[At least one of them has steady enough hands. While Geralt gets his boot off, Jaskier manages to shove his doublet off. They don't feel like him anymore -- too colorful, too promising of something he's not entirely sure he can provide for anyone anymore. He sits there in a chemise, already opened halfway down his stomach, the bed dipping when Geralt sits beside him.
He laughs, burying his face into his hands. He misses his wine, but the steps are too far to bother for, and he's already lost track of what he's drank tonight.]
It feels like shit. How poetically succinct, Geralt. As if one can fold up and encase all of this pain in a sentence as simple as it feels like shit.
[From dead elves to a sword at Yennefer's throat; to a little girl's mind turned plaything for a demon. A man's broken family; that old man Vesemir pulling a medallion from a corpse's neck. To know now that Ciri grows up still to be bitter and defensive and still so lovely -- he isn't sure if there's hope in that, or only defiance.]
I wanted to forget you. [He continues, and in his drunk mind it all fits together, it all makes sense. Remembering, and memories, and burning.] I wrote a song about it -- I'm sure you've heard it, because it's brilliant -- so sure that, in time, I could do it. I think I learned that from you, actually. Cutting off the parts that feel rotten. In that world, at home, when this place had never happened, it was all I could think to do.
[How irony had come for him -- or was it Destiny? For daring to burn the Witcher? Well, says Destiny, what if it is for the Witcher that you burn?] And unsurprisingly, all it did was make me remember you all the more, until I was sick with memories. And now... fuck. [He lifts his head, gesturing to himself with his hands.] I'm a hot, stinking mess, and you're a stupid, grunting mess, but it never seemed to matter as much as it does now. It never felt like... something we couldn't keep going on from.
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He laughs, burying his face into his hands. He misses his wine, but the steps are too far to bother for, and he's already lost track of what he's drank tonight.]
It feels like shit. How poetically succinct, Geralt. As if one can fold up and encase all of this pain in a sentence as simple as it feels like shit.
[From dead elves to a sword at Yennefer's throat; to a little girl's mind turned plaything for a demon. A man's broken family; that old man Vesemir pulling a medallion from a corpse's neck. To know now that Ciri grows up still to be bitter and defensive and still so lovely -- he isn't sure if there's hope in that, or only defiance.]
I wanted to forget you. [He continues, and in his drunk mind it all fits together, it all makes sense. Remembering, and memories, and burning.] I wrote a song about it -- I'm sure you've heard it, because it's brilliant -- so sure that, in time, I could do it. I think I learned that from you, actually. Cutting off the parts that feel rotten. In that world, at home, when this place had never happened, it was all I could think to do.
[How irony had come for him -- or was it Destiny? For daring to burn the Witcher? Well, says Destiny, what if it is for the Witcher that you burn?] And unsurprisingly, all it did was make me remember you all the more, until I was sick with memories. And now... fuck. [He lifts his head, gesturing to himself with his hands.] I'm a hot, stinking mess, and you're a stupid, grunting mess, but it never seemed to matter as much as it does now. It never felt like... something we couldn't keep going on from.