+

When he wakes, it’s to immediate warmth.

Panic grips him, for a second.

But there are arms wrapped around him and fire burning in a modest hearth. There are soft puffs of breath on his neck and a slow heartbeat racing his own.

There are tears falling down his face, and lips kissing them away.

“Geralt,” he says when he gathers his voice, and it surprises him how rough it sounds. “Geralt.”

“Yes,” comes the answer from behind him, words falling from the lips that are following the line of his shoulder. “I’m here.”

Jaskier’s heart lurches.

“I wanna see you.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he’s turned around. His limbs don’t seem to answer to his will, and strong arms roll him in the bed until he’s suddenly looking into firefly eyes and that small smile that could build empires and tear down a mountain range.

(It did).

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Geralt says back.

Jaskier takes his time looking at him. Memorizing his features even though he doesn’t have to anymore, even though he’s safe. Even though the only way he’ll part from Geralt’s side is if they drag him away kicking and screaming. Even though the only way Geralt will part from his side is if they drag him away, kicking and screaming.

“You love me,” Jaskier tells him, the memory suddenly reappearing in his mind.

Sharp swords and lifeless soldiers fallen on the ground, and sorry about the blood on your mouth and I’ve missed you too much and I love you forever.

I love you forever.

Geralt smiles. Soft smile, soft eyes. “I do.”

His finger traces the slope of Jaskier’s nose, the once perfect line now crooked, and there’s reverence in his touch.

Warm tendrils of light pour in through the windows, peeking through the gaps in the curtains and bathing the room in a golden blush. Jaskier doesn’t know where they are — doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

Right now, all he needs is this.

Gentle touches and whispered nothings and love, love, love, so much love his head swims and his heart hurts, so full of silver hair and a honeyed gaze and scarred hands that mend and heal and beckon into golden light.

Jaskier feels sleep trying to take him back, but he fights it.

He wants to stay in the sunlit room a little bit longer.

“You know,” he says, and tries to comb broken fingers through moonlit hair, but his hand won’t move, so he chooses to press it against Geralt’s forehead. “I would cut off my robe for you.”

A frown slowly knits Geralt’s brow. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier smiles, gently, slowly, feeling cold air hit his split lips. “In Oxenfurt,” he begins, and has to clear his throat once, twice. “There was this story of two lovers. They had to meet in secret because it was a forbidden love they held for each other.”

“Typical.”

“Hush,” Jaskier says, but he’s grinning, and Geralt’s grinning too. It suits him. “They had to meet in secret, and could only do so at night, when they wouldn’t be seen.” Geralt presses a kiss to his wrist. It tickles. “And they would stay up all night, talking and kissing and— don’t you make that face, you lewd Witcher! They talked!”

He wants to kiss Geralt’s smirk off his face. “Sure they did.”

“Incorrigible man.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Anyway— they would talk all night, until dawn, when they would have to go their separate ways, lest they be killed for their passions.”

The pause he makes could once be attributed to dramatic effect, but now, talking tires him out. His throat aches, forcing the words out.

Geralt seems to notice, and presses a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s mouth. The sweetest balm there is, the tender press of their lips together, nothing deep or urgent or insistent — they will have time for that. For now, it’s soft, and warm, and new, like the first trickles of a stream melting from its cold winter home.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, voice small.

Geralt hums quietly, and presses another kiss to Jaskier’s cheek, stubble scratching the skin pleasantly.

“So, they’d part at dawn?”

Jaskier nods. “They’d part at dawn. But one time they didn’t.”

Geralt’s eyes widen comically, and Jaskier loves him too much.

“They fell asleep, after so much talking and kissing.” Jaskier moves forward to kiss Geralt’s nose. “And when one of them woke up, he realized it was morning already.”

“They forgot.”

“Mm,” Jaskier nods. “Time had passed them by without them realizing it. They were probably too in love to notice. Anyway, the one that woke up knew what would happen if they were found together, he knew he had to wake his lover up, go their separate ways— but he just couldn’t.”

“No?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “He had never seen his lover asleep— had never seen the way the early morning sun bathed his face in its light, the way his eyelashes fell over his freckled cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell with his gentle breaths.

“He couldn’t wake him up, he resolved. He couldn’t let reality steal this moment from them, so he decided he would leave alone. But then…”

This time, he does pause for dramatic effect.

“Then?” Geralt urges him on.

“He realized his lover was laying on top of his own robe, the robe he was wearing,” Jaskier says. “He couldn’t leave without waking his lover up.”

Geralt takes it in.

“He cut off his robe,” he whispers.

Jaskier smiles. “Because the clothes on his back were worthless next to his lover’s face in the sunlight.”

Geralt smiles back at him. His teeth shine in the rays of sunlight sneaking in from the window. His eyes are amber-gold.

“I love you,” Jaskier tells him, like he imagined he would so many times before. Like he did, so many times before. This time, it feels right. “I love you.”

He feels his heart might burst with it.

He’s ready for it.

Sleep threatens to claim him again, and this time he will go with it. Just before he closes his eyes, just before his mind slips fully into pleasant darkness, there is a kiss being pressed to his forehead, and a voice that whispers, tender and endlessly gentle,

*

Jaskier makes it down the mountain alone and he never wants to remember the experience. It's not so much the treacherous trail back down and the narrow paths and the cold of winter looming close or even the creepy sounds at night that he can't recognize. It's not the trip itself but everything he carries down with him that makes him loathe it.

But mostly he loathes himself.

For being so naive and devoted and his tongue for being so loose. For wearing his godsdamned heart on his sleeve and getting nothing in return.

Of course, he did get something in return. It's why he pushes his limits and returns to the town at the bottom of the mountain in record time, why he doesn't stop even when he feels blisters blossoming on his feet.

There's a desperate need to put distance between him and Niedamir's kingdom as quickly as possible, an emotional need that turns physical when he refuses to cry a single tear over their fall-out and ends up with a deep ache in his chest.

This is why he parts ways with the dwarves and bids noble Yarpen goodbye when they show him the way to a shortcut that leads him straight out of Caingorn.

He takes it, he never looks back, and he buries Geralt's words somewhere deep inside and turns a blind eye to it all.

Eventually, the pain in his chest disappears.

*

For weeks on end he finds himself blocked as he's never been. Back to performing for cheery crowds and gaining his keep and sleeping rough no more, he stares at blank pages way too often and his ink doesn't run out. He hates it.

He can't make himself put two phrases together and after a good three months of fruitless writing and one or two terrible attempts that end up soppy ballads, an opportunity to get himself back on his feet arises.

In the form of a curly-haired witcher that walks into the inn to take on a nekker contract that's been pinned to the notice board since Jaskier got here.

"Good morning, m'lady," he nods to the innkeeper's daughter with a melodious voice and leans on the counter casually. Jaskier looks up from the table just in front, cup of ale halfway to his lips. "Might you be so kind as to point me to your local healer?"

The first thing Jaskier feels is something tugging firmly at his chest and then his throat closing. He watches the exchange silently from his chair and sees Petyr, the owner, turn his head sharply from the table he'd been cleaning and stride towards the witcher with ill intent.

"How 'bout you get your directions somewhere else, witcher?" the man spits out, "we don' serve the likes of you here."

Well, then, Jaskier thinks, setting his cup back down with an audible sigh, he didn't look the type.

When he looks back up, the witcher is still sporting that smile and surveys him quickly before turning towards the door.

"Far be it from me to impose, then," says the witcher before nodding once again, "good day."

And then he's gone.

Petyr turns right back around to his task.

"Bloody mutants," he says under his breath.

The first thing that comes to Jaskier's mind is Geralt.

Geralt, first. Geralt's words, second. And all the differences, third. An armour that wasn't so sturdy, shoulders not so broad, only one sword and many more words.

He loses his appetite soon after. And soon after that is packing up his things and bidding the lovely maid goodbye and having one final toast as per Petyr's insistence, with a false promise to return and sing for them once more.

*

It's a chance to put it all behind him for good. To stop lying in bed until midday and stop seeing silver hair and hearing an alluring sandpaper voice when he gets too drunk. To stop his hand from lingering uselessly above a piece of parchment that's begging to be filled with words that don't come out.

Another adventure is what he needs.

Another witcher.

One nail drives out another and all that.

That same afternoon, sunset looming on the horizon, he starts a languid walk on the road and thinks he's gone the wrong way until the sound of hooves hitting the ground firmly grows closer.

The witcher slows his pace and his beautiful black mare comes to a stop and huffs out a hot breath that makes white shapes in the chilly air. Jaskier sports a friendly smile that gets returned instantly and with no hesitation. So inviting it warms his heart as nothing has in a while.

"Bard!" the witcher greets merrily as if they've known each other for years, "on foot. Alone. At night."

They're half-remarks, half-questions.

"Did you find the healer?"

The witcher scoffs.

"Already had. Was just testing the waters, you see. Hoped to sleep on a nice warm bed tonight," still mounted, he leans down the slightest bit and looks Jaskier up and down with a sly grin, "and what are you looking for?"

He asks because he knows. Jaskier sees a cat medallion hang loosely on his chest as the auburn-haired witcher leaps off his horse and lands gracefully in front of him.

A cat witcher.

It excites him more than it should.

"A travelling companion."

*

Aiden is — and Jaskier hates that this is always the first trail of thought that he can seem to muster trying to describe him — everything Geralt isn't. He's talkative and playful and encourages him to pick up his lute as they sit by the fire.

At night, he's at hand-reach. He starts setting his bedroll up close after Jaskier wakes up the first morning shivering under his blanket on the other side of the ash pile.

"Aw fuck," Aiden moans with a voice like he's still half asleep, Jaskier hears his feet dragging through the dirt and peels his eyes open to see the man crouch down and drape something much heavier over his trembling body.

"Mrning," Jaskier says, throat dry and breaking into a cough.

"Hey," Aiden's voice is soft and he tucks him in firmly, "you should've woke me up."

The cat witcher looks down on him with a frown, scolding but gentle. The furs are still warm and smell like him and Jaskier manages a hoarse apology before another cough has his whole body shaking again. Aiden rubs his hands over his form for some friction and then stands up.

"I'll get a fire going. Stay there."

Jaskier stays, and he starts waking up to that cat medallion touching the tip of his nose and a pair of strong arms firmly locked around him in the late autumn mornings.

*

Aiden isn't scarce in his descriptions, he tells his stories fiercely and answers as many questions as Jaskier asks and even suggests a change of rhythm or phrase when he stands behind him as he picks at his lute. By the time they reach the next town over he's got enough material to last him until next winter.

And then his strike of luck dissipates.

They run into Lambert.

The warmth that had easily settled on his belly, the sense of security and trust, the many smiles and grins and laughs that had returned, it's like they're suddenly bottled up and trapped when Jaskier returns to their table hidden round some dark corner after his last song of the night and finds someone else there.

He thinks nothing of it and rounds the towering figure to claim his seat next to Aiden, still high on praise and a thin coat of sweat broken on his forehead and placing his lute back into his case and when he looks up to introduce himself—

—a wolf medallion.

Yellow eyes.

Aiden brings an arm around his shoulders to draw him closer and Jaskier can't make a sound or hear a sound and all his mind provides is if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

"—let you tag along for a price, of course! Right, Jas?"

Aiden places his ale in front of him and Jaskier blinks out of his stupor and drinks it eagerly, snapping his eyes away from the witcher in front, his eyes so yellow, so intense, so much like Ge—

"And what's that price, then?" growls the man, attention lingering on Aiden's hand resting on Jaskier's shoulder with ease. Their bodies pressed together comfortably.

Ah.

"Well, couple of stories here and there, Lamb. You're always biting off more than you can chew, bet your recklessness can pay off for once," Aiden nods his head to Jaskier, "Jas here is a performer!"

"Really," the wolf offers deadpan.

"Well, you witchers do make for a wonderful source of inspiration," Jaskier finally says, and he's proud of the way his hand doesn't tremble when he offers it for 'Lamb' to take.

Wolf medallion.

Same school.

Same eyes.

Must know Geralt.

Sounds a bit like him too, scrunches up his nose ever so slightly like something's bothering him, just like Geralt. Like the establishment isn't quite to his liking. Or the ale. Or the way Aiden is so friendly draped over him and sharing his food.

Definitely the latter.

"Us witchers?" the wolf says, and his yellow eyes dart to Jaskier's hand waiting and he doesn't move a hair to shake it. Jaskier retrieves it and Aiden clicks his tongue and kicks the other witcher under the table.

"When did you turn into a fucking idiot?" Aiden spits out. "That's wolves for you, bard."

Jaskier snorts and almost makes the mistake of blurting something along the likes of don't I know.

Because he hasn't told Aiden about Geralt. Because travelling with Aiden was supposed to get his mind off him. Because he's been content following the cat on his endeavours, back to composing and not feeling like shit as he did for weeks after The Mountain. He doesn't want to open that can of worms. It's done. It's past.

"Bit scarce on words, bunch of tight-up assholes," Aiden continues, and then he makes a toast to his friend with a shit-eating grin. "Wouldn't you say, Lambert?"

"Fuck you," Lambert says, leaning back on his chair but obviously not meaning it. Aiden howls out a laugh.

"That's more like it."

*

They return to the road that same night, the innkeeper looking less than pleased to let two witchers take his beds on a busy night with an influx of travellers looking for warmth.

Jaskier considers staying behind at least three times as he packs, looking over his shoulder to stare longingly at the empty set of stairs Aiden disappeared through only a few moments before, saying something about getting his saddle fixed.

Winter's looming closer, he might as well choose his permanent lodgings for the season. Witchers will be gone soon, too.

And Lambert doesn't like him.

Doesn't like him and reminds Jaskier too much of something he doesn't want to be reminded of.

And yet. He swings his bag over his shoulder and then his lute case, and stares at the empty room and walks out. Too empty. Silent. No warmth to snuggle up to at night.

He meets the witchers outside. Lambert jumps onto his horse when Jaskier appears and Aiden turns around to help him up to his own horse, giving Lambert a playful pat on the thigh as a way of ending whichever conversation it was they were having.

"Come on," Aiden says, casually, like second-nature as he hoists Jaskier up onto Thunder's back and then climbs up behind him, "Lamb knows a spot. We might make it there 'fore sundown."

And just like that, they start gently galloping away.

Jaskier's become quite used to Aiden's warm presence behind him over the past few weeks, to his chit-chat and to those pair of arms firmly grabbing onto the reins on each side of his waist as the sound of Thunder's hooves rhythmically hitting the ground lulls him into comfortable familiarity.

Except. It's the first time he feels awkward about it. Self-conscious. Wiggles nervously in his place every time Lambert sends a look their way and gently kicks his horse to take the lead. Aiden takes notice but doesn't say a word.

By the time they make camp Jaskier's strongly regretting his decision of coming along and has promised to himself he's going to stay behind when they reach the next town over. Because even if nothing has happened between him and Aiden (nothing past suggestive looks, shameless flirting and platonic cuddling, anyway, and he's sure they could've done without the latter if winter wasn't so closely upon them) there's a familiar feeling settling in his gut that he's well acquainted with and it takes his appetite away.

Of being somewhere he isn't particularly welcomed.

Just... in the middle.

Misplaced.

He's not an idiot. Lambert isn't just jealous without a cause. It's pretty clear by the way Aiden's hands linger on his back when he playfully pats him after a laugh, or how they spread their legs just a bit further sitting next to each other so their thighs brush, or how Lambert's eyes glint needily in the firelight when he's surveying Aiden's profile.

It's plain to see — and it makes Jaskier feel all the more imposing.

So when Aiden comes to lie next to him Jaskier quietly refuses his company. If only to avoid Lambert staring daggers at him from across the fire.

"Aiden," he starts with a quiet voice, wishing that witchers didn't have enhanced hearing and that his words could be drowned by the constant chirping of nightly insects surrounding them and the crackling fire, "I'm alright. You don't have to."

"Like hell you are," Aiden snaps immediately, and Jaskier curls up under the blankets and feels him dropping down onto the bedroll behind him, "you're trembling like a leaf about to take flight. Shut up."

"I can just—"

"You can just shut your mouth," Aiden says in his ear, his arms coming around Jaskier's waist to keep him close, "don't mind him."

Jaskier chances a look over the fire and finds Lambert watching like a hawk. He can swear he feels Aiden smirk behind him as he settles his chin on his shoulder. Playful. Mocking.

Definitely teasing.

"It's not like we're married, right Lamb?"

Lambert scoffs.

"In your dreams."

"Hmmm," Aiden purrs contently, shifting behind Jaskier, trying to find a comfortable spooning position like every other night when it's been just the two of them. "Bard gets cold," he offers stupidly with a voice like he's about to doze off already. Eyes closed, probably. Jaskier can't see him.

Lambert hums from across and his eyebrows come together in an unhappy frown and Jaskier instantly thinks such a Geralt thing to do — almost growls unhappily at the intrusive thought.

Because thinking about the White Wolf with Aiden's arms wrapped around him isn't right, because he'll close his eyes and his mind will wander and imagine and feed him a lie. Geralt's never shared his bedroll. Geralt's never let him ride Roach with him. Geralt's never learnt his lyrics and joined in on his singing by the firelight. Geralt talks in a week what Aiden says in a whole day.

They are not the same and Geralt's not here and quite frankly, Jaskier thinks it's highly offensive to lovely, gorgeous Aiden that he should be so much as entertaining the thought of someone else providing that warm comfort that he gives out so freely and joyfully. Expecting nothing in return.

"Relax," Aiden whispers in his ear again, as if sensing his inner turmoil. Most definitely feeling his muscles tense up. A real whisper. Words barely there, purely meant for him.

Jaskier blinks, finds he's been staring at a wolf medallion soaked in yellow light as Lambert stands up to crouch over the fire and stoke it back to life. He blinks, and finds himself heaving out a sob.

It makes Aiden sit up behind him like he's been pricked with a needle.

"What—"

And much to his own horror, much as he tries to hold his breath or bite his tongue to prevent it, Jaskier dissolves into a full-on crying fit.

"What the fuck did you do?!" Aiden snaps, glaring at Lambert.

"Nothing!"

Jaskier brings both hands towards his chest where the pain flares up, it moves to his throat and settles there like a ball of anguish that cannot be extinguished.

"Jas, what's wrong?" Aiden turns him on his back and all the bard can do is heave cry after cry, shake his head because he can't explain, "fuck. Lambert!"

"I didn't fucking do anything!"

It was meant to happen, sooner or later.

"Not," Jaskier tries with a strangled sound, almost unintelligible, brushing a hand over his eyes furiously and making an effort to try and make the words come out, throat closing up in pain, "not Lambert. S'okay."

There. That should do. Except of course, it's not okay. It hasn't been okay for some time and he doesn't think it's gonna be okay any time soon.

"Alright, alright," Aiden's voice is gentle and he sits up and brings Jaskier to his chest, "it's fine, whatever it is, Jas. Does it hurt anywhere?"

Jaskier shakes his head again but doesn't have the heart to pull away. He's selfish but he'll stay like this with his nose buried in Aiden's chest for as long as he'll let him. Stupid, how he wants to hold that cat insignia and grip it hard and think of anything but wolves. Ridiculous.

Triggered by a fucking medallion.

*

Aiden's cradling him. There's no other word for it. He quietly hums one of Jaskier's balads slightly out of tune and draws warm circles on Jaskier's back and only leans away to look at him when he feels his heartbeat go back to normal, Jaskier is sure.

He has to move. Pushes himself to because he feels like an inconsolable child and Aiden is too kind-hearted for his own good. Jaskier sniffs, pulls away to sit on his own and looks up to see the other witcher still in that same spot.

"You done?" Lambert barks out all of a sudden and Jaskier can physically feel Aiden about to rise up next to him but he doesn't get a chance to. "Good. Now fucking tell me what that prick did to you so I can smash his head in when I meet him at the Keep."

Jaskier lets out a sigh and looks away. Inexplicably less surprised than he thinks he should be.

"What?" Aiden blurts out, looks at Jaskier, looks at Lambert, and back to Jaskier.

Lambert nods Jaskier's way.

"He's Geralt's bard."

Now that feels like a punch to the gut and Jaskier hisses out a breath and looks up to return one of the many glares Lambert's directed at him since they met at the tavern half a day ago.

"I am not."

"Wait. Your brother Geralt?"

"The great White Wolf!" Lambert provides theatrically, though his dramatic gesture lacks any sort of real praise and reeks of sarcasm.

Aiden turns to Jaskier.

"So you did write that song!"

"Sorry," Jaskier provides sheepishly, "I just... he deserved it, at the time."

It's not that Geralt's a bad person. It's not like he doesn't deserve to be praised for his humanity and empathy anymore, it isn't that he's a bad witcher. It's just that Jaskier's trying (very pathetically and unsuccessfully) to burn those bridges and Toss A Coin is an invisible string that keeps tugging him back every time he takes a step forward. Can't make it to the other side.

He wishes he had the energy to put all of that into words.

He doesn't. His eyes are puffy and his throat is sore and he's starting to get cold again. He looks up at Lambert.

"How did you know?" he asks quietly, purely out of curiosity.

Lambert looks away like he doesn't want to answer.

"It's your lute case," he says, clearing his throat. "Smells... Well let's just say I can smell the idiot. I'm guessing you haven't washed it in a while."

Aiden scoffs next to him.

"Who washes a lute case?"

"You didn't answer my question," Lambert continues, yellow eyes burning right into Jaskier's, "what's he done now? Wasn't enough almost fucking killin' ya over a stupid djinn?"

He knows about the djinn, Jaskier thinks, and he's about to tell Lambert off for being so needlessly secretive when Aiden suddenly flops back down on his bedroll with a groan.

"A djinn?! Now that's a story I need to hear."

So Jaskier tells it to him.

And he avoids answering Lambert's question for the second time and Lambert doesn't ask again.

*

He wakes up the next morning with the sun barely colouring the sky, a freezing nose and a cold gush of wind trailing down his spine. Notices Aiden's absence at once. Emptiness at his back, no curly hair falling gently over his cheek, no hot breath against his skin.

But their horses aren't gone and that stops his nervous heartbeat from turning into something else. His mind from providing words like left alone, again. Should've seen it coming. Unsurprisingly, once again a witcher's grown tired of you. And your songs. Clingy.

Alright, maybe it doesn't quite stop that annoying little voice at the back of his head, but he shakes it off and chances a look around, too lazy and not curious enough to vacate his warm cocoon of blankets when the grass around him has turned white with morning cold.

They must be hunting.

(Probably not.)

Either way, he's not going to go find out.

He'll be the first one to benefit from it, in any case.

All he can hear is the quiet and cheerful chirping of mockingbirds.

An owl, nearby.

They're certainly nowhere close.

He hopes Lambert stops sending him those looks like he's stolen something from him. Almost bare his teeth like a possessive dog that's got his favourite toy snatched from his claws.

Aiden is a sweetheart, and he's clearly his sweetheart. It's ridiculous that he'd think Jaskier is out to get himself involved with another witcher when Geralt's voice and scent is still hard-wired into his brain like his own personal kind of hallucinogenic mushrooms.

(Scent stuck to his lute case too, apparently.)

Well, of course he did get himself involved with another witcher, quite purposefully at that. But there was no ulterior motive, nothing that should warrant Lambert's jealousy. Of that he's certain.

His heart is somewhere else, still.

Because that's the one and only reason he went out on the road and waited for Aiden to come galloping down his way in the first place. Pushing Geralt away just like Geralt did with him.

It's become rather apparent it's been an unsuccessful effort, after last night.

He closes his eyes again and wishes the fire wasn't out, keeps his hands tightly wrapped around those furs and brings his knees closer to his chest and slowly drifts into a hazy state of not-quite-asleep but also not-quite-awake.

It's not fair.

It's been months and those words and those yellow eyes and his hoarse voice is still going round and round and round Jaskier's mind hard as he might try to drown it all out.

It's really not fair.

He hears their footsteps when the sky is fully turned light blue and peels his eyes open to see Aiden taking the lead. Cheeks burning red and hair in disarray. Less layers of clothes than usual.

Lambert isn't wearing his armor, either.

"Morning, sunshine!" Aiden greets, shooting him a look as he hovers a hand over the pile of sticks and starts out a magic fire.

Igni.

Jaskier smiles. He loves it when they do that.

"Morning," he replies with a hoarse voice, making no effort to move from his bedroll and prompting a quiet laugh from Lambert.

Already it feels like the tension has left the air and Jaskier shouldn't be so relieved but he is.

He doesn't wish to be confrontational.

Deep inside, it's because confrontation with Aiden's boyfriend would mean staying behind. He's still planning to, of course, to stay behind next time they make a stop somewhere he can have a warm bath and slumber on a proper bed. But if things are good and Aiden doesn't think him too much of a bother, he might just... overstay his welcome for a bit longer. Just until they reach Murivel and they can each go their merry way. His parents back in Lettenhove will be pleased to see his face for a change.

Lambert will no doubt go West, and Jaskier thinks by Geralt's standards he's already a wee bit late to make it to Kaedwen before the snow starts to become a hinder.

"Miss me?" Aiden asks, sending a mischievous smile Lambert's way, like a silent conversation, and turns back to him. Jaskier thinks from up this close he can almost smell the sex on him.

"Mmm," Jaskier nods, "whatever am I going to do without you all winter?" he says, smiling back and pushing aside the mental image that assaults him when he spots that hickey on Aiden's neck, right under his left earlobe. Most definitely doesn't think of Lambert pining the cat against a tree and sucking hard on his tanned skin smelling of early drizzle and earth. "You've spoiled me too much."

Aiden stokes the fire and his smile turns just the slightest bit predatory. He looks at him with dark eyes that remind Jaskier of Geralt high on toxins after a nasty fight and Jaskier's mouth goes dry and suddenly he feels overly hot under his collar.

"Can still spoil you a bit more," Aiden offers, and Lambert clears his throat across him, swinging a dagger in his hand with a casual air.

"'Mgonna get us lunch."

Aiden stands back up at last, nodding.

"Go on. I fancy some fish."

Lambert snorts.

"I'm not gonna get wet just because you're picky."

Aiden's smile grows bigger but he doesn't respond.

Jaskier thinks he doesn't need to tell the joke. They're still looking at each other a bit like they didn't make the most of it and he leans up on one elbow and lets the furs fall to his waist, lest he get too excited and give Geralt's brother a proper reason to snarl at him.

Because missing Geralt doesn't mean he's lost all sense, and he already was quite disinclined to bed anyone by the time Aiden walked into that inn.

It's been some time.

"I can fish," he says with a shrug.

Aiden makes an exaggerated gesture towards him.

"He can fish!" he exclaims, "why thank you, gorgeous. Lead the way, then."

Jaskier looks over to Lambert rolling his eyes and going off in the opposite direction.

"Race you there?" Aiden asks, playful, and Jaskier blinks. Blinks and starts running.

*

The stream isn't too far away. It's not too deep and not too wide, allows him to show off whatever minimal skills he's got, and he's sure if he hadn't been able to stand up ankle-deep on those rocks that slow the speed of the water just so — it would've been Aiden in his place catching carp.

As it is, he manages to get two before the skin of his feet starts turning red with cold, and Aiden does end up tugging him away to dry land.

"I know you like it when we sleep together, but there's no need to get sick for it."

Jaskier snorts, drops the twitchy pair of fish in the dirt and plops down on his ass to get his boots back on.

"Lambert doesn't," he blurts out under his teeth, a thought swimming around in his head that he didn't mean to voice out at all, so he quickly tries to make amends, "which— is fine! Which he's absolutely entitled to, of course!"

The witcher regards him fondly from above, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk tugging at his lips, certainly amused at his nervous blabbering.

"Well..." Aiden makes a face and narrows his eyes, his voice high-pitched, "'absolutely entitled to' makes it sound like I'm his property."

Jaskier opens his mouth to refute that but the elaborated argument that was coming to the forefront of his mind slips away when Aiden suddenly kneels in front of him, hands quickly coming to help lace his boots where Jaskier's fingers tremble uselessly against the leather.

"That's not—" he tries, wets his lips and shakes his head, "that's not what I meant. You don't have to—"

But Aiden snaps his hands away and makes a tight knot, keeping his footwear firmly in place and locking eyes with him as he does so.

There's something unspoken in the dark glint of his pupils blown out, in the way his expert fingers make those loops and knots tight.

"Why didn't you tell me about Geralt?"

It throws him off guard and he looks away, recoiling from the question as though it's a physical threat. There's probably something meaningful to be interpreted in the way he frowns and avoids eye contact so quickly at the mention Geralt's name, doesn't want Aiden to read it in his face, his eyes, whatever it is.

The sound of the stream rolling downhill suddenly feels heavy. The fish have stop squirming.

"There was nothing to tell," is what he answers, and he only looks back at Aiden when he feels warm hands slowly grabbing onto his calves. Just a second later they're settling over his thighs and Aiden looks much closer than he did a moment ago.

"Lambert—" Jaskier starts, heartbeat taking on a frantic speed as Aiden towers over him.

"Stop thinking of Lambert," Aiden snaps, stops just a breath away from Jaskier's lips and Jaskier's mind continues to be completely blank, hot breath heaving softly out of his lips and the feeling of the witcher's strong hands squeezing firmly over the fabric of his trousers makes his eyes flutter.

Fuck.

This is not—

This is exactly what he didn't—

"Unless..." Aiden continues, tentatively, and he shifts back only a little, "unless it's Lamb you want."

At that, all Jaskier can do is frantically shake his head no and bring his own desperate hands to Aiden's waist, tug at his shirt. Thoroughly offended Aiden would even think such a thing, think himself rejected in any way, because Aiden's been nothing but a comfort, these past few weeks. Warmth and laughter and joy and Jaskier will willingly give anything he asks for.

Something tugs at those eager thoughts from the back of his mind, however, as if trying to argue that giving himself and his affection so freely is what got him blocked and miserable in the first place.

Aiden descends on his lips.

And Jaskier lets that moan transfer into his mouth because he can't stop it, boiling up and releasing from somewhere deep inside, he closes his eyes and doesn't realise he's tangling his fingers in Aiden's hair until the cat laughs against his kiss-swollen lips.

"Gods, Jas..." he coos, gently. And Jaskier hums and rubs the tip of his fingers further into his scalp, auburn curls feeling as soft as satin.

Aiden starts purring. Just like a cat.

He tastes of sweet berries and herbs.

Her voice rips the air like thunder, low but not devoid of its sharpness, and he winces as though it cut right through him. It did. But he's hurt way more to acknowledge a simple heartbreak. Suddenly he realizes he's used to pain and he wants to laugh, so as not to cry once more.

He only swallows and stares at her, at her head held high, gaze unwavering and away. She's so sad. It struck him for the first time when he saw her, after Sodden, barely standing on her feet and still using this little magic she had to save him. When he had looked inside her eyes. Strong, proud and yet so, so sad. "Knows what?" A silent corner of his heart knows the answer and he clears his throat, vainly.

Yennefer sighs, shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if she refuses to show weakness about this. It can't be for any other reason. He has already seen her weak. "That I'm alive," she says and it's like a knife again, only that this time the blade is turned at herself.

Jaskier wants to answer. He wants to answer like he has answered a thousand times before that he will find out, that he feels it, that they would find him soon. But his tongue lies numb inside his mouth, and his lips quiver. It's not what she wants to hear. Never is.

"He must have mourned me," Yennefer mutters and there's a smirk on her lips now, bitter. Her hands are resting on the windowsill, shaking. "He has to." There's a strain in her voice as she huffs, as she pretends not to care. "Even if it's not real."

Jaskier suspects that the glint in her eyes is not solely the moonlight setting them on fire. Still, she's turned away.

He's tired, even to deceive himself.

Slowly, he reaches for her hand, takes it inside his own. "He loves you," he says and discovers it doesn't hurt anymore, because he knows now, he knows what it feels like. Love for her can't be controlled, unrestrained, and he finds it's nicely fitting. No submissive love would mirror what he felt when he looked at her. Again. "He loves you, and he mourned you, I know it." His voice is strangely firm in its shaking. He squeezes her hand, but somehow his still feels empty.

She lets out a chuckle, humourless. "You know, huh, bardling?" Any attempt at offending him dies along with her voice as it cracks. She clenches her fist inside his hand.

Jaskier lowers his look. Never what she wants to hear. "Listen," and it's more to himself, more for him to hold his pieces together. "You'll get better and we'll find him, destiny forbid we don't. I—" his voice is thick suddenly, breaks, "—I miss him too. But until then..." His other hand reaches up, cups her face. Not resisting for once, she lets him turn her head, and meet her eyes, red and dark with exhaustion. He bites his lips. He knew it was not the moonlight. "Until then I'm here for you."

Tonight, he is here. Tonight and every other night, just like she's here every time his skin and mind ache with the stinging of a healed wound, too recent to be forgotten. And yet, the tears still fall from her eyes and shimmer like diamons on her cheeks. And yet she still shakes her head, brows furrowed. And yet he's still not enough.

He understands.

But that has never stopped him from caring.

Ever so gently, as though hesitant she'll fade with a touch, he takes her face inside his hands and leans, traces his lips on her cheeks, until they're wet with her tears, and he doesn't draw away, only lingers, as if wishing to swallow all her pain for himself. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she closes his eyes.

Then there are lips on his, pressing softly as though resting temporarily from an ongoing journey. Shivers run down his spine. Carefully, he kisses back, and he's swallowing them, the tears, and it feels like she's giving in with them, unable to finally let them go.

He will bear all her tears, if he can. He will bear her. Even if, for now, he's still lacking.

The bard that’s prancing across the room is young, feet light as a feather. His eyes hold that brand-new innocence that spring brings to young souls, the radiant flush of his cheeks spreading the cheer in his song. He can barely contain his excitement, his hands moving fast on his lutestrings as he dances in tune, stealing glances and blowing kisses and laughing and laughing some more.

Jaskier knows it all too well.

He hears him before he sees him, a rare thing these days.

“His voice is flat,” says a flat, even voice beside him.

Jaskier’s gaze remains on the bard. It’s a mirage, he thinks.

He hopes.

“He’s new,” Jaskier replies quietly. “Fresh out of Oxenfurt.”

“Like you were.”

Jaskier nods.

“Jask—”

“I brought him here,” Jaskier says, distant. “He’s too used to the anonymity of singing with a crew, at the back of a room. I know potential when I see it, and he— he’s full of it.”

They watch as the bard belts out a high note, almost to perfection.

“Is it cruel of me, wishing he’d get pelted with food too?” Jaskier smiles. “Don’t know where he’d store the bread, though. His breeches have some of those hideous, impractical fake-pockets, sewn right at the seam.” He takes a swig of his ale. “Ridiculous, what people dare to call fashion these days.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it almost sounds like a plea.

Almost.

Jaskier looks at him.

He hasn’t changed much. Then again, he never did — seasons would change, empires would fall, and Geralt would still be there, face impassive and clad in leather as if charging into battle. His swords are still strapped to his back.

The weary expression is new.

“I want him to succeed.” Jaskier turns to look at the bard, filling the silence Geralt hasn’t broken. “He’s one of my best students. The first in his family to complete his studies. I’m proud of him.”

The bard finishes his song with a flourish. People ask for one more.

Jaskier smiles.

“They love him already,” he says, almost wistfully. “He’ll be booked at every court for the summer.”

“Will you?”

“Ah, I’m afraid not.” Jaskier sniffs. “I hung up my lute years ago. I’m too old for it, anyway.”

Geralt takes a seat beside him.

In his mind’s eye, Jaskier can see it all again. The dust on Roach’s saddle as they rode into Dol Blathanna, the shimmer of Geralt’s hair under the burning sun. The open sky before them as they left, free and rewarded, the road stretching on forever.

But that was lifetimes ago.

“Jaskier.”

“You’ve called my name three times over.” Jaskier sips the last of his ale. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore.”

“By your name?”

Jaskier nods. “It’s Julian, now.”

“I have— there’s so much I want to say to you.”

Jaskier looks at him, into false-colored eyes. Something in his chest gives.

“Three words or less.”

In his mind’s eye, Jaskier can see it all again. The unsteady planks and the infernal winds and the setting sun. A magic-borne tent that held more promise than his bleeding heart.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt tells him.

Jaskier’s student comes over to their table. Jaskier stands.

“What a performance!” He tells him, and the bard laughs, exhilarated. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” says the bard, a sheepish smile on his face. “Shall I meet you outside?”

“Yes, go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

And his student leaves.

“Jask, I—”

“I loved you, you know.”

Geralt looks at him.

Jaskier sighs.

Geralt turns and looks at him. His eyes are narrowed, the biting wind on his face and his hair, silver strands blowing with misleading carelessness. There’s a look in his eyes that Jaskier can’t quite discern.

“It’s complicated.” Geralt turns away again. “I can’t give you what you want.”

And the thing is — Jaskier’s been denied. He’s poured his heart and soul into loving and being loved in return, and it hasn’t worked. Not with his parents, not with his classmates, not with passing flings and curious dalliances. He’s been handed his love back into his hands like a burning thing, too dangerous, and maybe not even worth the while.

He’d just hoped a brooding Witcher in a dimly-lit tavern would be the exception.

“We could try,” he says, aware of the edge of desperation his words carry. “I know what living by your side is like— I know it’s no bed of roses. I’ve known for twenty years.”

Geralt says nothing, but his jaw is wound so tight Jaskier fears it’ll snap in half.

Still, he tries. He reaches his hand out, palm turned skyward. “I don’t want anything you can’t give me— it’s always been enough.”

There’s fog coming up the cliff now, if Jaskier looks down. It’ll be night soon.

“I can’t—” Geralt cuts himself off like it pains him to say it. “I can’t...”

Something in his tone is final.

Geralt’s hand never finds his.

Jaskier’s resolve cracks. He stands from his seat on that rock before the too-loud pounding of his heart makes him stumble and fall down to his demise. His voice is hard and rough with unshed tears when he says, “You can’t, or you don’t want to?”

Geralt turns to look at him, wide-eyed. He’s never seen him like that.

Jaskier can feel tears coming, but trudges on nonetheless. “I’ve seen you, Geralt, I’ve— I’ve seen you fight,” he says, and it stings, and he doesn’t want to drag her into this, he doesn’t, but— “I’ve seen you drop everything the minute you heard Yennefer was in town.”

There was a banquet, a while back. Jaskier had been invited as entertainment, and had graciously accepted despite knowing part of his extended, estranged family would be there. He’d said yes — just because Geralt had promised to go with him. Not even as his bodyguard, no — just as a friend.

Just to be there for him.

But a black illusion of a crow perched on Geralt’s shoulder and whispering into his ear had been enough to make him change his mind. That’s what Jaskier imagined, at least — he hadn’t been there when Geralt had been summoned by the sorceress. He’d been out in the market, looking for the perfect hair tie for Geralt to wear with his suit for the night.

He’d been out in the market, and then he’d walked into his — their — room, and found Geralt gone. Vanished. Not him, not his swords; just his armor neatly piled onto a chair.

Not a note, either. Just a tired-looking innkeeper telling him Oh, the Witcher? He left about an hour ago. He seemed quite happy.

Jaskier had sung until his voice was raw and his fingers were bleeding. He didn’t see Geralt for three days.

“I’ve seen you try,” he says, his voice small and broken. He smiles, but doesn’t really know why. “Just never for me.”