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Jaskier hasn’t been this nervous since the cottar in Tyren had found him with his hand up his daughter’s corset five years ago.
His palms are slick with sweat as he tries to tune his lute, and he curses and wipes them roughly on his thighs. His heartbeat is loud in his ears.
What is wrong with him? He’s gotten anxious before about performing, yes, but not like this. He supposes it’s the circumstances. He hadn’t slept last night, too chilled on his own and too much of a coward to ask to lie with Geralt. Today they had come across the town of Marion at sundown, but they only have coin enough for one night at the inn and Geralt wants to visit the apothecary in the morning and wait for the herb vendor that the innkeep says will be passing through in two days’ time. She’s agreed that if Jaskier can draw a good crowd with his performance tonight, she won’t charge them for the rest of the time they stay as long as the bard continues to provide entertainment. But he’s not sure about his newest song—it’s not his usual style, and it feels a little foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue.
He’s tired, he’s unsure, and for once Geralt is counting on him to keep them fed and housed. The pressure is making his head spin.
The witcher had left for an ale a few minutes ago with Jaskier’s assurances that he’ll be down shortly. Jaskier wants to practice, just a little bit, but his hands are trembling and he’s finding it difficult to concentrate through the tightness growing in his chest. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat.
“The Witcher of old,
So stories have told—
There is nary a beast
That can best him.
But I know him well,
And the story I’ll tell
Is the tale of the beast
That would test him.”
He stumbles over the chords, his fingers strangely numb, and he finds he doesn’t have the breath for the next lines. Not that it matters, because he can’t remember them. His heart pounds against his ribcage.
Get it together, he scolds himself, you can’t mess this up. Not now.
He steels himself and tries again.
“The Witcher of old,
So stories have told,
There is—”
He cuts off, wheezing. It feels like he’s trying to suck in air through a reed, thin and feeble, and—gods, what’s wrong with him? What’s happening?
The lute clatters to the ground as he presses a shaking hand to his chest. There’s a sharp pain there, spiking in time with each beat of his racing heart.
It this what dying feels like? he wonders half-hysterically. He sinks to the floor and tries unsuccessfully to catch his breath. Bright spots play across his vision.
He doesn’t understand. He was fine this morning and now all of a sudden he’s dying. It seems unfair somehow, just how sudden it is. He’s going to die and Geralt won’t be able to stay at the inn because Jaskier won’t be around to play for their lodging.
“Jaskier.”
Distantly, he thinks maybe he hears someone say his name. But his ears are ringing too loudly to be sure and everything in the room looks strange, close and far away at the same time and too bright. He closes his eyes. His hands are fully numb now.
“Jaskier. You need to breathe.”
Geralt’s voice is echoing around his head, but he can’t make out what the witcher is saying. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s actually there—it’s just his brain letting him hear what he wants to hear. He’d always thought that if he were dying he would want the witcher by his side. It’s a shame that, now that he’s actually dying, Geralt is sitting with a tankard downstairs, unaware.
“Open your eyes, Jaskier. Open your eyes and look at me.”
What will Geralt think when he finds him up here, dead of his own nerves? He’ll think he’s pathetic, that’s what he’ll think, he’ll be glad to be rid of him, won’t he—
“Damn you, bard, breathe!”
He’s shaken abruptly out of his thoughts by his shoulders, and when his eyes fly open he’s greeted by the sight of the witcher crouched in front of him, glaring. The slightest hint of relief passes through him. How nice. He’ll get his dying wish after all.
“You’re not dying,” Geralt growls, his scowl deepening, and oh, had he said that out loud? “You’re panicking. You need to breathe.”
Breathe? Oh. Yes, oxygen might help ward away the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. Only, he finds with dismay that he’s quite forgotten how to. He clutches at his friend’s hands on his shoulders.
Geralt takes one of Jaskier’s hands in his own and presses it to his chest.
“Do you feel my heartbeat?” he asks. Jaskier nods. “Focus on it and breathe as I breathe.” He makes his breaths deliberately slow and even, holding Jaskier’s gaze.
Jaskier does as he’s told, letting the feeling of Geralt’s heartbeat under his palm become the centre of his thoughts. It’s just that bit too fast to be human, and the witcher’s chest is warm beneath his tunic. He forces himself to match his breaths with Geralt’s. After a few minutes of struggling, his vision begins to return to normal and the tightness in his chest loosens enough for him to speak.
“If I—if I m-mess this up tonight—” He has to stop before he starts to hyperventilate again, the thought of what will happen if he fails increasing his panic once more.
Geralt’s golden eyes glint with understanding. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”
“B-but if the innkeep doesn’t—like my songs—”
“If the innkeep doesn’t like your songs,” Geralt interrupts flatly, “then we’ll go somewhere else.” He studies Jaskier’s face, searching. Evidently, he doesn’t like whatever he finds there, because he scowls again. “You didn’t sleep.” It’s not a question.
Jaskier shakes his head. “Cold.”
“Why didn’t you come to my bedroll?” Geralt asks, clearly annoyed.
Jaskier looks away. He swallows. “You didn’t say...I didn’t think it was cold enough. For you to—let me.” Geralt is always the one to make the call on whether or not they need to share body heat to make it through the night.
Jaskier hears Geralt sigh and mutter something that sounds like “impossible fool bard.” Then he grasps Jaskier’s chin and turns his head to face him.
“I’m not going to turn you away if you’re too cold to sleep, Jaskier,” the witcher says firmly. “And you’re not going to mess up your performance. Now come on.”
There’s no room for argument as Geralt hauls Jaskier to his feet with his hands under his arms. Jaskier feels much better now, anyway. He’s more thankful for Geralt’s presence that he would ever admit.
“Never heard of a bard who got stage fright,” the witcher says as Jaskier picks up his lute. Jaskier can hear the smirk in his voice.
Well. He was thankful for Geralt’s presence.
“Oh, fuck off, Witcher,” he retorts, glaring.
Geralt huffs a laugh, and together they make their way downstairs.
It’s the best performance Jaskier’s given in a long, long time.