I love you. I think I always have. I know I always will.
I know you would have loved to hear it. I think it might be too late for you to believe.
Because I was a fool.
I was terrified.
Of you, of us, of all the buts and the what-ifs and the maybes.
Terrified of the fact that you were not.
Of the fact that you have taken every piece and every scrap and every little morsel that I let myself feel despite everything, and of the fact that, if let free, you would continue ad infinitum.
That you have continued, ad infinitum.
I was, and I still am, believe me (oh, please believe me), desperately mortified by that situation, and by the fact that my actions, dim as they might be, may have tarnished your hunger for love and for life and for happiness. Mortified that I couldn't be brave enough to tell you that I care. Oh, how I care. So much that I scare myself sometimes. So much that I would do anything, anything for you to look at me like you believe it.
But that's on me, isn't it?
On me and nobody else, that you can't believe that I care anymore.
I have taken your joy and your music and your tenderness, and I twisted them into some sort of pathetic plea for.. for what? Attention? Power? I spat on it like all those strangers that you despise spit their venom at me when we meet. Because of fear. Of incomprehension. Of hate.
I do not fear you. I cannot hate you. Could never. But I feel that, maybe, I have never really understood you at all.
And this I fear and hate.
Because you are good, and brave, and kind, and beautiful, and I should not be allowed near all of that. All I bring is woe. Everything you brought was life. Bright, light, terrible and exciting life, that had my heart beat far too much and far too strongly. And peace. Peace of heart and peace of mind, behind and above everything else. I am not supposed to know peace. I do not understand peace. So when you tried to bring peace to my storming mind, I did what people do. I got scared. And I lashed out.
I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have.
But I did, and you left, and you were gone, and now I stand with the scraps of my heart and no peace in my mind.
I am sorry. Truly, terribly, entirely sorry. I could say it every day, every hour and every minute, and it would not be enough. It would however never cease to be true.
I will forever be sorry for my behaviour, and for the hurt that I caused you.
I do not ask for your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But I wish, for you, maybe, to understand.
I know it must be too late. And for that I am also sorry.
I love you.
He has always been terrible, terrible with words.
But when Geralt finds Jaskier, several months after that terrible, terrible day on the mountain, and he is playing some mournful tune in some virtually empty tavern, this is everything he wants to say. This is everything he needs to say.
Everything he needs Jaskier to know.
But when he meets his eyes, the blank look of grief he receives has him stumbling through the room, falling on his knees before his bard.
The lute stops, and the tears of hurt and fear in the eyes of the man standing mirror those in the eyes of the man kneeling.
He knows he needs to speak. He knows he has to speak. But after months of pain and hurt and grief, months of words painfully and hurtfully crafted, months of would-be apologies grieving a better time, the only word he has left stumbled from his lips with a sob.
Jaskier….
His voice is trembling, his hands are trembling, his whole body is shaking, as his future depends on the man standing in front of him, the man he has hurt beyond anything.
His biggest betrayal.
His dearest friend.
His greatest love.
And somehow, despite everything, or maybe because of it, because of the mirrored tears and the life-long devotion, because of the shared love and the shared sorrow, he is understood.
Tears are falling, and blue eyes angled downwards meet golden ones raised in despair.
Jaskier lets go of his lute when he was still holding it like a shield, a distance of sorts. He sets it down on the ground and cups Geralt's face tenderly with both his hands.
I know.
His words are barely a whisper, a fragile murmur.
A ripple of sound that reaches Geralt with the power of a storm.
Every restraint he had left, every sliver of control that he was holding on to snaps under the weight of these words. He breaks down in front of Jaskier, body shaking with racking sobs.
Jaskier, who is still stroking his face through his tears, an air of relief on his face.
Jaskier who, when Geralt wraps his arms around his waist and presses his face on his belly, tears wetting his doublet, pets his air soothingly without a second of hesitation.
Jaskier who, despite having been hurt beyond measure and without a care in the world, provides comfort once again. Once more.
Jaskier, who he cherishes without ever knowing how.
Jaskier, who he loves.
Jaskier.
He knows this is not enough. He knows he needs to talk, to apologise, to give Jaskier more than just the pathetic thing that he is at the moment. But through his tears, through Jaskier's soft pettings and soft words, through the buzzing snores of two drunken lads in the backroom, through their knowing of each other, he has gained a new certainty: they will be okay.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not soon, but they will be okay.
Because in that virtually empty tavern, with a mournful tune and through mirrored tears, they have found each other again, and they have understood the pain, the grief and the fear.
They have understood woe.
And as Destiny smiles, they understand the care, the joy and the need. They understand peace.
They understand life.
I love you.