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It is unbelievably bright when Jaskier opens his eyes that morning; the light sears into his sockets like so many suns. Cold hands move to cover his eyes and though he's shut them back tight, it isn't doing much to help. Honestly, all it does do is cause Jaskier to focus on everything else. The smells : charred wood and wet horse. The noise : chirping birds, rustling undergrowth, the thud of their satchels being packed away. He doesn't have enough hands to cover his ears and nose, as well as his eyes. A whine leaves his throat and Jaskier tries to burrow down under his blanket, the feel of it scratching along his skin is like rubbing against the most jagged tree bark to ever grace the Continent.
Jaskier can hear, almost acutely, how Eskel stops moving the bags around, and how his loud clod-hopping feet make their way over to him at the pathetic noises he makes.
"Julek, are you-"
His voice thunders in Jaskier's ears. So loud and so grating. Eskel's voice is normally a calming presence, a gentle rain of melodies to him. Other people may have differing thoughts on that, but he loves it. Usually. Right now, it's just too much.
"Stop, Gods. Eskel, just-" He sounds pitiful. He can feel the tear tracks that have started down his cheeks as he mumbles. He should reassure Eskel. He should try. He can't leave his dumb little burrow though. It's the only thing remotely keeping him from the immense overload of… everything. "Just silence."
Jaskier can hear Eskel walk away to the bags, clasps a little quieter as the witcher opens them up. He can hear things pulled out and placed back before they're all clipped up and then he's returning to the bard's side. A bird screeches off in the trees and Jaskier wants to cry harder. Why is it that he can play in front of rowdy tavern patrons and boisterous courts, but then this, out of nowhere, this?
Eskel sits down next to him and gives Jaskier a moment to realize the witcher is there. Perhaps he thinks Jaskier will send him off? Unlikely. He doesn't have the focus for that. He's burning, or itchy, or ringing all over. A bard that can't handle his own senses. Such a laugh even though he isn't laughing.
"Julek." Eskel is whispering now, barely a breath, so much quieter than the echoing boom of earlier. "Put your hand over your eyes if they aren't. I have that blanket, the one from Novigrad. Let me replace this scratchy one."
Jaskier makes a barely-there noise of assent, shifting to tighten his hands over his eyes again. Eskel is- There is no witcher like him. He deserves every love song dedicated to him. The tree bark monstrosity is pulled from Jaskier and the bard's body curls further in on itself, hands nearly crushing his eyes where they cover as the sun lays down an assault again. It only lasts a second before a heavy (heavy enough that Jaskier struggles moving it) blanket is laid over the entirety of him, then it is soft, weighty, sightless peace. His ears ring faintly with the noise of the outside world, but then Eskel passes him a small metal 'bone' shaped toy under the blanket and he has something to focus on besides the sound and the smell as his fingers twist the object back and forth methodically.
A few hours later Jaskier lays with his head against Eskel's chest, not quite dozing but close to, with Eskel running fingers through his hair slowly.
"Julek." And just like that, Eskel's voice is back to that peaceful melody. Jaskier finds himself sinking further into the doze. "My sweet Julek. Wish I could take your pain."
It's such an Eskel statement that all Jaskier can do with how drowsy he is, is shake his head and run fingertips along facial scars. He isn't sure what happens after as he falls asleep to Eskel's smile.
_______
The two men give him scrunched looks of concern before he even takes a seat. Jaskier knows what he smells like to them; stale, off, like he hasn't bothered with bathing or oils in weeks. He hasn't. The process of bathing is too much energy: requesting a bath, the water buckets, heating it up, removing clothes, getting in, having to scrub. Too much. Perfume? A wasted effort - and anyway who cares about flowers, really? Flowers. Fickle things.
Jaskier sits, shoulders slumping, no lively greetings given. Is he interrupting them? He probably is. Usually is. He won't blame the pair if they send him off and away. He cuts a pathetic image right now. He'd send himself away if he could.
"Sparrow. We weren't expecting to see you for another month." Aiden's voice is soft, questioning.
His Kitten's hand slides to the middle of the table like he's going to touch. The potential comfort of that leaves Jaskier feeling ashamed for wanting it, his own arms wrapping around himself protectively.
"I was…" His voice comes out scratchy from disuse and he shakes his head.
Jaskier is meant to be light and sunshine, not whatever this is. He can't give them light and sunshine right now. Can't give them anything more than this empty shell of himself. He's a corn husk with no corn. A field went through plague, leaving behind dry stalks and cracked ground. Melitele, what shit poetry.
"Jaskier?" Lambert prompts as his thoughts spin. The bard jolts at the sound.
"Court was boring me." No, that's a lie. Court was loud. Loud and crowded. Loud, and crowded, and cold. It was too hard to pretend at charming, too hard to act enthused. He hadn't been able to keep up with the social demands of it all. Too exhausted and too blank inside.
"Court is always boring you Sparrow, but I don't think that has anything to do with how you look now." Aiden is staring him down like he's trying to puzzle Jaskier out and the bard quickly pushes back from the table.
Light and sunshine. He needs to be but can't be light and sunshine right now. Their path is too hard to have to add his half-self on top of it. They don't need this right now.
"...I look fine. I feel tip-top. The most wonderful bard ever. In fact, I-" The brunette starts to rush out, leaning further back and pasting on a fake smile that would fool no one but the most gullible lord.
"Jaskier, when was the last time you ate?" Lambert cuts him off before he can really work himself up with his lies.
"I ate." He can't answer the question further and that's only a little unsettling. It's not like it's really a problem though. Sometimes appetites just disappear. It happens. Lambert rolls his eyes at his reply, which isn't fair at all.
"And a bath? I don't want to sound like an ass-"
"You already do," Jaskier mumbles under his breath, arms tightening at his middle.
"Sparrow, you look like death and smell it too. Fuck, please, tell us what's wrong." Lambert tries to reach across the table then, but Jaskier grits his teeth and flinches away. Lambert's hand curls back in.
"I'm just…tired." Tired isn't even half a full truth. Not even a quarter. Shitty poetry and words again. Poetry, one more thing he's failing at right now.
"Tired." Aiden frowns, nods his head, and quickly leaves the table to go talk to the innkeeper.
He must have caught something in Jaskier's answers that resonated with him. Before the bard can ask, Lambert is picking him up and carrying him away. The brunette finds himself in one of the inn rooms just minutes later, Lambert and Aiden hauling in water. He's silent as they work, watching the tub fill and the men move. When they stop it's Aiden that walks over to him.
"I know you're not feeling so 'You' right now and maybe you feel like you deserve to be alone, but we're here and we're staying."
"You don't need to do that. I know you'd probably rather be off-"
"We don't need to do anything Sparrow, we're witchers." The wolf gives him a wink and moves to pull his shirt off. "We want to. Now, let's get you in the tub so I can wash your hair. I know that makes you feel good."
_______
It's well past three in the morning as Jaskier stares into the dying fire, bloodshot eyes nearly as dead-looking as the flames. It's been almost a week since he's had a good sleep...maybe? At this point, he isn't really sure. He's really too exhausted to keep count of it. A nap here, some fitful hours of nighttime sleep there. Depressing. Irritating. Geralt even says so and he hardly ever comments on anything.
Speaking of the White Wolf, or not really. Jaskier hasn't been paying much attention to him today...Tonight? This morning? He hasn't really been talking to Geralt lately and when he has it's been snappy or melancholic. Is it rude to ignore someone you love when you feel so out of whack? Jaskier throws a twig among the embers and watches as it slowly disintegrates.
"Jaskier, you're going to be tired tomorrow if you don't at least try to sleep." Geralt's voice is a rumble from the bedrolls a few feet away, and the brunette heaves a frustrated sigh at the sound, dragging a hand through his greasy hair.
"I haven't slept for days, Witcher. Laying down is unlikely to help now." Jaskier is always tired these days.
"Bard. You've been sitting in front of that fire for hours. You need to at least try." The white-haired man sounds just a little agitated and isn't that just great. Jaskier knows Geralt understands sleepless nights, but the witcher has been sleeping and meditating soundly the last week and honestly, the bard is perhaps just a tad peeved about that.
"How do you know I haven't just been sleeping sitting up? Hmm? I very well could have woken up just now to feed the fire back up because I was feeling a little cold." His voice comes out in that tone, the one dripping in annoyance and fueled by misplaced anger.
Geralt's sigh is long-suffering. "You haven't. I've been awake this whole time, listening to you. Julek, you need to try and sleep."
"What did you call me?"
"Julek. Eskel calls you it, so I thought I would too. Is that a problem?" The brunette isn't sure if his heart is beating erratically from the name or the lack of sleep, maybe Geralt and the look on his face like he's waiting for more snark.
Jaskier rubs at his eyes once and then twice for good measure before standing up slowly and walking over to him. His whole body is sore, slumped in pain, and throbbing at his joints. It's terrible and no matter what Geralt says or asks of him, there will not be sleep. Still, he loves the White Wolf and he should probably try again. Seventh time?...Eighth times the charm?
"Can we cuddle?" He doesn't have much hope for the request. Gods, he's so exhausted, but Geralt wanted him to sleep and he looks so warm right now.
"Cuddle?"
"Yes...Cuddle or I'll go sit back at the fire because you're being an ass."
"Come here Julek. Take your doublet and shoes off. It'll help if you're comfortable."
Jaskier does as told, eyes already shutting, though burning with how dry and tired they are as they do. Geralt pulls him in close, the slow, measured ba-bump of his heart lulls Jaskier into a not quite sleep, but something close as he wraps himself tighter around his witcher.
_______
I'm fine. Everything is fine. The ideas clattering around Jaskier's head would state otherwise, but if he doesn't face them outright then he's fine. His hands may be trembling and he may be just a little restless, but he's fine. Until he isn't. Jaskier's mind slips when the fingers on his lute slip. The discordant twang throwing him out of his routine and into his head. The thoughts there that don't even really- mismatched chords, dark memories, and words that were spoken to him that shouldn't matter but do. It had been a good day so far, a new song and a happy tavern, so why? Jaskier's breathing starts to hitch and his skin, his skin is too tight for everything inside him now.
The thoughts push harder, forcing into every crevice and crack of him. His lungs feel like a vice surrounds them, burning with the force it takes to bring in air. His eyes sting. The upsetting feeling from earlier is so oppressive now. Damn. Damn. Damn. How did it go? Breathe, one, two, three, four. Breathe, one, two, three, four. Breathe, one, two- Jaskier lets out a sob and loses count. A hiccup and then trembling follows. He's sure he's cutting half crescents into his palms from how tightly his fists are clenching.
His heart feels like it's skipping beats, jumping out of time, sternum cracking from the punches of it. There's a loud thump off to the side of him like something heavy is being dropped. Jaskier can't even look up to see what it is, body gone rigid. His eyes shut tight and he's pretty sure he's being talked to, but Jaskier can hardly hear over the blood rushing in his ears. It sounds like his name, but he's in the middle of a forest, so there's no one around. It doesn't make sense until his name is said again, louder. Coën. Coën's back. Jaskier finally feels tears fall.
"Jaskier? Buttercup. What's wrong?"
"Can't. I don't - I can't." Jaskier still hasn't opened his eyes, refuses to look at his Griffin. The words are rushed, raspy, and gasping. He's never had one of these attacks in front of Coën. Pathetic. The thought of weakness makes him choke.
"Okay, well, can you breathe with me?" Coën's using the gentle voice and Jaskier does his best to nod. "Breathe in, Jaskier. One, two, three, four. Breathe out, one, two, three, four. Breathe in, one, two, three, four. Breathe out, one, two, three, four. Follow mine."
Jaskier tries to follow, jittery, and offbeat. The more Coën leads him through it though, the steadier he can feel himself become. He just can't get there yet. He's still not-
"Can you list scales for me?"
What?
"Music. C major scale." Coën repeats. Jaskier frowns and hiccoughs. Scales.
"C-c-c, D-d, E-e, F, " Jaskier has to take another of those long breaths. His heart slows from it's double-timed beat and his body starts to unlock. "G, A, B..." He's able to open his eyes and look at his witcher then and give him the shakiest smile.
"Any better, Buttercup?" Coën's giving him a warm, reassuring smile and Jaskier starts crying again, body sagging forward in exhaustion. The Griffin pulls him close, arms firm around him. Jaskier lets his head flop against his shoulder.
"Want to talk about it at all?" Coën's patting his back and smoothing his hair softly. Jaskier is so wired and so tired, and he has no clue how any of this started.
"I don't know what- I can't really- It just happens sometimes." He shuffles closer and Coën holds him tighter.
"Okay, okay. Well, I'm here. You know that. Things are going to be okay."
It doesn't feel true right now, but maybe it will soon. Jaskier smiles into his shoulder anyway.