#mulitchapter

Slowly, Geralt lifted his head. With one hand, Jaskier brushed his hair that had fallen into Geralt’s eyes behind his ears. “There,” he said quietly, “now you can see.”

Something softened in Geralt’s expression and it looked like he was about to say something, but they both got distracted, when the bird fluttered its wings and left Jaskier’s shoulder, disappearing between the trees again. 

Following its flight with his eyes, Jaskier noticed that the fae had come to a halt. They were standing in a glade. The lights of the lanterns were brighter than before, or maybe the world had darkened around them, making the trees look like pillars of shadow. Some of the fireflies got released, finding their place on those trees in eerily regular rows. Geralt’s arm around Jaskier’s shoulders was a comforting weight. A reminder of why he was here. A warm contrast to the cold that blanketed the glade. In its middle was a pond, with water that was nearly black, with strange wafts of green and purple drifting through it. Jaskier watched in fascination as the fae still carrying their lanterns stepped closer to the water, releasing the balls of light into it. The lights danced on the water’s surface in a hundred tiny dots. 

Next to him, Geralt gasped. Jaskier followed his gaze upwards and his breath stopped. Above them, the canopy of leaves was broken, leaving a window to look up into the sky. A sky, on which the same colours could be seen. Purple, green and blue nebulous shapes painting the black sky as if an artist had run their brush over it in bold strokes. And between the colours, there were countless stars, creating unfamiliar shapes. 

“I can’t read them,” Geralt muttered, perhaps more to himself than to Jaskier. His eyes went from one strange constellation to the other, like they had years ago, when he had explained to Jaskier how to navigate using the sky. ‘I don’t need to follow stars,’ Jaskier had said back then. ‘I have you.’ Geralt had remained quiet, but Jaskier had seen on his face that there was a reply burning on his tongue. He wished Geralt had told him back then what he had wanted to say.  “I don’t know where we are.”

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said, giving Geralt’s waist a little squeeze. “I will bring us home.”

As if she had waited for him to speak, the Queen spread her arms, commanding every being in this glade to fall silent. 

“The hunt is over. So I say,” she began, “as entertainment, our game will begin with the bard’s task of the first day, the witcher’s freedom for to win.”

With the strange cadence of her voice and the unusual way of speaking, it took Jaskier a while to unfurl the meaning of her words. 

“Wait.” He couldn’t stop himself from calling out. “First task? You said this task would take time, but it’s already night -”

“Better be quick then, to save your knight,” the Queen said, her lips curling into a cat-like smile. 

“What I mean,” Jaskier said, grasping for straws, “is that you said it’s the task of the first day and technically it’s not day anymore.”

The Queen’s smile dropped. 

“Don’t try my patience, little flower. I grant you a chance, but nothing more.” With one finger, she traced the new tattoo on her arm - an unmistakable threat. “Do not test me, or I’ll make you cower like a weed does on the floor.”

Geralt’s arm around his shoulder became heavier, pulling him closer as he glared at the queen. His other hand was reaching over Jaskier’s chest, holding him protectively. 

The proximity made Jaskier’s heart skip a beat. 

The Queen tilted her head at the display. “The more you argue, the more you wait, the less time you’ll have to fight for the witcher’s fate.”

A part of Jaskier wanted to insist that this wasn’t fair, that if the Queen’s words were to be taken at face value, he wouldn’t have to start the task right this instance. But the Queen was right. It was unlikely that she would change her mind and Jaskier didn’t have any time to waste. 

He lowered his head, partly so that she couldn’t see the spite in his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Your Highness, I meant no offence.”

“On then. Let the game commence.” She lifted her hands higher, not unlike a bard demanding attention. “Since stealing the witcher is your desire, here’s the task that I require:” She let her gaze wander over the glade, until it settled on Jaskier again, burning into him. “Time is what you need to steal. Do this ere dawn to honour our deal.”

Time. Jaskier turned to Geralt helplessly. How on earth was he supposed to steal time? It wasn’t as if he could put the sun in his pocket or steal the moon out of the sky. Geralt’s expression was pinched and his breathing ragged. 

“Think,” he hissed at Jaskier. It was a plea, a prayer. 

Jaskier nodded automatically, but his thoughts refused to get in line. There were a hundred useless things going through his mind, a hundred solutions that were just as impossible as the task itself. 

“I thought you’d hurry,” the Queen said, bemused. “Should I start to worry?” 

“No,” Jaskier rushed to say. “I can do it. I’m just… I need to think.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking off this distracting foreign world. Without realising what he was doing, Jaskier let go of Geralt to press his fists against his forehead, as if that could get him any closer to the solution. 

A weight stumbled against him unexpectedly, nearly knocking him to the ground. His eyes flew open. 

Geralt grimaced and tried to pull himself upright on his own, but his knees buckled. Jaskier’s breath hitched. How long had Geralt been on his feet? How many nights had he spent dancing and being hunted? 

Jaskier’s hands were back on Geralt in a flash, guiding him carefully to one of the shadow-cloaked trees. He was sure Geralt would have complained, had he had any breath left to speak. Gently, Jaskier lowered Geralt into a sitting position. With one hand, he brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of his forehead, feeling how hot his skin was. 

“Rest,” he commanded. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t worry about me, bard.” Geralt bared his teeth. “You’re wasting your time.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but then he faltered. 

Quick as a whirlwind, he leaped to his feet and turned towards the Queen. 

“I have done as you have asked,” he proclaimed loudly, his heart hammering with nerves. “I have stolen my witcher’s time, over and over again.”

The Queen raised her brows, motioning for him to continue. 

Jaskier glanced uncertainty at Geralt, who was staring at him with a stony expression. 

“I have been holding him up on the road because I cannot walk as fast as him. I have been wasting his time when I insist on staying in town longer than he wanted to. I have taken his time, when he didn’t want to give it to me.” He spread his arms, as he did at the end of a performance. “So you see, I have stolen his time.”

“How curious you are, dear bard,” the Queen said, rounding the pond to walk towards Jaskier. “You truly think you speak the truth. How easily does the heart trust falcities while you’re in youth.”

Jaskier frowned. “What do you mean? It’s true, he doesn’t like spending time with me.” He started picking at his hands, twisting them and growing more agitated with every word he spoke. He rushed out the words. They hurt too much to take his time with them.  “I’m taking his time without him wanting me to. I won this challenge!”

The Queen didn’t reply, only hummed in a mocking imitation of Geralt’s speech. 

“And what do you think about this claim?” She asked, crouching down before Geralt. “Does he speak true? Do you think the same? Or did he not steal any time from you?”

She reached out, caressing one long finger up Geralt’s throat and coming to rest at his lips. 

Geralt’s hands flexed, like he wished he had his swords with him. He turned his head away harshly, breaking the contact to the Queen. 

An unpleasant tightness pulled at the Queen’s lips. “You’re stubborn, but you’re also weak. You won’t say it freely? I command you: Speak!”

Geralt’s eyes widened in shock and his entire body tensed, as his lips parted, seemingly without his consent. 

Jaskier rushed to his side. He fell to his knees beside him, reaching for his hand. “What’s going on?” He asked, clutching Geralt. 

Geralt faced him, but he didn’t give a reply to Jaskier’s question. Instead, he did what the Queen had demanded of him and told her his truth. 

“It’s not true,” he said, his voice sounding strained. His wooden way of speaking was similar to how he had danced under the fae’s control before. “He has not wasted a minute of my time.” Something strange happened to Geralt’s expression. Jaskier couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a mixture of guilt and shame. Geralt averted his gaze sharply, hiding away from Jaskier. “The time we spend together is time I give to him freely.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard correctly. It was impossible. Geralt - Geralt didn’t like spending time with him. He had barely tolerated his presence for years. There was not a world in which he actually wanted to watch Jaskier stop their travels, just to look at flowers or take forever trying on different outfits and asking for Geralt’s opinion. Geralt didn’t like being stuck at a tavern, because Jaskier had decided to play an encore. He didn’t. 

Yet here he was, forced to speak true. 

Jaskier’s heart made a foolish, hopeful jump. But Geralt wasn’t looking at him and the Queen was laughing in mockery. 

Jaskier was a fool. A fool for thinking he could talk his way out of this challenge. A fool to think Geralt liked spending time with him. That wasn’t what he had said, after all. He had merely said that he didn’t hate spending time with him. And what a great difference there was between not minding and liking. 

Jaskier clenched his jaw and extracted his hand from Geralt’s. Geralt let him go without even trying to hold him back. He didn’t know what to do. He had thought himself oh so clever, but it was all for naught now. He couldn’t even begin to figure out how to solve this. He wasn’t even sure if it was a riddle to be solved or if there was a solution reliant on the unknown rules of this world. 

He moved around the pond, looking down into the nebulous shapes and colours, praying to find an answer there. If there were any gods, they hadn’t dared to follow him into this realm.

He was pacing, heart racing. Fingers drumming on his thighs. There were eyes on him. Everyone was watching. Judging. 

He shook his head, shut his eyes tightly. He could feel this place getting to him, like a fog creeping up unnoticed, until suddenly you realised you couldn’t see anymore. He couldn’t think clearly. Everything here was so alive, breathing and humming to a tune he didn’t understand. 

And every leaf on every tree, every pair of eyes, every star in the sky was watching him, waiting for him to misstep. Normally, he loved attention, thrived in it. But this was making him feel so small. Powerless. Alone. It was like being on stage, needing to perform a song he had never heard, while being judged on whether he hit his notes, knew his lines, was able to keep time…

His head snapped up. Abruptly, the drumming of his fingers stopped. On instinct, one of his hands reached for his back, to where his lute rested safe and secure, just waiting to be played again. He swung the instrument to his front. Immediately, his hands found their places on the strings. They danced over them nimbly, just a silly little run, yet with each note Jaskier plucked, he could feel some of his confidence return. This was a world of magic, of pure chaos. When Jaskier had learned how to play, the notes hadn’t made sense. His fingers hadn’t understood how to move. The melodies had been all jumbled up. In short, his playing had been chaotic. And he had taken this chaos and turned it into something beautiful, something he could understand and create. 

The white string around his wrist shone bright in the light of the nebulae above him, but it was nothing compared to the brightness of the notes he elicited from the strings on his lute. 

He found himself standing taller, prouder. His fingers didn’t falter as he played in piano, so that his voice could be heard throughout the glade. 

“The Queen demands entertainment,” he announced, throwing his voice, “What is more entertaining than two musicians showing their craft. I challenge you, if there be one among you who thinks they can match my skill, to play with me.”

A hush fell over the clearing, all eyes turning to the Queen. She regarded Jaskier like a hunter trying to figure out its prey’s next move. Then, she waved at one of her fae. 

“My Songbird, come, what do you say?” At her call, the fae with the blue feathered cloak looked up. He ran a hand over his cloak, smoothing the feathers and bowing in acknowledgement. The Queen continued, “I heard that you have longed to play with common, mortal folk. On then, take out your lyre, shed your cloak and show us how well you can sing.” Her lips tilted up into an unpleasant smile. “For you, it must be no hard thing to win against a human bardling.”

Wren pressed his lips together in a tight smile, his bow deepening. In one motion, he straightened his spine again and opened the clasp of the cloak. It fluttered to the ground like a bird’s wings. When Jaskier looked from the cloak back to the fae, he was holding an instrument in his hand. A beautiful golden lyre, strung with silver strings. 

“I thank you, Highness, for your trust,” Wren said. With his free hand, he smoothed out the chemise he was wearing. It was a lighter shade of blue than his cloak had been, but looked just as much like the soft downs of a bird. “I have no doubt about whose glitter will rust in the end.” He turned to Jaskier in a renewed bow. “Will you begin then, little friend?”

Jaskier bristled at the moniker. A sharp reply about them not being friends was already at the tip of his tongue, but he faltered. It was too close to what Geralt so liked to say to him and he didn’t want to think of that now. He had to believe that he could do this, that he could earn Geralt’s trust, if not his affection. 

So instead, Jaskier nodded at Wren’s instrument. “I thought you fae despised liars.”

Wren’s eyes lit up. “Ah, but there is fire in your heart and that is something we admire.” His fingers ran up and down his lyre. The notes falling from the strings were like liquid gold. “I ask again, do you want to start?”

Jaskier forced his fingers not to tighten around the fretboard, giving himself an air of confidence. “I thought we could play a duet. I begin and you join in.” His tongue darted out, wetting his lips nervously. “Surely keeping up won’t be hard for a Songbird like you?” He prayed echoing the Queen’s earlier words would be enough to goad the fae into compliance. From the tales he had been told about the fair folk, their arrogance could be their downfall. But their wrath would be everyone else’s doom. 

Wren’s brows rose up, but he nodded slowly, intrigued. He motioned for Jaskier to begin. 

Jaskier took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and plucked the first note. He didn’t know what his fingers were doing, had never played this song before or heard it performed at any court. Yet his fingers found their places sure and steady as if he had played this melody a hundred times before. The song rose and fell like Geralt’s chest in hi sleep, the first time he had felt comfortable and safe enough to close his eyes with Jaskier there. It danced merrily like the flames of a campfire Geralt had lit because Jaskier was cold. It - it ached. 

He played it as if he had known this song all along, and in a way, he had. 

A new melody joined in with his and his eyes shot open. The fae was plucking at his lyre, weaving a harmony into his song. Something shifted inside Jaskier. There was no way to explain, but it felt like Wren’s playing fit perfectly with his, not only in regards to time and tune. No word was spoken, yet in his heart, Jaskier knew that they were telling the same story with their instruments. 

He had heard tales before, about mortals beating fae by playing songs coming from the heart.

 "I've played for many centuries, yet, by the stars above,

You've taught me skill is not enough. It can't compare to love."

Wasn’t that what the hero in one of those old songs got told? That no fae’s skill could compare to his love? And yet, no matter how much Jaskier thought about nights spent sitting around a fire, about Geralt telling him of his family in a low voice, about leaning his head against his shoulder, there was no sign of Jaskier’s playing being superior. 

He thought of Roach’s hooves thundering on the ground, as Geralt spurned her on to get Jaskier to a healer in time. Jaskier’s fingers on the lute sped up, but Wren matched his pace, note for note. Jaskier let his mind stray to the day when Geralt had taken him to a farm, and asked for his help finding a new suitable Roach. The notes swelled, as the melody slowed. Wren didn’t falter. 

Jaskier gritted his teeth. His fingers were burning with the friction created by the strings. He had no idea how long they had already played. It could have been mere minutes, or it could have been most of the night. He couldn’t tell. In his mind, he was walking through years upon years of love, of Geralt making him want to sing.

Geralt. 

Jaskier’s eyes darted to the witcher. He half-expected Geralt to be asleep or meditating. Anything to regain his energy, while not having to endure listening to Jaskier play. Yet, he found Geralt looking straight at him, tension in his shoulders, but something soft in his eyes. 

Jaskier’s heart jumped and for just a second, his fingers fumbled. He caught himself, before he lost the rhythm of the song. 

He couldn’t look away. Geralt was right there. The sight of him so near made Jaskier’s heart swell. It made him hope. It made him want to sing. 

And so he did. He took this wordless song, that had been both his and Wren’s and made it his and Geralt’s. Only theirs. 

“Time. 

They say, it will take time. 

They say that if I wait

I will realise that I should go

And not look back or lose my way. 

But I say

No. 

It’s already to late

For me, because time

Is the one thing I don’t have

The one thing that I gave

To the one I wish was mine.”

His voice broke, when Geralt’s brows drew together. He didn’t understand, Jaskier told himself. Geralt never understood this songs. Why would this be any different? He had to believe this. Had to trust that Geralt didn’t know that this song was about him, or Jaskier wouldn’t be able to continue. Jaskier  forced himself to look away. Still, he felt Geralt’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

“What a useless gift to give

To someone who sure will live

Longer than i know I will

Yet I give it to him still. 

My best years I would give away

If only I knew it would make him stay. 

But he shuns my years, my time. 

In winter, I am left behind. 

Half a year - no more, I know - 

Can I give to him, before he will go

And leave me standing in the snow.

I give my winters to him still

By waiting, hoping, feeling ill

With missing him. 

And yet come spring, 

I know that I’ll be his again. 

Even if he won’t be mine

I still can give him this: My time.”

He didn’t notice the tears in his eyes, until the first one dropped and landed on his lute with a quiet splash. His voice became thinner than before, raw with emotion. He couldn’t tell what other words tumbled from his lips. Perhaps he sang more of the pain of only being allowed to see his love for half a year, before he left to be with his family again. Perhaps he sang of the warmth that would make the world bloom around him, when he saw his love return - though his love wasn’t returned - in spring. Or perhaps he sang of the injustice of giving his time, his life to one who people thought did nothing but take lives. Geralt wasn’t taking his life - Jaskier was freely giving it to him and he felt more alive for it. 

Maybe he sang of a million other things. In the end, it didn’t matter. Whatever words were falling from his lips, he was singing about Geralt. About loving him. And no matter what this fae understood about longing and love, he could never understand what it was like to be mortal, to only have a handful of years and to willingly give them to someone else. 

With every word he sang, Jaskier’s voice got more hoarse, but his fingers became steadier. 

A dissonant twang cut through the song and for one terrifying moment, Jaskier thought his hands had failed him. But no, his fingers were still plucking the tune, his strained voice still singing the song of his heart. 

It was Wren, who had stopped playing. Whose hands were trembling, unable to keep time with a song that wasn’t his anymore. His dark eyes were shining and when he squeezed them shut, a single tear rolled down his cheek and he averted his eyes. He did not attempt to pick up the song again. He only listened, as Jaskier sang, until finally, he let the melody fade out. The last note hung in the air like the stars hung in the sky. There was utter silence, except for Jaskier’s and Wren’s choked sobs. 

A hand touched Jaskier’s and he flinched. With wide eyes, he stared at Geralt, who had pulled himself to his feet despite his pain and exhaustion, just to stay by his side. His hand was warm and steady against his. Immediately, Jaskier let go of the lute and clung to Geralt’s hand instead, like a lifeline. Geralt didn’t say a word, only gave his hand a light squeeze. A silent reassurance that he was there with Jaskier, that even when Jaskier looked away, ashamed and lost, Geralt still wouldn’t leave him. 

Jaskier took a couple of deep breaths. He couldn’t hope to soothe the ache in his heart, but he could steady his voice enough to speak with dignity. 

“Your Majesty,” he said loudly, searching the Queen’s gaze. She wasn’t crying, but there was unmistakable longing in her eyes. “Your champion agreed to play a duet with me, yet he could not keep time.” Jaskier lifted his head higher. “Therefore, I have stolen his time and declare myself the winner of this first challenge.”

The Queen regarded him for a long moment, then she inclined her head. 

“A victory well earned,” she finally said, her voice less steady than it had been before. “Though a winner you are not, with a love so spurned.”

Jaskier flinched. Beside him, Geralt stepped closer, until their shoulders touched. He pulled Jaskier into his side, steadying him. 

“Let him rest,” Geralt demanded. “He did what you asked of him, he doesn’t deserve any more of your mind games.”

The Queen’s lips twitched in amusement. She said something else, gave tasks to her fae, but Jaskier was too distracted by the feeling of Geralt next to him. By the familiar heat of his body. By the way he had come to his aid without hesitation. 

“Come on,” Geralt muttered, lips close to Jaskier’s ear. A shiver went down Jaskier’s spine and he let himself be guided away by Geralt. A part of him was sure, he should pay attention to where he was going. But the bigger part knew he could trust Geralt not to lead him astray. He closed his eyes and leaning against Geralt, he followed where he led. He would always follow. Until the end of the Continent. Until the end of Time.

Even if, eventually, Geralt would leave him again, as he was always wont to do, without looking back.

--

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His laugh interrupts your rambling. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll pick you up. Where are you?” he asks. 

You look around. “I don’t know.” Even if he can’t see it, you shake your head as you say so, as if acknowledging your own stupidity. “Some buildings are here, and a… I don’t know.”

Tom sighs. “Anyway you could find out?” 

“Maybe,” you reply and take your phone away from your ear. You press the speaker button, and move into google maps. By choosing somewhere to go, you get your own position and press it. The ‘share your location’ button is pretty handy right now, and you have only done this once before. You find Tom in your contacts and send it to him. “Done.”

“Got it. I’ll be right there.” 

“Don’t use long. I want to see youuu,” you say, drawing out the ‘you’ in a singsong-y voice. 

He laughs. “Don’t worry.”

You stick your tongue out and roll your eyes. “I don’t worry. I overthink. There’s a difference.” 

“If you say―” 

He cuts off. You look at your phone and notice it’s shutting down. Great, just great. That means you have to wait without talking to him. You let out a huff and sit down on the curb, which gives your feet some rest. It feels great actually, to just sit down. 

It does not feel so great when a man walks past, and though he doesn’t really look threatening, there’s something about the look he sends you that has chills creep up your spine. During the next minutes it takes for Tom to arrive, your heart pounds in your chest. The slight tipsiness you’d felt before vanishes, replaced with an anxious feeling of dread. 

Tom will be here in a second. Tom will be here in a second. Tom will be here in a second. You repeat it like a mantra in your head, but it doesn’t calm your nerves nearly as much as you would like. 

The car that pulls up to a stop on the other side of the street doesn’t sit well in your gut either. But when Tom gets out of it and his tall frame makes its way across the street and to you, relief floods your system. You stand up, shoes in one hand and smile at him. 

“You got cut off,” he says as he pulls you in for a small hug. You wrap your arms around him, breathing in the fresh scent he brings.

“My phone shut off.” You linger in the hug a few seconds longer than you should, but since he doesn’t pull away you don’t think too hard on it. Though your heart does flip a thousand times, which feels good but also breaks it all at once. 

Tom pulls away eventually, and takes your free hand in his as you walk back to his car. “Why would you believe it a good idea to take off your shoes?” he asks.

“You really think these are good for walking?” You shove the pair of high heels in his face―though not too in his face. It’s a black pair with a thick heel and straps that snakes their way up your legs. It’s not necessarily that they’re uncomfortable, but rather the fact that high heels in general gives for tired feet after awhile. 

“No, I don’t think they are.” He opens the car door for you, letting go of your hand as you sit down. The absence leaves a cold sensation in your fingers―had his touch really been that hot?

You do your best to fasten your seatbelt, but the end won’t connect with the thing it’s supposed to fasten in. Your focus is on that as you hear the car door close as Tom gets in. His laugh rings in your ear as you sigh and give up on the belt. 

“I’ll help,” he says, leaning over and dragging the belt with him. Your breath catches at his closeness. His breathing mixes with yours, the nearness of him having your gut churn and your heart twist in agony because god he is so close why not just lean over and press your lips to his and―

Click. 

The belt clicks into place and the smell of Tom’s cologne falls away from your nose as he pulls back into his own seat, pulling on his own seatbelt. He starts the car, and you do your best to regain your breathing because he was so close. 

It’s a silent ride back to your apartment. All you can think about is how close he was. How dry your throat is. How much your gut hurts as it churns and churns and churns. How you feel cold as his touch isn’t on you. How you wish to press your lips to his. How you wish to press your lips to his neck, his chest, other places. How you wish to touch him, let your hands explore his body. 

And all of it has your body heat up, sweat just a little because god it’s hot confined to this space. 

Finally, Tom pulls to a stop in the guest parking outside your apartment. You manage to take off your seatbelt, but you don’t get to open the door as Tom is already on the other side. He smiles as he lends you a hand, which you happily take. The touch burns you, but it’s better than the cold you had before, better than not touching him. 

He helps you all the way up to your apartment, letting you lean most of your weight on him as you walk. Though the few stairs you have to walk up aren’t that promising as you don’t want to put your shoes on at all. 

“I’ll carry you,” offers Tom. 

You shake your head. “No, I can’t… You can’t―” 

But Tom doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and crouches for you to hop onto his back. You do. His arms feel secure under your thighs, the touch creating a tickling feeling where it happens―which you try to ignore but it’s a good feeling.

Your arms wrap around his neck, though you make sure not to choke him. Seeing as he feels so secure, you lay your head down on his back. The little rumble of a laugh it elicits has you smile. 

It’s over too fast. Tom puts you down as he stops by your door. You fiddle with the keys, and hope he doesn’t decide to leave as he’s helped you. After all, he doesn’t have to stay. But everything within you wants him to. The alcohol in your blood might make you a tad bolder than you usually are, and that might just have things go the direction you want it to. 

You open the door and walk in, putting your shoes down with your other shoes. Thankfully, Tom follows you inside, closes the door and takes off his shoes. You try to suppress a smile, but it makes its way across your face despite it. 

“You want something to drink?” you ask, glancing his way. 

“That depends,” he says and leans against the doorway to the kitchen. 

“You can choose wine or water.”

Tom chuckles. “I’ll take a glass of water, thank you.” 

You pull out two glasses, find a bottle you have in the fridge and fill both glasses with water. You hand one of them to Tom and take the other one yourself, taking a sip. Even being cold from standing in the fridge, it isn’t as cold as the absence of Tom’s touch. 

Only moments ago and you already miss it. Maybe there’s something in it when you’re in love; you miss those small things because you only get them during certain moments. And now that that moment is over, you don’t know what to do. 

“How much did you really drink?” asks Tom and sets down his glass on the counter as he leans against it. 

You press your lips together. “Just a few… too many.”

He gives you an amused smile, though he doesn’t comment. Instead, he quietly leans against the counter, ocean eyes smiling as he looks at you. The way they seem to study your face has heat crawl into your cheeks and you press your lips even tighter together. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask.

“It’s still the middle of the night,” he replies, though amusement colors his voice. “I better get home.”

You put down your glass on the counter and walk the few steps over to him. “Please stay,” you say and make the best puppy dog eyes you can. 

Tom shakes his head. “I can’t. I might have a day off tomorrow, but I can’t stay here the whole night.”

Everything in your stomach tells you to tiptoe, tilt your head a tiny bit and press your lips to his. A quick peck, just something to let the hunger, the need to do so, at bay. But you don’t. You look up at him, try to look as innocent as possible. 

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll stay.” He picks up the glass off water, downing it all in one big sip. Your throat goes dry seeing his long neck stretched, seeing his adam’s apple move as he swallows and noting the way his lips fold around the rim of the glass.

God, you have to get yourself checked, Y/N, this is way out of line. 

But then again, hadn’t you been on a date? Not today, but before. And he was so nice, but you can’t believe anyone who’s nice likes you that way. 

“What movie are we watching?” 

You blink up at Tom, who smiles warmly. You swallow, throat and mouth dry. “What would you like to watch?” 

“You asked for a movie, you pick,” he says and you roll your eyes. 

Nevertheless, you pick the movie. You find a romantic one on Netflix, and, both out of boldness from the alcohol and the fact that you are pretty close, you snuggle close to him as the movie plays. 

He drapes his arm around you, letting you rest your head on his chest. His heart beats loudly in your ear, faster than you would expect. Maybe he likes the movie, he probably likes the movie. 

Close to the end, the couple gets back together. The final ‘real’ kiss plays on the screen and you sigh at the sight. Louder than you thought, because Tom stirs, sits up a little and lets you fall down with your head in his lap. His fingers start to play with your hair, and a smile creeps on your lips he gently combs through. 

When the credits start rolling, you turn in his lap so that you face him. His gaze is on you, looking down with a fondness you haven’t seen before. A fondness that has your gut churn. 

All you have to do is lean up and―

You don’t react before he pulls away with a red face. He presses his lips together and his eyes go a little sad by the fact that you had no reaction. His eyes meet yours and even though you can’t see your own face, you know it’s colored in shock. 

He kissed you. His lips were on your lips. He made the move.

And you didn’t kiss back. Nor are you telling him you want to. You just lie there, staring up at him with wide eyes as his face contorts more and more into someone that wants to flee the situation. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I just… I thought perhaps…” 

You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Your voice sounds small in your head, barely there. “Do it again,” you say breathlessly, throat too dry to function. 

He does. This time you notice, and you kiss back. Your arm snake to the back of his head, steadying him as you press your lips against his. It’s not much, it feels a little awkward, and you would want the situation to be a little different. Yet it’s better than anything you could have imagined. Fireworks spark in your gut, heat burns your palm where your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your cheek, and the tingling feeling you have felt many times around him comes back, adding to the pleasure of the kiss. 

All you can think is finally. 

Finally.

permanent tags:  @devilbat @adefectivedetective @gamillian

tom tags:  @inlovewith3 @bookgirlunicorn @mindlesschicca @justawriterinprogress @wolfsmom1 @loser-alert @satanskatze @timetravelingsociopathicwalker @wiczer

tags:  @sabine-leo @sunshinein17 @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @lys-syl @rjohnson1280