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Jaskier woke slowly, still half in a dream, warm and comfortable. Geralt was pressed beside him, his chest rising and falling gently beneath Jaskier’s arm. They’d slept together in a tangle of limbs, pressed close on the tiny bed.
This wasn’t, in itself, unusual. Any semblance of awkwardness had long since vanished, both of them growing so used to the other that the suggestion of not sharing a bed would have been absurd. The first time Jaskier had woken up with his hands clinging around Geralt’s waist and his nose buried in the back of his hair, he’d quickly pulled away, attempting to smother his embarrassment as well as the burning little ache in the pit of his stomach. But there was always one bed, and they were always exhausted, and touches that were once accidental became expected - almost deliberate.
After nearly fifteen years, Jaskier was no longer surprised when he woke up with his arms wrapped around Geralt’s chest, or if he choked awake with a mouthful of long, white hair. It wasn’t a shock to wake to the feeling Geralt’s lips pressed against his neck, his leg hooked over his hips, his breath warming Jaskier’s skin. It made his heart beat a little faster, of course, brought back that burning ache: but it wasn’t shocking.
He’d even grown used to waking with Geralt laying bodily across him, weighing him down, crushing him against the mattress. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, either: Geralt’s weight was comforting, making him feel grounded. Safe.
Jaskier drowsily shifted a little in the bed, feeling Geralt’s arms where they were loosely wrapped around him. But he could feel something else, too - something warm against his lips. This was nothing unusual - Jaskier woke with his mouth pressed against Geralt’s chest or back or, occasionally, neck, more often than not. But this was different. This wasn’t the warmth of skin, but fluttering and delicate, like—
Like a breath.
Jaskier forced his eyes open, his lids heavy and uncooperative.
He was nestled against Geralt’s side, his arm slung across the expanse of scars. Geralt’s arms were wrapped around his torso, holding him close, his fingers pressed firmly into his skin.
And their foreheads were pressed together, their noses bumping, leaving only the smallest space between their lips. Geralt’s slow, rhythmic breath was hot against Jaskier’s skin.
Jaskier breathed him in, dazed, a coiling heat sneaking up his body.
Floating somewhere between sleeping and waking, still half-stuck in the dream, Jaskier did the only logical thing - the only reasonable thing. He leant forwards, just a fraction, and pressed his lips to Geralt’s in a soft, sleepy kiss.
Geralt made a gentle humming sound, also on the cusp of wakefulness, before tightening his grip around Jaskier’s side, tugging him closer. Jaskier sighed, tilting his head to gain better purchase. Geralt’s lips were dry, his breath a little musty, but Jaskier couldn’t quite find it in him to care, letting his eyes slide shut once more as Geralt’s lips moved against his own.
Ah, but why would he ever want to wake, when the world outside was so cold and his dreams were so—
So—
Jaskier stilled. The heavy fog of sleep that prickled behind his eyes dissipated, slowly, like a receding wave. Beneath his hand, Geralt’s skin was warm and sweaty and - fuck - real. Very real.
Not a dream. Not a dream.
He was suddenly and abruptly awake. Pressed against him, their lips still lightly brushing, Geralt was also returning to lucidity, eyes wide. Jaskier pulled away first - pulled away as much as he could without letting go, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. The few inches between them weren’t enough - certainly not enough to hide his fluttering pulse - but they were too much, too.
“Geralt—” he started, trying to shake the sleepiness weighing his tongue down, feeling his already warm face flushing, “I didn’t… I mean, I thought—”
What did he think? Could he tell Geralt the truth, damning himself in the process? I dreamt I was kissing you - I dreamt I was kissing you, again. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d slipped from sweet dreams only to find himself wrapped in Geralt’s arms in a chaste parody of his unconscious fantasies, but if he told him the truth, it could well be the last.
“I—” he started again, hoping he could talk his way into a reasonable excuse. “I just…”
“I thought I was dreaming,” Geralt muttered over him, his voice a little hoarse.
Oh.
Geralt’s hand was still wrapped around his waist, his fingers twitching ever so lightly against his skin. Unlike Jaskier, he had made no attempt to move away. He swallowed, aware of how furiously his heart was beating - aware that Geralt could hear it, too.
“So did I, as it happens,” he said.
Their faces were level. Geralt still hadn’t let him go. The space between them was shrinking, and Jaskier couldn’t tell which of them was closing the gap.
“Was it a good dream?” Geralt whispered - close enough that Jaskier could feel the words on his lips, the curl of his half-smile against his mouth.
“Hmm…” he mumbled, “I think—” but whatever he’d been going to say next was muffled beneath another, lazy kiss.
This time, there was no mistaking it for a dream, the haze of sleep fully lifted. Jaskier’s dreams - especially where Geralt was concerned - could often be luxuriant things, but here, wide awake, the room was too hot, the bed too small, the sheets coarse and itchy. Those unpleasantly realistic imperfections didn’t seem to matter, though: all he could focus on was the movement of Geralt’s lips, the way his body twitched beneath him, the agreeable, delicious little noises he was making that even Jaskier’s overactive imagination had failed to anticipate.
He was overwhelmed with the feeling of Geralt’s mouth opening beneath his own, the ridges of his scars beneath his palm, the press of his hand to Jaskier’s side. If it was possible to be more than awake - to feel everything, all at once - then this was what that must feel like.
Finally - with a sigh - Geralt pulled away, but not so far that Jaskier couldn’t still feel his breath dancing across his skin. He rested his head once more beside Geralt’s, lips tingling, watching the rise and fall of his chest and his own hand splayed across it, just above Geralt’s sternum.
“It was, actually.”
Geralt shifted beneath him. “What was?”
He grinned, and began to trace little circles across Geralt’s skin with the very tip of one finger. Much to his delight, Geralt shuddered beneath the touch.
“A good dream.”