Archive of Our Own

Jaskier had always believed words to be wondrous. The simple turn of a phrase brought the utmost joy to Jaskier, how he could wield carefully crafted retorts so sharply he could almost see his opponents bleed, the way his thoughts strung together, like pearls layered atop delicate collar bones, to breach unsuspecting ears and be the cause for delight. Spoken word, word sung in song, and words whispered with care—words were often all he had. He may have been a viscount once; he might have still been if his father had yet to disown him, but really, he was never going to fit that mold, anyway. 

Traveling alongside witchers had made it abundantly clear that his strengths did not lie with brute force or hunting. Ostentatious displays of power, often demonstrated by mages and sorceresses' had ended with his patience run thin and a distinct weariness towards anyone with violet eyes. What Jaskier lacked in physicality and power he made up for with charm and voice. What words he could not speak or was asked to refrain from speaking he wrote down. A few unassuming black leather bound journals filled with limericks and poems and swooning (meant for his eyes and his eyes only) lined the shelves in his rooms at Oxenfurt. He always kept at least one bound black journal with him at all times and, after traveling with the white wolf, took to burying them deep within his possessions so as not to garner further negative attention.

So all he could feel initially was shock when he entered the rooms he and Eskel paid for to find the massive hands he tries not to wax poetic about curled tightly around his journal— maybe diary—though that was hard to admit as a man in his forties. 

“ Jaskier. ” 

Eskel had never growled his name before, and maybe in any other context it would have had an all too different effect on his body, but his tone was so familiar to that Geralt used to certain effect, or even further in his past, his own father , that he immediately felt chastised. “What is this ?”

Writing epics about Eskel had come easily, though performing them was a different story. The first time he’d ever performed a song dedicated to the gentlest wolf, Eskel had snuck out of the tavern before it had even finished. Jaskier had stuck out the performance and pleased the crowd at the barest minimum he could manage before he himself darted out to follow the witcher. Maybe it was a witcher thing, but he found Eskel standing beside his horse, soothing his hands across Scorpion’s side. It was the first and last time Eskel requested that Jaskier not perform songs about him or his hunts—hunts that “were not nearly as important or heroic as you might make it seem.” Though Jaskier could not disagree more with Eskel on the importance of all the things the witcher had accomplished, he had held fast and true to his promise of never performing another song about the wolf. 

Fall was coming to an end and the time to start heading towards their respective split in direction was nearly upon them. Traveling with Eskel had been a welcome change. He was conversational with Jaskier and shared an interest in poetry and the academic side of things he participated in. He did not growl and grunt his displeasure but communicated clearly his boundaries and listened and respected Jaskier in turn. He was not made to feel a burden in any way shape or form and it made his chest feel light and his eyes water. So even though he had much inspiration, he did not perform songs of his wolf. It was the least he could do to respect the other man’s wishes.

“Uh…it’s my journal?” he explained meekly.

“A journal with songs I specifically asked you never to write ?” The massive man was shaking. “A journal filled with my most awful mistakes? All my regrets? ” 

That hurt Jaskier a bit as this volume mostly contained musings of another year on the path spent together. “I—” 

“ No, try to listen for once.” He fingered roughly through the pages only to tear out Jaskier’s last entry. “This is something I told you in confidence, as my friend, and you turn my guilt into song?” Jaskier had been trying to form the piece for weeks—to express just how much he had wished he could share Eskel’s burdens—to help heal the scars that laid beneath the literal ridges on his face.

“ Fuck! ” The dark haired witcher looked away and threw the torn bits of pages at the fire, grabbing his swords after slamming the rest of the journal down. “I’m going to hunt. I need space.” The ‘from you’ implied.

Jaskier did not move, frozen long after the door had been slammed, barely registering anything other than his words ripped and tattered across the floor. For what more did he have? What else could he give but himself through his words?

He had been balled up on the floor when the first rays of sun lit the space and woke him from his catatonic state. He moved to the bag which his journal must have had sat atop and shoved his haphazardly thrown clothes back between its walls; he didn't bother to dig through his belongings that had found their way into what Eskel had referred to as their shared side bags, something he’d never had with Geralt. He therefore only had clothing, some coin, a few day snacks, and his lute. 

He stared at the journal on the table where it had been not-so-gently placed. He wondered if Eskel had been bothered by the other words that rested in there, if he had been disgusted by Jaskier’s adoration. He then wondered if the witcher had taken the time to read any of the words at all.

He couldn't decide which thought tore him open more. 

He left a bag of sugar cubes and a handful of carrots on the bed—he would no longer be able to sneak them to Scorpion, though it was very improbable his rider was unaware of Jaskier’s spoiling. His bag packed and his face freshly washed, he had little to do but get going. He was sorry to leave without a proper goodbye but witchers weren’t much for proper partings anyway, even when they weren’t desperately angered by their companion. 

He left the inn after paying off the room for another week and did not think of the little black book burning away on the last coals of the fire.

~~~

Sometimes being quiet was impossible—like when expressing joy and support at the end of a performance, or when confronting a close-minded farmer in Cintra, or maybe most especially when Valdo Marx insulted the world's greatest poets. Truly, it would be a feat for anyone in their right mind to stay subdued in any one of those contexts. That is to say that voice could be a form of protection—voice could be a form of power. 

Jaskier knew deeply how inescapable silence could be, how it could isolate and detach. 

He also had the privilege of knowing the warmth in a peaceful quiet. Not the kind of pure dead-to-the-world moments when not even a branch dared to creak, but the comfort of crickets and toads harmonizing on the breeze, competing with the crackles of a blazing fire. The kind of quiet made up of life and contentedness that filled Jaskier up just as satisfactory as any roast or red wine. Jaskier knew the quiet warmth of a night spent relaxing with a book. He knew the warmth of rising with the sun. But the warmth he pined for and craved the most was that of companionship.

This of course should be of no surprise. He was well known, not only as a bard, but as a fine bed warmer, and he wore the title with pride. He loved to love, even if it was fleeting, and he loved the varying degrees of warmth it provided. But the warmth he’d grown to love the most was that of the friendship he’d acquired on the path. Though Geralt and him weren’t currently on the best of terms, he knew he could only look back upon— most of—their time together fondly. Geralt was truly his first real friend, and though they fought and obviously stepped on one another's boundaries, Jaskier felt a strong sense of warmth for his friend and wished him only happiness in life. 

Being with Eskel had been like the warmth he’d sometimes felt with Geralt but on fisstech. 

It was the same and it was different. Quiet wasn’t enforced but welcomed between them as they shared the same space. After a long day of singing old shanties ensured to bring soft chuckles and smiles to the wolf witcher's face, Jaskier and Eskel would move together wordlessly to get themselves settled in for the night. Jaskier had never known a routine to feel so comfortable. He’d never known just how much warmth a soft summer’s evening could bring, nor the combined sensuality of feeling appreciated and capable. Traveling with Eskel felt like all the warmth in the world was channeled directly into his chest, its rays working to eradicate any fears and worries wrapping themselves between his ribs. Jaskier had imagined the warmth— maybe deliriously, and maybe more than once —as Eskel’s treasured little pygmy goat, lil’ bleater, munching on the blackberry barbs buried in his bones. He may have had yet to meet her, but he felt the goat sounded like an honest representation of his runaway feelings. 

“Little lark?” Eskel spoke softly as he handed Jaskier a fresh strip of loin from the roasted rabbit. “Are you composing again?” he chuckled, his undying kindness lifting between them and settling Jaskier into a blissful state as he bit into his portion of meat. The bard groaned in appreciation as the seasoned meat hit his tongue.

“Mmm I wasn’t, dearheart, but now that you’ve mentioned it…” he spoke slowly, almost sleepily, as he eyed the witcher across from him, “I could be convinced to sing for you." He fluttered his eye lashes for good measure.

The big witcher scoffed good naturedly. "I reckon you could, bard, but we should turn in early if we are to make camp closer to the Kaedwen border." 

Flirting with Eskel was something the bard had done his best to ease into. Jaskier could tell that the older man was a bit shy and disbelieving of his own goodness (and completely unaware of his incredible good looks). But at this point Jaskier didn't know how to lay it on thick enough for it to stick. He had done his best to encourage Eskel to ask for more many times, so much so that even barmaids had giggled at his past attempts in the taverns they had stayed in. 

How a man could hear the question 'don't let this go to your head, but would you like some' and only look perplexed was so frustrating and yet completely in character that Jaskier could only roll his eyes fondly at the gentle giant. 

Was Eskel truly that daft? Or was he politely ignoring Jaskiers come-ons to preserve their— admittedly —beautiful friendship? Despite his lack of hope, Jaskier continued to flirt, how could one not ? It would be a disgrace if such a beefcake of a man was not frequently reminded of his smarts, beauty, and assets.

"What's in Kaedwen anyway? As the well traveled bard that I am, I can't seem to recall anything of great interest happening so close to Midaëte."

Eskel hummed as he chewed his food, much more polite and restrained than the noble-turned-bard. Once he’d finished his share he glanced over at Jaskier, a bit nervous, and rumbled, “I’ve made a fair bit of coin on these last few contracts, no doubt in thanks to you.” He only smiled and waved off Jaskier’s oncoming interruption. “I had the thought, if you would be so inclined to join me, that we might make it back to Kaer Morhen for midsummer, and spend a few days at the keep with Vesemir.” He turned his face away, scars always hidden to the side and a hand covering the side of his neck. If Jaskier didn’t know any better and if he hadn’t been so distracted by his shock, he would have sworn the witcher was blushing.

Jaskier fumbled with his words, waves of excitement and fondness flowed underneath his skin as he watched the witcher from across the fire. “You would have me join you?” He breathed, “You wouldn’t rather me find myself scarce as you spend time in your illusive—no— fantastical, witcher keep?”

The wolf sighed through his nose, it seemed mostly put on and it made Jaskier love him a fraction more. “Have I not told you time and time again, Jask?” Their eyes met once more and Jaskier had never felt so seen. “I wish for nothing when you are at my side.” He was the one who had to look away at the honest words and cursed his traitorous heartbeat that the other man could surely hear. “It would bring me the utmost pleasure to share my home with you.” A rare smile graced Eskel’s lips. “And I'm sure lil’ bleater will be just as taken with you as I.”

“Ah speaking to my weaknesses are we, Eskel? For who am I to deny an audience with a fine lady?”

“What can I say? I do know you .” His smirk was deadly. “And I’d do anything to get you back home with me in my furs.”

Jaskier made a show of fanning himself, which was only half a joke. “You say the most daring things, Sir Witcher Sir, you make it hard for a man to keep his modesty.” The deep laugh that rolled through the wood made Jaskier’s chest explode with fire similar to that of a cast igni. 

Maybe warmth didn’t cover it. 

Eskel was a tsunami of flame, crashing against the jagged rocks lining Jaskier’s shore—or embers piled high that kept Jaskier’s hearth burning even during the worst of winter's night. The wolf witcher radiated a heat so pervasive that Jaskier could feel the ghost of his touch days later, even when said touch was merely a brush of shoulders. 

His blood seared in his arteries as he looked upon the laughing witcher. He could only quietly wish that, even if his Eskel did not feel the same, they could have an infinite amount of warmth shared between them for the rest of their lives.

The bard sat there looking at the scarred witcher and didn’t feel the need to say a thing.

~~~

Oxenfurt any time other than winter was strange. It was in no way abhorrent; Jaskier did have accommodations and was welcome to guest lecture whenever it pleased him. But he did ache for the changing of the path during Autumn and the bright fiery colors that were inevitably doused by winter grays. Or the soft petals and rushing water in spring that calmed into green grasses and summer streams. He would have to learn how to settle into Autumn in Oxenfurt—he would have to learn to settle into all the seasons now as the path was obviously no longer for him.

His students were eager and most who came to his guest lectures were engaged with the current music theory, which was delightful for Professor Julian, master of the seven liberal arts. He also spoke on poetry and writing when he could, which brought the most entertaining conversations with the student population. Those who frequented his talks knew him to be an odd academic, but friendly, and open to almost anything in his lecture halls. Almost anything—save for him performing. It was an outrage at first. Students had heard of the professor and world renown bard and expected to hear him voice his own music as he had done before. The other tenured staff had questioned his lack of contribution to the bardic competitions held. His friends wrote to him concerned and disappointed but he could not find any music—any words suitable.

His lute was long gone, sold somewhere near Ellander. He had been on the road for too long at that point and had needed more coin to finish the journey. That was only partially an excuse, as he couldn’t bear the thought of touching the new strings Eskel had bought for him nor could he get the words of all his prior failures out of his mind. He was pleasantly surprised when the merchant bought the instrument for a fair price. "Well lad, she looks a beaut—well traveled too. I'm sure she kept quite good company." The man did not seem offended by Jaskier's ill-timed snort as he thought of his past travels.

Jaskier had tipped his head as he began to pack again for the road, pausing to turn back to the old man. "She did accompany me through many adventures both wondrous and devastating. I am glad to know that my lute given by a friend can now reside with you until you find a worthy buyer." Jaskier smiled genuinely. "Thank you, I'll be on my way now." 

He had, for a moment, almost let himself hum a familiar tune as he walked away, but he stopped himself—he didn't dare that day—and still he didn't dare now. 

This was not to say that Jaskier was quiet. He could never mince his words, no, but he found he could no longer produce his little limericks nor could he look upon something lovely or truly inspiring and find the poetry that once poured out of him. His well was dried and the words had left him for some other spring. It was approaching near a year since he’d lost his song, and he did not know how to surpass this block. 

“You’re depressed,” Essi had said one night, and Priscilla nodded.

His performance anxiety, if it should be called that, knew no bounds. He couldn’t even get it up when spending time with the lovely ladies at The Rosebud, though they were kind enough to sit with him and laugh and ask of his adventures, which helped staunch his bleeding loneliness. And that was truly the kicker.

Jaskier was lonely. 

He’d been the black sheep of the family—for more than a few reasons. And once he’d been able, he had run from his title. After, he’d spent two decades with a brute of a man he’d considered his best friend only to be dismissed on top of a literal mountain—cruelly blamed for every poor decision the white haired witcher had made. Avoiding places he expected to see the White Wolf like the plague had come naturally following the dragon hunt. He’d run into Eskel entirely by accident some time later while returning from visiting Priscilla in Redania. He’d been ecstatic to find Geralt’s slightly older brother to be talkative and kind—someone with just as much courage and experience as Geralt but who could also be gentle and showed patience with Jaskier.

And patience was needed as he was the definition of clusterfuck—which was putting it lightly. But it didn’t matter. Eskel was probably enjoying the path alone again. By now he’d be making his way back to Kaer Morhen to winter with his brothers. “I look forward to it all year. I do my best to be the first one back, so I can greet Lambert and Geralt with Vesemir.” Jaskier could even remember how his lips had tugged upwards before the older witcher had turned his scars away to face the fire. Jaskier had only been traveling with Eskel for a few weeks at that point but he’d known that his infatuation would run deep. 

His fingers twitched at the memory, a knee jerk reaction to grab the strap of the lute he no longer carried. In truth, not all his composition was lost; he was frequently inspired by random cues that had Jaskier recalling a fond phrase or a deep chuckle. He’d be walking in the market and spot a youngin with a sweetroll and it could set him off for the rest of the day. He’d given up on drink as it seemed to ignite his mind alight with amber eyes. 

Ribbons upon ribbons of silky words wrapped themselves round and round in his head but he never let the words formulate. He choked and strangled them back into a safe place in his mind that he deliberately tried to numb himself to. His words had been the problem in the first place—no matter his good intentions. 

So here he was, but a humble professor and resigned to settling. He would do his best to live his new life— live in the present —as he had done his best to do before. 

“Consider now the use of polyphony here. The independent melodies when separated do have some of their own merit, but pitched together each work to bring out new and bright elements that weren’t as integrated before. Each beat allows the performer to create something seemingly entirely new!” Jaskier couldn’t help but smile as thoughtful hums and a few excited calls of “Professor Julian!” rang out into the hall.

He turned his back to his students to collect some lyric sheets and notes to be passed about. He dismissed the sound of the hall door opening and continued on with his lesson. Though criticized for not playing the melodies himself, he did not leave his class wanting otherwise and he would be damned if they left the university unlearned in music theory. 

He turned back with the brightest grin he could manage. “Here are some notes on the composition I have taken and copied of this particular piece. Pay particular attention to my notes about the grand pause and the cadence. I want you all to pass them about as I do my best to answer your immediate questions.” He strolled up to his typically eager students who sat in the front. He had assumed they would have questions to ask immediately—which he found wasn’t entirely incorrect.

He handed off his papers and looked to make eye contact with his favorite student—Fanny. Fanny had often come to his office to talk composition and had charming musings that had kept Jaskier light and excited for the craft, and he was often grateful for the distraction she provided. But as he found her face he spotted her eyes trailed to the back like most of the students in his lecture. 

“Professor!” He turned to look over at the young man who had called before he too could look up. “Is that one of the witchers you traveled with? Will he be speaking with you today?” He spoke almost as if to prevent the man in the back from hearing, though Jaskier immediately thought that was most silly considering witchers’ advanced hearing. It took another second to register before Jaskier’s heart thudded and his mind began to chase some of his more shameful thoughts.

Standing by the door, looking ready to escape at any moment, stood a hulking man with studded red armor and the most tragically beautiful scars. His eyes warily roamed the crowd of young adults who were seemingly ready to jump at him. Jaskier was under the impression that the witcher couldn’t decide if the crowd was a truly welcoming one or not, which momentarily spiked a bit of Jaskier’s long lost anger, for had he not worked tirelessly to prove not only to humans but to witchers that they were people who should be honored? Did Eskel think him so low to trash his name? But his anger quickly dissipated when their eyes finally met. 

Amber. Amber. Amber . Bright amber embers like molten honey caught in the sun. Amber that held so much thoughtfulness, and caution, and care— that immediately Jaskier felt trapped—like those stones by the same name that lay in the river and encase tiny bits of history for the present to inspect. Caught was he, and he needed to breathe. 

“Ah forgive my momentary shock, my most treasured students,” Jaskier said breathlessly while looking away. He plastered on his most professional facade. “It seems like a master Witcher has graced us with his presence today. Now, now,” he motioned his hands placatingly as more excited chatter rang through the hall. “I know you all must have many questions for me and probably many more for Eskel but I’m afraid I’ll have to cut today’s lecture a bit short.” He tried not to chuckle at the groans his statement elicited. “If he is not only passing through, I will put a good word in for you all in hopes that the wolf witcher may return to speak with you. You are dismissed.” He nodded and went to the table behind him to quickly collect his things.

It was a close thing, him choosing not to run, but he could feel the panic building up in the cavity of his year-long hollow chest . 

“Right then,” he whispered to himself. He huffed. "Right then, what can I do for you master witcher?" His smile twitched when he turned around. Eskel was still up against the back wall, having moved only to get out of the way for the retreating students. He hadn't stepped any closer to Jaskier. 

Not for the first time, Jaskier wondered how to close the distance between them.

~~~

"Does he know?" 

Jaskier startled. "Lambert! Melitele, I swear if you breathe your ogre breath down my neck one more time I will write a song about you that will have the continent recalling all the things you lack in bed."

"Ha! Piss off bard, unless ye fuck me yerself, which ye won't cuz of my big brother over there, ye wouldn't have the faintest idea how I use my cock." His grin was fierce and by all accounts should have been disgusting, but Jaskier had gotten used to Lambert's antics over the last few nights he'd been around. 

It was accidental, his sheer luck of finding himself witchers. At the first signs of spring, he'd been on his way to find and meet up with Eskel. He'd been eager— he was well aware —but an entire winter away from the man felt like an eternity. He had felt the pull to the path every year; he had been following Geralt going on two decades before he met Eskel for Melitele's sake! And though Geralt was his best friend— at least he had been his best friend—Jaskier had never been so eager to tumble out into the cold to meet with the witcher. But traveling the path with Eskel was more . It wasn't so different except for it just was , and Jaskier was all too aware of this. 

Jaskier scrunched his nose. "Even if I didn't want Eskel, I'm not sure I'd want a feral baby witcher in my bed." He realized belatedly what he said and whipped around to see if Eskel had heard him from across the market. He sighed as he realized the witcher had his focus on a young girl and her stall of goat cheese and other goat related products. They were animated, most likely both gushing over their favorite animal, and Jaskier found himself distracted once again.

"I think you should tell him little songbird." A soft voice chimed in, "I know telling my wolf only led to great things." Aiden wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The cat witcher was probably Jaskier's favorite non-Eskel witcher he'd met to date. The graceful witcher was quick to introduce himself when he'd first run into the unlikely duo despite Lambert's immediate distrust (which quickly dissipated after a few rounds of drink and gwent). And truly, the man was smooth as hell, and Jaskier was a big enough man to admit that he admired the craft and skill the cat wielded. 

Aiden and Lambert had quickly become his friends and Jaskier had no issue immediately adoring them. Plus they were cute together, and he was a bard —asking him not to fawn over romance was like asking him to chew off his own foot.

But , and it was a big but, they didn't know shit. They might have known Eskel for longer, and surely knew things Jaskier had yet to find out, but they did not see the way Eskel shied away from direct and purposeful contact. They did not have to watch the absolute wreck of failed flirting and direct dismissals of bed invitations. Jaskier knew that he must have even smelt like lust and love. His scent could not lie and he’d spent night and day with the man in close quarters.

He was at a loss.

“Well it is Imbaelk.” Lambert nudged him and walked away towards the tavern, apparently already done messing with the bard. Jaskier frowned at this.

“Maybe you could buy him a candle—light it for him too.” The cat witcher winked and squeezed his neck softly in a sweet gesture of comfort and followed the redhead with an undeniable sway to hips.

Jaskier spent the rest of the day planning.

He had gone to the baker to get some rolls and specialty Sprouting pastries he knew Eskel would particularly like. He stocked the fireplace back at the tavern with driftwood he’d bought off a merchant so that if they returned to the room they could watch the flames turn blue and green together in their own little makeshift hearth. He even bought them a matching set of candles that were dyed red like Eskel’s armor. 

After he’d done his shopping, he bathed thoroughly, making sure not even the witcher could trace any lingering travel scent and then finished caring for his skin with his favorite chamomile oils. With his best doublet and boots on, he grabbed the sweets and the candles and dignifiedly ran out into the festivities. 

Many more townsfolk were out in the street now as the sun was setting. Jaskier could spot the central bonfire stacked precariously as children ran around babbling about the flame soon to come. More vendors had candles on display and were shouting out about their wares and Jaskier weaved through the bodies trying to find his witcher.

The sun was almost completely gone by the time he spotted the scarred man.

Eskel was not close to the central bonfire. Obviously wishing to avoid the worst of the human contact, he was situated near an alleyway that to anyone else looked unimportant but would serve as an easy escape for the man if need be. He wasn’t relaxed but he definitely wasn’t on-guard so to speak and at this Jaskier felt a bit proud of his companion.

He paused just to take-in the man he loved. He was truly handsome, his broad shoulders and tapered waist, the clearly defined muscle shifting underneath his armor, the tilt to his lips as he faintly smiled. He was handsome and kind and thoughtful and Jaskier had never met anyone who had kidnapped his heart so thoroughly. He was stuck on a man and they’d never even had sex! What would Essi say to that? 

Jaskier noticed then a thin young man walk up to the witcher. Jaskier tensed immediately, thinking of different insults to utilize to save the witcher from confrontation. He took a step forward as the freckled blonde, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, handed his witcher a cream colored candle. The boy's hands brushed Eskel’s and the witcher didn’t even blink as he accepted the gift. Even in the darkness Jaskier could see the signs of a blush on the boy’s face. He didn’t dare move as he watched everyone around him pull out their candles and begin to pass about their flames.

A woman beside him nudged him, gesturing to his candles questioningly. He waved away the offered flame and darted back towards the tavern, only glancing back to confirm that the boy was still standing with Eskel and watched as they lit one another’s candles. 

Jaskier told himself that it was nice . His life's work was truly making a difference and his dearest friend had the welcomed attention of a beautiful young man—someone with bright eyes and shy smiles. His friend must have been happy to receive such a friendly touch—the adoring attention of a fair young male. He deserved happiness. 

Eskel deserved warmth.

Jaskier burst back into the tavern, not paying attention to anyone and assuming no one paid any attention to him. He quickly made his way back to their rooms and changed into his performance clothes. He dumped half of the driftwood logs into the fire and spent altogether too many minutes aggressively striking his flint until sparks flew. He grabbed the other bundle and tossed it into the rooms he knew Aiden and Lambert were staying in, not bothering to look where it landed. 

With an energy he didn’t know he possessed, he went back down to the bar and he performed. He took requests and pranced about as more and more men and women joined the music. He accepted the ale that was offered whenever he had a moment's breath. He sang until his throat dried and too many of the patrons were unintelligible in their drunken grumblings. He waved the barmaid down for one more drink and trailed back up the stairs. 

His throat was in pain but he welcomed the distraction. It felt nice to know he worked hard and made so many folks happy, even if it was only temporary. Which really was the greatest reminder of all—even if his own happiness was temporary, he should be grateful he could find any happiness at all. 

He threw the red candles on the last of the driftwood. He watched them catch in the weakening blue flames and weep across the charred surface until the drops disappeared in the ash. Imbaelk was about warmth—about spring and sprouting. His makeshift hearth had been lit. He pondered if a bard such as himself could partake in the purification aspects of the particular holiday. He wrote his ponderings down with mirth, knowing full well he could never purge himself of his romantic feelings. 

When Eskel returned in the morning, Jaskier offered him the last of the spring cakes he’d bought the older man and pretended his mood didn’t sour when the witcher flinched as their fingers barely brushed. Jaskier did not say anything. He could barely speak and he was grateful for it. He’d packed his own bags hours ago, more than ready to depart. He remembered to shut the windows that he’d thrown open to air out any depressive aroma as the witcher gathered his own things. He barely paid attention as the witcher took one last look around the room, already walking out the door. 

They left without fuss. Jaskier quickly hugged the cat witcher, much to Aiden's surprise, and squished his cheek to Lambert's side and coughed a laugh at the adorable confusion it caused. He waved back at them as he walked alongside Eskel, who was astride Scorpion, already distracting himself with a new tune and maybe a new song wheel in honor of the cat and wolf witcher.

He only glanced up at his favorite witcher when the man offered to trade places. Jaskier nodded, very nearly exhausted and pleased to get off his feet. As soon as Eskel slid off the otherside Jaskier quickly and deftly mounted Scorpion, making sure to never creep into the witcher's space. He let one tear fall at the happy little neigh the horse greeted him with as he hugged Scorpion’s neck. He pulled out a sugar cube and reached as far as he dared in front of himself to allow the horse easy access to the snack. 

He closed his eyes and held-on tight. He felt a bit hysterical but at this point there probably wasn’t much he could do. He needed to let the feelings drip off of him and extinguish themselves in the ash like the red wax sinking into the hearth. Jaskier sunk a bit deeper into the warmth the stallion provided, resting his eyes. He quickly fell asleep. 

His voice recovered after a few days and they settled back into their routine. Jaskier was very careful to leave an arms length between himself and the witcher at all times and he took to singing more often so the older witcher wouldn’t feel forced to converse with him. He worried it was a bit more stilted—their relationship—but at this point he was willing to do anything to never see his witcher flinch at him again. 

He took to writing more and more—less composing and poetry and more stream of consciousness. He tried not to write in front of the witcher as he had an absurd fear that the witcher could hear the letters being scratched and therefore know his words. It was nice to let his feelings flow into something else for a change. It helped soothe his discomfort and increasingly more distraught romantic musings.

He began to encourage Eskel to leave during his performances. It was an easy out for the witcher to search for a friendly companion for the night, and it made it easier for Jaskier to stay distracted—easier for Jaskier to stay ignorant—easier to be numb.

That was when it really hit him. Did Eskel ever feel warmth in his company?

Jaskier had always run too hot. He had been told he burned too brightly. Now was he running too cold? Did it matter if Eskel had not found the same comfort in him as Jaskier found in the other? What a fool he was. 

The little black book burned in his pocket. He tossed it towards his bag. He needed to put on a smile and perform. He needed it. Eskel needed it.

He was going to continue to perform until it was time to give-in. Until the warmth was gone. Until Eskel asked him to stop.

He hoped Eskel wouldn’t ask him to give up this performance.

~~~

As a professor, as a performer, as a bard —Jaskier was made to love words.

He also didn’t have any idea of how to use them as he watched Eskel play with his fingers at the edge of one of the many stall doors of the Oxenfurt stables.

“I—”

“Would you—”

“Please continue—” Jaskier waved and fixed his eyes on the witcher's nose. Direct eye contact was far from what he could handle at the moment.

When Eskel had offered to move locations he'd quickly agreed to move to the stables. He knew it would be more immediately comforting for the witcher. Maybe a bit less overwhelming and much more safe and confined than an enormous lecture hall. 

The witcher paused for longer than Jaskier could handle. He was about to bolt or maybe throw something at the witcher when “I— would you?” The witcher grunted, frustrated. "He misses you, you know?" It didn't seem like the original topic but Jaskier didn't call him out on it.

Jaskier hummed as he accepted more headbutts to the chest from the large stallion. He only kissed Scorpion on the nose in retaliation. "Well, he must know I missed him just as much. How I have worried away my days wondering if he'd gotten nearly as many sugar cubes as he deserved." He scratched the good spot behind his ear and giggled at the absurd stomping the horse performed. "Such a seasoned war horse indeed! You are so spoiled." He nuzzled the stallion one more time for good measure before plopping himself in the corner.

He felt straws of hay poke through his garments in the most uncomfortable places, but he'd tough it out for the witcher. "So, dear old friend, how is life? How is the path?" Jaskier found himself diligently looking at Eskels nose again.

Eskel replied only with a grunt.

Jaskier, who was rather pleased with how mature he'd been in the past half hour, couldn't resist getting a little snarky. "Have you been possessed by your brother, Geralt? It has been quite a few seasons since I last saw him, but I could never forget our titillating conversation. It always started like so, maybe a sigh if I was lucky." Jaskier resisted his own urge to sign as the scarred man only clenched his jaw harder and didn't say a word.

A particular straw found its way into his pants and his frustration mounted. This was not the kind of roll in the hay he signed up for . He shouldn’t have agreed to the stables. 

"So was there a reason for this dramatic interruption of Professor Julian's average day at Oxenfurt? Or was this just a fun excursion you found yourself on?" Jaskier may have had some residual anger left.

" Jaskier ." The growling had the bard (ex-bard? that was unclear even to himself) frozen. The Night, as he’d taken to calling it, the night their companionship fell apart, was brought to the forefront of his mind. He could feel the phantom compression of his chest and blinked hard, trying to prevent any tears. “ You left .”

Jaskier looked up at that. Eskel was clenching his fists so tightly Jaskier was sure the man could have compressed a lump of coal into a raw diamond. “You left,” Eskel’s voice sounded meak, “The room was messy and it wasn’t how I left it but it was. There were traces of you everywhere even in our—my bags— but you were gone. I— the fucking smell , Jask— I, fuck.”

“I’ll have you know those are some of my favorite oils that you are disparaging.” Jaskier had paid good money for those too. 

“No. I—that's not it at all— you don’t understand.” Eskel let his shoulders fall but he stood in the same spot, ready to bolt at any moment. “It reeked of fear and hurt. Everything in the room was soaked in your scent but it was wrong , it was so wrong, and it was all my fault.” Eskel’s big large hands that Jaskier hadn’t seen in almost a full year were covering Eskel’s face. “I’m so sorry Jaskier.” The words were muddled and immediately Jaskier’s heart wrenched. 

“Dearheart,” he whispered and carefully approached the agitated witcher. “Please do not fret. You were right to be upset with me and how I disrespected your boundaries. I should not have put you in a spot that made you feel so uncomfortable.” It had made Jaskier sad that his romantic feelings were unrequited, but even so, those feelings would have never come at the cost of Eskel’s wellbeing and their friendship.

Eskel growled again, though this seemed more at himself. “I opened up your diary .” Jaskier was momentarily mortified at the reminder. “I thought it was a songbook but it wasn't, was it? I saw what I wanted to see and I never let you talk to me about it.” Eskel choked a bit. “I didn’t give you the chance to say anything at all.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. They both knew how much it meant to Jaskier to be heard. They both knew but Eskel seemed to be beating himself up over it and he wouldn’t stand for that. 

Jaskier reached out towards the gentle giant. He waited. He made sure his posture was loose and fluid and he prepared himself for the resulting flinch. His fingers barely grazed the tips of Eskel’s digits before his own hand was engulfed tightly in the olders.

Jaskier blinked.

He was holding Eskel’s hand .

When the professor looked to investigate Eskel’s face, he found the older man looking him directly in the eye. Jaskier felt his heart leap into his throat. 

Eskel moved forward into Jaskiers space, body tense like he was afraid the bard would run. But his hold on his hand held firm and the comforting squeeze made bits of Jaskier’s mushy insides melt into puddles of familiar longing. He looked down at his feet embarrassed by his sudden turn in thought.

“I am sorry Jask.” the man repeated. “I can not say it enough. I had recognized that there was something that was bothering you. I saw that you were pushing me away and I let my fears get to me. I let my fear harm you—the greatest gift the path ever granted me—my closest companion—” He lifted their joint hands to hover against his chest plate—just over his sternum. “my heart.”

Jaskier sucked in air dramatically, full of relief and wonder. “And you call yourself a witcher, wooing me with poetry such as that.”

Eskel hummed and stepped a fraction closer, throwing a smirk his way at the way Jaskier’s pulse raced. “I do not have access to the same control and delivery you possess, but I think in many ways we understand each other, little lark.”

And Eskel was not wrong. Words had served Jaskier for a long time, and they would continue to do so but between them there was another language altogether. There were kinks they needed to iron out obviously, and they had much more learning and understanding to do but underneath all that they understood one another. 

Jaskier felt his chest begin to expand again. Threads of warmth worming their way through the emptiness. He could almost sing.

He could feel the older man chuckling under his palm, “Must you really start composing again when I’ve been patiently waiting to kiss that smart mouth of yours?”

“You can not ask such a humble bard as myself to expedite the creative process.” Jaskier muttered absentmindedly as he began tapping a simple rhythm against the red armor he’d never thought he’d see again. 

Then it hit him. 

His fingers froze.

“On second thought, I know of many creative processes that I could be convinced to expedite upstairs in my rooms.”

Eskel's laugh startled many of the horses stabled, apart from Scorpion, and the sound of it made Jaskier even more desperate to close the space between them. “Mm not your best work bard,” his other hand slotted perfectly against the small of his back, tracing a line that hinted at the touch Jaskier wanted— needed . “I am partial to the one about my father being a baker, as I have exceptional buns.”

Jaskier immediately pouted. “You knew! You knew all that time and you only now acknowledge my pick-up genius.”

The witcher only shook his head fondly and cupped his face. His hand practically engulfing the brunette in that pleasant heat he so wantonly missed. “May I?” And Jaskier surged forward to press their lips together. Eskel’s lips were chapped but soft and Jaskier couldn’t help but swipe a lick at the scars littered aIong the corner of his mouth. The witcher nipped on Jaskier’s bottom lip in return and groaned deeply as their bodies pressed even closer together.

It was sweet and it was messy and it was beautiful. Jaskier had to be forcefully pulled away to bring himself back up for air.

“Bed now, more words later.” Jaskier demanded and pulled at the witcher to follow him.

“Are you sure?” The witcher asked carefully.

Jaskier didn’t even have to think before nodding enthusiastically.

Words were many things to Jaskier. He used words constantly, it was his livelihood. But words wouldn’t serve him this. He and Eskel could pour over their words and work through what was left of their formal forgiveness but words weren’t what he wanted right there and then with Eskel. Not after being so far apart for so long. Words would not substitute for the cold he’d settled with when he’d separated from Eskel. Words couldn’t convey all the want and love he felt for the other man. But he could show Eskel and he’d do his darndest to prove just that. 

Words could come later. Right then, he had Eskel in his arms and warmth spilling into his chest and nothing else mattered.

Words were hard anyway.