"Maybe I wouldn't have felt the need to be smooth and sneaky if you hadn't kept pushing me away!"
So much for not snapping, huh? But the witcher isn't the only one feeling like ripping his fucking hair out. Jaskier finally leaves the desk, stomping and opening his arms again, voice raising.
"Don't accuse me of hiding when the entire fucking Continent knew except you, Geralt of Rivia! How was I supposed to reach out to you when you couldn't even say the word FRIEND? I did ask, didn't I, right before the djinn fiasco! One little request, as simple as counting to two: to be considered a friend after a bloody decade. Instead I get 'filling-less pie'! Fuck off, bard! We aren't friends, bard!" A snort that echoes in the whole room. "And you expect me to confess after that? Even NOW you think you would've gone back to nothing instead of ME!"
And it hurts like hell. The sob that he has been swallowing can't be contained any longer, and he lets it escape his lips as he feels his stomach asking him to run, throw out and then fill it with vodka until he's puking again. Maybe that way he can expel all the pieces of his broken heart as well.
"What do you want me to say, Geralt? That I want you, that I need you, that I love you? Well, I DO! I HAVE, for over twenty years!" He hits his chest with both hands when he says that, the stomping stopping at the bottom of the stairs where he looks up at Geralt with an hurricane in his eyes. "I've wanted you since I saw you brooding in that inn in Posada, smelling of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. I've loved you since you offered Filavandrel your fucking throat, like the noble bastard you are!"
He rubs the tears off his eyes before continuing, which is pointless. He probably has no dignity left. And if he does, then he'll lose it when he talks to the dean about having to stay here during the winter after all, with his tail between his legs.
"I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting." He almost spits the words in a very ironic gesture, because he still wants to defend his art in the middle of this mess. His songs are who he is - insulting them, accusing them of being riddles, is insulting Jaskier himself. "Even after you threw me away like an old dog at the top of that mountain, I kept singing that with the most sincere emotion I could evoke. I want everything with you, Geralt. But I also know what won't please me: you giving it to me because you feel guilty, or lonely, or because I'm the only one available. You've never wanted my pity - I don't want yours either."
His arms drop - so does his head. He's tired, defeated. "So excuse me-" The sarcasm is thick in that one."-for not expecting anything from a man with no 'wants'. I was content with having what I could - your company. But I won't settle down for any less than being sincerely wanted in return."
Even one night stands have given him that. Jaskier ran away from a house filled with fake money friends and avoids paying for sex for a reason, after all.
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So much for not snapping, huh? But the witcher isn't the only one feeling like ripping his fucking hair out. Jaskier finally leaves the desk, stomping and opening his arms again, voice raising.
"Don't accuse me of hiding when the entire fucking Continent knew except you, Geralt of Rivia! How was I supposed to reach out to you when you couldn't even say the word FRIEND? I did ask, didn't I, right before the djinn fiasco! One little request, as simple as counting to two: to be considered a friend after a bloody decade. Instead I get 'filling-less pie'! Fuck off, bard! We aren't friends, bard!" A snort that echoes in the whole room. "And you expect me to confess after that? Even NOW you think you would've gone back to nothing instead of ME!"
And it hurts like hell. The sob that he has been swallowing can't be contained any longer, and he lets it escape his lips as he feels his stomach asking him to run, throw out and then fill it with vodka until he's puking again. Maybe that way he can expel all the pieces of his broken heart as well.
"What do you want me to say, Geralt? That I want you, that I need you, that I love you? Well, I DO! I HAVE, for over twenty years!" He hits his chest with both hands when he says that, the stomping stopping at the bottom of the stairs where he looks up at Geralt with an hurricane in his eyes. "I've wanted you since I saw you brooding in that inn in Posada, smelling of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. I've loved you since you offered Filavandrel your fucking throat, like the noble bastard you are!"
He rubs the tears off his eyes before continuing, which is pointless. He probably has no dignity left. And if he does, then he'll lose it when he talks to the dean about having to stay here during the winter after all, with his tail between his legs.
"I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting." He almost spits the words in a very ironic gesture, because he still wants to defend his art in the middle of this mess. His songs are who he is - insulting them, accusing them of being riddles, is insulting Jaskier himself. "Even after you threw me away like an old dog at the top of that mountain, I kept singing that with the most sincere emotion I could evoke. I want everything with you, Geralt. But I also know what won't please me: you giving it to me because you feel guilty, or lonely, or because I'm the only one available. You've never wanted my pity - I don't want yours either."
His arms drop - so does his head. He's tired, defeated. "So excuse me-" The sarcasm is thick in that one."-for not expecting anything from a man with no 'wants'. I was content with having what I could - your company. But I won't settle down for any less than being sincerely wanted in return."
Even one night stands have given him that. Jaskier ran away from a house filled with fake money friends and avoids paying for sex for a reason, after all.