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Jaskier looks good in the morning sun. With every new ray of light that filters through his tiny window, Geralt feels another sin undone. Jaskier’s legs are splayed out every which way, brown hair tousled and illuminated by the sunlight, his face blissful and unaware of the time, with none of the poetic angst he carries so near and dear to his heart.
Geralt knows he’s to blame for most of it. If not for him, Jaskier could go on with his life seducing noblewomen by day and performing in taverns by night. He’d be happier, more oblivious to the ugliness of society, of their intolerance. In his day, men and witcher alike were fed to burning piles of rubbish for loving the same gender. Witchers he had known personally, fought with, trained with, reduced to ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Even now, when faced with the possibility of “coming clean” he’d rather run from his responsibilities than face the consequences. So much for not choosing between lesser evils.
In his brooding, Geralt’s witcher-heightened senses failed to notice Jaskier stirring until he is face to face with him. His chest is bare, neck marred from the past several days of vigorous fucking, but what catches Geralt’s eye first is the wounded way he looks at him. Even through the blur of sleep, Jaskier knows exactly why Geralt is dressed and ready to go at six AM.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“…yeah, I am.”
With a frustrated noise that Geralt didn’t think Jaskier was capable of making, Jaskier throws his trousers on angrily, the force of the action causing the blankets to cascade through the floor.
“Jaskier, don’t be angr-“
Jaskier whirls around to face Geralt, and the look in those eyes that were once filled with romantic notions and song are now livid, almost burning with anger. Geralt quiets as he realizes it was him who caused that change, caused the soft, sentimental part of Jaskier to rot and fester in the wake of his feelings.
“Now you listen here, Geralt. I don’t know what kind of unscrupulous cad you take me for, but this is no way to treat anyone you’ve spent the last fortnight bedding. You insensitive boar’s ass, do you think I’m a prostitute? That I bed anyone who so much as winks in my direction? That I deserve such-such coarse treatment?”
“Geralt, I have been in love with you for years. And what has transpired in the last few weeks is more than I could’ve ever dreamed or hoped for, but I simply cannot be your plan b anymore. I can’t be Yennefer and I cannot be Triss and I cannot be any of the magically enhanced women you bed on a daily basis. I can only be Jaskier for you and every day I fear that is not enough! No one deserves to feel like this, like they are replaceable and expendable, that after this argument you’ll find another prostitute and you’ll treat her the way you treated me.”
When Jaskier finishes his tirade, his chest rising and falling with exertion, Geralt sighs and puts his head in his hands. As much as every part of him sings to flee the scene before he admits to anything, he knows he can’t. Jaskier’s right. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a common whore, especially when he’s not being paid for it.
“Do you remember the djinn? And how the last thing I told you before I thought you were going to die was that you sang like how an old man pisses?”
“I don’t think that was exactly what you said but the sentiment was there.”
“I told Yennefer that I didn’t want that to be the last thing you remembered I said before you died but every day I’m reminded of the fact that I don’t want anything I say to you to be the last thing you remember.” Geralt takes a breath before continuing, as if the words hurt him to say. “I haven’t been kind to you, Jaskier. Far from it. I’ve been crude and I’ve been crass and I’ve hurt you deeply, I can see that, but the way I felt for you—the way I still feel for you goes deeper than just the sexual gratification.”
“Say what you mean, Geralt. You and I both know you were never one to mince words.”
Another deep breath, this one guttural and almost painful to hear.
“I fear I may love you, Jaskier. Or whatever love means for a man like me.”
Jaskier says nothing, but the look in those slate grey eyes says everything. They tell him of all the nights spent pining after someone he thought he could never have, of the feeling of being used each and every time they had sex, the existential crises examining his gender identity, and finally of reaching the brink where he almost thought loving Geralt was more trouble than it was worth. They don’t soften at his admission, but they also don’t gain any venom.
“Come here,” Jaskier says instead, and his voice is uncharacteristically unreadable.
Geralt obeys wordlessly, and for all his size and intimidating might, he’s never felt smaller than now, sitting next to a half naked man half his height. When it is clear that Geralt has nothing more to say, Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s chest, intertwining their fingers together. Once again, Geralt is taken aback by how soft Jaskier is, how kind the world has been to him to give his perfect form no scars.
“Were you any other man, woman, or being on this blessed earth I’d have cut you off ages ago. Especially after the stunt you pulled when you kissed me the first time.”
At this, Jaskier uses his free hand to place three of his long musician’s fingers at Geralt’s chin, tugging it to meet his eyes.
“What I mean to say is: I fear I love you too.”
What they have isn’t perfect. It’s messy, thrown together by duct tape and sheer willpower, but it’s his. Nothing in Geralt’s life comes easily (although that’s partially his fault), and this, this precious thing that’s still a fledgling might just be the best thing he’s ever had. Sitting there, in the warmth of Jaskier’s tight embrace, he truly begins to believe that this might be his own piece of heaven.
He’s certainly willing to take a chance on it.