Title: Petals and Pining
Pairing: Geraskier
Total word count: 49,992
Entry word count: 2,147
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/
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He wakes up with a sore throat.
It's... hm. Despite the witcher mutagens, everything that's been done to him, all his training, for every claim that he's naught but a monster-- he is mortal, underneath it all. He gets tired sometimes. He doesn't get ill, but he's experienced a sore throat.
Plenty of monsters emit some sort of noxious smell, or toxic gas, and he can stand those things just fine, but prolonged exposure can leave his throat raw. In the same way he can survive a stab wound-- it will heal, and he can take more than most, but... he very much has just been stabbed. Being resistant doesn't mean there are no side-effects whatsoever.
Or if he shouts, long enough and loud enough. He remembers being very young, and in a lot of pain, and screaming until his voice was hoarse. It's happened.
And his witcher potions, too. They're not delicious, to say the least, and taking too many too fast is toxic, leaves his throat aching and phlegmy as his body tries to protect delicate tissue from the caustic substances(among other, much worse side effects.)
He doesn't get ill, though. He's never experienced this, exactly. Waking up, with a scratchy throat and a bit of a wheeze, no real explanation why. He searches his mind and comes up blank, no noxious stenches, no screaming, no potions, nothing. He swallows experimentally, and... Well, it's not an issue, precisely, he's felt worse pain by a mile, but it's just a touch sore, and he has no clue what could be causing it.
He decides he must just be thirsty, takes a few good pulls from his waterskin, and stubbornly ignores that it does nothing to quell the barely-there ache.
------
Two days later, he coughs up a small, yellow petal, and it's like the world is crashing down around him. So he does what any good witcher would do.
He grinds it into nothing under his heel, snarling all the while, then takes up a contract for a kikimora that he's not prepared for in order to vent his frustrations with a sword.
------
He knows who they're for. Even as much as he tries to push the feelings away, as much as he wants to ignore them and deny them, and much as he wishes that maybe they were little purple things instead because lilacs would be so much easier, it's hard with her but at the same time it'd be so much easier--
But on every exhale is that floral scent he knows so well, curling around his tongue, pressing against his palate, overwhelming, stifling, and he just. Knows. Deep in his bones.
Jaskier is laid out on his bedroll, blanket discarded, curled up in a patch of sunlight like a cat, and he looks safe and happy and at ease, and Geralt knows.
------
He has to be subtle when he's around other people, especially Jaskier. Either avoid coughing altogether, or he hides the petals in his hand, wipes them on his pants.
Each time he coughs them up when he's alone, though, he destroys them. Grinds them, tears them, once he lights them with Igni, watches the flames dance and the petals turn to ash as his chest heaves, equal parts exertion and panic.
It aches, each time, but he buries it. He was not made to house such feelings, he knows this, and he has no right to entertain them further.
------
"Did something happen during the last contract?"
Geralt's eyes flick up from the fire he's currently stoking to glance at Jaskier. He looks a little nervous-- or, maybe not nervous. Concerned? Human emotions are so difficult to parse-- but he doesn't break eye contact, searching Geralt's face right back. Geralt looks away first, in favor of regarding the campfire again. Despite his use of Igni, it isn't catching as well as he'd like. "No."
He's bad at reading emotions, but he isn't stupid. He knows why Jaskier's asking. Thinking about it puts his teeth on edge, has him glaring so powerfully at the flames that it would be a fiery inferno by now, if looks held such a power.
"You've been sort've... breathing oddly recently, is all. Coughing, occasionally. And witchers can't get sick, right? Not normal colds or anything, as far as I know. So I guess I was just-- curious." He's fiddling with a ring on his left hand, subtly spinning it around his finger. The action draws Geralt's eye as he tosses another stick into the flame. "And, obviously, a little worried for you. You're my friend, after all." Geralt tears his eyes away from the bard's hands and sets his jaw.
He's holding his breath in an effort to stave off another coughing fit, has been on-and-off for a few minutes now. "I'm fine," he grits out, letting out as little air as possible. If Jaskier had only continued his one-sided ramblings, Geralt might've been able to weather the storm, keep himself contained and distracted until the urge passed, but now it's nearly overpowering. He can tell this isn't going to be a simple clearing of his throat, either. Can feel the fullness of his lungs, the way it makes him wheeze around the intrusive flora. Shit, he thinks, bites down on his own tongue to hold it back.
If I can get away, he reasons, an edge of urgency to his thoughts, if I say I'm going to go hunt for our dinner, then he won't hear, he won't see, and the lie is on his tongue, he starts to stand, but apparently that's too much talking, because the next thing he knows he's back on the ground, doubled over, hacking violently into his palm. A floral scent, imperceptible at this stage to anyone but a witcher, fills his nostrils. His lungs burn as they struggle to clear his airways of the foreign objects-- Though, they're not foreign at all, are they? He thinks to himself, a bit wildly. I grew them myself.
The thought is met with no small amount of bitter self-loathing.
He's coughing so hard, he can't control it when one tiny bud, not yet bloomed is expelled from his mouth, landing at his feet. He missed his hand, and he doesn't have time to grab it off the ground, because Jaskier is already shouting, a shrill, alarmed, "Is that a flower? Geralt, what--?"
When the coughing spell is finally over, he spits on the ground in front of him. Four little petals join the bud. The sight of them causes a wave of rage that has him rocketing to his feet to grind them under his heel. It doesn't matter anyway, Jaskier's seen now, he wasn't fast enough or careful enough, and now it's all over.
It isn't supposed to be like this. Witchers aren't supposed to feel like this. He's failed, as he always does, and now he's riddled with the ridiculous, cloying scent of buttercups. He aches, a little, somewhere deep, thinking of them destroyed.
He lifts his foot and the petals are unrecognizable in the dirt. There's a sudden, acute stab of pain in his chest, his heart clenching at the sight. He ignores it, as always.
He clears his throat and, in the process, coughs up two more petals. He hocks them at the ground almost violently, staring at the two little spots of happy yellow surrounded by so much phlegm and spittle.
Fucking disgusting, he thinks to himself. Of himself.
Jaskier has, appropriately, been freaking the fuck out.
Geralt emerges from his own head enough to blink at him. "It's fine," he repeats, slightly hoarse.
"Fine? You're not fine, you've just coughed up an entire apothecary!" Geralt rolls his eyes at that bit of exaggeration, but internally he's panicking. Jaskier saw. He saw the petals, and now he knows, and maybe he doesn't know yet who they're for, but he knows Geralt is a failure of a witcher, knows he's weak and wanting, knows him down to the soul in a way he wasn't ready, would probably never be ready to lay bare, and now everything would be different, and he might even leave because what good is a witcher as a muse when he can't even-- "What on earth is going on?" His spiraling panic is cut into by Jaskier, standing to the side, looking rather obviously completely lost.
Has he not heard of...? Geralt's thoughts are tentative, nervous as he cocks his head at Jaskier, studying him. It's such an annoyingly romantic illness, it seems like the exact type of thing a bard would know all about, would love to weave into song. As he considers the man before him, it hits him none-too-subtly that this is a magical illness, and an exceedingly rare one at that. Maybe humans don't know about it.
He doesn't look angry, or disgusted, or disappointed, just confused. And worried, as well.
The relief is instantaneous, and has him unclenching his fists and breathing deep. He doesn't know. He doesn't know.
"Have you taken to munching on wildflowers while I wasn't looking? Saw Roach with her head in the grass and thought 'oh, well, might as well give this a try too, she seems to like it so much'? Is it--" His tone shifts, suddenly, and his hands flit around nervously, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Oh gods, are you cursed, Geralt?"
"Hmm." After that adrenaline rush, he's a little overly lax as he absorbs Jaskier's words. Cursed, he considers for a moment, as good an excuse as any. "Yeah. Curse."
"It-- it IS?" Jaskier nearly chokes, himself, he gasps so suddenly, shocked he seemingly guessed correctly. The questions come even faster now, a rapid-fire interrogation of why wasn't he informed, when did it happen, why aren't they on their way to fix it, why does Geralt have to be such a stubborn ass all the time, continuing on until he's practically blue in the face.
"Simple one." He explains, when Jaskier stops to take a breath. "It'll run its course."
"Run its course?" Jaskier repeats. "What does that even mean?"
"It's like a speech hex." He doesn't elaborate. Allows Jaskier to fill in the gaps himself.
"So speech hexes... They don't last long?" He gets a grunt in response, which he interprets as confirmation. "Alright... Alright. Well. I suppose that makes sense. They're both about mouths, throats, what comes out of them. Makes sense they'd act the same. And if it'll eventually stop... that explains why we're not running to go get it fixed right now..." He's half speaking to Geralt, and half mumbling to himself, running through the particulars, glancing at Geralt for confirmation that he's getting everything right.
He does not explain that, yes, it will stop, eventually, but only insofar as his corpse won't be spitting out floral arrangements on its own. Without outside intervention, it'll stop when he dies and no sooner.
Jaskier trusts him so much. Trusts him to know about this sort of thing so much. When it comes to matters of magic and monsters, he may ask for clarification or further information, but he never really questions what Geralt's told him. It makes the lie so much more bitter on his tongue.
But the thought of Jaskier knowing about... this, has him sweating under his armor and his stomach twisting itself in panicked knots. And, despite everything, he feels oddly protective of this little secret, too. He hates it, the reminder of his own weakness, he wants it to stop, but it's his. It's him.
'Him' is apparently a weak-willed little flower, which has his lip curling up in a disgusted sneer, but still.
"Is there anything I can do to help, in the meantime? Make you some tea with honey, or, I have these candies I suck on, for my voice. They might soothe your throat." He says it gently, maybe a little hopeful.
Geralt shakes his head. "I'm fine." He says, for the umpteenth time. He ignores the small warmth in his chest at the thought of Jaskier caring, trying to help. Very much not a needed or wanted sensation, thank you. He's aware he's in love, he doesn't need these stupid reminders. But his chest aches all the same, little sprouts lining his lungs turning towards Jaskier like non-magical blooms turn towards the sun.
"Well then," Jaskier says primly, hands clearly still shaking but trying to move past it, "if you're truly fine, I think it's time we had a discussion about sharing vital information with your very important travel companion, such as, I don't know, when you've been cursed."
He feels the beginnings of a smile start to tug at his lips, and he immediately schools his expression, turning around to stoke the fire, putting Jaskier behind him. He can't outrun his feelings, but Gods willing, he could avoid them.
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