Sips Thy Tea

Though Geralt first thought him a nuisance, he was annoyed with the constant sound, constant sun, constant sea, constant happiness. It wouldn’t be long before the Bard wormed his way into Geralt’s version of normal.

​

“What?” Jaskier asked him one day, “Not going to tell me to leave?”

​

Geralt froze, unsure of why he hadn’t spoken the words, unsure of why they now seemed more troublesome than Jaskier’s presence. He turned, looking over at Jaskier. The bard stood there with his boyish grin, a hand on his hip, lute slung over his shoulder.

​

A realization collided with him so intensely that he nearly collapsed.

​

Jaskier was beautiful, and Geralt loved him.

​

He loved Jaskier.

​

“Would it stop you?”

​

He loved Jaskier.

​

The bard laughed, stepping closer to Geralt, "Absolutely not.”

​

Geralt loved Jaskier.

​

He was unable to stop himself. He was unable to keep himself apart from the ridiculous Bard, unable to prevent the attachment that bloomed in his chest, unable to stop the crawling anxiousness that came with being too far from Jaskier, unable to ignore the warmth that came with lying beside him in the dead of night.

​

But loving was not natural to Geralt.

​

Loving was unfamiliar, scary, uncharted - it was something to be hidden within the depths of his agony. Loving was death. Loving was disastrous.

​

Geralt tried to leave. Tried collecting his things one night, shoving them into a sack, gathering his life within his hands, and slipping away from their camp. He planned to leave Jaskier enough rations to walk back to the nearest town, some coin, a map, and a compass. A break so cold, it would sever right through the sweet glow of Jaskier’s heart. It had to.

​

He was quiet. Moving around their tent silently, gently tying his sack around Roach. Calming her when she began to startle, patting down her backside. The rations were left in a clean sack, stored away from thieves.

​

Geralt’s stomach twisted, heart pounding within his chest. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Did he want Jaskier to stop him? Did he want Jaskier to hate him?

​

Did he want to leave?

​

It was unimportant because he was leaving, Geralt mounted Rouch, hands gripping the reins. He sat atop of her and waited.

​

Geralt waited.

​

And waited.

​

He waited until the sun began to peak through the top of the trees, until a sliver of light fell upon the fabric of their tent.

​

He waited for the answers to come to him. He waited for the will to reach him. For his resolve to form, or for his resolve to break.

​

He waited, and Jaskier awoke.

​

Soft rustling from within their tent, followed by Jaskier poking his head out.

​

“You didn’t wake me,” He muttered, voice thick with sleep.

​

“I didn’t.”

​

“Just give me a second to ready myself,” He yawned, moving back into the tent, “I’ll go with you.”

​

And Geralt waited.

​

He was foolish. He was being reckless, but he loved him. Geralt loved Jaskier.

​

And Jaskier, that idiot bastard, loved him too.

​

For reasons far beyond Geralt’s ability, Jaskier loved Geralt.

​

The Bard loved him, quite loudly.

​

“You know,” he proclaimed, cheeks rosy from the ale, “I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you, Geralt!”

​

He raised a finger, tracing it over Geralt’s crooked nose, moving down the slope of his frowning lips, “Why is it that you are so beautiful? Hm?”

​

“You’ve had far too much to drink,” He answered, guiding Jaskier’s wandering hand away from his face, intertwining their fingers below the table.

​

The patrons of the tavern were far too preoccupied in their own mugs and drinks to care about the loud ramblings of a drunken bard, but Geralt couldn’t risk it. He never thought one could be too safe. In fact, he figured it was nearing time for them to turn in. While Jaskier’s voice was easily lost in the chatter of the tavern, Geralt would prefer it to stay that way.

​

He tugged gently, and Jaskier stood almost immediately.

​

“Yes,” He set his cup down, “Yes, I hear you.”

​

With quivering legs, Jaskier began pulling himself up the stairs. Geralt laid a hand on his lower back, and Jaskier turned to look back at him, throwing a dramatic wink his way.

​

“I love you,” Jaskier smiled at him - the smile of the shining sun, “I love you so very much, My Geralt.”

​

Geralt couldn’t take it, the sight of him, the earnest drawl of his words, “I love you, Jas.”

​

He pressed closer, whispering into Jaskier’s ear, hidden by the wall of the stairs, “I love you so very much, My Jaskier.”

​

Geralt wasn’t sure when he began to utter such words. He wasn’t sure when proclamations came so easily to him, but the words did. They did with Jaskier. In the intimate bubble, with no one listening to them but the stars - Geralt liked it that way.

​

He liked having Jaskier all to himself.

​

Perhaps the Bard was weakening his soul.

​

A finger was suddenly being pushed against his furrowed brows, “You’re thinking naughty thoughts about me, Geralt.”

​

Perhaps Geralt didn’t mind.

​

With a scoff, Geralt brushed his hand away, “Am I?”

​

“Absolutely, look at me! Who wouldn’t?”

​

Geralt flicked his hand away once more, ignoring Jaskier’s dramatic yelp of pain. But he reached out, gently taking Jaskier in his arms, pulling the bard closer. Their bodies moved together, legs tangling, breath mingling, chests pressed against one another. So close they felt like one corporeal being. One breathing, one bleeding, one loving thing. Nothing to separate them. Nothing to stop them from loving.

​

Except there was, Jaskier was human.

​

So beautifully human. So loudly human. A man with nothing to offer by his bleeding heart and sweet music - nothing but himself. A man so viscerally human.

​

He never shied from anything, never feared the setting sun, the dying leaves - Jaskier never feared the crawl of time.

​

Not the way that Geralt did.

​

They were both young and foolish when they first met, and even now, they looked of similar age. But one day that would change.

​

One day, Jaskier would appear older, touched by time, and Geralt would not. He would look as he does now, unchanged.

​

Jaskier was human, and Geralt was not.

​

“How long do Witchers live?” Jaskier mumbled, head resting against Geralt’s shoulder. They had paused by a stream, allowing Roach a moment of rest on their journey.

​

“Trying to get rid of me?” Could Geralt hide the fear in his stomach? The shaking of his heart?

​

“Never,” Jaskier said, much more seriously than needed.

​

No, he couldn’t hide. Not from Jaskier.

​

Geralt shrugged, watching Roach bend her slender neck and drink from the clear water, “Not sure. The job tends to get us first."

​

Jaskier let out a displeased hum, “Well, for those it doesn’t get?”

​

There was something else in his voice, something Geralt couldn't place. Less than fear, but more than curiosity, his stomach curled.

​

“A long time.”

​

‘Longer than humans’, he can’t say the words. Can’t speak reality into truth.

​

“That’s good,” Jaskier says after a while, “Glad to know you’ll be able to provide plenty of adventures for me and my songs.”

​

The joke wasn’t quite funny, and neither of them laughed.

​

Jaskier reached over, lacing their fingers together. The breeze was gentle against them, winter pulling at the autumn leaves. Time was here to pass.

​

Because Jaskeir was human and Geralt was not.

​

Time began to pass.

​

Geralt watched as it rolled over Jaskier, almost unnoticeable at first.

​

The slight graying of his hair, the deepening of his voice, the slowing of his walk. But his smile was still as bright as the sun, his eyes still sparkling like the sea - he was still Jaskier.

​

And for many years, it remained that way.

​

They slowed down. Geralt accepted fewer jobs; they stayed in one town, and they found comfort in their domesticity. Jaskier wrote poems and songs for them, teaching Geralt how to dance, how to dress - none of which Geralt asked for.

​

The two of them moved together. Walking hand in hand, moving, not to the edge of the world, but within their small home. They lay down together at night, awoke beside each other in the morning.

​

Time brought them peace.

​

Until it didn’t.

​

Jaskier began to wither away, and Geralt had to watch, unable to do anything but try and keep him together. Geralt became accustomed to roping Jaskier back to reality when his mind wandered from him, lost and confused. Slowly and surely, his beautiful Jaskier was slipping away.

​

Age made his bones brittle and delicate; the slightest brush of wind or drop of rain, and his body would ache for days. Aching and aching until one day they ached far too much to pluck melodies. His lute, old and worn, was placed away from his sight.

​

But his voice, still sweeter than lilies, stayed strong.

​

Humming songs as he rocked near a window seal, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket. Jaskier looked out at the dancing ocean, the sun dissolving into a mess of colors. The warm light lit him aglow. He enjoyed sitting there for hours at a time; he would sit and hum. Watching the sky, the sea, the wind - watching the world.

​

And Geralt sat beside him.

​

“The sun is out,” Jaskier remarked, just as he had 15 minutes ago.

​

“It is,” Geralt confirmed, just as he had 15 minutes ago.

​

Geralt ran a gentle finger over the thinning skin of Jaskier’s hand, following the grooves of his bones. These beautiful hands, curled and twisted with pain.

​

There were days when Geralt had to stop himself from apologizing, but Jaskier never seemed to truly notice. Though he seemed to notice less and less these days.

​

“I like the sun.”

​

“You do.”

​

“I do.”

​

His voice tittered off into another hum. Just as sweet and clear as the rest. There were no words sung; Geralt wasn’t sure he remembered them, but he remembered the melody. And the move, being by the sea, helped. The morning call of the birds and the salt in the air helped.

​

Jaskier seemed to like it here.

​

And Geralt would do anything to make him smile. Anything to get the smallest glimpse of Jaskier, the smallest inkling of Jaskier.

​

“I like my Geralt.”

​

Geralt almost choked, “What?”

​

Jaskier hadn’t turned to look at him, still rocking and staring. The clouds moved, tumbling ever so gently in the sky; his light eyes followed.

​

“I like my Geralt,” He repeated, as if he were commenting on the movement of the sky, “I love my Geralt.”

​

Though Geralt could no longer intertwine their fingers, he grasped Jaskier's hand in both of his own, “Do you - do you remember who that is, Jas?”

​

Jaskier let out a chuckle, something more akin to a wheeze, “Of course, I do. My Geralt.”

​

Geralt watched as Jaskier turned slowly, shining eyes, and a boyish smile, “My Geralt, you’re here.”

​

“I’m here, my Jaskier.”

​

“I like the sun, Geralt. ”

​

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

​

There would be other good days, such as that, and other bad days where Jaskier screamed and cried - unable to understand why a stranger was in his home. There were days when Jaskier would awaken and look into Geralt's eyes as if he never left, as if the sickness wasn’t lying there within him. There were days when Jaskier would grunt and whine, confused because the sickness was taking more of him.

​

Geralt sat there, patient as anything, and waited for Jaskier to return.

​

He didn’t always. Those days hurt to remember, but Geralt forced himself to. The memories, all memories, were so precious. They were all he had.

​

But patience couldn’t keep Jaskier forever.

​

Because Jaskier was human.

​

And Geralt was not.

​

He had never wished to be, never wanted to be bound to humanity the way others were, but he wished he could’ve gone with Jaskier.

​

Geralt looked just as he had when they met, and Jaskier didn’t.

​

He lay upon their bed, chest struggling to rise. Unseeing eyes pressed shut, hands resting over his stomach.

​

“Jaskier,” Geralt called.

​

His voice echoed within the emptiness of their home, but Jaskier stirred.

​

A gentle hand on Jaskier’s face, Geralt tried to contain his unyielding anguish, “Jaskier.”

​

Jaskier didn’t speak; he never really did anymore, but he tried to turn to the sound of his name.

​

“Jaskier,” Geralt placed a soft kiss on his cheek, “Will you call me beautiful once more?”

Geralt isn’t sure if Jaskier knew what he was saying, if Jaskier recognized his voice, if Jaskier knew who he was. But Jaskier moved into his hand and breathed against Geralt’s palm.

​

Breathing and wheezing.

​

And Geralt waited.

​

He waited for Jaskier to speak. For him to awaken, for him to cry out, for him to joke.

​

Breathing and wheezing.

​

Geralt waited.

​

He waited for Jaskier to sing, to drunkenly profess his love, to ride haphazardly on Roach’s back, to dance across the sand.

​

Geralt waited.

​

No breathing, no wheezing.

​

Geralt waited.

​

For the first time, the bard had wandered somewhere that Geralt could not follow.

__________

__________

She's pretty. 

Long blonde hair, curling around her lean shoulders, sea-blue eyes fanned by her golden eyelashes. The apples of her cheeks rest high on her face, sharp and beautiful. The curve of her cupid's bow leads to the fullness of her lips, dusted with lipstick and coated with shiny lip gloss. She is truly beautiful. 

She introduces herself as Bianca, offering him a well-manicured hand with a breathy giggle. She rests her chin on the palm of her hand, smiling at him, and Steve wastes no time. He leans in closer, ordering her a drink, and breathes in the intoxicating scent of her perfume. 

It doesn't smell of the beach - smelling of peaches and cinnamon - but Steve thinks that it's close enough. 

He asks her if she smokes. 

"Doesn't everyone?" She responds with another giggle, this one toppling over the bustling noise of Steve's thoughts, "Do you?"

He shakes his head, "No," He looks down at his hands before flickering his eyes back up to her, "But I love the smell." 

A blush arises on her sharp cheeks and Steve knows he's got her. 

__________

He feels guilty; terrible. 

But he doesn't feel guilty enough to push her away as she kisses him, her body pressed against his. He can feel the curve of her breasts, the movement of her tongue against his own. She's practically biting at his lips, smearing her lipstick across his cupid's bow, but it's perfect. 

Messy. 

Guilty. 

"Come on, Pretty Boy, you scared?"

No, this is perfect. 

She pulls away and they both gasp for air. Her blond bangs have fallen in her eyes, obscuring her face enough to have Steve snatching her back for another kiss. His hands work down her jean jacket, practically yanking it from her shoulders. The band t-shirt she wears beneath it makes Steve angry. 

It isn't Metalica. 

"Always gotta be Metalica, baby."

It's wrong. 

Bianca wraps her arms around his head, pulling closer, grinding her body down upon his. Her lips work furiously against his own, and Steve feels lightheaded as he's devoured. 

It's fine. It's good enough. 

It is good enough. Good enough for Steve to push her onto the bed, watching as she bounces against the mattress. She's already working the hem of her skirt, shimmying out of it. Truthfully, Steve doesn't care to see the rest of her body, doesn't care to see the miles of her legs or the curve of her ass, but he still utters out a single. 

"You're beautiful..."

She smiles at him and helps him pull his shirt over his head. He can feel her skin upon his and he's blazing. Burning from the inside out. It's nearly enough. Her nails scratch against him, drawing lines across his shoulder blades and outlining his ribs. The sting is nearly good enough to make him cry. Nearly enough to make him lose himself in the throes of her hand shoved down his underwear, pulling him from the restraints of the fabric. It's nearly enough to make him burst in her hand. Nearly enough to make him cry out a name as he enters her. 

Nearly. 

Nearly. 

Nearly. 

Nothing but nearly. 

It's never - 

"Steve!" She cries, rocking back into him as he grinds forward into her, her legs locked behind his back. The bite of her nails in his skin, tears bubbling in her eyes. Steve stares into her face, watching as her eyes roll back, mouth dropping open. Beads of sweat follow the smooth contours of her body, traveling down the valley of her breasts, down the heaving of her stomach. 

She's beautiful. 

"Steve!"

Her eyes find him. 

The black of her pupil has engulfed most of the blue, but Steve can still see a sliver of the sea, beautifully blue. 

"Steve!" 

Steve sees Billy. Just a glimpse, a sharp pass of his groaning figure in the darkness of his room. He sees Billy's smile and his mouth and his lips and his eyes. Steve sees Billy in Bianca's eyes as she cums, clenching hard around him 

"Steve!"

Steve hears Billy. 

"Steve."

"Fuck."

Steve throws himself against her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, and cums. Biting hard on his lips to keep him from whimpering out, "Billy."

__________

Bianca was wonderful.

Kind and smart 

She was practically perfect. 

"Where did you meet her again?" Dustin asks, looking at him through furrowed eyebrows. 

Steve had run into the little shit crew - or what was left of it - on one of their dates. 

"Does it matter?" He hissed, rolling his eyes. 

The questions made him uncomfortable. Made him feel like they could see right through him as if everyone could see his selfishness. They could see his lies, the feelings in his chest. Feelings that weren't for her. 

"I guess not," Dustin shrugged. 

__________

Steve bought Bianca cigarettes. 

Always Marlboro Reds. 

At first, she thanked him with every pack, looking at him with the same easy smile she gave him that night. But soon, she begins to take them with skepticism, "You sure do love the smell of smoke, huh?"

He smiles at her, trying to hide the drop of his stomach, "I do." 

She doesn't say much else, only drawing a white cigarette from the fresh pack. As she fishes her lighter from her pocket, holding the stick between her lips, her blue eyes find him. He sees it again. With the click of her lighter and the strike of a flame, Steve sees Billy. Dancing in the brightness of the afternoon, hanging in the muggy air. Steve sees Billy Hargrove in the ocean of Bianca's eyes. 

Bianca blinks. 

"I think I might quit," She says, blowing out a puff of smoke. 

Billy's gone.

__________

Steve doesn't fight her as she struggles to quit. He doesn't aid her either. Cursing into his palm when she updates him on her achievements, telling him of two days, then a week, then a month. He hadn't even begun to realize that that much time had passed. 

The guilt sits in his stomach heavier than ever. 

On her birthday - that Steve forgot was her birthday - she sleeps over. One of her friends had thrown a small get-together for her. There'd been drinking and no sign of cigarettes. Steve had confetti in his hair, silly string on his shirt as he drove them back to his house. She looked over at him drunkenly, a sated smile on her face. 

Her hands crawled beneath his clothes, finding his belt buckle. She ducked down below the steering wheel, and Steve lay his head back against the headrest. The pleasure that shoots up his veins makes him curl his fists. He glances down at her, but only finds the mess of her golden hair. He lets his hand fall down into the strands, imagining the coils that are supposed to be there. 

He leans back, a groan rising in his throat, watching through heavy lids in the darkness of his car. His rearview mirror is empty, only dully reflecting the shining light of the moon back on them. 

"You look good, pretty boy," A voice purrs, Steve looks back, eyes staring into the glass. 

There, looking as alive as ever, Billy Hargrove rests. Legs spread open across the backseat, sitting like the fucker that he is. Billy cocks his head to the left, swiping his tongue across his teeth. 

"You look so pretty like that, Stevie, down her throat," He continues, and Steve thinks that he might be going crazy, but he lets his eyes slip shut. 

"Oh, no, baby," Billy tsks, "Eyes on me."

Steve obeyed with no hesitation. 

"Good boy."

Steve shudders and tightens his grip on Bianca's hair, she gags. He couldn't care less. 

"Does that feel good, Steve?"

He doesn't know who's asking, but his answer is the same regardless, 'No,' He nearly says, 'Not good enough.'

But he doesn't have to, Billy answers for him, "I know it doesn't. Not like me, right?"

Steve shakes his head, never like Billy. Bianca begins to pull up, a lewd pop following her movements, but Steve can only push her back down. 

"Let go for me, Pretty Boy," Billy's eyes are shining, such a daring blue, such a tantalizing blue, "Let go."

Steve comes with a loud groan, quickly releasing Bianca's hair and catching his fist in his mouth. He bites into his flesh and can hardly suppress the sound of Billy's name leaving his lips. 

Bianca comes back up coughing, massaging her throat, "I don't think I've ever seen you that excited," She giggles, but it melts into another coughing fit. 

He chuckles breathlessly, still lost in the clouds. 

He pulls her in for a kiss, and his eyes look back up to the mirror. 

But once again, Billy's gone. 

Steve breaks the kiss and tugs her upstairs. 

Hope in his heart, and guilt sitting heavy in his stomach. 

__________

As she sleeps, Steve is restless. The sound of her soft breathing should be enough to lull him to sleep; the heat of her body should be enough to trick him. 

But it isn't. 

He lies wide awake, staring at the emptiness of his ceiling, eyes following the ceiling fan. 

Steve knows, he knows that he's only passing time beside her. He doesn't love her, doesn't think that he ever will. She's nearly perfect - no, she is perfect - but he still can't think of anything but Billy. Can't see anyone but Billy. 

He's tried, tried to fall for the gentleness of her kiss, or her touch, but it's not right. 

It's not Billy. 

It'll never be Billy. 

Billy's gone. 

The bitterness of his thoughts makes tears burn in his eyes, a lump rising in his throat. He's lost and alone, the guilt eating at him. He's selfish but he's still human, there's only so much lying he can do. 

She suddenly turns, throwing her leg over his body, wrapping her arms around his torso, "Go to sleep..." She mumbles, nuzzling into his chest. 

"Go to sleep, Pretty Boy..."

Steve has to suppress the sob that nearly leaves his lips. He clings to her for the night, trying to savor the smell of cigarettes that has begun to die on her skin. 

__________

Robin looks at him like he's an idiot. Something he fully expected. 

"You're doing what?"

"Dating Bianca."

She shakes her head, placing a hand on the counter, "No, no, I got that, but you're dating Bianca Delmore?"

"Bianca," He confirms, the video store had been pretty slow, so Steve had nothing to save him from the questions. 

"Why Bianca?"

"She's pretty and smart," He shrugs, trying to avoid the burning glare of Robin's eyes, "I don't know! I just like her."

"You like her?"

"I like her."

She stares on for a few moments more and Steve knows that she knows he's bullshitting, she can see it - can see right through him - but he doesn't budge. He wasn't ready to let go, not quite yet. Her eyes narrow on him, and he begins to fidget, she knows. 

"Alright, I guess."

But she relents. 

Steve breathes out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding in.

__________

It's the anniversary. 

July 4. 

The fireworks that pop in the sky make Steve jump. He's never really been one to care too much about celebrating America, but he'd always been one to go out to the parties. Bianca had been trying to convince him to go out more, claiming that he, "Needed the sun!"

It made him roll his eyes. 

He just didn't want to go out, not tonight. He couldn't tonight. It was too hard. 

"Steve!" He heard Bianca's voice carry from downstairs. 

Steve could only cringe, fighting another flinch as more fireworks popped outside his window. It painted the sky in beautiful light, illuminating the streets of Hawkins, but Steve couldn't stomach being outside. He hated being away from the beauty of tonight, from the joy of tonight, Dustin wanted him to come and watch the light show with the rest of the little shits, but he had declined. He hated the look that Dustin gave him, with a smile, saying, "It's ok, buddy."

"Steve?" Bianca's voice grew closer, her ascending footsteps trailing into his bedroom. He lay on his bed, an arm thrown over his eyes. 

She stepped through the threshold of his door, the wood creaking beneath her feet, "Steve? Are you alright?"

He didn't answer her, trying to dissolve into the fabric of his sheets. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, than to float away into the nothingness. To melt into the wood of his bed frame, drip into the ground, and hide away. He wanted to be safe. Curled in his -

"Steve?" He felt her hand ghost over his elbow, a hardly there touch, but it made Steve shoot up. He looked at her with wild eyes. 

She jumped back, nearly collapsing on his dresser. 

The guilt burned in his stomach once more, but it was nothing compared to the erratic beating of his heart. He could feel it, nearly bursting from his ribcage, the fear hurt. 

Bianca's ocean eyes were wide with surprise, holding her hands in front of her like a shield, gasping out, "Steve!?"

He landed on the floor and nearly fell back onto his bed, tiredness coiling within him. He looked up at her face, sad to see the makeup surrounding Bianca's eyes, or the twists in her hair. She was covered in glitter, shining as the fireworks cast a tantalizing light over her skin. 

He hadn't realized he was panting until she whispered out, "It's ok...just breathe..."

And he did, Steve gasped. He sucked in the cold air of his room, trying to steady himself on his trembling legs. She only watched him, and he was sure that she was confused, probably disgusted. But she said nothing. 

He fell back onto the mountain of his pillows, with a groan, and he could feel the tears on his cheeks before he knew he was crying. Could feel the salt roll down his face, falling onto his sheets, and the sobs building in his throat. 

He was crying. 

Sobbing. 

Clinging to the sheets around him, threatening to snap the threads that connected the linen. His nails dug into the pillows surrounding him, he wanted to throw something. Throw anything. He wanted to curse the world for being so cruel, for taking something so precious from him. He wanted to - 

"Steve," Bianca's voice was hardly above a whisper, "It's ok."

Suddenly, she was wrapped around him, pulling his head onto her chest, and he could hear her heartbeat. Calm, alive. He could hear the way her life drummed through her, the way it flowed into him. She rubbed soothing circles onto his back, tracing mindless patterns as he cried. The warmth that enveloped him only invited more tears, only pulled the sobs from the pits of his stomach.

She only held him. 

Slowly rocking him as he pressed his wet face into her glittery skin. Her cheek pressed against his hair, and she whispered sweet nothings into the strands, laying kisses there for good measure. 

Bianca held Steve as he emptied himself of emotions long built, as he emptied himself of his grief. Of his sadness. Of his mourning. 

Mourning Billy. 

She held him. 

And Steve wanted her to. 

"Will," He sucked in a shaky breath, "Will you stay?"

Her eyes were warm and kind, she nodded, "Of course, Steve."

__________

Bianca laid with him until his tears and sobs dissolved into drying cheeks and sniffles. She laid awake with him, even when he could see the push of sleep begin to take over, she was wide awake. And Steve stared, he stared into the never-ending blue of her eyes, wanting to cry every time she blinked. He clung to the strands of blonde hair that adorned her face, to the eyelashes that touched her cheeks. 

Selfish. 

Guilty. 

When he had begun to calm, she tried probing the story out of him and when he refused she merely said, "Okay, whenever you're ready," and smiled. 

He really was terrible. 

And she really was perfect. 

She just wanted him to be happy, just wanted to make him happy. Steve wanted that for her, but he knew why he was here with her. He knew why he had picked her that night, she had been what he was looking for. 

Close enough. 

Blond enough.

Blue-eyed enough. 

Rough enough.

She had been enough to remind him of Billy. To look into her eyes and catch a glimpse of who he used to be, of who he used to be with Billy. 

He reached for her hand in the darkness, pulling it close. 

"I'm sorry," He muttered, feeling a new wave of tears burn in his eyes. 

"Don't be," She didn't know what he was talking about, and didn't know to be angry with him. To feel used. Steve didn't tell her. 

He only nodded and pressed a kiss to her skin. He dropped his head down, laying his cheek against her hand. She was perfect and he still couldn't love her, but perfect doesn't mean it's working. 

There was nothing he could do. 

Nothing he could say. 

Steve sighed before looking back up. When he did, slowly going to catch himself in the blue of her eyes, Billy was there. 

Laying across from him, a smirk on his lips. His Saint Christopher's necklace hangs over his tanned skin. Steve could feel the heat of Billy's hand against his own, the scratch of Billy's jeans across his legs. He felt so real. 

"I've got you Steve," His voice was smooth, spilling from his lips and dropping Steve into the pits of his sadness once more. But he felt safe. He felt as if nothing could harm him, not with Billy here.

"I'll always be here."

Steve wasn't sure who was speaking, unsure if it was truly Billy or if his mind was erasing Bianca, but he could care less. To Steve, it would always be Billy. 

"I'll be here."

He only nodded, not trusting his voice. 

Silence pooled over them, and Steve nearly fell into the arms of sleep. With Billy beside him, Steve could trick himself into thinking that he would still be there when he awoke. That Billy would always be there.

That Billy was there to stay. 

But it wasn't true. 

It would never be true. 

"Steve," Billy's voice called out to him, but it was distorted, melting in with another, "I - I love you, Steve."

Billy sounded nervous, almost scared. It was wrong, and it wasn't Billy. 

But to Steve, it was. 

It was good enough. 

"I love you," He whispered back, "I have always loved you."

Billy squeezed his hand and smiled. 

"I love you, Pretty Boy," Undeniably Billy.

"I love you, Steve."

"I love you," Steve didn't let himself finish, knowing that if he did it would shatter everything. But he looked into Billy's eyes, drinking in the days of California and planning their escape, and closed his eyes. 

Steve let his eyes close before whispering out a final, "I love you."

When the words fell from his lips, he carefully opened his eyes once more, slowly adjusting to the darkness of his room. 

He opened his eyes and there was Bianca, smiling back at him, a blush on her cheeks.

She looked so happy, so complete. 

He blinked and there was Bianca. 

He blinked once more and there was Bianca.

Kind. Sweet. Beautiful. Perfect. 

But it's not what he wanted. 

He wanted nothing more than to be with Billy. 

He wanted Billy. 

He would always want Billy.

_____________________

“Take me to the rooftop, I want to see the world when I stop breathing, turning blue…”

A voice arose from one of the practice rooms. Soft and melodic, soothing across the silence of the empty corridor, followed by strums of a guitar. Sunlight danced on the floor of the room, highlighting the shadow of the stranger. It made Geralt hold his breath and lean against the wall.

The door was cracked open, wide enough for a large ray of light to spill onto the floor, but not enough for a person to enter through. 

“Tell me love is endless, don’t be so pretentious, leave me...like you do…”

It was the room Geralt had just passed, the voice nipping at his heels, pressing him against the wall. Careful not to let his shadow appear on, pressing a cheek to the metal frame of the door. Doing his best to glance in inconspicuously. 

“If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, ‘cause I’m leaving soon…”

The person sang, the voice was sweet, but it was so sad. Somber tinting of a relatively chipper voice. Their tone was blue - no, not quite blue, but dark. Like a shaded ray of sun, one darkened and hurt. 

It made Geralt’s fingers twitch, aching to reach for his sketchbook, but he clasped around his jeans, holding in the urge. 

“Sorry can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down...Hmm, down…”

Quietly sliding to the bottom of the wall, Geralt sat. A leg propped up with his forearm resting against it. Drawing phantom lines across his thigh. Picturing the voice behind the song, the person behind the voice, the story behind the hurt. 

There were a million things that Geralt wanted to know, but all he had was this song. All he had was a few lyrics and a shadowy figure. 

And for once in his life, it was enough.

“Taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks. That's what a year-long headache does to you...”

Geralt almost wanted to scoff. The sound of a year-long headache wasn’t something foreign to him. Being so heavy, so tired, that the pounding in your head never does go away. Plus, he lives and deals with Eskel and Lambert on a daily basis.

 “I'm not okay, I feel so scattered. Don't say I'm all that matters. Leave me, déjà vu…”

That caught his attention, snapping his head towards the door. Concern filling his being, draining through his fingers and making his foot twitch. He wanted to ask, the questions rested on in his throat, but he couldn’t find it in him to speak. 

“If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, I'm leaving soon…”

Geralt sat silently, or about as silently as he could be. His heart racing in his chest. This person, this stranger, had a beautiful voice. Gorgeous tone, perfect phrasing, but the beauty was overshadowed by the raw emotion in his voice. Drowned out by the sadness, the intimacy that made Geralt feel like an intruder. Like he was listening in on a private moment, a moment that isn’t meant to be shared. 

“ ‘Sorry’ can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down. Hmm, down…”

The voice began to waver, words bobbing with emotion, growing thick. However, despite that, the voice remained steady, focused. It made Geralt’s head spin. This person was hurting so badly and no - one had noticed. He sounded as if he was dying. As if the world was caving in on him and his only way out was - was by offing himself. 

“Call my friends and tell them that I love them and I'll miss them, but I'm not sorry. Call my friends and tell them that I love them, and I'll miss them...Sorry…”

He finished with a choked off sob, a ragged sound followed by heavy breathing and the clatter of what Geralt can assume to be his guitar. Slight wheezing as they tried to gulp down the air through cries, cries of anguish. 

The meeting be damned, Geralt couldn’t leave him here.

He made a move to slide up the wall, knocking his backpack against the fire-alarm. The collision wasn’t enough to set it off, but enough to knock away the box of charcoal and color pencils from Geralt’s side pocket. The colors scattered across the floor, slashing through the new-found silence. 

He flinched at the crackling sound they made, colors spilling into the pool of warm light. It seemed to alert the person in the room of a presence. A loud scraping was heard followed by a jerky movement in their shadow, “Who’s there!?”

“Fuck,” Geralt seethed, closing his eyes, willing for the stranger to just go back to singing. 

“I know you’re there! Don’t come any closer!” They warned, voice still a bit shaky and heavy, the smallest sniff of their nose. 

Geralt gave them no answer, resting on the balls of his feet, back pressed firmly against the wall of the corridor, hands held high. 

“Answer me!”

“Ok,” He said, casting his hand into the view of the doorway, “You see, that’s me. Ok? Look, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?” The stranger questioned, some shuffling followed his words.

Geralt let out a soft chuckle, rocking back on his heels, feeling the sticky note shift in his jeans, “I got lost.”

They let out a dry laugh, one thick with tears, “Ha! Lost? You expect me to believe that? My parents sent you, didn't they.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows, snapping his head towards the door, “Wh-What? No.”

“I knew it,” they continued, heaving as sobs filled the air once more, “I - I fucking knew it.”

Geralt let out a slow breath, sliding a hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes, “Look, I don’t know who you are. I swear I got lost, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

His apology was sincere, but he had no intention of leaving, not without knowing the reason why this voice, this stranger, was in tears, in taters. 

“Y-You heard me sing?” They gasped, voice dropping into colors of fear. A fear that made something in Geralt’s stomach lurch. 

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Look, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry.”

The voice was quiet, soft sniffles the only sound that resonated through the halls. 

It was a silence that weighed on Geralt’s shoulders. The questions built in his throat pressing warningly against his tongue, they wanted to slip, they wanted to know. 

And one did.

“That song,” he began, voice steady, echoing slightly, “It’s a suicide note, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the truth, carving through the raw emotion that lingered heavily in the air. He clenched his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall with a thud, ‘Fucking idiot,‘ he thought.

To his surprise, the voice answered, “What’s it to you?”

His words were small. As if irking Geralt to explain something he already knew. 

“Well,” Geralt said, adjusting his legs, “It matters because you shouldn’t do it.”

“I shouldn’t? Ha!” The voice proclaimed, “No one would even notice. I’d disappear into thin air.”

“You wouldn’t,” Geralt deadpanned, thinking back to thoughts he had. Thoughts that pounded against his mind, growing painful as he clenched his trembling fingers around a paintbrush. Those were dark times, and while they weren’t over, they weren’t as loud. 

“I-I’m sorry?”

“You wouldn’t disappear into thin air. And I would notice, I would know,” He continued, lulling his head to rest on his shoulder. The skin of his cheeks pressing against the leather on his shoulders. 

The voice went silent again as if they were contemplating what Geralt said. 

“Why do you care?” they finally asked. It wasn’t condescending, it wasn’t sarcastic. No, this question was a plea for help. It was a cry to live. 

“Because you shouldn’t die,” He tired, gulping down the layers of emotion that dared to tremble behind the surface, “Because you should live.”

“Because I want you to live...I need you to live.”

The silence grew heavy again. Growing over the ever dimming light outside, pooling over the spilled colored pencils that were still scattered. But the air wasn’t dense, it wasn’t suffocating. The colors around him were still blue, they were still faded, but the lighter tones and shades began to peek through.

“You-” The voice was cut off by a loud sob, “Y-You want me to l-live?”

“Yes, I do,” He answered immediately.

The silence was shattered, filled to the brim with gasping breaths and relieved sighs. Choked off sobs, questions of ‘you do?’ and quick answers of ‘yes, I do.’ Time passed slowly, echoing in the dim hallway of the Performing Arts Wing. 

“I-I don’t want you to see me,” They said after some time, the sounds of ruffling running alongside their words. 

“I won’t,” Geralt smiled, leaning his head back once more, “I’ll cover my eyes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The voice shuffled, their shadow murky and black, and became bigger, drowning out the hallway in darkness.

Geralt let his eyes fall shut, resting his forearm over it, he sighed. It wasn’t an impatient one, or even an annoyed one, it just felt right.

“You’re not looking?”

“No, I’m not.”

Footsteps tapped against the floor, the sounds of a case being held filled his ears. Gliding the floor at his feet, looming over him. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They continued walking, echoes of their shoes following behind, before they came to a halt, “Thank you for telling me to stay.”

__________

Geralt went back. 

He went back to the Performing Arts Wing, took the wrong turn down the Band hallways, and trailed across the practice rooms. The posters a little peeled at their edges, worn, just a bit. He leaned over, smoothing them back down against the wall. 

‘He might not even be here, you know,’ A voice prompted, sharp and shrill in Geralt’s mind. Poking fun at his need to see - or rather hear this stranger again. Why? Geralt didn’t know yet. 

Half of him wanted to chalk it up to him being a concerned stranger, wanting to make sure the singer, whoever they are, is still breathing. But the small, selfish part of Geralt’s mind wondered if this singer was there for a reason. If this singer would be as beautiful as their voice. 

Carefully sliding down the wall, pulling his backpack to his chest. Quietly sliding his art equipment from the bag, his sketchbook, his charcoal pencils. He would forgo the colorings, at least until he could learn more about this singer. 

Silence radiated throughout the hallway, bouncing across the walls. The sun dampening the darkness, floating against Geralt’s knee, brushing against him, like fingers ghosting along his legs. 

Anxiety began to pour through him, thrumming quietly behind his fingertips, pushing against his chest. What if they really were gone? What if they hadn’t listened to Geralt yesterday? What if that song was the last thing that he whispered into the world? What if Geralt let him walk away when he could have saved him? What if there -?

“When will I feel this, as vivid as it truly is…”

And there he was, the stranger singer. The mystery man that was nothing more to Geralt than a voice, a guitar, and a shadow. One that loomed across the floor, sliding into the fingers across Geralt’s leg. But Geralt couldn’t help but sigh in relief, blowing out quietly, letting a hand fall against his chest. He was alive. He lived. 

“Fall in love in a single touch and fall apart when it hurts too much...?”

The voice was still sad, still full of raw emotion and it still felt exceedingly intimate. But there was no looming sense of - of...gone.

There was no dark shadow looming in the stranger’s voice. Yes, it was sad, yes it did still sound broken, but it no longer sounded like defeat. It no longer went brittle with so much brokenness that the glamors of bright timber couldn’t shine through. 

“Can we skip past near-death clichés where my heart restarts as my life replays? All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…”

Their guitar was quiet, second to their voice, almost as if it was nothing more than a formality. But this voice, this stranger, didn’t need such trivial things. Their voice held emotion, it held the quality to sing on its own. By itself. 

“I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can, but God I want to feel again...” 

To feel? From what Geralt could hear, this voice felt plenty, they knew plenty, but perhaps they wanted to feel the light, the warmth. They wanted to feel the sun graze upon them, they wanted to splash over their colors of not-quite-blue to colors of yellow, of white, of brightness. Geralt turned to his paper. Drawing the first line, letting his head lull back against the wall. He wouldn’t look, he would let the voice carry his hand. 

“Rain or shine, I don't feel a thing, just some information upon my skin. I miss the subtle aches when the weather changed. The barometric pressure we always blamed...All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…”

Geralt had no direct visuals, he had no colors. He had only the sounds of a guitar, a voice, a shadow. He only had the lyrics. Lyrics that told stories of someone reaching out, someone wanting more, of someone wanting to feel. They wanted to feel again. An idea pulled at Geralt’s fingertips, drawing the lead across the sheet of paper. 

“Invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me. Well, they've been shutting down for quite some time, leaving only rust behind...Well, I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can. But God I want to feel again...Oh, God, I want to feel again…”

The voice began to waver, words growing thick. Some shaky breaths followed their words, silence draping across the hallway. Their shadow shifted just a bit. And just as Geralt began to rise, gathering his things, he heard the voice whisper, almost like a confession:

“Down my arms, a thousand satellites suddenly discover signs of life…”

Geralt can only smile, dragging his fingers across the paper, shading the darker colors. Re-tracing over the rough lines, adding smaller details. His smile never wavered, how could it, the stranger decided to stay. He decided to live. 

“That was beautiful,” He tried, waving his hand into the door. Watching as he cast a shadow across his legs and sighing when the stranger let out a loud gasp. 

“What are you doing here?!” He screeched, shadow jerking, the loud clatter following his movements. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt replied, dragging a  hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“So what is it this time? Did you get lost again?” They uttered. Their shadow draining of tension, the straight line of their spine easing into a small curve. 

“It is you right…?” He questions, voice small, worried, “They g-guy from yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Geralt chuckles, propping his forearm on his knee, “I’m the guy from yesterday. It’s you right? The singer from yesterday?”

His heart warms when he hears the smallest huff of amused air, “Yeah...I’m the - the singer from yesterday.”

Geralt just nods, running his fingers across the paper between his thighs. Rolling his pencil across his knuckles, drumming it lightly against the floor. 

Silence begins to drift between them, nothing heavy or uncomfortable, but a silence that comes with not knowing what to say. Once again, those questions press against Geralt’s throat, thrumming against his chest, threatening to break free. 

“So you lived?” He asks, turning his cheek to lean against the metal door frame, catching the smallest glimpse of shoes. They’re regular sneakers, but they have hand-written words across the midsole. Dark, chunky writing spelling out small words, tiny drawing of stars and flowers running along the seams. 

“Yeah,” They finally answer, “ I did.”

Geralt smiles, “I’m glad you did.”

A small chuckle comes from inside the room, the heads of chuck taylors coming into view, but Geralt doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look for the person attached to the shoes because it doesn’t matter, it won’t change a thing if he looks. 

“You’re not going to look?”

“No, not until you want me to,” He whispers, eyes trailing across the black double stitch, the heavy layers of leather, and the chunky permanent marker art. 

The shoes don’t move, the stranger doesn’t move, he only whispers, “You draw?”

Geralt looks down between his thighs, the paper lying patently. Charcoal pencil rolled a few inches away from his open hand, “Yeah, I do. I’m actually a part of the Arts program here.”

“It’s beautiful,” the stranger says, a small twinge of surprise in their voice. 

“What?”

“N-Nothing,” they utter, but there’s obviously something, something they won’t tell Geralt.

“Well,” He urges, gesturing a hand toward the drawing, “Spit it out.”

The singer chuckles softly, their shadow standing tall against Geralt’s leg, only a few rays of sunlight spilling onto the floor, “Why’d you draw it?”

“Because I heard you singing,” He answers, ghosting his finger along the outline of the silhouette he drew, a darkened finger reaching out to touch a bright bird. The bird sat patiently on a pedestal, it’s brilliant colors flourished and sunny, “You were saying you wanted to feel, but I think you felt plenty. You’re just scared of letting it come through you. I think you feel too much of the bad colors and not enough bright colors.”

“Bright colors?”

“Yeah,” he begins, resisting the twitch in his neck that almost makes him face the stranger, “You feel bright, like spring. That’s happiness, or joyous or adventurous.”

Geralt hears some rustling, the shifting of clothes and the silent thud of a case, the stranger is sitting. 

“What do you feel?”

With a soft chuckle, Geralt looks to the floor, scanning his eyes over the variety of colored pencils he’s spilled out, “I feel...blue and red and purple, I feel aqua and cornflower blue, magenta, I feel plenty, but I also feel gray.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah,” he utters, but he’s forgotten that he’s speaking to someone who doesn’t understand the colors as well as he does. He forgets that he isn’t speaking to someone who brings drawings to life, “The mixture of darkness and light, happiness and depression.”

“I feel gray sometimes too,” The stranger admits, a hand comes into Geralt’s view. It’s the voice. HIs hands are strong, some calluses along his fingertips, rings adorning the fingers. Shining even in the dim lighting of the hallway. It makes something in Geralt jump, something leap. 

He wants to draw these hands. 

“I feel grey a lot, but sometimes I feel black,” He whispers, drawing phantom circles across the sketch, “I used to be yellow all the time, but I suppose times change.”

“Why’d they change for you?” Geralt manages, biting back the sudden lurch of his heart. 

The stranger with the hand full of rings sighs, “My family wanted me to be someone I’m not. They wanted me to be like them, but I’m not…”

“Well,” Geralt gulps, “You don’t have to be,” His voice sounds forgin to his own ears. This feels strange, he’s never been much of a talker, let along an advice giver. 

A dry laugh is heard, echoing slightly in the vacant hallway, “Yeah, I guess you’re right...what’s your name?”

“My name is Geralt,” He sticks his hand out, wincing as it passes his line of sight and he catches a glimpse at the various paint stains on his palm. The stranger takes his hand with a firm shake. 

“Well,” The stranger says, “It’s nice to meet you Geralt. My name is J...Olly. Yeah, my name is Olly.”

Geralt knows that’s not his name, he knows that’s not the real name his parents gave him, but it fits. It suits the stranger in the abandoned practice room, the stranger with a knack for rings. 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Olly.”

__________

The next time Geralt went to that hallway, he learned about Olly.

He learned that Olly was afraid of many things.

“I’ve just been hurt a lot, I guess,” the singer uttered, legs dangling just out of Geralt’s sight, “I’m scared of love.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, onl offering him a small nod, not that he could see.

“I guess I am too.”

__________

It became an everyday thing. 

Geralt would take the wrong turn down the Band hallway instead of the orchestra hallway, he’d let his hands graze along the walls until it reached a peeling poster. He’d fix it and make his way to that slightly ajar classroom with Olly. The ring obsessed, chuck taylor wearing singer, would always be there. Always. His shadow would always pool against the sunlight. 

Always. 

Everyday, Geralt would slide down the wall and pull his sketchbook. It had begun to bulge a bit, growing heavier, but Geralt would always draw if Olly would always sing. 

And these feelings, feelings of yellow and pink, grew darker, more prominent. He was falling in love with a shadow on the floor, rings on a hand, drawings on shoes, a voice from a practice room. 

Yennefer thought he was an idiot, giving him raised eyebrows from across the room of their Psyche class. Lambert and Eskel thoroughly made fun of him, but it didn’t matter. It all felt so heavy against his ribs, it felt too quick. 

But he didn’t know what else to do. 

He didn’t know how to un-love Olly. 

He didn’t know how and it felt horrible. Loving someone felt horrible. 

The thoughts raced in his mind, pressing against his throat. He needed more than a shadow, he needed to see. There’s so much he wants but he doesn’t know how to ask. Art has always been his translator, but it seems just as lost as he does.

“Geralt?” Jaskeir prompts, voice concerned and light, “You there?”

Geralt wants to face palm, Olly sings and Geralt misses it. He missed the intimita story telling, like a dumbass. 

“Fuck.”

Quickly he shuffles his things together, doing his best before Olly approaches the door frame.

“So, no drawing today?”

“Fuck,” He utters again, going lax against the wall. Dropping his head to his chest with a loud sigh, “I’m sorry, Olly.”

There’s a bright chuckle, Olly dropping into a squat beside him, still out of his vision, letting a comforting hand rest against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Was my singing that bad?” He jokes, but that is the farthest thing from the truth.

“No! No, I - I just don’t feel,” He cuts himself off, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to say it.

But he doesn’t have to.

“Grey?”

“Yeah,” He scoffs, angry that Olly can read him so well. Anxious at the fact that Olly can read him so well. 

Olly lets out a hum, his hand tightening a bit, “I know what will cheer you up…”

The sounds of his footsteps retreating cause Geralt’s neck to twitch, curiosity building within his body, but he manages to keep from looking. But soon enough, there’s a rustling, and a thud of a guitar case. 

“You’re going to play something for me?”

“Not just something,” Olly gasps, giving his guitar a quick strum, “A special something.”

Silence falls on them briefly, Olly breathing in deeply.

“You with the sad eyes, don’t be discouraged. Oh, I realize it’s hard to take courage in a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all. The darkness inside you can make you feel so small…”

The words built behind Geralt’s body, pressing against his resistance. They shattered the walls and came pouring out, “I love you, Olly.”

Those words are light weight being shattered upon Geralt’s shoulders, shoved away. He feels lighter, he feels better. He can see a color, it’s yellow, and it’s blazing, it’s bright. 

But it turns grey.

Then black.

Geralt flinches when he hears Olly suck in a sharp breath, it’s ear shattering. The body beside him suddenly went cold, going ridgid. 

“Jask-”

“Stop,” He gasps, feet shuffling away, rising off the floor, colliding with the wooden frame behind them, “Stop!”

Geralt feels as if his world is breaking, he feels as if his hands, his words have gripped him at the throat and are shoving the bitter taste of rejection down his body. 

“O-Olly...please…” He tries, rising as well, neck twitching as he turns. Eyes glazing over the shoes with chunky permanent marker, up to cuffed blue jeans, up to the ringed fingers, up to the stripped shirt he wears beneath his denim jacket, up to-

“DON’T LOOK AT ME!” Olly screeches, the unruly sounds of him staggering backward, his sneakers striking against the ground. The clatter of his guitar case, “Please,” he cries, voice thick and emotional, “Please, don’t look at me, Geralt.”

And so he doesn’t.

Geralt’s eyes stayed fixated on the medallion that swayed on his neck. They way it’s been hand-crafted, a gift from Geralt. The emblem of a wolf, snarling into the darkness, “Protection,” He said, “Protection.”

But now it just serves to taunt him, reminding him of the line he will never cross. The scuffed threads of Olly’s jean jacket. 

He watches as Olly runs away. Sobbing and gripping his case tight, shoes rattling the world that threatened to cave in beneathe Geralt. 

The world is grey, but he doesn’t want it to be. 

The practice room that’s always slightly ajar, the wrong turn down the band hall in the Performing Arts wing, in front of the poster whose left corner is always peeling, is so cold. 

So grey. 

__________

Geralt still goes back. 

Still traces his fingers along the brightly papered walls, straightening out the kinks in the posters. The floor below him is scuffed, used from a long day of school, but the practice room is closed. It’s always closed. There’s no pooling of rich sun to light the dark hallway, there is no strum of a guitar and the singing of-

It doesn’t matter.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. This is unlike him, he’s never been hung up on someone, let alone someone who left him. But he finds himself there again. 

Adjusting the leather jacket on his shoulders and the backpack slinged around his arm, and walked down the dimmed hallway. Ghosting his fingers over the bright walls, feet coming to a halt when he finds an empty space. 

That open-mic poster is gone. 

He huffs out a bitter laugh. They’d left it up for months after it had passed, why take it down now? 

But he fakes it, straightening down air, pulling his fingertips across the ghosted tacks and breathing out heavily. Everything is still so black, so dark. The light blue seedlings of Olly have begun to fade away. There seems to be nothing left. 

And when he approaches the music room, he finds the door shut, the way it always is. 

The dried out pool of sunlight leaves only dust, specks of a day Geralt wishes to forget. A day he wishes to shove away, but he can’t.

He can’t because he can still feel the ear shattering clatter of Olly leaving him, rejecting him. The door seems to be looming, metal handle gleamin even in the dim hallway. 

“Fuck,” he utters, something buildign in his thrat.

“Just once,” Geralt pulls the door open. Revealing the marveling gaze of the sunlight, dancing warmly across hsi skin. Embellishing him in old memories, in old feelings. There’s an Upright piano in the corner and a few chairs, along with a few music stands. The walls are insulated and prove for the best acoustics. 

It’s empty.

There’s nothing in here except air.

Space.

“Dammit, Olly,” He rasps, swiping a palm harshly at his eyes, to stop whatever tear threatens to fall.

He won’t cry, he refuses to.

Why would he cry over spilled milk? A love that was never really love? Someone who he’s never seen? Someone who didn’t love him, why is he crying? How could-?

“It's not true, tell me I've been lied to, crying isn't like you…”

Geralt goes rigid, body freezing at the sound of that acoustic guitar, at the sight of those sneakers with chunky permanent marker. The breath from his body stops, exiting in a swift gasp. Because of that voice, that voice that’s so sweet and sad, so scared and tired, that voice makes him shake. It makes him collapse into the dinky chairs. It makes him listen.

“What the hell did I do? Never been the type to let someone see right through…”

Geralt wants to laugh, he wants to laugh because of the irony. THe irony that floods through him. He can’t help but grip onto the bottom of the chair until the edges dig into his palms. But Olly’s right, he’s never been one to let anyone in. He’s never been the one to let someone see who he really is, which is why he sings. It’s his way of telling without telling, the way Geralt’s art is his talking without talking.

He understands.

“Maybe... won't you take it back, say you were tryna make me laugh and nothing has to change today. You didn't mean to say "I love you". I love you and I don't want to…”

Oh, how he wishes that were true. He wishes that he were able to play the most important sentence in his life off as a joke. He wishes he would have laughed, couldn’ve doubled over while he held his stomach, waited for Olly to believe him then, cry. If he’d done that, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

Geralt wouldn’t be sitting in the practice room listening to Olly in the hallway

Maybe if he hadn’t said it, they wouldn’t be so far apart in this grey world.

“Up all night on another red eye, I wish we never learned to fly. Maybe we should just try to tell ourselves a good lie, I didn't mean to make you cry…”

Geralt sighs out, Olly wants to forgive him. He wants to start over. The sounds of his vice lull Geralt into closing his eyes, slipping into the strum of his acoustic guitar, the grey world slipping away from him. They would lie, they would lie and act like it never happened. They would lie and Geralt would get Olly back. 

The would would be yellow again.

But Olly’s voice waver, growing thick. HIs words come to an abrupt halt, hsi playing stunted. There is the screech of cords and the clatter of his guitar. But before Geralt can open his eyes or call out, he hears the door creak open. 

Slowly exposing the droughted hallway to the se of sunlight. 

There’s a warm presence that walks towards Geralt, hands shaking, but steady. Hands that have rings on them, too many. Hands that have calluses on their fingertips, hands that cradle his face gently. 

“We fall apart as it gets dark, I'm in your arms in Central Park. There's nothing you could do or say, I can't escape the way, I love you…”

The hands have a voice. And this voice is sad, but it’s bright. It has a warm tiber hardened by years of being unloved, he has a heart that’s afraid. But he’s beautiful.

“I don't want to, but I love you.”

The hand’s voice shakes. It shakes and sobs and falls forward. Into Geralt's chest with a cry, fingers clutching at Geralt’s leather jacket. 

“I-I love - love y-you…”

And Geralt’s world shudders to a halt. Slowly rotating around to face the sun again, to become yellow again. He wraps his arms around Olly, pulling him closer and burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

Sandalwood and mint.

Olly smells of sandalwood and mint. He’s shorter than Geralt, a trim waist and strong shoulders. His fingers dance along Geralt's collar, gently tugging at the dyed locks of hair. 

“I love you,” he repeats, “I love you.”

The warmth pulls away and stands in the light, guiding Geralt to look at him. 

“I love you,” he says, bright blue eyes shining with tears. Brown hair pushed back on his head, the sharp cheekbones damp with tears.

He can see.

Geralt can see.

“I love you too.”

_______________

In his ears, Steve could feel his heart pump, almost rising above the shifting water below them.

Steve melted against his car, resting his back on the cool hood, hoping it would calm his red face. 

This was such a bad fucking idea. 

But his blood was pulsing. Heat began to build within his stomach, this was a bad fucking idea, but it was such a good fucking feeling. He lets Billy saunter towards him, lets the blonde rasp in his ear, “Are you ready for me, Pretty Boy?”

Steve pulls him closer until he can feel the roaring heat of Billy filly against him. He can smell musk and sex, but he doesn’t have time to feel hurt, to feel betrayed. Because Billy is kissing him, he’s kissing him and Steve is in the clouds. 

Soaring miles and years above Hawkings, holding Billy’s hips in his hands, back pressed uncomfortably against the hood of his car, lips locked against burning fire. It hurts, but Steve can’t find it in him to care. 

He wants to be consumed by the fire that is Billy Hargrove. He wants to be burned, to scrape himself until there’s nothing left. To expose everything to this boy. Because that’s what they are, they’re boys. Billy’s not a man. 

“I’m always ready.”

And neither is Steve.

______

Steve wakes up in the backseat of his car, ass sore, marks on his chest, lips swollen, and cold. He’s always cold. The sun just barely crests the query, gliding along the water as it melts into deep purples and yellows. 

Groaning, he doesn’t bother to sit up, it won’t do him any good. Reaching beneath the seat, hand reaching around blindly until he stumbles upon a bottle of pills.

Pain killers.

He always needs a few after burning in the arms of Billy. 

His car is empty. It’s quiet. Billy’s gone, but what can Steve expect. He’s never stayed. Never. 

Curling closer in on himself, Steve curses. 

It’s so fucking cold. 

______

Billy left his cigarettes, they’re menthols. Steve stores them away in his glove box.

______

“You’re fucking dumb,” Robin retorts, tapping her socked feet against my windshield. She’s sprawled out in my shotgun seat, hands folded behind her head, eyes closed, “So dumb.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve dismisses, sighing out heavily. His neck still burns. Small scorchings and burns littering across him, Billy never quite does leave you, “I know.”

“No,” she turns to me, head lulling, “You’ve gotta stop this, dingus,” her voice suddenly goes quiet. Reaching across and resting a soft hand on Steve’s cheek, ringed fingers cold against his skin, “You’ve gotta stop.”

Brushing her away, Steve steadies himself on his steering wheel, bracing his hands, “I know, I know.” 

Because he does, Steve knows. He knows. He just can’t stop. Can’t bring himself to ever say no to Billy whenever the blonde eyes him, or when a piece of crumpled paper is pressed against his palm. He can’t say no when Billy offers to burn him, to run his scorching hands across Steve’s body, letting his heat engulf Steve until he forgets about the freezing cold that surrounds him. 

“I know, I know, I’ll stop,” he looks over, locking eyes with his best friend, “I’ll stop.”

__________

He doesn’t stop. 

Steve doesn’t stop. Being pushed against a wall, the thud echoing against the empty space of his house. Billy’s hands claw at his shirt, burning up to his hair, pulling lightly. Teeth nipping at the sharp edge of Steve’s jaw, lapping at the exposed skin. The movements make Steve’s knee’s week, causing him to slip down. 

Billy’s hand gripping his jeans tight, shoving higher on the wall, “What’s wrong, Sweetheart? Riled up already?”

Steve just whines into Billy’s mouth, blowing his words into the furnace of Billy’s body. His head is spinning, climbing high into the clouds. Body peaking, “Billy,” he groans. 

A hand grips at his neck, holding him in place, another burning hand travels into his pants, tracing the skin of his stomach. God, he’s going to explode. 

Teetering over the edge of release, Billy pulls back, a smirk on his face. That’ motherfucker.

Quite literally. 

“Tell me, Pretty Boy,” Billy smirks, blonde fringe dusting across his forehead, obscuring Steve’s view of his eyes. Wide and vast, bluer than the ocean, harder than stone, Billy’s eyes are beautiful. 

Billy is beautiful.

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

‘You make me want to erupt,’ he doesn’t say, ‘You make me want to die in your arms.”

“Good,” he huffs, sliding down to his knees, hands sliding up Billy’s sides, fiddling with his belt buckle. 

“You make me feel…”

‘Like I’m on fire...and I don’t ever want to stop…’ He doesn’t say.

“You make me feel good, Billy,” He says.

Long story short, Steve doesn’t stop.

__________  

This time, Billy leaves his lighter. It’s small and pale blue, the handle is worn, being turned and flicked one too many times. Steve stores it in his glove compartment, scooting the cigarettes over. 

Guess he’s building a collection. 

_________

“What’s that on your neck?” Nancy asks, a curious hand reaching to ghost along his collar. Her sharp eyebrows are raised nose scrunching. 

Steve’s face goes red, he slaps a hand on his throat, cursing softly. Gess this shirt wasn’t high enough, “It’s - it’s nothing.”

“Is that a hickey?” 

Steve looks at her, it’s not like they’re dating anymore...so, he shouldn’t feel guilty, right? 

“Uh,” he fidgets with his fingers, soothing over his shirt, “Uh...yeah. It’s a hickey.”

“Oh,” she says, stepping away from him, looking down, “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

They’d patched up their relationship, realizing that they never really wanted to be together. Or at least, that’s what Steve told her, that’s what she told him. She sat across from him, hands tossing her fries around her plate. 

“I-I don’t.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice goes quiet, “Sorry…”

“Don’t be,” He says quickly, sliding back in the booth, folding his arms over his chest, “It’s not much of a relationship...so, don’t worry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I-” What does he mean? How does he explain the way he feels? How does he tell her that he’s in love, in love with burning at the hands of someone who could care less if he recovers from those burns?

“I mean, that I love her...so,” he pauses, “So, I have sex with her, but she doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“Well, how do you know?” She looks at him, hand clasped around her drink, raising the straw to her lips, “How do you know she doesn’t love you too?”

Steve scoffs, thinking back to those cigarettes and that lighter. 

“Just trust me.”

__________

It begins to add up. 

Cigarettes. A lighter. His leather jacket. His cologne. A book. Underwear. A shirt. A comb. 

It begins to spill out of his glove compartment, so he moves it into his room, shoving the items into a box.

“He’ll be back for them eventually.”

But Billy keeps leaving things. 

Pants. Chains. Rings. Necklaces. Cigarettes. Another lighter. Whiskey. Shot glasses. Another book. Shirts. Papers. Feelings. Stories. Pens. Trinkets from California. 

He leaves these fading crumbs of ember. Glowing late into the night, still searing against Steve’s hand as he drops them into the box. Buzzing when Steve tries to drift off to sleep at night. 

His collection continues to keep growing. His box catches ablaze one night.

On a night when Billy has him pressed against his bed. Hands held against the headboard, fingers twisting within him. Poking and prodding at his entrance, “You like that, Pretty boy?”

Steve can only cry out, tossing his head back, straining as the pleasure rushes through him. God, he’s on fire. He’s burning up, the embers pressing so hard against his back. 

“Tell me how I make you feel, Princess.”

It builds because all Steve can see is the hard outline of Billy’s shoulders. The soft drag of his hair against Steve’s chest sends him bowing upward, trying to find those sea-blue eyes in the darkness. 

“Billy,” he gasps.

“Hm?”

“I love you...” He whispers breathlessly. 

The fire that boils his skin, leaving him with scorch marks, goes cold. 

“The fuck did you just say?”

__________

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea, and yet, Steve still allowed himself to fry at the hands of Billy Hargrove. Doesn’t really matter anymore. 

“Here,” Robin hands him a lighter, gesturing towards his box. His collection. The embers have become lumps of coal, they’re heavy, they’re cold. Steve hates the cold. 

This is for his own good, he knows that. But he doesn’t want to do this, he can’t do this. He looks at her outstretched hand, scrunching his eyes together. 

“Robin…” He starts, his skin has been scabbed, he hasn’t been burned in weeks. It feels like years.

“Do it, Dingus,” her eyes are soft, she’s not judging. 

And he does. Flicking open then lighter, relishing in the snap and temporary warmth that radiates within his palm. He drops the lighter into the box. The embers don’t pop to life, they just hiss and smoke. 

“Are you ok?” she whispers, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Her hands are warm, but he doesn’t need warmth. He needs to burn. 

He scoffs and she backs off. Taking tentative steps towards the small fire that began to dance in the query air, Steve sighed out. The fire moves, shifting, crackling. Steve swipes a hand through it, it hurts, but it’s cold. 

Clawing at the ground, ripping away at the dirt. A scream bubbling in his throat, shoving his nails into the walls that closed him in. Legs kicking into the darkness, instincts screaming for him to just break free, to break through the surface. 

But where the fuck was he?

A cemetery. 

He was at a cemetery because he was dead. The world snaps back to him, filling his lungs with long-forgotten air, his heart with the echo of a beat. He was dead but alive?

Finally scrambling to the surface, clawing his way to his feet. The world dark and spinning, a low mist rising above the ground. Pale moonlight against this skin, providing light to the view around him.

Tombstones. 

Thousands. Peeking concrete or gleaming marble, dates and names scrawled into them. Some more elaborate than others, statues of angels or of tall dashing women beside them. As the wind sweeps across the ground, leaves carry with it, dancing along. 

So he’s..dead?

“Yeah, you’re dead,” A voice provides.

Geralt spins, a warning stuck in his throat, “Who the hell are you!?”

The voice belongs to a man. He couldn’t have been older than 23, maybe younger than that. His eyes were dulled over, grey, but they held brightness, they held light.

They held life.

The stranger held up their hands in defense, “Woah! Relax…you’re ok...you’re just...dead?”

“I’m dead. Or am I dead?”

“You’re dead,” The stranger corrects, shrugging his shoulders. Though his words seem rough, his tone is sympathetic, “You’ve died.”

Slapping a hand to his chest, Geralt falls against a tombstone, leaning back to grasp against it. The cold edge pressing against this palm, but he doesn’t feel it. The pressure is there, and it should feel a tad uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. He can’t feel it at all. 

“Look,” the stranger begins, stepping closer, his feet quiet against the ground, “This probably doesn’t make much sense to you, I’m sure it doesn’t, but don’t panic.”

“I’m not,” Geralt hisses, glaring at the stranger, which is a lie, but that was unimportant. 

“My name is Julian, but everyone calls me Jaskier,” the stranger doesn’t make a move to reach for Geralt, he doesn’t extend his hand or seem to expect an answer. Geralt is a bit thankful for that. 

“It’s normal to be disoriented at first, but you do remember who you are, right?” 

With a nod of his head, Geralt looks around, heart leaping when he sees others. Various people chatting, walking through and in between gravestones. Children chasing around each other, tumbling over the air. 

“What is this?”

“The afterlife,” the stranger says, shuffling a bit closer, and Geralt doesn’t mind, he’s the most familiar thing here, “We’ve all died here in this town and have been buried here.”

“You’re dead?”

“I’m dead.”

“They’re dead?”

“They’re dead.”

“Fuck,” is all Geralt can think of saying. A hand smoothing over his hair. Who the hell is going to watch over Roach? Who the hell is going to keep his bike shop running? What about Yen? Or Lambert or Eskel or Vesemir? That old fart was nearing his last days and gods know that Lambert can’t be trusted to make sure he takes his med-

“Are you alright?” The st- Jaskier says, his hand floating above Geralt’s shoulder, not quite touching, but just grazing. 

His casual response sits on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it, instead Jaskier answers. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to be,” his eyes grow kind, a smile stretching cross his face, “I’ll be here.