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The empty space between Geralt and Jaskier is ever-changing, ever-moving.
Most days the empty space between them is just the few steps that separate them. It’s nothing special. Jaskier is used to looking at Geralt, up on Roach, riding a few steps before him, oblivious. Jaskier always walks behind Geralt, always humming a tune or two, content to fade in Geralt’s background, never quite forgotten, ever-present, ever-constant... On those days it’s easy to accept the empty space. Geralt might complain, might growl quietly when Jaskier gets too loud, talks too much, exists just too bright at the edge of Geralt’s eyes like an impossible white crisp morning in the dead of winter. But Jaskier can see that there is no tension between Geralt’s shoulder blades and he knows his Witcher is okay and that’s almost enough. Not quite happy but not quite sad either. Enough that Jaskier doesn’t feel the need to fill the empty space between them just quite yet with anything more than words and songs...
Sometimes the empty space takes the shape of a person. Maybe it’s the shape of a cheap whore Geralt has paid for a few hours. But most days, it takes the shape of Yennefer. Jaskier can usually see it take form even before he can see the longing in Geralt’s eyes. Those days hit him the hardest. He takes his lute and plays until his hands are raw and his voice breaks and his lungs can’t fit enough air for him to breathe anymore. He tries to fill the empty space with a shape of his own. But it’s never enough, not like it used to be. Having a warm body under him is only good for a few hours but the empty space always comes back, almost solid, evermore present.
When the empty space becomes so heavy that Jaskier almost feels like the weight on his shoulder won’t let him walk another step, he leaves for a bit on his own. The empty space between them stretches and stretches and stretches but never breaks, it forever connects them. Jaskier is used to living his own adventures. They are not as exciting but he knows he needs calm for a while, even if he longs for a tempest. He doesn’t mind the empty space so much. After a few months, sometimes a few years, it becomes almost thin, ethereal. He goes back to Oxenfurt for a while maybe. Give some lectures, drink and play with friends. Or maybe he goes to court and plays for the nobles. They love him, always, but not in the right way. But bit by bit, the quiet of a meaningless life becomes too loud, too much, not enough. Jaskier becomes restless and he needs to seek Geralt’s thunder to fill his mind with meaning. So he goes back, always. And the empty space between them becomes smaller again...
And then there are those days when they share a bed in a dilapidated tavern because they don’t have enough coins for two rooms. Or they share a bedroll on the forest floor when Geralt is on a hunt and it’s too cold for Jaskier to sleep on his own. Geralt hears Jaskier’s teeth clattering, his body shaking impossibly while he tries to sleep. The Witcher lets out a small annoyed sigh between barely parted lips, but always offers a space next to him. On those days, the empty space between them becomes barely a sliver of air. Jaskier longs to touch him. Barely, gently. To cup a cheek, to run his fingers in silver hairs, to touch pale lips with his own and to smooth the worries on Geralt’s face. But he never touches and the empty space remains. Heavy, impossible, everlasting…
The dragon hunt happens and Jaskier’s life is turned upside down. For the first time, he leaves without knowing if he’ll ever come back. He's dismissed, tossed aside, blamed for being too much, too loud, too bright. He walks and walks and walks until he can’t anymore. Until the need to scream fills all of him, ravaging all in sight, leaving nothing in its wake but a hoarse voice and dirty knees. The forest feels lonely under his hands. It takes time but he starts walking, eventually. There’s nothing but empty space around him and it’s so big now it feels like the entire continent is between them. But it doesn’t stretch, doesn’t thin. It’s been months, years, forever, but the empty space between them feels much heavier, more solid than it ever did. And Jaskier breaks quietly, alone, without the promise of thunder to calm his mind.
But Fate never abandons her children and eventually they meet again. It’s not happy, not quite yet. Jaskier has been dragging this empty space for a while now and his shoulders are stronger from it. He’s different and so is Geralt. His life has been turned upside down too. He apologises as well as he can. It’s clumsy and maybe he doesn’t apologize for quite the right things, not in the right way, but Jaskier can feel the promise of rain in Geralt’s words.
It takes months. Months of whispered promises, of hunts and shared bedrolls, of stories, quietly shared around a campfire or an ale at night. But they get there. Stronger than they ever have been, more honest too. The need for thunder is not quite as loud, Jaskier is older now. But the touches are small, smoothing and intimate. They feel like cooling drops of rain on Jaskier’s restless skin, like a promise of simpler times. In the dead of night, when Geralt is sleeping, peaceful in his bard’s arms, Jaskier doesn’t need to smooth the worry from his face anymore. When they lay quietly together, skin to skin, Jaskier can finally cup a cheek, run a finger between silver hairs and touch his lips to Geralt’s own and there's no more empty space between them.