Thread by @bisexualgeralt

TWITFIC: A #Geraskier Eternal-Sunshine-if-you-squint story. Cw for memory loss. Will update in chunks! Forgive my tenses.

When Geralt finally finds Jaskier again, it’s on the coast. He had expected a lot of things, to be yelled at, even a cold shoulder, but not this.

When he approaches Jaskier in the small seaside pub, the bard looks at him without a flick of recognition. Geralt barely registers what he’s saying, too preoccupied with searching those blue eyes for any hint of deception, mirth, anger, anything. Even his scent betrayed nothing.

It takes a moment for him to clue back into what Jaskier was saying.

“...but truly, no one has called me Jaskier in an age! What fun, I’m not sure when we may have crossed paths, but,” Jaskier’s eyes raked down and up Geralt’s body, “I’m sincerely glad we have again.”

Geralt forces his mouth to work despite the sharp spike of lust he both smells and can’t help but feel. He finds out Jaskier goes by Dandelion now, and he’d been in the coastal area for the last two years. His wanderlust is appeased traversing the small towns by the water.

Quick math tells Geralt he arrived at the cost only a few months after their parting on the mountain. Jaskier is still chatting away, the noise a comfortable familiarity, but it’s too unsettling to have his bard in front of him like this. It’s too much.

Geralt turns tail and walks out of the pub without another word.

Jaskier calls after him, “Wait, I didn’t get your name!” but he’s out the door and down the path before the sentence even reaches him.

That night, Geralt leans against one of the exterior walls of the inn, listening. Jaskier’s voice is the same as he remembered, his fingers just as practiced on his lute. He sings of heroics, of mythical tales, of star-crossed romances, and not a single song of the white wolf.

It takes two days after that for Geralt to bring himself to approach Jaskier again. The bard greets him the same as before, with some light teasing for his hasty retreat. Geralt greets him as he would any stranger, but with a list of questions in the back of his mind.

Something must have happened to Jaskier. A curse, a sickness, something. For as carelessly as he had tossed Jaskier aside, and god he had been careless with his bard, there shouldn’t be a way to /literally/ throw away 20 years of memories.

He acts casual while he pokes and prods, awkwardly navigating around the not-at-all-concealed flirting he’s getting back.

According to Jaskier, he went to Oxenfurt after essentially fleeing his home of Lettenhove, where he studied and then taught for a brief stint.

Then the story splits. From there, he said, he was able to gain a modest amount of notoriety, singing largely for courts and traveling in the springs before he eventually found another to settle with. He speaks fondly of his travels and meeting strangers on the road-

“The common people, Geralt! Courts are wonderful but beauty truly lies where one least expects it.” He had heard Jaskier say the same thing many times, around a campfire that his finery never matched. Geralt’s heart aches in his chest.

Then the story ends. Jaskier says he decided to come to the coast on a whim, looking for a change in scenery, and a bit of a blank slate. He began to go by Dandelion, and has stayed in the area ever since.

When Geralt asks him why the change, Jaskier’s eyes get a far away look.

“You know, I can’t quite recall.” The look only lasts a moment until he snaps back, “BUT! Whatever it was, it’s in the past. The coast has been fantastic to me, and it’s been a truly lovely decision.”

He winks at the barmaid as he says so, because some things are just ingrained.

Finally, Geralt asks his last question.

“Perhaps you had felt particularly inspired. Do you remember where you were when you headed towards the coast?”

Jaskier thinks for a longer moment than such a question should call for, until he finally recalls the name of a city.

It’s a week’s ride away, the last large city before the population thins to towns. Geralt extracts himself from the conversation more gracefully than before, much to Jaskier’s protest, before paying for their drinks and heading to Roach.

He wants to pay that city a visit.

It’s only his care for Roach that keeps him from racing to the city. When he finally arrives he asks around inns, but unsurprisingly no one can remember a particularly sunny bard from years ago. So he starts to ask around for his next hunch:

Does this city have a mage?

People either give him cagey answers or have no idea, and he’s starting to give up hope on the fourth day of his search until he runs into an old woman with a sad smile.

“Do you have a broken heart, my dear?”

He nods, trying not to think about the truth of that question.

She hums in understanding, giving him a squeeze on his arm. The touch is disarming but also startling, it’s not like humans to reach out in sympathy.

“A little ways to the east you’ll find a cottage, next to Lake Lacuna. Knock and tell the woman there that Mary sent you.”

He thanks the woman, Mary, profusely before heading out. The sun is high and he makes it before the afternoon.

The cottage is unassuming, but well-kept. His medallion vibrates with magic but he pushes forward, rapping on the door and stepping back to wait.

With no answer he’s about to knock again when the door opens, revealing a slight woman with bright orange hair. She takes him in and regards him coldly. Geralt is caught under her gaze, keeping his hands to his side as to not appear threatening. He may need this mage’s help.

It’s a long moment before she lets out what could be called a scoff.

“Of all the people to knock on my door, I’ll admit, Witcher, I was never expecting you.” She steps to the side, keeping the door open. “Come in then, I know why you’re here.”

He steps inside.

The house is modest and unassuming, and it immediately sets Geralt on edge. He’s never known a mage to settle down the way this interior implies- books stacked in corners, a fire in the hearth. The floors scuffed in paths that suggested decades of occupancy.

The mage doesn’t look back as he enters, she simply walks to a small cart snd pours herself a drink. She pointedly does not offer him one.

Finally she speaks.

“I imagine you’re here about the bard.”

It’s decades of discipline that keeps him from reaching for his swords.

“What did you do to him?” He growls. The mage looks wholly unimpressed.

“Nothing he didn’t ask of me.”

That throws Geralt, and it must show on his face, because for the first time the mage looks to be truly considering him. He refuses to flinch under her gaze.

“How did you find me, Witcher?”

“A woman named Mary pointed me to your cottage.”

“And did she ask anything of you?”

“She...asked me if I had a broken heart.”

“And do you?”

Geralt bristles. “That’s none of your business.”

The mage tuts. “Actually, that’s entirely my business. Take a seat, Witcher. I’m feeling generous today.”

She moves to an area with a few comfortable looking chairs, sitting and gesturing to the one across. Geralt sits heavily and waits for her to speak.

“How familiar are you with memory modification?”

Geralt knows that it’s a complicated magic and says as much.

“Everyone experiences hardships in their life. For most, life goes on. There are few events that can truly change a person, that are inescapable, that alter the very fabric of someone’s life to a point past recovery.”

She takes a sip of her drink.

“For those people, I help.”

Geralt must look as clueless as he feels, because she continues. “When someone has experienced something they feel they can not live through, I am the one they seek. War, death, there are many things one wants to forget. Heartbreak, however, is by far the most common.”

She pauses, holding his gaze. “Your bard was one such client.”

Had Geralt eaten anything that morning he felt he may have tasted it again. Jaskier had sought her out? Jaskier had...asked her for this?

The mage looks at him now with something akin to pity.

She waves her hand to the left and suddenly Jaskier is there. No- not Jaskier. An illusion.

“Please,” his voice says, hollow of its usual joy. “What good is a bard who can not sing? My songs are gone, my fingers lead. I haven’t composed in months. Please...help me forget him.”

Geralt feels his heart break as the illusion vanishes.

“When I erase something from a person’s memories, I have to sort through them, pull them from the rest. I’ve seen you, Witcher. Through the bard’s eyes. I felt his love for you, and felt you break his heart.”

Geralt’s voice is quiet. “I didn’t mean it.”

She glares. “Then you shouldn’t have said it.”

Geralt has had this conversation with himself enough times to know it goes no where.

“I ask of you, please, mage-“

“Clementine.”

“Clementine. How can I undo it?”

“You can’t.”

He wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole. “What do you mean? There must be a way to reverse it, anything-“

“I don’t cover over memories, Witcher, I remove them. They are gone from the mind they once inhabited. There is nothing to uncover to bring them back.”

Geralt takes a moment to process, and surprisingly the mage gives him the time to.

“Would you like to forget him?” She asks, quietly.

He hates himself for thinking about it. But no- he can’t. Jaskier was a gift in his life, even if he was too blind to see it when he was there.

If all that is left of Jaskier are his memories, then Geralt will cherish them until his last breath. He declines, all of his power keeping his voice from shaking, and the mage nods understandingly. She shows him the door and he exits to the evening sunlight.

He’s slow to check Roach’s saddle, his body feeling like he’s swimming in muck. If this was even a fraction of the heartbreak he caused Jaskier, then he deserves every moment of it. He’ll pay his penance for the rest of his life for what he’s done.

He’s about to mount Roach when he faintly hears Clementine make a frustrated grown from inside, and the door flings back open.

“Witcher! Gods damnit, wait.”

Geralt turns around so fast his hair whips his face. The mage walks over, looking incredibly put-out. For a moment he thinks maybe she’s just called out to gut him properly, but when she stops a foot away the only touch he’s given is a stern finger to the middle of his chest.

“First, you need to understand something. What I am about to tell you is a secret of my trade that I have never shared. If I find anyone but you in the possession of this knowledge, I will track you down, and I will strip your mind to nothing.” The air crackles with her power.

“Second, I am not doing this for you.” She removes her finger and stands back, crossing her arms above her chest. “I /liked/ that bard. He played for me after I finished. And he saw much more in you than I think you deserve, but saw it all the same. So I will tell you this.”

Geralt is completely silent, thanking the gods that mages don’t have a Witcher’s senses and can’t hear his heart thud in his chest.

“I spoke the truth when I told you the memories I remove are gone from the mind.

I neglected to say that I also offer another service.”

She bites her lip, even in this moment debating her options. Geralt pleads to any gods that will listen for her to finish.

“I offer a failsafe.”

He could cry.

“Before the erasure, I consult my client on what they’d like to do with the memories. Most want them gone from the world. Some, those who’s memories are just as cherished as they are painful, opt for a second option. I can place their memories in a token, to be kept with them.”

“A vast majority will stay that way forever- often even buried with the person to whom they belong. Some, very, very few, request something else. If a very specific set of circumstances are met, and only then, the memories will return to the owner.

Your bard took that option.”

Geralt opens his mouth to ask how, but the mage holds up her hand before he can make even a sound.

“There is nothing in the continent you could say that would make me tell you what he chose, or what the token was. I’m still convincing myself not to kill you for this much.”

Geralt holds his tongue from saying stronger mages have tried, and instead opts for gratitude. “Thank you, Clementine. Truly.”

She huffs and turns her face away, side-eyeing him with the same distaste as before. “As I said, this is for the bard, not you. His songs were lovely.”

The week’s ride back to the coast sees Geralt much lighter than the journey out. Jaskier has kept him. Despite everything, despite what he said on the mountain, Jaskier hasn’t thrown their time away.

The thought bolsters him as he lays out his strategy.

He’s not sure what the token could be, and he doesn’t think knowing matters, but he can’t help but wonder. Jaskier’s lute, perhaps? It was something he was never without, and it would be poetically symbolic in a way the bard would favor.

It could also be one of Jaskier’s rings, a common anchor of magic, but he doesn’t think Jaskier would put his memories in something with such a high risk of theft or misplacement.

He briefly imagines a bandit stealing decades worth of time and squashes the image.

Regardless, the token isn’t the key, and Geralt is sure breaking it would destroy the memories rather than return them.

Circumstances, then. What would Jaskier need to want to remember Geralt again? His presence clearly wasn’t enough, or it would have happened already.

The thought of true love’s kiss makes itself known and Geralt crushes the idea with his metaphorical boot, fighting to keep a flush from his face. Jaskier was a romantic, of course, but love...he’s not even certain Jaskier loves him. Not anymore, anyway.

Geralt isn’t dense, he knew Jaskier’s feelings for him were more than strictly platonic. For years he chalked it up to the bard’s perpetual libido, and for years after he steadfastly ignored any signs of romantic inclination. It was easier to ignore both their feelings at once.

But, in Jaskier’s absence, Geralt had no option but to confront his own heart. The hole in his life where Jaskier once was ached until he had to concede that his bard was more than just a traveling companion, or a friend. He was something all his own, something truly special.

Geralt isn’t sure if it’s love he feels, but he imagines it must be close. If Jaskier was with him again, if they could travel together again, maybe they could find out together.

If he’s still wanted.

Geralt decides that his first course of action will be to treat him kindly.

Jaskier is a poet, a romantic, and Geralt is sure the circumstances to bring his memory back would be working for forgiveness for what he’d done.

How to do that for a man who doesn’t know what he must forgive may prove difficult, but Geralt has never feared a challenge.

Riding into town it occurs to him that Jaskier may have moved on, but he had mentioned he was now more apt to stay in towns for weeks if the coin was good.

As luck would have it, Geralt can hear a familiar voice floating in the air before he even enters the inn.

It’s evening, and by the song it seems Jaskier is just beginning his performance. The inn is crowded for a town of this size, but Geralt isn’t surprised. His bard could always draw a crowd.

Jaskier’s eyes find him, and the smile is breaks into causes Geralt’s heart to skip.

Jaskier winks at him before continuing his song, and it bolsters Geralt’s resolve. He will apologize. He will make this right. And when Jaskier has his memories back, he’ll tell him exactly how he feels.

Geralt sits at the bar, orders two ales, and waits.

As it turns out, for all of his fine tastes, Jaskier is a very easy man to please. It shouldn’t surprise him, the bard traveled on the unforgiving path with him for decades, but Geralt had never truly attempted to please him as he was doing now.

Regret churns in his stomach.

They stay in that town for another week. In that time he plies Jaskier with good ale and filling food. He listens to Jaskier’s stories (and god, there are still so many, even without Geralt in them) and even shares a few of his own. He’s not used to talking this much.

But he knows Jaskier always wanted him to, so that’s what he does now.

Geralt takes him to see Roach, who immediately recognizes the bard and bumps him with her head, hard and affectionate. The laugh Jaskier let’s out is like music. “She likes me! What a lovely girl you are.”

He pushes down the pang in his heart that erasing memories of himself meant erasing Roach, as well. An unfortunate side effect. Roach, at least, didn’t deserve it.

Geralt takes Jaskier to a secluded beach he found, letting him ride on Roach while he composes an ode to her.

They stroll by the water, Geralt letting Jaskier bombard him with questions of his adventures. The sun is golden, the waves crystal clear, and Jaskier is radiant. Geralt wishes he had just gone to the coast with him after that mountain. This is what they could have been.

And god, does he want it now. He doesn’t deserve it, but he’s desperate for a chance. A chance to show Jaskier that he’s wanted.

However, the entire week he dances around Jaskier’s more...physical advances.

The bard is just as flirtatious as he ever was, and it’s starting to drive Geralt mad. Jaskier won’t go a few minutes without touching him some way, be it a hand on the small of his back to get by, a brush of their hands as they walk, an arm around him when he’s drunk.

It’s not that Geralt doesn’t want him. The opposite, in fact. It’s because, well...

Because he’s scared.

Nothing so far has triggered Jaskier’s memories. And it’s been a week, and he’s starting to think maybe he wasn’t too far off in the true love’s kiss thing.

It’s the last thing Geralt can really think of, and if he’s wrong...he’s not sure what he’ll do.

For all he knows, the condition for the memories could be his own death. He could be completely barking up the wrong tree. The conditions could have nothing to do with him at all.

As fate would have it, he doesn’t get to make the decision himself. It’s the 8th night of their time spent together and Jaskier is three sheets to the wind. Geralt isn’t any better, if he’s being honest, so he lets his eyes wander more freely than usual.

It doesn’t escape Jaskier’s notice, and Geralt could swear the bard has fewer buttons on his shirt than an hour previous. They’re close together now, the scent of rosin and chamomile that’s distinctly Jaskier wafting to him like a balm after a hard fight.

“Geralt...” Jaskier says, and the Witcher looks up. Jaskier face is flush, and his eyes are clearly trained lower than Geralt’s own. He licks his lips reflexively and Jaskier’s heart rate speeds up.

“Pardon me if I’m reading this wrong, but before I lose my nerve-“

Jaskier crowds into his space, presses himself to Geralt’s front, and for a seemingly endless moment of time they stay like that, together.

Then Jaskier kisses him. It’s everything Geralt has ever wanted and more.

And nothing happens.

Jaskier doesn’t gasp and pull away. Geralt’s medallion stays still. There’s no wind blowing, no thrum of magic, nothing that would even hint at a change from the moment before their lips crashed together.

Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice Geralt’s heart shatter.

Drunk and over-eager, the bard deepens their kiss, but Geralt can’t match his enthusiasm. He just...he had thought that maybe- it was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. True love’s kiss, he wasn’t Jaskier’s true love, Jaskier had erased him. Of course it wouldn’t work.

Seeming to realize that his enthusiasm isn’t matched, Jaskier pulls away, looking at Geralt with worry. “Oh, oh- Geralt, I was wrong wasn’t I, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s alright, Jask-...Dandelion.” He wants to throw up. “It’s alright. I just-“

Jaskier removes himself from Geralt’s arms and he feels the loss like a missing limb. “No, no, that was untoward of me. I’m sorry, Geralt.” He sways a bit and Geralt reaches for his arm to steady him, but Jaskier takes a step back. “I’m afraid I may be too deep in my cup.”

His face is red, eyes downcast, and he radiates sadness and embarrassment. Geralt wants to hold him, wants to tell him he’s all he wants in this world, but he feels frozen in place. He can do nothing as Jaskier gives a mumbled goodnight and heads to his room.

Geralt eventually ascends the stairs to his own room for the night. He’s not sure what to do now, and sleep won’t come to him. He meditates and hopes perhaps the morning will give him more answers than he can come up with now.

He is not so lucky.

By the time he can bring himself to move Jaskier is already downstairs, apparently having waited for him. At least that’s what it seems by the way the bard jumps up to greet him.

“Geralt, you’re awake. I wanted to apologize again for-“

Geralt raises his hand, tired.

“There’s no need, you weren’t...you weren’t incorrect. In your reading of my interest.”

Jaskier looks relieved, which turns to confusion. “Then why...”

Geralt can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. Can’t face that beautiful blue.

“I just have a lot to work out.”

He makes for the door, and Jaskier doesn’t stop him. He walks to the stable where Roach is, focusing on his breathing. When he gets there he rests his forehead on his mare’s neck, closing his eyes. She stays still for him. She always knows when he needs her.

He could go back inside. He could make an excuse for his actions. He could woo Jaskier, could treat him the way he was always meant to be treated. He could learn him all over again and let Jaskier learn him in return. The interest is clearly there for it.

Two decades of memories were gone, but they could have more, if he wanted. They could start again, at square one, and walk the path like they had before. It would be different, but it could be the same. The hole in Geralt’s heart could be filled again with music.

But even as he thinks it, Geralt knows he could never do it. Even if living with the memories Jaskier has forgotten wouldn’t be excruciating, even if there was a way to travel together again without Jaskier finding out about his deception, he doesn’t deserve it. Deserve him.

Jaskier had made his wish. He had wanted Geralt gone from his mind, and that was his choice to make. Geralt had no right to come stomping back into his life, taking him from what he had clearly wanted so badly. He made himself anew. He was Dandelion now, and he was happy.

Geralt stands there for either minutes or hours, breathing deeply, hand rhythmically stroking Roach’s neck. He’s at war with his wants. His heartbreak claws up his throat until he realizes what he’s known all along, but was too afraid to admit.

He can’t be the cause of more suffering. He can’t be selfish with his desires and go against everything the bard wants for himself. Geralt wants nothing more than Jaskier in his arms, but it can’t be.

Because he loves Jaskier. And that love is the reason he has to let him go.

Over the pain of his heartbreak, Geralt doesn’t feel his medallion begin to vibrate.

Over the comforting scent of Roach, he doesn’t smell magic in the air.

Over the thudding of his heart, he doesn’t hear a barstool topple.

But he does hear the inn door slam open.

“GERALT!”

Decades of being attuned to Jaskier’s cries of his name have him whirling around.

Jaskier stands in the doorway of the inn, hands bracketed on either side, chest heaving with ragged breath.

Their eyes lock, and time seems to freeze.

It should be impossible for a single word to carry the weight of 20 years, for a single look to communicate so much. But in that moment, Geralt knows.

He knows.

The moment shatters as Jaskier takes off, feet hammering the ground as he full-speed runs at his Witcher.

Geralt barely manages to open his arms before they’re full of bard. Jaskier’s lips crash onto his in a kiss so much different from the night before. This kiss is deep, frantic, and absolutely perfect. Jaskier clutches the sides of Geralt’s face and Geralt lifts him effortlessly.

They stay like that for whoever knows how long, Geralt can’t really care less. The world could collapse around them and he wouldn’t give a fuck. Jaskier is here, is himself, remembers him. Everything else is secondary.

When they break apart, both their faces are wet.

They eventually make their way back to the inn, Jaskier waving off playing for the night in favor of spending it pressed to Geralt’s side in a booth in the back.

They drink and talk and eventually, of course, the conversation turns to the spell.

“What was it?” Geralt asks. “The token.”

Jaskier blushes deep red and rolls his left sleeve up. Tied around his wrist is a simple strip of black cloth. Geralt recognizes it as one of his hair ties.

“I took it from Roach’s saddlebags when I left the mountain.”

“Why?”

Jaskier chuckles. “I wanted something to remember you by. Ironic now, I know.”

Familiar guilt eats at Geralt’s stomach, but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for it. He places a hand over Jaskier’s wrist, ducking his head to meet the bard’s eyes.

“And the conditions...what we’re they?”

To this Jaskier smiles, reaching forward and running his hand along Geralt’s cheek. His smile is stunning and his hand is warm.

“My dear Witcher...I simply wanted you to love me as much as I loved you.”

Geralt’s heart swells as Jaskier leans in to kiss him once more.

He commits the feeling to memory, and commits himself to making many more. For the both of them.

/FIN

Thank you for coming along on this ride!!! This is my first twitfic and my first Geraskier thing and it was a lot of fun. If you enjoyed it thank you for being here, I hope it was satisfying 💞

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