Wanted him since Posada, loved him since Filavandrel. Those two events were barely hours apart, took place on the same fucking day over two decades ago. And Geralt could not say the same-- back then, Jaskier had been a boy with dust and sunshine in his hair, and when Geralt found him trailing after him like a lost puppy, he'd known he would be trouble. Even if he had found something attractive in his soft eyes and long legs, he had been barely more than a child, and if Geralt had even thought about putting a hand on him, he would've had to turn his own sword on himself.
But years later-- there was always a reason that Jaskier was so popular, that he could walk into a tavern and have a dozen offers by the end of the night and pick as many of those as he wanted. And Geralt would go to bed his whores.
Geralt smells salt and water, and heartache-- a cold smell, like wintergreen-- and Jaskier scrubs at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes. It isn't the first time that Geralt has seem him cry, or even probably the first time that he'd caused it, but this is the most he's ever felt because of it, this twist in his chest.
"No one wants witchers. How could you love me," he says, voice low and a little hoarse, "after I've been cruel to you?"
The possibility that Jaskier might harbor that kind of affection for him had been, at least until this moment, an absurdity. Something that didn't even bear thinking about. If the bard wanted a lover, after all, he could walk into any tavern or lord's court and find a dozen more suitable than Geralt and have them in his arms by nightfall. Why bother with a witcher who takes twenty years to admit that they are friends? Regardless of what he writes about nobility and bravery, there's little in Geralt that anyone would want to keep.
"There are things. That I want."
And usually he takes those things and puts them in a box in his head, sets them aside and doesn't look at it again. Witchers are not supposed to feel and they're not supposed to want; there's only the Path, endless and bloody and full of monsters. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if they made him wrong, if something happened during his Trials that left him flawed-- like Coën's eyes, but on the inside. Invisible. Hungry, wanting, defective.
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But years later-- there was always a reason that Jaskier was so popular, that he could walk into a tavern and have a dozen offers by the end of the night and pick as many of those as he wanted. And Geralt would go to bed his whores.
Geralt smells salt and water, and heartache-- a cold smell, like wintergreen-- and Jaskier scrubs at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes. It isn't the first time that Geralt has seem him cry, or even probably the first time that he'd caused it, but this is the most he's ever felt because of it, this twist in his chest.
"No one wants witchers. How could you love me," he says, voice low and a little hoarse, "after I've been cruel to you?"
The possibility that Jaskier might harbor that kind of affection for him had been, at least until this moment, an absurdity. Something that didn't even bear thinking about. If the bard wanted a lover, after all, he could walk into any tavern or lord's court and find a dozen more suitable than Geralt and have them in his arms by nightfall. Why bother with a witcher who takes twenty years to admit that they are friends? Regardless of what he writes about nobility and bravery, there's little in Geralt that anyone would want to keep.
"There are things. That I want."
And usually he takes those things and puts them in a box in his head, sets them aside and doesn't look at it again. Witchers are not supposed to feel and they're not supposed to want; there's only the Path, endless and bloody and full of monsters. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if they made him wrong, if something happened during his Trials that left him flawed-- like Coën's eyes, but on the inside. Invisible. Hungry, wanting, defective.
His own voice shouldn't sound so fucking small.
"Can I want this?"