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It had been a long day.
First, Geralt had not been able to sleep a wink last night, couldn't even sit still long enough to properly meditate. Jaskier was out with some lad he'd met in the tavern last night, so he couldn't even listen to Jaskier's steady heartbeat or the soft lul of his voice to fall asleep to.
Then, he'd been called upon barely after dawn by the alderman's son to take up a contract for a griffin a few miles west of town.
While he was exhausted and not happy with the prospect of downing a potion and killing a griffin, he was in need of good coin, having gone through a bit of a dry spell in contracts lately. Thankfully that didn't mean he starved himself for weeks at a time anymore, if his contracts were few and far between, he now had Jaskier to supply the coin with his performances.
But, Jaskier had not returned that morning, apparently not caught by the lad's lover or god-forbid father, and stayed the night. Which, of course, was fine, the aching in Geralt's chest simply from the weight of his armour on top of his already tired body. Yes, that must be it.
Despite the heaviness in his chest, he and Roach made quick work of getting to where the alderman had said the griffin was living, an old abandoned mine shaft, now grown well into the woods.
Only there wasn't a griffin in the half-collapsed mine shaft, there were however two griffins hiding just behind the cavern, coming at him from each side and attacking before he had the chance to drink his potion, let alone pull his sword from its sheath.
Griffin fights were never pretty, hardly ever easy, but two when you're not expecting them is just another layer to the task, exhausting himself with how often he had to switch between defending himself from one of them to attacking the other.
Thankfully, one of them was quite young and went down far easier than the other, and his focus could be solely on incapacitating only one creature. While it wasn't easy, he did finish them off without any life-threatening injuries, a few scratches where claws had managed a swipe at him, and surely there'd be bruises where he'd been batted against the walls of the cave and thrown to the ground.
Aching, tired, and growing increasingly frustrated by the alderman's lack of description that could have prepared him to fight two monsters instead of one, he chopped the head off of the larger griffin, wrapped it in a sack, and strapped it to Roach, apologizing for the stench and weight of it before nudging her into a swift pace, more than eager to get back to town and if he was feeling rather indulgent, back to bed. Hopefully, Jaskier would be there to help him out of his armour and eventually usher him into a bath, washing out his hair and tending to injuries that would be gone in hours either way. Maybe the day still could turn around.
The alderman, with one look at the head he brought back, handed Geralt a little more than half of the promised fight, claiming he had no proof that there were actually two griffins, and Geralt was back quicker than he thought he would be so it must have been an easy fight.
If it weren't for Jaskier's constant insistence not to hurt his image anymore, that alderman would be without his hands, but he didn't want to have to run from another town, didn't want Jaskier to be angry with him, so he took the coin and stomped away, leaving the griffin head to rot on that sorry man's desk.
Finally, the inn was in sight, the scent of fire-roasted pork wafting out of the kitchens, the promise of a bed, and cold ale all sounded like heaven right now.
First though, a quick lie in before he went down to collect dinner for himself and Jaskier.
He didn't even bother to take remove his blood-stained armour before flopping back onto the bed, more than ready for the soft embrace of the mattress beneath him.
Instead of being met with the mattress, he heard a sharp crack followed by an ugly twang that made him feel sick to his stomach. That couldn't have been, no, must be the bed frame that snapped under his weight.
He rolled off the bed as if it would swallow him whole if he stayed there a second longer, tearing the blanket to be met with a horrible sight. Jaskier's beloved lute, gifted to him by the elves the day he and Geralt first met, in pieces.
It would have been better if it were only the neck that broke, something like that could, with good coin and an even better lutist, be fixed, but not this.
The ribs and soundboard were shattered like glass, countless pieces scattering the bed and stabbed into the sheet below, a few strings had snapped where the neck was split in two, even the pegbox wasn't in one piece. It looked like it had been repeatedly slammed against a rock, maybe hacked with an axe, or crushed underneath a witcher.
For a long, while he only stood there staring at it, carefully examining each and ever broken, shattered piece of it, as if staring long enough would magically force all the pieces back together. He picked up a single piece of it, the feeling of the splintered wood in his hand only making the entire situation more real.
He wished he could go back just five minutes and look before he dropped his entire weight onto the bed, ten minutes before so he could stay downstairs and indulge in some dinner before he came upstairs with a clearer head, hell he wishes this entire day never happened.
No amount of wishing or daydreaming however would fix what he'd effectively obliterated.
Jaskier is going to kill him.
No, Jaskier is going to be heartbroken, this lute meant more to him than any other possession, he's had it for decades now, and Geralt had gone and carelessly destroyed it.
Running a hand through his hair he looked around, both for any sign of where Jaskier was, and possibly a place he could hide the lute pieces, claim it wasn't here when he got back, maybe someone had stolen it, or Jaskier had misplaced it somewhere before he'd got back to their room.
Before he could play out any of his excuses, the door swung open and in walked Jaskier, an easy smile on his face as he greeted Geralt, probably asking about his hunt but Geralt couldn't hear anything but his heart hammering in his chest, nearly faster than a human as Jaskier's eyes drifted to the bed.
He froze, hand over his mouth as he stared at the remains of his precious instrument.
His breath stuttered in his chest, eyes burning as he took in the state of his lute, completely beyond fixing. A wreck like this must have been deliberate, and their Geralt stood with a shard of wood in his gloved hand.
Wordlessly he stepped forward, grabbing half the neck in one hand and a piece of the rosette in another, the intricate design no longer visible.
A silent tear fled down his cheek, landing on the sheets between pieces of the instrument.
"I- Geralt?" He looked up at Geralt with a look that nearly broke the witcher, watery eyes full of utter betrayal and sorrow, nothing like he'd ever seen from Jaskier before.
"Jaskier, I swear I didn't-"
"Don't." He stopped him, wiping the tears off his face angrily with the back of his hand.
With one more pointed, watery glare at Geralt, he grabbed his pack and left with an echoing slam of the door.
He bought himself a separate room, not able to look at Geralt after what he'd done.
Geralt was many things, he was gruff and rude, blunt, sometimes hurtful, but he was never so indescribably cruel as this. To take the one thing that Jaskier cared about more than anything and to destroy it, that was beyond what he thought Geralt possible of.
And what for? So he wouldn't have to hear Jaskier's singing again? His playing?
As much as it would have hurt, he'd have preferred it Geralt had simply told him, asked him not to play so often, or not around him, that would have been better than seeing his beautiful gift from Filivanderel as nothing but kindling.
He pressed his hand over his mouth to muffles his sobs, not wanting Geralt to hear him break over his lute. But he couldn't help it, that lute was more than an instrument.
It was his inspiration, a memento from his and Geralt's first-ever adventure, the tool he'd used to write all of his best works, his livelihood!
Gods he hadn't even thought of that, how would he pay for his food and board now? How would he pay for a new lute if he can't play? No bard on the continent can earn a living with just his voice. Did Geralt not understand that? That he could lose everything along with that lute?
It's unbearable to even fathom, Geralt being so unfeeling as to take his own hate for Jaskier's passion for such extremes.
It must have been awful, to end up in such disarray.
He cried himself to sleep on top of the sheets, wrapped around the two pieces he still had left of his lute, the small pointed pieces where it had broken digging into the palms of his hands as he slept.
Geralt spent the night pacing the room, his hair an utter mess from how much he'd run his hands through it as he tried to think of a way to fix this.
He could hear Jaskier sobbing from across the inn, broken, ugly sounds that tore their way out of Jaskier's throat. Each and every second of it tearing into Geralt.
Every glimpse of the bed another reminder of all that he'd broken.
How to apologize was lost on him, all he knew was he had to fix this.
---
The next few days were worse than Geralt had imagined, the only upside being that Jaskier hadn't disappeared in the night.
He'd expected Jaskier to be furious, shouting and lecturing Geralt the second they met face to face again. But he was just quiet, his eyes red and irritated from a night spent crying and rubbing at his face.
He walked silently behind Geralt, ate out of only his own dwindling rations and slept as far from Geralt as he could, given that the fire's heat could still reach him.
Geralt had tried a few times to strike up a conversation, tried only once at an explanation before Jaskier had promptly stood up and walked into the woods, returning an hour later with tear-stained cheeks.
By the week's mark of the cold shoulder, Geralt had gone mad. Constantly on edge, practically drowning in guilt every time he caught a look at the sadness on Jaskier's face.
It was unbearable.
"Jaskier, please just hear me out?" he practically begged from across the fire, Jaskier could be angry with him for as long as he needed to be, never had to forgive him, but Geralt needed him to know what had happened.
"Why should I? So you can insult me? Tell me how god-awful my singing is that you just had to take it into your own hands to rid the continent of it forever? Well go ahead Geralt, you've already taken it from me I'm sure nothing you can say can hurt me much worse!" He shouted eyes lit with fury, reflecting the fire in his irises, but his voice gave away the hurt inside.
"No, Jaskier I would never-"
"Would never what Geralt? Because you have, you took something that you knew meant so much to me! Did you even consider that I need that to pay for everything? Or did you only think about how awful you think I am and take it out on my lute? What if I'd broken your precious swords, huh? I bet you'd feel hurt," His voice broke on the last sentence, sitting heavily on his bedroll and dropping his head into his hands.
His shoulders shook while Geralt watched on in shock.
Jaskier truly thought he'd broken the lute on purpose because he hated Jaskier's singing? Hated it enough to destroy something so precious to him.
"No, Jaskier, that's not what happened," He started carefully, walking around the fire to kneel in front of the sniffling bard.
"I love your singing, I could never wish to silence you, Jask."
"You hate my singing." He argued voice rough where he was holding back what tears he had left to spill.
"I don't, I promise you. I've never hated anything about you Jaskier, not a damn thing. Your voice is the first thing to make me see myself as something better than a monster. It's your singing that puts me to sleep when the world is too loud, your singing that stopped people calling me butcher, that has people tossing coins at me instead of stones.
It was an accident, I swear to you, I would fix it for you in an instant if I could,"
Jaskier slowly raised his head from his hands, meeting Geralt's eyes in search of the lie he desperately hoped wasn't there, startling slightly when Geralt's hands landed on either side of his head, his thumbs wiping stray tears off of his face.
"You really mean it?"
"Every word," He breathed, resisting the urge to press his forehead against Jaskier's and drive the point home, he didn't want to risk breaking the moment and losing Jasier's trust again.
"So you'll buy me a new one?" Geralt chuckled and nodded, moving his hand from the side of Jaskier's face into his fair at the base of his skull, pulling Jaskier forward into his arms, where he'd been aching to have Jaskier ever since he'd heard him sobbing himself into unconsciousness by his doing.
"The very best money can buy,"