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Jaskier wasn’t sure why he’d decided to settle in Skellige, for someone that easily got seasick it wasn’t a natural choice, but, after Cintra, Geralt had needed to get some distance between them and the city. Across the ocean had apparently been the only option for the witcher, so Jaskier had spent a rocky journey feeling queasy, his head over the side of the boat. Honestly, the things one did for love.
Not that Geralt knew that.
Geralt just assumed that Jaskier was after a new adventure and a new set of ballads. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Jaskier was curious. He’d heard of the stories of the Skelligen shanties at Oxenfurt, but his professors had been far too highbrow for that. Jaskier scoffed, they were arseholes. He delighted in learning a new skill that would piss off his lecturers, but mostly he was enjoying the change of scenery. It was almost like a holiday.
The contracts were different here too. Jaskier learned about the sirens that plagued the coast of Skellige, beautiful creatures that lured sailors to the jagged rocks, causing a graveyard of ships around the islands. Jaskier had only seen the sirens a few times in persons. Geralt’s insistence on leaving him behind hadn’t changed, but Jaskier had snuck out a couple of times.
The winged creatures were beautiful and gorgeous, but, strangely enough, their songs hadn’t affected him. Even Geralt had plugged his ears with wax, but Jaskier had just heard a series of screeches in a language he couldn’t quite place, but almost understood.
He kept that to himself.
The coast suited Jaskier. He could stay in his room at the inn whilst Geralt travelled between islands, taking contracts and searching for hidden treasures in the stormy waters. Jaskier, however, spent the evenings drinking grog and learning the local shanties, regaling them to Geralt on his visits back to their base. He wasn’t walking on a daily basis and his vocal skills had gained him a large audience at the inn, meaning he ate for free most nights, so he’d be the first to admit that he’d put on a bit of weight. He decided to embrace his new look, he rather liked looking more cuddly. He grew a thick beard to match and his hair almost reached his chin. He was hoping to grow it long enough to braid.
He sighed happily as he strummed at his lute. It wasn’t the ideal instrument to sing the shanties on, but he was still loathed to give it up. He enjoyed the feel of the strings under his fingers, it always calmed his nerves.
“On the house,” Cecie winked as she pushed a tankard of grog towards him.
He grinned and raised the tankard in thanks, but before he could take a drink the door flew open. The inn fell silent as Geralt stood in the doorway, his hair whipping around his face as the wind blew into the room. Jaskier jumped to his feet, it had been weeks since he’d seen the witcher now and he missed him. He laughed, his grog sloshing over the side on the tankard and he ran across the room, lute long forgotten.
“Geralt!” he called, waving to the witcher.
Geralt froze, a stern frown creasing his brow, and Jaskier snorted as he saw the witcher’s hand twitch towards the swords strapped to his back. Dearest Melitele, he knew it had been a while but surely Geralt hadn’t forgotten him so soon.
“Jaskier?” Geralt asked incredulously.
Jaskier winked, and gave a little bow, his grog spilling onto the floor and all over his trouser. “Oh cock!”
“You look… different.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow and then ran his fingers through his beard. “I’ve been embracing the local culture, Geralt. I think I look rather handsome, don’t you think? I’ve never grown a beard before.”
Geralt’s eyes widened and Jaskier’s were drawn to the witcher’s throat as he swallowed. “Hmm… I… handsome.”
Jaskier smirked, putting one hand on his hip and tilting his head, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. “Why, witcher, do you find me attractive?” he purred, leaning into Geralt’s space, the grog making him braver than he had any right to be.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, but Jaskier was fluent in his grunts and hums.
That was a yes.
He chuckled and brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheeks. “Oh, darling, you should have said. Come, let’s call for a bath and get you cleaned up, you stink of seaweed. Then maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink?”
Geralt grunted, but let Jaskier take his hand and guide him through the room towards the stairs.
Oh, he found Skellige suited him very well indeed.