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They stumble upon the village towards the end of summer. It’s small, rural, circled by farmland and growing crops. The villagers speak a language that Geralt doesn’t know--but Jaskier, though his speech is limited at best, understands enough of the local dialect to earn them a warm welcome.
The most surprising thing about the village isn’t that Geralt’s never traveled there, nor that it seems to have escaped absorption into a larger territory. It’s that they don’t seem to be familiar with Witchers. His gold eyes and white hair pique their curiosity, but fear never sours their scents. Jaskier tells him that the children call him old man, but he also thinks that Jaskier might be screwing with him.
They manage to cobble together that the village believes that summer travelers bring good tidings. Jaskier encourages it by playing for them in the evenings, listening to their folk songs and melodies until he can perform them passably, though not nearly as well as his own ballads. They seem to appreciate the effort nonetheless.
It’s just--it’s nice, is all. Geralt puts up a half-hearted protest when they’re invited to stay for a few days longer than planned, just until the end-of-season harvest festival, but there’s no true weight to it.
The day of the festival arrives--after hours of aiding with preparations and interacting with the villagers, Geralt and Jaskier retire to the outskirts of the field, surrounded by drying grass and patches of purple and white flowers. Music drifts softly through the summer air. For once, Jaskier isn’t the one playing it. Instead, they sit beside each other in remarkable, comfortable quiet. Jaskier clutches his empty mug loosely, gazing towards where the villagers are beginning to prepare a bonfire; Geralt closes his eyes and savors the faint breeze through the clearing, the distant chirping of crickets.
A young woman, fair and freckled, wanders over to them and introduces herself to Jaskier as Brighid. She carries a woven basket brimming with cloth ribbons, green and yellow and orange.
Jaskier squints as she continues speaking, trying to understand. “Are you a...pair, I think she’s asking?” Jaskier translates for Geralt. “Going--journeying, maybe? With each other?” He grins, sheepishly. “I think there’s something getting lost somewhere.”
“Well,” Geralt says, dryly. “Based on your expert interpretation, some of that might be right.”
Brighid gestures behind her, to two women whose hands are bound with the same ribbons that fill her basket. She says something else, slowly and patiently. Jaskier listens to her and tilts his head in thought, cheeks pink from the heat and the drink. For those who’ve chosen each other, Jaskier murmurs, to himself as much as Geralt, in their trials and travels.
She looks at Geralt and Jaskier, a question written across her face.
“When in Redania," Jaskier says, tipsy and laughing. “What say you, Geralt?” There's late afternoon sunlight in his hair and sweet berry wine on his lips. He rolls his shirtsleeve up, blue eyes bright and pleased when Geralt sighs, fond and indulgent, and does the same with the opposite arm. They clasp hands, Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingers intertwined with Geralt’s own sword-calloused ones. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s pulse against his wrist, strong and steady.
Maybe it’s the wine Geralt himself consumed, but warmth unfurls in his chest. Jaskier lets a few words tumble off his lips and Brighid smiles and nods, sitting down across from them. He turns to Geralt, grinning, and whispers one of each. They hold their arms out, and with practiced hands Brighid drapes each ribbon over their wrists in turn, wrapping and weaving until they’re bound together with the colors of the harvest.
Brighid finishes. Pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads, she gets to her feet and gathers her basket to return to the festival. Jaskier catches the spirit and leans over to kiss Geralt’s cheek, laughing. Geralt turns to Jaskier at the same time, and Jaskier's lips touch the corner of his mouth, instead.
Jaskier stills. The air is quiet between them. Geralt feels Jaskier’s heart beat once, twice, before Jaskier braces himself and kisses Geralt properly, soft and shockingly chaste. He pauses, eyes closed, waiting for Geralt’s reaction.
Geralt turns his body as much as he’s able, cups the back of Jaskier's head with his unbound hand, and returns the kiss. The relief and reckless joy that radiates from Jaskier almost takes his breath away; Geralt imagines that Jaskier can feel his heartbeat stutter where their wrists are joined.
Breathless, Jaskier pulls away from Geralt. “You know, we’re going to have to take these off, eventually,” he murmurs, a wry twist to his mouth. “I imagine they’d make both of our jobs difficult. Just a touch, mind.”
Very carefully, Geralt squeezes Jaskier's hand. The cloth ribbons aren’t so tight as to be uncomfortable, but not so loose as to slip from their hands with the motion.
"Just a little while longer," Geralt says. Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand in return. They’ll figure it out in the morning; but, for now, the only thing that matters is Jaskier’s warmth against him, the clutch of his fingers, and the shy, content smile tugging at his lips when he looks back towards the fire.