[ Jaskier, always, is different from anyone Geralt has ever let into his life. He knows this, but knowing doesn't mean he can offer what Jaskier is seeking. If he even fully gathers what Jaskier might be seeking. His entire life has been surrounded by people who wrap themselves up in thick, hardened walls. He's the same. Ciri is the same. (Yennefer.) He learned a long time ago how to comfort people of that kind, people like him. He's learned not to stifle, he's learned not to say what's too painful to speak out loud. He knows how to tell when to approach and when the solitude is impenetrable. He knows not to let the bitterness sting when it lashes too far.
He knows that at the heart of it all, they share an understanding that they have hurt the same, if not worse, before and that life carries on with or without you.
Jaskier hasn't hurt the same before. He suddenly isn't sure what to do in the face of that. He wanted to tell Jaskier I understand. Slowly, it occurs to him he does not. Not exactly. Geralt can't even say what he thought, the first time he felt true loss. Witnessed it. He was only a child. There is simplicity to the pain of a child that age. No despair over a future long ahead, no wrestling with questions of hope or existential fear. It just hurts. And then it moulds you until you no longer remember a time when it wasn't lodged inside.
Maybe that's the real reason they took Witchers so young.
Jaskier holds onto him, though. He decides if nothing else, his presence means something so he holds him in return. He can feel the beat of Jaskier's heart, unsteady breaths, the curl of fingers against him. He doesn't pull away until Jaskier finally does so. ]
You'll be fucking sick of it again soon. [ I'm staying. He's not leaving, if Jaskier needs him here. ]
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He knows that at the heart of it all, they share an understanding that they have hurt the same, if not worse, before and that life carries on with or without you.
Jaskier hasn't hurt the same before. He suddenly isn't sure what to do in the face of that. He wanted to tell Jaskier I understand. Slowly, it occurs to him he does not. Not exactly. Geralt can't even say what he thought, the first time he felt true loss. Witnessed it. He was only a child. There is simplicity to the pain of a child that age. No despair over a future long ahead, no wrestling with questions of hope or existential fear. It just hurts. And then it moulds you until you no longer remember a time when it wasn't lodged inside.
Maybe that's the real reason they took Witchers so young.
Jaskier holds onto him, though. He decides if nothing else, his presence means something so he holds him in return. He can feel the beat of Jaskier's heart, unsteady breaths, the curl of fingers against him. He doesn't pull away until Jaskier finally does so. ]
You'll be fucking sick of it again soon. [ I'm staying. He's not leaving, if Jaskier needs him here. ]