[Jaskier doesn't really pay attention to how long he holds onto him. It's Geralt, and he'll deal with it -- a bard clinging to him is really the least of his worries, isn't it? It's enough. It's enough because it has to be. It has to be.
He doesn't want to give up. He does not want to be the only one who can't keep going on.
These people need him. Ciri said as much. You were there for me. You sell yourself too short, Jaskier.
Jaskier laughs against him, the sound shaking his shoulders, burying his face against Geralt's gross hair. But it's him. Undeniably him. Geralt, he thinks. He thinks Geralt needs him, too. He said as much. He didn't need to, but he did, and that's. That's enough.
He pulls away, wiping his face. It's a mess. All of him is. He does not feel better, really. But he does feel as if he will not drown completely, for now.]
I expect to. There's nothing romantic about that horrible snort-gasp noise you make. [He leans against him. Rubs his hands, rubs his palms, heavy with sweat, over his knees. He understands what it means, even through the haze of drink. He will stay. And. Perhaps, that will be the only nightmare Jaskier has.
Jaskier looks at him. He knows he's the one that sort of threw everything at Geralt's face, all at once, but he needs to ask. It's one of those things. Processing while he speaks.] We're all right. Aren't we?
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He doesn't want to give up. He does not want to be the only one who can't keep going on.
These people need him. Ciri said as much. You were there for me. You sell yourself too short, Jaskier.
Jaskier laughs against him, the sound shaking his shoulders, burying his face against Geralt's gross hair. But it's him. Undeniably him. Geralt, he thinks. He thinks Geralt needs him, too. He said as much. He didn't need to, but he did, and that's. That's enough.
He pulls away, wiping his face. It's a mess. All of him is. He does not feel better, really. But he does feel as if he will not drown completely, for now.]
I expect to. There's nothing romantic about that horrible snort-gasp noise you make. [He leans against him. Rubs his hands, rubs his palms, heavy with sweat, over his knees. He understands what it means, even through the haze of drink. He will stay. And. Perhaps, that will be the only nightmare Jaskier has.
Jaskier looks at him. He knows he's the one that sort of threw everything at Geralt's face, all at once, but he needs to ask. It's one of those things. Processing while he speaks.] We're all right. Aren't we?