#moonysrz

One. Two steps. Ever silent, ever careful.

A whisper. "Geralt?" And oh, what an ache it leaves on his tongue, calling his name in silence, what a sweet compromise. Still, no answer. He stands beside him, raises his hand just right over his shoulder, and lets it hover. Burning almost. "Can I get you anything?" Slowly. A brush of fingers, just to reassure.

"No," Geralt flinches at once and he steps back like a scared animal. Hand still raised with no place to rest.

He knows. The gruff tone, the strained voice. The abrupt tone. It's the potions. Only now Geralt's voice is just a little more sharp, as though he is afraid of letting out too much of himself. Only now it hurts just a little more deeply, and just a little too personal.

He watches as Geralt's fists curl on his lap and, defeated, he nods with a small smile. "If you want anything, you can..."

Call me, he would say. Ask me anything. Ask me to stay by your side forever, and I will. I will do it even if you don't ask. He would say. But he stays silent. For better or for worse, even now, Geralt already knows, and it's still not enough.

Thus he turns around.

"Jaskier."

Nothing. A breath of a voice, as though it doesn't want to be heard. Or just wants to be heard by Jaskier alone, because Jaskier always hears. Heart digging its way out, he looks at Geralt again and, oh, Geralt looks back. And it's nothing like he thought.

It's exactly as he knows, and selfishly pretends to have forgotten. Geralt looks at him still slumped, eyes still half black and sunken in their sockets and drowning in what feels like regret. Like a plea.

Sometimes Jaskier thinks maybe it's also his fault, just a little. Maybe he doesn't reach out enough, or has to reach out too much, because the deeper the wound, the stronger the cure must be.

A plea indeed. Geralt suddenly looks like the shell of who he is, shaking and wanting, exhausted, and in the shadow of his gaze Jaskier discerns the same need, no, want, that tortures his empty hands, his gaping embrace. And what a fool he is, he who was never hesitant in love, holding back from the one who needs it the most.

He holds his breath, smile ever present, and gentle. "Perhaps if..." Clears his throat. "Do you want me to--"

Hold you. Do you want me to hold you. He doesn't need to say, because Geralt almost sobs with longing, and something breaks in his face, and leaves him crumpled and bare. "Please." Then, as though remembering, he lowers his look. Shakes his head. "If you want." Begging, desperate. "Just for a bit."

Gods. Gods, and poets and lovers and damned verses, they matter not as his heart weeps inside his chest and Jaskier lets out the breath he was holding, a huff, relieved and almost incredulous. Of course he wants. Lacking, he only ever wants.

Slowly, silently, almost shaking, he sits on the bed and leans back on the pillows, and bares the screaming hole of his arms with hope at last to complete it.

And oh, how gently Geralt fits in his hug, how perfectly. Just like he always did. Hesitant, at first, until he buries his face in his chest and Jaskier feels trembling hands crawling behind his back, limbs tangled in a desperate attempt to be hidden, tucked away in familiar warmth, and safe.

And suddenly all that remains unspoken doesn't matter anymore. Suddenly nothing matters, only this, here, Jaskier wrapping his arms tight around Geralt's body, tighter still so that he never loses him again, only this, the beat of their hearts filling the silence between them as one slows at last, and the other beats faster, and Jaskier hides his face in white hair, and lets the burning flood in his eyes flow down.

"I miss you." A whisper. Only that, and Geralt hides deeper, as though to disappear in the most welcoming absence.

Jaskier feels his shirt suddenly damp, and closes his eyes, breath shaky. "Oh, Geralt." And unspoken everything will remain, for no words can fill the void better than this, holding him at last. He presses a kiss on his hair, ever so soft, and rests his cheek there, voice quivering. "Oh, darling. I'm so sorry."

Geralt doesn't speak. Only, he clings on him tighter, and cries silently.

Maybe it's nobody's fault, after all. It's only like this. Geralt, despite all, will never be alone, and Jaskier, despite all, will stay. As he does now.

Everything hurt. He was on his knees, hands clutching at his abdomen, his biceps, his shoulders, his hair as though to rip them all off and it hurt, everything, everywhere, like a million knives tearing him apart. He screamed, hoarse and agonizing, and his throat burned with every scream that had skinned it until now, every wail that echoed like a false note in the hall. Somewhere distant, he thought he heard his name, Jaskier, Jaskier, hold on, it’s alright, it’s alright, and he screamed again, “FUCK GERALT IT’S NOT ALRIGHT!”

And then, he raised his look, panting, as though raising the heaviest rock. And his eyes met Geralt’s, right in front of him. And oh, he thought, he really thought he couldn’t hurt more. But the way wheezing grunts escaped Geralt’s strained lips, and the way his nostrils flared and his eyes welled up with tears and regret and, dear man, concern, made Jaskier want to wrap his arms around him and hold him tight forever.

Whimpering, lost between pain and himself, he reached out his hand, and grasped Geralt’s nape, leaning closer. And rested their foreheads together. It burned, the touch, seethed and his insides roared and his whole body shook so violently he thought it would explode with the next choked breath. But the tears that flowed down Geralt’s cheeks and almost mixed with his own made him hold on, just for now, just for a moment. Just for the time they had left.

And then his stomach jumped and he gagged and, turning around, he retched on the floor, choking, for what might have been the fourth time in the past minutes.

A voice above him, furious. “YENNEFER!”

“Enough!”

His feet were so desperate they moved on their own accord, dragging him far away as he crawled, far, far away, the furthest he could, writhing and trembling on the cold floor until his back hit the wall. And finally, finally the pain subdued.

He wheezed, tried to catch his breath. Spit out the foul taste in his mouth and wiped his lips, but the bitterness remained. Always remained.

Slowly, as though afraid that a single look would stab him, he raised his head. And there they were. Amber eyes, helpless, staring at him from across the wide room, and Geralt stuck onto the wall behind him as though he wanted it to absorb him. And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. Jaskier thought, that’s how he looked at people when they called him a monster. Then, as cold sweat drenched him, he realized. He had drawn back too quickly.

As though to refuse his own self, his too real pain, he turned to Yennefer. Startling, he saw her staring back and there was something haunting in her gaze, in the way her hand covered her mouth almost weakly, almost regrettably. He wanted to laugh. No, it couldn’t be that bad. Except the grieving glance she threw at Geralt filled the silence deafeningly enough.

There was a distinct stink spreading around them. He wanted to claw his own skin off.

“What did the mage say?” Yennefer spoke quietly, as though not to break the bubble of momentary relief, of that sweet attempt to pretend it’s just a bad dream.

Jaskier heard Geralt clearing his throat. Still, when his voice came out, it was more hollow than the void itself. “Love is pain.” And then, he huffed, in the same way the mage had huffed, in a mocking tone of hope, and Jaskier shivered. “Except for today.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“When did the pain start?”

“Yesterday.”

Yennefer hummed, a bitter thing. “Seems you already got your day off then.”

No voice echoed in the silence that followed. Only some shallow breaths, and Jaskier’s mind screaming at him, pain, pain, pain, settled like a thick cloud over any other thought. Except, perhaps, for grief. Except for the way his fingers twitched to reach for Geralt once more. Even from so far away.

Maybe that’s how it would always be after all.

Finally, Yennefer heaved a deep sigh, and it was so different from the fondly exasperated tone of her usual sighs. “It’s a love curse.” And then, as if it meant nothing, as if their sanity wasn’t on the verge of shattering to pieces, she said, “I can’t lift it.”

Jaskier turned abruptly and shot her a glance, eyes wide, and he hated how his voice was barely heard in his furious terror. “What?”

“Eager to play with love, little poet?” The sorceress squinted at him, her glare throwing daggers, yet he flinched in the way her voice quivered. “I can’t. I--” she looked at Geralt, and she seemed so small suddenly, shaking her head “--I can’t.” Jaskier thought he saw her lips trembling before she pulled them into a straight line, almost a smile. Her eyes were turned to the void. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Loving and being loved.” A huff. “I never thought it could be physical.”

His body felt numb now, and Jaskier didn’t realize when he had lied down. It hurt, still, but not so intense, not so deadly. He didn’t want to think how far away Geralt should stand for it not to hurt at all. Yet, how funny, the further he was, the more unbearable the pain grew. From where his head rested on the marble, he saw Geralt staring at him. Between his furrowed eyebrow lay that adorable line of confusion Jaskier longed to ease away.

He read his lips more than he actually heard him. “Being loved...” And, oh, how he wanted to laugh. Stupid man. A small smile curved his lips and Geralt swallowed as he saw it. His eyes were glinting too bright in the light. Too wet. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Yennefer snorted in exasperation. “Damned idiot.”

“Look at me, Geralt.”

There he was. Standing rigid in front of the bridge, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders tense, drenched in the last of sunlight like a fitting irony. Jaskier felt his breath short, strained, a lump choking his throat as he remembered his arms, thrown around these shoulders, holding Geralt tight so that no sorrow would ever weigh upon him again. And yet now, as he stood, it looked like he was carrying the whole world’s grief on him, knees trembling not to give in under the weight. The whole world’s, or maybe it was just his and Jaskier’s. And, really, what world did they need except for each other?

Still. He stood, and Jaskier stood far away, enough to stand on steady legs, not enough for his heart to cease wailing with every mourning beat. Still, he didn’t turn around. And, oh, how miserable, how heartwrenching, to watch the man he loved the most turn away from him, not even letting him meet his gaze one last time, before they part. As though if their eyes met, he would break. As though he was ashamed. Guilty.

He didn’t turn around. He didn’t turn around and Jaskier’s fists were trembling, nails digging into his skin, and his throat was burning and his eyes wet with all the tears that weren’t brave enough to fall, saving themselves for a moment worse than that. His voice quivered. “Geralt.” Your eyes, your stare, your face, you, you, let me remember how I love you. “Look at me.” A sob, silent. “Please.”

Finally, finally Geralt turned. If Jaskier was a brave man, if he was selfless, he would let him go away. Just like that, no spare glances, no unspoken apologies. He was not. He was a coward, needing the pain in Geralt’s eyes to be certain of his love. He was selfish. He loved Geralt too much to let him bury this.

He would never bury this. And if he did, Jaskier would fall on his knees, claw at the ground, and dig it up, and it wouldn’t ease the pain, only make it stronger, but at least, even in pain, Geralt would know. He would know that he was loved.

He should know. The pieces of his heart were laid in front of him, bare and bleeding, and Jaskier let out a hysterical laughter. “You know. You had known, of course. You should have.” He raised his gaze, staring straight into Geralt's eyes, and he couldn’t decide if the strangled noise came from him or the witcher. “I love you,” and Geralt winced and at this point, none of them could tell if the pain was in the bones, or in the heart.

The blood is the same anyway, he supposed.

Geralt looked at him, lips curled in what he wished was a smile. Could have been, if this love was a pleasant thing. “Doesn’t it hurt?” His shoulders had slumped, just a bit, as though he had started to realize he couldn’t escape this.

As though to challenge their fate, Jaskier took a step forward. Still so far away. And yet he bit his lips. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. “It does.” Another step. “But it hurts more when I’m not beside you. So much more.” And he laughed, he laughed so as not to cry.

“This is a mistake.” The words hung in the air as if they didn’t have enough sincerity to push themselves into their hearts. Jaskier laughed again, gaze steady on Geralt. Another step, shorter this time, almost hesitant.

His voice was hoarser than before, firmer. “My love is not a mistake.” And then, more quietly, like a child hiding after breaking an expensive plate, “Is yours?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Only faintly shook his head, a substitute for a sob.

Watching as all the world’s complaints spilled from his eyes, dripped to the ground red like blood, Jaskier knew he didn’t really need to. And, somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. Certainly less than before. A lump caught at his throat. “Can I hold you, Geralt?”

A deep breath that wasn’t released. Suddenly, Geralt’s voice was weak. “Please.”

Jaskier paused, just for a moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind. He shook his head, a memory of a smile daring to crawl upon his lips. “Gods,” he huffed, breathless. “You love me so much to let me hurt you.”

Then, as Geralt’s lips trembled with swallowed screams, as his hands burnt with emptiness, he whined, silent, and held his breath. And ran.

Geralt caught him  in the middle before his knees buckled from the sudden pain and he let out a cry, although he couldn’t tell with pain or relief, as he wrapped his arms around strong shoulders, as he felt Geralt’s arms creeping up his back. And he held him, he held him close like he hadn’t done before, and hid his face in his shoulder to muffle his groans, and Geralt tightened his arms around him, whimpering, and it hurt, it burned, it killed them, and yet they held on tighter still.

He could feel Geralt’s breath on his neck, shallow and short. “Fucking asshole,” Geralt muttered, panting, voice barely audible, “loving a witcher and look where it got you.”

“Shut it, idiot,” Jaskier didn’t know how he caught his voice between his sobs but he wouldn’t miss the chance to curse Geralt back even in death. Even now. He whined again, fingers clutching at Geralt’s shirt for dear life. “Listen to me.” He raised his head a little, just to meet his eyes and oh, he was so beautiful, always beautiful. “Listen,” a sob escaped his lips along with his words, “don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare cross that river ever until next year,” his voice was barely a breath and he knew he hadn’t many spare ones left, and still he shook his head, and spoke. “Because if you do…” a chuckle, broken, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist. And it won’t end well for either of us.”

Tears were flowing down his eyes now and Geralt raised a hand, cupped his face firmly as though taking a better last look of him and if they could, they would stay like that forever. And how warm, the hand stroking his skin, how comforting, the embrace easing his pain away. How agonizing, the brush of skin on loving fingers.

For a moment, a sweet moment, Geralt pressed their foreheads together. And then, at once, he was gone.

Jaskier gasped, fell back, and there were no arms to catch him anymore. It was cold now.

When he caught his breath and managed to raise his head, Geralt had already crossed the wooden bridge and was standing at the other side of the wide river. Damned water. Damned bridge. Jaskier glanced at it, almost tempting. Shaking, he stood on his feet. Although too far away, he caught Geralt’s stare, and he looked so harmless, so small in their distance. Jaskier could still feel his fingertips on his cheek.

Yet, before he managed to have any second thought, and as though he was urged by the same temptation, Geralt raised his hand, and curled his fingers. And the next moment, the bridge was burning.

It was a relief, in a way. Behind the flames, Jaskier thought he discerned tears falling down amber eyes, or better, felt them on his own face, a mirror. As though the one crying can see the other’s pain better. He took a deep breath, and shouted. “I’ll be waiting for you!” But he didn’t need to. Geralt heard him, even as his voice broke, even as he whispered. “I’ll be forever waiting for you.”

He saw Geralt’s lips moving. The words floated, along with the breeze, along with the smoke, along with the flames. I love you too. And then, even briefly, even for a second, Jaskier felt Geralt’s arms around him again, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Geralt was gone. As though to harmonize with his mourning, a magpie started singing.

Dearest Geralt,  

I’ll ask you to forgive me. For writing to you. You see, I’m afraid. Does it hurt you like it hurts me, love, to be out of reach? My words, the frown I can only imagine you have now on your beautiful face, are barely making up for the shadow by my side. I hope you have reached home safely, and I hope you didn’t open this letter before you were sitting on the cold comfort of your own bed. This one, at least, has always been for you alone.  

It’s funny, the way I speak like I know. Because my own bed is cold. Colder than any foreign bed, any used sheets that I have laid upon with you warming them with sweet familiarity. Do you cry for me, Geralt?  

Again, forgive me. Only that, I have barely any sheets left that I have not thrown into the fire and I desperately wanted to write to you. That is, if you’ll have me. If not, never reply, please. I understand. It can’t hurt any more than it already does, can it? I miss you. I am afraid.  

Do you love me still?  

I fear I’m too dramatic once more. I won’t bother you more with my nonsense. My candle will go out soon.  

Remember, Geralt, that you are loved. And I’m sorry the only reminder of it is pain. But let this reminder ease your heart, just like it eases mine to restless sleep. I ask nothing more of you, dear heart, not even your love. Only this. I love you, I love you, I love you. Don’t ever forget that.  

      Yours, forever,  

      Jaskier  

Geralt saw the paper shaking between his fingers, and realized he was trembling whole. He wanted to scream. He didn’t.

He only crumpled the sheet in his fist, and rested his head on his hands, drenching the blank ink in the river of his tears.

On the first day of spring of the first year, Geralt walked up to the shore of the river.

The ashes of a long lost bridge still stang his nostrils.

From the distance, he could see Jaskier in his plum doublet, he could see his eyes shining in the setting sun and the unshed tears, he could see the quiver of his lips. And the smile. He could see the smile forming on his lips and a voice inside him whispered that it might be the first genuine one after a whole year, and another voice laughed at him for giving himself such credit. And then he heard it. The faintest, happiest whisper he had heard in his life. “Oh, Geralt.” And it was enough for his knees to go numb.

As though his voice woke the forest, the birds started singing. They may have been before, but no birdsong was enough to echo Jaskier’s voice in his ears, not until he heard him again.

And then, his medallion hummed. And dozens of magpies fled from their branches, voices dancing in the air and, like a sea of feathers, they flew to the surface of the river, and rested on its gentle ripples, one after the other, in a row, until the last one flew and lowered itself to rest right in front of his feet. And, looking down from this absurd game of magic, he saw it. He saw the bridge. Suddenly lifeless, and white like marble, and waiting for its desperate guest.

And he heard a sob ripping through the wind.

He ran, and ran, and ran, and Jaskier looked so beautiful in his sorrow and his hope, and so warm as his arms waited and waited for a whole year, spread to fit inside the whole world, and yet when Geralt stumbled inside them, they needed nothing else to be full.

And they held each other. Like that, close and tight and desperate and clinging and Jaskier was sobbing and tears were soaking his black shirt, “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” whispering his name like a prayer and an elegy all the same, whispering it for all the times the ghost by his side wouldn’t answer his screams, holding him for every time his own arms were too empty clawing around himself.

And Geralt hugged him tight, tighter still, fingers digging on his clothes as though to keep him from going away again. And then, breathing each other in, he held his head inside his hands and pressed their foreheads together,and let their tears mingle, and Jaskier laughed, and laughed and laughed. “You’re here,” he kept saying, “you’re here, you’re here…”

“I am.” He would let all his spare breaths loose to say it, forever, forever. “I am.”

“Do you still love me, Geralt?”

“Gods damn me, I do.”

And he kissed him, deep and desperate and long, as though to muffle all the cries unspoken, to make up for every dream that ended in a nightmare, for the time lost, for every moan and laugh and sob and for every broken whisper. He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him, until it hurt.

Until the magpies fled, and hushed again.

On the first day of spring of the second year, their hands were tender, and the inn was silent.

Funny, how despair buried itself in a sea of white hair, how every choked wail died on the touch of their lips, and it was so familiar, so right, as if it had never gone away. And Jaskier hated it, hated the mere thought that he could get used to this so quickly while he knew it wouldn’t last. He knew that when he would greet Geralt on the bridge again, the magpies would fly, and Geralt would be gone, and he’d be alone again, looking for comfort in their already cooling sheets.

He shouldn’t get used to it. As his hand ran down Geralt’s back, he knew. Pain was a reminder enough and it wasn’t so special after all. He had to make it special.

He had to remind Geralt how loved he was and it felt like a ritual now, with every whisper, every kiss, every lingering caress that sang his quiet confession, I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Geralt,” he said and regretted the absence of Geralt’s lips on his, so he leaned in again to catch them in a soft kiss. Then he met his eyes, endless precious gold, and continued. “Let me make love to you.” And his voice quivered faintly in his throat because that was it. Love. So timid, so hesitant, like a question, as though Geralt would frown and leave, as if Geralt would ever leave.

Would he not ever leave?

Yet now, now Geralt just smiled and brought a hand up to cup his face, and it was like a river, the comfort flowing between them not knowing whom to fill up first and whom to leave empty. “I let you make pain to me, Jaskier. Eagerly,” he chuckled, adorable. “And I’m grateful even for that.”

Jaskier laughed. Idiot, idiot. He laughed, and climbed on Geralt’s lap and pressed their lips together again, not daring to let him go even as he pushed him back, even as he gently peeled their clothes off their already burning skin as it fit in one, and even then his lips would stroke whispers down his throat, his chest, the inside of his thighs, until Geralt sighed and Jaskier smiled and now the silence was so sweet, so melodic in his ears, only interrupted by his name, Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier, over and over like the sweetest song.

That was it. Love. Because Jaskier had laid with almost comically lots of people in his life, and yet it was never this warm, never this intimate. Never, as he moved inside Geralt, as he muffled his pants on his collarbone, had he felt rough fingers running up and down his spine, only in dreams. Never, as Geralt’s name spilled from his lips like a battle cry, had he felt his hand finding its pair inside Geralt’s, clutching it tightly like a reminder that this was something more. This was love.

Never, as he finally lied on his side trying to catch his breath, had tears dared to fall from his eyes in the most bittersweet burst of laughter.

Geralt turned at him, the most beautiful smile curving his lips as they parted for breath. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier chuckled once more and shuffled closer, raising a hand to pull a strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. “I just…” he took a deep breath, shook his head. “I can’t imagine my life without loving you.” His hand came to rest on Geralt’s face.

Like the sun setting, Geralt’s smile slowly faded. Instead, a faint line appeared between his eyebrows. “You can’t,” he repeated as though he couldn’t believe it, as though he could. He huffed. “Don’t you ever wish for it though? To stop loving me?”

His voice was small like a child’s and Jaskier’s heart thumped inside his chest, almost painfully. “Do you?”

It’s okay if you do, his eyes said and at the same time they begged, please, please don’t ever stop hurting me.

But Geralt huffed, the smile briefly returning to his lips. “No, I don’t… It’s just,” he swallowed, almost afraid, almost as though the barest sting of words would break this bubble they hid in once a year. “It would be so much easier.” Seeing as Jaskier frowned, he rushed to add, “For you. I am a witcher.” He averted his look. “Life was never meant to be easy for me anyway.”

Jaskier’s fingertips were now trailing paths on his face and he longed to know where they led, if there was a way out of this curse. The poet gazed at him for some moments, and his look resembled the one he had just before Geralt left. Then, slowly, as though not to scare a wild animal away, he leaned in and pressed a kiss on his lips, careful yet firm. And when he pulled away, and met his gaze, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a hidden smile. “My dearest witcher. Even if I had the choice to stop loving you,” he laughed again, as if he found it funny, “I would still choose pain. Because loving you…” he came closer still, until their breaths mingled and their lips were inches apart, “it’s the sweetest relief from it.”

And kissed him, again, deeper, and made to move on top of him when his skin rubbed unpleasantly on Geralt’s and the witcher let out a hum of protest, and laughed inside the kiss. “You’re fucking sticky, Jaskier.”

“Uh-huh,” Jaskier teased and almost deliberately kept their lips together, “and whose fault is that?”

“Fetch some water and I’ll show you.”

 “Ohoho –Ah, fine, fine you brute, stop –Ah, Geralt stop tickling me –you fucking asshole,” Jaskier stood up and loosely grasped the bucket of water and a cloth waiting beside the nightstand, steps almost dragged as he came back to bed. But before he sat again, he paused.

There was something prickling at his skin, and it most definitely wasn’t cum.

He looked at Geralt, lying there, waiting. Waiting until he came back. And it was so natural, so familiar was his presence, that a sudden dread crawled upon Jaskier’s bones and made his knees weak, the earth collapsing under his feet.

“Geralt,” he breathed and it was unreasonable, really, as Geralt was right there, and he would always be, even if he was away, he would always be there. Always. Jaskier swallowed as he looked into his eyes. “Will you come back to me again?”

Immediately, Geralt’s face darkened, and he sat up. “What? What are you talking about?”

Jaskier flinched. Damn it, what had gotten into him? His heartbeat fluttered in his ears. “Nothing, nevermind,” he stared at Geralt and smiled wide but it felt more like a wince.

“Jaskier…” His name was gentle on Geralt’s lips, so much that he could already feel tomorrow’s pain. Yet now, Geralt reached for his hand and pulled him to bed again, fingers entwining tight. “Jaskier,” he said again, as though he wouldn’t really look at him otherwise, and their eyes met. “Do you want me to?” he asked like it needed asking, like he still wasn’t certain, and Jaskier was tired suddenly, so tired, and tears flowed down his eyes and sobs wrecked his shoulders and then Geralt’s arms were around him and he hid his face in his shoulder, and cried.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was setting, and his skin burned as Geralt’s fingers slid from his hold, almost regretfully, only to leave him emptier than any other time, and wanting.

It was only when the magpies fled to their branches and Geralt was lost deep into the forest that he realized, and horror beat him numb once more.

He had never really answered Geralt’s question.

Jaskier,  

It’s snowing in Kaer Morhen. You would love the view from the balcony, for certain, and come up with countless rhymes about it to bother me. Then again, you might make the memories of the place bearable, more beautiful perhaps, the ancient witcher’s keep. You’ve already done a nice job with a witcher.  

It hurts. And I too am afraid. But don’t waste your tears on what could have been. Keep them for it will hurt even more, having no tears to spare when they’re all that’s left. Who knows? Perhaps, if we evermanage to work this mess out, you’ll be over it.  

Gods know I won’t.  

I still love you. And I remember that you do too. Still, it would be easier, far easier, if you forgot both.    

      Geralt  

On the first day of spring of the third year Geralt didn’t come.

Jaskier stood, and waited, and loved, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. And a single magpie screamed with him.

“That’s quite a mess you have here.”

“Fucking hell!” Jaskier jumped on his seat and turned around panting, hand dramatically resting atop of his heart, only to find Yennefer standing in the middle of his room, arms crossed on her chest. He glared at her, eyes wide. “Why the fuck don’t you knock like a normal person?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, amused. “Scaring you is way funnier.”

He would answer back at her, he really would, if his thoughts weren’t blurry and his head throbbing with insomnia. But then again, it wouldn’t make much difference. Something in her eyes confessed that it had been long since she had some fun and somehow, he was content to provide her even that. She was right, after all.

And he just then realized.

He looked around the room, fists clenched. Sheets of paper were scattered on the floor all over, lectures and compositions and doodles mingled together, crumpled balls of paper, some drops of spilled ink beside his desk and on it, more piles of books and papers that he discovered blocked the sunlight from the window behind them. He held back a gasp, maybe not to embarass himself more. He hadn’t realized that the sun had long come up.

Beside his chair there was an empty bottle of a drink he didn’t remember, but that meant it had done a good job.

A small smile creeped upon his lips, and his throat was burning.

“Look at me, bard.”

As though on instinct, as though he dared not refuse, he raised his head and their eyes met. He thought, it was a good time for Yenefer to read his thoughts. Maybe she would make some sense out of the mess, and tell him too about it. Yet his mind didn’t go numb, or more than it already was. Instead, Yennefer stared at him, steady and insistent and almost sad. It was sad. In the way the circles under her eyes mirrored his, and her head was tilted, gaze held lower than usual, and her eyes were not sharp and cold and unreadable, but pained.

For a moment, he froze. Of course, that was it. The reason she was here. It had been devouring him for so long, and now she had come, finally, to let him know. And, oh, she was so late. He swallowed, voice small as though the words themselves were afraid to come out. “Is he dead?”

Yennefer squinted, but didn’t answer at once. He wanted to laugh. Geralt was dead. That’s why he hadn’t come. Of course, he never could have, he was slow, he was wounded and was left bleeding for days on end, no one to find him, to take care of him, and if there had been it was not Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t there when Geralt sweated and whimpered with fever, he wasn’t there when his breaths came out shallow, he wasn’t there to hold him, touch him, even one last time, even if it hurt. And yet, how ironic. If he had been there, it would have been much more painful a death. And much more quick.

Of course, that’s why he hadn’t come. At least, he had died loving him. Jaskier’s eyes were fixed on Yennefer and he hated, hated every inch of himself for the momentary flutter that his absurd relief sent to his heart. His eyes almost begged her to kill him.

“Don’t be pathetic. He’s not.” Yennefer’s lips curved into a bitter smile. Oh. She needed no thoughts to read him.

Still, then, only then, his shoulders slumped and a deep sigh escaped his lips. He closed his eyes, not bearing to hold Yennefer’s piercing gaze any longer, and placed his head inside his hands, rubbing his eyes. Gods. He had to sleep.

He had been sleeping, of course. Just… less. Inconsistently. He would wake up sometimes, shivering, and curl around himself, as though to replace the missing warmth. He could not. He never could.

He heard Yennefer huffing beside him, but it was far from a laugh. Instead, her voice was weary. “Don’t worry. You love him too much to be so selfish.” She knew, she always knew. And he dreaded that she was the only one.

“Does he know?” he blurted out before he could think about it, and snorted, burying his face deeper in his hands. His fingers reached his hair and he resisted the urge to grip them. “Does he know that I love him?”

Her heels echoed on the wooden floor as she walked closer, steps slow and small. Gently, he felt delicate fingers creeping upon his, untangling them from his hair and lowering them to reveal his face, his hands still in hers. He swallowed, but didn’t look up at her, not yet. She shook her head. “He does. Perhaps,” this time it was a proper chuckle, always a bitter thing, “it would be better if he didn’t. It would hurt less. He might even get over his love some time, or pretend he did, for the sake of it.” A long sigh, and her voice was uncharacteristically flat. “But he doesn’t deserve that, does he?”

And then Jaskier raised his head, and their stares locked together. She was looking down at him, her lips slightly curved, and it made him smile too, even faintly. No. Geralt didn’t deserve that.

Yennefer’s free hand cupped his face and he shivered with itswarmth, leaning into the touch like an abandoned child craving its mother’s hug. He almost whimpered. It had been Geralt, the last time, and she hadn’t visited him for a long time. At least, at least. Her touch was a kind of comfort.

His skin prickled with every night he’d spent clinging to himself.

“You need to shave your stubble.” Yennefer’s nails faintly scratched at his cheek, no more than a caress. Jaskier breathed shakily, hummed in acknowledgement. She was always right. She always knew. Maybe she would know that too.

Looking into her eyes as if he would find the answer spilling from their light, he let his voice quiver, and he asked. “Why didn’t he come, Yen?”

Oh. He already knew the answer. Yennefer looked at him for a moment, then she shook her head. “That you have to ask him yourself.”

He already knew the answer. And, in a vain attempt to gather as much comfort as he could between the pieces of his shattered heart, he also knew, somehow, he would have the chance to ask Geralt one day.

Yet for now, his eyes burned and a merciless lump tore at his throat, a remnant of all the sobs he had left behind at the river. So he let his head fall on Yennefer’s side, and hid his face in her dress and, as her fingers softly worked through his hair, he cried some tears that had dried up.  

On the first day of spring of the fourth year, Geralt stood in front of Jaskier, and the distance grew longer with every passing second.

It can’t be, Jaskier thought, it can’t be that he doesn’t love me. It wouldn’t hurt so badly.  

Geralt’s fists were nailed on his sides, clenched. He dared not lower his look, as though he didn’t regret, as though he hadn’t finished yet. And yet the shadow in his eyes and the trembling of his lips whispered on their own the world’s deepest regrets.

A huff escaped Jaskier’s lips. He wanted to be mad. He wanted to cry out and demand an answer, even if it was not the one he wanted to hear, because maybe, maybe it would hurt less, knowing that there was never any hope, rather than grieving the one lost.

He wanted to be mad. But oh, Geralt was so beautiful in the sunset, his hair like a halo around his head and the lines of his hands, oh so soft, and Jaskier’s whole body ached, ached, ached with every touch they were deprived of for two years. Two damned years. “Geralt,” he whispered and his voice quivered, broke like a mirror that failed to reflect his rage.

And yet, and yet, somehow behind the veil in Geralt’s stare, something glinted. And ever so quiet, Geralt huffed. “You remember, then.”

Dried tears burnt Jaskier’s eyes and he shook his head, laughed, mouth trembling with unspoken whimpers, with all the sobs he had swallowed or hid in the pillow. “Fucking bastard.” He didn’t move. Neither did Geralt. If you stopped loving me, why, why does it keep hurting? A chuckle, bitter, and he took a deep breath. Took a step back. “You did good,” he said then, and tried to keep his voice stable, as though he would believe his words more easily then, “not coming.” Geralt had to know. He shouldn’t regret it. Jaskier felt his knees giving in. “My love, you don’t deserve to hurt.”

Geralt’s face darkened and it was as though the moon vanished in the night sky. “Stop.” He was far away, so far away. A heart was wailing. None could tell whose. Geralt made to walk up to him, but faltered, as though there was no choice, no chance anymore. He only stared at him, helpless, and for some reason, it was worse, so much worse. “That’s not why I didn’t come–”

“That’s not–” Jaskier laughed, this time rough, incredulous. Desperate. He raised his eyebrows and maybe, yes, maybe if he wiped this off too, maybe if he made it funny, it wouldn’t eat him alive. So he smiled, and his lips almost bled. “That’s not why you didn’t come,” he repeated, voice weak. The tears just wouldn’t fall. He nodded, gaze steady like a broken sword. “Then why? Why, why,” a sob escaped his lips, “why didn’t you come?”

A tear flowed down Geralt’s face.     Don’t fret, it whispered, I will cry for you. The sun had set now. And Geralt lowered his look. “Maybe I love you enough to let you go.” A huff. “Or maybe,” he said and it echoed like all his tears flowed in bitter words down his lips, “maybe I hoped you would forget.”

And then Jaskier was throwing his arms around him and holding him tightly, tightly, as though to melt inside him and never let him go again. And Geralt hugged him back, finally, and hid his face inside his neck and took a deep breath in his scent, drunk, and oh, he had missed him, he had missed him so much.  

Jaskier was laughing, or sobbing in his shoulder, he couldn’t tell and neither could Jaskier himself. “I won’t change this,” he whispered like he wanted to muffle a scream, “I won’t change this for anything, you hear me? And I won’t ever,” he gritted his teeth, “ever forget. As long as you don’t either.”

“Never,” Geralt whispered inside his hair and now it was calm, certain, “no matter the pain.” He chuckled. “I can’t help it… Jaskier,” the poet held his breath, and Geralt closed his eyes. “You’re my greatest mistake.”

Jaskier swallowed, fingers gripping at Geralt’s shirt. “Stay with me, Geralt.” As though sealing a decision, he took a deep breath, shaking. “Don’t leave tomorrow.” He raised his head, looked at him. “Hurt with me. I can’t bear to lose you again.”

He felt Geralt going rigid under his arms, and the witcher shook his head, eyes dark and wide. “Jaskier, I can’t do this.” His voice trembled. “It will kill you.”

Jaskier smiled, tilted his head. Slowly, he raised his hand to cup Geralt’s face and the witcher leaned into the touch, starving. “Every second away from you kills me. Love is pain, Geralt,” he shook his head, whispering, “but it’s also so much more.”

Geralt only parted his lips, but never spoke, words dying under Jaskier’s stare. Stubborn, idiot man. Instead, he heaved a deep sigh, and caught the poet’s hand on his face. It was so soft, so warm, his hand on his, comforting like lying on fresh sheets, and gently, he leaned and pressed a kiss on the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. He felt the bard shivering. Smiled against his skin.

“I love you,” he said, and he wanted to say so much more, but what else is there to say?

Nothing, perhaps. Jaskier smiled and his face was brighter than the sun. “Oh, Geralt. I love you too.”

When the sun set, the magpies fled to their branches, and Jaskier wished for it to be the last time, whatever that meant.

Geralt’s hand was clutching his, and now it was calmer than ever. He turned, looked into his eyes. Smiled, as though for a final hope. And held his breath.

A scream echoed in the forest.

They dared not leave the river shore. Dared not be heard by any other, refusing to be saved. They would probably never know if it was worth it. Because for now, it was not.

Geralt tried not to breathe, not to think, not to doubt for a second because Jaskier was there, inside his arms, after so long. And yet, there were screams. Tears. Jaskier was wheezing, burying his face in his shoulder, writhing like a fish out of the water. Sometimes he rambled along with each shortening breath. Geralt didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

He would like to say he had been through worse, because he had. The pain he was feeling now, numbing his limbs, stealing the life out of him, choking him, he had felt it again, and if it was less, his mind was too blurred to remember. But he had always been alone.

The opposite had been a relief until now.

“Geralt,” he heard Jaskier grunting but didn’t look at him, afraid of what he would see. “Don’t leave me, Geralt.” Another scream, heart-wrenching, and Jaskier bit into his shoulder, body shaking violently. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He wanted to tear himself to pieces, to jump into the peaceful water, rippling with their cries, and never come back up. But alas, he didn’t want to be alone either. He didn’t have the time to speak. Jaskier, as though in a desperate attempt to get rid of himself, turned around and vomited on the ground. Geralt brought a trembling hand on his back as he choked and wheezed, and it wouldn’t help, but he didn’t have much warmth left to give.

The ground was soft under them, welcoming, like a nightmare-promising feather pillow. He was staring at the sky, his medallion wildly vibrating on his chest. It was funny. Perhaps he would never see the stars again.

With an effort that felt like carrying the world on his shoulders, he turned to look at Jaskier as he was convulsing, fingers digging into the dirt, incoherent cries escaping his lips. His eyes were wide, nearly empty as he stared at the sky too, and Geralt thought, he would most definitely be the one to greet it goodbye first.

With the voice he didn’t know he could still use apart from grunts, he breathed one last attempt to save him. “I don’t love you.” And the words weighed wrong on his tongue.

He wished Jaskier hadn’t heard, he looked like he hadn’t, curled in himself and delirious. And yet, stubbornly protecting what was left, Jaskier laughed in his torture, he laughed, but didn’t look at him, only whimpered hoarsely. “Quit fucking lying.”

And there, laid and gutted with pain as they were, he outstretched his hand. And Geralt took it. And held it, tightly, tightly, the last reminder, even as he felt Jaskier’s nails digging into his skin, even as the poet screamed and screamed and trembled with just breathy whines left to echo, and even when his eyes fluttered closed and open again because he was not so lucky as to fall unconscious, even then he didn’t leave his hand.

And when he felt himself lost between the first rays of the sun and Jaskier’s eyes had long ago lost any hint of him, unnaturally blue and almost unblinking with uncontrollable tears, as though he was buried alive in his own body, when Geralt realized he could cry out no more, because no voice was left to aid him, when he let his body shake and arch like a frail leaf in the wind with all the pain he didn’t manage to fight back, even then, his grip remained waiting, tight. All that was left.

He was a witcher. He wasn’t supposed to suffer for love. But if it was to hold Jaskier’s hand, even in death, he thought, so be it. And thought no more.

※

When Geralt opened his eyes, the sun was setting.

He blinked. As though due to habit, he grunted what would probably be another curse through gritted teeth to cover up the pain.

So much pain. Unbearable. Deathly.

There was something missing. He squinted at the sky and the sky, as though sarcastically, stared back. It’s funny. He never thought he would see the sky again.

There’s something missing.

A hand clasped in his.

And then, it hit him like a thunder and he gasped and jolted up, eyes wide, breath cut as though he was scared that if he breathed it would be real, or it would become real after a deceiving dream. He stared at his hand, shaking. He wanted to laugh.

On instinct, he tightened his grip on the hand. “Jaskier,” he said and his voice was nothing but a broken, frail wheeze, hollow and trembling but it was enough, it should be enough. He breathed shakily “Jaskier.”

The pain, he wanted to say. The pain was gone.  

The realization dawned on him like the setting sun falling on his head. The pain was gone. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do without it.

The hand in his was limp. His heart skipped a beat and, as if he didn’t want to be late in a feast that was already over, he turned around abruptly, shuffling closer to Jaskier lying on the ground, rigid and melting at the same time. “Jaskier!” he called again and he got no answer, gods, none, and he reached for the bard’s face and turned his head to face him, and he did. He faced him. He faced two blue eyes, glazed over and empty, staring at him with no hint of recognition or life or pain. He faced trembling lips croaking out silent nothings, voice too strained to even be audible. And, on pale skin, the tears had dried.

Geralt swallowed around a lump in his throat, snorted. Not now. They had gone all this way, they had come out winners. It couldn’t be over, not now. He refused to let it happen. He owed it to them. And, for once, he owed it to himself.

His fingers stroked over Jaskier’s cheeks and he stared at him, searching for a drop of familiarity in the wild sea of his eyes. “Jaskier!” he said, again, over and over, “Jaskier, it’s over, wake up, Jaskier, come back to me, it’s over,” until his voice failed him and he could only whisper, “Come back, it’s me, come back.”

And Jaskier stared at him, long and quiet, like a porcelain doll, until a weak whimper escaped his throat. “Hurts…” His words fought to be buried inside him again, as though he refused to let go of that single branch of sanity he had grasped inside himself.

And Geralt, oh, Geralt wanted to laugh, but he could only cry. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, Jaskier,” he whispered and he couldn’t imagine what his love would be without pain, but he craved to find out. Trembling, he brought Jaskier’s hand on his face, held it there, trying to let as much warmth as he had seep through. “It’s over now, Jask, it doesn’t hurt.”

There’s a last ray of light that fell on Jaskier’s face and it might be that, or it might be the spark in his eyes, and in a moment the poet lit up like a flower timidly blooming. “Geralt?” the name fell crumbling down his lips and his brows were furrowed but Geralt didn’t care, because now he could see him. Now he could laugh.

And he did, a hoarse, victorious chuckle that almost washed off all the previous screams. He grasped Jaskier’s hand tighter. “It’s me, Jaskier,” and there were tears burning his eyes, “we’re alright.”

Jaskier looked at him almost lost, almost afraid to believe. Almost waiting for the nightmare to kick back in. But it didn’t. Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile curved his lips, oh so bright, and it was as though the sun came back up to gaze at him. “Oh,” he whimpered and he was tired, so tired, but now he could rest. He shook his head. “We’re alright.”

And then he jumped and threw his arms around Geralt, tight, as though he had been saving his strength for that moment. They fell on the ground, limbs and hearts tangled between their hold, and there were tears, but it didn’t matter anymore. Jaskier looked at him, and there was a weary smile on his lips, but heady still, as though he was drinking and drinking with every glance he gave Geralt. He couldn’t stop drinking.

He pressed their foreheads together, breathed. “So much more…” he whispered and it was a relief, a dirty shirt finally thrown away, a weight off their shoulders. Geralt looked at him. The circles under his eyes. The paleness of his skin. He looked at him, and he felt like looking in a mirror. Without thinking, he smiled. “I missed you so much.”

 And Jaskier, staring at him through drooping eyelids, smiled back. Oh, they were too tired, still.

But now they could rest.

※

On the first day of their lives of the first year, Geralt opened his eyes, and the sky was staring at him. The sun was rising.

“There you are.” There was a wide smile spreading on Jaskier’s face, the widest he’d ever seen and he knew he could get used to this. A wave of warmth tingled through his body. Oh, he would.

He squinted at him, pleasantly sleepy and numbingly exhausted. “Good morning.” His voice was clearer. Still he would probably need a couple of days to feel the ache in his throat subside. Jaskier would need some more days to sing again. But then again, he didn’t care. Hearing him was enough.

Hearing him for as long as he wanted was more than enough.

The sun was seeping through the window, embroidering the shade of tree leaves on the wall and on the poet’s face, making his eyes glisten like morning stars.

Jaskier squinted at him. He wanted to say something, Geralt knew. He knew. And he couldn’t wait to learn even more. “I was wondering,” he whispered and there was a hint of teasing in his tone, and another one of genuine insecurity that he chose to hold back, lest he would challenge a settled fate. He sighed, the smile ever present on his lips, and something else, something a tad darker. The shade of the smiles they were deprived of. “Will you love me less now that it doesn’t hurt?”

It was silly, of course. He knew it was. How small, how unimportant, now that they’ve been through everything else, and really, he wouldn’t mind, because any amount of Geralt’s love would be enough to bring him to his knees. Yet there was a thin needle of doubt that stung him as though to make him flinch away, and he hated that it did. It shouldn’t. Gods knew his love knew no way back.

But Geralt, dear Geralt, frowned and tilted his head, face melting into complaint as though the mere implication wounded him. As though the thought of Jaskier of all people feeling like that made him burn. Indeed, the poet had done a good job assuring him. Now it was his turn.

“Listen to me,” he said and smiled as though to seal his words. His hand reached for Jaskier’s face, so close on the pillow beside him and finally, finally the ever present distance melted in their warmth. “I love you today, I will love you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and in fifty years, if you ask me the same thing, I will remind you of today, and I will love you still.” There was a faint sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes and he suspected it was not the sun. Gods, he loved him. “Pain wasn’t a reminder of my love, neither of yours. Only a burden. The reminder is you, and your voice, and that heart of yours that beats so fast it drives you mad if you are to even consider such things.”

A deep blush painted Jaskier’s cheeks. Slowly, he turned his head just a little, only to place a kiss inside Geralt’s palm. Then, a smirk. “What a sap you are. Honestly, Geralt, I’m the poet between the two –ah, stop!” he let out a barking laugh when Geralt poked at his side and curled to himself, giggling. “Bastard.”

“We haven’t agreed on pet names yet.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable.” Laughing and laughing and Geralt thought, if he was to hear that sound for the rest of his life, he wished his life would be long.

Then Jaskier shuffled impossibly closer. Gazed at him as though he was looking at the most incredible work of art. Chuckled. “Today I think I love you more than yesterday,” he said and his voice felt like velvet. Geralt shivered. “And I think I’ll say that every day.” His eyes were wrinkling at the corners, happier than his smile itself. “Lest you forget.”

Geralt rolled his eyes fondly and pressed their lips together and the kiss was far from the first, but it was soft and peaceful and promising to be like that forever and on, along with the promise of them never parting again.

On the first day of their lives, the sun was finally shining down on them.