The Butcher & The Bard

III

Jaskier lies on the balcony and holds his chest together, trying not to cry, begging himself not to cry, wishing that everything was just a nightmare, something fake, anything but the reality it was.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...." He cries into his hands, scratching at the area around his eyes. He can feel tears streaking down his cheeks.

Geralt was mad, he had pushed him, and now things were bad again. Things were okay. But then Jaskier had to mess it up. He sits up and holds onto his chest trying to stable himself, do anything to help, but it won't work.

Ciri had told him how to handle this, Anna, his fucking therapist told him how to handle it, Geralt told him how to handle this, everyone in his life had at some point told him how to handle this, but every time they told him something different.

Ciri said to talk out loud, Anna said to take breaths, Gerlat said to punch something, Yen said to yell it out, Roach was just there, and usually someone had always been there, but what the bloody hell is he meant to do now?

Jaskier rubs his firsts against the rough floor, and feels the skin break. Sitting up, he leans against the closed glass doors, and just sobs into his hands. He can't handle having to deal with all of the emotions sticking in his head like glue.

He can't deal with any of it. All of it hurts, and clogs his windpipe, so now he's a sobbing mess on the balcony. And it's all his fault.

.....

Jaskier watches the remainder of the sun drain from the sky, and the city lights take over. The house was silent, but off in the distance the streets were thriving with nightlife.

Jaskier felt his knuckles, felt the broken skin, and picked at the scabs on his arms.

Someone knocks on the door, and he turns to see Geralt, who's looking tired. Jaskier feels the same tightness in his chest, and looks back at the city ignoring the man behind the glass.

Geralt opens one of the doors, but doesn't walk through. Jaskier feels him lean on the other side of the door.

Jaskier stays silent, refusing to look at Geralt, keeping his hands in his lap, trying to ignore the warmth that continues to grow through the glass.

Geralt doesn't say anything and just sits there, Jaskier worries that he's not really there, but doesn't look back.

Geralt has the before talk silence and Jaskier cuts him off "Don't say anything." The silence. Drops back into nothing, and just unsaid thoughts.

The city drowned out Geralt's breathing, and any sign that he could truly be there other than the warmth behind him. Jaskier tries to picture the warmth as someone else- something else. Anything tangible to his mind to distract himself.

It's surreal though. To find Geralt and himself separated by glass. Almost funny. They can see right through each other, but they refuse to look. They can feel each other's warmth, but won't take a look. They never look.

Jaskier can feel Geralt start to make a sentence, he can tell that the silence will break, that the ice will melt if Geralt says anything.

"How do you think this will go?" Jaskier asks sharply. "Are we meant to kiss and make up?" He laughs, looking at the dull sky.

"I don't know." Geralt sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest. The room behind Jaskier is dark, the attic always was, but the city let some light poor in through the window panes.

"Why are you trying so hard?" Jaskier asks, almost turning around to look at Geralt. "You don't care enough to lie, so why would you try to make it better?"