#post-breakup

The three months you spent at this house in the countryside, when I wasn’t afraid to hold your hand when we took long walks outside through the meadows and woods. When we cooked together, went grocery shopping to town, woke up and fell asleep together. I watched you sleep for a while in the mornings and I could not believe that this was not a dream.

Little did I know that I indeed lived in a dream back then, for those twelve weeks taken out of time. In the grand scheme of things, three months means nothing. It was everything to me. I allowed myself to be selfish and have you all to myself because then and there, I wasn’t just an awkward martial artist from the middle of nowhere and you weren’t an internationally famous musician. We were just us, fully comfortable with each other and as prone to silliness as in our teenage years.

The outside world didn’t matter for a short time but there’s no running from it, in the end.

Your beautiful eyes glistened with tears the whole day before you left on tour and I convinced myself that this would be for the better. I couldn’t give you what you wanted. I couldn’t withstand all that came with being your partner. You deserved someone who didn’t get panic attacks at the thought of accompanying you to any event.

In some ways, I still uphold that I did the right thing. The world needed to witness you, needed your talent, and I’m glad that I didn’t keep you from it. I know you would’ve dropped everything if I’d asked you to but I couldn’t have done that to you. The sad truth of us is that you wouldn’t have been happy with me in the long run, considering the man I was.

I’ve changed since you left. I started going to therapy, got on medication and qualified for a service dog. Her name is Roach. She is strong when I can’t be and helps me calm whenever my anxiety gets the better of me, but it’s rare nowadays. I can function normally and my career as a martial artist has finally taken off.

I’ve started a family, too, with Yennefer. We lasted four rocky years. I love her but we’re better off apart. We did one thing right, though – adopted a daughter. Cirilla was ten when we got her. She called me “Dad” a year later, which was two years ago. On that day, I cried for the first time since I’d returned home without you after driving you to the airport.

I’m much more in touch with my emotions now. Years of therapy have taught me how to work through them. Writing has been helping me with that too. I’ve written some works but I don’t think anyone would want to publish them. I think my stuff is good but it’s not something that would necessarily sell.

That’s no matter. I’ve got other achievements, like my gold medal in karate for Kaedwen in the last international sports championship. I remember when I stood on top of that podium last year, I thought to myself that this was finally it.

That I’m finally a man who deserves to stand by your side.

Everything I’ve done in those years apart is for you, Jaskier. I’ve been trying to face my fears, understand my inner world and find my words with the thought of you on my mind. Six years and there hasn’t been a day that I didn’t think of you. Of how it felt to hold you in my arms, how expressive your face was, how the love I saw in your gaze almost brought me to my knees every time I saw it.

There are moments like now, when the house is quiet and I’m alone in my bedroom, and I allow myself to wonder: do you think of me too? It’s arrogant of me to assume that you do, but I sometimes like to think that what we had meant to you as much as it meant to me. Such a large part of my past has you in it: our childhood friendship that bloomed again at a high school reunion, growing closer over the phone, trying to take it slow while I accompanied you on a tour, then the weeks we spent at my family home here. So many years that led to me breaking your heart because I was a fucking mess and a coward.

Other times, I hope that it doesn’t matter to you at all. I pray that the pain I caused you has long faded and become insignificant. It’s been six years of longing for you but I deserve to find that you’ve grown indifferent. For breaking your heart, I deserve to know that you’re well over it, that you don’t need me in any way to be happy.

I wish I wasn’t still a coward. I wish I had the strength to reach out to you and find out just that – to hear your voice in the speaker and find that you’re happy. You do seem so in the interviews, which I sometimes watch when I miss you too much, though I never dared to listen to you sing. The songs on the radio found me anyway. The lyrics about stars were a deserved blow.

I so wish I’d been braver, Jaskier. I wish I had been brave enough to see a way for me to still be with you. I wish I’d had the courage to try therapy sooner. I wish I’d let myself have you more.

I wish you asked me to marry you again, too, because I would say yes.

Fuck, I’m such a fool to be even considering this. I have no right to your love anymore. 

The letter cuts off here, clearly unfinished. A tear falls onto the paper and sinks into it, causing its surface to wrinkle. It’s not Geralt’s or Jaskier’s – another person has just become involved.

Very involved, in fact.

***

Her heart beats wildly in her chest with fear, victory, and fear of victory too. It almost seems too good to be true: she’s standing in line at a meet and greet with the singer Jaskier with her Mum, and the letter with an added note containing her Dad’s phone number is tucked safely into an inner pocket of her denim jacket. Her mother scrutinizes her, noticing her nervousness, and Ciri fights the urge to squirm.

Both her parents were surprised when she announced that she wished to meet Jaskier in person. She said that it was because she loved his music and managed to uphold this lie, despite their suspiciousness. She couldn’t give up – she’s been planning this for months, ever since finding that letter while rummaging through her Dad’s desk in a desperate search for paper because she needed to print out a school assignment urgently.

Initially, she didn’t manage to get a ticket to this event; they were sold out in ten minutes. Fortunately, her Mum had enough connections to secure a place for them here anyway. The meet and greet is also taking place while her Dad is away to train. It all fell into place perfectly, really.

This was meant to happen, Ciri tries to convince herself as they’re about to stand face to face with the famous Jaskier. She’s doing what needs to be done, she repeats the mantra in her head as the bodyguards lead her and her Mum to where Jaskier awaits. The melancholy about her Dad, which has always been there, might not be in his nature after all.

There’s sadness about Jaskier too, she notices. His face is expressive indeed, and it shows some undeniable hints of heartache as he looks at Ciri and Yennefer approaching him. Yet, he flashes them a bright smile anyway.

Ciri’s resolve falters for a moment because the man makes her bashful, of all things. He’s broad and tall, handsome, dressed to impress, and has a warm but captivating presence. The combination of charisma and kindness he radiates is intimidating and Ciri finds herself tongue-tied.

“Hello, Yennefer,” he greets Mum politely.

“Hello, Julian,” she replies in that imperious way of hers, like a queen receiving due honours.

Jaskier only smirks at that tone. Directing his attention to Ciri, he says, “This is your daughter, then.”

“Yes,” Mum replies, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Ciri, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks.

Ciri can only nod dumbly, struck by the realisation that her Mum and Jaskier must’ve talked before this.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Jaskier says and smiles like he means it.

He looks at her with fondness that seems so genuine even though he doesn’t know her. “I... ” she begins, then trails off. His gaze is so affectionate.

If he looked at Dad in a similar way, she understands why he loves this man.

Suddenly overwhelmed with what she knows about the depth of her father’s feelings for Jaskier, Ciri cannot bear the secret anymore. With her heart in her throat, she pulls out the envelope. “I have something for you.”

Jaskier grins, happy like a beam of sunshine, and takes it from her. “You wrote me a letter? How wonderful, thank you!”

“No,” she clarifies, way too loudly in her anxiousness, “It’s a letter from my Dad. From Geralt.”

Jaskier gasps audibly. His eyes grow wide as he stares at the letter he’s holding, rendered speechless.

“Cirilla,” Mum says sharply. “What have you done?”

“It’s important, Mama,” she defends herself weakly. “It’s important,” she repeats to Jaskier and pleads, “Please keep it safe. Please don’t give it to anyone. Please, it’s too important.”

The singer watches her for a moment, silent and serious, then gives a solemn nod and puts the envelope into an inner pocket of his floral Gucci jacket. Ciri’s whole body sags in relief. For a blissful second, she basks in success, but then a hand grasps her arm in a vicious grip.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mum demands.

“I – I had to,” she stutters, “Dad would’ve never sent it, he would’ve never said a thing–”

“Young lady. Since when are you allowed to meddle with someone else’s private correspondence? Do you know that deliberately opening a letter not meant for you is considered an offence?”

Ciri gulps, frightened in the face of her mother’s anger.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier placates, “It’s all right. I’m sure Ciri meant well.”

“I did!” she exclaims, jumping on the chance to redeem herself. “I do. You’ll see for yourself!”

Mum is about to lecture her more but the bodyguards tell them that their time is up. She apologizes to Jaskier and leads Ciri away, fuming wordlessly until they’re sitting in the car.

“This was extremely inappropriate and inconsiderate of you,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt furiously. “You’re going to call your father as soon as we get home, and you’re going to tell him exactly what you’ve done.”

The very idea fills Ciri with immense dread. “But Mama,” she whines.

“No buts,” Mum snaps harshly. “Actions have consequences, and if you were willing to take action such as this, to violate Geralt’s privacy on this level, you must answer for it.”

“I did the right thing!” Ciri roars, sick of being scolded. “You have no idea what Dad wrote there! You have no idea how happy he was with Jaskier!”

Hurt flashes in her mother’s eyes. She looks away, outside the car’s window, and murmurs, “I’m well aware of that fact, believe me.”

The bitterness in her words rings so loud in the car that Ciri is glad when she starts the engine and begins to drive.

***

When he sits down on the floor, he takes the water bottle left out for him and drinks from it in big gulps. His muscles ache from exertion, which he welcomes, today more than usual. 

Vesemir stands at his side. Geralt sighs, knowing what his foster father will say, even though it doesn't need to be said. 

“You're distracted.”

He grunts. The reason for his distracted state resurfaces from the back of his mind and he thinks of laughter. Laughter like silver bells, twinkling blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. He thinks of how Ciri and Yennefer got to see all that today. 

“Go take a break,” Vesemir says. “In the changing room. The quiet will do you some good.”

Geralt gets up, squeezes Vesemir's arm gratefully, takes Roach from Eskel's care, and goes when he was told. As he walks into the room, he hears his phone ringing in his locker, but he doesn't manage to answer it in time. 

There are notifications about four missed calls waiting for him. Two from Ciri, one from Yennefer, and the most recent one from an unknown number. Letting out a heavy breath, Geralt decides to deal with the stranger first. It might be some nonsense and he wants it over with before calling Ciri back and hearing about the meet and greet. 

Three signals ring out. The person picks up at the fourth. A moment of complete silence follows.

"Hello?" Geralt says. 

The voice from his dreams replies, “Hello, Geralt.”

Everything around him goes to a complete standstill. His heart begins hammering in his chest, his hands tremble, and he has to sit down. Roach puts her head in his lap and he pets her, grateful to hold on to her.

“Jaskier?” he asks in disbelief.

“Hi.”

There’s so much caution in his tone that it could be mistaken for gentleness and Geralt has to swallow hard. “Hi,” he croaks out.

They don’t speak for a few long seconds again. There are so many things Geralt wishes to say that he’s unable to muster a single word. Jaskier finally takes pity on him, huffs, and says, “I’m sure you’re wondering how come I have your number.”

“Yeah,” Geralt answers, willing both his brain and vocal cords to finally work. “How?”

“See, it began with a seemingly innocent meet and greet,” Jaskier replies. “Imagine my surprise when Yennefer fucking Vengeberg, of all people, somehow got hold of my private number and called me to demand an entry to the meet and greet I’d soon be doing in Kaedwen, quite near where you lived. Which is also how I found out that my childhood friend, who also happens to be my ex, had a daughter with her.” Geralt cringes in guilt. Jaskier continues mercilessly, “An actual kid that I didn’t know of, who then shows up, with her hair like yours, and gives me – ”

Jaskier cuts off his own chatter and gives an irritated sigh. Torturous silence falls between them again. Geralt takes a deep breath, a long-overdue apology at the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier speaks first.

“Ciri did something very out of line,” he says seriously. “She... handed me an envelope. There was a note with your number and a letter inside it.”

His body goes utterly still, frozen in dread. “A letter?” he hears himself ask.

“A letter which I don’t think I was supposed to read.”

The meaning of the words registers. Right there and then, in the quiet of the changing room, his world completely falls apart. In the aftermath, he finds himself unable to speak – his throat is so constricted that air barely passes through. Roach shifts closer with a whimper.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, so awfully softly. “Are you all right? Can you talk?”

This is what truly breaks him, in the end: Jaskier remembers things like that and is so kind to him still, even though Geralt hurt him. Geralt only earned the opposite of the consideration Jaskier shows him and it strikes somewhere deep. It’s the most heart-warming heartbreak possible.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he grapples for words, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I – ”

“You didn’t know,” Jaskier explains for him. “It’s okay. Well, not really, but Ciri had good intentions. I must say, the lengths she’s willing to go for you are truly impressive. I seriously wouldn’t want to get into this girl’s black books.”

Geralt snorts at the comment, the little splash of humour easing some of the tension inside him. “I apologize for her behaviour,” he says, tired more than anything else now.

“It’s not me apologies should be for,” Jaskier replies. “And anyway, she’s still a child. How old is she? Thirteen?” Geralt hums in assent. “There are things she doesn’t understand yet. For her, it’s just... that easy.”

He’s so patient and understanding that Geralt wants to scream. Show me your rage, for fuck’s sake, he wishes to yell, say something hurtful, do something that will finally make me stop loving you, dammit.

“It’s not though, is it?”

“No,” Jaskier answers, quiet, simple and brutal. “I can’t just... come back to – This doesn’t fix things.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt agrees. He strokes the fur on Roach’s neck, grounding himself in the touch because he feels unsteady. This situation feels like living in a nightmare you can’t wake up from. It’s also possibly the only chance he will get to, in fact, fix things, at least to a small degree. So, he counts to five and dives into it, “I am sorry, though. For... causing you pain when I broke up with you. For the things I said at the airport. They were unfair and uncalled for, and I regret it. Jaskier, I... I regret this more than anything else in my life.”

“You were afraid,” Jaskier adds gently. “That’s okay. I understood that. I just hoped – ”

He doesn’t say, only sniffs.

“What?” Geralt prompts.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jaskier dismisses, voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he says, “But... thank you for the apology. It’s accepted and appreciated.” Geralt hums, his whole body sagging in such relief that he’s suddenly like a puppet with no strings. Jaskier chukles wetly. “I’m actually glad we had this conversation, you know? It’s good to have this... closure.”

“Yes,” Geralt chimes in hoarsely, not trusting his voice to anything more.

“I’m also glad that I heard from you,” Jaskier goes on. “It’s wonderful to know that you’re doing so well. You’re so brave. You’ve always been. I’m very proud of you, darling.”

There’s a wounded noise at the back of his throat before he can stifle it. Don’t give me any more tenderness, he nearly begs, I can’t take it when you’re saying goodbye, stop it.

Jaskier doesn’t stop. “And in your devastating letter, you said that... That...”

“That you make me brave.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers pleadingly, asking him not to say it.

“Jaskier,” he murmurs, letting his ache for him show for once.

They breathe heavily together.

“I... I am happy,” Jaskier confesses then, “Sometimes. Most often when I think of you.”

With that, he hangs up.

Once Draco has collected himself enough, he walks back out of the storeroom, gets back behind the counter, and succeeds in pouring two shitty rosettas in lattes that customers don’t bother looking at. As he waits for the next drink order, he stares off at the café tables outside the shop. He’d been lucky, really, to have had that relationship at all. Good things—kind things like that didn’t happen to him since the war, really. For Harry to have chosen him for a year, well. He could live with that. He could be grateful for that, for good fortune he’d never deserved.

Lucia nudges him from the back, and Draco shakes out of his stupor. She’s wearing thick eyeliner today, and her hair is in a high ponytail that trails halfway down her back.

“Someone left a note for you outside,” she says.

She presses a folded piece of paper into his hands. Draco looks around, thinks he catches a flash of owl wings outside. He unfolds it.

Draco,

I’m sending Athena to deliver this, I hope she doesn’t get lost or fly into a telephone pole or something, you know how she is. Hermione’s been on my case all week, she thinks we didn’t talk at all about what happened, and since she’s Hermione she’s probably right. She also wants me to tell you to come back to pub night, if you want, although I think that’s mostly because she misses shouting with you about ministry politics once you’re both three pints in.

You do know you’ve been the bright spot of the last year for me, don’t you? It’s been strange not seeing you around. Come to pub night. And then…we should talk, I think.

Please?

-H.P.

PS: Lucia, if you get this before Draco don’t you dare read it, this is PERSONAL.

Draco reads it twice over, smoothing it out and feeling something in his chest flip upside down and then right-side up again.

“Well?” asked Lucia. “Are you coming to drinks tonight, or are you busy?”

Draco folds up the piece of paper carefully. “You read the note, didn’t you.”

“He shouldn’t have made it a postscript, it’s literally at the end of the note, that’s useless.”

“You’re impossible.”

Lucia throws her ponytail behind her shoulder and puts a carton of milk back in the fridge. “Go, Draco. And stop moping around the storeroom, I already had to stop Eric from going back there twice.”

For several moments there’s only the sound of milk steaming.

“Who said I wasn’t going to go?” asks Draco.

Lucia doesn’t bother to look up from the milk. “Good, then.”

Draco runs his thumb across the paper one more time, then pockets it. He’s off in an hour, and he can discretely apparate home to get ready. And then…they can talk. Just talk. It might be silly to hope, to read into it too far, but Draco feels himself grinning stupidly at the counter in front of him.

“Draco. Register.”

“Right.”

He barely notices ringing up the next few customers. Letter. Pub night. Harry.