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Geralt dreams in restless colors and shapes that can’t seem to decide their identity. He feels sweat against his back. It does not cool him but makes him itchy and damp. His dreams turn to a brisk autumn morning with sweat slowly drying on his skin, mopping up other impolite fluids with a scrap of a fancy shirt.
The dream is perfect in how it captures Jaskier’s essence. In how Geralt’s heart seems to beat only for the way Jaskier’s kind eyes sparkle in the slanted morning light.
Jaskier says something about rugged manliness or other nonsense. He likes it when Geralt rips his clothes because it’s an indication of how much Geralt wants him. Geralt can’t spring into verse like a master of the seven liberal arts. In fact, he has difficulties with every word that isn’t a sword technique or care for his horse. He is ever grateful that Jaskier allows him to express himself in other ways.
When Geralt wakes, it is not to the adoring stare of his lover but instead to the sound of feet jogging in time. To the scent of earth that is bafflingly dry and coats his nostrils with every tickling breath. He is nothing if not disappointed.
…
My dearest, my only White Wolf,
The days seem less like days and rather more like exercises without you to occupy my time, and my darling, you are well aware of how I hate exercise. Unless it is with you, of course, and then we shall get up to the most delicious exercise indeed. It is abhorrent to me that we should be parted like this, but likewise abhorrent are the rumors of Nilfgaardian brutality. If I am to lose you to another mistress, I am glad it is Lady Justice that has turned your eye.
As I am writing, I think you would be amused to be here simply because I find myself at a lack for conversation. It seems dull of me to comment on the weather or the latest scandal or any other topic you would usually ignore. I can imagine in the midst of important matters like war and freedom, my typical drivel is utterly asinine. Tell me, loveliest of all men, what stories should I regale you with? What measure of comfort can I provide while you save the continent from strife? This is the only time I will allow requests, and thusly, you should endeavor not to waste your chance.
At length, it has occured to me that you are now in the company of exclusively strapping, like-minded men, some of whom you have enjoyed in a very carnal sense. While I jest about your many mistresses—of whom I cannot protest to rank higher than your blasted horse—I believe it is important to note that I would never deprive you of any comfort you choose to find in the cruel clutches of war. Even if your heart strays, I am blessed in every way to have had it for the time I did.
All my love,
Your Jaskier
…
My dashing soldier,
Time seems to fold in on itself like my father’s many forehead wrinkles. My mother says if I am to frown for any longer, I will sport the unkindest lines in my age. As if I carry a single line at current! I proclaimed her daft and retired to my vanity—both literal and metaphorical—where I poured over my reflection for hours. I kept hoping I would hear your tired grumble, telling me I am pretty and to stop preening so we could get some sleep. Oh, I did not sleep well at all, and believe it or not, I awoke to find a grey hair lounging atop my head! They say a single strand plucked will sprout a dozen more like the Hydras of legend, but I could listen to no advice other than my own desire to tear it from my head.
Imagine my surprise when it is not pain I find upon the plucking but greater length! It is one of your hairs, left upon my pillow when last we shared a bed. I think of that night often, for while you are in the south no doubt sweltering out of your armor, the nights grow ever colder here. I have no desire for anyone but you to warm my bed, and thus I must warm myself with your memory. I confess, I do make liberal use of the contraption you seemed so enamoured by those many encounters ago. When your hands were still healing from your heroic actions at the De Stael fire, and I spent all night being their replacement. I would walk through fire as you did if I could but touch you again.
I have taken that single lock of hair and folded into my favorite handkerchief. I carry it around with me though I need no reminder of your absence; it occupies even my dreams. I can only pray that the conflict be resolved quickly, if not for the greater good then for my own selfish reasons.
You have my heart,
Jaskier
…
My darling,
Music is the only thing that takes my mind from you, and thus it feels like treachery to accept its solace. You would tell me I’m being silly, but I see something of the enemy in my instruments. My love for you is all-consuming and so too should be my grief. My parent’s majordomo, you remember Barnabas? He tells me you’d be displeased if I let my skills rust in your absence. He does not know how grating you find my singing, though I suppose he is right. You always had a soft air about you when I played the pianoforte.
I have decided to compose a grand symphony in your honor, and when you return a war hero, I will commission an orchestra just for you. Alas, the only orchestra in the vicinity has been sniffing around for further abuse of my talent. My mother had the poor sense to receive a caller from Oxenfurt, and lo and behold it was the snake Valdo Marx, recently crowned conductor. He said he was looking for a lead violinist, but really I wouldn’t put it past him to be scouting the countryside for babies and virgins to use in the evil, dissonant rituals he calls Odes.
I wish you were here to give him a proper dressing down. I can spin my words into a sharp point, but there seems to be nothing more humiliating to the aristocracy than one of your dry quips. Would you believe I fell in love with you the first time you called me something as direct as an idiot?
Well, of course that’s not true, because clearly I first fell for your handsome body. The rest came in the next five minutes I spent in your presence.
Always thinking of you,
Jaskier
…
Dearest,
I have yet to receive a letter back from you. I inquired after the post and have confirmation that it is reaching your unit all the way in the godforsaken south. I can only assume you are filling your days with heroic deeds and soldierly carousing, and I would not have it any other way. This arrangement rather seems like the one we have in person where I vomit all the words and you are left with none. I find it fitting that we not change that.
I once thought poets and authors were great dramatics when they wrote of the withering power of an absent love. I now find them quite tongue tied. Even the greatest prose is incapable of capturing this abysmal feeling.
Yours ever,
Jaskier
…
Geralt isn’t sure how it happens, but he’s saved the Queen of Toussaint. She offers him useless things, and then she gifts him a vineyard which he will be allowed to claim once the war is over. She makes him a Knight of Toussaint, and he has to put on some awful armor until he is out of the capital and back at the front lines. The others tease him about it.
He remembers a smart, thoughtful employee of the Pancratz’ to whom he spilled an embarrassing amount of feelings. Just when he realized he was in love with Jaskier but could never say such things to the man, Barnabas had been there, had listened and provided the wise commentary that perhaps Jaskier could understand Geralt’s love in ways other than wordy declarations. Geralt could think of no other man he would trust to know what to do with a vineyard.
Although as the months stretch on and Geralt receives no correspondence from his lover, Geralt wonders if Jaskier still wantes anything to do with him.
…
Geralt,
Valdo Marx has convinced my mother that my time would be better spent as a violin-playing monkey. Should you choose to break your trademark silence, I have enclosed the address which I will be using until further notice.
I was going to press one of the apple blossoms for you, as I know you secretly adore them, but somehow the spring has gotten away from me. All the good blossoms have withered and fallen.
I love you,
Jaskier
…
Geralt’s nose is bloodied, dripping on his shirt. Letho sits next to him with hardly a scratch because Geralt is a gentleman of a soldier.
“And neither one of you is going to tell me what this was about?” Vesemir asks, leveling the kind of glare that would cow them as cadets.
Letho keeps his mouth shut. He started it after all, talking shit about how Geralt’s supposed to have this pretty piece back home but nobody’s seen a perfumed letter to prove it. He implied that Jaskier had gone back to his previous lifestyle, the one that got him his salacious reputation. Geralt hadn’t hit him until Letho joked that Jaskier would probably spread his legs for the whole battalion. It was a bit of a red blur after that.
“You’re both on ditch duty,” Vesemir decides.
It’s just as well. Perhaps the stench of the bodies in the unreasonable summer heat will keep Geralt’s mind off of Jaskier. Geralt stands stiffly and goes to requisition a shovel.
…
Love,
My mother is acting strangely. She has elected to come to Oxenfurt with me and spends her days arranging flowers. It is not an ignoble pursuit, per se, but she watches me like I am a wasp among bees.
I realize my last letter was short, but I had no energy in the face of packing to go into greater detail. I must admit it is nice to be back amongst academics. They’re a stuffy lot, but they’ll hold a conversation true enough. Not a one of them could tell me anything about the smell of Kaedwen in the winter or the proper way to birth a horse, so I find their company poor in comparison to yours. I have always cherished the things you’ve chosen to share with me, and I find myself pestering the stablemaster for lessons in equine care. Perhaps I could be useful to you yet! Every dashing knight needs a squire after all.
The symphony is coming along now that I am reminded what an orchestra can do. It is too sad, I think, currently. I must try to remember our best times without the pangs of missing you, or I’m afraid no one will want to listen to this beast.
For I do nothing so much as miss you.
Jaskier
…
Summer, summer, and fall again
Rest not your eyes, stand tall again
Summer, summer, winter comes
Take up the fife, and enter, drums.
I don’t know what inspired that dreadful thing. It is late, and I can’t sleep. Apologies for the penmanship, but I was writing to you before I knew I had the quill in my hand.
I hope you are well. With every week that passes, we hear good news of the front. It can hardly allay my fears, though, and when I stop long enough to think, I can only picture you lying on a battlefield somewhere, waiting for your own blood to kill you. I would appreciate some sign of your wellbeing. If the month closes without a response, I am not above contacting your superior. It feels like the childish equivalent of taltting to your father, but I am a desperate man in love. I beg that even if your feelings have changed, you will do me this courtesy.
Jaskier
…
It has been nearly a year since he’s seen Jaskier. Sometimes, he thinks he forgets the color of Jaskier’s eyes or the scent he always left behind.
Lambert gets a letter from another battalion, and he won’t show it to anyone. Geralt thinks of how easy it would be to sacrifice a few drops of Jaskier’s homemade apple-cinnamon perfume to a sheet of paper and address it in the way Geralt instructed. Jaskier may not deem him worth the effort of words anymore, though they always seemed to come easy to the man, but Geralt thought that he’d get at least a soldier’s comfort. A little piece of something that didn’t smell like dry dirt.
…
Geralt,
I don’t know why, but I am still never as calm as when I am writing to you. The rest of the world seems to have this frenetic edge where no matter how joyous I act or how melancholy I am, there is a wheel spinning that I cannot slow. But when I am writing to you, I can pretend that you are reading it with that little smile on your face. The one that I only seemed to coax out of you by accident. I imagine you laughing at my dramatics. I imagine you taking me into your arms and demonstrating—thoroughly—how alive and well you are. If I imagine anything else, it becomes too terrible to bear.
The winter season is always busy with the aristocrats flocking to the city to share warmth and entertainment. We have three shows this week, and Marx is testing everyone’s patience with his snappy attitude.
I wish you were here,
Jaskier
…
Geralt is restless. Everyone is, but most people have managed a few hours of meager sleep. The peace talks are dragging out, and the soldiers are stuck in the fields. They aren’t allowing soldiers to come or go as part of the negotiations. Even the injured, otherwise Vesemir would have ordered him back to their nearest outpost two days ago. He’d taken a beating in the last battle. He’d been cut off from his unit when they called the retreat and had to fight through endless waves of Nilfgaardians to safety. The healers told him he had a head wound. They called it something fancy, but Geralt will blame the throbbing for any lost details. He also has a fractured shin. It hurts like a bitch, but it isn’t a real break. He still manages to limp out of the med tent in an effort not to hear the moans of the dying.
His restlessness is the only reason he’s awake to see the mail carriage pull up. It’s an ungodly hour, no trace of sunrise in the sky, but this mail carrier is responsible for five other units. Geralt suspects they work harder than half the soldiers.
Geralt intercepts the lad on his way to Vesemir’s tent. The old man just went to sleep, if his soft snores are anything to go by, and Geralt knows Vesemir is only operating by the grace of the gods.
He sorts some mail to the Vipers and tucks away another letter for Lambert. He gets a name off of that one—Aiden. A lieutenant, apparently, in the Cat battalion. Geralt would never go as far as to open his friend’s mail, but this would be useful wheedling information.
It’s then that he sees the letter from Jaskier. He nearly drops the rest of the mail haul.
He rips it open right there, balancing precariously on a set of ill-fitting crutches. His eyes blur to read the first words, but he blinks them hastily.
My darling Geralt,
I am not sure who receives this letter now, but I can’t help but send it. Your superior has informed me, more or less, that you are dead. It is funny, then, for I’m pleased to report I will be not long behind you.
My mother and Marx have concocted a scheme. I am, against my will, being forced to marry him to bring prestige upon my family and upon the Orchestra. I find I have no will to protest, only the capacity to go along with their machinations. But they have not won. I will die before I let that man touch me. You are the only one I have ever loved and the only one I will ever want.
Dying does not sound too bad, after all, if you will be there to greet me.
See you soon,
Jaskier
…
His hands feel numb, yet there they are holding the letter. The pain in his shin is far away as he limps back to Vesemir’s tent. The other mail is somewhere on the ground, he thinks. He is glad the old man wakes upon his arrival, for he might have kicked him awake for all Geralt is able to be calm right now.
“What have you done?” Geralt asks, thrusting the letter under his superior’s nose. Vesemir is nothing less than a father to him; what has he done?
“This is about the Viscount boy,” Vesemir says, his voice rough with sleep. He pushes the letter away and rubs his stinging eyes.
“Jaskier,” Geralt protests. “He says you told him I died.”
Vesemir clicks his tongue. “I just told the boy to stop writing. I was going to give you the letters when the peace talks were finished.”
“Why?” Geralt thinks of every time he doubted Jaskier’s devotion. Every moment he laid awake, wondering who was now occupying the young lord’s time.
Vesemir looked at him coldly.
“You get distracted, Geralt. You let your skills waste while you were with that fop, and it nearly killed you the first week out here,” Vesemir said. “I wasn’t going to let him distract you any more.”
“You—” The words sour in his mouth. The weight of Vesemir’s expectation had always felt like the ache of a good training session. It felt like striving towards a goal. What cinches around his shoulders now is the crushing certainty that Vesemir will never understand the life Geralt wants. He is no longer the perfect soldier, is dedicated to something different than blunted efficiency.
Geralt thinks of Lambert and his secret letters. Geralt thinks of Jaskier. He thinks of Toussaint.
“You’ve done the opposite,” Geralt spits, and Vesemir’s hard expression flickers. It could have been regret, but Geralt may never know. He turns to go, but Vesemir’s quiet cough stops him.
“They’re in the top drawer of the desk,” Vesemir says. Geralt doesn’t look back. He storms over, as much as an injured man can storm, and he yanks the drawer out of its place. He carelessly dumps the papers inside over Vesemir’s desk. Quickly, he finds a stack of smooth envelopes bound together with cheap twine. So many. It’s expensive to send letters to the front line, and he expected two or three. Enough for Jaskier to wax poetic about something frivolous and then tell Geralt he loves him. There are eight in total, including the one already open in his hand.
He leaves the tent, surprised to see Eskel lingering outside.
“I heard you arguing,” he offers. “I didn’t know he was doing that. With the letters.”
“Old bastard,” Geralt growls. He moves without thought but with singular purpose. He has to get to Jaskier. No peace treaty was going to keep him here; damn the consequences.
“Would you like to steal the mail carriage?” Eskel suggests, and Geralt thanks all the gods for the closest thing he has to a brother.
…
Jaskier just has one letter left to write. The scent of flowers is thick in his nose, and it is heavy and cloying throughout the whole house. There is no escaping the extravagance of his own wedding day. He thinks Geralt would have liked to see him in his white finery. It is a masculine cut of fabric but with dainty details that would frustrate the soldier to no end. The little pearl fastenings on his sleeves, the delicate lace ribbon cinching his waistcoat in the back. Geralt would rip through it all in his haste. Jaskier has half a mind to pop one of the wrist buttons for the thrill of it, but his mother is lingering. She’s not reading over his shoulder, thank heavens, but she would notice a thing like a missing button. Then this whole elegant farce would be extended, and Jaskier is simply tired of it.
He has replaced his perfume with poison, and he slips the bottle in his pocket. A knife would have more showmanship, but Jaskier has never had the stomach for blood.
…
The road is long, even as they exchange for fresh horses and ride through the second night. Geralt hides his leg brace underneath bulky trousers and acts the part of mail carrier while Eskel hides in the carriage. Neither of them are very convincing, but Geralt stands a better chance with just the one scar. It seems no one is paying attention anyways, too caught up in the gossip of peace.
When it is Geralt’s turn to rest, he sits in the carriage and pours over the letters. They still smell of apple and cinnamon.
…
Geralt of Rivia is the finest man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I am in love with him, but Destiny has willed it we be separated. I choose to follow him.
It is simple, and nothing like what Geralt imagined Jaskier’s final prose to be. He balls it in his fist and races from the room. Jaskier’s bedroom was a good first bet, but Geralt now follows the sound of a party and the scent of flowers. He realizes in all his rendezvous with Jaskier, he’s never been much further than Jaskier’s bedroom. They roamed the grounds quite a bit, and they had free reign of Oxenfurt when Geralt was stationed there. Regardless, Eskel is at his heel, and with the urgency of a man in love, he barges through a large set of double doors.
The scent of flowers is overwhelming. Geralt almost staggers back from the stinging brightness of it all. White flowers with purple and pink accents coat the room before him. It was likely once a dance hall, but it has been converted into something like a church. Pews radiate out from a small stage where a man stands and two men kneel.
Jaskier’s eyes are so blue.
It occurs to Geralt that he hasn’t forgotten a single detail. Jaskier’s hair is a tad longer and styled back with the aid of some beauty product. There are bags under his eyes that were not there a year and a half ago, but otherwise, Geralt has kept perfect recollection. Jaskier’s eyes widen, the same way they always have when Geralt manages to catch him off guard. Geralt’s focus narrows to the equally stylish man next to Jaskier. They are both kneeling, their hands bound together with a red ribbon.
“He’s not marrying you,” Geralt snarls, and Jaskier’s face lights up.
The room is thrown into chaos. Everyone stands, a few of them stepping into the aisle as Geralt rushes forward. He has to maneuver around them, and leave it to Jaskier to have just as twittering a family as he is. The crowd is abuzz, and it hurts in Geralt’s brain, but he is an unstoppable force. He thinks Eskel even pushes a few people for him.
By the time he’s made it to the altar, Jaskier and his betrothed are standing. Jaskier is crying.
“Geralt, my love, my darling, you’re alive!” He cries, and he tries to stumble towards Geralt. The handfasting prevents him. As does the asshole tugging him away with the handfasting.
“Who are you to be making such declarations?” Marx shouts, his voice projecting over the din. The noise culls into the occasional murmur, and Marx looks pleased with himself for once again claiming the attention. “A lowly disabled soldier deserting your duty to come ruin a day of happiness? Be gone, and I won’t have you clapped in irons for your insolence!”
Geralt grits his teeth and summons every ounce of battle calm. “He loves me, not you,” Geralt manages to say. The eyes in the room crawl over his skin, and he wants nothing more than to hoist Jaskier over his shoulder like some conquering savage.
“If you are in love, why have we never heard of you? How can we know this is not one of Julian’s childish tricks to avoid his responsibilities?” Marx asks.
Geralt never felt like a dirty little secret. When they were careful to keep his presence on the down low, when he would sneak in and out at night with the skills he was taught. He’d never felt lesser. Sometimes he even felt more than those pompous lordlings Jaskier would mingle with, if only because Jaskier chose him at the end of the night instead. It should not be possible for a man like Valdo Marx to make Geralt feel small, but here he is. Unable to kneel and properly beg for Jaskier’s hand because of his injury. With nothing to offer but his heart and whatever days a hardened warrior like himself would have left.
“I can vouch for the soldier’s love,” a stately voice speaks up. Barnabas Basil appears out of the servant’s doors and strides to the front of the room. “He has visited the young master many times, though not recently as I assume he has been off fighting. Geralt told me himself that he was in love with Lord Julian.”
Geralt chances a look at Jaskier’s face, and the man’s mouth is hanging wide open. It occurs to Geralt in this moment that he must have never said it out loud to Jaskier.
“I do love him,” Geralt declares, and it echoes in the hushed mouths of those in attendance. “And I have evidence that he loves me as well. Written in his own hand and mailed to the front lines.”
Geralt holds the letters aloft. They are significantly more worn than they were two days ago. He turns back to the couple and makes sure to look at Jaskier as softly as he can muster.
“There would be evidence in my hand, if these letters had been properly delivered to me. There has been a misunderstanding, and I attest that Jaskier only agreed to this marriage because he was sure of my death,” Geralt says.
“Love has nothing to do with it!” Marx rages. “Julian has been promised to me, and the Pancratz family will honor this promise or suffer the consequences of insulting me.”
Jaskier’s mother looks shrewdly between Marx and Geralt. She looks at her son who attempts the puppy eyes that have never once worked on her.
“My son is being offered a permanent position in the Oxenfurt Orchestra, a good salary, as well as the prestige of the husband of the conductor. He will want for nothing, even if he chooses not to work,” she says. “What can you offer him? I have seen those who live on a soldier’s pension, and I assure you my son could never live so humbly.”
Before Jaskier could refute it, his mother silences him with a glance. Jaskier’s mouth twists wryly, but his eyes are hopeful and track Geralt’s frown.
“I love him,” Geralt says because that is the only thing he’s been able to think for the past two days, and his leg hurts, and his eyes are heavy, and—
“If I may,” Eskel cuts in, and the whole room seems to notice him for the first time. “Geralt is the Savior of Beauclair and was knighted by Duchess Henrietta herself. He owns land in the form of a vineyard called Corvo Bianco. Lord Julian would not want for anything with Geralt.”
Geralt forgot about all those things. Toussaint seems so long ago, like a story from one of Jaskier’s letters.
“The only thing I care about is Geralt,” Jaskier finally says, the words springing from his lips like a striking snake. “But that other stuff sounds impressive enough, wouldn’t you agree, mother?”
There is a moment when his mother frowns at him, and Geralt wishes he brought his sword in case he needs to fight his way out. But then she rolls her eyes in a way that reminds Geralt of Vesemir.
“You’ve always been impossible,” she says, and Jaskier’s face is barely wide enough to contain his grin.
“But my Lady!” Marx begins and is interrupted.
“Shove it, Marx. Get someone else to be your ladder rung,” Jaskier says, and in the general uproar that follows, Geralt hears a few laughs. So maybe not all of Jaskier’s family is as useless as they seem. Marx looks like he would be strangling Jaskier if their hands were not bound together, but Jaskier only has eyes for Geralt.
Geralt lurches forward when he feels Eskel give him a shove. The first obstacle is the hands, and Geralt draws his boot dagger to begin sawing at the twisting ribbons.
“Oh, my dear, just chop his hands off, and let’s be rid of him,” Jaskier whines. Marx makes an affronted noise, so Geralt raises an eyebrow at him as if considering it. The man pales.
“I’ll do it if you deal with the severed hands. This is a new outfit,” Geralt says dryly, gesturing towards his dirty uniform tunic with the knife.
“I see you’ve lost all sense of chivalry!” Jaskier pouts, but he waits patiently for the bonds to be cut. Well, as patiently as Jaskier ever waited for anything. When Geralt is on the final layer, Jaskier jerks his hands, unravelling it in one swift movement but also slicing the back of his hand on the dagger Geralt keeps meticulously sharp.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and he nearly rips his boot replacing the dagger. He fumbles for Jaskier’s hand, but the man foils every attempt, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck and lunging in for a kiss. Geralt tries to balance on the crutches, but they’re really quite shitty, and Jaskier is not a small man. Geralt nearly tips backwards until he runs into a salwart chest.
“Woah there,” Eskel says, and Geralt hates the amusement in it. “Why don’t we save the reunion for when less people want to kill us?”
“Oh,” Jaskier says, opening his eyes to find Eskel supporting Geralt. He steps away, and Geralt misses the contact even if he’s able to get his balance again.
“Let’s get out of here,” Geralt says instead of something stupid like Fuck you Eskel or get back here Jaskier.
As they leave, Barnabas catches them. He hands them a pouch with enough money to stay a week at an elite Redanian bathhouse, and he promises to collect some of Jaskier’s things and have them delivered to the inn in town.
“Bring them yourself. I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” Geralt says, and the majordomo—dare he say it?—nods his head shyly.
The mail carriage is still where they left it, and Jaskier grins at the sight.
“We stole it,” Geralt says. Jaskier was going to ask anyways, and this way, he gets that faint look of surprise again. Geralt might be preening, although he usually saves a word like that for Jaskier.
“I have to hear this one,” Jaskier says as Eskel places himself up front. Geralt manages to work his way inside the carriage with a firm hand from Jaskier at his elbow. They smile at each other, and that’s all it takes for the world to be right again. Jaskier joins him in the carriage.
“Later,” Geralt says, and Jaskier has already forgotten what it is he wants to know.
“I assume our reunion may continue as desired?” He asks with a wicked smile.
“Just be careful,” Geralt murmurs, already tracking Jaskier’s lips with his eyes.
“Right.” Jaskier runs his palm over the thigh of Geralt’s injured leg. “I’m sorry. I got carried away earlier.”
“It’s alright,” Geralt says. He adjusts his sitting so he’s angled towards Jaskier without tweaking his leg.
“I was just so happy to see you and to touch you, my gods Geralt! I thought you were dead! I realize now there’s some pieces to this puzzle which you are going to explain to me, but you cannot imagine what I’ve been feeling these past months,” Jaskier babbled.
“I can.”
“And I would have fought tooth and nail had I known you would come for me, but there were so many letters, my love, and you answered none of them! At first, I thought you’d simply grown out of loving me, but then of course I feared the worst—”
“I know,” Geralt said firmly. He retrieved the crumpled letter from his pocket. The last letter. “Someone prevented me from getting your letters until the final one you sent, and I tear through the country only to find this in your bedroom.”
Jaskier’s lips thin, and this is his argumentative face, not his apologetic face. Geralt’s fingers press into the paper again, further denting it as his irritation grows.
“Jaskier,” he says, but he loses the thread of his anger when Jaskier’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips.
“Kiss me, please,” Jaskier says. Geralt is helpless to resist.
Jaskier plants one hand on the wall next to Geralt and stretches his legs out in the bench, pressing as close as he dares in the jostling carriage. Geralt winds his arms around Jaskier’s waist, stabilizing him. When their lips meet, it’s everything both of them thought they’d never get again. Their bodies remember how to move around each other, even as the bumpy road makes their teeth clack together. They laugh, giddy, into each kiss. Jaskier’s free hand roams hungrily across Geralt’s back and then gets under Geralt’s shirt to caress his skin.
Geralt squirms at the feeling of Jaskier’s soft, clean hands trailing over his dirty skin. He hasn’t properly bathed since the Duchess insisted on housing him for a few days. His last casual scrub down had been nearly a week ago when he was injured. Geralt reaches behind himself to grasp Jaskier’s hand, pulling it away. Jaskier whines into his mouth.
“My love, please,” he begs, and Geralt nearly gives in.
“I’m filthy,” he says instead, and Jaskier huffs.
“A quality I rather like about you. Do you think I give a rat’s ass if you smell like a rat’s ass? Which you don’t by the way, I’ve always been ludicrously fond of your man stink,” Jaskier says. Geralt smooths his hand over Jaskier’s hip in an attempt to placate him, and he finds a lump in his trousers. Not the usual kind either. Geralt fishes inside his lover’s pocket while said lover is distracted listing all the reasons he’d like to continue.
Geralt recognizes the perfume bottle and goes to unstopper it. He misses Jaskier’s scent; it’s hidden underneath a stifling layer of gardenia and jasmine. Jaskier yelps and closes his hand over the top of it.
“Better not, my dear,” he says shakily, and Geralt narrows his eyes.
“This isn’t your perfume,” he says. The way Jaskier looks away and bites his lip is telling enough.
“You read the letter,” Jaskier says in a voice so small it’s almost unbelievable it came from him.
Geralt reaches up to unlatch the window above their heads. He jerks it open and with a deft flick of his wrist, launches the bottle into the forest.
“Never again, Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “I don’t care if I’ve died right in front of you. You never think about doing anything like that again.”
“Darling, please,” Jaskier whispers. “I was desperate. The thought of that man taking your place… it was an abomination.”
“Promise me, Jaskier,” Geralt says, unwilling to be swayed. Jaskier is breathing quickly, staring at Geralt’s chest, and Geralt grips his hair tightly, forcing his frightened gaze up. “You are mine, Jaskier, and you’ll never be in that situation again. Now promise me. Please.”
“I’ll never think anything of that sort again. Not as long as I’m yours.”
It wasn’t a perfect promise, but Geralt would take what he would get.
“When we get to the inn,” Geralt says, his voice dropping into a rumble he knew Jaskier couldn’t resist. “We’ll call for a bath, and you can spend that time reminding me how much you like being mine.”
“I do like being yours,” Jaskier purrs.
“And until then, you’ll behave,” Geralt says, and it probably wasn’t a question.
“We’ll see if you can still keep me in check,” Jaskier replies, leaning in for another kiss. Geralt doesn’t deny him.
…
It’s almost a year later that the letters start coming again. Geralt rides the edge of his property, letter tucked against his heart, until he finds his husband in the shade of his second favorite oak tree.
“My ever so dearest Geralt,” he reads, dismounting and allowing Roach to roam while he deals with his wild thing of a husband. “I regret to inform you that I can no longer live in this house for the following reasons: firstly, I am a free spirit and must go where the wind takes me. Fourthly, your feet are always freezing when you come to bed. Sixth and lastly, you have abhorrent taste in wines.”
“Well, you do,” Jaskier snorts.
“Thirdly,” Geralt continues, cutting a glance upwards that makes his husband’s mouth snap shut. “I have invited Vesemir to stay a week with us at summer’s end. He has not replied, and with your insistence on not speaking with him, I am afraid he will decline the offer. Loving you for the rest of my days just not in this house, your beloved Jaskier.”
Geralt sighs and sits heavily on the ground next to his husband. He should have known that meddling was on Jaskier’s list of quirks, and when he found out he was the cause of the rift between father and son, he’s been determined ever since to fix it.
“He almost cost us both dearly,” Geralt says. A tired argument but still a good one.
“And you have cost him dearly in turn. Do you think it easy to lose the love of a son?” Jaskier counters. “With Lambert and Aiden working as traveling militia and Eskel settled with his goats closer to us than Kaedwen, who is left to snarl at the old wolf now?”
Geralt has also happened to marry a man who is often right.
“Write to him yourself,” Jaskier implores. “If the invitation comes from you, he will surely accept.”
“I will consider it.”
He’s going to do it.
“No promises.”
He’s going to do it that evening.
Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and lands a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Then I am pleased to say I can return to our magnificent villa at this very moment!”
Geralt hums in consideration, and then he rolls his husband onto his back in the soft grass. He looms over Jaskier, the afternoon sun warming his back, making him start to sweat.
“Not just this moment,” Geralt says lowly, and he dips down to show his husband what other plans he has in mind.