Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier,

Tonight is warm, without a single cloud in the sky. Earlier, I gazed at the milky way and a memory returned, of how the same stars watched us together six years ago.

I remember how we looked back at them, pointed to all the constellations we knew. How we talked about the wonders of the cosmos and waxed philosophical about the flow of the universe. We lay on a blanket in the back garden. We didn’t have another one to cover us because it was a summer night.

Above all, I remember the way your gentle voice resonated in the silence that surrounded us, how I loved every note of it, how I thought that if your voice was the last thing I heard then I’d die a happy man.

I remember exactly how you sounded when you said, “I wish I could marry you.”

“What?” I choked out.

You hid your face in the crook of my neck and only whispered, “Geralt.”

Your voice wavered and my heart broke too. I kissed you because that was the only apology I could think of.

I remember the weight of you on top of me. I remember the way you touched me and how we made love right there, under the open sky. The memory of us is intertwined with the stars themselves, and I remember all of it.

The three months you spent at this house in the countryside, when I wasn’t afraid to hold your hand when we took long walks outside through the meadows and woods. When we cooked together, went grocery shopping to town, woke up and fell asleep together. I watched you sleep for a while in the mornings and I could not believe that this was not a dream.

Little did I know that I indeed lived in a dream back then, for those twelve weeks taken out of time. In the grand scheme of things, three months means nothing. It was everything to me. I allowed myself to be selfish and have you all to myself because then and there, I wasn’t just an awkward martial artist from the middle of nowhere and you weren’t an internationally famous musician. We were just us, fully comfortable with each other and as prone to silliness as in our teenage years.

The outside world didn’t matter for a short time but there’s no running from it, in the end.

Your beautiful eyes glistened with tears the whole day before you left on tour and I convinced myself that this would be for the better. I couldn’t give you what you wanted. I couldn’t withstand all that came with being your partner. You deserved someone who didn’t get panic attacks at the thought of accompanying you to any event.

In some ways, I still uphold that I did the right thing. The world needed to witness you, needed your talent, and I’m glad that I didn’t keep you from it. I know you would’ve dropped everything if I’d asked you to but I couldn’t have done that to you. The sad truth of us is that you wouldn’t have been happy with me in the long run, considering the man I was.

I’ve changed since you left. I started going to therapy, got on medication and qualified for a service dog. Her name is Roach. She is strong when I can’t be and helps me calm whenever my anxiety gets the better of me, but it’s rare nowadays. I can function normally and my career as a martial artist has finally taken off.

I’ve started a family, too, with Yennefer. We lasted four rocky years. I love her but we’re better off apart. We did one thing right, though – adopted a daughter. Cirilla was ten when we got her. She called me “Dad” a year later, which was two years ago. On that day, I cried for the first time since I’d returned home without you after driving you to the airport.

I’m much more in touch with my emotions now. Years of therapy have taught me how to work through them. Writing has been helping me with that too. I’ve written some works but I don’t think anyone would want to publish them. I think my stuff is good but it’s not something that would necessarily sell.

That’s no matter. I’ve got other achievements, like my gold medal in karate for Kaedwen in the last international sports championship. I remember when I stood on top of that podium last year, I thought to myself that this was finally it.

That I’m finally a man who deserves to stand by your side.

Everything I’ve done in those years apart is for you, Jaskier. I’ve been trying to face my fears, understand my inner world and find my words with the thought of you on my mind. Six years and there hasn’t been a day that I didn’t think of you. Of how it felt to hold you in my arms, how expressive your face was, how the love I saw in your gaze almost brought me to my knees every time I saw it.

There are moments like now, when the house is quiet and I’m alone in my bedroom, and I allow myself to wonder: do you think of me too? It’s arrogant of me to assume that you do, but I sometimes like to think that what we had meant to you as much as it meant to me. Such a large part of my past has you in it: our childhood friendship that bloomed again at a high school reunion, growing closer over the phone, trying to take it slow while I accompanied you on a tour, then the weeks we spent at my family home here. So many years that led to me breaking your heart because I was a fucking mess and a coward.

Other times, I hope that it doesn’t matter to you at all. I pray that the pain I caused you has long faded and become insignificant. It’s been six years of longing for you but I deserve to find that you’ve grown indifferent. For breaking your heart, I deserve to know that you’re well over it, that you don’t need me in any way to be happy.

I wish I wasn’t still a coward. I wish I had the strength to reach out to you and find out just that – to hear your voice in the speaker and find that you’re happy. You do seem so in the interviews, which I sometimes watch when I miss you too much, though I never dared to listen to you sing. The songs on the radio found me anyway. The lyrics about stars were a deserved blow.

I so wish I’d been braver, Jaskier. I wish I had been brave enough to see a way for me to still be with you. I wish I’d had the courage to try therapy sooner. I wish I’d let myself have you more.

I wish you asked me to marry you again, too, because I would say yes.

Fuck, I’m such a fool to be even considering this. I have no right to your love anymore. 

The letter cuts off here, clearly unfinished. A tear falls onto the paper and sinks into it, causing its surface to wrinkle. It’s not Geralt’s or Jaskier’s – another person has just become involved.

Very involved, in fact.

***

Her heart beats wildly in her chest with fear, victory, and fear of victory too. It almost seems too good to be true: she’s standing in line at a meet and greet with the singer Jaskier with her Mum, and the letter with an added note containing her Dad’s phone number is tucked safely into an inner pocket of her denim jacket. Her mother scrutinizes her, noticing her nervousness, and Ciri fights the urge to squirm.

Both her parents were surprised when she announced that she wished to meet Jaskier in person. She said that it was because she loved his music and managed to uphold this lie, despite their suspiciousness. She couldn’t give up – she’s been planning this for months, ever since finding that letter while rummaging through her Dad’s desk in a desperate search for paper because she needed to print out a school assignment urgently.

Initially, she didn’t manage to get a ticket to this event; they were sold out in ten minutes. Fortunately, her Mum had enough connections to secure a place for them here anyway. The meet and greet is also taking place while her Dad is away to train. It all fell into place perfectly, really.

This was meant to happen, Ciri tries to convince herself as they’re about to stand face to face with the famous Jaskier. She’s doing what needs to be done, she repeats the mantra in her head as the bodyguards lead her and her Mum to where Jaskier awaits. The melancholy about her Dad, which has always been there, might not be in his nature after all.

There’s sadness about Jaskier too, she notices. His face is expressive indeed, and it shows some undeniable hints of heartache as he looks at Ciri and Yennefer approaching him. Yet, he flashes them a bright smile anyway.

Ciri’s resolve falters for a moment because the man makes her bashful, of all things. He’s broad and tall, handsome, dressed to impress, and has a warm but captivating presence. The combination of charisma and kindness he radiates is intimidating and Ciri finds herself tongue-tied.

“Hello, Yennefer,” he greets Mum politely.

“Hello, Julian,” she replies in that imperious way of hers, like a queen receiving due honours.

Jaskier only smirks at that tone. Directing his attention to Ciri, he says, “This is your daughter, then.”

“Yes,” Mum replies, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Ciri, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks.

Ciri can only nod dumbly, struck by the realisation that her Mum and Jaskier must’ve talked before this.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Jaskier says and smiles like he means it.

He looks at her with fondness that seems so genuine even though he doesn’t know her. “I... ” she begins, then trails off. His gaze is so affectionate.

If he looked at Dad in a similar way, she understands why he loves this man.

Suddenly overwhelmed with what she knows about the depth of her father’s feelings for Jaskier, Ciri cannot bear the secret anymore. With her heart in her throat, she pulls out the envelope. “I have something for you.”

Jaskier grins, happy like a beam of sunshine, and takes it from her. “You wrote me a letter? How wonderful, thank you!”

“No,” she clarifies, way too loudly in her anxiousness, “It’s a letter from my Dad. From Geralt.”

Jaskier gasps audibly. His eyes grow wide as he stares at the letter he’s holding, rendered speechless.

“Cirilla,” Mum says sharply. “What have you done?”

“It’s important, Mama,” she defends herself weakly. “It’s important,” she repeats to Jaskier and pleads, “Please keep it safe. Please don’t give it to anyone. Please, it’s too important.”

The singer watches her for a moment, silent and serious, then gives a solemn nod and puts the envelope into an inner pocket of his floral Gucci jacket. Ciri’s whole body sags in relief. For a blissful second, she basks in success, but then a hand grasps her arm in a vicious grip.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mum demands.

“I – I had to,” she stutters, “Dad would’ve never sent it, he would’ve never said a thing–”

“Young lady. Since when are you allowed to meddle with someone else’s private correspondence? Do you know that deliberately opening a letter not meant for you is considered an offence?”

Ciri gulps, frightened in the face of her mother’s anger.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier placates, “It’s all right. I’m sure Ciri meant well.”

“I did!” she exclaims, jumping on the chance to redeem herself. “I do. You’ll see for yourself!”

Mum is about to lecture her more but the bodyguards tell them that their time is up. She apologizes to Jaskier and leads Ciri away, fuming wordlessly until they’re sitting in the car.

“This was extremely inappropriate and inconsiderate of you,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt furiously. “You’re going to call your father as soon as we get home, and you’re going to tell him exactly what you’ve done.”

The very idea fills Ciri with immense dread. “But Mama,” she whines.

“No buts,” Mum snaps harshly. “Actions have consequences, and if you were willing to take action such as this, to violate Geralt’s privacy on this level, you must answer for it.”

“I did the right thing!” Ciri roars, sick of being scolded. “You have no idea what Dad wrote there! You have no idea how happy he was with Jaskier!”

Hurt flashes in her mother’s eyes. She looks away, outside the car’s window, and murmurs, “I’m well aware of that fact, believe me.”

The bitterness in her words rings so loud in the car that Ciri is glad when she starts the engine and begins to drive.

***

When he sits down on the floor, he takes the water bottle left out for him and drinks from it in big gulps. His muscles ache from exertion, which he welcomes, today more than usual. 

Vesemir stands at his side. Geralt sighs, knowing what his foster father will say, even though it doesn't need to be said. 

“You're distracted.”

He grunts. The reason for his distracted state resurfaces from the back of his mind and he thinks of laughter. Laughter like silver bells, twinkling blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. He thinks of how Ciri and Yennefer got to see all that today. 

“Go take a break,” Vesemir says. “In the changing room. The quiet will do you some good.”

Geralt gets up, squeezes Vesemir's arm gratefully, takes Roach from Eskel's care, and goes when he was told. As he walks into the room, he hears his phone ringing in his locker, but he doesn't manage to answer it in time. 

There are notifications about four missed calls waiting for him. Two from Ciri, one from Yennefer, and the most recent one from an unknown number. Letting out a heavy breath, Geralt decides to deal with the stranger first. It might be some nonsense and he wants it over with before calling Ciri back and hearing about the meet and greet. 

Three signals ring out. The person picks up at the fourth. A moment of complete silence follows.

"Hello?" Geralt says. 

The voice from his dreams replies, “Hello, Geralt.”

Everything around him goes to a complete standstill. His heart begins hammering in his chest, his hands tremble, and he has to sit down. Roach puts her head in his lap and he pets her, grateful to hold on to her.

“Jaskier?” he asks in disbelief.

“Hi.”

There’s so much caution in his tone that it could be mistaken for gentleness and Geralt has to swallow hard. “Hi,” he croaks out.

They don’t speak for a few long seconds again. There are so many things Geralt wishes to say that he’s unable to muster a single word. Jaskier finally takes pity on him, huffs, and says, “I’m sure you’re wondering how come I have your number.”

“Yeah,” Geralt answers, willing both his brain and vocal cords to finally work. “How?”

“See, it began with a seemingly innocent meet and greet,” Jaskier replies. “Imagine my surprise when Yennefer fucking Vengeberg, of all people, somehow got hold of my private number and called me to demand an entry to the meet and greet I’d soon be doing in Kaedwen, quite near where you lived. Which is also how I found out that my childhood friend, who also happens to be my ex, had a daughter with her.” Geralt cringes in guilt. Jaskier continues mercilessly, “An actual kid that I didn’t know of, who then shows up, with her hair like yours, and gives me – ”

Jaskier cuts off his own chatter and gives an irritated sigh. Torturous silence falls between them again. Geralt takes a deep breath, a long-overdue apology at the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier speaks first.

“Ciri did something very out of line,” he says seriously. “She... handed me an envelope. There was a note with your number and a letter inside it.”

His body goes utterly still, frozen in dread. “A letter?” he hears himself ask.

“A letter which I don’t think I was supposed to read.”

The meaning of the words registers. Right there and then, in the quiet of the changing room, his world completely falls apart. In the aftermath, he finds himself unable to speak – his throat is so constricted that air barely passes through. Roach shifts closer with a whimper.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, so awfully softly. “Are you all right? Can you talk?”

This is what truly breaks him, in the end: Jaskier remembers things like that and is so kind to him still, even though Geralt hurt him. Geralt only earned the opposite of the consideration Jaskier shows him and it strikes somewhere deep. It’s the most heart-warming heartbreak possible.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he grapples for words, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I – ”

“You didn’t know,” Jaskier explains for him. “It’s okay. Well, not really, but Ciri had good intentions. I must say, the lengths she’s willing to go for you are truly impressive. I seriously wouldn’t want to get into this girl’s black books.”

Geralt snorts at the comment, the little splash of humour easing some of the tension inside him. “I apologize for her behaviour,” he says, tired more than anything else now.

“It’s not me apologies should be for,” Jaskier replies. “And anyway, she’s still a child. How old is she? Thirteen?” Geralt hums in assent. “There are things she doesn’t understand yet. For her, it’s just... that easy.”

He’s so patient and understanding that Geralt wants to scream. Show me your rage, for fuck’s sake, he wishes to yell, say something hurtful, do something that will finally make me stop loving you, dammit.

“It’s not though, is it?”

“No,” Jaskier answers, quiet, simple and brutal. “I can’t just... come back to – This doesn’t fix things.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt agrees. He strokes the fur on Roach’s neck, grounding himself in the touch because he feels unsteady. This situation feels like living in a nightmare you can’t wake up from. It’s also possibly the only chance he will get to, in fact, fix things, at least to a small degree. So, he counts to five and dives into it, “I am sorry, though. For... causing you pain when I broke up with you. For the things I said at the airport. They were unfair and uncalled for, and I regret it. Jaskier, I... I regret this more than anything else in my life.”

“You were afraid,” Jaskier adds gently. “That’s okay. I understood that. I just hoped – ”

He doesn’t say, only sniffs.

“What?” Geralt prompts.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jaskier dismisses, voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he says, “But... thank you for the apology. It’s accepted and appreciated.” Geralt hums, his whole body sagging in such relief that he’s suddenly like a puppet with no strings. Jaskier chukles wetly. “I’m actually glad we had this conversation, you know? It’s good to have this... closure.”

“Yes,” Geralt chimes in hoarsely, not trusting his voice to anything more.

“I’m also glad that I heard from you,” Jaskier goes on. “It’s wonderful to know that you’re doing so well. You’re so brave. You’ve always been. I’m very proud of you, darling.”

There’s a wounded noise at the back of his throat before he can stifle it. Don’t give me any more tenderness, he nearly begs, I can’t take it when you’re saying goodbye, stop it.

Jaskier doesn’t stop. “And in your devastating letter, you said that... That...”

“That you make me brave.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers pleadingly, asking him not to say it.

“Jaskier,” he murmurs, letting his ache for him show for once.

They breathe heavily together.

“I... I am happy,” Jaskier confesses then, “Sometimes. Most often when I think of you.”

With that, he hangs up.

Neither of them could bear any more anyway.

Chapter Text

This part of Kaedwen is beautiful in winter. Geralt stands at the top of a tall hill, taking a good while to admire the landscape while Roach wanders nearby. The forests and meadows around make a stunning picture, completely covered in snow. He’s lived in this place for most of his life but the beauty of nature here never ceases to amaze him. It’s a good thing that he hasn’t got used to it, he supposes.

There are worse things you could find yourself unable to grow used to, he knows.

A herd of roe deer darts out from bushes a few hundred yards away, jumping through the snow with breathtaking grace. Geralt suddenly feels a strange, primal urge deep within him. It incites to chase after the roe deer, to join them, but it dies down when the herd disappears into the shelter of a cluster of trees.

Shaking his head, Geralt decides to resume his exercise. He calls Roach to his side with a sharp whistle and starts jogging back home. It’s an unhurried, relaxing run that allows his mind to slip into a near-meditative state. The much-needed mental rest puts him in good mood, and he reaches the house with a smile on his face. 

Only to see a car he doesn’t recognise parked next to his own.

The presence of a sleek Aston Martin in an atrocious shade of purple in his driveway makes no bloody sense. When he notices the Redanian number plate, a possible explanation causes his gut to twist in anxiety.

The conversation on the phone, which was supposed to be a closure but didn’t resolve a thing,  happened two months back. Neither of them reached out since. A new year began a few weeks ago, the seventh since they law saw each other in person.

He walks into the house with his heart hammering in his chest, noticing a bright blue coat hanging in the hallway. Roach sniffs curiously at the pair of boots belonging to the guest. They’re clearly a man’s shoes and Geralt can’t believe what this could mean.

Then, when he hears three voices coming from the living room, the reality becomes more surreal. He recognises all three of them. There’s Yennefer and Ciri, and someone who can’t possibly be here. The voice from his dreams draws him closer. It sounds melodious and sonorous, and –

Its owner is even more heart-stoppingly gorgeous than Geralt remembers.

The beard is new. Thick and short-trimmed, it works extremely well for his face, especially with his hair that curls at the top of his ears. He appears more mature like this, his handsomeness as prominent as the fae-like beauty of his features. Geralt spends a good few seconds staring, unable to comprehend how attractive Jaskier is.

Then, the realisation fully hits him. Jaskier is sitting in his living room. Having tea with Yennefer and Ciri, judging by the cups on the coffee table. 

Belatedly, Geralt becomes aware of the picture he himself must make – wearing sweaty jogging clothes, gaping like a fish taken out of water.

Before he can react, Jaskier stands up. “Geralt – ” he begins.

“I should – ” Geralt cuts in but doesn’t manage to say anything more. When no words come to him, he promptly turns around and flees to the bathroom upstairs.

I should go change, he wanted to say, though he understands that only when he’s in the middle of taking his pants off. Geralt tosses them away with too much force, annoyed at himself. It’s pitiful how easily he reverts back to being his younger self, near-mute in certain situations, even though he’s got several medals under his belt. He lets the embarrassment pass through him as he takes a quick shower, puts on something more presentable, and brushes his hair.

Once he rejoins the rest downstairs, he’s much calmer. Not fully collected but steady enough to face Jaskier again.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, taking a seat between Yen and Ciri on the couch. Roach plops down at his feet. “I needed – ”

“It’s okay,” Jaskier hastens to reassure. Flashing a nervous smile, which inevitably makes Geralt’s heartbeat stutter, he adds, “I know my visit is very unexpected. I just... I was in the area anyway and I – I...”

He trails off. Geralt notices that he’s rubbing his thumbs against his forefingers. The mannerism, though a sign of Jaskier’s anxiousness, causes a wave of warmth to spread through his body, easing the tension inside him as it goes.

Suddenly, he’s just so fond of the man sitting across from him. The little gesture is all it takes for this love of his to return with the force of a roaring fire, and he feels like such a fool that he has to look away.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Geralt, could we talk in private for a second?” he asks softly.

Geralt, a dreader of serious conversations, must’ve blanched despite his pale complexion, because Jaskier quickly reassures, “Don’t worry, I just want to give you something.”

You already gave me too much hope, Geralt thinks, angrier with himself than anything else.

With a nod, he leads Jaskier to the room that serves as the house’s little library and Yennefer’s office whenever she stays here and works remotely. After the door closes behind them, Geralt takes a moment to steel himself, clutching at the handle. When he finally looks at Jaskier, he’s glad he hasn’t let go of it.

Jaskier is surveying the books, seemingly engrossed in it, and Geralt’s affection for him flares once more. Jaskier’s eyes travel from one title to another. Geralt watches him, holding onto the handle for dear life, barely able to breathe. In his mind, he’s brave enough to say, you bright, curious thing, how I missed you –

Jaskier catches him staring and gives an embarrassed chuckle. “Ah, sorry. There are more books than I remember.” He glances around the room. “The whole house looks different.”

“I renovated it with Eskel and Lambert a few years ago,” he replies, gratefully jumping onto the chance for a light conversation.

“Oh, Eskel and Lambert... How are they?” Jaskier asks, a touch wistful.

His brothers still ask about Jaskier sometimes, with the same pensiveness, but Geralt would rather not think about that. “They’re good. Both got married.”

Jaskier gasps. “Both? Eskel, that I can easily believe, but Lambert? Who the hell signed up for that?”

The playfulness in Jaskier’s tone is contagious. Geralt chuckles. “A saint or a madman, I’m still not sure which one applies,” he replies, earning himself a lovely giggle.

“A perfect match for Lambert then,” Jaskier laughs.

He looks captivating like this, eyes crinkled and shining with good humour. Geralt can only hum in response, drinking in the sight of him happy.

I am happy, the words come to Geralt’s mind unbidden, Most often when I think of you.

Jaskier shakes his head with a smile, then his amusement falters. Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m sorry, again, for this unexpected visit. I just... I wrote you this.” He takes an envelope out of a pocket of his cardigan. “I couldn’t trust anyone to deliver it safely to you.”

The letter shakes slightly, held in Jaskier’s unsteady grip. Geralt stares at it, fear creeping up in his gut.

“I, well...” Jaskier goes on. “After our last conversation, there was too much left that I wanted to say. I figured that talking about – ” He gestures between them. “ – would be much easier for you this way. For me too, frankly. It’s all... a lot.”

Geralt nods; it’s impossible to disagree with that. Cautiously, he takes the envelope from Jaskier. It’s a simple, light thing – just paper and ink – but the thought of opening it overwhelms him.

“Read it when you’re ready,” Jaskier adds. The way he understands him without words shouldn’t have Geralt aching the way it does. “I will wait as long as it takes.”

He downright proclaims it, with an air of such gravity, like he wants Geralt to read into it. Geralt can’t bear it and turns away. He puts the letter on the nearest shelf and hears Jaskier release a shaky sigh behind him. Then, a murmur, “I haven’t written anything bad. I promise, okay?”

But it can’t be what I want to hear, Geralt thinks bitterly. A quiet “okay” is all the response he can muster.

“Well, then,” Jaskier says, brisk out of the blue. “I think I should get going. I hate driving after dark in winter and I’ve still got some way to go.”

Surprised, Geralt swivels to face him. “You’re leaving already?”

Jaskier gives him a pained, apologetic smile. “I’d really rather get to Ard Carraigh before night falls.”

Geralt’s throat constricts in a silent, helpless plea of Don’t go, please don’t go.

I’m so sorry, Jaskier’s eyes seem to reply.

Geralt doesn’t ask why he’s in such a rush. The answer might be that someone’s waiting for him in Ard Carraigh. Ignorance is indeed bliss in this case.

After Jaskier says goodbye to Yennefer, Ciri and Roach, Geralt walks him to his car. Every second both drags out and slips away as they stand next to the atrocity of an Aston, snow falling around them.

The coat Jaskier’s wearing really brings out his eyes. Snowflakes pepper his hair, standing out starkly against the dark locks. Geralt suddenly wants to cross the distance between them and ruffle Jaskier’s hair to shake the snow out of it. This could prompt a snow fight. Ciri would join them. By the end of it, Jaskier’s clothes would be soaked through and he’d have to stay.

 “It’s been good to see you,” Jaskier says softly, snapping him back to reality.

Geralt has to swallow hard. “Yeah,” he rasps. “You too.”

The desire to touch Jaskier returns – as strong as the primal urge to follow the herd of roe deer was – but Jaskier is already turning towards the door of his car. Before Geralt knows what he’s doing, he catches Jaskier’s gloved palm in his own ungloved hand.

Jaskier jerks a little, staring at their joined hands with wide eyes. Geralt tries to think of anything to say that wouldn’t make Jaskier pull away.

“Drive safe,” he manages.

Jaskier nods. “I will.” With that, he turns his palm in Geralt’s grasp and intertwines their fingers together.

They hold hands properly now, like they used to, and that gives Geralt courage. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he steps closer to Jaskier. “Visit us again when you can,” he says, though he means that in the most selfish way.

The sparkle of joy lights up Jaskier’s gaze, like mere minutes ago in the library. “I’ll be happy to,” he replies.

The sentiment is both so deep and earnest – it shows in his smile, in the way his eyes shine – that Geralt’s chest swells with fondness yet again. Feeling like a fool once more, Geralt is about to say goodbye and walk back to the house, but Jaskier chooses this moment to raise Geralt’s hand to his mouth.

His eyelids flutter shut as he plants a tender kiss on Geralt’s knuckles. The touch of Jaskier’s warm lips on his cold, bare skin can’t last only a moment. This is enough to set his nerves on fire, have him burning with what he holds for Jaskier in his heart until he can’t draw air.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasps, unable to take any more hope.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, his stuttering breath ghosting over Geralt’s skin.

Nothing else is said. Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand, then lets it go. After smiling at Geralt one lat time, he gets into his car and drives away.

A word more would be too much anyway.

***

Ciri doesn’t want to discover anyone’s secrets ever again for the rest of her life. Apologising to her Dad for what she’d done was more than terrible. Her Mum lectured her about respecting the privacy of others thoroughly too.

And yet. Curiosity is at times a terrible thing.

It happens accidentally, like before. In the evening, two days after Jaskier’s unexpected visit, she goes downstairs to grab a glass of water before going to sleep. She’s light on her feet, so her parents don’t hear her as she passes the room from which she hears their voices. What makes her pause is the fact that they speak in this specific tone they use for serious conversations.

“Yen,” Dad says tiredly.  

“Don’t “Yen” me, Geralt,” Mum replies. “You’re too closed off ever since he came. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.” Silence. It feels expectant to Ciri even through the wall. Her Dad sighs and admits, “He wrote me a letter.”

“And?” Mum prompts.

No answer again. Ciri knows she should walk away, but curiosity gets better of her. She waits. Her father doesn’t say anything.

“You haven’t read it,” Mum concludes. No refutation comes. “Geralt,” she chides, though very gently, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Have you ever seen the way he looks at you? It’s sickening.”

Ciri smirks, knowing exactly what her mother means. Watching her father and Jaskier look at each other was unbearable; an unexpected torture of witnessing the true definition of pining with her own eyes.

“I have my life and he has his own,” Dad answers quietly. “It may be too late. I don’t – I don’t want to get my hopes up. To have him back for a moment without being able to keep him.”

“That’s still something,” Mum retorts, soft and vulnerable. “Having someone you love for a while is better than not at all.”

“Oh, Yen – ”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he retorts firmly. “I regret I couldn’t give you all you wanted. What you deserved.”

“Aw, Geralt,” Mum coos, her voice like velvet, “You’re always so willing to please. Don’t worry your pretty head over it, you’ve pleased me plenty.”

Dad chuckles, low-pitched and equally flirtatious.

Ciri makes a hasty retreat, her cheeks flaming. Hearing her parents talk like that is a punishment enough for her nosiness.

***

Dearest Geralt,

On warm summer nights, when there are no clouds in the sky, I look at the sky but see very few stars. Light pollution in the city is terrible, especially when you know how dark it can actually get a few hours after the sun sets.

Still, I do gaze at the sky, and my memory fills in all the star-less places with shocks of constellations. In my mind’s eye, I see the whole Milky Way. I can imagine it so clearly even years after – lying on the ground with your warmth at my side and icy light above my head.

I remember, too. I remember everything as well.

I remember that you never woke me up in the mornings; you would get up before me because you liked to exercise early, but you always did it very quietly since you knew I liked to sleep in. I remember how beautifully you laughed. How you’d buy me any snack I’d off-handedly mentioned to like. The grace and power in all your movements. The warmth in your gaze when you looked at me that made me want to weep.

The twelve weeks in your remote Keadwen home come alive in my memory especially often. I like to recall the cooking, the walks, the pranks we pulled on each other, and so much more. How I could make you moan my name in desperation while the food was baking in the oven, the way you pressed me up against a tree on more than one occasion. The fact that I got to witness you being so relaxed and playful.

I couldn’t have been more mad about you.

That night, my chest was fit to burst with it. As we lay there and talked about being the children of the universe, made of its particles, I realised that I was the happiest I’d ever been. The feeling I experienced was so overwhelming that it needed a way out, so I blurted out those words that I knew would hurt us both. Darling, I pray that you forgive me for breaking our hearts at that moment, but I wanted it too badly.

You must not blame yourself, though, do you hear me? If you ever held any affection for me at all, I demand only this: do not blame yourself for a second more.  

You’re not your illness, Geralt. You’re not a coward, and you never have been. You’re the bravest person I know. Your strength and courage to keep trying has always blown my mind. You never let it show how difficult anxiety made it for you to function. It would take away your voice at times, but you pushed through. It would paralyse you when you fought with another martial artist, yet you never gave up.

It cost you so much to stand by me on the tour, always on the move, with so many strangers around. You got through it because you wanted to be with me but you shouldn’t have felt like you had to do that. I should’ve seen through your dismissal of my concerns. Had I been a better partner, I would’ve encouraged you to try therapy. I would’ve helped you in your struggles, not exposed you to more situations that you found extremely stressful.

This is why I stayed away, after. Being with me will always come at the price of some of level of scrutiny, which I don’t think anyone is able to endure constantly. I myself grow tired of it at times, leave alone a person who deals with severe social anxiety. So, I came to the decision that if I could ever talk to you again, it had to be on your terms. You had to be ready to return to me, in whatever way you wished.

I really hoped you would come back, that is. I reasoned that you needed me as much as I needed ou. That we’d been friends for far longer than we’d been lovers, so you wouldn’t mind remaining my friend. At the same time, I feared that you came to a more reasonable conclusion: that you were better off without me.

But I waited and hoped, and tried to fill the gaping hole in my chest with love from others. I build my own family as well, of sorts. It’s much less straightforward than in your case. I have Priscilla, a woman I cherish. There’s Essi as well, a found little sister/protegee. Me and Pris adore her. They do bring me happiness.

Yet, they’re not you. There always remains an emptiness inside me that is shaped like you. You, with your quick mind, dry jokes, such kind heart, and stunning looks on top of that. No one quite compares to you. Nothing compares to being held in your arms, your lips brushing against my forehead, your fingers drifting down my spine, and...

 I’m quite sure you know where this train of thought goes. It’s a direction my thoughts often take when I think of you, especially on quiet nights, when I’m alone in my bedroom, though I think of you in other circumstances as well. Almost all the time, I must confess.

Despite this, I sternly kept telling myself to leave you alone – which is a rare show of self-discipline in my case – but sometimes, I missed you too much.

In those moments, I clung to every bit of you I could find. I watched you participate in martial arts championships and I couldn’t get enough of you. You were magnificent during fights, and you’d even give interviews sometimes, always so professionally. I couldn’t get enough of you, even though your successes also affirmed my belief that it was better for you when I stayed away.

If only I’d known. I could’ve saved us so much grief if I’d had more courage. If I’d reached out to you, made the effort to actually find what you wanted instead of believing in my assumptions, I would’ve discovered that you ached for me just as I ached for you.

And ache for you I do. Fuck, Geralt, I so wish to be able to hold you again. To kiss your knuckles and tell you just how worthy you are. To make you smile and hear you laugh. I wish I could try to bring you joy for all the heartache you went through. I wish I could earn to deserve you, deserve your love.

I wish I could ask you again, too.

Fuck, that’s silly though, isn’t it? It’s not that easy.

The letter cuts off here, clearly unfinished. The paper shakes, held in trembling hands.

Then, a phone number is dialled. When the call gets answered, a question is asked immediately.

“Where are you?”

Chapter Text

Being in a hotel room with Jaskier is achingly familiar. It brings him back to the time when they started being together, so many years ago, and Geralt travelled with Jaskier on a tour. Jaskier’s hotel rooms were the only place where they could be alone for a while.

Now, they aren’t alone. As Jaskier walks him through his suite – in one of Ard Carraigh’s five-star hotels – two voices come from the living room. Jaskier leads him there and soon, Geralt beholds two women sitting at the coffee table. They’re gorgeous, blue-eyed blondes: one young, barely out of girlhood, the other with a mature kind of beauty. Their stares on him – both critical and appreciative – make Geralt hyper-aware of himself. Shuffling awkwardly, he regrets not taking Roach with him and prays in his mind for the silence to end. Which is, thankfully, exactly what happens.

“This is Priscilla,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the older woman, who inclines her head. “And this is Essi.” He points to the younger one, who gives Geralt a cheerful wave.

His family, Geralt realises. He opened Jaskier’s letter yesterday but read it so many times already that he knows by heart at this point, which is why he recognizes the names immediately.

“Hello,” he croaks out.

His voice sounds awful and strained, which causes him to cringe internally. Rationally, he knows he shouldn’t experience self-consciousness of this level. Yet, these are the people most important to Jaskier and Geralt would rather be in their good graces. This does not seem to be the case, though, with how coldly Priscilla looks at him.

“So you’re the one who broke our Jaskier,” she says, standing up from her seat.

“Pris,” Jaskier warns.

“Broke?” Geralt asks, confused and concerned.

The way Priscilla approaches him reminds him of a lioness stalking towards her prey. He has to fight the urge to cower.

“You have no idea how much you hurt him, do you?” she murmurs as she stands close. It’s not a question, with how she says it, so Geralt doesn’t reply. “What you said to him broke his spirit,” she goes on. “You have no fucking idea how many people had to fight for the light to return to his eyes.”

Geralt looks to Jaskier, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Priscilla,” Jaskier snaps, his expression thunderous. “Didn’t you and Poppet want to have coffee in the restaurant downstairs?”

“We can order room service,” she retorts.

A staring match between the two ensues. Neither appears willing to relent and Essi steps in, getting up and looping her arm together with Priscilla’s. “Come,” she says and leads Priscilla out.

“He’d better be smiling when we come back,” Essi mutters to Geralt, a threatening glint in her eye. Somehow, she’s even more terrifying than Priscilla.

Once the door to the suite closes, a heavy silence settles in the living room. Jaskier sits down at the coffee table with a sigh and stays uncharacteristically quiet.  

“What did she mean?” Geralt asks finally, though he fears he knows the answer.

Jaskier pours himself a glass of water, takes a sip. Then, at last, he says, “What you said to me at the airport... It made so much sense back then.”

After the paparazzi cornered them unexpectedly, Geralt lost his temper and accused Jaskier of being the source of all the problems in his life. The words about life’s one blessing and shovelling shit resurface like a slap to the face – his greatest mistake.

“I – Jaskier,” Geralt says, helpless under the weight of his guilt. Any and every apology seems insufficient. No words seem to make sense. “I’m – How do you – How can you – ”

How can you even look at me without disgust, he thinks, after what I’ve done to you?

But Jaskier’s gaze only holds sadness and understanding, which is so much worse. “I knew you didn’t mean it. I knew you were afraid. What took a while to process was that you seemed to be right. I only brought you extreme stress with the tour, the paps, everything. Shovelling shit, indeed.”

“No,” Geralt denies immediately, vehemently. “That’s not true. Never has been.”

There’s no sign in Jaskier’s eyes that he believes him. “I failed you. You didn’t think you were worthy of me and I should’ve... found a way, to make you understand how highly I thought of you in a way that would reach you.”

Jaskier seems truly miserable about this and it makes something crack inside Geralt’s chest. He rushes to sit down at Jaskier’s side, then puts a hand on his arm in a comforting gesture. He can hear the hitch of Jaskier’s breath. The warmth of his body seeps through his thin t-shirt and Geralt knows that now, letting him go will be near impossible.

 “You could never fail me,” he assures. Jaskier doesn’t appear convinced, so he settles for brutal honestly. “You couldn’t have found a way to communicate that. I had too many issues to work on.”

The words make both of them wince but it’s the truth.

“And now?” Jaskier asks. “You do know now that you’ve always been more than worthy, don’t you?” His tone is so hopeful that it hurts. “Right, Geralt?”

He says it like he wants to believe it so badly. Like he wants to –

Geralt swallows hard. Yen encouraged him to try, to fight even if moments with Jaskier is all he’ll get, but it’s so hard. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear losing him – his heart – again. He needs something more to hold on to before he takes this leap. This is why he says, “Your letter. It’s unfinished.”

“Just like yours,” Jaskier points out, his stare glued to the coffee table in front of them.

They both know why. There was too much left to say; wishes and dreams too great to be contained in paper and ink, in any words at all.

 “What didn’t you say?” he asks.

Jaskier purses his lips and Geralt takes his hand away, finally, to give him a moment. As he waits, he admires Jaskier’s profile. The line of his nose is smooth and perfectly curved. His eyelashes are surprisingly long. The shade of his irises seems to march the light of the grey afternoon.

Then, Jaskier raises his chin up and squares his shoulders. He’s so brave in this moment, Geralt can see, and he loves him so.

 “We could make this work,” Jaskier proclaims. “This time.”

The world rearranges itself around these words in a hurricane of thoughts. Amidst it all, Geralt is grounded by Jaskier’s eyes on him, such a warm blue now.

“How?” he hears himself say.

“I could... Support you during your training and championships. Stand by your side while you work.” 

The wheels in Geralt’s head are turning even more: that would be a considerable sacrfice and Geralt could never cage a songbird. “But... Your music. What about it?”

A small smile of those pretty lips, a tiny shrug of those strong shoulders. “I will always make it, wherever I go.”

That doesn’t seem right, and Jaskier notices him thinking that. With a sigh, he elaborates, “Geralt, I must admit I’m quite... Tired. So many tours and four albums in all these years and... After I found in the letter that there was hope, I finally admitted to myself just how much I treated my career as a distractor. I worked myself to the ground not to remember what I was missing.”

Geralt never thought he would be looked at as though he’s someone’s missing piece. Yet, this is what he sees in Jaskier’s expression now: the longing he himself knows as well as breathing, the pleading to finally end it.

“Could we try?” Jaskier whispers. “We’ll make this work. We’ll find a way.”

He says it with such conviction that Geralt wholly gives in to all the hope he’s been holding back. His hands tremble as they cradle Jaskier’s face. Dreams don’t become reality like this; it’s too good to be true. And yet, as he runs his thumbs over Jaskier’s cheeks, his skin is warm and smooth to the touch. His beard is surprisingly soft. It’s real.

“Jaskier,” he whispers, a prayer that finally, he feels, will be answered.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes.

This time, they allow for the gravity between to pull them towards each other all the way. Their mouths meet in a slow, tentative kiss, but then Jaskier’s lips part, their tongues touch, and all caution is thrown to the wind. Geralt whispers I’m sorry into Jaskier’s skin and apologizes again with every kiss. Jaskier replies I forgive you with all his touches and says I missed you with each roll of his hips.

They sure are both smiling when Priscilla and Essi return.

***

Ciri suspects that she has been cursed to unintentionally discover secrets.

See, she’s just been scrolling through Twitter. She had to take a break after thoroughly tidying her room; they’re having guests tomorrow. Essi and Priscilla are coming to stay with them for a few days and Ciri has a film marathon planned with Essi on the bed among her vast collection of pillows. So now, Ciri is tired. When she mindlessly checks what’s trending, she notices a word she didn’t recognise: “Geraskier”. All the while she does some research to find out what the term refers to, her eyes get progressively wider and wider.

With a soft gasp of what the actual fuck, she rushes downstairs. She seeks out her Mum, finding her relaxing on a porch with a book, grateful that her Dad and Jaskier have left to take Roach for a long walk.  

“People are shipping Dad and Jaskier,” she blurts out.

Mum frowns, perplexed. “People are doing what?”

Ciri tells her what she’s seen: people questioning Jaskier’s presence among her Dad’s team at the last championship (which the two came back from two days ago), others claiming that the White Wolf present in Jaskier’s recent love songs could be her Dad.

(And that, well. That assumption is perfectly correct. Ever since her Dad got back with Jaskier a year and a half ago, they haven’t publicly announced their relationship, but Jaskier has released a ton of thinly-veiled love songs dedicated to him).

“What do I do with this?” she asks after explaining everything. 

“Well,” Mum replies, “You could just tell them. I think they are likely to know this already. Or Jaskier, at least. If this shipping is as popular as you say it is, his team must be aware of it. They’ve probably told him.”

“Right,” Ciri mumbles, feeling silly. It should’ve been obvious, now that Mum pointed it out. “Of course.”

Her mother must sense her embarrassment because she gets up and rubs her back with her hand. “Thank you for coming to me with this,” she says. Then, she chuckles. “Geraskier,” she pronounces in a gravelly voice, imitating Geralt hilariously. They both giggle.

“I’m glad you did this, in the end,” she adds, her tone wistful. “It’s so good for them.” Her being herself, she adds to the softness with a sharp, “Gods know your father would’ve been insufferable for eternity otherwise.”

Ciri smiles wryly. “I wish I could do something for you too.”

Mum kisses her on the forehead. “You already have, sweet child.”

Ciri would let this slide as a way of finishing the conversation because that’s what loving parents say, but there’s that look in her mother’s eye. A knowing, amused twinkle.

“Mama?” Ciri asks, intrigued.

“What would you say about the name...” Mum makes a pause, humming playfully. “Yencilla?”

It takes her a second to decipher the word but then everything clicks. Ciri gasps in shock. She was too busy liking Essi to notice all the signs: how often her Mum and Priscilla have actually arranged those visits of “Jaskier’s ladies” to Kaer Morhen, the coquetting way the two women bantered.

 “Mama!”

Her mother laughs, loud and joyful. “Now, now, ducking,” she says. “Me and Pris still want to wait a little before telling the boys, but I trust you to keep a secret.”

She can feel herself beaming. “Tell me everything.”

Mum does so with a wicked, proud grin. This time, Cirilla is more than glad to have found out about a secret.

***

The night is warm. No clouds shield the shocks of stars of the Milky Way from view. As Geralt and Jaskier lay down on a blanket in the back garden, the silence between them is heavy. Jaskier suggested doing this with a nonchalance that clearly had been practised and Geralt can sense how tense he is even now, when they’re supposed to relax.

This should not make Jaskier so nervous, Geralt thinks with bemusement, unless –

He stops that train of thought firmly. They returned to each other three years ago and it’s been working out well, but Jaskier doesn’t have to mean anything by doing this. Geralt tells himself not to hope for history to repeat itself. It takes bravery to hope.

Then –

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, sonorous and beautiful just like a decade ago, when they did this last time. Geralt only musters a hum, and Jaskier takes his hand, squeezing it with a surprising amount of strength, as though he needed to hold onto something.

“Do you... do you still wish?”

Geralt is glad that he’s lying down; were he standing up, his legs would give under him. The constellations above are almost spinning from how much his head swims with sheer, unadulterated joy.

“I do,” he replies, hoarse and breathless.

A moment of silence, a stutter of Jaskier’s sigh.

“Me too.”

Jaskier is so brave. Putting all of himself on the line, he whispers, “Will you marry me?”

Geralt is too. “Yes,” he answers.

Jaskier giggles – it sounds so giddy – and Geralt laughs too. Then, they kiss, and kiss some more, and make love under the open sky. The stars, twinkling merrily above them, bear witness to no heartbreak this time. Instead, there are these two souls, mended at last.