[ No. This is not the conversation Geralt wants to have, either. He isn't sure what conversation he wants to have. Too much is often what's between them. He's tired of feeling too much, he's tired of feeling everything. He keeps thinking if he lets himself do so, if he lets up a hair's breadth, he will feel all of it, every bit that's been simmering for days, weeks now, and it will drown him. It will drown him.
Why are we here? The urge to ask it again sits heavy on his tongue, like if he asks her enough times, something will shake loose from her that makes everything fall back into place. His eyes flick towards the bed, the tent's entryway. He wants to leave, he wants to remember her hands on him, he wants a time when he'd never met her at all, had not heard the name Yennefer of Vengerberg. (That's not true.) He thinks of her laid out beside him, the shine of her eyes when she would tease him with a question she already knew the answer to. He's always been so completely undone by her. He'd let it happen, of course. Wanted it. From the moment he'd met her, he'd wanted to know what it was to bare himself in front of another and not be afraid, and he'd thought together they could both have what they'd not allowed themselves before. But it was never...like this. Never because he—
—He blinks and then she's in front of him. Reaching for him. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach back or push her away and can't decide which. Her scent fills the air: light, soft, gentle; all the things he knows she can be, all the things she's let him see her be (has undoubtedly regretted letting him see her be). She's never hesitated to touch him before. He sees her hesitate now, the barest hint. In the end, that's all it takes. Her hesitation. And he realizes they are not here on account of the heavy weight that hangs over her, the images that now haunt them both. They are not here for apologies he doesn't want to hear, or to talk about Ciri or his safety or how many fucking pieces of him were picked apart. They are here because, despite everything, despite how uncertain she is, how much it hurts for her to be the one to close the distance and open herself up to him, she has done it simply because she needs (wants) to see him.
Perhaps to another, this would mean little. After what happened, it should only be expected that she would want to see him, want to speak to him. That it is callous, cruel, to even consider otherwise. But he's spent decades pushing people away, alone, walling himself off to hide the cracks within, and he knows. He knows that for her, for him—for those like them—it is painfully hard in a way few can ever understand. His decision to meet her was not made lightly, either. He'd thought of turning around with every step. Even now, every instinct inside him screams to brush her aside, to not look back, that he will regret doing anything else.
He stays. Her fingers are feather-light. Something inside him gives way, crumbling. He curves forward, until his forehead brushes her hip, resting there where she stands. His eyes fall shut. He swallows down the hitch in his breath, the tightness in his throat. Every part of him aches, but mostly it's his heart that constricts inside. His heart that will not stop pounding until the sound of it threatens to overwhelm him. ]
no subject
Why are we here? The urge to ask it again sits heavy on his tongue, like if he asks her enough times, something will shake loose from her that makes everything fall back into place. His eyes flick towards the bed, the tent's entryway. He wants to leave, he wants to remember her hands on him, he wants a time when he'd never met her at all, had not heard the name Yennefer of Vengerberg. (That's not true.) He thinks of her laid out beside him, the shine of her eyes when she would tease him with a question she already knew the answer to. He's always been so completely undone by her. He'd let it happen, of course. Wanted it. From the moment he'd met her, he'd wanted to know what it was to bare himself in front of another and not be afraid, and he'd thought together they could both have what they'd not allowed themselves before. But it was never...like this. Never because he—
—He blinks and then she's in front of him. Reaching for him. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach back or push her away and can't decide which. Her scent fills the air: light, soft, gentle; all the things he knows she can be, all the things she's let him see her be (has undoubtedly regretted letting him see her be). She's never hesitated to touch him before. He sees her hesitate now, the barest hint. In the end, that's all it takes. Her hesitation. And he realizes they are not here on account of the heavy weight that hangs over her, the images that now haunt them both. They are not here for apologies he doesn't want to hear, or to talk about Ciri or his safety or how many fucking pieces of him were picked apart. They are here because, despite everything, despite how uncertain she is, how much it hurts for her to be the one to close the distance and open herself up to him, she has done it simply because she needs (wants) to see him.
Perhaps to another, this would mean little. After what happened, it should only be expected that she would want to see him, want to speak to him. That it is callous, cruel, to even consider otherwise. But he's spent decades pushing people away, alone, walling himself off to hide the cracks within, and he knows. He knows that for her, for him—for those like them—it is painfully hard in a way few can ever understand. His decision to meet her was not made lightly, either. He'd thought of turning around with every step. Even now, every instinct inside him screams to brush her aside, to not look back, that he will regret doing anything else.
He stays. Her fingers are feather-light. Something inside him gives way, crumbling. He curves forward, until his forehead brushes her hip, resting there where she stands. His eyes fall shut. He swallows down the hitch in his breath, the tightness in his throat. Every part of him aches, but mostly it's his heart that constricts inside. His heart that will not stop pounding until the sound of it threatens to overwhelm him. ]