Chapter Text
Against popular belief, Jaskier does not just write songs. He writes poetry and prose too.
And after Posada, he finds himself writing letters that he never intends to fall into the hands of the one he is addressing in them.
A lesser man or someone with an ounce of shame in his body would call his words pitiful and unworthy of the light of day. Jaskier however has never experienced shame in his life and sees the artistic value.
So he has his letters published. Under a pseudonym, of course. It wouldn't do for the object of his affection to stumble upon those letters and that realize Jaskier is writing to them.
His Novigrad publisher prints an optimistic 200 copies in the spring after Geralt gains a child of surprise.
August the same year, they release a second edition with 4000 copies, that lasts them for barely a year.
Bless Yennefer of Vengerberg for supplying him with the muse for a second volume not long after. His publisher cries tears of joy when he throws a new bundle of parchment onto her desk that winter.
Then, after the dragon hunt, high on longing and pain, he cranks out a third volume in the weeks it takes Geralt to find him and somehow apologize without apologizing.
At least he's getting filthy fucking rich from enduring six years of this particular kind of torture. Drowning your sorrows is easier when you can afford the good schnaps.
He spends his winters in the most lavish quarters of the most expensive inn in Novigrad, sleeping his way through half the city, arguing with his publisher, drinking with his publisher, drinking alone and, again, writing more letters he has not intent of ever seeing delivered.
It's not like the courier would know where to find Kaer Morhen anyway.
Each spring, he and Geralt find each other again and he joins the witcher on his path until the leaves wither. They have a routine and it works just fine. Jaskier sings and sells lots and lots of books and Geralt
Until Geralt almost gets his arm taken off by a particularly prissy kikimora.
Jaskier is digging through Geralt's travel pack for another vial of swallow, blood toxicity be damned, when he sees a worn copy or 'Dearest Friend,' at the bottom of the bag.
For a second his hands still. Then he's back to frantically making sure his muse doesn't expire from blood loss.
It's hours later, when Geralt is sleeping as peacefully as one can with a bone-deep wound in the shoulder, that he pulls the book out.
In the small hours of the night, he runs his fingers over his own work in astonishment.
It's the first volume, a first edition, too, worth an absolute fortune nowadays, even in the pitiful state it's in. It's certainly well-loved, a year from falling apart perhaps. Geralt, barbarian that he is, has dogeared various pages. Jaskier notices, with bittersweet delight, that the binding has been strengthened with glue and heavy starched paper.
He muffels a dry chuckle. Jaskier stopped counting the times Geralt insulted his talents soon after they met.
Yet he unwittingly ended up buying and cherishing something Jaskier wrote. It's funny and validating and heartbreaking all at the same time.
He holds the book by its spine and it falls open to reveal its most-read section.
The ink has faded considerably and the light falling in through the window is barely enough to make out the words, but Jaskier wrote this himself, after all.
'Dearest friend,
you are a source or endless frustration, have I ever told you so? The way you eat, the way you sleep, your manner of speech, it's as if you were made to give me a headache.
Everything you do draws my eyes to you and I've long grown tired of averting them. Yet you have given me no indication that they might be welcome resting on you.
I hope for a day where you see my glances for what they are and return them along with everything else.
What am I doing, my friend, insulting you so? Insinuating you do not know of me and my affliction. You are well-versed in these matters and your eyes are keen.
I am simply not what you wish for from life, nor do I deserve you.
You will always be you, unchanging, flawed to perfection. And I will always be the fool who can't help loving you.
Always yours,
J.'
"Any particular reason why you're going through my things?" Geralt rasps from the bed, yellow eyes shining cat-like.
"I didn't take you for someone who would read something like this." Jaskier says through the tightness of his throat.
"You think I've never loved in vain?"
And Geralt must still be loopy from the potions he poured down his throat earlier, talking about things like that.
"No. I've had a front row seat to Yennefer and you, after all."
Geralt only hums. It's quiet in the room and Jaskier thinks he might have fallen asleep again.
Then, softly, like a secret:
"I bought this long before I met Yen."
For some reason, Jaskier stands and comes to sit next to Geralt on the bed.
"Is there a tragic love story in your past you've been hiding from me? That makes for the best ballads."
Geralt's looking at him through half-lidded eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just looks. He's definitely not himself right now.
"Jaskier," Geralt says finally, sounding pained, reaching out with his good arm.
He settles a warm hand in the nape of Jaskier's neck and pulls him down gently.
Jaskier goes, he can't help himself.
Geralt is out of it, probably thinking of whatever bastard was stupid enough to refuse him, and he shouldn't let him do this, he shouldn't be so weak.
He's just the closest warm body Geralt with which he can take his mind off of whatever memories their conversation stirred up.
He lets himself be kissed anyway.
Geralt's mouth is warm and tastes faintly of herbs that would probably kill Jaskier in a high enough concentration. How fitting.
Geralt moves down to bury his face in the curve of Jaskier's neck instead. He feels his breath brush over his skin and he wants to lose himself in this.
"Lie with me?" Geralt asks and how could he refuse him?
(Has he ever refused him?)
Geralt pulls at him until he's lying half on top of him. Jaskier rests his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"Thank you." and Geralt is out like a light not soon after.
Jaskier lies awake much longer.
Then the sun is streaming in through the window and Geralt is sitting in front of the wash bowl, carefully cleaning his wound.
'Dearest Friend,' is still sitting on the bedside table innocently.
"You're going to rip the stitches," Jaskier says, "Let me help you."
Geralt lets him pull the cloth from his hands and finish cleaning him up.
He's wrapping Geralt's shoulder in fresh bandages when he speaks again.
"I'd understand if you'd wish to leave. I could send you letters about any interesting hunts."
Ah, he's feeling guilty about using Jaskier as a means to an end last night. Ever so noble, even in his cruelty.
"It doesn't bother me, Geralt. Just. Maybe don't make it a habit?"
Their eyes meet in the mirror over the washing bowl and Geralt gives him a tight little nod.
There. Crisis averted. Status quo reasserted.
Geralt heals quickly and after two days, which Jaskier mostly spends entertaining the guests downstairs, and two nights, which Jaskier spends decidedly not sharing a bed with his heart's desire in mockery of what he longs for, they are on the road again.
'Dearest Friend,' has long since disappeared back into the depth of Geralt's luggage.
He's carrying around a thome filled to the brim with longing for him and he doesn't even know it. Doesn't know that the author is walking beside him through the crisp autumn morning.
It's rather cruel of destiny, Jaskier keeps musing, that Geralt is reading the words intended for him after all, yet thinking about someone that's very much not Jaskier.
It does explain some of his aversion to Jaskier's tender feeling, after all. If he's still so heartbroken over someone he loved before they even met that he's worn out that poor book like that, he's probably not capable of what Jaskier wishes for anyway.
(He is under no illusion that he himself is not partly to blame for his rejection either. Geralt did try with the sorceress after all. ...Now that he's thinking about it, Yennefer's and his disastrous relationship is making a lot more sense too.)
The kiss and the night they spent curled up together will not leave him alone either. But this he welcomes. Not a week after and he's already finished three new letters. His publisher will be elated when he presents her with enough material for a fourth volume.
But tension lingers between him and Geralt. It eases little by little with each night by the fire, each time Geralt can't keep the smile off his face at Jaskier's antics, each time Geralt asks for a song or another, but it stubbornly refuses to vanish truly.
A particularly chilly gust of air rushes over them and a shower of leaves follows.
It will be winter soon.