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Geralt comes awake slowly, warm and cocooned in the covers. He shifts, and everything feels muffled, sort of… floaty. It would be pleasant, if only it weren’t so odd. His eyes drift open.
…Something is very wrong.
Bolting out of bed, Geralt looks around. Their room at the inn is unnaturally dark, muted and almost dull, but from what he can tell everything’s how they left it the night before. Nothing out of the ordinary other than the way his ears feel stuffed with cotton, imbalanced like he’s had a few too many White Gulls.
His eyes dart back to the bed and Geralt sucks in a breath. Bright even in the dim light, a shock of white hair spills onto the pillowcase from a form that’s too broad to be Jaskier.
The edges of a horrifying realization loom as Geralt looks down, hand drifting to his chest. He’s… he’s wearing Jaskier’s chemise. His medallion is gone. And his hands. He rubs his fingers together to make sure, but there’s no doubt. These callouses aren’t from a sword. They’re from a lute.
“Fuck.”
He doesn’t have time to be distracted when the voice that comes out of his mouth is Jaskier’s own, because the Geralt-shaped man in the bed whimpers in pain.
The noise sends Geralt into high alert. Or, as alert as he can be with limited senses — human senses. Fuck. He hates this powerless muffled feeling already. Everything in him is telling him to assess the situation. To protect. But as soon as Geralt lays a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he flinches so violently that Geralt pulls back in alarm.
The other man lets out another painful whine. It’s deep and gravelly, yet there’s something so inherently Jaskier in tone that Geralt blurts, “Shit, Jaskier. Is that you?”
There’s an affirmative groan in reply, still weak with pain but familiar.
Geralt instinctively tries to scent the air for blood or distress and is struck with the sudden realization that he can’t. What’s more, he’s beginning to suspect with horrifying clarity that maybe Jaskier can.
There isn’t anything worse than enduring the Trial of the Grasses — mutagens ripping apart your body from the inside as you’re remade. Awakening from those Trials, and the overwhelming sensory assault that comes with it? It’s the only thing that comes close. Geralt underwent years of training to learn control over his senses, and he had Eskel with him when he came out of the Trials. But Jaskier…
Before Geralt can react, Jaskier makes an inquiring noise and pulls back the covers. “Why do you sound like—” Several things happen at once. Gold slitted eyes blink open to meet his own, and for one surreal moment Geralt stares at his own face. But within that same instant those eyes widen as Jaskier jerks back, covering his face with his hands as he cries out in pain.
The sound pierces Geralt like an arrow. Spells and curses of this sort are almost always temporary but he needs to do something. Faint tremors wrack Jaskier’s body and Geralt can’t disguise his answering whine. “It’s going to be alright, Jaskier,” he whispers, soft as he can.
“What’s wrong with me?”
Geralt tenses. The words witcher and wrong tangle in his mind, but he knows Jaskier doesn’t mean it that way. After a few moments of continued silence Jaskier adds, “And why do you look like me?”
Geralt licks his lips, clinging to the easier of the questions. “I’m in your body, and…” He sighs. “You’re in mine.”
Jaskier makes a small bewildered noise and shifts under the covers. Then he quietly breathes, “Gods.”
Geralt doesn’t want to think about this. Doesn’t want to think about how Jaskier has been forced to inhabit his broken, mutated body…
“I need to know if the spell is affecting you adversely,” Geralt starts, ignoring the guilt that claws at his throat.
“I feel like death warmed over, so”—Jaskier chokes out a scoff—“I’d say yes.”
Inspiration flashes behind Geralt’s eyes. “My medallion. Jaskier, is it vibrating? ”
“Oh… Yes that’s, I think that’s what woke me?” Discomfort laces his words, but his voice gains strength as he speaks. “It’s stopped now.”
This. He can work with this. “You’re in pain. What does it feel like?” He’s trying not to be short but it’s hard to keep the words back. “Please.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says. A few moments pass before he continues. “It’s hard to describe? Everything is so much. Even the air hurts. It’s like…”
“Like you can hear every sound for miles?” Geralt says, soft. “Like you can smell the past week’s worth of people who have been in this room? Like the light burns into your skull, and fabric rubs like sandpaper?” Jaskier makes a small noise of assent and something akin to understanding, and Geralt bites his lip so hard he nearly breaks the skin. It isn’t enough. It’s not nearly enough. “I… I’m sorry, Jaskier. They’re witcher senses. Young witchers undergo years of training to learn to control them.” He doesn’t know how else to describe it. “Being overwhelmed by that, it’s normal.” Normal feels too small a word.
“This is normal?” Jaskier’s voice raises, and then he makes a pained noise as he speaks too loudly for his own ears. After a few quiet breaths, Jaskier asks, soft and sad, “Geralt, how can you stand it?”
Geralt’s mouth moves silently, forming around several lies and condolences before he finds himself saying, “It doesn’t hurt like it did. Not once I learned to control it.” There’s more emotion in his voice than he’s used to hearing, and, ironically, he doesn’t know how to control it.
“But it still hurts.” It’s not a question, the words laced with a soft understanding that buries itself beneath Geralt’s sternum.
The sheets rustle again, and Geralt startles when Jaskier’s hand clasps around his own and squeezes. Geralt squeezes back and something within him breaks.
He has a choice, he realizes. He could leave. He could make do with this weaker human body, find whoever did this, and set things to rights. Or he could stay and try to help Jaskier.
Jaskier makes another muffled noise of pain and really, it’s no choice at all.
Carefully, Geralt extracts himself from Jaskier’s hold and takes a critical look around the room. The lack of sensory input is deafening, but he forces himself to focus.
The candles from last night have all been snuffed, and the fire has burned down to ash. The only light remaining filters through a crack in the curtains, bringing with it the sounds of an awakening town. Geralt grabs his cloak and both of their bedrolls, stumbling a little as he learns his center of gravity and how Jaskier’s body moves. The heavy cloak he throws over the curtains, blocking the last of the light and sound. He leaves their packs blocking the crack under the door for good measure.
In spite of every attempt to move as softly and silently as possible — a much harder task in Jaskier’s body than his own — he still stubs a toe and can’t help the little yelp that comes out of his mouth. It’s like Jaskier’s body was born to make noise.
Finally, he finds himself back at Jaskier’s bedside, the untied bedrolls soft and heavy in his hands. Try as he might, he can’t hear Jaskier’s breathing or heartbeat. His fingers clench.
“I...” Geralt trails off, awkward. He’s known about his feelings for Jaskier for a long time, but he’s never acted on them, no matter how much he’s wanted to. Would this be overstepping his bounds? Would it make Jaskier uncomfortable? Geralt knows Witchers weren’t made to offer comfort. They certainly weren’t made to love.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is gruff, strained.
Geralt aches. He drapes the bedrolls on top of Jaskier’s form, stacking them along with the extra blanket from the foot of the bed. Once done, he whispers as softly as he can, “I want to help you focus your senses, but…” He sighs. “I’ve got to lift the covers to get inside, is that alright?”
Jaskier hums in affirmation, then stops and chuckles. “I’m even starting to sound like you,” he teases.
Instead of replying, Geralt swiftly lifts the covers to join him, laying on his side. It’s truly pitch dark, but he knows Jaskier can probably still make out his features.
For a moment they lie there awkwardly, only Jaskier’s pained breaths breaking the silence. “Geralt,” Jaskier starts. “Out of professional curiosity, did you just build us a blanket fort?”
Technically, yes.
“No,” Geralt says.
Before he can overthink things, Geralt fumbles for Jaskier’s hand, bringing it to lay over his heart. Geralt carefully does not think about how warm Jaskier’s hand is against his chest, nor the intimacy of their position. “It helps if you have something to focus on,” he grits out. He’s not sure if he’s telling Jaskier or himself.
“You want me to focus on your heartbeat?” Jaskier asks, a smile in his words.
Geralt is not going to be embarrassed by this. He isn’t. “Yes. Both listening and feeling. It will help. Try to focus on that and nothing else.”
“Alright,” Jaskier breathes. A few moments pass, and Geralt can almost imagine the look of quiet concentration on Jaskier’s face. He hears Jaskier moving, settling and resettling, and Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand. Finally, Jaskier makes a noise of frustration and tugs Geralt closer. Before Geralt even realizes what’s happened, Jaskier has moved down to press his ear to Geralt’s chest, arms wrapped tight around him.
They are… pretty much cuddling. Tension locks Geralt’s limbs, which isn’t helpful to anyone, he thinks. Slowly, he relaxes his muscles, awkwardly lifting his arms to wrap around Jaskier. “Is this okay?” Geralt whispers, feeling hair brush past his lips as he tilts his head down.
He can feel Jaskier’s nod against his chest, and Geralt finds himself gently stroking Jaskier’s hair, the way Jaskier sometimes does for him after he washes it. Slowly, Jaskier relaxes into the embrace, though his breath continues to stutter. Without giving it much conscious thought, Geralt starts to speak. “Eskel did this for me, when I awoke from my second Trial of the Grasses.”
Jaskier stills. Geralt never talks about Kaer Morhen, or becoming a witcher. He knows Jaskier is curious, but Jaskier’s always shown surprising restraint, never pushing the issue. It’s one of the reasons Geralt trusts Jaskier, he thinks. And now that Geralt has started this line of conversation, he knows even without looking that Jaskier is listening with bated breath.
Geralt swallows, and presses on. “He’s my brother, or the closest thing I have to one. We were inseparable as kids, absolute terrors.” Geralt laughs a bit. “Get a few White Gulls in us now and we can still be terrors.” Jaskier huffs, and Geralt can imagine his smile. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he keeps talking, sharing stories of his irregular childhood, leaning on the happy memories more than the sad. Jaskier relaxes and listens quietly as Geralt whispers the words into the dark. It’s… easier than he expected, somehow. He’s never talked about these things, not like this. Once he starts it’s hard to stop.
He talks for a long time. Longer than he’s talked in what feels like an age. It leaves his throat dry and scratchy and he needs a drink of water, but Jaskier finally relaxes in his arms, warm breath caressing Geralt’s skin through the thin chemise. Slowly, like the rising of the tide, Jaskier’s breath evens out into the cadence of sleep.
A familiar ache spreads through Geralt’s chest as he holds Jaskier close, fingers carding through his hair as gently as if it were the finest gossamer. If only he could do more for him…
Geralt’s eyes drift shut, and he can barely hear the world outside as it greets the morning.
***
Geralt wakes slowly, warm and unusually comfortable. A familiar heartbeat thunders by his ear.
He blinks his eyes open, and his face is pressed to Jaskier’s thin chemise. They’re tangled up in the covers together, and though the noise and light are slightly dulled by the blankets, he can hear the townsfolk outside getting on with their day, shouting and milling about. There’s bustling downstairs in the kitchen too, dishes being washed and quiet conversations. Thank the gods he’s back in his own body. He breathes deep, and the relief of Jaskier’s comforting scent washes over him. Unable to help himself, he presses his face further into Jaskier’s chest, enjoying the way Jaskier’s presence echoes all around him, calming Geralt the way he always does.
Regrettably, it’s not long before Jaskier stirs. Geralt feels the sharp intake of breath before Jaskier says, “Oh bless Melitele’s voluptuous bosom and all the gods besides.” It’s indescribably relieving to hear Jaskier’s voice coming from Jaskier again, not that he’d ever say that aloud.
Geralt mentally prepares himself for Jaskier to move away, but then the most amazing thing happens: Jaskier pulls him closer. Gentle hands, tentative at first, stroke his hair and back, a perfect mirror to earlier. Geralt hardly dares to breathe.
“Thank you.” The words are whispered into his hair. “I don’t know how I could’ve handled that without you.”
Geralt hums in reply, and the familiar feeling almost makes him smile. Best of all, Jaskier keeps petting his hair. Finally, in a voice low and rumbling and all his own, Geralt says, “You’re welcome.”
After a few minutes Jaskier pulls back the layers of blankets, revealing the still-darkened room. Even with the rising sun, the cloak blocks enough light that Jaskier can probably hardly see at all.
Geralt gets up, looking back when Jaskier doesn’t rise to follow.
Jaskier purses his lips. “Is it really like that for you? All the time?”
There’s pain lacing Jaskier’s words and Geralt hates it. He wants to soothe, but it’s difficult to loosen his tongue. Instead, he strides to the window and pulls down the cloak, opening the curtains. Morning light and noise stream in, and in an action he’s long stopped thinking about, he narrows his focus and constricts his pupils to adjust.
He turns to Jaskier, who, unlike Geralt, blinks in the bright light. Geralt collects his words. “I hardly remember what it was like to experience the world the way you do.”
Jaskier nods, and he looks lost in thought. “It must’ve been difficult for you too. I was so overwhelmed I hadn’t even considered…” Jaskier trails off. “I’m surprised you didn’t immediately rush off to hunt down what caused this, after finding yourself in my body.”
In the safety of his own mind, Geralt can admit that it was difficult. That he was overwhelmed. But he’s honest in his answer too. There was never any question of leaving Jaskier behind. “It didn’t matter, you needed my help."
A gently rising warmth spreads through Jaskier’s expression. “You care about me so much more than you let on,” Jaskier says, his voice soft enough to bruise.
“It was nothing,” Geralt replies, looking everywhere except at Jaskier.
Jaskier laughs, standing and moving close. Gentle fingers brush Geralt’s chin, and he finds himself meeting Jaskier’s eyes, which somehow soften even further. Jaskier beams at him. “I love you too, dear heart.”
That’s… that’s not what he thought Jaskier would say. That’s not at all what he thought Jaskier would say. Geralt’s mind is wide and blank and… did he say too? The yawning ache in his chest opens and threatens to swallow him whole.
He’s meant to speak, he’s fairly certain. His mouth even opens, but nothing comes out. How can he possibly convey all that Jaskier means to him?
Jaskier laughs again, and his expression is so gentle the ache gets even worse. “I don’t need witcher senses to figure out that look.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it. You show me all the time, don’t you?”
Geralt knows he would be blushing if he could. “Hm,” is all he can manage in reply, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his eyes have strayed to Geralt’s lips and… oh. Oh.
There must be some clue hidden in Geralt’s eyes because Jaskier reacts anyway, smiling like the sun before he leans in to capture Geralt’s lips in a gentle kiss.
When they part, still breathing each other’s air, Jaskier whispers, “Now, let’s go find out whoever placed that spell on us and give them a very stern talking to, then come back here and continue what we started. What do you say?”
In spite of the joy burning through him, Geralt carefully neutralizes his expression and nods. “I did spend a long time on that blanket fort.”
Jaskier’s voice rings with a laugh and the sound echoes through Geralt’s mind, musical and familiar. Geralt smiles.