“I’m not sorry.” Geralt had said one night, the camp fire flickering over his hardened features.
There was something in the way the witcher had avoided his eyes, twiddled with a stick in the fire and turned slightly sideways, away from Jaskier, that broke a fine cord in the bard that night. A torrent of hurt and pain and absolute misery had stirred in his mouth, burning like acid down his throat. He allowed himself a moment, a split second to feel it before he shut it all behind a carefully constructed mask of witty remarks and humour.
Sour taste, Yen said later in the solace of a numb mind.
From that day, he laughed and laughed until the eyes following him found other interesting facets, other things to focus on rather than the annoying bard who spoke too much and then when the time came and he set his bedding further from Geralt, the kind of distance he only enforced with strangers, he hoped no one noticed. A part of him wanted them to, wanted him, the white wolf of Rivia, to notice the petty way he’d chosen to show his hurt – tired of laughing off every time Geralt jilted his axis without a care.
He never did.
And so Jaskier learned to shut off his heart in the witcher’s presence, made more abhorrent jokes to cover the sudden apathy and the terrible anger simmering in his throat.
Sour taste indeed.
Ciri became a distraction, Yen too if it weren’t for the blasted knowing looks she kept throwing him or the pity so poorly hidden. He had no doubt she knew he hadn’t truly forgiven Geralt, his longing had been a cavernous monster that often kept him wide awake at night and so when Geralt had stepped into that piss-poor prison cell the beast had won, Jaskier had launched himself at the white wolf before he could suppress it.
At least he’d gained a true friend in Yennefer. The kind that would follow him - misery liked company after all.
He heard light footsteps encroaching on the tight little alcove he’d sequestered himself into for the past couple of days they’d been at the keep – with a drink in hand, of course, alcohol was the cure for heartbreak they said – the footsteps paused an inch from his back, a deep chested, heavy sigh bounced on the cold walls, the wind picked up on cue.
“You’re being a miserable sod, Jaskier.”
“You are one to talk,” he muttered, “how’s life without your magic?”
“Touché.”
A heel pressed into his lower back viciously, he took a long swing from the flask, the rum was the sort he’d turn his nose up at even in dire straits but Jaskier, well, he was well past that stage and between the lovely company the keep had to offer and the terrible rum he’d made his choice.
“And you’re being a spoilsports, witch.” He replied drily.
At last, he twisted at the waist enough to glare over his shoulder. The witch flicked an eyebrow up, imperious in her disdain. Jaskier wagged the flask and her disapproving frown deepened, he shook it harder, some liquid sploshing on his hand and sighing again with all the weight of a witch without magic Yennefer took his offer, roughly stumbling and fidgeting into the tight space. He offered her the flask and she took a long – drawn swing. They sat there, staring at the dreary weather for a long time, when their fingers became numb with the bitter chill Yennefer’s gaze pinned him down; clever woman, Jaskier would have bolted if she’d bothered any sooner, not now when he was too weary with the cold and the heat of the rum low in his guts.
“Spring has come but the bird is yet to sing, Bard...”
Jaskier went for the flask again, never mind that it was empty. The witch did always notice the most unpleasant of truths Jaskier hid from the world at large, she had a talent for it, and if he hadn’t so passionately disliked her very existence upon their acquaintance he might have been quite besotted. As it stands, he can see in her no more than a friend or if he felt particularly sentimental a sister...
“Spring may come and the bird may sing, it is only the inattentive who do not –“
The witch interrupted him, exasperatingly calling out his name. Jaskier’s hand twitched, the white bandages stark in the dusk of evening; the wound was long healed, the skin raised and an angry red that will never fade despite the many healing salves. He could use the limb well enough, had no trouble when he completed his share of tasks around the keep, or when he helped Ciri wash her long pale waves.
“You are not composing.”
“You don’t have magic.”
The alcove fell quiet, the harsh winds screeched, louder than ever, their breathing terribly loud, a heavy bank of snow had fallen around the keep, pristine, white and glittering. Like the witcher’s hair. A question hung heavily between them but neither dared to voice the doubts swirling in the void, to confront that which had made them whole once was no more. They could get it back, with proper time and healing. Probably. Jaskier could not find joy in patience though, he’d lived long enough that the notion had lost all its shiny gloss and became a mere botherance.
Perhaps it was one of the many reasons he and the witcher were not compatible.
He doesn’t speak with the witcher much these days. Geralt only ever addressed him to shut him up from one of the many illogical rants he uses to take the heat off of Visemir’s knowing looks. There was tension between them and Jaskier couldn’t quite tell if Geralt was oblivious to it or simply ignoring it. He did not know anymore, after all Geralt had proven Jaskier wrong when he assumed he understood the witcher better than anyone.
This wasn’t the first time someone came to Jaskier to fix the Geralt mess – why they came to him and not the root of the problem will always baffle him – they explained, begged, threatened, all sorts of tactics to make him forgive Geralt. What was there to be forgiven? Geralt himself had stated there was nothing to apologise for. Why should Jaskier lower himself for the sake of their feelings? If they couldn’t stand to be around Geralt and Jaskier without feeling awkward they should fuck right off. Jaskier had zero fucks left to give.
“Well, I would like to say that this has been lovely, but that would be lying. I will let you to your misery witch, I for one have a date planned with a hot tub and some peace.” Jaskier said as he wiggled free.
The witch reached for him, calling his name out. He wrenched free and leisurely walked out of the room because, goddammit, he could be petty if he wanted.