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“No, Charlie. I said no.”
The child – Charlie, Jaskier presumes – wails louder in response, clinging to the display case of sweets like his life depends on it. Jaskier sighs and massages his temples. The building is old and gorgeous, but the arched ceiling and polished stone floor provides stunning resonance for all manner of things. Especially the cries of children.
Whoever thought to put the vending machine into one of the main hubs in the museum should be strangled.
But alas, there is nothing much Jaskier can do; he’s stuck here until Pris comes to relieve him, and while he’s been looking forward to that for several reasons, little Charlie and his mother quickly climb the ranks. How is one single child capable of such volume?
(Jaskier used to be worse, when he was tiny and forced into roles and confines he did not want to be in. It’s not enough to make him feel sorry for his parents, and he does his best to ignore the unwelcome pang of sympathy, too.)
Nobody, he thinks, can fault him for watching the other patrons hurrying through this little antechamber to hell with a certain jealousy. Well. Ten more minutes are survivable, even if they will feel like an eternity. People watching is somewhat of a distraction at least; most of the parents following their excited children share looks with each other or with Jaskier himself that very clearly say the same thing: thank the gods it’s not my child doing this.
Jaskier nods at the fathers who greet him and smiles at the mothers who smile at him, and almost chokes on thin air when he lays eyes on the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen – tall and broad, muscles straining against the short sleeves of his simple black shirt, with hair so light it appears white in the careful lighting of the museum. It’s not from age – oh no, Jaskier is certain it’s not age; while the man’s face is far from unblemished (though the vicious scar running down from near his temple to his cheekbone gives him a rugged, dangerous, delicious air), there is no wrinkle in sight.
What’s worse, though, is that he is dragged along by a small girl of maybe seven or eight. How is Jaskier supposed to refrain from swooning at such a sight? Even without the same pale skin and paler hair, it’s clear she’s the man’s daughter just from the softness in his gaze as he lets her pull him along.
And then they disappear down the next hallway, giving way to the hiccuping sobs from little Charlie who’s crying so theatrically that Jaskier’s strict theatre teacher would have been quite proud of him.
And Jaskier, who has never been able to hang on to his heart, knows he’s just lost a battle he hadn’t even been aware of commencing.
*
Jaskier is still caught somewhere between hearts-in-his-eyes and the satisfied resignation that comes from such whirlwind crushes when Pris shows up to relieve him.
She takes one look at him and sighs. “Really, Jas?”
Jaskier adopts the most down-trodden expression he can muster. “I didn’t even do anything!”
Pris rolls her eyes. “Let me guess – tall, white-haired, and gorgeous?”
He considers arguing, but in the end admits defeat in the face of Pris’s deep knowledge of him. “I don’t think I ever stood a chance.”
“Only you…” Pris shakes her head and pats his shoulder, amusement far outweighing sympathy on her face. They’ve known each other long enough that she’s well-acquainted with Jaskier’s flights of fancy where gorgeous people are concerned. “I saw him and his kid walk in the direction of the classroom, so… good luck?”
Jaskier snorts a laugh. “Good luck to not forget every word I’ve ever known when he’s in the audience, you mean?”
“Of course. Or maybe good luck making it on time.”
Jaskier glances at the clock on his phone screen and muffles a curse. Only powerwalking will save him now, probably. Damn Priscilla and her ability to utterly sidetrack him.
*
Tall-and-gorgeous and his kid are, indeed, among the people gathered in front of the very old-school classroom (see what Jaskier did there?) Jaskier’s hands-on exhibit takes place in. Jaskier, like the employed adult he is, does not falter at the sight, though it's a tight thing. He smiles at the gathered people before nodding at Dermain leaning against the wall next to the door. The room is unlocked and Dermain has a key besides, but he likes watching the people they will attempt to teach, taking their measure. Dermain is scarily good at that, better even than Jaskier.
“Good to see you,” Jaskier tells Dermain, taking care to keep his signs clean and visible. He doesn’t draw attention to it otherwise; it’s always fun to see the excitement from those people gathered here who do pick up on it, and for everyone else it’s a good lesson about being perceptive about their surroundings.
“And you,” Dermain replies. “Nervous?”
Jaskier makes a face at him. “Why would I be?”
A smirk hovers at the corner of Dermain’s lips, almost imperceptible except that Jaskier knows him well and holds him dear and also is subjected to this very expression way more often than is fair, really. “Swoon-worthy bard-bait?” Dermain uses the shorthand signs he came up with to convey the sentiment as he glances at tall-and-gorgeous, which is the only reason Jaskier doesn’t squawk at him. The risk that there’s someone in the audience who already knows High Oxenfurt Sign Language – Oxenfurt High or HOSL in short – is small, but it’s happened before, and while Jaskier likes to stay approachable, being embarrassed in front of his soon-to-be pupils is something he’d like to avoid.
He’d also like to avoid teaching his little charges swears as the first ever sign they acquire, so he sticks to sticking out his tongue at Dermain before turning to his audience.
“Welcome!” he says and adds the corresponding sign, slow and careful. Signing while speaking always takes a bit more mental load than his quick mouth can make up for, so he continues much slower than if he were only speaking. Still, he wouldn't do it any other way if they paid him. (… as long as they didn't offer too much money. Jaskier isn't starving, but he's still an artist.) “I take it you’re all here for the Demonstration of Oxenfurt High in Past and Present? If you’re not, I’m afraid I just conscripted you, so – hi! I’m Jaskier” – he finger spells his name and then demonstrates the sign Dermain bestowed upon him, letting his fingers uncurl like a flower unfurling its petals before swooping his hand down as in the sign for songbird – “and this is Dermain, and we’ll give you a glimpse at one of the many beautiful languages of our little country, in particular how it differs from Redanian Sign Language and its evolution over the years…”
*
Jaskier groans as he drops into one of the very uncomfortable chairs littering the classroom. He probably should be taking more care considering they are older than his great-great grandparents or some such stuff, but they’re there for a reason, which is to be used. And besides – they have several dozen (by which Jaskier means 467, give or take a few considering he had been made to count them a couple years ago by now) still cluttering up the cellars, so what would be one broken chair?
In any case, old as it may be, the chair bears his weight without complaint, and Jaskier is grateful for that. He loves these classes; loves teaching bright-eyed children and their sceptic parents their first signs, loves explaining how they’ve evolved, loves the rapt attention when Dermain demonstrates the poetry inherent in Oxenfurt High. Jaskier is good, he’s been told, but Dermain grew up with it, and there’s both an economy of motion and a fluidity to his signing that Jaskier can only dream of reaching.
Dermain’s signing is gorgeous, and it always makes Jaskier’s chest all warm and gooey like taffy left on a window sill when he sees that sentiment reflected in little children’s eyes. Their parents’, too, once they’ve chased the scepticism from them.
But he’s had to field half a dozen inquiries after proper classes, which they don’t have, except maybe they should because clearly, Jaskier and Dermain would make a great marketing team. Whether they’d be great teachers in a proper classroom setting, Jaskier doesn’t know, but the thought is undeniably alluring. Right up until he finishes one of these intro sessions and just needs a moment to himself.
“Don’t tell me little children defeated the mighty Jaskier?” Dermain smirks at him again.
The chair isn’t made for draping oneself over it dramatically, but Jaskier still manages. “Menaces, the lot of them.” He lets his signs slur a little more than usual, trying to convey just how exhausting it was.
“Too busy to refrain from staring at swoon-worthy bard-bait?”
Jaskier makes another face at his friend, who just laughs at him in return.
“Fuck you, too,” he signs back, which is as good an admission as anything. But Dermain is his friend, and he knows Jaskier too well, and classes where Jaskier’s traitorous heart has taken residence with one of the parents in attendance are always the most harrowing ones. Mostly because yes, Jaskier has to expend an ungodly amount of attention on drawing everyone in instead of talking only to one or two people.
“What’s that mean?”
Jaskier doesn’t flinch by the skin of his teeth (aided, in fact, by the uncomfortable chair where a flinch would probably result in a pulled muscle or something) but his heart kicks up a notch. Several notches. Maybe it also skips a beat. Fuck.
And of course it’s tall-and-gorgeous’s daughter standing in the doorway, eyes wide and curious and a wetness that looks an awful lot like averted tears clinging to her lashes. Her father, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen. Oh dear.
“Where’s your dad?” It’s a plea for distraction and genuine concern both, and while it works, Jaskier almost immediately wishes he’d taken more care with his words.
The girl’s lip wobbles, but she manages to keep her composure. It’s a blessing Jaskier is sure to thank the gods for even if he doesn’t believe in them, just because he’s had more than enough of crying children today. “I lost him.” She smiles bravely. “I’m sure he’ll come find me in a moment.”
Jaskier returns her smile. “And if not, we’ll put out a call for him on the PA.” He signs along with his words out of habit. “Do you have a name?”
“Ciri,” the girl says, frowning with her tongue poking out as she painstakingly finger spells her name.
Jaskier can’t help but beam which is echoed by Dermain.
“Nice to meet you, Ciri.”
Ciri can barely tear her gaze away from his signs, and so he repeats them, slow enough that every motion is visible. If this is all it takes to stave off more tears, he’ll gladly teach her (almost) any sign she wants to know.
“Want me to put out the call?” Dermain asks as he stands. “Need the loo anyway.”
Jaskier shrugs. “Sure,” he replies in sign-only, well-aware of Ciri’s gaze on his hands.
“What’s your dad’s name?” he asks Ciri out loud. “Dermain has to run an errand and will put out the call. Unless you’d prefer to go to the reception with him?”
Ciri gives him a startled look before shaking her head. “My papa’s name is Geralt.” She hesitates briefly and then finger spells the name, still slow and with great effort but already visibly improved. Jaskier feels way more proud than he has any right to. “And I’m sure he’ll be here any moment.”
“I’ll text you if he shows up,” Jaskier tells Dermain. “And in the meantime, I think Ciri is ready for a few more words.”
Ciri’s face lights up as she eagerly turns to Jaskier, which is why she doesn’t see Dermain’s parting words to ask about them. “Don’t let your heart get broken, songbird.”
It also means Jaskier can’t give an appropriate reply, so he settles on rolling his eyes and turning back to Ciri. “So we covered a few essential phrases, but to construct any sentence, you have to keep in mind that signing isn’t simply translating each word…"
*
Ciri’s father doesn’t show up before Dermain reaches the reception, but there can’t be more then a handful of minutes between the announcement crackling out of the loud speakers and the man in question showing up.
With very little to distract Jaskier, he’s even more gorgeous.
“Ciri!” The relief in tall-and-gorgeous’s – Geralt’s voice is palpable, and Ciri launches herself into his arms without hesitation. And Jaskier – Jaskier is powerless against his heart tripping even further towards the other man, which isn’t something he can be faulted for, now can he?
Geralt on his own already ticks all the boxes that make Jaskier go weak in the knees, and adding the small child clearly adoring him to the mix is just entirely unfair.
“Jaskier was showing me more signs!” Ciri exclaims and wriggles out of her father’s grasp, presumably to show him.
“And what a bright student she is.” Jaskier smiles and wills down his blush. He isn’t just flattering Geralt; Ciri truly is bright and eager to learn and a joy to teach. “Her teachers must be pleased to have her in class.”
For some reason, this makes Ciri giggle and Geralt smile a weary smile. “If only.” He sighs and pokes his daughter’s side which sets off another gale of giggles. “Where is this enthusiasm in your regular classes?”
Ciri’s giggle taper off as she heaves a sigh so world-weary it’s almost comical. “They’re boring,” she declares, which turns her attention for Jaskier’s demonstrations into the highest compliment someone like him could ask for. “Papa, can I take more lessons?”
“Mr. Jaskier said he doesn’t do lessons,” Geralt reminds her. Jaskier considers correcting the honorific – he’s just Jaskier, even if Mr. Jaskier in Geralt’s beautiful, deep, resonating voice makes him feel all fluttery – but before he can do so, Geralt turns to him. “Or do you do private lessons?”
“Uh – only for music,” Jaskier says, caught by surprise.
“Music?” Ciri turns to him with eyes full of excitement.
Jaskier smiles. “Yeah. Mainly singing and guitar, and cello.” He’d considered trying to teach the violin and viola, too, but he does not have the stomach – or the strength of ears – for that.
Ciri’s eyes have gone even wider. “Papa! I–”
Geralt sighs, just as weary as his daughter had been a moment ago. “We’ve been over this,” he says, but it’s in a tone Jaskier knows well. He’s heard it often enough passing by the gift shop, or overhearing kids wheedling a new instrument out of their parents despite the parents knowing full well that it won’t get played a lot unless they stay well on top of it.
He’s also heard it often enough to know that it still usually ends with the kids getting their way.
“I will practise. I promised you!”
Geralt sighs again, and Jaskier takes pity on him. “I can just give you my card.” It’s old-fashioned, yes, but it’s also netted him his first score of students, and it supplements the slowly-growing power of word-of-mouth nicely. He fishes one out of his pack and passes it over, trying to keep his heart under control when his fingers brush Geralt’s. “I have practice instruments for the first couple of weeks, and can hook you up with a music school to rent from.”
“And sign language?” Ciri’s hands have been hovering in front of her like she’s ready to sign, and while it’s halting and a bit out of shape, she does add the signs for HOSL correctly.
“I could be persuaded,” Jaskier says and winks at her.
“That was I,” Ciri exclaims excitedly and turns to her father, repeating the word almost perfectly. “And you keep saying I need more languages!”
Jaskier braces himself for something he’s heard often enough – that HOSL isn’t a real language or that it’s not necessary. But Geralt just sighs again. Jaskier hasn’t known him for long, but he still can’t shake the feeling it’s a very common sound for him. “That I have. But that is up to Mr. Jaskier. If he says he doesn’t do HOSL lessons, then you need to drop it.”
“But –”
“No buts.” Geralt’s voice is gentle but firm, and to Jaskier’s surprise, Ciri subsides with another sigh of her own. Yeah, they are undeniably related. “Anyway – thank you for keeping her, and thank you for the card.”
“It was a pleasure,” Jaskier says entirely honestly. “And you’re welcome.” There’s definitely a blush creeping up his cheeks now, and something about the small smile that creeps onto Geralt’s face makes him think it hasn’t gone unnoticed. But Geralt doesn’t call him out on it, just inclines his head.
“Ciri, say thank you to Mr. Jaskier.”
“Just Jaskier is fine,” Jaskier finally corrects, too late and too awkward.
At least Ciri is a very welcome distraction; she gives him a half-bow that could almost come out of one of the reenactment groups and smiles. “Thank you,” she signs, foregoing the spoken words in favour of a concentrated frown. “I look forward to music lessons!”
Geralt chuckles a little and gently pulls his daughter into his side. Jaskier’s heart stumbles in his chest, trying to keep its usual pace in the face of such concentrated adorableness. “We’ll definitely be in touch.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Jaskier says.
He watches Geralt and Ciri leave, and cannot shake the feeling that they’re taking his heart with them in a much more serious manner than his usual crushes.