#I stumbled into this writing my Geralt/Jaskier are Achilles/Patroclus reborn

[abluescarfonwaston]

Philia before Eros

He is my dearest friend. Philtatos. Most beloved.  Philia not eros, is the greater love. Friendship over desire.

Friendship is the most important thing. That and love. Oh and wine of course-

Friendship before love.

He sat. Drinking. In the inn destroyed by the djinn. Errdil, the owner, and the mayor, Neville, celebrated. Insurance would cover the destruction it had caused.

“Why would he go back? For that crazy witch? Why, damnit?” He’d wanted to search the crowd for an explanation but he could not. He could not tear his eyes away from the ruins in front of him. That not even a Witcher could have survived. “Chireadan, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Chireadan affirmed. “I do.”

Friendship before love. Friendship before desire.

Course he was the only one who felt that way. All the ballads agreed. Romantic love was far superior to friendship. Familial love was too.

Geralt agreed too.

He tried to fix his hat. That he’d thrown in the mud and stomped while Neville promised to pay handsomely for Geralt saving his miserable town from the djinn. If he survived.

If.

If.

Well he had. So he was going to make sure that half-baked tart paid every coins worth of the statue he had promised to build in Geralt’s memory. Because no one could have survived the building coming down on them.

He had. They were very alive.

The heron’s feather was mud covered and crushed. His hat crumbled and brown with mud.

Philia not eros, is the greater love. Friendship over desire.

The stupid creases wouldn’t come out of the damn hat.  The fucking feather broke halfway and hung pathetically.

Well no one fucking believed that anyway. All his friends from university who promised if we’re still single when we’re thirty we’ll marry and buy a big house for all our instruments. We’ll wander the continent together.

But they didn’t mean it. No one ever fucking meant it. Because romantic love. That kind of love. It was worth more than his house with rooms for each of them. More the wagon they’d ride on between towns in the warm months. Playing together.

No they all fell in love and got married and that always came first. Desire over friendship.

He understood that perfectly. How stupid he was to be the other way. Friendship over desire.

He cursed. The mud smeared as he tried to rub it off. The curses spiraled into every language he knew.

Of course Chireadan understood. They all understood. Desire. Romantic love. Eros. That was worth dying for. Even if you’d only known the witch a few hours. Even if you’d be leaving your best friend behind. Even if.

He threw the hat onto the splintered floor. Took a swig of beer.

But he couldn’t swallow. He squeezed his eyes closed and couldn’t swallow around the mass there.

What is wrong with me?

Let’s make a list shall we?

He spit the beer onto the floor. It wasn’t like the place wasn’t destroyed anyway.

Geralt had someone now. So he would never be more than second chair. The one he thought of after.

“Let’s go on an adventure.” He’d say.

“I have to ask Yennefer first.” He’d respond.

Be happy for him you miserable sack of shit.

Be happy he’s alive.

Stop this pathetic pity party.

Be happy for him.

Be happy you’re being left behind again.

You deserve to be left behind.

If you didn’t want to be you’d be something worth keeping. You wouldn’t cheat on your fiancés. You wouldn’t put think Philia before Eros. You wouldn’t hope your friends stayed single forever so you’d stay the most important thing in their lives.

He pressed his head into the rim of the mug and forced the tears back.

Be happy. He ordered. Be happy.

“There you are.” Came the deep rumble of Geralt’s voice. “Your feather broke.”

The chair next to him creaked as Geralt sat heavily down. The hat in his hand. Dusting it off.

He glanced at it. At his muddy lilac hat in Geralt’s hands. Forced them back to the reflection of the sky in his mug. The ceiling of the tavern having long since collapsed.

“Hm.” He didn’t trust himself to answer more.

“Have to head east. Won’t find any Herons this far from the coast.”

His head jerked up. Staring at Geralt. Terrible, wretched hope building in his chest. “Together?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes?” Like it was so obvious he was confused why he’d even ask.

He frowned. Reached out, cupping his face.  His thumb ghosting over the discolored skin under his eye. “That’s quite the shiner.”

He smirked. Didn’t pull away. “Yennefer has quite the right hook.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Well I don’t like that at all.”

The major shifted uncomfortably behind Geralt. His frown soured into a sneer as he let his hand drop. “Off to the coast then.” He smirked. “And you know Major Neville told me earlier he was so grateful you protected the town he’d pay you a fortune in thanks. Isn’t that right Neville?”

He shifted nervously. Cleared his throat. “Well I didn’t say fortune-“

“You did.”

Geralt elbowed him.

“But I’m sure we can work out some recompense for you, certainly, Master Witcher.”

“I’m sure we can.” He smiled harshly at him. The man paled. Remembering his speech about sacrifice, reverence, memory and the statues in the world. Be grateful he survived or I’d have made you worthless little town a tragedy.

Geralt nodded gratefully. Not turning back to see the curse of his face.

Off to the coast then. Together.

For the first time since the djinn reached out to strangle him his lungs filled.

Together.