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“Fuck,” Geralt grits out through clenched teeth as another boom sounds, shaking his chest with the force of it. Another bolt of lightning strikes, lighting everything up so that for only a moment, it’s as bright as daytime before the night is falling once more.
Geralt can hear Jaskier’s teeth chattering from up here. His hands tighten around Roach’s reins as they keep moving forward, trying to outrun the storm that’s hot on their heels. Geralt carefully pulls his cloak off his shoulders, tossing it down to his bard.
Jaskier looks up at him, his brows wrinkled. “Just take the cloak,” Geralt says, not wanting to argue. There’s an itch just under his skin, an instinct he’s worked at burying for so long trying to make itself known. He wants to pull Jaskier onto the saddle with him, to hold him tight and warm him up. But Geralt’s always been good at burying those things away where no one can find them.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says, his voice shaking with how cold he is. The cloak is too big, making Jaskier look smaller. Geralt looks away.
Geralt can hear the rain coming down, chasing just behind them. If it was just him, he’d spur Roach faster, outrunning the storm. But there’s no way he can leave the bard behind. Mostly because he’d never hear the end of it. That’s the lie he tells himself, anyway.
Geralt scans their surroundings, finding the perfect place to camp out and wait the storm out. He gently turns Roach to the right, guiding her towards the hill he’s spotted. “This way, Jaskier,” he says when he notices Jaskier’s confused look.
“We’re not that far from the city, Geralt! Why are we walking into the forest? We should find an inn.”
“We won’t make it to town in time. This will be safer.”
Jaskier groans, pulling Geralt’s cloak even tighter around himself. “Fine. But one of us doesn’t have the resilience of a witcher. One of us can’t feel our toes , Geralt.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts out, ignoring the zing that goes through his chest at Jaskier’s words. No wonder he was taught about the Path being for him and him alone. Taking care of someone alongside him is extra work and filled with distracting emotions.
It also offers warmer nights and less gnawing holes of loneliness inside his chest.
The thought of losing his companion terrifies him. The thought of keeping him might be even scarier.
“Thank the fucking gods,” Jaskier gets out, his body wracked with tremors as they step up to the hill Geralt found, ducking into the wide opening at the base. Another boom of thunder sounds, the noise overwhelming to Geralt’s mutant ears. He shakes his head slightly, focusing on murmuring words of encouragement to Roach as she steps into the small space within the side of this hill. It’s a tight squeeze for her but she trusts him.
“Good girl.”
“Cozy,” Jaskier says, looking around the small cave. The entire space is made up of rocks and dirt. It won’t be a comfortable night but at least they’ll stay dry, better than trying to outrun this storm. To prove his point, another boom sounds as rain starts to pour outside the entrance. “You have impeccable timing.”
“We don’t have any wood,” Geralt says, guiding Roach all the way to the back of the cave and guiding her to lay down. She does so with a bit of a huff but this will be best and he’s thankful she trusts him so much. If only the bard would do the same.
Geralt lets out a long breath, knowing he’s being unfair. They’ve come a long way since that first hunt. Jaskier trusts him, knowing when to follow Geralt to the t and when he can push back.
“God, why is this rain so fucking cold,” Jaskier complains, his entire body wracking with the intensity of his shiver. “It’s supposed to be warm spring rain, not this cursed abomination.”
Without his permission, Geralt smiles. And then he catches himself and stops, looking away. “Come here,” he says, his voice gruff even to his own ears. Putting his bedroll on the ground beside Roach, he turns back to Jaskier, waiting.
“What?”
Geralt rolls his eyes, sitting down beside Roach, leaning his back against her. He takes the other blanket they keep in Roach’s saddle, laying it around himself, keeping it open. It’s a clear invitation if Geralt’s ever seen one. “You heard me.”
“Oh,” Jaskier breathes before almost tripping over himself in his haste to join Geralt under the blanket. He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s back, pulling him tight against his body and making sure the blanket is wrapped around him. Jaskier makes a little noise at the back of his throat that Geralt pretends he didn’t hear and ignores the way it makes his chest warm pleasantly.
It’s not the first time they’ve touched. Far from it actually. But there’s something different about this time. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s necessary to keep Jaskier warm. Or maybe it’s the first time they’re touching after Geralt has come to term with these fucking feelings. Either way, he has the urge to tighten his hold around the bard and doesn’t deny himself.
Geralt’s left arm is wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulder and he starts as Jaskier’s cold hand runs up his arm under his shirt, touching his skin. He can feel Jaskier’s hand start to warm up, pride welling up within him. How can one man spur such emotions inside of him?
When he looks down, his eyes meet Jaskier’s blue ones, neither of them wanting to look away. Geralt feels trapped, like Jaskier holds his very soul within his lute calloused hands and fuck, when did he start picking up this poetic shit?
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is filled with something , something that tugs at Geralt’s gut. He opens his mouth to respond but just then, his eyes dart down to Jaskier’s lips, finding them a blue shade instead of pink.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“You’re freezing.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh. His warm breath fans over Geralt’s face. “No shit,” he says with an amused snort.
“Shut up and get over here,” Geralt murmurs, pushing Jaskier away so he can pull his shirt off and adjusting the blanket. When Jaskier doesn’t move, Geralt raises his brow. “I don’t think I stuttered, Jaskier.”
Jaskier shakes his head, his eyes wide. “Sorry, I just never expected-” he cuts himself off, waving a hand at Geralt’s chest. “ Really ?”
“Just come here.”
With tentative movements, Jaskier starts to shift, throwing his leg over and straddling Geralt’s lap. Geralt is impatient, tugging Jaskier forward and wrapping his arms around his back. Then he moves the blanket around Jaskier, hoping this will be enough to warm him up. Jaskier tucks his face against Geralt’s chest, his lips and cheeks icy but slowly starting to thaw.
Geralt allows himself a moment of weakness, letting himself run his nose through Jaskier’s hair, breathing him in. He runs his hands up and down Jaskier’s back and over his arms, doing his best to warm him up. Jaskier moves like he’s unsure, his hands shaking for more than just the cold as he touches Geralt.
“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers, his voice sounding more unsure than Geralt’s ever heard before. His boisterous, loud bard is suddenly quiet.
Geralt hums deep in my throat, hoping that conveys everything he’s feeling. He can feel Jaskier smile against his chest. He sucks in a sharp breath when Jaskier turns his head, planting a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart, his lips brushing over Geralt’s medallion.
There’s a long pause where Geralt holds his breath. And then Jaskier kisses his chest again. He shivers, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against Roach. The next gentle press of Jaskier’s lips is under his jaw.
Geralt sucks in a shaky breath, the back of his neck heating. He’s embarrassed by his own reactions, usually so in control. But Jaskier makes that control slip. He’s always had that power over Geralt. Instead of being afraid, exhilaration wells up inside of him.
Another kiss, this time higher on his jaw. The next is against his cheek. At this point, Geralt opens his eyes, staring at Jaskier, watching his every move.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, his eyes shining with openness. He leans forward, kissing the side of Geralt’s mouth and it makes him ache . The blanket around them is holding in their combined heat and he can feel the rigidness of Jaskier’s body slowly melt against him as he warms up.
A flash of lightning illuminates their little cave and Geralt takes in Jaskier’s face, sees the way he’s staring back at Geralt. Without saying a single word, Jaskier is putting his heart on the line. Geralt could push him away. Hell, he should push him away. All he’ll do is taint the light that Jaskier carries with him. He’ll get Jaskier killed.
But for once, Geralt decides to be selfish.
He gently runs his hand up Jaskier’s spine before tugging him down by the back of his head until he can kiss Jaskier fully on the lips. Jaskier makes the tiniest sound that only his witcher ears allow him to pick up and that little broken sound lights a fire within Geralt, spreading through his belly and chest until he knows he’ll never be able to go back to how things were before.
Before Geralt longed. Now, he’s not sure he can handle the longing, knowing exactly how Jaskier’s lips feel, how they taste .
“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back only enough to look into Jaskier’s eyes as another bolt of lightning shines through the entrance of their cave. Jaskier looks awestruck. Struck speechless for once in his life.
Geralt kisses him again.
And again.
Until all he knows is Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier . Their hands gently caress each other, their lips opening for each other’s tongues. Geralt feels content, maybe for the first time since he went through his Trials. He feels flayed open and seen, and at the same time he feels whole.
By the time Jaskier pulls back in order to breathe, his cheeks are pink. The healthy kind, not the kind that means he’s going to freeze.
The pouring rain is the only thing Geralt can hear over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. Jaskier’s hand comes up, cupping his face with a gentleness Geralt’s not used to. His entire life is hard and rough and bloody. Jaskier is the opposite of that.
“I don’t know why you want this,” Geralt whispers, needing to get the words out. He needs to give Jaskier an out.
“I don’t want an out,” he whispers back, always so good at reading Geralt, the bastard. “I just want you. I just didn’t think you’d want me back.”
Geralt swallows around the lump in his throat. He hums, giving himself a moment to process this, to think. “I do, Jaskier,” he confesses, his hands gripping Jaskier’s hips tight.
“Then you’ll have me,” Jaskier says back, his voice sounding borderline awe, light and happy. It’s just like his music and Geralt loves it. Hell, he loves him . And now that the flood gates are open, he doesn’t hold himself back from kissing Jaskier again.
If he’s lucky, the storm will last all night just so he’ll have an excuse to keep Jaskier against his chest and kiss him over and over and over again.
Or maybe it’ll let up soon so they can find an Inn and sleep in a real bed.
Either way, Geralt, for the first time in his very long life, feels content . And he holds on to that feeling just as tight as he holds on to his bard.