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“I’m going to die,” Jaskier said quietly.
Geralt stopped moving the whetstone across his blade.
Jaskier, like most bards, was a dramatic little shit. He hemmed and hawed and complained wildly whenever anything mildly inconvenienced him. A broken boot heel while walking in the woods? A nightmare. Tripping and staining his new breeches? The worst thing that could ever happen to him. The inn refusing to surrender hot water for his bath? He might as well be dead.
But…this didn’t sound like one of his usual tirades, Geralt mused. Jaskier’s usual fits were accompanied by loud honks of anger, a pinched brow, a stomped foot, an exaggerated shuffling of his pack, moving things very loudly so that Geralt could hear very plainly his displeasure.
Jaskier hadn’t even stopped tuning his lute. The lute was fine, Geralt knew. Jaskier had been tuning his lute for the past half hour. Even if he hadn’t been, Geralt had spent the better half of two decades around the bard—he knew every string’s perfect pitch by memory.
The night around them was vibrant and loud, the buzzing of the insects echoing in Geralt’s head. It was mid-summer, so the underbrush was rustling with small animals and the heavy thumps of larger beasts stalking them. From Geralt’s internal catalogue, nothing in dozens of kilometers was any threat to them, and the things that could be weren’t monstrous in nature.
The fire between the two men was pleasantly warm, and the light it cast was bright and glowing. Roach was nickering not too far away, pleased with the grazing foliage she had access to.
The one thing that had been strikingly silent all evening was Geralt’s usually tumultuous riding companion. Jaskier would flood the calm of the night with tales, inquiries, and one-sided conversations until Geralt wordlessly turned over and grunted his “Good night, bard.”
But tonight, as Geralt had pulled over and called camp, he was expecting Jaskier’s usual inquiries.
Are you sure? How far are we from the nearest town? How far away are any monsters? Have you eaten? I haven’t eaten in ages, I’m starving. What do we have to eat? Can we make a fire? The last time we couldn’t make a fire, I was so sure my you-know-whats would freeze off that I was preparing my long-suffering apology to the Countess—you know the one, the one who burned my favorite doublet?—in my head. She would miss our passionate love-making very much. Geralt, where are you going?
He was expecting a night of Jaskier’s chatter, his music, his voice. But Jaskier had merely shrugged off his lute from across his back and sat on the nearest log, plucking at the strings in silence. He had moved less than a foot in the hour and three-quarters that they had been sitting here. Jaskier was now leaning against the log, legs crossed in the dry grass as he blindly searched for the next tuning peg on the pegbox.
That alone gave Geralt pause. Jaskier had been playing the lute since who knows when. He could tune the lute in his sleep, he treasured it more than any of his other possessions.
Jaskier had already limbered the strings with his favorite lemon oil that Geralt had originally despised. The first time Jaskier had used it, Geralt’s nose flared and he winced. The bard was always very fragrant, but this was getting too much for him. At the look on his face, Jaskier had laughed, light and airy, and claimed it kept his strings from wearing. While Jaskier slept, Geralt had taken the tin of salve and thrown it into the woods. A week later, Jaskier sat down with a new tin and gone to work.
What had originally irritated Geralt had now grown on him. The smell of the lemon oil meant Jaskier was feeling happy. Jaskier only used the oil when he was particularly pleased or satisfied.
The smell now was acrid and acidic. It burned Geralt’s nose as he stared at Jaskier.
The bard didn’t even look up.
He was not happy now.
The words were spoken calmly, too calmly, in a way that didn’t befit the man before him. Geralt searched for his meaning. It didn’t sound like a jab or an accusation. It didn’t have the defeated tone of one of Jaskier’s confessions. It was simple, matter-of-fact, painstakingly honest.
Jaskier had time to come to terms with it.
Geralt needed clarification.
“Hm?” He grunted, pulling his sword down across his lap like he was examining the work he had been doing, but his mind was focused on the man across from him.
Jaskier made a small noise, almost imperceptible to anyone but Geralt. His fingers stopped their movement. It sounded derisive, a snort. It wasn’t like Jaskier’s usual, easy laughs, that came often and loudly. It wasn’t the breathy laugh that he made when he nearly avoided danger, it wasn’t the nervous laughter that strangled out of his throat when he was caught in an unsavory situation, it wasn’t the low, rumbling laughter that he purred out when trying to impress a courtier, it wasn’t the puffs of laughter that Geralt sometimes unintentionally managed to coax out.
It was a chuff, a dismissal. It was rude, cold. A little disappointed.
Geralt barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Something was different, tonight. Jaskier didn’t smell like flowers and mountain air. He smelled like the low, bitter smell of resignation.
“I said I’m going to die.” Jaskier repeated. From Geralt’s strategically placed gaze, Jaskier still wasn’t looking up. His fingers continued their plucking. Jaskier hit a sour note.
Geralt inhaled, slow, deep, purposeful.
“You don’t smell sick.” Geralt declared, now looking fully up at Jaskier. The bard’s shoulders were tense as if he was bracing for something. Geralt could only smell simple illness, nothing too complex or long-term. Geralt added it up. The silence, the resignation, he didn’t smell sick. Geralt’s stomach knotted, and Geralt tried to will the weakness away.
“You’re ill.” He said, simply. Only someone who knew him well could hear the strain underneath those words. Jaskier looked up then, and his blue eyes were as yellow as Geralt’s own in the light of the fire. Geralt could feel his hands tightening on his sword, and his body tensed. Jaskier didn’t make a noise.
“You’re ill.” Geralt repeated, lower this time. “How long?”
Jaskier still hadn’t made a noise, and Geralt wanted to hit him. Panic was making Geralt’s pulse kick. Geralt searched his mind for any sign of illness. Had Jaskier been coughing? Had there been any blood? Was Jaskier slower than usual? Had he been in any pain? Could they even afford a doctor? Geralt’s stomach fell through his boots. Could it even be treated?
“I’m not sick, you big oaf,” Jaskier said around a strained puff of laughter. Geralt’s tenseness left him infinitesimally. Jaskier held his lute so tightly in his hands that Geralt could see the white of bone behind the skin of his knuckles. Geralt tried not to let any of the panic he had felt show on his face.
“What’re you talking about, then?”
Jaskier’s eyes were glowing in the firelight.
“I’m going to die, Geralt.” His brown hair seemed streaked with strands of pure gold, of honey, of fire. “When I die, will you mourn?”
Geralt’s blood turned to ice in his veins. What was Jaskier talking about? Jaskier’s next laugh was bitter and brittle as he catalogued Geralt’s confusion. He sat up, leaning forward. The fire cast sinister shadows across his face. His visage morphed into something not quite human.
“One day, I’m going to die. I’m going to wither and shrink and decay. When I’m old and grey and slow and ugly, when I kick the fucking cosmic bucket, are you even going to care?” Jaskier spat. When Geralt said nothing—he couldn’t speak, something was roaring in his ears, he couldn’t open his mouth—Jaskier scoffed. “No, I’m sure you won’t. I’m sure you’ll dump me in some random town on the road and forget I even existed. One less mouth to feed, one less ass to save, one less annoyance to temper.”
Jaskier sat back, heavily, the thump of the log shaking Geralt back into the present. Jaskier’s eyes were still unnaturally bright, but Geralt could smell the sharp bite of salt. Geralt’s silence had made him cry.
“When you’re old, I’m taking you to the coast.” Geralt blurted, heart loud in his ears. Jaskier’s head snapped up. God, what a fucking fool, Geralt cursed himself. What was it about Jaskier that made Geralt expose all of his wit like that? Silence stretched between them. Jaskier’s surprise morphed to disappointment. His mouth quirked in a disingenuous smirk, a very non-Jaskier thing that twisted up his face so much he seemed unrecognizable.
“Not a bad place to die alone, eh, Witcher?” He mused, eyes flicking away from Geralt’s face to stare at the flames. He looked like he was considering throwing his lute into it.
Geralt’s jaw went slack. Geralt had said everything. How was Jaskier still not getting it? He wasn’t understanding, why wasn’t the daft bard understanding?
“I’m going to get a job at a blacksmith’s.” Geralt said, slowly, hesitantly. “No coastal town is going to know how to smith for shit, and I know enough about weapons that they’ll need me around.”
Geralt’s gaze, with just a tinge of desperation, probed Jaskier’s face, but the bard wasn’t looking up. He was as still as a stone which was unnatural for the hummingbird of a man. Silence lapsed again.
“It won’t be a lot of coin, but it’ll be enough for a small cottage, probably. It won’t be what you’re used to, but it’ll do its job.”
Jaskier’s lips barely moved as he spoke his next, his eyes were unblinkingly fixed on the fire.
“What’ll be its job?”
Geralt’s insides felt shaky in a way that they hadn’t been in a long time, like he was exhausted and ready for a fight at the same time.
“To…hold us in it.” Geralt said.
Jaskier moved so suddenly that Geralt, if he were a regular man, wouldn’t be able to catalogue the movement. He swerved around the fire, dropping his lute on the ground, and threw himself at Geralt with such force that Geralt let himself be pushed backward off of the log.
It was fair, he deserved it.
He hadn’t expected Jaskier’s acceptance, he barely let himself think about the future himself. The future was such an unknown thing for a Witcher. You live, you hunt, you die. There is no tomorrow. That’s a luxury he couldn’t allow himself. But inexplicably, Jaskier had wormed himself into it like a particularly annoying song won’t leave your head.
What Geralt wasn’t expecting was Jaskier’s body weight to follow him. Geralt’s head was saved from the ground by Jaskier’s hand, like he was something that would break as easily as glass. Jaskier’s other arm was pinned beneath Geralt’s shoulders.
Oh.
This was a hug.
Geralt tensed. This was not something he had been expecting. Of Jaskier’s many anticipated responses, this was not one of them. Jaskier’s tiny teary snuffle right next to Geralt’s ear wasn’t something he had been expecting either. Geralt’s neck was warm from where Jaskier buried his face in it. Geralt stared up uncomprehendingly at the branches and leaves far above them. Geralt could both hear and feel Jaskier’s heart beating against his own chest. The crickets kept on chirping, like Geralt’s life wasn't slowly melting and reforming in front of his very eyes.
Geralt didn’t have the time to process that he was supposed to hug Jaskier back—was he supposed to hug him back? Could he even lift his arm right now? His body had gone slack as a rag when he felt Jaskier’s weight on him—before Jaskier was lifting up and away.
The warmth in Geralt’s skin fizzled out, and he didn’t realize how much the touch had loosened his muscles until the night air met his skin again. Jaskier didn’t go far though. He leaned on his hands and knees above Geralt, knees on either side of Geralt’s thighs and hands in the gap between Geralt’s arms and sides.
Jaskier’s eyes were so bright and blue that they felt blinding. His hair hung in his eyes, and Geralt had to fight back the persistent urge to push it away from his face. A warm drop hit Geralt’s face, and then another. Jaskier’s tears felt scalding against the rough skin of Geralt’s face.
“You’re the most foolish bastard I’ve ever met in my life, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier proclaimed, and his voice was thick with tears. He was smiling. Even in the absence of firelight, he seemed to glow.
“I…“ Geralt let the moment lapse. His head was so incredibly fuzzy, and his lack of mental faculties would have frightened him near any person that wasn’t the man above him.
“Who creates grandiose plans of retirement without telling the other party? Were you going to let me think you were ready to leave me at any moment until I actually keeled over?” Jaskier demanded, but his tone was lighter than it was minutes ago. Not an accusation, a joke. But Geralt’s chest tightened.
“I…thought you knew.” Geralt said, and had no idea why he was so desperate to defend himself. Jaskier knew him better than anyone on the Continent. Geralt was so…mushy and human with Jaskier. He let him ride Roach. He let him sleep in when they had a bed in the inn. He gave him the better half of the bread loaves. He sat through every single one of Jaskier’s songs, and his eyes never left him once, his own lungs breathless with captivation. He made jokes about the bard—to the bard’s face! Geralt even let Jaskier borrow his favorite cloak when it rained, so his fancy clothes wouldn’t get wet. It had gotten to the point that he couldn’t even look at a dandelion without smiling. He was so sentimental, it disgusted him a little bit.
“How was I supposed to know?” Jaskier squawked indignantly, but it melted over a smile. Jaskier shifted his weight to his legs, ready to move away, but Geralt grabbed the front of his shirt. He needed to say one more thing, before Jaskier moved and Geralt lost the courage. Geralt was so bad with words, he couldn’t speak to save his life, but the words needed to be out there.
“What—“
“When you die, I am never going to be the same.” Geralt said quietly. He could feel every muscle in Jaskier’s body tense. His blue eyes widened. “I am not scared of much, but that…” Geralt weighed his next words carefully. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Gods, how pathetic was that? Geralt wished he were a poet, or at least someone in whom words that could adequately express his devotion lived. He was just a witcher. A witcher who let his only friend, only companion think he was dispensable.
If Jaskier died—no. Not if, when. Jaskier was going to die one day, due to his greatest strength and flaw—his sheer unmitigated humanity. The thought alone made Geralt’s stomach tighten. He didn’t want the bard to accompany him in the first place, at first because he was annoying and, after a while, he knew how this would end. It would end with Geralt, holding the bard’s hand as he decayed before his eyes and eventually died. It would end with a hole in the ground and a sentinel right beside it. Geralt lived with the reality of an unceremonious death—on a quest, most likely, guts spilling through his fingers as a beast ripped at his throat. It would end with Geralt, the same as he had always been—alone, kneeling in his own blood.
But Jaskier had pried open his chest and made a home in it, and Geralt didn’t know where that left him. Geralt couldn’t imagine what a life post-Jaskier would look like. He had felt the bard’s absence in the time that they had known and left each other sporadically, but to never see the man again was…beyond Geralt’s comprehension. Darker. Quieter. Colder. Solitary. Darkness after light was always more debilitating.
To say Geralt would not be the same man felt insufficient.
Jaskier’s breath was ragged above him.
Geralt had tried. Whatever else could be said about him was probably true, but at least he tried.
Any thought Geralt would try to muster next would be lost.
Jaskier fell to his elbows in one sharp movement and pressed his lips over Geralt’s. The movement was lopsided and their teeth were mashed painfully together, but every single thought fled. Geralt inhaled in shock.
Jaskier smelled like junipers and joy.
Geralt raised a hand and slowly threaded it into Jaskier’s thick hair. He lifted the bard’s head carefully and caught a glimpse of his mortified and embarrassed expression before he pulled him back down. This kiss was gentler, slower with much less teeth-hitting. Jaskier keened against Geralt’s mouth, soft and quiet. The bard could never shut up, could he? Geralt thought, but there was no ire behind it.
Jaskier nipped Geralt’s bottom lip lightly, playfully, and pulled back with a smile. Geralt let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
“Retirement is going to look terrible on us, Geralt,” Jaskier said conspiratorially, grabbing Geralt’s hand in his own and pressing kisses to his scarred knuckles. Geralt’s eyes were tracking the movement very carefully. The touch of his lips seemed to brand Geralt's skin, and Geralt could feel it in every nerve of his body.
“Speak for yourself.” Geralt said, and the words were a rumble in the back of his throat. “I’m going to keep taking contracts, just nothing that’ll take me too far away.”
Geralt didn’t even know if he could even stop being a witcher. Witchers don't retire, they die. Realistically, after a couple of months, he and Jaskier would be ripping their hair out. Jaskier had said once that he wanted to see the world, but he had already seen so much of it. He had wanted to see the coast, once, those years ago. To find what pleases me, he had said.
Geralt couldn’t give him much of anything.
But he could give him the coast.
“So I’ll be the quiet, simpering little housewife, is that it?” Jaskier teased, splaying Geralt’s fingers over his jaw and leaning into the touch. Geralt felt the slight tickle of stubble underneath his fingertips.
“You have never been quiet a second in your life, you fucking menace.” Geralt lamented drily. Jaskier gaped in mock offense, bright blue eyes sparking at the challenge.
“Just for that, I’m going to poison every meal I prepare for you here on out. How’s that for a housewife?” He harrumphed, but his eyes fluttered closed for a second as Geralt pressed the pads of his fingers into his pulse point on his neck. Just resting there, feeling.
“I would never trust a meal you made with your own hands, to begin with,” Geralt said, but the words were barely there, barely a rumble, half-hearted as Jaskier leaned back down, face dangerously close to Geralt’s own.
“You’re more human than you like to let on,” Jaskier whispered—a non-sequitur so off-putting for a second that Geralt had to actively think what they were talking about before Jaskier had moved so close—and his voice was thick again, but Geralt knew it wasn’t with tears. He could feel the same heaviness in his chest, warm and pleasant.
“I’m an emotionless rock, lark. Ask anyone.” Geralt groused, unable to tear his eyes away from Jaskier’s mouth as the man threw his head back and laughed, loudly, openly, without hesitation. Geralt preened at the sound, fingers curling at the hem of Jaskier’s jacket so he couldn’t move too far.
“But I’m not just ‘anyone,’ am I, you fiend?” Jaskier said, leaning back in to press kiss after kiss against Geralt’s mouth, letting his knees slide to the side until he was fully on top of the witcher, sitting astride him.
No, you’re not, Geralt thought giddily, but only a soft “Hm,” left his throat before he thought of nothing at all for a while.