A Little Life

Geralt

When they finally reach the gate, Geralt is pleased to see Jaskier already in the outer courtyard, sprawled and bending toward the sun like a flower. He looks so much more like himself in the light, made for it just as Geralt is made for darkness. The linen shirt that lays open at his throat is the same blush-pink as a hellebore petal - no doubt Yen's work, as Jaskier thinks the color makes him look too young. It doesn't. When had Geralt learned that? The bard and sorceress sit with their backs pressed together, the dusty wine of her dress and obsidian shine of her hair somehow making him impossibly brighter. Geralt feels the line where their bodies meet running through his own like a crack in the earth.

From here, Geralt can see the white and yellow flowers tied up in Ciri's hair where it spills over Jaskier's knee and into his deftly weaving fingers. He feels that too - the memory of it, the clumsiness of his own hands in those first weeks when her flaxen hair had stuck to her head, tangled in hopeless knots. Now she's laughing, waving her hands in the air as Triss plucks inexpertly at Jaskier's lute and he sings along. Whatever story he's telling, the words are swallowed up by the space between them before they can reach even Geralt's sensitive ears. He doesn't need them, really - that mellow tenor greets him as easily and recognizably as his own stagnant heartbeat. They look happy, easy. Complete.

Geralt stalls, stuck between the urge to steal more of this moment for himself and the instinct to turn away from it, knowing his arrival will shatter the fragile picture as surely as hot steel through a spiderweb. Before he can decide, he's been spotted.

Jaskier stands with some help from Triss, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun, then limps his way toward Geralt and the horses. A light squeeze urges Roach to go a little faster, sparing Jaskier a few steps as they meet on the overgrown path between the keep and the innermost curtain wall. Geralt dismounts, willing the sour flipping of his guts to settle, and Jaskier....stumbles right past him. Without sparing half a glance toward the witcher or the beautiful gelding trailing behind them, he wobbles forward and throws his lanky arms around Roach's neck.

"My savior," he mutters to the horse, rubbing his face into her broad nose. "Brave girl, so fast and strong. Pretty girl, did you get any treats? Did you? No you didn't?!"
Roach preens, though she would bite clean through anyone brave enough to accuse her of such a thing, and Jaskier holds a hand out to Geralt without so much as looking at him.
"No," the witcher grunts. Jaskier simply closes and opens his hand until Geralt turns to his pack to retrieve an apple. He breaks off a chunk and watches as Roach lips it out of Jaskier's hand, all while the bard mutters more sweet nonsense to her. She endeavors to find more in his messy hair and he laughs, easy and clear as a bell. Geralt isn't sure if the pang of jealousy that strikes him belongs to the bard or the horse.

Behind Jaskier, Cirilla stomps out of the courtyard and back toward the keep, that ashen, flower-adorned plait swinging at her back like a wyvern's tail. Triss follows her after a moment of hesitation while Yen stands at a distance with her arms crossed, managing to look bored and furious at the same time.

When Jaskier finally turns from Roach, Geralt finds him just a little less sallow-cheeked than when he left him, clean-shaven and tidied. It feeds the warring senses of relief and unease in the witcher - he is pleased to see Jaskier's color returning, but once again, he has left and Jaskier has changed. It makes the leaving more real, less forgivable.

The bard even smells like himself, most of the bitter herbs and earthy salves worn off and replaced by the mint he chews on in the morning. Beneath it, lavender and bergamot - that sends heat creeping up into Geralt's face, and other places.

"Geralt."

His voice is carefully disinterested, a cool reflection of his expressionless face. Geralt waits, unwilling to be the one who disrupts the peace between them that is certainly about to shatter.