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Pain.
That’s all Jaskier had known; blinding pain. His side burned from the oozing wound, infected and really fucking sore… or at least it had been. Geralt had dragged his broken and half unconscious arse to a nearby healer, and now Jaskier felt like he was flying.
The pain was swiftly becoming a distance memory as he drifted happily in the tiny little healers hut. In fact, he wasn’t even sure why he had to lie down anymore. He wasn’t hurt! He felt fucking fantastic, nothing in the world could bring him down. With that in mind he decided he was done being a lazy shit, and ready to go out into the world again. People to see, music to write, ooh maybe he could even visit Cidaris and give Marx a piece of his mind. It had been far too long since they’d verbally sparred, and he found he rather missed it.
“Time to go!” he declared as he tried to sit up, but there were hands pushing him down onto the table. “Oi! Geralt!”
“Stay still,” the witcher grumbled.
“I’m fine, darling. Now. Let. Me. Up!”
“No.”
“Geralt,” he whined, pouting up at his friend.
His very pretty friend. Really Geralt was unfairly attractive; tall, strong, big man with the pretty eyes and hair to die for. Jaskier wanted to smooch him. He should be allowed to smooch him.
“Maybe later,” Geralt hummed, and Jaskier realised with a start that he’d said all of that out loud. “Yeah.”
He whined, covering his face with his hands, but that was even worse because then he could see Geralt. He wanted to see the pretty man with sunshine eyes, most beloved witcher, gorgeous, lovely, Geralt.
“Jaskier, shut up.”
“Don’t mean to,” he mumbled and tried to sit up again.
“Stay still, Julek.”
Jaskier’s jaw dropped open and he stared up at his friend with wide eyes. He was sure Geralt had never called him that before… no one had. No one had ever cared about him enough to even think about it. He whined again, reaching for Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. “Geralt,” he whispered… or at least he thought he’d whispered it. Clearly he had no idea what nonsense was spewing from his mouth right now, but he didn’t really care.
Julek.
“Hnnnng,” he choked out, struggling to stop himself from throwing himself into Geralt’s arms.
“Stitches aren’t done, then I’ll hug you, but carefully, Jaskier.”
“Okay,” he mumbled, still pouting up at his friend.
He felt restless, even with Geralt’s hand in his and the touch on his shoulder. It was hard not to try and fly away. He wanted to fly, to sing, to scream out to the sky, but Geralt’s touch kept him grounded until finally:
“All done.”
“Well, thank fuck for that!” He laughed and tried again to stand up, but despite the lack of pain, his legs gave way underneath him. “Oh shit!”
Luckily Geralt caught him or he would be a mess of bard on the floor.
“Still a mess of bard,” Geralt chuckled as he held Jaskier steady.
Oh… they were hugging! That was nice. Jaskier giggled and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck. “Say it again?”
“You’re a mess?”
“Oi! No! Not that!”
“My Julek,” Geralt murmured, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s temple.
Ooh didn’t that just give him weird fluttery feelings in his chest. This was flying, he decided. It must be. He felt like he had wings! He could soar above the world and never have to look down, and Geralt would soar with him… because- because…
Oh.
Because Jaskier loved him.
“I-”
“I love you too,” Geralt replied before Jaskier could say the words, unless he’d already said them. Who could be sure?
He decided not to think too hard about it and just swayed into the hug, too tired to dance but still unable to hold still. Geralt’s hand pressed into the small of his back and they stayed like that for… well Jaskier wasn’t sure how long. It could have been forever or just the span of his heart beat. He sighed happily, swaying gently in his witcher’s embrace, the man he loved and who loved him in return.