A Midsummer Dream

Chapter 5

As neither man could quite meet the eye of the other, the walk back to the campervan was filled with awkward silence. Geralt kept his gaze fixed straight ahead as they made their way through the crowds of cheerful revellers, passing the dodgems without so much as a second glance. Jaskier stared at his feet as they walked, his mind still racing over what the fortune teller had said. He'd never allowed himself to hope that Geralt might feel the same way; it was easier just to tell himself it was never a possibility. But now, it seemed that not only was it a possibility, it was a certainty, apparently written in the stars—well, tarot cards, if he wanted to be precise. He ran his index finger across the edge of the tarot card in his pocket.

Have a little faith, the fortune teller had said. Easy for her to say when he could lose everything that he cared about in a heartbeat if she was wrong.

But then she had known the lyrics to the song he had written about Geralt, lyrics that he had kept locked away safely in his own head for fear that someone might stumble across them. Despite their reservations about fortune tellers, it seemed that the Romani Rose was the genuine article.

Geralt slowed his pace as the campervan came into sight. Jaskier suspected that he was trying to delay the awkward conversation that they would have to endure when they got there. Maybe Geralt would just keep walking right past the campervan? They could both just walk all night, thought Jaskier hopefully. Walk for the rest of their lives, not talking about what had just happened. Yes, that sounded incredibly appealing.

When they finally reached the campervan, Geralt fumbled with the keys to open the door, cursing under his breath as he did so.

"Do you need a hand?" Jaskier offered, reaching out.

But Geralt pulled away and snapped, 'I'm fine', so Jaskier let his hand fall by his side. When Geralt finally managed to unlock the door, he threw it open and climbed inside, switching on the lights before beelining straight for the small sink in the kitchenette. Jaskier closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the fold-out bed. He watched Geralt splash water on his face, washing off the last of the faded face paint from earlier in the day. He tried to swallow but his throat felt constricted with nerves; he really didn't want to be the one to have to start this conversation.

"Geralt—"

"Why did you drag me to see a psychic when you know that I don't like them?" Geralt demanded as he roughly dried his face with a hand towel.

"I dunno, I thought it'd be fun," Jaskier replied weakly. "I didn't think it'd be like..." Intense. Invasive. Scarily accurate. He took a deep breath and asked, "Is it true?"

"What?" said Geralt, tossing the towel aside.

"What she said," Jaskier pressed. "About you...how you feel about me."

Geralt sighed and gripped both sides of the basin. "Why are we even talking about this? You know that it's all a load of rubbish, right? These so-called psychics, they'll just say and do anything they can to get a reaction out of you and fleece you out of your money."

"So, it's not true?" When Geralt didn't answer, Jaskier argued, "Even if she isn't a psychic and she's just an exceptionally convincing bullshitter, that there wasn't some truth to her words. So...is it true or isn't it?"

Despite his face expressing a storm of emotions, Geralt still said nothing. It was unnerving for Jaskier to see Geralt like this, so afraid and unsure of himself. He leaned over and tentatively reached for Geralt's hand. When Geralt didn't withdraw, Jaskier pulled him over to the bed, and Geralt followed without resistance. He flopped down next to Jaskier, his shoulders hunched and head bowed. He looked like he had a physical weight bearing down on him, and it was ready to crush him at any moment. Jaskier hated seeing him like this, and hated it even more that he was the cause of his misery.