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“O Oxenfurt, apple of my eye, home of my heart, how I’ve missed you.” Jaskier sighs contentedly, then throws up his hands in a decidedly dramatic gesture of love for his city. But this is Oxenfurt, overflowing with the dramatic, and no one even glances his way.
No one but Geralt, who gives him a small, indulgent smile in response.
Melitele, but he loves Geralt of Rivia.
And so he does a happy little dance, wriggling his hips with a wink in Geralt’s direction. He’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Jaskier and Geralt may have been dancing around each other for years but it’s only been a few weeks since they started kissing, and Jaskier can’t get over the idea that he has such power over this incredibly powerful man.
“Jask,” Geralt says, and Jaskier thrills at the way his voice cracks.
“Say it again. Please, Geralt? I love the way you say my name.”
Geralt swallows, and Jaskier feels a delightful twist low in his gut at the way Geralt’s throat bobs.
“Julek,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier melts.
“Darling,” says Jaskier, fighting to control his breathing. “Darling. If you keep talking like that we’ll never make it to my rooms.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at Geralt, who barks a laugh in response.
“Lead on, bard.” As if Geralt doesn’t know exactly where they’re going. Still, Jaskier grins and takes Geralt by the hand, tugging him (and Roach) along. He chatters excitedly about this tavern and that bookshop and those lovely flowers, and before he knows it they’re stabling Roach and climbing the narrow staircase to Jaskier’s sometimes-home.
Jaskier drops his bag onto a somewhat dusty chair and spins slowly to take in his rooms. “It’s good to be home, even for a few days,” he says. Here he’s surrounded by his books, his papers scribbled with bits of poems or songs, the potted plants on every windowsill, the few things he’s collected since he began traveling with Geralt. He loves criss-crossing the Continent with his witcher, meeting new people, having adventures. Performing. But this little space, these small rooms, are comfortable in a different kind of way.
Rubbing his hands on his breeches to rid them of dust, Jaskier says, “Well darling. Should we scrub off the grime of travel at the bathhouse or fill our bellies at a tavern? I wouldn’t mind visiting The Poet’s Quill, there’s almost always good music there, though of course not as good as…” He lets his thought trail into nothing when he sees that Geralt hasn’t heard a word he’s said.
“Geralt?”
The witcher in question startles (as much as Geralt ever allows surprise to show, with a soft intake of breath) and looks at Jaskier. He looks away just as quickly.
“I…” Geralt, always a man of few words, seems to be truly at a loss. Alarm bells begin to clang in Jaskier’s whirling mind.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. Carefully. “What occupies your thoughts so fully that you forget I’m here even when I’m speaking to you?”
“Your bed.” The words are barely audible, but no less surprising for their lack of volume. “We could. In the bed. If. I mean, if you want to.” He still won’t meet Jaskier’s gaze.
And then it’s Jaskier who can’t find words. After a full minute of standing like a fish, mouth opening and closing without letting any sound escape, Jaskier says, “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go for a walk.”
They walk in a silence bordering on uncomfortable (Jaskier’s heart is thumping wildly, and when he remembers that Geralt can actually hear it he makes a solid effort to bring it under control but is largely unsuccessful) until Jaskier admits he is a bit peckish and suggests they go to the market. Geralt hums, as he does, and that slight return to normalcy calms Jaskier’s heart more than anything he could accomplish on his own. They spend a little time wandering from booth to booth and leave the market with a small round of cheese, a loaf of still-warm bread, and a bit of venison sausage. When Jaskier starts walking away from the market with purpose Geralt asks where they’re going.
Jaskier smiles at Geralt, bumping their shoulders together. “One of my favorite places in the city.” Geralt presses (or raises a questioning eyebrow, which is very nearly enough coercion for Jaskier) but Jaskier refuses to elaborate beyond an unhelpful “It’s not far.”
The botanic gardens are so beautiful in the summer—a kaleidoscope of color, light dancing off the water of the many ponds and streams, the air heavy with the scent of so many flowers—even Geralt is affected. It’s more than that for Jaskier; of course he appreciates the beauty, but he mainly visits the gardens to find strength.
They settle on a patch of soft grass near a small terrace of sweet smelling pink roses. It’s almost an alcove, one of many tucked away places that Jaskier loves so much. Geralt, after his initial response to the botanic gardens, has returned to wary silence. “I wasn’t saying no,” Jaskier says, a bit nonsensically. “Back in my rooms, I wasn’t saying no. But you looked so uncomfortable, darling. The bed seemed to cause you anxiety, so I thought getting out would be for the best.” With a smile he adds, “Besides, this is one of my favorite places in Oxenfurt. And I like to share my joys with you.”
“I’ve never had sex.”
It sounds like one big word—i’veneverhadsex—but Jaskier manages to parse it without too much trouble. The trouble comes when he tries to make sense of the bigger picture.
“You’ve—Geralt, is that what’s got you so on edge?” He’s so full of relief he can taste it on his tongue. He can work with this.
Geralt just nods.
“I have a few thoughts,” says Jaskier. Geralt snorts, and Jaskier flashes a grin at him. “Yes, I am rather known for spouting a profusion of thoughts in your direction, but in my defense, I’m generally speaking for both of us, since you so rarely participate. Next time I’ll just talk to Roach, she’s often a better conversationalist.”
Jaskier is aching to touch Geralt, to kiss him until they’re both gasping for breath, or at least hold his hand, but he needs a clear head to have this discussion. “First, it doesn’t matter to me at all that you’re a virgin. If we ever have sex, you don’t have to worry. I’m good enough for both of us.” His teasing has the desired effect: Geralt smiles and shakes his head in disbelief. Good.
“Second. And this is the most important bit, okay? I want to do everything with you, dear heart. Everything. But I just don’t mean sex. I want to keep traveling with you. I want to write songs and sing them for you and listen to your pronouncements of my shortcomings as a bard. I want to meet your brothers. I want to visit the coast. I want to kiss you for so long that we both forget our names. And yes, I’d very much like to have sex with you. But I will never pressure you for sex, or for any of these things. Except for me traveling with you, that’s non-negotiable.”
There are no people nearby; the only sound is the burble of water flowing over stones in the nearest stream. Jaskier wonders briefly if he said too much, but then Geralt begins to speak. Slowly at first, and quietly, but with more emotion as he gets going.
“There’s a lot of sex at Kaer Morhen. Or there was, back when it was full of witchers. Now it’s mostly an echoing ruin.” He falls quiet, but this time Jaskier knows he’s just gathering his thoughts. “Back then the keep was overflowing with men—and boys—with a need for release. For something good. Everything was work and pain and cramming our heads full of knowledge.”
There’s a tinge of sadness in his voice as he goes on. “But I was…different. The instructors began to single me out, and then I was grassed a second time. I wanted comfort as much as the other boys, but they didn’t want me.”
Jaskier wants to hug him, to give him every bit of comfort he was never given as a child. Or an adult. But he knows Geralt isn’t done, so he waits. He’ll save the hug for later.
“After a few years I gave up hoping. And then I was sent out on the Path, and it just became…unimportant.” He looks up, golden eyes finding Jaskier’s blue ones. “Until you.”
Feelings roil in Jaskier’s stomach. He’s been thinking of telling Geralt for years, and right on the edge of it for the past few weeks. It’s not like he doesn’t know, he’s got that medallion of his, but it’s one thing to know and another to be told.
“I need to show you something.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow.
Jaskier takes a deep breath and lets the glamour fall.
“You’re of the fae,” Geralt breathes.
“I’m a wood nymph.” Jaskier touches the flowers growing from his head self-consciously, buttercups and dandelions and wood sorrel forming a crown in his deep green hair. “Half. On my mother’s side.” He shrugs. “You’ve asked more than once why I left home. This is why. Father loved Mother, but I think he wanted her to be the only special one. Or he didn’t want any of their children to compete with him for his wife’s affections. I try not to think about it too much.” He takes another steadying breath. “My siblings all look completely human, though Emeline can bake bread that never spoils. Me, I was born with butter-yellow skin and green hair and flowers rooted in my skull. Every time Father looked at me he saw what he could never be.”
Geralt touches his medallion. “I’ve always known there was magic clinging to you. I thought it was an anti-aging charm, since you still look the same as you did the day we met.” Then his words catch up to him, and he gives Jaskier a confused smile. “Or. You did. Until a few minutes ago.”
Jaskier laughs. Geralt gives him a startled look, and Jaskier blushes and says, “Yes, without the glamour my laugh is like the ringing of tiny bells. I’ve been informed on more than one occasion.”
“You’re beautiful,” Geralt says. He touches Jaskier’s pale yellow cheek, a strand of hair, a soft yellow petal.
“Excuse me, have you seen you, mister witcher? I’ve written actual songs about you and your daring and your beauty—”
“There are no songs about my beauty, Jaskier.”
With a wink Jaskier says, “Not that you’ve heard. Doesn’t mean I never wrote them.”
They do not have sex that night. Instead Geralt goads Jaskier into singing a song about “the beautiful witcher with the silvery hair” which makes Geralt laugh, so of course Jaskier sings it again. And again. Then, later, they curl up together in Jaskier’s bed, the scent of Jaskier’s floral crown filling up the small room. As he drifts off to sleep, cheek resting on Geralt’s chest, Jaskier feels loved.