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"He is so unbearably boring, I am tempted to bash my head against the wall every time he speaks!"
Jaskier looks up from the chords of his latest dissatisfying song —it isn't hard, his new garments force him to be as upright as he was as a young viscount being schooled in the proper etiquette at court. Anna Henrietta has walked in like she owns the place —which she does—, sheds her heavy shawl on the floor like it belongs there —someone else will pick it up—, and begins to pace.
"With barely a foot out of the carriage, it's all 'weapons this' and 'horsepower that' and droning on about the armies and the roads and— That is no way to start a state visit, now is it?" Jaskier obediently shakes his head, but doesn't reply. He knows it's not a question. "I tried to distract him, I really did. Offered to show him my gorgeous domain —and do you know what he did? We were right next to the blooming white rosebush and he talked to me about peasants and taxes, Julian. Peasants and taxes!" She dramatically throws herself on the bed. "I generously allow him to cross my borders, give him a tour of a land the likes of which his shit-stained nordling arse will never glimpse again, and he is only interested in politics and war. I am exhausted, dear, truly at my wits' end!"
"Who are you talking about, little weasel?"
"Radovid of Redania!" The string escapes his fingers, reverberates with a grave sound. She misinterprets his surprise. "Ah, of course, I hadn't told you. He arrived early this morn. The North is still fighting the emperor, and I suppose the idiot has the foolish hope—"
The air around him seems to have become too warm, then too scarce. Jaskier fiddles with the collar of the doublet, too unforgiving against his skin, but the relief of it is short-lived, it soon returns to its rigidness. He swallows, glancing at the nearby window —it's late February and Anna hates the cold with a passion, or what passes for cold in Toussaint. Still, he aches to open it, as if an icy wind would change things.
Radovid cannot be here. Jaskier will not have it. Refuses to even think about him at all, actually. Has already had to remind himself to forget him for months, while— He forces himself to come back to the present, to the luxurious, suffocating room.
"—again. Oh, gods. I cannot put up with him any longer than I have to," she whines. "I am hoping to avoid him until dinner at least."
"Dinner?"
Anarietta sighs. "Dull as dishwater as he may be, he is a king, I cannot exactly insult him by seating him far from us. He will sit at my right tonight, my darling. You will be on my left."
Jaskier gulps. No, no, he can't. He will find an excuse. He's ill, yes. His stomach is certainly churning like it's true.
"I— I'm not feeling too well, I think I might—"
"Oh, no, don't you dare!" She points a finger at him. "I know you don't give a damn about affairs of state, and I don't like to involve you in them, but this is a social matter. I'm certain he has heard about us. If you are not there, he might think I am hiding something. Or that I am ashamed. Ha! Me, worried about a Redanian donkey's opinion!"
"He might be offended by my presence," he replies, grasping at straws. "I am nothing but a lowly bard, and he—"
"Poppycock," Anarietta declares, nose wrinkling in that way that he had loved. Loves. Still loves. "You are a viscount. And if he is offended, good! He might stay less then! You will come."
There is no more argument after that. As she calls for tea, Jaskier fiddles with his lute, but inspiration, feeble as it had been, has left him bereft again. He puts it on the bed and realizes his hands are sweaty. Discreetly, he wipes them on his napkin.
He is going to see Radovid. Radovid is going to see him.
"What is he like?" The bread feels dry and sandy in his mouth. When she rolls her eyes, he quickly adds, "Besides boring."
"Ugh. It's hard to see anything past it." She determinedly stabs her cake. "Well-spoken, I suppose. Too serious, he's certainly earned his nickname. And he would be handsome if he did not look so tired. I mean, really, is it so hard to take care of one's appearance? Especially when one represents a kingdom?"
Jaskier clings to her words like he would a piece of flotsam in a storm, but they are not enough to keep himself from sinking. She said Radovid looked tired, is he alright? Does he know Jaskier is here? Has he ever thought about him in the months since they last spoke? All those thoughts cross his mind and refuse to be banished.
After kissing him with the promise of more tonight, she leaves. They both must prepare.
Jaskier has servants now. Well, they're the duchess' servants, but they serve him. People serve him. The concept is so foreign that he could almost forget he was born into it, but he feels like he's not even there as the boy —Lewis? Perceval. No, why is it never the same?— bathes and dresses him. The doublet was a gift, green with golden leaves, the colors of Toussaint. It is stiff and pristine. He has not been here long enough to break it in. He does not do much that could lead to stains or tears.
He comes back to himself, sharply, the moment Radovid's eyes lock on his.
He thinks he saw something in Radovid's face, a twitch, a tell, but if it was there, now it is gone. The banquet room is gorgeous as always. At least he thinks it probably is. He would love to pretend to examine the white garlands, the fancy tablecloths, but he can't look away. Like a fish reeled in, he floats towards his doom.
"…to start with, we do hope you will enjoy it. Ah." Anna Henrietta turns towards him with a smile. Being an official reception, he was not allowed to walk in with her. He thinks he would feel better if someone held his arm tightly. "Your Majesty, allow us to introduce Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Viscount de Lettenhove."
If Radovid is taken aback by any of the five surprises in that sentence, it does not show. His head barely moves in acknowledgement. Jaskier gives a perfect bow.
"Your Majesty." He would like to say more —Anna probably wants him to—, but he finds himself tongue-tied. This room is bigger, but there's more people. Still too warm.
"My lord," Radovid speaks for the first time, and fuck, Jaskier should have stayed in bed sick. He doesn't dare look up to see if Anarietta was right. Radovid does sound exhausted. But his voice is no less lovely.
Luckily, the duchess makes them all sit down, and the meal commences. The chatter and clatter around them are loud enough for Jaskier to merely nod and pretend to listen for a while. He can barely see Radovid. A glimpse of his nose, a lock of his yellow hair. His hands cutting the venison, slowly.
It's enough. Jaskier can see how he carries himself, serious and uptight, so different from both the drunkard prince he pretended to be and the unassuming man Jaskier saw in him. Despite Anna's misgivings, the winter here is not horribly cold, but he is still warmly clothed, not rare for a man who wore furs in the midst of summer.
And he does look tired.
It seems Anna's worries were unfounded. The king does not mention the war or any distasteful topics tonight. Jaskier cannot help but notice that he does not mention much of anything, really. Radovid listens intently to the lady's boasts about her gardens, asks about her collection of art.
"And no less than fifty by a Zerrikanian painter we should like to show you." Anna takes a sip of wine and smiles. "But that's not the only art in our palace. No, if you must know, the viscount is an exceedingly talented musician."
"Is he." Radovid's voice is low, but it reaches him. Jaskier's grip on his fork tightens.
"The duchess is too complimentary," he manages to say.
"Nonsense," she rebuffs. "He is truly a master."
"What do you play, viscount?"
Jaskier swallows. "The lute, Your Majesty."
"How wonderful."
"Indeed. Sings like a nightingale, as well." Anna squeezes his arm, her smile so fond. It hurts. "Perhaps tomorrow, if he is so inspired, he could perform for us."
"Surely the king has better things to do," Jaskier says just as Radovid replies, "I wouldn't want to impose."
"Well!" Anna laughs. "Such enthusiasm!"
Dessert is served while she changes the subject to toussainti wine. Jaskier does not say anything for the rest of the evening.
"You can entertain him for an afternoon." Anna pouts. "Can't you?"
Jaskier can't quite manage the panic from reaching his eyes. She sees it, of course, but interprets it as a much more mundane kind.
"I know it'll be miserable," she says. "Our talks this morning were… simply terrible. You know I wrote to Emhyr, but as he refuses to heed my counsel, the North will have to. Yet this man insists on resisting and only prolongs this terrible war by doing so! This was all a waste of time. He is displeased, I am certain, and I have no desire to speak to him further if I can help it. I need your help, my love!"
He puts up a token protest. Whether it's weak because he knows it won't be accepted, or for a secret reason, he doesn't want to ponder. He ends up agreeing, of course.
"Now," she muses as her finger grazes the red, blue, pink garments, "let's see… I'm thinking purple for today."
"No," he says, surprising both her and himself. "The green one."
"My dear, you wore that last night!" She tuts, but the thing is clean, and she clearly likes that he likes it. Or likes seeing him parade around in her colors. Perhaps that's also why he chose it. One by one, she tightens the white laces at his back until he has to breathe very carefully.
"Do bear with him for a couple of hours," she whispers in his ear, "and I shall reward you." And with a wink and a flirtation that would've delighted him years ago, she is gone.
He gets there faster than he intended.
"Come in," his voice says after a moment, and Jaskier does.
With logs crackling in the fire, the chamber is extremely warm. The king rises immediately at spotting him, a shadow of something again appearing across his face. But this time it —a shyness, an uncertainty?— does not vanish. A flash of anger rushes through Jaskier, one he does not want to understand.
Radovid looks at him. Jaskier lets him look.
"You look different," he ends up saying lamely.
"My lord is all wit," Jaskier smirks. Before Radovid can reply, he adds, "Duchess Anna Henrietta presents her excuses, for she will not be able to entertain you this afternoon. She hopes I will be enough."
"Jaskier," Radovid begins, stops. It's so strange, he thinks with a start. Nobody has called him that since Geralt left.
"Now, I was thinking gwent, or perhaps chess."
"I don't want to play."
"That is too bad." He glances with disinterest at the room. "Would Your Majesty prefer I left?"
"Wh— Jaskier," Radovid blurts out again, "can't you just— talk to me?"
"Certainly, my lord." He sits down on the armchair, prim and proper as he must. "How are you finding Toussaint?"
There's a frown on Radovid's face. "Did you find your family?"
"Is it not a gorgeous place? Fragrant in the spring and golden in the autumn, and the wine is delicious. You must concede it is better than Redania."
Sadly, he doesn't take the bait. "Are they alright? How did you end up here?"
"When are you leaving?" Jaskier snaps.
"Early in the morrow."
"So soon? Good."
Radovid's jaw works. "I'm glad it pleases you."
"Why wouldn't it?" he bites back, and gets his answer.
"The talks have been for nothing. Your duchess is unfeeling and self-absorbed," Radovid snaps. "She does not care that Nilfgaard's advance is unrelenting, does not care that she could help—"
"None of this war is her doing, why would she—"
"She could use her knights and coin to make the roads and villages safer, which I assumed you would wish, if only for your family!"
That shuts Jaskier up. He is lost in fearing for Ciri and the hansa for a moment.
"You assume too much about me, Your Majesty," he says, because it's easier, and rises. "I'm not interested in the war. At all. So don't talk to me about it."
He's expecting —hoping— for Radovid's frustration to turn into rage, that this will become a screaming match of insults and hurt feelings and they both will end angry and seemingly happy to separate. Just like with Geralt.
Radovid opens his mouth, closes it. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
The king shakes his head.
"I'm not an idiot, Jaskier. This… place is beautiful, decadent, a haven of feasts and drink and refinement. And exactly what you said you didn't want."
"You don't know me," he lets out a breath. It's hard to take it back in.
"I think I do," Radovid counters. "And I cannot believe this is what you've chosen."
"Well, my lord," Jaskier hisses, "perhaps you're just bitter I didn't choose to have it with you."
It should feel satisfying to see the way Radovid's face crumples, watch him look away.
"Do you love her?"
His voice is so small and the question so simple.
"Of course." He loves her. He does. Because if he does not, he abandoned Geralt and the hansa for nothing. If he does not, he renounced the chance to see Ciri rescued for nothing. If he does not, he is a coward and a worm, the lowest of the low. Gods, is that doublet made of steel? "And you have no right to ask me so."
Radovid licks his lips. "No, I suppose I don't."
Now he will ask Jaskier to leave, and he will return to his chambers, to Anarietta. That is what he wants. That is the only thing that can happen.
Radovid takes a sharp breath and looks back up at him. "I have not the right to ask anything of you, and I won't. But just—"
He swallows. Jaskier feels as tense as if Radovid was holding a sword to his neck.
"Please, let me tell you. If I have to go back to the lying and the hiding— I will, I must. But gods, at least let me tell you the truth."
Jaskier can't find the breath to stop him.
"These past months have been the worst of my life, but in the precious few moments I am by myself and free from it all, I can only think of you. You are the one thing that has been keeping me sane." Radovid reaches for his hand. Jaskier cannot deny it. "Last night, I was so happy to see you, to realize you were alive and safe, that I could hardly speak."
Just as Jaskier cannot now. He feels like he is choking. "Radovid…"
"And if you are happy here, with… I will never speak of this again, I will leave you. But you have to know."
"Please," Jaskier hears himself whimper.
"I know you will think it foolish, but I have loved you alone and I have not managed to stop. I have not tried very hard, to be fair, because I don't want to. And I wanted you to know— if it had been up to me— I wanted to go to you. Until everything went to hell, I was going to. I understand if you don't believe me. But—"
His words blur, and not because Jaskier's eyes have filled with tears. It can't be, it's impossible. He chose to leave, why would Radovid follow? He left Geralt and the quest just as he left Radovid and whatever passed between them and now they are all behind him and he cannot leave anymore, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, it's all too warm and too tight and too much. What is he doing? What has he done?
When he is next aware, he's sitting on something soft, hunched over, and his breath feels much too loud, almost so that he can barely hear Radovid's mutterings. "…slower. Try to…"
There's a hand on his chest, gentle. "…deeply. Hold it in." He can feel its warmth through the fabric. The soft, light fabric.
He makes a noise. His vision is settling and, when he looks down at himself, he spots the doublet, now a crumpled-up green mess siting loosely on his lower belly. The beast has been defeated, he thinks dimly before hearing Radovid's voice again.
"Jaskier?" His other hand is on his shoulder. "Are you better?"
Jaskier can only look up at him and blame the lightheadedness when he replies, "Did you just undress me?"
Those words, besides being incredibly stupid, unfortunately cause Radovid's touch to withdraw. "I, um." He looks a little red. "You couldn't breathe."
Glancing at his own back, Jaskier can spy a few undone laces sticking out. It speaks of clumsiness. Of urgency. Perhaps panic.
"Right," he says. Slowly, he breathes in, then out, and relishes how it gets easier. He feels a slight breeze on his face. Despite the chill outside, the window is open. The thought crosses his mind that he just lost the chance to tell Radovid something unbearably corny like You leave me breathless. He really isn't in top form. Then he chastises himself for even considering saying that. He's spoken for.
"I'm so sorry," Radovid says quietly. He is kneeling at the foot of the bed, Jaskier suddenly realizes, and hates the tremor that runs through him. "Do you want me to call somebody?"
Jaskier doesn't mean to laugh, but he can't help it. "No," he murmurs. "If anyone saw this…"
He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
Radovid frowns like Jaskier doesn't have a reputation as a slut from Narok to the Blue Mountains. "Can't you just explain…?"
He's shaking his head before Radovid is done speaking.
"Who would believe me." He means for it to sound joking. Radovid's frown deepens. Oh, Jaskier is just on a roll today. "I don't mean— You're beautiful and we're alone. Doesn't hurt that you're rich and highborn. I have a track record, you must know."
"Well," Radovid ignores the basilisk in the room like the diplomat he is, "at the very least, you could ask your servant to loosen the lacings next time."
Jaskier could explain that it's usually not a servant but Anna who laces him up and down every day. That she enjoys doing so. That he feels like a doll, doted upon and marvelously cared for and unable to move on its own. He could say, even, that she wasn't always like this. That her husband had done her some terrible things, that she wants to control everything now because she could control nothing then. That this is Jaskier's fault too.
"My duchess likes it," he says instead, and wonders if he aimed to hurt Radovid with it. The light, quick pursing of the king's mouth suggests he succeeded. Something churns at the pit of his stomach. This man is kneeling at his feet, has only touched him gently, has just confessed his love and sent his mind reeling —why does Jaskier want him hurt? Why does Jaskier want him angry?
"I'd wager she would like it better if you didn't suffocate," Radovid dryly replies. "Or does she want you bound like a pet?"
Jaskier had forgotten, he realizes as the words go through him like cold steel, just how discerning this man could be.
"Don't say that." He wants it to sound irate, but it comes out almost keening. In an instant, Radovid's face changes. His hand grips the bedding like he wants to take Jaskier's hand again but dares not. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.
"Oh, Jaskier." He sounds so genuine, so concerned, it's unbearable. "What do you need?"
Jaskier swallows. There are so many ways he wants to answer that question and none he can utter. He gets up, just to save himself some time. The wretched doublet falls to the floor. It's so hard to pick it up.
"Tie it back." He turns. It's a respite to stop looking at Radovid's face. "Just as it was."
"Jaskier—"
"Please."
There's another moment of hesitation, but Radovid obeys. He is careful when he wraps the garment around him, too careful. Jaskier tries not to close his eyes at the feeling of Radovid's fingers brushing against his chemise, tries not to wish they would touch his skin.
The hardest part, for some reason, is stopping himself from imagining a scenario —a stupid, delusional one— where this scene is commonplace, where Radovid helping him dress is just an everyday occurrence. It gets easier when the laces close tighter and tighter. His breathing hiccups, but he has to compose himself. He can almost hear the unhappy turn of his mouth as Radovid says, "Done."
"Thank you." He faces himself in the mirror, tries his best to fix his hair. If anyone even suspects… But he appears like he did this morning. A doll untouched.
"Well, Your Majesty." As he turns towards Radovid, it only gets harder to breathe. But he can handle it. "I shouldn't steal any more of your time."
Truth be told, he still feels a little like he might cry. Radovid looks it, too. For a terrible, wonderful moment, Jaskier thinks he might repeat his vow, demand an answer to it. Don't let me leave, he thinks, and almost heaves.
Instead, his voice is too soft when he says, "Goodbye, Jaskier."
He doesn't run back, because that would attract attention and probably provoke another fit, but it's close. He expects to feel better once he closes Anarietta's door from the inside.
She's there, lighting a candle. When she spots him, she blows it out, ruby lips pursed. The rooms smell of roses and a delicious-looking meal has been served. But there is something ugly and oily in his gut, coiling there, which refuses to settle.
"Welcome back." She kisses him. He wants to cry, to apologize, to run away. He makes himself respond to it. "Allow me to show you how thankful I am, my love."
"The food will get cold," he squawks. She giggles.
"It will keep."
Jaskier closes his eyes. He wills his dread to dissolve —at least the pleasure will keep the guilt at bay for a time.
He kisses her, with fruition this time. Lets her wrap her arms around him, playfully turn him around.
Her cool fingers graze his nape, his spine, playfully as they go down. Then, they stop.
"How queer!" she chirps, voice too cheerful. "But this morning I had tied this with a knot, and now, behold, there's a pretty little bow."