gay screaming

He curls into himself, as though by turning himself into a small enough target, he can ward off the echoes of his lute splintering into kindling that still linger in his ears. His myriad bodily injuries cry out at the movement, but he ignores them; no pain of the flesh can match the pain of the grief cracking open his heart. 

Perhaps it’s dramatic to mourn his old lute when he’s been gifted a better one, by the King of the Elves himself, and with a riveting tale to immortalize in song besides. He certainly isn’t blind to the virtues of his new instrument, which gleams even in the dimmest light and sings at the slightest touch. He’s already looking forward to putting it through its paces–the ballad he’s working on will be an exciting test of its capabilities.

But that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? This instrument is still a stranger with whom he’s becoming acquainted, whereas the lute he’d lost had been well and truly his. He knew every scratch on her body, every quirk of her make, knew that impending rain meant tightening one string and an overcast sky meant loosening another. How many songs had he written bent over her neck, how many carefree nights whiled away with only her music for company? He’s built none of those memories with this new lute; there’s no shared familiarity that translates to easy musicality.

It’s a grief he’s never had cause to know before. Silently, carefully, mindful even in the depths of his despair of the hulking emotionally stunted mass occupying the other half of the bed, he turns his face into his pillow, where the tears will soak into the cloth instead of drying in tracks down his cheeks, and weeps.

An indeterminate amount of time later, after the last tear has formed and fallen and dried, and Jaskier is slowly extricating himself from the ball he’s wound himself into, a voice pierces the darkness: “Having regrets, bard?”

“Gods,” Jaskier yelps involuntarily. He’s immediately mortified by how wet his voice sounds; all that effort to hide his tears, gone to waste with the very first word he uttered.  “Have you been awake this whole time? That’s creepy, Geralt, it’s creepy to just lie there silently while someone is having a private moment of despair next to you.”

Geralt doesn’t grace him with so much as a grunt. Jaskier isn’t deterred. After a week of traveling and camping and sharing every second of every day with the Witcher, Jaskier knows not to take the silence personally. The silence appears to be Geralt’s baseline way of existing.

He takes a moment to gather the tattered shreds of his dignity. “No regrets yet,” he declares once he’s confident his voice won’t wobble. And he means it, too. The worst of the shock and grief has evaporated with the tears, leaving behind only a deep-seated curiosity about what comes next. “I’m just having a normal middle-of-the-night cry, nothing to worry your lovely little head about. Which is not to say I’m some delicate, teary-eyed flower who’ll weep at the slightest provocation. You’ll find I’m actually quite stoic and capable when I haven’t had my favorite lute broken over an elf’s knee.”

More silence. He wonders if Geralt is having doubts of his own about Jaskier, and–well, he panics a bit. The last thing he needs is for Geralt to decide he’s too soft to cart along in pursuit of monsters and money. Not that Geralt’s disapproval would be a sufficient impediment, at this juncture, but Jaskier would prefer not to be just another thing the Witcher has to fight, all things considered.

Well, there’s one surefire way he can think of to convey that the perils of trailing a Witcher truly don’t intimidate him.

“Since we’re both awake, care for a fuck?” he says, blithe as he can be.

Geralt grunts. There’s a distinctly annoyed quality to the sound. Jaskier supposes he’s finally used up the last vestiges of Geralt’s meager goodwill and prudently opts not to push the subject.