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Friends.
Friends is a concept that Jaskier keeps pushing onto Geralt. In the beginning, Geralt resisted it with all his might. Meaning, he huffed and puffed and tried to get the young bard bored of him. There were many reasons for that. Part of it was his guilt regarding Renfri, part of it was the history of Witchers and everything that came with being associated with them.
Another part was that Jaskier was, and is, beautiful.
Not in the classical sense, not like the elves and their flawless, ageless appearances, nor in the objective way you would think when you call a man beautiful. It’s hard to explain, but Jaskier reminds Geralt of nature. Filled to the brim with life, like sunshine on a cold day, like rain on fresh dirt, like a swan, territorial and hissing aggressively.
In any case, Jaskier kept calling him friend back then, until Geralt came to accept that they were. Jaskier looks at him in delight when Geralt cracks up, keeps egging him on with stupid ideas and witty, clever banter. It’s not that Geralt doesn’t laugh, but a lot of people don’t like to think of him as human, and are actually bothered by it. But Jaskier has always made a point of being there, through good or bad, and Geralt eventually came to trust that he always would, and did the same.
Like when his childhood friend passed, and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to speak for over a week. Or when his songs got him into trouble, whether it was for being witcher friendly, or for how he decided to insult the local brawn-with-no-brains.
Point is, friendship is now a word they hold together, with some trial and a lot of error. And now, years down the road, a word Geralt reminds himself of.
Friend.
Jaskier is his friend.
You don’t kiss your friends, Geralt.
It’s really fucking hard not to sometimes, though.
Like when they meet up after time apart, and Jaskier throws himself at Geralt for a hug, all encompassing. To have Jaskier close enough to hold, chest to chest, his hair in Geralt’s face. Geralt has to hold him tightly, himself too, to stop from turning to kiss him senseless.
Like when Jaskier leans in close while squinting and pointing out Geralt has one hair in his eyebrow that is growing straight out, and Jaskier wants, nay, needs to pluck it. Not romantic per se, but he is within kissing range, and Geralt can’t get it out of his head.
He doesn’t think it’d be unwelcome. Jaskier is a romantic at heart, hidden behind his sarcastic and haughty expressions. Every time Geralt watches Jaskier break someone’s heart, he can see the longing in the bard. Geralt isn’t sure he can keep up with all that Jaskier seems to want, not sure he can be what Jaskier deserves.
He wants to kiss him all the same, and sometimes Jaskier looks at him like he is waiting for it.
There is an abandoned woodcutter’s camp that they choose to camp in for a few days, overgrown but still sturdy. There is a rumor that there is a forgotten grave site somewhere in the vicinity, and the creature that set up residence there has either scared off or eaten the last brave woodcutters.
The shed where the firewood is kept is just around the corner of the little sleeping cabin, and past that is a small well.
Everything they need without having to go far from the camp itself, which is good, because Geralt really doesn't want Jaskier wandering the woods for necessities. He has spotted warg tracks as well, and suspects there is a flock of them in the area too.
Evidence points towards the usual suspects, a hag or ghouls, or even a leshen, but he needs to find the grave site first.
It’s their second evening at the woodcutter camp. A fire is lit in the small fireplace and a gathering of candles is spread throughout the room so that Jaskier’s… mostly human eyes can properly see as he reads out loud from the book.
Geralt lies sprawled on the threadbare and dirty carpet in front of the fireplace, leaning on his elbow as Jaskier reads animatedly next to him.
His thigh is pressing into Geralt’s, warm and comforting, and Geralt feels it with his entire being.The book is a romance between a woman and her lover who turns out to be a vampire. Geralt guessed it three pages in, with loud protests from Jaskier who wanted the story to play out, to “enjoy the mystery” some more.
The further he reads, the more ridiculous it gets, with inaccuracies and plot holes that even Jaskier can’t excuse. Geralt watches him, how Jaskier is laid out on his back; his hair is getting a bit long, fanning out around his head like a spiky, messy crown. Firelight always paints with a romantic light, if you believe the poet on the floor, and at least in his mind Geralt is willing to agree.
The shadows are deeper, the colors richer, bathed in a golden shine.
Geralt doesn’t realize he is not listening to the words anymore, just the sound, caught in the way he can glint Jaskier’s teeth when he speaks. How long his fingers look along the spine of the book, or resting against his chest. Geralt can feel himself smiling, and for once doesn’t stop it, just watching the bard.
His friend.
His friend who is watching him back with a peculiar look.
“Geralt?”
“Hm?”
“Did you listen at all?”
“Yeah.”
“To the words, not my voice. Don’t make that face, I know the look you get when you get lost in thought.”
“You asked if I listened at all. I did.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, letting the book fall down on his chest.
“What are you thinking about?”
Friends. Geralt is thinking of how Jaskier is his friend, and you do not kiss your friends.
“You’re looking at me like that again,” Jaskier says, voice quiet as he looks up at Geralt, and Geralt snaps to attention.
“Like what?” he asks, but he knows. And he should care, but Jaskier too has that expression, the one where he seems to be waiting for Geralt to catch up.
Jaskier doesn’t reply, just letting his eyes dance across Geralt’s face.
“Like what?” he asks again, because he wonders what Jaskier sees.
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier repeats. “Tell me.”
“Things I shouldn’t,” Geralt admits.
The book falls to the floor between them as Jaskier shifts towards him, shoved out of the way, careless of what page they were on.
“Maybe you should,” Jaskier says, one arm pillowing his head, the other resting in the no man’s land between them, next to Geralt’s own hand. Geralt can’t stop watching Jaskier, the way his cheek shapes as he puts weight on it, the gentleness around his mouth as he waits. “Maybe I want you to,” Jaskier says when Geralt still does nothing.
“You’re my friend,” Geralt says, fingers twitching to reach out. Jaskier notices, and stretches his pinkie out to overlap with Geralt’s own, hooking around it.
“Yes,” Jaskier agrees. “You are the best thing that happened to me.”
Geralt wants to touch, and suddenly he can’t really remember why he shouldn’t.
Leaning forward on his elbow, he frees his hand to reach up and comb the hair off Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier leans into it, eyes fluttering shut briefly, before catching Geralt’s gaze again.
The world shrinks, the air feels heavy with anticipation, and Jaskier’s skin is warm and clean against his hand. Jaskier wants him to. Wants him to do the thing he shouldn’t. They have waited long enough, haven’t they?
It’s terrifying to reach for more, to pull Jaskier closer to himself with a firm hand against his back. The bard’s hand comes to rest against Geralt’s chest, not to stop the motion, but to catch himself.
The word friend doesn’t feel like enough to describe what they are, what they have been for each other, what might come after this. The ache he has been feeling is growing pains, he thinks, as Jaskier’s warm hand travels up, fiddling with his shirt collar.
Geralt doesn’t allow himself to think at all as he leans forward, nuzzling along Jaskier’s temple. Jaskier nuzzles back, angling himself so that their noses are touching, circling around each other. It’s sweet and intimate, and Geralt breaks into a smile, sharing a breath with Jaskier.
“You still think I should?” Geralt murmurs, Jaskier’s hand traveling further, resting along Geralt’s neck. He doesn’t even try to suppress the pleasant shudder that evokes, just flattening his palm along Jaskier’s back.
“I really, really think you should, whatever is going through that brilliant mind of yours,” Jaskier murmurs back, eyes dipping down to Geralt’s lips before meeting his eyes again.
So Geralt does. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s brow, soft and lingering. Then in the corner of his eye.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, fingers flexing, then shifting up to hold him closer.
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers back, then kisses the bridge of his bard’s nose, which is a bit silly but it is within reach, so why not?
“Jaskier,” he says again, propping himself up so he can press a kiss on Jaskier’s neck without toppling them over.
The intimacy of tucking his head somewhere so vulnerable, where he can completely disappear from the world, breathe Jaskier in and taste warm skin under his lips… Geralt stays there, enjoying the rasp of stubble as he just moves back and forth. He feels the vibration when Jaskier makes a pleased hum, and allows himself to be guided up, and up, until it’s Jaskier doing that thing he believed they shouldn’t.
They slot together effortlessly, like they always belonged there. A tingling rushes through Geralt, making his entire body spark as if he was a teenager again, being kissed for the first time.
When they pull back they don’t go far, watching each other.
“So that happened,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt has to smile again, still jittery with nervous energy.
“It did. Still think I should have?”
“Mmmh, I think it was me who did all the work, actually,” Jaskier teases, leaning up for their noses to brush again. “It’s your turn now.”
“Oh is it?”
It’s not scary to lean in this time, Jaskier’s lips are pliant under his, warm and welcoming. Maybe that’s the difference, Geralt thinks. Maybe this is where they needed to start. As friends.
Not that it gives any kind of justice to how Geralt is filled to the brim with warmth.
Eventually, Jaskier wrestles the arm Geralt was propping himself up on to his liking, using it as a pillow as he leans back against Geralt and continues reading from the book.
Finding the correct page was a struggle, especially since Geralt was too distracted to actually remember what Jaskier read last, and they might have skipped ahead a few pages. The lover does indeed turn out to be a vampire, and Geralt gleefully points out inaccuracies while Jaskier protests loudly and argues for artistic license. Geralt’s free arm is wrapped around Jaskier’s stomach, and every now and then he nuzzles the side of Jaskier’s neck, because now he can, because he is allowed, because he should.
There is still a niggling of worry that he won’t be enough, that Jaskier deserves more than he can give, and they probably will have to talk about that.
But maybe it’s alright to be a little selfish sometimes.
Especially when it leads to cold feet tangling with his, kohl stains in his one white tunic and gentle kisses when Jaskier smiles at him in a way that has the corner of his eyes crinkling.