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"Why is it so important to you?"
Jaskier raises his head from his notebook and looks at Geralt, eyebrow raised. Still silent, though. Waiting. Geralt stares at him for some seconds, on the log beside him. Then gestures at the notebook. "Remembrance." He pauses, thinks about it. Turns at the fire. "What's so great about it?"
The breeze is blowing Jaskier's fringe from his eyes. The bard fixes his look on Geralt, squinting. In thought, in surprise. A conversation he couldn't ever imagine having with Geralt, despite the inspiration that hit them every once in a while and they sat talking until the first rays of the sun fondled the horizon.
This is different, though. A different kind of vigil, the one that made him drain his mind of rhymes and bare his heart of love. And what for?
What for, really?
Geralt isn't looking at him. The fire seems an interesting sight or, at least, Geralt makes it look like it, such is his attentiveness. Only his fingers moving, rubbing the cotton of his shirt. Jaskier shrugs faintly and heaves a deep sigh. "Well. Quite a lot of things, actually." He sees Geralt furrowing his eyebrows in thought, a quick glance before his eyes return to the fire. He huffs. "I mean, that's what humans do, isn't it? Leaving their footprints on the sand of ages for the next generations to see. Art, writing," he shakes his head with a smile, "music." Love.
Geralt nods with a faint smirk and turns at him, eyes warm like the sun. "Yes, Jaskier, I know all these."
He knows, Jaskier thinks, of course he does. How can art not know about its nature?
"What I mean," Geralt continues, "is that you put so much time and effort in those songs for everything that..." He snorts, averts his look again. "Everything that dies, eventually." He sees Jaskier's frown, swallows. "People will remember heroes, tales, events. Giving life to something dead. What for?"
The fire warms his face as Jaskier lowers his head for a bit. Thinks about it, really does. Because yes, he is the one to tell stories. As so many people do. A human need, one would say. Tell a story, even if it's the same but with a different twist, a different hint or air, still the same, and people will delight and sing and get enchanted and they will remember, they will remember.
He will make them sing. He will make them remember. He looks at Geralt.
"It's relieving, I suppose. To revive. To see that people are the same, always. Even in the simplest ways." An almost heady smile is now curving his lips. "To know that, even in the darkest times, people would see a dandelion in the edge of the road and they would pick it up and blow it in the air." He gazes at Geralt, sees his fingers nervously picking at the fabric. Wants to hold them, sooth them, kiss them one by one. "People won't sing just of heroes. They will sing of the kindest of men and the worst of them and they will search for those same men among them. They won't sing just of flowers. They will sing of beauty and will search for it, every day, in every corner." He swallows as he feels Geralt's eyes savouring him, leaving him bare, craving, weak.
Maybe they're too close. Maybe he doesn't care.
"They won't sing just of the sun," he continues, although it's barely more than a whisper now. "They will sing of love and how one finds the sun in the eyes of a lover. And they will search until they find it, their own sun, to make them tremble under its gaze."
"Do you?" Geralt stops rubbing his shirt, strangely calm. "Do you search for your sun?"
Jaskier knows he needs no fire to keep him warm now. Geralt arm, inches away from his, is enough. He's burning. He nods, unable to look away. Smiles carelessly. "Don't we all?"
Geralt hums softly. His eyes feel like daggers, the sweetest blood flowing out their wounds. Oh, they're definitely too close. "Have you found it?"
The cicadas are singing and Jaskier knows he hasn't written that song yet. He will though. He will. With a deep breath, he does.
He leans and presses their lips together, hesitant, ready only to pull away. He almost does, he almost dies. Almost loses what's found. And then Geralt's hand is on his nape and he pulls him closer, closer still and kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, and their lips burn like a thousand suns. And if Jaskier wasn't too drunk and sinking in his arms, hands tangled in his hair, he'd already have written down the verses of his tongue.
He will, he will.
Geralt pulls away, just for a moment, just to gaze at him. "Will they sing of this?" His voice is deep and breathless and Jaskier huffs and nods and Geralt kisses him again, deeper, and on his lips, he mutters, "And of this?" and Jaskier whispers yes, they will, and feels Geralt's smile as he traces his skin with his lips, "Of this?" and Jaskier laughs and bares his neck for Geralt to breathe in. And Geralt kisses and touches and his kisses sing of kindness, beauty, love. Then he looks at Jaskier, starving, holds his face in his hands, and places a kiss, just one, soft and loving and barely there, on his lips. Jaskier closes his eyes with a shiver. Waits for the question. A whisper.
"And this... will they sing of this too?"
He doesn't open his eyes. Only smiles. "All of it, my sun. They will sing of all of it."