The touch makes him tense, but it's only for a short moment - the voice is apologizing and the hands aren't pushing him away. It's not real, or well, it's not coming from the one he would want it to come from. But can he be blamed for instantly deflating anyway? Can he be blamed for taking a step forward and resting his forehead on that broad chest? For seeking warmth and comfort?

Hasn't he earned it after two decades? He's just so fucking tired.

"...thanks. And-- I'm sorry too. I made you lose your bard yet you still were nice to me, even when I yelled at you. But you aren't him. You shouldn't be..." Apologizing. Getting Jaskier's crap. He sighs. "It's confusing, looking at you. I should know better and yet... I know those golden eyes. I know that starlight hair, that sharp jaw, that deep voice. I recognize the unique scent of Roach." It could be taken as a jab, but for once, he doesn't mean it that way. "Some details are wrong but the rest... you're just older. More scarred. I look at you and I want to throw something at your stubborn head but then you speak kindly to me, you actually use your words, and I just want to give in again. Like a fool."

Because that's what he is, there's no other explanation. His heart is being torn apart by these conflicting feelings, never has he been so overwhelmed by his own emotions - yet here he is, sadness still coming off him in waves, but also calming down under Geralt's attention. Because no matter what happens he continues to be a sucker for it. A fool indeed.

"I haven't sung about the White Wolf in a month." He finally confesses as a shaking hand reaches up to grab a handful of white shirt (a color that isn't black? so wrong). "But my reputation haunted me. I only wanted to go home, get away from it all. Was that really too much to ask for?"

It seems it was in the eyes of that bloody witch.