Everything that he says seems to push Jaskier closer and closer to an emotional breakdown; he can smell it on him, like an oncoming storm. Geralt is starting to get a clearer picture of the man that he is in Jaskier's world, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the idea that he is the kind of cruel man who would toss aside a loyal friend so callously, leaving him wrecked.

I thought I was.

Jaskier drops the bottle, and the glass is thick enough that it withstands the fall. More importantly, though, his hand rises to cover his face, but it can't hide the salt smell of his tears. Bitterness and grief, and Geralt hates it, hates the shake of his shoulders and the quiver in his voice, the pain so obviously etched into him.

He'd shaved him. Held a blade to his throat, ran it over his skin. In more recent years, Geralt had let Dandelion trim his beard for him-- the bard claimed that he did a neater job of it, though Geralt suspects that it's more that he wanted to put his expensive oils in it, soften up the hair so that he didn't get beard burn all over his lips and thighs. But even before that, he had let Dandelion shave him on the occasions that he couldn't do it himself, either due to injury or fatigue. He would never have allowed anyone to put a blade to his neck if he didn't trust them completely.

"I'm sorry," he says, bringing his hands to Jaskier's shoulders, a gentle touch. If he had been more certain that doing so wouldn't break him further, he might have pulled him into an embrace. "You shouldn't have been treated so poorly. I know that I'm not him, and he should be the one saying this to you, but-- I'm sorry, either way."