[It is far from the first time where Jaskier has simply sat, and talked, and talked, sorting out his feelings and his thoughts as he does, and Geralt sits there in silence. Somehow Jaskier always never expects to hear an answer; at the best he gets a grunt that only satisfies his need for someone to listen. And, really, if he's honest, it's not as important he's heard. It is simply important he speaks these things into being.
It's what his whole life is about, after all. Speaking memories, and thoughts, and emotions into words, into songs.
But they could be about anyone.
Jaskier laughs in a choked sort of sound, one that is so deeply sorrowful it surprises himself, too.] I'm sorry, I just never imagined the Witcher who raised you would have any grasp of metaphor.
[Not that he thinks the Witchers fools, either. It's -- He shakes his head, pulling at his hair, then combing his fingers through it. It's all of these things packed into his body, more than ready to burst, and yet his skin won't allow it to escape.]
I must have really fucked up for you to be the optimist between the two of us. [He moves so his side touches Geralt's; a solid wall of warmth and companionship that he knows, despite the gap of time between them, as well as his own body. It is then he finds the strength to lower his hand from his hair, to turn it over and see the fingertips again. To turn it back and curl his fingers into a fist.
And what if you can't? He thinks. What if you simply know you can't?
It isn't fair that he should want to give in. Geralt has not. But he doesn't get it. How can you feel that way after all you've lost? Ciri has not. Ciri has survived all of this. She is strong, and proud, and alive.
Because one must. There is no other choice.
Yennefer had lost everything that meant something to her, and yet. We find new purpose.
And yet.
Jaskier is beginning to worry that perhaps he is the only one that does not bear this strength of heart. What a lovely little dose of irony that would be. And none of them have the function of neither soul nor verbage to tell the stories that would have led him to this moment, the sorry lot.
He will never say Geralt is right. But he has a point.]
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It's what his whole life is about, after all. Speaking memories, and thoughts, and emotions into words, into songs.
But they could be about anyone.
Jaskier laughs in a choked sort of sound, one that is so deeply sorrowful it surprises himself, too.] I'm sorry, I just never imagined the Witcher who raised you would have any grasp of metaphor.
[Not that he thinks the Witchers fools, either. It's -- He shakes his head, pulling at his hair, then combing his fingers through it. It's all of these things packed into his body, more than ready to burst, and yet his skin won't allow it to escape.]
I must have really fucked up for you to be the optimist between the two of us. [He moves so his side touches Geralt's; a solid wall of warmth and companionship that he knows, despite the gap of time between them, as well as his own body. It is then he finds the strength to lower his hand from his hair, to turn it over and see the fingertips again. To turn it back and curl his fingers into a fist.
And what if you can't? He thinks. What if you simply know you can't?
It isn't fair that he should want to give in. Geralt has not. But he doesn't get it. How can you feel that way after all you've lost? Ciri has not. Ciri has survived all of this. She is strong, and proud, and alive.
Because one must. There is no other choice.
Yennefer had lost everything that meant something to her, and yet. We find new purpose.
And yet.
Jaskier is beginning to worry that perhaps he is the only one that does not bear this strength of heart. What a lovely little dose of irony that would be. And none of them have the function of neither soul nor verbage to tell the stories that would have led him to this moment, the sorry lot.
He will never say Geralt is right. But he has a point.]
It really does feel like shit.