#utter fluff

Pip’s never quite felt this way before, sure she’s felt the stomach turning, clenching sweaty palm inducing anxiousness in her lifetime. Felt it many many times whilst investigating. But this doesn’t compare to any of those feelings, because as similar as it is, it’s not. This feeling makes her stomach feel twisted and knot like, but is accompanied by a pleasure-able hit of dopamine as Pip watches you in the pelting rain.

The way the raindrops seem to wind down your eyelashes, dripping down onto them before falling of like racetracks. It’s utterly captivating and deliciously beautiful. Your lips are upturned into a perfect smile as you huddle closer to her, and Pip being the kindhearted raised right gentlewoman moves to open her jean jumper, hanging it over you both as you both strut across the pavement. Your laugh is airy and seems to find its way into her heart. Pip allows herself to listen to them, to soak in the utter delight, it’s been a long while since she’s felt so carefree. So..normal.

And then you’re talking, a mile a minute, shaking, trembling in the cold English air and Pip finds she can’t bear to see you trembling so, so she hastily takes of her jumper and pulls it over you, and in her haste she finds her pale raindusted fingertips have found a place on your cheek. Pip’s first instinct is to pull away, but her eyes trace over yours and she finds no argument. You seem to be leaning into her touch, eyelids fluttering.

The feeling of your skin underneath her fingertips is addicting. The way your breathe hitches when she swiped her fingers over your cheek, the underline of your jaw, the strong cleft of your chin.

Pip wants to say so many things. ‘Your eyes shine like the Maldive ocean, You’re the cutest thing under the sun, I fancy you more than physics, I’d study you over any case—but she finds her thoughts interrupted by the torch light that flicks to life over your heads.

“Mum’s waiting for me” you say hastily, fingers edging to take of her jumper, eyes looking adoringly at Pip over your lashes.

And suddenly that stomach twirling, sick inducing feeling is back because Pip doesn’t know how to end the evening. She’s only ever kissed once. And that experience had been rather unpleasant. Does she kiss you? Is that wise? Do you want her to kiss you?

She’s all fluttering blue eyes and you seem to take it in stride, chuckling at her obvious response. Before Pip can respond you’re pulling her in by her shirt, noses brushing and god…Pip has never felt fireworks quite like this.

The intimate way your lips collide with hers, brushing like waves, natural, instinctual. Pip finds her fingers move to grip your hips, squeezing with a slight pinch.

Your lips are addicting, sinful. She wants more. Craves more. Pip deepens the kiss, feeling the way you make a sound in the back of your throat-and pip thinks she’s about to die with how hot it sounds. Your mouth is warm and inviting, a contrast to the dreary english weather. The seam of your lips feel hot under her tongue, and pip thinks she’d gladly explore more if she could

But then you’re pulling away, saying something about giving her a ring later and then you’re opening your front door and gone you are.

Pip stands in front of you front door for an embarrassing amount of time. Lips still stinging and tongue still aching. Her cheeks are the colour of roses in springtime, and she just knows by the way her heart is beating that you’re the one. She can practically hear Cara announcing to the whole year twelves where you’re wedding will be.

But with a ghost of a smile she returns home, a silly lovesick smile on her features and fluttering blue eyes.

She hardly says a word to her parents. Victor just chuckles and with an amusing smile asks how her date with you was, and Pip smiles amd says, “utter perfection”.

"Shouldn't you be breaking in that new mustang?" Gil demands. Then he spots it. "What on Earth is that thing?"

There's a noisy clatter on the staircase—followed by Gillian's more staid footfall—and then his girls appear in the doorway, wearing near-identical looks of curiosity and worry.

"What is it, Mister Row—oh my goodness!"

Gillian gasps, her eyes going round as saucers. Maggie claps her hands together and lets out a breathless squeak.

"Oh, Mister Rowdy, you found a puppy?"

"Sure did!" Rowdy says happily. Clutched in his solid but gentle grasp, an impossibly small brown-and-white dog wriggles and yips plaintively. Its fluffy ears twitch as it blinks at them all with very large, very blue eyes.

Gil huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "And where exactly did you find that puppy?"

"Farmer Ibarra rode over, wanted to trade some supplies. He said his sheepdog had a litter a few days ago. He thought we might be interested. Well, I just knew the girls would love this little fella."

"Oh, we do, Mister Rowdy," says Gillian, softly approaching with almost breathless tentativeness. "Does… does he have a name?"

"Oh, can we name him?" begs Maggie. She's following her sister's lead, for once, hovering carefully a safe distance from the puppy. "Please, please, please?"

"Why, sure you can!" Rowdy says. The laugh-lines around his eyes deepen as he looks between the girls and the squirmy pup in his hands.

Gil clears his throat. Four sets of eyes shoot to him, wide and innocent.

"You sure you want to name 'im? You don't want to get too… attached," says Gil carefully. "We don't even know if we're going to keep him yet."

Instant, total horror. Maggie's jaw drops and her head swivels from him to Rowdy and back, aghast. Gillian bites her lip and stares at her feet, hands curling in her skirts. She's gone white the way she does when she's struggling not to cry.

Rowdy, meanwhile.

Rowdy looks at Gil as if Gil just declared that he'd like Rowdy to serve the puppy for dinner, with gravy on the side. It's a look that says if Gil wants another peaceful night in his own bed for the foreseeable future, he'd better tread very cautiously right now.

He sighs, backtracks. "We've got men who can raise and train the dog outside of the house, 's all I'm saying. Puppies are a lot of work. Rowdy and I are out most of the day, and Mrs. McGillicuddy is busy with lookin' after you girls and the house."

"Oh, Pa, we can look after him! We'll train him properly, promise!"

"Yes, Pa, we'll do our very best. Can't you give us one chance?"

"Come on, Gil, can't you see how much the girls want him?" Rowdy asks with a distressed scowl. "Besides, how much trouble can something so little be? Look how adorable he is!"

To emphasize his point, Rowdy shoves the pup in Gil's face. Big blue eyes gaze at him with credulous trust. A tiny pink tongue pokes out and the puppy ekes out a high-pitched yelp.

Rowdy widens his own puppy-dog eyes at Gil. A two-pronged attack. Gil sighs and purses his lips.

"Fine," he grunts. "You can keep it."

The sitting-room erupts in jubilant cheer. Ecstatic, Maggie throws her arms around Rowdy and the puppy. Two spots of color appear on Rowdy's cheeks as he clumsily returns her embrace, while valiantly trying not to let the puppy escape over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Pa," says Gillian, going up on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek.

"Mm. You're welcome." Gil hadn't realized until he had all three of them under one roof just how hard it would be to stay strong to their united front. The three people he loves, banding against him. Ain't that just the way.

Rowdy carefully scoops the puppy into Gillian's arms. He leaves the girls to coo and fuss over their fuzzy treasure and makes his way to Gil.

"You know I'll help the girls look after him, Gil," Rowdy says. "Can't be much harder than cattle and drovers."

Gil raises an eyebrow. "Take it from me, Rowdy. Puppies can be a handful." He slides a hand into Rowdy's thick tawny mop and ruffles his hair.

Rowdy grins, sways in to drop a kiss on Gil's mouth. "Thank you," he whispers, eyes going half-lidded as he gazes at Gil. "For lettin' me give them this. I just… I really want them to like me, you know? This is all still so new."

Gil darts a glance to where the girls are locked in a gleeful-but-furious debate over dog names. He slips the hand he had in Rowdy's hair to his nape instead. Draws him in for another kiss.

"Rowdy, those girls love you, puppies or no puppies," he says, quiet and firm. He then kisses Rowdy on the cheek because what else can you do, when somebody looks at you like that? Like you've given 'em a gift they were too afraid to hope for?

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to his riotous curls. Clearly, the past week of rehearsals has taken its toll on his perfection-driven maestro, and Oliver chuckles when he wipes the thin patch of drool from his stubbly chin. “Anyone would think you cracked open that Limoncello without me…” 

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” Elio grumbles, blinking groggily into consciousness. “You’re late, professore.”

“Tell me about it,” Oliver mutters, unravelling the woollen cocoon in search of his boyfriend’s hands. “I would’ve been even later if Mitchell had his way. Honestly, if I’d known he was going to drop a department meeting on us, I’d have made sure to finalise my lesson plans last night.”

Elio scoffs into the cushions. “Liar.”

He is. And a blatant one, at that. 

Last night saw Elio bound to the headboard with one of his ties.

The same tie Oliver found himself stroking through tiresome talk of deadlines, budgets, and troublesome students.

“Tu es pardonné…” Elio mutters, yawning widely. "I’ll be sure to send the Dean a strongly-worded letter of complaint.”

“Is that so?”

A hum. “Bullet-pointed and everything.”

“Goose,” Oliver snickers, guiding him to his feet.

“You love it.”

“Love you more,” he murmurs, welcoming Elio’s weight when he nuzzles in. The rich aroma of tomato and basil lingers in the air, and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine they’re back in B. Stealing arancini fresh from the fryer as Mafalda bustles around the kitchen. “Please tell me I haven’t missed dinner?”

“As if I’d eat without you,” Elio says, straightening his collar. “The sauce can be reheated while we cook the tortelli.”

“Cremaschi?”

“I wish.” Blunt nails linger at the short hairs of his nape. “Garlic and herb,” Elio confirms. “Just don’t tell our favourite housekeeper I bought it readymade, yeah?”

Oliver feigns a shudder. “And suffer a repeat of the birthday tiramisu incident?”

“Exactly.” 

Elio’s sigh washes over his neck as Oliver wraps an arm around his waist, the other sliding from elbow to wrist, holding him close. Swaying gently, he laces their fingers together, and with a gossamer brush to each bony knuckle he lays them flat against his too-full heart, guiding his half-awake dance partner into a simple back-and-forth. 

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” Oliver whispers, turning them slightly to avoid a teetering stack of score books. 

“Two years today, amore mio.”

And five since they first met.

He can hardly believe it.

Elio’s own converse lie abandoned on the rug, and kicking aside the potential trip-hazards Oliver breathes in deep, savouring the combined scents of Aquafresh toothpaste, Lucky Strike cigarettes, and something else. 

Something woodsy, with just a hint of lemon.

“I see you’ve found your gift." 

“I did.” Yawning again, Elio rises up on tiptoes for a proper kiss. "Is it…”

“The same one I wore in Italy?” Oliver closes his eyes against the sting. “God, I hope so,” he says, having spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon at a variety of department stores, boutiques, and perfume counters.

According to the sales clerk in Macy’s, that particular aftershave had been discontinued in the winter of ‘88, and what little remained of Oliver’s original bottle had long since been hurled from his Morningside apartment. Overly-dramatic, yes, but too-little sleep and too-much bourbon had led to a heartsick purge of anything that reminded him of the summer that changed his life. 

Of the boy he’d been unable to keep. 

Of the man who - for six short weeks - he’d allowed himself to be.

“Last week you mentioned liking how it smelled on you. So.”

Elio laughs. Low and wicked. "I think I mentioned liking how it rubbed off on me." 

“That too.” Oliver rocks their foreheads together. Bites his bottom lip. Ignores his rumbling stomach. “Dinner will keep, yeah?”

Elio flashes a smirk. “Dinner will keep,” he agrees, attention falling to the half-windsor knot at Oliver’s throat. "Shall we see if it works both ways?”

“The cologne?”

“Sì.” Elio nods. “La colonia.” 

~

They walked up the steep hill between the bus stop and their house, both more than a little drunk, a half-empty bottle of champagne gripped in Jaskier’s hand.

“Well,” said Jaskier, grinning. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, come, you got free champagne and that mousse thing. All-round good result, I’d say.”

“The champagne was very good. And expensive.”

“And free.” Jaskier bit back a laugh. “And we got clapped at. Haven’t gotten clapped at in ages.”

“You just like being the centre of attention.”

“And I shan’t deny it!”

Geralt chuckled, rolling his eyes, and they fell silent as they continued to trudge onwards. Jaskier watched Geralt from the corner of his eye, his face occasionally lit up by yellow streetlights and passing cars. The shadows made his face even more angular, his jaw more prominent. Each flash of passing headlights made his hair flash bright-white, almost like lightning.

Jaskier swallowed. There was a tingling on his lips and a hot, fluttering feeling in his stomach, twisted around an unpleasant, lurching guilt.

“I, ah… Sorry about the whole kiss thing…” He twiddled with the loose foil edge of the champagne bottle, looking steadfastly ahead. “Just seemed the thing to do, you know? Really seal the deal…”

Geralt seemed to be thinking. Jaskier waited, impatiently, that sickening guilt feeling growing.

“Well, it worked,” Geralt said finally. “Definitely… made it more real.”

Jaskier felt himself relax a little. “Right, yes. That was… certainly what I was aiming for. Realism.” He continued to fiddle with the foil wrapping, resisting the urge to take a swig straight from the bottle. “So… it’s all, you know. Okay?”

Geralt turned to him, his expression obscured by shadow.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Fuck. Good question. Jaskier forced a nervous laugh with a shrug. “Just worried I’d gone too far, I guess.”

“When do you ever worry about ‘going too far’?”

“Hah!” Jaskier shook his head. “You’re so mean this evening. Is that any way to treat your new fiancé?”

Geralt hummed - it was the closest to a laugh Jaskier was going to get. “Pass me that bottle, then, fiancé.”

He passed it across, and Geralt drank from it as they walked, the expensive liquid dribbling down his chin. Another car sped past, and the little wet trail was suddenly illuminated, spilling from his jaw down his neck to the collar of his coat.

Geralt passed the bottle back. Jaskier held the thick glass lip to his mouth, his skin tingling, letting it linger there. The champagne fizzed sweetly on his tongue.

The quick walk back to the house hadn’t been taxing at all, and the air was cool and crisp - perfect autumn weather. But still Jaskier found himself feeling breathless as he stood back, watching Geralt rummaging in his seemingly bottomless coat pocket as he looked for his house keys. The now-empty bottle swung from Jaskier’s hand. It had been, all in all, a rather successful evening. Apart from the kiss.

The kiss had been an entirely different kind of success - one that he was keeping to himself. Geralt had dismissed his concerns and accepted his apology, and he supposed that was a good thing. He’d acted like it wasn’t a big deal.

Which it wasn’t, of course. It was all just part of the act. Seal the deal, sell the performance, convince the crowds. It was fake: just… a trick.

But, fuck, it felt real. It felt real enough to hurt.

It had been a foolish, impulsive decision. But he didn’t really regret it: not yet, anyway. After another few moments, Geralt found his keys, pushing open the door. Jaskier followed quickly behind, dumping the empty bottle on the sideboard and kicking off his shoes.

He was sure he’d come to regret it, eventually.

Often, after these sorts of exploits, they’d spend a couple of hours lounging about downstairs, watching crap shows on the TV or finishing off the evening with a glass or two of one of their many and varied spirits - usually some kind of whiskey for Geralt and gin for Jaskier. But tonight, with the kiss clouding Jaskier’s thoughts, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Well. He would sleep. Later. Right now he just wanted to be alone with his unusually turbulent thoughts.

He said a hasty goodnight to a bewildered looking Geralt and hurried upstairs, barely even stopping to sling his coat over the bannister as he went. He ducked into the bathroom, giving his teeth a perfunctory brush and having a hasty piss before flinging himself into his room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it in the dark, as if barricading it shut.

He stood there for a moment. Geralt, it appeared, was staying downstairs: Jaskier could hear the TV mumbling from beneath the floorboards. Stepping away from the door, he tossed his phone onto the bedside table and began to peel off the day’s clothes. Forgoing his usual tatty pyjamas and his nightly moisturising routine, he slid under the covers, pulling the duvet up around him and wiggling about on the pillow, forcing it into a more comfortable shape.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep did not come. It was impossible to sleep, even though he was tired. Even though he was desperate to shut himself off from his own broiling thoughts and rest - to turn those thoughts off, for a few peaceful hours.

It was impossible to sleep, because now he knew what Geralt’s lips felt like. A little rough, a little dry, but pliant, too. Wider than his own. He should have lingered on the kiss, he knew now - sod all the guilt and doubt that came afterwards.

He silently chastised himself, rolling over in bed. It hadn’t even been a proper kiss, not really. It had only lasted a few seconds, and Geralt hadn’t even kissed him back.

But… he might have done, had Jaskier not pulled away. His lips had twitched, after all, even if the movement was so slight that Jaskier could have dreamed it. Perhaps if Jaskier hadn’t moved he would have done.

Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine, don’t dream, don’t guess. It was all a game. It didn’t mean anything - not to Geralt, anyway.

The problem, Jaskier thought, as he twisted his legs up and down beneath the duvet, was that knowing - even briefly - what Geralt’s lips felt like was dangerous. Because knowing how his lips felt on Jaskier’s mouth meant that he could imagine what those lips felt like elsewhere: on his lips, on his jaw, on his neck.

The duvet was hot and thick, weighing down on him, making him feel trapped. But Jaskier burrowed beneath deeper. Those lips, he thought - where else would those lips go? What would they feel like across his chest, or skimming lightly over a nipple? What would they feel like - a little rough, a little dry, a little pliant - squeezed around his--

One hand reached down to grab himself, and the other clamped over his mouth, forcing back the name that threatened to spill from his lips.

~

Geralt forced himself to wait an hour before heading to bed. He watched two and a half episodes of some insipid late-night sitcom, then judged it safe to move upstairs.

It was dark on the landing - no light spilled out from beneath Jaskier’s door. He must be asleep. It was unusual for him to retire so early: he’d clearly needed to get away.

Leaning over the sink, Geralt meticulously brushed his teeth and considered Jaskier's sudden and strange disappearance. He was embarrassed, clearly, for the display of passion he'd exhibited during their little stunt in the restaurant. For the kiss.

The water noisily drained away as Geralt rinsed out his mouth. He cleaned his face carefully with the expensive face wash Jaskier had insisted on buying him, splashing water all over the floor in his messy attempts to wash away the suds. He cleaned up the puddle with a hand towel, then threw it into the laundry hamper along with his shirt and headed into his bedroom, clicking on the dim bedside lamp.

His mouth tasted of mint, and Jaskier.

Fuck.

He tugged off his jeans, folding them and returning them to their spot in the wardrobe, then grabbed the old sweat pants from beneath his duvet and pulled them on. He plugged his phone into the charger, placing it carefully next to the lamp. He shook out the duvet, rearranged the pillows and then, finally, got into bed.

He stared at the once-fashionable stippled ceiling.

Jaskier had kissed him. And, like the idiot he was, he hadn't kissed him back.

It was a good thing, he told himself. Kissing him back would have been ruinous - the kiss had been borne of excitement and, as Jaskier had said, the desire to sell their little scam. It had been nothing else. If he'd wrapped his arms around Jaskier right there in the restaurant like he'd wanted to, his long-buried secret would have been unpleasantly and dramatically unearthed.

It was better this way, even if he was an idiot.

He twisted beneath the duvet, turning towards the improperly closed curtains. He winced as light from the streetlamp outside slanted across his face.

He’d been foolish to even go along with it in the first place. Geralt had known that eventually their little charade would break through his steely reserves and start to prick at real emotions, ones that he’d managed to thus far keep well hidden. It was inevitable, really - but it was becoming harder to ignore.

What if it hadn’t been a scam. What if Jaskier had proposed to him this evening, like they’d been together for all the time they’d shared a house, all the time they’d known each other. What if the spectacle over dinner hadn’t been the most recent in a series of poorly thought-out hoaxes but actually the culmination of a decade-long relationship?

If it had been real, Jaskier would be here with him now, pressed to him beneath the covers. He’d be asleep in his arms, or at least, asleep next to him: Jaskier always tossed and turned in his sleep, never keeping still for more than a few minutes. Geralt’s sheets would smell of that expensive cream Jaskier daubed himself with before going to bed - chamomile and lavender.

Although, had it been real, they probably wouldn’t be doing much sleeping. A hot, tingling flush built around Geralt’s chest, tickling his collarbone, tightening in his core. The thought thrilled him and shamed him in equal parts. He wanted it, but he wasn’t allowed to want it. Jaskier was one of his oldest friends: he shouldn’t be thinking about him like that.

Yet somehow, the wish for soft domesticity - for holding hands and sharing a bed and fluttering, casual kisses - felt even worse. It felt like more of a betrayal, if that really was what this feeling was. Everyone wanted to fuck Jaskier: that’s how it often appeared, anyway. But the desire for more - for something long-lasting and solid - was less freely given.

If they were together, if Jaskier had proposed, if they were now sleeping soundly - or not - together in Geralt’s bed, then that would mean Geralt had tied him down. It would be like clipping a bird’s wings, trapping a butterfly in a jar. It was unthinkable. Jaskier was free and bright and buoyant, carried by his own whims like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Geralt was steadfast, and solid, and - he feared - boring.

Jaskier wouldn’t want him in that way, he knew. Sensibly, he understood that it wouldn’t do to dwell on dreams - that they’d only end in further disappointment, be it days or weeks or months from now.

But it was late, and outside the house cars were zooming past, and somewhere far away an owl was hooting. It was late, and he was tired, and more than a little drunk. He could indulge, just this once. No one needed to know he was a romantic - and no one, especially not Jaskier, needed to know the object of his disastrously misplaced affections.

He twisted himself up in the duvet, hugging it close, and dreamed of soft lips against his, and the smell of chamomile.

~

The air was crisp and fresh, and heaps of sodden autumn leaves were strewn across the path, piled in drifts against the high fence that separated the footpath from the park on the other side. Geralt tucked his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, regretting not wearing gloves, as he watched Jaskier kick through the enormous piles, scattering leaves in his wake.

He huffed a laugh into the collar of his coat as Jaskier turned around, his face pink where it was exposed to the chilly air. He, of course, was wearing the same useless jacket he always wore. Gerat knew he’d be complaining about being cold on the way home.

They were heading a little further afield this evening, and had taken a bus to the other side of town to find a restaurant that one of Jaskier’s friends had visited a few weeks ago. It was horribly expensive, owned by some out-of-towner with a chain of such establishments, and the servers were, Jaskier had been reliably informed, paid minimum wage despite the ridiculous mark-ups on the food and drink. But the food, apparently, was very good.

Briefly, it was perfect, and Geralt had found himself going along with another ridiculous scheme. Although, no: he wasn’t just going along with it. When Jaskier had described it to him, all faux-innocence, Geralt had immediately understood what he was suggesting and had egged him into it. This was his idea just as much as it was Jaskier’s, although he had a little more plausible deniability.

Jaskier fell back into step at Geralt’s side, pushing his way through the leaves where Geralt sensibly stepped through them.

“Don’t forget,” he reached into his jacket pocket, grabbing the ring box and passing it over. “It’s your turn.”

Geralt groaned. He was much better at being proposed to than doing the proposing.

"Shush your complaining," tutted Jaskier, "acting like it's some grand inconvenience. I did it last time. And in exchange,” he added, like he was bestowing some marvellous gift, “I’ll pay for the taxi home.”

“You’re better at this than me,” said Geralt, looking at the box like it might bite him. “I never know what to say.”

Jaskier shrugged. “You just have to pretend.” He hummed, thoughtfully. “Pretend… I don’t know, pretend you’re madly in love with me, and desperate for us to spend the rest of our lives together, and possibly you intend for us to have lots of lovely sex when we get home.” He shrugged, pressing his mouth into a tight line. “That sort of thing.”

Geralt’s fingers closed around the ring box. “Right.”

He reeled it off so casually, so easily. Jaskier was an accomplished actor and, therefore, liar - but even when he wasn’t pretending his feelings sprung from him like fireworks, like water from a burst pipe. Geralt, conversely, struggled to even convey his truest emotions.

That was probably why he was struggling so much.

“Wait, hold on…” Jaskier spun around, stepping in front of Geralt with his hands raised and stopping him in his tracks. Geralt bumped into him, Jaskier’s hands connecting gently with his chest. “What about the kiss? I mean, it worked last time, and--”

“Sure.”

“--and they definitely seemed convinced, so-- Oh!” Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “Well, then. Alright! Same as before, then.”

“Same as before.”

Jaskier tilted his head, giving Geralt a curious look that he struggled to read.

“You know,” he said, “We don’t have to do… all this. You don’t have to go along with my incorrigible whims. We could actually pay for a meal, like the upstanding citizens I know we are.” He paused. “The upstanding citizen I know you are, in any case.”

“You know,” Geralt carried on walking, and Jaskier did a neat little spin as he followed, “I am fully capable of telling you to fuck off.”

“And you do! With true feeling and increasing regularity.” Jaskier grinned. “So you’re on board, then? Even if I am so cruelly forcing you to propose to me?”

Geralt shoved the ring box into his pocket. “Even then.”

~

Jaskier’s friend had been right: the food was very good. They’d fallen into a neat little routine, now - never playing their hand too early. A proposal before the main courses arrived was never so well received as one made after they’d finished eating, and the later into the evening it happened the more likely they’d be to get some sort of free dessert.

Some restaurants would insist on giving them the full meal for free, some just dessert, some a bottle of something bubbly. A few had given them nothing at all, which was the risk one ran when doing this sort of thing.

Aside from the nerves silently pooling in his stomach all evening, he’d had a good night. Most nights spent out and about with Jaskier were good - he enjoyed his company, even if he complained about him. It helped, of course, that on these occasions they weren’t just sharing a meal as friends: they were on a date. A fake date, but a date nonetheless.

Their “dates”, Geralt quietly suspected, were very much like their regular nights out - just with more faux-longing gazes and less flirting with bar staff. He’d often wondered if he should point that out to Jaskier, but had decided it probably wasn’t worth it: it would just be uncomfortable for him.

Their main courses finished, Geralt knew what was expected of him. It was absurd, really, having it all planned out like this. He was feeling nervous about the whole charade - as if they hadn’t pulled this trick nearly a dozen times before - as if it wasn’t even a trick at all.

Like it was real.

Every other time they’d done this had been fun and foolish and, truthfully, stupid. He’d missed being reckless, and Jaskier’s little game had given him a chance to claw that back again. He’d not been stupid since he graduated, for fuck’s sake. Jaskier had an uncanny ability to pull him along into schemes and, for once, he didn’t find himself resisting.

But this felt different, in a way that terrified him.

He caught Jaskier’s eye.

Now. Now. Geralt stood from his chair, immediately regretting allowing the server to seat them in the middle of the room, then - somewhat awkwardly - lowered himself down on one knee. Jaskier kept his gaze as he stood, clearly holding back a smile, trying to maintain an expression of confusion.

Shit. Everyone was watching him. Jaskier raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, then played along - putting down his glass, bringing his hands to his face, opening his mouth in a little silent gasp of surprise.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, in a well-practiced voice that was loud enough for both Jaskier to hear and for the rest of the restaurant realise what was happening, “I… ah…”

He fumbled before he’d even said anything, and hoped it made the whole facade more believable. What was it he had said before they’d made their way into the restaurant? That all he had to do was pretend? Maybe it was even easier than that…

“Jaskier,” he said again, finding comfort in repeating his friend’s name, “I’ve known you for… for longer than I can remember. You’ve changed my life… mostly for the better.” Jaskier laughed, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself so Geralt could talk uninterrupted. “I couldn’t…” Geralt continued, “...I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. I don’t want to imagine it. And, I…” He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “I love you.”

There was something like a shift in the air. The knot in Geralt’s stomach tightened, the breath fled his lungs. Jaskier, who’s expression till this point had been politely amused, looked suddenly struck, his eyes wide.

“Marry me, Julek.”

The diminutive slipped out, almost of its own accord. Fuck. He’d only used it a handful of times, if that - one long, drunken night back when they were students together, when Jaskier’s grandmother had died, when Ciri had first entered their lives. And now.

Jaskier stood too quickly, knocking the table, both of them attempting to grab it to stop their drinks spilling. They laughed - at each other, at everything - then Jaskier was pulling Geralt to his feet, wrapping his arms around him. Geralt could smell the sweet shampoo he favoured, feel his breath against his neck.

Finally, he released him, and when he leant back his face was nearly scarlet, his eyes shimmering.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” he said, the words sounding slightly choked. “Yes!”

It wasn’t until Jaskier was kissing him that Geralt remembered the decision they’d made as they walked to the restaurant. He was expecting something short and sharp like before - a facade of a kiss, just enough to make it look real - but this was different. Jaskier lingered on his lips, his hands on Geralt’s jaw, their chests pressed together. He went no further than that, but even this soft, subdued thing was making Geralt’s stomach flip, his heart stutter.

Geralt kissed him back.

When Jaskier pulled away, his expression had shifted into something unreadable, something soft. His lips were invitingly pink.

Oh, bollocks.

All of his reason had fled, all his senses shot. He was about to say something - anything - when there was a sudden, heavy hand on his shoulder.

“It appears that congratulations are in order, my boy.”

Jaskier, who could see over Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly froze like a deer in headlights - or like a rabbit about to be mauled by a fox.

Geralt turned, already knowing who was standing behind him.

“Although I think,” Vesemir continued, “you might also have some explaining to do.”

~

Jaskier virtually fell out of the taxi, the change he’d been given grasped in one sweaty hand. Geralt followed behind him, and they weaved their way up the drive, knocking into each other.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, “We’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

Geralt was struggling to get the key in the lock. “Nah,” he said, “it’s fine.”

The door swung open and they both stumbled inside, dumping coats and shoes in a heap by the door.

“He thinks we’re getting married, Geralt!” Jaskier giggled, as he made his way into the kitchen. “Married!”

Geralt groaned to himself as he followed Jaskier into the kitchen, reaching for the cupboard where they kept the spirits. Shit. He had no idea how he was going to fix this. It should be simple, really: just phone Vesemir in the morning and tell him…

Tell him that he, Geralt, the one who hadn’t yet gotten arrested, had been scamming local restaurants with his best friend slash roommate slash apparent fiancé for the past year, taking them for all the free food and wine they could.

This was, he decided, a problem he could deal with in the morning. Any call he made now would only incriminate him further, all shitty excuses and Jaskier’s background giggling, and it was likely that Vesmir himself was busy regardless: the woman who he’d been dining with had seemed impatient for him to return to their table.

He poured himself a whiskey - one of the good ones that Lambert had gotten him for his birthday - as Jaskier put together a gin and tonic using the last of the bright pink gin he’d treated himself to a few weeks ago.

Jaskier raised his glass, clinking it against Geralt’s. “Cheers, fiancé,” he said, giggling.

Geralt couldn’t help himself. “Cheers.”

They headed into the living room with their respective drinks, Jaskier chatting as they went.

“Gods, Geralt,” he chuckled, slumping down onto the sofa, “Can you imagine?”

Geralt peered at him. “Imagine what?”

“Us getting married. What it’d be like…” Jaskier punctuated the statement with a barking laugh before taking a long swig of his gin.

“What would it be like?” Said Geralt, frowning.

“Uhh…” Jaskier tucked his legs up, twisting against the arm of the sofa so his toes were pointing towards Geralt. “Well,” he said, gesturing with the glass, “We’d do… we’d do married people things!”

“Like?”

“We’d spend all our time together!”

“We already do that.”

“Well… we’d go to Tescos together. We’d, like, shop.”

“We do that too.”

Jaskier’s unsteady expression slipped. “Oh, right,” he said, slowly. “Okay, okay: I’d meet all your family.”

“You’ve already met my family.”

“And I’d meet them again!” Jaskier gesticulated, nearly spilling the drink.

“Hmm.”

“Well, we’d…” Jaskier frowned to himself. “Huh. It’d be exactly like it is now, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt shrugged noncommittally, even though his mind was reeling. Jaskier was correct: despite all his fears that Jaskier wouldn’t want to be with him, if they were… not much would truly change.

He was more casually comfortable with Jaskier than anyone else, they already spent all their time together, and Jaskier was always only half a pint or any single strong emotion away from forgetting Geralt’s unspoken rule about no touching and throwing his arms around him.

And even that rule - one that Geralt had carefully maintained for several years - was no longer as steadfast as it once was. It no longer felt strange to have Jaskier’s feet across his lap as they watched a movie, or to lean across him in their tiny kitchen, or to wrestle over the remote or the last biscuit.

They’d even shared a bed, for fuck’s sake, on dozens of occasions: brought about either by necessity or drunkenness or simple sleepiness making one or the other of them too lazy to retire to their own room.

No, Geralt thought. Not much would change. If they were… that. The casual intimacy would be more freely expressed, the touches more easily given, and that would largely be it.

Except… Geralt thought back to his musings of several weeks ago, that evening when Jaskier had kissed him.

“Not exactly like it is now,” he said, taking a drink and letting the whiskey sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it.

“Oh?” Jaskier edged forward. “Go on?”

“If we were married…” Geralt spoke slowly, the booze weighing down his lips, “we’d be fucking.”

Jaskier spluttered on his gin. When he’d regained control, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes sparkling and ears pink. He licked his lips.

“I mean,” he said, slumping against the back of the sofa and extending a single, bare foot until his toes were poking at Geralt’s thigh. He was too close, too comfortable, too soft. “If you--”

Geralt shot up like he’d been burned, stumbling from the sofa, cutting Jaskier off mid-sentence. Whatever Jaskier was about to say, it could wait - it would have to wait.

“I should go to bed,” he said, tersely.

“But--”

“I’ve got…” Geralt steadied himself, placing the nearly full glass down on the windowsill. “Ciri’s coming tomorrow,” he said, “and I need to figure out what I’m going to tell Vesemir. I… I should go to bed.”

He didn’t look down at Jaskier, still pressed into the corner of the sofa. He didn’t want to see his expression - be it mocking or disappointed.

“Right, then.” Jaskier muttered. “Goodnight.” Geralt had nearly left the room, when he suddenly called after him. “Geralt!”

Geralt paused. “Yeah?”

“You will tell him, yeah? Tell him the truth?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He stomped up the stairs, awaring he was making too much noise, then veered straight into his room, shutting the door behind him like there were beasts on his heels.

He threw himself onto the bed. It wasn’t long before he heard Jaskier making his way upstairs too, switching off lights as he went and then, finally, retreating into his room, quietly shutting his door behind him.

Geralt suspected that he was, to put it mildly, completely fucked. Vesemir was going to be furious with him - or disappointed, which was arguably worse - but that wasn’t the problem niggling at his mind, twisting his insides with a kind of panic.

All those hot little feelings, the ignored thoughts, the soft, stupid imaginings had exploded back into life. He’d given himself a single night of indulgence before trying to push them away, and now they were back, wilder and more lurid than ever.

Weeks ago, Jaskier had kissed him, and it had been brief and sudden and over before he’d even really realised what was happening.

This evening, Jaskier had kissed him like he meant it.

And, Gods, Geralt had confessed it all too - a confession wrapped in a lie. A declaration of love packaged in an act, easily brushed away.

As far as Jaskier knew, he was just pretending. But that kiss had felt real, and Jaskier’s shocked, soft expression had seemed real too.

But he’d promised he’d tell the truth. Jaskier had insisted on it. Was it truly so bad if someone close to them thought they were together? Was Jaskier ashamed, or embarrassed?