[ Hm. There. He can see it on Jaskier's face, the moment the coiled tension loosens. Rare, that Jaskier hides his pain from him or from anyone. Normally, the bard will make it known from a fucking mile away that he's stubbed his toe. But Jaskier's never been wounded so seriously as this before. Incident with the djinn notwithstanding.
This damn world.
He means to let Jaskier go, but a flicker over Jaskier's face has him pausing. He searches, feeling like there's something he's not seeing as clearly as he should. After a second, he shakes it off, releasing his grip. ]
A mushroom, actually. [ At this point, it's only a matter of principle that he will not acknowledge his. Fondness. They both know the truth. As the years slip by, he's stopped bothering to deny it, even if he'll still not actually say any of it aloud. Stopped asking why Jaskier is here, why he kept following a Witcher through rough mountain slopes and sticky bogs despite having long ceased needing material for his music. Jaskier has more than made a name for himself for the past decade.
It's a thought he returns to often. The fact that Jaskier doesn't need stay. And yet he does.
Geralt sinks further into the water. Lets the heat seep into his shoulders. Company or a fuck—it doesn't matter where and how they wind up at the end of the night. He just wants to remember what it's like not to have all this bullshit pressing down around him. There are simpler times between him and Jaskier. A time before the Singularity, before Destiny and a princess and a sorceress who changed too much about him, stole pieces of himself he should've never given over. He doesn't often care to look towards the past. Prefers to forge ahead, leave the shadows and dust behind. But right now, maybe—
He looks over as a hand rests against his cheek. It's soft. A part of him instinctively wants to pull back, and it shows in the small furrow of his brows before they smooth out.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes drop from Jaskier's face to his lips. ] I doubt even death could shut you up, Jaskier.
no subject
This damn world.
He means to let Jaskier go, but a flicker over Jaskier's face has him pausing. He searches, feeling like there's something he's not seeing as clearly as he should. After a second, he shakes it off, releasing his grip. ]
A mushroom, actually. [ At this point, it's only a matter of principle that he will not acknowledge his. Fondness. They both know the truth. As the years slip by, he's stopped bothering to deny it, even if he'll still not actually say any of it aloud. Stopped asking why Jaskier is here, why he kept following a Witcher through rough mountain slopes and sticky bogs despite having long ceased needing material for his music. Jaskier has more than made a name for himself for the past decade.
It's a thought he returns to often. The fact that Jaskier doesn't need stay. And yet he does.
Geralt sinks further into the water. Lets the heat seep into his shoulders. Company or a fuck—it doesn't matter where and how they wind up at the end of the night. He just wants to remember what it's like not to have all this bullshit pressing down around him. There are simpler times between him and Jaskier. A time before the Singularity, before Destiny and a princess and a sorceress who changed too much about him, stole pieces of himself he should've never given over. He doesn't often care to look towards the past. Prefers to forge ahead, leave the shadows and dust behind. But right now, maybe—
He looks over as a hand rests against his cheek. It's soft. A part of him instinctively wants to pull back, and it shows in the small furrow of his brows before they smooth out.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes drop from Jaskier's face to his lips. ] I doubt even death could shut you up, Jaskier.