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Geralt is not staring at anything in particular, though Jaskier isn’t acting like it. Both of them are currently sitting together on Jaskier’s apartment patio; below, a quiet city street. It’s 6 o’clock on a Tuesday, and neither had ever seen this particular city’s street be anything less than mildly buzzing. People coming home from closed bars, ended courtships, or night shifts.
Geralt couldn’t call it eerie, he knew what eerie was. As a witcher he knew eerie was an abandoned home that smelled of freshly cooked meat, a single person walking down a long highway that had nothing on it for fifty miles either way, and true silence in the middle of a forest. This- Well, he wouldn’t call it eerie.
There was nothing secretive or malicious about the lack of poorly driven cars blasting horns and commuters shuffling in unaware patterns below, he knew exactly why no one would leave their home. It was the same reason Jaskier wouldn’t let him leave.
Two weeks and a day ago Geralt was sleeping. It was the day before Jaskier would join him on what he, grudgingly, allowed Jaskier to call “Monster Adventures”. Somewhere in the past ten years Geralt had gone to a bar to rest between gigs, take a drink, and after the first sip looked up to see Jaskier sitting across from him flirting. One Tree Octopus later, and Geralt found himself followed around by the musician for the next two months until a near fatal attack by a batsquatch left Geralt recovering on Jaskier’s couch for a few weeks. Turns out being dropped ten stories on to a rock can jostle a few things, even in the body of a man turned so as a witcher’s. After that Jaskeir decided they were friends, and Geralt hasn’t had the balls to lie and say they aren't.
So, again, two weeks ago Geralt is sleeping on the bed in Jaskier’s spare room. Jaskier calls it “Geralt’s Room” but, again, Geralt has no balls and as such refuses to acknowledge this. The next day they are driving east, into the highlands. There has been talk of a banshee echoing in the mountains. Jaskier needs more song materials, at least that’s what he tells Geralt, and Geralt likes the company, at least that’s what he tells no one. Geralt's truck is packed, Jaskier’s pack is in the back, and they are ignoring all the warning signs from news stations and neighbors and friends because they don’t think. Don’t think it will spread (though it already had). Don’t think it will be that bad (though it already was). Don’t think they couldn’t escape it (even though it was just Geralt, who had at one point literally outran the Spanish Flu).
Geralt wakes up to the loud thunking of Jaskier getting out of his bed, walking across the living room, and pushing open Geralt's door. Without thought or word Jaskier pulls Geralt's covers off, slots himself next to Geralt in bed, and pulls the covers over both of them.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said into Geralt’s pillow, having immediately turned his head into it.
“...Jaskier…”
Jaskier let out a low, dramatic, tense sigh that would’ve elicited an eye roll from Geralt in any other situation. Despite all of his teasing threats, Jaskier had never just walked into Geralt’s bed in the middle of the night. Yes, into his room and into his car and, in one embarrassing moment, into the hotel room Geralt was enjoying with someone else. Never right into his bed.
A phone screen, painfully bright, was shoved into Geralt’s face.
“Read.”
And Geralt did.
Geralt and Jaskier have been sheltering in place for the past two weeks; this morning they just learned it would be another month.
Coronavirus, COVID-19, was the monster keeping everyone inside.
For now, and likely until a vaccine could be found, Geralt and Jaskier were roommates.
Geralt, though Jaskier kept glancing over from the side of his eyes and smiling performatively when he thought he had an audience, was actually not staring at Jaskier. If Geralt was staring at Jaskier it may imply a few things. Those few things could lead to a few other things. And those other things could lead to Jaskier and Geralt becoming more than just roommates, and more than just friends. To allow that natural progression of a nice relationship would require Geralt to be emotionally vulnerable.
Sadly, as we’ve already established, Geralt has no balls.