closer, if that was even possible. Stubble grazed against his cheek and Geralt’s hand cupped his neck, possessive in a way that had Jaskier’s heart singing with the melody of a thousand lovers. A soft whine escaped him as Geralt started to break the kiss, making the witcher laugh against his lips. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Jaskier, and neither are you.” Geralt’s voice was rough, the kiss obviously affecting him just as it had Jaskier. “If that’s what you want?”

“I want!” Jaskier squeaked all too quickly.