Chapter Text
Jaskier had never much cared for Gwent. There were too many rules, too many different decks, too much sitting and waiting and thinking. His mind wandered too often and too easily for him to really pay attention to whatever his opponent was doing, and he would often become distracted while they spent five agonising minutes deciding on their next move. Geralt had attempted - and failed - to teach him the rules several times, and much to his displeasure Jaskier had never really picked it up.
Gwent, Jaskier thought, was the only thing Geralt cared for more than… more than anything, really. While that left that a bitter taste in his mouth - why can’t he care for me as much as he cares for those bloody cards - it was nice to see Geralt enjoying himself, for once, as he defeated opponent after opponent with ease. And if Jaskier did find himself abandoned in favour of a round of cards, it was no matter: he could play a set, eat a meal, and find and seduce an acquaintance of one of Geralt’s opponents.
It was the tournaments that really bored him to tears. They could start late in the afternoon and continue till the early morning, especially when food and drink was provided. The first couple he’d attended had been fun, in a novel way - he’d never attended one before. But soon the novelty had worn off and as the evening progressed any attempts to provide musical accompaniment would be shushed into silence so the players could better concentrate.
Usually, in these cases, he’d simply fuck off elsewhere - if a city was big enough for a Gwent tournament, it was big enough for innumerable bars and pubs and taverns which weren’t full of grown adults aruging over little bits of painted card.
But tonight - with a Gwent tournament fully underway in a tavern down the way - he found himself holed up in he and Geralt’s shared room, lying on the bed with his feet propped up on the wall, listlessly strumming on his lute as he stared up at the ceiling.
He was just tired. That’s what he’d told Geralt, after he’d dropped him off at the tournament. They’d been walking for days, trying and failing to sleep on the ground. Geralt had given him a look, very clearly not buying it, but the lure of Gwent was too strong for him to probe any further.
Jaskier had told him that he was probably going to pop into the delightful little pub they’d walked past on the way to the tournament - the one with art hanging on the walls - for a couple of drinks before retiring to the inn. But after saying goodbye, he’d gone straight past it, art and all.
It wasn’t just that he was tired - he was tired, of course - but he was bored, too. He knew the best way to relieve the boredom was to go out and do something about it, but he just didn’t have the drive. Geralt had probably assumed he was going off to find someone to flirt with, or perhaps to pop into the local brothel - a reputable establishment, by all accounts - and any other time, he might have been right.
The problem was that while Jaskier could probably find any number of willing bedmates or even just new friends to get utterly smashed with, he didn’t want to. Because what would be the point? What would be the point of going out and meeting some gorgeous woman or handsome bloke and going back to their room and having an all-round good time when there was only one person on his mind?
One person he couldn’t have.
So he’d seen Geralt off, turned on his heel and walked straight back the way they’d come, stopping just once to purchase a bottle of wine and a bag of honey cakes. If he was going to sit and mope, he was at least going to indulge himself a little.
With half the wine gone - and all the honey cakes, which he was slightly regretting - Jaskier lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His fingers twitched on the lute strings, tunelessly plucking. A soft summer’s breeze drifted in through the open window and he peered out at the night sky, at the little sliver of moon against the darkness. The sounds of the city rose to meet him, all laughter and far-away singing. He wondered if Geralt was winning his tournament.
He shoved the lute aside, reached down for his satchel and pulled it up beside him. He reached inside. His fingers brushed against his notebook - he could write, he thought, pen some new lyrics. But his creativity felt stilted these past few weeks, and the words just weren’t coming. All of his efforts felt a little lifeless. There was something missing to them, and he couldn't tell what. He composed new songs through a sense of obligation, not inspiration, and he was sure his audience could tell that there was less heart to the newer songs than the old.
He pulled out a book and flicked listlessly through the pages. He’d read it a few times already, and had been meaning to pick up another in the city tomorrow morning, once the market had opened. Perhaps he could trade this one for something a little more exciting.
He read three pages, then tossed the book aside.
There was nothing else for it. He pushed his bag back onto the floor, re-corked the wine and then struggled out of his breeches and undershirt, tossing them haphazardly onto a chair. Undressed, he slid beneath the soft coverlet of the bed, pulling it up around him like a cocoon. Even on warm nights like this, he preferred to be under the covers - it made him feel safe. And with several hours at least until Geralt returned, he could hog the blankets all he liked without anyone grumpily pulling them away.
As he yawned into the pillow he realised that there had been a grain of truth to what he’d told Geralt earlier. He really did feel tired, and allowing himself to rest made him more aware of it. He twisted himself around in the coverlet, penning himself in. It felt odd, and a little unsettling, to have the whole bed to himself. He complained endlessly about Geralt’s cold feet and the way a blanket never really covered them both and how Geralt took up more space than him - but there was no real bite to it. All of it felt worth it, especially when a tiny bed forced them into each other’s arms.
It took him slightly longer to fall asleep than it usually did.
~
Jaskier awoke with a start as the door to the room crashed open. With considerable effort, he opened his eyes to see Geralt leaning on one wall, pulling his boots off.
“Hrnmg,” he said, his head full of cotton.
Geralt turned, realising that Jaskier was awake. There was a lopsided grin on his face.
“G’rlt…” Jaskier untangled himself from the sheets, peering at the witcher wobbling against the wall. “Are you drunk?”
Geralt grinned even more. Jaskier sighed. That’d be a yes, then. He wondered what Geralt had been drinking: it took a lot more to get him drunk than a normal person. Perhaps he’d finally cracked open his stash of White Gull.
“There’s a jug of water on the basin,” he said, sleepily. “Drink some before you get into bed. I don’t want you complaining to me about being hungover tomorrow…”
Geralt, much to Jaskier’s surprise, did as he was told - even if he did drink straight from the jug rather than the cup that sat next to it. Truthfully, Jaskier wasn’t sure if Geralt would suffer too much from a hangover - it was always him with the pounding skull after a night of drinking - but he hoped that the water would wash away the stink of ale somewhat.
Water splashed gracelessly down Geralt’s chin, dampening his dark shirt. As he approached the bed, he pulled it off over his head, and Jaskier quickly looked up at the ceiling so he wouldn’t be caught staring. When drunk, Geralt wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on his lingering gaze.
He felt the bed sag as Geralt sat down on the edge, and then the soft movement as he began to pull off his trousers, too.
“How was it?” Jaskier asked, abandoning the hope of returning to sleep any time soon.
“Good,” Geralt mumbled, slipping a little as he tossed the trousers aside. “Very good.”
“Did you win?”
“I always win.”
“How much?”
There was always a cash prize at tournaments. It was one of the reasons Jaskier encouraged Geralt to attend them even if he didn’t care for them himself: the prize money alone could keep them fed and in comfortable beds for weeks. Saying that, though, this city was smaller than the last, and the tournament less well-advertised, so perhaps—
“Seven hundred crowns,”
Jaskier sat up to stare at Geralt, sitting on the very edge of the bed in nothing but his smallclothes, looking smug.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, impressed. That was far more than he’d been expecting.
“Hmm.” There was an expression on Geralt’s face that Jaskier wasn’t sure he recognised - something a little cocky, a little intense. “There’s a new card, too,” he said, standing and hovering beside the bed, the waistband of his smallclothes slipping down over one hip.
Jaskier swallowed, and tried to keep Geralt’s gaze. It was intolerable having a conversation about Gwent while Geralt stood there looking like that.
“Is there, now?” He said. “How thrilling.”
“It’s of you.”
Jaskier blinked. “What?”
“There’s a Jaskier Gwent card.”
“I… really?”
“Yeah.”
Jaskier wasn’t sure what to say. “What… what deck is it?”
Geralt shrugged. “Neutral. You can put it in any deck.” He paused, a little smile on his face, then flopped gracelessly down onto the bed beside Jaskier and pulled the blanket across his body, finally hiding his infuriating nakedness. “It goes anywhere.” He snickered, “Jus’ like you.”
“Gosh…”
Jaskier considered this. He’d never really thought about being put on a Gwent card. It was - odd. Flattering, of course. But very strange.
“Who makes them?” He said, frowning. “Is there some kind of… I don’t know, grand Gwent council who decides on these things?”
Geralt shrugged again. “Never asked.”
“Right…”
Was this the fame that Jaskier had so doggedly chased for so long? It certainly felt like it.
“It’s a rare card, too,” Geralt continued, watching Jaskier with an intensity that made him want to look away. “Very rare.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm. The man who played it was very pleased with himself. Said it was worth a lot of gold. Only one in the county, he said.”
“How’s the likeness?” Jaskier asked, settling into this sudden revelation with more than a little smugness. “Does it resemble me at all?”
Geralt shifted on the pillow. “Hmm,” he said, slowly. “It’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
Shuffle, shrug, blink. Another long stare. “Not handsome enough.”
Oh. Jaskier’s heart beat a little faster, and he was suddenly very aware of how close Geralt was to him - their bare skin inches apart. He wondered if Geralt could sense it too.
“Do you wanna see it?”
Jaskier pulled himself back from that thought. “Do I— what? But I thought whoever that man was had the only one?”
“He did. I won it from him.”
“You what?”
“I beat him. Told him I’d take his money or the card. He chose the card.”
“How much money did he owe you?”
Geralt paused, working it out. “Hundred and fifty crowns,” he said. “Maybe two hundred.”
“Geralt!”
“What?”
“That’s so much money! You’re always complaining that you can’t afford better armour…”
“I won the grand prize,” said Geralt, dismissively, as if that made up for the loss of such a huge sum of money. “But…”
“But what?”
“Didn’t feel right. Felt like… like he owned you.”
“And now you own me, is that right?”
Geralt moved closer. “No one can own you,” he said. “You’re too… too you. But now I’ve got it.”
“The only one in the county,” repeated Jaskier, smiling. “Is it any good? Shall you win innumerable prizes with me?”
Geralt frowned, and dropped his gaze, peering at their hands - not quite touching atop the mattress.
“No,” he said. “I don’t… I’m not going to put it in my deck.”
“Oh, come now,” Jaskier snorted, trying to hide how offended he felt, “it can’t be that bad, surely?”
“It’s not that it’s bad,” Geralt’s hand squirmed on the sheet, “I… don’t want to lose you. It,” he corrected himself quickly, “...to someone else.”
Fuck. Jaskier wished desperately that this was a conversation they were having while Geralt was sober - that he could let himself believe the soft admission without the fear that strong alcohol was clouding Geralt’s usually terse judgement.
He moved his hand, edging closer, till just their fingertips were touching.
“That’s sweet,” he said, too nervous to say anything with more feeling - sure that this new softness was the result of nothing stronger than Kaedweni stout. “You’ll have to show me it in the morning,” he said, gently giving Geralt an escape from the conversation. “While you’re sober.”
“Hmm.”
Geralt’s eyelids drooped and, after a moment, Jaskier rolled back onto his side, facing the wall, as Geralt settled, breathing deeply. Despite the water Jaskier had convinced him to drink, the smell of ale still clung to him. Jaskier sniffed, pleased he’d left the window open.
He was expecting Geralt to fall asleep as soon as he stopped talking. He was drunk, the hour was late, and even the excitement of winning seven hundred crowns couldn’t fight against that. Geralt snored while drunk - even if he denied it - and Jaskier was waiting for the familiar rumble.
What he wasn’t expecting was for Geralt to snake one heavy arm over his side, wrapping around him beneath the blanket and pulling him closer. Jaskier felt himself being tugged backwards, the coverlet coming with him, till his back was pressed to Geralt’s chest.
“Um,” he swallowed. “Hello.”
Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s hair. “Hello.”
“How much did you have to drink?”
The mattress sagged, and Geralt’s arm, slung over Jaskier’s torso, squeezed tighter. His hand splayed across his chest.
“Why?”
Jaskier sighed. Geralt didn’t get this drunk very often, but when he did, he was stubborn as hell.
“Because you’re never usually so… touchy feely.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier could feel Geralt’s head duck down, his nose buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “Sorry,” he muttered. “D’you want me to—”
“No.” He replied too quickly, and he felt Geralt laugh against his skin. “Just… I know what you’re like.”
“What am I like?”
Jaskier wiggled in his grip, letting himself lean against Geralt’s torso.
“A big fucking grump. I don’t want you waking up tomorrow and being awkward about it, or… or regretting it.”
“Regretting what?”
Fuck. Technically there was nothing to regret. It wasn’t like Geralt was propositioning him - and even if he was, Jaskier would tell him to drop it and ask again when he was sober. There was nothing so wrong with a night of soft cuddling.
“Forget it. It’s fine. Go to sleep, Geralt.”
Geralt hummed once more into space between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, tickling him with his breath and a few day’s worth of stubble. Tingles rushed down Jaskier’s spine, and he tried to repress the little shudder that went all the way to the tips of his fingers. He wiggled, and Geralt nuzzled closer, his hand beginning to move slowly up and down Jaskier’s chest.
Gods. Jaskier knew he should tell Geralt to stop. He should shuffle away, increase the space between them and break the touch. But he didn’t want to. He wanted Geralt’s hands on him like this, gently touching him. There was nothing elicit or lewd about it - nothing tantalising, nothing more than just snuggling. He’d slept wrapped around Geralt countless times before.
His breath hitched as Geralt’s hand came to rest against his stomach, his fingers twitching. Geralt’s thumb began to softly swipe back and forth, stroking his skin, and Jaskier let out a quiet sigh, hoping Geralt wouldn’t hear but knowing he would no matter what he hoped for.
Geralt’s face was still nestled in Jaskier’s neck. “You’re so soft,” he muttered, voice heavy.
“And you’re so drunk.”
“Mmm…”
Jaskier could feel the way Geralt was relaxing despite the tight grip he still kept around his body. He muttered something into Jaskier’s hair, which he couldn’t quite catch.
“What was that, you inebriate?”
“Jask…” The casual diminutive made Jaskier’s heart skip.
“Yeah?”
“I lov—”
No. He cut him off, quickly. “Geralt. Tell me in the morning. Okay?”
Silence.
“Okay?”
Geralt sniffed - and for a moment, Jaskier thought he was about to talk again. But the sniff transformed into a snort and then, finally, a snore.
Jaskier let out a relieved breath. Still pinned beneath Geralt’s arm, he let his eyes slide shut, feeling Geralt’s purring snore vibrating through his back. As he drifted to sleep, he wondered what his Gwent card looked like.