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“Geralt, you need a break.”
“Shut up, bard.” Geralt stormed off, Roach close in tow.
“I- No, no, get back here-”
Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm, then instantly pulled his now-mud-covered hand back.
“This. This is why.” Jaskier showed his dirty palm to the man before him. “All you do is fight things! You’re an absolute ruffian!”
Geralt scoffed “What, would you prefer, I was like you? A washed-up performer?”
“Excuse me!? God, you get such an attitude when you’re like this!”
“Like what?”
“Stressed!” Jaskier replied, exasperated.
“I’m never stressed.”
“That’s it! Come here, Geralt!”
Jaskier grabbed Geralt once again, the mud hardly distracting the bard from his blind rage, and dragged him off into the field that just-so-happened to be right next to the trail they were on.
Their legs were quickly engulfed by daisies, their knees brushing past the small petals.
Jaskier placed Geralt down on a rock with a shocking amount of force, then sat on his own rock about a foot away. Roach stood close behind them.
“Alright, you thug, ever made a flower crown?”
Geralt looked on at the other man in confusion. “A what?”
A somewhat mischievous smile began to grow on Jaskier’s face. Sometimes it baffled Geralt how quickly this man’s mood could change
“A flower crown, my good friend!”. Jaskier hopped up gleefully, and hastily picked a few of the surrounding flowers.
“Jaskier, this is a waste of time-”
The bard glared daggers into Geralt. At this moment, Jaskier was far more terrifying than any monster.
Upon sitting back down, Jaskier handed a few daisies to his new student and began explaining. “Alright, ready?”
Geralt hesitated but nodded nonetheless.
“Wonderful! You’re going to love this, I promise.”
Jaskier began going through the process of braiding the flowers, slowly. The soft breeze served as background noise to Jaskier’s instructions, giving an air of blissfulness to the world around the two men.
“Jaskier, it doesn’t work. What kind of magic did you use to make yours?”
Jaskier laughed and came over to assist his friend. “Geralt, you’re crossing the wrong stems. Here-”
He gently re-braided the small flowers as Geralt held them delicately. Or, as delicately as he could.
“There, see? You just need to be a tad more relaxed. You were very tense, I could tell.”
To be completely honest, Geralt hadn’t noticed his muscles tighten upon Jaskier’s approach. It was most likely just from the battle he had mere hours ago. At least, that’s what he told himself.
After a few seconds of silence, he asked: “Where did you learn to do this?”
Jaskier looked up at the man, then smiled fondly, clearly remembering something. “... My mother used to take me out to fields like these. She taught me how to do it herself…”
He paused and went silent for a few moments. Geralt quickly realised that this was probably going to be something emotional for Jaskier. It felt strangely pleasant knowing that this trust had set between them.
“I suppose her lessons are the reason for my… strange personality. I was always much closer to my mother than my father. She really did mean the world to me… God, they’d be so disappointed with me now.”. Jaskier laughed breathily.
“I’m not disappointed with you.”
It was very much a reflex that Geralt said that, though he wasn’t quite sure what triggered it. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun laying a gentle warmth over the wistful man. Or maybe it was the exhaustion weighing heavy on Geralt’s body. Either way, Jaskier lit something within Geralt when he looked at him with those amiable, blue eyes, and smiled at him with compassion. It wasn’t really a feeling one could describe. Like the sunset had made its way into his heart and emanated its warmth throughout his body.
And Geralt would have loved to say it was the evening sky that stained his cheeks in a rose shade, but he knew it was his own blood that rushed to his face.
“... I’m an only child, you know. I’m meant to be some big successor to the family name. I haven’t done much in that regard. I ran away with a lute and some angry rebellion, and now I’m getting drinks thrown at me in bars by drunk men.”
Geralt breathed a laugh at that. “At least you aren’t a ‘thug’ like me.”
“I think you’re a lovely thug if that helps at all.”
The men shared a look into each other’s eyes, both smiling ever-so-slightly.
Jaskier finally spoke, after what felt like forever. “Oh, um, it’s getting rather dark, isn’t it? Here... “
He reached over to Geralt and weaved the ends of the flower braid together, finishing the crown for him. Geralt tensed up again. At this point, he didn’t even know why his muscles would tense and his chest would feel light when Jaskier was near. It was like some visceral reaction or something.
“That part’s tricky, so I thought it would be easier if I did it for you. I hope you don’t mind,” Jaskier crouched down. This whole thing was taking place way too close to Geralt, but Jaskier didn’t seem fazed. “And now for my little old crown.” He reached over Geralt and placed the flower crown on Roach’s head. Roach accepted the gift, rubbing his head slightly into Jaskier’s hand in response. “...There. You look stunning, Roa-”
---
The blood had rushed through Geralt’s body faster than it had ever before. His muscles blew their tension in one swift movement. Who could blame him, really, when he could see the bard’s chest gently moving with each breath he took, and feel the warmth radiating off his body. And so, really, it was his fault he was now in Geralt’s arms, his back on the man’s legs, his head and legs in his arms.
There was only a brief moment of silence as Geralt thought about what he had just done. His face nearly emulated the same stunned shock that Jaskier was in. But it wasn’t long before Geralt slowly leant down and kissed the man in his arms. Really, there wasn’t much turning back after an action that bold.
This motion was much softer than the previous one. It felt almost planned. And when their lips met, the world seemed to come to a screeching halt. Time became a distant thought, merely dictated by the movement of their own bodies.
It was so much nicer than anything either man had felt in a long time. Aside from the drunken slurs that were thrown at Jaskier, or the multiple times he was called a woman (either as an insult or genuine confusion), Geralt was the most social interaction he had had in a long time
When they parted, there were many moments of silence as the two found themselves staring intently into each other’s eyes.
The gentle wind echoed through the field, bouncing off the delicate petals. The sky was beginning to darken, a soft shade of purple tinting the space between bright pink and deep blue. Stars shimmered quietly over the serene field, cicadas croaking in the distance.
The scene was like that of a play. An unlikely pair, unknowingly longing for each other, suddenly find themselves in a moment of sheer bliss. And as they take note of every sparkle in their eyes, they begin to think “I’ve wanted this for longer than you could ever believe…”
“...Your eyes shine even in the dark.”
Geralt blinked himself out of his subconscious gaze and cocked his head.
“I always wondered why gold was my favourite colour. Maybe it led me to you.”
This time, Geralt could feel Jaskier pulling himself towards him. He watched as the man in his arms slowly closed his eyes, lips parted ever-so-slightly-
...A loud huff bellowed from behind Geralt. Roach stamped her feet.
“Really, Roach?” Geralt sighed.
Jaskier laughed lightly, loosening his grip and letting himself lie in Geralt’s arms again. He hadn’t realised until he lay in the man’s arms, but he was feeling awfully tired. He felt himself dozing off slightly, the warmth from Geralt’s body comforting him like a blanket from the cool, night air.
The stars were far more pronounced now, and the navy-blue sky was coating the world around them in a deep blue hue.
The last thing Jaskier can really remember between his slow blinking and the bright night sky was their last exchange for the night.
“...Jaskier?”
“Mmm?”
“You mean… a lot to me. I want you to know that.”
“You mean a lot to me too, you absolute ruffian.”
Jaskier distinctly remembers the movement in Geralt’s chest as he gently laughed, and the arm that curled around his side, keeping him warm as his head lay just under the other man’s chin.
Jaskier didn’t need to be the perfect son. Geralt saw something in him that no one had before. And, really, wasn’t Geralt all that mattered?