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melodyisdying · 3 years ago

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what for do you yearn

(2.9k, t, post s2 geraskier fix-it)

A little ways down the road…

The night’s gone long at Kaer Morhen. They’ve all been up drinking and laughing in this odd new peace, this hope that none of them quite know what to do with. Ciri’s been in bed for ages, tired out as she is from her training, and now the others slowly head up too.

They haven’t been left alone, just the two of them, since before the battles. Since before Voleth Meir. Since, well.

Yen told him to talk to Geralt about this ages ago, but there had been a whole slew of easy excuses not to, including but not limited to several ends of the fucking world and the simple fact that Geralt seems not to want to in the least little bit.

Maybe it’s something in the air, maybe it’s Yen’s blessing, maybe it’s the question in Ciri’s eyes every day as to why Geralt insisted a non-magical bard stay in the keep for extremely magical battles, or maybe Jaskier’s just finally fucking drunk enough to try tonight, before Geralt makes an excuse to go to bed.

“You know, you never answered my question.”

Geralt stiffens, across the table and a few seats down. They’re not sitting across from each other. Geralt is always careful to leave space between them that wasn’t there before the mountain.

“Hmm?”

“I asked,” Jaskier says, quietly, “is this what pleases you. Finding Ciri. All of this apocalypse stuff we’ve had to muck through.” He swallows the last of his ale, his mouth feeling like parchment. “You told me you thought ignoring it would make it go away and you were wrong, that’s what you said. You didn’t tell me if this is what you want. Now I know you’re typically awful at answering questions properly so I don’t know if you even noticed, but—”

“I noticed.”

Jaskier’s ears heat. He stares into his empty mug.

“Oh?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and fuck, Jaskier hates it, hates the way Geralt saying his name still makes heat curl in his belly, hates the tender, tired tone of it, like Geralt’s always exasperated with him even when he hasn’t fucking done anything. “I…”

Jaskier waits, his foot tapping anxiously against the stone beneath the table.

Geralt sighs.

“...fuck. Never mind. It’s late. Go to bed.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest splinters, shifts sideways to stab at an old, old wound.

“Fine.”

Jaskier shoves back from the table. He takes a few steps. And then—

“You know what, no. No. Not fine! Fuck this, fuck you, Geralt! I—” his voice cracks. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stand coming here and seeing you open up to fucking everyone else, after all this, after I’ve been there since the damn beginning, after everything I have done for you, you still can’t even talk to me and you won’t even tell me why—”

“Calm down,” Geralt says, lip curling at his mug, and Jaskier goes hot down to his neck.

“Oh ho ho, don’t you fucking dare! Are you kidding me? You must be joking, honestly.” He paces the length of the table, fussing with the edges of his shirtsleeves. “Geralt,” he says, “I’ve fought for you. I’ve defended you. I changed the way the world sees you. I’ve—I’ve been tortured for you,” he says, his voice cracking again, and this time he sees a muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitch. “The things I’ve given up, the things I’ve lost…” He sighs, scrubbing his fists over his eyes. “You know I’d do it all again in a fucking heartbeat. A human one, even, not your damn slow witcher ones. You know what I mean. It’s just—” He sets his jaw. “Yennefer’s not the only one who’s sacrificed for you. And all I did was ask a question. You used to talk to me, Geralt, just a bit but you did and you don’t anymore and I still don’t even know why—”

“Because it’s you!” Geralt roars it loud and sudden, slamming his fists on the table. Jaskier flinches, stumbling where he stands. “It’s you, it’s different, damn it Jaskier, I can’t just—”

“What?” Jaskier asks, uncomprehending. “Why?”

“You’re the only one who asks if this is what I want!” Geralt shoves himself standing, glaring at Jaskier now. “You’re the only one who sees me as what I am, who I am, not the means to an end or a curiosity or a monster, not an arbiter of destiny or the person I could be or the savior of whatever the fuck else needs saving—”

“Then why does that mean you can’t talk to me anymore!” Jaskier yells, flinging his arms out.

“It doesn’t matter what pleases me, does it?” Geralt shouts back at him. “I’ve got a destiny, I’ve got Cirilla to take care of, so what does it matter what I want?”

“That’s real fucking convenient!” Jaskier is horrified to find heat prickling at the corners of his eyes. He turns away from Geralt, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck, every goddamn word I ever write is about you, ever since the bloody day we met, and you can’t even muster up an—”

“You know the answer!” Geralt says, his voice quieter now, rougher than Jaskier’s ever heard it. “You know the answer, Jaskier. You know it’s the same reason I left you on that mountain.”

“And what’s that?” Jaskier shakes his head, staring up at the rafters. “Say it. Say it.”

The silence that follows seems to fill the room like the toll of a bell. When Geralt speaks, it’s very, very soft.

“I can’t.”

Jaskier bites his lip hard enough to bleed.

“You mean you won’t.”

“No, I mean—”

Jaskier spins.

“But you want to?”

Geralt stares at him from across the table, the torchlight reflecting in his eyes. His gaze is steady. He’s looking at Jaskier, really looking at him, for the first time in a long, long time.

“Yes,” he says.

Jaskier’s been burned, beaten, tortured, cursed, and worse, yet he didn’t know he could hurt this badly.

He’s not sure he can survive it.

“You’ve got a shit way of showing it,” he says, his voice very hoarse.

“I know.” Geralt says. “I can’t.”

Jaskier swallows again. He stares at his sleeves, and then no, fuck, bad idea, that’s the best way for tears to slip out, best look up at the ceiling again. There we are. There we go.

“You know,” he says presently, sounding undeniably miserable. “You’re allowed to have good things for yourself sometimes. It doesn’t all have to be destiny and bullshit. What’s going to happen, Geralt? The world’s going to end if you let yourself have something you choose, instead of sacrificing every part of yourself for it?”

“Maybe,” Geralt rasps, and Jaskier lets out a sad little laugh, shaking his head.

“This is worse than if you didn’t want me at all.”

“I know,” Geralt says again.

“Fine, then. Fine.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Well, Geralt. Life, as they say, is too short. You’ve got to do what pleases you, while you can.” He straightens. “And I can’t do this anymore. I promised myself, on my way down that mountain, that I would never come back to you unless you stopped taking me for granted. And I broke that promise. But I’m not going to break it again.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, making as if to move around the table to him.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Not this time.

“Goodbye, Geralt.”

***

One week later…

The tavern is packed with adoring fans, cheering him on, filling his cap with so much coin it overflows, and Jaskier’s forced to stuff his pockets to the point of overflowing. He actually needs to pause before the end of his set to head to his room and drop some off in the little lockbox he had to purchase, and when he returns to the stage, it’s to thunderous applause.

This is what his performances usually merit, these days. Especially since it’s been a while since he’s been able to really perform, having been busy with…well.

But now he’s back. And he’s got everything he ever wanted. A veritable arsenal of hit songs, an audience throwing itself at him, free flowing coin and food and drink. And of course, judging by the looks he’s getting, he’s spoilt for choice of partners should he choose to take one for the evening.

Jaskier’s lip trembles. He stares down at the new lute in his hands, one of the priciest on the market. It plays just fine, but it fits strangely in his arms.

He takes a deep breath.

“I hear you’re alive��how disappointing. I’ve also survived, no thanks to you.”

It feels just as good as ever to cry the words. Like digging a nail into a wound half-scarred, painful but savagely nearly cathartic.

“Did you ever even care?” he growls, “with your swords and your stupid hair?”

Jaskier pours the fragments of his heart into the song, the crowd going wild as he croons and howls.

“After еverything we did, we saw, you turned your back on me—”

And that’s when Jaskier sees him.

The world seems to go very still.

He almost didn’t recognize Geralt. He’s not in his armor, he’s got a cloak covering said stupid hair, but it’s him, it’s him, tucked in the corner. The tavern’s door hasn’t swung open since Jaskier got back from his room, so—he must’ve been here for the whole song, at least.

For a moment, he almost drops his lute. He almost runs back to his room and slams the door.

But instead…

Fuck it.

He’s a fucking bard. And no, it’s never mattered so much. But this is what he can do best.

Jaskier closes his eyes and musters everything he has. Every ounce of pain and heartbreak and fury, every bit of hopeless love he knows he deserves to get in return, and he forces it all into the clarity of his voice.

“What for do you yearn?

Watch that butcher burn!

At the end of my days when I'm through

No word that I've written will ring quite as true

As burn

Burn, butcher, burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Watch me burn all the memories of you.”

The lines start out a snarl, and then fade to a hoarse whisper, as they always do. Because as the crowd erupts into applause and Jaskier sinks onto the stage, he knows he’s never been able to truly burn everything Geralt is to him. He thanks the crowd, smiles and bows, but in his head he hears his own voice from what feels like a lifetime ago.

I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.

Fuck.

He makes it away from the crowd and to the door of his room before Geralt pushes his way through to him.

“Come to gloat?” Jaskier snaps, fumbling with his key. “Or what, do you need my help again, because I thought I fucking told you—”

“I fucked up.”

Jaskier’s never heard him sound like that before, not once in decades. He’s so hoarse it almost sounds like he’s been crying, which is ridiculous, but when Jaskier looks at him, though his jaw is as set as ever, Geralt’s eyes are red-rimmed, his pale face blotchy.

“Say that again?”

“I fucked up,” Geralt repeats, frowning as if he’s irritated with the very words he’s saying. The jerk probably is. “I’ve been fucking up, with you, because it was the easiest thing for me to do. But I can’t do any of this without you.”

“Fuck you, you didn’t come back for me.” It comes out clipped and far too vulnerable. “You can’t say you missed me when you didn’t even come looking until you needed me.”

“I know,” Geralt says, “I know, it was—easier for me. Not to have you right there while I was trying to do the right fucking thing for once.”

“Because I’m a distraction,” Jaskier says, finally getting the key in and jamming it rather forcefully, “from your real destiny.”

“You know that’s true,” Geralt says, and Jaskier savors the note of desperation in his voice. “Fuck, Jaskier, that song—”

“What about it?” Jaskier says haughtily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was…very…”

“If you’re about to insult my singing again, Geralt, I swear to fucking Melitele—”

“No,” Geralt cuts in, and then softer, “no. It was…edifying.”

Jaskier snorts, incredulous.

“Glad I could enlighten you.”

“Fuck, I mean—” Geralt groans. “It was agony, Jask.” The nickname cuts wrong after months of disuse. Both of them wince at it. “Jaskier. It…it’s a good song. I could really feel what you were saying.”

“It hurt,” Jaskier says dully. “It still does. Like a flame, and now I know what that actually fucking feels like, if you recall, and yes, I’d still say the metaphor is apt.”

“It’s…brutal.”

“Yes.”

“I—” Geralt hesitates. Jaskier stares in at his rented room, lovely and lavish and lonely. “I deserve it.”

“Yes, you very much do. That’s why I wrote it.” Jaskier sniffs, strutting inside and lighting his lamps. “Not that it’s about you anyway.”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Geralt steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“Why are you even here?” Jaskier asks, setting his lute in its case.

“To ask you to come back to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt says, and oh, the number of times Jaskier’s fantasized about that line, wracked with self-loathing as he clasped at himself.

“With you,” he repeats. “Geralt, I guess I fucked this up once before, so let me make this as clear as I can.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “I’m not coming back into your life unless you actually want to be to me…what you want to be to me.”

Geralt swallows. Nods. Jaskier’s shaking so badly he’s sure Geralt can see it. Can probably smell it or something, fucking witcher senses.

“You were right,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier scoffs. “I know.” He clears his throat. “Erm. About what, this time?”

“You’ve always been right,” Geralt says softly. “I’ve been…punishing myself. For a long time now. And I thought that was all right, that I could take it.” He sighs, shaking his head. “But I was punishing you too, and you didn’t deserve that. I was punishing you for doing nothing but—er. Nothing but, well—”

“Nothing but loving you,” Jaskier finishes quietly. It’s like one world ends, a new one begins, just to hear the words said, at long, long last, aloud.

Geralt gives one, jerky nod of his head.

“Jaskier,” he says seriously, stepping closer. “I’m not worthy. I never was, but even less so now. But I will try to be. If you let me.”

And Jaskier really, truly thinks about it. If he can trust this, if it feels worth taking the chance, the risk. He looks into Geralt’s hearth-fire eyes, the tremble in his mouth, the furrow of his brow.

“You’d better try really fucking hard,” he says at last, and oh, he’s never seen Geralt smile like that before. Not like that. Not in utter joy, not in sheer, overwhelming, relief.

“I will,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Jaskier. I will.” He swallows hard, Jaskier watching the muscles in his throat work. He steps closer, and Jaskier does not step away. “Could I…?”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He tries at once to memorize this moment, the way he feels, the warmth of Geralt’s body, trying, instinctively, to capture it for a song. But that’s not quite right.

This isn’t something that will need to be transformed into something palatable. This isn’t something Jaskier’s going to have to work out through his work. That will come, perhaps, because fuck if Jaskier’s head isn’t more alive with the muse than it’s been in ages, but right now, all he wants is to be in this moment, where he’s been wanting to be for almost as long as he can remember.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

It’s a gentle kiss. Tentative and soft, almost chaste. Just the brush of Geralt’s mouth to Jaskier’s lips, Geralt’s palm on his cheek.

It’s brief and impossibly tender, yet it feels explosive somehow. The terrible intimacy of it, the way they’d come so close to this exact moment a thousand times before and it had never, ever happened and now it finally has. Jaskier feels some of the shattered pieces of his heart just barely begin to hope to piece themselves together.

Geralt touches his forehead to Jaskier’s, after. He’s breathing heavy, as if he’s just been in a fight. He’s smiling.

“It’s you, you know,” Geralt murmurs. “The answer.”

“What?”

Geralt huffs a laugh. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s breath on his mouth.

“What pleases me,” he says softly. “It’s always been. Always, fucking always. It’s been the truest, most impossible part of my life.”

Jaskier shakes his head as best as he can without moving too far from him.

“It’s possible now, butcher. Don’t you fuck it up.”

“I won’t,” Geralt promises. “I won’t.”

They end up curled into each other on Jaskier’s bed, making plans to travel back to Kaer Morhen tomorrow, but mostly just being close, breathing each other in, letting this new reality wash over them both.

Burn, butcher, burn, he’d sang. His pain had been a flame, scarring him anew every day. He’d kept it lit all this time because he’d held onto hope, he couldn’t help it.

He doesn’t need that flame anymore. He has Geralt now, he really, truly does. And it’s time, it’s finally time, to start to heal from those burns.

Jaskier looks at Geralt now, earnest and vulnerable, there in the firelight.

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier lets Geralt take him into his arms, and, at last, he blows out the candle.

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