Jaskier is inches away from tears but he steps forward anyway, offers up his fool heart to Geralt again. This is the true blessing that Jaskier can give him, this second (third, fourth, hundredth) chance that Geralt doesn't and will never deserve. The witcher steps down that last step to meet him on even ground, and finally, finally, there is hope of solid footing.
"I swear." He hates the uncertainty of wanting in his life that's already full of uncertainties, but if this wanting is a sign that he is flawed, an improperly made weapon, than so be it. He's tired of this fight. "I swear on the Path. On the Trials that made me."
He steps close, for once the one violating personal space, and leans forward, bends his head down to press his forehead to Jaskier's neck. He breathes, and the scent of him is tainted by their arguing and histrionics, but it's still Jaskier. It's the scent that haunted him for so many winters, until he could set his feet on the road that ran toward its owner come spring. His hands rest on the bard's hips; he itches to put them around his back and crush him to his chest, but he refrains. Leaves a way open for Jaskier to pull away and escape if he so chooses, to not cage him.
"Vizima," he says into Jaskier's skin. "The sight-reading contest, against that troubadour you hate. You remember."
It had been some ten years prior, well before the mountain or the djinn. There was to be a real competition later that week, one with prize money and accolades and all that rot, that the bard was really there for, but the man who sponsored Valdo Marx was deeply competitive with Jaskier's sponsor and had arranged for a friendly wager. An improvisation contest between the two bards, held at his estate; officially there was no money involved, just bragging rights, though Geralt would've eaten his own armor if there weren't side bets going on under the table. He hadn't even really planned on being in Vizima at the time, only had even gotten an invitation to the event at all because he had finished a contract for the sponsoring lord. And even then, he only actually attended because it sounded exactly like the kind of situation that Jaskier would need rescued from at the end.
Marx had played first, a new composition written specifically for this little contest, and it was... fine. Full of sound and fury, Geralt hadn't paid that much attention to it, more interested in partaking in the good food and good wine until Jaskier inevitably got in trouble. What was supposed to happen was that Jaskier would take Valdo's sheet music and play it, having never seen it before, and then they would do the same for Jaskier's composition-- the bard that played the unfamiliar work the best would then be crowned the winner and superior musician.
Jaskier had taken the sheet music, turned it upside down with a flourish, played the opening bar or two, then played them backwards; riffed and improvised and deconstructed the composition, imitated Marx's own playing and then picked it apart and put it together again, parodied and mocked it. Jaskier wasn't even done before Marx stormed out of the room, outplayed and humiliated. And Geralt, standing in a corner to avoid being noticed or having to engage with anyone around him, had listened in stunned silence as he realized that Jaskier was very good at what he did. He might even actually be great at it. The whole thing had been like watching an amateur swordsman challenge a master to a duel, unaware of how outmatched he was.
Marx's sponsor had to admit defeat on his behalf, as the troubadour was too humiliated to even return to the party, and Geralt had caught a glimpse of Jaskier's face while he was surrounded by congratulatory guests. It was joyous, proud, and brilliant, his grin infectious, his eyes like stars. And Geralt had felt some answering swell in his chest, something that felt a lot like pride and pleasure and a terrible want, so sharp and sudden that he might have thought he was stabbed except that there wasn't any blood. He should have gone to congratulate him, because he knew how much Jaskier hated this troubadour-- or if he had been honest, congratulate him, pull him down an empty hallway and into an unused bedroom and then congratulate him--
but instead, he left. Fled, as though he could outrun the hungry thing under his skin that saw Jaskier's smile and wanted it for its own. Left the whole fucking city and didn't see Jaskier again for another month, miles and miles to the north. He didn't even know if the bard had known he was in Vizima to begin with, nevertheless at that particular party.
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"I swear." He hates the uncertainty of wanting in his life that's already full of uncertainties, but if this wanting is a sign that he is flawed, an improperly made weapon, than so be it. He's tired of this fight. "I swear on the Path. On the Trials that made me."
He steps close, for once the one violating personal space, and leans forward, bends his head down to press his forehead to Jaskier's neck. He breathes, and the scent of him is tainted by their arguing and histrionics, but it's still Jaskier. It's the scent that haunted him for so many winters, until he could set his feet on the road that ran toward its owner come spring. His hands rest on the bard's hips; he itches to put them around his back and crush him to his chest, but he refrains. Leaves a way open for Jaskier to pull away and escape if he so chooses, to not cage him.
"Vizima," he says into Jaskier's skin. "The sight-reading contest, against that troubadour you hate. You remember."
It had been some ten years prior, well before the mountain or the djinn. There was to be a real competition later that week, one with prize money and accolades and all that rot, that the bard was really there for, but the man who sponsored Valdo Marx was deeply competitive with Jaskier's sponsor and had arranged for a friendly wager. An improvisation contest between the two bards, held at his estate; officially there was no money involved, just bragging rights, though Geralt would've eaten his own armor if there weren't side bets going on under the table. He hadn't even really planned on being in Vizima at the time, only had even gotten an invitation to the event at all because he had finished a contract for the sponsoring lord. And even then, he only actually attended because it sounded exactly like the kind of situation that Jaskier would need rescued from at the end.
Marx had played first, a new composition written specifically for this little contest, and it was... fine. Full of sound and fury, Geralt hadn't paid that much attention to it, more interested in partaking in the good food and good wine until Jaskier inevitably got in trouble. What was supposed to happen was that Jaskier would take Valdo's sheet music and play it, having never seen it before, and then they would do the same for Jaskier's composition-- the bard that played the unfamiliar work the best would then be crowned the winner and superior musician.
Jaskier had taken the sheet music, turned it upside down with a flourish, played the opening bar or two, then played them backwards; riffed and improvised and deconstructed the composition, imitated Marx's own playing and then picked it apart and put it together again, parodied and mocked it. Jaskier wasn't even done before Marx stormed out of the room, outplayed and humiliated. And Geralt, standing in a corner to avoid being noticed or having to engage with anyone around him, had listened in stunned silence as he realized that Jaskier was very good at what he did. He might even actually be great at it. The whole thing had been like watching an amateur swordsman challenge a master to a duel, unaware of how outmatched he was.
Marx's sponsor had to admit defeat on his behalf, as the troubadour was too humiliated to even return to the party, and Geralt had caught a glimpse of Jaskier's face while he was surrounded by congratulatory guests. It was joyous, proud, and brilliant, his grin infectious, his eyes like stars. And Geralt had felt some answering swell in his chest, something that felt a lot like pride and pleasure and a terrible want, so sharp and sudden that he might have thought he was stabbed except that there wasn't any blood. He should have gone to congratulate him, because he knew how much Jaskier hated this troubadour-- or if he had been honest, congratulate him, pull him down an empty hallway and into an unused bedroom and then congratulate him--
but instead, he left. Fled, as though he could outrun the hungry thing under his skin that saw Jaskier's smile and wanted it for its own. Left the whole fucking city and didn't see Jaskier again for another month, miles and miles to the north. He didn't even know if the bard had known he was in Vizima to begin with, nevertheless at that particular party.
"That's when I knew I wanted."