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“No.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Doesn’t matter how much you wheedle,” said Geralt. “Answer’s still going to be no.”
“I’m not wheedling.” Jaskier gestured emphatically at the scraggly forest around them, damp and muddy and miserable. “I’m persuasively arguing.”
“You want to come with me, you do things my way,” Geralt said. “That means cutting across open country. I’m not going a day’s travel out of my way for your sake.”
“But –” Jaskier’s foot caught in the sucking mud. Hissing, he tugged it free. “Alright, so we’d be a day behind your schedule. But we could proceed with our journey rested and refreshed on account of having eaten some real food and slept on proper beds out of the cold and wet, and we might perhaps make up the time.”
“Hm.”
His foot stuck in the mud again and this time when he tried to pull it free, it slipped fully out of his boot. “Ughh.” He swayed, standing on one leg, scrabbling at the nearest scrawny tree for balance.
Cursing under his breath, Geralt backed up a few paces and grabbed his arm, steadying him. “You need better shoes.”
“And perhaps I could get some tonight.” Jaskier worked his boot back on. “If you catch my drift.”
Geralt dropped his arm. He staggered, just barely keeping his balance. “You want to sleep in a bed tonight so bad, make your own way and catch me up.”
As it happened, Jaskier didn’t have the first idea how to navigate back through the wilds to the road, but he didn’t like to say so. “Absolutely not. By the time I catch up with you you’ll have already killed it and I’ll miss all the excitement.”
“Suit yourself.” Turning away Geralt took up Roach’s reins and walked on.
“Oh – look.” Jaskier hastened after him. “As much as I would like to sleep somewhere warm tonight, it, it’s not just about that.”
“Oh?”
“It’s just been a long time since I’ve had company.” He motioned vaguely, trying to indicate just what kind of company he meant. “Of an amorous nature.”
Geralt grunted.
“And it’ll be three days before we get to this village and I doubt anyone there will be in the mood, what with being terrorised by monsters and all,” said Jaskier. “So please. Please can we make a stop first.”
Mud squelched underfoot. Geralt stopped walking. He turned, fixing Jaskier with a fiercely incredulous stare. “You want me to stop hastening to deal with a monster that for all we know is killing people as we speak,” he said, “so you can get your cock wet?”
Jaskier considered the question. “Yes,” he concluded. “Yes, I am.”
Geralt said nothing, but a very loud nothing.
“Oh, look!” Jaskier threw up his hands. “I happen to have an extremely delicate constitution.”
“You do?”
“Yes. If I go for more than a couple of weeks without getting kissed, it, it unbalances my humours.”
“It does?”
“Yes!” said Jaskier. “It’s a hereditary affliction, I’ll have you know.”
Geralt looked up at the sky as if searching for an answer to a yearning question about the universe. “So what you’re saying,” he said, “is that if you get to kiss someone, you’ll stop whining?”
“Well.” Jaskier retraced his thoughts. “I suppose that is what I’m saying. Yes.”
“Very well.” Dropping Roach’s reins, Geralt closed the short distance between them in two strides.
Then he grabbed Jaskier’s face in his hands – and kissed him fully on the lips.
Every thought fell out of his head. Before he knew what he was doing, he was melting into it, and it was good – thrilling – dizzying – oddly comfortable. He moaned into Geralt’s mouth, opening up for him, and in response Geralt slipped him some tongue – not enough – just enough to leave him wanting more.
It crossed his mind that it really had been too long since he’d been kissed. It crossed his mind that Geralt wasn’t the person he ought to be kissing, being as they were friends, of sorts, and were going to be living in each other’s laps for at least the next three days. He thought, what the hell.
He reached for Geralt, grabbing at his shoulders, his back, anywhere he could reach. Geralt’s hand cupped the back of his head, his other hand drifting down, down his body to his hip. Then – gods above – he actually dipped him, holding him steady in his arms, tongue fully in his mouth, deliciously soft and slow.
Who would have thought that Geralt of Rivia was such a gentle kisser. He looped his arms around Geralt’s neck, holding on, not wanting to let go.
Slowly, by tender degrees, Geralt drew back. Still holding him, all but nose to nose, he said, “better?”
Jaskier said, “mmphhm.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He half expected to be dropped in the mud. Instead Geralt lifted him back up, letting go only once he was steady – ish – on his feet.
“You going to stop complaining now?”
He wasn’t sure better was the appropriate word for how he felt. Ruffled. Warm. Sort of tingly. At a loss for anything else to say, he said, “uh-huh.”
“Good.” Geralt marched back to Roach, who was watching them with her mute horsey eyes.
Jaskier found his tongue. “What was that for?”
Over his shoulder, Geralt said, “balanced your humours for you.” Clucking his tongue to Roach, Geralt walked on, leaving Jaskier alone with his lute and his thoughts.
And, Jaskier thought, the witcher might – might – actually have been teasing him. His insides fluttered. Absently, he touched his lips.
Oh, he thought. This is going to be fun.