||| @utternocries ⫸ a NOT SO small starter for you <3 rip me. rip you.
A good many things he had expected to find in Brugge. Opportunity to line his pockets with enough money to settle himself into a nice private suite at the tavern he’d frequented; the endless attention of excitable women and the occasional man willing to lay down his defenses and seek refuge in the strumming of string and the harmony of voice. Eat to his heart’s content. Drink, too - to be merry. But all expectations seemed but fantasy for the most part. Brugge wasn’t near as bustling, but he did alright. Kept himself fed, warm, and ordained with company -- whether he found it personally suitable or not. It would do, he’d tell himself. It was better than that of being alone, or the worse.
Worse being at his side a moment longer; being the thorn in his side he seemed. Oh, it was pettiness that brandished the anger there. Covered the void that should have been loneliness and pain with a pretentious play at being entirely better off without him.
That wretched Witcher.
That beautifully brusque sort of man who slew monster for coin. Who stuck his nose into business it ought not. Who tolerated Jaskier’s company for the better part of many years. They had been friends, once upon a time --- and some nights, when Jaskier found himself alone and underneath starlight lost in thought, hoped they still were.
It was dawning on his second month, loitering in this town; not having quite the heart to traverse elsewhere just yet. Countless days and losing his sense of worth. There were only so many willing to toss a coin his way, or wrestle in his sheets. Only so much he, himself could take - playing that damn song. The one most often requested, despite his myriad of ballads and laments. It was hell, but it kept him from the streets and more so.
What he hadn’t expected was the growing crowd one early evening, with folks bustling, lively in their whispers. Whispers that eventually came to his ear informing him of the white haired stranger prowling their streets. A Witcher. THE Witcher. His bloody white wolf.
Months. It had been months since their last word to one another. Harshness upon that mountain; harshness Jaskier hadn’t understood, but took it to heart nonetheless. And now, despite his efforts, destiny --- the bitch that she was, allowed them to cross paths once more and the bard could not quite make heads nor tail of it.
The creak of the door sounded loud despite the tavern’s noise. Felt deafening, and a weight he hadn’t anticipated pulling against such bony shoulders. That pit in his stomach churned. And when the tall figure passes into the hall of the house, forsaking the cool damp air - Jaskier sees it. The dark leathers beneath cloak; the silver hair glinting in window light. It's him, without even seeing his face, and he knows it. His Geralt.
It’s an uncertain crossroad, this feeling. Run to him with the narrative of the past having never happened, or to bolt out the back door in an instant. Thoughts ran wild, as did the beat of his heart, but the bard couldn’t quite move - confined to his corner, lute poised in hand - eyes onlooking. Statuesque, despite the crone leaning into him with a smokey voice, that pressed him back into rickety wood.
“Isn’t that yer Witcher?”
Those carefully placed fingers upon string fumble, and the noise is wretched and unintentional ---- though Jaskier hardly notices. Transfixed. Worried. Angry. Elated. So many feelings all at once. “....Geralt…” Should he remain unnoticed, he had figured it quite beneficial to wait until the Witcher was seated and occupied before deciding his fate. To flee or to fight. To embrace him like naught all had once transpired.
