“It’s too late, Geralt… quite too late.” (Cause I'm a sadist for angst today apparently)
(part one)
“It’s too late, Geralt… quite too late.”
Jaskier could only hold Geralt’s gaze for a brief, horrible moment - couldn’t bear knowing that the hurt in his eyes was his fault, for once: that he’d caused him such pain.
He still wanted Geralt, he knew... still wanted everything that Geralt was willing to give, wanted to take his hand and run until the guests and the decorations and the castle were nothing but a blurry, easily-forgotten nightmare.
Below his chambers, he could hear the hum of music and the chatter of people - all waiting for him to emerge and tie his life down, forever.
Geralt reached for him, but he snatched his arm away.
“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he said - and though he willed it not to, his voice broke around his witcher’s name, “I’m sorry.”
