Someone certainly is pissed, and he's pissed that he's pissed. It's one big, pissiness cycle, and Geralt's in the middle of it, like an asshole.
Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
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Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."