Jaskier barely reached the ship's rail. Geralt watched, leaning comfortably against a small mast, as Jaskier gripped the railing and his head disappeared behind it. A few seagulls leapt up from the deck in alarm at the sudden sound of retching. Geralt had learned in the last few hours that Jaskier was not a happy sailor.
The bard's back jerked once more before he straightened up and half turned around. He uncorked his waterskin, took a sip of water to rinse his mouth and spat it into the sea.
"You wanted us to head to the water so badly. I thought you'd enjoy it more," Geralt said with an amused smile, stepping closer.
"To the coast, Geralt. The coast!" Jaskier replied indignantly. He fished out a small bag from his trousers pocket, picked some mint leaves from it, and put them in his mouth.
Geralt shrugged. "There's not so much difference."
"Oh, but there is! For one, the coast does not move under your feet. Would you please remind me again why we are on this bloody conveyance?"
Geralt rested his elbows on the railing and sighed. "There are several contracts on Ard Skellig. One of them – the one related to the crazed mountain troll – is so urgent that they offered to pay for our trip there and back to the Continent. As for why you are on this bloody boat, you said that you wanted to write a song about the life of the islanders."
"Oh, well," Jaskier said, still a little breathless. "I regret my earlier enthusiasm."
The bard fiddled with the too-long sleeves of his black shirt. Well, Geralt's shirt, to be precise. Jaskier was indeed enthusiastic at the beginning; so enthusiastic that he decided to ignore the first signs of nausea until half of his breakfast greeted him from his ridiculously colorful doublet and shirt. Some of it had even clung to his chest hair.
Even though the bard rushed to grab a clean shirt from his bag, he wasn't fast enough: the other half of his breakfast decided to make an appearance, too, effectively spreading all over Jaskier's clean clothes.
The captain watched with an amused smile as the strange duo rinsed the bright shirts and doublets and spread them on the deck to dry. He even suggested with a sly smirk that the 'noisy bard should be left bare-chested for the time being', just to prevent further accidents. Strangely enough, Jaskier didn't react, just hung his head, and shivered slightly when a whiff of cold wind swept through the board. Contrary to common belief, witchers are not heartless bastards, so Geralt grabbed one of his own shirts, a warmer one, and handed it to the dejected bard. To his utter relief, Jaskier had since learned to avoid any further accidents by sticking close to the rail.
It was strange to see the bard dressed in something that wasn't brightly colored, shiny, meticulously embroidered, or even elegant. In the light of the setting sun, the plain black of the shirt starkly contrasted with Jaskier's alarmingly pale face. It was obvious that this little journey had taken its toll on the bard; Geralt had never seen Jaskier so out of it.
"Let's go back to the cabin," he said, clapping Jaskier's shoulder and gently steering him towards the quarters. "Best if you sleep through the rest of the trip. We should reach Ard Skellig at dawn."
"If I die during the night, you will inform my relatives in Lettenhove, and you are responsible for choosing my greatest ballads to be played at my funeral," Jaskier said and flailed dramatically, but he let the witcher lead him inside. Geralt rolled his eyes fondly, his earlier worry fading a bit at seeing Jaskier's usual antics.
Their cabin was quite cozy. It was located in the upper parts of the ship, close to the deck, and even had a small porthole with a neat curtain, a tiny cabinet, a washbasin, an oil lamp, and two tidy mattresses, pushed together in the tiny space with plenty of furs to protect against the cooling weather. That mountain troll must be a real terror if the islanders decided to finance this luxury.
By the time Geralt had put his swords in the corner and closed the door of the cabin, Jaskier had lain down on one of the mattresses, curling in himself. He was uncharacteristically silent again, which signaled a fresh wave of nausea.
"We can open the porthole if you need some air," Geralt offered.
"Hm," Jaskier groaned.
Geralt started to understand Jaskier's complaints about his one-word answers. Or grunts. They were surprisingly ambiguous and unhelpful when he was at the receiving end.
Jaskier sighed and glanced towards the cabinet with the washbasin.
"Should I put it closer to your bed?"
Jaskier nodded.
Geralt set the basin on Jaskier's left, then he lay on his own mattress, on Jaskier's right.
"Try to get some sleep," he said while he pulled the pelts over the bard, who blinked at him owlishly.
Geralt leaned over to extinguish the small, flickering flame in the oil lamp. The horizon was dark already, but the moonlight painted the cabin with faint, silvery light. Jaskier remained silent, and Geralt had to admit – if only to himself – that he missed the bard's inane prattle. But maybe it was for the best right now. The sooner Jaskier drifted off, the less he would suffer.
Geralt rolled to his back and closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could tell from the more intense rocking of the ship that the wind had grown stronger in the open sea. Jaskier whimpered and Geralt turned to see if he was sick again.
The pelt had slid down Jaskier's back as he tossed and turned. He squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his brow as he fought against his discomfort. As he was watching the bard, Geralt was suddenly overcome by a long-forgotten memory, one of those rare fragments he was still able to remember from before: the reek of sweat that filled the room after the first few hours of struggle with an upset stomach and his own small hands fisted in his blanket as he attempted to banish the nausea that wouldn't cease.
This was one of his few faint memories of his mother: the scent of herbs that clung to her as she leaned closer and the soft touch of her hand as she rubbed his stomach until he got better.
Geralt's hand moved on its own accord, sneaking below the furs and before he could have a second thought, it smoothed over Jaskier's belly and rubbed circles over it through the fabric of the shirt. Jaskier opened his eyes slowly. Geralt could pinpoint the moment when Jaskier realized what was happening. His gaze snapped towards his belly, then to Geralt, surprise written all over his face.
Geralt was grateful that Jaskier couldn't see how his face heated up in embarrassment. It was a mistake. He didn't have Jaskier's consent for this. Geralt started to draw his hand back, but suddenly he felt Jaskier's fingers around his wrist. He glanced at the bard, who'd already closed his eyes again, but he was still squeezing Geralt's wrist almost painfully, his body tense as a bowstring and his breathing quick.
Geralt drew a small circle with his thumb on Jaskier's stomach, which was enough for the bard to ease his death grip and slump back on the mattress. Geralt kept on with the small circles, and when Jaskier released him completely, he resumed rubbing his stomach with his palm.
Geralt scooted a bit closer to have better access. His hand moved in synchrony with the waves, never missing a beat, and it worked just as he hoped: Jaskier's expression softened, and his panting slowed gradually. At first, he opened his eyes a few times and watched Geralt with a strange expression, then he lost the battle with sleep and his eyelids drooped again.
Witchers were never seasick, and yet Geralt felt dizzy. Not that it had anything to do with the motion of the sea, and Geralt knew it deep down. He watched Jaskier and wondered how this cheerful and fragile human, with an absolute lack of self-preservation instincts, had wormed himself in his life. How did the bard not tire of the arduous journey on the Path documenting the scary monster-slaying? How did Geralt not get tired of Jaskier and get rid of him? And why was he touching Jaskier more intimately now than he had ever done before? He had to admit that caressing the bard was quite... pleasant. Geralt couldn't help but wonder how Jaskier felt about his touch.
Jaskier seemed to like to be touched – at least by others. He never avoided Geralt physically but neither did he seek his proximity. In the few occasions Jaskier patched him up and tended to his wounds, he was exceedingly gentle. He even lingered a bit when he rubbed salve on the scar tissue, but then suddenly retreated and was strangely shy for the rest of the evening. Geralt always assumed that the gruesome sight of his scarred body was too unsettling for the bard who was used to the beauty of his lovers. But now Jaskier leaned into Geralt's palm, completely surrendered to it. What if the bard wasn't disgusted by his touch? What if...?
Geralt's train of thought was interrupted by a soft whimper. His eyes snapped back to the bard's face, which contorted with what looked like a fresh wave of nausea. Geralt closed his eyes and concentrated on the circles he was drawing on Jaskier's belly. He hadn't stopped, hadn't changed the speed or force; still, it seemed that his touch had lost its soothing effect.
Driven by pure instinct, Geralt scrambled closer, slid his hand over Jaskier's side and then onto his back, wrapped his arms around the bard and pulled him tightly to his own body.
Jaskier squeaked in surprise, and for a painfully long moment, he was stiff as a board. Geralt almost regretted his bold move and decided to retreat when Jaskier relaxed and pressed his face to his chest. Geralt sighed in relief, his breath ruffling the bard's soft brown hair.
Now that Jaskier calmed down again, Geralt felt a bit helpless about the next step. For lack of a better idea, he started to rub Jaskier's back and it seemed to be a good decision: Jaskier sighed contentedly and snuggled even closer, which was… nice. Maybe more than nice. Geralt was able to feel every bit of Jaskier's body: his warm cheek, his firm chest and back, even his thigh that gently draped over Geralt's.
The witcher could also feel the rough fabric of the black shirt under his fingers and smell his own scent, which had seeped inextricably into the fabric. It mixed with his bard's unique scent, which he would know from a thousand others after travelling together for so many years. His bard. Geralt almost growled. This thought and their mingled scent ignited something in him, something dangerous.
He knew it wasn't right; witchers were destined to roam the Continent alone, never to settle, never to commit to anyone. But Jaskier… the bard was the most confusing person he'd ever met; sometimes he was stubborn and passionate, somewhat like a cyclone, swirling around fiercely. And sometimes, like now, he was pliant under Geralt's hands. Geralt realized that he became the eye of the storm, a constant center, a calming presence in Jaskier's life, just as much Jaskier became the motion, the excitement, the vitality in his. Geralt could get used to this. To be this calming presence. To take care of Jaskier. And that was the most dangerous part.
Geralt lost track of time again as the two of them swayed in this impenetrable cocoon of pelts and limbs, and as he struggled more and more futilely with the thought of what it would be like if his relationship with Jaskier were to grow into something deeper.
Then Jaskier started to squirm and whimper again. Geralt tightened his arm around him, but it didn't help: Jaskier's breath quickened, indicating a fresh wave of queasiness.
Geralt saw the first glimmer of dawn through the tiny window. They must have been close to Ard Skellig. Jaskier wouldn't have to hold out much longer. He just needed a little more distraction. But what more could Geralt give? Jaskier moaned softly, and though it hardly seemed possible, he moved even closer to Geralt, wrapping his arms around the witcher's waist.
And Geralt did the one thing that had been brewing somewhere in the back of his mind for minutes (or maybe hours): he pulled back, and when the bard looked up in confusion, Geralt kissed him.
Jaskier squeaked in surprise but didn't pull back, not for a second. A small tremble travelled from his lips through his upper body to his legs, and Geralt was sure that it wasn't caused by seasickness. He felt an answering tremble running through him as Jaskier's hand snaked up on his chest and neck to cup his face.
Geralt had kissed many people but none of those kisses made him feel like this. He was always cautious; he didn't dare to let his guard down with anyone. Well, anyone but Jaskier, it seemed. He melted into the kiss and almost forgot why he kissed the bard in the first place. It was meant to be a distraction. He wasn't supposed to put his heart into it. But here he was, and his chest tightened for a moment at the thought that it would soon be over, and then everything would be the same. Or maybe worse. What if it would be awkward afterwards, what if Geralt ruined their friendship with this ill-considered move?
Then all his thoughts slipped away as Jaskier tilted his head to the side to deepen the kiss, and as Geralt gasped in surprise, the bard's tongue slipped into his mouth. He tasted like mint and the salty smell of the sea clung to his hair. Geralt's hand slid up on Jaskier's back to the nape of his neck and he dug his fingers into that soft brown hair.
Jaskier moaned into the kiss, and at the exact same moment, the sharp sound of a horn pierced the air. They both startled and broke the kiss. Geralt's eyes snapped open to meet Jaskier's piercing but confused blue gaze. They stared at each other for a moment, then Jaskier's expression changed. His gaze softened and his lips curved into a tentative smile.
"Geralt-" he started quietly, but he was interrupted by a harsh knock on the door.
"We'll arrive in a few minutes. I can already see the reception committee on the shore, you'd better hurry up, sir witcher!" came the captain's gruff voice from behind the door, followed by the sound of receding footsteps.
The spell was broken. Geralt saw it on Jaskier's face and felt it on his own. He swallowed to push back those pesky emotions that still tried to crawl up.
"We should go," he said, averting his gaze.
"Right. Good – yeah, good," Jaskier stammered and watched as Geralt scrambled up and packed their belongings with remarkable efficiency.
Geralt dared look at Jaskier only when the bard tried to stand up on wobbly legs. He caught the bard's elbow to steady him and studied Jaskier's reaction with bated breath.
Jaskier let Geralt hold him, just like a few hours ago, but – unlike earlier – now he was looking at Geralt, his blue eyes clear, his posture steady.
"We should go," the bard echoed Geralt's previous words. His voice was still breathy, and there was something in his gaze, something Geralt couldn't decipher. "I have a feeling that a new adventure awaits us."
Geralt felt hope blossoming in his chest, although he didn't dare to act on it yet. He just swallowed and nodded. And his lips twitched into a barely noticeable smile because a tiny part of him believed that this could be the adventure he longed for.