Chapter Text
Jaskier loves the coast. He loves the sunshine, he loves the sound of the waves. He loves the way tourists don't stick around long enough to get sick of him.
He hates his father's new wife. The way she treats Renfri when she comes home, and how she barely does anymore because of her. When’s the last time he saw her? Thanksgiving? Yes, which only lead to her not coming for Christmas.
He's not as young as he was, when his parents divorced. He doesn't believe all the drivel his father fed him anymore. At least, he doesn't think so. Besides, a change of scenery will be good for his writing. What’s an artist without a dramatic backstory, after all?
That's how he finds himself, after a plane, Greyhound bus, and car ride, in Forks, Washington. At the home of his mother, Chief Charlotte Pankratz, with whom his reuniting had been oddly uncomfortable.
She had seemingly remembered everything about him, and about Renfri, from that frozen moment in time before his father had won custody and swept them away from her. She worked so much, as an officer vying for the role of chief must. Could never commit to holidays or Summers. Lacked childcare, lacked the funds with which to fight her ex-husband. So away the kids went, and apart they have been, since Jaskier was nine years old.
Their first night together, she takes Jaskier to the diner they used to go to after church on Sundays. She orders him the ice cream sundae dessert he used to like.
It hurts in a way that his teenage heart can't really process. So, rather than express empathy, or gratefulness, or understanding, it’s just painfully awkward when he tells her that he’s actually dairy-free now. At home, she's made up his old room for him in plaid, which he's never felt was very becoming on anyone without the fictional surname Winchester. He says he likes it, anyway.
“I know it's not all what you're used to,” Charlie - mom - tells him over a harried breakfast. Neither of them seems to have slept well, but Charlie seems settled into it. Downing her third mug of coffee while Jaskier crunches on a piece of cinnamon-sugar toast. “But we're honestly pretty progressive! I know you probably think this place is backass, and I know a couple boys at school are gonna be dressed like they're going for a role in Deliverance,” She says, animatedly, and Jaskier actually laughs. It startles both of them, but Jaskier realizes that it shouldn't.
It's at least half the reason that she-devil his father bones doesn't like them, though she seemed to find Jaskier slightly more tolerable. Charlie’s children are so much like her. Renfri in that determined, I’m-gonna-be-the-first-female-chief-in-Deliverance-town kind of way. She’s brute and to the point, her glare is crippling. Jaskier, clearly, has inherited her organized chaos, her cadence and candor and humor.
“Um, anyway, so no one’s gonna bug you about your whole,” she waves a hand at him, “situation, and that! And hopefully they'll be able to find you something to eat. Shit, should I have packed you something?” Charlie asks herself more than him, and scrambles up from her paperwork.
Jaskier stops her before she can reach the kitchen. “Ch-mom, it's fine. I can always walk to Sully's after school if I'm still hungry.”
Charlie's brow furrows. “Walk? What about - shit, didn't I tell you?” She trails off again, and at the same time, the doorbell trills.
She looks at Jaskier, wide-eyed, and he does the same with and amused grin.
“Well, surprise! I guess!” She says, throwing her hands in the air as she turns to answer the door.
Outside on the porch are two people, one he recognizes instantly, and one he doesn't.
Jaskier finds his feet, peeking over his mother's shoulder as she bolsters the doorway. “Mr. Vesemir?” He says, butting in on the small talk.
The old man smiles up at him from his chair, and Charlie tucks an arm around him to push him forward. “Well, look at you. Whole four inches taller.” Vesemir jabs good-naturedly.
Jaskier leans down to hug his former teacher, and babysitter. Charlie had tried to power through on her own, during the custody battle. Vesemir saw that, and he, newly retired and with a houseful of kids already, offered up his time. He hadn't been the most attentive of sitters. But the days spent exploring his woods are some of Jaskier's clearest memories from his lost childhood in Forks.
When he does, though, there's a jerked motion pulling the old man away. Just an inch or two before the one pulling is chided.
“Geralt, I am well capable of moving my damn self if I wanted to!” Vesemir snaps, turning his head to get an angle on the young man, who is, apparently, Geralt.
Jaskier coughs a laugh, then covers his mouth when his sister's ex-best friend more or less snarls at him.
He's certainly grown into that nose. And everything else. Jaskier doesn't remember his hair being that color, though.
He'd been dark-haired, in their youth. He looked just like one of the other kids Vesemir seemed to collect. So much so, Jaskier had thought them a pair, until Renfri had told him otherwise. Now he's got a mane of pure white, pouring to his shoulders. His brows are bleached, too. Perhaps he’s gone punk, and is between neon colors. He's adversarial enough for the genre, and dressed all in black clothes. Might explain the amber contacts, too.
Jaskier disregards him, moving in to hug Vesemir again. The man pats his back, and then, true to his word, wheels himself back a bit to gesture to the driveway.
Vesemir and Charlie speak at the same time, an uncoordinated round. “Ves, I forgot to tell him,” and “Well, there she is.”
For once in his life, Jaskier can say absolutely nothing. He looks between them, mouth hanging open, and then strides past them all and down the steps.
Charlie smiles and Geralt frowns, both on his heels until Vesemir calls Geralt back to get him down the stairs.
In the driveway, behind Charlie’s cruiser, is a small truck. A two-seater, with just a little rust to it’s red coat. It's so perfectly charming, a blank canvas to fill with aesthetic, and as Charlie explains, his.
He lurches into his startled mother's arms, and she laughs into his hair.
Vesemir slaps the taillight, and they break apart at the noise. “I don't know where your mom found this thing, but she brought it over and the boys worked it out for you.” He says, and Geralt scowls behind him. Practically sinking into his shoulders at the idea that maybe he helped contribute to something nice for Jaskier.
“Thank you!” Jaskier sings, and hugs Vesemir again. He looks up at Geralt, who looks like a deer in headlights, prone to run away. Jaskier wants to laugh again, but reigns in the instinct and puts out a hand, instead. “Thank you, Geralt.”
“Hm,” the other boy hums, and relaxes enough to shake Jaskier's hand. Dear Lord, his grip is firm. His voice is new and gravely, and Jaskier’s stomach does a strange turn to it. “Sputters a little. Runs good, though.” Jaskier nods along, but gets distracted and darts away when Charlie presents the keys.
He offers Geralt a ride to school, and the boy goes back to frowning. Vesemir tells him something vague about homeschooling, and how they should all get going.
It's a shame, Jaskier thinks. He could've appreciated one familiar face, no matter how unfriendly.
At the uncreatively named Forks High School, Jaskier pulls into a faraway spot, unsure of the parking lot politics here. It's midterm, a terrible time to transfer, but he's been assured he was most likely at least academically secure. His school in California would’ve been leagues ahead of any class that wasn't A.P., here. He strides through the morning mist mostly unnoticed, everyone seemingly having already selected their friend groups for the year. Closed to application, since no one meets his eyes when he passes. That's alright. Perhaps there's a clutch of theatre or orchestra kids lurking just in the door. He always fits there.
Fit there, he does, by lunchtime. He'd approached the first student with an instrument case when the realization that he spoke to no one at all in his first two classes sunk in. The girl, Priscilla, was amused but welcoming. He trails behind her, pale chicken patty sandwich on his tray. She introduces him to her table, and him to Essie, quickly his favorite, and Valdo, quickly his least, among others.
They ask about California, and if he plays, and what a lute is. But then he fades in, sometimes piping up to contribute, but mostly feeling relief at the acceptance.
Then, they outside door swings inward, and a peculiar group of individuals strut in.
“The De Vries-Gynvael cult,” Priscilla teases, when she notices his fixed gaze. And how could he not watch?
There's five of them, each more beautiful than the last. Headed by a young man with closely shaved hair and striking blue eyes. “Istredd,” Priscilla names him, leaning into her palm like she's bored. Jaskier can't relate, as in comes the next one, with bright red hair and clothing that seems at the very least, inappropriate for the weather.
“Sabrina.” Valdo whispers, leaning uncomfortably close over the table, “and that one’s Fringilla. She's fucking scary.” He points, and then retracts, a finger when the severe-looking girl turns her eyes on him, despite her neutral expression. She looks Jaskier up and down, as if registering that he's a new addition, before seeming to deem him unimportant and continuing on.
Essie sighs, dramatically laying her head on Jaskier's shoulder. “Sick of us already? I can't blame you,” she pouts, “Triss is so pretty.” She says, weary but still taken, about the fourth. Another pair of bright blue eyes, on a waify girl with ruddy-chestnut hair. “She never pays any attention to me. We’re in precalculus together, but she's always looking at Yennefer.” Essie whines.
Always a romantic, Jaskier can't help but pry. “Who is Yennefer?” He asks, smiling and brushing Essie’s hair out of her face. He's gathered than she's a year below him, and she already reminds him some of Renfri. Though he'd never dare tell his older sister that. Essie’s expression doesn't brighten with his teasing, though.
“Her,” Essie says, and Jaskier turns back to see the last of them.
The others are seated, now, Triss looking over her shoulder and calling out, “Yenn!” to someone Jaskier could swear has violet eyes. Even from so far away, they leap out from the rest of her not-unremarkable appearance. Smooth skin, shiny long black hair, wearing heels to school like she's in an ABC Family show.
Jaskier’s new table devolves into discussions about the lucky souls those five had bedded; Yennefer and Istredd had been a thing. A senior boy, now graduated, had taken Sabrina to his prom, another mysterious graduate took Fringilla to homecoming, and the like. But Jaskier can't help himself from looking back again - only to have violet eyes meet his.