can we have 100 please 💖💖
#100. "it's always been you" kisses
The hall is empty when Geralt gets there.
The tables are deserted, the chairs vacant; errant goblets staining the hardwood with spilled wine, candles flickering silently, following the rhythm of the rain pouring down outside.
His cloak is soaked through: he hadn’t had the chance to outrun the downpour once the sky broke open, instead pressing Roach to get to the University as quickly as her legs could carry them. He couldn’t look back.
Maybe I’ll see you in the spring, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his head as his hand leaves the door handle and he wanders inside. Or maybe not— you could be busy, you know, what with the Witcher-princess training you lot must have going on. Not the time for old acquaintances to tag along.
Oh, but how wrong Geralt had been.
The tapestries on the wall seem to know, too, old faces looking down on him with disdain. They must have seen him, frozen in place as Jaskier had shaken his hand — shaken his hand, as if they were nothing but strangers — and bid him and Roach farewell. They must have seen the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched together as Jaskier’s retreating figure grew tinier and tinier on the horizon. They must have heard all the words Geralt couldn’t say, the confession that threatened to escape from under his sleeve.
He’d made it halfway up the mountain when Roach turned around for him. He didn’t even question her judgment — he knew it too, deep down.
But it seems Oxenfurt has canceled the term — seems like the early winter was harsh enough to make them take cover in their well-furnished apartments with those vivacious fireplaces Jaskier thinks so fondly of when they’re in the thick in the winter, lying on the forest floor, side by side.
Seems like he’s, once again, late.
He closes the door behind him when he leaves, pulling his hood up if only to cover his face, to hide the disappointment blooming in his chest as he walks down the cobblestone corridors to the stables.
“No luck, girl,” he tells Roach when he gets there, his hand patting her neck affectionately. She nickers — sympathetically, he’d like to think — in reply.
His foot is on the stirrup when a hollow sound gives him pause.
“Geralt!”
Roach snorts at the sight of a pale, drenched-rat-looking Jaskier, ruining his precious boots as he runs across the mud in the pouring rain, his robes flying behind him.
“Geralt!” He calls again, finally reaching the shelter of the stables and catching his breath by a pillar. “I thought I’d be too late.”
That’s me, Geralt thinks. I’m always too late.
But he says, “Jaskier,” in a soft whisper, and walks closer, because he can’t help himself.
The bard is a sight: his hair is somehow both up in the air and sticking down to his forehead, cheeks flushed red and blue eyes so, so blue. He’s wearing green robes and he looks so beautiful, so ridiculous with his lecturing clothes clinging to his skin, Geralt wants to take him in his arms and carry him inside, get him close to a fire.
He does no such thing, of course.
But he does wait.
“I thought I’d seen you,” Jaskier says once he’s regained his breath. “Through my bedroom window. I said to myself it couldn’t be you— why would you even be here is beyond me— but here you are. In the flesh.”
“In the flesh,” Geralt echoes, and, suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He fists them around Roach’s reins. “You are… well.”
“I am freezing, is what I am,” Jaskier replies with a dashing grin, wringing water from his fringe, even though there’s still a cloud of confusion over his eyes. “Why are you here, Geralt? I don’t mind the surprise visit, of course I don’t, but I…”
He pauses, expectant.
Right. Words.
Geralt knows those.
“Roach,” he starts, and that’s not what he was meant to say, but he’s said it, so he has to go along with it— “she missed you.”
Jaskier’s eyes are blue. Blue and wide. “...Oh.” He seems to regain his composure. “Oh, well, of course I’ve missed her as well. Terribly.”
Geralt pats her on the neck. “Of course.”
Jaskier looks like he wants to say something, and his mouth is a small circle before he seems to change his mind, and he looks at Geralt’s clothes. “You’re soaked,” he says, reaching for him and taking his hand back at the last minute, hesitant. “Come inside, I’ll get you some clean clothes for the journey.”
He turns around, sure that Geralt will follow him, but Geralt can’t take it— can’t see the hurt lingering in Jaskier’s eyes and not do something, can’t keep throwing salt in the wound and expecting it to not sting.
“Jaskier,” he breathes, and the bard turns around, and it’s too much. “It’s… I’m…”
If he reached out his hand, he could find out if Jaskier’s cheeks are as soft as they look.
He does.
“Geralt…”
Geralt closes his eyes, drawing him closer, and Jaskier goes — of course he does — and his cheek is soft and warm under his touch, and he needs him to be near, needs him to want to be near.
“You’re not an old acquaintance,” Geralt murmurs in the space between them, tipping his forehead to rest against Jaskier’s. “You couldn’t be.”
“Geralt.”
“You’re…” he breathes in. Breathes Jaskier in. “I’ve been a liar. All this time.”
He pulls back, opens his eyes. He circles Jaskier’s waist in his hands, and the bard looks small, vulnerable. Breakable.
He won’t break him anymore.
“There have been important people in my life,” he continues, under Jaskier’s careful gaze. “I’ve made you think you weren’t one of them. Jask, I— I pushed you away.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “I’m—”
“I’ve made you believe you weren’t one of the most important people in my life,” he repeats, “when all this time… Jaskier…”
He can hear Jaskier’s heart beating close to his.
“It’s always been you.”
Geralt kisses the grin off Jaskier’s face — or tries to, but they’re both smiling and their teeth clack together and they have to start all over again, and it’s messy and far from perfect, but they have time to make mistakes.
They have time to make it right.
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He feels warm. There is a gentle buzzing behind his eyes and right now, all Geralt can feel is bliss.
“Sometimes,” he begins, “I wish I could stop time.”
“Is that so?” Jaskier answers, taking another swig from the bottle of ale they keep passing between them, a drop running down his chin.
“Hmm,” Geralt says, too tired and tipsy to do much else.
It is one of his best-kept secrets that he can’t hold his liquor at all, but here, on the side of the road with the sun shining high and a gentle breeze on his skin, he doesn’t have to pretend.
“And why is that?”
Geralt steals the bottle back from Jaskier, drinking up the last bit before lazily throwing it to the side, the ale cool on his tongue.
“Because certain moments deserve to be savoured.”
He leans forward, and before he knows it, Jaskier is close. Very close.
And somehow, Geralt doesn’t mind. Hasn’t in a while.
Because the way Jaskier looks at him, that oh so familiar smile on his lips and his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief in them?
It makes Geralt’s body tingle in a way that cannot be blamed on any amount of alcohol, and his stomach flutters as myriads of butterflies take off.
“What kind of moments are we talking about?”
Jaskier knows, and the way he’s leaning in, their hands barely touching and the feeling of his breath on Geralt’s face makes his heart ache.
When it started, he does not remember, but it’s been too long since he has allowed himself to get this close to anyone.
Maybe it is the first time. Maybe it will be the last.
But the one certainty is that it’s Jaskier.
Jaskier, who is just there. Who is warm and kind and who has just inched even closer, and oh my, their noses are definitely touching now.
The alcohol is making Geralt’s tongue heavy, but words aren’t needed when he finally leans in and his heart might just jump out of his chest.
If he was warm before, he is burning up now, and somehow, his hands end up underneath Jaskier’s shirt and they’re both left breathless when he eventually pulls back.
“Something like that,” he says, and if his cheeks are turning red, he doesn’t care.
“Something like that,” Jaskier repeats, and then Geralt has a bard in his lap and his mind goes blank.
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