#geraskier poto au

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

And Do I Dream Again?

We’re throwing it WAY back to the early 2000′s with this one, guys. One of my first hyperfixations crossed over with my latest; poetic, really. I also dug into my Weird Memories archive and remembered that we used to make banners for our fics back in the fanfic.net days (I’m old as hell and I’ve been doing this for a long time). So...without further ado, the first story in my A Very Bouncey Halloween series:

Jaskier perched on the velvet-padded stool in front of his dressing room mirror and ran a brush through his soft brown hair. He hoped to remove the curls it had been pulled into for the performance and return it to its normal fluffy mess; unfortunately that wasn’t entirely possible, the pomade his costumer had applied was too thick. 

Once his chestnut locks were as silky smooth as they were going to get, Jaskier placed the silver brush back on the tabletop and sighed. The Phantom had left him another plain red rose with a plain black ribbon around the stem. No note. No name. Just Madame Yennefer’s quiet, “He was pleased with you.” 

A whisper in passing.

Valdo interrupted the young starlet’s thoughts when he poked his head in the door and smiled brightly. Jaskier pulled his delicate white dressing gown closer around his shoulders and chest, hiding whatever skin he could despite its laciness. An ingénue’s aesthetic did not always lend itself well to preserving one’s modesty, ironically enough.

“You did wonderfully tonight, my sweet,” the Viscount purred from his place in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

“Could I have the honor of escorting you to a late dinner?”

Jaskier was about to turn him down outright when he struck upon a very particular thought. If his Angel of Music was as possessive as Jaskier hoped, surely he’d step forward and show his face to deter the Viscount. If the Phantom thought his claim on the pretty opera prodigy was being threatened then perhaps he’d make an appearance. The scheming young starlet smiled softly and let his excited Angel-related blush do the work for him in regards to Valdo Marx, “That would be lovely, Viscount Valdo.”

The mustachioed cavalier beamed. “I’ll have my footmen bring the carriage around.”

And then he disappeared back out the door.

Jaskier turned towards his mirror, still clutching the robe around his shoulders tightly to keep it closed. He wished desperately that he hadn’t changed out of his costume before the Viscount arrived at his door. Valdo had all the appearance of a gentleman, and he’d been kind enough when they were both children, but something about the way he’d looked at Jaskier in such a state of undress, like he was hungry… 

The prodigy shivered and ran his hands up and down his upper arms for both comfort and warmth. The corset around his middle felt unusually tight as he stood to get dressed in his street-clothes. If he was to meet with the creepy young Viscount for dinner then he’d need to be dressed.

Before he could move an inch, however, a cold wind swept through the dressing room and doused the candles. Jaskier gasped and let his hands fall to his sides. Had his plan really worked so well? Had his Angel decided to step out of the darkness and finally show him the face behind the roses?

The deep, familiar rumble of his tutor’s baritone seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the pitch dark room with sound: “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Insolent fool, your brave young suitor; sharing in my triumph!”

The possessive note in his Angel’s voice sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine and he replied quickly, already halfway under the Phantom’s dizzying spell: “Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen; stay by my side and guide me. My soul was weak and I wished…” - the boy shook his head to clear the thought away - “Forgive me. Enter at last, Master.”

“Flattering child,” the Angel chuckled darkly. “You shall know me soon and see why I hide my face in shadow. You shall understand at last why I have not let you lay such innocent eyes upon me in all these years.”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, stepping forward into the embrace of darkness. From behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Geralt gasped softly. He felt his heartbeat double in speed. The longing on his flower’s face was exquisite. It lit a flame in the composer that could not be dampened by the mists of any Paris catacomb. The boy cast his eyes around the dark room, searching for his tutor, “I want to see your face, my Angel. Don’t tease me any longer with your pretty words. I’m tired of spending my nights alone, Phantom.”

Geralt was going to fall to his knees and cry if the boy said another word, so he interrupted: “Look at your face in the mirror.”

Jaskier turned to the full-length mirror on the wall and saw a light shimmering faintly from behind the glass. He reached out involuntarily and his eyes went wide with confusion. There was definitely a figure there...a tall, broad-shouldered man standing just beyond the wavy glass wall. He was holding out his hand in Jaskier’s direction. The singer’s ghostly, lace-clad reflection stared back at him with hazy vision, enthralled entirely by his Angel’s presence.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” Jaskier begged, stepping forward again. “Let me see you, please!” 

“Come to your Angel of Music,” the figure in the glass beckoned, waving him forward with that broad, outstretched hand. Further into the room. Into the dark.

Jaskier placed one delicately slippered foot in front of the other, crossing the carpet in a slow but determined line. He tried to keep his legs from tangling with his dressing gown as he moved, slipping it open a bit to reveal his mostly-bare legs. Geralt bit his lip at the sight of all that skin, too much and too little at the same time. Gods, how he wanted to touch the younger man. Hold him. Please him endlessly. 

Jaskier’s eyes never wavered from the figure in the mirror. His Angel had finally come for him and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to see his tutor up close. To feel his Angel’s hands against him. He reached out towards the glass and the white silk of his robe slipped easily from his shoulder, baring a swathe of pale skin. 

Geralt hadn’t been aware, until that very moment, that someone could feel both predatory and terrified at the same moment. He wanted to take Jaskier away and hide him beneath the Opera house forever where nobody could ever touch him again; but oh, how sinful would it be to keep his talented student sequestered from the sun. He didn’t want to be rejected. He didn’t want the boy to see his face, his hideously scarred face and strange white hair, and turn from him in terror. He wouldn’t be able to live through that. 

And then…

“Jaskier!” 

Fuck. That stupid little Viscount was going to ruin everything Geralt had worked for! Had waited for! Had prayed and begged and yearned for!

But the starlet didn’t turn around. 

The posh young fool pounded against the strong mahogany of Jaskier’s dressing room door, screaming his head off to get the opera star’s attention but Jaskier’s bright blue eyes stayed trained on the composer’s outstretched hand. His gaze was glassy and out-of-focus. 

Hypnotised by chance, Geralt mused. I probably should have expected that, given the circumstances and the usual nature of our meetings.

It had been months since the Phantom of the opera last had to hypnotize his prized pupil; and it was only to keep him from getting too close to his lair.

Now his darling little flower, the boy whose voice he’d trained from good to gorgeous, was standing willingly before him. His face was void of anything but devotion. His eyes were misty and his lips were parted oh-so-sweetly as he stood before his Angel, utterly enthralled. The decadent white lace of his dressing gown had fallen from one of his shoulders, baring not only his entire left collarbone but the long, statuesque expanse of his neck as well. Geralt took his flower’s pale, rose-petal soft hand in his larger, more calloused one and whispered, “Will you come with your Angel of Music?”

Jaskier nodded and breathed out a soft, pleading: “Yes. Take me, Angel.”

Geralt pulled the younger man’s robe back over his shoulder to return him to a state of oddly indecent modesty before grabbing up the torch and turning his back on the dressing room entirely. Jaskier followed behind as they walked, the gentle whispering swish of his robe’s lacy train a constant reminder of his presence. You are taking Persephone down to the Underworld, a little voice at the corner of Geralt’s mind whispered. You are pulling your flower away from the light of the sun. 

He shook away his guilt and squeezed the starlet’s hand. Jaskier squeezed back instantly, firmly, and any doubt left in the composer’s mind flew clean away. He wants me back, the older man realized. He came with me into the Underworld. 

They rounded the final curving corner of the low, quickly-dampening stone hall and came upon Roach. The trusty mare was waiting as patiently as ever where Geralt had left her bridle fastened to the wall and she perked up her ears when her master approached. The opera ghost lifted his muse up into Roach’s saddle and nervously met Jaskier’s blue eyes with his malformed gold ones, “Sing once again with me our strange duet.”

“Your power over me grows stronger yet,” Jaskier replied easily, finishing the rhyme of a song Geralt had once composed for him. His hand reached down to cup the side of the Phantom’s face that wasn’t hidden by the white plaster mask. Geralt flinched away but Jaskier paid the movement no mind, continuing to caress him wherever he could reach. “Oh, my sweet Angel.”

The composer turned away, leading Roach down the echoing hallway as quickly as possible. He tried not to glance back at his flower too often, afraid of having his intentions misunderstood by the drowsy-looking boy but oh - the way Jaskier looked sitting astride the horse with his stockings still fastened above his knees and his underthings only barely reaching to meet them. The way his dressing gown, all thin white silk and fine lace details, cascaded down around his hips and spilled over Roach… “Fuck.”

“My Angel?” he inquired. He sounded half asleep and Geralt bit his lip in shame. It wasn’t right to look at someone like that without their permission, first. He’d apologize later. 

“Nothing, my little flower. Would you sing for me?”

They’d reached the shore of the underground creek that cut through Paris. It wasn’t the sewer but it wasn’t exactly nice either. Geralt swung Jaskier down from Roach and into the boat, settling him back against a pile of velvet pillows gathered (stolen) just for this occasion. He wanted his love to be comfortable. He wanted the boy to return once his tutor gave him back to the outside world.

Because Jaskier could not be kept away from the sun. From the stage. From the adoration of the Paris elite.

No, Jaskier was destined to succeed. 

Jaskier sang through the final notes of the aria he’d performed earlier at the Gala, daring to push his voice further and pitch the notes higher than was written. It sounded heavenly as it rang and bounced off the curved brick walls of the tunnel system. Geralt knew his home would never sound this lovely again and he marveled in it for a moment. 

“Sing for me!”

Jaskier went ever higher, his face turning pink with the effort of sustaining the song. He gasped for breath between notes. 

“Sing, my flower! Sing for me!” Geralt demanded, rowing the tiny boat closer to his odd little home. Jaskier was so caught up in pleasing his Angel, his tutor, his Master, that he didn’t pay attention to how constricting his corset was or how little air he’d actually been taking in. 

The desperate opera singer finished out the final two notes of his aria as strongly and loudly as the rest before he slumped, unconscious, to the floor of the boat. 

The phantom dropped to his knees, abandoning the oar completely. He gathered the younger man into his arms and laughed in shock. His fingers paused at Jaskier’s neck to feel his pulse. He was alive. He would be fine. He’d been so eager to impress that he had run himself out of air. 

“The little fool,” Geralt chuckled, settling him against the pillows again to resume rowing. “I’m fucked.”

---

Jaskier’s eyes blinked open slowly, surveying the unfamiliar bed he’d found himself in. “Angel?” he called nervously. There was no reply, but in the distance he could hear an organ playing quietly. Jaskier stood and stepped gracefully from the bed, summoning up all his greatest charms to impress his teacher. 

When he crossed the floor and ducked into the antechamber he gasped; the Phantom wasn’t hideous at all. He wasn’t a hunchback like Triss had suggested. He wasn’t deformed like Firman claimed. His Angel’s hair was long and white, swept halfway up and away from his face while the other half hung to sweep against his shoulders. Jaskier knew already that his eyes were deep honey-gold and slit like a cat’s; they had haunted his dreams before. 

He had seen them in Box Five before. Watching him sing. 

“Angel!”

“Jaskier!”

The music stopped as his darling Phantom rushed to reach his side, arms outstretched to steady him if necessary. Jaskier thrilled at the attentiveness of his soon-to-be-lover (he hoped) and let himself fall bodily against the Phantom’s chest. His head fit perfectly against the older man’s broad shoulder and he sighed contentedly as he settled into place. “I thought you’d never show me your face.”

“I still haven’t.”

“Let me see,” the brunette pleaded, reaching for the edge of the mask where it sat on Geralt’s face. The composer turned away and grasped Jaskier firmly by the wrist. His grip sat just on the edge of painful and Jaskier bore it bravely. If he had to prove himself than by gods he most certainly would. “I want to see you, Phantom. I want to know your name and your face, truly.”

“You’ll… I don’t want you to leave yet,” Geralt whispered brokenly. Jaskier’s heart ached for this man, the man who had taught him to sing so beautifully. Surely the only thing beneath the mask could be more beauty?

“I’m not scared of you,” he reassured. “I love you, my Angel. Can’t you tell? I’ve been waiting for you for years, now.”

“You were merely a boy, then.”

“You aren’t much older than I am,” Jaskier huffed. “What, six years? Maybe seven?”

“Closer to ten.”

“And if I hadn’t been orphaned so terribly young then I would have been married at fourteen,” Jaskier reminded his tutor, whose face had turned pink beneath his covering. “I was a noble’s son, my dear. Please let me see you.”

Geralt sighed and removed the mask, baring the scar that marred one half of his otherwise very attractive face. Jaskier’s fingertip traced feather-light across the surface of his wrinkled skin. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Beautiful,” the boy muttered. “You’re so beautiful, my love.”

“My love,” Geralt sobbed, burying his face in the younger man’s neck. “My name is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the prodigy whispered softly, like a prayer. “My sweet, perfect Geralt. You have shone so brightly in the darkness of my life, darling Geralt. You must know that I love you deeply and dearly.”

“As I love you,” the Phantom admitted. This had been more than he’d ever hoped for. Tolerance he was prepared for. Tolerance he understood. Reciprocity? Acceptance? He was terrified and thrilled and giddy.

“You are brighter than all the stars in the sky,” Jaskier beamed, pressing his lips to the opera ghost’s. Geralt kissed back, pressing their bodies together from hips to shoulders. Feeling him.

“You are my little flower,” Geralt stated, pressing another soft kiss to the boy’s forehead. 

“Come,” the starlet insisted, pulling away and tugging at his hand. “If I am to be your virgin sacrifice in the pits of this Parisian Hell then I intend to enjoy it thoroughly.”

The Phantom laughed and followed his darling into the bedchamber. 

[cherryjuicegf]

masquerade (1/?)

This is a story of masks. This is a story of hiding, and fear, and longing and being inevitably known. Thus, this is a story of love. Because what is love if not revelation?

Or, the Phantom of the Opera AU.

3.7k, teen (for now), read on ao3

Silence.

The great hall is silent, except for the sound of heavy footsteps, feet dragging themselves on the old, barely surviving mosaic, a fading memory of what once was. One would say, the steps are getting quicker, lighter, as they cross the room. As if becoming stronger, younger with each step, as if each step is a jump to the past. One would say that, with a single, fleeting look of one particular pair of eyes, the red velvet of the burnt chairs revives like a bleeding wound, the golden sculptures on the walls shine under the sun like the familiar look of a loved one, the most loved of them all, the stage echoes in a comforting song, one that will be forgotten when the last people to hum it go away.

One would say the hall isn’t silent at all.

He hated silence, always. Despised it, like one comes to despise an old house, one they used to call home and yet it never felt like anything more than a prison. It eases the pain away, somehow. To call one’s prison their home. Makes the illusion more deceiving.

He hated silence. Always, because it was always the answer, to all his songs, and pleads and screams and tears, always the answer, the enemy that came to his aid, its bony hands creeping upon him in a cold embrace. All he could ever get. Hated it, and longed to fill it in any way, as though by driving it away it would cease to exist inside him, a gaping void that echoed his every cry and pushed it back outside in the disguise of laughter.

He longed to fill it, with songs, words, rambles, tears. Anything to sound sweeter than silence in his ears, realer than loneliness. Still, it lurked. He hated silence.

He doesn’t anymore.

With a strained breath, say from old age, he climbs the stage. Burnt too. But that doesn’t prevent him from sitting on the creaking floor. He sits, not ever admitting the aching of his bones, however pleasant, and stares ahead.

Stares. Around the dark room, illuminated by the faintest light of a broken window, once stained with the most beautiful colours. At the tattered curtain that forever failed to cover what he so desperately craved to hide and reveal all the same. At the remnants of a destroyed chandelier laid on the floor, forgotten by most.

His hand trails up to his chest, searches. Just beneath his coat. A silver chain and, as he pulls it out, a small, flat pendant in an oval shape. He traces the carved surface with his fingertips. Its pattern is worn out, hidden under hundreds of caresses, under the tears of six decades. He remembers it though.

A rose with wide petals, beautiful in its bloom. He remembers.

“So it seems… After everything, you’re alone again.” The voice echoes in the room like a melody, sharp in its familiar warmth, like the sword of justice hanging over his head. A sigh. “After all this time.”

He smiles, meets her eyes. Green, shining like sapphire in the haunting light. Peers at her, up and down, and feels his heart beating deafeningly inside his chest. Dear lord. She’s grown beautiful. A proper lady as she always was. And yet that shadow in her look has not left, and never will. He has come to know.

She’s grown beautiful. No. She’s grown. And he has grown with her. He, and everyone else.

Still. Her eyes pierce him in painful gentleness and he clutches the pendant in his hand. Slowly, his fingers find the edge, push, and rip the pendant open. He doesn’t need glasses for this, albeit his age. Never did. He knows. Knows that as he looks down, he will be met with the same pair of violet eyes, gazing upon him just like they did then, in loving tease, in glowing nobility. He knows he will be met with a faint smile, one of the rares, one he got to see every day, framed by silver hair that flowed like a halo, even in his last memories.

He knows, because his stare will be touching those old photographs forever, the only way he’s able to touch them anymore.

And yet, in this deafening silence, in this crowded loneliness, in this last dream, it’s enough. For he knows, it won’t be long until he holds warm hands again.

So he smiles. And, looking up at her again, he shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.” The stage echoes alive in an old song and he closes his eyes. “Not ever again.”

“Welcome, sir.” The smile on her lips was fake, the one she was used to, and she smiled wider to make it even more pretentious. Appearing likable was something she had abandoned long ago. “You can call me Yenne--”

The man in front of her laughed, eyes wide, and caught her hand, almost raising it to his lips. “Mademoiselle Vengerberg, the soprano! But of course, I’ve been admiring y--”

“You can call me,” she raised her voice and shot him a glare that took the ridiculous smile away from his lips and stopped him mid-movement, “Yennefer.” A smirk played on her lips, and if it wasn’t malicious, the man would have understood an entirely different innuendo in her words. “Mademoiselle Vengerberg will be too long a name to scream if needed.”

He laughed. Rather, laughter was the closest word to the strangled, high-pitched sound that escaped his lips. He knew. Of course he did. Choosing to perform the duties of an opera manager in that particular opera wasn’t a decision many would make, and if they did, it wasn’t a decision many would fulfill before dropping out. Or, well. Mysteriously disappearing. Yennefer watched as the man stood before her in his arrogant smile and raised head and extravagant clothes, a pretentious braveness covering his face like a mask. “In that case,” he said in that awful flirty man voice, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Yennefer.” He leaned, finally kissing her hand, and she held back a grimace. “I’m Valdo Marx, master o--”

“I know.” With the smile ever present on her lips, Yennefer pulled her hand back. A bit too abruptly. A conscious choice. She raised her eyebrows in a pleasant expression that lasted two seconds. “Let me show you the opera, sir.”

Valdo Marx. The new co-manager of the opera. Yennefer walked in front of him, steps quick, mostly to hide the laughter that threatened to escape her lips. He wouldn’t last a month, and if he did, it wouldn’t be the most enjoyable month of his life. She was curious, really was. He looked educated, charming, certain to a fault. She had seen those traits before. Suspected that they make for a stubborn person. But everything else she’d seen, these were safely hidden in a dark office, in a rocking boat, an old piano buried under the earth. And there they would remain.

Still. Two stubborn managers would be a sight. She only hoped it wouldn’t end up a nightmare.

Seconds before they opened the door to the backstage, a scream was heard from the other side, loud enough to cause the deafening crash that followed, echoing in every wall of the empty building. Yennefer jolted and cursed under her breath, storming inside the room. The dancers were shaking. “What happened?”

“The curtain--”

She didn’t let the girl finish. Instead, she rushed to the front, reaching the stage and stopping in her tracks so suddenly that Marx behind her back almost collided with her. She shot him another glare and decided it would be the only available way she’d ever look at him, and turned around, standing still. The room sinked in chaos. The ballet dancers were screaming and running around, the actors falling off the stage, the soprano shrieking in her high voice and there, in the middle of it all, like the cherry on top, half of the heavy curtain fallen on the stage and a huge stake above it which Yennefer was not entirely sure where came from.

There was only one thing she was sure about. That the previous scream was definitely not the one to cause the curtain to fall.

She turned for a moment at Marx, peered at him. He had gone pale, eyes wide and darting around the room in horror. Again, she had to swallow her laughter. It had begun then.

Craving to abandon the too loud stage and the members of the cast complaining in their annoying, whiny voices, she fended off behind the sets, slipping into darkness. She stilled. Listened. It was silent, and it would always be silent. Except, if she listened closer, she’d hear the faintest sound of heavy breathing which she suspected was not coming from her.

She didn’t need to.

A smile curved her lips, this time genuine.

And just before she walked away, something fell on the floor in front of her. She stared at it, careful. Frowned. Where the hell had he found lilac-coloured paper?

She took the sheet in her hands, sealed with crimson wax, the shape of a rose in its bloom carving the surface. She rolled her eyes, heaved a deep sigh. Forever pretentious. As she unfolded the sheet and read its content, written in cursive, elegant letters, drops of ink staining the corners. She reached the end of the letter. Stilled. Then, with another, long-suffering sigh, she raised her head and walked away without looking back.

She thought maybe she wasn’t too young to retire after all.

“I am not getting paid enough for this! I refuse to play if I’m going to die on stage!” The shrieks of the soprano almost made her ears bleed and she grimaced. The woman passed in front of her furious like a wild storm, barely wasting a look behind her back. “I’m leaving! Good luck finding someone worthy of my role!” And with that, she exited the backstage room and banged the door behind her.

Yennefer rolled her eyes.

Marx approached her, a lost look of utter frustration filling his eyes. “Now what?” He scoffed, peered around the stage and the vast room of chairs spreading before them. “Unbelievable! I’m here for barely five minutes and everything is going to hell! This opera needs some better management,” his voice thickened in his arrogant conceit and he raised his head high. “And some repairs, apparently.”

“You can talk about this with your fellow manager,” Yennefer smiled in a way that resembled more to a disgusted wince and Marx frowned at her, as if for a moment forgetting the share of duties. “Whom you are going to meet now since we’re heading for his office .” If one listened carefully they would notice how the last words were uttered in a louder, insistent voice. They would notice the momentary dart of Yennefer’s eyes above them on the props of the stage. And lastly, they would notice the sly smirk that shadowed her lips. “Monsieur Pankratz.”

“And what about--”

“As for the lead,” Yennefer continued, her resigned glare steady. But didn’t finish her sentence, not at once. Instead, she clutched the letter in her hand, as though protective of its content, and her look flew between the dancers, searching. Searching, until it met two green eyes staring at her and immediately glinting like fire. She held back a smile. Took a deep breath and, with newfound patience, she turned at Marx again. “Let’s say it’s already settled.”

The light of the candle on the table flickered faintly as she passed by in a violent gentleness, like the cool breeze before the storm. In the vase beside the candlestick were sitting fresh lilacs, patiently as though for their wilt, their shadow thrown on the wall like a black veil, yet it hid no one. Outside, the snow was falling slowly. There were snowflakes on the window.

She threw her dress at the edge of the bed, not bothering to fold it, not yet, and took her black nightgown in her hands. But didn’t put it on immediately. Instead, she waited, a minute or two, let the coldness of the room hit her skin and closed her eyes. Maybe she hoped that when she opened them again, she would be somewhere else. Maybe she hoped she just wouldn’t be, ever again. Or maybe the cold felt like a waking slap on the face, but when she opened her eyes again, the dream was not over. On her nightstand there was a silver frame, a black and white photo looking back at her, the amber in her memory piercing through the grey lense. She swallowed, and heaved a deep sigh.

A bottle of wine was waiting on the table.

She put her nightgown on and walked up to the ornate cabinet, took out a crystal glass. Stared at it. Then, with a foreign tiredness that slowed her movements, she took another glass in her hand, a smile playing on her lips. She didn’t like the way she smiled lately.

It felt heavy.

Wine filled the glasses, red like blood, and she sat on the chair.

“As beautiful as you look in that gown it’ll be a bit of an obstacle, don’t you think?”

The voice was hushed, ringing in her ears. Yennefer didn’t flinch. Never did. She only huffed, and sipped her wine. “Only if I want it to be.” She stared at the wine, the ripples on its surface. A low laugh echoed inside the room, and then silence. She snorted. “Are you done hiding melodramatically in the shadows?”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

From behind the closet in the corner, a dark silhouette stepped forward and stood in the candlelight, illuminated like a ghost in its wake under a dark red cape and a hat with a ridiculously wide brim and, for some reason, a violet feather. A pair of blue eyes devoid of their usual smokey shadow met hers, cunning behind the white mask that covered the upper side of his face. She rested her head on her hand in mocking awe. “You’re ridiculous enough on your own, Jaskier. Oh, forgive me,” she let out a strained laugh, as though pitiful, “Monsieur Pankratz.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and spread his hands in despair, but whatever he wanted to say died on his lips as she took a proper look at his satin plum vest and tight pants and this time, she laughed out loud. “Oh, come on, they’re my clothes .” Yennefer bit her lips to hold back more laughter and hummed, shook her head. Then took another sip of wine, hoping she didn’t choke on it. A huff. “Planning on getting drunk?”

She frowned, lowered her glass and looked up at him, gaze steady. “Definitely not enough to fuck you in this outfit.” And smiled as Jaskier heaved a deep sigh and dragged his feet, dropping heavy on the chair across her and taking the hat off along with the mask. He threw it on the floor. If she didn’t wish to deceive herself, she’d thought his expression was close to disgust.

“I’ll accept my fate then,” he said, head high as if reciting a poem, and wrapped his fingers around his glass.

Yennefer squinted. “Will you ever?”

A laugh. It struggled not to sound bittersweet and Jaskier looked at her as if to ease its false echo. “Nah, not my thing.”

“Of course.”

And then silence. It fell light at first, as it always did between them, yet the unspoken words that hung on the air slowly started to weigh too much, and even more on their tongues.

Jaskier averted his eyes, stared at the wine swirling inside the glass. If she looked closer, Yennefer would discern the faint line between his eyebrows getting deeper. It often did as the days drew closer, and she could remember when she started noticing it. No. She couldn’t.

If she didn’t want to, she couldn’t.

She took a sip. “Ciri is gleaming with joy.” She saw his eyes glinting for a moment and a grin spread on his face. “Stupid of you to go so far. Still, typical.”

Jaskier turned at her, eyebrows raised like a child trying to justify himself. “The fucking chicken had to be gotten rid of somehow! Besides,” he smirked, a cunning thing she was so used to seeing on his lips, “I had to welcome my new partner, didn’t I?”

As much as she craved it, she didn’t answer. And hated it, the way she had been getting more silent, as though hesitant, as though afraid of letting spare confessions slip between her words. She hated it, because she was never hesitant. She hated it, because she didn’t know which was a quicker way to destruction, silence, or every one of their truths screamed at once.

She stared at him but he didn’t look back, didn’t need to. It was comfortable, in a way. Taking turns to reveal themselves under the other’s eyes. The candlelight made his eyes look outworldly, too bright and too dark at the same time, just like then. Always just like then. Sometimes she still saw the boy that had clutched her hand desperately at that old feast, begged her to take him along. Sometimes she could still discern bruises staining his skin. Sometimes she thought, they’re not much different from then, never were. They had stayed the same, as had stayed their hearts. Weeping and empty. And oh, they never seemed eager to mend.

Oh, well. She took a long sip. To hell with it.

“Geralt is coming.”

Jaskier didn’t look at her, didn’t even flinch. She’d be afraid he hadn’t heard her if she didn’t know better. Instead, he continued to stare ahead of him in an almost empty look, slumped on the chair as he was, and if it wasn’t for the ripples on his wine, waving with the shaking of his hand, he would resemble a marble statue. Slowly, ever so faint, a smile curved his lips. Bitter, almost like a wince. A fire spread through her whole body. Shouldn’t he react, somehow?

As much as she didn’t admit it, it devoured her from the inside. Him not caring after all.

She snorted and stood up, barely avoiding the urge to bang her glass on the table. Clenching her fists, she approached the dressing table and sat in front of the mirror, hairbrush clutched tightly in hand. As though in unconscious movement, she started brushing her hair, cursing when the brush tangled on wild curls.

Behind her, she heard a huff. “At least I’ll finally meet him, huh?” She didn’t speak. Silence hung like a poisonous thread above them. “Well, then.” Jaskier dried the wine in a single sip and placed the glass on the table. In an abrupt movement he stood up and walked beside her, hand hesitantly hovering over her hair before it lowered, gently, and caught a curl around his fingers. Blue eyes met violet in the mirror. He smiled again. “This show needs an ending, don’t you think?”

Yennefer glared at him with a snort. “Shut up with the dramatics. I do what I want and Geralt has no say in it. Same as him.”

“Still.” Jaskier’s hand trailed on her neck, making her shiver, and rested on her shoulder, oh so gently sweeping the silky sleeve aside to touch warm skin. She leaned into it.

Yet he didn’t speak again. It made her frown, it wasn’t like him to hold his tongue in place. And she didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand what difference it would make, Geralt being here, meeting Jaskier. All they ever did was lie in that damned bed and do whatever made them forget about the longing screaming in their hearts.

And she didn’t want to acknowledge the difference it would make.

So she just stood in front of him and, with a single look that she hoped didn’t wail along with her mind, she pressed her lips against his. He moaned, his hand sliding down on her back, pulling the nightgown lower as his fingers gently clung on her skin and she thought, they would rip, tear each other to pieces if they could, never to see and be seen again. Instead, they kissed and sighed and clung, and if the sheets were colder than any other time they’d lay on them together, if the hands held a bit more desperately and if it hurt a little bit more to look each other in the eyes, they ignored it like masters of the art.

Lost as she was above him, Yennefer glanced at the black nightgown patiently waiting on the floor. She wanted to laugh.

Turned out it was the least of their obstacles.

Yennefer was right when she said Ciri was gleaming with joy. Jaskier watched her from afar, sitting in the box with his unfortunately fellow director, and felt a smile creeping upon his lips, one that was close to the way Yennefer smiled when she watched her. Proud. Affectionate.

The word parental tasted bitter on his tongue. Oh, he was late for that.

The girl sang better now, better than she did during rehearsals, as though the stage spilled from inside her along with her voice and twirled around every corner of the huge room, and Jaskier hoped she’d taken that from him. Him, or the longing to roam the stage just like he did once, years ago, his ambition and a girl with wild black curls and violet eyes being his only audience.

It was doomed from the beginning.

But not Ciri. Not this time.

Her voice hit a high note, and then gently lowered like a warm blanket, the song reaching its end.

There was a man sitting in the box in front of them. Hair uncharacteristically white, tied low on his nape with a black ribbon, some escaping silver strands loosening the formality of his strict posture and dark suit. These, and a faint smile, a familiar gaze at the girl on the stage, and warmth.

For the barest of seconds, as though with the tingling feeling of being stared at, he turned around and met a pair of blue eyes, for a single moment before Jaskier took in a sharp breath and tore his eyes away, as though burned.

There he was then. Geralt.

The audience cheered loudly and Jaskier thought, he really, really couldn’t blame Yennefer after all.

thanks for reading!!

this is my first multi-chapter so i'm thinking of making a tag list, please don't hesitate to tell me if you want to be included <33

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[buttercupsanddandelions]

Also where tf is my poto geraskier au with geralt hired to hunt whatevers haunting the opera house and their new male lead jaskier

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

"POTO mashup, I am screaming!" anon here -- I had somehow managed to miss your Halloween POTO fusion story so thank you for the link! Jaskier as Christine, in white lace, fainting dramatically after singing himself breathless, is PERFECTION. <3 And the "wishing you were somehow here again" ficlet is also amazing! The angst! The PLOT TWIST! The affection! <3

AHHHH I’m so glad you liked it!! I love putting Jaskier in corsets and lace because, well, he’s fucking pretty and he deserves to be adored! Who wouldn’t want to play dress up with the bard, amirite?

And while I am thankful to the Powers That Be for giving me what talent I have for writing, I am still incredibly miffed that my hands are good for little else (trust me, I am not the best at Arts and Crafts) because I would die for a drawing of them as the Phantom and Christine.

I’m also broke as fuck right now so I can’t commission one, either.

Hey, anyone wanna do a POTO crossover art trade? Ya girl is dying of thirst over here.