Work Text:
As Jaskier frantically rounded the street corner, the pitter-pattering of the rain against the tops of rushing cars was the second-loudest sound ringing in his ears.
The first-loudest sound, of course, being his heart hammering in his chest.
There were actually quite a few factors he could’ve attributed this to. The most prominent one being the fact that, unless he were suddenly capable of sprinting at the speed of an Olympic track-runner, he was about to be late to his nightly gig. For the fourth time this week.
(The problem with a regular gig, he realized, obviously wasn’t the reliable pay and the consistent crowds. It was the fact that he was expected to regularly be on-time, which seemed like an irrational thing to ask of an artist. The very nature of being an artist requires one to be unique and creative, which often goes hand in hand with inconsistency and a lack of uniformity in any way, shape, or form. But whatever. It paid reasonably well.)
With his heavy guitar case in his hand, he lightly jogged against the light chill of the inner-city air, sifting through the crowds of people that were walking opposite his direction. It was a Friday, and it was fairly early in the evening, so it made sense why so many people were out that night. There were people heading home from work, people heading out for parties, maybe even people going on cute little rooftop dates or something.
(Jaskier forcefully pushed away a thought.)
He breathed a sigh of relief when he quickly tip-toed through a densely populated crossroad, and finally found himself within eyeshot of the serene lights outside of his destination: The Morhen Cafe. Using his best estimation skills from when he’d last checked the time, he figured it was approximately 8:11, which meant that he could still be late with at least a small shred of dignity. When he got within two meters of the restaurant’s front doors, he readjusted his grip on his guitar case and tried to make his slightly disheveled floral blouse look as presentable as possible. He then thanked the man who graciously held the door open for him, and shuffled inside. He held his guitar case close to him to avoid hitting any of the people in the waiting area with it.
As soon as he scanned the area, he was met with the disappointed yet patient eyes of his coworker and friend, Triss, who was stationed as the hostess in the front of the restaurant. He attempted to avoid her gaze as much as he could while trying to stealthily make his way into the storage room behind her, but to no avail.
“Jaskier, it’s eight-fifteen,” she half-whispered indignantly.
(If that was the case, then his earlier approximation was quite accurate. He considered that a small victory.)
“I’ve been much later than that before, dear,” he replied, hastily digging through his pockets to find a key to the-- apparently-- locked door.
“Yes, but it’s still late,” she responded. She momentarily tore her eyes away from the front door to see what Jaskier was so ungracefully struggling with behind her. She sighed and grabbed a key from her pocket, casually offering it to him.
He flashed a thankful grin at her and took the key from the palm of her hand. “You’re a saint.”
“And you’re an idiot,” she jested, teasing a smile on her lips, “Renfri’s been looking for you.”
“I’d be worried if she wasn’t ,” he huffed, finally working open that damned door.
He opened the door and gave Triss a parting smile before shutting himself inside. He closed his eyes and took a brief moment to catch his breath, comforted by the silence and solitude that surrounded him. It was only a minute before his mental clock made him aware that he did, indeed, have a job to do-- and if he wanted to have food on the table next week, then he had better get to it.
He set down his case on the floor, popped it open carefully, and grabbed his guitar from inside. Setting the instrument on his lap, he quickly used his phone as a mirror to make sure he looked somewhat decent. He took a moment to touch up his eyeliner, and was just as quickly out of the door.
He sped-walked past Triss and then took a short-cut through the very occupied kitchen to get to the vacant stage in the back of the restaurant.
Of course, with his luck, Renfri-- the owner of the restaurant-- was standing by the small set of stage stairs with her arms crossed, looking directly at him.
“Late again, Julian?”
He sighed and allowed his face to settle into a frown. “I swear I lose a year of my life every time you call me that.”
A brief smirk crept onto her face and she tilted her head at him. “How old are you again?”
He squinted his eyes and scoffed, “Ha-ha. Veeery funny. You should consider a career in comedy, you know.”
“And you should make yourself useful and get up there and play your songs before I replace you,” she retorted, with a semi-threatening tone. Her grin was still beaming at him, though, which was, in itself, a lovely display of irony.
Jaskier stepped closer in an effort to nudge his way past her and get onto the stage, but she gently put a hand on his shoulder-- stopping him.
“I know things have been… difficult for you, but I need you to start getting here on time. Essi can’t keep prolonging her set to cover for you,” she said sincerely.
(Jaskier tried very hard not to look into the cause of the sympathy in her tone. Instead, he mentally tucked the thought away for later and chose to meet her seriousness with humor-- as he does.)
“I’ll do my best,” he agreed softly, bringing one foot to rest on the first stair, “but looking this good takes a considerable amount of time. So no promises.”
She shot him an exasperated look and sighed.
Her expression shifted into one of amused annoyance, and she removed her arm from his shoulder. She stepped away from the stairs so he could get through. He smiled victoriously and stepped onto the stage.
“I could fire you, you know,” she declared, crossing her arms and resting her back against the rustic-themed wall.
“Yes, yes, you could . The thrill of that possibility is what makes working here so exciting,” he replied, not breaking eye contact with her as he perched upon the stool in the center of the stage.
In response, she simply shook her head and walked back into the kitchen area.
After he took a few moments to set up and tune his guitar, Jaskier was ready for another night of performing.
(Jaskier thought that there was something so equally exhilarating and horrifying about performing. Of course he adored the feeling of being embraced by the people staring up at him. All they expected of him was his voice and his guitar and his occasional charm. But the prospect of catastrophically messing up in front of all of them hung over his head, tantalizingly so.
Didn’t matter. He was going to do it anyway. Like he always did.)
Jaskier adjusted his guitar on his knee and took his usual precursory glance at the people in the room.
The lights cast upon the tables of dining patrons were dim enough to hide their overly distinct features, but bright enough for Jaskier to make out some vaguely familiar faces and the overly familiar bodies of his coworkers taking people's orders and rushing to and from the kitchen. He could hear voices engaged in various conversations, and the distant opening and closing of the front door.
He took a breath, queued the sound person to fade out the radio music playing in the back, and cooed into the mic,
“Well hello, lovelies.”
A majority of the folks looked up from their meals and conversations and beamed up at Jaskier. A few of the Friday-night-regulars whooped and whistled at him.
It warmed his heart.
“Oh, you’re too kind,” he said, feigning affection by touching his chest with his free hand. A few people giggled at that.
“For those of you who don’t know, I’m Jaskier—” More whistles. “—Thank you, thank you, I’m flattered, truly... I, uh... I play this guitar, I sing, and if you get me to drink enough, I dance.”
He heard mild laughter.
“I wish I was joking, but it’s true... you can ask, like, anyone who was with me last New Years,” he laughed, grinning at the pleasantly receptive audience.
He continued, “But anyway, I sing here every night while lovely people like you sit pretty and enjoy your delicious food. Except on weekends. On weekends the talented and equally gorgeous Pavetta comes in and sings some absolutely wonderful jazz ballads. If you haven’t heard her, you’re missing out. Seriously.”
He saw that some of the audience had gone back to their conversations, but most of them were still smiling up at him. Enthralled with every word he was saying.
“But anyway, back to what I’m actually paid for. The first song my guitar and I will be playing for you tonight is a rather popular love song. I’m sure most of you have heard of it. It’s titled ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’. Hope you like it.”
And then he was off, strumming and singing, as he normally did. It was euphoric, as it normally was. He looked around the room as he sang, giving out the occasional wink and smile.
When he finished the first song, the audience cheered, clapped, and whistled— which was a huge ego boost for Jaskier, no matter how many times he’d heard it before. He introduced his second song as he typically did:
“Thank you all so much, really... Now I’ll be singing a late-eighties song that’ll make you wanna ~dance with somebody~ .... which is a little ill-fitting now that I see that we definitely do not have a dance floor in here. But anyway, here we go.”
And then he was singing and playing again, in a manner that was upbeat yet calculated. And when he finished, they clapped again.
The rest of his set went as usual. He followed that song with “Bad Romance”, “Toxic”, “Lovefool”, “La Vie En Rose”, “Sweet Caroline”, “Take On Me”, and an untitled original he’d been working on.
Everything was going swimmingly as he ended his original song and prepared to finish up his set with a sweet little love ballad.
That was until he spotted a familiar head of silver hair, loosely hanging over a firmly muscular build, wearing some sort of black dress-shirt. He looked… wonderful. And, to make matters worse, his hand rested on the back of an undeniably stunning, dark-haired woman.
It was then that Jaskier had his worst idea yet.
He didn’t realize that he was staring, or how deep his heart had sunk within his chest, until the applause from his previous song had died out. He blinked and hastily scanned the room for a different familiar face-- any other familiar face-- suddenly feeling overwhelmed. His mouth began to feel very dry.
Just as he was about to just retreat and call it an early night, Triss’ head frantically peeked out from some poorly lit corner and she made eye contact with him. She must’ve seen Geralt come in. Jaskier slowly drew up his eyebrows, silently asking her if she thought he should continue.
(She tended to be his better conscience for these things, anyway.)
She nodded.
He drew in a breath and nervously receded back to his stage persona.
“Whew, sorry about that. I think I accidentally fell in love with one of the waitresses in the back,” he joked. He gestured to Triss, held a hand up to his face, pretending that it was a phone, and mouthed ‘call me’ to her. The audience laughed. Triss amusedly chuckled and went back to work.
(He was trying very hard to ignore the intense gaze he felt from the table Geralt sat at. He was only partially successful, but successful enough to go on without his voice giving out. And he'd taken whatever he could get at that point.)
“Anyway, as I was saying-- or singing , rather-- It’s getting sort of late and I’m afraid my portion of tonight’s live entertainment is almost over,” he said, dramatically. A few people groaned and whimpered to match his theatrical antics.
“I know, I know. I’d stay with you all forever, if I could. But just as the show must go on , the show must... eventually... end ,” he spoke, thoughtfully. Hesitantly.
“Now usually , I like to end the night with a sweet little tune about love for all the lovers and the hopeless romantics dining with us. But, due to some... unforeseen circumstances, I have something else in mind.”
He rested his arm on the top of his guitar for a moment as he continued speaking, “There’s this song I’ve recently discovered by an artist called Conan Gray… Have any of you heard of him?”
He waited for a response, but got none.
“Yeah, I figured, honestly. He’s quite popular amongst the teenagers, though... I mean, I haven’t been a teen in several years, but I’ve been told that I still act like I am , so that’s probably…”
(He realized he was rambling, which was something he tended to do when he was nervous. And he hadn’t been nervous in such a long time. Not since--)
“Anyway, goodness, I keep getting sidetracked tonight. There’s this song, by Conan Gray, called ‘Heather’. I believe it’s about unrequited love which is… not fun, actually… When I heard it the first time, I found myself drawn to it, and I had no idea why. But as I sit here tonight, looking at you beautiful, beautiful people, it just… makes so much sense now.” He paused. “And also, it sounds pretty. So enjoy.”
(Jaskier had learned the chords weeks ago, just because he liked the song. And since he was never, ever going to get an opportunity like this again, he thought he’d take advantage of it.
The chord progressions and strumming patterns were second-nature to him. But something about playing this song, to this audience in particular, left a heavy weight on his chest and cold thorns pricking at his insides.
But he was going to do it anyway. Like he always did.)
He shut his eyes as the words fell softly from his lips,
“I still remember… third of December...”
As he sang the next few lines, a feeble smile danced into his expression at a (not so) distant memory,
“...Me in your sweater, you said it looked better on me than it did you. Only if you knew... how much I liked you...”
He let his eyes reopen, letting them lazily drift over the entire room. Even the part of the room that it physically hurt to look at.
“...But I watch your eyes as she walks by... What a sight for sore eyes... Brighter than a blue sky...”
To boldly emphasize his point-- at the expense of his emotional stability, of course-- he made direct eye contact with the golden eyes of the man in question as he delivered the next line,
“She’s got you mesmerized while I die...”
Due to the fact that Jaskier 1. would’ve probably made his intentions painfully obvious if he sang the whole song while looking at Geralt and 2. definitely could not handle the indifferent expression the man was wearing as Jaskier poured his little musical heart out, Jaskier closed his eyes again and let his voice alone carry the emotional burden of the next few lines,
“Why would you ever kiss me? I’m not even half as pretty… You gave her your sweater… It’s just polyester, but you like her better…”
And with a pained smile and a shaky voice, he sang,
“I wish I were Heather…”
The second verse went a little differently. Even though he was getting increasingly uncomfortable and vulnerable with every passing second, he was growing just as equally numb to it. Which was a skill he considered useful in times like these.
He continued, hardly noticing that he began to sound more fervent,
“Watch as she stands with her holding your hand. Put your arm ‘round her shoulder… now I’m getting colder…”
He stopped his guitar-- going a cappella for a moment. He was still in sync with the song’s rhythm, but he needed to place some much-needed emphasis as he talk-sang the next lines,
“But how could I hate her?” He softened his expression and took a brief, but thorough look at the woman next to Geralt. “She’s such an angel…”
He then looked playfully at the rest of the audience and resumed his guitar strumming, “But then again, kinda wish she were dead as she walks by…”
He sang the lyrics to the pre-chorus with the same vocal intensity that he delivered them the first time, but with a newly discovered feeling of internal dread that stemmed from the fact that he so accurately, so achingly related to this damned song.
“What a sight for sore eyes... Brighter than a blue sky… She’s got you mesmerized, while I die...”
(He thought he could be enough for someone. He thought he could make someone happy, even if it meant being a friend to someone who he desperately wanted to spend every waking day with. But every time, every single time, he was proven wrong. He’d given up on figuring out how to cope with it. That’s what art was for, wasn’t it? To help him find a purpose, to help him find a meaning. To give him something to show for his heartache.)
He fought back a sob as he passionately continued, suddenly needing to be heard much more than before,
“Why would you ever kiss me? I’m not even half as pretty… You gave her your sweater… It’s just polyester, but you like her better…”
(He remembered warm hands. Hearty low-pitched chuckles. The very rare, but undoubtedly breath-taking smiles. Wise advice. Amusing conversations. Mutual care. Mutual affection. None of which was Jaskier’s anymore. None of which had ever been Jaskier’s. None of which would ever be Jaskier’s. And it hurt .)
This time he felt a tear fall as he choked out,
“I wish I were Heather…”
He hung his head down and let out a few tears fall as his fingers danced along the strings for the bridge. He stayed silent where there usually were some variations of ‘Oooh’s, which was a smart decision considering the fact that he did not trust his voice to do anything but quiver at that moment.
(The constant theme throughout Jaskier’s life, so far, seemed to be this unfaltering desire to be wanted. By his audience, by himself, by his friends, by... Geralt. It was exhausting and draining, to be living his life constantly feeling like he needed to do more. Like he needed them to miss him when he was gone. Like he needed them to want him. Even when he didn’t want himself.)
Jaskier swallowed and sang the chorus again, softly and thoughtfully, feeling his heart tear at the hidden-truths in every word,
“Why would you ever kiss me? I’m not even half as pretty… You gave her your sweater… It’s just polyester, but you like her better…”
He looked at Geralt, who was intently eyeing Jaskier as if he were about to miraculously disappear.
(Jaskier wished he could .)
He tried to smile at Geralt as he somberly sang the last line, but the expression swept across his face with obvious traces of anguish and agony,
“Wish I were…”
As Jaskier played the final chord, his unwavering gaze was fixated on Geralt. And the audience’s applause filling the room became the second-loudest sound ringing in his ears.
The first-loudest sound, of course, being his aching heart softly beating within his chest.