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Jaskier is asleep, his head lying on his lover's chest, arm around his waist.
Geralt is awake, watching Jaskier's eye lids flutter and wondering if his dream is a good one, witch beautiful sights, poetic inspiration, and all the things he loves, the dreams he deserves to have. He wonders briefly if he would be in the dream, if he was one of the things Jaskier loved enough to want to hold in and out of consciousness.
He can hear Jaskier now, telling him off for ever even hinting at doubt of that fact.
Geralt smiles, he knows Jaskier loves him, knows he's lucky enough to be loved by only person he would ever wish to be loved by. And Gods does he love him.
Even now, as Jaskier drools on his chest, elbows him in the ribs and shoves his cold feet against his thighs. He'd trade anything to keep those cold feet on him for just a few more hours than the sun rising allows.
Just a few more hours to save up, saving all of Jaskier that he can for the day that he leaves.
Saving up the laughs, the smiles, the shouting matches and occasional cold shoulders. Saving up the drool puddles on his chest, the songs around the fire, and the flowers braided into his hair. Saving it all inside so he'll never forget.
They say you forget the voice first, when they're gone. That's the worst part of trying to come to terms with a loss like this.
They've been working on it, Jaskier doesn't want Geralt sad for long after he leaves. He wants him to be prepared for the loneliness that will come with his absence. And yet, Geralt can still only say leave, can't bear to use a word that means never coming back. Not yet.
He can't suffer the thought of forgetting that voice. His breath hitches as he tightens his hold on the man in his arms. Tomorrow night he'll have Jaskier read him to sleep, to save up his voice too.
His voice has changed over the years, it's a bit deeper now, he can't hit the notes he once could and can't hold them for quite as long. It troubled him at first, but he's grown to like the more gravelly tone he carries.
Just another sign that it's ending, that Jaskier hasn't got long before he leaves. His hair is greying, the crows feet are deeper and he doesn't have the strength to travel the way they used to. Even with them both on horse back, days are slower, contracts are far between and turned down as often as he can afford.
Jaskier pretends not to notice, both of them happy to relax for the last of his life, to save each other up, both mending each other while they silently break apart, waiting for the day that will end ones suffering and cause the others.
Every day they continue is an unbalanced triumph, another ache in the dread that builds up with every beat of Jaskier's heart. Geralt tries not to show how much it hurts, the agony of knowing you'll lose the one thing that keeps you feeling. Some nights it's all too much, and even Jaskier's presence can't keep him from breaking.
But with a morning kiss, and a smile that starts any day brighter than the last, he can try again.
Somedays, on the worst days he wishes he never met Jaskier. Wishes he never learned how to feel. Jaskier is the best thing to ever happen to him. Love has never been something he wanted, but he never knew what it could be.
It's incomparable, poets (Jaskier) try to put love into words, into metaphors and pretty songs. But there is nothing that can be said about the love that he and Jaskier share that would do it justice. Nothing to be said that will ever re-create the feeling when it's gone, expired like the best of things.
Jaskier will be his greatest defeat, he almost hates him for his mortality, hates knowing he'll be hollow after Jaskier is buried, or burnt to ash. They haven't talked about it. Jaskier tries, wants Geralt to be ready. Geralt knows he can never be ready for such a thing, his throat closes around the feeling of built up, un-shed tears as he things of it, his lips pressing together to keep the noise inside.
He looks down at his dearest love, running his hand up and down his back in a way that Jaskier does to soothe him.
Jaskier stirs, he's usually a heavy sleeper but has always known when Geralt needs him.
He groans as he sits up, grimacing as he uses his sleeve to soak up the drool on his cheek and on Geralt's chest.
"What's wrong?" He asks groggily, his eyes squinting up at Geralt in the dark.
"I'm losing you," Geralt answers softly, the pain bubbling over and down his cheeks.
"I'm losing you."
Jaskier frowns and sits up, pressing his face into Geralt's hair.
"I know." He whispers, holding Geralt in his arms as the witcher weeps, hands gripping Jaskier like he'll lose him tonight.
"I'm losing you too,"