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This might just be the thing that kills you. After gods only know how long traveling with the Butcher of Blaviken, how many times you’ve seen the business end of a sword, or how many fights in taverns you’ve been involved in, it seems that the thing that will be the end of you won’t be a gaping slash or stab wound or even hunger, no bleeding out against the wall of some dingy inn or dying heroically in battle for you. No, the thing that will see you into an early grave is almost definitely going to be Jaskier ignoring you.
Well. Not you specifically. Really, he’s ignoring everyone, and when everyone in your travelling party is only two other people and a horse, that’s difficult; especially seeing as Geralt and Roach are hardly conversationally gifted. For the past four or so days Jaskier has been silent as the dead, not a word had passed his lips; not so much as a ‘good morning’, ‘good night’ or ‘kiss my arse'. Talking, singing, story-telling- it’s his job, his lifeline, everything that your Dandelion lives and breathes for. You’ve known him for years now, spent endless nights with him laughing, singing, talking endlessly, but now he’s quieter than a graveyard. It’s not just out of character, it’s worrying.
You hate the silence, but more so than the silence you miss his touch. Since the two of you have become involved with each other, the Bard has sought out any and all opportunities to touch you (and when none came, he would create them), and now there’s nothing. Four days without a warm hand to gently squeeze yours as you walked or wind an arm about your waist while sitting in front of a fire at night, and it’s enough to make you want to scream. You aren’t courting. You aren’t, but it’s hard to remind yourself that when everything is as it should be. If anything, the two of you actively dance around the courtship without ever really entering it, at least in your eyes, and as a result what you share is so much more and less than that, unnamed and unknowable. You no longer linger around bars at taverns to flutter your eyelashes in exchange for free drinks, Jaskier no longer sniffs around any skirt that he sees, reserving his flirting for during performances. The two of you are intimate, seeking each other out in the night both to find release and to simply lay in each other’s arms, and you have to force yourself not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to stare at him, moon-eyed, while he performs, encouraging patrons to be generous with their coin; really it’s hard not to stare at him while he just smiled, or breathed, adding his music to the conversation makes it harder still. But you are not courting, no matter what the passing touches or delicate pet names would make strangers comment about how lovely a couple you are. Geralt does it too, in the moments when he feels like talking, though his comments are always snarky and in passing than anything else, and makes you try and impress upon him that you and Jaskier are not a couple, no matter what he thinks he sees between the two of you. It feels more like you’re just trying to remind yourself of that, to keep the thought of the bard and yourself out of your mind. Courting, romancing, whatever you could call it, it requires love, and neither of you have told each other that you’re in love, which is important, or so you think. And you do think. Often. Mostly during the night, curled up with him and feeling the warmth of his breath dance against your skin, how easy it could be to just... let yourself say it, to whisper your love to him, release yourself from the much too comfortable purgatory that the two of you have fashioned for yourselves. Your mother always called you brave, and more often bold, impertinent, stubborn or headstrong before you decided running away with a Witcher and his bard was a good idea, but even your bravery does not extend that far. You can’t just do a thing like that; just reveal how much you do actually love him. It’s an easy thing to show, by sitting awake at night with him or buying him the lavender oil that he pours into his baths, but saying it is something else entirely. It would be humiliating, and well... improper. You’ve never cared about impropriety before, but when it comes to making yourself vulnerable? You care. Especially when more than anything you want him to just say that he loves you.
The night before it all started, life had been as normal. Settled in the closest space to a clearing as the three of you could find to make camp, a barely lit fire sent as much dim light out as it possibly could, and even less warmth than that. Geralt, as he normally did, had settled himself in the treeline, close to Roach for him to meditate, while Jaskier was beside you. He claimed that he preferred to be alone during the night but you assume, at least in part, that Geralt’s distance had developed as a result of you and Jaskier being as close as you are and was hoping to avoid seeing things that he would have rather not between the two of you. The bard had curled up around you on your shared bedroll, forehead buried between your shoulder blades and arms wound tight around your waist, while peppering gentle kisses to your skin between whispered sweet nothings to lull you to sleep. It had grown to be routine, this chaste level of intimacy that saw him try to serenade you into slumber while holding you close like you might be ripped away at any time, it was normal. Made you forget, however momentarily, the dangers you faced traveling with a Witcher, because nothing existed outside of the confines of the warm arms that held you like you were something precious. It becomes, in these moments, far, far too easy to forget that you two are not a couple; that this isn’t an unspoken love shared with the man behind you, that he doesn’t love you.
“Dear heart, I could sing about your eyes until I died, and I still don’t think I’d ever do them justice.” He whispered against the back of your neck as you drifted quickly into sleep, followed by something that had been said too quietly for you to even pick up on. Tongue rendered useless by tiredness, you didn’t ask what he had said, but noticed how his breath hitched after saying it and intended to ask him when you woke up. But you didn’t, and he didn’t speak a word all day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. The first day you had blamed yourself entirely, sure that you had done something to upset him into being quiet, but now you’ve veered into just being upset at him in turn for it. Jaskier’s always been so open, too much so even, about his feelings, so his reluctance to share is confusing and hard not to take to heart. He’s even began sleeping apart from you, and it hurts. His nightly whispering while holding you close have become the only way that you can sleep, and the past few nights have seen you lay awake- holding your own arms in a pathetic replacement for the embrace you want from the man sat away from you, melancholically plucking at the strings of his lute and staring at the moon as if it was keeping the answers to every question he had ever had.
It’s hard not to take his newfound fondness for the quiet personally. It’s deliberate. You know it’s deliberate that he’s silent and trailing behind; and worse still, seemingly so does the Witcher.
Geralt always rides ahead on Roach, leaving the two of you to talk and sing to your hearts’ content without being bothered with it- but now the mare keeps pace with you or, maybe now without a bard to laugh and play with, you keep pace with her. The White Wolf has never been much of a conversationalist, normally Jaskier’s mile-a-minute chatter and songs fill the gap for him, but with his sudden silence you’ve started noticing Geralt grunting to you every hour or so to initiate a moment or so of conversation before you both settle back into your usual quiet travel. It’s appreciated. Little as it is, you can’t help but be grateful that he’s willing to try so that you don’t feel uncomfortable, though it’s beyond his own realm of comfort.
The song the silent bard is plucking is melancholy and slow, and it takes everything in you not to look over your shoulder to him every time the notes turn sour, or simply stop. It’s strange to hear him play without singing accompanying it. You grew up with a mother who was more lark than Lady, flitting about and singing songs of love, which you hated. They all would always include waifish women who withered and died without a man to lavish them with love and attention, leaning on every cringe inducing stereotype of femininity; the kinds that made you want to shake them by their shoulders until they gained some sort of courage about them. Simpering and cooing had never been what you thought would encourage love. But now, in this exact moment? You might just understand those women from the ballads entirely, if the vice tight feeling in your chest is any indication.
Maybe that’s a sign of how much you love him, you think to yourself as you and Geralt finally break through the thicket of the woods, the sight of the bustling town around you filling you with a familiarity that only slightly loosened the tightness in your chest. Surely if the lack of him is painful and driving you to distraction, then it can’t be anything but. Nearby crowds all but engulfing you and your companion without second thought on their way to wherever they’re headed makes you feel all at once welcomed and isolated, surrounded by people but entirely alone. The sound of a sudden grunt beside you and Roach’s quiet whiney draws you from your thoughts, and your eyes dart up to the man closest to you. The Witcher gestures slightly towards the town square and tilts his head slightly,
“Find an inn.” He says simply as the mare's pace slows to a stop. You open your mouth to argue, with him almost certainly going to find his contract someone would need to wait for Jaskier, but the words don’t reach your mouth before he cuts you off. “I’ll wait for the bard. Get a room and some food.” He says it in such a way that lets you know there is no room for argument, though the command is hardly a hardship. Geralt can tell how tired you are, how your pace is slowing with the growing darkness beneath your eyes, and though the man will always claim he feels no emotions, you can see the pity in his ember eyes. Somewhere warm with food and other people who speak sounds heavenly, so without a word you nod with a smile. He doesn't smile back- he never does- but the look he gives is as close to one as he will give.
“...Fine. But you had better find me.” The brusque harshness you had hoped for is instead a tired plea, which Geralt nods at.
“Rest.” Is his only response before Roach nudges you forward with her head, sending you off on your way. It feels all too much like being reprimanded by a parent, but genuine concern is hard to come by, and even harder to come by Geralt being open in his compassion, so you let yourself walk off on your search for an inn.
////
When the Bard and Witcher find you, you’ve been sat in the inn warming yourself, barely able to keep your eyes open. The barmaid, a kindly older woman who had took one look at you and ushered you towards the fire roaring towards the corner of the spacious room all while forcing a bowl of broth into your hands saying you looked half dead, had been periodically looking over at you and then the door. You had insisted on staying down there, instead of in one of the two rooms you had rented, just so you could be easily found, but staying awake was growing harder to do. Eyes finally flickering shut, you jolt awake at the feeling of a cold hand on your shoulder. Geralt, stoic as ever, stands behind you with an enraged looking Jaskier stood a foot behind him, looking for all the world like a reprimanded child.
“I told you to rest.” Geralt says, ember eyes watching you with a look that was lingering somewhere between amusement and disappointment.
“...I was waiting for you two.” It sounds weak, but it’s true. The two men sit down across from you, Jaskier keeping his distance from Geralt and his eyes focused on the floor. Something’s happened, if the scowl on both of their faces is anything to go on, but you can’t bring yourself to ask what’s going on. “...I got two rooms.” Neither says a word in response, and you look down to stifle a yawn.
“Witcher!” A voice from across the tavern calls out, bringing with it a call of drunken appreciation from the rest of the patrons, shouting about the White Wolf. Some begin an out of tune rendition of Toss a Coin, which only serves to make Geralt cringe. You aren’t entirely sure if he prefers the monikers or the out and out cruelty. At least those are open about their hatred, instead of hiding their distain behind songs and treating him like a sideshow attraction. White Wolf, you can’t imagine mocking a man who gets called a thing like that. In spite of himself, Jaskier’s chest puffs with pride at the sound of people singing his song, pride written across his face. Some other patron sees the lute strapped to the bard’s back and recognises him, calling out his name which sends him springing to his feet with a bow, all but running to his adoring audience.
“He’s a fool.” Geralt says, gesturing the barmaid for some ale.
“I’m aware.”
“I told him such.” That you were not aware of. “He’s no idea how badly he’s treating you.” You hadn’t assumed Geralt really cared, that awkward as it may be, he probably appreciated not hearing you and the bard’s constant chatter.
“...Thank you.” You say unsurely, but he nods and gestures to the stairs.
“Don’t. Just sleep. You need it.”
You don’t argue, just clap a hand gratefully on top of his and walk past Jaskier on your way upstairs, not seeing how his eyes lingered on your frame as you disappear from view.
///
The sound of the door to your room creaking open causes you to crack one eye open, but in the near pitch of the room you’re confused. It had only been about ten minutes since you fell onto the mattress and curled yourself into a ball and the sun had still been high at that point. It’s dark, save for a candle you don’t remember lighting, and realise that what you had intended to be nought but a quick rest had turned into the sleep you hadn’t been able to find outside of Jaskier’s arms. The door opens slowly, and even in your sleep addled state you find yourself clenching a hand and readying yourself to strike at whoever dared to let themselves in, but you stop at the sight of your Dandelion, barely illuminated by the light of the single candle flickering on your bedside table. He’s creeping in and gently shutting the door behind him so as not to wake you up. You had assumed he would wind up sharing Geralt’s chambers seeing as he’s chosen not to sleep beside you for days, and tiredly you smile, reminded of other nights resting in taverns when he‘s performed and slept wrapped around you like a blanket. He is Not Your Dandelion, something cruel in the back of your mind tells you wiping the smile from your face, and you roll over towards the window. He lays down his instrument and begins pulling off his doublet, whispering into the darkness,
“Dear Heart? Are you Awake?” You could cry at the sound of his voice- so sweet and familiar, whispering his pet name for you in the same caring tone he usually reserves for when you’re injured- spoken for the first time in days. He takes your silence as a no, clambers as delicately as he can to the bed and settles on the edge, pulling his boots off and letting them fall to the floor with a quiet ‘thud’, followed a few seconds later by another. A few seconds later he finds himself once more in the space that he always occupies behind you; hairy chest pressed against your back, arms around your waist, forehead pressed in the valley between your shoulders. It’s as if the days of silence never happened, and you could almost pretend they hadn’t but that wouldn’t be right. You’re still angry. Who do you think you are? You long to scream at him. Staying silent yourself, you breathe out deeply and the bard laughs softly, fanning warm breath down your back.
“I’m sorry.” For the laughter or ignoring you, you’re unsure, but as he has been so inclined the last few days, he falls back into silence. What little light the candle has been giving off has lessened even still as your eyes flit from the wall to the window. Pinpricks of light cut through the inky blue of the night sky, but you can’t see the moon. The moon and stars are the best part of sleeping outdoors, constant companions that glitter and know you, have always known you and always will. You miss them.
Spurred on by either your presumed sleep or the lingering high of his performance, Jaskier continues on quietly. “I’m sorry Dear Heart, I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot and I’ve certainly done a good job of showing you that in the past few days...I, I.” He struggles in spite of his usual skill with words and presses a kiss to your spine, which seems to ground him. “I had such a grand plan in my head. Spent all day every day trying to write the words for you, and I ignored you.” He sounds so unsure of himself, which is almost enough to distract you from the idea of his struggling for words about you of all people. “...the words just are not coming though. You probably think I’m an arse. I do. Geralt clearly does. He made that more than clear after my performance. I missed you. I’m so used to you being there after my performances.” You usually are, waiting for him with a mouth full of compliments and kisses. “I’ll... I’ll tell you now, and maybe you’ll dream it so, when you wake, you won’t want to smash my lute over my head or castrate me.” He chuckles weakly, and you struggle in vain not to smile even though you know that he can’t see your face.
“It... it’s not fair.” His voice shakes slightly, and all at once you expect the worst. “It’s not fair how much I love you.” He follows the words with a kiss to the back of your neck, which only encourages him, whispering his declaration of love and affection into what he presumes is a sleeping audience. “It’s not fair. And it never will be. You’re so... beautiful, and clever and stronger than me, I know. And I love you. And I always will- My rotting bones will sing how much I love you when the rest of me is dead.” He says feverishly, fingers pads calloused by years of playing lute brush gently across the expanse of your stomach, eventually finding a resting place on your hip. “When you smile and sing with my songs... I understand the reason I was born. Melitele, Dear Heart...”
His voice cracks and something warm and wet drips onto the warmed skin of your back, making you realise that your bard, silly, foolish, perfect Jaskier, was so overcome by his feelings that he was crying. And from the streaks of wet lining your cheeks and making home in the pillows, so were you. Days spent dwelling on the thought that his silence was indifference, never once considering that maybe he was... afraid. You had never considered that Jaskier had ever felt insecure a moment in his life. He floats above those things, as all beautiful, talented people do, but now here he’s admitting that he loves you, has been afraid that he loves you.
The tightness in your chest squeezes once more before dissipating entirely. Daydreams of confessions had seen the two of you bathed in starlight, or sat in a field of buttercups, never once had you imagined it would be in a dark and somewhat smelly rented room. It feels appropriate, and you begin to shake with laughter. Days of silent strumming and hissed curses make sense when you consider him trying to avoid your hearing his confession of love before he felt it finished. Idiots. Utter Idiots. The worst kind at that, the sort to wallow and pine, planning grand gestures that never reach fruition as opposed to just speaking like adults. Morons deciding that the way to show your love is to detangle from one another only to fall back together like magnets. Bloody bastard bard, fucking foolish fighter, you think, all anger from days of quiet gone like petals in a storm, what a right pair of idiots we make. Jaskier pulls up from his position to lean over you, eyes narrowed in accusatory slits, watching you silently shake with laughter.
“You’re awake.” It’s a statement, not a question, and one that sounds deeply hurt at that. Overcome with the relief that he doesn’t hate you, and in fact rather loves you, the thought of how it must look for him to confess his love only to be laughed at doesn’t cross your mind, and so the hurt look in his eyes catches you off guard. “I. I see. I’ll... let you rest.” With that, he begins to pull away from you. After nights of coldness and no sleep you simply can’t bare another night without him, causing you to surge up, grabbing him by his forearms firmly enough to keep him in place without hurting him. Moments before you fall asleep where he clutched you like he loved you fell into place in your mind. He did. He does. He loves you. You want to laugh, scream, yell from the rooftops, but really all you want to do is slam your mouth into his and kiss him like the world will end if you don’t. But there is something to do first. Faces barely an inch apart, your lips turn up in a ghost of a smile.
“Oh Julian,” You whisper quietly into the almost-darkness and feel his breath hitch against the delicate skin of your lips. He'd forgotten. Of course, he had forgotten. His real name was something scarcely spoken, and something you had only learned because he had felt especially emotional once while buried to the hilt inside of you and desperate to hear you moan his real name instead of his moniker. It had felt much too personal to use in front of other people, but now in this moment, it feels only right.
“You don’t have to pity me, Dear Heart-”
“How unreasonable.” You cut him off, fingers straying from their place around his arm to gently trace around the angle of his jaw, lips brushing against his with every syllable spoken. “...How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do.” Fear of vulnerability falls away like waves, and it feels like salvation to speak the words out loud .
His face breaks into a grin, roughness of unshaven scruff shifting against your fingertips, and his own hands scrabble up to cup your cheeks, pulling you into a kiss. It’s nothing like what you know from him. Even in your most desperate of moments, Jaskier kisses like you’re made of smoke and a push that is even slightly too hard will see him destroy you; but now it’s hard and needy, a mashing of teeth and tongue against lip that draws shocked but delighted sighs. He normally prefers to be slow, gently build up, but now he isn’t. It’s clumsy. Everything recently has been clumsy, songs unsung, hands not held, words unspoken, now all poured desperately into a kiss that begs you to stay. I know I’ve been a fool, it seems to say, but I’ll spend every hour of ever day proving I’m not a fool, and that I love you. You believe it.
“Gods you’ll be the death of me.” He murmurs against your lips like there’s nothing he wants more in the world than to be destroyed by you. The feeling is mutual. Being ruined, broken, pulled apart piece by piece by the Bard, kissing you as if with enough pressure you two will become one, sounds like the most beautiful way to end it all, especially when his tongue dips coyly into the cavern of your mouth before retreating and breaking away from you, breathing deeply.
“You dare just start ignoring me again...” You whisper breathlessly, but the feeling of him pressing his forehead into yours silences you.
“I’d need my tongue cut out to not speak to you, Dear Heart.” He reassures you, deft fingers pressing against your lips. “...I’m sorry. I love you. I didn’t want you to... go.”
“I love you.”
"I love you." He repeats. You believe him.