. “I feel like,” he breathes, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling, “I want to, to talk to you about this, but I can’t. And it isn’t you. And I’m sorry for blocking you out. I didn’t mean to. But I can’t...I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Eskel’s voice is suddenly in his head. “Something terrible happened to you,” Geralt mumbles, letting the outsides of their thighs brush. Jaskier doesn’t pull away from that either. “And when something terrible happens to us, we’re...haunted.”
A shadow of a smile flickers over Jaskier’s face. “Vesemir told me not to be sorry for my ghosts.”
Geralt nods. “He used to say that to us,” he replies. “Whenever we woke up during the night, he would sit with us and let us cry or scream or hit something. And then he’d make sure that we managed to get back to sleep.”
Jaskier blinks. His eyes are beginning to turn red. Geralt links more of their fingers together. “Whenever you’re ready, and if you feel like it, I want you to tell me about your ghosts. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I want you to know that I’m here.”
He’s not good with words. Or maybe that’s wrong — he doesn’t like using words. They carry too much weight, they can be used against you in all ways, so he prefers to keep things to himself. For so long he’s done this, that maybe it became a part of him, which is why he doesn’t say anything else even though he feels like he should.