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The mountain incident had been months ago and Geralt had finally found him. It had plagued him all winter, Lambert teasing him and Eskel giving him disappointed looks. They had not met the bard, but they were well aware of him. And so here he was, outside a house in Lettenhove gaining the courage to knock.
When he finally did knock, he could hear a shuffling inside. Taunting Geralt, the door was opened hesitantly and the smell of confusion hit his nose. Jaskier’s face peeked out for a fraction of a second before the door slammed. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t open enough to be, but it still put the message across. He could hear the other’s heart beat speed up and a spike in fear cut through the confused scent.
Much to the witcher’s surprise and hopefulness the door was reopened. Though Jaskier was already walking away from it.
“Come in before I change my mind.”
Geralt’s heart broke at the sharp dullness in his voice, the assaulting smell of sadness radiating off of the usually cheerful bard. He did as told, walked in and shut the door.
“Why are you here, Geralt?”
“Jaskier-fuck-Jask I came to apologise. I’m sorry, for the mountain. And for treating you like horse shit during our travels. Fuck, Jaskier, I’m sorry.” The lump in his throat ground up his words, he managed them anyway. There was more, Gods there was so much more he wanted to say but the lump blocked his voice.
Jaskier still hadn’t turned around, still hadn’t faced him. “Okay,” his voice was so cold and distant that Geralt barely recognised it, “you’ve said your apology. Get out.” Even he didn’t know he could sound like this, especially not aimed at Geralt. Not aimed at the man he trusted his life with, the man he loved. But he was way past that now.
Without registering it, the witcher’s walls fell. Quickly closing the gap between them and turning the troubadour to face him. There wasn’t the cornflower blue he was head over heels for but an icy grey in his eyes instead. The witcher cried. Grasping at the bright doublet he sobbed into Jaskier’s shoulder.
“I miss you, so fucking much Jask!” He held his hands and brought them up. “I miss these hands,” he kissed the tan knuckles, “I miss how well they play the lute.” Another sob. “How they stitched me up or braided my hair.” He kissed the bard’s cheek. “I miss your voice,” he moves his hands to cradle Jaskier’s head. “I miss your singing, how you can turn my boring hunts into epic tales.” A hand goes into the bard’s hair. “I miss your soft hair.”
He’d never heard the witcher say so much in one go. He’d never seen the witcher cry, he didn’t even know it was possible for him to do so. Seeing him, sobbing and worshiping him, begging for him back, he let a tear fall. That familiar overwhelming urge to make sure his witcher is okay, to protect him from the monsters he couldn’t fight with a sword swelled up. Flashes of the mountain showed, the words Geralt had spoken washed away that urge. Like a tsunami sweeping away a childhood home.
“Take me back. You don’t have to forgive me but please let me be yours again.” A hollow chuckle left Jaskier’s mouth.
“Again? Geralt, I never had you. I was always yours but you certainly weren’t mine. All I can see is you with her. You told me I was the worst thing in your life! You blamed me for your mistakes. I wasted twenty years wanting you and I still do but it hurts Geralt! I can’t let you hurt me anymore, I don’t deserve that.”
“I know. I’ve been a fool Jaskier, I threw away the most important thing in my life. I swear I will never hurt you again, I love you and I can’t let you go again.” Both of them were in tears, Geralt still gripping gently on to Jaskier.
“I can’t trust you. I want to, Gods know I love you too but I can’t. You run back to her again and again, you made it your destiny to be with her. I’m not a constant rebound.” Geralt let go.
“I don’t love her, yes we may meet frequently but I will never be with her like that again. I love you and I will make it up to you, treat you how you deserve!” A moment. “I can’t-I can’t lose you again.”
“I’m sorry. Please leave, Geralt. You’ve already lost me. Please get out before I get hurt again.”
If he sounded broken before, he was shattered now. Geralt wanted nothing more but to hold him close and let him cry. Jaskier shrugged off his hand and turned around again. He hadn’t realised he even reached out to the bard. He wanted nothing more than to hold him. Instead he walked out the door, just as told.
And if a few years later Geralt didn’t show up to Kear Morhen, instead drinking himself away in the corner of an inn in Posada, his brothers didn’t question it. After all, the news that the Continent’s most famous storyteller had finally sung his last song traveled like a wild fire.