One

"Come now Geralt, don't be like that, it's rude."

The Witcher snorted behind his mug, raising a brow at the bard perched across from him at the edge of their table. "I don't hug, let alone people I've just met."

"But we've been travelling together for days now, Geralt! Please? Just one? We're friends! And I got you plenty of coin for tonight!" Grinning infectiously - but not enough to faze the Witcher - the Bard leaned in, blue eyes shining with good humour.

Grunting in response,Geralt turned away from him. "You can't buy a Witcher's affections. And I didn't ask for you to tag along. You're like a leech." He sipped his ale again, allowing the warmth of it to linger even as he longed to be brought under and freed from this annoyance. "I have no desire to be bitten, no matter how much you pester."

"Well maybe," Jaskier cooed, gently lifting himself from the table and taking up his lute, "If the townsfolk here saw you giving your very, very best friend a nice hug, they might soften towards you!"

"And then they wouldn't believe your stories, and you'd make less money in the future."

A dainty gasp. "Are you suggesting I should write songs about you in the future, Geralt of Rivia?"

Geralt closed his eyes so the Bard could not see how hard he rolled them, making his sockets ache, although the irritation was seeping off of him in waves at this point. "Fuck - no, no, I'm not. If you leave me alone, you leave yourself better off. That was the point."

"What if I hugged you myself?" Jaskier spun on his heel and wiggled his eyebrows, beginning to back towards the center of the tavern, but loitering just enough.

"You might get stabbed."

"Oh, boo. No matter, it wouldn't be earned that way anyways. I'll get you to hold me in those big, strong arms one day, Geralt of Rivia. Just watch me." That grin promised more than his words, and for a moment their audience was enthralled in the reaches of its intent. With naught more but a wink, Jaskier turned and strummed the instrument, voice filling the room like water in a glass.

He would not have contact with the Bard, nothing tender and exposed like these songs and their lyrics. That was not a reality in the Witcher's world, and he would not let himself be swayed by something as flimsy as words. Geralt soon shook himself free, and elected to watch as the Bard crooned out sappy ballads for people to patronize or pay for.

Two

Jaskier was heavier than he looked, and while it was still easy to hoist him over a shoulder with one arm locked around his waist, his gangly limbs made it no simple feat. Geralt swiftly ducked his head forward to dodge a flailing arm as Jaskier continued speaking, words tumbling out hopelessly in a drunken slur.

"See, this is not what I was referring to! This is… this is… this is manhandling, not a hug, Geralt!" He emphasized the 't' in the Witcher's name with a tasteful click of his tongue even as he whined. Geralt's silvery hair was grazed by another violently broad gesture, a point back towards the warm glow through the door of the tavern. "And I don't see what the problem - hic - really was! You're an odd one, you know, drinking but not indulging the spirit. I'll have to find what makes you topple, Geralt, one day, I promise you, I'll find a liquor that knocks your socks off. Are you wearing socks right now? I don't look at your feet often, they smell terrible

too, although I guess I can't smell through my eyes so a little peek wouldn't hurt… But if you're not, I'll have to find something else to knock off… Huh."

"Are you finished?" Geralt grumbled, adjusting the Bard on his shoulder roughly as he walked towards the inn, his other arm going up to lock behind his knees in order to

spare himself from a kick to the face.

Jaskier hadn't even paused his blabbering, but trailed off for a moment when Geralt spoke. "Oh - you know, your voice is absolutely lovely, Geralt, I really adore it! It's got this bassy hum to it that I bet would feel wonderful if you spoke while holding me. You can't blame me for wanting a hug when I could practically feel that, just like, resonating about…" He waved a hand vaguely. "What do I need to do to get you to give me just one? Just a little hug, maybe a pat? Come on, Geralt!"

"No. We are not friends."

"Then why did you get me safely out of a bar fight and are now carrying me so sweetly back to our shared room?" Jaskier attempted to twist in his grip to coo this closer to his ear, and the Witcher was tempted to just let him fall to the ground.

Ignoring the impulse, he held fast, hoping that the grip would cause enough discomfort for him to be fucking still for once. "You cause too much trouble, and I'm disliked enough as it is. I'm sparing the people more than you."

"Bet none of them would give you a hug. People are arseholes to you, Geralt. I'm your best friend, and you know it. It'll pay off one day, you'll see, and then I'll get the best hug you've ever had. I'll give the… You'll get the… Whatever, point is, we'll hug and it will be sweet and warm and soft even though your muscles are like bloody boulders." He gasped then, and coughed, and for a moment Geralt feared he was about to get a load of vomit streaked down his back. But then the Bard continued, his voice softer and almost sobered. "Have you ever had

a hug?"

"Not voluntarily."

"Geralt, that's terrible! Put me down, so I can give you one right now!"

"No. I don't want one."

"Lies."

"I don't lie."

"Yes, you do. Or you're too stupid to see the truth. I'll figure it out. Oh - fuck - Geralt I need to puke, put me down! Down, down, now - oof!"

Three

"Is it a matter of it being too dangerous for me, or do you just not want me around?" Blue eyes - too blue, and too sad for them to be the same ones that so often gazed at him - were locked on Geralt's gold ones, a tie in need of severance. Their hold was pleading, a vice mirroring the strength of the feeling within them.

Geralt wanted to look away, normally he would in order to spare whomever he was glaring upon, but he felt threatened by that stare, and instinctively, he never averted the sights of a threat. He swallowed slowly, leveling his look. "It's been nearly a year. Life with a Witcher is not safe for a human."

Jaskier's pursuit was unwavering, even as his voice did just so and quaked. "Have I ever posed concern for my safety aside from having you help in the heat of the moment? I knew very well what I was getting into when I followed you."

At this, Geralt finally closed his eyes, a disappointed sigh escaping, long and weary. "No, you didn't, Jaskier."

The Bard threw his hands up, brows furrowing in distress. Geralt did not like the way worry settled onto his face, disrespecting the natural edges and curves. "Alright, maybe I didn't, but I learned soon enough and I've thrived on it, Geralt! You can't - you've left before for jobs, but now you're outright tossing me aside. This isn't fair!"

"What isn't fair?" The Witcher stood by the door. He could just as easily turn and leave, and this little Bard couldn't do anything for it. And yet, he remained rooted.

"You!" Two quick strides brought Jaskier face-to-face with him in their tiny room, already booked for the night despite Geralt's long attempt to begone. "You aren't fair, you can't - you can't come into someone's life, change it entirely, mold it in your hands like clay and then throw it aside when some sticks to your gloves! You can't… You stuck yourself to me when you didn't push me away the first time, so how is it fair that you drop me now without my say in the matter?"

"I punched you in the gut, I would think that was a clear message to leave me alone when we first met."

"Arsehole! You're hardly even listening!" The Witcher was surprised when Jaskier snatched the front of his shirt in his hand, gripping it tightly. The force, the heat was always in his words when they fought, negative physicality was an offshoot.

Geralt only raised a brow in response.

"Please don't leave me behind, Geralt." His voice softened, the hurt from his eyes seeping into his words, bleeding like a wound, gradually but surely. "I don't care if it's not safe for me. I don't like to beg, I never have, but… I'd rather have a few amazing years with you than a whole life bored and alone. Would you not give that to a friend?"

"Jaskier, we're not-"

"Yes, we are! Stop saying we're not, just stop, I don't care if you don't think I'm your friend, I just think you're mine. Stop, stop making this worse." At last he let go, turning away and crossing his arms rigidly in an effort to comfort himself. He struggled, fighting with his feelings and his words, and with the only other man in the room; it was painful, it was obvious.

Geralt felt guilty, but guilt did not alter his resolve. Not yet. "There is always a chance that we will meet again."

"Oh, boo, like fuck there is."

"It really is too dangerous. I wouldn't enjoy seeing you get hurt."

"Funny, because that's what's happening right now. And you're doing it."

Geralt paused. He could smell it, the pain in the room. Emotional pain and physical pain stirred the same responses from the body, even as the physiology was different. They triggered the same responses. It had been unsettling him, but putting the thought to it only added the disappointment. He looked down wordlessly, fixing his stare now on the floor as the minutes dragged on.

"There's nothing I can do to stop you then, is there?" Jaskier's voice after the stretched silence was heavy even as it sounded light.

Geralt grunted, "No."
A floorboard creaked as Jaskier turned around, eyes red-rimmed but dry, and he placed his hands on his hips. "The least you could do is a favour for me. After dragging me out to who-knows-where only to leave."

"Hm?"

Even as it was sorrowful, a smirk spread on the Bard's lips. "Geralt of Rivia, can I have a hug before you go?"

It only occurred to the Witcher then that he had never fulfilled that request. Now only seemed an appropriate time, but even as he hesitated, a word answered for him. "Sure."

"Fucking finally, although terrible it had to be this way." Jaskier, for all his desire for it, did not lunge into it. He waited a moment, before stepping close to Geralt once more and wrapping his arms around him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. His nose brushed along the skin of Geralt's neck. The Witcher shivered.

He smelled like summer even as it had not arrived yet, as if sunshine had an aroma. His hair tickled against Geralt's ear, and he only hugged tighter when the Witcher's arms rose to secure the embrace. This was warm, and as safe as Geralt had ever felt the Bard had been.

He still had to go, after a moment stepping from the hands that lingered on his back, on his hips, finally clung to his hands in a desperate attempt to keep him from drifting away. One last pleading gaze from eyes like the ocean coast, and one last shake of his own head. He was gone, he had planned for good. But one of them now knew that it would not be forever.

"Take care, Jaskier."

Four

"Ouch - oh, don't put your hand there, it's sore…"

"Sorry." Geralt carefully took his hand from the tender spot on Jaskier's hip, no doubt raw with bruises in the shape of his fingers by this point. He moved his hands, but his eyes stayed right where they were, locked on those of the Bard's in front of him. His own gaze was tender, softened by the small hours of the morning and the vulnerability of the moment.

Crinkles formed at the edges of Jaskier's eyes as he smiled, bright and beautiful even as he was tired and spent, marks on his skin peeking out from under the soft blankets around him. "That was really nice. All of it. The sex, and you apologising just now, and just…" He sighed fondly. "Thank you, Geralt."

"You as well. Although you've always been much nicer than me."

"That's your opinion, and I'll refute it. I'm more agreeable, but you're still nice." When Geralt rolled his eyes, he giggled and pressed a kiss to his chin before muttering, "C'mere. I want to hug you?" Geralt nodded slowly, and the Bard smiled. Jaskier's hands wandered, slipping behind the Witcher's back, before he wiggled closer under the covers to hold him. He received no protest for his actions.

His face pressed to his chest, the rhythm of Geralt's heartbeat a slow pressure against his ear. Geralt hummed, the low sound causing Jaskier to nuzzle ever closer still. Lute-calloused fingers traced the lines on his back left by nails - whether by his own hand tonight, or those deeper by a beast.

In the silence, Geralt relaxed and his arms swept around the Bard as well, holding him securely in return. The curve of his body against his own was a rare comfort, one he did not know he needed until he experienced it this night. Experienced it truly.

He had felt it once, almost three years ago, the last time before this that Jaskier had asked for an embrace. He felt the whole be formed, the pressure in his chest as he recognised the rightness of their touch. Then, he had pushed it away, a mission in mind and the Bard's safety on the foreground.

But now he held it ever tighter, careful not to hurt him but keeping him all the same. Here, they were safer than they were apart. Here it felt pleasant, standstill in the early hours with all else of importance shut out.

He would have to leave again, one day. Winters called to Kaer Morhen, and monsters dwelled in dark places that he would not allow Jaskier's sun to set to. There would be times when they could not be together, and what felt like days to the Witcher would be years for the Bard. And there would inevitably be a time when their lives apart would stay that way, in the lack of Jaskier's.

But for now, he granted

that embrace. He felt no need to bring these truths to words, only to hold the Bard close as he was able, revelling in what they had shared.

Five

"Guess they don't want to hear about a Witcher when there's no Witcher around, huh Geralt?" Jaskier sat on the floor of a tiny room, dust collecting on every surface and the whole place reeking enough to keep him from sleep. Calloused fingers with dirt under their nails strummed absently over worn lute strings, much in need of replacement; but the frightening lightness of his coin purse after booking this room for the evening deemed itself in charge of his finances for now.

Noise still came from the tavern below, drunkards cheering and jeering with volumes that would likely continue into the early hours of the morning. The night was young, but after getting a pint of ale dumped on him - as if ending his performance was worth the coin the drink had cost - the Bard had decided to retire for the evening. He dried himself off, not with money for a bath, and changed his clothing, but that did little to alleviate the filthy feeling that plagued him, running deeper than the grime on his skin and clothing and in his room. It gnawed greedily at some memory, some feelings and complexities stored deeply away. So now he hummed to himself, tunes of which people in this town did not want to hear.

A new set of chords formed by his hand, and he tried to think of words to place with them as he worked through the transitions. When little inspiration came, as it often had been lately (seeing as not many cared to hear songs purely of loneliness, of a lover he dared not describe so intimately), he began to speak out loud again.

"It's really not fair, you know. Being a Bard. My worth is determined by my audience, and if the people are just downright bastards with no taste for music or the arts, then how is that my fault? I should get paid upfront for even trying." He huffed quietly, knowing that was utter nonsense, as he had trash-talked enough untalented posers in his day to respect a fine performance. An aching sensation spread from the base of his throat down to his gut, and he drew his knees a little closer. There had been poor reception of his performances before, this shouldn't be any different.

But for some reason, it kind of was.

"Or, you know, just… You know what? Forget it." He lifted his head to gaze about, the room dimly lit only by a single candle in its holder, and the waning light of a hazy evening moon. This town was putrid, dusty, awful. He truly hated being in a place like this alone. It made everything seem more desolate.

Unable to stop himself after a few more minutes, Jaskier spoke again. The words seemed to be clawing at his chest, forcing their own way onto his tongue and past his lips, scrabbling like the pests they were. "Look at me, Geralt! Look. Talking into thin air, to the man who… the fucking… If I didn't know you better, I'd say it's hard to tell if you cared or not. Most people see it that way with you Witchers anyhow, don't they? I suppose I could be just like them, if I wanted to be." A long pause forced silence to collapse in on him, his justification to empty air stumbling out instead. "But I don't want to be, right, I knew you'd probably say that. Call me out yourself, why don't you?"

Feeling antsy from sitting, and itchy from the repulsion of the floor creeping into his mind, the Bard stood with his lute held at the neck and walked to the window. Blue eyes reflecting the moonlight traced the street below, watching the crowds of people pushing through one another even at so late of an hour. Hooded folk minding their own sordid business in this little sordid town, the sight of it did nothing but pique unwanted curiosity at where the Witcher could be now.

"You've left before, and of course… of course I should have seen this coming. It's not the first time it's happened, and you told me it wouldn't be the last. I just didn't expect it, that's all." He toed the ground with a worn-down boot. Damn. Those would need replacing too. "And of course, there was that little part that assumed you wouldn't go anywhere without me, but of course that's all just wishful thinking, isn't it, my friend? My… well, you know. More-than-friend. That's what you've always been, isn't that right? Not that it mattered in the long run."

The responsive silence after his voice died off, unmet with the usual comforting lulls of quiet that surrounded the Witcher in moments like this, gripped Jaskier's heart. He nearly doubled over with the force at which it twisted in his chest and gut, and suddenly it all became too real. Those words spun in his head, six weeks of loneliness and a few drinks from the night beginning to pull him under.

Not the first time… wishful thinking… my friend, my friend, my friend…

The Bard found his way to the bed, ignoring the unwashed smell of it and holding his lute close. It wasn't soft, it wasn't comforting, but it was something to hold. Somewhere for his hands to go rather than the cold sheets beside him, or gods forbid, himself. Whatever remained of Jaskier's fortitude would certainly crumble for good if he beat one out like this, in such a state; cold, alone, on the brink of hot tears and in a frighteningly dirty town of which he had no business being.

Instead, he caved. Draping one arm over his eyes, he held the lute close and lay on his back, a sob wrenching forth as his thoughts spiralled like the dust on the street below the passersby's boots. He ached, he yearned, he shattered in ways that words could not describe. The isolation he felt whenever Geralt abandoned him was a reservoir, an ocean floor that no poem or song could delve to.

Every time, he knew not if he would return; and it was not a doubt of skill, it was a doubt of which he mattered. If the Witcher would waste more years of his endless life on a human that would just die off on him, abandon him in the same way but for good. Perhaps Geralt considered it the most efficient option then, to relieve himself of the dead weight lest it become an actual burden. Of any sort of emotion, lest it become a distraction, as he had described in the practice of his training.

Yes, yes that all made sense. But oh, how it hurt. How it ached.

"It's funny, really," Jaskier forced a laugh through his sobs, choking on his own air and smiling though in pain. "The only songs people ever care for are the ones about you, and when you're gone, it's like - it's like whatever spirit in the air made them worthwhile vanishes too. You're my muse, Geralt, don't you know what an artist's muse is?" He gasped for air like he was emerging from underwater, just as another wave of tears threatened to drown him.

"A muse is… it's my lifeline. I cling to it. It's all I see, all I think of… it keeps me awake and helps me sleep, and then does it all over and helps me wake up again. It drives my pen and lifts my voice and makes music on its own, and if you would only ask, I would give all of the credit to you!" Sitting up, rising to his feet, he returned to the window, to watch the moon. "The world is just… Oh, gods, Geralt! The world is so much bigger and brighter, so exciting when you're here, can't you see that? Could you ever see that? No matter how many times I cried just like this and tried to tell you, did you ever really get it? That's what a muse is, the indescribable that one devotes themselves to describe."

"I know I won't always be around for you. Your life is long, and cruel… There is no end to your hardships, but I've always been one to take on a challenge, you know that. If there's a song people say no bard can play, I play it. If there's a journey you say I won't survive, I follow you. If there's… if there's a man they say cannot be loved, then I love him. I love you. So… is it that much to ask that you stay with me for my short life? Give me your story, be my muse…"

Things stilled. Jaskier still watched the sky, sniffling pitifully and quietly, but hurting so deeply. Nothing he could do about that for time to come, though.

He laughed softly, painfully at himself and turned away from the light, allowing the shadow of the room to reflect his spirit and dampen him for now. He allowed the solitude to consume him and condemn him, if only in a hope that someone may save him from rock bottom. "How I wish you were here to hold me, Geralt. I would ask you for a hug right now, if you were here. I always wish for that. I always wish for you, because then I know that I've got you too. Without you, I'm… I'm all dried up, like a raisin. A bard with no song, a man with no coin, I'm left despondent without you, and I can't tell if it's because of you being gone or me longing for you to return that sows the seeds for my decline. It's not particularly fair now, is it?" One last pause. "No, I suppose it isn't. But I'll find a way to get by, don't you worry, I guess. I'll be ready, if you want to come back. And… by the gods, I hope you do. Really."

One

"Jaskier, please look at me."

The Bard faced away, arms folded on his knees, the latter drawn to his chest. The breeze that swayed the grass of the meadow tousled his hair, and his eyes remained fixed on a distant point, their hue reflecting that of the sky above. He smelled of summer, and summer had arrived, although years later. The curve of his face showed the face of a young Bardling giving way to that of a more mature man. "You can't just come here while I'm writing, interrupting me and my meditation, and expect things to be alright. It's been… gods, Geralt, it's been nearly half a decade. Just showing up out of the blue looking like not a day has passed for you, that's not…" He gulped. "I say it so often. That's not fair."

"I'm sorry. You know how it is."

"Yes, but usually it's not for this long! And usually it's with warning!" Jaskier finally turned to look at him, and it stung Geralt with memories of a departure long ago. That scent of pain hung heavy for him, dampening his senses. Only, he was returned now, so shouldn't it be different?

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry if you're not."

"But I am."

"Apologies usually come with trying to be better."

"I never do this on purpose."

"But you never try not to, either! You're unbelievable. Insane, unbelievable, wonderful…" He trailed off, closing the notebook left beside him, half of a poem unfinished for another day. "And that's just why it hurts so much."

Thick clouds rolled ahead, soft and no threat to the rays of sunlight decorating the meadow, its wildflowers and blades of grass. The forest surrounding responded to the gales with rustles and creaks, relaxing with the distant bird songs and thriving in the hours of the day.

Geralt ignored all of this as it pulled for his attention, focusing independently on the man before him. He crouched beside the Bard, sitting on his heels with his hands atop his own thighs. He struggled to find words, more than what he had already said, to give his apology. The words I'm sorry had rarely been enough coming from the Witcher in atonement for his actions, but they were all he knew for them to mean. He tried to come up with other ways to show something, ways that would make Jaskier understand.

For a poet, he was dense, or perhaps, he saw too much. That was it. He saw right through Geralt every time, but that didn't mean he understood. The complexity to be found in the mind, expression, stifled emotions of a Witcher were a can of filthy worms, best to be looked at in scorn and then dismissed. Jaskier understood better than others, but because of that, he had free reign of what he decided to interpret and what he left for blame.

Geralt swallowed thickly, allowing the warmth of the day to soothe him and deliver his words calmly, gently even as he was unsure if they were the right ones to use. "Jaskier… I truly am sorry. More than I know how to describe. You… know me as one of few words. That is expected. But… now that I have returned, can I have a hug?"

Watching the blue of the Bard's eyes melt from ice to ocean was a sight that could speak a thousand truths, a thousand feelings in a thousand moments. Every time, Geralt knew what it meant. When sometimes it was so challenging to decipher the onslaught of Jaskier's feelings, these seemed as clear as day. He had said the right thing. Perhaps he was forgiven.

Understanding that mirrored his own shone through in them, in the way his expression lifted. And right before him, it was as if a broken thing had been pieced back together; perhaps it was not whole just yet, but it was clear as day how to mend the cracks and creases.

Jaskier launched himself at the Witcher, tackling him off his heels and onto the soft meadow grass in the shade of the tree under which they now lie. His arms wrapped about his shoulders, doublet rising and sleeves bunching about. Once more, he drove a shiver through Geralt's spine as his nose brushed the skin of his neck, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder. Jaskier's smile was tactile, felt against his skin, along with the breath of his laughter that danced, light like the breeze.

"Of course, of course, silly Witcher! I will always hug you, if that's what you want! All you had to do was say so…" He hummed softly, contentedly, and settled into a comfortable position atop the man beneath him. "Why do you think I always ask?"

"Because they're pleasant, especially with you." Geralt lay on his back, staring up at the leaves of the tree above them, tiny, clinging to their branches. He clung to Jaskier the same way, feeling suddenly so small in this assurance that he was still wanted, still valued by his best friend. He held him close, his arms securing his body as well as this feeling, and one hand travelled to tangle in the Bard's soft brown curls.

When Jaskier grinned and accepted this answer with a laugh, instantly diving into stories of what was missed, Geralt allowed a smile to curve his lips, relaxing his brow as his white hair splayed about him to challenge the summer grass. He listened to the Bard, to the sounds of the meadow and leaves, birds and breeze surrounding them, and allowed himself repose.

He hoped this moment would last longer than those five years apart had, and all the others. He hoped for this one to continue for many nights and days, decades until they could no more. Geralt regretted leaving, and he wanted not to face that regret again, for as long as time and summer days would hold.

Author's Note: Hi! Thank you so much for reading! This marks my 5th Geraskier fic that I have written for the Witcher!

If you like my work, it would mean a lot to me if you readers would come follow my Twitter! thirthfloor.

There, I am happy to discuss any of my fics or series, as well as post previews of WIPs. You can also just see what I'm up to on a regular basis.

Admittedly, not a lot goes on aside from that on my Twitter atm, but that's because the lovely people like you who read my work don't come follow me! If I get enough, I am going to see if I can begin fic raffles, and more organised events for myself and my readers.

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