FIC: Petals and Pining, (2/12)

[roughentumble]

Title: Petals and Pining
Pairing: Geraskier
Total word count: 49,992
Entry word count: 4,055
Summary: Hanahaki!Geralt AU
Title suggested by @/yappingjaskier on Tumblr
Bonus tags: Hanahaki, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn
AO3 Link: archiveofourown.org/works/22904086
[1] . =2= .  [3] . [4] .  [5] .  [6] .  [7] .  [8] .  [9] .  [10] .  [11] .  [12]

"Is that why you've been so upset recently?"

Geralt looks at him, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Well. We were getting along just fine, then all of the sudden we were back to square one. All your walls back up, wouldn't talk to me. Is it because your throat's been hurting?" He looks genuinely a little concerned at that, hand reaching out as if to touch, maybe rub soothingly along his shoulder, maybe even alight on his neck-- but he flinches away, hard, and Jaskier has the presence of mind to drop his hand.

The problem is, Jaskier is absolutely right. Geralt had gotten angry and pulled away because... well, not because of a simple sore throat, but what it represented. He was getting too close. He couldn't explain his reasoning to Jaskier, but he couldn't exactly deny it, either. He grunts his assent, despite how weak it makes him look. Better this weakness than the other, much more telling one.

Jaskier looks at him fondly, maybe a little sadly. "You could've just told me, you know. Our conversations are already so one-sided, I wouldn't have minded filling the silence a little more." His tone is teasing.

Geralt doesn't respond. Keeps his face neutral.

He let this happen. He let things get too far, let Jaskier get too close. He resolves to pull away, put some distance between Jaskier and himself. Re-establish some boundaries. He can't get rid of the illness like that, but it's what he should've done from the start.


------


It turns out to be harder than Geralt expected.

Jaskier is clingy and determined, as he already knew and expected, and while it's not difficult to snap at the man, each time he does Jaskier's features get pinched, his smile falters, and Geralt finds it exceedingly difficult to not apologize on the spot for each infraction. Has he changed so much, in his time with Jaskier? He wonders distantly. Something soft unfurls in his chest, feels it sharply each time he lets his words fall overly-blunt from his lips, feels it stay his tongue against anything too cruel.

It's not Jaskier's fault, it's his, and the guilt at blaming the bard for his own weakness, his own pathetic failings, eats away at him.

Geralt feels worn down, and angrier than ever at himself. He resolves to push Jaskier away with silence, instead.


------


Okay, so, maybe he is stupid, because, honestly, Jaskier getting scared off by silence? In what world.

If anything, the lack of reaction seems to spur him on. He prattles on endlessly, strumming his lute and singing nonsense songs at the birds, and generally seeming in rather good spirits, despite Geralt looming away above him like a particularly grumpy storm cloud.

Geralt decides to tune him out instead, retreating into his own thoughts.

He's supposed to be better than this. Is this what emotions are always like? He feels heavy, weighed-down, unable to do what he knows he needs to. It'd be better for everyone if he just told Jaskier to fuck off, but he finds he can't bring himself to.

The bard's voice cuts through Geralt's thoughts easier than usual, doing nothing to quell his rising frustrations. "What do you think, Geralt? Ugh, you're not even listening, are you? I should've known, always so rudely ignoring my best work."

Geralt is hit by a sudden, all-encompassing rage at his own inability to control himself. "Would you do me the favor," he says through clenched teeth, "of allowing me the privacy of my own thoughts for a single godsdamned moment?"

Jaskier stills and looks up at him. There's a tense moment of silence, before Jaskier breaks it by saying a simple, "Sorry. Didn't realize I was upsetting you that much." There's a bit of an edge to it, something a little raw, but Geralt doesn't have time to examine it, because suddenly he's coughing into his fist. It's a brief thing, just a few rough, wet hacks, but Jaskier's gaze softens with sympathy. He remains silent, though.

Guilt bears down on Geralt, but he says nothing in return.

He can't establish boundaries properly, and he can't ignore or silence the bard without feeling guilty, so he resolves to break things off with Jaskier once they reach the safety of the next town.


------


Which, now that he thinks about it, is what he should've been doing anyway, so even though it makes his chest ache, he strengthens his resolve. Witchers don't have travel companions. This is what he always should have done.


------


When they finally reach a clearing and decide to set up camp for the night, Geralt finds his eyes straying more than he'd like.

Jaskier is moving around camp, quietly setting things up, laying out bedrolls and arranging stones for the fire. He's got this serious little crease between his brows, and if the moment weren't so thick and uncomfortable, it would be rather cute to see him so focused. He's sweaty from the walk, just a bit, and the hair at the nape of his neck curls a little more than usual, sticks in place.

It's not anything special, but something about the practiced nature of it, the domesticity of it all, has a warmth blooming beneath Geralt's ribs.

He gathers small sticks, tinder, the way he's in the habit of, one of the setting-up-camp jobs he's taken on as his own, and Geralt never does this but Jaskier looks like a kicked puppy, and he feels bad, and he's basically putting the final nail in the coffin of their... arrangement? relationship? tomorrow, since the town is only about a day's ride out now, and he can't help himself when he lets slip a quiet, "Thank you," and--

Has his voice always sounded that rough? Is it disuse, or... the illness? It shouldn't be that rough already. He swallows hard.

Jaskier lights up, and says "You're welcome," very enthusiastically, and then looks like he wants to say more, but pauses. Sucks in his cheek, gnawing on it in an effort to stay silent. It's back to awkward again, but he's trying to be conscientious, clearly.

It's the wrong sort of silence, and Geralt doesn't know how to handle it, so he pulls away, stalking out into the forest under the excuse of finding them dinner.


------


It was simple work, scrounging up two rabbits for them to eat. Spring had just barely ended, leaving in its wake overflowing warrens and easy hunting, and Geralt was more than well-practiced by now.

He's on his way back when he's hit by a coughing fit so intense it nearly knocks him off his feet. He drops the rabbits and presses his hand against a tree, slowly lowering himself into a squat.

It seems never ending, his chest spasming so hard it aches, fingers digging roughly into the bark in an attempt to ground himself. Stars burst behind his eyelids and he gives up any pretense of coughing into his hand, pressing his palm flat against the ground to further steady himself.

The faint smell of iron accompanied by a sharp pain tells him that whatever's coming up has cut his throat. He coughs harder, and droplets of red fly out of his mouth, settling into the dirt at his feet, before finally, finally, a bud slips past his lips and lands on the forest floor. A small bit of stem is what's probably responsible for the nick it made on its way out.

He snatches it off the ground, curls his fingers around it, ready to crush it like he has so many times before. Something tugs in his chest, though, and he pauses for a moment to consider it, still panting unevenly as he attempts to catch his breath.

They'll be in town, soon. And once they're there, surely the two of them will part ways. Geralt will give one final push, and Jaskier will have (rightfully) had enough of him, and Jaskier will walk away, and Geralt will be... alone again. His illness won't go away, won't stop because of some petty distance, but it's the right thing to do. Get his head where it should be, get back on The Path proper. Alone.

...No one there to judge him if he--

If he were to...

He uncurls his fingers slowly. Jaskier would be gone soon, and it might... it might be nice to...

He just wants to be selfish. For once, just for one instant, he just... he wants something to remember the bard by, beyond fond memories.

The bud is so small, only the barest hint of the tips starting to unfurl, the mere implication of potential, and the whole thing is stained pink from where it scraped at his throat on the way out. He's shaking a little, from the effort, and he leans to the side slightly, resting his temple against a tree. He's still staring at the little thing in his palm. He thinks, turning the thing over in his hand, considering it, that it makes sense for him. Even something as important as this, tainted by violence and pain and blood.

He can't have Jaskier, and he shouldn't have these feelings, but maybe... maybe he can keep this one thing. Just one. Just... just this one.

He swallows hard and, with shaking hands, slips it into his pocket.


------


The next morning, things are still a little unsettled between the two of them, and it hurts, but it'll be easy enough to work with, he thinks. Easy to push the bard away, under the circumstances.

It's nearing dusk when they finally arrive in town. It's a small thing, a little remote, but it's got both an inn and a tavern, which is nice. They head towards the tavern first, as they always do. Geralt is already planning what to say, either hard and cruel(which he knows his stupid, love-stricken heart would never allow at the moment), or perhaps something softened by lies(which taste bitter on his tongue but might go down easier with ale.) Something about "just until the curse is broken" or some such. Or he could simply try snapping again, Jaskier might leave of his own accord, and that would hurt, but it's... for the best, right? Right?

In any case, he's planning, right up until they walk into the tavern and things go quiet.

Jaskier is oblivious to the shift in mood-- or(more likely) simply knows how to play a crowd and is trying to get everyone to relax by acting jovial. It doesn't work, but then again, that sort of thing rarely ever does.

They sit down, despite his better judgement, and Jaskier flags down a serving girl. Her hands are shaking, and she shoots a look at Geralt with every shift of his body, like a cornered animal ready for him to pounce, but she goes and gets the ales and dinners Jaskier requests. The air is tense, but unlike their campsite, Geralt knows what to do with this one. He hunches in, keeps his eyes down; people seem to respond better when they can't see his more monstrous attributes.

Conversation starts to pick up again, hushed and furtive, by the time their food and drink is placed in front of them, and Geralt resolves to eat quickly and clear out before he can make anyone more uncomfortable.

Jaskier is drumming his fingers on the table, clearly strained from staying silent for so long, and knowing what he does about the man, Geralt finds his restraint commendable. Geralt is already digging into his meal with single-minded focus, though, and if he had anything to say, Jaskier apparently determines it's not worth more than the bowl in front of him. Not that it ends up being much more exciting than what Geralt can manage on the road-- a town like this doesn't have a lot to splurge on herbs and seasonings. The soup is warm, though, and softens the crust of the stale bread in a rather satisfying way. Sometimes it's simply nice to enjoy a meal you didn't have to prepare, quality or not.

Jaskier shoots him a quirked brow and asks "Hexer?"

Geralt responds with a questioning "hm?" and tunes back into the sounds of the tavern. The men sitting behind Jaskier are talking about him, it seems. He's heard it so many times, it doesn't especially register to him. One of the men had, indeed, called him a hexer, and was insisting to the rest of the group I'm right, that's what it is, that's why it looks like that.

"Small towns, out of the way, don't get a lot of visitors. The language changes. Their word for 'witcher'-- there are variations everywhere." He explains in a low tone, making sure he was quiet enough not to pull any extra attention their way.

Jaskier seems amused by this discovery about nomenclature, right up until he hears the man behind him pipe up again. "Shouldn't get too close to it," he warns the group, "them hexers, you can tell by the eyes, they're not human. They'll magic your mind away, or else give you mange." There are murmurs of agreement, and Jaskier's face gets pinched.

Mange, Geralt thinks idly, staring down into his mug of ale, swirling the liquid slowly, been a while since I heard that one. He takes a sip and sets it back down, returning to his meal, but Jaskier has stopped, clearly listening to the chatter from the other table. He lightly kicks Jaskier's leg and, when he gets back a startled look, glances down at the bowl and then up again, silently telling Jaskier to ignore the men and eat.

They're still talking, though, getting bolder, trading horror stories about hexers like they were Gwent cards, as if one wasn't sitting right behind them. There's something odd about the boldness of people who think him a monster, yet wave their hatred for him in front of him like it were a red cape and he were a bull. Then again, he also finds it odd that someone would try to incite a charging bull, and there's an entire sport centered around the concept, so maybe that's just a human thing.

They weren't entirely wrong, anyway, so who was he to get angry? Almost nothing they've said has been true, but as with all stories there is a kernel of honesty-- he's a monster. And monsters get turned into frightening tales to tell your children before bed. It was the way of the world.

Jaskier doesn't seem to share his sensibilities, however. His hand is curled around the edge of the table, knuckles gone white from the intensity of his grip, as if physically anchoring himself against his desire to respond. Geralt kicks him again, a little harder this time, and he lets go of the table to get a death grip on his bread instead. Geralt wants to tell him it's fine, that it doesn't matter, but he isn't sure how to say it in a way Jaskier will understand.

"We should warn the women," One of them says, voice hard, "cause, you know, hexers, they steal children."

Suddenly, Jaskier is standing very noisily, the bench he was sitting on scraping loudly against the floor as he shoves himself to his feet, spinning on his heel to face the men. "You limp-dicked," and already Geralt is standing as well to try and pull Jaskier back, "backwater nobodies!" There's an offended chorus of shouts as they start to rise. "Geralt's never hurt a child in his fucking life, which is probably more than you can say. We're just trying to eat, you can't even summon the decency to allow a man a warm meal?"

"It's no man, it's a beast!" The one who had first called him a hexer is the one who speaks now, a lanky man with a patchy beard. His friends shout their agreement, but Jaskier squares his shoulders, staring down the group. Geralt's hand reaches out again, tries to grab him by the shoulder, but he ducks away, slapping at the offending limb.

"No, he's a human being, and more man than any of you! He would never, never, pull the petty shit that you just did." His hands find his hips, and he almost seems like he's trying to scold them. "In fact, you're lucky he's the man he is, because if he wanted it, you'd be dead right now," Geralt calls his name sharply, "before you even stood, and instead he just sat there and let you," manages to grasp the back of his doublet and starts to reel him in, but he twists in Geralt's grip, strains towards the group with his chin tilted defiantly, "Let you talk shit about him. Because he's that much bigger of a man than you lot."

"We're not gonna' live in fear or bow to that diseased fuckin' monster!" A man on the lanky one's right is speaking now, face twisted with rage and defiance, but there's a wild sort of fear in his eye, now that the truth of Geralt's prowess has been shoved in his face. Which is why you don't do that, that's why you don't mention that the tool made for killing is a killing device, it's an uncomfortable reminder that does not need be said, and worst of all, it makes people fucking testy.

"No one's asking you to bow!" Jaskier sounds incredulous, voice going up an octave or two. "I want you to let the man eat in peace! It's not that complex or outlandish of a request! He's a person, a person who spends his days putting his life on the line to keep people like you safe from the monsters of the world, has he not earned one single fucking night of eating soup in godsdamned peace?" And it's so ridiculous, so simple and earnest, his request. It's almost enough to make Geralt laugh, because, in a way, this is all over soup. Gods above.

He doesn't want to get into a bar fight, and above all, this entire situation is unnecessary and foolish. He's desperate to end it before it comes to a head.

But... All of this so he could eat soup in peace. All over his non-existent honor.

The sudden swell of love for his bard is so strong, so all-encompassing, that he only has a few moments of grateful awe before he's stuck in the throes of another coughing fit.

The jeering is immediate. "See, we knew he was diseased!"

Jaskier is by his side in an instant, steadying him on his feet. "He's not diseased, dammit, he's-- oh, what the fuck does it matter, not like you lot'd understand." He says contemptuously, glaring at them out of the corner of his eye.

Geralt's hand is clamped firmly over his mouth-- he's not letting any debris slip through his fingers this time. Not here.

A part of him wants to shrug Jaskier off, insist that he can walk on his own, but he finds himself genuinely stumbling over his own feet, watering eyes leaving his vision blurry, and he can't stop himself from leaning into Jaskier's touch. He allows Jaskier's soft murmurs to ground him, Jaskier's hand smoothing up and down his back like he's a particularly skittish horse. "Easy," Jaskier says quietly, leading him towards the door with gentle hands, "easy."

The men are still jeering, rather enthusiastically telling them to fuck off and get out of 'their' tavern. Jaskier doubts they are the proprietors of the establishment, but leaving seems like a fine idea anyway.

"Hey!" A shrill voice pipes up from their left, and the rather frazzled looking server girl pins them with a shaking hand and wild eyes. "You still have to pay!"

"Oh, for the love of--" Jaskier's eyes roll heavenward and he pats Geralt down, quickly locating his coin purse and depositing what feels like the right amount on the table, before ushering him out the door.


------


By the time they reach the inn, Geralt's coughing has subsided and he's spit out a mouthful of petals by the roadside. They pay for a room, which is far more expensive than it should be, but they're allowed one, which is a blessing in and of itself, considering the way the town's greeted them so far.

Jaskier is still huffing about the men who called him 'hexer' as they step to their room.

Geralt is silent, letting Jaskier vent as he gets his things sorted. Locking the door, setting his swords by the bed, checking to make sure his pack is in order. He's lost in thought the whole time, slowly divesting himself of his leather armor and seating himself on the edge of his bed.

"--but you can't let people like that get you down, I suppose. There'll always be critics, you know, so you've got to keep your chin up--"

"Do you really think all that?" Geralt interrupts, looking up at Jaskier.

"Hmm?" He stops pacing for a moment, inclining his head. "Of course, why do you think I keep such a sunny disposition? If I allowed the whole world to crash down each time someone insulted my singing, I'd never be half the bard I am today."

Geralt shakes his head, waving dismissively. "No, I mean... I mean what you said before. At the tavern."

Jaskier truly pauses at this, turns towards Geralt more fully. "Of course, or else I wouldn't say it. Everyone deserves a hot meal, free of harassment."

He growls in frustration. "No, not that. I--" He breaks eye contact, dips his head to inspect the floor instead. "...That I'm a person."

There's a heavy silence, and for a moment Geralt thinks that that's confirmation enough, but then Jaskier steps a little closer, speaks a little more softly. "...Of course you're a person, Geralt. Not just a person, but a good one."

Geralt lifts his gaze at that, meets Jaskier's eye, forces him to look at the most damning evidence of his inhumanity. "I'm not. I'm mutated."

Jaskier looks right back, never faltering. "A mutated person is still a person."

He's wrong.

Geralt knows this. There's no arguing it-- it's simply the facts of the matter. Jaskier is wrong. He's not a person.

...but gods, does the lie feel good to hear anyway.

Geralt can feel one of the pillars of his resolve start to weaken.

He knows he should stop this now, but it's just...

It's really fucking nice, it turns out, to have people around who care, who want to stick up for you.

Who think you're a person.

And maybe he's just a monster playing at being human, a nearly literal wolf in ill-fitting sheep's clothing, but... he just wants to play a little longer. And he's already failed, he's already fallen off The Path, so maybe... he could just... have this a little while longer.

Or maybe he was wrong, maybe the flowers haven't just taken root in his lungs, maybe they're in his brain as well.

All his previous resolve crumbles away to nothing under Jaskier's gaze. He reaches out, tentative, almost child-like, tugging on the hem of Jaskier's doublet to make sure he has his attention. "I... I've been... cruel, recently." His speech is halting and stilted, and Jaskier looks down in surprise.

"Well. Certainly rude and snippy, that's for sure. But you've been hurting, so." and he looks understanding, and Geralt thinks of all the times that he's looked hurt over the past few days, and how pushing him away isn't working, and it's not like this is going to get the bard killed, it's going to get Geralt killed, and that's something he can live with. (For however long that is, anyway.) He's already doomed, and he just wants to, maybe, ease Jaskier's mind. Wants him to stop looking sad. So he says "I'm sorry," and it's short and awkward, but earnest.

Jaskier's face lights up, eyes crinkling near the corners. "Oh! Well. Thank you. Of course all's forgiven, dear witcher. Just, try not to take your pains out on me in the future, hm?"

Jaskier reaches for his shoulder, and he flinches again, but after a moment's hesitation, Jaskier gives it a companionable squeeze, and it's lovely, and he realizes he's fucked.