Chapter Text
The Coast
Geralt is worried about Jaskier; the man’s left the tavern in the middle of the performance, using his classic excuse ‘I don’t feel very well, apologies friends’ he uses when something soured his mood unexpectedly.
They’ve been friends for so many years now, that Geralt knows exactly where to find him. The Keraki town, they’ve found themselves in this time, has a beautiful beachfront, and that’s where the masked bard will be. He’s certain.
It’s rather cold for a mid summer’s night, the ocean breeze apparently at fault for this. He removes his sturdy leather boots and feels the cold moist sand between his toes. It feels good, grounding.
He walks in total darkness and cursed inwardly at his dimmed human senses. The only thing he misses from the time he was a witcher -- the white wolf of Rivia, hah what a joke -- is his enhanced sight; he’s never seen the beautiful starry summer sky in the same way, since the incident that made him human.
As expected, he finds Jaskier sitting on the cold sand, his legs reaching, barely, the calm waves of the sea. He has a small lamp with him --thankfully-- so Geralt spots him pretty easily.
“Hey,” Geralt says reluctantly, “wanna talk?”
Jaskier seems startled for a moment and turns to face him, his simple black mask always in place, covering the top half of his face. He hums thoughtfully and chews on his lower lip; a telltale sign that he’s conflicted and evaluating how to formulate his response.
“I guess I’m tired,” he says after a long pause, both of them gazing at the starlit sky, “I just- I guess- ugh… why is this so hard!”
“Take your time. I’m here for you.”
Jaskier takes a deep breath and turns to face Geralt smiling slightly -- it’s a sad smile, fuck. “I overheard a woman claiming she bedded me and that she saw what’s under the mask. You know I don’t do these things. I don’t like these things,” he sighs, “I’m tired, Geralt. I’m tired of people making assumptions about me, I’m tired of them lying about me because I’m such a goddamn mystery that they need to unveil.” He pauses and gazes at the sky, releasing all the air in his lungs.
“I’m sorry she made you feel this way,” Geralt mumbles, “You deserve better, Jaskier.”
“I- I just want to be me, I just want people to see me -- the real me. But I can’t, can I? Not as long as I wear this stupid mask. But I can’t fucking remove the blasted thing because if I do-- Ugh. Forget it Geralt. Please.”
Geralt knows there’s a nasty burn scar under the thick unbending fabric of the mask. He’s seen glimpses of it in the years he’s known the poet. He also knows that it’s a touchy matter. And that’s why he doesn’t press. If Jaskier ever wants to open up to him he will. Until then he’ll wait.
“Alright,” he responds, “It’s alright.”