#blaviken

Usually towns aren’t that bad. At least not for short periods of time. Yes, he is eye-catching with his yellow eyes and tall form, but it is easy to get lost in the crowd. In a town, you can be invisible, even if it’s just for a little while. He had never expected this to be true in Blaviken.

Geralt is a good head taller than most of the men present, but they pay him very little mind. Their eyes, like his, are locked on the stage. Jaskier dominates the stage. He doesn’t need accompaniment, doesn’t need any backup. Up there, he shines. Geralt has seen him perform many times, and he never tires of it. The bard is already so full of himself, so Geralt only voices it on special occasions, but still. The truth is, Jaskier fills every space he enters brightly and effortlessly. His every move and word evokes feelings, both good and bad depending on who you ask. And Geralt can’t get enough.

Having had a taste of it, a taste of what Jaskier promises in his songs, it does something to him. Something he can’t put his finger on, but wants more of. That single squeeze of his hands pushed the unease away, if just for a little while.

Geralt watches Jaskier move about, winking as his long fingers pluck at the strings and shape the sound. He realizes he is fixated on Jaskier's hands, and that he can feel the ghost of it against his palm. He flexes his hand to shake it off, and when he looks up again, Jaskier is watching him. Geralt's breath catches in his throat, and he is suddenly glad to have some space between them.

When the last song is sung, Jaskier bows deeply and accepts the generous applause and cheers from the crowd. Geralt gets lost in thought, lost in the ghost sensations of Jaskier's hand around his, and next thing he knows, Jaskier is standing right in front of him.

“There,” he says, smiling brightly. He is just a little sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead. “Shall we take a stroll? I am pretty sure I saw plum pastries somewhere, and I haven’t had them since I was a child.”

Geralt files that information away, and nods. They visit two stalls right next to the town square where the stage is set up, the crowd not letting up in the least. Geralt can’t stop thinking about Jaskier's hand in his.

Maybe he should just ask. Jaskier asks for things all the time. He could.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier stands bent over a table lined with rings and trinkets, scratching his chin with one hand and the other perched on his hip.

“Mhm?”

The stall owner gives Geralt a long look, and maybe now is not the time. Geralt turns away before any comments can be made, deciding that maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“What’s wrong, my dear friend?” Jaskier asks, standing up and walking over to bump his shoulder against Geralt's. Somehow, Geralt is grateful that Jaskier isn’t using his name.

Unease pushes its way into his chest again and makes him tense up. He just wants it to go away.

“Can I ask you something?” Geralt manages, and Jaskier smirks.

“Isn't it usually me asking that?” he says, and oh. Yeah, maybe he does. “And always.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“May I hold your hand?” he asks.

Jaskier doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t tease. He just slips his hand into Geralt's. He looks up at Geralt, his eyes seeing so much more than Geralt thought he showed. His arm is a warm, comforting presence against his side, his fingers a little damp and hot, but it fights that unease, it pushes it away and replaces it with something else.

They start walking again, slowly. Jaskier sticks close, and Geralt fights the urge to lace their fingers together. But why should he fight it? He readjusts the grip, Jaskier looking up at him when he lets go for a moment. When his fingers intertwine with Jaskier's, he feels like his heart is beating out of his chest. Jaskier just smiles and squeezes his hand tighter. They find the stall with the plum pastries, and Jaskier's laugh when Geralt gets a bit of cream on his nose is the dorkiest, most wonderful sound Geralt has ever heard.

Maybe he can ask... for more…

They end up at the outskirts of town, where the decorations are fewer and the shadows longer from the setting sun.

“Can I ask you something else?” Geralt ventures, coming to a halt between two houses. The street is empty and quiet, most people still in the town center, enjoying the entertainment.

“Yes.” Jaskier smiles, still standing just as close as when they were in the crowd.

“May I kiss you?”

Jaskier's eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath as color climbs his cheeks.

“Yes, please,” he breathes, leaning forward.

Geralt tightens his grip around their fingers and tucks his other hand under Jaskier's chin, tilting it upwards. The kiss is tender, much like the first time, and it doesn’t take much for them to fall deeper. Geralt's hand cradles Jaskier's cheeks, and Jaskier brings up his own hand to hold it. There are words at the tip of his tongue.

They haven’t talked about it, but the feeling that replaces the unease is big. Important. Heavy. When they part, Geralt wonders if Jaskier can read it in his eyes, like he read almost everything else today.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Jaskier smiles again.