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Geralt feels a tug on his glove and turns to snarl at whoever is bothering him only to be met with the shimmering blue eyes of the bard who’s looking particularly beautiful and gleeful, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Watermelon,” he points to a wooden stall being flanked by numerous patrons all trying to get the wonderful fruit. There’s a cart full of watermelons behind the kiosk and a table laden with slices and fruit bowls in front and to the side.
It’s springtime and the fruits have been bountiful. They passed by an apple orchard, smuggling a few for themselves and Jaskier kept feeding Roach who nipped his fingers and neighed happily.
There are several stalls in the marketplace along with the various shops. It’s a large, bustling town and it’s the time of year when trade is at its peak. Horse-pulled wagons and carts haul in goods from across the continent as they walk into the crowd. Even without his cloak, even with Jaskier bouncing around, darting to and fro between the stalls, nobody pays him any mind, all too absorbed in their shopping and the upcoming Spring Festival.
The smell is profuse causing his nose to burn: a mess of sweat and fruit and manure. With the sun high in the sky, the heat is beating at his back.
Jaskier pulls him along, his coin purse jingling in his pocket, nearly empty, Roach at their heels. After meeting up at the halfway point between the keep and Oxenfurt—later than usual this year—Jaskier tells him about a letter sent to him asking for his musical expertise and tutelage by a distant cousin and off they go (after their passionate reunion and Geralt still can’t fully believe Jaskier forgave him. The confession’s weeks later but that’s for another time.)
Calling the room they’re given luxurious is an understatement. At least they make good use of it. Every surface, both horizontal and vertical, has been fucked on—which makes up for having to listen to the out-of-tune twang of the vielle and the screeching of the flute. Apparently, aristocracy isn’t a guarantee to talent. Jaskier being a notable exception.
It’s…nice. Walking without people averting their eyes, scurrying away, reeking of the sour stench of fear, overpowering all his other senses. Or sneering at him. Or spitting. Or belting stones. Jaskier’s never smelt of it, of fear, always singing and staying in step, sometimes ahead. He doesn’t mind following the bard. It helps that he has a backside he would worship but that’s beside the point. After everything, it’s his turn to follow.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, pulling him out of his reverie. “Come on. They’re selling fast.” He drags Geralt to the stall, getting in line, vibrating on the spot, looking over the shoulder of customers. There's a leaf in his hair and he reaches up to pick it off, feeling the rough, veiny texture between his thumb and forefinger.
Geralt takes out his coin purse—made of leather and is coming apart—weighing it in his hand then nudges Jaskier with his foot. “Here,” he says gruffly, holding out the bag.
“It’s fine,” Jaskier says, waving his hand, still peaking over people.
Geralt huffs because Jaskier won’t take money unless he is in dire need. Honourable but annoying. Which sums up the bard. Taking out a few coins in case he comes across an apothecary or a craftsman, he takes Jaskier’s hand and dumps the purse. “Going to check if there are any contracts up. Don’t do anything stupid.” He half-wants to cuff him on the head as a prelude to possible punishment but refrains.
“My love, darling wolf, I would never.” He puts and a hand on his chest above his heart, batting his lashes at him, looking—and failing spectacularly—demure.
“I’m serious, Jask. You have a tendency to actively seek out trouble. If I so much as hear anything, I’ll bend you over my knee.”
“Kinky. Now you’ve tempted me.”
“Jask.”
“Fine, fine. I won’t go following any creatures or defending your honour against some pompous arsehole but if they disappear and end up on the other side of the continent then it wasn’t me.”
The corner of Geralt’s mouth quarks up, and with the (kind of) promise. His magic is still volatile despite Yennefer’s zealous training regiment and there’s a decent chance that some nobleman’s son will end up in the middles of some gargantuan forest in some part of the continent or the world beyond.
Glancing around and seeing no wayward looks, he leans down to kiss Jaskier on the cheek. It’s a brush of lips against skin but Jaskier smiles brightly at him, a blush on his face and ears burning and suddenly nothing else matters but the bard and his happiness.
He loves him.
The thought has haunted him for months now, following him like a spectre, looming over him. It seeps into every moment and he’s honestly terrified of the sheer intensity of what he feels because Jaskier’s…Jaskier. Jaskier who falls in love with everyone. Jaskier, the lark, who flies and soars far above him. Jaskier who can leave.
Jaskier who love Geralt despite being a cantankerous, grouchy oaf and having an emotional range of a teaspoon (his words.)
He won’t tell him. Yet. He may not wax poetic or even have a way with words or give two shits about location (their first kiss was beside the corpse of a wyvern when potions were still running through his veins) but a declaration of love is not for the middle of a market place. He has more class than that. Telling the bard he loves him should only be between them.
Jaskier says it all the time minus the nicknames. And every time, without fail, it makes something flutter behind his heart. There’s the overwhelming desire to run. Sneak away, hoping in time the bard will forget but he knows he’s weak and wanting. And he wants the bard.
A wish granted without making a wish.
He’s not a man that’s known a lot of love. His mother left him to be turned into a Witcher knowing the danger of failure. And he holds not contempt because though deep down, there’s a thumping hatred for those who pumped poison into him, he got his brothers out of it. And in the long hall, Jaskier (his ceaseless yearning for adventure and the lack of self-preservation are contributing factors.) Even though he has debated throwing Lambert out of the highest window of the keep. Several times. More so in the last decade since he told the other Witchers about the bard. They noticed the mooning before he noticed the mooning.
Nonetheless, he loves the bastards but he’ll walk the Killer twice in a row before he admits it.
With that thought, he guides Roach towards the board where all the contracts, wanted posters and general information are posted.
It seems the entire town is in the streets today because it takes some expert maneuvering and dodging to reach the main square.
No contracts are posted.
Either the luck of the town (which he highly doubts) or someone’s been busy.
Making his way back to the bard, he hears whispers of another Witcher with fiery hair. He’s still in town at the tavern playing denizens out of their coin. Looks like Lambert swept through all the contracts. He takes a step towards the direction of the tavern then stops.
A few metres away, in the window of a shop—a bakery, the sign above it says Patisserie de Cerise in faded pink and red and green—he spots a pastry. It’s small. Much smaller than the palm of his hand but before he knows it, Geralt’s walking through the door, the bell ringing overhead.
The shop is all open space, light filtering in through the windows on either side of the door, with a counter at the far wall laden with glass jars and domed cake stands. There are tables draped with pink silk, full of all sorts of baked goods in front of the windows; a sure-fire way to lure customers.
The sole occupant is behind the counter reading a sheet of paper.
She’s a short woman with bright white hair. Whiter than his. Like starlight. Or freshly fallen snow. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she’s wearing a forest green dress with an apron covered in flour and eggs. It smells divine like how he imagined childhood to smell.
Suddenly, she looks up and smiles at him, and it feels like she can see his soul. Stripped bare. Disarmed. Her eyes are light brown, sharp, and focused and they’re zeroed in on Geralt. The medallion doesn’t glow or vibrate against his sternum. There’s an air about her that makes her seem…different. Almost otherworldly.
“What can I get for you, Master Witcher?” She asks her voice as soft as she looks. He blinks, momentarily floored before a ripple of panic jolts through him. He’s still not used to the title. Any title beyond butcher. Feels too respectful, too appreciative, too kind. Strangers prefer to sneer than smile. Suffice to say, he has grown used to the taunts, the jabs, the insults. He knows what he is, what he looks like. Barely better than the monsters he kills, often covered in blood and viscera and dirt.
The woman continues to look at him patiently, smile not faltering. He swallows and takes a step then another till he reaches the counter. He can do this. It’s just a pastry.
“A jam tart.” He cringes at how awkward and harsh his voice sounds before adding, “Please.”
“Of course. Which kind? We have strawberry, blueberry, plum, mixed berry,” she lists, pulling out a piece of wrapping parchment from under the counter and a velvety pink ribbon.
“Strawberry and plum.”
She lifts the glass dome of the cake stand and takes two tarts that look the same and wraps them up gently, tying it off with the ribbon and holding it up for Geralt who takes it, cradling it in his big hands. It feels light, nearly weightless and he’s afraid they’ll crumble if he moves his hand too suddenly.
“How much?”
She names her price and he’s about to argue that it’s too little for a specialty especially one that looks to cater to royalty and cost as much as one of the bard’s doublets, but she holds up her hand, voice firm when she repeats the price, leaving no room for disagreement.
He mutters a thank you, nods his head, and walks out into the busy street, carefully placing the pastries into a saddlebag amongst his clothes and belongings. The thin white paper crinkles a bit and with the soft ribbon looks comically bright against the muted, dark tones of his clothes and thinks it’s rather metaphorical. A voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like a certain bard whisper about light and darkness and poetry and something or the other.
Geralt hears the crunch of gravel, the familiar low hum of unfinished lyrics and the thump of a lute case against thighs and turns around. He spots the bard with a large watermelon in his arms, precariously balancing a slice on top, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, moving every now and again when the slice begins to wobble, walking towards him.
“Would you mind, love?” His voice strained and Geralt takes the slice in one hand the uncut fruit in the other. He doesn’t bother asking what they’re going to do with an entire watermelon. He can only hope it doesn’t end being used as a weapon and an impudent individual as a target.
“I got a whole watermelon for half the price. Don’t look at me like that. It was worth it. Nesrin, the seller, her brother owns the tavern and said she’ll give me this watermelon if I play. I’d play anyway because we need the money but at least we got something out of it.” he rambles, picking up the fruit and taking a bite and letting out a lewd moan. Jaskier looks like he’s about to take out his lute and write a song about making sweet love to a watermelon.
“Get a room,” Geralt chuckles and Jaskier hands him the slice. Taking a bite, he admits that it tastes amazing (not in those exact words but his grunt is more of an appreciative hmmm.) It’s a frivolous indulgence and it sticks to his fingers but by Melitele, he can see why everyone has been craving and lining up for hours for the fruit. It's a stark contrast to what they eat on a daily basis: watery stew with bits of rabbit and roots. A few times they've come across wild berries and honey but the watermelon far exceeds the two.
He deposits the fruit in one of the emptier saddlebags before he can accidentally drop it and get a proper earful from the bard.
“Darling, if I could eat something for the rest of my life, it would be this,” he says around a mouthful, holding up the fruit like reverence.
A rivulet of juice runs past his chin, down his jaw, and follows the curve of his neck. Then another. And another, glinting in the sun. His eyes track the drops, pupils blown, a sliver of amber, and his traitorous cock is very interested in what’s happening in front of him. For a moment, he entertains the idea of dragging Jaskier into a nearby alley and having his wicked way with him and the bards moaning and groaning and slightly tousled hair that looks remarkably similar to his bed hair and unbuttoned doublet with the laces of the chemise undone, and he catches a glimpse of his hirsute chest, isn’t helping the situation in his trousers.
In an effort to stop himself from ravishing the bard in the open air (something he is not partial to and to stop him from making those obscene sounds that are stirring something dark and primal in him), he grabs the fruit, takes the last bite, and tosses the shell into a nearby patch of grass.
“Hey, get your own.” Jaskier’s like a spoiled child when something is taken from them. Pouting and all. His lips are glistening with the juice, plump and luring. All Geralt wants to do is reach out and take.
Fuck.
Geralt clenches his hands into fists, bone white, in a last-ditch attempt at stopping himself from reaching for the bard and licking away the remnants of the juice; dragging his tongue along his lightly tanned neck and lavishing the spot under his ear which never fails to make the Jaskier’s knees buckle. Last thing he needs is people calling him a brute.
He's proud of his self-control until he watches Jaskier's blue eyes widen and a knowing smirk flitters across his face and the shift of his hips as he saunters over and there goes his self-control, past the sun, the stars, and off into the void, never to return. His eyes follow the length of his body, widening at the very present and very obvious bulge tenting the front of his trousers.
“You reek of a brothel,” a voice says from behind him. A voice he knows very, very well. He turns to see Lambert standing with a brow raised. He doesn’t believe in Fate, but he thanks whatever or any gods up in the heavens because any thoughts of shoving the bard up a wall are yanked out of him and trampled into tiny pieces and swept away on a cool spring breeze. Lambert: Brother in Arms and Boner Killer.
People pay them no mind.
“Lambert! What brings you here?” Jaskier asks, stepping around Geralt and he's assaulted with the delectable aroma of Jaskier's scent mixed with the sweetness of the watermelon and maybe he’s drooling. With the way Lambert’s nostril’s flare and a grin graces his face, leaning a little closer to the bard and jealousy is an invidious mistress.
Jaskier stands in front of the other Witcher, hands on hips. Geralt notices the huge slice of watermelon in his brother’s hand and snorts. Watermelon craze gets to everyone.
"Heard about a striga. Not the only problem the town had; the river a few miles back was infested with drowners. The nasty fuckers nearly got a kid," Lambert says bluntly before attacking his treat.
Jaskier laughs at the ravenous treatment of the fruit like Lambert has a personal vendetta against it. Geralt rolls his eyes, fighting a smile, and grabs the bard's collar before he can dart off and get another slice. Given the chance, Jaskier will squander all their money on sweets like cakes and puddings and candied orange peel.
Huffing indignantly, Jaskier walks alongside the Witchers to the tavern, shooting glares at Geralt every now and then. At one pernicious glare—which could reduce a mortal man to ashes—he meets his eye and raises a brow daring him to run and find something to spend coin on.
"Where are you headed next?" Geralt asks, watching the bard from the corner of his eye. "Jaskier, stop moping."
Jaskier grumbles and throws a few choice curses at him. Lambert throws his head back and guffaws.
"Looks like you're on the floor tonight, pretty boy."
“Here.” Geralt places the parcel next to where Jaskier’s sitting reclined against the headboard before sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots and pulling them off with his back to the bard.
“Is this your apology?” Jaskier asks, grabbing the package and pulling on the ribbon.
“For what?”
“For denying me wa—” he stops abruptly and Geralt glances over his shoulder and sees the bard looking at him with something akin to shock, confusion, and happiness. Tears glitter in his eyes and he can smell salt but there's no uptick in Jaskier's heartbeat when he's sad but his bottom lip wobbles and then he has a lapful of bard and its a feat in itself he doesn't topple over. Geralt sits still for a moment, rifling through the last few minutes trying desperately to figure out what he did wrong, how he fucked up so monumentally he made Jaskier cry but Jaskier cups his face and slants his mouth over Geralt's, and all the worries rising to the surface evaporate.
"You remembered," Jaskier mumbles against his lips. He pulls back and loosely wraps his arms around the Witcher's neck and Geralt rests his hands on Jaskier's hips, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s.
“Rememb—” Oh. He has a vague recollection of the bard telling him about how when he was upset after a scolding or disappointed when a song didn’t turn out how his imagined it to, his older sister would sneak a plum tart to him from the kitchen, risking the anger of the cook and strike of a wooden spoon on the knuckles. In the safety of his room, they would impersonate their mother and father, and other relatives. It’s one of his best memories of his childhood.
Guilt eats away in him because it’s something as small as a plum tart and Jaskier’s peppering kisses all over his face. Jaskier’s sang him his current reputation and put up with his shit for a long time without so much as thanks.
And Geralt went and broke his heart. Trampled on it for good measure.
Shame grips like a vice and his eyes burn. It chokes him and squeezes and settles in the pit of his stomach, a reminder of how much he’s hurt the bard; ignored him, yelled at him, tossed him aside, leaving before dawn in hopes of shaking free of him.
And Jaskier’s gazing down at him, fingers gliding through hair, as if Geralt hung the sun and stars. Or invented the lute. His eyes are still shining with tears and lips curled into a small smile.
“Geralt,” he says his name with so much adoration and love it's painful. “Stop thinking about it. We’re here now.” A tear falls and he wipes it away and Geralt clutches Jaskier to him, burying his face in his neck and inhaling, rememorising his scent and Jaskier rests his chin atop his head.
They sit like this for hours or minutes. Geralt’s not sure and doesn’t care.
The silence is broken by a grumble emanating from Jaskier’s belly and the bard looks at him sheepishly.
“Sorry, darling but those tarts are calling for me.” He offers a lopsided grin and pecks him on the lips before making a move to get off the Witcher’s lap. Geralt tightens his grip on his hip and reaches behind for the tarts, giving them to the bard.
“Thank you,” he says happily, lifting a tart. “We should get faworkis next.” Geralt wants to say no but he damn well knows they’re getting farworkis before they leave this town.
“Shut up and eat your tart, bard.”