#this is dumb but u know that gifset of jaskier falling asleep cuddling his lute? yeah...

[julek]

A soft breeze wafted through the forest, the sounds of the early morning slowly coming through. Sunlight glowed against the treetops, effortlessly caressing the ground with its billowy fingers. 

Jaskier blinked against the clarity, his cheek mushed against his bedroll. It was entirely too cold to come out of his warm cocoon, he’d decided, but the sound of Geralt sharpening his swords crawled into his ears, the easy sound of routine setting into his bones as he stifled a yawn, his hair mussed and disheveled. He frowned at the sight of his lute case laying next to him on his bedroll, but ultimately paid it no mind.

“Morning,” he mumbled as he sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Geralt grunted non-commitally from the rock he was perched on. 

Jaskier stood up and walked over to Geralt, who was frowning more than was necessary for this early in the morning, in Jaskier’s opinion. He bent over to place a kiss to the Witcher’s hair, which he misplaced on his shoulder as Geralt stood up with him. 

Jaskier frowned in confusion. “What is it?”

Geralt hummed, jutting his jaw like he did whenever he was being stubborn. The gesture reminded Jaskier of a little kid, pouting when he got his sweets taken away, refusing to meet his mother’s eye. Right now, Geralt was the vivid image of caprice.

Jaskier inhaled deeply, internally praying to Melitele for some additional patience, and took Geralt’s face in his hands. 

“What is it?”, he repeated, softly this time. “It’s too early for your pout to come out.”

“I don’t pout.”

“You do, actually,” Jaskier said with a small smile on his lips. “What happened?”

Geralt looked away, as far as Jaskier’s hands on his face would let him. Jaskier mirrored his movements and found himself staring at their bedrolls, which would normally lay close together, now meters apart. Again, he frowned. 

“Why is your... did I snore too loudly? I knew I shouldn’t have had that last drink—oh, did I kick you? I know I do that sometimes, too...” Jaskier trailed off, his mind reeling.

“’S nothing, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice came out like a small whisper. “Leave it.”

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to pout. 

“No, wait— what happened? Because I very much remember falling asleep as a little spoon, as we very much laid in the same bedroll, and now...”

Geralt shook his head, picking up his sword again. Jaskier looked around for clues, any signs that he might’ve accidentally cast Geralt away in the middle of the night. His eyes fell on his lute.

“Geralt,” he started, gently as not to startle his kicked-puppy of a Witcher. “Look at me.”

Turning around, Geralt tried to school his features into a face of nonchalance, but Jaskier could see right through him. Taking a breath, he placed his hands on Geralt’s forearms, grounding him. 

“Is it, perchance, that you’re pouting,” he said, then bit his lip at his choice of words. “Sorry, sorry, not pouting — um, moping, because I may or may not have fallen into a loving embrace with my, ah, my lute during the night, thus kicking you out of our bedrolls?”

Geralt looked away, again, but the twitch of his lip gave Jaskier the answer. 

“Hey,” he said, again, trying to stifle a laugh. “I’m sorry. I promise it was totally unconscious— ha, as if I’d ever kick you out of my bed with or without good reason. There’s place for both of you in my heart.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “You always talk about how your one and only will always be your lute, and I thought....”

“And she is!” Jaskier said, dramatically taking a hand to his chest, “but— but, it’s also you. Only you, you thick-headed Witcher.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “Okay,” he murmured, and settled his forehead against Jaskier’s. “But you’re putting it in Roach’s saddlebags next time.”

Jaskier pulled back, gasping with offense. “Geralt! How could I?”

“You’ll have to take me in her place,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“I guess you’ll do,” Jaskier pouted, tangling a silver loose strand on his fingers. “Now, should I ask my lute for a good morning kiss, or would that be overstepping?”

“Hmm.” Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s hair, then his forehead, trailing small kisses over his brows, his nose, his cheekbone, and finally, his lips. “Good morning.”