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Geralt doesn’t recognize him when they first meet. Which is good because he’s a 6’1 god and Jaskier wants to drag him to the nearest soft surface and lick every inch of the man. And it’s usually easier, this, if the person isn’t too aware of Jaskier’s public image. Either they already hate him, which is difficult to come back from even though Jaskier will be the first to admit his charms could sway God himself, or they love him and that Jaskier really can’t ever get over. He doesn’t sleep with fans as a rule; it’s hard to reconcile the morality of it all with himself, especially if he’s only looking for one night.
He’s not though. Only looking for one night. Not with Geralt.
Regardless, when they first meet Geralt is on the other side of the muffin case in Jaskier’s favorite bakery, wearing a black apron smeared with flour and glaring at Jaskier through the glass.
“And where, may I ask, is the darling Ciri on this fine morning?” Jaskier questions when Geralt drops his muffin on the counter in front of the cash register, grin lopsided and eyelashes fluttering at the white haired man, completely ignoring the way the man’s eyes sharpen at the girl’s name.
“No.”
“No?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head to the side with a confused twist of his eyebrows.
“No, you may not ask,” the man replies, not frowning exactly, but mouth tight, like he’s holding himself back from outright baring his teeth. Jaskier himself has never had any sense of self-preservation though, so instead of nodding and paying for his muffin, he squawks indignantly and presses on further.
“But she’s my morning muffin partner!”
“You’re what?” Geralt demands, eyes half a shade blacker than they were the moment before, “You do what with her?”
Jaskier sighs loudly, incredibly put out by the direction of this conversation; he just wants to know where his friend is and maybe convince this man to quit his job and leave with him right now. He has doubts about the second part, “Every morning that I’m in town, I buy two banana nut muffins; one for me and one for her. We share a pot of coffee and I delight her so much, she never says anything about the possible crumbs I leave behind. Though I do try to clean those up as best I can.”
“She doesn’t need you to buy her muffins,” Geralt very nearly spits, shoulders squaring up. It really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“Well, yes, she told me she gets muffins for free, perks of working here and all, but I figure, how long can she go, eating a muffin every morning, before she gets in trouble with the owner? Easier for me to just buy her a muffin myself, that way we can continue our morning chats, guilt free.”
“I’m the owner,” Geralt snaps, though Jaskier is almost positive his voice is softer than it was a moment before, “And she’s my daughter. She can have free muffins anytime she likes.”
“Oh,” Jaskier nods and wonders why, in all their many conversations, Ciri had never once mentioned her gorgeous father, or the fact that her father owned the bakery but he makes a mental note to interrogate her about it the next time he sees her, “Well, still, she’s a lady, isn’t she? I owe her a muffin for her invigorating conversation.”
“And is that your only interest in her?” Geralt demands, fingers gripping the register hard in front of him, “Conversation?”
“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, momentarily too caught up in the bulge of muscles that swell underneath the fabric of Geralt’s shirt but when he registers the implication of his question, his eyes widen, shooting the man a horrified look, “It’s not like that, you brute. She is merely good company. Besides, she’s not my type.”
At this, Geralt somehow manages to bristle even further, “And what’s wrong with her that you seem to deem her unworthy of your time?”
“Her age for start,” Jaskier rolls his eyes; the girl just turned nineteen for lord’s sake, “And her remarkable lack of penis.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, finally ringing up the muffin still laying sadly on the counter in front of him. He accepts Jaskier’s money in silence, which only has Jaskier’s impatience growing larger in his chest.
“So?” he finally asks, getting the man to look up at him, “Can I expect my young friend back anytime soon? Or has she turned in her final resignation?”
Geralt does not laugh at this, or even really react. He stares at Jaskier for a beat too long, holding an uncomfortable amount of eye contact and looking ever so confused, like he thought Jaskier would have flinched away from all of this by now, “Her class schedule changed, she works evenings now.”
“Well,” Jaskier nods, picking off small bites of his muffin with his fingers and shoving them in his mouth, “I guess I’ll have to have evening muffins from now on.”
~*-*~
He does, in fact, start coming to the bakery in the evening and instead of fresh muffins they eat little croissant sandwiches and Jaskier waves his arms around dramatically when he recounts meeting the girl’s father, delighting in the way her nose crinkles when she laughs, true and loud, at his antics. He loves the girl, really he does.
But he also continues to come in the mornings, partly because he does genuinely enjoy their breakfast but also (mostly) because he likes to lean against the counter, head rested daintily on his hands and bat his eyelashes at Geralt.
The man is remarkably resistant to it at first, and Jaskier catches himself wondering on more than one occasion how someone like him could have raised someone like Ciri. Mostly, he just likes watching Geralt work, likes the way his hair gets messy and his skin just the tiniest bit shiny as he leans into the oven, checking on whatever delicious pastry he’s baking.
He’s almost positive Geralt is starting to enjoy his presence though. For one thing, he’s begun setting aside fresh, warm, banana nut muffins specifically for Jaskier each morning and he never lets him pay for them. Jaskier still does, though, shoving crumpled bills into the tip jar when Geralt’s not looking. And after enough whining on Jaskier’s part, Geralt finally relented in changing the radio station from one that plays modern pop rock to one that strictly plays music from pre-1990. That, is mostly because one day while Geralt was in the back grabbing supplies one of his songs came on and Jaskier couldn’t bare to dismantle the illusion; even if Geralt doesn’t visibly recognize Jaskier’s face from his band, he still doesn’t want to hear his opinion on the band. He wants to live in a world where his band is never acknowledged. At least for now, for a little while longer. Until he can convince Geralt to press those frowning lips hard to the back of his neck and bite down.
Okay, he does want more romantic things with Geralt, but he’s also incredibly sexy and fantasizing about that feels a little more realistic than letting Geralt play big spoon and kissing the tips of his fingers. So. Sex.
None of that happens though and eventually, Jaskier does have to go back on tour because Dandelion very recently released a new album and Jaskier cannot wait to play the new songs live. Still, he’ll miss this, especially, he knows, when he wakes up each morning on a tour bus bunk and gets asked if he wants anything from McDonald’s.
No matter how many times he tries though, he can’t seem to broach the topic of his nearing departure with the man, mostly because the more he flounders for a logical reason as to why he’ll be gone for months, the more ridiculous he feels. Besides, he’s mostly convinced Geralt will see right through him anyways.
So instead, he says nothing and the night before he’s set to leave he orders a ham and cheese croissant sandwich from Ciri and tells her the tour is beginning again and should she need anything, she should feel free to text him because they have an unbreakable muffin-now-turned-croissant-sandwich bond and that means something. She just smiles and shakes her head, saying, “Yes, Jaskier, I know you’re going on tour. I do have google, you know.”
“Yes, princess, do forgive me if I forget that you are the most intelligent, all knowing creature on this side of the ocean,” he nods, ducking his head when she throws a coffee sleeve at him.
“You’d do better to remember that,” she shouts as he laughs his way to the door, “Did you tell dad?”
That, has Jaskier faltering in step. He didn’t even know she knew about that; he hasn’t mentioned anything after the first time. So he throws her his biggest smile, teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lights, “Ah. Must have slipped my mind. You wouldn’t mind telling him for me, would you?”
He hears her yell his name just as he slips out the door and counts the steps home.
~*-*~
dad is mad at you, is the message left on his phone two days later when he wakes with a headache, the bus rumbling beneath him. When he’d told Ciri it was okay to text him, he’d been too embarrassed to ask for updates on her incredibly handsome father, so he appreciates her reaching out unprompted with this information, even if it’s not exactly good news. So he smiles as he types back, well, dear ciri, when is your lovely father not displeased with me?
Her response flies with the immediateness of a teen with too much time on their hands, little text bubble popping up on Jaskier’s screen almost as soon as he himself has hit send, yes, but now i have to hear him grumbling.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard but she replies again before he can come up with anything witty to say, he saved a muffin for you.
And that is decidedly too sweet for Jaskier to handle in his morning haze; he kicks the side of the bus hard, toes aching, to balance out the sickly feeling resting over his heart. It doesn’t work; he still wants to wrap Geralt in his arms and never let go. Instead he replies, you’re making me blush.
apologize, she sends back, or i’ll tell the world you’re secretly a nerd who spends too much time reading fantasy books in my bakery.
you wouldn’t! He types, only to be immediately met with a photo of himself, wearing a ratty old sweatshirt, hair a mess, hunched over one of their little tables with a copy of Magician: Apprentice in hand.
princess! He shoots back, though he can’t say he’s actually terribly concerned. Sure, it plays against his party image but he’s not all that embarrassed. And he had enjoyed the book so, you know i won’t be home for months! i will apologize to your father in due time, but it cannot be rushed!
call him, is all she responds with and Jaskier is about to yell about how of course he doesn’t have Geralt’s number when the screen lights up again with ten new digits.
~*-*~
He has no real reason to wait, other than the nerves that rattle his bones every time he thinks of Geralt, and still it takes him three hours to call. Even so, it’s only when they’ve stopped for food and the rest of his bandmates have long since gone inside the tiny diner. Jaskier himself stands leaned against the tour bus, hidden behind it really, a cigarette twitching nervously between his fingers.
He’s not even going to answer, Jaskier thinks to himself as he flicks his cigarette, he’s definitely not the type to answer phone calls from unknown numbers.
And yet, right as he thinks this and mentally decides to hang up, the phone clicks to life in his ear.
“Hmm,” says the voice on the other end and yeah, that’s definitely Geralt.
“‘Hmm,’” Jaskier guffaws, standing up a little straighter, “Is that how you answer the phone, Geralt, really? You know most people start with a simple hello.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, and maybe Jaskier is hearing what he wants to hear but he could swear there’s a certain fondness in his voice, “Shut up.”
“But we have just begun speaking!” Jaskier shouts, arms waving about as if Geralt can see him, “I haven’t heard you’re lovely growls in days, my dear.”
“Yes,” Geralt grunts into the phone, “Because you left, remember?”
“Ah, yes, well, you see, the thing is, Geralt, the thing is-”
“You’re in a band,” Geralt finishes for him.
“Well, yes but you see-”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“No,” Jaskier sighs, “No, I did not.”
“Hmm.”
“I can feel you judging me and jumping to all the wrong conclusions,” Jaskier rushes into the receiver of his phone, dropping his cigarette and crushing it beneath his boot, “But you’ve got it all wrong, I assure you.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine-”
“You don’t owe me anything, Jaskier.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous, of course I do. We’re friends, after all,” he very nearly shouts, pacing the length of the bus.
“Hmm.”
“What is it now?” Jaskier asks, running a wild hand through his hair.
“We’re...friends?” Geralt’s voice is unsure on the other line and Jaskier is honestly unclear if it’s because he didn’t think Jaskier thought of him as a friend or if he himself didn’t ever consider Jaskier to be his friend. He’s hoping for the former.
“Well, of course, I’ve only been gracing you with my presence for weeks now,” Jaskier replies, voice full of a false bravado that does not match the way his feet scrape against the wet pavement erratically as he paces.
“Gracing isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Geralt bites and if it were anyone else, Jaskier might be offended. But this is how Geralt shows affection, he’s sure, like a bristly cat.
“Oh hush, you absolute barbarian,” he refutes, stopping to stand on his tippiest of toes, “Now back to important matters.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever discussed anything important-”
“I didn’t tell you,” Jaskier says, speaking right over Geralt, reveling in the amused huff he hears on the other end of the line, “Because...well because I liked the way things were. When people realize who I am, they always, without fail, begin to act strange. They want fame or they don’t want fame, they want money or a foot in the door or for me to pretend to be who I am in press junkets and media circles. They don’t, they don’t ever really want to speak to me. I didn’t want things to change between us.”
“Ciri didn’t.”
“What?” Jaskier asks, so caught up in being heartfeltly honest he doesn’t know what to do with such a blunt answer.
“Ciri didn’t change,” Geralt again asserts, “She still sees you for the annoying brat you are.”
“Well,” Jaskier begins, though he can’t stop the smile that spreads wide across his face, “Ciri is a unique creature, too pure for this world.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, though it’s not one of his angry grunts, just one to let Jaskier know he heard him, he’s thinking, “They won’t change between us either.”
Jaskier smiles stupid into the phone, though he knows Geralt can appreciate it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Besides,” Geralt starts again, “I’ve never even heard of your band.”
“Well,” Jaskier laughs, “I can change that, when I get home.”
“You don’t have to,” Geralt murmurs, soft, softer than Jaskier ever thinks he’s spoken to him.
“I want to,” Jaskier replies, “The music is fine, Geralt, I want you to hear the music. Just not everything else.”
~*-*~
And that began Jaskier’s nightly, afternoonly, possibly also sometimes morningly routine of calling Geralt, to make up for his missing muffin time he explains. He whines about the lack of good breakfast items and raves about shows, the adrenaline, the heat, the way he feels alive when the lights shine down on him and the crowd shouts his words back.
Mostly, he chatters about everything and nothing, and Geralt always, always, listens. Even when he’s quiet. Even when he’s tired or busy, he puts Jaskier on speaker phone and grunts at all the right moments or recalls something Jaskier had said on a call weeks prior.
It’s nice, this, to have a friend, to have someone who seems to enjoy Jaskier’s presence for what it is. And it would stay nice and simple if Jaskier wasn’t what one could call an idiot.
~*-*~
you butt dialled dad, Ciri texts him at arse o’clock in the morning and though Jaskier’s eyelids feel heavy when he reaches for the phone, he’s almost immediately roused from his slumber.
no, he sends back, fingers laced together as he tethers a prayer to himself.
yes, she texts back, i believe, from what i remember, you were waxing poetic about his muscles. and his bum. possibly his hair?
fuck, he replies, banging his head back against his mattress, mentally cursing each of his bandmates. Last night of tour celebration his arse. Never again will he trust them not to let him make a fool of himself.
indeed, Ciri texts, there were also some rather lewd bits about ‘tasting’ and ‘teeth’ but i don’t feel i need to repeat those. i imagine you already have an idea of what you might’ve said.
FUCK, he says again, beause at this point that’s truly the only word he can conjure in his mind, is he mad? should i never return to the bakery again?
don’t be so dramatic, she says, you owe me at least ten sandwiches for this.
ciri, darling, i understand where you’re coming from, he messages, thumbs moving rapid fire, but i am having a CRISIS.
he’s not mad, she finally reveals, he’s just been...quiet.
great. so i’ll never show my face again and this will all blow over, his eyes squeeze tightly shut, trying to remember what exactly he might’ve said.
stop.
so bossy.
hmm.
just like your father.
yes, she sends and the separately, but i don’t have thighs fit to smother you, do i?
i hate you.
you don’t.
i wish i did.
you don’t.
fine.
~*-*~
He doesn’t call Geralt that day, or the next because he does not want to hear Geralt’s voice, tinny over the phone, telling him they can remain friends and only friends. He can’t handle the shame. He can’t handle another crack on his fragile, tender heart.
Maybe Ciri was right. Maybe he’s being a touch overdramatic.
But still, he feels justified in the shame filled silence he invokes surrounding the issue of Geralt. And yet, when he’s finally dropped off at his flat, he finds his feet moving on their own accord. It’s ridiculous really; it’s night time and darkness has already washed over the city street. Surely the shop has long since been closed.
Still, he makes his way closer and closer and just when he decides it’s time to turn back, count this off as merely some evening exercise, he sees a broad muscled back and white hair leaning over the door of the bakery to lock up for the night.
“Geralt,” his stupid mouth says before he can stop himself and is soon met with yellow-brown eyes as the man before him spins around to face him fully.
“Jaskier,” Geralt hums, keys clenched in his fist, “You’re home.”
“It would seem so, yes,” Jaskier nods because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to fill the awkward gap between them. Geralt looks at him with heated eyes for a moment, two, and then he’s striding forward with confident steps, hands reaching out to cup the side of Jaskier’s face and yank him closer.
The kiss is, honestly, much like Jaskier expected it to be. Geralt’s lips are rough against his own and when Jaskier’s fingers reach up to tug sharply at Geralt’s hair, he finds teeth sinking down into his plush bottom lip. The moan that alone evokes is wild and needy and Geralt must be able to feel the way it rips out of his chest because in a second he’s spun around and pressed into the glass door of the bakery while Geralt’s fingertips dig into the bone of his hips hard enough to bruise.
~*-*~
They end up in Jaskier’s flat, clothes tossed wildly about and Jaskier pressed deep into his soft sheets. Geralt is wild above him, holding onto Jaskier with too tight fingers and biting down on his shoulder, his peck, the back of his neck, the inside of his thigh. It’s so good and rough and Jaskier finds himself with his head thrown back against the pillow, fingernails scraping down the expanse of Geralt’s back and moaning loud, loud enough to spur Geralt into quicker, sharper movements that deliciously tickle all of Jaskier’s nerve endings.
Before sleep can overtake the two, Jaskier leans his head back so it rests in the crook of Geralt’s neck and asks, “Is this because I butt dialed you?”
“No,” Geralt replies and the silence that surrounds it tells Jaskier he’ll get no further explanation from the man tonight. But that’s okay. He can hear the tired strain in Geralt’s voice and he thinks that for now a simple answer is fine. For now the how and why don’t matter. All the matters is the feel of Geralt’s chest, rising and falling with each breath against Jaskier’s back.
Jaskier falls asleep with Geralt wrapped around him, breathing deeply and warm, palm of his hand splayed wide across Jaskier’s chest to hold him tight in Geralt’s embrace. It’s the best sleep Jaskier’s had in years.
~*-*~
Jaskier wakes with the sun, shining in on him in little thin beams through the blinds on his window. The muscles of his thighs, his abdomen, his arms, all ache pleasantly, a dull thrum of hurt that reminds him of his most recent activities. The blanket pools around him, keeping in his heat and shielding him from the brisk morning air. And when he rolls over, eyes still closed, to throw an arm out across the other side of the bed-
Well he’s alone.
The sheets are cold to touch, icy underneath Jaskier’s fingertips as he trails his hand down from the pillow that sits, lonely and unused, on that side. His ears are open, listening for any rustle; the flush of a toilet, the starting of a coffee pot, the quiet thumps of padded feet against the tile of his floor.
There is nothing.
It’s funny, Jaskier takes the time to think to himself, how quickly his mood can change. He has not even fully roused from this bed and yet the ache of his muscles that was so pleasing only moments before has now begun to twist sourly. The blankets that still slide against his hips smell of sex and whatever products Geralt’s uses because they surly do not smell like anything out of Jaskier’s cabinet and the sun. The sun, which was once so delightful to be woken by, now intrudes annoyingly into his space. Now that he knows there is no chest for him to turn into to block it all out.
He rises out of this island of a bed, lands bare feet on impossibly cold floors, and removes sheets and blankets with a sort of methodic grace, muscle memory, and brings it all in one heap to his laundry appliances, shoving them in with too much detergent.
Jaskier does not do things by half and if Geralt was going to leave, he should not have left behind his smell. He should not have left behind wisps of finger shaped bruises on Jaskier’s hips or lip punched marks against his shoulders. He should have woken Jaskier when he left. Jaskier does not want to accept these bits and pieces of a one night with a man he longs to see far too much.
And yet, Jaskier is also distinctly aware that he is again being overdramatic. Assuming the worst and playing into a heartbreak that is not really and truly there, at least not yet. There could be a million reasons for this non-betrayal. Geralt is a good and honorable man and they have been friends for too long now for Jaskier to really expect he’s been left behind, totally and completely.
Finding no note left for him and no message on his phone still sends a breathless twinge up his spine all the same. Which is really quite ridiculous, now that he thinks about it, because this is nothing new.
Jaskier has woken up alone time and time again, reaching for a body that is no longer there. He’ll be fine. He always is.
And besides, he thinks, he knows exactly where to find his brooding white knight. As he jumps into the shower, letting too hot, steaming, water wash away all traces of the night before, he resolves to stumble his way into the damned bakery and see Geralt for himself.
After all, they’re still friends, aren’t they?
~*-*~
When he strolls into the bakery, everything is as it should be. There are a few customers, already served and planted at tables with their laptops and coffee, the glass cabinet is full and the air is filled with the warm smell of freshly baked bread. And there, behind the counter, looking impeccable and without a hint of morning after shame, is Geralt, white hair pulled back into a half ponytail. He doesn’t smile when he sees Jaskier yank open the door but honestly, his smiles are few and far between as is, so the lack thereof does nothing to hinder Jaskier’s delight at seeing the man.
He thinks, however, he does see Geralt’s eyes soften, ever so slightly, as they trace Jaskier’s form.
“Ah,” Jaskier says, peering into the glass cabinet because he’s not quite yet ready to face whatever it is Geralt is going to say about the night before, “I see you have no more banana nut muffins left to sell.”
“Indeed,” Geralt hums as Jaskier evaluates his array of blueberry, chocolate and lemon muffins. He’s about to break and ask for a lemon, though that changes his relatively stable routine but when he stands he finds a banana nut muffin, placed gently on the counter in front of him in a little to-go carton.
“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, throwing a hand flamboyantly across his chest, “A man after my own heart.”
“If all it takes to acquire your heart is a muffin,” Geralt replies dryly, “Then you should obtain better standards.”
“What if a good muffin is all I want?” Jaskier asks suggestively and flutters his eyelashes because he wants Geralt to get it. It’s only then really, that he takes in the to-go feature of this muffin. One he has never received until this day, this moment. Yes, he thinks to himself, this is it. No discussion, no continuation, just a to-go box and a pleasant (for Geralt) demeanor.
“Aim higher,” Geralt grunts out, an answer to Jaskier’s unasked question, and then his gaze shifts higher, to the customer who has come forth to wait in line behind Jaskier. It’s a dismissal if he’s ever seen one and Jaskier, who is usually so loud and boisterous, willing to discuss all matters except apparently the self, grabs the sad box and makes his way out of the shop. Geralt, he noticies, does not call out a farewell.
~*-*~
Which is fine.
If all Geralt wanted, needed, was one night then that’s alright. Jaskier has maintained friendships with people over worse things. Which, he realizes, is not something to be particularly proud of but Jaskier is willing to make sacrifices. Even if he does dream of white hair fanned out across his pillowcase and large hands holding him close. Geralt is important and so is Ciri and he’s not willing to end either relationship because of a stupid crush and a smaller than small heartbreak.
Jaskier has always been tough. He will make it through.
~*-*~
They slide back into normalcy as the next day finds Jaskier bright and early in the shop, annoying Geralt from his side of the counter. He bats his eyelashes and rests his chin in his hands and tells stories from the tour and stops analyzing Geralt’s every move. They’re alright.
~*-*~
That is until two days later, when Jaskier finds himself walking by the shop late into the night (this time for actual exercise) only to be stopped by Geralt, leaned against the door, cigarette in hand. When he reflects on this later, he cannot decide if knowing what he knows now he would have done the same thing. Probably. He never was one to learn from his mistakes.
“Geralt,” he says before he can allow any common sense to tell him to shut up. Geralt’s face rises to meet his own and his lips twitch like he wants to smile and that alone has Jaskier softening all over again.
“Jaskier,” he sighs, but not the sigh he always lets out in the morning when he’s trying to do a million things as once and Jaskier is still chattering away. This one is quieter, warmer, reverential.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says again because for once in his life he finds he doesn’t know what to say. And then Geralt is beckoning him closer, one hand outstretched towards Jaskier, the other dropping his cigarette onto the pavement beneath him.
“Come here,” Geralt commands and who is Jaskier to argue? He stumbles into the white haired man’s embrace and then there’s a hand pressed gently against his neck, thumb caressing his jaw and lips pushing rough against his own.
The rest of the night goes roughly the same as the last time. Geralt’s hands grip him tight, like he’s afraid Jaskier might disappear, and it’s so good but still Jaskier finds himself wanting to scream that he’s not the one in danger of leaving and in retaliation he wraps his legs tight around Geralt’s hips, heels digging in to the small of his back.
This time, when all is said and done, when sweat begins to dry and heartbeats settle, Geralt is there beside him. His fingers trail down the length of Jaskier’s body again and again, stopping every few moments to trace his cheekbone, his jaw, his lips. And every once in a while, he leans in deliberate, letting their lips move together slow, languid. His tongue tastes like molasses in Jaskier’s mouth.
Even still, the morning finds Jaskier alone once again.
~*-*~
The worst part of being a musician, Jaskier decides, is the writer’s block. It usually does not befall him quite so heavily, but now he traipses around his flat, picking up his lute and putting it down, humming tunes that fade out in moments. He’s even gone so far as to pick up his weathered acoustic but the strings feel strange under his fingers and the ukulele in the corner is no different.
He has time, he knows, they’ve only released their album a little while ago and after this winter break they’re already set for two more tours. He does not need to write anything new now, except he does. Everything has been twitching inside of him and he needs to get it out or he’s liable to go mad.
But the words do not come forth and he knows the more he pressures himself to find them, the more securely they’ll hide in the recesses of his mind. He’s never claimed to be easy, even with himself. All the same he finds it difficult to linger in his flat for too long, his bed feels reserved for two and the rest is just empty space, remarkably reluctant to give him the words he so needs to release and so it all feels a little suffocating really. He needs to get out.
He knows he should probably talk to his bandmates, or go see other live shows or network while he has the time. But his feet carry him around and his hands make no move towards any phone calls and suddenly he’s at Geralt’s bakery, book in hand and an easy smile on his face.
Geralt is with a customer when he walks in, which is just fine because today Jaskier is anxious and antsy and not altogether in the chattering mood he is usually so inclined to be in, so he settles himself into a corner booth, drawing one foot up and holding his book open with one hand. The book unfolds before him and this, before he could play music, before he could write his every waking feeling into a string of words for people to chant back at him, was his escape. To bury himself in the words of other’s, to belong in a world that does not belong to him and yet does not not belong to him either.
“Isn’t that how it is when you must decide with your heart?” Jaskier reads to himself, ignoring the quiet humming and thrumming of the people around him, “You are not choosing one thing over another. You are choosing what you want. And you are also choosing what somebody else does not want, and all the consequences that follow. You can tell yourself, that’s not my problem, but those words do not wash the trouble away. Maybe it is no longer a problem in your life. But it is always a problem in your heart-”
A hand slams down onto the tabletop in front of Jaskier, startling him out of his momentary calm. Looking up, he finds white hair hung in front of his eyes as Geralt leans over the table, one hand still pressed flat to the smooth surface and the other holding a coffee mug.
“Hello? Dear Geralt, please do not scare me so, my fragile heart cannot bare-”
“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, demands really because he leaves no room to question whether or not Jaskier is actually going to answer. And he is, of course he is.
“Yes?” Jaskier responds, eyebrows furrowing up in confusion, taking a second to look over his person to make sure there is not some glaring mishap but no, nothing, “Why would I not be okay?”
“You’re not talking,” Geralt says, nodding his head ever so slightly to the book in Jaskier’s hand, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read before. Or stop the words in your mouth long enough to listen to anyone else.”
“Hey!” Jaskier squawks, affronted, but it melts away as he watches the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch up into an amused smile, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he glances down, “I read here all the time.”
And my room is littered with books! Which you should know, given you’ve been there. Multiple times! He wants to shout but it feels like an overstep, crossing a boundary they, Geralt, have long since set up. It feels wrong to dance that line here, in public, in Geralt’s space. So he stays quiet and smiles up at Geralt and thinks no discussions to himself yet again.
“Here?” Gerealt asks, looking around in amazement with one eyebrow drawn up, “Well, I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, then, you can ask the lovely Ciri, she will attest to the truth,” Jaskier proclaims, smile only growing when Geralt shakes his head fondly.
“Here,” Geralt suddenly grunts, shoving the coffee mug in Jaskier’s direction.
“For me?” Jaskier delights, fluttering his eyelashes at Geralt and dropping his book to place a hand over his heart, “You do care.”
“Hmm,” is all he gets in return, not wholly unsurprising if Jaskier’s being honest. It makes up most of Geralt’s vocabulary.
“Hmm yourself, you great brute,” Jaskier says, trying to slide out from the table but blocked by Geralt’s unmoving position, “Now if you’ll just excuse me-”
“I already did it.”
“Hmm?” Jaskier hums back, not a grunt like Geralt’s, but a question. Geralt just nods to the coffee in his hand and replies, like it should be obvious.
“I fixed it already. Three sugars, two milks.”
“Huh,” Jaskier mumbles but mostly wants to ask how Geralt knew that; he’s quite sure he’s always prepared the coffee himself, he’s never asked Geralt to make it all for him before. But then again, Geralt does seem the type to notice everything around him. Jaskier just didn’t think he was paying attention to him, “Well. Thank you, my dear.”
And if the man of ice ever did blush, this is the closest Jaskier thinks he’ll ever get to seeing it. He revels in the tiny patches of pink that seem to suddenly underline his cheeks and he wishes he were a painter who could capture each and every one of Geralt’s intricacies.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts and then turns to look at the customer lingering around his counter. He turns back to Jaskier one last time, eyes glancing over him suddenly serious again, “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Right as span, spick and rain,” Jaskier smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. Geralt lets out a little breath, maybe a little amused, maybe a little annoyed and then Jaskier is nodding back to his counter and saying, “Now get back to your job, Mr. Baker.”
Geralt doesn’t respond, only turns to walk back to his place at the counter and though Jaskier turns his attention back to his book he can’t help but glancing up to find Geralt’s form every now and then. To his surprise, Geralt’s eyes are usually already there, staring back at him.
~*-*~
This time he’s not even really sure how it happened. He stays through the rest of Geralt’s shift, sifting through his book and sipping his drink, which is now tea thanks to Geralt. And then suddenly Ciri is there, kissing her father on the cheek and waving hello at Jaskier.
“New book?” she calls as she ties an apron around herself.
“Old,” he shakes his head, waving the book at her, “Thought it was time for a reread.”
“Ah, yes,” she nods when she sees the cover, “One of your favorites.”
“Indeed,” he confirms but mostly he’s staring triumphantly at Geralt where he stands behind Ciri, arms crossed.
“What?” she asks, glancing between the two, “You haven’t seen him read?”
“You have?” Geralt asks, sounding a little too miffed for Jaskier’s liking.
“Yeah,” she nods, “He only reads here, like, all the time.”
Having won that argument, Jaskier is content to leave, smiling when he realizes Geralt’s is close behind him, grumbling the whole way. And he’s not sure, really, who invited who or whom offered, but Geralt walks him all the way home, right up to his door and then he’s gently brushing away the hair in Jaskier’s face and leaning him up against the door. He kisses him slow and soft and far too romantic for their unspoken agreement so Jaskier bites his lip and claws his shoulder and tugs him inside with a strange frantic feeling in his fingers.
But that night is different because Geralt keeps slowing down, or trying to at least, for every time his hips slow and his grip gets softer, Jaskier spurs him on with a moan or a scratch or a bite.
“Faster,” he demands but Geralt merely drops his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, kissing the sweat lined skin there and Jaskier can’t take it because it’s what he wants but not what he can have, not truly. So he digs his heels in harder against Geralt’s back and drops his head back to whine, “Geralt!”
And then Geralt is grabbing both his hands and locking them firm against Jaskier’s mattress and his hips move faster, harder, and Jaskier moans loud and carefree because this is easier to take from Geralt. Easier to consume.
~*-*~
When it’s over, Geralt lays face down in the spot next to him and they’re both naked and warm and satiated, his big hand pressed flat against Jaskier’s belly, his head rested on the pillow. Jaskier tries not to, he really does, but his mind drifts off with questions, about how long Geralt will stay this time, if there will ever be a next time.
“Read to me,” Geralt mumbles, eyes still closed next to him, thumb still rubbing smooth circles into the skin of Jaskier’s abdomen. Jaskier has to pick his head up to look at him because he can’t have heard that right, he simply can’t have. But Geralt is smiling, this tiny little thing, and his eyes flutter open long enough to meet Jaskier’s and he says again, “Read to me.”
“And what would you like to hear?” Jaskier asks, already looking around at the stacks of books in his room, squinting at the ones in the far corner because the room is only lit by the soft orange light from lamp on his bedside table.
“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt sighs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder, “One you like.”
Jaskier stares at him for too long maybe, confused as to what Geralt really wants so Geralt just laughs and asks, “What? You suddenly have trouble speaking?”
And so, Jaskier sits up, grabs a book off the stack and arranges the pillows and Geralt neatly behind him. Geralt’s hands hold onto his waist and his chin rests against his shoulder, eyes closed, as Jaskier opens the book to his current page and begins to read, “The winter loves me. I mean as much as you can say a season can love. What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love.”
Jaskier falls asleep pillowed against Geralt’s chest, book still in hand.
He wakes up alone.
~*-*~
And so they continue, with varying levels of frequency and intensity but it’s always the same when it comes down to it; it’s always at night when Geralt feels like it and he never stays. Which is fine. Perfectly fine. Peachy even.
And Jaskier. The besotted fool keeps coming back for more. Lingering too long in Geralt’s bakery and leaving his nights available for the white haired man. Like now, where he leans propped against Geralt’s counter grinning like a madman because he loves being around Geralt even if Geralt doesn’t necessarily love being around him.
“There’s a flat above the bakery?” Jaskier asks, looking up as though he can see through the ceiling.
“Yes, Jaskier.”
“And you live there?”
“Yes, Jaskier.”
“Oh,” Jaskier nods, fingers anxiously tracing the counter, “You should take me up there sometime.”
At this, Geralt stops to glare at Jaskier, eyes unmoving and stern even as Jaskier raises his hands up in surrender.
“What?” Jaskier cries, “You’ve seen where I live. Is it really too much to ask I see the place where the great Geralt Rivia rests his head?”
“Absolutely not,” Geralt says, shaking his head, going back to drying plates, “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that.”
And there’s something in this refusal, something so sure of what lies in the future, so clear in where they stand. That is Geralt’s space. And though Geralt is allowed to make room for himself in Jaskier’s home and life, the situation will never be reversed.
It sends an ache through his already damaged heart.
“Oh,” he nods, fingernail digging into the skin around his palm, “Yeah, yeah, alright.”
But it feels like the air has been sucked from the shop and if Jaskier doesn’t leave right now he’s likely to suffocate under Geralt’s gaze. So he turns on his heel and calls out, “I have to meet with my band!” and then he’s gone.
He does not wait for Geralt to say goodbye.
~*-*~
They do it again because of course they do it again, because Jaskier has never been quite able to take care of himself, because he finds it increasingly difficult to tell Geralt no about anything. So when Geralt’s fingers search him out, he is always there, ready and waiting.
But he’s stopped asking or more. Stopped seeking more in Geralt’s every move and word. This is what he can have and for now, while the bitter ache of being unwanted is only a dull hum beneath his skin, he will take what he can get.
Tonight, he forces himself to stay awake. He’s never seen Geralt sleep; the man is always long gone by the time Jaskier awakens. But tonight he keeps his eyelids open and waits for Geralt’s breathing to even out. And when it does he turns, gently, quietly, around to watch him. In sleep, the lines of his face smooth out, it makes him look less wary, smoother, softer. Content. His skin shines silver just like his hair in the flood of moonlight that comes from Jaskier’s window and he can’t help but reach out and touch, trailing his fingers across Geralt’s face and down his arm. Like this, he looks more open. Like something Jaskier could have.
When it’s all too much, when just looking at Geralt too long begins to make him feel too raw, he slips from the bed and pads around his flat, fingers grazing the wall as he goes. In the sitting room he finds his guitar, right where he left it and something about it and the night and Geralt in his bed makes his fingers want to dance across the frets.
It’s slow going at first, he feels a little lost, which is ridiculous because he’s been playing as long as he can remember. But eventually a song comes out, low notes and ominous; it sounds like the beating of his heart as of late. It sounds sad.
Though he plays quiet, years of practicing without waking his parents, his friends, his partners, when he looks up he sees Geralt there, leaned against the doorway to his room looking tired and concerned. His eyebrows pinch together and his mouth twists down and maybe he’s just displeased with being woken in the middle of the night and Jaskier’s about to apologize when the man speaks first.
“You play well,” he says, quiet, like he doesn’t want to disturb the night.
“I’m only in a band,” Jaskier says back, letting out a laugh that is meant to be jovial but sounds wet, pained, too raw to show any sort of amusement. Geralt’s lips only tighten further and he nods toward the guitar.
“Did you write it?” he asks.
“Yes, well,” Jaskier shrugs, allowing his fingers to pinch down against the strings, metal bearing down into callused fingers, “Sometimes I awaken in the night with inspiration. It’s just the way it goes.”
“You wrote that tonight?” Geralt asks, finally uncrossing his arms and standing straight, looking at Jaskier with sad yellow eyes. When Jaskier nods, he reaches his hand out, beckoning, “Come back to bed.”
Jaskier knows he shouldn’t. Knows he should set clear lines and boundaries and should not go back to that bed with Geralt. But he finds himself setting aside the guitar and stumbling his way into Geralt’s arms and into his own bed. He expects Geralt to just lie next to him or maybe, even, to leave for the night but Geralt holds him close, pressing Jaskier tight up against his chest and running a soothing hand up and down the expanse of his back. He makes little shushing noises in between placing tiny kissing against the crown of Jaskier’s head.
It’s nice, for a night.
~*-*~
It’s the evening and Jaskier has the taste of croissant flakes in his mouth and peals of laughter falling from his lips as he leans across the counter from Ciri. The girl is witty and stern but much more prone to bouts of amusement and folly than her father, and for that Jaskier loves her dearly. She seems always capable of putting him in a good mood.
Today, she leans across the counter to poke at his neck and says, “You have a hickey.”
He blushes and slaps a hand over the spot on his neck and thinks about saying something along the lines of well yes, your father is a barbarian who never leaves me clean but stops when he clocks the question in her eyes.
“Who’s the lucky man?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, letting her hand fall out across her shoulder.
“There’s...” he begins and realizes she doesn’t know. For all his worry and they’re relative lack of secrecy, despite the fact that Jaskier has left here, this bakery, with Geralt in tow behind him, she doesn’t know. Because Geralt hasn’t told her.
Which. Okay. Makes sense that the man would decline to tell his daughter the intricacies of his every sexual exploit but it still feels...wrong. Jaskier does not want to be anyone’s shameful secret. If Geralt is going to be with him (and he’s not really, Jaskier is quick to remind himself) then he wants to be with him. Not be something kept hidden away from one of the few people who is important to either of them.
“It’s no one,” he tells her, looking down at his fingers, “Doesn’t even matter, really.”
She eyes him, a little wary at his sudden drop in mood but it’s not altogether unlike Jaskier to shift dramatically like this. Still, she leans forward to hold onto his shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, “You sure?”
“Of course,” he says, this time looking back up to smile brightly at her, hiding every trace of ache that might linger there, that still spins tornados in his veins. He does not notice the door opening behind him or the presence of anyone else until Ciri looks up, frowning.
“Dad?” she asks and Jaskier tenses, closing his eyes and telling himself not to turn around, “What are you doing here so late?”
“I do own this place,” he says in lew of an answer and slides behind the counter and suddenly it doesn’t matter if Jaskier turns around because Geralt is there, looking at him with a deep frown and tight eyes.
“Everything alright?” he asks, looking back and forth between Jaskier and his daughter.
Jaskier bites his tongue and prepares his best smile but Ciri answers for him, one hand reaching out to still Jaskier’s ever moving fingers, stopping the way his nails pick into the skin around his thumb nail. The movement is not missed by Geralt, he’s sure, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t ask, “Everything’s fine, dad! But you shouldn’t be here. Your shift is over.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, still looking at Jaskier and that’s when he decides he’s had enough for the day, thanks.
Looking up with a smile that feels too big for his face, Jaskier beams, “Well, folks, I think I’ve had my fill of baked goods for the evening and I can hear my lute now, calling my name, so I think I shall depart and leave you with only the best of wishes for the completion of your shift.”
He nods at them both and then he’s gone, burrowing deeper into his jacket to hide from the biting cold outside. He tries not to imagine how nice it would be, to have Geralt walking next to him.
~*-*~
When he slips into the shop the next day, he does so with a determination in mind that he should have settled on long ago. He’s going to tell Geralt, going to tell him they can’t do this anymore because Jaskier is in love with him and he can’t breathe and he can’t handle waking up alone even one more time. He won’t do it and he should have never allowed himself to in the first place.
But when he looks at the counter, Geralt is not there. A woman with thick ringlet curls and freckles to die for smiles at him from behind the register and his step falters. He’s never met her before and honestly it’s just his luck that the one day he really needs to speak with Geralt is the day a new face shows in the shop.
“Where, um,” he begins when he reaches the counter, “Where is Geralt?”
“Oh,” she says, looking over his face with scrutiny, “Something came up today, so he asked me to cover for him. Are you Jaskier?”
“I, well, yes,” he answers, running a half frantic hand through his hair, “Do you know when he will return?”
“I don’t think he’s coming in at all today, unfortunately,” she says, but she’s already taking a step away to grab at something hidden behind the counter, “This is for you.”
A muffin. A banana nut muffin wrapped up in a little box so neatly, with such care, that Jaskier thinks he might start crying right here, in front of this nice stranger who knows more about Geralt than he does.
“Thank you,” he says, taking the box and wondering why Geralt is leaving him things instead of just telling him he wouldn’t be there today. Except, right. They don’t talk, do they? Not really.
~*-*~
He doesn’t see Geralt for the next two days, but he doesn’t exactly try either. All surety he had, all confidence, seems to have fled the moment he walked in and realized Geralt was not there. He hides in his flat for too long, cooped up between walls that only seem to be getting smaller, scratching at his instruments and throwing books around.
He becomes intimately aware of every crevice of his bedroom ceiling.
And when the second night comes to an end, he decides he can’t stay hidden any longer and steps out into the brisk night air, jacket wrapped tight around him and breathe coming out in foggy huffs. He intentionally walks by Geralt’s shop but not to see Geralt, simply because it’s on the way to further things, to bars and light trimmed trees and quiet peace. He does not want to see Geralt.
Except he does because fate has never been on his side.
There is a walkway of stairs next to the shop that leads up to Geralt’s flat that Jaskier has never set foot on because he’s not allowed. From where he stands, hidden under the covering of the shop, he can see Geralt though he’s almost positive Geralt cannot see him.
But Geralt is not alone.
His hand is outstretched to a woman, whose fingers are tangled with his as she laughs. Her hair is black as night and beautiful, falling into wide curls that seem to fit perfectly around her face. Her skin is tanned and flawless and the sound of her laughter is all encompassing, bigger than any presence Jaskier has ever had, he’s almost sure.
She’s scantily clad, dressed hurriedly, even though the chill of the night air would’ve been enough to stop Jaskier. She looks brave.
But it’s not her that unsettles him, truly, it’s the way Geralt is looking at her, with fond, bright eyes, and a smile, genuine and big. The sight alone puts a stutter in Jaskier’s heart, an arrhythmic beating that swells in his chest and hurts his lungs. And this is why Geralt wasn’t at the shop, why he has so suddenly disappeared from Jaskier’s life with the same ease he had fallen into it in the first place.
Geralt laughs above him and says, “Come back soon.”
“Well obviously,” the girl calls back in a voice made of silk, letting go of his hand to descend the stairs, “Where else am I going to sleep?”
Jaskier is quite positive his throat has completely closed at this point and he feels frozen in place, feet bolted to the ground, because if he moves forward Geralt might catch a glimpse of him but if he retreats back to the safety of his flat, he’s quite certain he may never leave again.
He doesn’t take a step until he hears the door shut above him and even then he faces his head down, collar of his coat cocked as he quickly trudges on past the stairs.
“Hey!” The girl calls and it takes Jaskier a few seconds to realize she’s talking to him.
“Yes?” he asks, trying to make his throat work and his voice sound less scratchy, “Can I help you?”
“Do I know you?” she asks rather bluntly and yes, it makes sense Geralt would enjoy her presence. Similar minds.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says, taking the time to look at her up close, though it does nothing to help the hurt in his heart.
“No, you look familiar,” she very nearly demands and all Jaskier can do is sigh and lean back on the balls of his feet.
“Well, I’m in a band,” he explains, “You might have seen me from there.”
She stares at him for a moment longer and he can tell she’s not entirely convinced but he truly doesn’t know where else she could know him from and besides his fight or flight instinct is kicking in and he needs to leave right now.
“Okay,” she nods, finally, and then she’s turning away, leaving Jaskier to continue on with his ill fated walk.
The night air suddenly feels good against his too hot skin and the pale moonlight feels like a blessing.
~*-*~
He hides in his flat for three days, writing songs with a new and sudden inspiration that feels a lot like pain. The words come to him easy and every time he sees Geralt’s face in his mind his fingers squeeze down hard enough on the strings to slice at his calluses.
“How do you know how deep to go before it’s real?” he sings to himself, fingers picking low, slow, notes from the acoustic guitar propped on his knee, “Take me home.
“Do you want me?” he asks to his empty room and thinks of the smile on Geralt’s face when he looked at the woman strolling out of his flat. A smile that Jaskier has never seen directed at him, “Do you want to let me know that you’re okay?”
He turns his phone off because he cannot not bear it if Geralt calls him. He cannot not bear it if he doesn’t. His footsteps echo in the otherwise empty rooms as he rummages around for paper to write lyrics on and a pen, because everything is coming out of him so quick he knows he’ll forget.
Open mic night at Floozy’s! One of the papers proudly proclaims and it’s tonight and before Jaskier is even really conscious of his actions, he finds himself packing his guitar into it’s travel case and slipping on shoes.
~*-*~
The bar is busy enough to have a reasonably good size audience but not so busy that Jaskier cannot cajole his way into performing. He climbs his way onto the little platform so generously called a stage and settles himself on the stool, adjusting his guitar and the mic in front of him just the way he likes.
He can already hear people whispering in the crowd asking, is that the guy from Dandelion? Because apparently he is fairly recognizable, at least when he sits on stage behind the weight of a guitar. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing really, because the songs are only half done, he hasn’t had time to go over them again and again, fine tuning and tweaking the way he does in studio. So he just leans into the mic and starts talking.
“I used to perform here every Saturday night,” he says, looking around at the lights and the people that haven’t really changed all that much in the few years since his band took off, “I haven’t done an open mic in a while though. I haven’t done anything like this on my own in so long, I usually at least have my bandmates up here with me. Excuse me, for being a little off.
“These songs I’m going to play,” he begins, cringing inwardly when he sees that people have already pulled out their phones to record this. He knows it’ll be on twitter the second he sets foot off stage, “They’re not done yet. Try not to judge them too harshly. I just...I needed to get everything out. I can’t just keep singing to the wall in my flat and hoping to get better.”
He drops his head now, laughing wetly and letting his fingers press audibly against the thick bottom strings of his guitar, “Heartbreak, I find, is easier to get through when I share it with you all.”
Even just saying the words out loud lifts a weight off his shoulder. Heartbreak. It is validating to see the solemn faces of the audience looking back at him, nodding along with his words like they know he’s right. And he is, he’s not simply being overdramatic this time. He is in love with a man who is not in love with him. He is entitled to sing sad songs. Nodding his head at the crowd, he says, “And so we begin.
“Lay me in the palm of your hand, I’ll give you my permission. You’ll always be forgiven,” he starts, fingers plucking away at the song, “Go on, replace me when you’re craving something sweeter than the words I left in your mouth. Go on and spit me out.”
His voice begins to crack and he wills himself not to cry, not to let his voice get too thick, not to let any of this hurt too much as he continues, “Go on and light me like a cigarette, even if it might be something you’ll regret.
“You’ve got me now,” he sings, thinking of all the times he’s felt Geralt hovering over him in bed, all the smiles he’s pressed into his skin, “Swallow me down.”
When the song ends, his fingers ache and his throat works hard, threatening to close up entirely. The audience applauds but not like they do at shows, this is more sad, unsure, like they want to be supportive but don’t quite know how. The lights burn his eyes and he can’t see every face out there that well but he could swear when he looks up, a flash of white hair goes stumbling out of the bar.
~*-*~
A banging on his door wakes Jaskier up from his precious sleep on his too large bed. It doesn’t stop, even as he stumbles his way to the door and he’s still rubbing his eyes when he swings the door open only to find that he really should start checking his peephole first.
Because there, in front of him, is Geralt looking half concerned, half angry.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, ignoring any formalities of a greeting and shoving his phone in Jaskier’s face. It takes a second for it to register in Jaskier’s brain, but then he’s just shrugging tiredly and looking up at Geralt’s face with dull eyes.
“I performed last night,” he says, only to be met with an irritated sigh.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Geralt snaps dryly, pulling his phone back to shove in his pocket, “I’m talking about what you said. About heartbreak and playing that fucking song you wrote the night I was here.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, keeping one hand on his door, the other on the frame because he can’t let Geralt inside. Not again, “What do you want from me?”
“To know who broke your heart,” he demands and Jaskier can’t help the look of surprise that settles over his own face.
“You can’t be serious,” Jaskier pleads but it only seems to irritate Geralt more, if the flare of his nostrils is anything to go by.
“Oh, I think you’ll find I can,” he says, “Because surely it wasn’t me. Surely given that you stopped showing up and you ignored my calls and you disregarded me, it can’t have been me who broke your heart. Who that fucking song was about.”
Jaskier steps aside and allows Geralt in because they’re being too loud and he doesn’t want to have this conversation in the hallway of his flat building for everyone to hear, “Geralt.”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier is quiet for a long time, too long, and he can hear Geralt’s impatience in the way he keeps shifting around, grunting every so often. Finally, without picking up his head, he says, “I’m in love with you.”
“And-”
“And you’re not in love with me,” Jaskier finishes, “I’m sorry if I stopped hanging around. But it’s, it’s hard to be around you like this.”
Geralt stays quiet, staring at him like he’s a puzzle that he just can’t figure out, and then, “Where on earth did you get that asinine idea?”
“What?” Jaskier asks, finally looking up to find much softer eyes than he expected on him, “What idea?”
“That I don’t love you.”
“Stop,” he demands, turning away from Geralt so that he cannot see the way tears have begun to well in his eyes, “I know you don’t and I don’t want your pity.”
“Jaskier-”
“You never stay!” Jaskier whirls around quick, nearly screaming the words at Geralt, “You never stay and though you find it perfectly suitable to climb into my life you seem to have no room for me in yours.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Geralt snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Is it?” Jaskier asks, rounding Geralt like a cat hunting their prey, “Tell me, have I seen your home? Do I know what you do when you’re not at work? Have you told anyone about me? And did you, for one second, think to ever stop sleeping with other people? Think that maybe if I found out you let other people into your home while I wait outside for you like an idiot because I’m simply not good enough, that it might hurt my feelings? That not everything is just supposed to be about when it’s convenient for you, that I’m not just supposed to be convenient?”
“I would never consider you of all people a convenience,” Geralt replies with sharp tongue and hard eyes.
“I know,” Jaskier laughs wetly, letting his head drop between his shoulders.
“You know,” Geralt agrees, nodding his head solemnly and putting a hand up to his hair, “And you know that I...I wait for you every morning and I, God, Jaskier do I have to spell everything out for you? I want you around, isn’t that enough?”
“I saw her,” Jaskier whispers, collapsing on his sofa and dropping his head into his hands.
“Who?” Geralt asks, leaning firm against the wall.
“Her,” Jaskier sighs, eyes welling up again at the memory, their twisted fingers, their easy smiles and laughs and, “I saw her leaving your flat. The flat that I’m not even allowed in, I might add.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not!”
“Well, I saw her!” Jaskier snaps, lifting his head to glare angrily at Geralt, “I saw the way you called for her and told her to come back to you! She said she was sleeping in your bed, for fuck’s sake.”
Geralt’s eyebrows furrow and yes, finally, Jaskier is going to get an honest explanation, maybe even an apology but- “That’s just Yennefer.”
“I don’t care what her name is!”
“Well you should because she’s been my friend since childhood!” Geralt shouts, “She’s Ciri’s aunt and I’m not sleeping with her!”
But this, even if it is true is not enough to quell all of Jaskier’s insecurities and fears. So he shakes his head and sighs, “She’s not the only thing that’s wrong here.”
“What else is there?” Geralt asks, throwing his hands up in the air and it’s that frustration that has Jaskier’s blood boiling, that has Jaskier stomping furiously up to Geralt, a finger outstretched to point at Geralt’s chest.
“You!” he shouts, heart twinging when Geralt visibly recoils from that, “You never stay and you want me around? That’s laughable, Geralt, really, when you won’t even let me in your home.”
“You wanted to have sex there!” Geralt snarls, all teeth and clenched fists.
“When did I say that?” Jaskier asks, cheeks heating, “Because I truly cannot recall ever suggesting that.”
“You wanted to see my bed.”
“Because I want to see your life, and where you’re comfortable and be a part of it,” Jaskier explains, breath coming heavy, “Not because I want to fuck you with your daughter in the next room over!”
“You could have told me that then,” Geralt says, voice dropping softly. He reaches one hand out like he wants to cup the side of Jaskier’s face, to stroke his thumb across his cheekbone, but halfway there he seems to think better of it and drops his hand back to his side.
“I can’t do everything, Geralt,” Jaskier cries, feeling frustrated tears pool in the corner of his eyes, “I can’t just be here waiting for you to feel like being with me.”
Geralt stares at him for far too long, jaw locking painfully, and then, to Jaskier’s immense surprise, just lets his fall in defeat, grunting his usual Geralt grunt, “I want...to be with you all the time.”
“You leave,” Jaskier whispers yet again.
“Jaskier, I...” he starts and then groans again and finally, finally, his hands find the sides of Jaskier’s face and pulls him in so their foreheads rest together. And Jaskier’s not sure why he lets it happen, other than that he’s always had trouble stepping away from Geralt, “I don’t know how to stay. I didn’t realize it was this important to you.”
The tears fall, sliding in thick rivulets down his cheeks and his eyes drop because he knows where this is going, because Gerlat is not the first person Jaskier has been too much for. But Geralt doesn’t pull away, his thumbs wipe at the wet tracks on his face and he tilts his nose against Jaskier’s and says, “But I want to learn.”
“Geralt,” he whispers and he’s about to say that it’s okay, that he’s not worth it, not really, but Geralt interrupts him with soft lips pressed firm against his own.
“I want to learn,” he repeats when he pulls back, eyes searching Jaskier’s, “If you’ll teach me.”
Jaskier’s hands find Geralt’s waist, tangling fingers in his soft shirt, holding tight, pulling him closer, possibly getting ready to let go. But Geralt holds tight enough for the both of them and whispers, “Please teach me.”
~*-*~
They wind up in Jaskier’s bed but not in any way they have before. Geralt’s fingers caress down Jaskier’s face and his sides, finding home on his hips, his cheeks, tangling fingers together and holding tight. It’s different because Jaskier can see now, the reverence with which Geralt touches him, and maybe that’s how he’s been touched this entire time.
And when Jaskier finds that’s over for the night, when they have met with tongue and teeth and fingers, when Geralt has pulled every noise and song out of Jaskier that he possibly can, when he himself has pressed I love you’s into every bite of Jaskier’s skin, they lay together, pressed chest to chest, glowing silver in the moonlight streaming in from Jaskier’s window. Geralt’s nose traces Jaskier’s jawline, his neck, falling down to his shoulder, breathing him in like he can’t get enough. Like maybe he’s feeling just like Jaskier has this entire time.
Jaskier falls asleep with Geralt’s face pressed against his neck and strong arms wrapped around his chest.
~*-*~
“Jaskier,” a voice says, waking him up far too early for his liking. The voice is deep, pressed against his skin, whispering again, “Jaskier.”
“Sleep,” he mumbles, blindly reaching one hand up to stroke through white hair, ignoring the fond chuckle that rumbles through the chest pressed against his own, “Time to sleep.”
“I have to go to work,” Geralt says now, pulling away and Jaskier’s eyes finally pop open, finally awake enough to think-
“You’re here,” he says, fingers gripping onto Geralt’s shoulder blade, “You stayed.”
“Of course,” Geralt whispers, smiling a bigger, softer, smile than Jaskier has ever seen on his face, golden eyes shining as he looks down at the bard, “But if you want to have enough time to shower with me before I have to work, I suggest you get up now.”
“Well, if you insist, I guess I can make the sacrifice,” Jaskier smiles, his hand sliding up to the back of Geralt’s neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss.
“I wouldn’t want to bother you,” Geralt teases, leaning away ever so slightly.
“Oh, come back here,” he demands, hitching one leg up along Geralt’s, heels running soft against Geralt’s calf, “I can’t imagine ever having a better time than when I’m being bothered by you.”
~*-*~
“I knew it,” Ciri delights when she walks into the bakery that day to find Jaskier, body leant over the counter and hands pulling Geralt close, fingers tangled in thick white hair and smiling too wide with too many teeth. When he turns to greet her, hands losing their place in Geralt’s hair but finding home in the straps of his apron, he’s positively preening; if the man were a cat, Ciri is sure he’d be purring at this very moment.
“You knew nothing,” Jaskier shakes his head, but he hasn’t stopped smiling even now, “We were completely discreet.”
Ciri gifts him with a deadpan glare and then shrugs her shoulders asking, “Who do you think showed him the video?”
Jaskier’s eyes flicker between Ciri and Geralt, frowning when Geralt’s gaze seems to look anywhere but him, “Is this true?”
“Surely you didn’t believe he has a twitter of all things,” Ciri laughs while Jaskier fake gasps, hands coming up to frame either side of his face.
“You don’t have a twitter?” he asks, receiving only a grunt in return. He tries again, reaching out to yank at Geralt’s apron, “What about an instagram?”
“Hmm.”
“Oh, this is fantastic,” Jaskier laughs, hands rubbing together gleefully, “I can’t wait to vague post about you.”
“Jaskier.”
“What? You won’t even know I’m doing it,” Jaskier shrugs, leaning away from Geralt, already pulling his phone out, “It’ll just be me talking with a few thousand confidants.”
“You have more than a few thousand followers,” Ciri points out, laughing when Jaskier bats her away with his hands.
“What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”
“I am standing right here, you know,” Geralt says, glaring at the two of them who, he now realizes, are going to relish in ganging up on him, for the rest of his days probably. He should be so lucky.
“Yes, yes, we know, the sexy white wolf here in all his glory,” Jaskier shrugs off, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Not everything is about you, you know.”
“You’re talking about me,” Geralt says at the same time the Ciri wrinkles her nose and demands, “Please don’t ever call my father sexy in front of me again.”
“What about handsome?”
“Acceptable.”
“Alluring?”
“Hmm.”
“Tantalizing?”
“No.”
“Kind hearted?”
“Is he an eighty-five year old woman?” Ciri asks, miming the use of knitting needles, “Is he going to make you a sweater?”
“Only if it’s turtle neck, preferably striped,” Jaskier plays along and then stops to consider, mouth twisting to the side, “How would you feel if I, which I feel very much inclined to do, write an entire album about my love for your father’s bum?”
“Well,” she begins, bringing her finger up to her chin, “On the one hand, that’s disgusting. On the other, I would love to see his reaction. I accept it, but only this one time.”
“Do I get a say?” Geralt asks tiredly from behind the counter, eyes wavering back and forth between the two warily.
“No,” they both reply at the same time.
“Oh,” Ciri says, nodding to herself and grinning mischievously up at her father, “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
“Well, of course it is,” Jaskier laughs, slinging an arm around her shoulder, “I’m delightful.”
~*-*~
Geralt’s room looks almost exactly how Jaskier pictured; functional yet boring. The walls are a plain beige color, the sheets and blankets are gray and everything is meticulously cleaned and organized. It looks less homey than a hotel room.
“First of all,” Jaskier begins when he is finally allowed into the coveted room, “I’m buying you throw pillows and there’s really nothing you can do about it.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts as he shuts the door behind them, allowing Jaskier to lead them forward.
“And really, you have no pictures at all? Not even of Ciri?”
“I’ve never taken joy in photographing every possible moment,” Geralt answers, golden eyes following Jaskier’s form as he prances around the room.
“Well, I have, so you’re going to have to get used to it,” Jaskier answers and grins at the grunt he receives in return. He falls onto the mattress, dragging Geralt with him and immediately groans.
“You sleep on this?” he asks, hands feeling around the bed as if he cannot believe just how uncomfortable it is.
“Not anymore,” Geralt answers.
“Oh?” Jaskier asks, cocking one eyebrow up as he looks across the room, “Is there a secret comfortable mattress hidden somewhere around here?”
Geralt doesn’t respond, verbally at least. Instead, he grabs hold of Jaskier’s thigh and drags him up and over so he sits firmly against Geralt’s navel, hands coming down to balance himself on Geralt’s shoulders.
“Ah,” Jaskier says, nodding alone, “You mean to say you sleep in my bed now.”
Geralt hums and pulls him down, so they’re face to face, chest to chest, and takes the time to brush the hair out of his face and kiss the man softly on the lips. When he pulls back, Jaskier is smiling lopsided and goofy, eyes still closed as he leans in for more.
“Well,” Jaskier relishes, nose running along Geralt’s cheek, “I guess that’s okay then too.”