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Geralt peers at the rows of painted cards spread across the countertop as the leatherworker piles his mended armour beside them. She’s muttering under her breath, making sure it’s all there, but Geralt isn’t listening to her. He picks up one of the little cards between thumb and finger.
“Oh,” she says, spotting him looking, “good, aren’t they? My son paints them.”
Geralt knows less about art than he does music, but he finds himself agreeing. He puts the card down and looks through the rest - animals, florals, little pastoral scenes.
“What are they for?” He asks.
The leatherworker shrugs. “Decoration, mostly,” she says, placing the final piece of armour on the countertop. “But, here...” she picks up the closest, turning it over, “there’s a space for a message, and an address, too.” She rolls her eyes. “Ralph thinks you could send them, instead of letters. I think he just wants an excuse to write shorter letters. But they’re good for birthdays, or holidays. It's the solstice soon, after all.” She reaches under the counter, and pulls out a thick stack of identically sized cards. “Here…”
Geralt flicks through the cards, his interest piqued. Most of them are of local scenes - a few animals, some sunsets, some from the coast. One makes him pause. It’s less realistic than the others, more animated: a frog wearing an absurd plumed hat and playing a little fiddle. Beneath, someone has scrawled: The Frog Bard - all croak and no chorus!!!
It’s a foolish, foppish thing. It’s designed to entertain - to make the reader smile, for a moment, before they pin it to a wall where it can brighten up the space before the paint begins to fade. Beauty and amusement without much in the way of substance. It makes him smile, despite himself. It reminds him of—
“Birthdays, you say?”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been using them for.”
Geralt leaves the leatherworker with his mended armour slung over his shoulder, and the absurd little card tucked away in an inner pocket.
It’s not - it’s not that people forget, really. It’s not that he’s been forgotten. It’s just… just an awkward time of the year, with the term ending and the academy abuzz with activity like bees leaving a hive and - and it’s the solstice, of course, which means so much drinking and carousing and even more work that it’s not—
It’s not that people forget. It just happens, and it’s fine - it’s fine - because the endless parties stretch on with the late setting sun and each of those is like it could be for him, if he pretended, if he—
Jaskier lets himself flop down onto the bed. He knows he’s being dramatic. It’s not like anyone is deliberately ignoring him. His usual cohort have all gone their separate ways this summer, and as they’d all assumed he’d be “off with his witcher” none of them had even left a note. It had been Cora, the half-elf librarian, who’d told him where they’d gone.
Not even a note.
And they’re wrong of course. Wrong on two counts: he isn’t off with Geralt, and Geralt isn’t his.
He sits up with a grunt. He’s allowed himself a moment - several moments - to wallow in the unfairness of another forgotten birthday. Enough, now. He’ll tidy himself up, head out, and get roaring drunk.
As he’s heading out the door of the lodging house his landlady appears, looking a little flustered.
“Professor Pankratz!” She calls, “Just in time. You’ve some letters.”
Jaskier sighs. Likely they’re more missives from the Academy - who still insist on writing letters despite the fact he is now quite literally on their doorstep - or perhaps a response from the healer he’s been writing to in Cidaris in his attempts to learn better on-the-road care techniques. He turns heel and takes the stack of paper from her with a smile and a thanks before she bustles away again.
Perhaps - there’s a little pang of hope - perhaps his father…
No: that’s just foolishness. He recognises the handwriting of the healer, whose letter he shoves into his pocket to read later, and two from academy professors which he buries at the bottom of his satchel to read whenever he remembers to, or possibly to use as kindling. As he shifts through the letters, something slides from the bundle and lands softly at his feet.
He bends to pick it up, expecting perhaps a bill of payment from the landlady.
It’s a postcard. He’s seen a few of these, these past weeks: the Academy is full of artists, and the postcards have taken the city by storm. It helps, of course, that the students will leap on any excuse to condense long letters home into a short few lines. It’s easier, this way - I am well, I love you dearly, send more money - without needing to go into unnecessary detail. The art is just a bonus.
The postcard, drawn on thick, surprisingly high-quality cardstock, depicts a little frog wearing a feathered hat. He’s playing a fiddle, and there’s even an amusing caption. It’s sickeningly charming, horrendously twee - and therefore he loves it. He flicks it over, wondering who it’s from - perhaps Priss, or even Valdo, the frog some sort of concealed insult.
“Jaskier - I wish you a happy birthday. I assume you are too drunk or too busy to read this. I hope you enjoy the card. It reminded me of you. Geralt.”
Oh.
Geralt remembered. Geralt remembered, and sent him this darling little card, even though he’s always grousing about not having any money for frivolities. He remembered, and sent him a gift, despite his continual moaning at him when they’re on the Path together.
He reads Geralt’s note again, the large letters taking up the whole space, then flips the card back over to look at the little bardic frog. It could still be an insult - more croak than chorus - but it’s such a soft, unexpected gesture that it makes his heart swell and those awful butterflies return to their maddening dance in his gut whenever he thinks about Geralt for more than a moment.
It’s too much. It’s far too much.
The single postcard, written in Geralt’s deliberate hand, is enough to dislodge the weight of all those who didn’t even send a letter - didn’t even acknowledge the day - and it all tumbles down on him.
The postcard still gripped in one hand, fat, hot tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He muffles himself with his sleeve, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. He shouldn’t be crying. This is absurd, and he’s in public for Melitele’s sake. It’s just another day - just one day of many, and there’ll be more birthdays and more parties and more people and—
And Geralt remembered when no one else did.
He bites off a cry, desperate not to be overheard weeping like a bloody child, and quickly places the postcard down on the closest table, lest he smudge the paint. He peers at it with burning, bloodshot eyes - at Geralt’s neat handwriting, designed to be legible and clear above all else.
He looks closer. The space where the address should be - where he should find his name and lodgings - has been written over. Unlike the rest of the letters, this hasn’t come with a carrier.
The door opens behind him, bringing with it the sound of chatter and excitement from outside. He swears into a sob, wondering if he can spin some line about artistic temperament to whichever poor bastard has walked in on him, but before he can turn to face them and make a suitable excuse there’s a firm, familiar hand on his shoulder and a worried voice in his ear.
“Jaskier—”
He’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly there’s hard leather beneath his cheek and his nostrils are overwhelmed with the scent of dirt and horse and smoke, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, penning him in.
“Uh…” Geralt sounds as uncertain as Jaskier feels. “Happy birthday?”
“You remembered.” It’s all Jaskier can think of, right now.
“Did you… did not not like the postcard?” Geralt goes suddenly stiff beneath him. “It wasn’t an insult, Jaskier, the frog—”
Finally, Jaskier pulls away, leaving a glistening damp patch on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt looks panicked, which is perhaps more delightful than the postcard. Jaskier swallows, attempting to regain control of his breathing.
“No,” he says, sincerely. “No. I…” He holds Geralt’s gaze. “I love it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” Jaskier rolls back his shoulders and self-consciously dabs at his streaming eyes with the sleeve of his doublet. “I really do.”
The little covered yard teems with people, streamers dangling from the beams, ribbons and snatches of song floating in the air. Jaskier struggles to hear Geralt over the din of celebrating, and it’s clear that while Geralt has no trouble picking out his voice he’s overwhelmed by the noise. He keeps his head low, wincing every time someone cries or cheers or shouts. And thanks to the not insubstantial amount of heavy, honeyed mead flowing from the barrels in the adjacent tavern - that’s quite regularly.
Jaskier had seized the opportunity to take Geralt out as soon as he could, his previous birthday plans of drinking and moping quickly tossed aside. He’d rushed back to his room to change his doublet and splash cool water on his face - and to put the precious card somewhere safe - then had stumbled back down the stairs with a grin on his face and his heart only racing a little. From there, they’d headed to the room Geralt was renting - a cramped, dingy space that Jaskier had silently decided would not do - for Geralt to remove his armour before heading back into the centre of the city.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says, leaning away as a drunken man squeezes himself past their bench, “really, Geralt. For the card.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It isn’t nothing! It’s… sweet.”
Geralt gives him a withering look over his mug, lips pursed. He clearly doesn’t intend to tolerate being called sweet.
“Oh, don’t give me that scowly face,” Jaskier says, waving a hand at him. “It is sweet. I like…” his voice slips, “I like knowing you’re thinking about me. When…” fuck, “...When we’re apart.”
He takes a deep swig of his mead in an attempt to hide the flush he can feel on his cheeks. That may have been too much - too sincere. He needs to rein himself in, considering the state Geralt had found him in earlier. He’s happy enough to pretend it hadn’t happened, but he knows Geralt won’t forget any time soon, even if he never acknowledges it.
“Anyway,” Jaskier says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “it’s good you came to, ah, save me. Metaphorically speaking, for once. You saved my birthday.”
Geralt hums. “You’d have been fine without me.”
“I’d have been bored without you.”
A pair of giggling, buxom women slide past their table. Geralt peers at them, then looks back to Jaskier, eyebrows raised.
“I’m sure you would have found some way to pass the time.”
“Well,” Jaskier shuffles in his seat, well aware that Geralt is likely correct, “Maybe. It is traditional to get a kiss on your birthday, after all. For good luck.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so. Several kisses, in fact, if you’re very lucky.”
“That tradition appears to have passed me by.”
“Apparently it has. A shame, really.” Jaskier is struck by a sudden thought. “Hey, Geralt, I don’t… that is, when’s your—”
The party at the table next to them burst into whooping cheers - someone has just spilled a full tankard of ale across the bench, splattering them all in foaming beer - cutting Jaskier off. Geralt winces again, and suddenly the celebrations - the noise and the dancing and the chance, however slim, of that birthday kiss, don’t seem so important.
“Come,” Jaskier stands, grabbing the full bottle of mead that rests between them on the table. “Let’s go somewhere a little quieter.”
Geralt peers at him, almost suspiciously, but after another shout from the table beside them he stands, sees off the remainder of his drink, and follows Jaskier away from the tavern and out into the square beyond.
“This way…”
Jaskier heads towards an older stone building, set aside from the rest on the edge of the square. Unlike the others, it’s not been decorated for the day. To an outsider, it would appear abandoned, or at least disused: a looming building that once upon a time was a church, then a clock tower, and now simply one of the tallest structures in the city, full of bats and scurrying little mice.
The building itself, Jaskier knows, is technically owned by the Academy - but the reality is that the deed to the desolate tower belongs to one of the older alumni, an enthusiastic ex-professor who’d taken a shine to Jaskier the first autumn he’d returned after meeting Geralt in Posada. My adventurous friend, the older man calls him. He’d told him where the spare key to the building was hidden within a week of meeting him.
Jaskier finds it now - tucked beneath a brick behind a huge stone planter, overflowing with flowers - and lets them into the dark, dusty building. After a pause, he closes and locks the door behind them. He’s not sure what makes him slide the rusty key back into the lock and click it shut, but all he knows is that right now he doesn’t particularly want to be disturbed.
He leads Geralt up the winding staircase. It’s cool and quiet inside the tower, and Jaskier remembers the first time he came up here - he was breathless and sweaty before he was even halfway up. Now, after a decade of following Geralt on the Path, he feels like he could run up the hundreds of steps.
At the top, he finally stops. He suspects this should be a dramatic reveal, or a magical, near-romantic moment. But Geralt doesn’t go in for that sort of thing - and this isn’t romantic, not in the slightest - so without further ado he simply heaves his shoulder against the heavy wooden door and heads out onto the wide balcony beyond, illuminated with the orange glow of the setting sun.
“Here,” he says, peering over his shoulder at Geralt’s squinting face with a grin and a nod. “How’s this?”
They lean against the sun-warmed brick. Below, Geralt can hear the quiet hum of people continuing to celebrate. The air is thick and warm, and the only relief is the breeze that comes from being so high up. There’s a rich, spicy taste at the back of his throat - probably the lingering scent of the bonfires and food stalls below, the tart air of lust and laughter that blankets the celebrations.
This truly is a good spot. It’s quieter, here, away from the crush of people. And Jaskier had just known, forgoing the opportunity for dancing and celebrating with dozens of strangers to sit up here, with him, away from the overwhelming noise. He’d led Geralt away without needing to be told he was struggling - not that Geralt ever would tell him - and brought him here with soft certainty that he’d find it far more comfortable than any of the taverns below.
Geralt rolls the half-full bottle of mead between his hands, his tongue heavy with the sweet liquid. Beside him, Jaskier sighs - a content little sniff as he stretches his legs out, languid in the last rays of the sun like a pampered cat. Geralt watches as he arches his back against the brick, eyes shut.
“A solstice birthday suits you,” he says, finally giving voice to the thought that he’s been turning over in his head for some time.
Jaskier laughs, opening his eyes, the breeze ruffling his hair around his face. “Because of all the drinking and fucking?”
“Because…” Geralt takes another deep swig of the mead before handing the bottle to Jaskier, turning away to peer through the wooden slats of the balcony railing. “...Because it’s the last day before the nights start drawing in. The longest day of the year. The day with the most light.”
Finally, he turns back. He can’t not turn back - too aware of the way Jaskier’s gaze is boring into him, too aware of his uncharacteristic silence.
The sunset illuminates him, picking out the golden threads of his doublet, the rich, dark yellow silk taking on a sort of glow. Jaskier’s lips glisten with mead, his tongue darting out to capture the last little droplets. Geralt knows he should force himself to turn away again, to stop himself following the flick of Jaskier’s tongue, to avoid his gaze - blinding, even in the diminishing light.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t look away, even though he knows he must.
Jaskier’s lips part a fraction - like he’s about to speak - and there’s a glint to his eye that Geralt has seen countless, jealous times before - but one he’s never had turned on himself. It makes Geralt’s heart skip a single, slow beat. It’s just the sunlight, he tells himself. Just the sunlight reflecting on his eyes.
That doesn’t stop him leaning closer, shifting his weight forwards. Jaskier - still watching him - mirrors the movement. Or perhaps it’s just the mead, muddling his mind.
But before Jaskier can say whatever it is he’s about to say, there’s an enormous crack from the square below, and his head snaps around, mouth closing, and in a moment he’s on his feet, leaning fully over the balcony railing. Geralt can breathe again.
“Shit!” Jaskier says, peering down, “Sunset, Geralt!”
Geralt heaves himself to his feet and joins him against the railing. In the square below, the crowd have gathered around the bonfire - now crackling with vibrant, green sparks. As he watches, someone throws a little parcel into the flames and there’s another crack as it catches alight, the flames turning purple. He’s seen this before - the contents of the parcels not too different from the components in his bombs, although in far smaller amounts.
Beyond the city, on the other side of the Pontar, the setting sun seems to be brushing the vibrant pastures, unobscured in the sky. The sound of celebrating grows, followed by more mini-explosions as further coloured flames leap into the air. They watch together in silence as the sun sinks lower, the shouting below getting louder as it slides gradually below the horizon until - finally - it’s gone, leaving behind only a burning red glow.
Jaskier takes a deep, calming breath and turns to Geralt, a soft smile across his face as singing erupts from the square.
“Well,” he says, fingers tapping the empty bottle in his hand, “all in all, this birthday hasn’t been a complete disaster. I’d say… not altogether terrible.”
“A glowing review,” muses Geralt.
“Perhaps even adequate.”
"An enviable compliment indeed." Geralt looks back down to the square, where people are drinking and dancing and - in not-so hidden corners - getting up to much more brazen activities. "Do you want to head back down? They’ll be carrying on till the morning, I presume?”
Jaskier glances at him, the smile twisting as he nibbles on his lip.
“You know… I’d much rather stay up here, actually. With my—” he swallows, quickly correcting himself “—with you.” A thought strikes him, and he laughs. “Although I suppose if we head back down I could find someone pretty and willing for that birthday kiss.”
Geralt remembers that look in his eye - the soft part of his lips before he was interrupted by the sunset.
“Why don’t you do both?” He says.
Over the noise of the square below, he can’t hear Jaskier’s heartbeat. He desperately wishes he could.
“Both?” It’s all he says.
“Well...” Geralt takes a step closer - but not too close. “Not pretty… but certainly willing.”
For a moment - a brief suspended second - Jaskier’s expression is a kind of shock, perhaps even horror, and Geralt suddenly worries that he’s misread Jaskier’s intentions, accidentally exposing his more vulnerable parts. But the expression melds, quickly and easily, into that cocky half-grin that Geralt has grown so fond of.
“It is traditional,” he says, voice suddenly low. “And, gosh. ‘Willing’. That’s about as enthusiastic as the ‘adequate’ birthday. How can I resist?”
“Very willing, then?”
The half-grin splits into a real smile, almost as bright as the now-forgotten sun. The cocky confidence is gone, replaced with something more like enthusiasm.
“It is my birthday,” Jaskier says, as if constructing a winning argument - although who he’s trying to convince Geralt isn’t sure. “So…” he takes a step forward, closing the space that Geralt had left deliberately open between them. “Yes,” he breathes. “Both.”
Jaskier is expecting it to be quick. He’s expecting a brief, rough press of lips to his cheek - maybe his forehead - perhaps his lips. He’s expecting something abrupt followed by a gruff, familiar laugh: it was all a joke. A kiss is still a kiss. Willing or very willing or whatever else it is Geralt says - it could all just be a joke.
Part of him - loud, but hopeless - expects more. Equally gruff, equally quick, but firm and strong. Still a farce, still insincere, but done like Geralt does everything: like a fight, pressing him against the balcony, threatening to send him toppling over the edge to the square below.
But…
Geralt lifts one of his hands and presses it with deliberate care to Jaskier’s jaw, cupping the side of his face. Jaskier can’t help but lean into the touch, tilting his head a fraction, Geralt’s fingertips calloused against his skin. He swallows, suddenly very aware of every movement he makes, of the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat.
Geralt rests his hand there for a moment, neither of them moving, before finally leaning in and closing the space between them. But he doesn’t kiss him - not quite - his lips ghosting over Jaskier’s, their breath mingling. Jaskier doesn’t move. He can’t move. Geralt smiles, and Jaskier feels the tilt of his lips against his own, so close, yet so unbearably far. Were this anyone else he’d surge forward himself, but this isn’t anyone else. This is Geralt. And however maddening the ghost-kiss is, it thrills him just as much, his skin tingling where the hot huff of Geralt’s breath flutters over his lips.
He wants more. He doesn’t move forwards, but maintains Geralt’s gaze as he lifts his empty hand, lightly pressing it to Geralt’s waist. It’s barely an escalation, and Geralt doesn’t even acknowledge the touch, but he’s warm and firm beneath Jaskier’s palm - grounding him.
It feels like they stand there for an age, scarcely touching, lips brushing. It’s only a few moments, Jaskier knows, but the seconds inch themselves out, building, waiting, each passing heartbeat only intensifying the light, tickling touch till it’s all Jaskier can think of - the only sensation in the world - the rest of his skin near-numb, his nerves focused on the place where their lips don’t meet.
Maybe this is the joke. Maybe this is Geralt’s idea of a jest - a kiss that never comes - maybe this is—
And then Geralt’s kissing him, really kissing him, his movement gentle yet firm; a slow caress.
Jaskier’s been kissed with hesitance before - those first halting, cautious movements as one learns someone else’s body - but this slowness isn’t like that. Geralt kisses him like they’ve all the time in the world, unhurried - almost lazy - but confidently. The hand on Jasker’s jaw slides to the back of his head as Geralt places his other hand on his hip, tugging him closer, and Jaskier is only too keen to follow.
He opens his mouth, a clear invitation, and Geralt hums against him before tracing the line of his bottom lip with the very tip of his tongue, the touch as hot as a brand. Jaskier’s stomach flips, his lungs burn, and he grips harder to Geralt’s waist, the touch urgent.
Geralt responds immediately, kissing him harder. It feels like this could be the hundredth time they’ve kissed - not the first. It’s not guarded, nor is it clumsy, but practiced, like—
—like Geralt’s been thinking about this for a long time.
That thought winds him, his ribs squeezing, his pulse racing - and the empty bottle, utterly forgotten, slips from his hand. It crashes to the wooden balcony floor with a sudden clatter that makes his heart leap from his chest as he gasps out a singularly undignified noise of shock against Geralt’s lips.
Geralt moves away with a chuckle, Jaskier feeling suddenly untethered without his body pressed against him.
“Was that a croak,” Geralt asks, quickly bending to grab the rogue bottle, “or a chorus?”
Jaskier splutters, feeling himself flush - feeling himself flush more.
“Croak,” he says, finally. “Fuck. That made me jump.”
Geralt says nothing, just raises his eyebrows as he places the bottle down against the wall on the other side of the tiny space. He looks smug, damn him, and Jaskier knows that he must look a mess, now: all blushing cheeks and tousled hair.
The bottle now safely moved aside, Jaskier is expecting Geralt to return to him, to snake his hand back around his waist and press him against the railing and kiss him again, to suck Jaskier’s tongue into his mouth and—
But he doesn’t. He positions himself a careful few feet away, arms resting on the balcony, looking down towards the roaring bonfire below. The realisation hits Jaskier like a fist: Geralt had only said a kiss. Just one.
And one would be fine - would be wonderful - but now he knows what it’s like, and he wants more.
The mead makes his thick tongue loose, his nerves - which only ever seem to play up when he’s in Geralt’s presence - less pressing.
“Geralt—”
Geralt turns, expectantly.
“Out of interest…”
“Yes?”
“Was that a one-off incident? Just an… an act of sympathy brought about by my pathetic birthday grousing? Or might it be something I can expect to happen again? Is it something you’d be…” he thinks back to what Geralt had said before, “willing to do again?”
The silence that follows is enough to tell Jaskier everything he needs to know. But, finally, Geralt speaks.
“Do you remember what you told me before? About why you liked the card?”
Jaskier frowns. Perhaps not everything. “Answering my question with a question?” He says, with only a little impatience. “Fine. Fine. About… which bit? I said it was charming—”
“Not that.”
“I said…” Jaskier thinks, trying to recall their conversation earlier. “I said that I liked knowing you were thinking about me, when we were apart.”
Geralt watches him, for a quiet moment, not drawing any closer. His fingers grip at the waxed wooden railing.
“I’m thinking about you all the time, Jaskier. When I’m on the road, if I hear one of your songs, if I see some fool wearing a feathered hat…”
Jaskier smirks at that, although it’s barely a compliment - of course Geralt would think of him when he hears his songs, or spots someone dressed in the latest fashion. It would be absurd if he didn’t. That doesn’t mean anything.
“At night, when I’m alone,” Geralt continues, voice quieter now, “in the middle of a forest, and it’s too quiet… or if I’m in an inn, with a bed, even a small one…” He sighs, and Jaskier’s not sure he’s ever seen him like this before. “I think of you then, too. And what it would be like if—”
He cuts himself off before he can finish that thought, eyes still facing steadfastly downwards, the bonfire reflecting yellowly from his eyes. Jaskier edges forwards, sliding along the railing till they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the same direction.
“What about…” he resists the urge to look at him. “What about kissing me? Do you think about that, all the time? Because it felt like—”
“Yes.”
It’s like fizzing wine in his blood, like his lungs are going to burst, like he’s going to simply float away. Jaskier forces himself to speak, trying to sound reasonable - trying to sound like his heart isn’t battling its way up his throat.
“I think about you all the time, too,” he says.
Geralt looks at him, and his eyes are wide and dark in the low light. Jaskier grins self-consciously, and bumps him with his elbow.
“That’s why there’s so many songs.”
It’s not strictly speaking a lie. The more Jaskier thinks about Geralt, the more songs he’s inspired to write, after all. If he didn’t think of him so often, perhaps there wouldn’t be so many.
He presses himself closer, leaning his head on Geralt’s arm. After a second, Geralt moves, wrapping his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, penning him close. Neither of them speak. Neither of them need to.
In the square below, the celebration shows no sign of slowing down, and out beyond the walls of the city Jaskier can see the tell-tale sparks of light and columns of smoke rising from a dozen smaller bonfires, hundreds of people dancing and singing and cheering for the sun, prepared for the darkness that will follow. The breeze, cooler now evening has truly set in, ruffles through his hair, and he presses closer to Geralt’s side. He smells of mead and sweat, a wholly comforting scent against the ashy bonfires.
He thinks of the little card, safely stowed in his room. It’s not that he’s been forgotten, after all.
It’s fine, he can tell himself. It’s fine.
And, for now: it is.