There was no forgetting December 3.
Geralt could try, but he’d fail.
There was no erasing the clear scent of the rain. Or the darkening of the pavement as droplets grew heavier, morphing into a full downpour. The winter air that swept around him, gently threading through his hair, dyed strands falling over his eyes. The grey of the sky as it hid the bright sun behind dense clouds.
But really, he couldn’t even miss the sun because it stood right next to him.
Bright and unyielding. Geralt heard of this guy, ‘Jaskier’ everyone called him, but that seemed wrong. In Geralt’s opinion, you should call him the sun. He was kind and warm, gentle and musical.
There was something about him.
Anxiously, he brought a hand up, toying with his necklace, trailing his finger across the ironworking. It was something his brother, Eskel made for him in his shop class. A dear gift.
In his peripheral he could see the Sun shiver, a long shudder that ran through the brunette's figure, rocking the guitar strapped to his back.
‘The jacket,’ something provided, voice small and distant, ‘Give him the jacket.’
Geralt debated for a moment. To the Sun, he was a stranger, a nobody. Why would he offer him his sweater? But that voice came back, nagging, ‘Just give it to him.’
So, he did. Pulling the leather from his shoulders, blush rising on his cheeks, “Here.”
The brunette faltered, eyes wide, “You’re giving me your...jacket?”
Geralt mentally facepalmed. This was stupid, of course, it was.
“Thank you,” Jaskier said, voice soft and a little breathless.
Geralt simply nodded, quickly turning away, heart racing.
“My name’s Julian, but everyone calls me Jaskier,” the Sun said, extending a polite hand, a smile pulling at his lips.
‘Yes, I know, I already know.’
“Jaskier?” Geralt questioned, crossing his arms, leaning against the brick pillar behind him, “That’s quite different from ‘Julian’.”
Jaskier just laughed, the sound melodic and beautiful, “Well, I took Polish in eighth grade and my teacher gave me the name.”
Something picked away at Geralt, “What’s it mean?”
“Directly, it means Buttercup, but it can also mean Dandelion,” he explained.
Geralt sucked in a harsh breath, this was an introduction. He does plenty of those, this isn’t supposed to be hard.
“Geralt,” he says finally, slipping his hand into Jaskier’s.
It’s difficult, so very difficult.
There’s so much he wants to say, so many things he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He lets the silence fall between them once more, quietly side eyeing Jaskier. The brunette is pulling his bags off his shoulders, setting them carefully onto the ground. His pastel blue shirt ruffles as he pulls the stark black leather jacket on. It almost looks wrong on his shoulders. Too dark, too heavy.
But when Jaskier turns back to Geralt, a kind smile on his face, Geralt thinks that nothing could be more right.
A darker blush threatens to expand on his face, and he fights his gaze down, “You sing?”
“Yes, I do,” the brunette answers.
From where his gaze is, Geralt can see the tips of his fingers skim the sleeves. He’s going to die; he is so sure of it. The Sun would kill him.
“Are you good?”
Again, he facepalms. Why? Why would he ask that?
“I don’t know, Geralt,” he laughs, throwing his head back slightly, “I’d like to think so.”
‘Please, for the love of God, never stop saying my name.’
“I sure you are,” Geralt breathes out. His voice is caught in the back of his throat and he’s praying Jaskier won’t notice. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets, cocking his head so that his hair falls into his eyes.
The Sun turns towards him, warm rays shining gently across his body. Calming sea blue eyes scan him, chocolate hair lying flat against his head. There’s so much detail to Jaskier, so many fine intricacies, but Geralt would be more than happy to study every single one. Study every single small nuance that makes up Jaskier. He’d study the smallest, barely there, hint of a scar on his nose, the green flakes in his eyes, the smell of lavender and chamomile that wafts from him, dancing slowly in the rain until it trails up to his nose.
He’d gladly stay here, beneath the cover of the school, waiting in an empty parking lot. if it meant he’d be with Jaskier.
But he can’t, not with his dad pulling into the lot, Lambert sticking from the window, “Get in Asshat.”
Embarrassment crawls up Geralt’s body, coiling into a dark blush as he tightens his hold on his backpack, grumbling lowly.
“W-Wait,” the Sun calls out, about to pull the garment from his shoulders, “Here, don’t forget your jacket-”
But there’s something else that shoots through him, breaking through the embarrassment and awkwardness, “Just give it to me tomorrow. It’s cold, don’t worry about it.”
Geralt quickly turns away from him, sprinting through the rain and chucking his backpack into the backseat. He slips into the car, fingers coiling tightly around his necklace as his heart pounds in his chest.
“Who’s that your boyfriend?” Lambert teases, eyes flicking up to stare at his brother through the rearview.
“Shut your face.”
He presses himself against the door, eyes flickering Jaskier who stands in the rain alone, smiling at his leather jacket.
‘Stop,’ he warns, ‘You can’t make me fall in love with him. Please, please don’t do this to me.’
He falls in love with Jaskier.
He falls in love like an idiot .
But really, you can’t blame him. It’s not his fault, it’s really not. What else was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do when Jaskier smiled at him? When his eyes light up so beautifully? Was he supposed to just not fall in love?
It was only made worse when he introduced Jaskier to Roach. Now, that damn cat is very picky. She is selective over whom she lets near her, let alone pet her. To this day, she still refuses to let Lambert pet her for more than a few minutes.
“This is Roach,” Geralt introduced, fingers gently running through her dark fur. The cat was still in his arms, body curled towards him, a warm rumble building in her throat.
She looked up at the new person before her, lazily lifting her head to push into Geralt’s hand.
“How old is she?” Jaskier asked, curious blue eyes watching the feline tentatively.
“She’s about 4 years old,” Geralt answered proudly, lip curling slightly. He really loved Roach and silently prayed that Roach liked Jaskier.
Cautiously, the brunette reached out, fingers barely grazing the tips of her fur. He cocked his head to the side, watching closely for any signs of disapproval, but the cat gave none. She simply meowed happily and sought out more of his touch.
Slowly, Geralt let out a breath of relief. He was glad that Roach liked him, her opinion matter almost more than that of his family.
“She’s very cute,” Jaskier commented, eyes fixated on the feline, happiness swelling in those sapphire eyes.
An immediate agreement sat on his tongue, but then Geralt looked up. His heart stuttering in his chest. Oceanic eyes softened and warm, a dazzling smile on his lips, fingertips barely grazing the top of her fur. The dim light that’s behind him creates this glow, it’s far too dark for Jaskier, for the Sun, but he does what he does best, he makes it blinding.
“Yeah,” Geralt breathes, definitely not talking about Roach, “She is.”
How can you blame Geralt? This is all Jaskier’s fault. He looks too damn good in Geralt’s jacket.
And, well, why ruin a good thing. So, yes, Geralt found every excuse under the sun to give Jaskier his jacket, but it didn’t help that every time he did, Jaskier would look back at him with a smile. His blue eyes gentle and beautiful.
“Yeah, I guess Mrs. Kent’s class is kind of cold.”
“You really think so, Geralt?”
“Oh, ok. I’ll make sure to take good care of it; you can count on me!”
“So, maybe I didn’t bring my umbrella...are you sure?”
“This is fashion, Geralt, fashion. Beauty is pain, my dear, beauty is pain.”
Geralt always found a way, and if he could continue to get those smiles from Jaskier, he’d always find a way.
Geralt was quite grateful for those peaceful summer nights he was able to spend with Jaskier. Spiraled out across his bedroom, heavy books weighed in front of him.
It wasn’t that he liked studying, but he liked having Jaskier near. The presence of the other just calmed his nerves, it soothed an instinct that he had buried deep within him.
Afternoon’s like these with no football, no guitar lessons or theater rehearsals, were afternoon’s he looked forward to. Days when he could bask in the warmth of the Sun and chase away the clutches of the cold.
“This sucks,” Jaskier sighed, hand slipping down his face as he stared into his Chem book. Inwardly, Geralt irked away, while he didn’t mind chemistry, it wasn’t his favorite.
A simple hum left his lips as he continued to flip through his AP-HG book. The test they had coming up wasn’t supposed to be hard, but then again, that’s what his teacher said about the seven tests they’d taken previously. All of which were extremely difficult.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, a familiar silence. Nothing heavy or awkward, it wasn’t that they didn’t know what to say, they just were in no rush to say it. They’d found such balance within each other, such stability.
But there were some things that needed to be pressed. Somethings that needed to be said.
‘Go on,’ he heard, Yennefer’s voice tugging at the back of his mind, ‘Tell him, coward.’
“Jaskier,” he calls, voice low.
“Look at your wrist,” he says, sounding much more commanding than he means to.
“My wrist?” Jaskier questions, eyebrows high.
Embarrassment threatens to wash over Geralt’s face, heart thundering in his chest, “Yes.”
“Never mind,” he huffs, a blush dusting across his cheeks, “It’s stupid…”
He curses at himself, of course it wouldn’t work. This is exactly why he never listens to Yennefer.
“No! No!” Jaskier quickly corrects, turning over his forearms, exposing the beautiful expanse of his skin, “Here, what now?”
‘I get my heartbeat under control,’ Geralt thinks.
However, he lets his body move. Watching in amazement at the way his finger ghosts over Jaskier’s wrist. The warmth sending shockwaves through his body, radiating across his body, “The blood flowing through your veins contains hemoglobin, a protein that has four iron atoms integrated into its structure.”
The words are well engraved within him, he draws his touch closer. Connecting softly with the skin, he feels the slightest tremor beneath his fingers.
“Iron is only naturally produced in one place,” He continues, eyes locked onto Jaskier’s wrist, “It can only be forged in the core of dying stars.”
There is so much he is trying to say, so much he wants to say, but he’s never been good with words. He’s never had a knack for piecing together long drawn out speeches or stitching together songs.
Geralt dares to look up, eyes locking onto Jaskier’s. His heart just about explodes, stuttering in his chest. He really is beautiful, beautiful and kind, bright and magnificent.
Geralt is so fucked in the best way possible.
“You’re made of stardust, Jaskier,” he confesses, praying that Jaskier hears him. That the brunette can hear all the subtext, all the underlying meaning. He prays that Jaskier can hear the pounding of his heartbeat or the cries of his heart.
“I am?” Jaskier questions, eyes wide. His voice is soft, a little breathless, but that is the most ridiculous question ever.
‘And so much more,’ he yearns to say, but he swallows the words.
“I am,” Jaskier breathes, looking down at his own skin with newfound amazement.
‘You always have been.’
It was so very easy to fall in love with Jaskier.
There wasn’t much to it. He’d smile at you, maybe give you a wink, and you were a goner.
There was no one in the world that could compare to him, no one that could shine as bright as the Sun.
The Sun was kind and unyielding, loud and colorful. He was a yellow guitar pick that hung loosely around his neck, he was chipped nail polish, and a leather jacket that was two sizes too big. The Sun was so very beautiful.
No one would ever compete with him, there was no one even on his same wavelength.
But as the Sun continued to shine, Geralt took notice of how others were drawn to him as well, he was running out of time. He was running out of comfortable silence that left room for them to say anything, he was running out of unrushed confessions.
He couldn’t do this alone; he didn’t know how. So, he called the one person that would know how.
He called Yennefer.
She would know what to do, she had to know what to do. Geralt had no other options, he had no more silence left.
“No jacket today?” Jaskier commented from beside him, picking at his backpack straps.
Geralt gave him a grunt in response, heart thudding in his chest.
‘Fuck,’ he thought.
He’d forgotten that today Jaskier had that presentation in German three. Jaskier always got dressed up for presentations and today was no different. Crisp button-up shirt and smooth slacks, simple but stunning.
‘God, if you’re there, I beg of you, please, help me.”
“Looking for someone?”
Geralt didn’t trust himself to speak, relieved when he saw Yennefer walk through the entrance doors. Her long raven hair followed behind her, shoulders back, hips forward. She always did have a flair for the dramatic.
She smiled in Geralt’s direction, stark jacket on her shoulders.
“ This is what you’ve been giving him,” she scolded over the phone last night.
“Yes,” He answered, a hand in his hair, “Is there something wrong with it?”
A long exasperated sigh was heard, “We’ve got some work to do.”
“Oh,” Jaskier said, voice a little flat, “You - you gave her your jacket?”
“It’s just a leather jacket,” Geralt responded, Yennefer’s words echoing in his head. He tucked his books under his arm, turning back to Jaskier.
The brunette laughed, but it didn’t sound right, “Yeah, just a stupid jacket.”
Well, it was. It was a jacket he’d gotten for Christmas. It was the jacket he’d given to a stranger on December 3 three years ago, it was a jacket that he wanted Jaskier to love.
But it is just a stupid jacket.
Geralt was sure he’d die without Yen’s help. So, he was more than thankful when she offered to spend every waking hour with him. Of course, it bothered him that he was no longer spending it with Jaskier, and Jaskier alone, but they’d have forever to spend later.
He snuck a glance down at his phone, Yen noticed.
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes,” Geralt huffed, chewing on his inner cheek, “He should’ve been here.”
She laughed, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, “I’m sure he’s fine, just a little late.”
Geralt went silent, fingers going up to his pendant. As he searched for it, he skimmed across the guitar pick resting calmly against his throat. He brushed across the surface, recalling Jaskier handing it to him.
“It’s for you, I know that you don’t play, but I do, so, just keep it and think of me when you see it.”
It was a funny request. It was as if Jaskier ever left his mind, as if there was a moment, a second, that Geralt wasn’t thinking of the singer.
It was as if Jaskier didn’t know how Geralt felt, but he did...right?
Yes, of course, he did. Geralt told him. Hadn’t he?
“I need you to tell me something,” he turned to her, eyes wide, hands dropping down to his lap.
She lets out a laugh, sharp eyebrows quirking up, “Ok?”
“Yennefer, look at your wrists.”
“Yes,” he rushes out. He doesn’t need her questions, it's not like he wants to say this. It feels wrong, it feels as though he’s exposing a hidden part of himself, a part of him and Jaskier.
It made something within him wretch away, a small voice shout at him, ‘This is wrong, stop.’
But he didn’t, he pointed to the skin on her wrists, hovering above the light blue veins that peeked up at him, “The blood flowing through your veins contains hemoglobin,” he explains, but there’s no inflection in his voice. His eyes don’t soften as he speaks, “They have iron in them, right? And that iron can only be found in one place, dying stars.”
“You’re made of stardust,” He concludes, but the words leave a bitter taste on his tongue. Something deep within him feels wrong, like he’s broken the heart of a buttercup, like he’s broken the spirit of the sun, it feels...strange.
Yennefer is unfazed, “Geralt, please tell me that that is not what you used to confess to Jaskier,” she sighs.
Panic floods through him, “Yes, it is. Why? Why is it wrong? Is it too much? It probably is too-”
“Geralt! I can assure you, with absolute certainty, Jaskier doesn’t know how you feel about him,” she interjects, squeezing his shoulder, eyes disappointed.
“What are you talking about? I told him - he can’t think I tell that to everyone...can he?” Geralt twist to look at her, “Fuck.”
“Fuck indeed,” she echoes, with a roll of her eyes she collapses onto his bed.
Geralt stands, embarrassment running through his body, heating up his face.
He had to know, Jaskier had to know. He had to know exactly what he meant to Geralt. He had to know that, to Geralt, he was the Sun, he was his entire world. He had to know that there was no one else, there would never be anyone else.
He had to know that he was made of stardust and buttercups and sunlight. He had to know that there was another response to his, ‘I am’s. He had to hear Geralt’s response of, “You are, you always have been.”
But there was time, Geralt reasoned, calming his nerves, there was time. He’d just tell Jaskier when he showed up.
He’d tell Jaskier how he felt, how he’d always felt, and problem solved. He would tell Jaskier that he was stardust and that he was beautiful, he’d tell Jaskier that some days were harder than others because Geralt couldn’t kiss him. He would tell him how much he...loved him.
Geralt would tell Jaskier and he prayed Jaskier would listen.
Jaskier didn’t show up
The world dulled.
The Sun faded away, the sweet smell of chamomile and lavender faded away. Mindless tunes on the guitar faded away. Everything faded away.
Jaskier never talked to him again. The singer walked away from his life, taking with him all the color and purpose. There was nothing left, there was no stardust.
“My God,” Lambert groaned out, “You’ve been here all week, go out! For fuck’s sake!”
Geralt turned away from his brother, Roach cradled in his arms. She pawed up at him, eyes wide and concerned.
“I’m ok, Roach,” he whispered, fingers dancing along her fur, “I’m just sad.”
She let out a loud purr, bowing up in his hold, her warmth spread through him, but it wasn’t enough. He still felt so... cold.
“He has an open mic tonight,” A voice said, sharp and exhausted, it was Yen.
Jaskier had always dreamed of having one. He always wanted to have his music heard by others. He deserved it, deserved it more than anyone in the world. The brunette put his entire being into his music.
Geralt was proud.
“Kaer Morhen,” He sighed out, rolling the feline onto his stomach, “I know.”
Of course, it would be. Where else could it possibly be?
That was their coffee spot. They would go there all the time after school. It was a warm little spot off of highway 6. The coffee wasn’t great, but when they were there it was. When they were together , it was.
“You should go,” Yennefer prompted, walking towards his bed, placing a soft hand on his shoulder.
He stared up at her, his tired eyes meeting the vibrant hues of her violet pools, “He doesn’t want me there. He left me for a reason.”
She let out a groan, “Lambert! Eskel! Come help me get Geralt up!”
He was going to kill them, every single one of them.
Eskel dropped him off, Lambert hanging lazily from the front seat, “We’re not coming to get your ass until his set is over, have fun loser.”
The two drove away, pulling haphazardly out of the parking lot. They left Geralt alone, anger and annoyance pulsating through him. Why would they do this? Jaskier was very obviously mad at him, he probably hated him.
He probably knew how Geralt felt and was repulsed by him. The negatives swarmed his mind, flooding through the positivity that filled the air.
He peered into the shop window, breath catching when he saw Jaskier perched upon a stool, acoustic guitar on his thighs, strumming away. The brunette was immersed in his music, eyes slipping shut as he sang into the mic. His ringed fingers glimmered in the stage light, sapphire eyes illuminating with a sadness, a hopelessness Geralt had never seen before.
Geralt’s body moves on its own, he doesn’t even realize that he’s pushed the door open or that he’s shimmied his way through the crowd.
He doesn’t notice because Jaskier is singing. And when Jaskier is singing it’s hard to focus on anything.
“Watch as she stands with her holding your hand
Put your arm ‘round her shoulder
Now I’m growing colder
But how could I hate her?
She’s such an angel,
But then again, kinda wish she were dead,”
Geralt wasn’t stupid and Jaskier wasn’t subtle. But this wasn’t right, this wasn’t supposed to be a love song with no recipient, this was supposed to be a song telling of the tales of a friend hating another. This was wrong. It had to be.
What a sight for
Brighter than a
She's got you
While I die…”
Could he really not know? Was there a chance that Jaskier didn’t know how much Geralt loved him? Did this idiot think he was in love with Yennefer?
He stared at the brunette, willing him to look up, willing him to just... know . To know everything Geralt couldn’t say, to know that every time Jaskier looked at him, his words flattened on his tongue. He willed for him to just know that it’s impossible to love anyone else when he has the Sun right next to him, he is willing Jaskier to just know that he was in love with him long before they met.
He is willing Jaskier to know that he loved him the day he heard him singing in the halls. The day it rained like never before, but Geralt couldn’t focus on the rain because the Sun was shining so very brightly in the halls of their dimly lit sixth-grade hallway.
But Jaskier doesn’t hear him.
“Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half, as pretty
You gave her your sweater
It's just polyester, but you like her better
I wish I were Heather…”
He would, Geralt would kiss him right now, right here. He’d kiss him in front of all these people. He’d kiss him like there was no tomorrow, he’d kiss him because there might not be a tomorrow. He would kiss him just because he let him. And pretty? Please . Jaskier wasn’t pretty, he wasn’t. He was beautiful. The brunette was beauty and grace, he was humor and idiocy, he was everything that Geralt fell in love with.
And that sweater...that fucking sweater.
That stupid leather jacket that clung to Geralt’s shoulders. If only he’d known, if he knew he wouldn’t have given it to her. If he knew that it wasn’t just a leather jacket, that is was the leather jacket, he wouldn’t have given it to anyone besides Jaskier ever again.
“Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half as pretty
You gave her your sweater
It's just polyester, but you like her better
Wish I were…”
“No,” Geralt breathes into the air. He doesn’t wish Jaskier were anyone else, why would he? Why would Jaskier want to be anyone else, he was perfect. He was the most consistently inconsistent thing in Geralt’s life, why would he want to be anyone else?
Cheers and applause erupt around him. Jaskier stands shyly, giving the audience a little bow before he walks off the small stage. The distance between them physically pains Geralt. He doesn’t take his eyes off the singer, his gaze burning into him. His fingers itch, they itch to reach up and glide across the pick, but he stills.
His body goes rigid when he meets Jaskier’s gaze. The brunette looks angry and confused, relieved and tired. His sea-blue eyes are swimming with questions, swimming with accusations.
Blood rushes through Geralt, drowning out the sound. His body moves on its own, it seems to do that a lot when Jaskier is around. He reaches out for his friend (?), gently taking his hand, clasping around the warm palm.
He leads them out of the shop, pushing past the people and into the cold night air. It whips around them, the damp air clinging to their bodies. The dim hue of the streetlamp illuminates Jaskier’s face and it makes Geralt’s heart break a little. There’s such a deep sadness sitting behind those sapphire eyes, the rays of the Sun aren’t as strong.
‘Say something,’ a voice prompts, ‘Anything.’
But that is the exact problem, he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t find the words, so, instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets, dragging a foot across the concrete.
A small, “Why’d you disappear?” Finally slips out.
Jaskier is quiet for a moment, pulling at the skin of his lips, painted nails digging into the tender flesh, “I left because you didn’t need me anymore...”
A rush of words and objections crawl up Geralt’s throat, but he swallows them down. He can’t voice them all, he doesn’t know how. His mind wanders to his choices, which aren’t very many. He has one: tell Jaskier how he feels (which isn’t going to happen anytime soon) or two: do the exact thing Yennefer told him not to do.
He’s sure Yennefer will forgive him later.
He reaches out, searching for Jaskier’s hand, “Why would I not need you?”
“Why would I not need you, Jaskier?” Geralt breathes, shuffling closer.
He prays Jaskier can’t hear the incessant thundering of his heartbeat.
“I need you, I always have,” he whispers, closing the gap between the two.
Nerves rush through him . ‘Please’, he begs, ‘ please don’t push me away. I won’t be able to survive it.’
But instead of lips, lips he’s dreamt about, a palm pressed against his mouth, “You need Yennefer,” Jaskier corrects, “You need Yennefer, not me.”
Geralt pulls away, heart crushed beneath his heel before he recovers. The faintest hint of a smile pulling on his lips as he thinks, ‘ I’ll show you; I promise I’ll show you.’
“Jaskier,” he whispers, daring to look him in the eye, “Look at your wrists.”
They’ve done this plenty of times, more than Geralt can count, but Jaskier still says, “M-my wrists?”
The singer complies, rolling his forearms over, exposing the smooth flesh.
“The blood flowing through your veins contains hemoglobin,” he begins, tracing a light finger over Jaskier’s wrist. He’s scared, so very scared that Jaskier won’t hear him. That Jaskier might fade away before he gets the chance to tell him.
“A protein that has four iron atoms incorporated into its structure,” he continues, voice kind, “Iron is naturally only produced in one place: In the core of dying stars.”
Geralt trails off, bringing his face closer to Jaskier’s skin. He lays a small kiss there, whispering into his skin, eyes locked onto the brunettes, “You’re made of stardust.”
His heart threatens to explode when Jaskier blushes, “I am?”
Geralt straightens, a hand falling to the other’s hip, gently holding him. He pulls them closer, their chest gently colliding. “You are,” he promises, lips pushing against Jaskier’s.
He breathes the words and feelings into the kiss. All the unsaid responses to his unsure questions, he presses his soul into the Sun, and his heart leaps when the Sun accepts it. Hands come up to entangle in his hair, a warm feeling spreading throughout him.
“I am,” Jaskier confirms when they pull away, breathless.
Geralt huffs out a laugh, lips curling upward to reveal a smile. He says that as if there was a way he couldn’t be. As if there was a possibility of him not being made of stars and moons, buttercups and dandelions, sunshine and music.
But this time, Geralt answers, this time he speaks.
“You always have been, Jaskier.”