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"Look," Jaskier says, a little desperately, "you've pretended to be my bodyguard before, right? This isn't so different."
Geralt says, "It's different." But he doesn't, actually, say 'no,' so Jaskier persists.
"All you have to do is follow me around and act like you like me. Which shouldn't be hard, because I am your extremely charming friend and my companionship brings you joy and contentment--"
Geralt snorts.
"--joy and contentment, so all you have to do is briefly pretend to be sexually attracted to me, and let me do all the talking, and we'll be home free."
"Hm," Geralt says. "That's all it takes to break a betrothal in Lettenhove?"
"It's an engagement, not a witch's curse," Jaskier says. "Her parents will be offended--and mine as well, of course, but that's sort of their permanent state--but they're not going to clap me in irons if they see I'm committed to someone else. I just won't be welcome at parties for the next decade or two."
"Then why not just not show up to the wedding?"
Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Geralt, have you no social graces at all? Wait, why am I even asking, I know the answer. I'm not going to leave the poor girl at the altar without an explanation. It would be rude. Lisja is perfectly nice, as far as I remember. She deserves a chance to find love, or at least a suitable match."
In the end, Jaskier's pretty sure it's not his pleading that does the trick, as much as the fact that Geralt, loathe though he is to show it, is tired. They've just come off three tough jobs in a row, each one leaving Geralt banged up enough that he needed a day to recover, and each one particularly thankless. Usually, these days, people show a little gratitude--and yes, Jaskier takes full credit for this development. Geralt would never admit it, but it's obvious that it wears on him when women hide their children as he passes and rooms fall silent when he enters. Obvious to Jaskier, anyway.
Honestly, he hadn't really expected Geralt to agree to the charade that Jaskier proposed. He just didn't have anyone else to ask. But after only a minute more of wheedling, Geralt grunts, "Fine," and Jaskier is so taken aback that he gapes and says, "Really?"
"Ask me again and I'll change my mind," Geralt says, not looking at him.
"Okay! Great! Thank you!" he adds quickly. "I really appreciate this, I knew I could count on you--"
"Keep talking and I'll change my mind."
--
As it happens, they're not that far from Lettenhove, so the journey only takes a week. It's a quiet week, by traveling-with-Geralt standards--no monsters, no magic, no swordfights. It means he spends a lot of time practicing new songs and a lot of time watching Geralt. Since those are his two main hobbies, he's in a pretty good mood.
The arrival of the letter--the cordial invitation to his own wedding, wrapped around the kind of carefully veiled threat that's typical when dealing with his family--had not put him in a good mood at all, so he tries to savor each moment. Really, just knowing he has a way out is a huge relief. He hasn't thought much about the betrothal since leaving home, but it's always been a niggling bother in the back of his mind, and the most annoying part is there's really no good reason. After all, it's not like he's been home since he left. Any business with his parents has been conducted exclusively via passive-aggressive letters. But Lisja is a nice girl, or at least she was the last time he saw her. If Jaskier were a different person, he thinks he wouldn't mind marrying her.
This way, he can turn down the match without actually rejecting her. He'll just point out the inconvenient fact that his heart belongs to another, and who can argue with true love? He has dozens of songs to his name that say you can't.
He's so caught up in the euphoria of making a successful plan, and getting Geralt's agreement, that it's not until they're two days' travel out from Lettenhove that a potential problem occurs to him. Namely: what if they don't believe him?
It's not like Geralt is some nobody he plucked off the street, after all. Jaskier's been singing about him for years now. He's certain to be recognized. And when you get right down to it, is it really...well, believable that Geralt of Rivia, fearsome witcher of legend and song, would fall in love with the bard who follows him around?
It's not that Jaskier's not lovable. He is extremely lovable; his paramours across the continent can attest to that. It's just that Geralt has so far seemed wholly immune to Jaskier's many charms. The man's no eunuch--Jaskier's seen him go with whores sometimes, but either he doesn't care for men or he doesn't care for Jaskier, and while the disappointment ached for a while, he's really thoroughly over it now. It's enough to have Geralt as his friend, and his muse, and it would be foolish to torture himself over any unrequited feelings he might happen to have. He's too old for that sort of thing, anyhow.
(Which is not to say he doesn't still look, sometimes. He's still human, and Geralt's ass is honestly otherworldly. And his arms, and--maybe Jaskier looks a lot. It's fine. It doesn't mean anything.)
The point is. The point is, they may have to do some actual acting to pull this off, and he should make sure Geralt's prepared for that. Which is why, two days out from their destination, he breaks a long and comfortable silence across the guttering fire between them to say, "You know you might have to kiss me, right?"
Geralt, who has been carefully cleaning rabbit blood off one of his many daggers, looks up.
"I mean," Jaskier continues, because the silence suddenly feels less comfortable than it did a second ago, "if we're pretending that we're, you know, together, if you want it to be believable, it might require a certain amount of...affection."
"I can be affectionate," Geralt says. It sounds like a threat. Jaskier narrows his eyes.
"Are you sure? Have you ever even had a lover?"
He regrets asking as soon as it's out of his mouth. Geralt's long, long past has always been largely off-limits in conversation, and Jaskier, despite his fierce curiosity, has mostly respected that. But Geralt's face doesn't cloud over the way it usually does when he's asked any kind of personal question. He just seems to...consider it.
"Yes," he says finally, which is a lot more than Jaskier was expecting to get.
"Oh," Jaskier says, unable to conceal his surprise. "Well. Alright then."
Lying on his bedroll that night, he finds he can't stop thinking about it. He knows Geralt is capable of tenderness--knows it better than almost anyone living, probably. When he dresses Jaskier's occasional wounds he's as gentle as he can be; when he brushes the tangles out of Roach's mane he murmurs to her in a soft voice, and takes special care not to pull too hard on the knots. Jaskier once watched him coax a terrified child out of the cave where a hag had stashed them, and it is one of the great regrets of his life that he couldn't make his song about that work no matter how many times he revised it.
None of that, though, is the same as being in love. It was probably foolish of Jaskier to assume the man had never experienced it, after untold decades of life. And now he can't stop thinking about it. Did Geralt use to hold hands with someone? Did he tuck some girl's messy hair behind her ear with a fond look on his face? Did he rub someone's feet after a long day? Has anyone ever done any of that for him?
It keeps Jaskier awake for a long time, wondering.
--
"Julian," his mother says severely--as if she ever says his name any other way. "You should have sent word that you were bringing...a guest."
They've been through the first round of greetings, and the stilted cheek kisses, and the uncomfortable staring at Geralt--actually that part came first, and hasn't stopped. Jaskier knows Geralt doesn't really care, but honestly, at this point it's just rude. He knows his family have heard his songs; he's read their vaguely disappointed letters. There's no reason for them to be staring daggers at the man--except, Jaskier supposes, that he represents everything Jaskier left them to find. Still, it puts him on edge.
"Of course," his mother continues, talking right over his first attempt at a reply, "it won't be a problem, we'll just put out another seat...I suppose he's going to eat a lot. I'll make sure there's plenty of extra food at the reception, though I'd appreciate it if you could keep him at least somewhat in check--"
"Actually, we won't be attending the reception," Jaskier interrupts loudly, because that's the only way to make himself heard (and isn't this just bringing back all kinds of good childhood memories).
His mother stops mid-sentence, mouth open. "Well, of course you will be. It's your wedding, Julian."
"That's kind of what I came here to tell you," he says. "Uh. There won't be a wedding?" He doesn't mean to say it like it's a question, so he repeats himself. "There won't be a wedding. I'm not marrying Lisja."
This is apparently sufficiently bad behavior to get his father involved. "And what possible reason could you have," his father says, in the cold and deliberate voice he uses when he is Dealing With Julian's Nonsense, "for breaking a lifelong betrothal?"
For a second he's so rattled that he honestly can't remember the story he's here to deliver. And then Geralt's hand is in his, big and solid and lacing their fingers together.
"Because he's taken," Geralt says.
The room falls dead silent.
"Uh, yeah, exactly," Jaskier says belatedly, gathering his wits at long last. "Can't marry Lisja, already in love, really sorry but you know how these things are!"
He hears a younger cousin whisper, "I knew it!" which is a little discomfiting, because there's not actually anything to know. But he just squeezes Geralt's hand and gives everyone a broad smile.
"In love," his mother repeats slowly. "With...him." With a witcher, she doesn't say, but she doesn't need to.
"Yes," Jaskier says, and tries to sound firm. "Very much so."
There's another long silence. Gods, but he hates silence. All he can think about is the feel of Geralt's hand in his, how warm and comforting it is, and how glad he is that he doesn't have to face his family alone.
"So," Jaskier says, after a very long minute of waiting, "I guess we'll just...go, then. Um. Since you won't be needing me after all."
He starts to turn towards the door, but his father's voice stops him. "Don't be ridiculous, Julian. Lisja will be arriving tomorrow morning. It's only courteous for you to break the news to her yourself."
There is absolutely nothing he wants to do less than break the news to Lisja himself--except maybe spend a night with his family in his childhood home. So of course he finds himself agreeing to both.
"I'll have a guest room prepared," his mother says. He nods, not really paying attention--at least, not until Geralt says,
"Oh, I'll be staying in his room," with--is that a smile? Dear gods, it's a smile. He's right, though; if they're going to spend the night they need to maintain the charade. Jaskier manages his own weak smile. His mother's spine, if it's possible, gets even straighter.
"I see. Very well. Dinner will be at the usual hour."
She sweeps out of the room after his father without waiting for a response. This leaves Jaskier alone with his cousins, including the one who apparently Knew It.
"Well, I suppose we don't have to ask how you two met," that one says brightly.
--
Somehow he stumbles through a few minutes of polite conversation. He does let go of Geralt's hand, but when he sits down on the sofa (it's the exquisitely uncomfortable kind that's hard as a rock, apparently manufactured exclusively for the drawing rooms of minor viscounts, if his childhood memories are anything to go by), Geralt...sits next to him. Right next to him. Thigh pressing up against his, next to him.
And, look, it's not like he's never touched Geralt before. They touch all the time, when Jaskier is patching him up or rubbing him down after a tough fight, or when they have to camp outside mid-winter and Geralt lets Jaskier use him as a hot water bottle, because the man is a furnace. They spend half their lives living in each other's pockets; physical contact is old hat at this point in the relationship. Except Geralt doesn't usually touch him just...because. He doesn't touch anyone just because, as far as Jaskier can tell.
Jaskier can be forgiven, therefore, for being a little flustered. He chokes his way through the chatter until he can finally make an excuse to leave, claiming they're both tired after the long trip here, which isn't wholly untrue.
Geralt follows him to his old room. He doesn't take Jaskier's hand again, of course, because no one is watching now. Their bags have already been brought up and are sitting on the bed, which looks exactly as it did the morning he left for the academy, except now it's neatly made. He flops back onto it and covers his face.
"Ugh," he says, with feeling. He feels the bed dip as Geralt sits down next to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't think we'd have to do more than put in an appearance. I know you don't like this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing?"
"You know. Fancy dinners, aristocracy, complicated rules for how to be polite and rude at the same time. It's not really up your alley."
Geralt doesn't say anything for a while. Eventually Jaskier lets his hands fall to his sides and stares at the ceiling instead. There's a little spiderweb of cracks that wasn't there before, and he tries to focus on that, to remind himself that time has passed and he's not sixteen and in perpetual disgrace again.
Out of nowhere, Geralt says, in an uncharacteristically thoughtful tone, "You're nothing like them." Jaskier turns to look at him.
"I think that's the nicest compliment you've ever given me," he says. "Actually, it may be the only compliment you've ever given me."
"Hm," Geralt says, but Jaskier will take the win.
--
He fully expects dinner to be an ordeal. He just doesn't expect the specific type of ordeal it turns out to be.
He sits in his old place without thinking about it, and when he realizes he immediately wants to get up and move, but it would just draw more attention at this point. A cousin he actually recognizes sits next to him, for about five seconds until they both notice Geralt hovering ominously.
"Excuse me," Geralt says, in the same tone he uses to inform aldermen that all the drowners have been put down and it's time to pay up. Jaskier is too busy processing the fact that Geralt just said excuse me for possibly the first time in his life to play along, but cousin Georgyn pales and gets up without a word anyway.
"Thank you," Jaskier says weakly as Geralt seats himself next to him. "Uh. Dear."
Geralt smiles at him. It's not feral at all, which just makes it more unsettling.
For a blessed while the conversation mostly happens around them. There's well over a dozen people at the table, all gathered for Jaskier's now-canceled nuptials, so he can get away with just chewing quietly and giving the occasional nod. Unfortunately, it doesn't last.
"So we have a real witcher at our table!" exclaims Alfstanna, who has already put away three glasses of wine. "My goodness, the stories you must have!"
"Not really," Geralt says, which is the response Jaskier expects. But then he continues, "Jaskier's songs capture it far better than I could tell."
"Oh, how sweet," Alfstanna croons. "You're like his muse!"
"Yes," Geralt agrees. "It's very romantic." He takes Jaskier's currently forkless hand and squeezes it, and Alfstanna giggles.
"Uh," Jaskier says, trying to make sense of what's happening right now. Geralt shoots him a look that's an eerily good replica of a lovesick suitor, but there's a very particular glint in his eyes.
Fuck, he's having fun. This is going to be so bad.
The only thing for it, though, is to give as good as he's getting, so Jaskier makes his own soppy face back and says, "I couldn't ask for a more inspiring topic."
The ensuing hour is a positive orgy of mock tenderness. Geralt praises Jaskier's songs, voice, and cleverness more than he has in all the years they've known each other. He dabs his napkin to Jaskier's mouth to wipe off a smudge of mustard. He only lets go of Jaskier's hand when he needs to use his knife, to the point that it actually starts to get kind of clammy and uncomfortable. Jaskier, for his part, calls Geralt every pet name he can think of, from "darling" to "dear" to "my little sugarlump," which at least gets him the tiniest of grimaces. It's kind of fun, in the way that it's always fun to fuck with Geralt, but it also makes Jaskier feel a little sick to his stomach. He tries to ignore that. Dinner with his estranged family is not the time to examine his feelings about, well, anything.
The crowning moment of--of whatever this is, though, comes when Jaskier asks him how he likes the candied grapes. He has the vague intention of setting up some kind of "not as sweet as you" comment, but every plan he's ever made immediately departs his mind when Geralt says,
"They're great. Here, try one," and feeds him a candied grape. With his hand. Jaskier gets a little taste of his fingers as he does it.
He swallows the grape without tasting it and stands up abruptly. "Excuse us," he says, becoming painfully aware of everyone's eyes on him. "We're...going. Now. Uh, goodnight," and drags Geralt away from the table. It occurs to him as they leave the room that it's entirely possible people think they're running off to have frantic sex, but he cannot stay at that table one second longer.
When he gets to his room he closes the door, leans back against it, and slides to the floor. Geralt, the absolute bastard, is grinning.
"This is funny to you, isn't it?" Jaskier says accusingly.
"Yes," Geralt says simply, and okay, he did ask. It doesn't keep him from making a strangled noise into his hands.
When he looks back up, Geralt is eyeing him curiously. "This is really bothering you."
"Yes! I mean, no, but--"
"Why do you care what they think?"
"I don't," Jaskier says, and honestly, truly, he doesn't. He could have done without the audience, okay, but--it's not like he's really embarrassed. That's not the problem.
The problem is that he thought he was over Geralt, and now Geralt is holding his hand, and shooting him fond glances, and saying nice things about him, and he doesn't even have the decency to do it in a silly voice or something. He's just acting like he would if he were really in love.
Well, if he were in love and hadn't been raised by metaphorical wolves and knew what a "feeling" was, but still. It's close enough to the real thing that it hurts, and Jaskier didn't expect that, and he absolutely cannot handle it.
"Look," he says slowly, "I think...I think I made a mistake."
"A mistake." There's no more amusement in his face, but there's no understanding either.
"Because..." Jaskier takes a deep breath and leaps off the precipice. "I kind of still maybe have...feelings. For you. And I thought I didn't but then you were all over me today and saying nice things and, and, I know it's not real, I'm not stupid, I'm the one who asked you to do it, and you did a really good job, but it just kind of. Hurts. A little."
Geralt isn't saying anything. Jaskier plows forward.
"So if you could just, you know, cool it, because I'm pretty sure we have them all convinced at this point, so I'll just talk to Lisja tomorrow and then we can leave and, you know. You can stop."
At long last something seems to shift and soften in Geralt's face. Slowly, he sits down next to Jaskier, and takes his hand.
Jaskier flinches and pulls it away. "What did I just say--"
"Jaskier," Geralt says, and his voice is low and serious the way it hasn't been since they arrived here. "I was...messing with you, yeah. But I didn't know."
"You didn't--of course you knew, you've always known. I'm not subtle and you're the most observant man on the planet."
"I didn't know," Geralt says again. This time when he takes Jaskier's hand, Jaskier lets him. He's still only expecting an awkward apology, but the way Geralt is gazing at him pins him in place.
"Okay," Jaskier says eventually, his voice rather smaller than he would like. "So...good talk?"
"No," Geralt says, frustrated. With no warning whatsoever Jaskier's face is being cupped in two ridiculously large hands, and then he's being kissed.
There's no force in the universe that could make him break it, and it's not until Geralt pulls back that rational thought returns and Jaskier narrows his eyes. "Is this another joke?"
"No," Geralt says, sounding a little wounded.
"So you're serious."
"Yes."
"You want me back."
"Yes." It's significantly less patient this time. For the first time since he set foot across the threshold of the estate, Jaskier feels the knot in his chest start to loosen.
"Prove it," he says, and smiles.
--
Waking up in his childhood bed is exactly as disorienting and traumatic as he thought it would be, at first. For a nightmarish second, he's paralyzed with the thought that he only dreamed leaving and everything since then, and if he looks in the mirror he'll see a spotted teenage face staring back at him, and he's scared to even move.
Then he wakes a little more, enough to feel the solid heat of Geralt snuggled up behind him, and he relaxes all at once. Geralt seems to sense him waking, stirring and making a soft snuffling sound where his face is buried in Jaskier's neck.
"Good morning, my darling little honey cake," Jaskier says. Geralt snorts into his hair.
"Fuck off," he says, and pulls Jaskier tighter against him.
Later, they'll go to breakfast, making their way through a gauntlet of glances, glares, and whispers. He'll break the news to Lisja, and she'll be as relieved as he would be, in her place. They'll say their awkward goodbyes and ride off, and he'll try and fail to write a love song because he's too happy for good poetry, and he'll have to figure out how to make this thing work with Geralt for longer than a night, and he's looking forward to all of it, every minute.
For now, though, he just rolls over in Geralt's arms and kisses him lazily as the sun shines down on them through the windows. Kisses, and is kissed, and is happy, in this room where he's never been happy before.
And if part of his brain is busily inventing a list of even worse pet names to call Geralt when he least suspects it--well, maybe that's happiness too.