The room is comfortable and he is comfortable--the warmth of the alcohol, the languid weight of his limbs after exertion, the smell of lilac and gooseberry, of linen and lemon that the room carries in it. She sits with him and he shuffles his lute aside, propping it idly against the chaise, glad to have her near--but her questions ring in his ears and all his thoughts of song are disrupted.
He keeps his smile, though it falters, and looks at her. Her hand in his is warm and soft and she is a warm weight on his side. The chair is comfortable and so unlike--this is--this inn is too nice, he thinks at once, and is startled by the thought. He relishes fine things, he has stayed in rooms the equal of this! He has no need to be frugal with his coin, to rent a room so narrow that one must shuffle past the other, that cannot fit a single tub or wash basin, where the bed is straw and smells of damp...and one must share space on the narrow mattress or risk being trampled on the floor.
There is so much space here.
Jaskier feels suddenly adrift in it.
He finds his eyes growing hot and is surprised by the sensation; his smile falters again and this time--this time he does not smoothly recover it. He laughs as he ducks his head and lifts the bottle of cherry brandy to rest it atop his knee. He makes a show of studying it as the weight of tears gather on his lashes. How swift a turn this is?
A coin for his thoughts.
Oh, but it is not her fault--he knows that. None of it is or was.
His next chuckle lacks his artful facade and he hates himself for that. It is pathetic and thin and not at all worthy of the evening he had planned. To sit and indulge and revel in Yennefer and their newfound camaraderie--in the closeness he so desperately desired from her, singular and special as she is.
Is he lying to himself?
A thread of paranoid doubt curls dark and painful in his gut. Does he only want to be near her because she is the same distance to Geralt as he is? Because being with her is some shadow of being with him? He--he doesn't think so--but the alcohol makes thinking hard and suddenly he is afraid. He is terrified he will harm her and he knows how cruel that cut would be, were she doing it to him--
He lets out a breath as his mind races.
"I--" he starts and it's a bit thick. "I don't know why I sang that. Habit, really. Stupid, base, habit."
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He keeps his smile, though it falters, and looks at her. Her hand in his is warm and soft and she is a warm weight on his side. The chair is comfortable and so unlike--this is--this inn is too nice, he thinks at once, and is startled by the thought. He relishes fine things, he has stayed in rooms the equal of this! He has no need to be frugal with his coin, to rent a room so narrow that one must shuffle past the other, that cannot fit a single tub or wash basin, where the bed is straw and smells of damp...and one must share space on the narrow mattress or risk being trampled on the floor.
There is so much space here.
Jaskier feels suddenly adrift in it.
He finds his eyes growing hot and is surprised by the sensation; his smile falters again and this time--this time he does not smoothly recover it. He laughs as he ducks his head and lifts the bottle of cherry brandy to rest it atop his knee. He makes a show of studying it as the weight of tears gather on his lashes. How swift a turn this is?
A coin for his thoughts.
Oh, but it is not her fault--he knows that. None of it is or was.
His next chuckle lacks his artful facade and he hates himself for that. It is pathetic and thin and not at all worthy of the evening he had planned. To sit and indulge and revel in Yennefer and their newfound camaraderie--in the closeness he so desperately desired from her, singular and special as she is.
Is he lying to himself?
A thread of paranoid doubt curls dark and painful in his gut. Does he only want to be near her because she is the same distance to Geralt as he is? Because being with her is some shadow of being with him? He--he doesn't think so--but the alcohol makes thinking hard and suddenly he is afraid. He is terrified he will harm her and he knows how cruel that cut would be, were she doing it to him--
He lets out a breath as his mind races.
"I--" he starts and it's a bit thick. "I don't know why I sang that. Habit, really. Stupid, base, habit."