Chapter Text
Jaskier had said his goodbyes at Kaer Morhen a fortnight ago, equal parts heartsickness and wanderlust bringing his stay to an end. He stayed just long enough to witness the keep's recovery from the Voleth Meir attack before bidding farewell and stepping through Yennefer's portal, heading for Oxenfurt. The witchers of Kaer Morhen tolerated his presence thanks to Geralt, but he knew he wasn't truly welcome. There was no reason for him to be there. He wasn't training Ciri like Yennefer was, he wasn't a witcher, he wasn't even in hiding. Jaskier could barely make himself useful enough to warrant staying as long as he did, taking shifts cooking meals and cleaning.
Not to mention the uncomfortable tension between Geralt and Yennefer that infected the keep. Geralt hadn't forgiven Yennefer after her desperate attempt to get her chaos back. If she wasn't there to train Ciri, Geralt would certainly have snapped and told her to fuck off by now. Yennefer was tirelessly trying to win his trust back after her betrayal, Jaskier saw the way she threw herself into her work. Yennefer cut herself off from everyone, excluding Ciri and Geralt during training. When she wasn't actively training Ciri, she locked herself in her room. His curiosity got the best of him and he made the mistake of knocking on her door one day, where he was promptly told to mind his own business. She called him several other pleasant words as well, 'leech' being one of the more memorable ones. If she wasn't in such emotional distress, wasn't Yennefer, he might've taken offense, but he knew she didn't mean it. Well, he hoped so at least.
The most distressing part of his time at Kaer Morhen wasn't the witchers, the feeling of not belonging, nor the thing between Geralt and Yennefer that drove the entire keep up the wall. The most distressing part of this ordeal had been the growing, squirming feelings for his two best friends (was Yennefer his best friend now? She certainly didn't act like it) clawing him apart from the inside out.
The matter of Geralt wasn't new, far from it. Jaskier was fully aware of the feelings he harbored towards his witcher companion. After twenty-odd years of travelling together, he'd gotten used to that warm feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach. However, after their fight on the mountain the pit in Jaskier's stomach began twisting at his insides. Longing and anger fused into a slurry of feelings Jaskier wished nothing more to be rid of, ironically similar to what Geralt said to him on that fated day. What were his exact words? "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands." Jaskier felt the same way about his pent-up feelings now. Ever since Geralt showed up for him in that goddamn cell (even if it was for information on Yennefer, not because Geralt cared), that oh-so-familiar pit of emotions threatened to choke him into submission if he didn't follow Geralt into whatever fresh hell was waiting for them.
As much as he tried to hide it, Geralt infected Jaskier's mind beyond the point of no return. He would do anything Geralt wished of him. He'd follow Geralt across the world again if he asked. Despite the anger he felt towards Geralt, because of course he was fucking angry, he still couldn't stop himself from being hopelessly in love. Emphasis on hopelessly, Geralt didn't have eyes for anyone that wasn't Yennefer. Until Yennefer decided to kidnap Ciri, that is, but Geralt still loved her even if he refused to admit it. Jaskier acted normal, spouting nonsense as if Geralt never hurt him. His anger bubbled close to the surface, but Jaskier refused to waste his voice yelling. His voice was of more use when he sang, and his singing pissed off Geralt enough to satisfy the anger temporarily. If there was a god, they certainly had it in for Jaskier. The events that led him back to Geralt for the first time after the mountain seeped into the chemistry of his brain, infecting him despite how much he protested against it. Yennefer had infected his mind as well. That damn witch.
The matter of Yennefer was much more recent and volatile than his twenty-year-long pine for Geralt. Fucking Yennefer of all people to fall for. God, he used to fucking hate Yennefer. From the very first time they met, he hated her, although even then he couldn't deny that she was incredibly sexy. She'd slammed him against a wall and grabbed him by the crotch, all while being functionally topless. At the time Jaskier was too panicked to be properly aroused, but if she did that now... Much to Jaskier's dismay, their eventful first meeting was not their last, thanks to Geralt's wish binding the two lovers together (and, of course, Jaskier still following Geralt around like a lovesick puppy).
His most recent encounter with the sorceress (besides the battle) hadn't involved Geralt at all. They reunited solely by chance, or perhaps a cruel trick of fate. She came prancing into his tavern smelling of sewer, had the audacity to hug him while he was mid-insult, and shared a god-awful drink with him while commiserating about Geralt. She'd grown on him, much like a tumor or a fungus. He'd planned to see the last of her in the belly of that boat heading to Cintra, had rested his hand on the wooden ceiling beams in an attempt to look cooler as he told her good riddance. Why did he care about looking cool in front of her? The new feelings stirring in his gut certainly knew the answer. But he wasn't going to see her again, so it didn't matter what emotions were brewing. Fate, blasted fate, had other plans.
Being tortured for information was certainly not in his plans, but Firefucker didn't care about plans. Firefucker only cared about the location of Geralt and his child surprise, Cirilla of Cintra. Jaskier didn't know Geralt's whereabouts, having last seen him on the mountain, and wouldn't have disclosed that information even if he did. He was prepared to die there, on the floor of a tavern. As is right and proper, the floor of a tavern was where Jaskier was destined to end up anyway. But Yennefer came for him, she didn't have an ulterior motive for saving him, and had no use for him. In fact, saving him caused her to lose her safe passage to Cintra, but she still came. Pretended to be intoxicated, pretended to be his wife. She kissed him on the cheek and spat alcohol into Firefucker's face (Jaskier had physically recovered from this ordeal, his hands back in working order. The mental damage, however, stayed burnt into his brain). God, he was really fucked now. Maybe he had a chance to get rid of the feelings brewing for her before they consumed him, but now he was truly gone. Geralt and Yennefer, eating at him from the inside.
-
Instead of facing his complicated feelings, Jaskier fled. He hoped that the distance would alleviate his suffering, but it seems that absence makes the heart grow fonder after all. He played at taverns every night, nursed a hangover every morning (often with another in his bed), and composed during the time in between. He missed playing for appreciative crowds, missed the streets of Oxenfurt, missed the free drinks offered to him by gorgeous patrons. Now that he had everything he missed, the allure wasn't there anymore. His crowds constantly requested songs he had no desire to play, asking for Toss a Coin and Burn Butcher Burn when he'd much rather play Her Sweet Kiss or the new songs he'd been composing. For no reason in particular, certainly not because he wrote Her Sweet Kiss about Yennefer and Geralt that day on the mountain.
His current compositions weren't about dangerous adventures or perilous escapes, not anymore. Love was the only thing he could think about. He composed some duets as well as solo songs, although he didn't have a duet partner anymore. His most recent composition was about Geralt and Yennefer's relationship at its peak, how their love affected each other. And so what if he added his own pining as well, no one would notice.
Jaskier sighed, furiously scribbling out the lyrics he'd just written. He lounged on his rented bed above the tavern, head pounding for more reason than one.
"Vespula, my darling, what do you think sounds better?" Jaskier asks the half-dressed woman sitting on his windowsill, blowing smoke out of the open window as she holds a pipe delicately between her fingers, wrist tilted just so. "And he adores her, he watches her get dressed as though she's hurtling through time, 'Oh, darling, please be mine' or what about he watches her get dressed as though she's the only thing that's real... no that's shit actually the first one was much better."
"I hope that song is about me," Vespula teased, placing her pipe on the windowsill as she approached the bed. She traced her fingers across Jaskier's bare shoulder as she settled next to him. Jaskier and Vespula met the day Jaskier left Kaer Morhen and slept together that same night. They've been sleeping together semi-regularly for the past two weeks, but have never pretended to be exclusive. Jaskier did love Vespula in a way, but not in the same soul-crushing, gut-wrenching way he loved Geralt or Yennefer. Their arrangement was for pleasure only, not romance.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Jaskier corrected the scribbled-out lyric, scratching more notes into the margins of his notebook.
"Aren't there better things to do right now?" Vespula hinted, moving to straddle Jaskier. Her fingers traced his jaw as he leaned towards her, tossing his notebook to the side.
"My darling, I think you're right."
-
Jaskier woke several hours later, pushing himself upright. He wasn't aware that he fell asleep after his affair with Vespula, and certainly wasn't intending to. Her presence was notably missing from his room. The window she smoked out of was firmly shut, the only evidence of her presence was a pile of ash on the windowsill and her scent lingering on his skin. Jaskier threw himself back onto the pillow, sighing.
"Fuck, there goes the rest of my day," Jaskier complains to the empty room. He was hoping to finish his new composition in time to debut it that night. Might as well try anyway. He rolled over, searching for where his notebook and pen had fallen. He found the notebook facedown on the floor, the pen several feet away leaking ink onto the hardwood floor. Jaskier rolled out of bed, depositing the book and pen on the nightstand as he pulled his shirt on. It was tighter than he remembered. Hold on... his shirt didn't have frilled sleeves like this.
"That viper! She took my shirt!" He scoffed, pulling on his trousers before flopping back onto the bed. He reopened his notebook, analyzing the lyrics he'd previously written. Was his opening verse too dramatic? Too obviously pining? He wished he was close enough with another bard to ask for their feedback. The consequences of travelling with a witcher for so long, he supposed. The relationships in his life were almost always fleeting; affairs, one-night-stands, casual conversations in a tavern leading nowhere. There were two bards whom he'd been close with in the past: Essi Daven and Valdo Marx. Valdo had betrayed his trust when they were still in university, conniving bastard. He'd weaseled his way into the spot that rightfully belonged to Jaskier, stealing opportunities, patrons, and even Jaskier's song once.
Essi, however, he loved dearly. They met about 10 years ago now, when Essi a cocky student at Oxenfurt University, and Jaskier was in one of the "off" stages of his on-and-off travels with Geralt. They both wanted to play at the last bardless tavern one night and bickered over it for an hour and a half before compromising and playing a duet. Their voices meshed better than they thought they would, getting three times the tips they would on a normal night. The pair stayed together after that, naming their two-person band The Amazing Devil, and played across the world for several years before splitting up to pursue their own desires. Essi and Geralt never met, though they were the most important people in Jaskier's life for so long. Selfishly, Jaskier wanted to keep those parts of his life separate. When he started travelling with Geralt more often, he played with Essi less.
Jaskier wondered where Essi was now, his Little Eye. Last he saw of her she was still a travelling bard, focusing on her own music as opposed to The Amazing Devil. She always knew him better than he knew himself, knew exactly what combination of words could describe his feelings in a song. She was his better half, his platonic soulmate, his sister, a breath of fresh air in a world of possible lovers. Essi would know how to fix the mess of feelings in his stomach, he wouldn't even have to tell her about it. She'd know, she always does.
The strum of a lute from the tavern below shook Jaskier out of his thought process, followed by a loud, melodious voice. The barkeep hired another bard to take his place, that greedy bastard. He threw on his doublet and his shoes, barely having time to lace them before barrelling downstairs to confront the barkeep.
He made it halfway down the stairs before recognizing what tune the mystery bard was playing. It was a tune he'd heard many times before due to the fact that he'd fucking written it. Not only did the barkeep hire another bard instead of him, the bard was also playing his songs. He had to admit her voice was quite lovely, smooth like honey with enough edge to keep her interesting, her voice sounded oddly familiar. Rounding the corner, Jaskier realized why her voice sounded so familiar, and why she was playing his song. Or, more accurately, their song.
Essi Daven walked around the tavern as if she owned it, easily controlling her audience. Her golden curls, unruly as ever, tumbled down to her shoulders. One eye was hidden under the messy curls, only revealing itself briefly when Essi made too-quick movements. She paraded between tables, leaning towards patrons as she strummed her lute, smiling as she sang. It was really her, in the flesh. Essi Daven, stealing his place in a tavern just like she tried to do when they met. Maybe God didn't have it in for Jaskier after all if they brought Essi back to him. Jaskier caught her attention before speaking.
"Hello my Little Eye, missed me?"