Jaskier screams, and the sound is pure frustration. His voice is a powerful thing, which makes sense considering that he's a professionally trained vocalist, and the raw edge to it grates on Geralt's sensitive ears. His first thought, however, is that Jaskier shouldn't be doing that to his voice, not when it's his entire livelihood. The next thing that he thinks is that he has irredeemably, completely fucked everything, because the bard is at the door with his hand on the knob, ready to leave. Eskel had put them both in this room to sort everything out, and, technically, deciding that none of this would work is accomplishing that goal. It just is also something that makes Geralt's heart rate tic up into a pace that he usually doesn't get to without the aid of potions.
He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
no subject
He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.