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Geralt has picked up a habit over the years he has been traveling. He isn’t a lonely man per say. He doesn’t feel the need to be close to others necessarily. He just sleeps better with two pillows. One he is propping under his head, it is a bit flat and worn out, just perfect. The other one is a little bigger. Just a little fluffier. No one asks about the two pillows, why should they? Who cares about a mutant's sleeping habits?
So when no one but the stars are watching, Geralt cradles it in his arms and holds it close. Curls around it and keeps it safe. It smells like him now. He doesn’t mind, but he prefers when there is someone else's smell on it sometimes. It happens that he hides a soap from Kaer Morhen inside it, when leaving the empty halls hurts more than usual. It smells of pine, if Lambert was the one doing the soap that year it sometimes smells like beer.
It’s not that he pretends that he is holding someone. It just is.
It’s fine. Geralt sleeps in his bedroll with his pillows, and the aching loneliness inside is kept at bay. Sometimes he thinks of Renfri. Sometimes he thinks of Eskel. Sometimes he thinks of his mother, faceless after all these years.
Sometimes he thinks of arms returning the embrace, of a heart beating under his ear, of a hand stroking his hair as he falls asleep. But it’s the wind stroking his hair as he falls asleep. His pillow pressed against his chest. The only heartbeat is his.
It happens that Geralt travels with people. Sometimes it’s a merchant going the same direction, sometimes it’s a hunter or just a farmer bringing their goods to the market. Those shared nights are complicated. Instead of holding his pillow close, he watches the star travel across the sky. When morning comes the only rest he got is meditation. Which is fine, he can make due.
Then Posada introduces him to a certain bard, and he finds his nights changing. He doesn’t trust the bard. Doesn’t like him. He brought nothing to their travels, not even a bedroll. He managed to talk Geralt into letting him borrow the fluffy pillow, but failed at getting a place in the bedroll. The summer nights are still warm and Geralt is kind enough to make camp where he finds the grass thicker, the moss richer. He learned that first night that Jaskier sleeping poorly is a Jaskier that won’t shut up.
But that means Geralt only has one pillow. So he meditates the nights away, because truly it is fine. He can sleep without holding something, but he doesn’t trust the bard yet. That’s it.
He listens to Jaskier snuffle in his sleep, his snores and hums. He is never quiet, that man, and Geralt finds it settles him. It becomes a backdrop, a constant he doesn’t even realize he needs until it leaves. Jaskier does that sometimes. Leaves.
They spend winters apart. Sometimes a whole year. Jaskier still borrows his pillow, after all this time. And that first night Geralt holds it, it smells like spices and warmth, achingly familiar. And if he holds it a little closer, digs his fingers into it a little harder, only the stars are there to see it.
What irrevocably changes things however is when Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier in his arms. They don’t mean to, but the summer festival had them both in a merry mood and deep in their cups. Jaskier can’t seem to find his own bed, and decides Geralt's bed is good enough. Some shuffling, wrestling and resignation later, Jaskier steals Geralt's fluffy pillow once more and wriggles into the circle of his arms.
It is late. So late it is bordering on early, and Jaskier falls asleep immediately. But Geralt’s mind is spinning. He has held people before, of course he has. But something settles in him, clicking into place. He is home.
Geralt doesn’t even notice falling asleep. Doesn’t wake when the sun shines in through the window, doesn’t stirr when the smell of cooking breakfast drifts up towards them.
When he comes to, there is a heartbeat under his ear. There is a hand stroking his hair. Someone holding him close. They smell like spices and warmth.
And Geralt knows he is well and truly fucked.
They don’t talk about it, why on earth would they talk about it? But when they part, the pillow is not enough anymore. The smell of Jaskier quickly fades from it, and he finds that he is saving it. Savouring it. So the pillow sits unused, waiting for Geralt to break or for Jaskier to come back.
Winter is hard. Too hard. Geralt breaks first, holding the pillow tight. When spring finally comes he is more exhausted than he has been for a long time. Lambert and Eskel share a worried glance, but Geralt doesn’t have time.
It’s not that they usually decide a time and place. But this year Geralt wishes they had. He is not sure what he wants, and how to express it. He needs Jaskier close, even if it is only him borrowing the pillow. A something to make the path easier.
Their roads don't cross. Sleep eludes him, keeping his sanity hostage. Geralt breaks again, and finds himself in Oxenfurt. Jaskier is there, surprised to see him. On his arm is a beautiful blonde, Priscilla is her name. They performed together during the winter and made a contract with one of the local inns to stay until summer.
It’s not fair.
Geralt leaves without his bard, returning to his sorceress. Lilac and gooseberry stick to his skin as they again soar, crash and burn together. On a mountaintop far above the world, it is for the last time. Jaskier is there, caught in their flames.
It is not fair, Geralt knows it is not fair. But Jaskier brought his own pillow on this blasted hunt, and Yennefer pushes him towards an edge he has been toeing for years. He doesn’t even notice falling until it is too late. And he is pushing Jaskier out of the way, shoving him out of reach with all his might.
Time is strange. It passes him by, he is a pebble sitting in a stream watching the world pass by. And like water eats away stone, so time is wearing Geralt down.
Geralt returns to Oxenfurt. Searching, looking, aching for his friend, his bard, his home. Priscilla meets him with an acid tongue. Jaskier isn’t there. He didn’t return at all, sending word that he is taking some time off and going to the coast.
He knows he is a bad friend. Knows he is a bad man, a bad witcher for risking human lives for his own stupid longing, his need to keep Jaskier around.
But he can’t help it.
Geralt finds Jaskier at the edge of a cliff. The wind is raging, tearing at his hair and clothes. The waves crashing against shore with an anger he can only find in nature.
They watch each other against the backdrop of a grey sky. Jaskiers face is impassive, strange, guarded when Geralt walks up to him, falling to his knees.
He can’t keep going any more. There is nothing left of him but the aching sadness and loneliness. The absence of friendship, laughter, spices and warmth.
“I'm sorry.” He croaks out, words stolen by the wind. “I’m so sorry.”
Every beat of his heart is agony, his eyes burn and his chest aches.The ground is cool and slightly moist under his knees, sand and salt seeping through his trousers. He can’t look up at Jaskier. He watches his shoes, well worn and a little stained.
Then there are warm hands on both sides of his face, and Jaskier tilts his chin upwards.
So many emotions are swimming behind Jaskiers eyes, his brow set and lips a firm line.It feels like he hasn’t aged a day.
Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulder and tugging him into a hug. Geralt's face is pressed against Jaskiers stomach, and he can smell the warmth, the spices, the fabric soft under his cheek.
Geralt didn’t plan ahead, didn’t think any further than finding Jaskier again. He should have, and they end up sharing Jaskiers room at a nearby inn. Geralt almost wants to offer him his pillow, selfishly collecting his scent for that inevitable parting. But he can’t, not when the inn already has enough. There is only one bed though, since Jaskier didn’t count on company. Geralt offers to take the floor, and Jaskier almost lets him.
But he scoots over, making room for Geralt on the bed. They don’t speak, just lay down facing each other. Jaskier has obviously been sleeping here for a while, and being surrounded by his scent makes something inside Geralt unclench. They watch each other, waiting. Waiting for what, he doesn’t know, but wait they do.
“Why?” Jaskier asks him finally. His voice is hushed, as if afraid to disturb the silence.
“I had to. I couldn’t pull you down with me. You-...” You are too precious to me. Geralt almost says it, it is on the tip of his tongue before he stops himself.
“I what Geralt? I can’t read your mind.”
“I don’t need you.” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskiers brows furrow in hurt. “I don’t need you, but I want you. So much. When you are around, I-..:” Geralt falters again, and Jaskier waits in silence.
“When you are around, I settle. I can’t describe it. I want you around, and that is selfish of me.”
“That sounds like need to me, Geralt, and it is not selfish. You are allowed to want things.”
“You are not a thing.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said.”
They don’t talk anymore after that. They look at each other, and then Jaskier hands Geralt another pillow to hold and turns his back on him.
He knows. Of course he would have noticed.
Shame burns in Geralt, and he wants to hold Jaskier, but he isn’t sure it would be welcome. So he burrows deeper into the blanket, surrounded by Jaskiers smell, and holds the pillow tight.
When he wakes up, he is still holding the pillow. It is warm and sweaty, and Geralt soon finds out why. Jaskier lies pressed against his back, arm slung over his waist, forehead leaning against the back of Geralt's neck.
Geralt stays still, no matter how sweaty he is he doesn’t want to break this hold. It is a little unfair of him, because Jaskier likely did it in his sleep rather than by choice.
He lies there and waits for the inevitable, for Jaskier to wake up and pull away.
When Jaskier finally wakes up, it is at least an hour later. Geralt possibly slumbered a bit too, feeling too safe and comfortable to fight it.
And now, Jaskiers heartbeat is picking up and he is getting tense. Before Jaskier can do anything, say anything, Geralt places his hand on Jaskiers.
“Stay?”
He regrets it the instance he opens his mouth, but somehow, for some reason, Jaskier stays.
“You are right.” Geralt confessess. “It’s a need. I need you. You are-” And he falters again, pulling in a shuddering breath. Jaskiers fingers flex under his, but he waits silently until Geralt is ready.
“Missing you is like missing home. You are home to me.”
Geralt wants to flee. Wants to run. Wants to take back his words and hide them again, shove them back into the deep darkness.
But they are out. And they were heard.
“Geralt…” Jaskier is shuffling backwards, cold and empty space between them.
He knew it. He knew it would be too much, too soon. But he was ready for it, but it still hurt.
“Look at me.” Comes from behind Geralt, and he turns, shifting with the pillow still in his grip. Jaskier's eyes are gentle, but he can’t read them. Doesn’t know how to interpret them.
Jaskier grabs the pillow and pulls it out of his grip, eyes never leaving his. He tosses the pillow on the floor carelessly, and it’s strange, so strange.
“You are my home too.” Jaskier says quietly, placing his hand around Geralt's wrist, pulling him closer.
Oh.
Geralt breaks again and again and again, and he reaches out with both arms, pulling Jaskier to his chest, holding him close.
Finally holding him close.