Mae govannen!
Apologies for the long lull in updating, Life is a great distraction...I won't blab on: so here is the next chapter! ;)
again: WARNING: do not read if you don't ship Geralt and Jaskier- you have been cautioned ;)
Disclaimer: I own nothing of the WitcherVerse, all of it is the work of the amazing Andrzej Sapkowski and brought to life by Netflix.
Please leave a review if you would be so kind!
Namarïe!
The cold mornings of Novigrad truly became a source of glum depression as they dragged on. The bone-shaking chill, the sly black ice on the roads- always there to trip you up. The dead grey that seemed to haunt the sky as the night bled in during the hours of twilight. The City was a graveyard given form. The buildings great stolid headstones looming from the silent murk.
Inside Jaskier's one-story home, it was another world. One of color and laughter, warmth and love. The living room was Geralt's favourite; with its creamy walls, thick woollen rugs, and small, cheery fireplace. There was a sense of timeless youth about the place. The thought that despair and broken things had never dared set foot within.
Until now, that is.
Geralt was aware of all his jagged, broken pieces. The papercuts on his bruised soul. There were times when he wondered what Jaskier was doing with a mess like him. Sure, the witcher hid it well...but he had the feeling that Jaskier saw right through his walls. That the singer cared. Truly cared.
Jaskier never prodded. And as the days became weeks, they settled into each other's company with a newfound bond. It was not just the love between them; there was trust and understandings there too.
Jaskier shared a bit of his childhood with Geralt, telling tales of the farm he had been raised on outside Redania. How he and his family had fled the war when he was ten. He said that his parents had returned after- homesick for the place if their birth. When the singer had expressed his wish to remain in Novigrad, they had helped him buy the house, wishing him the best of luck.
Geralt had felt a bit wistful, seeing the affection in his boyfriend's eyes when he mentioned his parents.
The witcher, in turn, broached the subject of his past torments- abridging it liberally. It was enough to put both himself and Jaskier in tears. Those evenings, they lay curled together on the large couch under blankets, Jaskier holding him as Geralt fought the choking sobs threatening to tear him apart; Watching the snow fall past, outside the round windows.
Geralt found that he enjoyed listening to Jaskier composing and strumming his guitar, despite not being much of a musical person. Though he was quick to tease when the songs turned romantic.
Jaskier's usual response to the jibes was to tell the witcher to piss off.
"I'm thinking of writing a ballad..." mused Jaskier one afternoon, head tucked under the witcher's chin. They were watching a fantasy show; something with dragons and swords, the fire in the hearth a stark contrast to the raging blizzard outside.
Geralt frowned, turning to look down at the singer. The forget-me-not blue eyes were thoughtful. "About what?"
"No idea." Jaskier licked the chocolate from his fingers, pulling the duvet up from where it had slipped off them. "Something sprawling and dramatic."
"Hmm," grunted the white-haired witcher. There was always cause for some concern when the songwriting bug took the singer. He had a good voice, yes. But some if his past lyrics had been atrocious. "Why the sudden urge for a ballad?"
"I'm still angry with your fellow witchers, and I need to do something with it."
Geralt smiled a little. The gash in his face had healed, leaving a thick silver scar. The warmth of Jaskier's care sat purring in his chest. What would he do without this man? The idea was enough to make him feel bleak.
"Winter is coming!" intoned Jaskier in a mysterious voice along with the character on screen; before he turned the TV down, procuring a sheet of wrinkled ivory paper from thin air, and a sparkly pencil stubbled with teeth marks. "Help?"
Geralt snorted. "Bad idea. I can't sing, and my writing is shit."
Jaskier rolled his eyes, before nibbling on the pencil. The witcher's arm was about his shoulders, the warmth of the singer making Geralt feel comfortably sleepy. He made an effort to stay awake, reading the verse as Jaskier wrote.
.
Its been a long time travelling, on a road that leads to nowhere.
With hopes and dreams that always rot.
Sometimes it takes a prison cell, the tricks and tales that traitors tell...
To help you see that freedom is all you've got.
If I had to do it over, I'd do it all again.
The wind don't cower to powerful men.
.
So, lock me up and sock me up and throw away the key.
Go fuck yourself you whoreson, 'cause you're through fucking with me.
.
It was the only time that Geralt had heard the song as clearly as Jaskier. The singer held out the pencil, apparently aware of it; eyes full of warmth, understanding...even anger on Geralt's part. The witcher pointed the writing implement at Jaskier, rumbling voice low. "If you ever tell anyone I helped with this..."
"Never," swore Jaskier with an indulgent smile. "It's our secret."
.
You learn they more you live, they say,
Don't settle for your lot.
Opinions are like arseholes, which everybody's got.
.
"Why do you need this?" asked Geralt later, listening to Jaskier trying out chords on his guitar. "The new song, I mean."
"I'm performing at The Angel's Well tomorrow night," said the singer, tightening a tuning peg with a set of worn old pliers. "You...you're welcome to come along, you know."
The heat was going to make his heart combust one day, Geralt knew. Flashes of his gravestone reading "died of love," clattered about in his mind.
How much love and warmth could a body take? "You sure you want me there?"
"Oh, you foolish witcher," said Jaskier softly, coming to stand before Geralt. His narrow arms curled around the larger man, mouth finding Geralt's for a smouldering kiss. His voice, when it came was a soft whisper against the white-haired witcher's lips:
"I'll always want you."
"No."
"Geralt-"
Geralt scowled. The past hour had been running along the same rail of conversation. Back and forth and then all over again. He still remained stubborn. "No."
"Geeeerrrraaaalllltttt!" whined the singer, doing a dramatic sprawl back onto his bed, flinging his arms wide. The heap of clothing flung at the rug. "I refuse to take my underdressed boyfriend out to my gig until he surrenders!"
"You'll miss your gig then," rumbled the witcher, contemplating the ridiculousness of his situation. "I didn't ask you to go find me a costume."
"It's not a costume." Jaskier closed his eyes with a huff. Geralt wondered if he was perhaps counting to ten silently. It was a deeply endearing thought. "Look...The Angel's Well is a bit...fancy...they have a dress code."
Geralt sighed. He was getting that damn look of "please?" from the singer's large eyes. "Fuck, Jaskier," he grunted. "Fine. Give it here."
"Thank you!" cheered the younger man, springing off the bed. He shoved the witcher into the bathroom grinning like a maniac. "Don't take too long! You wasted time arguing!"
"Bullshit," said Geralt with a snort, before closing the door in the singer's face. He heard the feet leap back, a yelp accompanying the hasty retreat.
"Geralt! Just fucking break my nose, why don't you!"
Chuckling, the white-haired witcher shrugged of his silver-studded jacket, before getting down to business.
Jaskier had style, he had to admit. Not that he'd ever tell the fop that. He would never let it go. But the black button-up polo shirt, decorated in subtle golden embroidery at the sleeves and neck, was actually rather comfortable. This was matched with black trousers that had gold-dusted hems. The coat set to complete the ensemble was a dark, dusky grey, sewn of a soft, supple leather. The inside was lined with a thin layer of snug sheep's wool. Stylish yet rugged.
Well...Jaskier was never getting the coat back if Geralt had anything to say about it. He found an unused hairbrush and set to work on his white hair, teasing out the tangles until it lay in soft waves down his back.
Seeing as the shirt left his scarred arms bare to the chill, Geralt shrugged the coat on, knowing it was probably going to be far to hot in the bar anyhow. It reached his knees, flaring as he drew the door open to leave the bathroom. Damn Jaskier and his sense of drama.
"Well now!" said the singer. "That wasn't so bad, was...shit."
Geralt watched Jaskier's face go pink, eyes wide as he looked the witcher up and down. "Fuck."
"I think you're vocabulary shrank." Geralt raised an eyebrow. "You alright?"
"Yeah..." Jaskier rubbed the bridge of his nose with those slender fingers. "It's just...you look great. I'm glad I got to see you out of witcher clothes at least once."
"You're not looking so bad yourself," muttered the witcher, suddenly feeling rather...shy.
Jaskier flushed as red as his jacket: A deep crimson, the leather patterned to look like golden-edged dragon scales. It was fine craftsmanship, the witcher admitted to himself. The singer's shirt was a dusty gold, his pants flaring black; feet clad in those worn brown leather boots. "Thanks."
"Hmm."
They watched each other for a moment, before Jaskier blurted. "I- um...I think I owe you an apology..." He itched at the nape of his neck, wincing at whatever he was gearing to say.
"Forget it." Geralt knew what was coming. Sometimes reading people was a big help. He tried to hold back his smile, golden eyes full of mirth. "Most people make the same mistake."
"Oh?" Jaskier peered at the taller man. "You know nothing of what I was going to say."
Geralt took the step that placed him chest to chest with Jaskier. "You wanted to apologise," he rumbled, "for thinking my shyness was general stupidity."
"Fuck," breathed Jaskier. "You really are good at that."
Geralt rested his brow against that of the younger man, smiling as Jaskier's arms looped about his neck. Their breath mingled, the warmth making the witcher dizzy; almost as though Jaskier was a potent wine. They kissed softly, the move tender and full of care. A small spark on the dreary winter's night. Geralt couldn't help the low groan that escaped his throat as Jaskier deepened the kiss, backing him up against the baby-blue painted wall. He felt Jaskier's hands knotting in his hair, drawing him closer, and Geralt let him; hopelessly lost in the taste and scent of the singer.
The strength of his legs were beginning to come into question when Jaskier broke away with a ragged breath, mouth still hovering by Geralt's. "Stay with me," he murmured, a plea in his voice.
"I am staying with you," gasped the witcher in confusion, distracted as the singer pressed another desperate, burning kiss to his lips.
"I meant in here. With me. Tonight."
Geralt felt himself weakening, the thought of waking to Jaskier's head pillowed on his shoulder, the slender man curled by his side...
"Jask..."
"Please," whispered the singer, fingers running down Geralt's neck. The witcher shuddered, the heat in his chest pounding in time to his heart. He swallowed the ache in his throat, nodding.
"Alright." His voice broke, and he drew Jaskier into a tight embrace, still hardly able to believe that this wonderful man had chosen him. "Alright."
"Her current is pulling you closer,
A charge in the hot, humid night.
The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool,
Better stay out of sight.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting
If this is the path I must trudge.
I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,
Garrotter, Jury, and Judge.
.
"But the story is this:
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.
But the story is this:
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.
But the story is this:
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.
But the story is this:
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.
The story is this:
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss..."
.
"What happened to your rowdy ballad?" Geralt teased as Jaskier knocked back a tall glass of apple juice. The Angel's Well was chock-full of people, the elegant tables all taken up by clamouring patrons. It had style, with it's varnished wood railings and floors. The old-style cobblestone walls hung with paintings and banners. Much to Geralt's surprise, even with fireplaces roaring, it was nowhere near hot enough to take his coat off- which was fine by him.
"I'm waiting for them to all get drunk," replied Jaskier, raising his voice over the hubbub. He grinned. "They'll want something rude later on. A good vent does wonders for the soul."
Geralt laughed into his ale, coughing a bit as it went the wrong way. They were leaning on the bar over in a corner, observing the diners and drinkers at their exploits. The singer was leaning against the witcher, one of Geralt's arms slung about his shoulders.
"Somehow, you always manage to top your last performance, Jaskier." The bartender had come up to them, silently. She was a slender, elegant woman. Her long hair wavy and thick- a hue of dark auburn. Geralt took in her large, sky blue eyes; fluid, dancer-like walk, and fluttering fingers. An elf. He could tell, though, that Jaskier had no idea.
"Hey, Enid."
Enid embraced him, before turning to look up at Geralt. "A witcher? Well, Jaskier, you are full of surprises. I'm assuming he knows what you are?" she asked Geralt, who nodded. "You must be Geralt then. You might know my one friend, Filavandrel."
"Yes. I've known him a long time." Geralt studied her. Memory clicked, like a clock racing to finish an hour. Filavandrel had mentioned this elf maid. "Francesca Findabar."
She laughed. "I'm impressed, White Wolf." She gave Jaskier a suggestive look before darting back to the bar, scooping up glasses on her way.
Jaskier huffed. "She's an elf, isn't she? Can't think of any other explanation for Filavandrel having his foot in it."
"She is." Geralt glanced at the room. "They're calling for music- you should probably go."
Jaskier's new ballad, lovingly dubbed 'Whoreson Prison Blues' was an instant crowd pleaser. Even Geralt felt a little smile quirking his lip at the lyrics. The passion Jaskier put into his singing was like a net- ensnaring you with his talent and dedication. He got the crowd singing along, had them laughing, waving beer mugs and toasting. It was quite the performance.
Geralt told him as much as they trudged home under lurid yellow streetlights, boots crunching the black ice underfoot. It had glazed the footpaths, and more than once Geralt had to catch Jaskier as the singer's feet went skidding out from under him. The streets were silent, the stars faint points of silver overhead in the velvet night. It felt like the bones of Novigrad City were on display for just the two of them. A private exhibition of silence and cold. Their breaths clouded the air before their faces, cheeks stinging from the chill of the night air.
"Sometimes I miss summer," said Jaskier, hands shoved inside his pockets. The singer's tousled hazel locks were specked with scattered snowflakes, the white powder beginning to float down from the gloom of clouds overhead- racing to block out the stars.
Geralt huffed in reply as they trudged up the driveway to Jaskier's front door. They had barely made it inside and closed the door when Jaskier's mouth was on Geralt's; his kiss deep and full of urgency.
A deep growl rumbled in the witcher's chest, sending a visible shiver over the singer's skin. Jaskier broke off, darting a glance into Geralt's golden eyes.
"You're still okay with this?" he asked.
Geralt brushed a kiss to Jaskier's nose, his body smouldering with the feeling of being so close to this caring young man. He really was in out of his depth.
That didn't change the fact that he needed Jaskier the way a body needs air.
"Yes," he murmured. "For you, Jask, it's always yes."
"Good." Jaskier kissed the witcher until he gasped for air, unwilling to pull away. He still wasn't quite sure afterwards how they had managed to find their way to Jaskier's room. When at last they had, the singer toppled Geralt with a leg behind his knees. The witcher ended up with the younger man under him, slender hands running up his back to fist in his hair. Geralt kissed his way down the pale column of Jaskier's throat and the singer's breath hitched, hands tightening almost painfully in the white hair.
"Fuck, Geralt."
The witcher let out a low chuckle against the singer's collarbone, before his mouth was found once again by Jaskier.
Outside, the snow continued to fall in a veil of winter gloom. The chill couldn't hurt them now. Neither of them could feel it; their hearts warm with love.
The spark of two souls meant to meet...
...of destiny playing the cards.
NOTES:
-1) I want to give a massive shout-out to the amazing Daryshkart and her beautiful witcher artworks. Many's a time when scrolling through her stunning creativity has lifted the block from my brain and let me write once more.
Many thanks for sharing your wonderful artistic talent with us all!
-2) Don't ask me if Game of Thrones existed in the modern version of The Content. The idea of it not existing was worse. :)