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It mattered not how many times they said goodbye, each time still broke another piece of his heart.
There were times Jaskier had ample warning. Days or even weeks to steel himself, to play the brilliant actor he prided himself to be. Ample time to remind himself quite sternly what he was to his witcher, his noble white wolf, the man who had swept into his life with all the flair and cheer of a beaten and tired mutt and had promptly and oh so very rudely stolen his heart.
A heart that many had attempted to steal in the past, might he add.
Those blessed days, hours, weeks - whatever time he had to fish his heart back from his sleeves and shove it back in his chest to be guarded like it had never wanted to be - they were all that saved him from certain embarrassment and rejection. For every single time, no matter that he knew it would end, he allowed himself to be a fool and believe that their journey would go onward. That every morning he could wake up bleary and far too late to his witcher grousing over their late start. That every afternoon would find him practicing his lute and songs while he danced his way down whatever trail laid before them, following after Roach’s twitching tail and the regal visage of Geralt, the most dearest man to his heart.
It was not one of those times, however.
“Leaving,” was the only grunted explanation he got as Geralt brushed past him, Jaskier left blinking after him where he stood still in the doorway to the room they’d planned on sharing for the next few days at the very least. It took far too many seconds for his thoughts to catch up to him, the silly grin he’d had frozen on his lips, laughter caught and dying in his throat.
“Wh- hold on, wait! Garelt!” Jaskier danced a little in the doorway, unsure of whether to take off after his companion given his own stuff was still strewn all about their room - everything but the lute strapped to his back and the smaller of his coin purses that he’d kept to collect the connected bar’s patron’s generous donations at his performance. With great effort he stopped staring after him, sweeping wide eyes about the room, already mourning the loss of what he couldn’t grab in the next 30 seconds: the blackberry wine he’d been planning on breaking out this very night would have to be abandoned, as well as much of his clothes - oh, it would cost him a small fortune to replace them all, and his heart cried even as he ran about and scooped up what little he could before stumbling right back out the door, regretting that last pint of ale as it left him fumbly and even dropping some of the precious few things he’d managed to stuff in his arms.
It was a miracle in and of itself that he didn’t bumble into anyone on his rush down the hall and stairs, and another that he managed the door by himself with his hands and arms otherwise occupied. At least no grace from the gods was required to find Geralt, all Jaskier needed to do was head straight for the stable that was attached to the inn.
“Geralt!”
He spotted his witcher just as Geralt was swinging his leg up and over Roach, the mare already saddled and packed and grouchy from being awoken far too early for her liking. She tried her best to reach back and nip at her burden even as Geralt nudged her forward, stopping her only after a few feet when Jaskier stumbled in front of them.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Gesturing with his arms so full of precious belongings was a bad idea but that didn’t occur to him until after he’d already done it, and attempting to catch the turquoise and emerald silk shirt only made him drop something else. “Dropping everything I own in the muck and grime is what I’m doing apparently - that was a gift, you know! A gift from my mother on her sick bed. Sure, sure, she recovered, but that’s not the point of things, Geralt, some warning would have been nice!”
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh, well darling, I didn’t notice, what with the whole storming out and straddling Ms. Nips-A-Lot - hey! No!” Roach knew exactly when he sassed about her and proved the name right, Jaskier barely dodging one of her hard nips that was aimed at his shoulder. It was luck and luck alone that kept all the rest of his things in his arms and far away from the mud below. “I meant advanced warning , Geralt, half a minute is not enough time for me to pack. And the least you could do is help me!”
Geralt grunted at him, and it was only thanks to their years of travelling together off and on that Jaskier could recognize it as his impatient grunt - which only made him want to huff indignantly, considering it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get ready at the drop of a hat. But before he could properly huff at him Geralt slid off of Roach to help him.
Or...not. Instead of taking any of his stuff, or maybe opening one of the packs Roach was carrying, Geralt just oh so helpfully clapped Jaskier on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he leaned down to meet Jaskier’s gaze - and just that simple act of holding his gaze had Jaskier’s heart in his throat. Melitele help him but those eyes would be the death of him. He could drown in the abyss of them, captured and held prisoner but hardly against his will, lost in a sea of amber and warmth many would think so unlike his dear withcer-
“ I’m leaving, Jaskier. Not you.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Jaskier said, the fluttering thing in his stomach dropping like a stone. Well. Just like his witcher to put a damper on things.
“Too dangerous.”
“How is it any more dangerous than what we’ve already been through together?” Jaskier tried to not get too distracted when Geralt’s hand slipped from his shoulder and down his arm, still firm on him, making it unfairly difficult to muster up a decent argument as Geralt took his elbow and started to guide him back to the tavern entrance. “When we met I followed you straight towards a devil, remember? Sure it wasn’t an actual devil but neither of us knew any better-”
“Devils aren’t real, Jaskier.”
“-and I still followed you right along, and ended up perfectly fine! Oh, and remember the dragon? A dragon , Geralt, how on earth could anything out here in the middle of bloody nowhere could be more dangerous than a DRAGON?”
Geralt gave him a look that suggested he was being difficult on purpose. “I don’t slay dragons. There was never going to be a fight.”
Any further protests were put to a stop before they could continue, hardly even a stammered out start passing Jaskier’s lips before Geralt was opening the tavern door for him, giving a squeeze to his arm before dropping the contact between them. “Stay here, and out of trouble if you can manage it. I’ll come back.”
Normally, Jaskier would have made a fuss over the insinuation that he might gravitate towards trouble - because, really, it was the other way around. Not that the end results mattered much which way it worked. It came down to semantics, really, but Jaskier still would not have taken the insinuation without at least trying to set the record straight a little. But…
But his heart had not been normal of late, nor had his mind. And with no time to prepare for Geralt’s rather sudden departure he’d had no time to school his reactions, no time to remind himself how he’d normally do things: what he’d say, how exactly his hand or arm would flourish in gesture, what emotions he should allow into his tone without raising any sort of suspicion.
So it wasn’t exasperation that colored his tone, no played up hurt nor frustration to punctuate his words when Jaskier half-turned to look up at his witcher, breath almost catching at how even on a dreary day like this Geralt managed to look neigh on ethereal in his beauty - when all Jaskier managed to ask him was “When?”
When would he again be allowed to get lost within that heated gaze, time having little meaning, the world fading into the distance? When would his nights end in laughter rather than the drop after a performance, his high from the crowd leaving him at an incredible low, alone without his dearest witcher to keep his thoughts at bay and far away from the darkened sea they went to on their own? When would he know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his Geralt was safe and relatively unharmed, unmaimed at the very least, able to return to him at all?
“When I’m done.”
Ever the romantic to match his thoughts. Jaskier huffed out air through his nose, readjusting his grip on the mountain of things in his arms, Geralt’s blunt honesty cutting through his rather melodramatic mode decently enough. Not well enough to have him rid of all the rather sticky feelings that loved to pop up unbidden, but without the clouds that usually left him dampened in their presence all those sticky feelings left Jaskier feeling rather...wistful, and, dare he say, whimsical.
Perhaps his mother was onto something when she said his moods changed less like seasons and more flittered by like insects swarming in the summer heat.
If he had had perhaps even an hour to prepare for this goodbye, Jaskier would not have done anything so far removed from their normal interactions and behavior. But that time had not been given to him, and the warmth from Geralt’s hand could still be felt on his arm, and Jaskier’s heart was skipping beats in his chest knowing it was concern that had his witcher so set on going it alone - and seeing it clear as the dawn itself in those beautiful eyes of gold.
With as much grace as he could muster with his arms ladened so, Jaskier closed the short distance between him and his friend. He couldn’t tell if it was shocked surprise that held Geralt still or not, or what kept him from jerking away as he’d always expected him to if Jaskier had ever dared to be so bold, but Geralt did not move back - and Jaskier found his lips brushing against the silver stubble on his cheek, rough against his own chapped skin but it barely registered against the thundering heartbeat that sounded in his ears.
A light kiss to his cheek was all he managed, and it amazed him long into the night that he found his voice past it all. “Be careful, darling.” Being so close to him Jaskier saw Geralt’s breathing stutter at the endearment, and like a good storyteller he took careful note of that and squirreled it away for later, leaning back away just enough to look up and catch the way Geralt was looking at him. “I’d hate to be a bard with no company.”
Upon reflection, getting to see his oh so completely and frustratingly composed witcher shift his weight nervously after such a simple thing was more than worth the slip in his own emotional composure. Even the muddied belongings were worth it when weighed against the delayed grunt of response, the flickering gaze towards Jaskier and away again, and the sudden start to Geralt’s movements that finally started him back towards Roach without another word.
Maybe goodbyes weren’t the worst after all if they involved such an adorably flustered boy (and, Jaskier thought, his own gaze flickering downward shamelessly, it never really was a burden to watch him walk away).