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“Geraaalt!” Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder, a bright grin on his face. Valdo likely has something as equally cheesy on his face— they’ve waited so long for this.
Geralt doesn’t pause from cleaning his knives, shifting to wrap an arm around Jaskier’s waist.
Valdo settles in front of them, legs crossed underneath him. The air is warm tonight, and flickers of fire and fireflies illuminate their small space. He and Jaskier had only arrived moments ago in the dense forest.
“We have good news,” Jaskier croons. He sits straight, and Geralt sheathes his knife moments before Jaskier throws himself at the witcher again. Always careful though they’re impossible to harm. Melitele, Jaskier is quite literally the God of War, but Geralt treats them so gently.
Geralt presses an idle kiss to Jaskier’s nose, and Valdo catches his lover relaxing under Jaskier’s attention. There’s a thin smile on his face, and his gaze holds such love that it makes Valdo’s head spin. Valdo may be the God of Love, but even Jaskier knows Geralt’s love better than he knows his own soul.
“We’ve convinced Mother to let us marry.” Valdo and Jaskier have been married for longer than there has been water on the Continent, so Geralt cocks his head. It’s adorable, Valdo thinks, and feels a surge of adoration for his lover. “Marry you.”
“The ritual’s next week! I know we’d talked about this and it being impossible but—”
“You’re going to give up your immortality.” The witcher speaks for the first time that evening, and Valdo grimaces as he notices his lover tense. Jaskier hugs Geralt tighter to his side.
“We’ll be bound to you. Live as long as you do. And die when you do.”
Geralt growls, and Valdo takes it as a cue to shift closer to his lover. He takes Geralt’s hand in his, thumbing over the strong muscles that line it and the hard callouses that pepper it. “I want to be with you, Geralt.”
“As do I. We made this decision together,” Jaskier smiles. “We want you forever.”
“You won’t have forever.” Geralt’s jaw clenches, and he gently pushes Jaskier away before getting to his feet. Valdo misses his warm touch already, stomach sinking. Love resonates strongly in the air, but there’s a deep hatred that rises as well. The shitty side to being the God of Love, Valdo thinks, is that the emotion is complicated. He knows not who feels what and the hatred feels like a heavy hand against his throat. Jaskier looks worried, and Valdo knows the hatred isn’t from him.
Geralt begins packing his bags, and Valdo forces himself to take a deep breath through the pain.
“Geralt, please, let’s—” Jaskier starts.
“You asked me once,” Geralt interrupts, and Valdo wants to scream; he already knows that Geralt’s words are going to be violent. The wry scent of awful pain rises so strongly in the air that it chokes him. “My biggest regret. You asked me what it was.”
Please, no. Jaskier’s wide eyes look at Geralt’s back as the witcher ties up his packs. “It was you,” Geralt grunts out. “My biggest regret is meeting you.” He saddles Roach too quickly to be careful.
“Geralt,” Valdo calls out, jogging to his side. “Why are you saying this?” he pleads. Geralt shakes his hand off his shoulder, and doesn’t spare him a glance.
“I don’t want you,” Geralt sneers at him. “Either of you. I was just,” he growls with frustration, and if Valdo could breathe through the bitter hurt and agony that fills the air around him, perhaps he could see Gealt’s tears. “Pretending. It’s gone too far. He’s fucking irritating. And you,” a finger jabs into Valdo’s chest, “Pretend you know everything. I hated putting up with you both. I’m done now.”
Valdo feels his knees give, feels Jaskier’s warmth at his side, and he sees Geralt ride further and further away.