#tumblr formatting is hell so i'd recommend reading this on ao3

[cherryjuicegf]

a lovestruck's letter

Over the years, Jaskier filled his absence with his letters. Then there was one time that Geralt had to fill that absence himself.

3,7k, epistolary, fluff (ao3)

It was one-sided at first. If he thought back, Geralt could still remember the first time he had entered the inn after a long winter in Kaer Morhen and found the innkeeper standing in front of him, his hand outstretched. In his hand he was gripping an envelope, light blue and sealed with white wax.

He’d frowned then. Even though, somehow, he knew. Somehow his fingertips tingled when he touched the paper. And, well, somehow, he knew the right time to read it would be way later, in the darkness of his room, under the light of the candles. He really knew how to set an atmosphere. He would laugh at himself now.

He hadn’t, back then.

Instead, he had sat on his bed, unfolded the paper and just in time, he’d caught a stem of dried basil before it fell on the floor. The leaves had crumbled between his fingers. If he smelled his fingers now, he would probably still catch their fading scent. He smiled. Jaskier was too vain to consider the long-term ending of dried basil leaves.

He hadn’t minded then. He didn’t now. He couldn’t, as his lips silently moved to form the words he’d read then, just like he did now, under the candlelight.

Geralt,

I know you are most likely to be surprised by the letter, if you, my friend, can actually be surprised by anything in your long life. However, I also know that you’re delighted to hear from me, even via paper, dare I say it’s extremely more pleasant to you to read my ramblings rather than hear them for days on end. It seems though that since you are reading this, we are yet to meet, and probably won’t actually meet for some time still. That is, until next month. I’m pleading you to forgive my unexpected absence and I know how devastated you are to hear the news. I can see your idiot smug face as you pretend you don’t give a shit.

As soon as I learned about my needed presence in the Academy I made sure this letter reaches you. It seems that for the first time during the five years of our acquaintance, you’ll have some more time to bulk in your comfortable, though insufferable if you ask me, silence.

And since I knew that you wouldn’t make a fuss about not finding me after winter --our paths always cross as if by Fate, you see-- I felt the urge to break that particular silence of yours with this letter. A fun little thing, until we meet again. A reason for me to talk, if you will.

Truth be told, I have no real news for you to acknowledge. I was merely hoping to hear yours or, in any case, hear anything from you. An extra month in the Academy is enjoyable nonetheless; my thoughts and wishes though are with you. Write to me, if you wish. Till we meet again.

Regards,

J.

The sheet smelled of basil and wildflowers, of ink and twenty years. Geralt brought it to his lips. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t written back then.

I hear you’re recovering in Ellander. I am terribly sorry for not being at your side at this time, I have seen how hard the whole process can be and I would give everything to make you forget about your pain for a while. I’m afraid though it’s too long for me to come, I’m close to Cintra, you see, and I know the news about your injury already travelled late to my ears. Truthfully, I am not even certain that this letter will reach you before you heal and entirely depart from the temple. In case you are indeed reading this, however, I am relieved that you are alive and hopeful to see you soon, once your suffering is over.

Dear friend,

Oh dear, I was carried away and entirely missed the point of my own letter! Well, not entirely, I mean I still hope you’re doing well and we’ll see each other again. I’m not going to tire you with elaborate blathering, dear friend, fear not. I wish though, for this letter to keep you company, even if it cannot replace mine, a failed substitute, if you will. And I so hope that the smile I remember on your lips, that one rare of yours, is what embellishes your weary, brooding face as you read my words.

Give my greetings to Nenneke, I know she’ll cherish them the way she only knows. My thoughts are with you, hopeful of a quick healing. Till we meet again, Geralt.

Take care,

Jaskier

Geralt brushed his fingers over a stem of blue salvia, dried and tucked inside the old sheet. On the ninth year of their friendship, Jaskier had sent him that letter. He had appreciated it, a good company, a substitute. Nenneke had cherished the greetings. A small smile, nostalgic, curved his lips as his eyes flew over the ink-stained words. He hadn’t written back, still.

I hope you are doing well. Of course, I doubt the happenings of the opposite, since your new acquaintance seems to lift your mood like no one has ever managed to do before. I trust that this letter finds you where I left you at Rinde, otherwise it’s highly unlikely that it’s you reading it now and not some random mailman that failed to find you. I know, however, that you planned to stay for a few days. That’s why I left the town on my own, after all.

Geralt,

Forgive my forwardness. It has nothing to do with you, my dear, only the past few days have been brutal to my mental state. You were there though, no need to tire you with information you have already witnessed. Your witch’s spell was highly effective, it feels like nothing happened to my voice ever and, if I’m to take a little pride, I managed to charm much bigger crowds than usual yesterday evening. You must be wondering how I am doing. Excellent, I dare say.

Sometimes I feel like somebody wrapping their hands around my neck, choking me. I guess this will take some time to pass. But that’s a matter for another time.

I’m considering heading to Tretogor for a change of environment. If you depart some time soon, it’s highly possible we meet on the road. You won’t, probably, but a friend can hope.

My sincere regards to the witch, if she deigns to accept them. I know you’re having a good time and I couldn’t wish for more. Till we meet again, friend.

J.

If he thought about it, Geralt could remember all those times Jaskier’s hand trailed his throat, exactly where the djinn had injured him. It was an absentminded gesture, he knew. Or at least, he liked to hope. Yet it made something twist in his stomach.

He stared at the frail daffodil in his hand. He hadn’t paid any thought then, neither at the flower nor the way Jaskier’s words stung like daggers. He had no reason to; the bard had a rough few days. Now he saw why, though. And wondered what he would have said, if he had ever written back then.

As he thought back, he considered the last prospect to be the most probable. A while ago, he would blame himself, for letting his feeling take hold of him, for being impulsive, absurd. Hopeful. As he read the bard’s letter, the one he had responded to, he knew there wasn’t much to be done for his resistance to persist. And, as he roamed between the words, oh, how he ached. Ached for something he knew he couldn’t have anymore.

There had actually been a time, during the last years, when Geralt started responding to the letters Jaskier stubbornly continued to send. Maybe he thought that way the letters would stop. Maybe he indeed had something to say to him in return. Maybe it was for an entirely different reason.

Dearest friend,

I haven’t sent you a letter in years and I’m certain you are more than surprised to read this now, only a few weeks after we parted for the winter. I feel though, that I wasn’t able to say a proper farewell to you, considering the circumstances of our separation. Honestly, I have no explanation for your sudden departure before the sun had barely risen, but I’m sure it was for the best, gods forbid you ever have a vile purpose. I know you are rolling your eyes right now and no matter how pissed you wish to look, that little scowl of yours never fails to be endearing. And pretentious. But I’m not writing you to analyze your body language.

In fact, there is no actual purpose for this letter, apart from saying goodbye. And also pointing out, my dear, that you unfortunately forgot to empty your bag of all my clothes, resulting to you taking away one of my shirts, the one with the embroidered roses on the collar, if I am not mistaken. Fret not, I have plenty of others, it’s barely a loss. You can even keep it if you wish, although I doubt your enormous muscles will be restrained under tight silk. I know you are not fond of ornate clothing anyway. You oaf.

I hope this winter treats you well. You deserve to rest, my friend. I’m looking forward to seeing you again in spring and may the blooming flowers mean the hopeful beginning of another year of company. My best wishes, till we meet again.

Sincerely,

Jaskier

Geralt’s fingers curled on the paper. Sincerely, Jaskier had signed, yet oh how many things had gone unspoken in fear of brutal sincerity. The sheet smelled of gardenias, just like the one that fell on the wooden floor when he unfolded the letter. It was not that old, anyway. Strange how bitterness stains a sweet word in no time.

He still had the shirt. Forgot to return it, or at least that’s what he said to Jaskier. If he was being honest, he hadn’t even forgotten to take it out of his bag in the first place. Instead, when he woke up that morning, Jaskier curled inside his arms and his heart beating way faster than a mutant’s should beat, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the words to say goodbye when the bard was awake. As he took the shirt in his hands and took in its scent, the same he had wrapped in his arms minutes ago, he decided it wouldn’t harm to devoid him of one.

He still had the shirt. He still clutched it on his chest. A substitute, he thought with a bitter smile, for someone he wished was here. Or something he wished was real. It hadn’t lost its scent, he thought. And even if it had, it would always pierce Geralt’s mind, as if it was still there.

He had written back. And, in contrast to Jaskier, he had been brief and chary of words.

Jaskier,

I noticed your shirt when I was already far away. I will return it in spring. I left early because the sky was overcast and I feared of a snowfall that would block the road to the mountains. I apologize for not saying goodbye. Thank you for the wishes. I too hope you have a good time and unnecessary gossips to bother me with when we meet. Farewell, then.

Geralt

Geralt hadn’t been sincere; in fact, he hadn’t even tried to. For the best, he thought. Still, when he had hugged Jaskier come spring, the bard’s hug had been warmer than he remembered, and something in his eyes had changed.

Dearest Geralt,

The last letter wasn’t old. Yet it felt like it carried the weight of two decades on its marked words. There were smudges of ink under which the unfortunate phrase was unreadable, apart from the greetings. There, on the top of the page, Geralt could discern an erased Geralt, beloved, and the first letters of what seemed the starts of darling. Finally, Jaskier had settled. Just like he’d done then, Geralt found himself craving to actually be called what the bard first intended to call him. Instead.

Before you adorn your face with the look of utter confusion, I want you to know there is no real purpose for this letter. Only, albeit we’re just two months apart, I was thinking about you. I’m thinking about you as I write, sitting on the dock in Novigrad. The sea is calm tonight, so much that one would say the stars are reflected on the water. So many stars, Geralt. I wish it stays like that until we see each other again, so that I can show you the constellations. Well, you probably know them. Still.

Remember that mermaid? The one that traded her tail for love? It indeed made a great story, a sacrifice for love, denying one’s nature. You know, it didn’t make it to the story, I preferred to keep the happy ending, however, she’s alone now, argued with whom she once would do and did anything for. Ironic, isn’t it? And yet, I like to think, as a poet should think and as a lovestruck one should do, that if she could, she would do the same mistake over and over again. If one can name it a mistake, you see. Just for the moments of genuine love. You probably think it’s idiotic, a waste of time. It may be, dear, I can’t know, I am but a poet. But can you ask the lovestruck for sense?

Foolish of me to say, but I miss you sometimes. Gazing at the sea, I’m thinking of taking a small break some time soon. Just for a few months. Maybe somewhere near the coast.

I know I didn’t do much to avoid your confused look and that frown between your brows. But care not, let’s pretend I’m drunk. I promise to sober up, till we meet again.

Yours, truly,

Jaskier

Red tulips. Dried. Like their meaning, thought Geralt, and the thought pained him more than the actual letter. Hadn’t he been a fool, he would have appreciated the sheer irony. Isn’t a poet always a lovestruck? Isn’t a lovestruck always drunk? Jaskier knew. For Geralt to realize, it had taken time, and half-uttered affections, and loud accusations and a sob that choked him mercilessly every time he returned to those letters, every time he brushed his fingers over their words as though to catch a fleeting feel of Jaskier’s skin, as though to make them sing his voice. A substitute. Once more.

He had written back again that time. As if it would make any difference in the end, as if he understood why he had written back. As if he understood what he had written.

Jaskier,

The mermaid was indeed unfortunate. But don’t lose your hopes.

I miss you too. Save a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking, or pretending to, for me.

The coast truly sounds fitting for you.

Geralt

A fool. A fool when Jaskier had offered him a glass of wine with a smile when they had reunited, a fool when Jaskier had mentioned the coast once more. Fitting, he’d said, as if Jaskier cared to fit, as if this wasn’t all he was the one to crave all his life.

He read it, over and over again. Those last words played over his mind like an endless wheel of torture, each turn mocking him with laughter. Yours, yours, yours, yours. Truly. How he wished. How he wished it was true. But even when it was, he had eventually rendered it a lie. Yours. His. Over and over again, but never out loud, never to set it true, as though afraid to give away a part of himself, as if he hadn’t already given himself away whole a long time ago. And now in that empty shirt in his hands, he found scattered pieces of a mirror, of the self he’d offered so hesitantly he had taken it back in the end.

With time, Jaskier’s scent on the shirt had faded away slightly, he knew now. Now he could smell his own scent as he buried his face in it, searching among the pieces for something familiar, something to indicate that Jaskier was still there, still owning him, still being owned and his. It pierced his mind, lavender and wildflowers, and yet it was barely there. He hoped it was there and maybe the only thing he smelled was his hope. Still, it was there.

Slowly, he folded the letter back. Just like he had done dozens of times now. Out of the open window, Novigrad was breathing alive with people. The sun had almost set.

On the table, there was paper and quill. Geralt swallowed and took a deep breath.

There’s a letter for you, sir.

A tug of sleeve.

Wh—Me? Who is it from?

Confidential. Also this.

A rose? Hey, wait!

Geralt watches as the kid runs away and disappears around the dark corner.

Then his look returns on the deck. On Jaskier.

He prays for his eyes to never watch anything else than him.

There he stands, almost gaping and still staring at the long gone kid. In his hand, an envelope and a rose. Geralt is not a romantic, gods forbid. But if that’s what it would take, he had no intention of wasting another chance.

He thinks he can hear Jaskier’s breath hitch as he turns to the sea again. Oh, he knows. He is certain, as he comes closer, that there are tears in his eyes. He can smell their salty scent and it not the sea, not this time. He longs to kiss them away.

With trembling fingers, Jaskier unfolds the letter.

Jaskier,

I was wrong. I hope you can forgive me. Your absence can’t be replaced by letters anymore, neither your words with flowers. They never could.

I love you.

Behind you,

Geralt

Jaskier gasps and turns around with a spin, then freezes. Geralt meets his eyes, blue and clouded over like the ocean, and for a moment he feels his heart stopping, the months that had gone without them suddenly hitting him like a wave. He waits. Forever, if that’s what it takes. Jaskier though doesn’t speak, not immediately. He just stares at him, lips parted and eyes wide and the sheet shaking between his fingers. Silent.

Geralt feels his heart sinking for a moment, yet he doesn’t give up. He clenches his fists, swallows. “Do you still want to show me the constellations?”

“Oh, you fool!” Jaskier sobs and shakes his head, the tears shining in his eyes. Then laughs. Gods, he laughs and Geralt knows he would be content to leave unforgiven, if this is the last sound he hears out of his lips. But Jaskier isn’t over yet. “You complete, utter fool!” Before Geralt manages to frown in confusion, eager arms are around him and Jaskier throws himself in his embrace. With his breath cut, Geralt wraps his arms around him and holds him tight on his chest, feeling Jaskier shaking. After some time, he cannot tell if it’s the laughter or the sobs.

“You oaf, you idiot, gods, Geralt,” Jaskier’s words are muffled in the witcher’s shoulder but he doesn’t fail to keep talking. He only tightens his hug even more, burying himself as if that way they would become one. Geralt closes his eyes and nuzzles in the bard’s hair, taking him in, his scent, his body, his voice, anything he can savour. A fool, that’s what he is. Never fails to be. But at least he can make up for it now. Jaskier huffs and draws away just a bit, just to look into his eyes. He smiles, and it’s probably to swallow more tears, but he doesn’t care. “There’s not a day when I haven’t forgiven you, dear heart.” He shakes his head, gazes at him. “There is not a day when I haven’t missed you.”

Geralt bites his lips and he feels the sob choking him all this time suddenly absent. “I missed you too, Jaskier. Too much.”

“Can you say it?” Jaskier twirls the rose between his fingers and looks at him with a stare that screams, begs. Geralt hears his voice quivering. “Can you say it out loud?”

Geralt chuckles. He could scream it if that’s what Jaskier wanted. Slowly, he holds his face inside his hands, wipes the remaining tears with his thumb. And leans closer, only an inch. “I love you, Jaskier. Most sincerely.”

With a released breath, Jaskier closes the gap between them. His lips are soft, and warm and welcoming, as if uttering all those words that although written, had remained unspoken. Geralt kisses back with a sigh, eager, and as their mouths fit together he thinks his chest is going to burst. He feels Jaskier smiling. He smiles too.

Jaskier pulls back, their lips still touching, and looks into his eyes. “I love you too, Geralt. I love you with my life.” He huffs a small laugh, his hand coming up to hold Geralt’s on his face, and warmth, so much warmth in his eyes. “Beloved.”

Geralt smiles and kisses him again deep, the rest of his confessions humming down Jaskier’s throat as he moans weakly and, breathless, gives into the kiss.

Later, when the deck is silent and they sit by the sea, Geralt runs his hand down Jaskier’s arm making him shiver. He rubs the fabric of the sleeve between his fingers. “I still have your shirt,” he mutters and it feels like he confessed his deepest secret, if the pain of loss is a secret to anyone else than the mourner.

Yet Jaskier smiles. As he turns to look at him, he shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.” He swallows, his eyes brighter than a million stars. “I’m yours.”

The word echoes in his head and it’s Geralt’s turn to shiver. Mine, he thinks and gets drunk just with the thought. Truly. He holds Jaskier closer still, on his chest, and this time the shirt isn’t empty but flooding. Just like his heart.

dividers by @firefly-graphics